Copyright

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2016

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers,

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Nathalia Buttface and the Embarrassing Camp Catastrophe

Text copyright © Nigel Smith, 2016

Illustrations copyright © Sarah Horne, 2016

Cover illustration © Sarah Horne

Nigel Smith and Sarah Horne assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008167127

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780008167134

Version: 2016-07-07

To all the children who continue to share their embarrassing dad stories with me, especially their embarrassing names. To all the poor Milly Moo-Cows, the Katie Potatoes and the Tommy Blueberrys. To the Piglets, the Widgets, the Teabags.

Thank you for sharing, thank you for making me laugh, thank you for giving me stories I can totally nick.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Read more from Nathalia Buttface

About the Author

About the Publisher

“And the winner is… Darius Bagley!”

THE Darius Bagley?

There was a stunned silence as the Head read out the shocking result to the whole school at assembly. It didn’t just shock the school; it shocked her too.

The Head frowned and rubbed her glasses, peering at the envelope she had just opened. She must have read it wrong. But no – there it was in black and white.

Darius Bagley a winner? In an essay-writing competition?

“Essays? I didn’t even know he could write,” Miss Eyre whispered nastily to her equally nasty pal Miss Austen, standing at the back of the hall. She made sure that she whispered it just loud enough for everyone to hear.

“He can’t, much,” said Nat to Penny Posnitch. “I wrote it for him. In fact, I spent so long writing HIS rubbish essay, I didn’t have time to finish MY rubbish essay. The little cheaty chimp.”

“You only wrote his essay because you owed him loads of favours – he’s done every single one of your maths tests,” giggled Penny. “You’re just as big a cheat.”

“That’s different,” muttered Nat, kicking at the floor.

“AND you told me you wrote it as a big joke,” added Penny.

“It was a big joke. But, as usual, the joke’s on me,” said Nat sulkily. “I should be getting MY name read out on stage, not that tiny monster.”

“He’s won a prize,” shouted the Head, continuing to read her letter, “an actual prize!”

“SO not fair,” said Nat.

“Where is Darius Bagley anyway?” said the Head. “Come up here now and collect your prize so we can get this over with.”

“He can’t come up, Miss,” shouted Nat. “He’s sitting outside your office.”

“Oh, surely he can’t be in detention already,” said the Head. “It’s not even nine o’clock yet.”

“He says it saves time, Miss,” said Nat.

“I’ll get him,” said his 8H form teacher, Miss Hunny, chuckling.

A minute or so later, Darius trotted in, wearing his usual ripped blazer, torn jumper, grey-collared shirt, and egg-stained tie. He hopped on to the stage.

“HELLOOO, LOSERS!” he yelled, like a rock star saying hello to ten thousand fans.

Unlike a rock star in front of ten thousand fans, he got a lot of booing. A few scrunched-up crisp packets and a plastic pop-bottle whizzed towards him.

“What’s my prize?” Darius asked the Head. “Is it sweets, a dog or an air rifle?”

“It’s better than any of those,” said the Head. “It’s a book token.”

“You keep it,” said Darius, walking away without the token.

The school – including the teachers – burst out laughing.

The Head shouted crossly for silence. She grabbed Darius and thrust the token into his hands.

Darius turned away, skilfully making the token into a paper aeroplane as he went.

“Wait. I haven’t finished with you yet,” she said.

Darius stopped walking, plonked himself down on the edge of the stage and dangled his legs over it.

“This is a very important prize you’ve won,” said the Head.

“Yes, but I won it,” said Nat through gritted teeth.

“As you may know, children, this was an essay-writing competition organised by a charity that looks after our countryside. Their motto is: ‘A tidy country is a happy country’.”

Nat looked around at the litter-strewn school hall and sniggered.

The Head looked at it too, but just sniffed. She carried on: “Darius’s prize-winning essay was called …” She frowned down at the letter. “Erm, his essay was called: ‘Let’s have less trees and rubbish flowers, more theme parks and oil wells’.”

Nat chortled, remembering the fun she had writing it. All she’d done one night was scribble down the stuff Darius always said about the countryside. There was a naughty little part of her that had thought it might be funny to watch him getting told off yet again. But how on Earth did it win?

The Head continued, in a voice which suggested she’d rather be Head at a different school, “According to this letter, the judges said it was a hilarious but chilling satire on what would happen if a lunatic was in charge of the country.”

Satire? Satire? Nat suddenly understood why Darius’s essay had won.

“What’s a satire?” Penny asked Nat.

“It means you’re being ridiculous to be funny,” said Nat.

“Like being sarcastic?” asked Penny.

“No,” said Nat sarcastically. She frowned crossly. “But I wasn’t being sarcastic – I just wrote down what Darius actually WANTS TO DO! He hates trees and flowers but he likes theme parks and oil wells. AND high-speed trains, quarries, and places where they test tanks.”

She looked at Darius hogging all the attention and stamped her foot.

“None of this is fair,” she shouted. “I want that book token. I like books – to read, and not just to make into paper aeroplanes.”

“Can pupils please stop shouting out,” demanded the Head. “I’ve got a coffee going cold in the staffroom and I’d like to get back to it.”

By now everyone was a bit bored and restless so the Head raced through the next part as quickly as possible.

“Anyway, thanks to clever little Darius, his whole class, 8H, has won a super week at a special ‘back to nature’ campsite thing next month.”

“Is HE coming?” shouted Julia Pryde, a girl from 8H, pointing to Darius and making a “yuk” face.

“Of course he is,” said the Head, who was looking forward to a Bagley-free week. “After all, you wouldn’t even be going if it wasn’t for him. Now get to class – our exam results have been so bad recently I’m surprised we haven’t been turned into a shopping centre.”

Nat wondered how a campsite could be super. Super uncomfortable, maybe. Super damp, super bug-ridden, super grotty, yes.

But she was too busy getting swept up in the sea of kids heading back to class to worry about it too much.

Anyway, a school trip, even if it was rubbish, meant no schoolwork so that was good news, woo!

“That is the worst news I’ve ever heard,” yelled Nat that night.

She was in the kitchen with Dad, who was preparing his favourite meal, pork pie and chips.

“You don’t mean that,” said Dad, smiling. “Now, do you want any veg? I’m thinking baked beans.”

“I’m thinking you can’t come with us to the campsite for the week,” said Nat. “I’m thinking it’ll be rubbish anyway, but it’ll be extra, super, luxury rubbish if you come too.”

“Don’t be daft. It’s almost as if you think I’ll embarrass you or something!”

“I do think that. I totally think that.”

“You make me laugh when you get cross,” said Dad, ruffling her hair. Which made Nat even crosser.

“When Dolores – Miss Hunny to you …” began Dad.

