Mud!

by Alan MacDonald

  CHAPTER 2

  Bertie stood in the playground with his friends, waiting for the bell.

  “What’s that funny smell?” asked Darren, holding his nose.

  “It’s Bertie,” grinned Eugene. “He’s had a bath!”

  Darren sniffed Bertie. “Phew! You smell of flowers!”

  “It’s just shampoo!” said Bertie.

  “And what’s wrong with your hair?” said Eugene.

  Bertie rolled his eyes. “My mum did it. It’s for the photo.”

  “I think you look sweet,” giggled Donna.

  “SWEET?” hooted Darren. “He looks like an alien! Anyway, I bet you can’t stay like that for five minutes.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Bertie. “’Cos if I stay clean my mum’s taking me to Splash City.”

  Just then a pale boy arrived carrying a briefcase. It was Bertie’s arch-enemy, Know-All Nick. Nick halted and stared at Bertie. Bertie stared back. They looked like twins.

  “What happened to you?” sneered Nick.

  “Nothing,” said Bertie.

  “You look weird. Have you brushed your hair?” Bertie sighed.

  “If you must know it’s for the photo. I thought I’d look smart.”

  “You? Smart? HA! HA!” scoffed Nick.

  Bertie glanced down. Nick was standing close to a large brown puddle. If he jumped in it now he could splash Nick with muddy water. But he was bound to get dirty as well – and he’d promised his mum to stay clean. Still, there was always tomorrow.

  He turned to go. “See you later, smarty-pants.”

  Miss Boot prowled the front of the classroom.

  “I trust you’ve all remembered that we’re having our class photo today,” she said. “And this year I don’t want anyone spoiling it – Bertie.”

  “Me?” said Bertie.

  “Yes, you,” glared Miss Boot. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten last year.”

  “That wasn’t my dog!” said Bertie. “He followed me into school…”

  “Quiet!” barked Miss Boot. “This year there will be no dogs and no silliness, do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Miss Boot,” chorused the class.

  “Good. The photographer is arriving at one o’clock, so we will gather in the hall after lunch.”

  Bertie groaned. After lunch? That meant he had to get through an entire morning without getting dirty. Still, it would be worth it. Bertie sniffed. He was about to wipe his nose on his sleeve when he remembered his hanky. He reached into his trouser pocket. He turned cold. It wasn’t there! He checked his other pocket.

  Empty!

  What was it his mum had said? No hanky, no trip to Splash City. Bertie slumped forward on his desk. This was terrible – if he didn’t find it, there’d be no Rocky Rapids River Ride.

  Miss Boot was busy writing sums on the board. Slowly, Bertie slid down in his seat and disappeared under his desk. His eyes swept across the floor. No sign of a hanky. He began to crawl on all fours, weaving his way through a forest of legs. The floor was littered with sweet wrappers, stickers, chewing gum, rubbers, apple cores and dead bluebottles – but no hanky.

  “OW!”

  Uh oh – he’d accidentally crawled over someone’s foot.

  “Nicholas!” cried Miss Boot. “Get on with your work!”

  “It wasn’t me, Miss,” whined Know-All Nick. “Someone kicked me!”

  “Don’t talk nonsense!” snapped Miss Boot.

  Bertie kept very still. Suddenly Nick’s head appeared under the desk and their eyes met. Bertie put a finger to his lips and shook his head. A sly smile spread across Nick’s face.

  “It’s Bertie, Miss!” cried Nick. “He’s under the table!”

  Bertie groaned. Trust Know-All to tell tales.

  “BERTIE!” thundered Miss Boot. “COME OUT FROM THERE, THIS MINUTE!”

  Slowly Bertie crawled out and stood up. His trousers seemed to have got rather dusty. A lump of chewing gum was stuck to his knee.

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?” demanded Miss Boot.

  “Um … have you seen my hanky?” asked Bertie.

