John Blake                         

Dogsbottom School Goes Totally Mental

Mrs Whiffy's Horrible Surprise

There was a time, a long, long time ago, when I was the only pupil at Dogsbottom Village School. It was a happy time, a time when the sun always shone, and lessons were fun, and I was always top of the class.
  Then THEY came.
  It was all my fault, I suppose. I saved the school. I stopped the head teacher Mrs Whiffy blowing it up. I filled a classroom full of teachers, and called them pupils, and stopped the inspectors closing us down. I spoke to the newspapers and the telly people. That's how the school got to be famous, which was why THEY started coming here.
  THEY were looking at me as my story begins, feeling sorry for me, because I didn't know the capital of Burkina Faso. THEY also felt sorry for me because I hadn't got a pony, didn't do ballet, couldn't play the piano to grade 6, and hadn't got a mum who picked me up in a people carrier the size of the Titanic.
  Yes, folks, these were my new schoolmates. Words cannot describe how keen they were. Or how well-behaved. On the first day of term they asked if they could stand up every time a teacher entered the room. As some of you may know, it took Mr Stains about half an hour to get from the door to the desk, and that was a lot of standing. But THEY didn't mind, even the ones who fainted.
  Today we were being taught by my old friend Miss Dorrit. She was not as slow as Mr Stains, but she made no more sense, as far as I was concerned.
  'Very well, Bernie,' she said. 'Forget about Burkina Faso, and just tell me the capital of Papua New Guinea.'
  A forest of hands shot up. I groaned inside.
  'Please, Miss,' I said. 'Can I go and see Mrs Whiffy?'
  'Why, Bernie?' asked Miss Dorrit.
  'I've got a nosebleed, Miss,' I said.
  'Bernie,' said Miss Dorrit, 'no blood is coming out of your nose.'
  'That's the most dangerous kind, Miss,' I said.
  Miss Dorrit's brows knitted. She really wanted to believe me, no matter how difficult this was.
  'Very well,' she said. 'But if Mrs Whiffy sends you back, you must come straight back, and not go and sit in the cellar again.'
  'Thanks, Miss.'
  I walked very quickly to the door, then ran all the way to Mrs Whiffy's office. The office was open as usual, so I marched straight in, took a seat behind the desk, and helped myself to an aniseed ball.
  Mrs Whiffy wandered in. She wasn't surprised to see me.
  'Bunking off again, Bernie?' she said.
  'I'm fed up,' I said. 'Got any jobs to do?'
  'Play fair, Bernie,' said Mrs Whiffy. 'I can't give you a job every day.'
  'I could get you some new sweets,' I suggested. 'These are pants.'
  'I use them as good grammar rewards,' said Mrs Whiffy.
  'That's why I do grammar so bad,' I replied.
  'Badly,' sighed Mrs Whiffy.
  I could tell Mrs Whiffy was getting tired of this conversation. That was good. I was wearing her down.
  'Oh, very well,' said Mrs Whiffy. 'You can help me get some gym mats from Buttery St Crumpet Primary.'

We set off in the school minibus. The school minibus was very mini indeed-in fact it was a bit of a squeeze to get the two of us in. Let's face it- it was a mini.
  'We could do with a better bus, Mrs Whiffy,' I said, with my face jammed up against the roof.
  'If you think we're badly off,' said Mrs Whiffy, 'wait till you see Buttery St C Primary.'
  'Isn't it much good?' I asked.
  'It's a hovel,' said Mrs Whiffy. Then she gave a snigger. 'I used to teach in the same school as Mr Curlew, the Head,' she said. 'I always have a little laugh at him now.'
  We drove into Buttery St Crumpet, then turned through the school gates.
  The first thing we saw was a huge outdoor swimming pool, with diving boards, a big colourful mosaic, and warm steam rising off the water.
  'What's this?' asked Mrs Whiffy. 'There was no pool here last time!'
  We drove on, past a skateboard park, a gym, an arts and crafts workshop, and a small cinema. 'Where did that come from?' said Mrs Whiffy, and 'Who put that there?' and 'Am I having a bad dream?'
  Finally we pulled up at the school front door. It was a gargantuan feast of plexi-glass, and over the top it said WELCOME TO BUTTERY ST CRUMPET -TRUMPSHIRE'S PREMIER SCHOOL.
  A chubby red-faced man pranced out of the door, wearing a bright white shirt and a big melon smile.
  'Mildred!' he boomed. 'How are you, old girl?'
  Mrs Whiffy shook his hand weakly. 'Very well, thank you, Mr Curlew,' she muttered.
  Mr Curlew called merrily to two nearby pupils. 'Freddie! Chloe! Fetch the gym mats, will you? Not the new ones - the ragged old ones Mrs Whiffy lent us!'
  The two pupils skipped off happily, and Mr Curlew turned back to Mrs Whiffy, rubbing his hands.
  'So, Mildred,' he said. 'What do you think of the old school, now?'
  'In what way?' peeped Mrs Whiffy, avoiding his eyes.
  'Well . . .' said Mr Curlew. 'There's the gym . . . the swimming pool . . .'
  'Yes, all right, all right,' muttered Mrs Whiffy. 'I've seen them.'
  'Pretty good, eh?' said Mr Curlew.
  'If you like that kind of thing,' said Mrs Whiffy.
  'I expect you're wondering how I got them!' said Mr Curlew.
  Mrs Whiffy sniffed and shrugged. There was a long silence, but Mr Curlew's expression didn't change. He just kept on beaming.
  'Well, go on then!' snapped Mrs Whiffy, finally.
  'Well, Mildred,' purred Mr Curlew. 'I'll put it in a nutshell. Problem pupils.'
  'Problem pupils?' repeated Mrs Whiffy.
  'I had a lot of them, see,' said Mr Curlew. 'And that meant I qualified for the Problem Pupil Grant.'
  'The Problem Pupil Grant?' repeated Mrs Whiffy.
  'Haven't you heard of it?' said Mr Curlew. 'It's a big, big pile of money they give to schools with problem pupils.'
  A sulky frown settled on Mrs Whiffy's face. 'No,' she said. 'I've never heard of the Problem Pupil Grant.'
  At this point Chloe and Freddie returned with the gym mats.
  'I hope we haven't been too long, Mr Curlew,' said Chloe.
  'Are there any other jobs you want us to do, sir?' asked Freddie.
  'No, that'll be fine, Freddie,' said Mr Curlew. 'Do straighten your tie, will you?'
  'Sorry, sir,' said Freddie. He straightened his tie, which looked perfect to me, and the two of them left - walking, not running.
  'They don't look like problem pupils to me,' said Mrs Whiffy.
  Mr Curlew laughed, long and hard. 'With a heated swimming pool, a skateboard park, and a cinema,' he said, 'would you be a problem pupil?'

Dogsbottom School Goes Totally Mental © John Black, 2004. Published by Oxford University Press.