We wander along until we come to a row of shops. There’s a flower shop so full of tulips that they spill out into the street, then a shop that sells nothing but clogs.
‘I hate shoes,’ says Nat. ‘I love clogs.’
‘People don’t wear clogs so much any more,’ I say. ‘These ones are just for decoration. They’re made of wood, so they’re really uncomfortable.’
‘I love wood,’ says Nat. ‘I hate shoes.’ To prove his point, he pulls off his shoes and throws them into the canal.
So we buy Nat some clogs.
‘I love them!’ he shouts as he clomps back into the street. ‘I sound like Flossy.’
He really does! Or what Flossy would sound like if she was wearing wooden clogs that were too big and too heavy for her to walk properly!
We smell the next shop before we get there. A sweet, syrupy breeze draws us along to a window full of round, flat waffles. I read the golden letters across the glass. ‘Stroopwafels!’
‘I love stroopwafels!’ shouts Nat.
I laugh. ‘How do you know? You’ve never tried them.’
‘Everyone loves them!’ He presses his nose against the window. ‘Look!’
We buy six stroopwafels, even though two would be a feast, and sit by the canal to eat them. They’re delicious — crunchy-munchy on the outside, chewy-gooey in the middle and sticky-sweet all over.
‘I love Neverland,’ says Nat, licking crumbs off his lips.
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the place in Peter Pan or the Netherlands. But both are lovely, so I say, ‘Me too.’
‘I like the way they do gymnastics on bridges.’
‘Who?’ I ask, confused.
‘The Dutch,’ says Nat. He bites into his second stroopwafel.
‘The Dutch don’t do gymnastics on bridges,’ I say.
‘Well, what’s that then?’ Nat points to a timber footbridge a little further along the canal. A girl is dangling upside down from the outside of the bridge. Her skinny, bare legs are hooked over a bar that runs along the bottom, and she swings back and forth, just above the water, arms flailing.
I spring to my feet and run towards the girl. She’s small with short, dark hair. A big red bow dangles from the top of her head, one end dragging through the water each time she swings backwards. She has enormous brown eyes — or maybe they just look big because her glasses are so thick.
‘It’s okay!’ I call out. ‘I’m coming to help.’ I run onto the bridge, drop to my knees and poke my head through a gap in the railings.
‘I’m fine,’ says the girl in a high, squeaky voice. ‘I’m just . . . trying . . . to get . . .’ She pauses between each swing. ‘. . . my backpack.’
Nat catches up, clomping in his clogs. He climbs the railings and leans forward to look at the girl. ‘Hello, I’m Nat.’
‘Hello,’ squeaks the girl. On the next swing, she adds, ‘I’m Willemina.’
‘Do you want a bite of my stroopwafel?’ Nat holds out his half-eaten waffle as far as he can reach.
‘Maybe later.’ She makes one final huge swing and returns from beneath the bridge with a small blue backpack in her hands.
‘Well done!’ I cheer. I lean out over the water, grab her arm and help her up over the railings, back onto the bridge.
She blinks at me through her crooked glasses. Her bottom lip wobbles.
‘Do you want a bite of my stroopwafel now?’ asks Nat.
Willemina nods.
We sit in silence and eat our way through the last of the stroopwafels. Willemina clutches her backpack to her chest and glances shyly at Nat and me.
‘I like your clogs,’ she says at last.
Nat beams at her. ‘I like your glasses,’ he says. ‘They’re like two O’s joined together. How old are you?’
‘Nine and a half,’ says Willemina.
Nat’s shoulders slump. ‘Oh. You’re too old for me to marry. Sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ she says. ‘It’s really nice of you to even consider it. Nobody’s ever wanted to marry me before.’ She pauses. ‘Nobody even wants to be my friend.’
‘Willemina,’ I say, ‘who hung your backpack beneath the bridge?’
‘It was the gymnastics teacher,’ says Nat.
‘Gerda van der Berg,’ Willemina whispers.
‘Who’s Gerda?’ I ask, picturing the village thief, or a troll who lives beneath the bridge.
‘She’s a girl at my school,’ says Willemina. ‘She’s big and pretty and smart, and everyone likes her. But Gerda doesn’t like me.’
‘But you’re lovely!’ shouts Nat.
