So Feral! (6 page)

Its head is thrown back, eyes shut, mouth open — wide. The legs stick out at weird angles, like a Christmas tree decoration past its use-by date. The arms are caught up underneath. A hand nestles in the sand, fingers curled like a baby’s, heavy with sleep.

We stand — frozen. There is red on the wrenched-up shirt, a belly exposed. A fly hums about its business, cruising round the nose and eyes before landing
on the tongue
.

Jonnie sprays the trees with cornflakes.

Andy faints.

Laura screams so loud I can see her tonsils. And I start to laugh.

Not that I’m a sicko or anything, it’s just that Lowie has won his challenge.

I look at Jonnie, sea green and packing it, and Andy, laid out on the grass.

What a bonus!

You’ve sure got to hand it to Lowie.

‘Gotcha!’ shrieks the body, reincarnating as Saxxon Lowe — or Lowie — and grabbing Laura by the ankle.

‘A-a-a-a-a-agh!’
That’s Laura, again.

Lowie starts flapping his arms, saying,
‘Bwarrrk-bk-bk,’
and doing the chicken walk. Laura thumps him hard, so Lowie
bwarrk-bk-bks
harder.

This started on the first day of camp. It’s been downhill from there.

We’re at Camp Pollen Tree (Camp Purgatory we call it), sent here to keep us out of trouble in the school holidays. Swimming, tennis, canoeing, the leaflet said. Well, it’s swimming in the lake and the lake’s bunged up with weed, too bunged up for canoes even, and the tennis courts are overgrown — another weed problem — so we’re scratching for something to do.

‘One of life’s little challenges,’ said Miss Reynolds, our camp commandant, when we discovered the killer weed. Then, she called this meeting …

‘Let’s see if we can use our imaginations to keep busy,’ she says, writing KISS on this big notice board.

We don’t need imaginations for that. I do the old nudge-nudge wink-wink routine with Andy, thinking maybe this camp’s going to be all right.

But I’m wrong.

KISS stands for, ‘Keep It Simple Stupid’.

Simple, explains Miss Reynolds, means that we’re on a budget — a very tight budget. She suggests things we can do on the cheap: long walks (puke), a sing-along (double puke) and maybe,
if we’re really lucky, a talent quest (puke, puke, puke).

So we sat around on that first day, mad with our parents for packing us off to this prison and trying to work out how we were going to do the time.

Lowie’s the one who saved us. ‘Let’s have a Pollen Tree Cup,’ he says.

‘What’s that?’ I ask.

‘It’s a series of challenges, Toby. One for each of us. If you pass your challenge you go into the draw. On the last day we find out who wins.’

Totally desperate, we agree.

‘The catch is, you’re not allowed to set your own challenge,’ continues Lowie. ‘The gang sets it for you. And it’s not a cup, exactly.’ Lowie whips out a drink can and starts scratching ‘Pollen Tree Cup’ on it with his pocket-knife.

After a while I ask, ‘Why did you draw a lollipop on it?’

‘It’s a pollen tree, stupid.’

It’ll do.

That first night we sat around thinking up our challenges.

‘May I join in?’ asked Cordelia Foxheart. ‘I’d like to win that cup.’ Silence.

No one wanted to take on Cordelia Foxheart. ‘Well?’ Cordelia pierces us with her evil eye. ‘Can I take part in the challenge?’ Silence seeps like spilt treacle.

Eventually, I step in and say, ‘No.’ Cordelia says a word that would make a wharfie blush.

‘You haven’t got the staying power,’ I plough on. ‘An Eveready would have more.’

Another wharfie-blush word from Cordelia. ‘You think you’re so tough. I’ll show you who’s tough.’

Silence spreads like chewing gum in the tread of your shoe.

‘I can be more daring than the lot of you!’

Exit Cordelia Foxheart, leaving a sludge of relief.

Finally, we could get back to the Pollen Tree Cup.

Lowie’s challenge was to get Laura to scream. She’s a tough little nugget and it takes a lot to throw her but as I’ve just told you, he succeeded.

Andy’s challenge is he’s not allowed to wash for the whole camp. That’s not too hard. Besides, Andy has tactics. When each T-shirt gets on the nose, instead of taking it off, he just bungs on another one. At the moment he looks like a sausage dog. By the end of the week I swear there’ll be Abominable Snowman sightings.

Laura — now this is cruel — has to wear the same pair of undies different ways for the whole seven days. Jonnie set that challenge. He says he’s done it and it’s easy. I reckon Laura’s done right-way-round, back-to-front, inside-out-right-way-round and inside-out-back-to-front so now we’re into upside-down, which might be why she’s kind of walking funny.