Nat groaned.

Her form teacher Miss Hunny and Dad were old mates and that often led to mega-embarrassing times, like when she’d come home to find her teacher IN HER HOUSE, drinking red wine in her kitchen. Fortunately Dad was such a rotten cook that Miss Hunny didn’t visit much. Nat started thinking about how terrible her life was …

“Pay attention,” said Dad. “When Miss Hunny rang and told me Darius had won you that camping trip, I said that’s great news because I need to get my Approved for Kids certificate.”

Dad put on his patient face. “You know I’ve applied for a job – I told you, remember?”

“Oh yeah, Mum told me. She said she was fed up with going out to work all hours while you sat around in your pants writing Christmas-cracker jokes and eating pork pies all day.”

“I don’t think she put it quite like that,” said Dad with a mouthful of pork pie.

“No, when Mum said it there were loads more rude words.”

“Anyway,” continued Dad, putting beans in the microwave, “I’ve got a job offer.”

“A job? Like normal people? You? Doing what?”

“Teaching comedy skills to young criminals who want to turn over a new leaf.”

“What comedy skills? Your jokes were voted the worst Christmas-cracker jokes of all time by that website last year. You even got a prize – look.”

On a shelf by the cookbooks stood a little plastic figure of a man holding his nose.

“You won a Stinker.”

“A prize is a prize,” said Dad proudly. “It makes me a prize-winning joke writer. At least that’s what I tell everyone.”

Nat stamped her foot. “But I still don’t understand why you want to come on our school camping trip.”

“Because the people who lock up the young criminals said that I need to have an Approved for Kids certificate to get the job.”

“Find some other kids,” said Nat. “There are loads of us – every town has them.”

“No time,” said Dad. “Plus the Head at your school knows me because I’ve done plenty of things there before. You know, until you banned me from doing them.”

“Can you blame me, Dad?” said Nat, as the beans pinged in the microwave.

Smoke poured out of the door.

“Everything you do ends in total disaster. You took my class to a boring cathedral and got us chucked out, and that was even before Darius went up on the roof and mooned the whole town. You put on a school quiz night that ended in a riot. You’ve sunk priceless sailing boats. You’ve got me arrested by real police. You’ve blown up houses—”

“Just one house,” corrected Dad. “One tiny house.”

“You’ve electrocuted the world’s most precious ducks, you’ve ruined weddings, you’ve made me a laughing stock all over the Internet, AND you projected massive naked baby pictures of me on a wall at the school disco.”

“I was hoping you might have forgotten that one.”

“How can I forget my bare baby bum, ten feet high on the gym wall at school? I can’t forget it, and neither can the five hundred other people who saw it.”

Dad made that noise which Nat recognised as his ‘trying not to laugh because my daughter will get even crosser’ noise. Which just made her crosser.

“AND you stuck me with the world’s most embarrassing surname,” she said.

“It’s pronounced Bew-mow-lay.”

“It’s spelled B-U-M-O-L-E though, isn’t it? I’m getting married at sixteen just to change it.”

Before Dad could reply, Mum came bustling through the kitchen door, still in her coat and, as ever, texting on her mobile.

“Mum, Dad’s trying to ruin my life again,” said Nat, “and he’s had loads of practice so he’s got ever so good at it.”

“I didn’t know you were home for dinner tonight,” said Dad, trying to hide his rubbish meal.

“Obviously,” Mum said, kissing him fondly on the cheek. She hugged Nat, still texting, and sniffed the beany smoke.

“Bin it. I’m taking you out for Chinese,” she said. “Tell me all about it over crispy duck. I think you’ll find it makes everything better. Even your daft dad.”

“I think we all owe Darius a big thank-you,” said soppy Miss Hunny in class the following week. “The camping trip sounds super brilliant.”

Nat didn’t care how super brilliant it sounded because it still looked like they were going WITH HER DAD, AAAGH.

She looked at Darius sitting next to her. He had bits of stringy snot dangling from each crusty nostril and she really hoped it wasn’t just the one piece of string.

Miss Hunny burbled happily on. She was wearing a sun-yellow cardigan, and the long sleeves dangling over her hands spun round in excited little circles as she waved her arms around enthusiastically.

“We’re going to make camp, and try rock climbing and pony-trekking, go exploring, practise map-reading and do other cool geography stuff.”

“There isn’t any cool geography stuff, Miss,” said Nat, “because geography isn’t cool. It’s the least cool subject there is.”

“Who said that?” said Miss Hunny.

“Mr Keane, the new geography teacher,” giggled Nat. “It was when we asked him why he was crying at his desk last week.”

“He made my homework all soggy,” explained Penny, “and I’d spent hours drawing that unicorn.”

“You really must stop drawing unicorns in every class, Penny,” Miss Hunny scolded gently.

“Even in geography?” said Penny.

Miss Hunny looked at 8H with a mixture of affection and despair. Nat recognised the look: it was the look she often gave Dad.

“We’re also trying to find super-rare fossils,” said Miss Hunny, “and fossils are definitely cool.”

Darius pulled a string from his nose and flicked it at the back of Julia Pryde’s hair. “Nah,” he said, “dinosaurs are cool. Fossils are rocks. And rocks suck.”

“Language, Darius,” said Miss Hunny.

“Do you want this language instead then?” said Darius, unleashing a stream of gibberish.

Except it wasn’t gibberish. Parveen Patel shrieked and turned around in her chair. “Who taught you words like that?” she said angrily.

Darius then entertained the class with even more rude words in even more languages until he was told to sit outside the classroom. His excuse that he’d learned them as geography homework didn’t work.

Miss Hunny kept Nat behind after class.

Uh-oh, thought Nat, I’m in trouble.

“Now, Nathalia, I don’t think Darius wrote that essay on his own, did he?” said Miss Hunny, pulling up her sleeves. Nat shuffled her feet. “For a start, I could read it.”

“I might have helped him a teeny-tiny bit, Miss,” she admitted. She was pleased to FINALLY get the credit, but she was a bit worried she’d been caught cheating.

“I thought so,” said Miss Hunny, “which makes you …”

Here we go, thought Nat, that’s me picking up litter all week.

“… a kind and rather wonderful girl.”

“Not fair, why do I have to pick up litter? I’m fed up of – oh.” She paused. “Come again, Miss?”

“Like me, you see the good and the beautiful in Darius, where others only see naughtiness. Naughtiness, rudeness, untidiness, laziness, lateness, and a worrying fondness for farts, burps, bums, poos and – oh, do stop sniggering, Nathalia.”

“Sorry, Miss. Don’t mean to, Miss.”

“Anyway, I’ve been asked to nominate a team leader for our camping trip. And I was wondering if you—”

“Would be the team leader?” interrupted Nat, eyes shining. “Oh, flipping heck, yes. That’s brilliant, thanks very much. Winner, woo.”

