Nathalia Buttface and the Embarrassing Camp Catastrophe

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.