Olive of Groves and the Great Slurp of Time (4 page)

4

In which we learn the persuasive power of an extra g

‘Helloooooo!' sang Mrs Groves from the top of the spiral staircase. ‘I've brought our newest student for a visit!'

‘It's the time traveller!' cheered Olive, and she did three joyous little bunny hops.

Mrs Groves bumbled in, smiling and flapping her lace handkerchief in the air. ‘
Two
new students in one day!' she cooed. ‘Oh my goodness gracious me, Olive! Such exciting times!
Two!
Who would have thought?'

And before Olive had time to ask, or Mrs Groves had time to explain, the
second
new student sauntered into the room. Pushing his way past Fumble, he snorted at the rats, leered at Olive, plonked down into the armchair and scratched his belly.

‘Oh my!' squeaked Wordsworth.

‘Oh dear!' moaned Chester.

‘Oh poo!' shouted Blimp.

‘
Pig McKenzie!
' gasped Olive.

The pig leaned back in the armchair and rested his hind trotters up on the bookcase. Olive's jam tin full of pencils and crayons was kicked clattering to the floor.

‘Whoopsy-daisy!' cried Mrs Groves, and she crawled around, picking up the mess.

Olive fell to the floor beside her and hissed, ‘Mrs Groves! Why have you let that Wicked Pig back into our school?'

‘Oh no, no, no, no, no!' clucked the silly woman. ‘This is not Pig McKenzie the Hideous Hog of Vile Temper and Evil Intentions whom you chased from our school with a pitchfork!' She stood up and passed Olive her pencil tin. ‘Oh no, no, no, no, no! This is Pigg McKenzie,
Pigg
being spelt with a double g.'

Olive stared at Mrs Groves.

Speechless.

Gobsmacked.

‘Pigg McKenzie,' snorted the pig. ‘Two g's.'

‘Yes,' babbled Mrs Groves. ‘
Two g's.
Did you get that, Olive?
Two g's.
That second g makes all the difference. Why, this poor pig is always being mistaken for Pig McKenzie
with one g, which is very unfortunate. Pig McKenzie with one g is a Very Unpleasant Kind of Swine, whereas Pigg McKenzie with two g's is a kind, gentle, friendly sort of pig who wants nothing more than to settle down to his studies and be a help and comfort to his fellow students.'

‘A help and comfort to my fellow students,' echoed the pig. He smiled sweetly at Mrs Groves.

‘Furthermore,' the headmistress prattled on, ‘this dear pig wears a lime-green jacket, as you can see, whereas Pig McKenzie with one g always wore a brown woollen jacket. Rather dull when you think about it. I never was terribly fond of brown wool.'

‘But this
is
Pig McKenzie!' cried Olive. ‘Anyone can see that he is the same Wicked Pig as Ever He Was. Placing an extra g in his name does nothing to change the fact that he is a Nasty, Vile Creature Who Thinks of Nobody but Himself. Why, this very minute, he is probably Scheming and Plotting to Get Rid of Me.'

The pig heaved himself up out of the chair. ‘Oh, my aching bacon!' he moaned, pressing his trotter to his heart. ‘How could you say such a thing? I am a pig of pure intentions. I cannot tell you how deeply grieved I am by your suspicious, unwelcoming attitude. And in a school captain of all people!'

The pig shook his head sadly, tugged at his ears, then staggered about the room, wailing. He bumped into the wall, tearing a large strip of wallpaper away . . . barrelled headfirst into Fumble's belly, reducing the poor, frightened moose to tears . . . stumbled into the fireplace, kicking ashes out onto the pretty pink rug . . . ricocheted into Olive, knocking the tin of crayons from her hands . . . lurched onto the bed, snapping off one of the legs . . . cast himself against the chest of drawers, biting an ugly hole deep into the timber . . . then returned to the centre of the room, where he slumped his shoulders and emitted a long, deep sigh of despair.

‘You simply
must
believe the poor pig,' cried Mrs Groves. ‘
I
certainly do. After all, he has given me solid evidence.' The silly headmistress rustled around in the left pocket of her apron. She pulled out a tangled ball of string, a bird's nest, a live frog with a postage stamp stuck to its back and a white paper bag full of peppermints. ‘Oh! Peppermints!' she cooed, popping one in her mouth, then offering them all around.

‘Don't forget the hard evidence, Mrs Groves,' said Olive, looking the pig right in the eye. She refused to be beaten by this Scheming Lump of Lard.

Mrs Groves fumbled around in her
right
pocket this time, pulled out two scrunched-up pieces of paper and handed them to Olive.

Olive read aloud. ‘Pig McKenzie the baddy is in the rehub . . . rehub . . .' She turned to Mrs Groves. ‘I can't read this, it is so poorly spelt.'

‘It says,' explained Mrs Groves, ‘that Pig McKenzie (with one g) is in the Rehabilitation Centre for Really Bad Pigs and will not be released for three years, twelve months and seven days.'

