Sample of Stagnant Swamp State School's Camping Trip
If you liked this book, you might like to read the first chapter of the next book.
The following is Chapter One from Book 2 in the Stagnant Swamp series:
Stagnant Swamp State School's Camping Trip
It was a still, hot Tuesday at the end of summer and Stagnant Swamp was seething with activity.
The flies lazily circled Stagnant Swamp State School, enjoying the pungent aroma of rotting swamp weed and sweating students. The rats were frolicking amongst the bulrushes happily awaiting the end of classes for the day, when they would have the school cafeteria all to themselves. The snakes slithered merrily around the swamp looking for the rats amongst the bulrushes. The crocodiles lay sunning themselves in their usual place on the front steps of the school, hoping that:
1). the new postman would forget to watch where he was walking; and
2). he wouldn’t be quite as skinny as the old postman.
Only the pigeons nesting in the rafters were unhappy. They were trying desperately to block their ears, which is not an easy thing to do if you happen to be a pigeon. As they stuffed their feathers in their ears, they wished desperately for fingers to stuff in their ears instead and cursed the raucous snoring coming from the office of Mr Creechley, Principal.
In the office, Claire Calthorpe – the cleverest and consequently the most boring girl at Stagnant Swamp State School – stood before Mr Creechley. Mr Creechley was sound asleep at his desk. His head lolled backwards on his chair, rolling from side to side as he slept. His mouth was open and (as the pigeons had noticed) he was snoring loudly. Long trails of drool slid from the corners of his mouth, coating the dusty, mildewed folds of the same patched and threadbare grey hessian suit that Mr Creechley wore to school every day.
Although almost any other student in the world would have been tempted to cough loudly or perhaps even slam a door in order to gain Mr Creechley’s attention, Claire was far too boring to do either of those things. Instead, she waited politely – hands folded – for Mr Creechley to wake up.
But little did Claire know that on still, hot Tuesdays at the end of summer Mr Creechley was in the habit of sleeping in his office all afternoon. This meant that Claire might have stood there for the rest of the day had Mrs Cradoc, the school nurse and cafeteria manager, not been passing in the corridor.
Mrs Cradoc was a fearsome person who had recently represented the town of Stagnant Swamp in the State Weight-lifting Championships. She carried a large, sharp meat cleaver at all times, just as other ladies might carry a handbag or an umbrella. Although she was a dreadful cook (and regularly served up dishes such as ‘gym sock soup’ and ‘grilled toad dumplings’ in the school cafeteria) remarkably not one single student had ever complained about her cooking.
‘Not dead is he?’ Mrs Cradoc demanded loudly, pointing the blood-splattered cleaver at Mr Creechley.
‘Err, no, no he’s not,’ Claire replied helpfully, timing her words to fit neatly between Mr Creechley’s snores. ‘He’s asleep, I think.’
‘What?’ demanded Mrs Cradoc. ‘Asleep?’
‘Yes, asleep,’ Claire insisted calmly. ‘Perhaps if we talk quietly we won’t wake him.’
But Mrs Cradoc was having none of that. With a flourish, she pulled a large, raw pork chop from her apron pocket and, using it like a bat, slapped Mr Creechley’s feet high up into the air.
With a squeal, Mr Creechley fell backwards off his chair, landing flat on the floor and throwing up a thick cloud of dust.
‘Oh! Oh!’ Mr Creechley panted. ‘I had a terrifying nightmare that I was the principal of an awful school in the middle of a swamp.’ He dabbed at his forehead with a dirty handkerchief as Claire helped him to his feet. ‘Oh,’ he said, deflated, as he looked around. ‘I suppose that wasn’t a dream?’
Claire shook her head sympathetically.
‘Listen, Creechley,’ bellowed Mrs Cradoc, wagging the pork chop at him. ‘There’s a crisis brewing, so no time for snoozing. The biscuit barrel in the staff room is empty again. There’s liable to be a mutiny at afternoon tea break if the teachers don’t get a biscuit.’
‘What do you mean?’ Mr Creechley asked sulkily.
‘I mean that the teachers may want you sacked,’ Mrs Cradoc warned him. ‘You know that most of them only come to work for their free biscuit.’
