PUFFIN BOOKS
girl
underground
A story of friendship, courage and a bit of crime.
Bridget wants a quiet life. Including, if possible, keeping her parents out of prison.
Then a boy called Menzies makes her an offer she can’t refuse, and they set off on a job of their own.
It’s a desperate, daring plan – to rescue two kids, Jamal and Bibi, from a desert detention centre.
Can Bridget and Menzies pull off their very first jail break, or will they end up behind bars too?
Sometimes, to help a friend, you have to dig deep.
Also by Morris Gleitzman
The Other Facts of Life
Second Childhood
Two Weeks with the Queen
Misery Guts
Worry Warts
Puppy Fat
Blabber Mouth
Sticky Beak
Belly Flop
Water Wings
Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)
Bumface
Gift of the Gab
Toad Rage
Deadly! (with Paul Jennings)
Adults Only
Toad Heaven
Boy Overboard
Teacher’s Pet
Toad Away
Worm Story
Once
Aristotle’s Nostril
Doubting Thomas
Give Peas a Chance
morris gleitzman
girl underground
Puffin Books
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Penguin Group (Australia),
a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd, 2004
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4
Text copyright © Creative Input Pty Ltd 2004
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above,
no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval
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ISBN:978-1-74228-098-1
For all the Jamals and Bibis
I should be arrested for this.
The time is approximately 4.17 p.m. and I’m proceeding in an easterly direction along a corridor in one of Australia’s most seriously top-notch boarding schools.
‘Look at this floor,’ says Mum. ‘Genuine marble.’
‘These wall panels are oak,’ says Dad. ‘Real wood.’
‘Solid brass chandeliers,’ says Uncle Grub, his leather jacket creaking as he gazes upwards. ‘Pity I didn’t bring the van.’
I know I should be thrilled like they are.
I wish I was.
But instead I just feel anxious.
We walk past huge sideboards with genuine priceless porcelain vases on them. We stare up at genuine oil paintings of famous historical people who went to this school.
‘That’ll be you, Bridget,’ says Dad, pointing up at a dead Prime Minister.
I know I should be grateful. Mum and Dad have worked incredibly hard to send me to this school. I should feel lucky and privileged, like the headmaster said just now when he was showing us around.
It’s a crime not to.
But I don’t feel grateful, I feel close to panic.
I’m terrified Uncle Grub’s going to nick one of the vases.
I glance up and down the corridor. No security cameras. No infra-red burglar alarms. There’s a photocopier over there that’s not even chained to the wall. This place is just asking for it.
Uncle Grub is stroking a vase.
‘Awesome crockery,’ he says.
‘George,’ murmurs Mum. ‘Behave.’
I know what she’s saying. She’s warning Uncle Grub that if he fingers anything and gets sprung and we end up in a high speed police chase across the school grounds and my education suffers, she’ll do him.
‘Little suggestion, Grub,’ says Dad. ‘If you go and warm the car up for us, you won’t be tempted, eh?’
‘I was only looking,’ mutters Uncle Grub.
The expression on Dad’s face doesn’t change. Dad might be a criminal, but he doesn’t believe in stealing.
Now Mum and Dad are on the case I feel a bit better. I take a deep breath and try to calm down. It’s a stressful experience, being sent to boarding school.
Uncle Grub gives me a kiss on the head.
‘Study hard, gorgeous,’ he says. ‘Show those posh mongrels what you’re made of.’
He strolls off towards the carpark.
‘Thanks, Uncle Grub,’ I say.
No need to panic.
Not yet.
‘Wish I’d gone to a school like this,’ says Dad. ‘Be a different person if I had.’
Mum kisses him on the cheek. She looks really pretty in her new frock, specially with her hair in ringlets and the sleeves covering her tattoos.
‘I love you just the way you are,’ she says to Dad as we step outside into the sunshine. She means it too, even though Dad’s wearing a yellow shirt with a blue suit.
Dad grabs Mum on the bottom and they both laugh.
I look anxiously around the school grounds. Other kids and their parents are strolling about, mostly wearing tennis clothes with sweaters knotted over their shoulders.
None of them are looking at us.
Not yet.
I peer over towards the carpark, trying to see if Uncle Grub is getting into our car or someone else’s.
‘Check this,’ says Dad proudly, patting the wall of an old building. ‘Genuine sandstone.’
Suddenly I can’t keep quiet any longer. I hate being a squealer, specially on my first day, but I can’t stop myself.
‘I don’t want to go to this school,’ I say quietly.
Mum and Dad stare at me, shocked. Then Mum gives me a hug.