“No, I’m going to ask Darius to be team leader.”

“What?” Nat felt like a spanner.

Miss Hunny smiled gently. “I think the responsibility will help him grow up.”

I think you’re barmy, thought Nat.

“I was going to ask if you wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on him. Help look after him.”

“Look after HIM?”

“Underneath that chimp-like exterior is a vulnerable little boy, Nathalia.”

“No there isn’t. Underneath the chimp is a gorilla, trust me.”

“Very funny. Just keep an eye on him. Would you do that for me?”

“Oh yeah. Well, of course. I mean, I don’t want to be a stupid team leader anyway,” fibbed Nat.

“You look a bit fed up,” said Miss Hunny kindly. “Sorry, Nathalia, I didn’t mean to get your hopes up. I was actually going to make you team leader but your father said I shouldn’t put too much pressure on you because you’re so delicate.”

I’ll show him how delicate I am when I get home, thought Nat.

Miss Hunny broke into a wide smile. “Oh cheer up. The REALLY exciting news is that we’ll be sharing the campsite.”

“Who with?” asked Nat.

“A lovely class from St Scrofula’s School. They were the other local school to win the essay competition.”

Miss Hunny said that as if it was a big deal.

“Big deal,” said Nat.

“Actually, that IS a big deal,” said Dad that night, as they drove home in his horrible, noisy, cluttered camper van, the Atomic Dustbin. “St Scrofula’s is a top school.”

“Don’t care, Dad,” said Nat, playing with the Dog in the back of the van. Her head was resting against a tent and some sleeping bags. They smelled of damp and mildew. Urgh, she thought, camping. Yuk.

“You should care. As it happens, your mum’s often talked about sending you to that school.”

A chill went down Nat’s spine. It was hard enough making friends at her own school, which was a normal one, let alone trying again with a bunch of snooty kids. She had worked her way up from the bottom of the bottom group of popular kids to nearly the middle of the bottom, and she wasn’t going to start at the bottom of the bottom again, thanks very much.

“It’s dead posh,” said Dad. “You’d like it. It looks a bit like a castle. It’s got a full-sized football pitch, floodlit tennis courts, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.”

“So?” said Nat.

“All their kids go to top universities.”

“You’d think they’d be too tired to learn much, after all that running and swimming,” said Nat.

“They’ve even got their own school ponies,” said Dad.

“We’ve got school rabbits,” said Nat. “Well, we used to have school rabbits until the caretaker bought a new dog. Now we’ve got no rabbits, just a fat school dog.”

Her own dog shook his whiskery head as if to apologise for the school mutt’s doggy crimes.

“I bet the kids are stuck-up and horrible,” said Nat, “which is rubbish cos even the girls in my class are a bit stuck-up and horrible – and they go to MY school and they haven’t got anything to be stuck-up about.”

“Give them a chance when you get to the campsite,” said Dad. “You might make some nice new friends.”

“I haven’t even got nice OLD friends,” muttered Nat. She settled down on the mouldy sleeping bag. “And please tell me you’ve listened to me and you’re not coming. This camping trip’s rubbish anyway – I found out it’s all about geography.”

“Sounds great. Rock climbing, canoes, caves, maps, fossils, all that stuff.”

“Sounds rubbish. And you’ll just find new and horrible ways to show me up.”

“No I won’t, I promise.”

“And stupid Miss Hunny’s made Darius Bagley team leader. AND I’m his babysitter.”

“That was my idea,” said Dad.

“Yeah, I know,” sighed Nat. “Thanks.”

“Anyway, responsibility is good for you.”

“How would you know?” said Nat. “Mum’s in charge of everything.”

“Responsibility is good for SOME people,” laughed Dad.

They drove in silence for a little while. Silence, that is, if you didn’t count the racket from the dodgy exhaust. Nat’s brain was racing ahead, writing a LIST OF DOOM. Worse still, at the back of her mind, a little nagging voice was telling her it was ALL HER FAULT. If she hadn’t helped Darius with his stupid essay in the first place, they’d never be going camping.

The doom list seemed endless: rubbish campsite, week-long geography lessons, Darius in charge, Dad and his horrible little ukulele tagging along, snooty posh kids prancing about on their own ponies …

How bad was this week going to get? What else was going to go wrong?

Just then Dad hit a pothole and a frying pan slid off a shelf and clonked her on the head.

“‘Lower Totley is a delightful town, full of historic charm’,” said Penny, sitting next to Darius and Nat on the back seat of the coach. “It says so on the town’s web page.”

“No it doesn’t,” said Darius, with an evil grin. “Not since ninja hacker Darius Bagley changed it.”

“He’s right,” laughed Nat, who had helped Darius with the spelling. “It now says: ‘Lower Snotley is a rubbish town full of historic zombies’.”

“You make him worse, Nat, you really do,” scolded Penny.

Nat stuck her tongue out at her.

Class 8H were on the coach to their super geography camping experience thingy. They had been travelling for less than ten minutes and Nat was already a bit cross.

To be fair, she had been a bit cross the entire week leading up to the trip, so the torrential rain that had been hammering down like wet nails all morning wasn’t likely to cheer her up.

“This campsite we’re going to has a website as well,” said Penny. “Don’t tell me you wrote something rude on that.”

“Nah,” said Darius, “better than that. I put this picture on it.”

He showed Penny a picture. She shrieked.

“And I can make that bit wiggle,” cackled Darius, chewing a toffee.

Penny peeped. “OK, now that’s funny,” she said.

“How about a singsong?” said Dad, standing up in the middle of the coach, holding his ukulele.

Nat threw Darius’s toffees at him. “Go away, sit down, shush. No one wants to sing,” she said.

“It is a bit early,” said Miss Hunny from the front seat. “At least wait until we get there.”

“Where we can hide in our tents,” sniggered Miss Austen.

“With earplugs in,” sniggered Miss Eyre.

Nat didn’t know why Misses Austen and Eyre had volunteered to come, as they were the laziest teachers in the school and she couldn’t imagine either of them rock climbing.

She grinned. She suddenly DID imagine them rock climbing. They were dangling in mid-air just as she pushed a massive boulder over the cliff …

PLINKY PLINK PLINK, went Dad on his stupid useless instrument.

“Oh, we’re off on a coach and it isn’t very quick, but two of the class are already travel-sick …” he sang.

“Join in on the chorus, kids,” he said.

“Dad, we haven’t got out of the one-way system yet and you’re already showing me up,” said Nat, jumping up and snatching his ukulele. “And you promised you wouldn’t.”

“I just want to make a good impression, for my certificate,” whispered Dad, sitting down on the back seat. “Budge up.”