  CHAPTER 3

  Miss Boot kept Bertie in at morning break, which meant he had no chance to look for his missing hanky. By lunchtime he was beginning to panic. Time was running out. Maybe he’d dropped the hanky in the playground when he got to school?

  Mr Grouch was over by the railings, sweeping up litter. Normally Bertie did his best to avoid the caretaker. Mr Grouch didn’t like children and he especially didn’t like Bertie. Bertie was pretty sure that he turned into a vampire after dark. Nevertheless this was an emergency.

  “Um … Mr Grouch?”

  The caretaker carried on sweeping.

  “I was wondering if you’d seen a hanky? It’s sort of white…”

  Mr Grouch scowled. “I know what a hanky looks like.”

  “Oh. Have you seen it?”

  “Do I look like I’m running a lost property service?”

  “No, but…”

  Mr Grouch leaned heavily on his broom.

  “Anything I find in this playground is treated as litter,” he said. “Litter goes in the bin, got that?”

  “Yes … er, thanks,” said Bertie, beating a hasty retreat.

  Bertie hurried round the side of the school. He found two large, grey bins standing in a corner. They were taller than he was. Even standing on tiptoe he couldn’t see inside.

  Luckily help was at hand.

  “Hi, Bertie. What are you doing?” asked Eugene, appearing at his side.

  “Quick,” said Bertie. “Get down.”

  “What?”

  “I need to climb on your back!”

  “But it’s dirty!” grumbled Eugene. “I’m wearing my best clothes.”

  “This is an emergency,” said Bertie. “I’ve got to find my hanky.”

  “What if Mr Grouch catches us?”

  “He won’t. Come on!”

  Eugene sighed and got down on all fours. Bertie climbed on to his back. He lifted the lid of the first bin and peeped inside. It was full of leftovers from dinner. It smelled worse than one of Darren’s burps.

  “Can you see it?” asked Eugene.

  “I’m looking. Keep still!” said Bertie.

  “Hurry up, I can’t hold you!”

  Eugene was getting anxious. He thought he could hear footsteps. Someone was coming and he was sure it was Mr Grouch! He leaped to his feet.

  “WOOOAHHHHH!” cried Bertie, losing his balance. He grabbed hold of the bin. It toppled towards him.

  CRAAAASH!

  Bertie surfaced from under a mountain of rotten cabbage and potato peel.

  “S-sorry, Bertie!” stammered Eugene.

  Bertie shook his head, scattering bits of vegetable in all directions.

  “HEY YOU! COME HERE!” yelled an angry voice.

  Mr Grouch was striding towards them waving his broom like a Roman spear.

  Bertie didn’t wait around to explain. He ran for his life.

  Bertie ducked into the cloakroom to give Mr Grouch the slip. There were only five minutes till the end of lunch break and he still hadn’t found his hanky.

  “Phoo! What happened to you?” asked Know-All Nick, poking his head round the door. Bertie looked up. A white triangle peeped from Nick’s top pocket. A hanky!

  “Where did you get that?”

  “This? It’s mine,” said Nick.

  “Liar! You stole it! It’s mine.”

  Bertie made a grab for it, but Nick dodged aside and waved the hanky under his nose.

  “See, it’s got the letter ‘N’ for Nicholas. I expect yours has a ‘B’ for Bogeynose.”

  Bertie glared at him.

  “What’s the matter?” taunted Nick. “Did poor lickle Bertie lose his hanky?”

  “Get lost,” Bertie snapped.

  “Please yourself,” shrugged Nick. “I was going to tell you where to find it, but maybe I won’t.”

  “Y
ou’ve seen it?” said Bertie. “Where?”

  Nick smiled slyly. “In the boys’ toilets. But you’ll have to hurry.”

  Bertie flew down the corridor. He raced past the classrooms, screeched round a corner and crashed through the door of the boys’ toilets.

  SPLOOSH! His feet went from under him and he sat down with a bump.

  He looked around. The floor was ankle deep in water and his trousers were soaking wet. It was then that he noticed the sign on the door.

