Olive of Groves and the Great Slurp of Time (3 page)

2

In which we decide whether or not to eat lederhosen

‘
Guten Tag!
' The twelve-year-old time traveller clicked his heels, bowed and smiled. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

Olive stood beside Mrs Groves and stared. Curious students crowded around the doorway, spilling out onto the porch. Elizabeth-Jane the giraffe stuck her head out the window.

‘Lederhosen!' cried Wordsworth, the grey rat. ‘He's wearing lederhosen!'

‘What's lederhosen?' asked Blimp, the fat white rat. ‘Is it anything like liquorice . . . or lamingtons? Can we eat it?'

Wordsworth rolled his eyes and slapped his forehead. ‘Lederhosen,' he explained, looking around to make sure everyone was listening, ‘are the chosen pants of many a
German, Austrian and Swiss lad. They are little shorts made from leather, attached to a pair of thick braces. The braces are joined at the chest by a panel that is decorated with embroidered flowers.'

‘Precisely!' cried the boy, hooking his thumbs into his braces. ‘What a clever little grey rat you are!'

‘Silver,' corrected Wordsworth. ‘My fur is silver.'

His fur was actually grey, but silver sounded so much more distinguished.

‘
Ja!
I can see that now,' said the boy kindly. ‘Your fur is definitely silver.'

Olive continued to stare. She took in the lederhosen, the collarless white shirt, the big brown hiking boots with woolly white socks, the canvas rucksack and the green felt hat. The hat was decorated with a beautiful tan and black feather that might well have been plucked from the tail of a pheasant. Why, this boy looked as though he had just returned from an early morning hike through the Black Forest!

‘Good grief,' said Olive. ‘You look like you have just returned from an early morning hike through the Black Forest!'

‘I have!' he replied. ‘My name is Basil Heffenhüffenheimer and I am from the Black Forest in Germany! Just minutes ago I returned from my early morning hike in 1857 and now here I am, many, many years later, taking a midmorning hike up onto your porch.'

‘Good grief,' said Olive once more. For though she was an intelligent girl in possession of an excellent vocabulary, she was astonished by Basil's reply. And sometimes, dear reader, astonishment can render one quite stupid.

‘1857!' gasped Blimp. ‘That's an awfully long time ago.' He started to count on his ratty little claws and stopped. He stared up at the ceiling, started again, then said, ‘I'm hungry. All that counting builds up an enormous appetite . . . Could I have just a
little
bit of your lederhosen to eat?'

Olive giggled and swept the fat white rat up into her arms.

‘If I let you eat my lederhosen,' cried Basil, ‘I will be running around with no pants on! And in the Black Forest it is very bad manners to run around without pants.'

‘It's bad manners here too,' explained Olive. ‘If you are a person, that is. Animals can go naked.'

There was an awkward pause as many of the animals realised that they were, in fact, either partially or totally naked. Elizabeth-Jane the giraffe screamed, pulled her head back through the window, galloped away and hid behind a large potted palm.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick.

‘What's that?' Carlos, the explosives enthusiast, pushed to the front of the crowd. ‘Do you have a bomb?'

‘No!' Basil laughed. ‘The people of the Black Forest are clockmakers. We are especially good with cuckoo clocks. What you can hear is something special, fashioned by my grandfather.' He reached into the pocket of his lederhosen and pulled out a round silver case, engraved with a scene of mountains, pine forests and cows wandering through edelweiss.

‘It's the most exquisite thing I have ever seen!' gasped Olive. But that was before she had been shown what lay
inside
.

Basil flipped the cover to reveal a timepiece of exceptional beauty. Each of the twelve numbers on the clock face was formed from a tiny wreath of coloured flowers – crocuses, edelweiss, foxgloves and bluebells. The hands were wrought from intertwined silver strands as thin as the silk of a spider's web. As the clock ticked, a tiny rosy-cheeked girl and boy rocked up and down on a seesaw at the base of a birdhouse.

‘The birdhouse is the best part of all,' explained Basil, smiling. ‘Keep watch. It is almost half past ten.'