He pointed to a man Nat didn’t recognise, sitting up by the coach driver. “That’s the organiser, Mr Dewdrop, from the Nice ’N’ Neat Countryside Alliance. It’s their essay competition that Darius won—”

“That I won.”

“Oh yes, whatever. But anyway, Mr Dewdrop is going to do a report on me this week. He’ll judge me to see if I can get my Approved for Kids certificate. Should be easy. Kids love me; I’m totally down with them. I watch all the soaps they like and I can rap and everything.”

“Please stop talking,” said Nat.

“It’ll be me getting top marks, obvs.”

Dad plunked a few notes on his tiny little guitar.

“Although, just to be on the totally safe side, it would be great if you and your friends could tell Mr Dewdrop just how utterly brilliant you all think I am. All the time, every day, as often and as loudly as possible.”

Nat groaned. It was so unfair. Not only was she expected to put up with her mega-embarrassing dad all week, but she was also supposed to say he was great! She wouldn’t do it.

BUT another thought struck her. If Dad did well on this trip and then got his certificate, he could finally get a proper job and be out of her hair …

Dad pottered back to his seat at the front, trying to high-five the children as he went past. No one high-fived him back, so he pretended he was waving to passers-by outside. Someone outside waved back. Not nicely.

Nat cringed. It was going to be SO hard …

After a few hours, they were driving through yet another small soggy village, glistening and grey in the rain. Nat and Penny were sharing headphones, listening to Princess Boo’s new album, and Darius was working on verse 768 of his epic poo poem, “Diarrhoea”.

He kept pulling out Nat’s earpiece, asking her to suggest rhymes for words like “squelchy” or “explode”.

She was grateful for the interruption when Mr Dewdrop came and sat nervously by Darius.

Mr Dewdrop was a young man, very thin and pale, with ash-brown frizzy hair. He reminded Nat of a sickly reed, struggling for life in a marsh. He had encouraged a straggly moustache to cover up some of his red spots.

“Mr Bagley?” he said.

Darius looked around.

“He means you, idiot,” said Nat.

“What?” Darius said dangerously. He didn’t like strangers. He started shaking a can of fizzy pop and flicking at the ring pull as if to open it. It made Nat think of a rattlesnake shaking its tail, just as a casual warning.

“He doesn’t like people sitting too close,” said Nat, trying to be helpful, “although he probably won’t bite.”

Mr Dewdrop backed away and nervously checked a form he was carrying.

“Are you the Darius Bagley who wrote the prize-winning essay?” the young man said. “Or is there perhaps another Darius Bagley?” He sounded hopeful.

“That’s him,” said Penny, who was drawing fairies on a big sketch pad. “Have fun. And actually, Nathalia, he DOES bite.”

“We’re all very impressed with your hilarious essay,” said Mr Dewdrop quickly. His voice was sometimes high and trembly, sometimes deep and croaky, like a frog playing a flute. Darius just stared. Mr Dewdrop ploughed on.“We’d like to give you free tickets to our new garden centre, in Lower Totley Village. You can get a half-price cream tea too. Yum.”

Nat sniggered. She wasn’t jealous of THAT rubbish prize. Darius looked at Mr Dewdrop blankly.

The young man coughed. “Right. And I hear you’re team leader. So that means you get to stay in one of our luxury log cabins, with outdoor plunge pool and indoor table football.”

“Get in!” yelled Darius, jumping up.

“Where do WE stay?” said Nat, who was suddenly jealous. Darius was making a big loser ‘L’ on his forehead at her.

“The rest of you will be in our cosy eco-yurts, made from natural – well, let’s just say it’s very natural. Don’t worry about the goaty smell – you soon get used to it.”

Darius burst out laughing, which lasted all the way to the next village, when Nat pinched him into silence.

“I looked up ‘yurt’,” said Penny. “I think it’s like a tent, but not quite as good.”

Flipping luxury log cabins for the flipping team leader, thought Nat, as the coach wound its tedious way through the wet roads. Table football? Plunge pool? So not fair.

She stewed for a while, and then finally snapped at Darius, “How come you get a luxury log cabin and we have to live in rubbish tents made of recycled goat bum?”

“Stop moaning. You get to bring your dad.”

Nat always forgot that Darius actually thought Dad was great. She had NO IDEA why.

“We’re here,” shouted Miss Hunny, before Nat could carry on her row.

The coach stopped dead with a squeal of old brakes.

Nat looked out of the window and just saw trees, dripping with rain. In the distance she thought she could see a sliver of grey sea.

“You might wanna put your macs on. There’s a very light drizzle,” shouted Dad, “or possibly only a sea mist.”

The rain thrashed down harder. No one wanted to get out.

“It’s a good job I’M here to keep everyone’s spirits up,” said Dad.

He was met with a stony silence.

Mr Dewdrop made a note in a little black notebook he had stuck to a clipboard.

Their depressed geography teacher, Mr Keane, stood up. “The even better news is that there’s hail mixed in with the rain. That’s unusual for this time of year. Perhaps it’s global warming. We could go out and study it. Won’t that be fun?”

If silence could get even stonier, that’s what it got.

“No, I don’t blame you. Geography’s terrible. I wanted to be a vet when I was your age, but I didn’t pass the exams,” said Mr Keane, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. “Why didn’t I work harder at school?” he cried.

No one quite knew what to say.

Finally, Miss Austen took charge. “Come on, children,” she said bossily. “Last one off the coach is a Bagley.”

“Hey,” said Darius, as the stampede for the exit started.

They all ran helter-skelter from the coach towards the shelter of a large wooden hut in the middle of a clearing in the forest. Through the rain, from under her plastic hood, Nat could make out a sign reading:

Lower Totley Eco Camp

Parked next to the large hut was a gleaming-new white coach, with cool tinted windows and sleek curved lines. On it were emblazoned the golden words:

SAINT SCROFULA’S COLLEGE

And in smaller words underneath:

Gosh, what a great school!

Inside the smart coach, Nat caught a glimpse of a square-jawed driver in a uniform and peaked cap, watching a big TV screen. Then she heard a hacking cough behind her. It was their coach driver, Eric Scabb, sucking down on his first ciggy for two hours. He spat on a bush.

“Better out than in,” he said.

Nat’s coach had SCABB’S BUDGET COACHES FOR HIRE painted in flaking letters on the side.

“Their coach probably cost more than our entire school,” Nat muttered to Penny, as they squished through the mud and into the wooden building.

Inside, the teachers went into a small reception area to fill out forms while Dad led the damp, hungry children into a large dining hall. It was full of long wooden tables and benches. And it was also full of other children, who stopped their chattering and stared at the newcomers.

