Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with four cats and a flying cow.
Some other books by Jeremy Strong
DINOSAUR POX
FATBAG: THE DEMON VACUUM CLEANER
GIANT JIM AND THE HURRICANE
THE HUNDRED MILE-AN-HOUR DOG
I’M TELLING YOU, THEY’RE ALIENS!
THE INDOOR PIRATES
THE INDOOR PIRATES ON TREASURE ISLAND
THE KARATE PRINCESS
THE KARATE PRINCESS TO THE RESCUE
THE KARATE PRINCESS AND THE LAST GRIFFIN
KRAZY KOW SAVES THE WORLD
THE MONSTER MUGGS
MY DAD’S GOT AN ALLIGATOR!
MY GRANNY’S GREAT ESCAPE
MY MUM’S GOING TO EXPLODE
PIRATE PANDEMONIUM
SIR RUPERT AND ROSIE GUSSET IN DEADLY DANGER
THE SHOCKING ADVENTURES OF LIGHTNING LUCY
THERE’S A PHARAOH IN OUR BATH
THERE’S A VIKING IN MY BED
VIKING AT SCHOOL
VIKING IN TROUBLE
Illustrated by Judy Brown
PUFFIN BOOKS
For Jane: A great friend and a brilliant teacher, without whom this story could never have existed.
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
www.penguin.com
First published by A & C Black (Publishers) Limited 1990
Published in Puffin Books 1999
19
Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 1990
Illustrations copyright ©Judy Brown, 1990
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Contents
1. The New Teacher
2. The Great Dart Contest
3. To Fly Like A Bird – Almost
4. The Very Friendly Cake
5. Not So Friendly After All
6. Little Things – Big Problems
7. An Inspector Calls
1 The New Teacher
There was a long, long silence during which time Mr Shrapnell stared dully at the telephone still dangling in his left hand. Slowly he raised his eyes until they met those of Mrs Bunt, the school secretary. She put a thin hand to her mouth, already anxious.
‘Oh, Mr Shrapnell, what is the matter? Who was that on the phone?’
For the first time the Headmaster seemed to become aware of the machine that had brought the bad news. He carefully replaced it on the receiver and raised his eyes to Mrs Bunt again, spearing her with a steel-grey glare. ‘That was Mr David, Mrs Bunt. He went sleepwalking last night, fell downstairs and broke his arm and two ribs.’
‘Oh the poor man. The poor, poor man!’ cried Mrs Bunt, not even noticing that the Headteacher had clamped his jaws together and seemed to be grinding his teeth with grim fury. Mrs Bunt had now clasped both hands in an attitude of deep prayer. ‘The poor man. What he must be suffering, and him with his bad back too.’
Mr Shrapnell could take no more. He sprang to his feet and strode round his desk. ‘I don’t care how many broken legs or bad backs he’s got, Mrs Bunt! I don’t care if he’s been sawn in half, stuffed with green peppers and eaten by gourmet cannibals from the depths of Borneo. I don’t care, I don’t care – as long as he arrives every day by ten minutes to nine and teaches his class of thirty-two nine year olds. That is his job, Mrs Bunt, do you understand?’
The secretary really was trembling now. It was at times like these that she wondered why she continued to work for Mr Shrapnell. His rages were so unpredictable. It was like walking blindfold across a minefield. It was also at times like these she remembered children with cut knees, grazed elbows and scratches in the most unexpected places. Then there were the lumps and bumps she had smoothed and the tears she had wiped dry, and she knew why she carried on working at Dullandon Primary School.
Mr Shrapnell leaned towards her, his right eye beginning to twitch in one corner. He glared over her shoulder to the wall behind and stabbed at it with a thick finger.
‘Do you see that, Mrs Bunt? It’s the school timetable. That is what the school works to. Look, look! Monday, May the third. There it is – see? There!’
The secretary nodded quickly as Mr Shrapnell almost pushed her face into the timetable. ‘And see here, this is Mr David’s class on Monday, May the third. Maths, English, History and then –’ the Headteacher lowered his voice to a grave whisper – ‘Science, Mrs Bunt, Science.’ For a moment he was lost in thought, then he turned back to the secretary. ‘Now, tell me, Mrs Bunt, who is going to teach Mr David’s class today? Or tomorrow? Or the day after that? He will be away from school for at least a week. It’s a disaster!’ The Head gave a shudder at the thought of such selfishness on the part of the injured Mr David.
The school secretary calmed herself. ‘I’ll get on the phone at once Mr Shrapnell. I’m sure we can find a replacement for poor Mr David.’
‘And stop calling him poor!’ yelled the Head, as she hurried back to her office. ‘He’s going to destroy the running of the school. I’ve spent months perfecting that timetable!’ She heard his door slam shut and sat down on her chair with relief.
‘One day,’ she promised herself, ‘I am going to tell Mr Shrapnell just what I think of him. Now, let’s try Mrs Perkins. She’s filled in for us before.’ But there was no reply from Mrs Perkins. ‘Well how about Miss Juniper?’
