‘Good grief!’ sighed Olive.
Thistlebloom lay sprawled out across the desk, her cheek pressed onto a long strip of paper. It was a list: Things to Do Before the Queen’s Visit. She had been in the middle of writing item number three hundred and sixty-seven when interrupted. Some might say ‘rudely interrupted’, but Bullet Barnes was never intentionally rude. He might be enthusiastic, reckless, even violent, but not rude.
Olive leaned over the desk and read random tasks out loud. ‘Nineteen – dry-clean scarecrow’s underwear . . . One hundred and thirty-six – deliver a two-hour lecture on the vulgarity of scratching an itch in public . . . Two hundred and eighty-eight – teach School Captain Olive how to curtsey without looking like a rabbit with the hiccups . . .’
Olive rubbed her jaw and said, ‘Good grief!’ once more, this time a little louder.
She touched the letter in her pocket. The Inspector’s nasty, threatening letter.
Thistlebloom might be overzealous when it came to manners, discipline and preparation, but one ugly fact remained. If the Queen’s visit did not run smoothly, the Inspector of Schools would close Groves forever.
Right now, more than anything, they needed a leader to take control. A strong, practical leader. A leader who could get the job done.
They needed Thistlebloom.
Disturbing, I know, but it was much the same as needing to take a dose of poo-flavoured medicine when ill – an unappealing but necessary solution.
‘Right!’ said Olive. She donned a pair of rubber gloves (one must respect another’s boundaries no matter how strange), stepped forward and shook Thistlebloom’s bony shoulder. Thistlebloom did not respond.
She slapped Thistlebloom’s cheek (softly, even though it must have been a great temptation to let rip), but she did not flinch.
She fanned Thistlebloom’s face with a book called Hygiene Before Happiness, but still the woman would not revive.
Olive sighed heavily. ‘If Thistlebloom can’t take control, I suppose Mrs Groves must.’
The basement door was locked.
Olive knocked and called out, ‘Hello! Mrs Groves! Are you there?’
Nothing happened.
She knocked again, waited and was just about to leave when the lock clicked and the door opened.
‘Oh, Olive!’ cried Mrs Groves, nodding so that her mobcap wobbled back and forth. ‘How delightful to see you. Come in! Come in!’
Olive walked down into the basement and gasped. ‘Mrs Groves! There is so much washing to be done! Mountains of it! Look at that pile of laundry in front of the clothes dryer. It’s as big as a horse . . . and that one over there.’
Mrs Groves’ cheeks glowed crimson. She blinked. Fumbling around in her apron pocket, she pulled out a white paper bag full of peppermints, offered a sweet to Olive, then popped one into her own mouth. She rolled it around and around on her tongue, murmuring, ‘Mmmm . . . minty . . . fresh . . . sweet . . . mint–’
Olive interrupted. ‘We need you upstairs . . . to take control of things . . . so we’re ready for the Queen’s visit.’
Mrs Groves’ hand flew to her throat. ‘Oh my! What an astonishing idea. Why, in twenty-seven years as headmistress of Groves, I have never managed to take control of things. Not once! I have tried! But never have I succeeded.’
‘But the Queen’s visit is only a day away,’ cried Olive, ‘and Thistlebloom is unconscious and if we don’t –’
‘Thistlebloom!’ gasped Mrs Groves, and she dived into a laundry basket full of dirty socks. She burrowed to the bottom, then called in muffled tones, ‘Let yourself out, dear . . . and see if you can free Lucky’s head from the top of that fabric softener bottle on your way . . . and lock the door behind you.’
Olive sighed. Then, being a polite and respectful child, she wished Mrs Groves a pleasant day and did as she was asked.
Back in the entrance hall, Olive flopped onto the sofa. She sat Lucky the kitten on a cushion and stared at the portrait of the Queen.
‘Hmmm,’ she murmured. ‘Somebody has to take control . . .’ She chewed her lip and shook her head. ‘It won’t be Thistlebloom . . .’ She tugged at her ear. ‘Or Mrs Groves . . .’ She frowned. ‘So . . . I suppose . . . it will have to be me.’
Olive stood, lifted her chin, pulled back her shoulders and marched into the office. She snatched the list from beneath Thistlebloom’s nose and ran her eyes down the full length of the paper.
‘So many, many things,’ she muttered. ‘Surely the vegetable patch doesn’t really need vacuuming.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘And who would notice whether or not the pages of all the books had been ironed? . . . And what on earth is gazpacho?’ She shook her head again and slid the list back, being careful not to rumple the paper.
Then, taking a fresh notepad from the drawer, Olive sat down by the window and wrote her own list: Four Important Tasks. Now four might not seem like many, but our heroine, although brilliant, was only ten and time was running short.
Half an hour later, Olive tucked her list of four into her pocket, straightened the pens, pencil and ruler on Thistlebloom’s desk, took a deep breath and set off to organise the first important task.