YEAR SIX SCHOOL TRIP
With a stamp across them that said:
PAID
Malcolm looked up.
“Oh. Thanks!”
He meant this, even though it wasn’t a voucher that he could use to buy an FZY Apache 321. Malcolm knew that his mum and dad would have struggled to pay the £300 required for the Year Six School Trip. In fact, as he looked at the invoice, it occurred to him that possibly it was a good thing that Ticky and Tacky had torn down his birthday list – and it had then been spread on the bottom of ’Nana’s cage – as maybe, he realised now, his mum and dad couldn’t actually afford an FZY Apache 321.
And Malcolm did want to go: the Year Six Trip was exciting. It was three days long – the first time he’d be away from his family! – and most other children he knew would be going. So he would’ve sounded more enthusiastic about his thanks were it not for the fact that he didn’t actually know where the school trip was going to this year.
So he said:
“No, really, Mum and Dad, thanks. That’s really nice of you. By the way – I know I should know this, but – where is it to, this year? The trip?”
“Um …” said Jackie and Stewart, both at the same time.
The Bracket Wood Primary School coach was having trouble getting down the hill.
This might seem unusual: you would expect most vehicles as old and creaky as the Bracket Wood Primary School coach to have trouble getting up this particular hill, a hill in the middle of the countryside renowned for its steepness. And of course it had done when it had driven up the other side – the climb had taken an hour and a half, and at one point most of Year Six had started screaming, “It’s going to roll backwards! It’s going to roll backwards!” and cowering under their seats.
But once over the top, even the rustiest rustbucket should be able just to glide all the way down. As it was, though, it seemed less to glide than to … cough. And splutter.
None of this was helped by the weather, which, though it was spring, was rainy and foggy.
Malcolm sighed, closed his eyes and tried to rest his forehead on the shuddering window. Up ahead he could see a flock of sheep running away from them as the coach belched its way forward. The vehicle finally managed to gain some speed and pass the sheep, but Malcolm noticed that they carried on running, even though there was nothing behind them any more. In fact, that they were now basically chasing the bus they were supposed to be running away from.
Some boys at the back – a boy called Barry, and his friends Lukas, Jake and Taj – turned round to point at the sheep, running away from nothing, and laughed. But Malcolm just felt annoyed at the stupid stupidity of the stupid sheep.
Eventually they made it to the bottom of the hill, and their destination.
“We’re here!” said their teacher, Mr Barrington, peering out of the front window. “I think …”
He said “I think” partly because his eyesight was not of the best – he had very, very thick glasses – and partly because the sign he was looking at was obscured by mist.
But as he said “I think”, the mist cleared to reveal the words:
ORWELL FARM
“Yes, this is definitely the place,” he said. “Drive on, driver, quick-smart! Let’s waste no more time getting the children out of this bus, on to the farm, and starting to look after all the animals!”
“Hooray!!” went all the children.
Well, all except one.
“So! Everybody! The last animals on our tour – and the last animals you’ll be helping us to look after while you’re here – are! … the goats!”
Gavin, who ran Orwell Farm and who had been giving Year Six their first trip round it, proudly gestured towards the pen behind him. All the children – except for Malcolm – peered towards the animals.
“Does anyone know what we get from goats?” continued Gavin.
A girl called Ellie put her hand up.
“Yes?” said Gavin.
“Milk?”
“That’s right!”
“I thought cows produced milk?” said her twin brother Fred.
“And burgers!” said Morris Fawcett, who was also in Year Six, although some people thought he should go back to Year One where he would almost certainly be more comfortable.
“They don’t produce burgers, Morris,” said Morris’s sister, Isla.
Morris frowned. “I thought beef comes from cows.”
“It does.”
Morris frowned even more. “Well, how do they make it then?”
Gavin smiled, which made his beard (he had a big bushy beard, and wore a flat cap, even though he was quite young) go up at the sides. “We get milk from goats as well. We make our speciality cheese out of it!”
Maven, who may or may not have been Gavin’s wife but who ran the farm with him, held up a plate on which rested a big triangular piece of what looked like rotting soap.
“Stinky Blinky!”
“Urrgh!” said various children. Even though they were out in the open air, a few of them covered their mouths and noses so as to avoid the terrible scent of cheesy goat wee.
“We sell it at the local artisan market!” said Maven. “Goes like hot cakes! Who wants a bit?”
The children all looked down.
Malcolm, though, was already looking down, at his watch. The time was 5.43pm. He had known that for a while (well, at least since it was 5.42pm). But he wasn’t looking at his watch to find out what the time was. He was looking at his watch because he wasn’t interested in what Gavin or Maven were saying about the goats.
He hadn’t been interested in what Gavin or Maven had said about the chickens either; or the sheep;15 or the cows; or the horses; or the sheepdog, Trotsky; or the farm cat, Zsa-Zsa; or the tortoises, Benny and Bjorn, which they kept not because they were farm animals, but just, in Gavin’s words, “for giggles”.16 He – Malcolm – still couldn’t see the point. The animals just walked or sat around in their pens looking at the humans while the humans looked back at them. It was like a very dull episode of Big Brother. Which was a show he never watched because it was very dull.
No, Malcolm wasn’t looking at his watch to check the time.
He