by Nigel Smith
“I am less than a metre away from you, moron,” she snapped, “you can get my attention without causing me bodily harm.”
“Write me a note to get off games?” he asked. “You’ve got nice writing.”
“Are you ill?” she replied, doing her best Mum impression.
“No, I just don’t wanna do games.”
“The rest of us have to do it,” said Nathalia primly, not mentioning her own note.
“I WILL tell you why x is fifteen,” he said. “And I WON’T tell everyone your last name.”
“Deal. How ill do you want to be?”
They eventually settled on ‘too ill for games and just this side of the intensive care unit and isn’t he brave for struggling into school despite all this illness which isn’t catching by the way so in case there’s a school trip on the cards somewhere fun like a castle or amusement park he can definitely still go, sort of ill’.
When she’d finished, Nathalia was quite proud of her note. She wanted to sign it and asked what his mum’s name was. Darius frowned and made a funny sort of shrug and kicked one of his shoes off under his desk. He had holes in his sock.
“Just put Mister Bagley,” he said. For a second he looked tiny and alone and Nat had a strange urge to put her arm round him. Then she saw what he was doing with his hands and swiftly decided against it.
ISS HUNNY TOOK THEM FOR HOCKEY – ANOTHER REASON Nathalia was trying to avoid it. Now, there are two sorts of teachers who do games. The first are the lumpy ones in shabby tracksuits who can actually run and throw and kick and jump and catch and all that. At one time they wanted to be in the Olympics but liked cigarettes, beer, cake, pork scratchings and Sunday lie-ins a bit too much. These days they still like sports, but they hate kids.
The other sort are the proper teachers who teach a real subject who like kids and like playing games with them. These teachers are a mixed blessing. They are much nicer, but they are rubbish at sport and are just as likely to knock your nose off with a badly swung hockey stick as not. Miss Hunny was one of those.
As everyone piled into the changing rooms, Nathalia handed Miss Hunny the note from her dad. She wondered if anyone was in the library. Some of the well-thumbed books reserved for the Year Tens with black covers and vampires looked pretty interesting.
“Well hurry up then,” said Miss Hunny brightly, waving the note. “I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do.”
Betrayed, thought Nat, miserably grabbing Dad’s note back. She read:
Dear Dolores,
My daughter is a very talented little girl. Her one fault is being too modest. I know she’s great at sports because she’s got the high scores on the Wii Olympics. And when she plays catch with her little cousin Marcus she usually wins, even though he’s quite big for a five-year-old. I’ve got a wonderful video of her on a beach last year. She’d just dropped an ice cream down her pants and it shows how high she can jump when she puts her mind to it.
At her old school she’d even pretend to be ill just to let others take all the glory but it’s time she got the attention she deserves.
Looking forward to seeing you on Friday. I’ll cook; it will be like old times. Except this time hopefully you won’t get food poisoning.
Love Ivor (Bumolé)
That’s the last time I ask my stupid dad for a note, she fumed, pulling her kit on. I don’t care. I could have two broken arms and the bubonic plague and I still wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She ran on to the playing field with the other girls and wondered who would be worse than her. Her plan was to stand next to that girl all lesson. But to her dismay, most of the girls looked super fit and keen. Some were already warming up, WITHOUT BEING TOLD. One girl was even doing press-ups. Nat sighed. Where’s the pale crying girl with glasses? she wondered. There must be at least one.
It started drizzling.
They were now huddled together in the middle of the pitch and Nat was surprised to see that they were sharing the lesson with the boys. She looked, but couldn’t see Darius, which meant her note must have worked. Oh hang on, no, here he came, trudging sulkily on to the field in old, baggy shorts and a stained top. He hissed at her as he walked past.
“So now I’ve got games AND a double detention. Thanks a lot.”
“Yeah, well, thanks to my dad, my note was worse, dog-breath.”
They weren’t taking any notice of Miss Hunny, burbling away in the background. “We’re looking at basic ball control and tackling,” they might have heard, if they’d been listening.
“I had a more rubbish note than you did,” argued Darius.
“It was me who had the worst one,” Nathalia snapped back. This boy was really ungrateful.
