Laugh Your Head Off Page 4

  ‘Yeah,’ said Amelia. ‘I wonder what it’s doing over there?’

  She ran over to get her jumper—and when she picked it up, she saw the tortoise.

  ‘There you are!’ said Amelia. ‘I was looking for you before the show.’

  The tortoise looked a little sheepish. ‘I needed some peace and quiet.’

  ‘You mean you were hiding from me?’ said Amelia. ‘But I needed you!’

  ‘No,’ said the tortoise. ‘You didn’t. I heard you out there today—you were great, all on your own.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Amelia in wonder. ‘I did do it all on my own. But I never would have had the confidence without you.’

  ‘I’m glad I could help—and I’ve really enjoyed being your coach. But . . . ’ The tortoise heaved a sigh. ‘This rock-and-roll lifestyle just isn’t for me. I’m used to a slower pace.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Amelia. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that you can be a rock star even without a tortoise on your head. And I want to go home.’

  • • •

  That afternoon, on her way home from school, Amelia stopped at the spot where she’d stubbed her toe and put the tortoise down.

  ‘So I guess this is goodbye,’ she said. She felt as if she might burst into tears.

  ‘There is one thing . . . ’ said the tortoise.

  ‘I knew it!’ cried Amelia. ‘You really are a handsome prince and my kiss will set you free.’

  ‘Uh, no. I was going to say that if your dad ever starts breeding slugs again to let me know.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to kiss you anyway,’ said Amelia. And she did. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Yuck,’ said the tortoise. ‘You’re welcome.’

  RODENT PIE

  AND

  TOENAIL

  TEA

  by

  Sam Bowring

  There was a horrible little café on Evie’s way home from school, which she never saw anyone go into. It had dusty, cracked windows painted with the café’s name—‘Herman’s’—in a colour that might once have been red, but had faded to a musty pink. The door frame was peeling, the guttering was rusty and full of holes, and the desiccated doormat had all but disintegrated into a pile of straw. Outside on the street were scratched plastic tables and folding wooden chairs, which were rotten at the joints, and with so many shards poking out, if you sat on one, it would surely collapse and impale your bum—and not necessarily in that order.

  ‘That place gives me the creeps,’ said Sarah, Evie’s best friend.

  ‘There’s something new about it,’ said Evie.

  ‘New?’ said Sarah. ‘Nothing about that place is new, unless you mean the wasp nest over the door.’

  Evie nodded. ‘That’s new too, but it’s not what I was talking about. Look there.’

  Inside the window hung a handwritten sign, a bit hard to read through all the dust.

  ‘Great,’ said Sarah. ‘So mad old Herman has put up a sign. It probably says “Keep Away”, or “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here”.’

  Evie squinted at the sign. It said:

  HELP WANTED

  Apply within

  ‘Wow,’ said Sarah. ‘I guess business must be booming.’

  ‘I need a job,’ said Evie.

  ‘What?’ said Sarah. ‘You can’t be serious. In there? Why do you need a job, anyway? You’re twelve years old. You have parents to pay for stuff. That’s what parents are for.’

  ‘My allowance isn’t that great. And they don’t buy me everything I want.’

  ‘Well, what do you want?’ said Sarah. ‘Because unless it’s some kind of fungal infection, I wouldn’t go near that place if you paid me.’

  ‘I want a kitten,’ said Evie. ‘I saw one in the pet store the other day, but Mum said we can’t afford it. If I can pay for it myself, though—well!’

  Sarah watched open-mouthed as Evie walked towards the café.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she called. ‘I’m not waiting around, so don’t expect me to send out a search party when you don’t turn up to school tomorrow!’

  Evie ignored Sarah, determined to keep her strides purposeful. The guttering creaked menacingly as she passed beneath it, and a drop of rusty water blooped down on her shoulder, staining her school shirt. The wasp nest buzzed as the rickety door squeaked open and she ducked through quickly to avoid getting stung.

