Olive stood at the bottom of the steps and stared. The sign that hung at the front of the rambling old mansion was quite a surprise: Mrs Groves’ Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers.
‘Good grief,’ said Olive.
She set her brown suitcase down on the ground, read the words once more and wrinkled her nose. She did not, however, despair.
Olive was, you see, a sensible and practical girl. She ate peas with a spoon and folded her toast together like a sandwich so that if dropped, it could not land jam-side down; she wore her jet-black hair long enough to pull back into a ponytail, but short enough that it was easy to keep clean and tangle free; she kept small snacks under her pillow in case of midnight hunger pangs; and she arranged all of her clothes in alphabetical order.
So when Mrs Groves’ Boarding School turned out to be a boarding school for a strange variety of pupils, none of which were little girls, Olive did not press the back of her hand to her brow and burst into tears. She did not hold her breath and stamp her feet in a little tantrum. She did not clench her fists and shout rude words like ‘poo’ and ‘ear wax’ and ‘snot’. She simply squared her shoulders, said, ‘Good grief,’ two or three more times, then proceeded to think of a way in which she could gain entry to the school.
She simply must think of a way. Granny and Pop had, after all, made huge sacrifices – including their weekly chook raffle money – in order to give Olive this splendid opportunity; the opportunity to attend a boarding school where she could get a fine education and mix with other children her own age.
Olive had lived with Granny and Pop in the sleepy little town of Burradoon for the last eight years. Burradoon did not have a school, for Olive was the only child there. The next youngest resident was Deidre Jong, and she was at least seventy-three years of age.
Granny and Pop had home-schooled their beloved granddaughter and had done a marvellous job of it. Not only could ten-year-old Olive read and write big words like ‘arthritis’ and ‘conflagration’, she could also grow large and tasty tomatoes, add Scrabble scores together in her head, scrub a pair of false teeth to a pearly white sheen and bake a pineapple upside-down cake that would melt in your mouth and bring tears to your eyes.
However, Granny and Pop had long been concerned that Olive did not have the opportunity to mix with other children. Mrs Groves’ Boarding School was to provide just such an opportunity.
It might seem a little unusual that Olive and her grandparents had not read the name of Mrs Groves’ Boarding School more carefully. You will understand, though, when I explain that their mailbox was inhabited by a large blue-tongue lizard called Lipton.
Still don’t get it?
Really?
Oh, alright, I’ll spell it out for you.
An advertisement for Mrs Groves’ Boarding School was delivered and sat in the mailbox for three hours before being collected. Lipton grew hungry or bored – it is hard to tell with blue-tongue lizards – and ate the top right-hand side of the advertisement, specifically those words that said ‘for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers’. Olive collected the mail. Everyone was thrilled to see the advertisement for Mrs Groves’ Boarding School with astonishingly affordable fees. Olive was enrolled by mail and taken to the city by train the very next week.
Three blocks from the school, Olive had declared, ‘Farewells are dreadful. Let’s just say “hoo-roo” here on the street, as though we are going to meet again in an hour or two.’
Granny nodded, but could not even say ‘hoo’ through the lump in her throat, let alone ‘hoo-roo’. Olive was the apple of her eye and she did not know how she would pass the days without her.
Pop handed Olive his war medal. ‘This is for you,’ he said. ‘Wear this always, Olive, to remind you that you are brave and clever and precious.’
They kissed and hugged and kissed again, then went their separate ways – Granny and Pop back to the train station, Olive to the street on which Mrs Groves’ Boarding School stood.
And so here she was, alone, at the bottom of the steps, saying, ‘Good grief!’
And then, ‘How on earth am I going to be allowed into this unusual school?’
And then, ‘I probably need to say that I am a naughty boy . . . or a talking animal . . . or a circus performer . . .’
Olive was on the cusp of making a decision about which one she could best pretend to be when the front door of the grand old building swung open. A short, plump woman bustled out onto the porch and dithered about at the top of the stairs, her white mobcap wobbling this way and that.
‘Hello,’ said Olive.
‘Oh dear!’ gasped the woman. ‘She even sounds like a simple, ordinary, everyday girl!’ Then, fumbling in her apron pocket, she drew out a large gold fob watch.
‘Hello!’ said Olive, a little louder this time. ‘You must be Mrs Groves.’
‘Who wants to know?’ asked the woman, now blinking rapidly, her cheeks glowing a deep red.
‘Me, of course,’ said Olive with a little giggle. ‘I’m Olive. I’m here to attend your school.’
Mrs Groves peered down at her. ‘We don’t have your type here,’ she whispered. ‘What sort of school do you think I run?’
Olive stared up at the sign once more and made a quick decision.
