Lula Does the Hula (23 page)

Gianni lay clutching his bits on the floor, moaning something that sounded suspiciously like ‘witch girl!
Her
dog,
her
, again-a,’ whimper, whimper, etc.

Tam was at his side in an instant, going, ‘Are you all right? Gio? Gi? Are you okay?’

‘No,’ said Gianni. He raised his head to shoot me a venomous look from his watering eyes, but his gaze stopped short at Tam’s chest.

‘Whoa,’ he said for a second time.

I gasped at what he was staring at – Tam’s crisp white top was drenched and perfectly see-through, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

‘Tam!’ I squeaked.

She looked up at me, and her jaw dropped. ‘Tatty! Your shir–!’ she began, just as the hairy hound tugged against the lead. I was about to rein Boodle in, but she was only
picking Biggins up from the table with her massive drooly jaws. She dropped him gently into the puddle of water on the floor at my feet.

‘Chee-ack,’ said the duck, splatting his tiny feet happily.

I ignored them and threw my cardi over to Tam. ‘You’d better put that on,’ I said. ‘Before Gianni has a heart attack.’

Tam looked down at her drenched shirt. ‘Eek!’ She slapped Gianni – still gaping like a loon – on the head as she snatched at my cardi, and held it to her chest, spluttering with indignation, before putting it on at the speed of light.

‘Very generous of you, Lula,’ said Arns, standing and trying to urge Mona towards the door. ‘Seeing as you need that far more than Tam.’

I glanced down at myself and discovered that black chiffon, even if it is quite crinkly, is also totally see-through when wet.

‘Frik!’ I yelped, scrabbling for my coat. Damn the tangly sleeves!

Jack, behind me, was going, ‘What? What? Are you going, Lula?’

Mrs Caruso had not noticed the breasts on display. ‘Tam-a, you okay? Gio? Stop being such a wimp-a. Towels! We need towels! Someone could fall-a.’

‘I’m so sorry!’ I huffed. ‘So, so sorry!’

‘Don’ worry, darling,’ soothed Mrs Caruso. ‘I’ll put the dog and the duck over in the window. Outta the way.’

I nodded gratefully and helped Tam to her feet while still struggling to get my arms in the sleeves of my stupid, stupid coat. Jack was trying to help, but just getting in the way, and all the time he was going, ‘Did you get that duckling from Frey’s Dam?’ and various variations of the same question over and over again in a confused undertone until at last I said, ‘Kind of,’ and then I couldn’t read his expression.

Mrs Caruso settled Boodle and Biggins to the left of the counter in the window. They were both looking out through the glass. Boodle’s plumed tail was waving happily, which was okay because it was only a fake grapevine that was taking a beating. Arns and Mona still hadn’t left, mainly because Arns was still pointing at my chest and laughing a particularly nerdy laugh that made me want to harm him. Mona was staring too, her hand over her mouth and her eyes terribly wide.

Mrs Caruso was hurrying towards Gianni who was now staggering back from the kitchen with a load of tea towels. ‘Put them on the floor here-a,’ she commanded, but her sandalled foot hit the puddle and with a ‘WEY-A!’ she fell hard, taking Gianni down with her. All that could be seen of Tam’s latest flame was his right leg, which was jerking reflexively beneath his enormous mother. She was like a bug on its back, waving her arms and legs with no chance of getting up on her own.

I reached over, still only half my coat on, and grabbed one of her hands. ‘Jack! Mr K!’ I shouted. ‘Help!’

Tam was at my side in an instant and we were both tugging on Mrs Caruso’s arm, while her other flailed like a rodeo cowboy’s. She was utterly speechless.

Mr K had stopped staring at the ceiling. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his fedora tilted back so he had a good view of the chaos before him. Jack had to step right round him to get to my side.

‘Mr K!’ I pleaded, pulling as hard as I could.

‘Sure, Tallulah,’ said Mr K, getting to his feet with a devilish look in his eye. ‘But you know how feeble I am.’

‘Stop kicking your legs, please, Mrs Caruso,’ said Jack. ‘Someone could get hurt.’

‘Mrwmee,’ squeaked Gianni, whose head had emerged. His purple complexion suggested he wasn’t getting quite enough air.