  The café was long and thin. One wall was lined with padded booths that had chunks gouged out of the cushions, exposing dirty foam underneath. Opposite these was a long counter, behind which stood empty jars, unplugged coffee machines, and a dinted old cash register. Dim light bulbs gasped weakly in the ceiling, sputtering as if each moment might be their last. Spider webs clotted every available crack and corner, the final resting places of dried, dead spiders.

  ‘Hello?’ said Evie. ‘Is . . . is anyone here?’

  Somewhere in the shadows, towards the back of the shop, something moved. As Evie’s eyes adjusted to the flickering light, she made out the silhouette of a man behind the counter. He had stooped shoulders and a mane of crazy hair sticking out in all directions. He seemed to be staring at her.

  Evie began to feel nervous. ‘I can come back later, if it’s not a good time?’ She felt behind her for the doorknob, wondering if she should make a break for it.

  ‘What do you want?’ said the man in a gravelly voice. He lurched out of the shadows towards her, though thankfully he stayed on the other side of the counter. His wrinkled hand reached into a patch of bulb-light, grasping a yellowed, curling piece of paper from the counter and lifting it up with a cascade of dust. ‘Would you like to see a menu?’

  Evie stood, half fearful and half fascinated, as the man’s face came into view.

  Herman Grout was his name. She knew this because he was a figure of local folklore—mad old Herman Grout, the man who ran the café no one ever went to. He was wrinkled and pockmarked, his nose large and full of hair, his eyes piggy and dark, his skin grey and mole-ridden. He smiled at her, revealing a graveyard of yellowed teeth.

  ‘I have some nice specials today,’ he said. ‘Would you like to hear them?’

  ‘Um,’ said Evie. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, let me see now . . . I found some juicy rats under my bath mat this morning. I’m sure they could be baked into some kind of pie.’

  Evie stared at him. Was he being serious?

  ‘No thanks,’ she said.

  ‘A picky one, eh? Little miss everything-just-so?’

  Evie wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I just don’t like eating diseased vermin. You know you can’t serve that to people, don’t you?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Herman. ‘My rodent pie is 100 per cent organic! People love organic stuff these days. It’s all the rage.’

  ‘It’s revolting,’ said Evie.

  ‘Well, that’s not the only choice,’ said Herman. ‘Let’s see—I could do you some mould on toast. In fact, the toast is already mouldy, so really it’s mould-on-mould.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Evie.

  ‘It is an acquired taste,’ said Herman, with a shrug. ‘Well, if not that, it’s either toenail tea or you’ll have to order off the regular menu.’

  ‘You have a regular menu?’ said Evie.

  ‘Of course! I’ve been running this café for fifty years, and no one has ever once complained about my cooking. Of course, that’s mostly because they were throwing up, dying, or running away screaming, but the record stands.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Evie, ‘I’m here about the job.’

  Herman’s bushy eyebrows rode up his forehead like a pair of synchronised caterpillars.

  ‘The job? My goodness, really? I certainly need all the help I can get.’

  Evie glanced at the empty booths, where the impressions of ancient bums had been preserved for years.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Busy, busy, all the time. Here, let me
show you.’

  His eyes seemed more open somehow, and there was a liveliness to him that hadn’t been there before. He lifted up the end of the counter, and Evie wondered what she was getting herself into. There was still time to run.

  Herman hummed as he strode away, apparently unconcerned whether she followed or not. Curiosity spurred her on, and she went after him, watching where she trod in the dim surrounds. He opened a door, and bright light spilled out behind him as he entered. Tentatively, she poked her head around to see inside.

  Herman stood in the middle of a clean, wellkept, brightly lit kitchen. Steam rose from pots, lids rattled, and the most delicious smell was emanating from a pie sitting on the oven. He beamed at her, and waved her in.

  ‘Quickly, quickly,’ he said, moving to shut the door behind her. ‘Don’t want to let the smell escape. You never know—it might attract customers!’

  ‘That isn’t rodent pie, is it?’ asked Evie, wrinkling her nose at the thought.