‘I belong!’ she cried. ‘Look. It says so on your sign.’
Mrs Groves, poor scatterbrained woman, let the fob watch slip back into her pocket, trotted down the stairs and looked up at the sign that hung from the front porch. She mouthed the words as she read them silently to herself, then stared at Olive through her tiny gold spectacles.
‘You are obviously not a naughty boy,’ she declared. ‘And you are not an animal, although you can certainly talk . . . You are not a time traveller because that is no longer written on the sign. Time travellers are so scarce nowadays, you see. Such a shame! . . . Hmmm. You must be a circus performer!’
‘Yes,’ agreed Olive.
Secretly, she was thinking, ‘Oh, bother. If I had come prepared, it would have been so much easier to act as a naughty boy.’ But it was too late now, because she was already here, wearing a tartan skirt and a pretty red ribbon in her hair, so she must make the best of things.
‘Yes!’ cried Olive again, a little more enthusiastically this time. ‘I am a circus performer.’
Mrs Groves did not look convinced. ‘Your skill?’ she asked.
‘My skill . . .’ said Olive, looking sideways and shuffling her feet. ‘My skill . . .’
At that moment, the afternoon calm was broken by an ear-splitting KABOOM!
A boy wearing a red leotard, a green cape and a silver crash helmet shot through an upstairs attic window, sending splinters of glass showering down around Olive and Mrs Groves. Olive stared, her mouth wide open, as the boy flew through the sky and disappeared into the distance between several large industrial buildings.
‘I am not a human cannonball,’ said Olive with great certainty.
Mrs Groves breathed a sigh of relief.
‘And I am definitely not a lion tamer or an elephant trainer,’ Olive continued. It was far easier to decide what she could not possibly pretend to be, rather than what she could pretend to be. ‘I am not a ringmaster. Nor am I one of those people who throws knives at other people and hopes to goodness that they don’t accidentally get one stuck through their left ear or their right kneecap.’
Mrs Groves pulled a lace handkerchief out of her apron pocket and fanned her face.
‘I know!’ cried Olive, suddenly struck by inspiration. ‘I am an acrobat!’
Mrs Groves’ face was filled with doubt, so Olive danced a little jig, did two wobbly cartwheels and ended up in a half-curtsey, one hand behind and one stretched out in front.
‘Ta-da!’
Olive smiled her brightest smile and thought to herself, ‘I do love leaping around when I am pretending to be a ballerina . . . and I can do a somersault, although sometimes it is a little wonky . . . and I am not dreadfully afraid of heights . . .’
Then, feeling a little less certain, she mused, ‘Acrobatics can’t be too different from climbing a tree or jumping off the chook shed into the pumpkin patch . . . can it?’
Olive’s private worryings were interrupted by the appearance of a goose’s head through the now-shattered window.
‘Fire! Fire!’ yelled the goose. ‘The toilet paper is on fire! The toilet seat is on fire! The toilet door is on fire!’ The poor bird rolled her eyes and fell into a swoon, her neck and head hanging over the edge of the windowsill.
Several small explosions could be heard from inside the building, followed by screaming, barking, giggling, growling and something that sounded like a trombone being played in a bucket of water. A flaming roll of toilet paper flew out of the window, caught in the branches of an oak tree and set the dry autumn leaves on fire. It was quite spectacular.
Mrs Groves pulled her fob watch from her apron pocket, peered at its face and exclaimed, ‘Goodness gracious me! Is that the time? I really must be going!’
She would have dashed back up the stairs and disappeared into the safety of her school, except that Olive grabbed her by the skirt and asked, ‘What about me?’
Mrs Groves blinked rapidly and declared, ‘You have until the end of the week to prove yourself a satisfactory pupil. If you pass probation, you can stay. If you do not pass probation, you must leave at once.’
Olive smiled.
‘Just until Friday,’ the headmistress warned.
Olive stopped smiling and nodded.
‘Your room is in the turret,’ said Mrs Groves, trotting back up the steps to the front door. ‘Up three flights of stairs, along the narrow corridor, up the spiral staircase and through the little green door with the round brass knob. Don’t tread on your roommates. Dinner is at six o’clock sharp. Don’t be late. We don’t like students being late for meals.’
And she was gone.
Olive stared up at the grand old mansion. She shook her head at the shattered window with the unconscious goose draped over the sill. She gaped at the puffs of smoke that were starting to billow out between the shingles. And she read, once again, the sign that hung from the front porch: Mrs Groves’ Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers.
A large, burning oak branch fell to the ground behind her.
‘Good grief!’ said Olive once more.
Then, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she picked up her suitcase and marched up the steps to her new school.