Everyone gathered around. Necks craned. Eyes boggled. Smaller animals scuttled onto the heads and shoulders of children and larger animals. Mrs Groves pushed her glasses further up her nose.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
.

Olive looked into Basil's eyes and he nodded.

Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
.

The doors of the birdhouse swung open. A minuscule blue and white bird popped out, flapped its wings, opened its beak and sang, ‘Cuckoo!' in a voice alarmingly loud yet deliciously sweet. It retreated, the doors closed, and all that could be heard was the rhythmic
tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
once more.

It was over in an instant, but the impact was enormous.

‘Oh, mercy!' shrieked Glenda the goose. ‘There's a bird being held prisoner in that clock!' Her beak clacked, her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell down in a dead faint.

‘Wow!' shouted Anastasia the acrobat. ‘That was . . . that was . . . as exciting as a triple aerial somersault!'

‘It's magnificent!' hooted Valerie. ‘Although I don't see why it needs to be a
cuckoo
clock. It would be far more spectacular to have an
owl
that pops out and says “hoot-hoot”.'

‘That would make a brilliant timer for a bomb!' cried Carlos. ‘Nobody would suspect a thing.' He wandered back inside the mansion, laughing and muttering, ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo, KABOOM!' over and over again.

Blimp scuttled down to the ground and tugged at Basil's boot lace. ‘Your clock is
almost
as beautiful as Olive's alarm clock,' he said. ‘It has a piece of cheese instead of the number eight and the hands move backwards!'

‘Really?' asked Basil, his eyes widening with surprise. ‘How
fascinating
. I think I would like to see this clock. It sounds rather special.' Then, closing the silver case, he popped the timepiece back into his pocket.

Olive let out a small sigh of disappointment. Then suddenly remembering her manners and her new responsibilities as school captain, she stepped forward and gave an awkward curtsey. ‘Welcome, Basil Heffenhüffenheimer, to Mrs Groves' Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers,' she said. ‘Do come inside for morning tea before you continue on your journey. We have chocolate milk and
cupcakes and triple-decker sandwiches cut into fetching little rectangles.'

‘No!' shouted Mrs Groves, breaking her silence for the first time in ten minutes. She threw her arms into the air and flapped her hands about. ‘No, no, no, no, no!'

‘I'm so sorry, Basil,' said Olive, blushing. ‘I don't think Mrs Groves wants you to come in for morning tea.' Leaning forward, she added in a low voice, ‘She is scared of normal, everyday girls, so goodness knows what sort of terror is filling her heart at the sight of a time traveller.'

‘Oh no!' the headmistress exclaimed. ‘The dear lad must not continue on any sort of journey! Why, anyone can see that he must come in and
enrol
!'

Mrs Groves took Basil by the hand and led him through the entrance hall, ignoring Tommy, who had Steve and George the hermit crabs stuck up his nose, and Carlos, who was about to blow up a pile of cupcakes and triple-decker sandwiches cut into fetching little rectangles.

‘You are most welcome, Basil!' she cried. ‘You see, my school is, in fact, Mrs Groves' Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals, Circus Performers
and
Time Travellers. It is just that after twenty-five years without a single time traveller enrolling, I had it removed from the sign. It is a simple matter to have it returned . . . and I do
believe that I have two copies of a textbook on time travel tucked away somewhere . . . if only I can locate them . . . Oh, how
dreadfully
exciting to have one of your kind here at last.' And, stepping through a hole that had been blasted in the wall during an unfortunate incident with a piano and a stick of dynamite, she invited him into her office.

Olive stared in at Basil while curiosity and fear rolled and tumbled around her tummy. She was quite perplexed as to which of the two emotions would win.

‘Good grief,' she said. ‘Mrs Groves' Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals, Circus Performers
and Time Travellers
. What next?'

Indeed she may ask, dear reader.

What next?

