by Claire Craig
* * *
CLAIRE CRAIG wanted to be an archaeologist when she grew up – digging up really old treasures in Egypt.
Instead, she sold chocolate chip cookies, travelled around Europe, and then became a book editor.
She did write poetry when she was little. Some of it is included in this book.
* * *
HARRIET
BRIGHT
in a pickle
CLAIRE CRAIG
illustrated by MELANIE FEDDERSEN
First published 2008 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Text copyright © Claire Craig 2008
Illustrations copyright © Melanie Feddersen 2008
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the
publisher.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Craig, Claire.
Harriet Bright in a pickle.
For primary school age.
ISBN 978 0 330 42349 6 (pbk.).
I. Feddersen, Melanie. II. Title.
A823.4
Thanks to Sue Butler from The Macquarie Dictionary for permission to use the definitions of ‘secret’ that appear on page 98.
Typeset by Melanie Feddersen, i2i Design
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2008 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
Harriet Bright in a Pickle
Claire Craig
Adobe eReader format 978-1-74198-225-1
Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74198-284-8
Mobipocket format 978-1-74198-343-2
Online format 978-1-74198-402-6
Epub format 978-1-74262-369-6
Macmillan Digital Australia
www.macmillandigital.com.au
Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.
Acknowledgements
This book is really to lots of people:
To my mum, and in memory of my dad, for a very happy childhood.
To Maddy and Frannie: little pieces of you are in this book too.
To Dick, Tim and Marianne.
To Ange, Kath and Pete who lodged particular phrases in my head that have since been dislodged in Harriet Bright and the very big fright. And to Joey – for delegation, and so much else.
To all my friends.
To everyone at Pan Macmillan, with special thanks to Cate and Anna (my very wonderful publisher) who have been unstintingly enthusiastic about Harriet Bright; and to Bri and Ali for all their editorial input.
And, at last, to Mel – Harriet Bright’s frontline supporter and a creative champion who has made this book all and more than I ever imagined it could be. You are an inspiring and unique
illustrator
designer
and friend.
Really and truly.
Contents
KING of the street
‘HEY YOU! HARRIET BRIGHT!’
Oh no! Not now. She was so close to home.
Harriet Bright felt her stomach slippery dip. Then it hit the side of her ribs.
She thought it was going to bounce right up out of her throat.
She looked around quickly. The street was very quiet. It was the in-between time after school had ended and before people came home from work.
There was no one around.
Only a fat black cat.
Harriet Bright wished that it was a fierce jungle tiger. Snarling through the bush with its jaws wide open, its sharp teeth ready to attack, its roar echoing through the trees.
The black cat opened a lazy eye. Its silky fur glistened in a spotlight of sun. It closed its eye and curled up tight.
Harriet Bright kept walking.
OK. Pretend she hadn’t heard. Only 783 steps to go and she’d be safe.
She could hear Paul Picklebottom. He was scuffing his shoes along the pavement.
He was far enough away at the moment.
But he was getting closer.
Harriet Bright’s brain was alert. She was t h i n k i n g.
What should she do?
PLAN A: Outsmart the enemy. Take a shortcut across Wiley’s Creek, sneak through Mrs Pilchard’s backyard and climb over the fence to home.
Disadvantage: Could end up in the creek. Again!
PLAN B: Run fast. Screaming for
Disadvantage: Loss of dignity. Forever.
PLAN C: Think of Plan D.
A POET, don’t you know it
‘I’M SPEAKING TO YOU … FATTY!’
Paul Picklebottom just had a way of saying that word.
He shouted the first syllable FAT and hissed the second through his teeth T T Y, like air escaping from a tyre.
Harriet Bright thought FATTY sounded square and solid. Just the shape she saw when she looked at her reflection in the window of Joyanne’s Fashions on High Street.
Mrs Glossia, her teacher, said there was a special name for words that sound like the thing they are: ONOMATOPOEIA.
Harriet Bright thought there were lots of words like this. Such as plump (round and juicy), (stuffed with pastries and meat pies) and (dollops of thick custard and cream).
Harriet Bright’s mother said that she had puppy fat.
‘You’ll grow out of it,’ she promised.
Harriet Bright had read that snakes shed their scaly skins when they got too big for them. She wondered when she would grow out of her lumpy skin.
She could hang it in the wardrobe.
For emergencies.
Like if she burnt herself rescuing a cat trapped in a house on fire.
