Olive of Groves and the Great Slurp of Time (7 page)

10

In which our troubles are washed away . . . then given a thorough mangle

‘Good news, Olive!' Mrs Groves bumbled out of her office an hour later. ‘I have found the second copy of
The Concise Guide to Time Travel.
'

Olive slid down the bannister of the grand staircase and bunny-hopped across the entrance hall. Oh, how she
longed
to read the rest of the curious chapter in red print!

‘I found it! I found it!' sang Mrs Groves, but instead of waving a little black book in the air above her head, she was waving a chunk of fresh honeycomb. Thick, creamy honey oozed from the beeswax, drizzled through Mrs Groves' fingers, trickled down her hand and seeped into the sleeve of her blouse.

A sudden stickiness at the crease of her elbow caused her to jump. The honeycomb flew from her hand and splattered on the front of Olive's cardigan.

‘Oh my!' cried the poor, silly headmistress. ‘What a mess! I do think you had best take your cardigan to the laundry, dear. There is nothing worse than sticky wool . . . except, perhaps, for stale crumpets . . . and ugly brooches . . . and incurable diseases . . .' She blinked, blushed and trotted off to work at her knitting, forgetting all about the second copy of
The Concise Guide to Time Travel.

Olive shrugged. Pulling off her cardigan, she headed down to the basement, where she was greeted by a strange slopping sound. She ducked beneath a row of hanging sheets and was surprised to see a large round laundry tub in which Reuben the rabbit swished and swirled amidst singlets, socks and soap. Bubbles and froth spilled over the sides and splashed onto the floor.

Suddenly, Reuben threw himself at the washboard, rubbing his back up and down its corrugated surface. He closed his eyes and groaned in ecstasy. Then, tossing the washboard aside, he swam around and around the edge of the tub until he had created a magnificent whirlpool. He sloshed back and allowed himself to drift along on the current, legs and ears lolling weightlessly in the soapy water.

Eduardo lounged on a pile of laundry near the tub. He was eating walnuts and reading a book:
Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About the Splits But Were Too Afraid to Ask.

Olive tossed her cardigan into the laundry basket and flopped down beside him.

‘Olive!' Eduardo sat up and looked over her shoulder. ‘I thought Heffenhüffenheimer would be with you.'

There it was again! He said ‘Heffenhüffenheimer' in the same way one might talk about a nasty smell behind the wardrobe.

Olive frowned. ‘I can walk to the laundry all on my own.'

Eduardo seemed ridiculously happy at this news. He grinned and tossed his book onto the floor. ‘Walnut?' he offered.

They sat, shoulder to shoulder, shelling nuts by belting them with a scrubbing brush on an upturned bucket. The walnuts were delicious and the violent bashing was rather fun. They bashed and ate and giggled until all the nuts were gone, the bucket was beaten out of shape and the scrubbing brush had snapped in half.

‘Why's Reuben bathing in the old-fashioned tub?' asked Olive.

‘Because the washing machine is occupied.' Eduardo pointed to the far side of the laundry.

The door to the washing machine was ajar and Bullet Barnes, human cannonball, was squished inside. Carlos was pouring gunpowder into the detergent tray at the top of the machine.

‘Ever since Bullet lost his cannon in the harbour, he's been looking for alternatives,' explained Eduardo.

‘Oh dear!' Olive giggled.

‘I know! On Friday, it was the garbage bin. Yesterday, the clothes dryer!' He nodded at a mangled lump of steel with frayed electric cables sticking out to one side.

‘It all looks rather dangerous!'

Eduardo laughed. ‘Of course it is!
Any
time Bullet's about to blast, we need to beware!'

Olive gasped. ‘What did you say?'

‘Beware,' said Eduardo. ‘You know! It means that something bad might be about to happen.'

‘I know,' whispered Olive.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, the bold red uppercase letters from
The Concise Guide to Time Travel
drifted before her eyes:
B-E-W-A-R-E!

Olive pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbed. Hard.

‘Beware of what?' she wondered. She just didn't know. Nobody knew.

Not even Basil and he was the time traveller.

And if nobody knew, then nobody could help her beware.

Her forehead felt hot and sweaty and cold all at once.

‘Mangle time!' sang Eduardo, jumping to his feet.

Reuben stood on the edge of the wash tub and poked the tips of his ears between the rollers of an old-fashioned mangle. Eduardo turned the handle and the rabbit passed through the wooden rollers with a
SQUELCH
! Olive smiled. Eduardo rolled Reuben through the mangle over and over again, a little more water wringing from his fur each time. By the third mangle, Olive was giggling. By the sixth, she was laughing so hard that her tummy ached.

