“I don't believe it,” I say, gasping for breath.
As I turn around, Claude is tickling the belly of an equally ridiculous pure white poodle that is lying on his back, waving his paws gleefully in the air. The third poodle, a gingery pink canine freak, prances about merrily, yelping and wagging its absurdly cotton-woolly tail, clearly elated to have new friends to play with.
“They're as daft as brushes!” smiles Claude, rubbing the white poodle's ears.
“I thought we were going to die there,” I pant. My jeans and T-shirt are covered in grass stains.
“Well, Fleur sounded like she was being killed,” Claude says.
We both freeze. Where's Fleur? She's vanished.
“Flllleeeuuuur!” we yell, starting the poodles off barking again. “Fleeeeeeuuuuur!”
“I'm up here!” Fleur snaps crossly, somewhere above us.
“Where?” shouts Claude.
“In this tree!” squeaks Fleur, sitting on the branch of a nearby oak. “I'm not coming down. Not until those horrid things have gone! Those horrid . . . evil . . . demons!”
“They're only poodles, Fleur,” I laugh. “Come down!”
“Shan't!” she trills tearfully as the three poodles yelp and strain at the tree. “I won't. Make them go away!”
“Fleur, you're not usually scared of dogs,” I say.
“Make them go!” howls Fleur, sounding near hysterical. “I hate them! Hate them!”
“Fleur?” says Claude, sniggering slightly. “Have you got an irrational fear of poodles?”
“Gnnnnngnnnn! Yes!” Fleur yells. “My aunt Irene used to breed them. I . . . I hate them! With their horrid little fluffy faces and their evil eyes, which are always full of black, yucky, smelly sleep dust! And their . . . ggnnngnnn . . . stinky dog-food breath! And their yellow-brown teeth! Yuk! Look at them! I feel sick. Look at their eerily flamboyant haircuts! And their . . . their . . . poo-encrusted bums! Uggghhh!”
“They haven't got poo-encrusted bums,” I laugh, picking up the black poodle's ridiculous tail to examine, then wrinkling my nose. “Oh . . . hang on, you may have a point there.”
“Fleur, you must come down,” Claude pleads, trying not to laugh. “We're in real trouble here. We have to work out what to do.”
But just then a long dark shadow moves across the LBD's path, accompanied by a dismally familiar voice. “Well, you can start,” a man's voice booms, “by telling me why you're trespassing on my property!”
Aggghhh! It's Mr. McGraw!
He's not looking at all happy. All the veins are protruding out on his spindly neck, and his eyes look on the brink of explosion. Despite the summer sunshine, McGraw's wearing his trademark heavy-tweed, three-piece suit with thick brown brogues and a primly knotted brown tie, his face dripping with sweat.
“Zanzibar! Zeus!” he shouts, beckoning his poodles over with his skeletal hand. “Zsa Zsa! Come to Papa!”
“Mr. McGraw,” begins Claude, pasting on a big nonthreatening smile. “This isn't how it looks!”
“Claudette Cassiera?” McGraw gasps, suddenly recognizing one of his burglars. McGraw only ever sees Claudette when he's awarding her school prizes for wonderfulness. “What is the meaning of this?”
“We needed to speak to you,” stutters Claude.
Just then a rustling in the trees above sets the poodles off yelping again.
“And who's up there?” yells McGraw, becoming quite incandescent with rage now. “Get down now! I'm calling the police. Do you hear me? I'll have you all locked up!”
After a few seconds, Fleur's bare bottom emerges from the tree like a pink full moon. Mr. McGraw's typically gray face is now a deep shade of scarlet.
“Fleur Swan!” he fumes, finally meeting the face that matches the ass.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McGraw,” smiles Fleur, trying to sound breezy.
“Fleur . . . Swan,” repeats McGraw, with a tone of insurmountable woe, shaking his head slowly.
“Yes, Mr. McGraw?” Fleur winces.
Our headmaster lets out one of his trademark dismally long sighs. He pinches the nodule of skin between his eyes, then points in the direction of a nearby garden shed. “There is a pair of gardening trousers in that shed, Miss Swan,” he snaps. “Put them on immediately! Then all three of you get into my study and wait for the police. For once, I am quite literally at a loss for words.”
an arduous task
In McGraw's study, the grandfather clock reads a quarter to six.
