Welcome to Stagnant Swamp State School, Page 3

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Corey, disappointed.

  ‘No, of course not,’ scoffed Simon. ‘You're allowed to blow on your pickle slice to help it slide down. There’s also a lot of science to pickle selection. For instance, some pickle racers believe that the time of picking the pickle is important. But personally,’ said Simon, ‘I think the amount of watering the pickle undergoes is critical. We want nice, juicy pickles and the bigger the better because the heavier your slices are, the faster they slide.’

  Some of the preps looked doubtfully at the window.

  ‘I think I prefer football,’ said Corey meekly.

  ‘I’ll just give you a short history of pickle racing, if I may,’ continued Simon, undeterred. ‘Peter Piper was of course responsible for the introduction of pickle racing. But whereas Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, nowadays we use pickled cucumbers and we tend to select individual cucumbers, rather than picking a peck – or group – at once. That way we can ensure their quality.’ Simon smiled at his listeners, conscious of their awed silence. ‘Cucumbers tend to be slipperier than peppers and therefore you have a better chance of winning…’

  ***

  While Simon was giving his discourse on the relative merits of cucumbers versus peppers in pickle racing, Claire was relaxing into her role as school guide.

  ‘Now there’s the chemistry laboratory,’ she pointed, rather unnecessarily, as there had just been a puff of smoke and a flash of light from one of the windows. As they walked past, someone screamed a blood-curdling scream, another person cried ‘Oh no!’ and the fire alarm sounded.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Claire assured them, ‘that sort of thing happens all the time around here.’

  By then, some of the preps had started taking notes as to all the dangers to be avoided. Ethel was writing her notes in a pink diary covered with ribbons and she scratched away furiously with her pencil as Claire spoke.

  ‘Come on,’ said Claire. ‘I think we’ll give the cafeteria a miss for today. It’s never good to bother Mrs Cradoc, the cafeteria manager, on a Monday. That’s the day she sets the pigeon nets.’

  Claire opened the main door and the preps filed in to the corridor outside Mr Creechley’s office.

  ‘Actually,’ added Claire, ‘Tuesdays are also not good, as that's the day she sets the rat traps. Wednesdays should be given a miss, too, because that's snake snaring day and Thursdays, well...’ Claire trailed off into a perplexed, apologetic silence.

  ‘Well, what day is best to visit the cafeteria?’ interrupted Rachel.

  ‘Umm, Saturday, I think,’ suggested Claire helpfully.

  ‘But it's a school cafeteria,’ Rachel pointed out. ‘It won't be open on Saturday.’

  ‘Exactly!’ agreed Claire. ‘The very safest time to visit!’

  ‘Can I go to the toilet?’ asked Ethel, raising her hand.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Claire. ‘Just make sure that you don’t use the toilet next to Mr Creechley’s office.’

  Claire pointed to a nearby door with a skull and crossbones painted on it.

  ‘Something dark and horrible lives in there,’ warned Claire. ‘At first we thought it was just Mr Creechley, but it wasn’t. Then we thought it was a cleaner who went mad and disappeared, but it wasn’t. Now, some people think it’s not really alive, but a home economics project that someone tried to flush.’ The preps gasped in fright. ‘I don’t know what it is,’ confessed Claire, ‘but don’t go in there whatever you do.’

  ‘Right,’ gulped Ethel, and then continued up the corridor past the General Office in search of a different toilet.

  ‘Actually,’ Claire said when Ethel was out of earshot, ‘I wouldn’t recommend any of the toilets here and it’s best just to hold on, if at all possible, until you get home.’ She gave a knowing nod to the remainder of the preps. ‘In fact,’ continued Claire, ‘the same goes for eating at the school cafeteria, particularly if you don’t like pigeon, rat or snake.’

