So Grotty! Page 4

  How am I going to find my Prince in that lot? she thought in despair.

  One man was cleaning his fingernails then picking his teeth—with the same twig! Another kept scratching and scratching. (I’m not going to tell you where). One had an obvious post-nasal drip and was trying to clear it by ejecting a steady stream of mucus at the palace wall. It looked like a urinal in an arctic winter.

  Princess Gladys shuddered. What am I getting myself in for? she wailed silently. Just as she was about to turn from her unsightly view something caught her eye. Being short-sighted she peered closer, closer and closer, when whoops! She fell—landing in a fresh pile of horse manure.

  ‘Errgh!’ said the man with the nasal problem and he stepped away.

  ‘Uggh!’ said the man with the skin irritation and he stepped away, too.

  ‘Here!’ came a voice.

  Princess Gladys looked up. The man with the fingernail teeth was offering her his twig.

  ‘Yuck!’ said Princess Gladys. Ignoring the twig she stomped in frustration, a silly thing to do, given the circumstances. Horse manure plunked into the air and landed all over her face. A word tore from Princess Gladys’s lips. It rhymed with muck and it didn’t start with ‘y’. Pulling herself to her feet she staggered to the palace door. With every step the crowd parted, cries of ‘Worse than an over-ripe banana,’ and ‘Who died?’ or ‘Who dropped the big one?’ ringing in her ears.

  Princess Gladys raced to her bedchamber where her maids scrubbed and scrubbed, then scrubbed some more. When her mother arrived Princess Gladys howled asking, ‘Who’s going to want to marry me? My feet reek and I look like an overcooked prawn.’

  ‘Hush, child,’ said Queen Essie. ‘Many’s the man who will find you attractive.’

  ‘Only the blind ones with a blocked nose,’ cried Princess Gladys and she locked herself in her room, refusing to come out despite her mother’s best efforts. King Dom took a firm stand and pounded on her door, demanding to be let in. Still Princess Gladys refused to come out. Cook was summonsed to bake all her favourites—like chocolate cake and apple crumble and sticky date pudding with caramel sauce.

  And that worked.

  Princess Gladys sat and stuffed her face and despite what those diet gurus and food critics say she felt HEAPS better afterwards. So much so that she ordered Cook to bake cakes all night and all the next day in preparation for her wedding.

  ‘But that’ll be far too much food,’ cried Cook. ‘We won’t be able to eat it all.’

  Princess Gladys walked to the window and gestured to the thousands of men assembled there. ‘They can have it. Let them eat cake.’ And with that she turned around and flounced back to her room saying, ‘I’m off! To bed, that is. I need all the beauty sleep I can get.’

  Back in the Forest

  What Baby Bare hadn’t realised was that he wasn’t to look for an actual track, he was to look for an absence of track—like looking at the white space instead of the words. He’d been peering so hard at the rabbit poo that he’d forgotten to notice the grass underneath and it was the grass that caught his attention. It was long, and luscious, nothing like grass in a rabbit infestation should look. And it was while he was pondering this dilemma that out from behind a toadstool leapt…

  ‘Umberto!’

  The rabbit did not even pause. With head down and whiskers buried deep in a stopwatch it dashed straight past Baby Bare and into the forest.

  But this time Baby Bare was prepared. This time he gave chase, staying hot on Umberto’s hindquaters. ‘Umberto,’ he called again. ‘Umberto!’

  Suddenly Baby Bare careered into the softest whitest cotton tail he’d ever set eyes on.

  ‘Excuse me, sir!’ growled Umberto. ‘I’m late. I am very, very late.’ His whiskers twitched but his ears stood ramrod straight. Every millisecond or so his eyes would dart to his stopwatch, then hone back in on Baby Bare.

  ‘But I need to speak to you,’ interrupted Baby Bare. ‘It’s about Princess Gladys.’

  At the mention of Princess Gladys, Umberto got all twitchy again. ‘I heard about that,’ he said. Baby Bare waited. With another quick glance at his stopwatch Umberto took off. Umberto may have been quick but Baby Bare was quicker. With a paw faster than the eye he tripped Umberto, sending him sprawling. Baby Bare sat on him, pinning him to the grass.

