by Debi Gliori
‘I’ve got hundreds of those,’ Annabel mutters.
‘I’ve got thousands,’ squeals Shane, mimicking Annabel and adding nastily, ‘Daddy bought them for meeeee.’
‘No you haven’t,’ says Annabel, her eyes flashing. ‘Your parents couldn’t afford thousands of anything.’
‘Shut up, Annabel,’ Jamie hisses, but before a big fight can erupt, Vivaldi pulls out a weird little bundle of matchsticks and string and holds it out for us to see. It’s a tiny rope ladder.
‘Ta-DAAAA,’ she says. ‘What do you think this is? C’mon, Annabel. Bet you’ve got hundreds of these too.’
But Annabel is too busy pulling faces at Jamie to pay any attention.
‘Come on …’ Vivaldi says. ‘Guess?’ But nobody has ever seen a tiny rope ladder like this before, so she explains. It’s a spider ladder for hanging over the bath taps to allow spiders to climb out of the bath.
‘Urrrrrgh. Spiders. Ah hate them,’ Shane moans, adding, ‘Ah drown them.’
Poor spiders. But the spiders have Vivaldi on their side. Vivaldi, Spider-Saver. Poor Shane. She hunches her shoulders and bends over with her hands on either side of her face, and in a piercing whisper hisses, ‘One day, Shane, you won’t know where, and you won’t know when, a giant spider will come along when you’re in bed sleeping. And it will wrap you up in spider silk, then BITE you with its poisonous teeth - and then, when you’re completely paralysed, it will begin to nibble you up, bit by bit—’
‘Shut up,’ says Shane, but he looks nervous, as if there might be a giant spider somewhere out there just waiting for—
AAAAUUUGHHHHH, get it OFF MEEEE, YAAAAAAAAA!’ he shrieks, flapping his arms round his head and leaping sideways. He runs around the classroom banging into desks and chairs, almost sobbing with terror.
Craig bursts into mocking laughter and yells, ‘Calm doon, you fool. It was only me.’
‘What a baby,’ snorts Annabel, rolling her eyes. ‘I don’t mind spiders at all. We’ve got hundreds of them at home.’
Is there anything Annabel hasn’t got already? Apart from a kind heart, that is.
Meanwhile Vivaldi pulls out a little woven bag full of tiny worry dolls. Yoshito goes into raptures over these, and without a moment’s pause Vivaldi gives them to her.
‘Not fair,’ moans Annabel. ‘I wanted them.’ But Vivaldi ignores her completely because at last she’s found what she was looking for.
Yum. It’s her snack. Whatever it is, it looks and smells amazing. Vivaldi stuffs everything except the worry dolls and her snack back into her rucksack and everyone drifts away. Show over. My tummy gives a loud and envious TWONGGG as I follow Vivaldi across the classroom to our favourite seat on the radiator. All thoughts of snacks vanish though, because over on this side of the classroom we can hear WayWoof going nuts. In the room next door she is once again barking her head off.
‘It must be because of Daisy’s new teacher,’ Vivaldi decides. ‘There must be something about her that bugs WayWoof. The question is … what?’ She raises her eyebrows, scratches her head and takes a bite of her snack.
‘What question is what?’ Jamie (the Gun) demands, adding, ‘EWWWW, what is that thing you’re eating?’
‘This?’ Vivaldi pulls her mum’s amazing home-made vanilla and walnut flapjack out of her mouth and examines it as if she’d only just found it stuck to the underside of her shoe. ‘Oh – it’s a Brussels sprout and spinach, gluten-free, organic’ – Jamie backs away, but Vivaldi carries on – ‘yak butter, goat’s cheese and fermented soya bean paste tofu bar,’ she finishes happily, adding wickedly, ‘Want some?’
Jamie’s pale face is answer enough, but he has been raised to be polite, no matter what. In a strangled voice he squeaks, ‘Er. Gosh. No thanks. Awfully kind,’ before turning and walking away very quickly.
‘So’ - Vivaldi smiles - ‘that got rid of him. Now, shall we try and find out what’s really going on next door with Way Woof?’
‘But … we can’t just barge into the nursery, can we?’ I say.
‘Yes we can,’ Vivaldi says. ‘You can pretend that your mum put Daisy’s snack into your bag by mistake, and you’ve only just found it.’
