Sally Odgers. (author of "Knightfall" (Koala Books 2002) "Candle Iron" (HarperCollins Australia 2001), "Knight Protector", (Koala Books, 2003.) Sally is Tasmania's most published living author! You can read about her "Reluctant Knight" trilogy by clicking here.....

(1)

"That's it! I've had enough!" exploded Cecelia Arkwright. "I'm going to change my name."

"Why?" asked Bronwen Jones idly. Cecelia was always exploding about something.

"Tareq Barrington says it sounds like a stutter," spat Cecelia. "I hate it. I mean, what if the bloke from the Weekend Yarner says "What's your name?" to me? I mean, they do that when they take your photo, don't they? D'you reckon I'd better tell them it's plain "Celia"?"

"If you do, your mum will ring up and complain," said Bronwen placidly. "Don't let Tareq Barrington get to you, Ceel, he isn't worth it."

"It's not fair," muttered Cecelia.

Sitting side by side on the climbing frame in the Upper Primary playground, they considered Tareq Barrington and sighed in unison. Tareq Barrington was blond and blue-eyed with the skin of a Walt Disney princess. For once Cecelia was right. It wasn't fair.

'The trouble is, nobody ever believes how bad he can be," complained Cecelia. "I mean, even I don't believe it always, and I've been suffering for Tareq Barrington's crimes ever since we were two years old and someone flushed six onions down the toilet."

"How?" asked Bron, diverted.

"Goodness knows. I mean, onions float, usually. But that's the way it is. He'd do these incredibly ghastly things and someone else would always get the blame. Me, usually. Or the cat. Or even the dog. I mean, if you found a whopping great hole dug in the lawn you'd naturally blame the dog, wouldn't you."

"You haven't got a dog." Bron folded her sandwich bag, screwed the top back on her drink bottle and stowed them back in her lunch-box. Bron was organised. Someone had to be, in a family like hers.

"I know we haven't got a dog," said Cecelia, pointing. "I mean that dog. The Barrington dog."

"The skinny one that does peepees everywhere?" asked Bron with interest. "I didn't know that was the Barrington dog. I thought it was some old stray."

"Well it isn't. Look." Cecelia lobbed her fruit drink box down at the nearest bin. It hit the rim, bounced off, and landed at the passing feet of Hamish McClaren, who jumped on it with a whoop. The box exploded and Hamish raised his fists over his head like a victorious boxer.

The Barrington dog, which had been sniffing at the rubbish bin, cocked its left hind leg and irrigated the remains of the drink box.

"Erk," said Cecelia.

Bron slid down the climbing frame, shooed away the Barrington dog, and dropped the box in the bin with finger and thumb. "Look out!" cried Cecelia in alarm, for the Barrington dog's hind leg was rising again.

Bron hitched herself back onto the frame. "He ought to join the fire brigade."

"Yes, but not in our school yard. Let's tell Holy Moses. He'll ring the dog catcher."

"No," said Bron, "not Holy Moses. "Let's tell Joffie."

Cecelia smiled. "Excellent!"

Ms Jofferson was the new groundsperson at Dunnydowner Primary, a buxom young woman who wore bib and brace overalls, boots and a shady hat. The two girls found her murdering oxalis in the narrow bed under the Principal's window. "Yeah, what?" said Ms Jofferson, peering up from under her brim.

"We just thought you'd like to know that dog's here again," said Cecelia virtuously.

"What dog? Where? Not near my lemon gums?" Joffie bristled.

"No, he's just behind you - look out!"

Bron jumped aside as the dog sniffed the backs of her knees. Cheated, it raised one hind leg and irrigated the oxalis.

"Dirty beggar," said Ms Jofferson, eyeing the yellow droplets.

"It's always hanging about," said Cecelia.

Ms Jofferson rose from her gardeners' hairpin stoop and pocketed her bright red trowel. She had come to the school only two weeks previously, but already she knew the kids well enough not to leave any equipment unattended. She had also taken the precaution of painting all the handles a bright and easily identifiable scarlet. "I'll go and ring the dog ranger," she said. "He'll fix it." She stumped away.

"Great," said Cecelia with satisfaction. "Eh? Eh?"

