The Girl Who Blew Up Her Brother and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls

by Christopher Milne

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Lampard,‘and what did this ghost look like?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ said John, ‘but it was really hard to tell – you see, he only had half a face.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t believe you!’ shouted Mr Lampard.‘You’re just up to your old tricks again and for that you can stay back again after school. At least you won’t be alone – you can speak to your friend. Half a face meets half a brain!’

  Mr Lampard was not a happy man.

  The next morning, however, something very strange happened. Mr Lampard opened up the classroom and there, drawn on the blackboard, was a man with half a face. How could it be? Mr Lampard had locked up last night after John went home and opened up again this morning.

  Mr Lampard questioned John.

  ‘Did you do this?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said John. ‘How could I?’

  By now the other kids in the class were getting scared. Really scared. One boy started to cry.

  There was a sudden noise.

  Bang! What was that?

  Bang, again!

  Mr Lampard turned around and there, in front of his own eyes, was the blackboard shaking and rattling as if… as if there was a ghost inside!

  Kids didn’t wait to see any more. They screamed, jumped up from their seats and ran out the door. John included.

  Even Mr Lampard looked shaken. ‘There must be an explanation,’ he said to himself. He looked closely at the blackboard. Everything seemed normal.

  By now, the principal, Mrs Allen, was in the room. ‘What’s all this rubbish I hear about ghosts?’ asked Mrs Allen.

  Then she stopped dead. ‘Now that’s amazing,’ said Mrs Allen, looking at the drawing on the blackboard. ‘You would swear that was a picture of old Mr Swain, the cleaner. One side of his face was badly hurt during the war. He lost an eye, his ear – half his face really. He died in this room of a heart attack.’

  Mr Lampard didn’t know what to think.

  When Mr Lampard told Mrs Allen about the blackboard moving, she became worried herself. But Mr Lampard wasn’t so sure. He knew John Tait too well. If it was a choice between a ghost and John Tait playing tricks, he’d go for John Tait every time.

  Mrs Allen replied that that may be so, but there was no way children could be expected to study until the whole thing was cleared up. Until she said otherwise, the school would be closed.

  ‘Yes!’ screamed all the kids.

  That afternoon, however, Mr Lampard went straight to Mrs Allen and said the whole thing was his fault. He had drawn the picture, he said, and he had made the blackboard move by lifting it up and putting a couple of pegs underneath. The pegs were secretly tied to some fishing line that no-one could see, so all he had to do was pull and then thump!

  Mrs Allen was shocked. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  And, said Mr Lampard, he had found a photo of old Mr Swain in a book on the history of the school. It had been a terrible thing to do, he realised, but he was so sick and tired of John Tait’s jokes that he had decided to teach him a lesson.

  Mrs Allen was still very surprised at Mr Lampard’s foolishness but as he had been such an excellent teacher over the years, she supposed she could forgive him just this once. School would begin again the next day.

  The next morning, Mr Lampard apologised to the whole class and said he didn’t know what had come over him. It would never happen again.

  Straight after school, Mr Lampard asked John if he could speak to him. Alone.

  ‘Now,’ said Mr Lampard, ‘you and I both know it wasn’t me who drew Mr Swain or moved the blackboard. It was you, young John. I found the school history book in your desk and the fishing line and pegs in the bin. And the window you’d left unlocked to get in. Very clever.’

  ‘How come I’m not in trouble, then?’ asked John.

  ‘Because ghosts are very dangerous things,’ said Mr Lampard. ‘I read in a book that if you leave ghosts alone, they’ll leave you alone. But if you play with them, or even pretend to play with them, they’ll come to get you. So, I thought to myself, this whole thing has gone far enough. I’ll pretend to take the blame and at least that will be the end of it. As a matter of fact, last night when I was snooping around here trying to work out your nasty little trick, I saw a reflection of myself in the window. And guess what? I only had half a face.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said John.

