2. A Fruity Competition
The school hall was crowded. Just about everyone from our street was there, plus a few people that weren’t, like Granny and her husband, Lancelot, who live just round the corner but had come along for the fun.
Then there was our local policeman, Sergeant Smugg. I don’t like him much. He makes you feel that you’re always doing something wrong, even when you’re not. He’s one of those people who like rules and regulations, so I was not surprised to see that Mr Tugg is a good friend of his. Tugg and Smugg – what a pair!
Mrs Quince-Porage was there, of course, because she’s the chairperson. She was wearing a very bright dress completely plastered with yellow, blue and red flowers. It looked as if a giant cannon had just blasted the entire contents of our local flower shop at her – and they’d all stuck. Splip, splap, splop.
Mrs Q-P was about the same age as my parents and she had very blonde hair piled into a strange shape that should probably have been a building rather than a hairstyle. She was also sporting gigantic black claw-like combs above her eyes, but they might have been false eyelashes. They were so heavy she could barely keep her eyes open.
She banged on the table in front of her and called for silence in a voice like chocolate boiling over in a saucepan and dribbling down the sides of the cooker.
‘GOOD evening, everyone. I am SO glad to see so MANY of you here tonight. Let us get STRAIGHT down to BUSINESS.’
Dad whispered in my ear. ‘If that woman’s smile gets any bigger her face will split in half and all her teeth will fall out.’
‘Shush!’ hissed Mum.
‘NOW then,’ Mrs Quince-Porage continued. ‘Has ANYONE got any SUPER suggestions for our CORONATION celebration?’
‘Silly sausage moo cow!’ shouted Tomato.
‘DARLING child!’ grinned Mrs Q-P.
‘A street party?’ someone suggested. Everyone immediately perked up and began talking at the same time. That was a great idea, what about food? Maybe we could all provide something for the table. Where would the tables come from? The school. What about decorations? And so it went on. Soon it was decided that there would be a fancy-dress competition for the best royal outfit.
‘We could make crowns,’ my mum told the hall. ‘And wear cloaks.’
Dad got to his feet. ‘Yes, and we could have executions, like Henry the Eighth, and chop off some heads.’
Most of the audience laughed, but a few people stared at him. Sometimes my dad is a bit embarrassing.
Sergeant Smugg certainly didn’t think it was funny. He took it all VERY seriously and said that he wasn’t going to allow any executions to take place while he was around. ‘I would have to arrest you,’ he pointed out.
‘It was a joke,’ Dad informed the policeman.
‘Not to me, it wasn’t.’ Sergeant Smugg stuck out his chin in an I-am-determined-to-arrest-all-criminals kind of way.
‘Good,’ drooled Mrs Chocolate Voice, ignoring the pair of them. ‘Any MORE ideas?’
‘What about music and dancing? Maybe we could have a band,’ someone suggested.
Dad jumped to his feet again. ‘Hey, I’m in a band!’
‘Since when have you been in a band?’ Mum hissed at Dad.
‘Don’t say anything,’ Dad hissed back. ‘It’s a band of one at the moment, but Nicholas plays the recorder, don’t you? So you’re in it for starters.’
I almost choked. ‘But I can only do “Three Blind Mice” –’ I began before I was drowned in chocolate by Mrs Quince-Porage.
‘And I LOVE singing,’ she burbled.
‘So do I,’ shouted Dad frantically. (That’s true, he’s always singing, even in his sleep!) ‘I AM the singer in the band.’
‘And I’M the chairwoman and I WANT to sing so I SHALL,’ Mrs Q-P insisted. ‘That settles THAT. Any more ideas?’
‘How about a beauty competition?’ suggested Mr Tugg, blushing rather.
‘What’s that?’ asked Granny, who’s a little deaf. ‘A fruity competition? Are we making jam?’
There was a ripple of laughter in the hall.
‘I said BEAUTY!’ shouted Mr Tugg.
‘Ooh, thank you dear. Nobody’s told me that for years,’ Granny answered, leaning across to Lancelot. ‘That man with the funny moustache said I’m a beauty.’
