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 something was up, because they found him trembling under a pile of dirty washing. Dad had to carry him out to the van, still tangled up in the sheets and looking utterly pathetic. He turned his sad brown dog eyes to Mum as he was carried to the van, as if to say, “Are you doing this to me too?”
“In, in, let’s go,” said Dad to Nat and Darius as he slammed the door and started the engine. Or rather, tried to start the engine. It coughed and banged and wheezed and went silent.
Mum waved her arms, exasperated. “You said you’d get this horrible old thing ready for the road!” she said. “How do you expect it to carry you across half of France if you can’t get it off the drive?”
“We can’t go! We have to stay here, what a shame, never mind,” shouted Nat as she scrambled out of the van, her heart leaping with joy.
“Nothing I can’t fix,” said Dad, hopping out. He lifted the bonnet and leaned right over to get at the engine. There was a scream from Mrs Possett opposite at number 26 who wished she hadn’t chosen that moment to stand at the window and take her net curtains down.
“You could stop Dad going,” Nat said urgently to Mum, out of earshot, “he does what you tell him.”
“No, he doesn’t,” said Mum, pleased at the thought all the same, “but anyway, it’ll be good for him to fix this silly house and prove to everyone round here he’s not totally daft and useless.”
But he is, thought Nat.
There was muffled clanging and swearing from under the bonnet for about five minutes, until Darius jumped out of the van, holding some kind of multitool he’d taken from his rucksack. “Let’s have a look,” he said to Dad. “I’ve fixed Oswald’s bike loads of times.”
Dad slapped him on the back and walked over to Mum. “See,” he said, “no problem. Darius is going to mend it.”
“He’s just a little boy, you moron!” yelled Mum. “You ARE daft and useless.”
Told you, thought Nat.
By now there was quite a crowd gathering on the pavement to watch what was going on. The neighbours knew there was always something fun to watch at Nat’s house. A lot of them preferred it to the telly. Nat and the Dog got back in the van and hid.
“But he’s brilliant with his hands,” said Dad cheerfully. “Who do you think fixed our washing machine last month?”
In the van, Nat cringed. Even she knew Dad had just made a massive mistake. Mum grabbed the nearest object from the pile of junk that had been chucked out of the van. It happened to be a rude garden gnome that Dad once thought was funny. Now he just thought it looked heavy and sharp. She advanced on Dad dangerously. He smartly backed off, towards the small crowd, who were really getting their money’s worth today.
“You said you got an engineer out,” she said quietly. Nat got worried. Most people get louder as they get angrier, but not Mum. She started off loud, then got quieter.
