Nathalia Buttface and the Most Epically Embarrassing Trip Ever. Nigel Smith
families fly abroad on holiday, thought Nat sourly, dragging more cases to the van. But Dad kept telling them it would be ‘more fun’ (in other words, cheaper) to drive there instead.
“We’ll need a car when we get there anyway,” he had argued to Mum. “And this saves us the expense of hiring one. Plus, we’ll make a holiday of the journey. We can sleep in the van. Or there’s a big old tent in the back. You like camping!”
This was not true. Mum hated camping. Mum liked hotels and hot water and fluffy towels and chocolates on the pillow and room service. She did not like:
Tents, campsites, bugs, sleeping bags, burnt sausages, shared showers, smelly loos, rain, fetching water from a pipe in a field, cows, hippies, wet socks, and any of the four great smells of camping – plastic, burnt wood, damp dirt and wee.
This wasn’t the reason she gave though. Mum would have to miss the whole camping bit because obviously, she said, she couldn’t get a month off work. “Unlike your father, who rarely gets a month ON work.”
Mum usually got upset when she missed out on family time, but Nat was pretty sure Mum was relieved to be missing out on the camping part of the trip.
Instead, the plan was that Dad, Nat and Darius would take the van over to France, and when Mum could get away she would fly out to join them, probably towards the end, and once Dad had found her a nice hotel nearby.
“But you can just stay in the house! I’ll have it done up by the time you arrive,” Dad had argued.
“Now, I don’t mean to be critical, love,” Mum had pointed out, “but you’re not a builder. You write jokes for Christmas crackers. I have no idea why you’ve agreed to do all this work. The last time you tried to put up a bookshelf you nailed your head to a copy of Great Expectations.”
Dad had mumbled something about it being a bit quiet on the Christmas cracker-joke-writing job front at the moment and that it might be good for him to develop another skill or two. Mum had just smiled and kissed him and reminded him to take out extra health insurance and a first-aid kit.
“Do you think we’ll need this?” Dad asked Nat, emerging backwards from the depths of the van, waving an electric pencil sharpener.
“No idea, Dad, I’ve got my eyes closed,” shouted Nat, burying her face in the Dog’s warm fur. “Please change your shorts.”
Whatever Dad said next was drowned out by the roar of a huge motorcycle engine. Oswald had arrived with Darius sitting on the back of the bike. The Dog bounded up, sure of a treat. Darius hopped off and picked some flies out of his teeth. He was carrying a small tatty rucksack. It didn’t look big enough to hold a decent packed lunch, let alone anything else.
“Is that all you’re bringing?” asked Nat.
“It’s all I’ve got,” Darius replied lightly, before getting bundled over by the excited Dog. The two of them rolled around in the front garden. Oswald nodded to Dad, revved his motorbike and sped off without saying goodbye to his little brother. Dad watched him go for a moment, then turned to Darius. “Best say goodbye to the mutt,” he said, “we’re taking him to the kennels later.”
Nat was shocked. “Dad—” she began.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he said, cutting her off, “but he’ll hate that long drive and he won’t like strange places and Mum’s too busy to look after him. He’ll be better off in a kennel, trust me. I’ve picked a nice one.”
Nat wasn’t one to take no for an answer. “Mum …” she shouted, running indoors.
Mum was on her mobile and doing emails at the same time. Nat wanted to tell her why she HAD to have the Dog with her and that Mum HAD to make Dad understand but didn’t want to interrupt so, after hovering nearby for a few minutes, she went upstairs and threw herself on the bed in misery.
Which is where she was when Bad News Nan came looking for her.
“Your fasher said you washn’t feeling very well,” she said, showering Nat with biscuit crumbs. Her voice was muffled due to the addition of digestives and the lack of teeth. Bad News Nan often kept her false teeth in her pocket so as not to wear them out by over-use. Many an evening at home had been livened up by the sudden discovery of Nan’s gnashers under a cushion.
Or in the dishwasher.
Or in the biscuit tin.
Or in the butter dish.
“It’s just Dad,” grumbled Nat, “and this stupid holiday. It’s going to be a typical Dad disaster, I know it. And if I haven’t got the Dog, there’ll be no one to have a sensible conversation with.”
Bad News Nan had stopped listening after the word ‘disaster’. She liked nothing better than a good disaster. “Well, if you think your life’s bad …” she began, and proceeded to tell Nat about:
Edna Pudding – lost two fingers in the bacon slicer at Morrison’s.
Deidre Scratchnsniff – put winning lottery ticket through a hot wash.
Frank Mealtime – took a pedalo out too far at Camber Sands and was captured by Somali pirates. His niece had to put all her bone china figurines on eBay to pay the ransom.
Nat wasn’t too sure how true any of these were (especially the Edna story, because the last time she’d seen Mrs Pudding she was working on the checkouts, not the deli counter), but funnily enough, they did make her feel a bit better.
“I’ve told your father this whole expedition is stupid,” she droned on. “I said little Nat should just come and stay with me this summer. Would you like that?”
Nat hesitated. On the one hand, Bad News Nan was completely mad and never stopped talking or eating unless she was asleep, and even then kept going sometimes. Nat knew she would be forced to listen to all the hard-luck stories that Nan collected the way Mum collected parking tickets. On the other hand, having no Dad to show her up sounded pretty amazing, and she could hang out with Penny Posnitch who lived round the corner from Nan. She could make a few new friends and maybe move up the popularity ladder at least TWO RUNGS.
And besides that, there would be NOTHING TO DO at Nan’s except do what Nan did – get up at lunchtime, watch endless episodes of Judge Judy, and never eat a vegetable again. On balance – it sounded brilliant.
Only one problem.
“How about Darius and the Dog?” Nat asked.
“I’m not looking after them,” said Nan firmly. “They’d both have to go in kennels.”
Nat sighed and reluctantly pushed herself off the bed. France it was. But she was NOT putting the Dog in kennels. She just needed a plan.
“Can I stay here and get a job in your office instead?” whispered Nat, only half joking.
Mum grinned. “Yes, I wish we could swap places. But look, you’re going to a foreign country with your idiot father and demon child Darius Bagley in a horrible van to rebuild a haunted house. Think how lucky you are!”
Sometimes, thought Nat, Mum’s sense of humour is as bad as Dad’s.
“Right, let’s go. Where’s the Dog?” said Dad, looking sweaty and harassed.
Somewhere in the Dog’s tiny doggie brain he must have sensed