The kids from the other school were those “sit-up-straight” kind of children. They were scrubbed clean and shiny and had smart blazers and even smarter haircuts. All the girls were blonde, Nat noticed, and not even slightly murky blonde like her, but almost white, dazzling blonde.

AND NOT ONE OF THEM ATE THEIR PEAS OFF THEIR KNIVES.

Nat looked at her wet, bedraggled, muddy classmates. We look like survivors from a shipwreck, she thought.

The other children continued to stare at Nat’s class.

“You know in those cowboy films when they walk into the wrong saloon and it goes dead quiet?” Nat said to Darius. Then she thought for a minute. “Oh, I suppose you get that all the time, tee-hee,” she said.

He glared at her.

There was a long, makeshift kitchen counter at one end of the hall, where two large ladies were splodging food on to wooden plates. Behind them bubbled cauldrons of something or other. From a distance it looked like brown porridge.

Rank brown porridge.

Nat’s plan was to grab some food and sit somewhere away from the other kids as quietly and with as little fuss as possible. Which was pretty much the plan of everyone else in 8H too.

Except Dad.

Dad walked right slap bang into the middle of the dining hall and said, loudly, in his best ‘down with the kids’ kind of voice:

“Hey, dudes, how’s it going down?”

Nat felt that familiar burning sensation trickle down the back of her neck.

“I’m Ivor,” the big idiot continued, “but you can call me Mr Fun.”

“Dad, stoppit,” hissed Nat.

“Best to break the ice as soon as possible,” said Dad cheerfully, while Nat tried to find a deep dark shadow to hide in.

Mr Fun turned to the perfect St Scrofula’s children. “Anyone want to see a magic trick?”

“Yes, I think we’d all like to see you disappear,” said a large boy with very short blond hair and startling blue eyes.

“We have a comedian,” said Dad. “Ha ha, I love a bit of banter.”

“Banter off, there’s a good fellow,” said Blue Eyes.

“As long as no one ever finds out he’s my dad, I might be OK,” Nat whispered to Penny.

“What’s brown and sticky?” said Dad, trying out his favourite joke.

“A stick,” said a bored blonde girl, who Nat reckoned was almost certainly called Jemima but who was actually called Plum.

“A stick,” said Dad. “Oh, you guessed it!”

“He’s an annoying little chap. Do you think we could pay him to go away?” said Blue Eyes.

“Oi, that’s my dad you’re talking about,” Nat shouted angrily, stepping forward.

The shiny bright children from St Scrofula’s turned to her and STARTED LAUGHING.

Oops, she thought. I’ve gone and blown it already! This is gonna be a loooong week …

Nat was wrong. It was a long day.

After a brown lunch of brown rice and brown lentils and brown bread, all the children were treated to a welcome talk by the owner and the team who ran the campsite.

The woman who owned Lower Snotley Eco Camp was called Mrs Ferret and she looked like a weasel. She had brown hair, sticky-out sharp teeth and little round glasses. She spoke so quickly and quietly that Nat had no idea what she was saying.

“I thought she said something about pooing in a hole in the ground,” Nat whispered to Penny, who was looking deeply unhappy.

“I think she did,” said Penny, “and then she said something about recycling everything.”

“Everything?” said Nat, alarmed.

“I love it here.” Darius grinned.

Mrs Ferret the weasel then introduced the man who ran all the outward-bound activities, a huge, leathery kind of fellow called Mr Bungee. Nat couldn’t tell how old he was; she thought he’d just grown out of the ground like a tree. He was hard and bulgy, like a sock tightly stuffed with walnuts. Mr Bungee had a broad-brimmed leather hat decorated with sharks’ teeth and a voice like a man on a mobile phone going through a long train tunnel.

“G’day, you little creatures,” he shouted in a nasal twang. “I’m here to toughen you lot up. Get you used to the outdoor life. I’m gonna make men of the lot of you, eh?”

“Men? How about the girls?” said Nat, offended.

“ESPECIALLY the girls,” said Mr Bungee.

“I bet you’re brilliant at banter,” said Dad, stepping forward.

Next to Mr Bungee, Dad didn’t look like a sock filled with walnuts; he looked like a glove puppet filled with custard.

“Less banter, more action, that’s what your blooming country needs,” said Mr Bungee.

“Oooh, I think he’s lovely,” said Miss Austen, drooling a little.

“So do I, and I saw him first,” said Miss Eyre.

“I can see you’re a fair dinkum ocker, mate. G’day, Blue. How’d you do there, wallaby, to be sure,” said Dad in a bizarre, strangulated accent. He sounded like a cross between a cowboy, a Jamaican, and someone involved in a road traffic accident.

“You feelin’ all right?” said Mr Bungee.

“Yeah, kangaroo woologoroo koala,” said Dad. “I’m just saying, I can tell you’re an Australian. I’m dead good with accents. I’m a bit theatrical.”

“You’re a bit SOMETHIN’ all right,” said Mr B, “and I’ll have you know I’m from NEW FLIPPING ZEALAND.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?” said Dad.

Mr Bungee went red. “Bit of a drongo, are you?” he said angrily. “Australians speak funny for a start, and they can’t play rugby. Not that you’d know – you lot speak REALLY funny, and you’re even WORSE at rugby.”

Everyone laughed at his joke, and Misses Eyre and Austen even gave him a round of applause.

Ew, thought Nat, total suck-up alert.

Mr Bungee picked up a list of names and read down it. “Ah, I know who you are,” he said. “You must be Mr Bu—”

“Bew-mow-lay,” shouted Nat, who knew how EVERYONE pronounced their hated surname.

“It says on my list that you’ve specially asked to be in charge of the entertainment, eh?” said Mr Bungee.

“I’m a born entertainer,” said Dad.

“Well, you make me laugh all right,” said Mr Bungee.

The St Scrofula’s kids sniggered.

“Glad to help,” said Dad, smiling.

Nat sighed.

“Now, I usually do the entertaining round here,” said Mr Bungee, putting a thick arm around Dad, “but you know what they say at the urinals: there’s always room for a little one!”

Dad smiled.

Nat DID NOT.

Her day didn’t improve. Soon, Class 8H were shown to their “super” yurts.

So not super, thought Nat miserably, as she looked at the little round huts made of brown and yellow canvas and animal skin, propped up on bricks. Little coloured flags and ribbons fluttered from their ropes.

The rain had stopped but the campsite fields were still damp and muddy.

“All the stars have these yurt things when they go to festivals,” said Penny brightly. “This is dead glamorous.”

“They look like inflatable garden sheds,” said Nat, “and there’s nothing glamorous about a garden shed. Our local nutter, Plant Pot Pete, lives in a garden shed.”

“You can imagine you’re Princess Boo,” said Penny, “just before a big concert.”

