by Nigel Smith
“Now, listen, everyone, you can only order drinks,” shouted Dad, as the rain came down outside. The café owner listened to the rain and doubled the price of his cokes.
Two minutes later Dad admitted three things to Nat, each worse than the other.
First, half the kids were tucking into large plates of chips. The other half weren’t. No, they were eating ice creams. This was going to cost him a FORTUNE.
Second, he’d lost his wallet.
Third, he’d lost Darius.
“I thought you were looking after him,” said Dad, as they ran back to the cathedral.
“He’s not my pet dog,” panted Nat, keeping up, remembering guiltily where she’d last heard that expression, and feeling bad for walking off and leaving him.
“Think, Nat,” he said. “Where did you see him last? What was Darius doing?”
“Fidgeting, burping, sitting upside down, the usual.”
But Dad didn’t seem to care. He was looking at a small crowd of people, dressed for a wedding, standing around outside the cathedral, looking upwards at the huge spire, and pointing. A small figure was up on the roof, his little bare bum mooning the whole town.
“We found Darius then,” said Nat.
The vicar, the bride and groom and The Guide were all looking especially furious.
“Wait here,” said Dad, and went inside to face the wrath of God.
BVIOUSLY DAD GOT AWAY WITH IT. MUM CLEVERLY told him to make a donation to the Cathedral Roof Fund, so they’d drop the charges. And then Dad promised the Head a signed photo of Kerri, Bonehead and Cabbage, the local DJs, for her grand-daughter. Nat caught Dad forging their signatures one night soon after.
“Wouldn’t they do it for you, love?” asked Mum, who had come home early and bought a huge Chinese takeaway with her. Nat could see Dad looked quite hurt, even though his face was stuffed with noodles.
“They said they’re a bit too busy,” he muttered. Mum sighed and Nat felt a twinge of loyalty for him.
“Maybe you should give them a prank call,” said Nat. “Serve them right.”
Dad ruffled her hair the way he did the Dog’s fur. “Maybe,” he said, “but I can’t annoy them too much because I promised the Head they’d come and help me do a school disco.”
So Dad was trying to organise a disco? Noooo. Nat’s crispy won tons suddenly tasted like fear.
As for Darius … “You’ve missed that crisp packet,” said the be-vested Mr MacAnuff, pointing at a little bag floating along the running track. Darius set off after it. It blew on to the playground where the other kids were enjoying their break as normal. Nat, who was hovering around Penny, Abi and three–e Frankeee, who were now almost talking to her, caught it and walked over to him.
“How much longer will you have to pick up litter?” she said. “It’s been ages now.” Ages of really boring breaks, she might have added, but didn’t want to admit it.
Darius shrugged. After his bare-faced (or rather bare-bottomed) cheek on the cathedral roof, he’d been on permanent litter duty. Most of this time had been spent looking after Mr MacAnuff’s pride and joy, THE LAWN.
The Lawn was at the far end of the playing fields and was Mr MacAnuff’s baby. It was green and flat and smooth, and glistened like a squashed frog. The Lawn was pampered and fed and nurtured like a favourite pet. The Lawn was perfect. It had been grown, years ago, from grass Mr MacAnuff dug up one night from his favourite football team’s pitch. Two days later their star striker broke his ankle tripping over a big hole in their pitch, and without him, Mr MacAnuff’s team got relegated. Mr MacAnuff thought it was worth the sacrifice. No one was ever allowed to walk on it. Every term he tried to ban pupils from LOOKING at it.
Mr MacAnuff shouted over to Darius. “That’s enough chatting, Bagley. It’s the open evening tomorrow – this place needs to be spotless for the parents.” Darius sighed, chucked the crisp packet in the back of Nat’s parka hood, and wandered off. “See you later, Buttface.”
But Nat wasn’t listening. She had a nasty sensation – open evening, parents, tomorrow. Had she forgotten something?
Halfway through maths that afternoon she remembered. “Aaargh!” she shouted in panic, making Mr Frantz drop his calculator, and Darius jab himself with a compass.