‘Indeed,’ said Mr K. ‘Everybody ready? One, two, three!’

He, Jack, Tam and I pulled at Mrs Caruso’s hands, while Carrie and Alex got behind and pushed her upright. She stood dizzily and looked so wobbly I momentarily forgot about my see-through top. I braced my legs and held both her hands. ‘You okay, Mrs Caruso?’

She let go of me and clutched the back of a chair.

I stooped to help Gianni up.

His legs seemed a little shaky too, so I held him by the
elbows for a moment before letting go carefully.

‘Whoa!’ he said, his hands clutching his heart while he gaped at my wet shirt.

I was distracted by Boodle stepping out from the window area. ‘Boodle!’ I said warningly. ‘Stay!’ I held my hand out in the stop position and looked at her sternly.

‘Can I stay too?’ asked Bludgeon from the doorway, looking at me, then my chest, then back at me. ‘Looks like there’s good viewing in this café.’

Arnold was sitting right behind me, but I couldn’t look him in the eye.

‘So,’ he said. ‘How come you wouldn’t talk to me in art this morning?’

‘I did talk to you,’ I muttered.

‘You said, “Get away from me, Arnold Trenchard.” That’s what you said.’

I murmured something under my breath.

‘Pardon?’ asked Arnold politely. ‘What was that? Did you just call me a rude name?’

‘Arns!’ said the big burly rower with the German accent. ‘Back off, man. Don’t get her riled.’

I saw Arnold shoot him a cursory glance. ‘What are you afraid of, Boris?’

‘Ah,’ I said softly. ‘I remember you from last time. The sausage-eater slash German exchange student slash rowing champ. Nice to meet you, Boris Weinstührer.’

Boris made a high-pitched sound in the back of his throat and shifted in his seat. ‘I’m not afraid of anything, man. Nothing at all.’

I faced forward and a few seconds later a burp of epic proportions thundered forth. A pungent odour of bratwurst filled the bus.

I turned slowly till I was facing the boys at the back. (How come all the girls got on the bus before me so I was left with the last seat before the boys?
Again?
)

‘Who burped?’ I asked quietly, staring directly at Boris. ‘Who did that?’

‘Er,’ said Arns. ‘Wasn’t me.’

‘You!’ I stabbed a finger at Arns. ‘You be quiet!’

‘Hey!’ said Arns. ‘It’s not my fault that every time I see you you’re getting naked! That’s got nothing to do with me! Don’t take it out on me!’

‘Ooooh!’ said Jessica Hartley, fully swivelled in her seat for a view of the proceedings. ‘Doing what naked, Arnold?’

‘Now that would be telling,’ said Arnold with a wink.

Something inside me snapped. ‘I WAS NOT NAKED!’ I yelled.

Mr VDM slowed the bus to take the corner up to the safari park gates. ‘You kids have your own change rooms now!’ he called back. ‘No more towels dropping
by mistake
so we can all see everything.’ He pulled up at the gates and glared at Jessica. ‘Understood?’

There was general muttering while the game guard came out and got VD to sign into the park.

‘You still scared of this place, Tatty Bird?’ drawled
Matilda McCabe from the front seat.

‘You are having a laugh,’ I said bitterly. ‘This wildlife habitat is old hat to me. It feels like I’ve been rowing for years instead of just Wednesday, Thursday, now
Friday
! Who does sport on a
Friday
? I’ve been here
every
morning and
every
night since I first went out in that
old
and
stinky
boat’ – I dropped my voice to a hiss – ‘thanks to VD getting the dumbass idea that I might have to row in the regatta! Me! A total novice!’

‘Well,’ said Jessica. ‘He has taken quite a shine to you. That speech he made in assembly about your incredible talent, blah blah, being a crew member at the last minute, blah blah. Pukerama.’

I went red. The boys in the back stifled giggles. Jessica’s narky tone sounded a wee bit jealous and I wanted it fixed, but I didn’t know how.

‘Anyone would get the hang of rowing if they had to do tank sessions twice a day as well as rowing with you lot,’ drawled Arns. ‘She’s not that good. VD just likes her tight Ts.’

‘I do not wear tight Ts!’ I protested. ‘That is a total lie, you lying liar!’

‘You do and you make me wear them too.’

