Puddlebrain

Chapter Eight

Quentin Bopsidy was late. It was Wednesday morning, the day after the night before, and he was late.

How could this be? He lived not a Lig's leap from the school, yet he still managed to end up running up the front path, crunching the gravel and struggling not to slip if it had been raining (or even if it had not), desperate to be there for morning assembly. He was late, full stop and that be the end of it. Even Old Missus Wigan, the cleaner, bless her little woolly socks, managed to beat him to his office on a daily basis. That wouldn't have been so bad, but she couldn't walk more than two steps an hour or so and constantly had to ask passers-by directions because "My eyesight isn't what it used to be, dearie."

Old Missus Wigan, whose skin was like parchment and whose voice was the same, was only really still employed because no one had the heart to let her go. She didn't want to be put out to pasture like a sad old horse that couldn't pull the plough all around the field anymore. The fact was, even though everyone thought her name really was 'Old Missus Wigan', she did manage to pull that plough all around the field, or in this case, the mop around the school. It took her a while to do so, but by the end of the day, the school was as spotless as Mrs. Mead's stove. Proud of that stove, was merry Mrs. Mead. Couldn't be baking on a mucky-yucky stove, no way no how.

The bell had gone before Quentin had even opened his bleary eyes. The bell, a great brass instrument that could be heard all over Little Whimsy if it was given enough welly, should have been donged by the headmaster himself. The task had been passed onto Prefect Benjamin Waddle, top of his class in every class and the only boy who was big enough to heft the thing. He was also the only pupil who got to school early enough to ring it. Prefect Benjamin, top of each of his classes and punctual as a nine-penny piece, was early to everything. He'd been a week early to his birth and his dad, William Waddle the gardener ("Cut and sow, trim and mow, I'm the man to make your garden grow!"), said he'd chance be early to his own funeral. It was his donging of the bell's ding that woke up the headmaster, and not for the first time.

Three times a week, at least that was the usual count. The pupils ran a little bet as to how many times Mr. Bopsidy would be late, the winner getting sweets for a week. It had been Fenella Caroline, daughter of Arthur Burrows' second cousin, a very unsavoury character by the name of Brian, who had won the past two weeks. Brian Caroline was well known as a scoundrel and a layabout, but Fenella was quite the opposite. She was cheerful and polite and as friendly as they came. She had guessed correctly that Quentin would be late four times last week and four times the week before. Her school satchel was fair bursting at the seams with chocolates and boiled sweets.

Quentin rubbed his eyes wearily. He yawned and stretched, his joints cracking in protest. He scratched his head, sleepily sure there was something he had to do. He crawled out of bed and shambled into the bathroom. As was usual for the headmaster, he scribbled his fingers through his wild hair – his version of brushing it – and splashed his face with cold water. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, pulling at the skin on his face, vainly hoping that he could perhaps stretch the wrinkles out, and then shambled back into the bedroom. Just another five minutes. He had crawled back into bed, pulling the covers up to his neck, when he realised what, exactly, he had to do.

Headmaster. That was it. School.

LATE!

Ah.

He threw the covers off and leaped back out of bed. He stood for a long moment, his head swimming. Bad idea, jumping up like that. Your head didn't have chance to keep up. Once his brain had settled back into his head, Quentin grabbed his clothes and dragged them on. He scrambled about for a matching pair of clean socks, and pulled on a mismatched pair of one black and one stripy green pair when he couldn't find any. He glanced in the long mirror that hung on the far bedroom wall, not really seeing himself He just barely registered that he, at least, wasn't going to walk out of the house with his jumper on back to front or with no trousers. Then he ran to the front door.