Mim and the Baffling Bully

by Katrina Nannestad

  Dedication

  For Mum and Dad,

  with love

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1:Books and bumps and bare bottoms

  Chapter 2:Termites, tea cosies and three-legged sheep

  Chapter 3:Waffles and worms

  Chapter 4:Collectors of all sorts

  Chapter 5:Pirates and bullies

  Chapter 6:An unusual picnic

  Chapter 7:Pink things good and bad

  Chapter 8:The wrong book

  Chapter 9:The right books and a strange way of paying

  Chapter 10:A list of loveliness and a little bit of icky

  Chapter 11:Café of cakes and bitterness

  Chapter 12:A short, soggy walk with big ideas

  Chapter 13:The wrong book again

  Chapter 14:The emperor’s bare bottom

  Chapter 15:Flossy waddles and looming gloom

  Chapter 16:How not to win friends

  Chapter 17:Sludge and grubs and double trouble

  Chapter 18:The right book after all

  Chapter 19:Pink flashing fairy lights

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Katrina Nannestad

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  Books and bumps and bare bottoms

  I’m Mim. I’m ten years old and small for my age. My full name is Miriam-Rose Cohen, but I prefer Mim. I have long, wavy hair the colour of chocolate. Not the stuff with nuts or raisins or crispy toffee bits. That would be weird. My hair is just the colour of plain dark chocolate. My eyes are big and brown, and I have a red bump in the middle of my forehead.

  The bump is new. Brand new. A book has just fallen on my head and startled me awake.

  ‘Ouch!’

  I rub my forehead, but I don’t cry. I don’t even say, ‘Ouch!’ again. Because I’m used to books falling on my head. It’s bound to happen when you sleep in a bookshop. Especially a travelling bookshop. And especially, especially when the travelling bookshop is an old wooden caravan pulled by a horse called Flossy who sometimes strays off the edge of the road.

  The caravan lurches and sways, and three more books fall from their shelves. Dust puffs out from their pages and fills the air.

  I sneeze — ‘Achoo! Achoo! Achoo!’ — once for each book.

  A hatch in the ceiling flies open and Dad’s head pokes through. Dad is Zedekiah Cohen. He’s handsome with dark, wavy hair the colour of chocolate. Just like mine, but shorter.

  ‘You’re awake!’ shouts Dad. ‘About time. Breakfast’s ready. We’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘We?’ I ask. ‘Dad! You haven’t got Nat up there?’

  Nat’s my little brother. He’s six and has hair that sticks up around his head like a chocolate halo. He’s cute and chubby. But not so chubby that he’d bounce if he fell off the roof and onto the road.

  ‘Yes! Nat’s here!’ says Dad. ‘And Coco.’

  ‘But Coco’s a cockatoo,’ I explain. ‘She can fly. Nat can’t. What if he falls?’

  ‘Nat’s fine!’ Dad grins. ‘I nailed his pants to the roof.’ He stretches out his hand. ‘Come on up and join us.’

  I climb the bookshelf and lunge for Dad’s hand. My legs dangle in the air as Dad pulls me up through the hatch and onto the roof.

  Coco lands on my shoulder. She bobs up and down and squawks, ‘Hello, gorgeous! Hello, gorgeous!’

  ‘Hi, Mim!’ Nat waves and smiles from where he sits. ‘Daddy nailed my pyjama pants to the shingles!’

  Nat has a red crayon in his hand. The roof around him is covered in O’s.

  Nat loves letters. Not all letters. Just one at a time. At the moment, he’s in love with the letter O. He’s obsessed with the letter O.

  ‘Wow!’ I shout. But I’m not talking about Nat’s pants or the sea of red O’s he’s drawn. I’m talking about the tulips.

  The world is full of tulips. Bright, blooming tulips. Red, crimson, yellow, pink and white, as far as I can see.

  ‘Tulips!’ I squeal. ‘And a windmill! No, three!’ I turn to Dad. ‘We’re in the Netherlands!’

  Dad laughs. ‘Seems so! Flossy plodded across the border overnight.’

  I lean forward and look down at our horse. She’s a Clydesdale, a chestnut giant with white socks and hooves the size of dinner plates.

  ‘Morning, Flossy!’ I sing.