“So can I have two volunteers?” wittered Miss Hunny.
“Me,” insisted Darius loudly.
“No, me,” said Nat, even louder.
“OK, Darius and Nathalia, thank you. Come here then.”
“This is your fault as well,” said Darius as they collected their hockey sticks. “I’m gonna shout out your name.”
Nathalia wrapped her hands tight round her stick. “You are not,” she said, “but you are gonna shout.” She cracked him on the ankle.
“Bum – owww!” shouted Darius.
“Rude boy, another detention,” shouted Miss Hunny. Darius yelped and started hopping about. “Darius, calm down. What IS the matter with you? Don’t answer that – enough people have tried to work it out and failed. Right, you two, face each other.”
“I don’t want to look at his face,” said Nat.
“I don’t need to look at hers, I know what she looks like – horrible.”
“Darius, you have the ball. Now, on my whistle, let’s start.”
There are some scenes that are so violent and disturbing, that to write them down would mean we’d need a warning sticker on the front of this book saying something like:
PARENTS BEWARE – IF YOUR CHILDREN READ THIS THEY WILL BE DAMAGED FOR LIFE. STOP! DANGER, DANGER. DO NOT OPEN WITHOUT PROTECTIVE CLOTHING. PLEASE DISPOSE OF THIS BOOK CAREFULLY. IF RASH DEVELOPS, SEE YOUR DOCTOR. READ LESS, WATCH TV MORE. THE VALUE OF YOUR INVESTMENTS MAY GO DOWN AS WELL AS UP. SIT UP STRAIGHT AND EAT YOUR PEAS.
So let’s just listen to Miss Hunny, and work out what’s happening from that.
“Darius, you try to dribble the ball past Nathalia, who has to try to stop you.
“No, I didn’t say whack the ball straight at her. Nathalia, you are not allowed to pick up the ball unless you’re the goalkeeper. Oh right, you’re giving it back to— Not so hard! Now you’ve hit him in the eye. Darius, you cannot wave your stick about like a caveman. Now, you two, no swordfighting.
“No, really, you have to stop – watch that stick, you’ll hit Maddie. Oh, Maddie! That sort of language might be acceptable on a football pitch but not here.
“Maddie, put Darius down. Jamie, you needn’t get involved, or you, Rajesh. Nathalia, are you biting Darius’s ear? Right, everyone put down your sticks. Right now. Stop fighting. Who hit me on the— Argh! Why are you all joining in? Stop joining in. Put those sticks down. Help, help. Mr MacAnuff!”
The caretaker, who always just ‘happened’ to be nearby whenever Miss Hunny was on the playing fields, rushed over to help. His white vest clung to him in the rain. It’s a bit tight – maybe it got shrunk in the wash, thought Nathalia, as she was hauled out of the fight.
“You two, go and sit outside my office till the end of school,” said Miss Hunny. “I’ll deal with you then.”
“What would your father say?” said Miss Hunny to Nat, surprisingly sternly. Nat was standing in front of Miss Hunny’s desk. Her left eye felt swollen but she didn’t care because Darius, standing next to her, looked worse. “You may pull the wool over his eyes but I’m beginning to see there’s a very troublesome streak in you. I mean, I hardly recognise you from this photo your father texted me today.”
She showed Nat her phone. With creeping horror Nat guessed what
the picture would be, even before she looked. It was Dad’s all-time favourite. It was her eighth birthday and she was dressed as a fairy princess. Nat wanted the ground to open up under her. Darius was trying to stop himself laughing, which made him laugh more. Stuff came out of his notorious nose and he wiped it with the back of his hand. Miss Hunny shuddered and hurried things along so she didn’t have to be around him any longer.
“And take a look at yourself now,” she said, holding up a mirror.
Nat looked. Her face was dirty and bruised, her left eye purple. Her hair was matted and sticking up in clumps. When she was a very little girl she had a favourite doll. She loved it so much she wouldn’t let the doll out of her sight, not even to be washed. After several years it was so disgusting that Dad nicknamed it Typhoid Mary. Nat didn’t know what that meant so didn’t know why adults would laugh whenever she told them what it was called.
