In which we have a last-minute hiccup . . . both literally and metaphorically
‘Num-Num!’ cried Olive. ‘Your uniform is on back to front . . . and upside down.’
Num-Num leaned her elbow against the mantelpiece in Olive’s bedroom and grinned stupidly. ‘Why thank you, madam,’ she growled.
‘I don’t know how you managed to get your legs through the arms of that coat,’ sighed Olive. ‘And someone must have helped you with the vest. You couldn’t possibly have fastened those twelve buttons down your back all on your own! And where on earth are your leggings?’
The dinosaur hiccupped. A shred of white fabric dotted with silver sequins dangled out the side of her mouth. ‘Bery, bery pardon!’
A sudden commotion broke out in the corridor below. There was running, sobbing, the slamming of doors, the bumping of walls and babbling. Constant babbling.
‘Oh me! Oh my! Oh deary, deary dooverlackie! We’re doomed! We’re doomed! Disaster! We’re doomed!’
‘Uh-oh,’ said Chester. ‘Sounds like Mrs Groves has had a little upset.’
‘Sounds like she is running around like a chook with its head chopped off!’ cried Wordsworth.
Olive sat her lampshade on the bed. ‘I’ll go. I’m sure I can sort things out. She has probably just buttered the wrong side of a crumpet or tangled the ribbons of her new bonnet in her knitting.’
But no sooner had Olive spoken than the door flew open and into the turret, blubbering and bawling, burst Thistlebloom. She was a complete and utter mess. Ragged strands of hair flapped about her shoulders and hung in her eyes. The remains of her bun had shifted to the left of her head and looked like something in which a sparrow might raise a family. Three half-sucked peppermints clung to the front of her black pinafore. Her right sleeve had torn away from her blouse and now dangled around her wrist. Her monocle was wedged in her right ear, a crumpet with honey was stuck to her bottom and her pinafore pocket wriggled and squirmed in a manner most suspicious.
‘Wow!’ squeaked Wordsworth. ‘Thistlebloom looks like she’s been dragged backwards through a bush. Her face looks like a boiled boot. Her hair looks like she combed it with an eggbeater. She looks like –’
Olive slammed shut his Little Blue Book of Wise and Witty Sayings and kicked it under the bed.
‘We’re doomed!’ cried Thistlebloom. She grabbed a handful of pencils from the jam tin that sat on Olive’s bookcase, tossed them onto the floor and started organising them by colour and country of birth.
‘Pull yourself together!’ snapped Olive, and she threw a jug of water in her face.
One might argue that a glass of water would have been sufficient, but one cannot always make the best decision in a crisis.
‘Olive!’ sobbed Thistlebloom. A peppermint slipped from her mouth and stuck to her chin. She did not even bother to flick it off. ‘I’ve failed! Failed in my mission.’
‘No!’ shouted Olive. ‘You most certainly have not. You have been a huge success. We are absolutely ready for the Queen. In five minutes’ time, everyone will be lined up in the entrance hall, dressed in their dashing new uniforms, smelling as fresh as a daisy . . . except, perhaps, for Reginald, who always smells a little buttery . . . and Tiny Tim, whose socks always stink!’
Thistlebloom’s mouth went all loose and wobbly. She bawled, ‘The Queen isn’t coming!’
‘Yes, she is!’ cried Wordsworth, pointing through the hole in the wall. ‘I can see her right now!’
A golden carriage was parked outside Groves. Four snowy white stallions danced and pranced in their harnesses, tossing their manes, flicking their tails. A small crowd gathered on the footpath – two footmen, the Inspector of Schools upon his crutches, the Mayor, the Mayor’s wife and a number of pedestrians who had stopped to gawk. Four fat corgis frolicked around inside the carriage, springing from seat to seat, barking and slopping their tongues across Her Majesty’s cheeks.
‘Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! The Queen is here! Hooray!’ Olive bunny-hopped around the turret, clapping her hands. Then, throwing caution and etiquette to the wind, she stuck her head out the hole in the wall and shouted at the top of her lungs, ‘Hello, lovely Queen!!’
The Queen looked up towards the turret. She lifted a white-gloved hand and waved.
Olive turned back to Thistlebloom and smiled. ‘See?’
Thistlebloom wrung her bony hands. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead. ‘The Queen is waving goodbye. She may well have arrived, but now she is departing.’
