by R. A. Spratt
‘Oh no,’ said Miss Tinker. ‘It slipped out when I was having a cup of tea with the nice sergeant over at the police station in Bilgong.’
‘Why were you having tea with the police sergeant in Bilgong?’ asked Loretta.
‘He loves my jammy dodgers,’ said Miss Tinker. ‘And policing is a stressful business. He likes to have three or four biscuits then open up about what’s been troubling him at work.’
‘You’ve been pumping him for information using biscuits as bribes,’ accused April.
‘It’s genius,’ said Loretta with admiration.
‘It was the b-b-bank robbers who stole the b-bus,’ said Joe. ‘You can’t blame us.’
‘Well, actually,’ said President Sweet. ‘Yes, we can.’
‘And we do,’ said Mrs Bellamy.
‘More tea?’ asked Miss Tinker, smiling at them.
‘Besides, the bank robbers are in jail,’ said President Sweet. ‘The silly police are always so keen to lock people up. It would be much more sensible to make them clean up their mess first.’
‘But they didn’t,’ said Mrs Bellamy, ‘so you’ll have to do it for them.’
‘That’s not fair,’ said April.
‘Life’s not fair,’ said the Cat Lady.
‘Precisely,’ said President Sweet. ‘We are old and we have learned that life is cruel and unfair. Now you will learn. We don’t care what you did or didn’t do on that bus. You are going to fix our potato. On Saturday it will be as good as new, if not better. It will take pride of place as the focal point for the Potato Festival.’
‘What if we say no?’ asked April.
President Sweet had been about to put a scone in her mouth. She froze and looked up. ‘We will make your lives a living H-E-double-hockey-sticks.’
‘Huh?’ said April.
‘Hell,’ whispered Loretta. ‘It’s the nice way of saying “hell”.’
‘Why would anyone want to say “hell” nicely?’ asked April.
Loretta shrugged. ‘Because they don’t want to go there.’
‘We’ll do it,’ said Fin.
‘No, we won’t,’ argued April.
‘All right, I’ll do it,’ said Fin. ‘I like fixing things.’
‘Excellent,’ said the President. ‘We’ll arrange to have it delivered to your home so you can set to work immediately.’
‘You’re going to dump the Giant Potato in our yard?’ asked April.
‘D-D-Dad won’t like that,’ said Joe.
‘Good,’ said the President. ‘Extra motivation for you to get it fixed speedily.’
When the Peski kids finally arrived at school nothing could have prepared them for what they saw. The entire school had gone potato crazy. Students were wearing potato decorations, others were wearing potato hats and some were simply wearing clothes covered in potato peelings.
‘What is going on?’ asked April. ‘Was there some sort of asteroid shower in the night that affected the entire population of Currawong except us?’
‘No, this is pretty standard behaviour for day one of the countdown to the Potato Festival,’ said Loretta.
‘They used to do this at your school too?’ asked Fin.
Loretta had gone to an elite private school for children of the super wealthy until recently when she had been expelled.
‘In spirit, yes,’ said Loretta. ‘The students at St Anthony’s enjoyed celebrating the potato festivities, but they didn’t wear homemade costumes. Their potato suits and potato onesies were made by the finest costume designers in the country. One girl even had a potato tutu created by a costume designer from the Paris Opera.’ Loretta smirked, as she made this comment.
April peered at her. She was beginning to be able to identify Loretta’s smirks. ‘That girl was you, wasn’t it?’
Loretta broke out into a full grin. ‘Yes, actually, I don’t like to do things by half measures.’
‘So the c-c-countdown is a thing, is it?’ asked Joe.
‘Oh yes,’ said Loretta. ‘Every day has its own ritual.’
‘What’s the ritual for day one?’ asked Fin.
Loretta smiled again. This time her grin was particularly wicked. ‘Day one is when they call for nominations for the Potato Princess.’
‘You are kidding me!’ exploded April. ‘A princess! Haven’t these people heard of feminism? This is the twenty-first century!’
