Nathalia Buttface and the Embarrassing Camp Catastrophe

by Nigel Smith

  “BLAAAARGH!” she gasped, stepping back. A horrid, sticky, black mess covered her face and hair. She blinked, revealing two white eyes. She just knew she looked like a cartoon explosion.

  The whole class fell about laughing.

  YET AGAIN I’M A LAUGHING STOCK, she thought. WHY ME?

  “That’s for stomping,” said Darius.

  BAGLEY.

  That was the reason.

  BAGLEY MUST DIE.

  In fury, Nat dived head-first down the volcano cone. There was a quick scuffle and then Darius emerged from the hatch at the back.

  “Where are you, you little monster?” yelled Nat, upside down. “I’ve got gunk in my eyes and I can’t see a flipping thing.”

  Her feet were sticking out of the tip of the model. They wiggled about, as Darius took a bow to wild applause.

  Nat realised what had happened but was now completely stuck upside down in the model.

  “Stop messing, love,” said Dad, coming over and grabbing her ankles. “I think you’ve distracted people enough.”

  Distracted? Dad always thought she ENJOYED making people laugh, just because he did. But she didn’t find her life funny one little bit. Oh no. What she had learned to do was PRETEND she was trying to be funny. That way, people didn’t take the mickey QUITE as much.

  Dad heaved her out and wiped her face down with a clean hanky.

  Nearby, Rufus was squaring up to Darius.

  “You’re supposed to be a friend to Nathalia but you’re a … jolly rotten one,” he said.

  “Come on, lads,” said Mr Bungee, getting in between them, “settle down. Show’s over. Everyone, let’s give Dr Nobel a big hand for a great lesson, eh?”

  Nat got cleaned up as best she could in the shower block. When she came out, the volcano creature himself was waiting.

  “Dead man walking, Bagley,” she said. “I’m gonna get you.”

  “That idiot Rufus likes you,” said Darius.

  “Doesn’t,” said Nat. “Shut up.”

  “Yes he does, and that’s good – very good. We can use the enemy’s strength against them.”

  Nat often wondered what Darius’s mind looked like. It made her shudder.

  He was grinning his familiar evil grin. “I’ve got a plan now. You have to be a double agent. First, you gotta pretend that we’ve fallen out.”

  “That’s easy, dog breath, cos you won’t give me the flipping cabin.”

  “Yes, act just like that,” said Darius.

  Nat fumed.

  “Then,” he continued, “you need to be the idiot Rufus’s friend. Get him to tell you about their project so we can get them from within.”

  “What? Get them from within? No. I’m not being sneaky and evil. You’re the one who needs to be sneaky and evil.”

  “I am being sneaky and evil. You just need to do as you’re told.”

  He walked off.

  Nat stamped her foot. It wasn’t fair. Darius was being bossy. And that was HER job.

  A little later, Nat was sitting in a field with Penny, telling her about the evil plan. Recovered from the volcano disaster, she was actually feeling quite smug that she’d got Darius to agree to nobble St Scrofula’s; otherwise she might have been worried that the opposition were all busy working on their project, while no one from 8H was doing anything other than moaning about how unfair life was.

  “You know,” said Penny, “it’s just a mad idea but maybe we should think about how we could make our school look better rather than make another school look worse.”

  “You’re right,” said Nat, and Penny smiled. “That is a mad idea.”

  Penny sighed.

  Nat’s voice trailed off as she stared for a while at the golden hair of Flora Marling, sitting chatting nearby. Flora was surrounded by her usual group of friends. Actually, Nat always thought of them as fans.

  She wondered if she dared say hello …

  “It’s time for the Green Bogey,” said Dad, walking up to Nat and interrupting her daydream. “I’ll get my hat. I’ve had a great idea to stop you lot getting bored.”

  “No one wants the Green Bogey, Dad,” said Nat, “and no one’s bored.”

  “Listen for the drum,” said Dad, wandering off happily.

  “Tell me the sneaky evil plan again,” said Penny, who was making daisy chains.

