by Nigel Smith
“It’s bew-mow-lay,” said Dad, pronouncing it carefully.
OK, I might get away with that, thought Nat. As long as Dad’s not daft enough to spell it.
“But funnily enough, it’s spelled B- U- M- O- L- É,” said Dad.
“Ha ha, bum ’ole bum ’ole!” shouted Gaston with glee. “See, Papa, it is one of zose rude English words I learned at school.”
“That’s money well spent on your education,” said the Baron coldly.
“A bum ’ole is a—” began the boy.
“I know what it is,” said the Baron, “and, yes, it is très drôle. I mean, very ’ilarious.”
“Bum ’ole, bum ’ole,” chanted Gaston, running around in evil joy.
“Nice one, Dad,” said Nat sulkily.
“So, Mister Buttock …” began the Baron.
“Bew-mow-lay,” corrected Dad.
“Quite so. Apologies,” said the Baron, with just a hint of a smirk on his face. “Well, we must be off. When we get back I will send over the plumber to ’elp with your ’ouse. Come along, children.”
Just as they were about to leave, Dad took Nat to one side and said encouragingly, “You’ll be fine, love. You hang out with Darius all the time, and the Head told me he’s the naughtiest boy in the history of your school.”
Nat sighed. She knew there was NO WAY Dad could mend this rubbish house without help.
“OK,” she said, “but if he calls me names again, I’ll punch him in the eye, I don’t care how many free workmen we’re getting.”
She was just about to leave when she remembered something. Dad was doing the electrics that day.
“Promise me you’ll wear rubber welly boots. They save you from electric shocks.”
“What about me?” said Darius, wandering past, holding a spanner.
“You’re indestructible. I’ve pummelled you all year and you’re fine.”
“True,” said Darius. “Have fun with your new best friend, Buttface.”
The chateau lay at the end of a long and well-kept drive. The bright green lawns either side were mowed flat like the top of a snooker table and the house itself was as white as a wedding cake. Nat counted at least thirty windows. There were two little towers at either side of the building, topped by pointy roofs like little witch’s hats. At the front of the house were two posh cars, a pickup truck and Gaston’s little moped.
The air was filled with quacking from what must have been hundreds of ducks somewhere at the back of the house.
“Hurry up,” said Gaston, ushering her into a huge hall that was covered in oak panelling. “We’re playing Gaston-opoly. It’s a board game I invented myself. I’m brilliant at it and I always win. You’re the tortoise and I’m the racing car.”
WHAT a surprise, she thought glumly.
The game was spread out on the floor of a huge room downstairs. It looked like the messiest toy shop in the world. The game should have been fun, because Gaston had obviously spent ages making up the rules.
If you rolled a double three times in a row, you had to go into the wardrobe and wear a silly hat. If you landed on a train station, you got to fire up a real miniature steam train and try to get it through a level crossing without it being hit by an escaped elephant from the toy circus.
There was a rule about using a remote-controlled helicopter, a rule about doing a jigsaw, and lots of rules where you got to eat a sweet.
It was a game that could only have been invented by a boy who spent a lot of time alone, thought Nat. And she reckoned it could have been the greatest game in the world. The trouble was, only Gaston got to do the cool stuff. After an hour of politely watching him play with all his toys and eat all the sweets and jump off chairs and run around having an altogether marvellous time, Nat said mildly, “Can I have a go at something fun?”
“NO,” screamed the boy, high on sugar and showing off. “You can have fun by watching how awesome I am. You’re just a stupid girl, you can’t do anything.”
That was IT. Nat stood up, tiny fists clenched in trademark fury. All thoughts of free workmen vanished.
“You are NOT awesome,” she said, “and I don’t know what the French word is, but what you are is a brat. And you’re about to be a battered brat.”
The boy backed into a corner. He wasn’t used to being answered back and he certainly wasn’t used to being battered.
