Wordsworth returned to the garden, clutching a wad of scrunched and tattered papers. He dropped them on the pavers and scampered back and forth, sorting and smoothing out the sheets with his little grey paws.
‘There!’ he cried, stepping back. He smiled and twitched his nose.
Mrs Groves peered out between the leaves of the privet hedge.
‘I took this from Pig McKenzie’s apartment when I was stealing words,’ said Wordsworth. ‘I never used to steal words because until a couple of days ago I had my very own dictionary.’ He frowned at Pig McKenzie. The pig shrugged, leaned back against a tree and inspected his front trotters for mud.
‘I stole dozens and dozens of pieces of paper containing words, words, words,’ Wordsworth explained. ‘I tore pages from library books, ripped continents from maps for the names of countries and cities, stole recipes from the kitchen and raided rubbish bins for discarded letters, newspapers and shopping lists. I scrunched up all the pieces of paper and stuffed them into my nest under Olive’s bed. I have been tunnelling, wallowing and sleeping in so many words that some of them must have seeped through my furry head and into my brain. Before breakfast this morning, I was able to recite a whole love scene from Romeo and Juliet. While we were down at the harbour, my tummy began to rumble because the entire recipe for chocolate self-saucing pudding was spinning through my head. And just now, I realised what these particular words were saying!’
Pig McKenzie snapped to attention and narrowed his eyes.
Wordsworth smiled, cleared his throat, looked up to make sure that everyone was listening, then spoke. ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?’ He stopped and wrinkled his nose. ‘Sorry, wrong page.’
He scrunched the love scene into a tight ball, handed it to Chester for safekeeping and began once more. ‘Dear Pig McKenzie. Please find enclosed a cheque for the amount of five hundred dollars, for the sale of one talking moose to Olaf’s Zoo of Norway. Our agent will be in contact next week to finalise the sale of three rats to Brown’s Experimental Laboratory, one goose to Nibbles Restaurant and one rabbit to the Museum of Natural Science for a display of stuffed burrowing creatures.’
‘Oh no!’ cried Mrs Groves, popping up above the hedge. ‘Some poor little innocent rabbit is about to be sold to a museum and have unmentionable things done to his anatomy!’
‘That’s Reuben!’ explained Olive. ‘Pig McKenzie is going to sell our beloved Reuben, Mrs Groves.’
‘And Chester, Wordsworth and me!’ cried Blimp.
‘And me!’ shrieked Glenda.
Surprisingly, the goose did not faint, but began to sharpen her beak by rubbing it back and forth against the concrete boot of one of the garden gnomes.
Mrs Groves leapt out from behind the hedge. She looked at Pig McKenzie. She scanned the crowd of anxious faces before her. ‘But he has always been such a kind and thoughtful pig!’ she protested.
Wordsworth coughed politely and held up the letter.
Mrs Groves took the page, pushed her glasses further up her nose and read the despicable evidence, her face glowing redder and redder as she mouthed each word. She gasped. The letter fell from her hand and fluttered to the grass.
Tiny Tim tugged on her apron. ‘He stole my toffee apples,’ he said, ‘and threw me down the laundry chute.’
‘He stole my favourite pink unitard and used it to polish his trophies,’ said Anastasia.
‘They were my trophies,’ said Alfonzo. ‘He stole them from my room.’
‘He flushed my head down the toilet,’ said Jabber. ‘Every Friday for the last two years.’
‘He kicked the milkman.’
‘He locked me in my wardrobe for three weeks.’
‘He made me eat worms for breakfast.’
‘He made me eat pickled cabbage for breakfast.’
‘He stole my birthday,’ said Eduardo, ‘and Olive’s precious medal.’
‘It’s my medal!’ snorted the pig. ‘It was awarded to me for bravery after I climbed to the top of Mount Everest, in the middle of a blizzard, wearing nothing more than my shorts and a pair of thermal socks, to rescue an endangered pink and purple panda, three fluffy kittens and four foreignaid workers who had lost their way! I am a sensational, valiant pig of pure heart and good intentions, and I have the trophies and medal to prove it!’
Mrs Groves frowned a little. ‘Pink and purple pandas are not endangered,’ she said, slowly and thoughtfully. ‘Only the black and white ones.’
She leaned forward and read aloud the inscription on the medal that hung from Pig McKenzie’s jacket. ‘Awarded to Henry Hamilton, for bravery at the Front.’
‘That’s my pop!’ cried Olive. ‘Poppy Henry!’
Mrs Groves stepped back and stared at the troubled faces of her students. She looked at Pig McKenzie as though really seeing him for the very first time. ‘Oh my!’ she gasped.
She gawked at the toffee-apple dribble on his shirt, the stolen peppermints spilling from his pockets, the evil glint in his eyes. ‘You Wicked Pig!’ she whispered.
Pig McKenzie stumbled backwards as though she had slapped him in the face.
‘You Disgraceful Swine!’ she said, a little louder.
Pig McKenzie snuffled in disgust.
‘You Hideous Hog!’ Mrs Groves was now shouting. ‘Get out of my school this instant!’
Pig McKenzie rolled his eyes. He stamped his trotters. He snorted so hard that a piece of spinach from last night’s dinner blew out of his snout and stuck on Mrs Groves’ cheek. ‘Take that back!’ he snarled in a voice low and menacing.
‘How dare you tell Mrs Groves what to do!’ snapped Olive. She rushed to the headmistress’ side and seized her hand. ‘Mrs Groves might well be the silliest headmistress on earth, but we love her and we are sick of you bossing her – and us – around.’
Mrs Groves blushed. ‘Why thank you, Olive,’ she cooed. Then turning to Pig McKenzie, she snatched the medal from his jacket and yelled at the top of her lungs, ‘Out, Vile Pig!’
The pig hesitated, but was helped on his way when Glenda the goose delivered three sharp pecks to his bottom, Tiny Tim kicked him in the shins and Boffo hit him across the back of the head with his oversized clown shoe. Olive grabbed a pitchfork from the vegie patch and chased him around the garden gnomes, over the compost heap, through the dahlia bed, out the front gate and down the street.
As he fled, Pig McKenzie looked back over his shoulder and shook his front trotter defiantly in the air – a foolish thing to do, for he did not notice the loose manhole in front of him, tripped and fell. He splashed down into the subterranean sewers, where he was whisked away in a stream of dirty dishwater, soggy toilet paper and floaty brown objects.
As he disappeared into the murky depths of the city’s underground, he squealed, ‘I’ll get you for this, Oxygen!’
