by Nigel Smith
Dad didn’t reply, he just flicked through the ‘plumbing problems’ section.
“Here we are,” he said. He read for a while. Nat watched his face and wondered how long it would take for him to look bored. She counted thirty seconds and then saw Dad’s eyes glaze over.
“Concentrate, Dad,” she said. Dad tried again.
He nearly lasted a whole minute.
“Dad, you said you could do this.”
She kicked at a loose tile on the floor in frustration. The best thing about holidays was that Dad only embarrassed her in front of people she’d never see again. But as soon as that awful spoilt Mimsy arrived and posted a photo of the house on her blog (MimsysModestBlog.com), all her friends would read it and her dad would be revealed as a complete idiot to the WORLD. Nat had only just started making friends at her school. This could set her back YEARS.
BUT THEN:
Dad suddenly jumped up, scaring the Dog who’d been dozing under his feet.
“I DID say I can do it, and I CAN!” he declared heroically. “I’m going to tackle each leak in turn until it’s done. What we need is some determination, some action, and some good old-fashioned hard work, RIGHT NOW.”
“Brilliant, Dad!” said Nat, eager to start.
“We’ll just pop into the village for some supper and we’ll start tomorrow,” he said.
“No, Dad, start NOW!” she yelled. “We haven’t got TIME to mess about.”
Dad looked at Nat’s determined, cross little face. He smiled. “All right, love. How hard can it be?” he said. He marched out like a lion, clutching his toolbox.
By nightfall he was lying on the sofa, soaking wet and filthy. There were even MORE buckets around, catching more drips.
“Well,” he said miserably, “it appears that plumbing is REALLY hard. I think I might have made it a tiny bit worse. I got confused between inches and centimetres when I was putting some pipe in and now there’s more water on the bathroom floor than IN the bath I’ve been trying to run.”
Nat felt like weeping.
“Maybe you should start with the electrics,” said Darius, “and work up to the plumbing.”
“Sensible lad,” said Dad, dozing off.
When Dad woke up from his nap, they had a gloomy supper of dry, leftover sandwiches Dad had bought in the café earlier that day, and then they all went to bed.
Nat had bagsied the least scary-looking room, with pretty, faded rose-print wallpaper, a little fireplace and a big brass bed. She opened the shutters and decided that the moonlight made the room look almost cheerful.
Maybe this house just needs a bit of love, she thought, crawling into her sleeping bag on the mattress.
She could hear Dad snoring in one room and the still wide-awake Darius chanting, “Here, ghosty ghost …” in another.
What the house does NOT need is those two, she thought, dropping off almost immediately, only to be awoken five minutes later by water dripping on her nose. She was so tired and fed up, she just rolled out of bed and went to sleep with the Dog.
“This is NOT my idea of a good holiday,” muttered Nat the next morning, for the eighty-sixth time since they’d left home. They were in the kitchen finishing off the now completely stale leftover sandwiches from yesterday. Nat watched as Darius built a frightening-looking sculpture out of wood and wire. She knew he wasn’t going to ask her what her idea of a good holiday was, so she told him.
“A beach, a pool, sunbeds, my music and Wi-Fi,” she listed. “Instead I’ve got plumbing and hammering and wiring and painting.”
And panic and worry and misery, she added, in her head.
“And ghost-catching,” said Darius. “THAT’s a good holiday.” His contraption slammed shut with a wicked clang.
Ah, so that’s what it is, thought Nat.
“Do something useful, and shut up about ghosts,” she said. “You’ll summon them up and it’ll be your fault if I get ghost-munched.”
Just then there was a tremendous hammering on the front door. The doorknob rattled. Nat jumped, then realised it was real, live people outside.
I wouldn’t pull on the front door, she thought, it might fall on you.
The door fell on them.
Told you, she thought, popping out of the kitchen to investigate. Dad was helping the Baron du Canard out from under the door. With him Nat could see was the young boy who had been up the tree yesterday.
Obviously the flipping Baron’s his dad, she thought … She quickly scooted out of sight, but not so far that she couldn’t hear.
