Poppy Pym and the Beastly Blizzard

by Laura Wood

  And:

  (Actually, thinking about it, most of our codes were cake related.) But these meetings revealed very little. To our increasing frustration we found that we had no new leads, and there was no amount of imaginary moustache twirling that could produce a new avenue of enquiry when we had hit such a complete and utter dead end. The days melted into weeks, and then, just like that, it was winter.

  Which is when everything changed.

  It all began with a phone call a couple of weeks before the school holidays. Saint Smithen’s looked very festive. There had been a liberal strewing of fairy lights for our Diwali celebrations the month before, which was fast becoming one of my favourite celebrations. (We lit lanterns and there were fireworks and sparklers, and we spent a whole week hearing spectacular stories about princes and princesses, and evil kings and loyal monkeys and helpful bears.) Now thick ropes of red and green tinsel had been added to the lights as Christmas celebrations had kicked in.

  In the entrance hall, beside the grand staircase, an enormous Christmas tree rose all the way up to the high ceiling. Baubles of every colour hung from the branches, and sugar mice and peppermint candy canes had been liberally tied on with red ribbons – although all of the sweets that hung from the tree within grabbing distance of the average Saint Smithen’s student standing on their tiptoes had mysteriously disappeared, and the school’s taller students were walking around looking very smug. The weather had turned crisp and cold and we bustled between the school buildings huddled in thick woolly scarves and mismatched gloves. (Have you ever tried to keep hold of a neat and tidy matching pair of gloves while living with hundreds of other kids trying to keep hold of their own neat and tidy matching pair of gloves? Let me tell you, it’s not easy.)

  It had been a few weeks since I’d had a chance to talk to my circus family. Their schedule had been completely crazy and they’d been constantly on the move, although they had sent me a few postcards from their travels. However, tonight I knew that they were finally arriving at Leaky Sue’s where they would be staying for a few days. I was so excited to speak to them, and I wrapped myself up in my coat and scarf, slipping out into the cold, cold night and making my way towards the library.

  If I had to pick a favourite bit of Saint Smithen’s I would probably say the library was it. Not only is it humongous and absolutely heaving with books on every subject, but it’s so comfy and cosy as well. The high ceiling is painted with a mural of a pale blue sky with fat white clouds rolling across it. In every corner there’s a battered old armchair, perfectly broken in to be of optimum comfort and padding for readers’ bums, and deep enough that you sink into it a bit so you can curl up and pore over a good book. The floors are made of a gleaming, polished wood, and they make little squeaking sounds as you walk up and down the endless rows and rows of bookcases.

  In one corner is a desk and an office where the librarian Mr Fipps can be found at seemingly any time of the day or night. Sometimes he’ll be having a snooze or munching a cheese sandwich, but despite appearances he’s actually always on high alert, happy to answer any librarian-ing questions you may have. He seems to know everything about everything, and his real talent is matching students up with their perfect book. Even kids who don’t usually like to read have found stuff they’re into, thanks to Mr Fipps. He always makes a special point of ordering in any new Detective Dougie Valentine books (my personal favourites), and letting me know when they arrive.

  On arriving at the library I smiled to see the ropes of holly and ivy that trailed along the tops of the bookcases, and all the paper snowflakes that hung from the ceiling on very thin silvery thread. It might have been cold outside but the library was warm and toasty and I began peeling off all my wintery layers like a duffle-coat-wearing onion.

  At the back of the building is a wall of old-fashioned payphones that the students can use to phone home and reassure their families that they are eating their vegetables. My family are usually more worried about whether I’ve been practising my triple somersaults, but Pym, at least, is always keen to hear that I’ve been eating my peas. I’ve written out my phone call as if it were a script so that you can have lots of fun reading it out with all the different voices.

  **Beginning of transcript**

  **Phone rings**

  Leaky Sue: ’Ello? Flying Ferret, ’aunted ’otel to the stars! ’Ome of the famous ghost lion and the less famous but just as terrifyin’ ghost guinea pigs.

  Me: Hello, Leaky Sue, it’s Poppy.

