by Kaye Umansky
‘Tricky,’ said Wilf sympathetically. ‘Look, I ought to be –’
‘Sometimes the bulb comes loose from the tube and all the water comes out and soaks the front of my trousers.’
‘Embarrassing,’ said Wilf. ‘Look, interesting as this is –’
‘The whole point is to get someone smack in the eye. It’s supposed to be a surprise. Professor Jollybonks gets mad if he sees you fiddling about with tubes and bulbs. I’ll try if you really want me to, but I’m almost out of water.’
‘No, don’t bother. I’m in enough pain already. See?’ Wilf pointed to his eye, which was still smarting. ‘What kind of a way is that to welcome visitors?’
‘At least you didn’t get the bucket of jelly falling on you. Or the boxing glove.’ The clown gave a sigh and added, ‘What’s your name?’
‘Wilf. What’s yours?’
‘My real name’s Philip Tidden. But my clown name’s Toodly Pip. Toodly Pip the clown.’
‘Which do you like to be known by?’
‘Philip Tidden.’
‘Good choice,’ said Wilf. ‘Toodly Pip’s a bit annoying.’
‘I know. But I had to think of something quickly. When I first arrived, they all ran around pointing and shouting, “Whatever it is, ’tidden the clown!”’
Wilf choked back a snigger. He thought it was quite funny, but Philip Tidden obviously didn’t. Or didden.
‘We all have to come up with our own names,’ went on Philip Tidden. ‘If it’s too much like someone else’s, you get accused of copying and Dr Odd rubs your hair with balloons in assembly. Everybody laughs.’
‘And that’s clown punishment, is it?’
‘Yes. It hurts, actually. But it’s not as bad as Pieing.’
‘Let me guess. He throws pies at you?’
‘Everybody does. You get spun round on a big wheel and the whole college takes turns. They get points for doing it in a funny way. You wouldn’t want a Pie-ing.’
‘No, I certainly wouldn’t,’ agreed Wilf. Being a clown didn’t sound like fun at all. He added, ‘What do you get Pied for?’
‘Failing to see the funny side,’ said Philip Tidden glumly. ‘Laughter Is All. That’s the college motto. The trouble is, I’m not really very funny.’
‘Well, at least you’ve got a good pair of comedy glasses there,’ said Wilf, to cheer him up. ‘They’re hilarious.’
‘They’re not comedy glasses, they’re mine. I use them to see.’
Oh.
‘So,’ said Wilf hastily. ‘Everyone’s got a daft name, you say?’
‘Yes. See him?’ Philip Tidden pointed at a clown in a ginger wig, who had the one-man-band clown by the throat and was rhythmically bashing his head on his own drum.
‘What – the maniac in the wig?’
‘That’s Cheeky Charlie Chuckles. He’s horrible, especially to new boys. He filled my shoes with jam. Everyone laughed and he got a sticker. Can I hold your stick? Just for a moment?’
Wilf was about to hand it over, then hesitated.
‘Hey, wait a minute,’ he said, grinning. ‘This is a trick, right? You’re a clown. You’re planning to bash me with it, aren’t you? In a funny sort of way.’
‘No. I just want to hold it.’
‘Well, just for a minute, then,’ said Wilf. He handed over the stick. Philip Tidden took it, examined it thoroughly through his bottle glasses, waved it around a bit, then handed it back again.
‘Thanks,’ he said politely. ‘It’s very nice. Sticky.’
‘How did you get here?’ asked Wilf curiously. Philip Tidden didn’t seem clown material. Or didden. ‘Did you come along the Perilous Path?’
‘No,’ said Philip Tidden. ‘My father brought me. I won a scholarship. I wrote a ten-page essay about Why I Want To Be A Clown. I got top marks.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes. I’m good at essays. It’s the comedy I have trouble with.’
‘Why go to Clown College, then?’
‘Father was keen for me to give it a go. He and Mother are depending on me. They’re rather serious. There’s supposed to be a clown in every family. They think I’ll liven up teatimes.’
‘Can’t you write and tell them you’re not suited to it?’
‘All the pens around here explode. And the postbox has a hand that shoots out and pinches your nose. Besides, I don’t want to disappoint them. What’s the Perilous Path?’
