One Big Wacky Family

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One Big Wacky Family Page 3

by Jackie French


  ‘Who’s that?’ someone whispered.

  ‘It’s CJ’s mum.’ Someone snickered. ‘She must be on her way to a fancy-dress party!’

  Cecil led Mum quickly across the hall to Mr Farthingale’s table. Mr Farthingale’s eyes widened as they approached. He glanced down at Mum’s sword, her ruby ring, and her lace-covered bosom, and gulped.

  ‘Er, Mr Farthingale, this is my mum.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs…?’

  Mum grinned. She thrust out her hand. The giant ruby flashed again in the hall lights. ‘Tania the Terrible. Just call me Captain Tania.’

  ‘Er…Captain Tania.’ Mr Farthingale looked stunned as he shook Mum’s hand. ‘Please sit down. Now CJ has really been doing very well.’

  Mum beamed. ‘That’s my boy!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘A bit weak in his maths but he’s improving steadily.’

  ‘Don’t fret yourself now,’ said Mum, patting his hand so her ruby flashed even brighter. ‘Filthy Frederick’s been helping him. Frederick studied with the king’s own alchemist, you know.’

  Mr Farthingale blinked. ‘The king…alchemist? Oh. Good,’ he said faintly. ‘Well, I hope we’ll see you at the football match this Saturday.’

  Mum frowned. ‘Football?’

  ‘It’s a game,’ hissed Cecil. ‘That’s what I do on Saturday mornings.’

  ‘Football?’ Mum’s forehead creased even more. ‘You play it with one foot? You hop maybe? Or do the team all have wooden legs?’

  ‘No, two feet. You kick the ball around.’

  ‘Then it should be feetball!’ declared Mum. ‘I’ve never been to school but even I know it’s two feet, not two foots. Can parents come to these feetball matches?’

  ‘Of course. The more people who come the better,’ said Mr Farthingale, who was now openly staring at Mum’s ruby ring, sword and lace-covered bosom.

  ‘Wonderful!’ boomed Mum.

  She clapped Cecil on the back. ‘You young varmint! Why didn’t you tell me parents could come to the feetball matches! The crew and I will be there, swords at the ready. In case there’s a bit of trouble,’ she added to Mr Farthingale. ‘You never know when a trusty sword will come in handy!’

  ‘Er, yes, I mean no,’ stuttered Mr Farthingale. He stood up. ‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea,’ he suggested a bit weakly.

  ‘Never say no to a tankard of tea,’ smiled Mum. ‘Best thing to come out of China since gunpowder and cannon. Good evening to you, teacher!’

  ‘Er…Good evening to you too,’ said Mr Farthingale. He looked even more stunned now.

  Cecil quickly steered Mum over to the tea table. It was almost over now! ‘Look, are you sure you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘What’s your hurry, lad? The dinghy isn’t even here yet.’ Mum picked up a styrofoam cup and looked at it critically. ‘This the best they can do? Give me a good pewter goblet any day! Fill ’er up, son, and let’s drink to your school days.’

  ‘Er…could you speak more quietly, Mum,’ whispered Cecil, embarrassment crawling up from his stomach to his face as Mum hoisted her styrofoam cup against his. ‘You’re not on board ship now!’ Tea cascaded onto the floor but Mum didn’t seem to notice as she swigged hers down.

  ‘What use is a captain if her men can’t hear her?’ boomed Mum. ‘This is good tea, son! Fill ’er up again.’ She held out her styrofoam cup.

  ‘How about a biscuit?’ asked Cecil desperately. ‘Two biscuits…’ If Mum’s mouth was full, she’d have to be quiet.

  ‘Any maggots in the biscuits?’ demanded Mum.

  ‘No,’ said Cecil.

  ‘Then they’ll be too tough to chew,’ said Mum.

  ‘No Mum, really, modern biscuits don’t need an axe to break them,’ began Cecil.

  ‘Ah, CJ, I was looking for you.’

  Cecil turned. It was Mr Pootle, the football coach. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had to drop you from the team this Saturday,’ said Mr Pootle. ‘You weren’t quite as fast as you could have been last week.’

  Cecil tried not to sound disappointed. ‘That’s all right, sir.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Mum crashed her styrofoam cup down on the table. It split, sending the last of the tea splashing onto the plate of orange cream biscuits. ‘You’re dropping my son from the feetball team?’

