by Nigel Smith
“Dad and his rubbish committee,” she complained. A well-hit rounders ball landed at her feet and she kicked it savagely into some bushes. Hope it lands in the sick, she thought.
“What committee?” said Darius, cartwheeling.
“Don’t you ever listen?” said Nat in her best Mum voice. “My dad’s now running this school thing with teachers and parents and they want to make up rubbish things for us to do. Boring trips and stupid competitions and boot fairs and jumble sales and talent shows and who knows what else. He wants to interfere with EVERYTHING. He watched a documentary on food the other day and now he’s trying to take turkey twizzlers off school dinners.”
“I don’t want to talk about school dinners,” said Darius, still a bit green.
“He’s even trying to organise a ‘Bring your dad to school day’.” Darius shrugged.
Nat went on, “Which I’m not doing – he’s at this school more than me anyway.”
This was all such terrible news, she couldn’t see why Darius didn’t care. At least on her behalf.
“Bo-ring,” said Darius, who was now crawling into a bush on his stomach, holding an invisible rifle. “Let’s play snipers.” Oh well, Nat told herself, as long as Dad doesn’t organise a disco, it might not be too bad.
Soon the little skipping figure of Penny Posnitch appeared. Nat smiled – she reckoned Penny was ALMOST a friend now. There was just one thing in the way and it was currently in a bush somewhere. But even though Evil Villain Nat still nagged her that she’d be better off without him, Good Nat still didn’t want him to get sent to that horrible class. She sighed; life was complicated.
“Miss Eyre says you can come back now,” said Penny. “Because I said that you said you were sorry and wouldn’t do it again.”
“Thanks,” said Nat, thinking, But I’m not and I will.
“And I fibbed and said you were our best player.” Penny stopped and looked round nervously. “Where’s HE gone?”
No one liked to say Darius’s name. It was considered unlucky.
“Oh, he’s in a bush,” said Nat.
“Think he’ll come out?”
“You can never tell.”
Nat walked back to the match with Penny. “Did you really say I was your best player?” she asked happily.
What happened five minutes later takes some explaining. This is the true version of events that Mrs Trout the Head refused to listen to.
It was Nat’s turn to bat. The girl standing behind her was on the opposite team. Nat didn’t like her much, and wasn’t going to make the effort to like her because this girl wasn’t very popular either. This girl had decided that she was going to make herself more popular by teasing Nat. So, when the first ball was thrown, she shouted,
“Where’s your pet dog?”
Swish. Nat missed. She thought about the question, puzzled. Her pet Dog was at home, barking at people wearing hats. He hated hats. But there was something nasty in the tone of the question. From out of the corner of her eye she saw Darius wander up with twigs in his hair.
“Look, here he is,” the girl said, laughing unpleasantly. A few other girls joined in.
“Hey,” said Nat, annoyed, turning round just as the second ball was thrown at her. It hit her on the back of the head.
“Watch it,” said Nat, spinning round, really annoyed now.
“Will you pay attention, Nathalia,” scolded Miss Eyre. “Foul ball.”
“Was not,” argued the bowler.
“Don’t argue. There are still two balls left,” insisted Miss Eyre. The bowler scowled and drew her arm back as far as she could. Nat gripped her bat tight.
“Thinks she’s special just cos her dad’s always coming to school.”
“Stop being mean,” warned Nat, turning round again. The ball smacked her on the head even harder.
“That ball was good,” said Miss Eyre.
“Why?” shouted Nat. “It hit me in the same place.”
“Stop jumping around, Nathalia, and get on with the game. Last ball. If you miss this, you’re out and you lose the game.”
Nat narrowed her eyes and stared at the bowler. The bowler put the wooden ball behind her back, turning it with her fingers. She’s going to try and spin this, thought Nat. It’s going to go to my left, I can feel it.