‘I know, love,’ she says. ‘It’s all new and scary. But you’ll feel different when you’ve made some friends.’
I sigh.
Friends?
Me?
Dream on.
Dad puts his arm round me too. ‘By the time we see you at parents’ night tomorrow you’ll be loving it here,’ he says. ‘Trust me.’
‘This school,’ says Mum, ‘is going to give you everything me and Dad didn’t have.’
I nod sadly.
I can’t do it to them. They spent months choosing this place. Mum cancelled the plastic surgery on her tattoos so they coul
d afford the fees. How can I tell them I’d rather be going into Mrs Posnick’s class at my old school?
‘You’ve got to admit,’ says Mum, giving me another squeeze, ‘this place is better than your old school.’
I nod again.
But I don’t mean it.
My old school’s only ten minutes from home by foot. The uniform’s a comfortable t-shirt instead of this scratchy blazer. And the teachers and kids are fantastic. Nobody tries to push you into being their friend. If you want to keep to yourself so nobody finds out your family are criminals, you can.
This school is crawling with the kids of lawyers and judges and commissioners of police. If they find out what Mum and Dad do, we’re sunk.
I open my mouth to tell Mum and Dad that sending me here is putting our whole family at risk and that they’re making a terrible mistake.
But I don’t.
Their faces are so hopeful.
I remember how miserable they were when Gavin got put away for shoplifting. I’m their only other kid. I can’t hurt them too. I have to try and get through the next seven years.
Somehow.
For them.
As I’m thinking this, Dad steers me over to a complete stranger.
‘S’cuse me,’ says Dad, blocking the stranger’s path. ‘I’m Len White. You a teacher?’
The stranger, a tall skinny bloke with a beaky face and a bundle of folders under his arm, looks at me and Mum and Dad about twice each.
‘Creely,’ he says. ‘Science and Personal Development.’
Dad pumps Mr Creely’s hand. Mr Creely gives him a thin smile.
‘This is my daughter Bridget,’ says Dad. ‘She’s just starting in year six. Bridget’s a very sensitive and top-notch young person. If you could see your way clear to helping her settle in, I would be personally very grateful.’
Mr Creely gives me the thin smile.
‘We regard every student as sensitive and er, top-notch,’ he says. ‘Every one of them will receive the very best care and support. As young Bridget will discover at her first assembly tomorrow morning.’
Dad reaches into his inside pocket.
With a jolt of panic I realise what he’s going to do.
No, Dad, I plead silently. Not here.
It’s too late.
Dad pulls a plastic object out of his pocket and presses it into Mr Creely’s hand.
‘Bulgarian gameboy,’ says Dad. ‘Seriously top-notch quality. With my compliments.’
Mr Creely stares at the gameboy, horrified.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘But I couldn’t possibly…’
‘Don’t fret,’ says Dad. ‘I’ve got a warehouse full of ’em. Keep a friendly eye on Bridget for me and I’ll sling you an Iraqi blender next visit.’
I pray Mr Creely doesn’t ask to see the import documents for the gameboy. I’m not sure if the Bulgarian businessmen Dad deals with can even write.
‘Um, thank you,’ mutters Mr Creely and hurries away.
‘Nice bloke,’ says Dad, ruffling my hair.
Mum is frowning at Dad’s jacket pocket. I can see she’s wondering what else he’s brought along from the warehouse.
‘We should probably be thinking about going, love,’ says Mum to me. ‘Would you like us to take you back to your room and say goodbye there?’
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘The carpark’s fine.’
I just want to get them out of here before Dad tries to give a set of Algerian hair-curlers to a passing high court judge.
We go over to the car. Mum spends a long time hugging me and saying loving things. Normally I’d be glowing with happiness, but I just can’t concentrate, not while we’re standing next to the only Mercedes in the carpark with dents and a spoiler and flared mudguards. It’s not Dad’s fault. Uncle Grub gave it to him. In our family we believe it’s rude to criticise presents or get them panel-beaten.
Dad says lots of loving things too, and gives me a Turkish personal organiser.
Uncle Grub waves at me through the car window.
Then they drive away.
I wave back, trying to hold the tears in so I won’t draw attention to myself.
I’m sad because they’re going, but I’m even sadder because I know the real reason Mum and Dad are paying a fortune to send me to a boarding school that’s only an hour by car or school bus from our place.
They think if they keep me out of the house I won’t end up like them.
Crims.
Which is hard for me because they’re kind and generous and good and I love them and I do want to end up like them.
They’ve gone.
I’d better get inside before other parents start talking to me.
