Agatha Parrot and the Mushroom Boy Page 3

  Ha ha ha ha! You should have seen James’s face.

  ‘Oh no, I’d never dream of doing that!’ said James wishing he had dreamed of it. It would have saved him a whole night of sitting up doing tricky sums. Poor little James.

  Mean Old Mum and Martha’s Milkshake

  After the first rush of wild excitement, there’s always about an hour of school fetes which is really boring. That’s because everybody has to hang around until Mrs Twelvetrees gives out the raffle prizes, and she never does that until she’s dead certain that we’ve all got tickets.

  Most people are like Martha’s mum who bought loads of tickets for Martha because she always does. Lucky Martha.

  Unlucky me.

  Our mum HATES buying raffle tickets and she makes it totally embarrassing. Usually she tries to sneak away early, but this time we all had to wait for Dad’s cake to be weighed, and that was going to be after the raffle. Thank goodness! If they’d weighed the cake before the raffle, it would have ruined my revenge on James as you’ll see.

  Mum was standing in the middle of the playground with Tilly swinging on her arm, and chatting away with some other mums (who all got tickets for themselves AND got tickets for their kids by the way).

  Suddenly . . .

  ‘I say, COO-EE! Mrs Parrot? HELLO!’

  Mrs T cruised up alongside Mum, clutching a cake tin full of money. All the other mums laughed a bit and dived out of the way leaving our mum to face the Mighty Twelvetrees all by herself. Mum was already trying to be tough and pull her no thank you face, but it’s not as if she had any choice about it. Headteachers are specially trained to hunt down mean old mums.

  ‘I just wanted to say . . .’ said Mrs T sadly, ‘. . . how jolly sorry I am that Tilly only got to say two words in the infants concert last week.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Mum was caught completely by surprise. ‘Oh! It really doesn’t matter . . .’ she said feebly, trying to ignore the rolls of raffle tickets being waved right under her nose. Tilly was staring up at her crossly.

  ‘I’m sure you’d want her to get a few more lines next time, wouldn’t you?’ said Mrs Twelvetrees. Tilly started hopping up and down excitedly. Mrs T did her killer lipsticky smile. ‘Tickets are five for a pound – oh thank you! – and who knows, maybe one day Tilly might get to sing a whole song . . .’

  KUD-DINK. Before Mum even knew it, she’d dropped some money into the cake tin and Mrs T had whizzed off to trap her next victim. ‘YOO-HOO! HELLO! I just wanted to say how jolly sorry I am that we didn’t have space to include Henry in the lunchtime ping-pong group this term . . .’

  Good for Mrs Twelvetrees. She needs to grab all the money she can to keep the staffroom emergency biscuit cupboard topped up or the teachers will start rioting. And that’s true.

  So anyway, Mum had bought a measly five tickets. That meant it was one for her, one each for James, Tilly and Dad (wherever he’d got to) and OH YIPPEE WHAT A TREAT one whole ticket for me. It was number 610. Whoopee.

  Once Mrs T had worked out that she’d hoovered up every single bit of spare cash in the place, she rang her handbell CLANG DANG BLANG. ‘Action stations gang!’ she called out. ‘We’ll weigh the cake in a minute, but first we’ll draw the raffle. There’s lots of super-dooper prizes so good luck everybody!’

  ‘WOOO!’ Everybody gave a big cheer for the super-dooper prizes.

  Martha was getting all excited. She was desperate to win a great big green peppermint milkshake thing somebody had made up. YUK! But that’s Martha for you. (The important thing is that the milkshake had a long stripy straw sticking out of it which you’ve got to remember. It turns up later on.)

  ‘Now then chaps,’ said Mrs T. ‘Who would like to come and pull some numbers out of the bucket and pass them to me?’

  Ellie Slippin’s little brothers immediately ran forwards and then couldn’t stop so they both banged their heads on the bucket donk donk! They shoved their hands in and threw bundles of scrunched up tickets at Mrs Twelvetrees. Gosh if me and Ivy had done that we’d be DEAD, but a couple of the dads started laughing, so the Slippin twins went on to have a full-on ticket snowball fight which was brilliant, especially when all the other little tiddly tots joined in.

  I expect headteachers are supposed to get a bit ratty when this happens, but Mrs Twelvetrees had her cake tin full of dosh so she was too happy to care. She just picked a few tickets out of the kids’ hair and shouted out the numbers.