Nat pushed him up against the wall. “You’ve got everything in the world and it’s just made you horrible and selfish and mean. It’s why you’ve got no friends, and no one wants to tell you the truth because your dad is big and powerful, but I will so there.”
The boy shook her off and ran from the room crying, “Papa, PAPA!”
Papa, as it turned out, had been standing in the doorway for … how long?
Ooops, thought Nat.
“Is that the time?” she said innocently. “Didn’t know it was so late. I’ll just be going …”
“Wait there,” said the Baron sternly. “Gaston, go into the kitchen, tell cook to hurry with lunch. And please stop snivelling.”
The boy snivelled off. The Baron closed the door. There was a nasty pause. “Well said,” he muttered finally.
“You what?” said Nat.
“I don’t understand children,” said the Baron. “His mother was so much better with him. His mother …”
The Baron hesitated and Nat saw a look of sadness cross his stern face. Then the cloud passed and he was back to normal.
“… And so now I prefer ducks. Much easier to understand,” the Baron continued in his usual stiff manner.
Whatevs, thought Nat, who was beginning to have a teeny bit of sympathy for Gaston.
“He’s just a kid,” she said, “and just because no one likes him doesn’t mean he’s THAT bad. I mean, no one likes Darius but … OK, that’s a bad example …”
The Baron thought for a moment. “I’ve decided you must stay all day. Maybe you can do him some good. Lunch will be served shortly. I must get back to my ducks. If you are lucky, I may let you see them later.”
And with that he strode stiffly out.
Let’s hope I’m lucky, thought Nat sarcastically. I mean, I’ve been SO lucky already today.
In the hall, the Baron took his duck whistle from his pocket and gave it an enormous honk. Gaston came running up obediently.
“The girl is staying,” said the Baron. “Do not embarrass me again.”
Gaston looked at the floor. “Don’t embarrass him?” he muttered, just loud enough for Nat to hear. Nat felt another twinge of sympathy. If anyone knew about embarrassing dads, it was her.
unch in the chateau came out of a big Steaming pot. It was delicious, but spoilt by being eaten in grim silence under the stern gaze of the Baron at one end of the long, polished dining table and a red-eyed boy eating furiously at the other. Nat was in the middle, trying to think of something to lighten the miserable mood.
She wished Darius was there. His rude rhymes were hilarious and his ability to make fart noises using any part of his body, including his ears, was hysterical. He could shove a whole bowl of peas up his nose, do farmyard impressions AND sit upside down on his chair at the same time. And that was just normal mealtimes. When he actually TRIED to make people laugh, he was better than any comic off the telly, by miles.
She must have been smiling because the Baron looked at her and said:
“Something amusing you?” He poured himself some wine from a jug shaped like a duck.
“I’m just enjoying myself,” she porky-pied quickly.
The Baron frowned. “No one has enjoyed themselves here for a long time. I didn’t think I was very good at entertaining children.”
“Oh, come on,” said Nat, determined to be cheerful, “you’ve got this huge cool house with tons of stuff in it. And pots of money. You must have fun!”
There was a very long pause. The only fun Nat was having was working out how to get revenge on Dad for dropping her in it like this.
&nbs
p; “Fun?” said the Baron. “Fun?” He rolled the word round in his mouth, like someone who was tasting something they’d never eaten before.
“Papa has his ducks,” muttered Gaston, head down low over his plate. For the first time, Nat noticed all the pictures hung on the kitchen wall were of ducks.
“Yes, but my ducks are not fun,” corrected the Baron. “Breeding the best ducks in France is my reason for life.”
Get a grip, thought Nat, they’re only rubbish ducks.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” she said out loud. Oooh, I’m fibbing loads today, she thought. “Do they do anything? I mean, are they special ducks? Can they ride bicycles or work out the angles of a triangle?”
There was a strange noise from the boy. It was almost a giggle, but it was over very quickly. Nat could see she was getting herself into proper hot water, but couldn’t find a way out.
“Or – are they just, like, ordinary ducks that lay eggs and go quack?”