  ‘No, no, of course not. I don’t really cook all that disgusting stuff. I just pretend I do, so people stay away.’

  ‘ Um . . .’

  ‘Why do you think I keep the café in such a terrible, dirty, wasp-ridden state? Trouble is, I’m getting a bit creaky in my old age. It’s hard work carting about sacks of dust, and collecting spiders, and chipping up old furniture. I’m worried I’m not keeping this place horrible enough. A customer almost came in here the other day!’ He gave her a fearful look.

  ‘You, er . . . you don’t want customers coming in?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course not! They’d want to order things, and bring their friends, and all of a sudden I’d be run off my feet, with no time for my real work. Biscuit?’

  She eyed the biscuit suspiciously.

  ‘It’s not made of mouse droppings or anything,’ said Herman.

  Shrugging, she took it, gave it a sniff, and chanced a bite. It was still warm, deliciously moist, full of tiny melting chocolate chips, all buttery and amazing.

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘This is the best biscuit I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘And what about this?’ Herman cut a slice of the pie, and handed it to her on a plate with a fork. It smelled wonderful, and this time she did not hesitate to try it. The taste of the finely ground mince and herbs and mushrooms and whatever else was in the pie was scrumptious. Evie could not help herself—she munched and munched until it was all gone, then looked longingly at the rest.

  ‘That was incredible!’ she said. ‘If you put that on the menu, people would come from everywhere to try it. You’d get reviews, articles, a line out the door.’ She stopped when she saw the effect her words were having on Herman’s complexion.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘That’s why I must keep the public away at all costs. If people got wind of this, I’d never have time to create!’

  ‘But why run a café at all?’ said Evie. ‘You do know that you can cook pies at home?’

  ‘But if I keep the café open,’ said Herman, ‘then everything I buy in my pursuit of perfection is a business expense—for which I am allowed to dip into the family trust! Haha, the family trust, you see, the family trust!’

  Evie didn’t know much about the world of adult money—it all pretty much sounded mad to her, so she decided to ask a different question.

  ‘So, what do you need help with?’

  ‘Well, as I said, it’s a lot of work keeping this place so horrible. If I had someone to do it for me, I could concentrate more on discovering the perfect pie. And the perfect biscuit! And the perfect salad. Will you take 100 dollars an hour?’

  Evie stared at Herman. ‘Did you say . . . 100 dollars an hour?’

  ‘Is that not enough?’

  ‘No, no—that’s fine. When would you like me to start?’

  ‘This very moment, if you like!’

  So it was that Evie came to be employed at Herman’s horrible café.

  • • •

  On her first day, Herman sent Evie to collect stink bugs from the woods nearby, and put them on trees and bushes around the building, hoping they would like their new homes enough to stick around and stink up the place. Evie wore a protective plastic raincoat, gloves and eye goggles while she worked. She didn’t want to get bug stink all over her. It was a weird, smelly task, but for a hundred dollars an hour, it was worth it! When she was finished, Herman was very pleased, and fed her more delicious mince pie.

  On her second day, Evie had to work on a new batch of chairs for the outside area. The old ones were becoming so rotten they were about to fall apart—whereas Herman only wanted them to look like they were about to fall apart. She chipped away at the new chairs, creating uncomfortable spikes and shards, and working with dye to make the wood seem old and mottled. Once she was done, Herman paid her, and gave her some treacle tarts that were so delicious, she ate them all on the way home, instead of saving a couple for her parents like Herman had told her to.

  Evie spent her third day in the loos, chiselling holes in the toilet seats, as well as clogging the pipes with scrunched-up toilet paper so the toilets overflowed when they were flushed. Herman was cooking in the kitchen, happy he had someone else keeping customers away.

  ‘You’re a gift, young Evie,’ he said at the end of the day, and gave her a bowl of watercress soup that tasted so fresh, she thought seedlings might grow from her tongue. ‘Without you, how would I ever have time to cook?’