  Leaky Sue: Oh, all right, Poppy, ’ow’s it goin’?

  Me: It’s OK. Still not having much luck convincing people that guinea-pig ghosts are scary?

  Leaky Sue: Well, you know ’ow it is, love. People are afraid of the lion, and I must say that for all the many faults that Luigi’s got, that lion is well trained. Wears a sheet beautiful, she does. But those guinea pigs! I wish to goodness Marvin never pulled ’em out of that stupid hat. Can’t get a single one to keep their costume on, even after I spent all that time on ’em and used up all me ’andkerchiefs. We’re supposed ter be an ’AUNTED ’otel, but as soon as anyone claps eyes on those guinea pigs, they’re all cooing and gooey and won’t shut up about how cute they are. It’s really doin’ my ’ead in.

  Me: Oh dear, yes, I can see how that would be…

  Leaky Sue: (shrieking) ’ERE! GET OUT OF THE BISCUIT BARREL, YER LITTLE BLIGHTERS!

  **Sound of phone being dropped**

  **Sound of happy guinea pig squeakings**

  **Long pause**

  Me: Er … hello? Hellllllllllloooooooooooooooo?

  **Scuffling sound**

  Fanella: Hello? Who is this? Leaky Sue is very busy now shouting at the guinea piglets so no one wants to talk to you. Probably you should stay at other hotel.

  Me: No! Fanella, it’s me!

  Fanella: TOMATO! I miss you so much! Is been terrible being always on the move with this lot of bozos.

  Doris: Is that Poppy on the phone? I’ve been waiting ages to talk to her.

  **Scuffling noises**

  Me: Hello, Dodo!

  Doris: Poppy! I wanted to talk to you about that beetle you sent me. I’ve just seen it. (whispering) It’s very important.

  Me: Oh! The remote-control toy? I’d almost forgotten about that! Can you fix it?

  Doris: I’m afraid not. I think it’s … more than a toy.

  Me: More than a toy? What do you mean?

  Doris: Where did you find it?

  Me: It was scurrying around in the bushes just outside the school. Why? What is it, Dodo?

  **long pause**

  Doris: I don’t know … not exactly. But I think it might be some kind of … surveillance equipment.

  Me: Surveillance! You mean it has a camera in it?

  Doris: Yes, and a small microphone, although I couldn’t recover any of the pictures or audio recordings. I can’t imagine what that kind of device would be doing at a school.

  Me: (high, squeaky voice) No, nor me.

  Doris: Are you all right, Poppy? Your voice is funny. Have you got a sore throat?

  Boris: (booming in background) Who has a sore throat? I don’t want to catch any germs … you know I’m very delicate.

  Doris: It’s Poppy, she’s got a sore throat.

  Me: No – I…

  Boris: Oh no, she could have picked up anything at school! Does she have a temperature? Is she getting nosebleeds? It could be dengue fever!

  Doris: (impatiently) Where on earth would Poppy have picked up dengue fever?!

  Boris: YOU DON’T KNOW. THERE ARE SO MANY GERMS IN SCHOOLS, SHE COULD HAVE THE ACTUAL PLAGUE.

  Fanella: Who has the plague?

  Doris: No one.

  Boris: Poppy!

  Fanella: OH, TOMATO! OH, WOE! THE PLAGUE IT IS UPON US!

  Woman’s voice in background: Did that woman just say something about the plague?

  Doris: Pay no attention, madam…

  Fanella: YES, DO PAY ATTENTION! HEED MY WORDS! THE
BLACK DEATH, IT RETURNS MORE DEADLY THAN BEFORE!

  Woman: My goodness, I…

  Doris: Fanella, you’re scaring the hotel guests.

  Fanella: **hacking coughs**

  Boris: NOOOOOOOO! The germs have travelled down the phone line… We’re all as good as dead!

  Doris: Really, this is ridic—

  Fanella: GOODBYE, CRUEL WORLDDDDD! REMEMBER ME AS I WAS. SO YOUNG AND SO, SO VERY BEAUTIFUL.