  ‘Geddorf me!’ cried Umberto, wriggling and kicking, trying to thump Baby Bare with his strong hind legs.

  ‘We need you,’ said Baby Bare in a firm, strong voice. ‘The kingdom needs you and Princess Gladys needs you.’ And with that Baby Bare went on to explain the search for a husband, his own role in it, and the small problem of the Princess’s feet. ‘If you’d only come and clean up her feet,’ finished Baby Bare. ‘She’d be eternally grateful.’

  Umberto’s eyes narrowed. His nostrils dilated. He developed an unsavoury smile. ‘Eternally, did you say? Eternally grateful?’ With cash register eyes Umberto calculated his profit.

  ‘Externally grateful, I meant,’ said Baby bare, thinking quickly. ‘With fragrant feet Princess Gladys will be externally grateful.’ When Umberto continued to lie there, saying nothing, Baby Bare lost his temper. ‘All you rabbits are the same,’ he said. ‘Your cousin Peter was just as bad. You only think of yourselves. You don’t think of the good of the warren.’ Baby Bare snorted in contempt before proceeding. ‘All the while thinking, What’s in it for me? What’s in it for me? instead of thinking, How can we all gain?’

  Umberto had the grace to blush. At least Baby Bare thought he was blushing. Either that or he’d popped a major blood vessel from Baby Bare sitting on him. Finally, Umberto said, ‘I’ll come with you. I’ll come and help Princess Gladys. Now let me up, you idiot, before you grind me into tomato sauce.’

  Return to the Palace

  By the time Baby Bare and Umberto arrived back at the palace it was midday, Friday.

  ‘Thank goodness!’ cried Princess Gladys when she spotted them. ‘You’re just in time.’

  Princess Gladys sat on a tall throne on a dais. She was dressed in a long white gown, intricately embroidered with roses and forget-me-nots. Her hair was swept up in a complicated arrangement of small plaits and on her feet…

  Actually, you couldn’t see her feet under all that flowing material. Which was just as well as anyone who’d snuck a peek would have been horrified to see that her feet were swathed in animal fur—a bit like the woolly slippers of today. And where were those delicate slippers with ridiculously high heels that brides are supposed to wear? They were in her bedroom, waiting for Umberto to perform his magic.

  In front of Princess Gladys stretched a red carpet, all the way to the back of the hall.

  Princess Gladys looks like a bride, thought Baby Bare. And he sighed, a deep he art-wrenching sigh normally reserved for funerals or lost wallets. Where’s the groom? he wondered.

  The room was wall-to-wall grooms. Tall grooms and short grooms, old grooms and young grooms, fat grooms and skinny grooms. And every one wore a peg. Interesting wedding photos, thought Baby Bare.

  Princess Gladys sobbed, ‘Thank goodness you’ve come Baby Bare. And you’ve brought Umberto.’

  ‘Wee Willy Winky Bare!’ called Mama Bare, rushing to give him a hug.

  ‘Wee Willy Winky Bare!’ cried Papa Bare, shaking his paw.

  Baby Bare clenched his paws. He gritted his teeth. Digging deep into the pit of his stomach he pulled up the loudest, the deepest, the growliest voice he could muster and said, ‘My name is not Wee Willy Winky Bare!’

  Mama Bare’s arms dropped to her sides as she staggered back.

  Papa Bare froze, with paw outstretched.

  Baby Bare cleared his throat. He threw back his shoulders and puffed out his chest saying, ‘My name is Bare.’

  ‘Hello, Bare,’ said Princess Gladys.

  ‘Princess Gladys,’ said Bare, bowing low.

  ‘You may rise, Bare,’ she said. Then Princess Gladys gave Bare a bear hug he would never forget. ‘Tha
nk you, Bare,’ she whispered.

  King Dom and Queen Essie sailed into the room.

  Hope she doesn’t recognise me, thought Bare, slightly averting his head from Queen Essie. But she had other things on her mind.

  King Dom and Queen Essie marched over, planting themselves beside their thrones. King Dom turned to Princess Gladys, then gestured to all the men. ‘It is time,’ he said. ‘Time for you to become a bride. Which of these fine men do you choose?’