First, there was the usual shouting at Dad that she knew so well. It starts with shouting, she thought. By the end of the week it’ll be villagers with flaming torches.
Darius came and sat next to her, messing with his trap. He listened for a while.
“Another word for my rude foreign word collection,” he said, pleased. “I’m going to make it into a book and make zillions. If you help me with the spelling, I’ll split the cash with you. As long as I get to do the drawings.”
“Drawings?” said Nat.
“Yeah, to show how rude the words really are. I’ve already started some on the landing walls. Look …” he said, showing her some REVOLTING biro scribbles.
Nat knew she should be cross, but she started to giggle. They were VERY rude. “We’ll just tell Dad that burglars did them,” she said.
“Or ghosts,” said Darius, a gleam in his eye. “Ghosts can’t resist drawing on walls. I saw a film about it.”
Downstairs, Dad took the angry visitors into the kitchen and they could no longer hear what was going on.
“He’ll wiggle out of it. I don’t know how he does it, but he does.”
Ten minutes later, she found out how. She was called into the kitchen.
“This is the Baron’s son, little Gaston,” said Dad, indicating a squat freckled child with thin lips and thick black curls. “We decided that to prove there’re no hard feelings, he’s going to be your new best friend.”
The three children looked at each other without saying anything. It was less like a meeting of new best friends and more like a shoot-out at the end of a cowboy movie.
After the Baron and Gaston had left, Dad explained excitedly:
“This is a brilliant plan. No one in the village likes Gaston because he’s so horrible.”
“Why’s that brilliant?” said Nat.
“Because he has no friends and the Baron doesn’t know what to do with him. So all you have to do is play with him and keep him entertained and the Baron will help us.”
“Help us how?” said Nat suspiciously.
“He’s got loads of workmen at his chateau, and he’s said he might lend us some. For FREE.”
“No, Dad, not for free,” argued Nat. “WE’RE paying, aren’t we?”
“PLAYING, not PAYING!” said Dad, gently pushing them outside into the late afternoon sunshine. “Now, just remember, Gaston has to win every game, all the time, OK? How hard can that be?”
t was very, very hard.
All day they played every game Gaston wanted to. And let him win.
For Nat, the only thing harder than letting him win was making sure Darius let him win. Darius was different from most people. Most people don’t like being told what to do; Darius didn’t understand what being told what to do WAS.
So:
When they played races, Nat had to pretend to fall over, and then ‘accidentally’ trip Darius up.
When they played throwing, Nat had to drop the ball and nudge Darius’s arm.
When they played football, Nat had to score five own goals and send Darius off.
And when they played hide-and-seek, Nat had to hide really badly and tell Gaston where Darius was.
Basically, Nat made herself look a complete idiot.
Thanks again, Dad, she thought.
And all the time, the French boy bragged and boasted. He went to a posh school in a castle, he had his own moped, he was a champion skier, a brilliant tennis p
layer and an amazing horse rider. On and on he went.
But then, on their tenth game of hide-and-seek, when Nat told Gaston that Darius was hiding in the old chicken coop under a stinky pile of straw and feathers, Gaston just said:
“Let’s leave him there, and we’ll play without him.”
Nat didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to upset THIS little monster, but she didn’t want to abandon HER little monster either.
Life’s tricky, she thought. A piercing whistle, like a huge duck surprised by a shark, split the air. Gaston jumped, as if he was frightened.
“It’s Papa,” he said. “He loves his ducks. He breeds the best ducks in France. That’s how he calls them.” He lowered his eyes. When he lifted them Nat saw for the first time they were a tiny bit sad. “It’s how he calls me too,” he said.
And ran off.
Whoa. At least my dad doesn’t do that, I suppose, thought Nat.
And then a huge sticky mess hit the back of her head, and stinky chicken feathers sprayed around her. “That’s for spoiling every game, BUTTFACE,” said Darius, who had just lobbed a handful of the most vile mixture imaginable at her that he’d scraped up from the floor of the chicken coop.