‘Not in Currawong, it’s not,’ said Fin. ‘I don’t think they’re scheduled to enter the twenty-first century for another couple of hundred years.’
‘But a Potato Princess is so degrading!’ said April. ‘Is it some sort of beauty pageant?’
‘Oh no,’ said Loretta. ‘It’s a potato pageant.’
The school bell rang. Students cheered and started rushing towards the school quadrangle.
‘Come on,’ urged Loretta, grabbing Joe by the wrist. ‘We’d better hurry. We want to get a good spot.’
‘Good spot for w-w-what?’ asked Joe.
‘You’ll see,’ said Loretta.
When they arrived at the quadrangle the students were all crowded around a makeshift stage.
‘That looks like a boxing ring,’ observed Fin.
Joe peered closer. ‘It is a b-b-boxing ring.’
‘Cool,’ said April.
‘The school can’t afford an actual stage,’ butted in Kieran. He was a know-it-all boy, who loved using every opportunity he got to show exactly how knowledgeable he was, particularly about the history and customs of Currawong. He was forever listening in on other people’s conversations and educating them on points of history they didn’t know about, or want to know about.
‘But they can afford a boxing ring?’ asked Fin.
‘They didn’t buy it,’ said Kieran. ‘They accepted it in barter. A travelling boxing troupe was passing through and their truck broke down. After three days they were so desperate to leave they begged for someone to help.’
‘Very sensible,’ commented April.
‘But it was potato pulling season,’ said Kieran. ‘No one could be spared. It was all hands out in the fields. Eventually, they offered to give Mr Lang their boxing ring if he drove them to the nearest train station.’
‘Where is the nearest train station?’ asked Fin.
‘560 kilometres away,’ said Kieran.
‘So they gave up their way of making a living just to get out of Currawong?’ said Fin.
‘Sounds like a fair trade,’ said April.
There was the ding-ding-ding of a boxing bell. Mr Lang climbed up on the side of the ring, bent over and squeezed himself between the top and middle ropes then made his way to the microphone stand in the centre.
‘Thank you all for coming,’ said Mr Lang.
‘It’s school,’ heckled April. ‘We didn’t have a choice!’
‘You could be homeschooled,’ jeered Matilda Voss-Nevers. ‘We’d all prefer it if you were homeschooled.’ There was some cheering at this suggestion. Matilda prided herself on being a goody-two-shoes with perfect pigtails. She had disliked the Peskis on sight because they were so messy and chaotic, but her loathing for them grew significantly when they proved she had cheated in the Annual Cockroach Races.
‘Do you want me to school you on how to shut your mouth?’ asked April, dropping her schoolbag so she could square up for a fight.
Loretta sighed. ‘It’s the sight of the boxing ring. It’s given her ideas.’
Joe grabbed hold of April and moved so he was standing between her and Matilda. Pumpkin growled, never taking his eyes off his mistress’s pigtail-wearing nemesis.
‘Currawong High is proud to once again participate in this great historical festival,’ continued Mr Lang. ‘Celebrating the hard work of our local agricultural community.’
‘Puh-lease,’ heckled April. ‘You’re talking about spuds. It’s not like putting man on the moon. You get a spud, you put it in the ground, it grows more spuds. It’s not rocket science.’
A juice box flew through
the air and hit April in the back of the head. It had been half-drunk, so juice oozed down April’s hair and under the collar of her shirt.
‘Hey,’ said April, spinning around. ‘Who threw that?’
No one responded, but a sea of faces glowered at her.
Pumpkin yapped and growled, ready to back up his mistress.
Loretta took her hand. ‘April, I love you, and not just because you are my sister, I genuinely admire your constant naked hostility. But I’m telling you, if you don’t shut up and stop smack-talking potatoes, you are going to start a riot. The people here take potatoes very, very seriously.’
April glared at the crowd around her. They were all glaring back. April wasn’t intimidated – she was prepared to take them all on. But she did want to know about this mysterious potato announcement, so she decided against derailing the event by starting a fight. She could always take them all on later, if the announcement proved to be disappointing. After one final glower, she picked up Pumpkin and turned back to pay attention to Mr Lang.