  Flossy swishes her tail, tosses her head and plods on. Once she’s decided where to take us, nothing will stop her. Not borders or rivers or mountain ranges. Not even an ocean will stand in her way.

  ‘Daddy,’ says Nat, ‘are you going to nail Mim’s pants to the roof?’

  ‘No way!’ I shout. ‘I mean, no thanks. I’ll be safe enough if I sit here in the middle of the picnic blanket.’

  Dad pours three cups of tea and holds out a plate piled high with cupcakes.

  ‘Cupcakes for breakfast?’ I ask. ‘Shouldn’t we have some cereal or yoghurt first?’

  ‘I hate yoghurt,’ says Nat. ‘It tastes like slime.’ He chomps into a cupcake, and hundreds and thousands stick to his nose.

  ‘Cupcakes make us happy,’ says Dad. ‘And being happy is healthy.’

  I giggle. Dad’s good at making sense of all sorts of silliness.

  I take a cupcake, but Coco leans in and nibbles at the icing before I can get it to my mouth.

  ‘I love picnics,’ says Dad, smiling into the distance. ‘Do you remember that time we went boating on the river with Ratty and Mole?’

  ‘I’ve never been in a boat with a rat!’ shouts Nat.

  ‘That was a book we read,’ I say. ‘The Wind in the Willows.’

  ‘But we went boating in our imaginations,’ says Dad.

  ‘Yes, but it’s not the same thing,’ I point out.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Dad stares at me. ‘Are you sure about that, Mim?’

  I think about it. I’m not sure. The line between books and real life is not as clear as most people suppose.

  At that moment, the road curves and I spot a happy huddle of red roofs. A village!

  Flossy sees it too. She blows air through her velvety lips and breaks into a trot.

  The caravan sways from side to side, and our rooftop picnic begins to jiggle and bounce. Cups rattle in their saucers. Tea sloshes from the teapot. A cupcake tumbles across the blanket and falls to the road below.

  Coco digs in her claws. ‘Awk!’

  Flossy picks up speed. The caravan hits a bump and three more cupcakes roll off the roof. A tearing sound comes from Nat’s pants.

  I grab his foot.

  Nat sticks his hand down his pants and out the back through the newly torn hole. His big brown eyes grow even bigger.

  Flossy is galloping now, and the caravan rumbles and lurches.

  Dad plops Nat into my lap. I stare at the tattered pants that stay nailed to the roof. Nat blushes and we both giggle.

  Dad gathers the picnic blanket and everything upon it into a bundle. He opens the hatch and drops it down into the caravan. He jumps at the sound of smashing china, then laughs.

  ‘Awk!’ screeches Coco.

  ‘Duck!’ cries Dad.

  We sweep beneath the branches of a giant oak tree. Leaves tear free and flutter behind us, swirling and dancing on the road.

  We gallop on. I feel the wind in my hair, sunshine on my face, excitement in my tummy. I throw back my head and laugh, and Nat and Dad join in.

  Flossy whinnies and gallops, faster than ever.

  ‘Hang on tight!’ shouts Dad, wrapping his arms around us.

  Flossy bolts alongside a canal, past a windmill and into the village. Houses fly past — brick walls and red roofs and white doors — and a shop full of
cheese and another windmill and tiny canals and a garden bright with tulips, and it’s probably all as pretty as a picture, but it’s hard to tell when we’re going so fast.

  Then — WHOOMP! — the caravan leaps and shudders to a halt.

  Flossy has stopped on a stretch of grass. There’s a row of houses on one side, a canal on the other. A boat chugs by and two women wave. ‘Hellooo! Welcome! Welcome!’

  Dad swings down off the roof and stands with his hands on his hips, a smile on his face.

  The Travelling Bookshop has arrived. Nathaniel, Zedekiah, Miriam-Rose and the books are here!

  We don’t know why.

  We just know it’s the place where we are meant to be.

  Because this is where Flossy has chosen.

  CHAPTER 2

  Termites, tea cosies and three-legged sheep

  I love this bit. Nat does too.

  We stand in the caravan, side by side, and wait.

  Our cheeks and fingers tingle.

  Or maybe it’s the air that tingles.