  Nat sighed. “It’s very complicated for you, but basically it starts by me and Darius looking like we’ve fallen out this week. Which is easy cos loads of people have seen us arguing already. Can you at least remember that?”

  “You’re so bossy,” said Penny, “no wonder Darius has fallen out with you.”

  Nat gave up and closed her eyes. All that plotting was tiring, she thought. A small nap in the sunshine …

  She was woken five minutes later by a really annoying drum nearby.

  Thud thud thud.

  Dad, she thought. Always Dad. What’s the big idiot up to now?

  She stomped off to find out, Penny tagging along behind. They followed the sound of the drumming and discovered the Green Bogey in the field next door.

  Dad was sitting on a big tartan blanket. He was banging on a big drum and was wearing his stupid green hat and a stupid grin.

  “It’s the Green Bogey Story-writing Workshop,” said Dad. “This drum is to summon those who want to speak the truth through a made-up story.”

  “Dad, you can’t tell the truth through a made-up story. That’s why it’s called made-up,” said Nat. “The truth is called the news. Even you should know that.”

  By now, a few children were coming out of their yurts to see what all the banging was about.

  “Dad, stoppit, people are looking at you,” said Nat.

  “That’s the idea,” said Dad. “Over here,” he yelled, beckoning the children towards him. “Come and drink from the wellspring of inspiration.”

  “Dad, you sound like you’ve been drinking from that big wine box Mum brought back from the airport,” said Nat. “You’ve gone properly weird since you came here, and I don’t like it.”

  “I feel free out here, love,” said Dad.

  Nat was uncomfortably aware that he was getting a bigger and bigger audience.

  “I’m thinking when we get home we should look at living more simple lives,” Dad continued, “getting back to nature.”

  “Dad, you do this to me every time we go on holiday. When we rented that caravan in Norfolk you said you wanted to be a traveller.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Dad.

  “I’d like to be a traveller,” said Penny. “I’d have a white horse to pull my caravan and I’d sing songs and make people happy.”

  “Hear that, Dad? You’re basically Penny Posnitch. Happy now?”

  “Hey,” said Penny, offended.

  But Nat was in full flow.

  “And when we went to Spain you said you wanted to give up writing Christmas-cracker jokes and fight bulls instead.”

  “I still might,” said Dad defensively. “Don’t squash my dreams.”

  “And after you took me on the pedalos in Blackpool you said you wanted to sail around the world single-handed, looking for white whales.”

  “I was joking,” fibbed Dad.

  “Ooh, you massive fibber,” said Nat, unaware their conversation was causing much tittering. “You always get carried away and have daft ideas that never get us anywhere. Why can’t you be like other dads and just have a proper job and a shed?”

  “Hello,” said a voice next to her. It was Rufus.

  Nat was about to tell him to get lost, when Penny nudged her and she remembered that Darius had basically said: BE NICE TO RUFUS.

  Apparently it was very important, although he hadn’t explained why.

  So she smiled and said hello back.

  Rufus went bright red and walked away.

  That puzzled her but she didn’t have time to think any more about it because now there were enough children gathered for Dad to start his Green Bogey Story-wri
ting Workshop.

  Nat noticed that, aside from her and Penny, the only children to turn up were from the rival school. That’s because everyone at my school knows Dad, she thought. He’s made them suffer enough already.

  “Forget those boring English lessons,” said Dad, in his ridiculous hat. “This is real writing – it’s raw, it’s from the heart, it’s totally cool and street.”

  “It’s not street, it’s in a field,” said Plum, who liked to get her facts straight.

  “Field is more street than street,” said Dad, “you get me?”

  “How can anything be more street than an actual street?” said Plum.

  Nat could see Dad was already getting flustered.

  “Look, forget the street thing,” he said. “That’s not important.”

  “It seems to be important because you keep talking about it,” said Plum.

  “What’s actually important,” he said, tapping himself on the chest, “is what’s under your shirt.”

  “My vest?” said Penny.

  “No, your heart,” said Dad. “That’s where the best stories come from.”

  “I thought they came from books,” said a stern girl with sensible glasses.

