Olive of Groves and the Great Slurp of Time (16 page)

29

In which superglue becomes a weapon of war

‘Oh, Olive! Tiny Tim!' Mrs Groves bustled across the garden, her white apron flapping in the breeze. ‘Do come quickly, my dears. Pigg McKenzie is sailing his model ship for the very first time and wants
everyone
to be there. He
specifically
asked for you, Olive. Such a kind and caring pig . . . doesn't want anyone to miss out . . . even though he has that dreadful allergy that means he must miss out on time travel . . . oh, it is just too heartbreaking to think about.'

Olive and Tiny Tim followed Mrs Groves to the fish pond, where Pigg McKenzie was sailing his model ship. Actually, Linus and Ivan were sailing his model ship. Pigg McKenzie was lying in a hammock, sipping lemonade.

The pig, thrilled to have so large an audience gathered by his side, was explaining his accomplishments. ‘I am nothing short of brilliant when it comes to building model ships. And not only model ships . . . I'm dazzlingly good at model aeroplanes, model cathedrals, model rockets . . . Why, I could probably build a life-sized model of
myself
!' He paused for dramatic effect. ‘But the charm of
two
Pigg McKenzies would be too much to bear!' He slapped his bulging belly and snorted at his own joke.

Or perhaps it was not a joke.

Either way, the pig's arrogance was disturbing.

Olive squeezed to the front of the crowd and gasped. For there in the fish pond sat the magnificent model sailing ship that she had delivered that morning. Only it had been tampered with in a fashion most dreadful.

‘Oh no!' cried Samuel the servant boy. ‘That festering-footed bat-brained lard-livered pig hath tampered with the magnificent model schooner in a fashion most dreadful.'

‘And what's more,' said Blimp, ‘he's ruined the pretty boat.'

Five of the six snowy white sails had been besmirched with snuffle and mud. The sixth sail had been replaced with a pair of underpants and, I am afraid to say, they did not look freshly laundered. A strange assortment of articles had been superglued all over the once-beautiful woodwork – marbles, combs, Russian dolls, dismembered bits of teddy bears, ribbons, choc-chip bickies and a whole box of crayons, to name just a few. Glued to the top of the tallest mast was the beautiful carved wooden bird that Basil's papa had made for Olive.

Heaving himself out of the hammock, Pigg McKenzie sauntered to the edge of the fish pond. ‘Lo and behold!' he grunted. ‘A little birdy has landed on the mast. It's as pretty as a picture and can even flap its wings up and down.' He grabbed one of the delicate wooden wings and snapped it off. ‘Whoopsy!' he cried in mock horror. ‘Poor little birdy can fly no more.' He flicked the delicate wing to the grass, smirked at Olive, then ground it into the dirt with his hind trotter. He threw back his fat pink head and squealed with laughter.

Olive, pure of heart and tongue, was surprised to feel one of Cracker's rude words dancing across her gritted teeth. ‘I will not give the pig the satisfaction,' she thought.

What a heroine! I am proud of her fortitude.

‘Look!' cried Wordsworth. ‘That is the weirdest figurehead I have ever seen!'

‘What's a figurehead?' asked Chester.

‘A figurehead,' said Frank the compulsive liar, ‘is a hideous growth that starts in the brain, then squeezes its way out the ear until it covers the entire head like a big blob of mutant broccoli.'

‘Oh, mercy!' cried Glenda the goose. ‘Not broccoli!' Her wings drooped, she staggered a little, then fainted in a patch of clover.

‘A figurehead,' corrected Wordsworth, ‘is a carved wooden decoration that is placed on the bow of a ship, often in the shape of a woman or a mythical figure. It is supposed to provide protection and guidance for the ship and its crew.'

‘What sort of mythical figure is
that
?' asked Valerie the owl, her beak turning down at the sides.

‘I don't rightly know,' said Elizabeth-Jane the giraffe. ‘It looks like a gingerbread man with a grandmother's head.'

‘It is!' gasped Olive. ‘It's one of Mama Heffenhüffenheimer's gingerbread men . . . and the head is a photo of
my
granny!' She turned to the pig. ‘You Wicked Pig! You've cut Granny's head from my photo!'