“I’m so dead,” Nat wailed when she got home. Dad’s face was dusty and he seemed a bit stiff after what he said was his latest bit of ‘research’ for a newspaper article – helping his mate Monkey Dave do some removals. She gabbled her woes to him nonetheless. “It’s the stupid open evening at school tomorrow and everyone has to do a picture for the display, or else you get into trouble and I can’t get into any more trouble.”
“They haven’t given you much time to do it in,” said Dad.
“Well, they might have told us ages ago. I was going to do it during my breaks but –” she paused – “I haven’t had time.” This was vague, but true. She’d spent her breaks either trying to make friends or trying to make more litter for Darius to pick up (partly because it was fun and partly to keep him out of the way while she was trying to make new friends).
“How long have you had to do it?”
“That’s not the point,” she said. “The point is, I’m rubbish at drawing and it needs to be coloured in and I don’t even think we’ve got any paints anyway and I’m really tired and can I go off sick tomorrow?”
Her lip was trembling.
“Oh, now don’t upset yourself,” said Dad. “I’ll dig out some paper and glitter and glue and stuff, and there’s some dried spaghetti here if you want to make a collage, and there’re some tins of old paint in the van. You can do it. I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
An hour later, Nat was in bed, sobbing, and Dad was scraping up a hideous mess of paint and glitter and glue and pasta from the kitchen table. “No, I really am that bad,” she yelled, before stomping off. Stupid art, stupid open evening, stupid DAD, thought Nat as she went to sleep in a massive huff.
“OMG, Dad, it’s perfect,” said Nat the next morning as she shovelled down her breakfast cereal. Nat was looking at a picture propped up on the kitchen table. Dad had got dark circles under his eyes.
“It’s good enough to hand in, but still rubbish enough that it doesn’t look like a grown-up did it for me. What a great idea. How did you do that?”
Dad smiled weakly and poured himself another cup of coffee. He looked tired, Nat thought guiltily, like he’d been up all night.
“You’ve even coloured it in and kept inside the lines and everything. But why have you drawn me with a pig?” Nat asked.
“It’s the Dog,” said Dad defensively.
“No, it’s not,” laughed Nat. “It’s definitely a tiny pig.”
“Do you want this picture or not?” asked Dad, a little bit irritably.
“Yeah, course,” said Nat, signing her name on the picture. “I’ve just got to think of some reason why I’m playing with a little pig.”
“Right, that’s it,” said Dad, grabbing the picture, “you can’t have it now.”
“Sorry, sorry, soz,” said Nat, laughing and trying to snatch it back. She chased Dad around the kitchen, him waving it above his head. “I like pigs, honestly. I’ll tell Miss Eyre that I want to be a vet.”
“Tell me it looks like the Dog and you can have it back.”
By now Nat was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. “I would, Dad, but you told me never to lie.”
Dad picked her up and spun her round until she squealed. “See?” he said. “You think your daft old Dad can’t do anything right.”
“That is true, Dad,” she said. “Except …” she giggled as he tickled her. “Not really, Dad. For once you have actually done something right. This is perfect.”
Then she added the fatal words, “Nothing can go wrong.”
Even as she said it, a little voice in her head was shouting, “Don’t say it.” But it was too late …
But for most of the day, Nat was proved right. The picture was a g
reat success. Even Miss Eyre liked it. She liked it so much she took it to Mrs Trout. Nathalia stood there innocently as the Head admired Dad’s effort.
But then Miss Eyre muttered evilly about how this proved that keeping Nat away from The Bagley at breaks was good for her. “Imagine how good it would be for her if he was – somewhere else,” she added, meaning the naughty class. Nat wanted to kick her.
Miss Hunny, bringing the Head a lukewarm cup of something from the coffee machine that was either coffee or oxtail soup, overheard this and sent Nat out, where she was forced to listen through the keyhole.
“We agreed that the litter punishment was quite enough for Darius,” said Miss Hunny. Miss Eyre said something about not thinking it was enough but the Head ignored her. “You seem to like this Bagley boy,” she said to Miss Hunny. “I hope he’s worth it.”
Nat frowned. Why was this wretched Hunny woman so flipping nice?
Then they all went and put the picture in pride of place by the school entrance, ready for the open evening.
“The pig’s very good,” said Miss Eyre, squinting at the picture.