3

In which we have a blueberry mini-muffin dilemma

‘It's a shame about the special morning tea,' said Blimp, licking a dollop of icing from his fat white bottom. ‘Who knew that cupcakes, bread, cream cheese and alfalfa sprouts could be blasted into so many tiny blobs by just one stick of dynamite?'

A red leather-bound thesaurus slid out from beneath Olive's bed, followed by Wordsworth. ‘Indeed,' agreed the grey rat. He flipped his book open and thumbed through the pages until he found the desired list of words. ‘Carlos blowing up our celebratory snack was quite disappointing. Moreover, it was painful, disagreeable, odious, vexatious, trying, regrettable –'

‘And lederhosen!' cried Blimp.

Wordsworth rolled his eyes and sighed.

Olive giggled. ‘Never mind,' she said. ‘I have just the thing for a celebration right here – a batch of Granny's home-made blueberry mini muffins!'

No sooner had she opened the lid of the cake tin than Blimp was inside. He dived beneath the muffins and tunnelled around, making ecstatic noises like ‘Ooooh!' and ‘Aaaaah!' and ‘Mmm-mmm-mmmmmm!' His head popped to the surface and he began to lift two muffins at a time, comparing height and weight, until he was certain that he had found the largest. There was a moment of consternation when he realised that the
second largest
muffin had what appeared to be three more blueberries popping out of the top than the
largest
. What a challenging decision! But Olive saw the struggle going on within his ratty little brain and suggested that he take
both
muffins and be done with it.

‘
Two
mini muffins?' screeched Blimp, and for a moment Olive thought he might swoon with happiness. Dragging
the muffins up onto the pillow, he licked a blueberry, sniffled a crumb, then gobbled in earnest.

Wordsworth scampered up onto the quilt, followed by Chester, the hairy brown rat who had been hiding under the bed. There, all four roommates sat in silence, savouring the delights of the latest batch of Granny's home-made blueberry mini muffins. They were fresh and moist, having only just arrived in the post.

‘Magnificent speech you gave today!' squeaked Wordsworth, licking the crumbs off his paws.

Olive scrunched up her nose. ‘It wasn't very long.'

‘It was perfect!' Wordsworth assured her. ‘Pithy!'

‘Hee-hee-hee!' giggled Blimp, pointing. ‘Wordsworth said a rude word!'

‘
Pithy!
' snapped Wordsworth. ‘Short and to the point. Olive's speech said something significant without rambling on and on and on like an old mountain goat who has lost his way in the fog.'

‘What have mountain goats got to do with being a school captain?' asked Blimp.

Olive laughed. ‘Nothing!'

‘Well, why did you talk about them in your speech?'

‘She didn't!' yelled Wordsworth. ‘She was
pithy
!'

‘Pithy!' squealed Blimp once more, then rolled about, giggling and clutching his bulging belly.

Wordsworth shook his head. ‘What matters,' he said, ‘is that we honoured Olive on this special occasion and she, in turn, honoured us with a sincere and beautiful speech.'

Wordsworth was right. It had been an honour and a
very
significant occasion. Only two weeks ago, Olive's reception upon arriving at the school had been far from welcoming. Mrs Groves had almost sent her away, suspecting her (quite correctly) of being a normal, everyday girl. And there was absolutely no place for a normal, everyday girl at Mrs Groves' Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers. Olive had only been permitted to stay once she had convinced the headmistress that she was a circus performer, a real live acrobat – a ruse that she carried on to this very day, despite the fact that she was clumsy and still, at times, afraid of heights.

Furthermore, her attempts to gain acceptance into Groves had been foiled at every turn by Pig McKenzie, head boy and Beastly Bully. But in the end, good had conquered evil. Olive stayed and Pig McKenzie was driven from the school forever.

Well, hopefully forever.

The point is that despite Olive's rocky start at Groves, here she was, just two weeks later, so deeply loved, so highly respected, that she had been made school captain. Granny and Pop would be so proud of her!

Olive touched the school-captain badge on her collar, then reached out and rested her fingertips on the edge of the cake tin. The same tin that had been in Granny and Pop's kitchen just three days ago.