  **Groaning noises**

  **Phone goes dead**

  **End of transcript**

  I was left holding the receiver limply in my hand. In a daze I stared at the phone before carefully hanging it back up. Then I ran like the wind to find Kip and Ingrid.

  By the time I reached my pals in the common room I was out of breath and wheezing. I had been gone so long that I had missed the evening trip to the grand hall to light the Chanukah, and I found Kip gleefully tucking into a plate of powdery doughnuts. As I filled the two of them in on what Doris had told me about the beetle, Kip gave his doughnut such a startled squeeze that a large splodge of strawberry jam dislodged itself and ended up smeared down his shirt.

  “It had a camera inside it?” Ingrid said, the shock writ large all over her face.

  “Like a spy camera?” Kip echoed, dabbing ineffectually at the stain on his shirt. “Like a camera FOR SPIES?”

  “Ssssshhhhh!” I hissed, glancing around the room. Then I nodded.

  “I told you the robots were coming for us, but NOBODY listened to me,” he said, his voice getting louder and louder, and he crammed the rest of the doughnut into his face with one nervous gulp.

  Ingrid made soothing murmuring sounds, and I pushed the last remaining doughnut in his direction, which appeared to have a calming effect.

  After Kip had wolfed this down in two bites he seemed to gather his wits. “Do you think this is connected to the runaway van?” His eyes were wide. “Or the person who left the notes?” he asked. “The ones about the umbrella shop and the phone numbers, and…” He continued as though I could possibly have forgotten which notes he was talking about.

  “I know the ones,” I snapped, and Kip looked hurt. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s just … a bit strange, you know. It really looks like someone is spying on us. But why?”

  “And is it the same person who sent the notes?” Ingrid asked.

  “Or is there more than one person involved?” I whispered. “Was the beetle spying on us to make sure we were safe … or to find a way to hurt us?”

  The three of us looked at each other and in Kip and Ingrid’s faces I saw a mirror of my own scared eyes. Things were getting very complicated.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next day Kip, Ingrid and I were in a lesson in the great hall with one of our favourite teachers, Madame Patrice. Madame Patrice is, as Pym would say, a real force of nature. She used to be a big star in the West End, or, at least, a lot of her stories begin with: “Darlings, when I was a big star in the West End…” so I supposed that was the case. Her mission in life seems to be to turn us into a bunch of high quality, Broadway-ready entertainers, and in some cases (like small boys with honking great out-of-tune voices) this was proving harder than others.

  “Now slide to the right, and spin around,” Madame Patrice called from the chaise longue where she was sprawled, an empty cigarette holder dangling between the fingers of her right hand. “No, no, dears,” she sighed, waving the cigarette holder in our direction. “I meant the other right.”

  We were dressed as snowflakes. Or rather we were supposed to be dressed as snowflakes but we’d been in charge of making our own costumes, so I was dressed as a person in her gym kit with bits of loo roll dangling from her arms. It was a dress rehearsal for our end-of-term production, which I think Madame Patrice imagined as being something akin to the Royal Ballet Company performing Swan Lake.

  It was not.

  “Flutter, Ingrid, flutter…” she shouted over the tinkling music. “Imagine you have balloons tied to your ankles and you’re just a weightless little snowflake drifting in the breeze.”

  Ingrid began to awkwardly lift her feet high into the air and slam them back down. “It would take an awful lot of balloons,” she muttered, but then I saw a serene look spread across her face and I knew she was trying to calculate the exact number needed and to work out the maths involved. Funnily enough this did make her movements much more delicate and fluttery.

  I had been given the job of doing some gymnastic tumbling across the front of the stage, which I threw myself into enthusiastically. I might not be much good at fluttering daintily, but I could spin and twirl and flip myself around a treat, and with my toilet paper decorations streaming behind me I thought the effect was rather good.

  “Excellent energy, Poppy,” Madame Patrice called, clamping the cigarette holder between her teeth so that she could clap. “You remind me of a young me in my heyday… Such vigour, such vim…”

  I moved to the side as my mortal enemy Annabelle entered, dressed as the Sugar Plum Fairy. A silver tiara shone on top of her blonde head, a smug smile hovered over her lips. She was wearing a spangly white tutu that stuck out around her hips and she did some ballet dancing on her tiptoes. Grudgingly, I had to admit that she did look very dainty and professional. The effect was somewhat ruined by the appearance of a sour-faced Kip dressed as an elf, complete with sticky-on pointy ears and a green bobble hat.