‘Eh?’
‘You mentioned a Perilous Path. What’s that?’
‘You don’t want to know. It’s complicated. I don’t have time to –’
‘Uh-oh. Cheeky Charlie Chuckles is looking this way,’ said Philip Tidden suddenly. ‘He’s spotted you. He’ll tell Dr Odd. That’s torn it.’
The ginger-wigged clown was indeed staring. Not chuckling, though. He let go of the dazed one-man-band clown, who slumped to the grass. Then he began to walk in exaggerated, crab-wise fashion towards the marquee. He stood with his back to the flap and hissed something sideways out of his grinning mouth.
The music stopped.
Instantly, all activity ceased. The clowns just froze where they were, even in the middle of whacking each other. There was a long, expectant silence. Then – slowly – as one – they turned their heads and stared. First at Wilf. Then – again moving as one – at the marquee. Then back to Wilf again. Then the marquee. Only their heads moved. It was very unnerving.
Wilf tightened his grip on his stick.
The flap of the marquee peeled away. And inside –
Inside, there was darkness. Sheer, total blackness. And then the dry, creepy voice spoke once again.
‘IT APPEARS WE HAVE A NEW BOY. WHAT FUN. COME IN, LAD.’
The echoes died away. The clowns’ faces turned again towards Wilf.
‘Don’t,’ said Philip Tidden quietly, out of the corner of his mouth.
‘I won’t,’ agreed Wilf. He raised his voice. ‘Actually, I’m fine over here. I’m not stopping. Just here to make enquiries.’
There was another long silence. Nobody moved.
‘ENQUIRIES?’ repeated the voice, after an uncomfortable amount of time.
‘I’m looking for a little lost kid. His name’s Herby. Has he come this way?’
‘IS THIS A JOKE?’
‘What? No. Of course it’s not a joke.’
‘BUT YOU DO HAVE A JOKE?’
‘Well – no. Not that I can think of right now.’
‘THIS IS CLOWN COLLEGE.’
‘Well, yes, I –’
‘WE DON’T DO TRAGEDY HERE.’
‘No, I realise that, but –’
‘WE CARE NOTHING FOR LOST CHILDREN.’
‘Now, just a minute …’
‘EVERYTHING IS AMUSING. LAUGHTER IS ALL.’
‘No, it isn’t!’ yelled Wilf, angry now. ‘Not always, it isn’t! Some things are serious!’
There came a horrified gasp from the assembled clowns. It was as though he had said something really shocking.
‘YOU HAVE SPOKEN THE FORBIDDEN WORD!’ The voice from the marquee boomed around the silent field. ‘MAKE YOUR CHOICE, BOY. JOIN US AND LEARN TO LAUGH. OR – ALTERNATIVELY – PREPARE FOR A PUBLIC PIEING!’
A moan went up from the watching clowns. It sounded – expectant. Gleeful. It wasn’t a pleasant sound.
Wilf thought about this. Enter the marquee or be thrown to the clowns. Two choices.
No, three. Three choices.
R-U-N-N-N!
g
Chapter Twelve
Finishing Academy
Clover’s road started out by being twisty and turny, just like Wilf’s. But then it began to change. It became straighter and wider. The tangled trees gave
way to a tall, clipped, too-green privet hedge that towered up on either side. The rough ground smoothed out and eventually she was walking on clean white gravel.
From somewhere far behind came a faint whistle. Wilf was checking in. Clover turned, put her fingers in her mouth and whistled a shrill reply.
When she turned back again, a short way up ahead was a high stone archway. Set in the wall of the arch to one side was a brass plaque bearing the inscription:
Young Ladies’ Finishing Academy.
No visitors without appointment.
Head Teacher: Miss Toytt-Hoity
Beyond the arch lay a sweeping driveway bordered by velvety green lawns and neat flower beds. In the distance, tiny figures moved about with wheelbarrows and rakes. Gardeners, presumably. The driveway led to a grand house – a mass of spires, turrets and elegant windows.
Clover hesitated. Mrs Eckles had said not to go in anywhere. Did archways count? Under wasn’t the same as in, was it?
It was then that she heard the sound of tinkling laughter. It came from behind the hedge to one side. She noticed a small barred gate set in the privet.