  “They have to get IN the books first,” said Dad. “Now, does anyone know how stories get IN a book?” He spoke very slowly and looked at the kids like he was about to reveal a big secret.

  “A writer gives it to their agent, who sells it to a publisher. The marketing team do the publicity and then the lawyers work out the contract details with bookshops and other point-of-sale outlets,” said the serious girl with glasses.

  “You’re forgetting electronic publication like e-readers,” said a serious boy. “It’s a growing market.”

  “Good point, George.”

  “I might make some notes,” said Dad. “Can you repeat all that? It was terrific.”

  “Dad, you’re rubbish at this,” said Nat, “really very poor indeed.”

  “Don’t heckle me, I need my confidence,” said Dad. “I told Mr Dewdrop to come over. I need to look great. You two, keep a lookout for him.” He turned back to the children.

  Penny and Nat peeked over the hedge.

  “Now, because I’m a real, proper writer, everyone asks me the same thing,” he said. “Can you guess what it is?”

  “How much money do you earn?” said Rufus.

  “Erm, no,” said Dad. “They ask me where I get my ideas for my writing.”

  “How much money DO you earn?” insisted Rufus. Is it millions?”

  “No, silly, we’ve never heard of him,” said Plum. “He’s one of those writers who aren’t any good.”

  “I AM good as a matter of fact,” said Dad. “I’ll have you know, I can get paid ten pounds for a single joke. How about that?”

  “I can get that for washing my dad’s car,” said Rufus.

  “I can get that for walking the dog,” said Plum.

  “There you go, Dad,” said Nat. “Two new careers for you right there.”

  “Can we stop talking about money please?” said Dad. “It’s not important to us creative people.”

  “That’s what you say to Mum,” said Nat, “and then you get shouted at.”

  She had meant to say it under her breath, but a few kids near her heard and laughed.

  Dad looked hurt.

  “Sorry,” muttered Nat. “Carry on. I’ll look out for Mr Dewdrop.”

  Dad carried on. “What I’m always asked is this: ‘Where do you get your ideas from?’”

  The children looked like they didn’t care where he got his ideas from.

  “Can I bang your drum?” said a boy with very short hair and sticky-out ears. “I only came to have a go on the drum.”

  “This is really important stuff I’m telling you,” said Dad. “Please be interested.”

  Nat was almost starting to feel sorry for him. But not quite, the big idiot.

  “Ideas are all around you, like pretty butterflies,” said Green Bogey Dad, waving his hands about.

  One girl squealed. “I hate butterflies,” she said. “They sting.”

  “No they don’t, you moron,” said the big-eared, drum-loving boy.

  “Don’t you call me a moron, you … wretch,” the girl replied.

  “You’re a perfidious worm,” said the boy.

  “And you are a craven coxcomb.”

  “In that case you’re a puking, pox-ridden pignut.”

  Dad turned to Nat. “Why doesn’t anyone at your school talk like this?” he said, impressed.

  In the distance, Nat spotted a familiar figure trudging past the yurts, carrying a clipboard.

  “Dad, hurry up and improve,” she said. “He’s coming! Mr Dewdrop’s on his way.”

  It took another full minute for Dad to stop the row, but finally everyone settled down and he got his workshop back on track.

  “To write a story,” he said, “you take something real, something that actually happened. Then you make something up that’s similar to the real thing so you can ACTUALLY talk about the thing that’s real. Yeah? Good, huh?”

  He paused to let his words of wisdom sink in.

  “Then why don’t you just write down the thing that’s real in the first place?” said Rufus, confused. “Why bother to make it up?”

  “Good question. Excellent question, top marks. Because when you make it up you can make it funny,” said Dad.

  “Or make it sad,” said Plum, who was one of those girls who liked sad stories, usually about handsome vampires being sad.

  “I suppose so,” said Dad, who hated sad things. “But funny’s better. I mean, just think about your absolute favourite TV show. It’s funny, right? Everyone loves funny.”

  Nat looked at Dad’s audience. She noticed that most were girls. She knew what their favourite TV show was. It was her favourite show. It was every girl’s favourite show at the moment. And it wasn’t funny one little bit.