A little breeze tickled Nat’s face and she made tiny movements with her feet, adjusting. She breathed in and held the breath, planning to breathe out the moment she made contact with the ball. Maybe she could be their best player. Yeah, this rotten ball was going to go miles. If she hit it hard enough, she reckoned she could bounce it off Miss Eyre’s car and dent it. Everything was quiet.
“Daddy’s girl, Daddy’s girl,” said the girl behind her. Five seconds later Nat was chasing after her with the bat.
“Thanks for taking out that Tracey Lucas,” said Nat to Darius, as they sat outside the Head’s office awaiting their fate. “She was sitting on my head for so long I’m still picking bits of grass out of my teeth. I don’t think she was knocked out too badly, do you?”
Darius shrugged.
“You do understand you have to tell Mrs Trout that it was someone else’s fault, it was an accident and that you weren’t even there, in that order?” Darius looked blankly at her.
“Do you WANT to get sent to that horrible class?” she said angrily. But he just rubbed his scuffed shoes together and picked at a hole in his jumper.
“Stuff happens,” he said finally. Nat gave up. She put her ear to the door of the office for a quick listen.
Inside, the Head was telling Dad about what had happened. Nat only heard every other word but then so did Dad, because he never paid attention. What they both heard was this: Darius … Nathalia … broken … bleeding … not acceptable … unruly … language … shocking … in all my years I’ve never … ashamed of themselves … leaving me no choice … last chance and must try harder.
Then after a few quiet moments in which Nat imagined Dad was probably nodding gravely and pretending he had been listening, she heard him say, “Did I tell you about the trip we’re organising to the theme park?”
“Is that really suitable for the children?” replied the Head. “We’re having enough trouble calming the little swi— Ahem, the little angels down. Sounds like too much fun to me. Exciting them is the last thing we need.”
“Well, some fool suggested we go brass rubbing …” Nat heard him say, wincing, wondering if round about now Dad was noticing the enormous brass rubbings hanging proudly on the wall of the Head’s office.
A few moments later Dad emerged. He winked at the two children in the way other naughty children do when they’ve got away with something.
“Cheer up, you two,” he said. “You’ve only got the one week of detentions. And then next week we’re all going to the cathedral to do some brass rubbings. Won’t that be – um – fun?”
“No,” said Nat.
She was right. It wasn’t fun. But at least no one had to do any brass rubbings. They were all chucked out of the cathedral long before they got their paper and chalks out.
RY AS SHE MIGHT, NAT COULDN’T MAKE MUM understand the horror of Dad taking her on a school trip. In front of girls who were ever so much very nearly her friends.
In fact, she had a horrible feeling that Mum thought it was actually funny. It was the way Mum kept a very straight face when she said things like, “Won’t it be great to have your whole class see just how lucky we are to have your father in our lives.”
Nat knew it was hopeless trying to talk Dad out of it; he was super-keen to get involved. He even bought a book on the history of the rubbish cathedral AND one called Brass Rubbing for Utter Morons or something.
The big trip did not start well. And that was the best it got. Dad had originally booked the coach to take them to the amusement park and of course had forgotten to tell the coach driver about the change of plan. So initially they pulled up at the Super Happy Funtime Land of Excitement, and the thirty kids on t
he coach stopped eating sweets and playing Nintendo and texting and fighting and being sick in crisp packets long enough to give a massive cheer. Which was almost as loud as the massive BOO they gave when Dad told the coach driver to turn round.
To be fair to the children, the majority of the bad language came from the driver, a certain Brian Futtock, from Futtocks coach hire and pest control.
Futtocks weren’t the school’s normal coach service, but they were much cheaper and Dad had wanted to keep the costs down. It was fast becoming clear why exactly they were so cheap – the coach was awful. It was old and noisy and smelt of rat wee. Just like the driver.
Nat could hear Dad trying to make conversation at the front of the bus. “It’s an unusual business, coach hire and rat catching,” he was saying, clearly trying to ignore the food fight that had broken out on the back seat, and the glare of his daughter’s icy gaze, boring into the back of his head, and the bits of screwed-up paper that occasionally bounced off the back of her head, and Darius trying to stuff an entire packet of skittles up his nose for a 5p bet.