Today she didn’t look like Dad’s fairy princess. She looked like Typhoid Mary.
“I’ve decided I cannot overlook this terrible incident – Darius, stop playing with that – so I’ll be calling your parents tonight.”
“Good luck trying,” muttered Darius. Nat looked at him. His lips were pursed tight in defiance and his face was unreadable. She thought about his horrible brother and his holey socks. And he DID help her find x …
She moved a little closer to him.
“And Nathalia, I’m seeing your poor father on Friday so we’ll have plenty of time to discuss the best way of dealing with you.” Dealing? thought Nat, pulling a face. She let out a sigh.
She felt Darius move a little closer to her.
Neither said anything as they left the classroom together and made their way towards the school gates.
In the distance Nat could see the hulking figure of Oswald Bagley approaching on his huge black motorbike.
“See you, Buttface,” said Darius, walking off.
Nat smiled to herself as she heard Dad’s dustbin chugging round the corner.
Buttface? she thought. Yeah, I can live with that.
N THE WAY HOME, DAD MADE AN UNEXPECTED RIGHT turn at the mini roundabout by the park. Nathalia hoped he was just getting lost again. Because if he wasn’t getting lost, he was doing something far, far worse. He was taking them to the supermarket. And she was still wearing her school uniform. She squirmed at the thought and scratched the stupid Dog behind his ear. He looked at her sadly, as if to agree that even his tiny doggy brain knew you can’t be seen in school uniform outside school. It’s bad enough wearing the scratchy, lumpy thing IN school, thought Nat.
The brakes squeaked and Nat risked a peek out of the window. Oh no. Or rather, oh yes, here they were, at the ticket barrier of the supermarket car park. As usual, Dad had pulled up way too far from the ticket machine. Nat watched as he stretched out his arm to get the ticket. He couldn’t reach. He stuck his head out of the window. Still couldn’t reach. And now he couldn’t reverse and try again because there was a small queue of cars behind him. Nat sank lower on the seat and hid behind the Dog as the first car horns started blaring. Dad was now half out of the window, his legs hovering inside. One little push, thought Nat, one little—
“Got it!” shouted Dad. Nathalia stopped moving towards the dangling legs.
“No, dropped it,” shouted Dad. Nathalia started moving again.
“It’s gone under the van,” said Dad, coming inside, face now purple from his efforts. “Just pop out and get it, would you, love. It’ll be easier for you. Just mind the exhaust – there’s a small chance it might be red hot.”
“Can’t you do it, Dad?” she shouted over the car horns.
“I would, but I think it’s best I keep the engine revved. How popular would we be if we broke down here?”
“About the same as we are now,” muttered Nat under her breath, as she slid open the side door. Only a couple of pans clanged out behind her as she scrabbled under the van. As her fingers reached for the ticket, something warm and wet plopped on to the side of her face.
“What’s the Dog doing?” she shouted in mild panic, but Dad couldn’t hear. She snatched the ticket, banged her head on something hard and scrambled back into the van. A large smear of engine oil covered half her face, and her white school shirt was the colour of a February raincloud. She was no longer Typhoid Mary. She was the girl Typhoid Mary wasn’t allowed to play with.
When they eventually found a parking space, Dad looked at his daughter. “You might need a wet wipe,” he said, smiling. Nathalia was shocked. I must look terrible for Dad to notice, she thought. She had once come back from a fair with her face painted like a tiger and asked Dad what was different about her. After a few minutes he asked if she’d bought some new trainers.
She rubbed her sleeve over her face quickly. “Can I just stay in the van?” she asked. “Normally I’d say yes,” said Dad, “but I need your advice.”
Nat frowned. She liked being asked for her advice because she liked telling people what to do. She didn’t get the chance to do that very often so this was a tempting offer. On the other hand, shopping with Dad was just about the worst experience she could imagine, outside of a trip to the dentist or being munched by a giant spider.
“You’ll spend ages in there,” she complained, as they got out of the van and weaved their way through the busy car park. “You always do.”
“Not with your help,” said Dad.
