“Er, really?” says Fleur. “But I included one! Mr. Patrick Swan. He knows all about how hardworking and trustworthy I am!”
“I'm sure he does, Miss Swan,” Scrumble says dryly. “He's your father.”
“Hmmm,” says Fleur flatly. “That is also true.”
“Family members do not make suitable references, Miss Swan,” Miss Scrumble whines. “And I was going to request that you simply find another willing body, but after today's unfortunate sackings, the rules are being tightened.”
“Oh?” gulps Fleur.
“From now on,” says Scrumble. “All prospective Harbinger employees under the age of eighteen must provide an exemplary reference from their headmaster. Now, will that be a problem?”
“Er, pah, pgghhhgh . . . mmm, well, I'm not sure . . . ,” splutters Fleur.
“Because you appear to be the model pupil, Miss Swan. Let's see . . . spelling bee champion two years in a row? Chairwoman of the Blackwell Debating Society too?”
“Erm,” winces Fleur. “Doesn't that excuse me from getting the reference?”
“No. Rules are rules,” grumps Scrumble.
“But we're already on vacation!” Fleur pleads. “How will we find our headmaster? Maybe he's gone away on a cruise. What ifâ”
“You and your chums have till six o'clock today,” interrupts Scrumble, almost as if she's enjoying being a right royal pain up the bum.
“Six o'clock?”
Fleur gasps.
“Six o'clock,” Scrumble repeats. “Don't be late. Good afternoon to you.”
“But, Miss Scrumble!”
The line goes dead.
“We're doomed,” I groan, placing my forehead on Paddy's cold desk and beginning to bang the surface slowly.
I'd have given up then, but Claude refuses to be beaten. “Right, let's not panic!” she announces as the LBD paces nervously around Fleur's bedroom. “All we need to do is find McGraw . . .”
“Chloroform him,” I mutter. “Give him a frontal lobotomy, then get him to give us references.”
“He'll give me a reference anyhow,” Claude announces rather capriciously.
“Well, whoopie-do you!” Fleur retorts. “Is that, perhaps, because you've spent five years with your nose wedged up his bum crack?”
Claude doesn't even flinch at this abuse. “Look, Miss Conversational Japanese, do you want us to live in the West Turret or what? Do you want a summer adventure?”
“Of course I do,” groans Fleur. “More than anything in the entire world!”
“Good!” says Claude. “And while you're thinking about that, can I also add that I bumped into our ex-guru Miss Cressida Sleeth in the mall this morning, with her new best friend Panama Flipping Goodyear. They were shouting remarks about that
Moulin Rouge
video Cressida saw of us dancing in our underpants! I wanted to crawl under a bus.”
“Oh my God,” groans Fleur, flushing crimson. “I forgot about that!”
“Well, Cressida hasn't!” Claude says. “Look, let's go and find old grumblechops McGraw, shall we? Let's get away from this town. Away from Cressida Slime and Panama Bogwash!”
“But be realistic, Claude,” I say. “The last time Fleur saw McGraw was when he caught her photocopying her bum cheeks in the IT lab!”
“Uggghhh! That's right,” sighs Fleur. “You were supposed to be watching the door, Ronnie!”
“Yes, Fleur, silly me,” I say dryly. “That was my fault, wasn't it?”
“Okay, no arguing!” implores Claude. “Girls! Let's be logical here. McGraw's a very busy man. Surely he has better things to do than remember every petty little prank his pupils have committed. He'll have forgotten all about the photocopier by now, surely.”
“I suppose so,” Fleur says. “There are nine hundred and fifty pupils at Blackwell. He's got plenty of other pupils to worry about.”
“Hmmm, okay, that's a good point,” I say, brightening a little. “But where do we start? It's 2 P.M. now.”
“Easy!” says Claude. “We know where McGraw lives, don't we? Pomfrey Manor! It's near Gelt Woods, about nine miles away. It's down a little private road. Let's get the bus over there and visit him.”
“Okay,” agrees Fleur nervously. “Let's do it.”
Frankly I'd rather remove my own wisdom teeth with pliers, but there is no other way.
their fluffy little faces
“This just makes no sense,” sighs Claude, gazing up at Pomfrey Manor's intimidating green cast-iron gates. “How can someone not own a doorbell?”
“Hmph! Well, he hates the human race, doesn't he?” Fleur tuts, slumping defeatedly against the manor's impenetrable ten-foot-high brick wall. “He likes being uncontactable.”