This is a good plan, but Vivaldi doesn’t know that I’m an absolutely hopeless liar. I’ll turn bright pink and stammer if I have to tell a fib. Besides, I bleat, ‘I’ve already eaten my snack, so I don’t have anything to pretend with.’
‘Here. Use mine,’ and Vivaldi breaks off a square of her mum’s amazing flapjack and hands it to me. I try not to drool too obviously, but it smells like heaven.
Watching from beside the mirror in the book corner, Annabel mimes being sick, but we both ignore her. Mrs McDonald pokes her head round the door and immediately Annabel grabs a book and pretends to be reading.
‘Vivaldi and Lily,’ Mrs McDonald says, ‘off the radiator, dears. You’ll boil your bottoms. I need you both to help me carry some things through next door for the little ones.’ And she crooks her finger at us, as if to say, Come on. As we join her in the corridor, she says, And Annabel, dear. Unless you’ve turned into a bat you’ll never be able to read that book. You’re holding it upside down.’
Closing the classroom door, she gives us both a huge wink and sets off down the corridor; we follow along behind.
The Chin is also having a dreadful day.
Her chin has sprouted an enormous red spot, which is throbbing and pulsing as if at any moment it might launch into orbit around the Earth. And every time her chin throbs, the Chin is reminded of the previous night and the appalling behaviour of that dreadful little Harukashi man. Kissing her.
Eughhhhhh, it’s a wonder she’s only got one spot. After that kiss she feels she ought to be covered in millions of them. And now, to make matters worse, that horrible pesky dog is once again standing between her and Witch Baby, growling and baring its teeth every time the Chin moves so much as a wart’s width in her direction. Plus it’s raining outside, pouring in fact, and first thing that morning Mrs McDonald decided that all the children would have to be kept inside at morning break.
‘But … but what on earth am I supposed to do with them?’ the Chin had asked.
Mrs McDonald peered at her over the top of her spectacles and sighed. ‘I have no idea, Miss Chin,’ she said wearily. ‘That’s your job as playleader. Perhaps you should play with them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and teach my lot.’ And the Chin was left none the wiser.
Now, four minutes and twenty-two seconds into morning break, the nursery is on the brink of total meltdown. No sooner does the Chin try to sort out the woes of one group of weeping tots than another lot decide to inhale the sand in the sandpit, take a dip in the fish tank, eat the soil in the ‘seeds we can grow’ area or set the pet white mice free. The Chin leaps and spins from one disaster to another, and all the time that blasted dog is barking non-stop. Then, to her horror, she notices that her precious Witch Baby has removed all her clothes and is now running laps round the nursery stark naked, yelling, ‘HahahahaHA! NOT catchit! Notta MEEEEE, the gin-jah-bud girl!’
Just as the Chin is about to make a grab for Witch Baby, the door opens and there, right in front of her, are those awful Blue Moon girls.
Since time began, witches have loathed Blue Moon children.
Blue Moon children can almost see.
Blue Moon children can tell if there’s a witch nearby.
On their own, Blue Moon children are pretty powerless; after all, nobody pays any attention to a child who says, ‘We’ve got a real witch teaching in our school.’ But when you put two or more Blue Moon children together… pffff.
Then you’ve got trouble.
Then they back up each other’s stories.
Then adults start to listen to what they’re saying.
The Chin’s heart rate speeds up and she begins to panic.
Lily is too aghast at the sight of Daisy running around in the nude to really pay any attention to the Chin. She bolts across the
nursery in pursuit of her baby sister.
‘Hahahah, Lillil. See Daisy run. NOT catch meee.’
‘You’re a toad, Daisy,’ roars Lily. ‘Come here NOW—’ There’s a crash as the sandpit topples sideways and falls to the floor.
Vivaldi isn’t listening: she’s too busy trying to work out what it is about Miss Chin that seems All Wrong.
Behind her, Lily has managed to catch Daisy and is attempting to get her dressed again. ‘Pants, Daze,’ she mutters. ‘Come on.’
‘No WANTIT!’ yells Daisy. ‘Want BUMBUMBUM.’
Vivaldi frowns, puzzling over the wrongness of Miss Chin. Could it be just because Miss Chin has such an enormous … Spot on her … enormous chin?