  ‘Um…’ Mr Pootle looked stunned. Most people looked stunned when they first met Mum, thought Cecil. ‘Just temporarily, you understand.’

  ‘My son likes the feetball team!’ roared Mum.

  ‘Mum, look, it’s okay,’ hissed Cecil.

  ‘The crew and I were going to watch him next Saturday! The crew really want to see this lad play feetball!’

  Mum reached for her sword

  Oh, no, not the sword! thought Cecil. Please not the sword.

  Mum raised the sword high into the air. ‘Do you want to visit Davy Jones’s locker, you jug of cockroach slime?’ she yelled. ‘Do you want me to feed your gizzards to the fishes?’

  ‘Wha—what?’ stammered Mr Pootle.

  ‘I’ll keelhaul you, you pile of dragon guts!’ cried Mum. ‘I’ll make you walk the plank!’

  ‘Look…’ trembled Mr Pootle, eyeing the sword as Mum waved it through the air. ‘He can play next Saturday! I promise!’

  ‘Giving in are you? You lily-livered, snot-nosed sea snake!’ Mum prodded Mr Pootle in the stomach with her sword. She hated people who didn’t stand up for what they believed in. ‘Are you a man or a jellyfish?’

  Everyone was staring at them now. People started crowding round.

  ‘Please,’ whimpered Mr Pootle. ‘He’s back in the team. Just put the sword down.’

  Cecil closed his eyes. It can’t get any worse than this, he thought. This is the most terrible moment of my life.

  But he was wrong.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Crew Arrive

  ‘With a yo ho ho and we’ll raise the flag,

  We’ve lots of cake in a paper bag.

  We’ve six watermelons and pizza too.

  It’s a pirate’s life for me and you!’

  The sound of singing—well, something like singing, anyway—floated up from the creek. The splash of oars and a muttered ‘Heave and ho, heave and ho’ came faintly through the doors, under the sound of Filthy Frederick’s song.

  Mum slid her sword back into its sheath and clapped Mr Pootle on the back so hard he nearly fell into the milk jug. ‘There’s the crew come to pick us up. No hard feelings then?’ she boomed. ‘The lad is back in the feetball team and…’

  ‘Football,’ said Mr Pootle faintly.

  Mum stared at him. ‘What sort of snot-brained teacher are you? If you’ve a wooden leg then maybe it’s football. But if you’ve two strong feet, then feetball it has to be!’

  ‘Er, yes, quite right,’ said Mr Pootle weakly. ‘Feetball, that’s it.’

  ‘Good man!’ declared Mum. ‘Come on, Cecil! The crew awaits! Time and tide wait for no man or woman!’

  She strode out of the hall just as Filthy Frederick and the boys started another verse:

  ‘With a yo ho ho and a pirate ship,

  A big cream bun and a nice egg flip.

  A pirate’s life is bold and free,

  A grand fine life for you and me.’

  ‘A grand fine life for you and me!’ carolled Mum, waving her sword again so the jewels in its hilt cast red and green flashes on the hall walls. ‘Coming Cecil?’

  Cecil slunk out of the hall.

  The giggles followed him.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Day After is Even Worse

  It rained the next day. The grey waves lapped at the good ship Mermaid and the drops pounded on the deck above as Cecil pulled on his school uniform.

  ‘Fried sea monster or muesli?’ asked Putrid Percival, as Cecil trudged into the galley for breakfast. ‘Or Harry the Hook caught a giant octopus yesterday. Could do you a nice dish of scrambled seagull eggs and octopus.’

  ‘Just muesli please,’ said Cec
il.

  ‘You sure? That muesli was fresh in yesterday. No time to get any weevils yet to add a bit of flavour.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ said Cecil. He spooned his muesli slowly, but it was no use. He just wasn’t hungry. Cecil sighed and shoved his muesli under the table for Snap to finish. Snap didn’t like muesli much, even if it had weevils in it, but Snap would eat anything for Cecil.

  If only I didn’t have to go to school today, thought Cecil desperately. If only I was like everyone else at school. If only my mum was anything except a pirate…

  ‘Good morrow, everyone,’ muttered Mum, stomping into the galley in her boots and sword and dressing gown. Mum was never at her best before breakfast. ‘A tankard of tea, please Putrid. A big one.’

  She took a deep drink then smiled at Cecil. ‘Good night last night, son,’ she said. ‘Good to get a goggle at where my son spends his days.’