  ‘But what do you do with all the food you make?’ said Evie.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone,’ said Herman, ‘but I give it to the homeless shelter down the road. Anonymously, mind! I do feel a bit guilty— as the recipes aren’t perfected yet—but they seem to like what I send them well enough.’

  Day after day, Herman thought up things for Evie to do to keep his café horrible. Every day he paid her, and she knew that if she saved enough, she would soon have enough to get a kitten, as well as pay for all its medical stuff, and food, and collar. On her way home, she visited the pet shop in town and looked longingly through the glass.

  When Sarah asked her at school what her new job entailed, she had not really known what to tell her. She didn’t think Herman would like his secret getting out, so she had just said ‘maintenance’.

  ‘Maintenance?’ said Sarah, looking doubtful. ‘I walked past the café yesterday and it looks even more unsafe and uninviting than ever!’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Evie, with a little smile.

  Sarah frowned.

  • • •

  That afternoon, Evie went to work as normal. Herman told her to gouge some more out of the cushions in the booths.

  ‘I really want you to expose the springs,’ he said.

  He then went into the kitchen, and was happily cooking away, when Evie heard something very unusual.

  It was the sound of the door opening.

  Glancing up, she saw Sarah, and a couple of other girls from school—Mel and Mandy. They entered the café and looked around. They seemed a little nervous, except for Sarah, who was grinning.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘Table for three?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ whispered Evie, not wanting to alert Herman to the presence of customers. She had a feeling he had already heard them, though—he wasn’t humming any more.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Sarah. ‘This is a café, isn’t it? Why shouldn’t we come into a café? What are you even doing over there?’

  Evie looked down at the pliers in her hand. They had a bit of cushion fluff sticking out of them.

  ‘Strange kind of maintenance,’ said Sarah, with a sniff. ‘Come on, let’s have a seat.’ Gingerly the girls slid into the booth that was the least destroyed.

  While they read the menu, Herman emerged quietly from the kitchen, and Evie sidled over to him.

  ‘Customers,’ said Herman, with a scowl.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Evie.

  ‘Why? You’ve been doing good work, young Evie. Sometimes people simply brave the thistle
s and the wasps, out of morbid curiosity or foolishness, perhaps. Never mind. There is always my backup plan.’

  Herman shambled along the counter, and Evie saw his face change as he went, becoming crazier and scarier. His hair even seemed to stick out more wildly.

  ‘Hello there, my little friends,’ he said, making the girls start as he appeared. ‘What can I get for you today? Maybe some nice rodent pie, or a pot of toenail tea?’

  While Mel and Mandy looked like they wanted to run, Sarah managed to summon a brave face.

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely.’

  Herman’s grin froze on his face. ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘We’ll have three serves of rodent pie and a pot of toenail tea,’ said Sarah.

  Evie knew what Sarah was doing, darn her. Her friend wanted answers, and now poor Herman was being subjected to scrutiny, and it was all Evie’s fault. Why hadn’t she just told Sarah about her weird job and sworn her to secrecy?

  ‘You, er . . . you want the rodent pie?’ said Herman.

  ‘Yes please. We’re very hungry.’

  Herman backed away uncertainly, retreating to his kitchen.

  ‘Please, can’t you just leave?’ Evie said to Sarah as she followed him.

  ‘No chance,’ said Sarah, with a smirk.

  Herman was in the kitchen, looking very worried. He spun around as Evie closed the door.

  ‘No one’s ever said yes to rodent pie before!’ he said. ‘What do I do, Evie?’

  ‘Well,’ said Evie, ‘maybe we really should make them rodent pie and toenail tea.’

  Herman seemed to consider the idea, for just a moment, but then he frowned. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I just clipped my toenails yesterday. And I’m friends with all my rodents. I’ve even given them names. See, there goes Sebastian.’

  Evie glanced behind her, but there wasn’t a rat in sight.

  ‘He’s very quick,’ said Herman.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting it seriously,’ Evie said.

  Herman glanced at her, then nodded. ‘No, of course not. I suppose I could always just . . . give them some food.’