“This flock is not ordinary! It was started by my great-great-great-great grandfather …” began the Baron, before launching into a very long and very boring story. Basically, Nat quickly worked out they were indeed just ordinary ducks, but they tasted better than other ducks.
“As a matter of interest,” she said, a horrible suspicion creeping over her as the Baron finished explaining how he’d given them all names, “what did we just have for lunch?”
“Eric,” said the Baron, sucking meat off a bone with a big greasy smack.
There was a huge, delicious-smelling lemon tart for pudding, but Nat had lost her appetite.
After lunch, the Baron disappeared (probably to slap more sunscreen on, thought Nat, remembering what Darius had said about him being a vampire) and Gaston took Nat on a tour of the huge house. It was filled with the sort of lovely old things you only ever see on antiques programmes; luxurious leather chairs, crystal vases, silver dishes, burnished wood cabinets with the high gloss of centuries of polish.
Nat noticed Gaston didn’t touch ANYTHING. It was as if he was scared to even leave a fingerprint.
She thought about her house – all messy and way tinier than this one, full of dog hair and chewed sofas and big squishy chairs and carpets with irremovable tea stains and wallpaper with her old childhood felt-tip pen marks on (soppy Dad was too soft, or too lazy, to remove them). But at least it felt like a home.
Now they were in yet another large room, and this one was filled from floor to ceiling with books. There was even a stepladder on wheels to reach the top ones. There must have been thousands, most of them huge and leather-bound, and all lined up neatly on shelves like soldiers on parade. Some looked really old. Nat let out a low whistle.
“Has your dad read ALL of these?” she asked, impressed.
“Of course not,” said Gaston, “these aren’t for reading. Papa buys them by the metre, because they look awesome.”
Nat thought that was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. She only had one bookcase in her bedroom, but she’d read every book in it, usually two or three times.
“Once Papa wanted to fill a big gap in the shelves so he just bought the whole village library,” boasted Gaston.
“Don’t you ever go to the village?” Nat asked. “There must be loads of kids to play with there.”
“They’ve stopped playing with me because I win at everything every time because I’m cleverer and faster and better and they get jealous,” said Gaston.
Nat decided to tell him the truth once more. She was going to break it to him gently.
“Listen, big head,” she said, not very gently at all, “they’ve stopped playing with you because you’re horrible.”
Gaston looked shocked. Nat pressed on.
“Everyone lets you win because the Baron is rich and important. But you’re not going to make any REAL friends like that.”
Gaston wasn’t grateful for the advice. He flew into a rage. “I AM brilliant at everything. I beat you AND that horrible boy at races.”
“We let you win.”
“I beat you at throwing.”
“Let you win.”
“I beat you at football.”
“SO let you win.”
“I beat you at hiding.”
“Stop it now. NO ONE beats Darius Bagley at hiding.”
“I found him.”
“Only because I told you where he was.”
“Did not, he’s a rubbish hider.”
Nat was fed up with this. She’d been feeling sorry for Gaston before, but he was clearly a lost cause. “Darius Bagley is SO GOOD at hiding he even hid from Suspicious Mick. And he was a proper, official person-finder. That was his job.”
“That’s not a job,” said Gaston.
“Yes, it is,” said Nat. “That’s how much you know. Suspicious Mick was on the ferry, looking for all the people without passports. And Darius was hiding because he hasn’t got one, so there.”
“Is that right?” said Gaston, suddenly looking very interested.
“Yeah, so don’t tell me Darius isn’t great at hiding. And I’m going home now, thank you.”
That’s told him, thought Nat, as she stomped out of the library. She was glad she’d stood up for Darius. I wonder if he knows what a good friend I am? she thought.
Then, as she stormed out, Nat did something very naughty. She noticed the Baron’s wretched duck whistle on a carved wooden table in the hall. She snatched it up. I’ll make you jump, you little beast, she thought, pocketing the object. She’d seen how it scared Gaston and she was going to give him a huge blast when he wasn’t expecting it.