Or she could use it later.
When her skin got old and tired.
She knew what was coming next.
HARRIET BRIGHT
WHAT A SIGHT!
LEGS LIKE JELLY
WITH A BIG
WOBBLY
BELLY
Snigger. Snigger.
Paul Picklebottom had taken months to come up with that. And all he could think of to rhyme with jelly was … BELLY!
Harriet Bright scoffed. He had no imagination. Not like her.
Mrs Glossia said that Harriet Bright’s poetry was very ‘individual’. She particularly liked Harriet Bright’s space poem:
When I’m in space I feel so alone and I am very sorry you cannot telephone.
I miss the movies and there aren’t any shops
and my friend is a giant called Cyclops.
Harriet Bright is going to be a poet when she grows up.
‘HEY! FATTY BO
NANZA.’
As soon as Paul Picklebottom is out of her life.
Wishing you WEREN’T here
Harriet Bright closed her eyes tight.
Her mother said that if you wished really hard for something and then counted to ten, it might just happen!
Weasels and sneezels and snails on toast
turn Paul Picklebottom into a
g h o s t.
1 2 3 4 5 6 –
‘Fatty bom-bO-LA-TA
You look like a chip-O-LA-TA.’
Harriet Bright opened her eyes. Paul Picklebottom was laughing and pointing at her.
Maybe wishing only works in the morning, thought Harriet Bright.
Mrs Glossia said that morning was definitely the best time to think because your brain was fresh.
Harriet Bright had seen pictures of a brain in a book. It looked like a tangle of raw sausages.
Paul Picklebottom must have thought so too. He had snatched the book from her hands. ‘Hey, sausage brain,’ he had snorted. ‘Your brain would be good for breakfast! With lots of onions on the side.’
Harriet Bright wondered why short distances sometimes seemed so long.
She could see her yellow house with the red roof and the green fence, but her feet seemed to be moving extra slowly. Almost as if she hardly weighed a thing.
Mrs Glossia had told them all about gravity last Tuesday. She’d said that gravity kept everybody on the ground.
Not like in
Harriet Bright imagined she was one of the first astronauts to land on the moon.
The moon was cold and silent. She stared at the blue Earth below.
Millions of people watched on TV as Neil Armstrong – the most famous man in space – the first man to walk on the moon – held the door of the spacecraft open for her.
Harriet Bright was going to be the
FIRST CHILD GIRL
NINE-YEAR-OLD POET
TO WALK ON THE MOON.
Her body was a big balloon, light and in her spacesuit as she took slow-motion steps across the bumpy ground.
Harriet Bright was just about to speak to the WORLD (she had written a special poem for the occasion) when –
‘PUDDING FACE! TRY THIS ON FOR SIZE.’
A chocolate-iced doughnut with a huge bite out of it hit her on the head.
In a PICKLE
Of all the planets
in deep dark space
Paul Picklebottom
isn’t from the
human race.
He’s big
and heavy
and tall and
mean.
He’s a monster from
Mars and his insides
are green!
The doughnut was sticky from the sun and the chocolate stuck in Harriet Bright’s hair.
Harriet Bright liked chocolate doughnuts.
But not today.
Harriet Bright was getting very close to her house.
But Paul Picklebottom was getting very close to her.
She could hear his heavy footsteps behind her.
Harriet Bright was frightened.
It was just like feeling carsick.
Her father said that feeling carsick was a load of old rubbish. ‘Mind over matter,’ he said.
When Harriet Bright was sick all over the back seat of their new car on a trip to the coast last year, her mother said, ‘It doesn’t matter, darling.’
Her father slammed on the brakes and screamed, ‘WET ONES!’ Then he glared at her. He really seemed to mind!
Harriet Bright’s mother had told her to think of something else when she felt sick.
Harriet Bright now thought of all the words that rhymed with pickle:
stickle
fickle
nickel
tickle
She could only think of one word that rhymed with bottom, but it was a good one: rotten.
Harriet Bright wondered how the Picklebottoms got their name.
Maybe people who eat pickles get big BOTTOMS, she thought. There should be a warning on the pickle bottle.
No one at school teased Paul Picklebottom about his name.
No one at school teased him about anything.
He was too big.
Her mother said she should ignore Paul Picklebottom.
Her father said Paul Picklebottom should pick on someone his own size.
PAUL PICKLEBOTTOM said she was a ‘-sized elephant’.