  Bertie got soggily to his feet. That two-faced sneak had tricked him. There was no hanky. And now he was dripping wet and late for the class photo.

  CHAPTER 4

  Miss Boot arranged her class on the platform in the hall. At last everyone was in position. She counted the heads and groaned. Someone was missing and no prizes for guessing who.

  Right on cue the door flew open and Bertie rushed in, panting for breath.

  Miss Boot stared at him in horror.

  “Good grief! What on earth have you been doing?”

  “Me? Nothing,” said Bertie.

  “Look at the state of you!” said Miss Boot, clutching her head.

  Bertie inspected himself. Come to think of it, he was a little messy. His trousers were caked in dust and dripping wet. His clean white shirt was stained a greenish brown. A wet puddle was spreading around his feet. He pushed back his hair and a piece of potato peel fell out.

  “Go and get cleaned up,” ordered Miss Boot. “No wait, there isn’t time. Stand in the back row and try to keep out of sight.”

  Bertie splodged on to the platform and pushed his way to the back next to Darren.

  The photographer bent over his camera.

  “Everyone ready? Say cheese!”

  “Cheese!” chorused the class.

  “WAIT!” cried a voice.

  Miss Boot groaned. “What is it now, Bertie?”

  “I need to blow my nose.”

  “Then blow it. And use a hanky.”

  “That’s the trouble,” wailed Bertie. “I’ve been looking everywhere and I can’t find it!”

  “Then you’ll have to do without!” screeched Miss Boot. “Now can we please get on with the photo?”

  The photographer bent over his camera once more. Bertie’s shoulders drooped. His nose was running but what did it matter? Once his mum discovered he’d lost his hanky there’d be no trip to Splash City.

  He found a dry patch on his sleeve and wiped his nose. Wait a minute … what was that? A corner of white peeped out from under his cuff. And then he remembered. He’d stuffed his hanky into his sleeve that morning for safe keeping. He pulled it out triumphantly. Everything was going to be OK. He put the hanky to his nose and blew…

  Mum was busy on the computer when she heard the front door open.

  “Bertie, is that you? How did the photo go?”

  “Fine,” shouted Bertie, coming into the room.

  Mum turned round. She turned pale. She looked like she might faint.

  “Bertie…! WHAT HAVEYOU DONE?!” she gasped.

  “It’s OK!” beamed Bertie. “I lost my hanky but I found it. Look!”

  He waved a soggy white rag.

  “So,” he said, “can we go?”

  Mum stared. “Go? Go where?”

  “To Splash City. You promised!”

  Mum looked grim. “There’s only one place you’re going, Bertie, and there won’t be any splashing.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Bertie couldn’t wait – Darren and Eugene were coming for a sleepover and they were going to sleep in the tent in the garden. All he had to do was convince his parents.

  “I’m sorry, Bertie,” said Mum, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?” asked Bertie.

  “Because last time you woke up all the neighbours!”

  “We were only having a water fight.”

  “It was two in the morning! We had half the street banging on the door.”

  “We won’t do it again,” promised Bertie. “We’ll be really, really quiet.”

  Mum sighed wearily. “In any case, I don’t even know where the tent is.”

  Dad came into the kitchen.

  “Dad,” said Bertie, “do you know where the tent is?”

  “Mmm? In the garage I expect.”

  “Can we sleep in it tonight?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Great!” said Bertie.

  The doorbell rang and he dashed off to answer it before his parents could change their minds.

  “Guess what?” said Bertie, as Darren and Eugene staggered through the front door carrying their bags. “Mum and Dad said yes. We can sleep in the tent!”

  “Brilliant!” said Darren. “We can have a water fight!”

  They found the tent under a pile of junk at the back of the garage. It had been Dad’s brilliant idea to buy it. He said they’d have lots of wonderful family camping holidays and save a fortune. But as it turned out they’d only been camping once. It had rained all weekend, the tent nearly blew away in a gale and their sleeping bags had got soaked. They’d left in the morning with Mum vowing she would never go camping again.