But Brian Futtock clearly didn’t feel like talking. He just grunted, not taking his eyes from the road.
He had a face full of boils and a long nose with hairs sprouting from his nostrils, like whiskers. Nat guessed he just drove round in a coach all day with a boot full of rat traps and a hammer. She guessed right.
Finally they pulled up at the coach park near the cathedral. As the kids spilled out Nat noticed Dad doing a quick head count.
“You’re supposed to do that BEFORE they get on the coach,” said Nat. “You are rubbish.”
“Thirty,” said Dad smugly. “See? That’s everyone.”
“Except Miss Eyre,” said Nat. “You’ve left her behind.”
“Oh,” said Dad. He checked his mobile. It was off. When he turned it on he had thirty-five missed calls and eight rude texts, all from Miss Eyre.
Nat had realised Dad had forgotten Miss Eyre when they pulled out of the school gates, but hadn’t reminded him on purpose.
“Well,” she said happily, “I don’t suppose we can do the visit now – what a shame; let’s go back to school. see you at teatime, Dad.”
“No, we’re here now and we’re already late,” said Dad, deleting texts like mad. “Let’s go, everyone, this way!”
“You can’t take us out on your own, it’s ILLEGAL,” said Nat, her feet planted like a miniature policewoman. “We’ll have to go home.”
“I’m sure I can keep you lot in order,” said Dad, sounding unsure. “Can you tell Darius to stop asking passers-by for money? He is not working for Save the Whale.”
“I’m not doing your dirty work,” said Nat. “You’re on your own.”
The coach started pulling away. “Where are you going?” shouted Dad, running after it.
“Rats,” said Brian Futtock, head out of the driver’s window.
“I’ll cancel your cheque if you don’t come back right now,” said Dad, getting out of breath.
“Outbreak of big black ones. It’s an emergency. I’ll be back at three. Four at the latest.” And with that, the coach sped off in the direction of a rat and kid-free pub.
Dad sighed, made Darius hand back the ten-pound note he’d swindled out of a nice old lady in a knitted hat, and ushered the swarm of kids inside the cathedral. They all stopped just beyond the enormous carved wooden doors. The cathedral was huge and cool, sweet-smelling and very, very quiet. There was a low, echoing murmur of people inside that quietened the children, but not for very long.
Dad had already got into his first row. And they were only at the entrance.
“What do you mean, ‘admission fee’?” he said, outraged. “We should not have to pay to enter a house of the Lord.” He sounded like the Archbishop of Canterbury. Nat winced. Dad only went to church on Christmas Eve because he liked carols and no one let him sing because he sounded horrible.
“It’s a house of the Lord with a leaky roof,” said The Guide. “And besides, school parties need a guide. Which is me. Which is twenty quid.”
“I don’t need a guide. I know about this cathedral,” fibbed Dad, getting his wallet out nonetheless. Nat was surprised. She rarely saw Dad’s wallet. “It’s like an eclipse,” Nat quipped to Darius. “You don’t get to see it much.” She was rather pleased with her gag.
“Transit of Venus” would be a better joke,” said Darius, idly scratching his initials on the door with his little knife, “because it’s rarer.”
Nat snatched his knife off him, annoyed.
“You are aware of course that money is the root of all evil?” continued Dad loudly, as they began their tour. Dad rather liked money, except when he was handing it over. Nat cringed. This was going to be worse than she imagined. Within five minutes she had changed her mind. It was going to be A LOT worse than she imagined.
“You don’t have to come in here, you know,” said The Guide. She was a middle-aged woman, rather square, with a severe bob. “There’s an arcade nearby.” Thirty kids cheered. “Will you keep them quiet,” she barked. Her words echoed around the high stone walls and shivered the stained glass.
She lowered her voice. “And there’s a wedding today at the high altar. See if you can show some respect.” Nat looked. Sure enough, in the hazy, stained-glass light, she saw a small wedding party at the far end of the cathedral. The vicar doing the service looked up at the group and the guide mouthed, “Sorry.”