“You always take hours choosing the cheapest tins of beans, and looking at those beers with the stupid names like Fiddler’s Armpit or Old Rat Hole.”
Dad chuckled. “You got me,” he said.
“The last time we went you asked that assistant if he had a Goblin’s Knob and I had to hide in the frozen peas.”
“You do make me laugh,” said Dad, laughing. “You can push the trolley. We’ll have fun.”
“I’ll do it if we can look at clothes.” This was a gamble, because Dad HATED looking at clothes with her. But he nodded. “Good idea,” he said, which puzzled her. Ah well, he must really want my help with something, she thought, heading for the clothing section.
She was so pleased with herself she hardly noticed they had started with the dresses. Dad held up a horrible pink fluffy thing.
“It’s a bit small for Mum,” said Nat.
“It’s for you,” said Dad. “No, don’t run off – come back. Don’t you want to look nice for Miss Hunny’s visit?”
So that was it. AAAARGH! It wasn’t that Nathalia didn’t want to look nice. Obviously she didn’t want to look nice for Miss Hunny, but in general, she liked to look nice. Trouble was, her idea of nice was very different to Dad’s idea of nice. Dad wanted to see her in a long dress covered with flowers, bunnies or flowery bunnies. Nat’s version of nice was a tiny pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt with a skull and WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? emblazoned on it.
Ten minutes later Mrs Doldrums the elderly shop assistant was trying to stop the row that was now raging between Nat and her dad. She was as effective as a drama teacher breaking up a playground scrap.
Finally the two of them made it to the ladies changing rooms. Nat had an armful of clothes that Dad didn’t like. Dad had an armful of clothes that he didn’t like much either but were better than the ones Nat really liked. And Mrs Doldrums had two customers that she just hated.
When a changing room became free, Dad went to march in with Nat. Mrs Doldrums, shocked, tapped him on the arm.
“You can’t go in there,” she said. “It’s ladies only.”
“She’s right, Dad, go away,” said Nat, who had already decided to tell him none of the clothes he chose fitted her. She didn’t want him to see that she hadn’t even tried them on.
“She’s my daughter,” said Dad, refusing to budge.
“She’ll be perfectly safe in there,” replied Mrs Doldrums, through gritted false teeth.
“I know that,” replied Dad. “I just need to help her with the buttons.”
Several unkind ladies in the changing r
ooms burst out laughing and Nat looked for a large hole to jump into.
“I can do my own buttons,” she hissed. “I’ve been able to do them since I was six.” There was more laughter.
“Will you come out of there?” said the shop assistant, who was also looking for a hole in the ground. Only this one was to push Dad into. And then chuck a fridge on.
“If you want to sell clothes, you need to look carefully at how you treat your customers,” said Dad loudly. One or two of the ladies in the changing rooms clapped. Encouraged by this, Dad went off on one.
“I remember a time when the customer was always right,” declared Dad to the whole shop. “I was reading in the financial papers that your profits were down eleven point six per cent last year, and I think I can see why.”
Nat couldn’t be sure, but she had a good idea that Dad was fibbing. Dad never read the financial papers; he wasn’t very good with numbers. All he read were books and music magazines and the little booklets inside CDs. When Mum brought home the paper he’d skim the sports pages and finish her crossword in about ten seconds – which really annoyed her – but numbers just confused him. Nat remembered a row at an ice-cream van because Dad didn’t see why a 99 cost a pound.
Mrs Doldrums, who was one month away from retiring and moving to a bungalow by the seaside with her cats, did not care about the store’s financial doom, real or imagined. She cared about getting Dad out of the ladies’ changing rooms.
“If you don’t step out of there, I’ll call the manager,” she said.
Oh no. Not The Manager. Nat hid her head in her hands. This was terrible. You see, on the whole Dad liked just about everybody. When they were out, Nat would have to listen, bored stiff, as he chatted happily to anyone who was prepared to chat back. Even if, she recalled only too well, it was a tramp on a bench who wanted to sell them a toaster. It usually took them an hour to walk down the high street. Teenagers who sign people up for charities would chuck themselves behind a lamp post when they saw Dad coming.