But Bron was stubbing at the grass with her toe. "Maybe we shouldn't have done it," she said, staring unseeingly at the rumpus taking place in the Early Childhood playground. With part of her mind she checked to see if her brother or sister were involved.

"Oh. Oh." Cecelia's relish faded. "See what you mean. If Tareq Barrington finds out who shopped his dog he'll come gunning for us."

"I didn't mean that," said Bron.

"What, then?"

"The dog. It isn't its fault it belongs to Tareq Barrington, and now the poor thing will go to the pound. It might get put down. Honestly, Ceel -"

"Well, it won't," said Cecelia. "I mean, Tareq Barrington will see the dog catcher taking the dog, right?"

"Yes-"

"So he'll tell Auntie Aurelia and Uncle Barry about it. They'll bail the dog out."

"That's OK then," said Bron with relief.

"No it isn't. The dirty brute will be back next week. O-oh, here comes Holy Moses. Let's leave."

They departed with some speed, having no wish to talk to the Principal just then. Or ever.

Actually, Mr Mostyn wasn't interested in talking to them, either. He was on his way to sort out the Early Childhood playground where a dimpled and bespectacled seven-year-old named Marcelle Parkins was chasing a plump classmate named Nathaniel Read around the fort.

Mr Granger was the teacher on duty that day, but he wasn't interested. Marcelle was always chasing someone. It was expected - if not acceptable - behaviour in Parkins, but Holy Moses didn't know that yet.

Holy Moses, (or Mr Mostyn if you looked him up in the school newsletter), was new. Not only new, but temporary, since he was merely Acting Principal while the real principal, Ms Sharp, took long service leave. The kids of Dunnydowner didn't hold his newness against him. Joffie was equally new, and she was a firm favourite. What bothered them about Holy Moses was that he didn't act like a Principal.

Ms Sharp chewed up kids and ate them for breakfast. You knew where you were with Ms Sharp.

Holy Moses was creepy.

Right now, he was stalking towards the Early Childhood playground where Marcelle tirelessly pursued Nathaniel round the fort. Nathaniel was cheating, darting through clumps of Class Ones and Twos. Marcelle was angry. Rounding the corner for the eleventh time, she caught up a handy can of Fizzicola and threw it at Nathaniel. Unfortunately, Nathaniel was no longer in range. Mr Mostyn, who was, looked down with raised eyebrows at the liquid dripping and fizzing down his trouser legs.

"Aw, nosepickings!" said Marcelle.

Nathaniel, now safely behind Holy Moses, risked a sneer and stuck out his tongue. Marcelle lunged for him.

"It's all right, Marcelle," cooed Holy Moses, catching her gently by the shoulder. "Don't run away. I know you didn't throw it on purpose."

Marcelle, who had thrown it on purpose, gaped.

Nathaniel squinted his eyes and screwed up his nose.

"I'll get you, you ratbag!" screamed Marcelle, and lunged again.

Mr Mostyn looked down at her round face and silky hair. "I think perhaps we'd better settle this in my office, don't you, people?" he said kindly.

TROUBLE WITH THE BARRINGTON DOG (2)

Lunch hour was almost over when the Principal released the two children from his office.

Marcelle was used to trouble, so she was not impressed with Holy Moses' gentle manner. Nathaniel wasn't impressed, either. He loved telling tales, and Mr Mostyn wouldn't listen to him! He marched out of the office, vowing to get even with Marcelle Parkins - somehow. He should have known better. Nobody ever got the better of a Parkins.

To Cecelia's disappointment, there was still no sign of the dog ranger when the bell rang for afternoon school. Immediately after lunch, the combined Upper Primary classes had Assembly in the Hall. Mr Mostyn loved Assemblies. He had them at least twice a week. The Hall was an echoing barn of a place, with a stage, a piano and a cupboard of sports equipment. It had a clattering floor and a high, grubby ceiling.

During his short time at Dunnydowner Primary School, Mr Mostyn had already tried to civilise the Hall by blu-tacking posters to the walls, but they were peeling off already.

"Quiet," said Mrs Fellows darkly, seating herself at the piano.

The second bell rang and Holy Moses strode into the Hall, radiating good will and smelling strongly of Fizzicola. "Good afternoon, People," he beamed.