Willemina blushes. ‘Gerda doesn’t think so. She calls me Bug Eyes and she’s always doing mean things to me. Last week during yoga, when we had to lie down and close our eyes and listen to some music, Gerda smeared jam all over my glasses.’
‘That’s awful!’ I cry.
‘What flavour jam?’ asks Nat. ‘I like strawberry best.’
I poke him in the shoulder.
Willemina reaches into her backpack and pulls out a small cardboard box. ‘She put this in my lunchbox yesterday.’
I take it and read the label out loud.
WORMS AWAY
WORM TABLETS FOR DOGS
Treats heartworm, hookworm, whipworm, tapeworm and mange.
‘Everyone saw it,’ says Willemina. ‘Now they all think I have worms!’ She buries her face in her hands and bursts into tears.
I stare at the box. ‘Can I keep this?’
‘I sure don’t want it,’ sobs Willemina.
‘Thanks!’ I say. ‘I’ll add it to my collection.’
She gasps. ‘You have a collection of worm tablets?’
‘I have a collection of words,’ I reply. ‘I keep them in a jewellery box.’
Willemina wipes the tears from behind her glasses. ‘What sort of words?’
‘All sorts. Short words. Long words. Gentle, wispy words. Loud, shouty words. Words that dance together in strange and wiggly ways. I just love words.’
‘Even worm-tablet words?’ asks Willemina.
I nod. ‘They’re lovely, if you look at them just the right way.’
I tear the name of the tablets from the box and sit it on the grass: WORMS AWAY.
‘What do you see?’ I ask.
Willemina shrugs.
‘I see an O!’ cries Nat.
I smile. ‘I see a note on a trapdoor.’ I stick my finger in the grass beneath the words. ‘A family of earthworms lived down there until, suddenly, they felt like a change. They packed their bags, threw their towels over their shoulders and headed off to a Greek island. They left this note on the trapdoor for their friends — WORMS AWAY.’ I look from Willemina to Nat. ‘Worms are not good writers, so the message had to be short and simple.’
‘Because they don’t have fingers!’ shouts Nat. ‘It’s really hard to write without fingers.’
‘That’s right!’ I agree.
Willemina crawls across the grass and peers down at the note. ‘Worms away,’ she murmurs.
She nibbles her lip.
She sits back on her haunches and stares up into the sky.
And then she laughs. On and on. Like a happy hyena.
CHAPTER 4
Collectors of all sorts
Willemina loves our yellow and white bunting and adores the caravan.
‘It’s been in our family forever,’ I say. ‘It’s passed from generation to generation and now it’s my dad’s turn.’
‘It’s gorgeous!’ sighs Willemina.
‘It gets better,’ I promise.
Giggling, Nat leads her through the gap in the bookshelves and down the stairs.
‘Wow!’ Willemina takes off her glasses and wipes them on her dress. She puts them back on and blinks. ‘It’s bigger than it looks from the outside.’
‘Everyone says that!’ shouts Nat.
Willemina frowns. She looks from Nat to me, then up at the soaring ceiling. Has she realised? Is she the first ever cus
tomer to understand that the bookshop is magic? Really magic!
I lean forward, smiling, waiting for her to say it. But she drops her gaze, shuffles her feet and shakes her head. The moment has passed. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed.
The bookshop is bustling with customers. Some are browsing the shelves, others are snuggled up on the sofas, reading. Two little boys are playing with the hedgehogs and a policeman is reading love poems out loud.
Dad smiles at us over a stack of books. ‘Can’t talk now. I have to deliver these books on bats.’ He points to a woman crouching at the top of a bookshelf. She’s peering at the tiny black bat who lives in a crack in the ceiling. ‘She came in for a book on patchwork, but . . . well . . . it wasn’t really what she needed.’ He chuckles and heads up the ladder.
‘Oh, look! You have a cockatoo!’ Willemina runs to the mantel, where Coco is chewing on the frame of the picture that hangs above.
‘Careful,’ I say. ‘She’s a bit cheeky . . . and sometimes she pecks.’
Coco stares, tilts her head to one side, then hops across to Willemina’s shoulder. She fluffs up her feathers, bobs up and down and squawks, ‘Hello, gorgeous! Hello, gorgeous!’