“I think she wants to be a vet,” replied Mrs Trout, talking as if Nat wasn’t there.
“That explains why she hangs out with The Bagley,” said Miss Eyre. “Vet practice.” She realised Darius had appeared out of nowhere, still hunting litter. “Why are you here?”
“Everyone’s gotta be somewhere,” he said.
“I despair,” said the Head, walking away. “I do, honestly.”
As the teachers trotted off, Penny Posnitch went by, singing to herself. Nat thought Penny’s picture was really brilliant. It was much better than Dad’s, even if it was a bit silly – it was a picture of unicorns and fairies in a beautiful garden. Nat thought the fairies looked real enough to squish. (She hated fairies.)
“Yours is way better than mine,” admitted Nat as Penny passed. “It should be at the entrance.”
“Miss Eyre doesn’t believe I did it on my own,” said Penny lightly. “Just cos my dad’s a painter she thinks I cheated and got him to do it.”
Nat felt terrible, but not terrible enough to confess. “Does your dad paint fairies and dragons too?” she asked.
“No,” said Penny, “he mostly paints houses. Oh, and he’s doing the bus stops in the town centre this week.”
Everything was still going well for Nat as the open evening began. Dad’s finally done something right, Nat thought, as yet another visitor said how good her picture was, and how they especially liked her pet pig.
“This is Mr and Mrs Thin-and-ugly,” said the Head, introducing a very tall and stuck-up couple to Nat. She didn’t actually say that, she said their proper names, but Nat was terrible with names. Dad had told her she should try to remember people by some memorable feature. So Mr and Mrs Thin-and-ugly it was, then.
“Mr Thin-and-ugly is Chairman of the Governors,” said Mrs Trout, as if that meant something important.
“Hello,” said Nat. “I’m Nathalia.”
It turned out that Mr Thin-and-ugly considered himself to be very important, as he used to be in the army. Nat thought they might have used him for cleaning out the long barrels of the guns, but didn’t say it. She’d tell Darius later. Where was Darius? She wondered if he had stayed for the open evening. She doubted it.
Heavens, the Head was still droning on.
“ … budding artist … blossoming … a challenging parent … high hopes for her …”
No, the school would rather lock Darius in a cupboard than let him loose here tonight, Nat thought.
“Excellent idea,” said Mr Thin-and-ugly. “Let us to the art room go.” Some people speak like that. It’s best to avoid them.
Bye, thought Nat, as they moved off. Missing you already. She looked out of the window. She thought she saw something moving from the corner of her eye.
“Well come on, dear,” said Mrs Trout.
“What now?” said Nat, confused.
“Do pay attention. We’re all going to the art room. Our star artist is going to draw a picture of them.”
Nat stared back at her blankly.
“That’s you, Nathalia.”
“And can you draw us with a pig too?” said Mrs Thin-and-ugly.
Aaaaargh-nooooo, thought Nat. I’m doomed.
Ten minutes later and Nat was staring, in panic, at a piece of drawing paper on a large easel in the middle of the art room. A small crowd had gathered to watch the artist at work. She had insisted that no one look at the picture before she finished it. She’d put a sheet round the easel to hide the picture until it was done. She said that was what real artists did and she got a small round of applause. Mr and Mrs Thin-and-ugly (whom Nat was now calling Mr and Mrs I-hate-you-you’ve-ruined-my-life) were sitting stiffly in front of her.
Nat made another few strokes of her pencil and accidentally added another nose. Or ear, it was hard to tell. Oh rats, she thought, that’s WORSE. Which was hard to believe. Mr Thin-and-ugly looked like something wicked out of Star Wars and Mrs I-Hate-you etc. looked like something that had been left in the fridge for too long. Mr I-Hate-you etc. looked at his watch.
“You’ve moved – you’ve ruined it now,” said Nat. “And I’ve decided I’m not in a drawing mood. Us artists are like that.”
“Nonsense,” said the Head firmly. “Don’t be so temperamental. Unless you want to be in a ‘picking up litter with Darius Bagley until you’re in Year Thirteen’ mood.”
Nat swallowed hard.
“Please, please, give the artist room … She can’t be expected to CREATE in a pressured environment like this,” said Miss Glossop, the drippy art teacher.