‘It is my great honour to welcome to the . . . er . . . stage, Mrs Sweet, President of the Currawong CWA. Madam President . . .’ Mr Lang stepped back. The crowd parted on one side and Mrs Sweet could be seen making her way through the throng in her mobility scooter. It was painfully slow.
‘Do you think she’d let me soup that up for her?’ asked Fin. ‘Dad’s got an old outboard motor with way more horsepower than that.’
‘I’ve got a horse with way more horsepower than that,’ said Loretta.
‘But how is she going to get up onto the boxing ring?’ whispered April. She had to whisper because everyone had fallen into a hushed and respectful silence, almost as if they were in church. ‘Do you suppose the scooter has some sort of ejector seat that will shoot her in?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Fin. ‘I could install one of those too.’
When she got to the ring, Mrs Sweet stopped. Joe took a half-step forward. His instinct was to help, but he didn’t want to seem rude and he didn’t see how he could possibly manhandle the old woman into the ring and preserve her dignity. But Mrs Sweet didn’t look about for help. She laid her palms on the canvas floor, tucked her head under the bottom rope and slid her body forward until the top half was on the floor, then she spun to one side while pulling up her legs. Now she was entirely inside the ring but lying face down, so she rolled over and called out one word, ‘Up!’
Mr Lang hurried over, took both her hands and helped Mrs Sweet to her feet.
‘That is one of the weirdest things I have ever seen,’ said April.
‘It was sort of like a ballet,’ agreed Loretta. ‘If the ballerina was incredibly old and only had one move to perform.’
Mrs Sweet now clung tightly to Mr Lang’s arm as he led her over to the microphone.
‘Girls and boys,’ began President Sweet. Usually the high school students sniggered when someone referred to them as ‘girls and boys’ but no one sniggered at President Sweet. ‘I am here today as President of the Country Women’s Association to officially announce the countdown to the Potato Festival.’
The entire student body roared with adulation. There was cheering and chanting, although it was hard to make out any particular words.
President Sweet held up her hand for silence and in seconds the students had fallen quiet. ‘And day one of the potato countdown is the day we call for nominations.’
‘Nominations for what?’ asked April.
‘Shush,’ said Loretta as she strained to hear what President Sweet would say next.
‘It is your job as the young people of Currawong,’ continued President Sweet, ‘to choose the best among you. You must make the nominations for the Potato Princess!’
There was an even louder roar of excitement from the crowd now.
‘You’re kidding,’ said April. ‘Have we slipped through a wormhole into a parallel universe and now we’re living in a vegetable-themed fairy tale?’
‘Maybe,’ said Loretta. ‘That would explain a lot.’
‘The Potato Princess is an important role,’ said President Sweet.
April made a scoffing noise and earned herself a sharp kick in the shins from an anonymous foot in the crowd.
‘Unlike princesses in the real royal family in England,’ said President Sweet, ‘the Potato Princess is chosen on merit for her selfless work in the community. She must help others, support the disadvantaged, aid the elderly and enrich Currawong with her grace and presence.’
Fin elbowed April in the ribs. ‘That rules you out.’
April didn’t respond except to stomp on his foot.
At this point, President Sweet opened her voluminous handbag and started rifling about inside it. Mr Lang leaned forward to help, but she slapped his hand out of the way. She found what she was looking for and pulled out a brown hessian sack.
‘I present the ceremonial potato sack,’ announced President Sweet. ‘It shall be left here upon the stage for the rest of the school day. To nominate a girl for Potato Princess you must come forward and put her name in the sack.’
There was a sudden commotion in the crowd. Cries of pain and protest travelled through the tightly packed students. Someone was pushing their way the front – Daisy Odinsdottir. She burst out of the throng, slid onto the floor of the ring, bounced to her feet, held up a pink index card to show to the crowd, then shoved the card into the sack.
‘I nominate myself!’ declared Daisy.
‘She’s not a shy girl, is she?’ Fin murmured to Loretta, but then he realised Loretta wasn’t there.