Jonnie’s not allowed to turd. He’s famous for holding it in. But I bet he’s never gone seven days before.

And me?

My challenge sucks.

I have to kiss Miss Reynolds.

It’s now day five and I still haven’t worked out how I’m gonna lay one on Miss Reynolds. We’re sitting at breakfast when who should walk in? That’s right, Miss Reynolds.

We hear she does ads — tampon ads!
And
she’s an escaped weightlifter from Russia. (If you stand outside her cabin early in the morning you hear this,
‘Ooof! Ugh! Clunk!’
so it must be true.)

The only thing that can’t be true is that she’s the Fresh-breath Babe, ‘cause when Miss Reynolds walks past, I swear even the daisies die.

We’ve racked our brains thinking of how to tell her she’s deadly. Laura gave her some strong menthol sweets and Jonnie donated his extra-extraextra mint chewing gum. She scoffed them, but they didn’t work and she didn’t get the hint. Andy gave up his Hot Stuff mouth freshener (we snuck in and left it on her bunk). There was no improvement. I conned the cook to put a large bunch of parsley on her plate with every meal. Hey, if it’s good for garlic breath …

But that didn’t work either.

So, when Miss Reynolds strides up to our table this morning, hawing and heeing with laughter, you can imagine the reception she gets.

‘Morning, Miss Reynolds,’ says Laura, grabbing one of those scented tissues from her pocket and holding it under her nose.

‘Got a cold, h-h-have we?’ asks Miss Reynolds. She has this way of puffing on her ‘h’s.

Laura flinches, but recovers quickly and smiles. She shakes her head.

‘Hello, Miss Reynolds,’ says Andy, scrambling to his feet and increasing the distance between them.

‘Miss,’ says Jonnie with a tight nod of his head. He rocks on his chair, so far back that I’m waiting for the crash.

‘Hi,’ squeaks Lowie. By the look of those clenched teeth I’d say he’s going for the breath-holding marathon.

I just nod hello. Mum always told me to lead by example so if
I
don’t speak maybe Miss Reynolds won’t either.

‘H-h-hi! H-h-hello, h-h-happy campers.’ Flurries of foul air hit our faces. ‘H-h-how about …’

I wish for self-closing nostrils — like hippos have.

Miss Reynolds continues. ‘A game of h-h-hopscotch?’

Did she have to choose hopscotch? Why not chasings? Or tip footie? Anything that doesn’t begin with an ‘h’.

‘H-h-hide-and-seek?’

My nose is trying to dive behind my tonsils. I think of my challenge. It’s all I can do to stop breakfast from reappearing.

Miss Reynolds looks at each of us. I wonder if she sees what I see: a group of kids about to die of air failure. ‘What about …?’ she begins.

She doesn’t say ‘what’ with a ‘w’, she says ‘wh’ with lots of extra blow. My nose hairs are being nuked. I interrupt before there’s permanent damage. ‘I’ve got it!’ I slam my fist on the table. ‘Let’s go on a hike.’

My friends look at me as if I’ve gone mad. I don’t blame them.

Hike? Why’d I say that?

Miss Reynolds beams at me. ‘Excellent idea, Toby. Let’s go on a —’

‘Hike!’ I bleat, before she does.

Laura’s glaring at me big-time. Walking long distances with her undies upside down obviously doesn’t turn her on. Lowie’s going purple. Whether that’s because of his breath-holding marathon or because he hates — positively hates — exercise, I can’t guess. Jonnie doesn’t speak. But he does let one rip. A huge piano accordion sort of flubbing noise that hangs in the air long after the sound has died.

I guess the backlog is getting to him.

‘John!’ says Miss Reynolds, fanning the air. ‘What a disgusting smell.’

She should talk!

Miss Reynolds claps to get everyone’s attention. ‘It’s been suggested that we go on a lovely long —’

‘Hike!’ Andy, Jonnie, Laura, Lowie and me all cry out together.

Miss Reynolds looks at us. She frowns, then pushes on. ‘We’ll rendezvous near the flagpole in say …’ she looks at her watch, ‘h-h-half an hour. Find a partner because I want you to walk in pairs.’

Pairs! Who does she think we are? Kindy kids?

Decision made, Miss Reynolds marches out of the room, completely ignoring our moans.

The h-h-holidaymakers are not h-h-happy!

And all because of me.

I’m frisbeed by a piece of stale toast from Lowie. ‘Whatcha do that for?’ he roars, close enough to jangle the drums.

‘Idiot,’ hisses Andy. The toes of his steel-capped boots introduce themselves to my shins. ‘You a boy scout or something?’

Laura gets me in a major headlock. ‘Apologise or die!’ she says.

I’m not seeing stars but serious silver sparkles flash before my eyes. ‘S-s-sorry,’ I manage to gasp.