‘That's
four
years and
one
week,' squeaked Wordsworth.

‘Yes,' said Mrs Groves. ‘I made
exactly
the same comment, but Pigg McKenzie, here, explained that this is the way that all pig rehabilitation centres record time . . . which just proves that this is an official letter!'

Olive stared at the rag of paper with its messy, misspelt words written in blunt pencil. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, official about it.

Olive looked at Pigg McKenzie. He smirked into his trotter.

Mrs Groves continued, ‘The second piece of paper says, “This is Pigg McKenzie,”
Pigg
being written with a double g. There is an arrow that points to our dear friend here . . . if you hold the page the right way. Rather conclusive, wouldn't you say?'

‘Good grief,' sighed Olive. Although I am not sure whether she was referring to Mrs Groves' stupidity, the fact
that Fumble had curled up into a ball behind the door and was rocking back and forth, moaning in terror, or the sight of Chester, who had just chewed a button off Mrs Groves' blouse and was waving it joyfully in the air like a victory banner.

The pig yawned and stretched. He patted his bulging belly with his front trotters. ‘Well,' he said, ‘it has been delightful to meet you, Obvious.'

‘It's
Olive
!' cried Blimp, then dived beneath the bed, frightened at his own boldness.

Mrs Groves nodded and blushed, said, ‘Merry Christmas' – even though it was only May – then disappeared down the spiral staircase.

Pigg McKenzie stared at Olive. His gaze settled for a moment on her new school-captain badge and his eyes narrowed, ever so slightly. He looked down at his lime-green jacket with rather ordinary plastic buttons and back to Olive's shiny silver badge.

He grunted and left the room, but not before he had thrown one last smirk over his shoulder and wiped something brown and disgusting from his trotter on the wallpaper.

5

In which Basil explains the mysteries of time travel

‘
Guten Tag!
' sang a musical voice with a German accent.

‘It's the time traveller!' cheered Olive, bunny-hopping around the room with even more enthusiasm than before. ‘It really truly
is
this time!'

To be honest, a visit from anyone who wasn't Pigg McKenzie would have sent her into raptures at this stage. Relief can turn one quite dizzy with excitement.

‘
Guten Tag!
' sang Basil once more. ‘May I come in?'

‘Of course!' cried Olive. ‘You are very welcome.'

Basil stepped inside, doffed his green felt hat, clicked his heels and bowed. His snowy blond hair flopped onto his forehead. A smile stretched across his face and his blue eyes sparkled. ‘What a beautiful, spacious room you have up here in the turret!'

He looked through the window, down into the back garden of Groves. The dahlias and crocuses were in full bloom. ‘What a delightful view!'

He looked around at Olive's friends. Fumble was draping Olive's scarf from his antlers like bunting. Wordsworth was reading a small book of poetry about mice. Chester was gazing at his new red button, turning it over and over in his paws. Blimp was eating Olive's favourite black velvet headband flavoured with a thick layer of toothpaste. ‘What fascinating friends!'

And then Basil froze. He stared at the battered silver alarm clock sitting on the bedside table. His sparkly blue eyes widened and his green felt hat fell to the floor. ‘It's true!' he gasped. ‘You have a special clock!'

‘Oh, that,' said Olive. ‘It was smashed to pieces by a Very Nasty Pig, but the rats fixed it for me. Of course, one of the bells has been replaced by a thimble . . . and there's a lump of cheese instead of the number eight . . . and the hands go backwards. But that's what makes it special. That and the fact that it was repaired with nothing more than ratty intelligence and a whole lot of love.' She smiled fondly at Wordsworth, Chester and Blimp.

Blimp's nose blushed at the mention of love . . . or perhaps it was guilt at being caught in the act of eating Olive's headband.

‘But the hands!' shouted Basil. ‘They go
backwards
!'

‘Yes,' murmured Olive, starting to grow a little concerned. ‘I already said that.'

‘
Backwards
-moving hands!' he cheered.

Olive bit her lip and looked sideways at Wordsworth. The grey rat grimaced and rotated his paw beside his head in a gesture meaning, ‘Crazy!'

‘Oh dear,' sighed Olive. It was troublesome enough that Mrs Groves was bonkers, without having this sweet and charming boy join the club.

Suddenly, Basil seized her shoulders. His eyes boggled. ‘But don't you realise what this means?' he cried, his nose just millimetres from hers. ‘A timepiece whose hands move
in an anticlockwise direction is just what I need. It is the perfect tool for travelling back in time. This wonky clock can return me to my home in 1857!' He frowned. ‘But there is no fun in that. Mama will just make me finish my chores.' His eyes sparkled and he grinned once more. ‘But I don't have to go home just now. We could use this clock to take us back to yesterday, back to ancient Greece . . .
back to wherever we wish to go in time
!'