‘And Pop's head,' smirked Pigg McKenzie. ‘Look! Glued to the toilet door beside the crew's cabins. You can just see it through the little porthole there.'

‘Oh, how clever!' cooed Mrs Groves, bending down to look. ‘How on earth did you manage to get the photo in there?'

‘Skill,' said the pig. ‘Skill and effort . . . and loads of intelligence.'

‘Oh no!' hooted Valerie the owl. ‘
That's
the introduction to my science project glued to the stern!' Her feathers fluffed up all over as she pointed with her wing.

‘Those are my hair clips!' sobbed Hamish. ‘Not that I wear them . . . not very often . . .'

‘And my favourite shell,' whispered Steve the hermit crab, popping out of Linus' ear.

George, I am sorry to say, was most unsympathetic. He had become totally absorbed in his own good looks since moving into the Earl of Dibblebrook's bejewelled snuffbox.

‘They're my underpants!' snuffled Wally the wombat.

‘You don't wear underpants,' said Doug. ‘You're a wombat.'

‘Well, not now,' explained Wally. ‘Not since they were stolen.'

‘Horror!' gasped the Ringmaster. ‘That's my lucky ticket! The ticket from my first ever visit to the circus as a little boy!'

‘My button!' shrieked Chester. ‘Oh no! The Captain Olive Commemorative Button! The pig has stolen my special button!'

‘My Mr Toothy-Pegs toothbrush!' sobbed Boffo.

‘Oh, woe is me!' shouted Pigg McKenzie above the crowd. ‘Woe! Woe! Woe is me!'

The students fell silent.

The pig rubbed his temples and rolled his eyes.

‘Poor little piggy!' gasped Mrs Groves, running to his side. ‘You are in distress. Here, have a peppermint.'

Taking a white paper bag from her apron pocket, she held it forth. Pigg McKenzie wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, snatched the bag and tipped its entire contents into his mouth.

‘There, there,' cooed the headmistress, rubbing his back as he sucked and chewed and sobbed.

‘Poor little piggy?!' cried Olive. ‘But he has been
stealing
from each and every one of us, Mrs Groves. Surely you can see! Pigg McKenzie is a thief!'

The pig stopped sucking. He leered at Olive. ‘Pfft!' A peppermint shot from his mouth and hit Olive in the face.

‘I can't help it!' wailed the pig. ‘It's my allergy playing up.'

‘It's true,' babbled Mrs Groves. ‘The poor piggy does have a
dreadful
allergy. Why, he even has the Medical Alert Badge to prove it.'

Pigg McKenzie stuck out his chest. He flicked the stolen school-captain badge where it was pinned to his jacket and smirked at Olive.

Turning to the rest of the students, he sighed. His trotter flew to his brow and he tilted his head back melodramatically. ‘Mrs Groves said I was
allowed
to make a model ship . . . sob . . . to take my mind off my allergy . . . Achoo! Pfft!' Another peppermint skimmed past Olive's ear. ‘That way I might not feel alone and forlorn while you are all flitting off through time, having fun.'

‘Alone and forlorn,' echoed Mrs Groves, wiping a tear from her eye.

‘Alone and forlorn!' wailed the pig.

And he ripped the tail from Olive's tiny wooden bird and flicked it into the fish pond.

30

A short chapter with an itch and some jiggles

Basil winked at Olive with a German accent. It was a good wink. A wink that said, ‘Fear not, dear friend, for I am about to teach the pig a lesson.'

‘Attention!' cried Basil, clicking his heels and bowing to the crowd. ‘Now that Pigg McKenzie has his model ship to play with, we can
all
go on an adventure through time. No skin off his snout.'

Basil stared at the pig.

The pig stared back, unblinking, unsmiling.

‘What a wonderful idea!' cried the Ringmaster. ‘It might take our minds off more troubling matters.' He cast a nervous glance across the garden to the flooded vegetable patch, the charred remains of the rotunda, the
bent lamp post. He caught sight of his reflection in the fish pond and sobbed. Just once, but with great emotion.