  Soon the playground was rocking to the sound of parents cheering and whooping as they won super-dooper prizes like a tin of peas or a little basket of fizzy bath salts. Tilly charged to the front when she heard her number, and came back proudly clutching a bag of instant cat food. Shame we haven’t got a cat. Well, not one that’s still alive anyway.

  Eventually the only thing left was the peppermint milkshake, and about the only person still paying any attention was Martha. Mrs T held up one last ticket.

  ‘And finally number 19,’ she said.

  Martha looked really sad. She hadn’t got number 19, but nobody else was claiming the milkshake either.

  ‘We can’t wait all day!’ said Mrs T. ‘I’ll pick another . . .’

  ‘Wait,’ I shouted. ‘It’s ME!’

  I went up, showed my ticket and came back with the glass of green gunk.

  ‘You’re soooo lucky!’ sulked Martha.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ I said. ‘I got it for you.’

  ‘Oh WOW thanks, are you sure?’ gasped Martha, but she’d already grabbed it in case I changed my mind. She shoved the straw in her mouth and was about to take a slurp but then she stopped. ‘Hang on . . . the number was 19. Your ticket was 610!’

  ‘Hmmm, yes . . . technically it was. But if you show 610 to somebody quickly, and it’s upside down with your thumb over the zero . . .’

  SLURRRRP! went Martha who was already not listening.

  The Silver Bullet

  When the raffle was finished, Mrs Twelvetrees moved over to the cake. ‘Oh by golly, hasn’t Mr Parrot made us a super cake?’ she said. ‘Is he here?’

  I’m not sure how she missed him actually as Dad was hopping around over by Motley clutching his shoes and socks and waiting for his toenails to dry. Instead Mrs T spotted us and did that big lipsticky smile which made Mum instinctively grab a tight hold of her purse. But Mrs T only wanted to ask what flavour it was.

  ‘I haven’t the remote-est idea,’ I said giving James a big poke in the ribs and he went bright red ha ha!

  Miss Pingle lifted the cake down off the stool and put it on one side of the scales. They were the old-fashioned sort of balance scales like a see-saw where you put what you’re weighing on one side and then put different weights on the other side until it balances. Miss Pingle opened a smart little box. In it was a set of shiny weights of different sizes and all looking very important. First she took out some of the biggest weights and put them on the scales one at a time. ‘That’s a thousand grams, now I’m adding an extra hundred . . . and now another hundred . . .’

  So far that made 1,200 grams which was getting to be a lot, but it still wasn’t enough to make the scales move and lift the cake up.

  ‘I’ll put some smaller weights on now,’ said Miss Pingle. She added a twenty and a ten, and then the cake just started to twitch.

  ‘Ooooh!’ said everybody.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced Miss Pingle seriously. ‘We’ve got to 1,230 grams so now I’ll go up one gram at a time until the cake balances.’

  ‘How jolly super!’ said Mrs Twelvetrees.

  James was getting really excited. He had guessed 1,233 and 1,235 so he was still in with a good chance. Gwendoline and Olivia were over by the railings trying to look bored. But then I noticed a little huddle of heads all anxiously looking towards the scales. It was the whole Slippin family – mum, Ellie, her little sister Flozzy, the twins – all staring with their mouths wide open. Even baby Bubbles was staring out of her battered old pushchair and dribbling all over he
r purple tights.

  Behind me was a noise like a duck coughing. It was Martha slurping the last few drops of green milky sludge up through the long stripy straw. ‘Hey Agatha,’ she said laughing. ‘Do you think my grandad gets a prize for the worst guess?’

  ‘Never mind him,’ I said. ‘Ellie’s family is looking a bit desperate!’

  ‘Yeah, they really want to win,’ said Martha. ‘It’s Flozzy’s birthday this week and they’d love to have that cake. They haven’t got enough money to buy one that big in the shop.’

  Oh dear. To be fair to James he had bought two tickets, and he’d spent hours working out how much the cake weighed so I’d sort of forgiven him and was hoping he’d win it. In fact anyone winning would be better than Gwendoline. But Ellie’s family was looking so hopeful!