  ‘Mum,’ said Cecil pleadingly, ‘maybe…maybe it’s not such a good idea for me to go to school. I just don’t fit in there! Maybe I really could be a pirate.’

  Mum put down her cup of tea. ‘Do you like sword play?’ she inquired.

  ‘No,’ said Cecil. ‘The swords are too big and sharp.’

  ‘Do you like sailing into the sunrise with a fresh wind at your back?’

  ‘You know I get seasick unless I take my potion—and it tastes like snot,’ said Cecil.

  ‘How about watching the stars above you at midnight, as you set your course for the Barbary Coast?’

  ‘I get a crick in my neck looking up at the sky for too long,’ said Cecil.

  ‘What do you like then?’ demanded Mum.

  Cecil considered. ‘Well, reading books, and computers, and football.’

  ‘Feetball,’ corrected Mum.

  ‘Feetball,’ said Cecil. ‘And stuff like that.’

  ‘Then you still don’t want to be a pirate,’ stated Mum.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Cecil unwillingly.

  ‘So go to school,’ said Mum, picking up her tankard of tea again. She glanced out of the window at the rain. ‘Would you like a lift today? It’s really wet out there. The boys could row the dinghy up the creek again.’

  ‘No, really, thanks Mum,’ said Cecil hurriedly. ‘I like the walk up from the cove. It’s good exercise.’ How could he possibly explain to Mum, he thought, that no one else at school arrived by boat!

  ‘Well, have a good day,’ said Mum, kissing his cheek. ‘Watch out for giant octopuses and tidal waves and typhoons.’

  ‘There are no octopuses or typhoons at Bandicoot Flats,’ said Cecil. ‘But, yeah, I’ll take care. Have a good day pirating.’

  Mum shook her head. ‘We’ll just have a quiet day scrubbing out the forecastle. I’ll make sure Putrid here has a nice drop of hot sea monster soup for you when you get back.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ said Cecil glumly.

  ‘Have fun,’ said Putrid Percival kindly, as he splashed tomato sauce on the sea monster tentacle he was frying for Harry the Hook’s breakfast.

  Fun, thought Cecil gloomily. He grabbed his school bag and trod slowly up the companionway. Something slithered behind him. Cecil turned. There was Snap, laboriously crawling up the stairs, on his short crocodile legs, behind him.

  ‘What are you doing, old boy?’ asked Cecil.

  ‘Snap,’ said Snap. He rubbed his head against Cecil’s leg, leaving a greasy mark made up of old fingers and stale tentacles and fresh muesli on Cecil’s tracksuit daks.

  ‘Have you come to comfort me?’ asked Cecil.

  ‘Snap,’ agreed Snap.

  Cecil sighed and scratched Snap’s back with his jogger. ‘It’s all right, old boy. I’ll be fine. It can’t be that bad at school.’

  ‘Snap,’ said Snap.

  ‘All right,’ said Cecil, ‘it will be that bad. But I can cope. Really.’

  Snap watched him sadly as Cecil tramped up the stairs and out onto the wet deck.

  CHAPTER 10

  A Terrible Morning at School

  It was raining even harder as Cecil pulled his tiny dinghy up onto the sand and squelched up the beach. The sea was grey, the sky was grey and Cecil felt grey too.

  Water poured down the gutters as he walked up the footpath, through the shopping centre, then down the hill again to school. Even school looked grey—its playing fields and oval all sodden and puddly, and the school buildings dull with rain.

  Cecil walked through the school gates. He could feel the stares as soon as he entered. Someone pointed at him and giggled. He heard the word ‘pirate’ as he turned the corner by the library.

  Jason and Shaun came up to him as he put his bag among the others on the rack outside the classroom. Jason nudged Shaun, and Shaun nudged Jason.

  Finally Jason said, ‘We saw your mum at the hall last night.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cecil shortly.

  ‘Was she really going to attack Mr Pootle with her sword?’ asked Shaun.

  Cecil tried to laugh. ‘No, of course not! It was just a joke.’

  ‘Mr Pootle didn’t look like he thought it was a joke,’ said Shaun. ‘He looked like he was going to wet his pants.’

  ‘Well, it was a joke,’ said Cecil, even more shortly. ‘Mum was going to a fancy-dress party afterwards. It wasn’t a real sword, of course.’

  ‘It looked real,’ said Jason.

  Cecil gave a sickly grin. ‘Of course it wasn’t real! Whoever heard of a mum with a sword!’

