not funny. It’s the Women’s Institute,’ said Bee. ‘And who cares who else does it? If it’s a good idea, it’s a good idea. Full stop.’
‘Comma,’ said Fifty.
‘Exclamation mark,’ said Jonno.
WHAT’S THE W.I.?
Watch it!
Warm ice
Wicked idea
What if?
West Indies
Way in
Wrought iron
White ink
Welly it
‘Semi-colon,’ I joined in.
‘Can’t we have a proper talk without making up silly lists? We’re not in Reception any more.’
‘Remember the water tray,’ said Fifty. ‘I liked the blue sailing boat.’
‘Cut!’ Bee sliced the air with her hand like one of those karate fighters who leap in the air and shout ‘Nee haa’. ‘It’s only half Bring and Buy really, because instead of people bringing something for the stall and then buying something in exchange, my idea is we forget the money bit and just do swaps. That’s really green. Bring what you don’t want and take something you do want. It’s perfect.’
‘But the summer fair’s all about money,’ said Fifty.
‘Says who?’ said Bee.
‘Well . . . why else have one?’
‘If it was only about money, the Head could send round a collecting tin. The fair’s meant to be fun. And because it’s run by the kids it’s meant to show the parents and the grannies what a brilliant school we are.’
‘I like it,’ said Jonno.
‘What? School?’ said Copper Pie.
‘No, Bring and Buy. I like it.’
‘Good,’ said Bee. ‘So, you lot can do the water bombs and I’ll sort out the swap stall.’
‘I’ll help you, Bee,’ said Jonno.
‘Weirdo,’ said Copper Pie. ‘Water bombs or the W.I. and you choose —’
‘He chooses to save the planet,’ said Bee, with a smug smile.
‘We’ll need loads of stuff to swap,’ said Jonno.
‘Why don’t you get the rest of the school to donate things?’ I said.
Bee groaned. ‘Keep up, Keener. That wouldn’t work. If they give their stuff to us they won’t have anything left to “bring” on the day of the fair to swap for a “buy”.’
Good point. I decided to leave it to them.
Bee’s plan was to go round all the houses on her estate with a wheelbarrow and collect old books and toys and jugs and garden gnomes. Jonno said he’d do the same, but that DVDs might be more popular than creepy miniature men with long white hair, Noddy hats and fishing rods. Fifty thought remote controls that don’t work anymore would be good because his baby sister, Probably Rose, likes to chew them.
‘We don’t want rubbish,’ said Bee.
‘Yes we do,’ said Fifty. ‘Anything that doesn’t get swapped can go on a massive bonfire afterwards.’ (Told you: Fifty and fires!)
‘No way, we’ll take it to the charity shop. We need to recycle, not add a great cloud of smoke to the air we breathe.’
‘But I do love a fire. Couldn’t we have a tiny, hardly-even-hot one?’
‘Someone sit on him,’ said Bee. Copper Pie did. Fifty squealed like a piglet. Jonno took no notice – he was really keen on Bee’s idea.
‘We’ll have to make sure all the kids at school know to bring things on the day to swap,’ he said. ‘If not they’ll only bring money.’
‘Posters,’ said Bee. ‘We’ll ask the Head. And maybe an announcement in assembly. She’s bound to agree if I explain what a good use of resources it is. I’ve just thought – if it works, the school could do a swap stall for Earth Day.’ (Bee’s meant to be suggesting something for next year’s Earth Day, when we’ve all gone to senior school.)
So the summer fair was all agreed. We handed in our Tribe subs, had a chat about what to buy for the hut (not a lot because we only had £3.78) and then it was time for Fifty to have his tea so we all dived through the cat flap and went home. I walked with Copper Pie for a bit. His plan was to buy all the water bombs himself and co-ordinate an attack on a series of key targets, including his little brother, Charlie.
If only he’d stuck to his plan.
nine days to go and no definite plans yet
The next day I was running across the playground to catch up with the other Tribers when I was ambushed by Flo – the little sister with the not-so-little voice.
‘Keener, what are you going to do at the fair?’
‘It’s a secret.’
‘That’s not nice, I’m your sister.’
‘You’re not nice,’ I said.
‘I’ll tell Mum,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to,’ I said. ‘She already knows you’re not nice.’
I should have been ready for it, but I was busy thinking about all the things we needed to do before the big day. She got me on the left shin with her sparkly purple trainers.
‘I’ll find out what it is. And I’ll tell everyone not to have a go on your stall because you’re mean.’
And then the right shin. Ow!
‘All right, all right,’ I said. I didn’t want anyone to catch me being pulped by a Year 3. ‘I’ll tell you.’ I leant down to whisper in her ear. ‘We’re selling home-made chocolate babies.’ Flo loves babies. She smiled, a rare and frightening sight.
‘I want one for free.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Just don’t tell anyone. We don’t want loads of stalls selling home-made chocolate babies.’
When I made it to our patch under the trees – the home we share with stag beetles, longhorn beetles and other weevils all identified by our resident entomologist, Jonno – I found Bee in tears.
‘What’s up?’
‘Shall I tell