“You are SO dead, Bagley,” yelled Nat, chasing him. She felt much better about everything after she’d ground his face into some grass.
“Dunno about you two, but I could do with a bath,” said Dad that evening as the pair finally trudged in.
Dunno about us two? thought Nat. Have you SEEN us two?
They looked like a cross between a vegetable patch and a chicken with feather mange. They were plastered head to foot with bits of literally everything growing. If they had shown up at the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew looking like that, thought Nat, gardeners would have found new species of plant life in their ears.
It took hours to have a bath. ‘Having a bath’ meant sitting in a big tin tub in about five centimetres of lukewarm water. The only hot water was from a kettle, and that wasn’t working too well either.
“I’ll have a go at the electrics again tomorrow,” promised Dad as they all trooped off to bed, still a bit grubby. “The good news is – wait for it …”
Dad looked very pleased with himself.
“… the Baron is sending a plumber round tomorrow. For free! My cunning plan is working! Go Dad!”
“Well, it’s a start, I suppose,” said Nat, painfully aware that Posh Barry’s arrival was less than a week away.
“Yup, and I’ve agreed you’ll keep playing with Gaston tomorrow; right I’m off to bed, night night,” gabbled Dad, practically running up the stairs.
“WHAT?” yelled Nat.
“Get lost, not doing it,” shouted Darius.
“No, not you, just Nat, good night!” shouted Dad, hopping into his bedroom and slamming the door shut after him.
“WHAT???” shouted Nat, louder.
“Ha ha. Watch out for my ghost traps!” said Darius, as Nat ran towards Dad’s room, furious.
“What ARE you on about?” said Nat. SNAP! went a ghost-trap on her foot. “AAAARGH!” she shouted in pain, foot tangled in wires.
This day gets better and better, she thought.
Nat was so tired from all the working, playing and bashing Darius that once she’d got Darius’s stupid ghost-trap off her foot and stumbled furiously into her bedroom, she was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow …
… Only to wake up in the middle of the night, lying in a strange bed in a strange house with all the lights flickering on and off in A REALLY SPOOKY WAY.
“Don’t worry about the lights!” shouted Dad from the next room. “It’s probably just the electrics playing up.”
“Probably, Dad?” she shouted back. “What do you mean, probably?”
“Just go back to sleep,” said Dad. “You’ve got a busy day at the chateau tomorrow.”
She thought she heard him chuckle. Nat fumed silently.
“Anyway, you’d be bored here. Darius has to help me with the electrics – he’s good with engines. You’ll have more fun than us two hard working boys will.”
Nat DEFINITELY heard Darius chuckle.
“DAD,” said Nat crossly. “One – I don’t want to go to the stupid chateau, and two – engines aren’t electrics.”
“One – yes but we need to keep on the Baron’s good side, and two – electrics and engines are next to each other in my DIY book.”
“One – I know but it’s not FAIR, and two – that’s only because the book is in alphabetical order.”
Dad was quiet for a minute after that.
“Well, one AND two – go to sleep, it’s late,” said Dad. “And don’t worry – everything will be fine!”
But now Nat was worrying, more than ever. Not only did she have to spend the day with horrible, spoilt Gaston, but Dad and Darius were going to be spending the day playing with six bazillion volts of super-dangerous electricity. The ghost was now relegated to THIRD on her ever-growing LIST OF THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT.
But it wasn’t third for long.
Nat lay still, trying to sleep. But sleep would not come. She opened her eyes and looked around the room. It had huge windows opening on to the back garden. Thick heavy drapes hung limply across them, making the room stuffy. The flickering lights cast patterns in shadow around the room.
Opposite the bed there was a small dressing table with a cracked jug and dish on. There was a large fireplace which was half uncovered. It was hard to tell if someone was halfway through boarding it up, or halfway through getting out of it.
The old pink flowery wallpaper that had seemed so charming in daylight, now looked like the kind of flowers you can boil to make poison. There was a yellowing black and white photograph in a frame on the wall. It was of an old man and woman, wearing thick dark clothing, looking thoroughly disagreeable. Their cold eyes bored into Nat.