  Jason glanced at Shaun. ‘I suppose,’ he said, as though he wasn’t really convinced.

  ‘Look,’ began Cecil desperately, just as the bell rang for morning assembly.

  Cecil breathed a sigh of relief. Saved by the bell! For the first time he was actually glad to go to morning assembly!

  CHAPTER 11

  A Message From the Principal

  The next hour wasn’t too bad. Mr Farthingale kept giving him strange looks, but at least no one said anything about pirates or swords or attacking sports masters in the school hall.

  In fact Cecil was hoping that maybe everyone would forget about Parent–Teacher night when one of the third-graders knocked on the door.

  ‘Message from Mrs Parsnip,’ she said. Mrs Parsnip was the school principal. ‘Would CJ please go to her office immediately.’

  Cecil gulped. Mr Farthingale looked at him a bit sympathetically as he stood up. ‘Off you go, CJ,’ he told him.

  Cecil grabbed his raincoat and headed out into the mud. He had never realised it was such a long way to Mrs Parsnip’s office. His feet seemed too heavy to ever get there as they trudged through the puddles.

  There was a kid already sitting on the hard wooden seats outside Mrs Parsnip’s office. He smirked at Cecil. ‘What are you here for?’ he asked.

  Cecil recognised him. It was Big Bernie, the school bully.

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Cecil.

  Big Bernie smirked again. ‘I have to sit here till the end of the period,’ he said, then put on a silly voice, ‘because I was “disrupting all the others”.’

  I bet you were, you pile of donkey doo-doo, thought Cecil. But he didn’t say anything, just knocked on the door and waited.

  ‘Come in.’

  Mrs Parsnip looked up from her desk. ‘ Ah, CJ,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve had some complaints about the disturbance in the hall last night.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry, Mrs Parsnip,’ said Cecil meekly. ‘Mum was just going to a fancy-dress party and got a bit carried away.’

  Mrs Parsnip looked at him sternly. ‘Waving a sword about and threatening to attack a teacher is more than just being carried away.’

  ‘It was a joke!’ protested Cecil.

  ‘Well, I, for one, don’t think it was funny. Neither did Mrs Bumpus, the president of our Parents and Citizens Committee. In fact Mrs Bumpus suggested,’ Mrs Parsnip cleared her throat, ‘Mrs Bumpus is afraid that your mother might believe she really is a pirate!’

  ‘But…’ began Cecil.

  ‘It seems Mrs Bumpus me
t your mother down at the pizza parlour last week. She says your mother was wearing pirate clothes then too. Surely there wasn’t another fancy-dress party?’

  ‘Um,’ said Cecil trying hard to think of something that would explain his mum.

  ‘Now, CJ, of course it’s not your fault if your mother is a little…peculiar.’

  Cecil blinked. ‘My mum isn’t peculiar!’

  ‘Well, really, wearing a pirate costume all the time and waving a sword about isn’t exactly normal…’ Mrs Parsnip began.

  Suddenly Cecil lost his temper. Mum might be embarrassing, but she was also the bravest pirate on the whole Spanish Main! And she was his mum, and she’d always done her best for him and…‘Mrs Bumpus is a batty old barnacle!’ hollered Cecil.

  ‘CJ!’ cried Mrs Parsnip.

  ‘My mum’s not crazy at all! She really is a pirate! She got this wizard to send me to the best school in the world, but if he thinks this is the best school, then he’s a pretty dumb wizard!’

  ‘You don’t really think…Your mother can’t really be a pirate, CJ!’

  ‘Well, she is!’ yelled Cecil. ‘And she’s a lot more interesting than boring Mrs Bumpus!’

  ‘CJ, do you really believe your mother is a pirate?’ shrieked Mrs Parsnip.

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Cecil, ‘and she’s a really good one.’

  ‘Well,’ huffed Mrs Parsnip, looking at him as though she thought he was crazy too. She frowned. ‘I think perhaps I’d better ask your mother to come in and have a…a chat with me.’ She glanced down at Cecil’s file. ‘I don’t seem to have her phone number.’

  ‘We don’t have a phone,’ said Cecil. Suddenly he felt light enough to float up to the ceiling. It felt good not having to pretend any more. ‘You don’t get phones on pirate ships!’

  Mrs Parsnip looked bothered. ‘Well, her work number then…’

  ‘She’s a pirate!’ exclaimed Cecil. ‘She goes to work on her pirate ship!’

 

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