You may be surprised, dear reader, that our kindhearted heroine would respond with glee to the wanton crushing of an innocent little creature. But Reuben was no ordinary bunny. He used to be a magician's rabbit, you see,
and had been stuffed and squashed into all sorts of tight places with no resultant harm. He had also been sawn in half, sent over a waterfall in a cocoa tin and teleported to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Furthermore, he could do magic tricks with cards, gold coins, ping-pong balls and a fascinating range of household objects.

Reuben dropped to the floor, a little damp and flat, but still chirpy and cheery. ‘We'll finish off with three minutes on the bellows, Ed!' He hung upside down from the clothes horse while Eduardo pumped the bellows by the open fire, up and down, up and down, blowing warm air through Reuben's fur. By the time the rabbit hopped over to Olive, he was clean, dry, soft and fluffy – like a dandelion in full seed.

Olive rubbed her face between Reuben's ears and –
puff
– her worries about the Time Slurp were completely forgotten! There is nothing like the warm, furry touch of a friend to cheer one up. Although the sight of a friend being squished in a mangle is quite effective too, as we have just witnessed.

Eduardo, Olive and Reuben flopped down on the pile of laundry. They draped their arms around each other's shoulders and basked in the warm glow of the fire and the even warmer glow of friendship. They had a quiet but
meaningful discussion about the virtues of apple-scented bubble bath, the need for sturdy pants when doing the splits and whether or not they would rather sit on a prickly pear or an echidna. They watched bubbles float upwards from the tub, drift through the air and dissolve into nothingness as they landed on the pure white expanse of the hanging sheets. It was, thought Olive, a moment of supreme peace, beauty and tenderness at the end of a long and emotional day.

Until the washing machine exploded, Bullet Barnes smashed through the ceiling and a cloud of thick black smoke drove them all, coughing and spluttering, upstairs.

11

In which we ponder dinosaur habits

‘Num-num-num-num-num-num-num!' Num-Num drooled at Eduardo across the dinner table.

Olive held her down with one hand while filling a plate with vegie burgers, mashed potato and corn on the cob. ‘Eat up, little one,' she said. ‘This is dinner. Din-ner.'

‘Din-ner,' growled Num-Num. ‘Num-num-num-num-num-num-num!' She dived face-first onto her plate, chawing, chomping, snavelling, then stopped, her mouth turning down at the sides. ‘Pfft! Pfft! Poo!' Half-chewed vegie burgers sprayed across the table. Num-Num stared, blinked, then leapt towards Eduardo, shrieking, ‘Din-ner!'

Olive grabbed her by the tail and pulled her back. ‘Sit! Eat your vegies.'

Num-Num whined. She smeared her mashed potato in Tiny Tim's hair and threw her corncobs at Anastasia.

Basil wandered over to their table, clicked his heels, bowed and sat down. He took the beautiful silver clock from his pocket, flipped the lid and checked the time.

Olive was surprised to see the bold red uppercase letters pass before her eyes once more:
B-E-W-A-R-E!

‘Basil,' she said. ‘I think Num-Num is delightful . . . but do you suppose . . . I mean, perhaps . . . Was it a
mistake
to have brought her here from prehistoric times?'

Everyone at the table looked to Num-Num. She had just poured tomato sauce all over the tablecloth and was now rubbing it in with her claws. ‘Num-num-num-num-num-num-num!'

‘She'll be right,' said Glenda the goose, nibbling mashed potato out of Tiny Tim's hair. ‘She's just a baby. She'll learn.'

‘Absolutely,' agreed Tiny Tim. ‘And even if Num-Num
doesn't
learn to be civilised, she'll fit in just fine at Groves.'

To prove his point, he made an expansive gesture with his hand, taking in the entire dining room. The horses, Star and Beauty, galloped by with their tails on fire. Sparky Burns ran after them, yelling, ‘It was an accident! Truly! I didn't know I could breathe fire that far! It's never gone more than twenty centimetres before!'

Bozo and Boffo were teaching Tommy how to stuff a seemingly endless string of handkerchiefs up his right nostril and pull it out of his left. The handkerchiefs, however, had become stuck and every time Bozo gave them a tug, Tommy lurched face-first into his banana custard.

Fumble removed his jacket and, mistaking Elizabeth-Jane the giraffe for a coat rack, hung it over her head. Olive and her friends watched in horror as Elizabeth-Jane staggered blindly back and forth until she ran into a wall, fell backwards and knocked Jabber off his feet . . . which might not have been so bad, except that he was juggling five knives and Ginger the cat at the time. I won't go into the gory details. Suffice it to say that Ginger got a surprise trip to the vet's, five consultations with a plastic surgeon and a three-month stay at Mrs Brown's Sanatorium for Traumatised Felines.

To drive his point home, Tiny Tim kicked off his shoes and rested his feet on the dining table. His stale, crusty socks filled the air with an odour so vile that to call it a putrid, noxious, eye-watering stench would be an understatement. For Tiny Tim did not like to change his socks. Ever. Except for coronations and the end of world wars.

