Mum and Dad don’t say anything for ages. Just give each other delighted glances. I stare at the damp patch on Dad’s suit and wonder if Menzies would be scared off if I tell him that Dad’s got a bladder problem.
Before I can work out how to do to it without Dad hearing, Mum remembers how to speak.
‘Well, Menzies,’ she says, ‘we’re very glad our daughter’s got you for a friend.’
‘That’s right,’ says Dad. ‘It’s my birthday on Saturday. We’re having a bit of a family celebration at our place and Bridget’s coming home for the weekend. We’d be delighted if you could come with her.’
‘Yes,’ says Mum. ‘Delighted.’
I stare at them both in horror.
Menzies’ eyes are shining behind his glasses.
‘Thank you,’ he says to Mum and Dad. ‘That’s very kind. I’d like to very much.’
‘You can’t,’ I croak.
All three of them look at me.
‘It’s too dangerous,’ I say to Menzies. ‘The terrorist warnings, remember? Your bodyguard won’t let you.’
Menzies smiles at me and I can see he’s feeling touched.
‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll get permission from my parents. They won’t mind. I’m sure there are no terrorists at your place.’
I snap awake.
Dream voices are spinning round inside my head like bits of a Mongolian electric toothbrush when it disintegrates in your mouth.
Dad telling Veuve’s dad he’s a disgrace to the school.
Me begging Menzies not to come to my place on Saturday.
Uncle Grub explaining the features of a Russian blender.
Hang on, that last one isn’t part of a dream. I’m wide awake now and I can hear Uncle Grub’s voice echoing around the courtyard outside.
Oh no.
I struggle out of my tangle of sheets, clamber onto Chantelle’s bed, drag the curtains open and stick my head out the window.
‘Ow,’ moans Chantelle. ‘You’re standing on my stomach.’
I know how she feels. My guts are hurting too. In my case it’s because of what I’m looking at.
Uncle Grub’s black Hi-Ace van is parked by the side door of the dining hall. Uncle Grub is deep in conversation with Dave the bodyguard. They’re both examining a blender.
‘Really strong blades,’ Uncle Grub is saying. ‘Made for turnips and beetroot and all that other Russian stuff.’
I leap off Chantelle’s stomach and start dragging on clothes. The three girls peer sleepily out of the window.
‘Oh yuk’, says Veuve. ‘Look at the greasy pony-tail on that delivery man.’
I fling myself down the stairs and sprint across the courtyard towards the van. Dave the bodyguard is strolling off towards his room with a blender under his arm. I pray he doesn’t decide to check whether import duty’s been paid on it.
So far nobody else is around.
‘Uncle Grub,’ I hiss. ‘What are you doing here?’
Uncle Grub emerges from the back of the van, a big grin on his face.
‘G’day, gorgeous,’ he says. ‘How’s posh school?’
He kisses me on the head and the scent of his Bosnian aftershave reminds me of so many happy family afternoons in the back yard, with table tennis and Bulgarian chocolate biscuits, that for a moment I forget him being here could ruin us all.
Then I remember.
‘It’s not safe,’ I hiss.
‘Relax, darl,’ says Uncle Grub. ‘Just got a little delivery for you. Your dad had the idea driving home from here last night. He’s at the docks this morning, so he asked me to do it.’
I can’t relax. My guts feel like Chantelle, Antoinette and Veuve are all jumping on them, along with Gandalf, Brad and Muffy.
The van is stacked to the roof with Russian blenders. Uncle Grub pulls one out of its box, takes it out of its plastic bag and inspects it closely.
‘That’s the one thing with Russian blenders,’ he says. ‘Got to check them for rust.’
‘What do you mean, a delivery for me?’ I croak.
‘To help you settle in,’ says Uncle Grub. ‘Little gift for the teachers. They’ll all love you once they see how these things chop turnips.’
Around our feet are empty blender boxes and plastic bags. The van is backed up to the open side door of the dining hall. I peer in. At the far end of the hall is the top table where the teachers have their breakfast. No teachers are there yet, but next to each empty cereal bowl stands a Russian blender.
‘Quick,’ I say to Uncle Grub. ‘We’ve got about five minutes before the teachers start arriving.’
‘What’s the matter?’ says Uncle Grub, concerned. ‘Did I miss a rusty one?’
Before I can rush into the dining hall and start grabbing blenders, a voice rings out across the courtyard.
‘Miss White, a moment please.’
Striding towards us, head cocked quizzically, is Mr Galbraith. I can see he’s wondering who Uncle Grub is.
‘It’s the headmaster,’ I hiss at Uncle Grub.
‘G’day chief,’ says Uncle Grub, stepping forward and shaking Mr Galbraith’s hand. ‘Sorry about the early visit. George White, Bridget’s uncle.’
Uncle Grub holds a Russian blender out to Mr Galbraith.
‘On behalf of the White family,’ says Uncle Grub, ‘we hope you’ll accept this quality appliance. A little expression of our gratitude for the good care you’re taking of Bridget, and a symbol of her desire to blend in happily with the students and staff at this fine school.’
Mr Galbraith stares at the blender. Then, slowly, he takes it.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘This is a bit irregular, but a very nice thought. I’ll donate it to the school kitchen. Glad to see you’re settling in well, Bridget. Good to meet you, Mr White. Goodbye now.’
Mr Galbraith strolls away across the courtyard, examining the blender.
‘See,’ says Uncle Grub, grinning at me. ‘Nothing smooths a path through life like a Russian blender.’
I glance anxiously into the dining hall. Teachers are starting to arrive now, picking up their blenders and staring at them. Kids are arriving too, staring at the teachers.
Uncle Grub is picking up the empty boxes and plastic bags and chucking them into the back of the van.
‘Can’t be too careful,’ he says. ‘Plastic bags can be dangerous when there are kiddies around.’
So can uncles, I think miserably.
‘Got to be getting back,’ says Uncle Grub, closing the doors of the van. ‘Bloke coming round with an automatic teller machine he needs some help with.’ He kisses me on the head and murmurs into my ear. ‘You don’t have to feel ashamed of your family here, Bridget. Compared to some of the families at this place, we’re angels.’
‘I know,’ I say.
Uncle Grub gets into the van. ‘See you at the weekend,’ he says. ‘Be good.’
He drives off and the dust from his wheels swirls around me. Inside me, sad feelings do the same.
I’ll never be ashamed of my family. Dad is a top-notch angel, trying to make things better