“Well, I think it's sad,” Claude says. “Apparently his phone number is a closely guarded secret too, nowadays, because of the number of prank calls he gets. Who'd be pathetic enough to do that?”
Fleur shoots me a “please shut up” look.
“Beats me, Claude,” I shrug, scowling back at Fleur. “Some people just have no respect.”
I stand on tiptoes, pushing my face up to the gold letter box. Inside, a long dusty driveway leads to a detached, rather disheveled mansion surrounded by junglelike lawns. The luscious grass is ankle deep. Trees and bushes grow wild, and numerous flowers and shrubs grow every which way they please. It's hardly the prim, neatly kept garden I was expecting.
“He's obviously not short of a few quid, is he?” mutters Claude. “This place seems huge.”
“Well, my nan reckoned that his parents were loaded,” I say. “I think he inherited the house. He's lived here all his life.”
“Wow,” says Claude. “So your nan knew him when he was a little boy?”
“Yeah,” I say, smiling a little. “Nan knew everyone.”
“What was he like?” Claude asks.
“A right little misery, apparently,” I laugh, picturing Nan saying it. “She said he used to walk down the street when he was seven, eating his licorice pennies with a face like he was off to his own execution.”
Claude and Fleur chortle merrily at the idea.
“Do you think he's home?” Claude asks.
“Difficult to say,” I sigh. “There's no car there. But the upstairs windows are open. There are a few lights left on too.”
“Mr. McGraaaaaaaaaw!” yells Fleur, her voice echoing redundantly through the surrounding meadows. “Helllllllllooooooooo!”
This is hopeless. He could be on holiday. Or have killed himself. Or be away visiting equally suicidal relatives. Butâand it's a major butâthere's also a small chance he might be home. There's an even more minuscule possibility that we can persuade McGraw to sing our praises to Scrumble.
Claude looks at her watch again anxiously. “Oh no! It's nearly 4:30 P.M.!” she groans. “We've got an hour and a half! We're totally scuppered now.”
“Nonsense,” says Fleur, with a tiny mischievous smile. “I think we've got to get a little proactive.”
“How?” says Claude, rattling McGraw's letter box again uselessly.
“Watch me,” says Fleur, looking determinedly at the wall before walking over and taking the black drainpipe in both hands.
“Fleur! What are you doing?” I ask.
She doesn't reply. She simply grips the pipe firmly, thrusts one sneaker into a gap in the bricks and pulls herself a few feet up the pipe.
“Fleur! No!” gasps Claude. “Stop it!”
“Stop worrying!” yells Fleur, scaling farther up the pipe, displaying a rather shameless amount of pink thong under her black miniskirt. “Look, if he's too stubborn to own a doorbell, how else can he expect visitors?”
“Burglars, more like!” shouts Claude. “Get down! What if somebody sees?”
“Got a better plan?” Fleur yells down at us. “Look, stop panicking! If McGraw's in, we'll just tell him that he left his front gate open. Ha! I'm a genius.”
“Fleur!” I shout. “You'll kill yourself!”
“Oooh, flipping heck, this is quite high, isn't it?” Fleur giggles, ignoring me completely. As the blonde bombshell reaches the top of Pomfrey Manor's wall, she clambers up, perching her bum on the top.
“Oh, hurray!” she shouts. “There are some tall trees here on the other side! We can climb down them into the garden.”
“I'm not climbing anywhere!” shouts Claude. “You'll get us arrested, you stupid nork!”
“Look, I'm going in!” smiles Fleur, jumping down out of sight. To our horror, Fleur vanishes over the wall into Pomfrey Manor!
“C'mon!” Fleur's muffled voice shouts. “It's easy! Stop being scaredy-cats. Do you want to go to Destiny Bay or what?”
“Ignore her,” Claude says, crossing her arms. “She just wants attention. Let's not give it to her.”
“Girls, have you started climbing yet?” Fleur yells again. “Come on! It's not that scary once you get used to be being . . . ugh . . . oh dear . . . hang on . . . owww . . . some of these branches are a bit . . . slippery!”
“Fleur!” we yell. “What's up?”
“Damn! I've caught my skirt,” shouts Fleur. “Oh, hell! Ooooooooh noooo, I think I'm going to . . . aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhh!”
There's a loud rip, followed by a tremendous crashing of branches . . . then a deathly silence.