Daisy breaks free of Lily and runs to WayWoof’s side. Lily lets her. At least she’s wearing her pants again. Even if they are on her head …
Vivaldi still doesn’t notice. She’s staring at the Chin’s chin. The spot is gruesomely fascinating. It’s bright yolk-yellow in the middle with a rather dazzling pink rim and Vivaldi is fascinated. She’s never seen a spot like that before …
The Chin is frozen with terror. The child knows, she thinks. This awful Blue Moon girl knows what I am.
Before she can stop herself, the Chin reacts. She does the first thing that comes to mind and hurls a spell of spots at Vivaldi. She hurls it so hard and so fast that Vivaldi feels as if she’s being sprayed with grit.
AAAAOOWWWWWWW!’ she roars, staggering backwards into the painting corner. There’s a series of thuds as all the pots of paint topple over, tumble off the table and hit the floor, followed by the table and, finally, Vivaldi.
Result, thinks the Chin; then, rearranging her face into an expression of deep concern, she says, ‘Oh! You poor, poor wee thing! Are you all right?’ And she rushes forward to help Vivaldi to her feet, but really to check that her spell of spots has worked.
It has. Spectacularly.
Eleven:
A spot of bother
‘Mum says you’d probably better not come round tonight,’ Vivaldi says, her voice sounding muffled and far away.
She’s on the phone in the kitchen of Four Winds, her house, and I’m on the phone in the hall of station House, my house. Although we only live five minutes apart, now that Vivaldi’s off school with the mystery spots, she may as well be on the moon.
‘What did the doctor say?’ I ask.
Vivaldi snorts. At least, I think that’s what it is. Coming down the phone, it sounds like she’s detonated a bomb.
‘Ochhhh,’ she groans, ‘he poked my arm pits, listened to me breathe and stuck a thermometer under my tongue. He didn’t say much at all.’
‘So,’ I say, dreading her answer, ‘how long d’you have to stay off school?’ What if she’s off for a few days? A week? What will I do without her? I’ll be on my own with the Wild Animals. Aaaargh. They’ll eat me alive and spit out the bones. Craig will squash me flat. Shane will go through all the words he can think of that rhyme with my name until he gets to W. Annabel will sneer at everything I say, and Donald will just stare … and stare … and stare. And all the while there’ll be a big black hole in the classroom where Vivaldi used to be. My friend, Vivaldi. My only friend, Vivaldi. I don’t know anyone else at school. But maybe it’ll be all right. Maybe she’ll only be off school for a day. Or even two. I could last for two days. I hold my breath and cross my fingers for luck.
‘That’s the thing, Lil,’ she sighs. ‘The doctor didn’t know. He said he’d never seen spots like mine before. He said I’m to stay off school for a week …’
A week? A whole week without Vivaldi? Oh, boy. This is going to be tough. No. This is going to be awful. All of a sudden I feel so lonely I want to cry. I can’t do that, though. It’s not me who’s ill with the mystery spots. I stare bleakly at the wall. Vivaldi is still talking.
‘… and he says I have to go for another check-up before I can come back to school. So … it might be longer than a week.’
Over a week? NO WAY. I feel ill. Suddenly I feel cold and shivery. It’s the thought of having to go to school without Vivaldi. I don’t think I can do it. My tummy gives a lurch, as if I’m about to be sick. Oh, NO. I wonder if Mum would allow me to stay at home if I tell her that just thinking about school makes me feel sick? Probably not. In fact, definitely not. No. There’s no escape. I just have to hope nobody will notice how miserable I am. I also have to hope that when the Wild Animals are horrible to me, I don’t burst into tears. If I do, I’ll have to pretend I’ve got an eye infection. And a bad cold. But at least I’ll be able to go and see Vivaldi after school. That’ll help. A little bit.
‘But worst of all is that no one is allowed to visit me in case I’m contagious.’ Vivaldi sounds like she’s about to burst into tears. I know exactly how she feels. What? I can’t even go round to her house? How bad is that? Over a week without a single friend?
Poor Vivaldi. And yes, selfishly, poor me too. However, I remind myself, I’m not the one with spots, stuck at home, so I try to sound more cheerful than I feel.
‘Don’t worry — I’ll phone you every night to let you know what you didn’t miss.’
