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“Your father always tells me how funny you are,” she said, “and he’s so right.”
They walked past St Scrofula’s nice yurts. Queen Bee of Year Eight, the amazing Flora Marling, was talking to Plum, the girl from St Scrofula’s who had ruined Dad’s joke.
This’ll be interesting, thought Nat. The best six days of her school life so far had all involved Flora actually talking to her. Even if it had just been to ask Nat why on Earth she was friends with Darius Bagley.
Nat watched as Plum and Flora examined each other. Plum tossed her hair back; it was yellow in the pale sun. Then Flora flicked her hair and the sun broke through the clouds. All around Flora the air was golden. Plum gasped and Flora, victorious, smiled gracefully.
“Have my yurt,” said the awestruck Plum, “please.”
Flora smiled graciously then floated into the yurt, like a passing dream.
Nat trudged down the slope to the grotty yurts.
“You know, it could be really cosy in here,” said Penny inside. “It just needs some brightening up.”
“Brightening up?” Nat groaned, looking around her.
It was dark, damp and dismal.
“I wouldn’t even mind, but we have actually invented hotels,” grumbled Nat, unrolling her sleeping bag.
“You should be less grumbly and more proud of yourself,” said Penny, whose favourite Princess Boo song was “Be More Proud of Yourself”. She added, “Look on the bright side: if you hadn’t written such a great essay, we wouldn’t be getting a week off school.”
“You’re right,” said Nat, cheering up. She squished a bug with her foot. “No school is good, you’re right. I am pretty awesome, I suppose.”
“And so modest,” said Penny quietly.
“I just wish people would listen to me when I try and tell them I wrote that essay,” said Nat. “It would be nice to get some credit for something once in a while.”
“OK, I promise that next time anyone mentions it, I’ll definitely tell them it was you,” said Penny.
Nat smiled. “Ta,” she said. She looked around. “I would help you with the brightening-up, but I’m plotting how to get Bagley out of his cabin, and I need to concentrate.”
She lay back on her sleeping bag and closed her eyes.
She was woken from her nap by Dad, who pottered in a little later. “Not too bad, is it?” he said.
Nat had already forgotten she had been cheered up. She wasn’t going to miss a chance to complain at Dad. Somewhere, somehow, it was always his fault.
“Dad, the other school is horrible. The kids are rotten and spoiled and they’ve nicked all the best yurts. They ate all the pizza at lunch too, so we had to have slop. I think it was worms, and I’m not even joking.”
“Mmm. Cracking good school though. Those children are just used to getting what they want. Nothing wrong with that.” He looked at Nat in a rather odd, thoughtful way. (It was odd because it was thoughtful.) “I’ve been chatting to the St Scrofula’s teachers,” he continued, “and they’re all amazing. They’re at school two hours early every day to organise extra lessons and activities.”
“Yuk,” said Nat.
“And next term they’re going to extend school hours to seven o’clock at night.”
“I’d feel sorry for them if they weren’t so horrible,” said Nat.
“Their last school play went to the West End, the head boy’s going to be an astronaut, last year’s sixth form are all doctors, and their football team are in the third round of the FA Cup.”
“I’m not impressed,” fibbed Nat, who was impressed.
“The head of media studies used to work on Star Wars, the head of art has a picture in the Tate Gallery, and guess who did their prize-giving? The flipping prime minister.”
“Blimey,” said Nat, “remember who did our prize-giving? Brian Futtock from Futtocks Coach Hire and Pest Control.”
“Urgh, and all those rats got out,” shuddered Penny, remembering the screams.
“Yeah, that was Darius,” chuckled Nat. “He got a three-year detention – even broke his brother Oswald’s school detention record.”
“Maybe your mum’s right,” said Dad. “Maybe YOU should go to that school.”
There was a horrible pause when Nat realised Dad wasn’t joking.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, going all hot and cold. “It’s taken me ages to get to know THIS bunch of idiots. No offence, Penny.” She turned to her friend.
“What was that?” said Penny, who was drawing a picture of Princess Boo, dressed as a fairy and riding on a unicorn, on the yurt wall.
“You writing that essay for Darius has done us a great favour,” said Dad. “It’s given us a chance to compare both schools, side by side.”
Nat felt sick. She didn’t want him to compare schools. Dad comparing the schools could be a DISASTER.
Dad left the yurt with a big smile on his face.
Behind him, Nat felt the familiar footsteps of doom approaching. “I need some fresh air,” she said, following him. “At least it smells nice out here.”
“Time to dig the dunny!” yelled Mr Bungee, who was right outside.
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“Who knows what a dunny is?” asked Mr Bungee.
Children and teachers alike were assembled in a field near the camp. It had stopped raining and the sun was actually threatening to peek out.
Darius, who had a black eye, chuckled.
Rufus, who had TWO black eyes, was too busy scowling at Darius to answer.
“A dunny is what you need to dig today,” shouted Mr Bungee, waving around a couple of heavy spades as if they were toothpicks. “In fact, you gotta dig two: one for boys and one for girls. Now can you guess?”