  Princess Gladys got to her feet. She could feel the rough hides on her soles. She looked around the room. As her eye fell on each suitor, he would step forward and bow.

  Bare watched Princess Gladys. He noticed how her chest heaved with every breath, how her hand fluttered to her throat and how her eyes grew moist and round. She’s not ready, he realised. Startling the king he proclaimed in his big booming voice, ‘She needs more time.’

  The hall grew hushed. How could Bare dare?

  ‘Time to make her final ablutions,’ repeated Bare.

  The King pursed his lips. He clutched at his sceptre. His knuckles grew white.

  Leaning over, the Queen whispered in his ear and when that didn’t work she stroked his head and gave him a neck massage until eventually the King said, ‘Very well.’

  Princess Gladys gave a little nod in Bare’s direction. Snatching Umberto by the paw she dragged him to her chamber, calling for her maid to join them.

  The church bell pealed five times.

  A cheer rose like a cannon blast from the waiting crowd.

  Some poor herald had to go out to calm them down, telling them they’d jumped the gun—so to speak. ‘The wedding has been temporarily postponed,’ he announced.

  The crowd grew quiet.

  Umberto worked on Princess Gladys’s feet all through tea.

  The crowd waited expectantly, although some grumbling could be heard.

  Umberto worked on Princess Gladys’s feet all through supper.

  The crowd stood loyal, though tummy rumbling was at a premium.

  Umberto worked on Princess Gladys’s feet till midnight then stopped, demanding that a union representative be present as he was now on triple rates, overtime, and sick leave.

  ‘Sick leave?’ asked Princess Gladys.

  ‘Your feet are making me sick,’ replied Umberto. ‘And I need to leave.’ Princess Gladys blushed, noticing that he did look a bit green around the whiskers.

  ‘Not only sick leave,’ added Umberto, ‘but I want a full pension and a lifetime supply of carrots as well.’

  By now, Princess Gladys would have promised him anything, just to get it over with. At three strokes after midnight Umberto was pensioned off for life.

  Princess Gladys looked at her feet—at her pink, clean, sweet-smelling feet! Quickly she put on her delicate slippers hollering, ‘Bridegroom here I come!’ Princess Gladys raced down the corridor and into the palace hall. She stopped. A sob tore at her throat.

  The crowd had dwindled to one cripple and a mule. Her men-in-waiting had gone. Queen Essie and King Dom had gone. Everyone had gone, except for…

  From the shadows stepped a figure. A clear, firm voice rang out, ‘Marry me, Princess.’ Bare came forward, his hand outstretched. ‘And we will live happily ever after.’

  ‘Yes!’ cried Princess Gladys, rushing into his arms.

  So they did, marry that is, and they lived happily ever after.

  And the palace became a Peg-Free Zone.

  A Nice Sort of Vase

  Chapter One

  ‘…and when they look out the window…’ the voice drops ‘…they see that it’s…’ the voice drops further ‘…a severed head!’

  ‘Aaaaghhh!’ yells Doug. He clutches his pillow like an imaginary shield. His finger sneaks into his right nostril.

  ‘Uhhh!’ gasps Banjo, diving under his blanket and curling into a ball, wide-eyed, peeping out.

  Warren thrusts his arms out for applause. ‘Gotcha!’ he crows before hurtling his Ugh boots at Banjo and Doug.

  ‘My turn!’ cries Doug, ducking the boot and settling his pillow into his lap. ‘Once upon a time there was this deserted house and these guys decided to break in to see if it was haunted…’

  ‘Heard it,’ interrupts Warren.

  Doug shakes his head. ‘Not this version, you haven’t.’

  ‘Have, too.’ Warren rears off the mattress. ‘And they find this skeleton and in between the skeleton’s teeth…’

  ‘It’s not that one,’ butts in Doug. ‘It’s different.’

  ‘What’s between the skeleton’s teeth?’ asks Banjo, springing out from under the blankets. ‘I haven’t heard that one.’

  As Warren goes to speak Doug crash tackles him. The next few minutes are spent on Chinese Burns and Squirrel Grips.

