Nathalia Buttface and the Embarrassing Camp Catastrophe

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 …

(#ulink_e96b8b43-f2ab-5d48-a637-ea5e669d3fb3)

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.