  Nat looks up at me, his eyes sparkling, and slips his hand into mine. We giggle, then stop because the magic has begun.

  Real magic.

  It starts with the books. The words on the spines, all gold and silver, shimmer. A tiny star flies out from a book above our heads, then more from behind us.

  Coco lands on my shoulder and flicks up her yellow crest.

  Now every letter on every book starts shooting out tiny gold and silver stars. Thousands of them. The stars ping off the walls and ceiling and fall on the floor. They pile up until our feet are covered and all the words are gone from the book covers. The stars glimmer and jiggle for a moment, tickling our ankles and toes, then melt silently away.

  Nat giggles at one final star that clings to his toenail. He wriggles his toes until it vanishes.

  We hold our breath and squeeze each other’s hands. Coco presses her head against my cheek.

  A delicate gold vine creeps out of a crack in the wall. It weaves its way across the spines of the books, tracing new gold and silver letters. It twists and loops and grows until, at last, the title of each and every book has reappeared in Dutch. At the same time, a spider drifts down from the ceiling on a fine black thread, swings to the nearest book and disappears between its pages. His web will work the same magic inside the books as the vine did on the covers, rewriting every word in Dutch.

  I know the words are Dutch because I can read them. Just as Dad, Nat and I will now be able to speak Dutch. It’s all in the magic of the Travelling Bookshop. It happens wherever in the world we go.

  The final gold letter has barely taken shape when the bookshelves along the back wall groan and split down the middle. The two halves slide apart, leaving a gap just wide enough for an adult to pass through. From beyond come the sounds of hammering, sawing, cogs turning, horses trotting, a piano playing, children laughing, a bear growling, a kettle boiling, waves crashing against rocks, a foghorn. And then it’s quiet.

  Nat and I wait because there is always one line that squeezes out from between the pages of a book before everything settles.

  We wait . . . and wait.

  Nat pulls his hand from mine and scratches his bottom.

  Coco nibbles at my hair.

  Then at last a woman’s prim voice speaks in Dutch. ‘And a grand time was had by all. The end!’ The caravan settles a little lower on its wheels and the transformation is complete.

  ‘Awk!’ Coco flies away through the gap between the bookshelves.

  Nat and I are about to follow when someone calls from outside. ‘Hellooo. Are you open?’

  I look down at Nat. He has leaves in his hair, hundreds and thousands stuck to his cheeks, a plug of icing up his left nostril and no pants. I’m still in my pyjamas.

  ‘Quick!’ I cry. ‘Get dressed.’

  We scramble about, dressing while tucking pyjamas and cupcakes and broken teacups behind books.

  ‘Nat!’ I say. ‘Your pants are inside out and your shirt’s on back to front.’

  ‘I’m only six,’ says Nat, ‘and you told me to be quick.’

  He’s right. I nod, then lick my fingers and rub them all over his face.

  ‘That’s disgusting!’ Nat moans.

  ‘I know.’ I sigh. ‘And it didn’t even work.’

  I open the door and find three customers waiting.

  ‘Good morning!’ says a pretty blonde woman.

  ‘Hellooo!’ says a stocky man wearing overalls.

  ‘Greetings!’ snaps an old woman with a walking stick.

  They bustle up the steps and through the door.

  ‘Oooh, cosy,’ says the pretty blonde woman. ‘And how charming the way the bookshelves fit so snugly around the beds and the teensy-weensy kitchen.’

  ‘Smells nice,’ says the stocky man. ‘Like cupcakes and tea.’

  ‘I do love books,’ says the old woman, her face suddenly softer and younger.

  They fuss about in the caravan, poking at the books, muttering, until the pretty blonde woman notices the gap between the shelves.

  ‘Oooh,’ she cries. ‘There’s another room.’ And she slips through.

  The old woman follows, then the stocky man, turning sideways to fit.

  Nat and I run after them.

  ‘Mind your step as you go down!’ I call. ‘The staircase is dark and a little bit rickety . . . and much longer than you’d expect.’