  ‘I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ said Mr Lampard. ‘Now, off home with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said a rather frightened John.

  But that wasn’t all his teacher had planned.

  Mr Lampard had seen people jump before, but never as high as John did that scary afternoon. As John leant down to pick up his school bag, there, drawn in blood on the floor, was a picture of a man with half a face.

  As John ran out of the room, Mr Lampard smiled and licked the last of the tomato sauce from his fingers. An interesting end to the last joke that John Tait would ever play in his life.

  Boys and girls, there are no such things as ghosts. But there are lots of people who play tricks. Watch out for them.

  the Worst

  holidays

  ever

  ‘If you don’t get off your bottom and find something to do, I think I’m going to scream,’ said Belinda’s mother.

  ‘Such as?’ asked a very grumpy-looking Belinda.

  ‘Anything!’ snapped her mother. ‘You could help me with the dishes for a start!’

  Belinda secretly made a very rude sign, stood up and stomped out of the room.

  ‘Don’t come back till you’ve wiped that sulky look off your face!’ yelled her mother.

  If Belinda’s mother could have seen the sign her daughter made this time, Belinda might not have been able to sit down for a week.

  Belinda marched into her room and slammed the door behind her.

  I guess you could say Belinda and her mum weren’t getting along too well. It was near the end of the holidays – the worst holidays ever, thought Belinda – and there was just nothing to do. Nothing!

  The weather had been terrible. ‘The wettest summer ever,’ said the lady next door. Although Belinda secretly thought the lady next door wouldn’t know if a dog bit her. When it’s wet, holidays are just so boring.

  Belinda had hung around at her friend’s house so much she thought she might throw up if she had to look at Samantha again.

  Gee, thought Belinda, Samantha is a real nerd when you get to know her.

  In fact, if Belinda really thought about it, all her friends were nerds. And she’d read every stupid magazine and every stupid book that her stupid friends had been stupid enough to buy.

  When it did stop raining, which was more often than Belinda would ever admit to, she would go up to the school netball courts.

  Belinda had practised shooting goals so many times she felt like smashing the ring with an axe. And what did Belinda think of netball now? ‘Useless! The wussiest game ever invented.’

  Belinda wasn’t a happy girl.

  What was even worse were all the lectures she had to put up with from her mother. Especially about Kevin, her boofhead brother.

  ‘Why can’t you be more like Kevin?’

  ‘Kevin is always so good and helpful.’

  ‘Kevin never has to be asked!’

  Kevin is a suck, thought Belinda.

  So, Belinda lay on her bed and waited.

  She knew it was only a matter of time before her mother came in with a job for her to do. Slamming the door and being rude always meant jobs. And maybe a screaming match.

  Not that it worried her. At least a screaming match would be something different. It had been a week since the last one.

  It’s funny how ideas come to you. Why, when you’re lying on your bed, really spewing about the worst holidays you’d ever had, would you suddenly think about playing a trick on your wimpy brother?

  A really nasty trick?
<
br />   Something to do, I guess. And, come to think of it, what about an even worse trick on your bossy mother?

  Belinda loved her mum – she wasn’t so sure about her brother – and she knew her mum was right when she called Belinda sulky sometimes. But that didn’t mean Belinda liked it. So why not get her mother, too? Suddenly, the holidays were looking better.

  First, her goody-goody brother. Kevin was really into Lego. He had just about every Lego piece ever invented. Pirate, Land, Castle, Space, Technic – you name it.

  But his favourite was definitely Technic. Especially the bits that had lights and motors and stuff.

  So Belinda thought hard. What about flushing his best bits down the toilet? No, somehow that wasn’t good enough.

  What about putting them in the dog’s food? That way, if he wanted to get them back he’d have to… No, her mum might make her do it.

  And then she thought of it! A way of getting her mum and Kevin at the same time.

  How excellent!

  Belinda quietly opened the door and sneaked into Kevin’s room.