Hang on, what’s that cloud of dust coming through the school gates? It’s a car going really fast. Spraying gravel onto the flowerbeds. Is it them rushing back so Dad can give me an Israeli calculator?
Oh no.
It’s something even worse and it’s heading straight for me.
A police car.
I stand frozen as the police car hurtles towards me along the school driveway.
Are we nicked already?
Did Mr Creely see the fake serial number on the gameboy? Did he spot that the Nintendo logo is in Bulgarian? Did he call the police to interrogate me in front of all the other parents and kids till I crack in the glare of their silver jewellery and gold watches and dob Mum and Dad in?
I’m not hanging around to find out.
I sprint across the carpark and along the side of the library building, desperately looking for a place to hide. There must be a cellar around here where the librarian puts all the books with rude words in them.
A drain.
A ditch.
Anything.
I glance over my shoulder to see if the police are chasing me on foot. They’re not. They’re not chasing me at all. They’re not even looking in my direction. They don’t seem the slightest bit interested in me helping them with their enquiries.
Wobbly with relief, I pretend to tie my shoelace so I can see what they’re up to.
The police car is parked outside the school office. Two policemen are helping a kid out of the back seat. He’s wearing a school blazer. The policemen escort him into the office. One of them carries the kid’s suitcase.
I realise I’ve been staring about ten times longer than it takes to tie a shoelace, so I stand up and hurry over to the building my room is in.
As I climb the stone steps my thoughts are going faster than a Bulgarian food processor, the turbo model.
Why was that kid in the police car?
Did he escape last term and they’ve only just recaptured him?
Or does he just know someone in the police force?
Dad used to sell toilets to a property developer who made such big donations to the police widows and orphans fund that the police used to help him paint his beach house and sometimes drive his kids to judo.
I turn the corner at the top of the steps.
The upstairs corridor is full of kids and parents dragging luggage into rooms and admiring each other’s tans. Most of them look like they’ve known each other since year four. I try to look as though I’ve been here since year four as well. It’s not easy because I can’t remember where my room is.
There it is.
The one with the loud voices coming out if it.
Oh no.
My room mates must have arrived.
I pause outside the door and try to prepare myself for questioning. Luckily I’ve got good genes for being questioned. Dad was questioned by the police for two hours once and the only thing he admitted was that fish gives him wind.
I just wish I could tell the truth about Mum and Dad’s import business. OK, it’s illegal, but at least it means they can sell cheap appliances to people who can’t afford expensive ones.
Too risky.
I go in.
‘G’day,’ I say. ‘I’m Bridget.’
For a weird moment I thin
k I’m sharing the room with triplets. The three girls sitting on their beds have all got exactly the same hairstyle. Long and straight except for a slight curl under their chins.
They look up at me and don’t smile. For a second I think I’m going to have to fight them. Then they do smile.
I realise they were just startled by my hair. Mum’s hairdresser Chervawn gave me a really spiky haircut yesterday. I just wanted a trim, but Chervawn owes us heaps of haircuts after Dad gave her eighty litres of Taiwanese conditioner.
‘Hello,’ says one of the girls. ‘Welcome to the stables.’
‘We call this room the stables cause we’ve all got horses,’ says another of the girls.
‘Have you got a horse?’ says the third girl.
I can see they’re not triplets now. They’ve all got different-shaped noses and eyes and their pimples are in different places.
I tell them I don’t actually own a horse but I have sat on a Melbourne Cup winner. Uncle Ray had it at his place the day before the race to give it some special injections. I don’t tell them that bit.
The girls are very impressed and introduce themselves. Their names are Chantelle, Antoinette and Veuve. They don’t have French accents, but they can still pronounce their names really well.
The good thing is they’d much rather talk about horses than parents.
‘This is Gandalf,’ says Chantelle, holding out a photo to me. ‘He’s sooo cute. Poor thing, he’ll be so lonely locked in those boarding stables without me.’
‘Same with Brad,’ says Antoinette, holding out a photo too. ‘During term he paces around that paddock like he’s in a jail cell. The only thing that cheers him up is when Dad gives him strawberries.’
I’m very tempted to tell them that a jail cell is quite a bit smaller than a paddock, and that it’s even worse having a brother locked up than a horse. I manage not to. Instead I make a mental note to take Gavin some strawberries.
Veuve is fiddling with the lock on her suitcase. She pushes the case onto the floor and swears at it. I’m a bit shocked. Mum and Dad don’t like swearing.
‘I’ve lost the key and I can’t get it open,’ wails Veuve.
Antoinette and Chantelle grin at each other.
‘Oh no,’ says Antoinette. ‘A whole term in the same undies.’
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