This time there was an answer, but when Miss Juniper heard that Dullandon Primary School was a teacher short she almost spat down the phone. ‘You can tell Mr Shrapnell to go and boil his head,’ she told Mrs Bunt. ‘I’ll not work for that old ratbag again!’
‘I know just how you feel,’ murmured Mrs Bunt as she dialled Mr Dunwoody’s number. But Mr Dunwoody had retired from teaching altogether. Mrs Bunt tried four more supply teachers but they all had an excuse or they were out. Mrs Bunt began to get the impression that nobody wanted to come near the school and she had almost run out of names on her list.
The door was suddenly flung open and Mr Shrapnel
l’s angry head appeared. ‘Have you got someone yet, Mrs Bunt? School starts in ten minutes.’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Perkins can’t come, Miss Juniper is, er, otherwise engaged, Mr Dunwoody has –’
‘Don’t give me feeble excuses, woman. This is an emergency. Find me a teacher for Mr David’s class.’ The door slammed shut whipping a pile of papers from Mrs Bunt’s desk and scattering them across the carpet.
The secretary got down on her hands and knees and searched for the list of supply teachers. At last it was found, beneath the caretaker’s order for six tons of lavatory cleaner. Mrs Bunt groaned. ‘I do wish the caretaker would spell things properly’ She crossed out the ‘o’ in tons and changed it to six tins. ‘I should think six tons would last us about a hundred years. Now, who’s left on this list – Mrs Green and Miss Pandemonium.’
The secretary picked up the phone again. There was no answer from Mrs Green and that left Miss Pandemonium. The phone had hardly rung once before it was answered at the other end by a very excited voice.
‘Don’t you worry,’ gabbled Miss Pandemonium. ‘I shall be over in a jiffy. No – even quicker than that – in a jiff! I’ll grab my bag and dash upstairs and put on some make-up – no I won’t – I’ll do that in the van on the way over. My goodness, school starts in five minutes. I shall have to get a move on.’
‘Miss Pandemonium,’ began Mrs Bunt. ‘Do you know the –’
‘Dunderbank School, isn’t it?’ shouted Miss Pandemonium down the telephone. Her voice came over in a very odd way because she was hopping about on one foot while she was talking, trying to pull on one half of a pair of tights.
‘Are you all right?’ Mrs Bunt inquired anxiously, as a huge crash rolled down the telephone line and fell into her right ear.
‘Fine! Fine!’ Miss Pandemonium’s voice sounded a bit distant. This was probably because she had fallen one way and the telephone had whizzed off in the opposite direction. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on my way,’ announced Miss Pandemonium, and the phone went dead before Mrs Bunt had time to tell her that the school was called Dullandon, not Dunderbank.
Mrs Bunt gave her head a little shake as if to get some sense back into it. She rose from her seat to go and tell the Headmaster, then paused for a second. A tiny smile found its way on to her thin lips. She had a feeling about Miss Pandemonium, the sort of feeling that made her feel nervous and just a bit giggly Heaven alone knew why she should feel like that. Perhaps it was the thought of Mr Shrapnell meeting the new teacher.
Anyhow, the Head was delighted to hear the news. He glanced at his watch. ‘Four, no, three minutes to go before the whistle for the start of school. Well done, Mrs Bunt. Let’s hope she can get here in time. What do we know about her?’
Mrs Bunt glanced at the list of supply teachers. ‘She says here that she will teach anything to anyone.’
The Head rubbed his hands together. ‘Indeed? Good, good. I hope she gets a move on. I must go and blow the whistle.’ He grabbed a whistle from the back of his door and strode across the hall to the playground.
The children were screaming and shouting and dashing round like the balls in a pinball machine. But the children meant little to Mr Shrapnell. He ran the school like his own private army. There was a place for everything, and everything in its place. There was a time for everything, and everything … his eyes were on his watch. Ten seconds, nine, eight – the whistle was in his mouth at the ready.
A piercing shrill brought the rush and dash and noise to a halt. Every child stood stock still, frozen to the spot. ‘Frazer! Your foot moved. Stand still, boy! That girl there, yes you, stop scratching!’
Mr. Shrapnel glanced across to the car park. Still no sign of Miss Pandemonium. From the distance came the faint sound of a siren. Probably a fire engine, he noted mentally. He began to call out the names of classes. Lines of children filed silently into school. The siren came closer. Some children turned to see if it would pass by the school gates. Would it be a fire engine or a police car?
There was a screech of tyres at the corner of the road and an ambulance veered into view. Lights were flashing and the siren wee-wahed furiously. It whizzed past the school while everyone stared. Not even Mr Shrapnell could resist the thrill.
The ambulance suddenly screeched to a halt and reversed, its siren still screaming. A side window flew open and an arm shot out, making a grand signal for a right turn. Then the ambulance growled, scrunged its gears, leaped forward down the school drive and skidded to a halt in the car park.
A short figure jumped out, pulling six assorted bags after her and spilling half of them on to the tarmac. She gazed around for a moment and ran a hand through a head of hair that looked like a rook’s nest. She had lipstick halfway up one cheek and eyeshadow over most of her nose. She gave Mr Shrapnell a cheery grin and staggered across the playground towards him, trailing bags behind.
