Mim and the Baffling Bully

by Katrina Nannestad

  Ambroos is plump and bald with twinkling eyes. ‘Welcome!’ he sings. ‘Fair weather for pirating today. As soon as you’ve slipped on your lifejackets, you’re free to set sail.’ He points to our boat. It’s wide and flat, like a rowboat, but with a motor instead of oars.

  ‘Thank you!’ I shout.

  ‘Arrgh!’ growls Dad.

  ‘I hate lifejackets!’ cries Nat.

  ‘I’m afraid you need to wear one,’ says Ambroos, ‘in case you fall in the water.’

  ‘Dreadful Zeddy can nail my pants to the boat,’ says Nat.

  I giggle. ‘You can’t put nails in a boat! Nails make holes, and boats with holes sink.’

  ‘And what if you’re told to walk the plank?’ asks Dad. ‘You’d have to leave your pants behind if they were nailed to the boat. Walking the plank is bad enough, but walking the plank with a bare bottom . . . well, that’s just embarrassing.’

  Nat’s eyes bulge. His lifejacket is on in a flash. Which is just as well because he misses his step into the boat and falls in the water. Again, it’s the eyepatch.

  Dad pulls him aboard and we set sail. We chug up and down the canals, past pretty white houses and lush grass and shady trees. It’s so beautiful that, for a moment, we forget to be pirates.

  But then we overtake another boat, and the people scream, ‘Don’t hurt us!’ and Dad yells, ‘We’ll have your guts for garters, you lily-livered rapscallions!’ and Nat blows a raspberry, and we’re pirates once more.

  We wave our swords at the landlubbers cycling along the canal.

  We sing, ‘Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!’

  We tell the ducks we’ll make them walk the plank.

  I do a big, wet sneeze and Dreadful Zeddy makes me swab the deck with my hanky. ‘And swab your nose while you’re at it!’ he growls.

  And then we have a full-on sword fight, the three of us, right there in the boat. We’re shouting and stabbing and laughing, and the boat’s rocking, and Coco does an excited poop all over my shoulder, then flaps about on the picnic basket, screeching. Dad gets me in a headlock and Nat is stabbing my bottom with his sword when I see a familiar face. It’s Gerda. She’s standing outside a house by the canal. It’s a beautiful house, four storeys high with white shutters on all the windows. The garden has perfect hedges and tulips and green grass as smooth as carpet.

  Gerda stares at us.

  I try to stop laughing, but I can’t, because Nat’s now running his sword back and forth, as though he’s trying to chop off my entire bottom. He gurgles like a drain with hiccups in between.

  I wait for Gerda to sneer.

  We are being very silly. And noisy. And my shoulder is covered in cockatoo poop. And now I’m worried that I didn’t swab my nose properly after that last sneeze and there might still be something greenish hanging from it, but I can’t reach up to check because Dreadful Zeddy still has me clamped in a headlock.

  But Gerda doesn’t sneer. She leans over the hedge and watches as we drift away down the canal. And just before she disappears from sight, I see something strange in her face. It looks like sadness.

  But it couldn’t be. Gerda has nothing to be sad about.

  Willemina, on the other hand . . .

  ‘Dad,’ I say, ‘do we have any books on bravery or overcoming hardship?’

  Finally, Dreadful Zeddy lets go of my head. ‘Heaps,’ he says. ‘Many stories talk about such things. True stories. Made-up stories. Just think of all the fairy tales alone!’

  ‘I think Willemina needs a special book,’ I explain. ‘A girl called Gerda has been picking on her. She’s making Willemina miserable.’

  Dad raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Maybe if we gave Willemina the right book,’ I continue, ‘she’d become brave and stand up to Gerda.’

  Dad stares along the canal. I think he hasn’t heard me. But then he says, ‘Why should Willemina change?’

  I frown. ‘Because she’s sad.’

  ‘Why’s she sad?’ he asks.

  ‘Because she’s being bullied by Gerda!’ I cry. ‘Dad, you’re not paying attention.’

  ‘I am,’ he murmurs.

  ‘I think Willemina’s the reason we’re here,’ I say.

  Dad nods. ‘Quite likely.’

  ‘So you’ll find her the right book?’ I ask, hopeful.

  ‘Are you sure that it’s Willemina who needs a special book?’

  I take off my pirate hat and slap it on my knee . . . This conversation is going around and around in circles. A bit like that duck caught in the wake of our boat.