On the other end of the phone, Vivaldi sniffs. It sounds like a hailstorm, but I carry on, lying, ‘And a week isn’t that long, really.’ Yes it is, I think. A week is seven days times twenty-four hours times sixty minutes. A week is so long I can’t even work out how many minutes I’ll have to spend all on my own.
There’s a huge silence on the other end; then, in a tiny voice, Vivaldi whispers, ‘But will you be all right?’
Me? I haven’t got spots. I’m about to point this out when she says, ‘I mean, with that weird Miss Chin. What will you do?’
What with Vivaldi’s spots and my future as the Friend-Free One at school, I’d completely forgotten about all that stuff.
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘don’t you worry about me. I’ll be fine. After all, I’ve got Daisy to protect me, haven’t I?’
There’s a roar of laughter on the other end of the phone, and in a much-more-like-herself voice, Vivaldi says, ‘Woo-hoo. Witch BAYBEEE. Don’t mess with her.’
Too right. From where I’m standing in the hall, I can see Daisy. She’s lying on the kitchen floor, laughing madly as WayWoof runs round in circles chasing her tail. Vivaldi’s right. Miss Chin is a bit weird, but compared to my baby sister and her invisible dog, she’s almost normal.
Next morning it’s still raining. Our roof is leaking through a different hole and we’ve run out of things to take to school for a snack. After raking through the biscuit tin, Jack and I agree to divide an out-of-date energy bar between us. It looks pretty disgusting, but I’m sure I’ll be able to persuade Daisy to do something about that. Dad and Jack take the car, and Mum, Daisy, WayWoof and I set off for school wearing wellies. We walk in single file along a little track, being dripped on by overhanging trees, and sometimes sploshing through really deep, muddy puddles.
Daisy loves the puddles - the deeper, the better. Back when we lived in Edinburgh, we’d walk through the middle of town to get to school, but up here in The Wilds, it’s completely different. There are no traffic lights, no zebra crossings, no lollipop ladies and hardly any cars. Most of the other pupils live near enough to walk. However, just as we reach the start of the lane leading down to the school, a big black four-wheel drive whooshes past us, throwing up a huge wave of mud, which narrowly misses soaking all three of us.*18 It skids to a stop a little way up the road and the back doors open to reveal The Gun and The Pony.
No surprises there, but what is surprising is how utterly miserable Jamie and Annabel look.
They slam their doors shut in unison and the car reverses sharply, turns round and comes roaring back down the road towards us.
‘Watch out!’ Mum yells, but I’m already diving out of the way. The huge car races past, spraying muddy water in all directions. I check to make sure Daisy and Mum are all right and realize that WayWoof has gone.
Oh, dear.
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br /> There’s a grinding sound, a whoosh and then complete silence from the far end of the road. I turn round slowly, dreading what I’m about to see. What has Daisy done now?
‘Oh, brother,’ Jamie mutters, his mouth open in dismay.
‘Daddy - oh, your poor car!’ Annabel squeaks, running past us to where her daddy’s poor car has ground to a halt in the middle of an enormous puddle. The puddle is so vast, it could almost be a loch. It’s also a brand new puddle because I know it wasn’t there thirty seconds ago. This has to be one of Daisy’s spells. There’s no other explanation. Puddles this big don’t just appear, no matter how hard it rains.
I stare at Daisy, but she’s clapping her hands, obviously very pleased with herself.
‘All WET now,’ she crows. ‘road WET, sky WET, Lily WET, Mumma WET, bad car ALL WET …’ And then, under her breath, ‘Daisy NOT wet, hahahaha.’
I turn back to check what’s happening with the car in time to see the driver’s door fly open. A man with a red face jumps out, slips, loses his footing and – SPLOSHHHH – he’s sitting in the puddle.
‘Let’s go,’ Mum says in a rather choked voice. She is trying her hardest not to laugh. Her mouth twitches and her eyes shine. The red-faced man gets up and wades across the puddle, yelling loudly. Jamie is running towards him and Annabel is picking her way carefully round the edge with her head down. It’s raining harder now, but even that doesn’t mask the awful smell that suddenly fills the air.
‘Eughhhhh,’ Mum groans. ‘That’s dreadful. The drains must be backing up or something. Ugh …’
But the sudden stench is nothing to do with drains and everything to do with Daisy. Daisy and her invisible-but-smellable dog.
Spell’s over. WayWoof’s back.