In which we find proof that crumpets always land on the floor honey-side down
‘You’re a bad pig!’ scolded Fumble. ‘A very bad pig.’
Olive stopped and stared. The moose, normally so quiet and gentle, had worked himself into a frenzy.
‘And not only are you bad, you are mean and nasty and cruel and . . . and . . . nasty . . . very, very nasty . . . and bad!’
Olive walked across the entrance hall and placed her hand on the moose’s back. ‘Fumble,’ she said. ‘Don’t waste your words.’
‘No! Don’t stop me. I’m on a roll!’ he cried, swiping her hand away with his antler. ‘You’re a bad pig . . . and I am warning you, that if you do one more bad thing to any one of my friends, or even think of doing a bad thing, I’ll take your curly pink tail in my teeth, chomp it off and dance on it with my hooves until it is as straight as an arrow . . . and then . . . and then . . . I will flush it down the toilet!’
‘Fumble! I think you should stop!’ shouted Olive, yanking at his ear.
‘Oh dear!’ he gasped, shoving his front hooves into his mouth. ‘I’m so sorry you had to hear that, Olive.’
‘Don’t bother yourself,’ said Olive. ‘I am just sorry that the pig has not heard one single word because you are, in fact, talking to a pot plant!’
Olive led Fumble into the dining room for breakfast, where he put tomato sauce on his pancakes, sprinkled salt on his porridge and spread butter and blueberry jam all over Tiny Tim’s hand instead of his toast. Reginald watched from the far side of the table, fascinated, and decided that he, too, might add something extra to his butter-spreading regimen – a bit of marmalade, perhaps, or peanut butter . . . layers of sliced cucumber, cream cheese and cranberry jelly if he was feeling particularly adventurous.
‘I’ve never lost my temper before,’ said Fumble, when he had finished his breakfast and wiped his mouth on Olive’s shirtsleeve.
Olive poked at the clean serviette by the moose’s side. ‘Pig McKenzie does that,’ she said. ‘Not only is he a thief, a liar and a villain, but he brings out the worst in all of us. I have never ever stolen anything in my entire life until last night.’
‘What did you steal?’ asked Chester.
‘Nothing,’ said Olive, thinking of the lies she had been telling too.
Oh dear! It was time to start telling the truth.
Well, not the entire truth. That would be silly.
Olive would not want to confess to being a simple, ordinary, everyday girl. She had only just convinced Mrs Groves that she was an acrobat and really did belong. And the week was marching on! Tomorrow was Friday, the end of her probation.
Besides, Mrs Groves was terrified of girls and Olive needed the headmistress to be relaxed and calm so that she would listen to every word regarding Pig McKenzie.
Now those words would be the truth and nothing but the horrible truth.
‘Oh dear! Somebody is knocking at my parlour door!’ cried Mrs Groves. ‘I wonder who it could be at this dreadfully late hour of the night!’
‘It’s a quarter past eight in the morning,’ called Olive from the corridor.
‘Oh, so it is,’ clucked Mrs Groves. ‘Well, I wonder who it could be at this dreadfully early hour of the morning!’
‘It’s me!’ Olive shouted through the keyhole. ‘Olive the acrobat.’
‘I’m a little busy right now,’ called the headmistress. ‘I’m eating my breakfast and trying to unravel myself.’
‘I just want to talk,’ said Olive. ‘It won’t take long.’
There was a pause, then Mrs Groves asked, ‘Do you like crumpets and honey?’
‘Yes,’ Olive replied, quite honestly, for who on earth has ever heard of a ten-year-old girl who didn’t?
There was another long pause, then, ‘Are you good at unravelling difficult tangles?’
Olive thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, ‘but I am happy to try.’
Mrs Groves threw open the door and cried, ‘Come in! Come in!’
Olive let out a little yelp of surprise. Hanging off the front of the headmistress’ apron was the ugliest, messiest piece of knitting Olive had ever seen. Both of Mrs Groves’ apron strings had been knitted in with the orange and blue yarn, together with a skipping rope, the keys to three of the classrooms, a piece of scrap paper bearing the telephone number for the Bomb Squad and an entire crumpet spread with butter and honey. Knots flourished throughout the whole.
‘I am sure I could untangle my apron from the knitting,’ explained Mrs Groves, trotting back to her armchair, ‘if only my left hand was not also knitted and knotted into the rest of it.’ She picked up a novel with her right hand and fanned her face. ‘I would have asked the rats to nibble me free, but they might damage the yarn, and I have been working for such a long time on this beautiful jumper.’
Olive knelt down in front of the headmistress and began to untangle the knitting. Her fingers were fast and dextrous after years of threading darning needles for Granny and plucking earwigs and baby caterpillars from Pop’s tomato plants.
‘There!’ she said, placing the last key on the breakfast table and draping the knitting over Mrs Groves’ knees.
‘Oh, how dreadfully clever of you, Olive!’ cried Mrs Groves. ‘Acrobats always have such a way with strings and ropes and wires . . . and crumpets that are tangled up in things.’
Olive smiled and sat in the chair opposite. ‘Mrs Groves, I need to tell you something.’
The headmistress fluttered her eyelashes.
‘It is a rather unpleasant thing, I’m afraid,’ continued Olive.
Mrs Groves fumbled around on the table, grabbed a crumpet and began to fan her face with it.
‘Actually,’ explained Olive, ‘it is really a number of unpleasant things.’
Mrs Groves dropped the crumpet, which, as always happens, landed honey-side down on the rug. She reached into her pocket, pulled out her large gold fob watch and stared at it. ‘Oh deary, deary me!’ she cried. ‘Is that the time? I really must be going!’ She leapt to her feet and dashed to the door, but her exit was blocked.
Both Mrs Groves and Olive gasped at the same time.
One gasped with relief.
The other gasped in despair.
‘Pig McKenzie!’