She stepped up to the gate and peered through. A short distance away, a group of girls were having a tea party on the lawn. It was a charming scene. There were tables set with teapots, jugs, sugar bowls, cups and saucers and plates piled high with dainty sandwiches and fancy cakes. Some of the girls were perched on chairs, sipping tea. Others wandered around arm in arm, nibbling on cakes.
They were dressed in frilly frocks with matching satin sashes. Pale pastel colours seemed to be the order of the day. Powder blue, pale lemon, pale green, lavender, pink. All of them wore little white buttoned shoes. Several carried parasols, and one or two wore frilly bonnets.
Clover stared enviously. How she would love to join them! Just put her feet up and relax with a cup of tea and a little iced cake for ten minutes. Her stomach was growling and her old boots were beginning to hurt from all the walking.
‘Excuse me?’ she called.
But nobody heard her. Something else had caught their attention. Another group of frilly-frocked girls were approaching across the lawn, led by a cross-looking girl in pink.
‘Who said you could have tea here, Anthea Spittlepick?’ demanded the new pink girl, drawing up short. She had curly yellow hair and an upturned nose.
‘What’s it to you, Hortensia Howdairu?’ snapped a girl from the first group. She had brown ringlets and was also wearing pink.
‘Well, it just so happens that Miss Toytt-Hoity said we could practise our play here. So you can all move.’
‘Ooh!’ squealed Anthea Spittlepick. ‘Such lies! I asked Miss Toytt-Hoity and she said we could take tea here, so there! ’
They stood nose to nose. Behind them, their supporters closed ranks.
‘Liar? Me?’ Hortensia Howdairu gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘Ha! I know you copied a poem from a book and said you made it up and I’m telling. And why are you wearing pink? I always wear pink. I chose it first. You’re just copying me, isn’t she, Binkle?’
‘Yes,’ agreed one of her acolytes, dressed in blue. ‘Hortensia always wears pink. She chose it first. You’re just copying her, Anthea!’
‘I am not! I can wear pink if I like!’ snapped Anthea Spittlepick. ‘You’re not the boss, Hortensia Howdairu. Is she, Bubbles?’
‘No,’ agreed a plump girl in green. ‘Leave Anthea alone, Hortensia. She can wear what she likes.’
‘Oh, can she? Can she?’ sneered Hortensia Howdairu. ‘Anyway, you can’t talk, Bubbles Tiara. You’re so fat you’re bursting out of that dress, and anyway, my father says your father hasn’t got a penny to his name. He can’t even afford to pay for your harp lessons. You’ll be thrown out of this school, and nobody will miss you and you won’t get finished so you won’t marry royalty but you wouldn’t anyway because you’re so ugly. And your petticoat’s showing.’
Bubbles Tiara burst into hysterical sobs. Members of her team crowded round to comfort her, patting and stroking and casting grim looks over their shoulders at Hortensia Howdairu and her gang, who looked smug and very pleased with themselves.
Clover could hardly believe her ears. All those luxuries – pretty clothes and nice things to eat – and they were so hateful and mean. It seemed that money and a fancy education weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
‘You can’t talk, Hortensia Howdairu!’ spat Anthea Spittlepick. ‘My mother went to lunch with your mother and she said you don’t even have a second butler. So you won’t marry royalty either. And I’m telling Miss Toytt-Hoity you made Bubbles cry. Take no notice, Bubbles – she’s not worth it.’
‘Boo-hoo!’ wailed Bubbles Tiara damply. ‘Boo-hoooooo!’
‘Excuse me?’ said Clover again, louder this time. This time, they heard. Everyone stopped and stared. Dozens of eyes bored into her. They didn’t look friendly.
‘Servants’ entrance round the back,’ snapped Hortensia Howdairu.
‘I’m not a servant,’ said Clover. ‘I’m making enquiries. I’m looking for my little brother. He’s wearing a cut-down flour sack and a red hat. Has he come this way?’
‘I really have no idea,’ snapped Hortensia Howdairu. ‘Get lost, why don’t you?’
‘Yes, just clear off,’ agreed Anthea Spittlepick. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy? We couldn’t care less about your stupid brother and his awful clothes.’