  CHAPTER 6

  An unusual picnic

  ‘Arrgh! I’m starving!’ growls Dreadful Zeddy. ‘I could eat a whole barrel of pickled pork!’ He spreads out our strange picnic items in the boat.

  ‘I can only eat O food,’ announces Nat.

  ‘We have oranges,’ I say.

  Nat stares blankly.

  ‘Oranges start with O,’ I explain. ‘O-o-oranges.’

  Nat scrunches his nose. ‘Not foods starting with O. Foods shaped like O.’

  Dad chuckles. ‘Well, today’s your lucky day, Captain Clogs.’ He holds up a wedge of Maasdam — the cheese with the holes.

  ‘It’s full of O’s!’ Nat cheers.

  ‘I know!’ shouts Dad, clapping his hands like a little boy. ‘That’s why I bought it!’

  Dad and I eat cheese sandwiches, rollmops and oranges. Coco eats a chunk of bread, then begins chewing the toe of Nat’s left clog. Nat nibbles his way through six slices of holey cheese and stuffs a seventh in his pocket.

  Then Dad does a very weird thing. Even weirder than stuffing cheese in your pocket. He clamps the mixing bowl between his knees, squeezes in tons of dishwashing liquid, then adds maple syrup and warm water from the Thermos. He passes the bowl and the wooden spoon to me. ‘Arrgh!’ he growls. ‘Mix this up, me hearty.’

  Nat’s eyes are fixed on the bowl of goop. I can see he’s glad to be eating only O food. Neither of us like the look of this new dish.

  ‘Arrgh!’ shouts Dad. ‘Hold these, Captain Clogs.’ He pokes a stick in each of Nat’s hands.

  Nat starts swinging them around like swords and whacks Dad on the side of the head.

  ‘Arrgh!’ roars Dad. ‘Be still, rapscallion, or I’ll make you walk the plank.’

  Nat and I watch, baffled, as Dad grabs a piece of rope and ties each end to a stick. Then he ties another piece of rope to the first so that it droops down, forming a loop. He takes the strange invention from Nat and peers at it. First through one eye, then the other.

  ‘Arrgh! Splendid!’ he growls.

  I lean in to Nat. ‘I’ve read about this,’ I hiss. ‘Sailors who spend too long at sea can turn quite strange. They start doing odd things — talking to buckets, eating soap, having swordfights with rats. Next thing, he’ll be drinking rum from his boots and dancing with the ducks.’

  Nat’s eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect O. If only he could see it; he’d be so happy.

  Dad bends forward and dips the rope in the bowl on my lap. He dunks it up and down, like dangling a teabag in a cup. Then he stands, lifts the invention above his head and sweeps it through the air.

  ‘Wowee!’ cries Nat.

  ‘Oooh!’ I sigh.

  A giant bubble bulges out between the two pieces of rope. It grows bigger and bigger, stretching further from the ropes, until at last it slips free.

  BLOOP.

  It’s enormous. As big as a sheep. A really woolly one!

  The bubble drifts through the air. Shimmering. Wobbling. Hovering.

  Until suddenly it pops.

  ‘I love bubbles!’ shouts Nat, springing to his feet.

  ‘Me too,’ I whisper, amazed.

  We watch in silence as Dad does it again. Dunk. Lift. Sweep. BLOOP.

  The second bubble is even bigger than the first. It wibbles and wobbles and turns into a huge sausage. It floats away from the canal towards a cyclist. The cyclist stops and the bubble kisses her face, then v
anishes.

  POP!

  She laughs. ‘Do it again!’

  So Dad does.

  This bubble goes ahead of our boat, and when we catch up, it lands on my head and swallows me whole. I giggle from inside the bubble, then — POP! — it’s gone.

  ‘My turn!’ cries Nat. He sends giant bubbles wafting along the canal, scaring ducks, gliding over bridges, surprising people and dogs on their evening walk.

  Then it’s my turn. I make the biggest bubble yet. It quivers and drifts through the air to a canal-side café. The diners all stare, silent, heads back, mouths open as the bubble floats by and disappears into a garden. I like to think it’s swallowed a pet rabbit and carried it far, far away to a field full of lettuce.

  And then I think how good it would be if I could make a bubble big enough to swallow Gerda and carry her far, far away. To Siberia. Or Australia. Or a desert island where there’s no one to bully. That’d teach her!