A sudden ache grew in her chest. A lump formed in her throat. ‘Bother,' she mumbled.

Now, Olive was brave and clever and practical. She had a great capacity for solving problems and making the best of almost any situation. If life handed her lemons, not only would she make lemonade, she would juggle the skins, compost the pulp and play a game with the seeds.

Homesickness, however, is no respecter of character, and our heroine was, after all, just a ten-year-old girl, living far from home.

The blueberries in Olive's tummy turned to lead.

Her shoulders slumped.

She sat her half-eaten muffin on her knee.

‘Uh-oh,' said Wordsworth. Being of poetic temperament, he was sensitive to others' moods. ‘Olive is blue.'

‘It's the muffins,' said Blimp. ‘I'm blue too. Look!' He pulled back his lips to show his blueberry-stained teeth and gums.

Wordsworth slapped his forehead. ‘Blue as in glum, forlorn, cheerless, melancholy, down in the dumps. Olive is homesick.'

Chester whispered, ‘Look. She's staring at the photo on her bedside table again.'

Blimp's whiskers drooped. ‘The photo of Granny and Poop.'

‘Pop!' shouted Wordsworth.

Chester and Blimp leapt with fright.

Olive giggled despite herself. The rats had a way of cheering her up, without even trying!

Chester scuttled up into Olive's shirt pocket. He squirmed around for a moment, then popped his head out. ‘That mini muffin was a
lovely
way to celebrate your big day,' he said.

‘I'm glad you enjoyed it,' she replied.

‘Yes, it was very nice. But . . .' The little brown rat stared meaningfully up at her.
‘It would be far more celebratory if you were to give me a
button
.'

Chester was, you see, obsessed with buttons. He had a large and varied collection, which he kept in the rats' nest under Olive's bed, wrapped in a blue handkerchief.

Chester loved buttons.

He lived for buttons.

‘It would be a button that would remind me of this special day forevermore,' Chester explained. ‘We could call it a commemorative button . . . The Captain Olive Commemorative Button, if you like.'

Olive looked down at her white blouse from which two buttons had already been taken for Chester's collection. She looked at the rat's eager smile and wide, expectant eyes. ‘Of course,' she replied. ‘I was just going to say.'

‘Marvellous!' And before Olive had time to decide
which
button would be sacrificed, Chester had leapt from her pocket, scampered across the room, dived into the chest of drawers, nibbled a button from her best red cardigan and disappeared under the bed.

Blimp tugged at Olive's sleeve. ‘May I?' he asked, pointing to the half-eaten muffin still balancing on her knee.

She nodded, and both rat and muffin were gone in a flash.

‘Special delivery!' called a voice from the top of the spiral staircase.

The door was flung open and Olive was greeted by her dear friend Fumble. The big brown moose squeezed through the opening and held out a bunch of . . . a bunch of . . . what
was
it exactly?

‘Fumble!' gasped Olive. ‘How beautiful! You have brought me a bouquet of turnips, spinach, onions, parsley and carrots!'

‘Oh,' sighed Fumble. ‘I meant to pick flowers.'

Poor moose! He was dreadfully short-sighted and had walked around in a blurry haze since Pig McKenzie had tossed his glasses under a steam roller. You may wonder, dear reader, why he had not been fitted for a new pair of spectacles, but it is not an easy matter for a moose to find an optometrist. Turkeys have similar difficulties in finding a dermatologist, llamas in finding an orthodontist. Professionals can be rather fussy about seeing humans only. I suppose that is why we call them specialists.

Olive took the vegetables into her arms and inhaled deeply. ‘Dear Fumble! It is the most beautiful bouquet I have ever seen. And it smells delicious – like vegetable soup!'

Fumble smiled shyly and sucked on his front hoof.

Olive declared, ‘A shiny silver school-captain badge, blueberry mini muffins, a bouquet of vegetables and kindhearted friends! This has been a wonderful day. A day I will never forget.'

And she was, of course, absolutely right. This
was
a day she would never forget.

Although, perhaps, for quite different reasons than those upon which she was currently dwelling.