Lancelot looked at me and winked. He slipped his arm round Granny’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Granny looked at me and she winked too! Sometimes I think my whole family are daft. Apart from me, of course.
Mrs Chocolate Voice gave her deputy chairman a withering smile. ‘No, no, Mr Tugg. I DO think beauty contests are rather old-fashioned. Besides, this is the age of EQUALITY.’
‘Wait a moment!’ cried Dad. ‘It doesn’t have to be a beauty contest for women. Let’s have something different. Why not make it a beauty competition for policemen? I think Sergeant Smugg would look lovely in a –’
But nobody could hear what Dad thought Sergeant Smugg would look lovely in because the whole hall was howling with laughter at the very idea. Everyone except a rather large and bulky teenager standing at the back. His spotty face was scowling at everyone, especially my dad.
‘PLEASE –’ dribbled Mrs Quince-Chocolate or whatever her name is. ‘PLEASE –’
‘ORDER!’ bellowed Mr Tugg, climbing on to a table. ‘ORDER! QUIET!’ He glared at my dad so hard I almost expected Dad to shatter into little bits but he didn’t. He simply sat there smiling and enjoying the chaos he’d created.
At last some peace was restored and Mrs Quince-Porage was able to get on with collecting ideas. By the time the meeting was finished a list of events had been drawn up.
A STREET PARTY
- Coronation of the oldest couple in the street
- A fancy-dress contest
- Fireworks (It was decided that there should be at least three. Whoopee!)
- Dad’s band, with Mrs Q-P as singer
- A beauty contest for the police (Just joking!)
There was a loud cough from Sergeant Smugg as he cleared his throat and got to his feet. ‘Before you all make your way back to your homes, your slippers and pleasant firesides I should just like to say a few words.’
What on earth was he on about? Slippers and pleasant firesides? It wasn’t the middle of winter!
Mr Tugg nodded importantly. ‘The sergeant wishes to speak.’
‘He’s already spoken,’ Dad called out. ‘Get on with it!’
Sergeant Smugg squared his shoulders. ‘The road will have to be closed to traffic.’
‘Of course the road will be closed to traffic!’ shouted Dad. ‘How will traffic get past thirty whopping great dining tables going all the way down it?’
The sergeant ignored my dad and went on. ‘In addition, I shall have to put up lots of red-and-white tape as a warning.’
‘Red-and-white tape,’ muttered Dad. ‘Jolly good. Must have lots of tape.’
‘There must be an official notice for one week prior to the road closure announcing the closure and a statutory notice handed in to the local police station seven days beforehand signed by someone important, like the Prime Minister.’
‘An important man?’ Dad’s eyes lit up. ‘Like Mr Tugg?’
Mr Tugg puffed out his chest at the very idea that he might be important. ‘I’m deputy chairman,’ he told everyone, but they knew that already of course. ‘I could sign it.’
‘I’LL sign it,’ purred Mrs Quince-Porage. ‘I’M the chairwoman.’
Mr Tugg shot an armada of daggers at her.
‘Very well,’ agreed Sergeant Smugg, consulting his book of rules and regulations. ‘In addition, children less than fifty centimetres tall and twenty centimetres wide are not allowed to have balloons in case they are carried away by a tornado.’
‘You’re mad,’ declared Dad.
‘Plus, crisps cannot be consumed on the road,’ said the policeman.
‘Because they could cause a puncture and they make crumbs,’ declared Sergeant Smugg. ‘And crumbs attract pigeons, and pigeons make dirty splodges on my police car.’
‘But I like crisps!’ shouted Lancelot. This was followed by a chorus of ‘So do I!’ from around the hall.
‘I shall arrest any crisp-eaters,’ warned the sergeant, ‘and apply my handcuffs upon their bodily extremities. That is to say, their wrists.’
‘You’re definitely mad,’ Dad repeated. ‘Come on, you lot. Time we went home and left these lunatics to entertain themselves. We’ve got work to do. I must get the band together and start rehearsing.’ Dad rubbed his hands together and grinned. ‘I can’t wait. We shall probably get to number one in the charts! It’s going to be amazing!’