Lighten up, guys, she thought, or I’m turning you over to face the wall.
Still sleep would not come. She tossed and turned in her sleeping bag and got herself in such a knot that her arms were pinned under herself.
And then, in the darkest of the night, she heard something. A noise from the fireplace. Nat knew it was definitely the wind. Or possibly a horrid blood-sucking ghost.
Oooooh, moaned the noise. All the hair on the back of Nat’s neck stood up and tried to run off. Definitely ghost, she decided.
Then came the scrabbling. Either a mouse or a restless evil spirit in the fireplace was TRYING TO ESCAPE!
“GHOST!” she shouted, making a swift choice and struggling to get out of her sleeping bag. In her panic, she got the zip stuck. She was trapped! She rolled off the bed like a big fat quilted worm and wriggled to the door.
“GHOST!” she yelled again. She was SURE that something was in the room behind her. The lights were flickering like mad. She heaved herself upright and tried to turn the doorknob with her teeth. Now something was Howling?
“GHOSTANDWEREWOLF!” she shouted.
“Will you shut that Dog up?” shouted a sleepy Dad.
“OK, just ghost,” she corrected herself, “but still, GHOST!”
The door was stuck She was going to have to bash it down. She took a few hops backwards to build up speed and then launched herself straight at it. Just as Darius opened the door.
For the second time since arriving at the house, she went through an open door at speed. This time, though, she took Darius with her. She smacked into him headlong, sending them both sprawling, and straight down the stairs.
“What’s all the racket?” shouted Dad, coming out of his room, wearing just a dressing gown.
“AAAAARGH!” yelled Nat, from the bottom of the stairs.
“AAAAARGH!” yelled Darius.
“What is it?” said Dad, alarmed.
“Your dressing gown has come open!” shouted Nat in horror.
“Sorry,” said Dad, wrapping his gown “I thought you must have seen something horrible.”
“We
have NOW,” said Nat. She and Darius picked themselves off the floor, and climbed painfully back up the stairs.
Nat told them both what she’d heard.
“No, that’s my room,” said Darius as Nat went to his door.
“It’s mine now,” said Nat. “You wanted to catch the ghost – now’s your chance. It’s in MY ROOM; bye. Happy hunting.” And with that, she slammed the door on him.
Darius stood on the landing for a minute.
“Do I at least get the Dog?” he asked.
“No,” said Nat through the door firmly.
“Oh, all right,” he said. “But I warn you, it’s just as spooky in my room.”
Nat looked around at the gloomy room she was now in. There was worse wallpaper, creepier pictures and a bigger fireplace. She came out.
“Yeah, that is QUITE spooky,” she admitted.
They stood on the landing for a minute, deciding what to do. Then Dad came out of his room too, looking a bit pale. “I don’t ACTUALLY believe in ghosts,” he said, “but I’ve been wrong about things before so I’m going to sleep downstairs.”
“Good idea,” said Nat, racing him to the sofa.
“Good idea,” said Darius, racing her to the sofa.
“Woof,” said the cowardly Dog, beating them all to the sofa.
he next morning, the stuck-up Baron and bratty little Gaston came to call for Nathalia.
On the doorstep, a tired and achy Nat stood bored while Dad and the Baron did the grown-up, pointless chit-chat that grown-ups who don’t really like each other do.
The Baron was showing off, talking snootily about the history of his family name, du Canard.
Oh no, thought Nat.
“It’s funny you mentioned names, actually, because ours is also a French name,” said Dad.
OH NO, don’t tell him, don’t tell him… thought Nat.
The only other good thing about being on holiday with Dad was that NOBODY KNEW HER EMBARRASSING NAME.
“It’s Bew—”
“It’s Smith,” Nat said loudly.
“Don’t be silly,” said Dad. “Anyone would think you’re ashamed of your own name.”
Not my name, just YOU, she thought. For giving me the stupid name.