  It was called My Doomed Life and it was basically all about how vampires made rubbish boyfriends.

  “If you write about vampires, they’re the best at being sad because they live for absolutely ages so they have loads of things to be sad about. Can you imagine how many things you can be sad about if you live for ever?” said Plum in a faraway voice.

  “That’s so sad,” said Penny. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She started to sniff.

  Some of the other girls joined in.

  “Sad people are just so … sad,” said the girl with sensible glasses.

  “I’m sad thinking about sad people,” said another girl.

  “OMG, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” said another.

  “Jokes are good,” said Dad, starting to get alarmed at the growing tide of misery.

  Over the hedge, Nat could see Mr Dewdrop getting closer.

  “Who knows any jokes?” said Dad.

  But by now the sniffing was reaching something of a soggy climax.

  “Dad, change the subject,” hissed Nat.

  Mr Dewdrop was nearly within earshot.

  “Got it,” said Dad. “Will everyone stop snivelling and listen to a magic secret.”

  The children looked at him.

  “Is it a magic trick?” said Plum.

  “It sort of is. Here it is. You can take ANY horrible thing that’s happened and, with a bit of effort, make it totally hilarious,” said Green Bogey Dad. “How about that?”

  “My Great-auntie Dolly died last year,” said Plum. “That’s not funny.”

  “Ah, um …” said Dad, flustered.

  “What’s funny about my dead Great-auntie Dolly?” said Plum.

  Then something terrible happened. Nat saw it coming before anyone else. You see, Dad was one of those people who LAUGHED AT THE WRONG TIME. She didn’t know why he did it. She had a feeling it was when Dad got nervous, because she’d seen him do it loads when Mum was telling him off and he definitely wasn’t supposed to laugh. Like when he set fire to the living-room curt
ains with that ‘relaxing’ candle he bought, or ran out of petrol on the motorway, or bought an emu at an auction by mistake.

  It was almost as if Dad laughed on purpose, to make things worse.

  Because it ALWAYS MADE THINGS WORSE.

  And laughing at Plum’s late Great-auntie Dolly dying was definitely the VERY WORST THING HE COULD DO.

  So it was with utter horror and a creeping sense of doom that Nat saw, around the corner of his mouth, the faintest traces of … a grin!

  Oh no, she thought, please, noooooo.

  And poor Plum was making it worse. Her great-auntie had managed to expire in a sadly HILARIOUS way.

  “Great-auntie Dolly was in the loo,” began Plum. “It took her ages because she wouldn’t eat veg.”

  “Hnnng,” said Dad, mouth twitching at the sides, trying to look sad. And failing horribly.

  “She’d put a steamed roly-poly pudding on top of the cooker but she was in there so long it boiled dry and exploded.”

  “Oh dear,” said Dad, shaking. “Oh my days … I’m so sad I’m doing that face which looks very similar to laughing like a hyena.”

  Plum, not looking up, carried on. “A big piece of hot flying roly-poly shot up the cat’s bum and it ran out in the garden and got stuck in the tree. The fire brigade had to be called.”

  “This is a very sa— ah-ah —ad story,” said Dad through gritted teeth. “So very, very, nnnnnng, sa— ha-hee-ho-ha sad.”

  “The firemen rescued the cat, but when they drove off they ran Great-auntie Dolly over.”

  That did it.

  “AH, HA, HA, HA, HAAAA!” burst out Dad, who couldn’t keep it in any longer.

  “It isn’t funny one teeny-tiny bit,” yelled Plum, jumping up in fury. “Great-auntie Dolly was squished flat.”

  That just made it worse.

  Dad roared. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t help it.”

  Plum went bright purple, like a plum. “You’re laughing at my squished great-auntie,” she said. “How could you?”

  And before Dad could stop chortling long enough to explain, they heard the furious voice of Mr Dewdrop, WHO HAD OBVIOUSLY HEARD EVERYTHING.

  “MR BUMOLÉ, PLEASE STOP LAUGHING AT THAT POOR GIRL,” shouted Mr Dewdrop. His voice was no longer soft and high-low, just very, very shocked and angry.