Our heroine frowned. ‘I don’t believe you!’
Thistlebloom sniffed. She pulled Lucky the kitten from her pocket, dabbed him across her sweaty brow, then tossed him in the rubbish bin. ‘The Inspector has just informed me that, according to Section 56.8A of The Handbook for Royal Visits to Schools, Hospitals and Scrap Metal Yards, a school must have at least twenty-five students before the Queen is allowed to visit.’ Thistlebloom sobbed. ‘Because of my extreme efficiency and enthusiasm in expelling unsuitable children and animals, we now have only twenty-two students.’
Olive stared down at the street. The Inspector bowed towards the Queen, then tapped the side of the carriage with his crutch. The coach driver tightened the reins. The horses lifted their heads. They were preparing to leave!
‘But this means that Groves has not been ready for the Queen’s visit!’ gasped Olive. ‘After all our hard work!’
Thistlebloom bit her lip, nodded and used her toe to align a red pencil with a green one.
‘Which means,’ continued Olive, ‘that the Inspector of Schools will close the doors to Groves once and for all!’
‘Oh no!’ cried Chester. ‘Not the doors! But how will we get in and out?’
‘We won’t,’ explained Wordsworth. ‘Closing the doors means closing the school.’
‘A rule is a rule,’ sobbed Thistlebloom. ‘We don’t have the necessary numbers. If there is one thing I have taught you all, it is the importance of rules and order.’
‘Humph!’ said Olive, which was a very old-fashioned thing to say, but totally appropriate in the circumstances. ‘If there is one thing that Mrs Groves has taught us, it is to be true to ourselves and follow our dreams! And my dream is to have a jolly good time with the Queen and spend the rest of my schooldays here, at Groves, with the silliest headmistress in the world and the best friends a child could ever hope for.’
‘But our numbers are too low!’ wailed Thistlebloom.
‘I’ve got it covered,’ said our knowing heroine.
‘But my clothes are a mess. I have nothing to wear!’ whimpered Thistlebloom.
‘See Mrs Groves. She’ll have something you can borrow,’ suggested our practical heroine.
‘But the Queen is about to leave!’ sobbed Thistlebloom.
‘Yes,’ agreed our cunning heroine. Then, loud enough for Num-Num to hear, she added, ‘The Queen’s horsies are about to leave too . . . Those big, juicy, plump, fresh horsies.’
‘Num-Num lub fresh horsies!’ growled Num-Num. ‘Num-num-num-num-num-num-num!’
And the last thing Olive saw as she dashed from the turret towards the basement was an excited green dinosaur sprinting down the street, dribbling and drooling, dodging trucks and buses, trams and cars, as she pursued a golden carriage pulled by four plump, terrified white horses.
‘I now pronounce you un-expelled!’ Olive beamed down upon her friends from the top of the basement stairs.
‘But we don’t want to be un-expelled,’ said Helga the hippo as she botty-skated by on a wave of sudsy water. ‘We’re having loads of fun down here.’
‘Tommy has managed to stuff an entire dusting cloth up his nose!’ shouted Ivan. ‘Now he’s going for a tea towel!’
‘And Steve and George are about to put on a fashion parade,’ said Anastasia. ‘They’ve cast aside their shells and are modelling socks!’
‘Socks are hip and happening,’ whispered Steve.
‘Shells are so yesterday!’ added George.
‘I need to finish knitting the third sleeve of my beanie!’ insisted Star.
‘I’m about to blast a bucket-load of laundry detergent from my cannon!’ shouted Bullet Barnes. He laughed and struck a match.
Olive had heard enough.
‘Enough!’ she snapped, stamping her foot, folding her arms.
Bullet dropped his match.
Star dropped three stitches in her knitting.
Everyone fell silent.
‘Your school needs you!’ cried Olive. ‘Mrs Groves needs you. And I need you!’
‘Well, why didn’t you just say so?’ squeaked Blimp, popping up from the trolley full of jelly beans. And he led the naughty boys, talking animals and circus performers up the stairs, along the corridor and into the entrance hall. Donning their newly knitted garments, they stood side by side, ready to receive their Queen, serve their school and do whatever their beloved Olive asked.
Unless, of course, it involved eating bran muffins.
Love has its limits, no matter what the poets say!