Peter dashed forward with a thick black permanent marker and drew a new curly half-moustache on the Ringmaster's face.

Olive took the Ringmaster's hand in hers and smiled up at him. ‘Perhaps,' she suggested, ‘we could go somewhere special for the Ringmaster . . . to a circus from the olden days . . . better still, to the greatest circus ever!'

‘I know!' cried Alfonzo. ‘I've heard of something called Circus Maximus.'

‘It would
have
to be good with a name like that!' Eduardo grinned.

‘Maximus?' gasped the Ringmaster. ‘It would have to be the
best
with a name like that!'

‘But
when
did this Circus Maximus exist?' asked Sparky Burns. ‘And where was it?'

‘It does not matter!' explained Basil. ‘I need only to declare its name and the time vortex will take us there.' He flicked the braces of his lederhosen and waved Olive's battered alarm clock in the air. ‘Gather around, then. Stay close. Lean in.'

‘Wait!' snorted the pig. ‘I will be
ever
so lonely without you all.' He blinked until his eyes grew damp. He slouched
and sighed. It was
almost
a perfect representation of a pig of heavy heart, except . . .

Olive stared at him. What was it?

The pig sighed again and scratched his ear.

He scratched his ear with a tiny screwdriver.

He scratched his ear with a tiny screwdriver and jiggled something around in his other trotter.

A shudder squirmed all the way down Olive's spine then up again.

‘Gather around!' ordered Basil. ‘You too, Mrs Groves.'

The pig tossed something into the air and caught it. There was that light jiggling sound again!

Olive felt prickles at the back of her neck.

‘Ready!' shouted Basil. ‘To Circus Maximus!'

The garden began to spin. Autumn leaves tumbled from the trees and burst into sparks of yellow, red and orange. Goldfish flew through the air and wriggled in and out between their faces.

The pig jiggled something in the palm of his trotter and smirked at Olive.

He jiggled and smirked and threw his head back and squealed.

And then Olive realised what he held!

‘Cogs!' she cried.

The Ringmaster's moustache grew and grew and curled around them like a jungle full of vines, the goldfish exploded, and suddenly, they found themselves caught up in the middle of the wild and terrifying action of Circus Maximus.

31

In which another circus becomes a circus

If Wordsworth had not lost his dictionary two weeks ago in an unfortunate incident involving a Wicked Pig and a blazing fire, he might be able to tell you that the word ‘circus' has yet
another
exciting meaning beyond the two we have already shared:

3. C
IRCUS
– a large circular outdoor theatre in ancient Rome where people gathered to watch performances, fights and races, the largest of which was Circus Maximus.

Within seconds, the Ringmaster, Alfonzo and Eduardo understood that Circus Maximus was
not
the kind of circus they had believed it to be. There were no acrobats, no performing monkeys, no jugglers, no dancing dogs, no clowns and definitely no stands selling popcorn, fairy floss or raspberry cordial. There was not even a knife thrower,
although there did seem to be enormous potential for the shedding of blood.

They realised that Circus Maximus was, in fact, a colossal arena in ancient Rome. At this particular point in time, one hundred and twenty thousand citizens and slaves were sitting on the edge of their stone seats, biting their nails, watching a wild and dangerous chariot race. Each of the thirty chariots was large and sturdy with metal wheels, drawn by four stallions astride. The charioteers were Roman soldiers, muscled and tanned, clad in metal breastplates and helmets, leather sandals, bright linen capes and embarrassingly short skirts. They were the superheroes of the ancient world, racing, roaring and urging their horses to go faster, faster, faster, driven and focussed.

Until they found an odd assortment of naughty boys, talking animals and circus performers in their midst.

‘Oooh,' gasped Olive. For she was barrelling along in a chariot drawn by Star, her heart aflutter with astonishment, terror and joy.

‘Ooooooh,' she gasped again, although this time she added several more vowels.

The ground rushed by at alarming speed. The third sleeve of her yellow and purple cardigan flapped around
her face like a panicked fish. Num-Num cowered at her feet and Mrs Groves shrieked into her ear, ‘Oh deary, deary me, Olive! This is not the sort of circus act I like!'