‘She likes you!’ cries Nat.
I laugh. ‘She loves you!’
Willemina blushes and blinks.
Coco settles down for a nibble on her glasses.
I pull my jewellery box from behind a set of encyclopaedias and flop onto a floor cushion.
Nat, Willemina and Coco join me.
I run my hand across the lid. It’s timber with mother-of-pearl birds and flowers. ‘My word collection,’ I say. ‘My mum gave me the box.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ whispers Willemina.
I nod. ‘But the words inside are even more beautiful.’
I open the lid to reveal a jumble of tags, labels, cards, menus, letters, tickets and pieces of paper. All are covered in words.
‘Which is your favourite?’ asks Willemina.
‘Hmmm. That’s tricky,’ I say. ‘They’re all precious. That’s why they’re here.’ But I pick through the items and take out four. I pass the first to Willemina.
‘This is from a poster in Montreal, Canada,’ I say. ‘There was a row of them stuck to a brick wall. A man came along and ripped them all off, but he left this bit behind.’
Willemina scrunches her nose. I can see she’s wondering why a torn strip of poster is treasure.
‘I know the circus is the biggest on earth,’ I explain, ‘but I like the words better this way. It makes me so happy to think that people are walking around, all over the world, with tiny circuses tottering on the tops of their ears.’
Willemina giggles. ‘Big tops on ear tops!’
‘Yes!’ I cry. ‘But Bingo and Barnacle are very proud that their circus is the biggest ever to have been found on an ear.’
Willemina holds the bit of poster close to her glasses and her face glows. She sees the tiny ear-top circuses. I know she does!
Next, I show her a postcard. ‘My mum sent this from Paris.’ I read it out loud.
‘Where’s your mum live?’ asks Willemina.
‘All over,’ I say, ‘but mostly in Vienna. She and Dad aren’t married any more.’
Suddenly, my eyes are prickling. I hate it when that happens.
‘Mummy’s a simple mountaineer,’ says Nat proudly.
‘No, she’s not!’ I cry. ‘She’s a civil engineer! She owns a company that builds things like airports and tunnels and railways. She’s just been in Japan, building a bridge.’
‘And now she’s going to climb a mountain,’ says Nat.
‘No, she’s not!’ I snap at Nat, even though I shouldn’t. It’s not his fault I miss Mum. Or that I now have to wipe the back of my hand across my eyes to stop the tears from spilling.
I take a deep breath, then lay a white paper bag on the floor, smoothing its wrinkles. ‘I wrote this after we’d spent the day picking strawberries on a farm in Denmark.’
Sticky fingers.
Licky lips.
Nothing left for making jam.
‘There’s a happy memory wrapped in these words,’ I explain.
‘I love strawberries!’ shouts Nat.
Last of all, I pass Willemina a piece of pink cardboard.
‘I cut this from a menu in a café in Budapest,’ I say, ‘because who wouldn’t think these words were treasure?’
Willemina giggles and her face is truly shining now. I smile, then giggle along with her. Cake makes everyone happy. Even just the thought of it.
‘I collect letters!’ shouts Nat.
‘What sort of letters?’ asks Willemina. ‘Postcards? Love letters?’
‘O’s,’ says Nat. He fetches his wooden treasure chest from its hiding place beside the fire. He opens the lid and tips everything out on a rug. ‘O’s!’ he shouts.
He messes his hand through his collection until it’s scattered wide. There are dozens of itty-bitty scraps of paper with the letter O that Nat has cut or torn from newspaper headlines, posters, magazines and shopping lists. There are eight Scrabble tiles, all with the letter O, and three plastic O’s with magnets on the back. And then there are things shaped like an O — three Wheaty Loops saved from his cereal bowl, a tiny rubber band and a plastic ring.
‘They’re spectacular,’ sighs Willemina.
Nat beams at her. ‘Maybe we can get married.’
‘Awk! Danger! Danger!’ Coco screeches and flaps away to the top of one of the ladders.
A shadow falls on Nat’s O’s.
The light in Willemina’s face goes out.
A tall, pretty girl stands over us. Her blonde hair is plaited and coiled around her ears like two bread rolls. She’s wearing a T-shirt with a giant heart made of hundreds of pink sequins and her sneakers have flashing pink lights in the soles. Flashing pink lights! I’d love shoes like that.