“Fllllllllllllleur!” we yell. “Fleur! Are you okay?”
But there's no reply.
“Oh my God! Fleur, I'm coming!” shouts Claude, running over and starting to climb up the drainpipe. “Ronnie! Come on! Fleur could have broken her neck.”
“Oh Jesus,” I sigh, watching Claude's denim-clad bum shimmying up the wall.
“Flllllleeeeeeeur!” Claude shouts, making grand headway. She's almost at the top in moments. “Speak to me, Fleur!”
“Oh, poo,” comes a little voice from behind the wall. “I've crushed all his begonias.”
“Ha! You're alive,” Claude shrieks, perching on top of the wall and looking down into the garden. “You're alive . . . you're . . . oooh, my God! Fleur, where's your skirt!? I can see your butt cheeks!”
“Mmm . . . yeah,” groans Fleur. “It's on one of those branches. That's our next problem.”
As Claude disappears, I sit down on the curb and ponder why I ever missed the LBD. I could be eating chocolate chip muffins in my bedroom with the curtains closed now.
“Come on, Ronnie!” yell Fleur and Claude. “Your turn!”
I stand up, take a big deep breath, walk over to the wall and begin to climb. The pipe's quite slippery now with all the sweaty hands that have pawed it. Why did I wear flip-flops? If I look behind me, I'll probably vomit. I climb frantically, spurred on by sheer terror.
“Hurray!” shouts Claude as my auburn plaits and petrified face loom over the top of the wall. “C'mon, Ronnie! Not far to go now!”
“Uggghhh, Fleur!” I groan, climbing onto the top of the wall, spotting Fleur's miniskirt, which is hanging in three torn shreds off various branches. “You're almost naked!”
“Concentrate, Ronnie!” shouts Claude. “Some of those branches are quite dangerous.”
“Gnnnnngnnn!” I groan, clinging on for dear life.
Ten minutes later, after much careful maneuvering, I'm back on solid ground, being hugged ecstatically by Fleur and Claude.
“Good work, everyone!” shouts Fleur, pure euphoria sweeping over our little huddle.
“Ha!” laughs Claude. “It takes more than a ten-foot wall to beat us!”
“Precisely . . . we're invincible!” I giggle proudly, looking around. “So, er, what shall we do next?”
“Well, we should . . . er,” Claude begins, but then she pauses and looks quite anxious. It's just then that we realize that we've broken into our headmaster's property, and that Fleur is standing in only a thong and a T-shirt with her bottom hanging out.
Some people might say we are potentially in a lot of trouble, but then something else very terrible indeed takes our minds off it.
The sound of dogs barking. Yapping, growling and drawing closer by the second!
“Oh hell!” says Claude. “Oh please, God, no!”
“Is that what I think it is?” I shudder.
“Guard dogs!” squeals Fleur, as the terrifying noise gets louder.
“Runnnnnnnnn!” shouts Claude, as three massive, slobbering, hairy dogs appear on the horizon around the left-hand side of Pomfrey Manor. “Run as fast as you can!”
“Aaaaaaaaaaggghhhhh!” we squeal, tearing in the opposite direction. I don't dare look behind me! All I hear is dogs panting, drooling and yapping, beside themselves with excitement, clearly sizing the LBD up as a tasty, protein-rich, between-meals snack.
Suddenly a black dog manages to charge past me, turning itself around to go in for the attack. Aaaaaaaaagh! Behind me, I hear Claude screaming, stumbling, beginning to sob. Fleur's screeching loudest of all. I think she's being bitten on the bum. It's like a horror movie! All I can do is fall to my knees, cover my face and wait for the savage mauling to begin.
“Get off me!” screams Claude. “Get off! Owwwwwww!”
“Aaaagggghhhh! Mr. McGraw! Save us!” I yell pitifully as a slobbery, rough tongue licks across my face.
“Get off! Get off!” Claude howls. “Agh! My face!”
But then bizarrely, I hear Claude giggle.
A rough canine tongue licks across my ear again, accompanied by a blast of breath that isn't exactly minty fresh.
I dare to open one eye.
Standing before me, peering straight at me, is an enormous black pedigree poodle, with a preposterous fluffy Afro, impish coal-black eyes, a shiny black button nose and daft, strategically shaved fluffy “leg warmers.” The dog gazes at me playfully, tilting its head to the side, before holding out one dainty paw to shake hands.