Nathalia Buttface and the Most Epically Embarrassing Trip Ever

Dad liked free. Dad liked free a bit too much, if you asked Nat. Mum said that in life you get what you pay for. Which is why when Mum went food shopping they got pies with super fluffy crusts full of chunks of tender chicken and veg enfolded in a lovely tasty sauce, perhaps with some rustic hand-cut golden chips.

When Dad went food shopping they got a brown pie in a tin.

With a big yellow sticker on it saying: ‘Final reduction – eat today if you know what’s good for you. May cause swelling and rash if rubbed on skin.’

Mum walked into the kitchen, not smiling any more. Nat started smiling. Mum had heard the word ‘free’ too, and she didn’t like the sound of it either.

“What do you mean, Ivor, when you say ‘free’?” she purred dangerously.

“I met Posh Barry down the Red Lion tonight,” Dad began. Both Nat and Mum groaned. They didn’t like Posh Barry very much. To be fair, Nat didn’t like any of Dad’s friends very much. Because they were all idiots. And when Dad was with them, he became more of an idiot too.

“Posh Barry isn’t even posh,” said Nat. “He’s just one of your stupid old friends from school. He sells scrap. He’s always got bits of wire in his hair and he smells like a tin can, so I don’t know why you all call him Posh Barry.”

“His wife’s worse,” said Mum, joining in. “‘Even Posher Linda’ used to be a hairdresser in the high street. She met Barry when he asked her to get the bits of scrap out of his hair. He said it would save him money at the hairdresser’s if she married him, so she did. Now she doesn’t work and spends most of her time back at her old salon getting her own hair done.”

But the absolute worst thing about Posh Barry and Even Posher Linda was their ghastly daughter, Mimsy. Mimsy was the year above Nat at school. She was spoilt rotten. She was also very popular, mainly because she gave people gifts all the time. It was only stuff she didn’t want any more (or already had a dozen of) but it guaranteed she had loads of friends.

Worse, she had a stupid blog that EVERYONE at school read where she posted about ponies and iPhones and sparkly new trainers and lots of other things that Nat had to pretend she didn’t want and wasn’t massively jealous of.

Whenever Nat was forced to hang out with Mimsy, Mimsy would always make fun of Nat’s clothes, and her rubbish old phone, and, obvs – her embarrassing dad. Which Nat really hated because SHE was the only person who was allowed to do that. Mimsy liked to put embarrassing photos of Nat’s dad on her blog – which, let’s be frank, were not hard to find – so everyone at school could have another good laugh at Nat.

“There’s no way I’m going to spend my summer holidays hanging out with Mi—”

“Wait! You don’t have to. They’re not going to be there. Posh Barry has said we can stay in his lovely new house in France this summer – for free! How about that?”

Nat and Mum eyed Dad suspiciously.

“It’s a lovely old farmhouse right down in the south, near the sea, with a pool, surrounded by woods, and it’s all ours.”

“Honestly?” said Mum cautiously.

“Honest!” said Dad. “They said they wouldn’t DARE come over till we’ve finished anyway.”

A small warning bell went clang in the back of Nat’s head. She ignored it, which, she soon realised, was daft.

“In that case, it sounds nice,” said mum warily. “I suppose I should say well done.”

“Thought you’d like it,” said Dad, giving her a hug.

Eww, Nat cringed. Parents hugging …

“Why won’t they be there?” said Nat. She knew her dad and his Great Ideas, and had a horrible feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye.

Dad suddenly looked a bit shifty. She’d got him. “Ah well, there is one tiny little catch,” said Dad. “But it’s so small it’s hardly worth mentioning …”

Just mention it, Baldy, thought Nat.

“It might need a tiny bit of work.”

(#u06ff74b5-e15d-5c94-bb06-0da6e85b164c)

t needed more than a tiny bit. After two pints of Goblin’s Knob ale down the pub, Dad had agreed to: patch the roof, fix the floorboards, mend the hot water boiler, repaint downstairs, re-wallpaper upstairs, repair the windows, mow the lawn, and put in a cat flap. After a couple more pints he had volunteered to tarmac the drive, plant some trees and get rid of the ghost.