  Bertie shook out the contents of the bag on to the grass. Eugene stared at the jumble of pegs and poles.

  “Shouldn’t we read the instructions?” he asked.

  “No need,” said Bertie. “It’s simple! I’ve done it hundreds of times!”

  This wasn’t strictly true – the tent had only been up twice and Bertie hadn’t helped at all.

  Bertie and Eugene wrestled with the poles while Whiffer got in the way and sat on the groundsheet. Darren lolled on the grass reading a comic. At last they were finished and Bertie stood back to admire their work.

  “It looks a bit wonky,” frowned Darren.

  “It’s meant to be wonky,” said Bertie.

  “Can I let go of the pole now?” called Eugene from inside.

  “Wait a minute!” answered Bertie. “I’ve got to do the pegs.”

  Bertie went round with a mallet hammering pegs into the ground. Darren went back to his comic. Whiffer was sniffing round the tent, eager to join in. He seized one of the guy ropes in his mouth and started to pull. The peg shot out. The tent leaned dangerously to one side.

  “NO!” yelled Bertie. “Whiffer, let go!”

  “GRRRR!” growled Whiffer, shaking his head from side to side.

  “Bad dog!” cried Bertie, trying to grab the rope.

  Whiffer backed away, the rope still in his teeth. The tent stretched. And stretched.

  TWANG! A dozen pegs shot out of the ground and the tent collapsed in a heap.

  “MNNNNFF HEEELP!” cried a voice from underneath.

  “OK, Eugene, you can let go now,” said Bertie.

  CHAPTER 2

  After supper, Dad went out to the garden to sort out the tent. Bertie sat in his bedroom with Darren and Eugene checking their supplies for the night.

  “Comics?” said Bertie.

  “Check.”

  “Torches?”

  “Check.”

  “Midnight feast?”

  “I brought the crisps,” said Darren.

  “I got the chocolate biscuits,” said Bertie.

  “I got some muesli bars,” said Eugene.

  The other two gave him a look.

  “What? It’s all I could get! My mum says they’re good for you.”

  Bertie rolled his eyes. “What about weapons? Is everybody armed?”

  Darren had a space gun he’d got for his birthday. Bertie tucked his pirate dagger into his belt. Only Eugene had forgotten.

  “Why do we need weapons, anyway?” he asked.

  Bertie shrugged. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

  “It’ll be dark,” said Darren. “Really dark. You never know what might be out there.”

  Eugene turned pale. “You’re just trying to scare me,” he said.

  Mum poked her head round the door.

  “OK, t
he tent’s all ready!”

  “Great,” said Bertie.

  “Wicked!” said Darren.

  “Hooray,” gulped Eugene, gripping his torch.

  Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe. The three of them crept down the garden.

  Bertie led the way with Eugene keeping close behind. In the dark the garden seemed much bigger than Bertie remembered. The moon was a ghostly white. The trees threw dancing shadows on the ground.

  “Wait!” said Bertie, halting suddenly. “Where’s Darren?”

  They looked around. “He was here a minute ago,” said Eugene.

  They shone their torches into the bushes.

  “Darren?” called Bertie. “Where are you?”

  No answer. The tent flapped in the wind.

  “Darren, this isn’t funny. Come out!”

  Silence.

  “Maybe he went back for something?” whispered Eugene.

  They looked back at the house. Whiffer watched them hopefully from the kitchen where he was locked in for the night.

  There was a rustle in the bushes. Bertie swung round.

  “Darren? Is that you?”

  Deathly silence.

  “Maybe we better wait in the tent,” said Bertie.

  “G-good idea,” stammered Eugene.

  They both bolted down the garden. Eugene wrestled with the zip…

  “GRARRRRRRGH!”

  Something burst out of the bushes and grabbed Bertie round the neck.

  “YEEAARGH! HEEELP!” howled Bertie.

  “HA! HA! HA!” giggled Darren. “Did I scare you?”

  Bertie struggled free. “Course not.”

  “Liar! You practically wet your pants.”