‘Best afternoon tea ever!’ cried the Queen as she dug her spoon into the green jelly. ‘I do so love these frog-in-a-pond desserts. One is never quite sure whether one’s jelly is concealing a chocolate frog that will melt in one’s mouth, or a real live frog that will slip from one’s lips and hop away across the tablecloth.’
Hamish blushed with pride and plopped a spare frog into the Queen’s handbag.
‘I know!’ sang Mrs Groves. ‘Thanks to Olive’s wonderful menu planning, we also have lamingtons, fairy bread, crumpets and honey, choc-chip bickies and a fancy cake.’
Olive smiled and bit into a lamington. She hoped the Queen did not notice that there was a crazed woman beneath their table, polishing the silverware and arranging it in parallel lines by length and religion . . . or that Bullet Barnes and Carlos were stuffing dynamite and four fat corgis down Bullet’s cannon. The corgis had been given two options – be eaten by Venus flytraps or fired from a cannon. Tough choice, but I think they made the right one.
‘How fascinating!’ declared the Queen, lifting the edge of the tablecloth. ‘There is a crazed woman at our feet, polishing the silverware and arranging it in parallel lines by length and religion. One would be delighted to have just such a person at the palace to organise the royal cutlery. Someone meticulously organised and clean.’
Thistlebloom leapt out from under the table and cried, ‘I accept!’ She donned a fresh pair of rubber gloves, shook the Queen’s hand and ran out onto the porch, where she waited for the rest of the afternoon to be taken away to the palace.
‘Good grief,’ moaned Olive.
‘Despicable! That woman is completely bonkers!’ snapped the Inspector, conveniently forgetting that it was he who had sent Thistlebloom to the school in the first place.
‘Cake time!’ announced Mrs Groves.
The cook staggered into the dining room bearing the seven-tiered wedding cake. She placed it before the Queen, stepped back, curtseyed and gasped. The beautiful marzipan bride with her freshly repaired head was gone! In her place stood a fat white rat embracing the groom.
‘I love you! I love you! I love you!’ crooned Blimp. He licked the groom’s cheeks, nibbled his ear and bit off his nose.
‘Monster!’ shrieked the cook.
‘Bombs away!’ cried Splash Gordon. Plummeting from the ceiling rafters, he belly-flopped right on top of Blimp and his beloved groom. The magnificent cake collapsed and icing splattered across the table, up the walls and over the Queen.
‘There is no order or respect in this school!’ shouted the Inspector, waving a crutch in the air.
‘That is not true!’ cried Olive. ‘Well, perhaps the bit about there being no order. But there is respect . . . and love . . . and practical help. Look!’
Scruffy bounded up onto the table and licked the cake from the Queen’s face. Shaggy dragged her from the chair onto the floor and licked the icing from her ears. Bozo and Boffo drew alongside in their little red fire engine, rolled out the fire hose and sprayed her beige dress and shoes clean.
Voilà! The Queen was as good as new.
Albeit soggy . . . and bedraggled . . . and perhaps a little stunned.
‘My cake!’ gasped the cook, and she chased Splash Gordon and Blimp around and around the dining room with a frying pan.
Olive, ever ready to take control of a tricky situation, helped the Queen to her feet. ‘Do you like playing games, Your Majesty?’
The Queen nodded. She wrung out the hem of her dress and followed Olive outside, where they spent a delightful afternoon in the garden, playing party games. Pass the Parcel ended rather abruptly when the prize turned out to be a stick of dynamite . . . with a very short wick . . . that was already sizzling. Thankfully, Olive was able to dispose of it quickly and safely by tossing it over the fence. It was just bad luck that it happened to land in the Queen’s golden carriage.
Musical Chairs, however, was an undeniable success, made wild and exciting by the layer of butter Reginald had spread on each and every seat. Helga slipped off her chair into the fish pond, Mrs Groves slipped off her chair into Mr Pennyfetherill’s open arms, and the Queen slipped off her chair and belly-slammed the Inspector. Three times. All good clean fun. Unless you count the butter smears on everyone’s bottoms.
As the shadows lengthened in the garden, the Queen declared, ‘Sadly, it is time for me to go.’ The royal face looked truly forlorn.
‘Never mind, dear,’ said Mrs Groves. ‘You are always welcome here at my esteemed boarding school. And we have a jolly little something prepared to send you on your way.’
Bullet Barnes dragged his cannon across the yard. ‘A four-corgi salute!’ he shouted.
Sparky lit the fuse.
Carlos cried, ‘Three! Two! One! Blast-off!’
KABOOM!
The Queen’s corgis shot from the cannon, their tails smouldering, their ears flapping heroically in the wind. They sailed over the apple orchard, over the tram track, over the houses, over the city centre and into the harbour, where they landed on a pirate ship bound for Trinidad.
‘Astonishing!’ gasped the Queen.
And she might have been more upset if Wally the wombat had not, at that very moment, burrowed up out of the grass at her feet.
‘Your Majesty!’ cried Wally. He brushed the dirt off his paws, bowed deeply and presented the Queen with a hundred paper cranes and a tan and white Chihuahua.
‘Aw, nice,’ sighed Wordsworth. ‘All’s well that ends well.’
‘But what about the corgis?’ asked Chester.
‘We’ll figure something out,’ said Olive. ‘We always do.’