‘
Ja!
' agreed Basil, covering his nose and mouth with his felt hat. ‘Your new dinosaur will blend right in!'

‘You don't understand,' whispered Olive. ‘I'm not worried about Num-Num fitting in. It's the Time Slurp. I keep thinking about what it said in
The Concise Guide to Time Tra
–'

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Basil smiled and held up his little clock for all to see.

Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

‘Oh, mercy!' cried Glenda the goose. ‘It's that little bird again! It's still being held prisoner in the clock. Somebody do something!' Her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell to the floor with a
plop
.

‘Num-num-num-num-num-num-num!' Num-Num leapt from her seat, grabbed Glenda by the neck and dragged her towards the door.

‘Num-Num!' scolded Olive. ‘Drop!'

Num-Num flicked her tail. She glared at Olive and dropped the goose. Then, shrieking like a banshee, she threw herself onto her tummy, kicking, writhing and biting at the floorboards.

‘Oh dear,' gasped Olive. ‘It's been a long day for the poor little mite. I'd better take her upstairs to bed.'

‘I'll help,' said Basil.

‘No,
I'll
help!' snapped Eduardo.

And a small but embarrassing tussle ensued between the two boys. It ended with Basil holding Eduardo in a head lock while Eduardo snapped Basil's braces against his back.

Olive sighed and shook her head. ‘What is
wrong
with those boys?' She excused herself from the table, peeled Num-Num off the floor and carried her upstairs.

Back in the turret, Num-Num consoled herself by chewing a large clump of hair from Olive's head. Five minutes later, it resurfaced and splattered on the floor, just as the rats returned from dinner.

‘That's gross,' said Wordsworth, poking the hairball with his toe. ‘Disgusting, vile, ghastly, horrible, repugnant and curiously slimy!'

‘Absolutely!' squeaked Chester.

‘My word!' cried Blimp, and he dragged the hairball away to their nest, where all three rats agreed that it suited the décor just perfectly.

Num-Num rubbed her tummy, burped, then proceeded to jump up and down on the cake tin containing the mini muffins. Olive thought this rather odd, but on further reflection, decided that nobody
really
knew what constituted normal dinosaur behaviour.

After ten minutes, Num-Num stopped, rubbed her eyes and dived into Olive's bed. She burrowed to the bottom of the quilt and promptly fell asleep. ‘Poomph . . . num-num-num-num-num . . . poomph . . . num-num-num-num-num . . . poomph . . . num-num-num-num-num . . .'

Blimp crept out from beneath the bed. ‘Oh, Olive!' he sobbed, wringing his little pink paws. ‘Do you think we will
ever
manage to get the lid off the cake tin again?'

‘Let's see, shall we?' The tin was badly squashed, but two tugs, one heave and a rather unladylike groan saw the lid come free.

‘Hooray!' Blimp dived in, stretched out face-down on the mini muffins and wept for joy.

Chester scampered up into Olive's lap and tugged at her cardigan. ‘Do dinosaurs eat buttons?' he whispered, eyes wide and fearful.

‘No! Absolutely not!' our heroine assured him, even though she had no idea what strange and random thing Num-Num might decide to eat next. ‘Your button collection is completely safe.'

Chester's ears drooped with relief and he scuttled away a happy rat.

A little green book slid out from beneath the bed, followed by Wordsworth. ‘A new story,' he said. ‘About a
mouse who lived in Russia during the great crumb shortage of 1675.'

‘Just what I need,' sighed Olive. She lay down on the rug and rested her head on a cushion, while Wordsworth read the moving tale of cake, loss, hunger and hope.

At half past eight, Olive changed into her pink pyjamas, climbed into her lopsided bed and blew a kiss to the photo on her bedside table. ‘Goodnight, Granny and Pop.'

‘Poomph . . . num-num-num-num-num . . . poomph!' Num-Num stirred at her feet, chewed a hole in the sheet and settled once more.

Olive giggled. Turning off the lamp, she snuggled down beneath her quilt, closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her – the soft
nibble-nibble
of Blimp working his way through muffin crumbs and blueberries, the
click-clack
of Chester stacking and sorting his buttons, the
swish-swish
of Wordsworth turning the pages of his book, the
clunk-dunkle-donk
of a shingle coming loose on the roof above and the
slurp-num-num-slurp
of a dinosaur sucking on the hem of her pyjama pants.

The sounds of Groves.

Sounds that belonged together.

Sounds that blended into one soft, comforting lullaby.

The morning's sad and lonely longings for home slipped quietly away. Forgotten was her despair at the pig's return. Even the bold red uppercase letters from the tiny black book had thinned and faded to a pleasant pastel pink.

‘Beware,' mumbled Olive. ‘How silly! What harm can there be in taking one small dinosaur into one's house and one's heart?'

Hmmm. We shall see, dear reader.

We shall see . . .