“No, I can imagine I’m some mad old man in a string vest with a plant pot stuck on his head,” grumbled Nat.

The biggest and best yurts were at the top of the slope, where the ground was less soggy and there was a lovely view over rolling green fields and out to sea. Annoyingly, those yurts had already been taken by the St Scrofula’s kids.

The yurts at the bottom of the hill were near woods, were in permanent damp gloom, and the view was mostly of a pigsty. The smell was mostly of a pigsty too, but at least that covered up the smell of goat from the tents.

“Two to a yurt,” said Miss Hunny. “Except Darius – you get a leader cabin with Rufus from St Scrofula’s. Follow me.”

“See you, Buttface,” said Darius, leaving Nat behind.

She was more cross about him getting the nice cabin than she was about him dropping in her horrid nickname. (And it had taken her AGES to get him to use THAT name and not something far, far worse.)

Sulkily, Nat watched the leaders start up the hill. She stomped off and chucked her things into the dark yurt she’d be sharing with Penny.

“Which half of the floor do you want?” asked Penny kindly. “You can have the muddy, soggy half or the lumpy, rocky half.”

“This isn’t fair! I’m gonna see what the cheaty chimp Darius has got,” said Nat, leaving.

She jogged jealously up the hill to watch as Darius and Rufus were shown to their smart log cabin nearby. It turned out that Rufus was the blue-eyed boy from St Scrofula’s.

The two boys stood outside their cabin, eyeing each other.

Casually, Darius picked his nose and flicked it at Rufus. Rufus grabbed him and tried to bring him down, and the two of them went flying into the cabin. Miss Hunny closed the door on their bashing noises.

“Nothing to see here,” she said, walking quickly past Nat. “Back to your yurt, please.”

“I thought I was supposed to be looking after Darius,” complained Nat.

A howl of pain floated towards them. It was Rufus.

“Oh, I’d say he’s looking after himself right now,” said Miss Hunny.

“Can’t I have one of the nice cabins?” pleaded Nat.

“No special treatment, Nat. It wouldn’t be fair,” said Miss Hunny gently. “You’re already super lucky because your dad’s here. We don’t want everyone getting jealous.”

“No one who’s met my dad is jealous of me,” said Nat. “They either feel sorry for me or have a right good laugh.”

Miss Hunny had a right good laugh.

“Your father always tells me how funny you are,” she said, “and he’s so right.”

They walked past St Scrofula’s nice yurts. Queen Bee of Year Eight, the amazing Flora Marling, was talking to Plum, the girl from St Scrofula’s who had ruined Dad’s joke.

This’ll be interesting, thought Nat. The best six days of her school life so far had all involved Flora actually talking to her. Even if it had just been to ask Nat why on Earth she was friends with Darius Bagley.

Nat watched as Plum and Flora examined each other. Plum tossed her hair back; it was yellow in the pale sun. Then Flora flicked her hair and the sun broke through the clouds. All around Flora the air was golden. Plum gasped and Flora, victorious, smiled gracefully.

“Have my yurt,” said the awestruck Plum, “please.”

Flora smiled graciously then floated into the yurt, like a passing dream.

Nat trudged down the slope to the grotty yurts.

“You know, it could be really cosy in here,” said Penny inside. “It just needs some brightening up.”

“Brightening up?” Nat groaned, looking around her.

It was dark, damp and dismal.

“I wouldn’t even mind, but we have actually invented hotels,” grumbled Nat, unrolling her sleeping bag.

“You should be less grumbly and more proud of yourself,” said Penny, whose favourite Princess Boo song was “Be More Proud of Yourself”. She added, “Look on the bright side: if you hadn’t written such a great essay, we wouldn’t be getting a week off school.”

“You’re right,” said Nat, cheering up. She squished a bug with her foot. “No school is good, you’re right. I am pretty awesome, I suppose.”

“And so modest,” said Penny quietly.

“I just wish people would listen to me when I try and tell them I wrote that essay,” said Nat. “It would be nice to get some credit for something once in a while.”

“OK, I promise that next time anyone mentions it, I’ll definitely tell them it was you,” said Penny.

Nat smiled. “Ta,” she said. She looked around. “I would help you with the brightening-up, but I’m plotting how to get Bagley out of his cabin, and I need to concentrate.”

She lay back on her sleeping bag and closed her eyes.

She was woken from her nap by Dad, who pottered in a little later. “Not too bad, is it?” he said.

Nat had already forgotten she had been cheered up. She wasn’t going to miss a chance to complain at Dad. Somewhere, somehow, it was always his fault.

“Dad, the other school is horrible. The kids are rotten and spoiled and they’ve nicked all the best yurts. They ate all the pizza at lunch too, so we had to have slop. I think it was worms, and I’m not even joking.”

“Mmm. Cracking good school though. Those children are just used to getting what they want. Nothing wrong with that.” He looked at Nat in a rather odd, thoughtful way. (It was odd because it was thoughtful.) “I’ve been chatting to the St Scrofula’s teachers,” he continued, “and they’re all amazing. They’re at school two hours early every day to organise extra lessons and activities.”

“Yuk,” said Nat.

“And next term they’re going to extend school hours to seven o’clock at night.”

“I’d feel sorry for them if they weren’t so horrible,” said Nat.

“Their last school play went to the West End, the head boy’s going to be an astronaut, last year’s sixth form are all doctors, and their football team are in the third round of the FA Cup.”

“I’m not impressed,” fibbed Nat, who was impressed.

“The head of media studies used to work on Star Wars, the head of art has a picture in the Tate Gallery, and guess who did their prize-giving? The flipping prime minister.”

“Blimey,” said Nat, “remember who did our prize-giving? Brian Futtock from Futtocks Coach Hire and Pest Control.”

“Urgh, and all those rats got out,” shuddered Penny, remembering the screams.

“Yeah, that was Darius,” chuckled Nat. “He got a three-year detention – even broke his brother Oswald’s school detention record.”

“Maybe your mum’s right,” said Dad. “Maybe YOU should go to that school.”

There was a horrible pause when Nat realised Dad wasn’t joking.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said, going all hot and cold. “It’s taken me ages to get to know THIS bunch of idiots. No offence, Penny.” She turned to her friend.

“What was that?” said Penny, who was drawing a picture of Princess Boo, dressed as a fairy and riding on a unicorn, on the yurt wall.

“You writing that essay for Darius has done us a great favour,” said Dad. “It’s given us a chance to compare both schools, side by side.”

Nat felt sick. She didn’t want him to compare schools. Dad comparing the schools could be a DISASTER.

Dad left the yurt with a big smile on his face.

Behind him, Nat felt the familiar footsteps of doom approaching. “I need some fresh air,” she said, following him. “At least it smells nice out here.”