  ‘Now this is the home economics room, or cooking room,’ said Claire, stopping at a charred door adorned with police crime scene tape. ‘It’s just as well for me to point out now that you shouldn’t, under any circumstances, use the second oven from the left, owing to the gas leak. The gas company has been back and forth for a while now checking it out,’ she said. ‘But whenever they think they’ve finally found it, a student with a lit match proves them wrong.’

  ***

  A short time later, fully knowledgeable about all things concerning pickle racing, Simon’s group passed the home economics room and Simon decided it was time to have some fun with the preps.

  ‘Always use the second oven from the left,’ advised Simon, trying not to giggle. ‘It makes your cakes rise perfectly every time.’

  The preps nodded.

  ‘Oh, and if you need to go,’ said Simon, ‘now’s a good time. The best toilet in the school is that one there.’ He pointed out the toilet next to Mr Creechley's office.

  ‘Why does it have a skull painted on the door?’ asked Andrew.

  ‘That’s not a skull,’ lied Simon cheerfully, ‘it’s a picture of Mr Creechley, the Principal.’

  ‘Why would he have his face painted on a loo?’ asked Corey.

  ‘Because that’s his favourite loo, of course,’ Simon answered. ‘The best loo in the school. But it’s a secret,’ he added. ‘So don’t tell anyone that I told you about it.’

  ***

  By this time, Claire was at the back of the school and had nearly finished her tour.

  ‘These are the bike sheds,’ said Claire. ‘On no account should you put your bike in there, because that’s where the maintenance man, Mr Murdoch, lives and he keeps his greyhounds in there, too. He sends them out to hunt for their own food and they seem to find it difficult to distinguish between small vermin and preps.’

  The preps shuddered.

  ‘There seem to be an awful lot of places that are out of bounds,’ Susan pointed out worriedly. ‘Shouldn’t there be warning signs?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Claire. ‘As maintenance man, it is Mr Murdoch’s job to put them up, but as we are too scared of his greyhounds to go near the bike sheds to tell him where to put the signs, there aren’t any. Besides,’ she added, ‘we wouldn’t want to alarm our parents, would we?’

  Susan’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘Now,’ said Claire. ‘Are there any questions?’

  The preps stood huddled together, quaking with fear. There were no questions.

  ‘Mr Murdoch also drives the school bus,’ Claire informed them. ‘But I won’t say any more about that because I think you’ve been given enough to worry about for one day.’ Then, as an afterthought, she added: ‘Do each of you have life insurance?’

  ***

  Simon’s group was not far behind.

  ‘Make sure you visit Murdoch’s kennels,’ said Simon loudly, outside the bike shed. ‘His friendly puppy dogs would love to see you.’ He tried to keep a straight face. He wished Angelo were here to see how clever he was. Lying to the preps was the best fun he had had all week. This was the best start to the school year ever!

  ‘And now the highlight of the tour,’ announced Simon. ‘I will take you for a private viewing of the most important object in the entire school. Follow me.’

  ***

  Just as she was crossing back past the main building, Claire thought of something she’d missed.

  ‘While we are here, I’d better show you something else. It’s just a great bronze trophy with a pickle on it, but some people around here are pretty enthusiastic about it.’

  ***

  The two groups reached the glass cabinet in the centre of the corridor in the main building at the same time, but from opposite directions. Simon stood in front of the cabinet so that no-one else could see what was in it until he let them.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he announced. ‘May I present the most important trophy in the entire world: Th
e National Pickle Racing Championship Cup!’

  With a flourish, Simon stood aside and was pleased to find that his words had been so inspiring that there was a gasp of amazement from his audience – even Claire. Simon grinned smugly to himself and glanced a look at the cabinet over his shoulder. Then he quickly took another look, which confirmed what the first look had told him, but what he hadn’t wanted to believe: the trophy was missing!

  ‘Sound the alarm! Ring the bell!’ yelled Simon. ‘Thief! Thief!’

  ‘There isn’t a bell, remember?’ replied Claire calmly, as she watched Simon, in hysterics, running up and down the corridor. ‘It’s been stolen, too.’