On the RUN
Harriet Bright had read all about elephants.
She knew that they are the biggest animals on land and that there are two types, African and Asian.
Elephants can’t see very well and they all live together in groups called herds. This means that they can protect the young elephants from dangerous animals that might attack them. Like lions and tigers.
And Paul Picklebottom.
She could hear him breathing. He was only about twenty steps away.
Harriet Bright closed her eyes. She imagined that she was in Africa.
Her skin felt dry and cracked in the burning sun. She filled her trunk greedily with water from the muddy waterhole, squirting it into her mouth and hosing her hot body.
Several hippos swam nearby. Large eyes bulged out of their heads and their heavy bodies disappeared into the murky water.
The air with insects and all the smells of the animals mingled in the heat.
But there was another smell too.
Something that made the birds squawk and high into the air.
Something that made the elephants
and ROAR.
It was the smell of danger,
Harriet Bright could feel her trunk tingling.
Her senses were on standby.
Her brain was mission control.
Receiving. Loud and clear.
DANGER!
ATTACK!
shouted Harriet Bright as she turned and charged towards Paul Picklebottom with a herd of elephants following close behind.
The ground pounded with furious footsteps and clouds of dust gathered around the storming animals.
Paul Picklebottom looked completely surprised.
He dropped his school bag and took off in a giant hurry, around the corner.
Harriet Bright watched him go.
When the dust settled, she kicked a little stone and began to dawdle the last few steps home.
She already had another poem in her head.
12.15 pm
‘I feel sick,’ said Harriet Bright as the school bus weaved slowly around a corner and hauled itself up a hill.
She had just eaten a steak-and-kidney pie and a tub of triple-chocolate ice cream.
‘I need some air!’ she spluttered.
‘You’d better open the window,’ said Melly Fanshawe, her best friend in the whole world. ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to look lime green.’ She paused. ‘Unless, of course, you’re a slimy-spotted tree frog!’
Harriet Bright didn’t want to think about a slimy-spotted tree frog.
She stood up to the window and stuck her nose into the fresh air.
‘HARRIET BRIGHT! SIT DOWN THIS INSTANT!’ barked Mr Moody, the sports teacher, from the back of the bus. ‘We do NOT stand up in a moving vehicle!’
Paul Picklebottom sniggered. ‘Harriet Bright’s trying to escape,’ he said very loudly. ‘Fat chance of that.’
Harriet Bright glared at Paul Picklebottom, and he smirked back. Then he flapped his arms around and started gasping as if he couldn’t breathe.
‘Who am I?’ he chortled.
Harriet Bright took one last gulp of air and flopped back down into her seat. ‘This is going to be the most horrible day. I just know it!’ she said.
It had already started off badly.
The first thing Harriet Bright saw when she woke up was her calendar on the wall.
Today’s date had big black letters all over it:
Harriet Bright hated the swimming carnival.
S
he hated it every year!
Harriet Bright crossed her fingers and toes, and pulled back the curtains.
Maybe it was raining and pouring!
Maybe the carnival would be cancelled!
No. The sky was very blue with wispy-white clouds.
Harriet Bright closed her eyes and wished as hard as she could that it was tomorrow.
When she opened her eyes, her mother was packing her swimming togs and towel.
It was time for the backup plans.
‘I’ve woken up with a rare disease and can’t go out in the sun,’ said Harriet Bright.
Her mother packed a large sunhat and put extra sunscreen on her face.
‘I’ve got growing pains in my feet and can’t walk,’ she said to her father on the way to the car.
Her father loosened the laces in her trainers to give her feet more room.
‘Exercise makes my face go red,’ she said to Mr Moody, who was counting heads as he bustled the children out of the classroom.
‘It’s the Glow of Life,’ he growled as he herded her inside the bus.
‘I want to be a poet,’ sighed Harriet Bright as the bus pulled out of the school on its way to the aquatic centre.
Poets shouldn’t have to go in swimming races, she thought.
What if I get
What if I get water on the
I might never write another poem!
Harriet Bright shuddered.
It was just too terrible to think about.
12.26 pm
Mr Moody was prowling around the bus.
‘Feet OFF the back of the seat, Melly Fanshawe,’ he snapped. ‘You’ll leave a nasty stain on it for the next person. And goodness knows where your shoes have been!’
He looked suspiciously at her shoes.
Everyone knew that Melly Fanshawe had stood in cow poo last week when the class visited McSweeney’s farm.