The LBD have been sitting on stiff-backed dining chairs, with our Harbinger Hall dreams well and truly dashed, for more than half an hour. Outside the office, McGraw crashes around Pomfrey Manor, slamming doors and berating the world. I don't think I've ever heard him so angry. Eventually, he appears, takes a seat behind his desk, and snatches up the receiver of his antique telephone, pausing momentarily to scowl at our row of faces.
“Fleur Swan . . . Claudette Cassiera . . . and . . . who are you?” he says, pointing at me.
“I'm Veronica Ripperton!” I huff.
“Are you from Lymewell Academy?” he asks sniffily.
“No! I go to your school,” I say rather incredulously. “For the last five years!”
“Hmmm . . . whatever you say,” McGraw sighs. “The police can run a full ID search on you. In fact, a summer in a young offender's institute might just do you some good. I'm a great advocator of the short, sharp shock method . . .”
McGraw's spindly finger dials a 9.
“Mr. McGraw,” squeaks Claude, “please don't call the police! Please let me explain why we wanted to see you.”
McGraw sighs even more deeply. He places the handset down. “Make this outstanding,” he growls.
“Mr. McGraw, er, sir,” Claude begins, “well, the thing is . . . er, we really desperately want summer jobs at a hotel. Harbinger Hall in Destiny Bay, to be exact. But we need exemplary character references from our headmaster. Soâ”
Mr. McGraw cuts her off in midflow. “So breaking into my house, trampling my begonias, nude streaking across my lawn, scaring the bejesus out of me and my prizewinning poodles, whom, may I add, have very sensitive dispositions, was the way to charm me, was it?”
“Hmmm . . . well, when you put it like that,” Claude mumbles, her lip wobbling.
McGraw peers at Claude, a tiny microscopic flicker of sympathy passing over his face. “Claudette,” he says gently. “I find it very difficult to believe you're involved in something like this. Very difficult indeed. You're a model pupil! The sterling job you did helping Cressida Sleeth settle into Blackwell was remarkable. All that wonderful coaching! That girl is predicted ten A-stars at GCSE, you know.”
Claude blanches at the mention of Cressida Slime.
“And that's why I feel these fledgling hooligan instincts should be nipped in the bud,” McGraw says.
“But I'm not a hooligan,” whispers Claude.
“Whereas you!” McGraw snorts, pointing at Fleur. “You . . . satanic creature!”
“Mr. McGraw!” says Fleur, petulantly folding her arms. “Now that's just unfair.”
“Oh? Unfair is it?” McGraw jibes, leaping up and marching over to a tall silver filing cabinet, the clatter of his chair setting Zanzibar, Zeus and Zsa Zsa yapping hysterically in the hallway all over again.
As McGraw roots through reams of files, the poodles howl and scratch the door, pushing their moist black snouts underneath it. Fleur grimaces and wipes her hands nervously down her ridiculous oversized tweed gardening pants. After some searching, McGraw produces a bright red document wallet, with a Polaroid picture taped to the front of it. The photograph is of a very familiar blonde girl, sticking her tongue out.
McGraw flings the file down on his desk, opens it dramatically, and clears his throat to speak. “Fleur Iris Swan,” he announces. “Blackwell School behavioral record.”
“Oh, poo,” mutters Fleur.
Oh my God! McGraw actually keeps duplicates of all his school files at home. We're doomed!
“Year Seven,” begins McGraw, reading from a list. “During morning assembly chaired by the Gideon Bible Association, shouted the phrases âYou suck!' and âBite me!' making the Gideon representative cry.”
Fleur examines her pink sparkly nail varnish sheepishly.
“Year Seven!” McGraw continues. “Smeared Marmite along the backs of door handles throughout Blackwell School, leading to numerous dry-cleaning bills and a one-mile area stinking of beef extract.”
“There was no proof that was me!” whines Fleur as Claude winces in shame. That Marmite stunt was totally Claude's idea. McGraw simply refused to believe her confession.
“Silence, Swan! I'm speaking!” shouts McGraw, pointing at his file. “Year Seven: brought a car jack to school and stole the rear left wheel of Miss Blythe's Renault Clio.”
“Mmm . . . okay, that was me,” mutters Fleur.
“The list goes on and on! Let's skip to the final entry, shall we? Year Eleven: cracked the IT room's photocopier screen with bottom cheeks.”