  Our three customers arrive at the bottom of the stairs and gape at the vast room that opens up before them. Dark timber bookshelves line the walls, soaring three storeys high. Long, spindly ladders roll along the shelves so that any book may be reached. An open fireplace glows bright in the middle of one wall. Coco swaggers along the mantelpiece, squawking, ‘Welcome! Welcome!’ The centre of the room is filled with large, squishy sofas, side tables, plush rugs, giant floor cushions and reading lamps. Two hedgehogs have dragged a dictionary into a corner and turned it into a nest. They poke their noses out of the scrunched pages and smile.

  ‘Huh,’ says the man. ‘It’s bigger than it looks from the outside.’

  ‘Ye-e-e-s,’ agrees the pretty blonde woman. ‘Caravans are funny like that!’

  ‘Look! A book on termites!’ cries the old woman. She tosses her walking stick aside and scuttles up a ladder.

  It’s always like this. People see but they don’t understand. The Travelling Bookshop makes anything feel possible.

  ‘Hello!’ Dad scoots down the stairs. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I was just feeding the horse . . . and stringing up some bunting . . . and buying some cheese at the local cheese shop. The one with the holes all through. The cheese, that is, not the shop!’ He smiles at our customers. ‘But I’m here now. Zedekiah Cohen at your service. I promise to find whatever it is you need.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you!’ sings the old woman from the top of her ladder. ‘I was going to buy a crime novel, but this book has so much to say about termites. Scary things. Exciting things.’ She gives a little shudder. ‘Mind-boggling things!’

  Nat whispers, ‘I hate termites. They’re worse than yoghurt.’

  I giggle.

  ‘Do you have any books on tractors?’ asks the stocky man.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ says Dad.

  The man scratches his belly. ‘But you just promised to find whatever I need.’

  ‘Yes, I did!’ agrees Dad. ‘Not whatever you want but whatever you need.’

  The man stops scratching his belly and starts scratching his head.

  ‘Come this way.’ Dad scrambles up the nearest ladder, takes a book from the shelf and tosses it down to the man.

  Nat has wandered away to play with the hedgehogs, but I sneak closer so I can see the man’s book. I’m a sticky beak. I can’t help it.

  ‘Knitted Tea Cosies,’ he reads, then flicks through the pages. There are pictures of tea cosies shaped like houses and cakes and giraffes and bagpipes and all sorts of silly things. ‘I do like this one in the shape o
f an owl.’

  Coco flicks up her crest at the mention of another bird.

  ‘And look,’ says Dad, now back at his side. ‘Step-by-step instructions on how to knit each one.’

  ‘Yes! Yes! You’re right!’ cries the man. He pulls some money from his overalls and presses it into Dad’s hand. ‘Thank you! This is just what I need.’ He flops onto a sofa and loses himself in the book.

  ‘Tea cosies?’ I whisper. ‘Are you sure, Dad?’

  He shrugs. ‘The bookshop never lies.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ The pretty blonde woman flutters her eyelashes. ‘Do you have a French cookbook?’

  ‘No.’ Dad stares at her. ‘Well, I might. But not for you.’ He runs his hand along the shelves and draws out a small crimson book.

  ‘I do have this wonderful story about a sheep though.’ He opens it up and points to a sentence.

  The woman leans forward and squints. Her lips move as she reads in silence, then she gasps. ‘Oh my! It’s magnificent! And the poor dear has only three legs.’ Her eyes fill with tears. ‘I’ll take it!’ She pays and dashes away, the book pressed to her heart.

  ‘Look!’ says Nat. He holds out a handful of paper flakes. ‘O’s! I tore them from the pages in the hedgehog nest.’ He stuffs them down inside his pants. Because that’s where the pockets hide when your clothes are inside out.

  ‘Well, we seem to be settling in nicely,’ says Dad. ‘Now why don’t you children run along and explore the village? Blow on a windmill. Pick some tulips. Gather some O’s. Make some friends.’

  He pokes some money into my hand, kisses us each on the forehead and climbs up the ladder to chat to the old woman about the wonder of termites.

  CHAPTER 3

  Waffles and worms

  The village is picture-book pretty with tiny streets and sometimes no streets at all, just walkways and canals. The houses stand wall to wall with no gaps in between. They’re narrow but two and three storeys high, each with a pointy roof. The canal water is smooth and silver like a mirror, except for when a boat chugs by. Then the surface ripples and turns as black as night.