Olive found herself alone in the entrance hall. All of the students had dashed outside for a play before their music lesson. Except for Glenda the goose, who was making a nest on the sofa.
Olive put her hands on her hips and stared at the red carpet. She ran her toe back and forth along the edge. ‘Hmmm.’ She leaned forward and pressed her palms into its cushiony pile. ‘Soft.’
Casting a nervous glance towards the cupboard beneath the stairs, she muttered, ‘I suppose this is as good a time as any to practise my acrobatics.’ It would be ever so useful if she could learn to do three handsprings in a row without running into a wall, falling flat on her face, or passing out from dizziness. Even two would be an achievement.
‘Furthermore,’ she said out loud, ‘concentrating on a new skill is a wonderful way to forget one’s troubles.’
Cracking her knuckles, shaking her feet, Olive launched into action. Up and down the red carpet she flew, legs thrashing, skirt flapping like the wings of an agitated turkey.
‘I can do this!’ she declared, refusing to give up. Even when her cardigan bunched up around her face. Even when Mrs Groves’ new vase went flying from its pedestal.
But suddenly, a voice loud and shrill cut through the air and broke her concentration. It was coming from outside.
‘Paint. There will need to be a fresh coat of paint all over – walls, window frames, shutters, doors, tree trunks, grass . . . Oh no! Those steps are positively filthy! Still, it is nothing that a few days’ sweeping, scrubbing and polishing can’t fix . . . That dinosaur will have to be dealt with. I can’t have prehistoric monsters running along the rooftops . . . especially not if they are throwing shingles and bricks down at passers-by . . . OUCH! . . . And that door! Why, I can see every greasy paw print from the last two decades smeared all over the brass handle!’
The front door of Groves flew open for the second time that afternoon, and onto the red carpet stepped two sensible black shoes. The shoes were connected to a tall, thin woman. Her eyes were small and piercing, her nose was long and sharp, and her lips were pressed into a tight straight line that curved neither up nor down at the sides. She wore a heavy black pinafore and crisp white blouse. Her hair was pulled into an orderly bun.
‘Oh, mercy!’ shrieked Glenda the goose. ‘That woman is carrying a briefcase!’
Poor Glenda was a goose of frayed nerves and muddled intellect. There was a great deal in life that perplexed and terrified her, including cherries, carpet fluff, the nine times tables and briefcases. One never could be sure what lay inside a briefcase. Handbags, biscuit tins and packages that arrived in the mail were similarly disturbing.
‘A briefcase!’ she honked once more. Flapping up onto the arm of the sofa, she clacked her beak and wagged her tail feathers. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she plopped to the floor in a dead faint.
‘I am Francine Thistlebloom,’ declared the visitor. ‘I demand the immediate removal of that dead duck from the premises.’
Olive giggled. ‘Glenda’s a goose and she’s not dead, just overwhelmed. She’ll be right in a minute or two.’
Francine Thistlebloom pressed her lips so tightly together that they almost vanished.
Our heroine kept smiling. This unusual woman might not have remembered to put on her manners with her stockings and singlet this morning, but that was no reason for Olive to be rude. Stepping forward, she held out her hand and said, ‘Welcome to Mrs Groves’ Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers. My name is Olive and I am the school captain.’
Francine Thistlebloom looked down her nose at Olive’s hand. She sighed. ‘The Inspector of Schools did not say anything about having to touch students.’
‘Aha,’ thought Olive. ‘The Inspector! She must be a new teacher sent to Groves. Interesting . . . and a little disturbing.’ Then, offering her hand once more, she said in her cheeriest voice, ‘It’s just a handshake, Miss Thistlebloom. For being friendly.’
‘It’s Thistlebloom. Not Miss or Mrs or any other unnecessary embellishments.’ The woman flicked some invisible dust from her collar. Then, marching across to the hall table, she deposited her briefcase, flipped the lid and perused its contents.
Olive and Pig McKenzie also perused its contents.
Pig McKenzie had, you see, opened the cupboard door, just a fraction, and was watching everything with great interest. Watching and learning. Knowledge is power and, oh my wordy-birdy, the pig did long for power!
‘Wow!’ gasped Olive, leaning over the briefcase. ‘That’s impressive. You’re a very organised person, Thistlebloom.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘I arrange my clothes in alphabetical order,’ explained Olive. ‘It makes it ever so quick and easy to dress each morning.’
Thistlebloom stared at Olive for a moment, then nodded. ‘Good idea.’
They both looked down at the briefcase once more. Rulers, pens, notepads, white paper bags, rubber gloves, snowy white handkerchiefs folded into perfect squares, three small bottles of disinfectant, a bell, gold star stickers and a red apple were all arranged with military precision.
‘Gold stars!’ cheered Olive. ‘I love gold stars.’ And she bunny-hopped in a little circle, clapping her hands.
‘Yes, they are appealing,’ agreed Thistlebloom. ‘Although it has been some time since I have found a student deserving. The last gold star I awarded was eleven years ago. I remember it well. Seven-year-old Alfred Jameson achieved one hundred per cent in a mathematics exam that he completed under water while swimming Bass Strait. His writing was a little messy, the ink having run in the water, but I gave him a star anyway.’
‘That’s astonishing!’ gasped Olive.
‘Yes, I suppose I was overly generous,’ said Thistlebloom. ‘He probably did not deserve it. Tidy handwriting is dreadfully important. It is an undervalued skill nowadays.’
Olive wrinkled her nose, confused.
Thistlebloom pulled a monocle from a small pocket on the breast of her pinafore, wedged it into her right eye socket and leaned forward. After a great deal of deliberation, she chose the green bottle of disinfectant and sprayed it liberally over Olive. Then, donning a pair of rubber gloves, she held out her hand.
‘You seem like a sensible girl,’ she declared, ‘despite the bunny-hopping . . . and the cardigan with all the buttons chewed off . . . I have decided that you may shake my hand.’ The straight line of her mouth widened a little.
‘Why, she’s smiling!’ thought Olive. She returned the smile and gave the hand a hearty shake.
Thistlebloom sprayed disinfectant into the air between herself and Olive, returned the bottle to the briefcase and snapped the lid shut.
Olive stifled another giggle.
‘Now,’ Thistlebloom demanded, ‘take me to your leader.’
I know! It sounds just like something an alien would say upon landing on planet Earth. And indeed, it might have been far more pleasant for Olive, Mrs Groves and the rest of the school had they been invaded by aliens rather than Francine Thistlebloom. Alas, we do not get to choose our misfortunes. They are thrust upon us and we must make the best that we can of these bad situations.
And that is exactly what our heroine determined to do.
‘Music!’ thought Olive. ‘Everyone likes music.’
She reached out to take the rubber-gloved hand in hers, but thought better of it. Instead, she beckoned with her finger and led Francine Thistlebloom up the grand staircase and into the library.
And the pig?
He ran to the bathroom and washed every trace of mud and filth from his body – an enormous task for he was large of girth and plentiful of grime. He polished his snout, donned a stiffly starched, clean white vest and tied a black satin ribbon around the stump of his tail. He then returned to his cupboard, locked the door and made mysterious banging, scraping and rattling noises. Noises that might have aroused suspicion had they not been drowned out by the even more mysterious sounds that were soon emanating from Mrs Groves’ music lesson upstairs.