  Alarmed teachers on their lunch breaks poked their heads from the staff room to see what had happened.

  ‘It’s time someone put an end to all this thieving,’ Claire said firmly to no-one in particular. And no-one in particular was listening to her because she was, after all, very dull. Everyone was listening, instead, to Simon ranting because he was very amusing. But in the end it did him no good: the trophy stayed missing, the thief remained at large and Simon was so upset that he forgot about making the preps catch an eel for his lunch and accidentally let them all go back to their class room.

  ‘This is the worst start to the school year ever!’ Simon wailed.

  But the eels, swimming safely in Stagnant Swamp after having avoided becoming his lunch, simply couldn't agree with him.

  Chapter Five

  The next day dawned cool and cloudy. Mr Creechley half expected, upon making his way to his office, to find that the previous day had been just a bad dream and that the bell would be back in its rightful place when he arrived. Just why he half expected that was unclear, because Mr Creechley had woken every day of his 49 years as Principal of Stagnant Swamp State School hoping to find that it was all just a bad dream, but this had never happened yet.

  This time, Mr Creechley was doubly disappointed. The bell was still missing and he was still Principal.

  As Mr Creechley kneeled down in the mud to attempt to right the school gate that Simon Smithers kicked off the hinges as the start of each term, a shiny, black car sped up the gravel road that led to Snodgrass Hill Private College. Mr Creechley sighed – it was Mr Merriwether.

  Mr Merriwether was the Principal of Snodgrass Hill Private College. He drove a car. He wore a clean suit. He loved his job. His hobby was collecting miniatures of military machinery. It was rumoured that he was absolutely crazy.

  Three weeks previously, Mr Merriwether had proposed to the Department of Education that Stagnant Swamp State School be demolished. This was so the crocodiles could be relocated and the swamp drained, cleaned and refilled, to make a pleasant ornamental lake for Snodgrass Hill Private College students to picnic beside in summer. Mr Merriwether anticipated that this would make his school even more popular than it already was (meaning double school fees).

  Like all Mr Merriwether’s proposals to shut down Stagnant Swamp State School, this proposal had been considered by the Department of Education very carefully for a whole week. Despite the full support of the Department of Health, it was finally rejected because:

  1). the students who attended Stagnant Swamp State School couldn’t afford to pay the fees charged by Snodgrass Hill Private College, let alone if they were doubled;

  2). it would look untidy if all the Stagnant Swamp State School students had no school to go to and were forced to beg for a living on the streets; and

  3). someone in the Department of Education hated Mr Creechley so much that they wouldn’t let him escape Stagnant Swamp State School that easily.

  However good the reasons, Mr Merriwether had been furious and had spent most of his time since plotting new plots and planning new plans to get rid of Stagnant Swamp State School once and for all.

  ‘I’ll shut you down, Creechley!’ bellowed Mr Merriwether, as his car skidded past, sending a shower of gravel over Mr Creechley. ‘I’ll shut you down for good.’

  Mr Creechley silently wished Mr Merriwether good luck in having Stagnant Swamp State School shut down. Then he walked slowly up the steps to his office and was showered in pigeon poop.

  ***

  Meanwhile, Claire was using the morning very productively. Having realized the previous day that Constable Perkins needed as much help as he could get to solve the mysterious thefts, she decided to do some research in the school library.

  As usual, Mr Hoochley was hiding under the counter with his blindfold on pretending he wasn’t in a library at all, but somewhere nice and comforting where there were no books whatsoever.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hoochley,’ Claire said brightly.

  Mr Hoochley grunted in response, willing to admit that he actually was there and not somewhere nice and comforting only because Claire was his favourite student. She always remembered his phobia and never, ever said the word ‘book’ in his presence.

  ‘Do you have a boo–, um, I mean, anything on bronze objects in Stagnant Swamp and Snodgrass Hill?’

  As Mr Hoochley searched the library catalogue for her, Claire developed an odd feeling that she was being watched. She turned around quickly to find Ethel Ormiston standing close behind her, her pink diary in hand.