  We chug along the canal, creating bubbles and wonder and joy. And before we know it, we’re back at the boatshed and our adventure is done.

  I hug Dad. ‘Thanks, Dreadful Zeddy. That was great fun. You’re not as horrible as all the other pirates say.’

  ‘But I am!’ shouts Nat, and he stabs me with his sword. In the bottom. Twice.

  The bookshop sighs on our return. Not out loud, but I feel it. Like a warm breeze and a hug and a cheery welcome all at the same time. The tiny bat stretches his wings, then wraps himself tight. The hedgehogs snuffle and smile. Coco returns to her favourite spot above the fireplace and chews on the frame of the painting. Every homecoming is the same.

  We snuggle on a sofa and Dad starts reading us a pirate story — Perfect Pete and the One-Eyed Seagull. Pete is the most handsome pirate ever to have sailed the seven seas. The seagull is the saddest, loneliest bird ever to have pooped on the deck of a pirate ship. Normally, story time makes me happy. But tonight, as Dad reads, I can’t stop thinking of Gerda and Willemina.

  We slip into our pyjamas while Dad makes hot chocolate. Although Nat has only the top half of his pyjamas because his pants are still nailed to the roof. He wears underpants on the bottom and keeps his eyepatch on.

  Nat and I sit at one of the side tables. We each have a postcard from Ambroos’ Boatshed to send to Mum.

  Nat lays his uneaten slice of Maasdam cheese on top of his postcard and traces all the holes. He peels the cheese away and smiles at the result. ‘Look, Mim! I’m sending Mummy a letter full of O’s.’

  ‘She’ll love it!’ I say. ‘Especially the stinky cheese smell!’

  Nat giggles, then lies on the floor to play with his O collection. He sits the slice of cheese on the rug, then arranges all the other O’s around it.

  I chew on the end of my pencil. It’s hard to squeeze all the wonder and fun of this day onto a postcard. But I try anyway.

  ‘Bubbles,’ I whisper.

  I write it on a tiny piece of paper.

  One word now holds everything good about this day.

  Smiling, I add the scrap of paper to my word collection.

  CHAPTER 7

  Pink things good and bad

  The next morning, Nat dresses in his eyepatch, pink tutu, fairy wings and clogs. He looks cute, but should probably have some real clothes underneath. I help him dress again, this time starting with shorts and a T-shirt, before adding the rest.

  We feed Flossy an apple and twelve carrots. She’s only meant to have one carrot, but Nat trips over his clogs and drops the bag, and Flossy gobbles them all before we can stop her. She tosses her mane and whinnies a big thank you.

  Dad wants stroopwafels for morning tea, so Nat and I head off to the shops. Nat runs into a bench along the way — because of the eyepatch.

  ‘Hellooo! It’s me, Franz!’

  Franz is the stocky man who came to the bookshop yesterday. He’s sitting on the bench with his book, Knitted Tea Cosies, a basket of bright wool and a friend. The friend has puffy purple hair, a fluffy purple cardigan and batwing glasses. She’s holding Franz’s hands around a pair of knitting needles.

  ‘Elke is giving me lessons,’ says Franz. ‘I’m knitting the sheep tea cosy!’

  ‘I love sheep!’ shouts Nat. He squints at Elke through his one eye. ‘I love purple sheep the best,’ he adds. ‘Purple sheep with glasses.’

  I wonder if Nat thinks Elke’s a sheep. I smile and steer him on towards the shops.

  We use all our money and buy ten stroopwafels. ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ I say. ‘That’s three each and one for emergencies.’

  Nat hugs the bulging paper bag to his chest. ‘What sort of emergency?’

  ‘A visitor,’ I say, ‘or dropping one in the dirt.’

  ‘I’d still eat a stroopwafel covered in dirt!’ shouts Nat.

  I probably would too.

  We take a different way home and soon find ourselves by the school playground. We spot Willemina in the distance. I stop to watch her. She’s talking to two boys and another girl when Gerda comes along with a skipping rope. Even from here, we can see the flashing pink lights at the end of the handles. They match the flashing pink lights on her sneakers.

  ‘Pink lights!’ Nat gasps. ‘Everywhere!’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I murmur. Everything about that girl looks brilliant. I feel a nasty stab of jealousy.