“Time to dig the dunny!” yelled Mr Bungee, who was right outside.

“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.”

“A born comedian,” said Miss Eyre.

“We’ve got Ivor,” said Miss Hunny, indicating her hilarious old college friend, Dad.

“I think you mean we’ve got a jester,” sniffed Miss Austen.

“Or a village idiot,” sniffed Miss Eyre.

“Is it true?” said Mr Keane, who’d missed the last few minutes because he’d been crying in a ditch. “Is it really so dangerous you might not return? I want to volunteer. Please let me.”

“It’s not enough that everyone in my family is potty,” Nat said to Penny, “or that everyone I know is barking mad. It just has to be all my teachers too!”

“What do you mean, everyone you know is mad?” said Penny, who was holding a Y-shaped stick out in front of her.

“I didn’t include you,” said Nat, who totally did include Penny. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for ley lines. It’s like magic energy. This campsite’s built on an ancient burial ground. I read it somewhere. ”

Nat decided she really needed to make better friends.

She watched as Darius, standing on his own, practised his long-distance spitting, and noticed how he was cleverly using the wind to get some curl.

She decided she REALLY needed to make better friends.

Darius grinned at her and she grinned back. Then she remembered she was still cross with him.

She marched up to him, ready for pinching. He backed away.

“It’s so not fair you get a nice chalet, even if you do have to share with that stuck-up Rufus.”

“Not any more,” said Darius. “He left. Said he prefers a yurt.”

“Why don’t you say that too, and I can have your chalet?” said Nat. “It’s only cos of me that we’re here.”

“Get lost,” said Darius. “I don’t prefer a yurt.”

Nat was about to pinch him when she saw Miss Hunny watching. She patted Darius like a dog.

“Nice Darius, good Darius,” she said, remembering she was supposed to be looking after him.

“I’m confused now,” said Darius, who’d been expecting pinching.

He ran off anyway, to be on the safe side.

Mr Bungee was shouting again.

“The team leaders have five minutes to choose their dunny champion,” he said, “so get a move on.”

Nat spent the next five minutes arguing with Penny about how stupid ley lines were, and so she hardly noticed Dad having a long conversation with Darius. She probably should have paid more attention because what happened next took her completely by surprise.

“Nathalia is our dunny champion,” said Miss Hunny. “And it was a fair vote, so don’t start arguing.”

“How did this happen? No one even mentioned me. Have YOU done this, Dad?” she said angrily.

He took her to one side.

“Shush,” he said. “I don’t want Mr Dewdrop from the Nice ’N’ Neat Alliance to think I’m pulling strings for you. It’s not very professional.”

“You haven’t pulled strings. You’ve DROPPED ME IN IT! There’s a massive difference. Why have you done this?” she complained.

“I know you’re always worried about making friends and being popular,” said idiot Dad kindly, “so what better way than by being the class champion?”

“Class DUNNY champion.”

“A winner’s a winner.”

“What if I lose?” she said. “It’ll be my fault my classmates are digging the dunny.”

“Don’t be so negative,” said Dad with his lopsided smile. “Honestly, sometimes I think I’ve got more confidence in you than you do.”

Nat was told to get changed into something “she didn’t mind getting a bit muddy”, which alarmed her. She stomped back to the half-dark yurt and rummaged around in her rucksack in the gloom until she found an old T-shirt and a pair of tracky bottoms.

On her way back down the hill, she began to think. Maybe … just maybe Dad had done her a favour. Perhaps this was her chance to get one over on St Scrofula’s stuck-up school. If she could win … well, maybe her school wouldn’t seem so bad after all.

IF she could win.

“Can we have the competitors?” said Mr Bungee. “Get a move on. No one wants to be digging a dunny in the dark.”

Nat trudged over to the enthusiastic Kiwi.

Her opponent was Plum, who had actually volunteered herself for the challenge.

“I’m not being big-headed,” said large-bonced Plum, “I just know I’m smart and fast and super able.”

“There you go,” said Dad, “that’s what I call confidence. What a school!”

“Shuddup, Dad,” said Nat.

“There are three rounds,” said Mr Bungee, “so the first girl to win two rounds is the winner.”

“Get on with it,” snapped Nat.

“The first round is a general-knowledge quiz,” said Mr Bungee. “So, what’s the capital of New Zealand?”

“Italy,” guessed Nat, who was pants at geography.

“Wellington,” said Plum.

“Wellington it is,” said Mr Bungee. “And a bloomin’ lovely place it is too, eh?”

The St Scrofula’s kids cheered.

“Next question. Cuddly little koala bears are native to Australia – and they’re the only good thing about the place, if you ask me. Now, what do they eat?”

“Bugs. Or grass or toast,” guessed Nat.

“Wrong.”

“Or milk, fish, bread, eggs, cheese …”

“Way off.”

“Pies. Peanuts. Ready-salted crisps. Sweet popcorn. Chicken nuggets.”

“Stop guessing.”

“Eucalyptus leaves,” said Plum smugly.

“Correct,” said Mr Bungee. “Next question. Who’s the queen of New Zealand?”

“This isn’t general knowledge,” complained Nat.

“It’s general knowledge to me,” said Mr Bungee.

“Is it Kylie?” said Nat.

“NO. Firstly, Kylie’s a pop princess. Secondly, she’s another Aussie. You’re worse than your father.”

“It’s actually a really clever question,” said Plum, with a smarmy smile. “You haven’t really got a queen, but because you’re in the Commonwealth, you share ours.”

“How do you KNOW this stuff?” said Nat, who wanted to throttle her rival.

“It’s called an education,” said Plum.

Nat scowled.

She looked at Dad. He looked impressed.

“You have to admit it: they’re making us look like idiots, love,” he said.

“St Scrofula’s wins the first round,” said Mr Bungee, to cheers from one lot of kids and boos from the other.

“The second round is an eating challenge. First rule of camp survival: you gotta eat.”

He dangled two fat chilli peppers in front of the girls.

“We call these the Auckland Bum-burners. They are hot. Hot enough to boil a kiwi’s behind. The first one to eat a whole chilli wins.”

With relief, Nat saw that Plum looked nervous.

Nat took a pepper. It almost glowed red in her hand, like an ember from a fire.

She looked at her classmates. They were all urging her on. If Nat lost this, they would lose the contest. She had no choice. She rammed the thing in her mouth and started chewing.

It wasn’t too bad for about half a nanosecond.

Then it was bad. Very bad indeed.

Nat thought the roof of her mouth was going to erupt through the top of her head. Her tongue felt like a firework and even her teeth rattled.

“I’M GOING TO DIE AND I’M NOT EVEN JOKING!” she yelled, running around in circles, mouth open, desperately trying to suck in cooling air.