The quicker-brained children giggled.
“You gotta dig the dunnies nice and deep cos when you use them you don’t want anything jumping up and biting you on your backside,” he said. “That’s a bit of a final clue, mates.”
Nat had a horrible feeling she knew what a dunny was. She sidled over towards Dad. “Can I go home now please?” she said.
He just chuckled.
“Any volunteers to dig the dunnies?” screamed Mr Bungee.
No one moved.
“Thought so – there never are. So that’s why we’re gonna have a little healthy competition between your schools. The kids from the losing school will shovel the soil.”
“That’s not going to help the kids make friends,” said Dad.
Mr Bungee looked at him like he was one of those bothersome spiders in a dunny.
“Friends?” he said. “I like to get a bit of rivalry going, and the dunny challenge is a great kick-starter.”
“No, I think we’re better off working together,” said Dad. He had one eye on Mr Dewdrop, who had his notebook and clipboard out and was watching Dad closely.
“You’re not in charge,” said Mr Bungee.
“No one needs to be in charge,” said Dad.
Nat looked across at Mr Dewdrop, who frowned and scribbled a big ‘X’ in his book. Uh-oh.
“But maybe they do need to be in charge,” said Dad, seeing the cross and changing his mind quickly. “Well said. Carry on.”
Nat sighed.
Mr Keane, their gloomy geography teacher, raised his head. “We should really do a survey on the best place to site a dunny,” he said. Then he groaned. “That’s using geography, that is. That’s what it’s for. Depressing, isn’t it?”
Nat heard some grown-up snooty sniggering. There were three St Scrofula’s teachers standing there, and they were all at it. It was the first time Nat had had a good look at them.
They were all bright and shiny and correct, like the buttons on a soldier’s tunic. They were annoyingly tall, annoyingly smart, and annoyingly impressive. She had hoped they would be a little bit rubbish like all her teachers. But of course they weren’t. It was annoying.
Just by looking at them, Nat knew Dad would approve, which was even more annoying.
While Mr Keane pulled himself together, the new teachers introduced themselves to Nat’s class.
There was a Dr Nobel, who taught science, and had tiny, round, shiny glasses and a big, round, shiny head.
There was a Miss Slippy, who taught advanced geography and was as thin as a toothpick.
And there was a Mr Rainbow, who was completely and totally grey. He taught difficult science, advanced chemo-biology and something about time travel, but Nat had given up listening by then to be perfectly honest.
They were all the smartly-dressed, scrubbed-clean, shiny-shoed, sharp-eyed kind of teacher. Not one of them was covered in tea stains, bean juice and despair, like Mr Keane.
Nat saw Dad study the super trio carefully, before looking at her crumpled, unhappy geography teacher. He then stared at the irritating Misses Austen and Eyre, whose classes regularly got the worst exam results in the county.
Nat could see exactly what Dad was thinking. Convincing him that her school was the best was going to be an uphill struggle.
“Are all your teachers like these two?” Mr Bungee asked Miss Hunny, indicating Dad and Mr Keane. “Funny sort of school, isn’t it?”
The kids from St Scrofula’s giggled.
“There’s nothing funny about my school,” said Miss Hunny, offended.
Now it was Nat’s class’s turn to laugh.
But Nat didn’t laugh. She was looking at Dad’s face. He was wearing the only expression that ever scared her.
Dad was taking it all in … HE WAS THINKING.
He was looking at the bright, shiny faces of the St Scrofula’s kids. He was thinking that they were WINNERS. And pretty soon, Nat realised, he was going to want his little princess to be a St Scrofula’s winner too.
Right, thought Nat, these rotten winner kids will just have to start losing. And they have to start losing RIGHT NOW.
She looked at the spades.
And THERE’S NO WAY we’re digging their flipping dunny.
The Who’s Digging the Dunny? competition took place in the field.
“Each school chooses one representative to take part,” shouted Mr Bungee. “It’s a test of brains.”
“Flora Marling,” shouted Nat’s class.
“And it’s a test of strength.”
“Marcus Milligan,” shouted Nat’s class.
“And it’s so dangerous you might never see them again.”
“Darius Bagley,” shouted Nat’s class.
“I’m only pulling your legs about the danger, campmates,” laughed Mr Bungee.
“Oh,” said Nat’s class, disappointed.
“That man’s so very amusing,” trilled Miss Austen, “as well as being a dreamboat.”
“A born comedian,” said Miss Eyre.
“We’ve got Ivor,” said Miss Hunny, indicating her hilarious old college friend, Dad.
“I think you mean we’ve got a jester,” sniffed Miss Austen.
“Or a village idiot,” sniffed Miss Eyre.
“Is it true?” said Mr Keane, who’d missed the last few minutes because he’d been crying in a ditch. “Is it really so dangerous you might not return? I want to volunteer. Please let me.”
“It’s not enough that everyone in my family is potty,” Nat said to Penny, “or that everyone I know is barking mad. It just has to be all my teachers too!”
“What do you mean, everyone you know is mad?” said Penny, who was holding a Y-shaped stick out in front of her.