  We can’t hear what Gerda says, but the next moment, she’s running to our side of the playground with the other three children. Willemina is left behind, all alone. Her shoulders droop and she wipes her eyes.

  As Gerda draws near, she snickers. Like the villains do in books.

  One of the boys looks back at Willemina and says something. Gerda shouts, ‘No way! She’s not touching my skipping rope! She’s got worms!’

  I feel sick. How could Gerda say such a thing?

  ‘Willemina!’ I call out and wave.

  My friend doesn’t hear. She slinks away and hides behind a tree.

  But Gerda hears. She spins around and stares at me with those icy blue eyes.

  I smile. Not because I like her. Really, I don’t. But I’m too scared to scowl, in case it makes her mad.

  Gerda glares back at me, all ice. She turns to Nat and screeches, ‘What are you dressed as?’

  Nat looks confused. He’s not dressed as anything. He’s just wearing the clothes that make him happy.

  Gerda shakes her head and smirks. ‘What’s in the bag?’

  ‘Stroopwafels,’ Nat whispers.

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Can I look?’

  ‘Don’t!’ I tell Nat, but it’s too late. He holds out the bag and Gerda snatches it. She skips away, laughing and handing out stroopwafels to everyone she passes. Like the fairy godmother of the playground.

  Nat is so shocked, he doesn’t even cry.

  I feel prickly and hot and horrible.

  And stupid.

  And really, really cross.

  ‘She took them all,’ whispers Nat. ‘Even the emergency stroopwafel!’

  We’re almost home when Willemina catches up to us. Her eyes are huge and watery behind her glasses. And she’s shaking.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in class?’ I ask.

  Willemina nods.

  ‘Did you run away?’ I ask.

  She nods again and her eyes get even bigger.

  ‘Do you think you might be able to talk?’ I ask.

  She nods some more.

  ‘I mean the kind of talking where you actually use words,’ I say.

  She whispers, ‘Worms.’ Two fat tears dribble down her cheeks.

  ‘Perhaps a few more words,’ I suggest.

  Willemina nods yet again and her eyes are so big that I think they might pop through her glasses. And then she talks, but with lots of breathy, sobby bits in between. ‘I went into class . . . I sat down . . . Peter, the boy who sits behind me, said, “Yuck!” . . . Then my bottom felt all wet and squishy . . . So I stood up . . . There were worms all over my chair . . . Fat pink worms . . . Squashed pink worms
. . . Gerda shouted, “I told you she had worms!” . . . Then everyone was yelling, “Gross!” and “Disgusting!” and “Get away from us, Worm Girl!” . . . So I did get away. I ran from the room and out of the school, and I’m never, ever going back!’

  ‘That’s awful!’ I cry.

  ‘Poor worms,’ says Nat.

  ‘Horrible Gerda!’ I snap.

  ‘And look!’ Crying, Willemina turns to show us the squishy patch of worms stuck to her skirt.

  Nat stares, scrunching his nose and scratching his bottom. Then he steps out of his tutu and passes it to Willemina. It’s the kindest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Willemina pulls the tutu up over her skirt, then slips the skirt down and stuffs it into her backpack.

  ‘You look beautiful!’ shouts Nat.

  And we see Willemina smile for the first time today.

  CHAPTER 8

  The wrong book

  The Travelling Bookshop is bustling. There are dozens of people browsing, reading, talking, laughing, sighing, even crying.

  An elderly couple is exploring the picture books. ‘Look, brother!’ says the old woman. ‘Here’s the book about the hungry fox that Mummy used to read to us when we were little.’ They hobble to a sofa and sit, shoulder to shoulder. The old woman reads the book aloud with her best story-telling voice. The old man smiles and his eyes shine with happy memories.

  A young man stands by the fire, sobbing his way through the pages of a romance novel. Coco perches on the mantel, peering over his shoulder at the book. I wonder, not for the first time, if she can read.

  ‘Excuse me!’ A tall, thin woman waves at Dad. ‘Do you have The Big Book of Dutch Tulips?’

  ‘Sorry, no,’ says Dad. ‘But I do have The Tiny Book of Danish Daffodils.’ He holds it out — the book is smaller than a matchbox!

  The woman puts her glasses on her nose and peers at the itty-bitty pages. Her face splits into an enormous smile. ‘Fabulous!’ she cries. ‘Just what I need! And perfect for carrying in my pocket!’