With one last squeeze Laura lets me go. Her eyes narrow and she looks at me like she’s ready to pounce. Next, she looks round our table. Her face? It’s not pretty. Finally, she says, ‘Lowie, you and Andy pair up.’

Oh, no, I think. I don’t want to be Laura’s partner. She’s no angel when she’s in this mood.

‘I’ll go with Jonnie,’ says Laura and Jonnie nods.

But Laura
is
an angel … compared to who
I
get.

‘I don’t have a partner,’ I tell Miss Reynolds when we line up at the flagpole.

‘Yes, you do,’ she says in her no-nonsense way. She looks to see who doesn’t have a pair. ‘Cordelia Foxheart!’

‘I can’t possibly spend two hours in the company of someone who has no brain!’ protests Cordelia.

‘He doesn’t need a brain!’ snaps Miss Reynolds.

I’m thinking, Two hours of Cordelia Foxheart. I’d rather be fed to the pelicans.

‘Cordelia! Sweet!’ I try to ignore the look of triumph on Laura’s face.

How can I give you a better description of Cordelia?

Lunch, Cordelia?

‘Even my dog wouldn’t eat that crap.’
Boomerang throwing, Cordelia?
‘Wouldn’t it be funny if it hit you on the head?’
Marshmallows round the campfire, Cordelia?
‘Only poor people eat marshmallows. How disgusting.’

Just like Cordelia.

‘Sweet,’ I mumble again, as Cordelia stomps over to me.

Miss Reynolds whistles through her fingers to get our attention.

A colony of ants dies at her feet.

‘H-h-has everyone got a partner?’ No one answers so she continues. ‘Before we h-h-head off, I’d like to make an announcement.’

From the look on her face it will be about rescue flares and location-emitting devices. I am wrong.

‘I’ve just made a most disturbing discovery.’

I look at my friends, raising my eyebrows in question. We all shrug, putting on our I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about faces.

‘Some articles of clothing h-h-have been stolen from my clothesline!’ Miss Reynolds announces. We all shut up real quick. ‘If they are not returned I h-h-have no option but to contact the police!’

This is serious. Everyone starts talking at once.

‘What was stolen?’ asks Cordelia. The last time I saw her this excited was when Emily Peters threw up.

Miss Reynolds clears her throat. She blushes. ‘Some … ah … items of intimate apparel.’

‘What’s intimate apparel?’ asks Lowie.

I’m glad he’s asked, ‘cause I have no idea.

‘Underwear,’ says Miss Reynolds.

‘Like a singlet?’ prompts Lowie.

Miss Reynolds stamps her foot. Her face goes even redder. ‘If you must know, a fox-print bra and knickers set. A very expensive set.’

‘Oooh,’ says Laura, with a look that says she knows all about that kind of stuff.

‘Oooh,’ says Lowie, with a look that says he doesn’t.

‘If my clothes are returned,’ says Miss Reynolds, ‘I’ll not say another word on the matter.’

We stand around, eyeing each other up to see if we can guess who’s the thief. I try to imagine who’d want a fox-print bra and knickers set. Maybe Laura? ‘Cause if she goes the distance, her old undies will have to be burned. I look at Laura. She’s fiddling with her panty line as though she’s got hives. Can’t be her.

‘I’ll give you till the end of camp, then,’ says Miss Reynolds. After a long pause, it’s straight back to business. ‘There’s a lovely little walk we can take to a rocky outcrop called Devil’s Peak. They say it marks the way to h-h-hell.’

‘Must have
Toby
’s name on it,’ hisses Laura.

By the tug on her undies I know she hasn’t forgiven me.

‘If you look closely,’ says Miss Reynolds, ignoring Laura, ‘the rock forms a fork.’

‘Oh, goodie. A fork,’ says Lowie, earning himself a dirty look from Miss Reynolds.

‘A pitchfork, silly,’ says Miss Reynolds.

‘Ahhh,’ says Lowie in a way that I bet he’s thinking ‘hay’, not ‘horns and a tail’.

After filling some water bottles we head off,
Stay in pairs!
ringing in our ears. Cordelia takes my sleeve and pulls towards the try-hards at the front but I hang to the back — a bit like Laura’s undies — to be with my friends. She does the big pout.

‘Something wrong with your bottom lip?’ I ask.

Cordelia hrrrmphhs and takes off. I have to do a two-step to keep up ‘cause she’s still got this pincer grip on my elbow — worse than a soldier ant. Speaking of which …

‘Left, left, left-right-left.’ Miss Reynolds has morphed into Sergeant Major Reynolds. Her voice booms out. Even though my nose is in front and she’s behind she still manages to make my eyes water.