They pointedly turned their backs on Clover and faced up to each other again.
‘Anyway, Anthea, pink has always been my colour, and . . .’
‘Anyway, Hortensia, I can wear what I like . . .’
‘Ninnies,’ said Clover, loudly and clearly. She just couldn’t help it. There was a short, shocked silence.
‘What?’ breathed Anthea Spittlepick. ‘What did she just say?’
‘You heard,’ said Clover. ‘Horrid, snobby, simpering, unhelpful, brainless ninnies. That’s you.’
The young ladies were gaping at her like goldfish. It was as though their brains had jammed. Nobody knew what to do. They just stared. Clover stared right back. She knew she would win. She was good at staring.
‘Oh, look!’ Suddenly a girl dressed in pale lemon spoke up. ‘There goes Verruca Plodfoot, in those awful trousers.’
And the spell was broken. With one accord, the Young Ladies turned their backs on the rude outsider in the faded dress and turned with relief on one of their own.
‘Look at her hair,’ sniffed one girl in turquoise. ‘What a mess!’
‘She must be running away again,’ said Bubbles Tiara eagerly. She had stopped crying. ‘Let’s tell Miss Toytt-Hoity!’
A girl was marching down the driveway. Unlike the others, she wasn’t wearing a frilly frock. She was dressed in a shabby old jacket, breeches and battered riding boots. A riding hat was under one arm. Her other hand held a suitcase. She had untidy brown hair that clearly hadn’t seen a comb for some time.
‘We see you, Verruca Plodfoot!’ shouted Hortensia Howdairu. ‘We’re telling Miss Toytt-Hoity!’
‘Yes!’ chimed in the others. Both gangs seemed united on this one. ‘She’ll send out the gardeners. Then you’ll be in trouble!’
The girl ignored them and marched on, through a hail of threats, jeers and unkind comments about her appearance.
Clover stepped away from the gate and waited. Seconds later, the girl came striding through the archway. She drew level with Clover, gave a nod, and said quite cheerfully, ‘Morning! Fine day!’ Then strode on.
‘Um – excuse me?’ said Clover. She ran to catch her up. Behind, the jeering died away. Presumably they had all gone running to tell Miss Toytt- Hoity.
‘Yes?’ The girl showed no signs of stopping. ‘Can I help?’
‘I’ve lost my brother,’ said Clover. ‘Have you seen him? He
rby’s his name. Three years old, wearing a brown sack.’
‘No,’ said the girl. ‘’Fraid not, sorry. I suppose you asked that lot?’
‘Yes. They told me to clear off.’
‘Typical. Give me horses any day. Better manners than those dimwits. I always ignore ’em.’
‘So I saw. Um – are you really running away?’
‘Yup. I do it two or three times a week.’
‘In broad daylight?’
‘Makes no difference. They always catch me and bring me back.’
‘So why do it?’
‘Well, it’s nice to get away from that lot for a bit. Bit of an outing, bit of fresh air. Until the gardeners show up.’
‘Gardeners?’
‘That’s what Hoity Toit calls them. Hired thugs, more like.’
‘What’s she like?’ asked Clover curiously. ‘Miss Toytt-Hoity?’
‘Think of a smiley snake in half-glasses. She wasn’t smiling when I made a bonfire of the ghastly frock she tried to make me wear, mind. Pale lavender. Can you imagine?’
‘Did you get into trouble?’
‘Oh, absolutely, but I don’t care. I’m trying to get expelled, you see. Cause enough bother and she’ll send me home. She’s already sent three warning letters to Popsy. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘Popsy?’
‘My father. That’s what I call him.’
‘Really? I call mine Pa. What does your father do?’
‘Not much. He’s a rich landowner. He gives absolutely loads to the poor, though.’
‘Pa’s a poor woodcutter. I’ve never seen him give to the rich.’ They caught each other’s eye and laughed. Clover added, ‘Actually, he doesn’t do much either. He hurt his back lifting a pig, though we did tell him not to.’
‘Fathers,’ said the girl. ‘They’re all the same. They never listen.’
‘You’re right,’ agreed Clover. ‘If mine had listened to Ma and fixed the gate, we wouldn’t have lost Herby.’