“WATER, WATER, GIMME WATER!!!!”

She snatched Penny’s water bottle and took huge gulps.

“Water makes it worse,” said Mr Bungee, with a nasty grin.

“AAAAGH, YOU COULD HAVE TOLD ME EARLIER!” Nat screamed, running around some more, tongue hanging out like a thirsty dog.

It took about five minutes for the throbbing pain to die down, and about ten minutes for everyone to stop laughing at her.

“Did I win?” Nat said finally. Her eyes streamed with tears and she could hardly speak.

“Course you won,” said Plum in a superior kind of way. “I didn’t do it.”

“Why not?” asked Nat.

“Didn’t need to – I was already one up. I’ll wait for the third challenge.”

“Tiebreaker,” said Mr Bungee. “Winner takes all. Loser takes … a couple of dunny shovels.”

“Ooooh,” said the watching kids from both schools, who were now all willing their champion to victory. And wishing poo-shaped defeat on their rivals.

“We think you’re awesome, Plum,” shouted her best friend, a tall girl called Thursday Wonton. “Absolutely amazeballs.”

“Yay!” cheered the Scrofulas.

“You’d better win, Buttface,” said Darius helpfully. “You’re unpopular enough as it is.”

“Yay,” agreed Nat’s class.

Nat scowled at them.

Mr Bungee, who was milking the suspense for all it was worth, finally made the announcement they were waiting for.

“The last challenge is a straightforward race,” he said.

It was straightforward. Straight and forward through an assault course.

The huge assault course was already set up in the woods. There were ropes to swing along, a net to crawl under, a pipe to squeeze through, tyres to hop in and out of, and then, finally, a big wooden wall.

“Best thing is, all the mud will break your fall,” said Mr Bungee, “so you can really go for it. Are you ready?”

“No. Not really,” said Nat unhappily.

But Mr Bungee had already raised a whistle to his lips.

“There’s a bell on a tree at the end of the course,” he said. “The first one to ring it wins.”

All the kids yelled as he blew for the start of the race.

Plum was off like a rocket, squishing through the mud.

The first obstacle was a big net, close to the ground. Nat watched as her rival slid under it with practised ease.

“You’ve done this before,” said Nat, as she got to the net.

“Yah, we’ve got our own assault course at school,” said Plum, who was halfway through. “It’s so fun.”

So fun, yah. The only assault course we’ve got is running past the Year Eleven boys smoking behind the science block, thought Nat grimly, as she dived under the net after her opponent.

The mud was cold and sticky and soon she was plastered in it. But before Nat could wiggle out the other side, Plum was already whizzing along the monkey bars like, well, like a monkey.

“You’re losing!” shouted Penny from the sidelines.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Nat, reaching the monkey bars.

“Your tracky bottoms are coming loose,” said Penny, telling her something she didn’t know.

“EEEK!”

Automatically, Nat put her hands down to pull up her trousers. Forgetting she was holding on to the monkey bars.

Splat! Down she went, into the mud.

“You fall off, you gotta start again,” shouted Mr Bungee.

Nat squelched desperately back to the start of the course and began again.

Halfway across, going hand-to-hand on the bars, she became aware of her problem tracky bottoms. Why were they so loose? She kept crossing her skinny legs to hold them up, but they kept slipping down!

“I think I mixed up our tracky bottoms and I packed mine in your rucksack by mistake,” shouted Dad. “They might be a bit big for you.” He fidgeted on the spot. “Also, it might explain why I’ve got a bit of chafing. I thought these were tight.”

“We can see your pa-ants!” chanted the boys from St Scrofula’s. “We can see your pa-ants!”

Dangling there in mid-air, covered in mud and with Dad’s oversized tracky bottoms sliding down, Nat heard a horrible wail of fury. She wondered where it was coming from. Then she realised: it was coming from her!

She saw Dad – rubbish, tracky-bottoms-swapping, pants-revealing Dad – standing at the end of the assault course. He waved.

A red mist descended in front of her eyes.

This time she WAS GOING TO STRANGLE HIM.

With a yell, she raced through the monkey bars, hurled herself into the pipe, hopped furiously across the tyres and reached the big wall just as Plum was disappearing over it.

“Come ’ere, you,” she shouted, and grabbed Plum’s leg.

“Aaaargh!” yelled the girl, as Nat yanked her off the wall and used her as a stepping stone.

Nat was over the wall and in the lead! She was way ahead. Nothing could stop her now.

“You’ve won, now ring the bell,” yelled Dad.

But then he saw that Nat DID NOT CARE ABOUT THE BELL.

She was completely ignoring the bell.

Instead, she was heading straight for him, outstretched hands full of gooey mud.

“I’ll just … just go and, er … look for something in these trees,” said Dad, ducking behind a handy oak.

“You’ve embarrassed me for the last time,” shouted Nat, chasing him in circles.

She had just got him cornered against a big tree and was about to plaster him in mud when she heard a bell ring.

It was Plum, ringing in victory.

“Oops,” said Nat.

In the end, Dad dug the dunny.

Nat said he had to because it was his fault she’d lost the race. If she hadn’t been so cross with him, she’d have made it to the bell on time.

While the camp cooks were boiling up sludge for supper, Nat and Penny and Darius went to the field to see how Dad was getting on.

Nat was planning to offer words of encouragement like: “Hurry up, baldy,” or “Dig it a bit deeper. We don’t want spiders or splashback.”

Darius just wanted to go so he could use it first.

When they got there, they could just see Dad’s bald spot peeking above ground. There was a mound of freshly-dug earth near the hole. Great shovelfuls of earth were being chucked up … and over Mr Dewdrop, who was standing next to the hole.

“Are you sure you’re setting a good example to the children?” Nat heard Mr Dewdrop ask, brushing earth off his clipboard. “I mean, you should get your girl Nathalia to do it. After all, it’s usually ‘losers, weepers’, everyone knows that.”

“Thanks. You could have said that two hours ago,” grumbled Dad, climbing out, covered in mud and dirt and worms. “I’ve finished it now.”

Darius whipped out some loo roll. “Out of my way,” he said with an evil grin.

Dad just smiled. “We need to put the little loo hut over it first,” he said. “Here, you can give me a hand.”

After a few minutes of heaving and dragging (Darius and Dad) and groaning and complaining (Nat), they had manoeuvred the little loo hut over the big hole.

Mr Dewdrop wandered off without helping and Nat had a horrible feeling Dad wasn’t making a good impression on him.

Darius dashed straight inside the dunny.

Dad brushed himself down and looked at the pile of earth he’d dug up. “I was hoping to find a bit of T. rex in the ground,” he said. “There’s tons of fossils round here.”

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