‘Oh no!’ cried Olive as she dressed in her tartan skirt, white blouse and red cardigan the morning after the fair.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Chester, his little pink nose blushing deeply. ‘I couldn’t help myself. I know I shouldn’t steal. But I simply had to have the last button from your cardigan for my collection. It brings the total to thirty-seven buttons! Thirty-seven!’
Olive knelt down on the floor and scooped the hairy brown rat into her arms. ‘You’re welcome to my last button, Chester.’ She smiled, rubbing her nose against his. ‘Thirty-seven is an important milestone in the world of button collecting. I am very pleased for you. No, my disappointment is about this.’ She picked up a piece of paper that had fallen from her cardigan pocket.
‘Hmmm,’ said Blimp, peeping out from the rats’ nest beneath the bed. ‘Yes, I can see how that would cause you pain. It’s awfully disappointing when you think a rustling noise in your pocket is something exciting – like a bag of jelly babies – and it turns out to be nothing more than a boring piece of paper.’
‘But this is not just any piece of paper.’ Olive sighed. ‘This is an entry form for a competition. It was meant to go into that big barrel out the front of the Town Hall, but I was so busy with everything that happened at the school fair yesterday that I forgot.’
Wordsworth, who had been reading by the fire, closed his Little Blue Book of Wise and Witty Sayings and scampered across the rug. ‘May I?’ he asked, holding out his paw.
Olive passed him the entry form. He spread it out on the floor and ran back and forth, twitching his whiskers, mumbling as he read the words. ‘Hmmm . . . barrel draw . . . Town Hall . . . wonderful opportunity . . . one lucky school . . . mmm-mmm . . .’ He stopped and frowned at Olive. ‘What’s this blob of sticky red stuff in the middle here?’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Anastasia flicked a spoonful of jam at me during a food fight last Thursday. It must have gone into the pocket where I kept the entry form.’
‘Jam?’ screeched Blimp. ‘I love jam!’
He scurried across the floor, leapt onto Olive’s skirt and dived into her pocket. There, he proceeded to eat everything that contained even a hint of jam – a handkerchief, two balls of fluff, a pencil stub and a sizeable portion of cardigan.
Wordsworth rolled his eyes and continued to read on past the blob of jam. ‘Exclusive . . . aha . . . never to be repeated . . . oh yes . . . mmm . . . a visit from the Queen . . .’ He squeaked and stood up on his hind legs. He quivered a little, then shouted, ‘A visit from the Queen?!’
‘Yes,’ said Olive. ‘It would have been terribly fun if we had won, don’t you think?’
‘What’s all this talk about “would have” and “if”?’ scolded Wordsworth. ‘Look!’ He tapped the paper with his toe. ‘The fine print says that the draw is at ten o’clock this morning.’ Then running back to his Little Blue Book of Wise and Witty Sayings, he flipped it open and read aloud, ‘It’s not over until the fat lady sings!’
Blimp stuck his head through the hole he had chewed in Olive’s pocket. ‘Which fat lady?’
‘The one who sings,’ said Chester.
Olive peered down at the entry form. She tugged at her earlobe, scrunched her nose, then stared at the battered alarm clock on her bedside table. It was missing one of the bells, there was a piece of cheese instead of the number eight, and the hands moved in an anticlockwise direction, but Olive was used to its quirks and soon calculated the real time.
‘Half past nine,’ she announced. ‘If we hurry, we just might make it to the Town Hall before entries close.’
So they hurried.
And scurried.
And they made it, just in time – Olive, Wordsworth, Chester, Blimp and naughty boy Carlos, who had tagged along for the company. Actually, Carlos had tagged along in the hope of finding something new and exciting to blow up. And he was not disappointed.
However, I am running ahead of myself.
Ding-dong-bing-bong!
The bells in the Town Hall tower began to chime ten o’clock.
‘Wait!’ cried Olive, pushing through the crowd. ‘I have one last entry form!’
She managed to pop her slip of paper into the barrel a mere moment before the Mayor waddled out of his chambers and pronounced the deadline. Olive grinned and dashed back to where the rats were waiting.
The Mayor snapped shut the little trapdoor. He rolled the barrel around and around and around. He smiled benevolently upon the members of the community and told a very dull story about a parking meter and a bent twenty-cent piece.
Blimp scuttled up onto Olive’s shoulder. ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ he screeched. ‘Just draw out the winner!’
The Mayor blushed and did as he was told. He opened the door and dug his arm deep down into the sea of paper, where his fingers met with something gooey. ‘Uurk!’ He pulled out his hand. An entry form was stuck to it.
‘Heh, heh, heh,’ he chuckled. ‘It looks like we have a winner! I do think, however, it would be most fitting if our Inspector of Schools was to read the name of the lucky school!’
The Inspector stepped forward. He took the paper from the Mayor. He smiled hopefully at the students from Mr Samson’s Day School for Operatic Lads, Multilingual Goldfish and Brain Surgeons. He nodded respectfully at the school captain from Miss Highbury’s Evening School for Slender Girls, Dancing Gazelles and Embroiderers. He gave a little wave to the science master from Mrs Strudel-Huffington’s Alpine School for Whispering Children, Skiing Ducks and Astrophysicists.
‘And the lucky winner, who will be visited by the Queen this Friday, is . . .’ The Inspector unfolded the paper and gasped. ‘The winner . . .’ Sweat trickled down his brow and he let out a little sob. ‘The winner is . . . Mrs Groves’ Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers.’
‘Hooray!’ cried Olive, clapping and bunny-hopping around the town square.
‘A visit from the Queen!’ gasped Wordsworth. ‘What an honour, a privilege, a distinction and a rip-snorting thrill!’
‘A visit from the Queen!’ cheered Blimp. ‘We are sure to have a special afternoon tea with cupcakes and sandwiches cut into fetching little triangles! We might even have pink lemonade!’
‘A visit from the Queen!’ squeaked Chester. ‘I hope she wears something with buttons . . . lots of buttons . . . royal buttons!’
‘Nooooo!’ howled the Inspector of Schools. ‘It can’t be! Look! The draw has been rigged. There is jam on the entry form that caused it to stick to the Mayor’s hand. Redraw! I demand a redraw!’
Carlos tapped the Inspector on the shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Too late.’
Carlos smiled, crouched down on the steps in front of the Town Hall and stuck his fingers in his ears. He nodded at the Inspector to do the same.
KABOOM!
The barrel containing all of the remaining entries flew up into the air and disintegrated. A cloud of shredded paper hung in the air for a moment, then snowed down upon the crowd. Carlos had, of course, tossed a stick of dynamite in the barrel and was thrilled with the results.
The Inspector of Schools, however, felt otherwise.
‘Kaboom,’ he whispered. He took his fingers out of his ears and stood upright. He looked up into the sky from whither the snow was falling. ‘No more entry forms . . . No more redraws.’ He sobbed, ‘Ka-boo-hoo-hoom.’
He wandered away, across the town square, rubbing his stubbly chin where a beard had once grown thick and long. ‘Mrs Groves’ Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers . . .’ he muttered. ‘To be visited by the Queen . . . Her Majesty the Queen . . . Kaboom . . . I’m doomed.’