Mr Creechley looked wearily around him and saw the mouldy, dust covered office in which he was standing and in which he had worked as Principal for the past 49 years. He looked out of the glassless window of his office into the festering swamp below and across to the decaying buildings that comprised Stagnant Swamp State School and which were slowly sinking into the swamp at the rate of ten centimetres per year.
‘Then I wish them luck,’ he said petulantly and sat down firmly on his chair.
‘Well, you’ve been warned!’ snarled Mrs Cradoc, storming out of the room brandishing her chop.
It was only then that Mr Creechley noticed that Claire was still standing in his office.
‘Why are you here, giving me nightmares?’ Mr Creechley demanded churlishly.
Claire looked at her toes, blushing. ‘Mrs Blanchings has sent me out of class again,’ she confessed.
Mr Creechley wished he were still asleep. ‘What have you been sent out of class for this time?’ he yawned. Mr Creechley knew from being a principal for 49 years that this was the question people seemed to expect him to ask in such circumstances, even though he’d much rather mind his own business.
‘I got a perfect score on my spelling test, Mr Creechley,’ Claire said sadly. ‘Mrs Blanchings said that I must have cheated and that cheaters had to go to the Principal’s office.’
‘Well, what am I supposed to do with you?’ sighed Mr Creechley. ‘Really, am I meant to do everything around here?’
‘I didn’t cheat, Mr Creechley,’ Claire told him, just for the record, as it seemed unlikely that he was going to ask.
‘Well, that’s beside the point, isn’t it?’ Mr Creechley complained. ‘The point is that now I have to do something with you, whereas my diary clearly states that I should be sleeping precisely at this moment.’
Claire opened her mouth to reply, but never got the chance. There was a sudden, urgent ringing. Mr Creechley whacked his ears with his palms and shook his head.
‘You know, I’ve been having the most terrible problem with ringing in my ears today – I could barely stay asleep,’ he complained.
‘Mr Creechley,’ Claire exclaimed, ‘that’s not your ears ringing – it’s the telephone!’
‘Eh? What? Telephone?’
‘Yes!’
Exasperated, Claire began shuffling through the pile of rubbish on Mr Creechley’s desk. She carefully shifted five empty tuna cans, a macramé pencil holder, three weeks’ worth of newspapers from 1972, a dead pigeon, eight used sticking plasters and a box full of second-hand tissues and then she found a large, old-fashioned, black plastic telephone which was almost leaping off the desk.
‘Goodness me, is that what that is?’ Mr Creechley asked, pointing at the telephone in alarm. ‘I’ve always thought it was a hat stand. I’ve been saving up to buy a hat to put on it.’
Mr Creechley looked at the object suspiciously as it rang again and again.
‘Shall I answer it for you?’ Claire asked eventually.
‘Do you think it’s wise?’ asked Mr Creechley nervously.
‘Well, it’s what people normally do when their telephones ring,’ answered Claire patiently.
‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to bother me,’ Mr Creechley said pitifully. ‘Why don’t they go away and leave me alone? My diary clearly says that I should be sleeping this afternoon.’
Claire answered the telephone. ‘Hello, this is Stagnant Swamp State School’ she said brightly. ‘Mr Creechley’s office.’
There was a mumbled question from the caller.
‘Uhm, yes, he’s right here.’
Claire offered Mr Creechley the telephone.
‘Mr Creechley, it’s for you. It’s Mr Angus from the Department of Education.’
‘Eeek!’
With a squeal, Mr Creechley fell backwards off his chair, landing in a heap on the floor and throwing up a thick cloud of dust. He scampered underneath his desk. Undeterred, Claire pressed the telephone handset to Mr Creechley’s ear and waited. She heard a great deal of mumbling coming from under the desk, then another shriek, then silence.
When Claire peeped under the desk, Mr Creechley was nibbling at his fingernails and staring ahead, wide-eyed.
‘What’s wrong, Mr Creechley?’ Claire asked worriedly. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘They’re coming.’
‘Who, Mr Creechley?’ Claire asked in alarm. ‘Who’s coming?’
Mr Creechley spoke the words which filled every school principal, everywhere in the world, with dread. ‘The health inspectors!’
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