  Yes! Everything she needed was there. A big green Lego board and hundreds and hundreds of blocks.

  Ever so softly, she closed the door behind her.

  That night, Belinda’s mother said how nice it was to see Belinda in a good mood again. And she was very, very pleased to find Belinda had cleaned her room without being asked.

  Belinda smiled sweetly and, like all good girls should, ate up her vegetables. Who would have guessed that Belinda had secretly planned something terribly, terribly naughty?

  After tea, Belinda told Kevin she was going to her room to do something.

  ‘What?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘Oh, nothing much,’ said Belinda. ‘I might make something for Mum. Knit her a scarf or something.’

  Kevin couldn’t believe it! Belinda wanted to do something for their mother?

  But the trick worked. What Belinda really wanted was for Kevin to make something for their mum, too. Something out of Lego. Belinda knew Kevin couldn’t stand the thought of their mum thinking Belinda was a better kid then he was.

  So Belinda waited. She didn’t have to wait long. It was only twenty minutes later that Kevin raced out of his room to tell his mum that he’d made her a special surprise. A surprise out of Lego!

  Quickly, Belinda sneaked into Kevin’s room and smashed his surprise into a thousand bits. Belinda wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to be, but she knew it was something stupid.

  Then she put something else in its place.

  Kevin dragged his mum down the hallway and proudly led her into his room. And there it was. A poem written in Lego blocks:

  GEE I THINK

  YOU RE UGLY MUM

  SMELLY BREATH

  AND BIG FAT BUM

  Belinda just loved the sound of Kevin getting screamed at. It was like her mum had a megaphone. And Belinda especially liked it when Kevin cried so loudly. They were real cries, too. So her mum must have said some terrible things. What a perfect trick!

  Belinda knew her turn would come. Once Mum found out the truth, she’d really be in for it. But somehow, it didn’t matter. At least the holidays had ended well.

  Belinda’s mum did find out the truth. And Belinda copped the biggest screaming match of her life. And that wasn’t all. No lollies, no magazines and grounded for a month!

  But that was OK. It gave Belinda time to think. About even better ways to get her brother. Trouble was, someone else was doing some thinking too. Kevin.

  The day after Belinda’s punishment finished happened to be her birthday. And secretly and very cleverly, Kevin had decided this would be the perfect day to get his sister back. Belinda had organised a sleepover party for five of her friends, and that usually meant Kevin sleeping on the couch.

  Just to make sure, Kevin said to Belinda, ‘There’s no way any of your stupid friends are sleeping in my room.’

  Of course, Belinda went straight to her mother and said it was her birthday and Kevin was just being mean, and of course her mother agreed. Which was just what Kevin wanted.

  That night, Kevin lay on the couch, waiting for his big chance. Finally it arrived. His dad had started snoring and the sound he made was something terrible – like a donkey with glue up its nose. If that didn’t make Belinda’s friends giggle, then they must be asleep.

  Kevin crept into Belinda’s room, softly pulled back one side of the blankets and poured a glass of water onto her bed. Then he tiptoed back to his room, hid behind the door, and started to make some scary, ghostly noises.

  The two girls sleeping top-to-tail in his bed woke up straight away and, just as Kevin had hoped, raced out of his room and into bed with Belinda.

  ‘Oh, yuck!’ he heard one of them say.

  Kevin tiptoed back to the couch and cacked himself laughing.

  But that wasn’t all. In the morning, as the girls sat down to breakfast, there was a poem on the table written in Cornflakes:

  I KNOW WHY

  BELINDA'S RED,

  TWELVE YEARS

  OLD AND WETS

  THE BED

  Belinda and Kevin fought like cat and dog over the next few years. One day, however, they just suddenly stopped fighting. No-one knows why. Perhaps they both became just too scared of what the other might do next.

  These days they get along quite well. Sometimes they even talk to each other. Belinda and her mum are OK too. Her mother doesn’t scream at her anymore. Somehow, said her mum, it just didn’t seem to work.