“Gnnnnngnnn,” groans Fleur.
“Yes, gnnngggnnnnnn!” repeats McGraw, his saggy gray face reverberating in annoyance as he snaps Fleur's file shut. “Why, oh why should I honor your character? Tell me one good reason.”
“Because . . . because she wants to change!” blurts Claude.
“Eh?” McGraw, Fleur and I chorus.
“She wants to change!” repeats Claude. “She was just saying while we were waiting here for you . . . she's riddled with guilt and wants to turn over a new leaf!”
“That's right!” says Fleur, clasping her hands together. “Mr.
McGraw, I'm giving you my solemn bond. Give me one last chanceâI won't let you down! I'll be the hardest-working waitress Destiny Bay has ever seen. Okay, I've done some childish things in the past, but this is my chance to grow up. To enter the world of work. Pllllleeeeeeease!”
McGraw stares directly at Fleur for one long, slow minute. It's now six minutes to 6 P.M.
“No,” he says, picking up the phone again and dialing.
“Mr. McGraw!” gasps Claude, leaping up and crashing her hand down on the phone, cutting off McGraw's phone call. “Please listen to me for a second. I need to tell you the truth.”
McGraw looks taken aback. What can Claude possibly say?
“I really, really need this job, Mr. McGraw,” Claude says, her eyes filling with tears. McGraw looks stunned. “The Cassieras really need the money. And this job is a live-in position, where the tips will be excellent if I work hard. I'll be able to save money to send back home to my mum.”
McGraw looks at Claude in shock.
“Mum's lost her job, you see,” Claude continues, “and things are getting kind of desperate with bills and the mortgage. She spent all her life savings when Dad was dying, you see. And my big sister lives in London now and she's penniless too, so she can't help out. We're totally . . . broke. Mum's been talking about selling the flat and moving to Cornwall to live with Aunty Sissy. She lives more than three hundred miles away!”
Claude's voice cracks up now. Fleur reaches across and grabs her hand. We didn't know things were so bad! Gloria is even considering moving away? Taking Claude with her? The LBD are truly cursed.
Will McGraw hammer the final nail in the coffin?
The grandfather clock reads four minutes to six.
McGraw looks rather shaken up by Claude's speech. He doodles a picture on his phone pad awkwardly, refusing to meet Claude's gaze. “When would you be finished?” he asks after an excruciating silence.
“Pardon?” says Claude.
“Finished,” repeats McGraw crossly. “When would this term of summer employment cease?”
“Late August,” Fleur pipes up. “Just in time for us to begin sixth form.”
We look at McGraw expectantly. His face gives nothing away.
“Why?” says Claude.
“Because I have some autumnal employment that would keep you out of trouble,” says McGraw. “We'd call it remunerations for the stress you've caused me this afternoon.”
“Does . . . does that mean you'll give us references?” splutters Fleur.
“Not strictly,” huffs McGraw. “You've not heard my offer yet.”
“We'll do anything!” Fleur says. “Gardening? Painting? Car washing? We can start September first. We're your girls, Mr. McGraw!”
“Dog grooming?” announces McGraw, arching one eyebrow.
Fleur's face freezes.
“Having met my three magnificent prizewinning beauties,” McGraw boasts, “you'll have noticed the plethora of loving attention they need lavished upon them. They're magnificent animals. But without their weekly shampoo, blow-dry and tooth-brushing session they can get quite, er, unhygienic. It's a very arduous task keeping poodles.”
Fleur puts her hand over her mouth. Her face seems to flush green.
“Their little eyes get quite caked in sleep,” continues McGraw, “and their, er, other parts can get quite matted and unsavory.”
“Oh God,” mutters Fleur, swaying on her seat.
“We'll shampoo your poodles, Mr. McGraw!” smiles Claude. “Every week!”
“For a year?” threatens McGraw.
“Oooh! Er, okay! For a whole year!” grins Claude, scrambling around in her pocket for the Harbinger Hall telephone number. “As many times as they need it! We just love poodles. Mmm! Those fluffy little faces! So cute. Fleur can't wait. Can you, Fleur?”
“I can't wait,” says Fleur in a robotic voice.
“Have we got a deal?” gasps Claude, pushing the piece of paper under his beaky nose. “It's getting late nowâwill you call Miss Scrumble?”