‘Morning!’ she cried. ‘What a lovely morning too – Violet Pandemonium – how do you do?’
‘But, but,’ began Mr Shrapnell. ‘That ambulance –’
‘Smashing isn’t it? I bought it at a car
auction last year. Everything still works you know, siren, lights, the lot!’
‘I heard,’ muttered Mr Shrapnell.
‘Shall we go in? No time to waste,’ said Miss Pandemonium. ‘Lead on, Macduff – that’s Shakespeare you know.’
Mr Shrapnell gave a low groan and trailed behind Miss Pandemonium into the school, picking up all the bits she dropped as she went.
2 The Great Dart Contest
‘This is Class Three,’ said Mr Shrapnell. Thirty-two children sat silent and still, staring first at their new teacher, then at Mr Shrapnell, and finally, irresistibly back at the new teacher. ‘Class Three, this is Miss Pandemonium.’
Violet Pandemonium gave the class a big smile and dropped another two of her bags. ‘Good morning, everyone!’ she sang and immediately disappeared beneath the tables to pick up her belongings.
‘Good Mor-ning Miss-Pan-dee-moh-nee-umm,’ chanted Class Three, even though she had vanished from their sight.
‘Mr David is ill,’ grunted Mr Shrapnell. ‘However, I am sure you are in good hands with Miss Pandemonium here. Oh, by the way, Miss Pandemonium, the timetable is pinned to the wall there. I think Maths comes first.’
‘What’s that?’ came a faint voice from somewhere beneath the tables. ‘Oooh, I’ve found a rubber that looks like an elephant. Anyone lost an elephant?’ A hand appeared above the desk-tops waving a little pink rubber. ‘Who’s lost an elephant?’
Mr Shrapnell stared at the creature and the arm quite speechless. He had never
heard anything like it. As for Class Three, they were dumbstruck too. They waited breathlessly, expecting Mr Shrapnell to explode at any moment. But he didn’t. He just stared at the thin hand waving the rubber elephant. Then Miss Pandemonium’s face appeared as she clambered back to her feet. ‘Come on, it must belong to someone,’ she said brightly. ‘Poor little elephant without a home.’
There was a faint snigger from the back of the class. Mr Shrapnell whirled round and glared into the depths of the classroom. He drew in his breath sharply. ‘I shall leave you to it, Miss Pandemonium, and don’t forget – Maths!’
Mr Shrapnell strode to the door and disappeared. There was a sigh of relief and the children slumped back in their chairs. Violet Pandemonium looked at them carefully. They gazed back at her with a dull expression in their eyes. Three of them were already looking in their desks.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Miss Pandemonium.
‘Getting out our Maths books, miss.’
‘Who said anything about Maths?’ she asked gently. The three heads reappeared and eyed her carefully.
‘We always do Maths on Monday’ said Rebecca.
‘I see, well, we mustn’t change the timetable, must we? Is this it over here?’ Miss Pandemonium screwed up her eyes to read the vast sheet of paper which was covered with blue writing. There were lots of bits
underlined with red. ‘That does look interesting,’ she said at last. ‘Now then, Maths. Let’s see, what’s your name?’
‘Peter, miss.’
‘All right, Peter – what’s two add two?’
Peter groaned with boredom. ‘Four, miss.’
‘Well done. And who are you?’
‘Amy, miss.’
‘Amy, what is six hundred and ninety-two, add five thousand two hundred and sixty, divided by eight?’
It was Amy’s turn to groan. That was hopelessly hard to do in her head. ‘Don’t know, miss,’ she whispered, and waited for a scream of anger.
‘Neither do I,’ smiled Miss Pandemonium. ‘But it must be an awful lot. Well then, that’s got our Maths done for the day. What do we do next?’
‘It says English on the timetable, miss,’ Amber called out.
‘In that case please tell the class how to spell “cat”.’ Amber duly spelled the word.
‘That’s lovely,’ said Miss Pandemonium. ‘Now we’ve done our English. History next, I believe. Anthony, when’s your birthday?’
‘October the twenty-eighth, miss.’
Violet Pandemonium glanced at her watch. ‘Half-past nine and we’ve done the whole timetable!’
‘We haven’t done Science yet,’ groaned Luke.
‘We’re always doing Science,’ moaned Wayne.
The classroom door burst open and Mr Shrapnell poked his big head round the frame. ‘Everything all right, Miss Pandemonium?’ he snapped. ‘Maths?’
‘Doing it, Mr Shrapnell,’ said Miss Pandemonium cheerfully. For a moment the two adults looked at each other. It seemed as if Mr Shrapnell did not believe her and she was waiting for him to say more. Meantime she just gazed at him steadily with her bright, grey eyes. Mr Shrapnell found the stare rather unnerving. He gave a curt nod, quietly pulled the door shut and went away.
Miss Pandemonium turned back to the class. ‘Tell me what science you have done so far this term, Mark.’
Pandemonium at School Page 1