A Roman chariot drew alongside.

‘Hellooo! Hellooo!' cooed Mrs Groves, smiling and waving her lace handkerchief. ‘Would you be so kind, young man, as to point us towards the performing monkeys?'

The charioteer cracked his whip. The lace handkerchief was snapped away and thrown beneath the galloping hooves of the horses.

Mrs Groves yelped and blushed. She pulled the large gold fob watch from her apron pocket and stared at it. ‘Goodness gracious me!' she cried. ‘Is that the time? I
really
must be going.'

She hitched her skirt up around her knees, threw one leg over the side of the speeding chariot and would have leapt to certain disaster had Olive not grabbed her by the apron strings and pulled her back.

‘You can't just leave, Mrs Groves. We are barrelling along at a million kilometres per hour.'

‘Hang on tight!' Star whinnied. ‘Sharp curve!'

Their chariot tilted to the right, skidded sideways in a cloud of dust and scraped along the stone wall separating the track from the spectators. Sparks flew and the mob went wild. Like crowds everywhere, in every time, they showed their delight by throwing stuff – rotten fruit, loaves of stale bread, ancient scrolls, sweaty sandals.

The chariot pulled away from the wall and Star galloped down the long straight stretch. Her speed grew with every stride. She tossed her mane and whinnied, ‘We're going to win! We're going to win!'

Olive looked back over her shoulder and gasped. What a scene! Amidst the Roman chariots, the Ringmaster hurtled along in a rickshaw drawn by Beauty. He waved his top hat in the air and laughed until the buttons popped off his beautiful red coat. Circus Maximus, although a surprise, had certainly lifted his spirits.

A gaggle of talking animals zoomed along in a bathtub drawn by Helga the hippo. Clara the cow dragged Bozo and Boffo through the dirt on their bellies as they clung to her tail. Naughty boys were running, dodging, galloping amidst the chariots, making silly horsy noises and throwing rotten fruit back into the crowd.

And far, far behind came Fumble, drawing a crude wooden wagon full of hay. He zigzagged back and forth, around and about, squinting. Perched atop the hay was Glenda the goose, knitting a strange and disturbing woollen garment.

Olive laughed and turned back, her eyes towards the finish line. Time travel really was a lark! ‘Yee-ha!' she cried.

‘We're going to win!' yelled Star. ‘And it's going to be brilliant!'

But just at that moment, Wordsworth scampered onto the track. ‘Olive! Olive! Look what I found.' He smiled, squeaked and waved something cylindrical in the air. ‘Look, Olive! Look! It's a scroll! An ancient Roman parchment covered in words! Beautiful words!
Latin
words!' He lifted the scroll above his head and did a little jig of ratty happiness. Right there in front of the oncoming chariots.

‘Look out!' whinnied Star. Veering to the right, she missed him by a whisker.

Olive shouted back over her shoulder, ‘Get off the track, Wordsworth!'

‘Eeeek!' squawked a Roman charioteer. ‘A rat!'

‘A rat?!' shrieked a white stallion. ‘Eeeeek!'

And suddenly, thirty Roman charioteers and their horses were squealing, dancing on their tippy toes, screeching to a halt in a cloud of dust.

‘Oooooooooooooooooooooooh,' whispered Olive.

Long story short, there was a crash.

A big one.

A thirty-chariot pile-up.

Star glanced backwards, slowed to a trot, then stopped just metres short of the finish line.

Olive stepped down onto the dirt, just in time to see Fumble, dear short-sighted Fumble, gallop around the bend where he caught up to the chariots. Well, when I say
caught up to the chariots
, it is really a gentle way of saying
engaged with the thirty-chariot pile-up
. And when I say
engaged with the thirty-chariot pile-up
, it is really a gentle way of saying
smashed into the chariots with great violence, which included the splintering of wood, the flying of wagon wheels, the showering of hay, the tumbling of moose and one very nasty accident involving Glenda's knitting needles and the rump of a stallion.

Mrs Groves took off her little gold glasses, polished them on her apron and returned them to her nose. ‘Oh deary, deary me!' she cried. ‘At this rate we will
never
get to see the performing monkeys!'