  Banjo pulls them apart. ‘I want to hear both versions, you two. The one with the skeleton and the one without.’ He looks from one to the other. ‘So, who’s first?’

  ‘I’d already started,’ says Doug. He glares at Warren. ‘Before I was rudely interrupted.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ says Banjo, trying to make his voice firm and no nonsense. ‘And no more fighting.’

  Doug gives Warren his best greasy before continuing. ‘So, these guys are in this deserted house, checking out if it’s haunted…’ Doug is relieved when Warren settles back on his bed. He continues. ‘They creep inside. It’s all dark and thick with dust. Sheets cover the furniture and cobwebs cover the sheets. Spider-webs hang from every corner and every light. No one’s been inside for about five hundred years.’

  ‘Didn’t have lights five hundred years ago,’ says Warren, looking smug.

  It’s Banjo’s turn to throw the Ugh boot back at him. ‘Shut up, will you. It’s Doug’s go. You’ve had yours.’

  ‘Sorry,’ says Warren but by the grin on his face it’s obvious that he is not. ‘My lips are sealed.’ Warren pretends to clip up his mouth.

  By now Doug’s looking pretty annoyed. Without thinking his finger travels up his nose and does a quick reconnaissance before journeying south via his mouth. The other two ignore him. Doug continues. ‘So, they find these steps leading into a cellar and they decide to go down. Lucky they’ve got torches with them. Down they go. Down, down, down. The air is cold—goosebumply cold.’

  ‘No such word,’ hisses Warren.

  Doug throws him a vaporiser of a look then goes on, ‘The air is cold—cold enough to make their breath look like puffs of smoke.’

  ‘Probably having a ciggie,’ says Warren with a smirk.

  Doug ignores him. He glances at Banjo, then back at Warren.

  Banjo’s sitting with one leg crossed over the other and his foot tucked up underneath. He doesn’t seem to know he’s rocking. Warren is pretending to be bored but by the way he’s leaning in, hanging off every word Doug knows differently.

  Doug continues. ‘Just as the boys reach the bottom of the steps the door slams shut. They scream.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Aaaaagghh! And drop their torches.’

  Banjo jumps and topples over, landing in Warren’s lap.

  ‘Geddorf!’ yells Warren, pushing Banjo off and wiping his lap as though it is contaminated.

  Doug continues. ‘They bolt up the stairs in the darkness, stubbing toes and skinning knees. They get to the top. The door’s shut! They start pounding on it, hollering to be let out when all of a sudden they notice that…’ Doug puts more urgency into his voice, ‘one of them is missing!’

  And so it goes, with each story more scary than the last.

  Banjo is rocking so hard he’s about to launch off the bed. Doug’s been digging so hard he’s got nosebleed. And Warren? Warren hasn’t had so much fun since he and Anthony Green balanced the bucket of custard over the maths room door.

  ‘Don’t know if I’ll sleep tonight,’ says Banjo, still rocking, still frightened.

  ‘Me either,’ says Doug, going for a major nostril evacuation.

  ‘What are ya?’ asks Warren. He looks from one to
the other with contempt. ‘Banjette and Dougina?’

  Neither of the boys answers.

  Warren gets to his feet, adjusting his pyjama top. ‘Don’t tell me you’re both scared?’

  Doug’s eyes widen as he asks, ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Nup,’ says Warren, shaking his head and pulling a face. ‘Done heaps worse than listen to scary stories.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ Banjo stops rocking and rears to his knees. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Yeah, what?’ asks Doug, wiping his nose on his sleeve then inspecting it.

  With a half-smile on his face Warren lowers his voice as he whispers, ‘Slept with a dead person.’

  ‘Did not!’ cry Banjo and Doug in unison.

  ‘It’s true,’ says Warren and then adds, ‘At my gran’s house.’

  ‘Whaddya mean?’ asks Doug with a frown.

  ‘Yeah?’ says Banjo.

  Warren sucks in his breath. He speaks slowly, as if he is speaking to a deaf person. ‘Like I said. I slept with a dead person at my gran’s house.’

  ‘S’cuse us for not believing,’ says Doug with a sniff. He settles himself into a comfortable position on the bed.