  Cake weights:

  1233 – J Parrot

  1234 – G Tutt

  1235 – J Parrot

  1236 – F Slippin

  I’d been watching the cake stand and I saw Flozzy Slippin’s name was next to number 1236. It was going to be very close! All we could do was wait and see what happened.

  Miss Pingle had got some tiny tweezers and was using them to pick the very smallest weights out of the box. ‘These are one gram weights,’ she explained. ‘I’ll put them on one at a time until it balances.’

  ‘Come on chaps, let’s all count together,’ said Mrs Twelvetrees.

  ‘One!’ said everybody as the first tiny weight went on. ‘Two . . . three . . . oooh!’

  The cake shifted ever so slightly. The weight had got to 1,233 grams which was one of James’s guesses! He had his fingers crossed so tightly that the ends were going blue . . . but the cake stayed where it was.

  ‘Here comes weight number four,’ announced Miss Pingle.

  That would make a weight of 1,234 grams. Gwendoline and Olivia suddenly barged through everybody and pushed right to the front.

  ‘You might win it,’ said Olivia.

  ‘I do hope not!’ said Gwendoline. ‘Can you imagine what Mum would say if I brought that thing home? It’d serve her right for making me come here.’

  But Miss Pingle had already put the tiny weight on, and the cake stayed down.

  ‘Well thank GOODNESS for that!’ said Gwendoline. ‘At least it won’t be me that’s poisoned.’

  Gwendoline and Olivia pushed their way back to stand by the railings like they didn’t care, but we all knew that Gwendoline was sulking her head off ha ha ha saddo!

  ‘Let’s add one more gram, Miss Pingle,’ said Mrs Twelvetrees.

  ‘Oooooh!’ said the crowd.

  James’s crossed fingers went even bluer, and the Slippins’s mouths all opened even wider and Bubbles’s tights got even dribblier.

  Very carefully, Miss Pingle tweezered the fifth tiny weight on to the scales. Everybody held their breath and then . . . the cake slowly rose up into the balanced position!

  ‘YES!’ screamed James. He was jumping up and down, punching the air. ‘YES OH YES OH YES!’

  ‘Who had 1,235 grams?’ asked Miss Pingle looking round as if she couldn’t see him. (Wasn’t that a nice touch? She might only be a new teacher but she’s got a lot of style.)

  Everybody was looking at James, except me and Martha. We were looking at the Slippins.

  ‘That’s really sad,’ said Martha. ‘I wanted them to win.’

  Ellie’s mum was fumbling in her pocket and pulled out a crumpled £5 note. She came over to James.

  ‘Well done James,’ she said. ‘But if you don’t want the cake, can I buy it off you? Please?’

  James looked at the £5 note and pulled a face. ‘You can’t afford it.’

  Ellie’s mum sighed, but then Ellie shoved her hand in her cardigan pocket and pulled out all the money she had. It was only a few coins, probably about 25p. She passed them to her mum who offered them to James along with the £5.

  ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’ sneered James. ‘I tell you what. Give me £100 and it’s yours.’

  Oooh, I was getting cross and at first I didn’t notice that Martha was tapping me on the arm. ‘You’re pulling your hair!’ she said.

  Too right I was. It’s what I always do to wake my brain up. NO WAY could I let James have that cake now, but how could I fix it . . . ?

  And then I felt something between my fingers, something very small, hard and round that had got stuck in my hair. I tugged it out. It was a tiny silver ball! It must have landed there on Saturday when we’d been slapping all the icing and other stuff on the cake. Oh wow. All I had to do was drop the ball on to the cake to make it that tiny bit heavier and James would lose!

  But Martha had been reading my mind. She pointed at James who was already pushing his way to the front. There was no way I could get to the cake before he did. Eeky freak!

  James could have just picked up the cake and walked away, but of course, being James, he couldn’t resist turning to the crowd and doing a big bow. Absolutely nobody clapped, but he didn’t care. He just waved over at Ellie and her mum and shouted, ‘I’ll save you a few crumbs!’

  Just as James was making me feel utterly sick, I felt Martha’s fingers reaching into my hand. She grabbed the little silver ball and shoved it in one end of the long stripy straw. (See? I told you that straw was important.) She took a deep breath, put the other end in her mouth, aimed it at the cake and BLEW! The ball shot out and stuck itself deep into the yellow icing. James was doing one last bow when behind his back, the cake slowly went down and the weights came up again. YO! GOOD ONE MARTHA. I mean to say, honestly, how cool was that? We love Martha.