  Belinda’s long since forgotten the poem about her mother’s bottom. But her mother hasn’t. She’s been on a diet ever since.

  the

  girl

  who had

  a go

  Samantha Lang was the most useless person at sport the world has ever seen. But at least she had a go. Or so her father said, anyway.

  ‘Hitting Mr Collins with the javelin could have happened to anyone,’ said her dad. ‘At least you had a go.’

  Samantha had a go at basketball, too, but she could never remember whether to shoot or run or bounce or pass. Most times she tripped. And her father would be there, yelling for the team at the top of his voice. A little too loudly for Samantha’s liking.

  Sometimes he’d even complain to Samantha’s coach about umpiring decisions. ‘This umpire wouldn’t have got on the court when I played,’ he’d say. ‘Of course, I played top level.’

  At the school sports, Samantha was running dead last in the eight hundred metres when her father started yelling out, ‘Here she comes. Look at her. The kid has a go! Samantha, clap, clap, clap. Samantha, clap, clap, clap.’

  Samantha was so embarrassed she wished she could turn around and run home. In fact, she was that far behind the rest of the runners that people started walking onto the track. As if the race was over.

  Her father was so angry he grabbed some poor kid by the collar and threw him onto the ground. And still he chanted, ‘All together – Samantha, clap, clap, clap. Come on, everybody!’

  People pretended not to hear.

  The reason poor Samantha had a go at everything was her fear of hurting her father’s feelings. She knew he thought of her as a failure, a loser – how could she disappoint him further by not at least having a go?

  Her father had been such a fantastic sportsman himself, or so he said, that it was sort of in the family to have a go. Wasn’t it? She would have done anything to give sport a big miss and just done the things she liked, but she didn’t dare tell her father that.

  Samantha didn’t have any brothers so her father even wanted her to have a go at football. Apparently, he was a wonderful footballer himself. ‘A wonder,’ she’d overheard one man saying. ‘A gutless wonder.’

  So every Saturday and Sunday, Samantha would trudge off to tennis and netball and little athletics and whatever else happened to be on during the weekend, to have a go. And her father would mouth off to anyone who would listen about how sport had come so naturall
y to him, and how he was such a champion of this and a champion of that, and how little Samantha would one day follow in his footsteps because the kid had a go.

  A couple of times Samantha heard people say that they didn’t remember her father being champion of anything, but Samantha was sure they were just jealous.

  One day, Samantha decided she just couldn’t take it any more. That morning, she’d played golf so badly that the ball had hit a tree two metres in front of her and bounced back to smash her on the nose. The day before, she would have made the winning run in cricket, except for her silly hat falling onto the stumps. And the morning before that, she had to be rescued from a twenty-five-metre freestyle race.

  Samantha went straight up to her father and said, ‘Dad, please don’t be mad, but I can’t do it anymore. Sport. It’s killing me.’

  Her father turned, looked her straight in the eye and said,‘Young lady, don’t let me ever hear you say that again. You will play sport, you will enjoy it and you will, eventually, succeed.’

  ‘Daddy, please!’ said Samantha. ‘I’ll do anything if you let me stop.’

  ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this,’ said her father. ‘All those weekends I give up, all those trips in the car and this is the thanks I get!’

  ‘Is it for me, Dad?’ said Samantha. ‘Or is it for you? So you can tell everyone about how good you were? Or maybe how good you wish you had been?’

  ‘How dare you!’ screamed her father. ‘Let me put it this way. Any daughter of mine who won’t have a go is not my daughter! Is that clear enough?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy,’ whispered Samantha. ‘Sorry.’

  Things became worse after that. Up until now, Samantha’s father had praised her for having a go, but now he wanted success.

  He yelled at her for ramming herself in the throat with the pole vault, he made her feel stupid over the ping pong ball flying into her mouth and he screamed at her for riding her horse into the judge.