“The cathedral’s foundations were laid in 1235,” said Dad loudly, guidebook in hand.
“I was going to say that,” said The Guide, offended.
“Well you didn’t, you were too busy drumming up business for the arcade,” said Dad. Nat realised with alarm that the guide was, to Dad, SOMEONE IN AUTHORITY. She knew where this generally led and wondered if anyone would notice if she snuck off and joined the wedding. Maybe, she thought wildly, I could pretend to be a bridesmaid. How bad could that be?
Darius was way ahead of her. “Weddings are ace. There’ll be a party, and cake,” he said, dragging her towards the high altar. “I went to my cousin’s wedding. Before the police got there, there was loads of cake.”
Behind her, Nat could hear the guide and Dad rowing again, getting louder all the time.
“Bishop Odo’s heart is NOT buried here,” argued Dad. “I saw a documentary.” They were standing next to a tombstone. The kids had stopped looking for brass things to rub and were all looking at Dad. This was far more interesting.
“What is buried here then?” asked one.
“His GIBLETS,” said Dad. The class squealed in delight and disgust. “They only said heart because it sounds better than giblets.”
“Are you allowed to be out with children?” said The Guide, angrily.
“I don’t believe in telling them lies.”
“Some lies are good for them.”
“GIBLETS, GIBLETS,” shouted the kids.
“What lies are good for children?” said Dad.
“We want giblets, show us the giblets.”
“Oh, I don’t know …” The Guide looked around for inspiration. “Doggie heaven. That’s rubbish for a start.”
The children went silent.
Dad looked at The Guide. “Don’t say that, they might hear you,” he hissed, before announcing loudly, “of course there’s doggie heaven.”
But The Guide just laughed nastily. “Oh, but you like the truth, don’t you? So let’s be one hundred per cent truthful to the little children, shall we?” she said. “Are you ready, kids? There – is – no – doggie – heaven.”
There was a horrible silence. For about three seconds. Then …
Samantha Symons started wailing. “Buster’s in doggie heaven. He is. Mummy promised. Waaaaaah.”
“Look what you’ve done, you big meanie,” said Dad.
“Giblets, giblets …” chanted the doggie-less kids who couldn’t care less about doggie heaven.
“Waaah,” went the doggie owners. Nat not
iced Penny Posnitch was looking a bit wobbly-lipped too. Nat went over to her. “I can get Darius to do something horrible to her if you like,” she whispered kindly.
The noise was awful. Over by the wedding, the vicar had just got to the bit where he asks if anyone has a good reason why Barry shouldn’t marry Tiffany.
“Did someone say giblets?” he said. “And what’s doggie heaven got to do with it?”
Darius gave a massive shout of glee. Nat tried to hide under a pew. Two little bridesmaids who had puppies burst into tears. The vicar shook his fist at Dad and the bride’s mother jumped up and headed towards him, with fury burning in her eyes.
“I think you should go now,” hissed The Guide. Dad was about to say something back when he noticed the bride’s mother was holding a large umbrella with a spike on the tip and decided enough was enough.
“Follow me to the arcade, kids,” he shouted. And ran.
“You can’t let this lot loose in the arcade,” said Nat, when they were all safely in the street outside. “You’ll get us all expelled.”
“I just said that to get everyone’s attention,” said Dad. “This will do.” They were next to a small café. It smelt of old chip fat. A brownish kebab rotated slowly in the window. Dad saw Nat’s face. “What?” he said. “Come on, I bet it’s nicer than it looks.”
“It couldn’t be much worse …” replied Nathalia.
“We can’t get back on the coach for hours. We’ll stay here and I’ll call for backup.”
“You’re not in the police force, Dad.”
“It feels like the riot squad at the moment, love. Right, everyone, in here!”
The kids all piled into the empty caff. The owner put out his cigarette, wiped his greasy hands on his apron and worked out how much thirty kebabs would come to. He smiled.