‘Oh, please.’ I shot him a withering look, though actually I was quite grateful to him. That look had left Jessica’s face. ‘You love wearing your new clothes. I should have got you
more camo gear so you could hide away from the animals out here.’

A smile stretched across Arnold’s face. ‘I’m not scared of the animals,’ he replied.

I rolled my eyes. ‘I was never
scared
,’ I countered. ‘Just a little concerned about our safety, that’s all.’

More snarfy laughter from the back.

‘This place, pffft!’ said Mr VDM with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘They call this a safari park? What’s a park without the big cats, hey? They got one rhino and they call it a safari park. Pffft!’ Another wave of the hand.

‘There is a leopard too, sir,’ said Boris.

‘And the rhino is a black one,’ said a big blond boy. ‘Those guys are nasty. Nasty tempers.’

‘Just like me,’ I said warningly to the fellows in the back.

Someone farted and I shifted to look at them with my eyebrows raised while the girls all yelled abuse and rolled the windows down as fast as they could.

‘Pardon me,’ said Boris in small voice. ‘Pardon me, please.’

I gave him a cursory nod and turned back, concentrating hard on not throwing up.

We tumbled into the boathouse with relief. The changing room used to be big enough for a whole crew to get dressed in, but since the boys started tagging along it had been divided by a piece of plasterboard into separate girls and boys. So
now only four of us could get changed at any one time. It was an unwritten rule that the first four: Matilda McCabe, Jessica Hartley, Dionysia Demas and Kelly Sheridan went first, while I went with the O’Connelly sisters and Hilary St John. Dionysia, Kelly and the Irish O’Connelly sisters were all big girls, oh, and Matilda McCabe too, but you knew that. They weren’t fat, they were
big
. Mr VDM said they were the best girl powerhouse on the water he’d ever seen.

The boys I was only just getting to know. Boris was rowing six in the Hambledon Boys’ powerhouse, behind Arnold who was seven and Ivor at eight. At five was Zac Rutter who was quieter than Arnold, but the smelliest of them all (silent but violent, I was reliably informed), then came Fat Angus, a guy called Skinny Jenks (though he wasn’t), then Llewellyn Scott and finally Thor T. Birtley. Thor I reckoned was okay, though we hadn’t said two words to each other. He was as cocky and smelly as the rest of them, but he was respectful of us girls and kept his distance.

Mr VDM locked the minibus and went on to the jetty to check the speedboat engine. ‘Ten minutes!’ he bellowed. ‘Both boats on the water in ten minutes!’

‘He’s tetchier than usual,’ I observed, sinking on to an old crate outside the changing room.

‘Worried about the regatta a week on Sunday,’ said Matilda, crashing the corrugated-iron changing-room door closed behind her and the others.

‘Has Vanessa been signed off by your dad?’ I asked.

Michelle Wong, our cox, dropped her bag next to mine. ‘Course not. A stress fracture takes forever. You’ll be rowing in the Port Albert Regatta – your first race. Not bad going.’

‘No!’ I yelped. ‘I run; I don’t row! I’m just doing this for a bit to fix my back, you know?’

‘Oh, please,’ said Michelle. ‘Get ready to race. And don’t say you didn’t know. That’s why you’ve been worked so hard.’

I
had
been worked hard. That light paddle on Wednesday had been, strangely, really quite wonderful and, although I’d never admit it, I was beginning to see the appeal of the whole malarkey – but the thought of the regatta was terrifying. No way did I feel ready for that.

‘Oh. Frik,’ I breathed. ‘I thought Vanessa would be better by now.’

‘That was dumb,’ said Kelly Sheridan.

‘What’s dumb is me racing! With you guys! In the Port Albert Regatta!’

‘Where have you
been
?’ asked Michelle with a weary widening of her eyes. ‘What did you think all of these extra training sessions have been about?’

‘I just . . . I just . . .’ Distant memories of previous years’ events chimed into place. ‘Frik!’ I said. ‘We’re racing in the Port Albert Regatta next
weekend
?’

‘Let’s hope she’s quicker off the mark at the start of the
race,’ said Matilda, coming out of the changing room. She threw an oily rag at me as she walked over to the boat racks. ‘Get with the programme, Bird, because if we lose that race I’m holding you personally responsible.’