It’s not stealing, it’s only borrowing, she told herself, looking over her shoulder to make sure Gaston hadn’t noticed, as she trudged back to Posh Barry’s rubbish leaky haunted house.
Gaston hadn’t noticed. He was too deep in thought.
ack at the house, Nat couldn’t see Dad or Darius anywhere. There was, however, a big cheerful French plumber leaving the kitchen. “Ze ’ot water, she is on,” he said, on his way out. “See you tomorrow.”
Get in, thought Nat. I’m off for a bath.
Nat heard some muffled banging and swearing coming from somewhere, but she couldn’t be bothered to look in case she got roped into helping.
I’ve helped you enough today, Dad, she thought. But just as Nat was running herself a bath, she caught sight of Darius out of the bathroom window, standing in the broken fountain, knee deep in scummy water, doing something with an electrical cable. Nat froze. It was insanely dangerous!
“Bagley, you moron!” she shouted. “Remember that YouTube video that I wasn’t supposed to watch that you showed me where that man drops an electric toaster in the bath?”
“Oh yeah,” laughed Darius, “that was funny.”
“Remember what happened to him?”
“The water lit up bright blue, there was a massive bang and he got turned into toast,” said Darius.
“SO GET OUT!” shouted Nat.
Dad came running up from somewhere, panting. “Out!” he shouted. Darius hopped on to dry land. “Good lad,” said Dad. “I mean, obviously it’s SAFE,” he said hastily, catching Nat’s angry eye as she came storming outside, “but we should probably test it from a distance first.”
You two deserve each other, thought Nat. “Dad, what are you actually doing?” she asked. “You said you were fixing the lights today.”
“Oh that,” said Dad lightly. “It’s on my to-do list. But more importantly, I found the plans on how to get the fountain working again.”
“That’s literally way less important than the lights,” said Nat crossly.
“Ah, now that’s where you’re wrong,” said Dad confidently. “First impressions are everything, see? I’ve watched loads of daytime telly home makeover shows, and they always say that. So when Posh Barry and Even Posher Linda arrive next week, what will be their first impression?”
“That they left their house in the care of an idiot?”
“Ap
art from that … They’ll see their lovely fountain, all working and splashy. They’ll be so impressed they might forgive the odd imperfection inside.”
Nat sighed and gave up arguing. “What’s that you’ve got?” said Darius, pointing to the duck whistle. Nat told him about her day with ghastly Gaston while Dad carried on tinkering with the fountain.
“I think we’re about ready to test it,” said Dad. “Brace yourselves, I’m putting the power back on.”
He disappeared off back into the house.
Brace yourselves? thought Nat. That doesn’t sound good.
They both stepped back from the fountain.
“Can I have a go?” said Darius, grabbing the whistle out of her hands.
“No,” said Nat. “I should put it back really, before I get into trouble. I only took it because I was annoyed. Give it here.”
She tried to grab it back.
“Just one blow,” said Darius, dodging.
“I said no; I want a go first anyway.”
Darius put it to his lips and blew. A feeble farty noise came out. At the same time they heard a sizzling sound.
“That’s a funny noise,” said Darius, looking at the whistle.
“No, you moron,” she said, “it’s the fountain. I think it’s actually working.”
As they watched, water began to pour out of the bronze mermaid’s mouth. Then, slowly at first, thin jets of water began squirting upwards, dancing around her.
“Dad’s done it!” said Nat. “I don’t believe it.”
Dad came running out. He punched the air in triumph. “Go, Dad!” he shouted. “They came to mock – they stayed to applaud.”
He walked over to Nat, looking VERY pleased with himself. “And I think you were beginning to doubt your old dad,” he said.
“I admit it,” Nat said. “The fountain looks great.”
It really did. The water was pouring out noisily and columns of water danced upwards. The late afternoon sunlight glinted invitingly off the jets, which looked VERY blue. And was that a sizzling sound again?
“I didn’t know there were lights in it, Dad,” she said, noticing the blue glow.