  ‘Hi Ethel,’ said Claire.

  ‘Hello Claire,’ replied Ethel.

  ‘That’s strange,’ said Mr Hoochley. ‘There has recently been a high demand for all items in the catalogue regarding bronze.’

  ‘Bronze?’ asked Claire.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Mr Hoochley. ‘Every single volume on bronze, bronze weaponry and bronze smelting – all checked out and overdue.’

  ‘Mr Hoochley,’ said Claire, ‘could you please tell me who has checked out all those boo–, er, I mean, volumes?’

  ‘Yes, just a minute,’ said Mr Hoochley. ‘It’s one person only – and their name is…’

  ‘Mr Hoochley,’ interrupted Ethel, becoming impatient. ‘I’d like to borrow a book.’

  ‘Arrgh!’ hollered Mr Hoochley. ‘Book!’ and he checked himself out for the rest of the day.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Claire. ‘I was so close to finding a clue.’

  Ethel just shrugged.

  ***

  The episode with Mr Merriwether that morning had so upset Mr Creechley that he didn’t immediately remember that for once in his life, he had something to look forward to that day.

  It had taken Mr Creechley the entire preceding day to solve the problem of a temporary replacement school bell, but he seemed to have done it. Today, his ingenuity would be tested.

  Mr Creechley stood at his window and watched his plan being implemented.

  The nearest prep (Andrew, as it happened) had been grabbed by Simon and was being held down by Angelo while Simon tied the two biggest pots from home economics to him – one to his front and one to his back.

  ‘Righto!’ shouted Mr Creechley when he saw that the knots were tight enough. It was easy for him to shout directions, as there was no glass in his office window.

  On his shout, Simon and Angelo let go of the harassed prep, who leapt to his feet and took off, running around the school. Shouting with delight, Simon and Angelo snatched up two large wooden spoons and chased after him, banging the pots as hard as they could whenever they got close enough.

  DONG!

  DONG!

  DONG!

  ‘Preps are so useful,’ sighed Mr Creechley to himself. ‘If only everything could be as useful as a prep.’

  ‘Leave me alone, you great, big bullies!’ shouted Andrew.

  DONG!

  ‘Go away!’

  DONG!

  The voices faded into the distance as Andrew ran further down the corridor.

  ‘I’ll tell my teacher!’

  DONG!

  DONG!

  ‘I’ll report you to the Principal!’

  DONG!

  DONG!

  DONG!

  Mr Creechley chuckled quietly to himself then
went back to his work.

  ***

  On her way to her class room from the library, Claire stopped outside the trophy cabinet. The music room was directly opposite the cabinet and the music teacher, Miss Grindelwald, was busily polishing an empty margarine container, which was what Stagnant Swamp State School used as a drum, not being able to afford a proper one.

  ‘Miss Grindelwald?’ asked Claire.

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Do you remember seeing the trophy yesterday morning?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ replied Miss Grindelwald. ‘In the cabinet as normal. Right up until I went to lunch.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone in the corridor yesterday lunchtime?’

  ‘Well, only the usual – staff and students and crocodiles,’ replied Miss Grindelwald.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Claire.

  ***

  Having solved the problem of the school bell, Mr Creechley’s task for the day was to make a list of all the people he didn’t like.

  ‘1,’ he wrote. ‘Clement Merriwether.’ He paused and chewed his pencil. ‘2 – 84, everyone I know at the Department of Education. 3, Constable Perkins and his new tea bags.’

  After several more entries, Mr Creechley realized that the list of people he didn’t like was actually turning into a list of all the people he knew, had heard of, or was related to, and was very pleased.

  ‘So much the better,’ he said to himself. ‘Much easier.’ Then he cheerfully resumed his task.

  ‘Creechley!’ bellowed Mrs Blanchings through the open door. ‘It’s time for school assembly. Don't dawdle.’