Nathalia Buttface and the Embarrassing Camp Catastrophe. Nigel SmithЧитать онлайн книгу.

      “Who knows what a dunny is?” asked Mr Bungee.

      Children and teachers alike were assembled in a field near the camp. It had stopped raining and the sun was actually threatening to peek out.

      Darius, who had a black eye, chuckled.

      Rufus, who had TWO black eyes, was too busy scowling at Darius to answer.

      “A dunny is what you need to dig today,” shouted Mr Bungee, waving around a couple of heavy spades as if they were toothpicks. “In fact, you gotta dig two: one for boys and one for girls. Now can you guess?”

      The quicker-brained children giggled.

      “You gotta dig the dunnies nice and deep cos when you use them you don’t want anything jumping up and biting you on your backside,” he said. “That’s a bit of a final clue, mates.”

      Nat had a horrible feeling she knew what a dunny was. She sidled over towards Dad. “Can I go home now please?” she said.

      He just chuckled.

      “Any volunteers to dig the dunnies?” screamed Mr Bungee.

      No one moved.

      “Thought so – there never are. So that’s why we’re gonna have a little healthy competition between your schools. The kids from the losing school will shovel the soil.”

      “That’s not going to help the kids make friends,” said Dad.

      Mr Bungee looked at him like he was one of those bothersome spiders in a dunny.

      “Friends?” he said. “I like to get a bit of rivalry going, and the dunny challenge is a great kick-starter.”

      “No, I think we’re better off working together,” said Dad. He had one eye on Mr Dewdrop, who had his notebook and clipboard out and was watching Dad closely.

      “You’re not in charge,” said Mr Bungee.

      “No one needs to be in charge,” said Dad.

      Nat looked across at Mr Dewdrop, who frowned and scribbled a big ‘X’ in his book. Uh-oh.

      “But maybe they do need to be in charge,” said Dad, seeing the cross and changing his mind quickly. “Well said. Carry on.”

      Nat sighed.

      Mr Keane, their gloomy geography teacher, raised his head. “We should really do a survey on the best place to site a dunny,” he said. Then he groaned. “That’s using geography, that is. That’s what it’s for. Depressing, isn’t it?”

      Nat heard some grown-up snooty sniggering. There were three St Scrofula’s teachers standing there, and they were all at it. It was the first time Nat had had a good look at them.

      They were all bright and shiny and correct, like the buttons on a soldier’s tunic. They were annoyingly tall, annoyingly smart, and annoyingly impressive. She had hoped they would be a little bit rubbish like all her teachers. But of course they weren’t. It was annoying.

      Just by looking at them, Nat knew Dad would approve, which was even more annoying.

      While Mr Keane pulled himself together, the new teachers introduced themselves to Nat’s class.

      There was a Dr Nobel, who taught science, and had tiny, round, shiny glasses and a big, round, shiny head.

      There was a Miss Slippy, who taught advanced geography and was as thin as a toothpick.

      And there was a Mr Rainbow, who was completely and totally grey. He taught difficult science, advanced chemo-biology and something about time travel, but Nat had given up listening by then to be perfectly honest.

      They were all the smartly-dressed, scrubbed-clean, shiny-shoed, sharp-eyed kind of teacher. Not one of them was covered in tea stains, bean juice and despair, like Mr Keane.

      Nat saw Dad study the super trio carefully, before looking at her crumpled, unhappy geography teacher. He then stared at the irritating Misses Austen and Eyre, whose classes regularly got the worst exam results in the county.

      Nat could see exactly what Dad was thinking. Convincing him that her school was the best was going to be an uphill struggle.

      “Are all your teachers like these two?” Mr Bungee asked Miss Hunny, indicating Dad and Mr Keane. “Funny sort of school, isn’t it?”

      The kids from St Scrofula’s giggled.

      “There’s nothing funny about my school,” said Miss Hunny, offended.

      Now it was Nat’s class’s turn to laugh.

      But Nat didn’t laugh. She was looking at Dad’s face. He was wearing the only expression that ever scared her.

      Dad was taking it all in … HE WAS THINKING.

      He was looking at the bright, shiny faces of the St Scrofula’s kids. He was thinking that they were WINNERS. And pretty soon, Nat realised, he was going to want his little princess to be a St Scrofula’s winner too.

      Right, thought Nat, these rotten winner kids will just have to start losing. And they have to start losing RIGHT NOW.

      She looked at the spades.

       And THERE’S NO WAY we’re digging their flipping dunny.

      The Who’s Digging the Dunny? competition took place in the field.

      “Each school chooses one representative to take part,” shouted Mr Bungee. “It’s a test of brains.”

      “Flora Marling,” shouted Nat’s class.

      “And it’s a test of strength.”

      “Marcus Milligan,” shouted Nat’s class.

      “And it’s so dangerous you might never see them again.”

      “Darius Bagley,” shouted Nat’s class.

      “I’m only pulling your legs about the danger, campmates,” laughed Mr Bungee.

      “Oh,” said Nat’s class, disappointed.

      “That man’s so very amusing,” trilled Miss Austen, “as well as being a dreamboat.”