  “This is total height-ism,” he hissed.

  I tried to stifle my snort of laughter.

  “Kip, where are your tights?” Madame Patrice yelled.

  “I DRAW THE LINE AT TIGHTS,” Kip roared, looking ready to fight to the death on this point.

  “Fine, fine.” Madame Patrice held her hands up in mock surrender. “But you need to do a bit more prancing.”

  Kip stood still, arms folded, an impressive scowl on his face. “I don’t prance,” he grumbled. “I’m… I’m an angry elf.”

  Madame Patrice tipped her head to one side. “I love it!” she exclaimed, finally. “What a rich backstory you must be weaving for your character. Tell me, what is your motivation here?”

  “My motivation is to avoid getting hit in the face by Annabelle while she waves her arms around like a demented octopus,” Kip huffed.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve been taking ballet lessons since I was three years old,” Annabelle ground out, her voice angry, but a dazzling beauty-queen smile still pasted across her lips. “And at least I don’t look like a reject from the North Pole. My cousin has a costume just like that – he’s three.”

  “OK, OK,” Madame Patrice interrupted, heaving herself up from her seat. “I see that it is time for a small break. Let’s take five.”

  Kip looked like he had a lot more to say, but settled for casting dark looks in Annabelle’s direction. She was immediately enveloped by a group of her friends, including her mini-me, Barbie Gubbins, who was so obsessed with looking like Annabelle that I knew for a fact she had a matching silver tiara hidden away in her locker. Annabelle cast a sickly sweet smile in my direction, which I knew meant trouble.

  “I suppose you and your weird family are spending the Christmas holidays in a tent this year, Poppy?” she said, wrinkling her nose up. “Mummy and Daddy are taking me to Barbados.”

  Barbie simpered at this. “Oh, Annabelle, that will be so cool. You’re so lucky, you get to do all the best things.”

  Annabelle nodded. “I’ll try and remember to think of you all while I’m lying poolside, topping up my tan.” She smiled haughtily.

  “Actually,” Ingrid interrupted, looking almost surprised at her own fierceness, “we’re all spending Christmas together because Poppy has actual, real friends who care about her and don’t just follow her around agreeing with every stupid thing she says.”

  “Er, thanks, Ing … I think,” I said doubtfully.

  “You know what I mean,” Ingrid muttered, and then she turned to Annabelle to deliver the killer blow. “AND we’re spending
Christmas at Poppy’s family’s STATELY HOME. Perhaps you’ve heard of it … it’s a little place called Burnshire Hall.”

  A very sour-faced Annabelle sucked in an angry hiss of air, and Ingrid’s cheeks turned a bit pink. For once she had got the better of Annabelle. I know you’re probably wondering what on earth Burnshire Hall is. You see, Luigi the lion tamer is actually called Lord Lucas, the fourteenth Earl of Burnshire (but he thinks Luigi is a much better name for a lion tamer, and I have to say I agree with him on that one). Burnshire Hall is Luigi’s big old family home, and even though Luigi isn’t there very often because he’s on tour with the circus, his Great-Aunt Hortence looks after the place for him. We’ve been going there for Christmas every year for as long as I can remember. It is a proper mansion with a butler and a maze and hedges trimmed into the shape of chickens, and therefore exactly the sort of place to make a person like Annabelle, who boasts about holidays and designer sunglasses, turn green with envy.

  So all in all there wasn’t really much that she could say about such an announcement. She sniffed, trying not to look impressed, and restrained herself to glowering at us for the rest of the rehearsal and whispering obviously mean things to her little entourage. There was a brief scuffle when Madame Patrice raised the issue of Kip’s tights again and he tried to cram one of his curly elf shoes into the mouth of Riley, who seemed to find it quite funny, but apart from that, the afternoon was without any major incidents.