‘Wait, Olive!’ shouted Anastasia. ‘You can’t stop to help someone. We simply don’t have time.’
Bozo chased after them, his long shoes slapping the concrete. ‘Anastasia’s right! We have an important job to do.’
Olive stopped running. It was true. The Queen would be at Groves tomorrow and they simply must be prepared.
The frail and elderly gentleman stumbled. The wheel of his overloaded hand wagon slipped down into the gutter.
Olive gasped. ‘Shame on me,’ she whispered. Then turning to her friends, she cried, ‘Shame on us! We should always have time to help others!’
Anastasia blushed. Bozo looked down at his shoes.
‘Absolutely!’ cheered Wordsworth.
‘Positively!’ squeaked Chester.
‘My hero!’ sang Blimp, and he smothered the toes of Olive’s shoes with ratty little kisses.
‘Good day, sir. My name is Olive and these are my friends. May we help you push that extremely heavy-laden cart?’
The man jumped. A grey tarpaulin slipped to the ground, exposing the contents of his wagon. Two battered lampshades and a sewing machine poked out through bolts of fabric, strings of feathers, skeins of ribbon, spools of lace and dozens of fascinating little boxes stamped HABERDASHERY.
The man smiled over the top of his wares. At least, his mouth smiled. His eyes were dark with woe and weariness. He dusted off his worn grey suit, primped his red bow tie and made a fruitless effort to smooth down his shock of white hair.
‘Good day! Good day!’ he wheezed. ‘Delighted to meet you, young . . . young . . .’ His voice trailed off as he looked from Olive’s koala hat to Bozo’s bulbous red nose, then down at the fat white rat still kissing Olive’s shoes. He smiled again and bowed. ‘Delighted to meet you, young critters! I am Mr Pennyfetherill, formerly of Pennyfetherill’s Emporium of Fabulously Flamboyant Furnishings – providers of splendorous chairs, cushions, lampshades and curtains at a reasonable cost.’
Olive clapped her hands and bunny-hopped a little circle. She even did an embarrassing butt-wiggle at the end.
Anastasia rolled her eyes.
‘Mrs Groves loves lampshades!’ exclaimed Olive. ‘Perhaps we could get you to make one for her birthday – a frilly one, with feathers and bows, for her parlour.’
‘We don’t have any money to spare,’ whispered Anastasia. ‘We need it all for the uniforms.’
‘Yes, we do!’ cried Chester. ‘I just found ten cents underneath that rotten banana.’
Mr Pennyfetherill gasped. He grabbed a clump of grizzled hair in each hand and staggered backwards. ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!’
Bozo caught the old man under the arms and eased him down onto the rotten banana. I’d like to say it was accidental, but you never can tell with clowns! The poor man wailed, then began to weep so hard that not even the string of twenty-seven handkerchiefs that Bozo pulled from his sleeve could contain all the tears.
‘Whatever is the matter?’ asked Olive.
‘Are you sad about the rotten banana?’ asked Blimp.
‘Are you distressed by Olive’s bunny-hopping?’ asked Anastasia.
‘Are you dismayed that I just chewed a button off your shirt?’ asked Chester.
‘What button?’ asked Mr Pennyfetherill.
‘No button,’ lied Chester, and he popped the stolen item into his mouth.
Mr Pennyfetherill waved his hand in the air. ‘No, no, no, no, no. You are all charming. Quite charming! It is just that I cannot help you with the lampshade, for you are too late. Too late! For five generations, my family has lived and worked in Pennyfetherill’s Emporium of Fabulously Flamboyant Furnishings, but now it is finished. Times have changed. There are so few people who want their houses to look fabulously flamboyant nowadays. My business has shrivelled up and died. Just this very hour the bank has closed my doors and cast me out onto the streets. Oh dear, it makes my poor heart break. Whatever would Great-Great-Grandfather Pennyfetherill say if he knew?’
‘Poop?’ suggested Blimp. ‘Bother . . . Snot . . . What a darned shame . . . Why me?’
Wordsworth slapped his paw over Blimp’s mouth.
Olive frowned. She picked up a box of haberdashery, shook it and put it back down. She plucked at a piece of lace, then ran her hand across a bolt of purple velvet. ‘I wonder . . .’ she mused, tugging at her ear. ‘I don’t suppose you could sew clothes, Mr Pennyfetherill?’
‘Why, of course I could, child!’ he declared. ‘A coat or a dress would be a walk in the park compared with upholstering a Chesterfield sofa, or embellishing a cushion for the Duchess of Corkwell!’
Anastasia’s eyes widened. Bozo’s smile grew until it almost swallowed his head. The rats twitched their whiskers and held their breath.
‘Mr Pennyfetherill,’ said Olive. ‘We would very much like to employ your services and wonderful talents for the sum of eight dollars and fifty cents.’
The old man’s shoulders dropped down towards the pavement. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobbed. ‘It is too late. My business is finished and I am an old man. It is all over for me and my dreams.’
‘Oh no, Mr Pennyfetherill,’ said Olive quite firmly. ‘That is simply not true. Dreams are never over unless we allow them to be.’
And our heroine sat down beside the old man, took his hand in hers and helped him weave a new and exciting dream. A dream in which Mr Pennyfetherill the Fifth played tailor to a school full of unruly but charming students by clothing them in the most fabulous uniforms the Queen had ever laid eyes on. A dream in which he became the beloved friend of many naughty boys, talking animals and circus performers. A dream in which he went on to live a long and useful life in that very same school, surrounded by those who loved and respected him for helping in their time of need.
‘A new dream,’ whispered Mr Pennyfetherill. He turned to Olive, his eyes now shining.
‘And not just a new dream,’ said Olive. ‘A new family. A home.’
By half past one, Mr Pennyfetherill and his wares were ensconced in the attic at Groves. By two o’clock, Anastasia, Bozo and Chester had helped him design a marvellous new uniform, Wordsworth had delivered the students’ unique measurements and Blimp had eaten a whole box of haberdashery. He concluded that, while filling, it was only marginally better than socks and nowhere near as delicious as choc-chip bickies.
By half past two, Mr Pennyfetherill’s scissors were flashing, his sewing machine was purring, his heart was singing with restored hope and his new dream was on its way to becoming reality.
And what of our heroine?
It is a dull conclusion to such a heart-warming chapter, I know, but Olive was out in the garden, digging a very deep hole in which to bury her koala hat. You have no idea how annoying those things can be when the ear is squeezed one time too many and it sticks on an endless rendition of ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’!
Wally the wombat, however, soon found out.