Posh Barry wasn’t absolutely sure there was a ghost, but his wife Even Posher Linda had ‘sensed’ something the first night they had stayed there and wasn’t going to set foot in the place again until it was got rid of. That was a while ago now, and since then the little French farmhouse had been left to rot.

“A ghost,” Nat told Darius the next day at school. “We’ve got to stay in an old, damp, smelly falling-down house with a ghost. And ghosts don’t exist so it’ll probably be an axe murderer, hiding out.”

“A ghost would be the best pet,” said Darius, whose own pet collection consisted of a one-legged frog called Hoppy, a dead slug and a jar of flies. “I could train it to haunt Miss Hunny.”

Nat had just moved to the area and so had only been at her new school for the summer term, but Darius Bagley had quickly become her best friend. This was despite him being the naughtiest boy in the school/town/country/world. No one quite knew how this had happened, least of all Nat.

But Nat, being fiercely loyal, argued that Darius wasn’t so much naughty as just MISUNDERSTOOD. She was also one of the very few people to realise he was both super-bright and super-funny, though she did have to admit he was also super-embarrassing (but still not as bad as Dad).

The hot afternoon was dragging on and Nat shifted uncomfortably at her desk. “It’s just this woman Linda. She’s soft in the head. Dad says when she was a little girl she was scared by a lady with a scarf at Blackpool pleasure beach and since then she’s been very sensitive to reverberations.”

Nat frowned as she tried to get the story right. “I think it was a lady with a scarf. It might have been a donkey with a straw hat; I wasn’t really listening. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, point is she’s bonkers and there’s probably no ghost.”

Nat was being quite loud but their teacher, Miss Hunny, didn’t tell them off for chatting because everyone was chatting. It was nearly the end of term and it was too hot even with all the windows open, and Miss Hunny was flicking through the pages of Last-minute Budget Breaks Magazine. Rather than getting on with her marking, she was trying to work out how long she could afford to stay in a lovely beach house on a Greek island. On her wages it was about an hour and a half. She slammed the magazine shut sharply.

“I suppose we should get back to our book,” sighed Miss Hunny. The class groaned. “Oh don’t be like that,” she said. “It’s a classic.”

That made it worse.

Nat knew there were two sorts of classics: old classics and new classics. They were both terrible, especially when the sun was shining outside.

OLD CLASSICS are written by someone who is dead. Women in these books wear bonnets and faint. They are called Mistress Bindweed. Men are rich and rude and have a secret. They are called Captain Stain.

Popular words in old classics include: periwig, effervescent and rapscallion.

NEW CLASSICS are written by intense people about things that REALLY MATTER, OK? And no one faints.

Popular words in new classics include: innit, aggro, issues, empowered and minging.

No one in the class was keen to get back to Edna O’Dreary’s award-winning novel, My Life, Your Fault, so a cheer went up when Nat’s dreamy friend Penny Posnitch shouted out: “What are you doing in the holidays, Miss?”

It was the old ‘ask the teacher about themselves’ tactic. Now THAT’s a classic.

Miss Hunny was glad to take the bait. She’d had quite enough of Edna O’Dreary too.

“I was invited on a cruise with some friends,” she said, “where I could have watched palm trees and golden beaches slip by as I lazed around the ship’s pool.” Miss Hunny had a faraway look in her eyes. Then she frowned. “But I can only afford a return ticket on the Mersey Ferry.”

The class laughed and Miss Hunny muttered something rude under her breath.

Nat hadn’t been invited on holiday with any friends that summer, or even round to anyone’s house. She had a horrible suspicion part of the problem was the creature sitting next to her, picking his nose and eating the crispy bits.

“What are you doing this summer?” Nat asked Darius. “Mutating into a human?”

“I’m going to Norway with My Filthy Granny,” he said offhand. Nat was puzzled; she didn’t know he had a granny. In fact, she had a theory that Darius was created in a laboratory somewhere.