Looking around he saw that Loretta had glided to the front of the crowd, persuaded a bulky boy to crouch down while she stood on him and stepped up onto the outside of the ring. She had a piece of paper in her hand. She held it outstretched.
‘Mr Lang, be a dear and pop that in the sack for me,’ asked Loretta.
Mr Lang seemed to act more under the tractor beam of her smile than through any conscious thought of his own. He took the slip and popped it in the bag.
Daisy actually growled like a wild animal. Pumpkin fell silent. He wasn’t used to hearing a human steal his thunder.
‘You’re going down, Viswanathan,’ said Daisy in her most menacing voice.
‘Of course I am,’ said Loretta. ‘I’m not going to stand up here all day.’ She smiled broadly and stepped back onto the stocky boy and down onto the ground, before sauntering back to the Peskis.
‘You actually want to be the Potato Princess?’ asked April, scathingly.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Loretta. ‘But I do know that I want to run for Potato Princess. I think this whole festival has so much potential for fun.’
‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ said April. ‘You know you’ll have to prance around in a frilly dress and suck up to everyone.’
‘Maybe, but it will be competitive prancing around,’ said Loretta, turning to look at Daisy, who was still in the boxing ring glowering at her. Loretta smiled and waved back. ‘And that’s what makes it fun.’
‘Urgh,’ said April. ‘You’re all twisted. Let’s go to class. We’re supposed to be being learning, you know.’
April picked up her bag and started to walk away with Loretta, Joe and Fin. Then behind them there was another commotion. They turned to see someone else clambering up into the boxing ring.
‘Who is that?’ asked Loretta.
It wasn’t a girl this time. The figure stood up. He looked like a potato.
‘It’s Neil!’ exclaimed Fin.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked April.
‘It looks like he’s going to nominate someone,’ said Loretta.
Neil was hurrying over to the sack.
‘Who?’ asked Joe.
‘Oh no,’ said Fin. He could guess. Neil was hopelessly in love with April. No one had realised this yet, because Neil’s face was so potato-like it rarely registered any form of emotional expression. But Fin knew and he felt sorry for his friend. He dre
aded the day that April found out. It was one thing for her to spend her days brutalising everyone with her bursts of anger, but he didn’t want to see her destroy his best friend.
Neil had turned and was making his way out of the ring now. The crowd was jeering at him. People were calling out, asking whose name he’d put in. But Neil just stared at the ground and kept walking. He hated being noticed. If he pretended he didn’t notice that people had noticed him, perhaps the whole nightmare might not be true.
‘Do you think he’s put in his own name?’ asked April. ‘If he has, good for him. Someone needs to confront these outdated gender-biased events. There’s no reason boys shouldn’t go in it.’
‘And be princesses?’ asked Joe.
‘What’s wrong with a boy being a princess?’ demanded April. ‘If it’s good enough for a girl, it should be good enough for a boy too.’
‘N-n-nothing,’ said Joe.
Fin stayed silent. He knew Neil had not nominated himself. He could only hope Neil’s handwriting was so bad that the name he had written would be impossible to read.
The following morning there actually was food in the house so the Peski Kids were sitting around, eating breakfast. Normally they would be bickering, but today they were silent. Except for the sounds of munching and spoons clanging against cereal bowls.
The silence was eventually broken when Dad entered. He was very agitated. ‘Um . . .’ said Dad. ‘Er . . . is there a reason why the Giant Potato from the outskirts of town is now squashing my dahlia bed?’ Dad pulled up the blind on the window over the sink so they could see what he was talking about. The battered giant spud was right there crushing his flowers.
Pumpkin barked with delight. He loved it when there were new things in the yard he could pee on.
‘I promised the CWA I’d fix it for them,’ said Fin. ‘I’m surprised it’s come already. I didn’t expect a group of old ladies to be able to get something so big moved so quickly.’
‘It arrived at 4 am this morning,’ said Mum without looking up from her muesli.
‘That’s very exact,’ said Loretta.
‘No one enters the perimeter of my home without me knowing everything about who they are and what they want,’ said Mum.