Nat nodded her thanks, then after a few moments, she threw a sheet over the easel.
“Done,” she said, still playing for time. “You can all go now, thank you. Bye.” There was more applause. “Well, unveil it, child,” said Mrs Troutfish.
“What, now?” said Nat.
“Oh, give it here.” The Head grabbed at the easel. Nat grabbed at the easel. “Just a few more minutes,” she pleaded desperately. “It’s not quite ready. The – ah – the paint hasn’t dried.”
But it was to no avail. Mrs Trout raised her eyebrows and Nat’s fingers loosened their grip. Dad had really dropped her in it this time. She was done for.
“Coming through,” shouted Darius, out of nowhere, “Beep beep.” He was hurtling down the corridor towards the open art-room door, little legs a blur, carrying a large sack of rubbish in one hand and a pointy stick in the other. “Out of my way – litter police.”
“Ow,” said several people who were jabbed with the pointy stick.
“Must make it tidy,” shouted Darius, picking up speed and waving the stick. “Important people here.”
The running-twitching-poking-shouting boy bashed into the visitors like a rocket-powered dodgem car. He knocked people left, right and centre as he hurtled straight into the crowd. The Head made a grab for him but he was too small and quick. Besides, she wasn’t absolutely sure she wanted to touch him without wearing rubber gloves.
“Crisp-packet patrol,” shouted Darius. “Urgent. Nee-naw nee-naw.”
“Watch where you’re going, you revolting child,” shouted the Chair of the Governors, just managing to avoid the pointy stick.
“Ronald, do something,” said his wife, diving out of the way, but NOT avoiding the pointy stick. “Ow! It’s gone mad.”
“What do you suggest?” asked the Chair, using his wife as a human shield. “I’m not allowed to shoot people any more.”
Darius reached Nat and started running round in circles, near the easel. He nudged it and it tipped up, balanced on one leg. “Watch out, the picture’s going over! Catch it!” said the Chair, who was standing far enough away that he wouldn’t risk having to catch it himself, so felt safe to say “Catch it!” to other people. He had learned this trick in the army.
Too late. With a crash the easel fell to the ground. Darius somehow got himself ta
ngled up in the sheet, and began thrashing about, like a captured sea creature.
“Don’t you dare kick him,” shouted Nat, noticing the Chair taking a crafty run-up.
“Must – pick – up – all – litter,” said Darius in his best robot voice, over the sound of ripping noises. Finally several of the braver prospective parents hauled the boy out of the mess and picked him up, wriggling. Most had now decided they didn’t want their children to come to this school, thank you.
Nat’s picture was in little tiny pieces on the end of his stick. Darius had saved her! He winked at her and she played along: “Oh no,” she said, “that horrible boy has ruined my lovely painting. I’m so upset and things.”
Tee hee, she thought, well done, chimpy, the cheese and onion crisps are on me tomorrow.
But as he was carted off to the Head’s office, she suddenly wondered what was going to happen to him. By the look on Mrs Trout’s face, it wasn’t going to be good.
ARIUS WASN’T IN NAT’S CLASS THE NEXT DAY. SHE didn’t need to ask where he was; it was horribly obvious. Halfway through her first lesson she said she was feeling sick and could she get some water. She went past the room with the naughty, scary kids and sure enough, there he was, sitting on his own. He was the smallest there. He was talking to himself. Two of the older kids were fighting and his desk was knocked over before the teacher broke it up, coloured pencils scattering on the floor. Darius looked at Nat through the glass in the door but she hurried past.
It was all her fault. She felt terrible. Then she remembered it was actually Dad’s fault and felt a bit better.
And while it was nice that she could hang out with Penny and Abi and Frankeee and the other, normal girls, who were at last very almost talking to her, she had to admit – it wasn’t nearly as much fun without Darius. There was no one to make silly jokes in English, no one to make eyeball farts in history, no one to jump out of a cupboard in geography and no one to help her with what the heck ‘x’ was in maths.
Maybe that was why Dad did it. Maybe he saw she was a bit glum and was trying to do something to cheer her up, in a Dad way. That was the nicest reason Nat could think of, for what Dad did next.