  ‘I say chaps!’ said Mrs Twelvetrees clapping her hands loudly. ‘It looks like we’re not quite there yet. Let’s have another gram please Miss Pingle!’

  And sure enough, one more gram went on and the cake moved back up into the balanced position.

  ‘I declare the official weight as being one thousand, two hundred and thirty-six grams!’ said Miss Pingle.

  ‘WHAT?’ blurted James who couldn’t believe it.

  ‘And that’s the final result,’ said Miss Pingle sharply.

  And with that she heaved the cake from the scales and walked over to the Slippins who were all standing with their hands outstretched to take it. And this time everybody DID clap.

  Well actually, everybody clapped except James.

  Nasty Surprises

  That night Dad was sitting in the armchair trying to watch a programme about cars he couldn’t afford to buy. Dad is one of those dads who can’t watch telly unless he’s holding the remote control, so he was being really grumpy. Mum had taken Tilly out to ballet so there was only me and James in the house and James had gone to hide up in his room. That left me to face the great grumpiness of Dad alone so that wasn’t very fair, was it? Never mind, I’d soon have it sorted out. Tum tee tum . . .

  ‘Would you like me to sit on the floor by the telly and change it when you want, Dad?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Dad, but then he had a think about it just like I knew he would. ‘If anybody should be doing that it should be James.’

  Correct. Well done Dad. So let’s get it organised shall we?

  ‘I don’t mind doing it, honestly, really,’ said good little Agatha who wouldn’t hurt a sausage. ‘After all James is busy upstairs doing his homework. * You can’t ask him to sit there changing the telly.’

  ‘Oh can’t I?’

  (*Big joke. All James ever does in his room is put on his football shirt and look at himself in the mirror, and Dad knew it.)

  And so it came to pass that one minute later James was sitting on the floor by the telly looking even grumpier than Dad ha ha!

  ‘Make it a bit quieter,’ Dad said. James reached for the buttons and turned the volume down.

  ‘Have I got to stay here all night?’ he moaned.

  ‘Unless you go and get that remote,’ said Dad. ‘I paid for the telly, that was MY remote control, you lost it, so until you find it, you ARE the rem
ote control. Now stop talking and make it a bit louder.’

  James sighed and reached for the buttons again.

  The car programme finished so Dad made James flick through all the other channels. He only watched about ten seconds of each one and made James change the volume every time. Gosh Dad was being super-grumpy that night, which is a bit worrying for a grown man with rainbow-coloured toenails.

  I was on the sofa pretending to read a book about something but I can’t remember what as it was dead boring. Oh gosh, I shouldn’t say that when YOU’RE reading this book should I? It might put you off reading books. OK, the book was about bananas and it was really interesting. Really, honest it was. You don’t believe me do you? Bah. I’d better start this bit again. (Don’t worry, you won’t have to read this, they always cross these bits out before they send books to the printers.)

  I was on the sofa just being on the sofa and not doing anything special. So that wasn’t really worth telling you was it? Anyway THE POINT I’M TRYING TO MAKE IS . . . even though James being on the floor was funny at first, I was starting to feel a bit sorry for him.

  Of course he’s a big brother and therefore he is evil and selfish, but I’m sure he hadn’t meant to be so mean to Ellie’s mum. He’d just got a bit excited when he thought he’d won the cake. In fact, if I’m being honest, sometimes he isn’t mean at all.

  I’ll tell you a secret story that I hope nobody else remembers except me. One time when I was six, Ivy accidentally knocked my chocolate biscuit down the drain in the school playground and I cried for ages until James came over and gave me his. I bet it was just a dirty trick so that in future years I could never completely hate him, but even so, it’s a trick that’s worked. So, because of that chocolate biscuit, I was just deciding to help James out when . . . a little twinkly fairy skipped into the room.

  Actually it wasn’t a real fairy, it was Tilly wearing her glittery ballet dress and waving a silver wand. I used to have a dress like that and dead cool I looked too. In fact if I wasn’t going to be a celebrity actress supermodel when I grow up, I think being a real fairy would be neat. The world needs more fairies flying round, doing magic and making sure that your apple hasn’t got a brown mushy bit and that there’s no sticky patch on the park bench when you want to sit down and useful stuff like that.