Nat stares at the flashing lights, his mouth open. He’d love shoes like that. Even more than clogs.
The girl smiles, but her blue eyes are full of ice. Which is kind of creepy.
‘Playing with rubbish, Bug Eyes?’ she sneers. ‘No wonder you have worms.’
‘Not rubbish,’ squeaks Willemina.
‘It’s treasure!’ shouts Nat. ‘O’s!’
The girl snorts at him. ‘Your pants are on inside out.’
Nat knows his pants are inside out. What he doesn’t know is why it makes the girl angry. He scrunches his nose and scratches his bottom.
‘You must be Gerda,’ I declare.
‘Who are you?’ she snaps.
‘I’m Mim! My dad’s the caretaker of the Travelling Bookshop.’ I flare my nostrils, trying to be brave and threatening, but I sneeze instead. It’s a big, wet one that sprays across Willemina’s glasses and onto Gerda’s beautiful flashing sneakers!
Willemina squeaks in surprise.
‘Gross!’ Gerda wipes her shoes on a floor cushion, then looks around at the shelves, the ladders, the fireplace, the hedgehogs. Wonder flickers in her eyes, warm and soft, but the ice is back in an instant.
‘Ha!’ Gerda smirks at me. ‘You’ve got a lump the size of a baboon’s bottom on your forehead!’
I try not to feel stupid, but I do. And ugly too. I’m a splashy sneezer with a baboon-bottom where my forehead should be.
My cheeks burn. And suddenly, I realise that Gerda is a collector. Like Nat. Like me.
But she doesn’t collect lovely things.
She collects bad feelings.
Gerda shakes her head at Willemina and makes a tut-tutting sound, as though she is very, very disappointed in her. Then she leaves. She marches across the bookshop, her chin in the air, showing that she is too good for the place.
But she stops at the bottom of the stairs and takes one last look around. And I see it again. The warm flicker of wonder.
Gerda likes it here.
Even if she won’t admit it.
CHAPTER 5
Pirates and
bullies
‘Right,’ says Dad when Willemina and the customers have gone. ‘Time for some action!’
We always do our lessons in the afternoon. I pull out my notebook and start writing a list of words ending in ‘ous’ — curious, strenuous, anxious, righteous, obvious, bulbous. Nat draws O’s on an empty cereal box. Every now and then he writes his name too — NTA.
Dad drags our giant dress-up basket into the middle of the bookshop. He stops and stares at us. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Spelling,’ I say.
‘O’s,’ says Nat.
‘Not that kind of action!’ Dad rolls his eyes. ‘Pirate action!’
He starts throwing dress-ups about and our lessons are forgotten. Nat wriggles into a red and white striped T-shirt, a pink tutu, sparkly fairy wings and his new clogs. He slips an eyepatch over one eye and runs straight into a bookshelf. I pull on a red coat with gold buttons and a wide black hat with ostrich feathers. Dad chooses a black coat and black gumboots, then ties a black bandana around his head. He gives us each a plastic sword and a name — Captain Clogs (Nat), Wicked Mim (me) and Dreadful Zeddy (Dad).
Coco flaps from the mantel to my shoulder. ‘Arrgh!’ I snarl. ‘And here’s my fearsome parrot, Killer Coco!’
‘Give us a kiss!’ says Coco, then nibbles on my ear.
‘Terrifying!’ cries Dad, springing away and tumbling over the back of a sofa. Nat runs to help him, but bangs into a table and topples a lamp. He can’t see properly with his eyepatch.
We pack the picnic basket, fetching whatever Dreadful Zeddy demands. ‘Bread! Cheese! Rollmops! Oranges! Maple syrup! Thermos! Knife! Mixing bowl! Wooden spoon! Dishwashing liquid!’
‘Dishwashing liquid?’ wonders Nat.
I shrug. ‘For swabbing the deck?’
Dad narrows his eyes, then tosses in some rope and sticks too! Better not to ask.
We burst from the caravan and run along the canal, roaring, ‘Shiver me timbers!’ and swooshing our swords through the air, all the way to Ambroos’ Boatshed.
Mim and the Baffling Bully Page 2