Wordsworth went cross-eyed, then held an imaginary towel either side of his head, pulling it back and forth between his ears while making a squeaky cleaning noise.

Olive giggled, but Basil shook her shoulders again. ‘I can take you with me, if you like. Back to any time in history . . .
any time you like
.'

The smile dropped from Olive's face. ‘Are you
serious
?' she whispered. ‘You can take us with you?'

Wordsworth stood up on his hind legs and stared.

Basil smiled. ‘To any time at all.'

And then, dear reader, Olive said something that took everyone – including myself, quite frankly – by surprise.

‘Would you like a blueberry mini muffin?'

After they had each had
two
blueberry mini muffins (except for Fumble, who ate two pairs of Olive's socks by mistake
because they looked round and delicious and muffiny, in a blurry sort of way), Basil exclaimed, ‘Let me explain the mysteries of time travel!'

Olive and her friends leaned forward. Their eyes grew wide. The room fell silent as they held their breath.

Unfortunately, Pigg McKenzie
also
leaned forward. His piggy little eyes
also
grew wide. His snorting, snuffling sinuses were quietened as he
also
held his breath. The Vile Pig had followed Basil, unbeknown, up the spiral staircase and was now crouched just outside Olive's door, eavesdropping.

Pigg McKenzie was Hatching a Plan. A Plan So Wicked it would make your nasal hair stand on end and your toenails curl, were I to divulge it.

So I will not.

At least, not now.

I have to divulge it sooner or later, obviously, or this would turn out to be the most unsatisfactory story ever written when, in reality, it is the most fascinating cliffhanger of a tale that it will be your good fortune ever to read.

‘Let me explain the mysteries of time travel!' said Basil. ‘I will hold the wonky silver alarm clock and say to where I would like to travel back in time. Anyone nearby will be drawn with me into a time vortex and
spat out
the other
end.' He paused for a moment to let this information sink in. ‘When I wish to return to the present, I will hold my own miniature cuckoo clock, on which the hands move in the regular fashion, and say to where I would like to travel forward in time.' He nodded to each of them in turn, then summarised, ‘Simply put: backwards-moving timepiece for travel backwards in time; forward-moving timepiece for travel forward in time.'

‘Is that it?' asked Blimp, licking a muffin crumb off the corner of Chester's mouth. ‘Doesn't sound mysterious at all.'

‘Just clocks and talking,' agreed Chester. ‘Not a single mention of buttons.'

‘In fact,' added Wordsworth, flicking through the pages of his thesaurus, ‘the whole process sounds a little mundane . . . mundane, dull, boring, ordinary, workaday, mediocre, commonplace and colourless.'

‘Except that we get to
travel through time
!' shouted Olive.

‘Precisely!' cried Basil. ‘Quite a thrilling experience . . . provided everything goes to plan . . . which it will . . . I think. I am just a beginner, but what could possibly go wrong?' He coughed and blushed a little. ‘You would like to try it?
Ja?
'

‘Oh yes please!' they all shouted at once, and a great argument broke out as to which place in history
they should visit. Chester favoured a military campaign where there would be thousands of jackets with rows of brass buttons. Wordsworth longed to visit a poet, like Homer or Winnie the Pooh. Blimp was all for finding the inventor of chocolate-chip biscuits and giving them a hearty handshake, an exuberant hug.

‘Or,' said Fumble, sucking shyly on his hoof, ‘we could let Olive choose. It is, after all,
her
special day.'

‘Of course.'

‘We should have thought of that in the first place.'

‘Good idea. Olive deserves first choice . . . although the inventor of choc-chip bickies
is
important.'

‘We're agreed then!' said Basil, tucking his thumbs into his braces. ‘Olive decides.'

Our heroine stared at the ceiling. She poked her lip with her index finger. She twirled a strand of her hair around and around until it knotted. She tapped her foot and said, ‘Ummm . . .' at least five times.

‘Oh, for Pete's sake!' shrieked Blimp. ‘Just pick a time. Any time!'

‘The Jurassic era!' she cried.

‘Oh yes!' squeaked Wordsworth. ‘All those stegosauruses, diplodocuses, dimorphodons –'

‘And octagons!' shouted Blimp.

Basil grabbed the battered silver alarm clock. Olive, Fumble, Blimp, Chester and Wordsworth all moved in close.

‘The Jurassic era!' declared Basil.

The room began to spin and whirl. The caterpillars on the wallpaper wriggled and floated into the air. Olive felt weightless, dizzy, fuzzy. Bursts of light filled her vision. Fireworks! Sparks! Shooting stars! Shooting bits of cheese! A shower of blueberry mini muffins with the sun shining through!

‘The colours! The colours!' sang Blimp.

‘Botheration! I think I dropped my button!' cried Chester.

‘Here we are!' Basil announced and, as sure as day follows night, all six of them were sitting, side by side, beneath a tree fern, in the middle of a nest full of giant brown and white spotted eggs.