"Good aft-er-noon, Mis-ter Mos-tyn," chanted Class Five and Class Six.

"I would like to talk to you today about a very special subject," said Mr Mostyn.

"The Weekend Yarner", hissed someone from the back row.

"Yes, the people from the Weekend Yarner are coming today," smiled the Principal, "but we'll get back to that later. What I want to discuss now is much more important."

Class Five and Class Six eyed him derisively. What could be more important than having their photos in the newspaper?

"This matter concerns all of you," said Mr Mostyn, "and will continue to do so throughout your lives."

"Well - not spelling, anyway," said Cecelia. "After you leave school you can use a spell-checker!"

"Money," said Alida Jackson audibly.

"The cops," said Simon Clegg.

"Telly," said Rebecca Billing.

"Wrong," said Mr Mostyn. "I refer to understanding. Understanding other people."

Class Five and Class Six squirmed.

"It has been truly said,’ said Mr Mostyn, that to Understand all is to forgive all. That's a wonderful concept, isn't it people?"

He developed this subject for ten minutes, then leaned forward with an encouraging smile. "And now, people, I'd like you to think carefully. What will you do next time someone gives you a hard time? Yes, Rebecca?"

"Give her a hard time back," said Rebecca Billing. "My dad always says; 'Don't get mad, Becky, get even.' And he's right, too."

Mr Mostyn sighed. Obviously, his little talk had not had the desired effect. His sad gaze met the clear blue eyes of a blond boy in the second row. "Yes lad? What would you do?"

Tareq Barrington didn't fail him. "I'd try to work out why the other person is doing it," he said. "If I can understand, maybe I won't mind so much."

"That's it!" said Mr Mostyn. "Very good. Now, I want you all to think about this and carry it over into your everyday lives just as - what's your name, lad?"

"Tareq Barrington," chorused everyone.

"Thank you., Just as Tareq does."

Class Five and Class Six looked at one another and sniggered.

"Now," said Mr Mostyn briskly. "We come to the other matter for today. The visit from Mr Brandon from the Weekend Yarner. Can anyone tell me why he's coming?"

"To put our pictures in the paper," said Alida.

"Why is he doing that? Tareq?"

"The Weekend Yarner," said Tareq Barrington, "has a feature called This Week in Education."

Mr Mostyn nodded. "Right. Each week the Star features one of the local schools in the middle pages. Hands up who read This Week in Education last week?"

Only a few hands rose, Bron's and Tareq's among them.

"Aw, I never read the paper," said Simon Clegg.

"I do. I read the funnies," said his friend Rohan Mark.

"I like the sports section, " said Rebecca with a giggle. "Some of the footy players are hunks."

"Well, I'm sure you'll all be reading it this weekend," said Mr Mostyn with a smile.

The kids nodded.

"There's one more thing," said Mr Mostyn. "We have still to decide on the form of our annual charity drive. Has anyone any suggestions?"

"We could sell cakes," said Rebecca Billing.

"Nah - how about lollies?" said Simon Clegg.

"We could hold a walk-a-thon," suggested Bron.

Cecelia jabbed her in the ribs, hard. "I hate thons," she hissed. "No-one ever wants to sponsor me."

"Let's knit a kilometre scarf!" said someone.

"No - we can hold a raffle ..."

"Sir, I have a suggestion to make," said Tareq Barrington. "How about a Spell-a-thon?"

There was a chorus of hisses and complaints, but Mr Mostyn smiled as if he beheld a holy vision. "What a splendid idea, Tareq! Not only will it raise money for those less fortunate than ourselves, but it will also benefit every one of us! A Spell-a-thon it shall be!"

Mr Mostyn rose to leave and Mrs Fellows began to thump out the opening bars of "He's Got the Whole World in his Hands."

"I'll kill him," said Cecelia. "I'll kill that cousin of mine! He heard what I said before!"

They were on their way back to class when a white car with Weekend Yarner on the door pulled into the car park. All eyes swung sideways with an almost magnetic snap.

"Oh, what a spunk!" said Rebecca Billing longingly as a young man with a camera climbed out.

The photographer nodded to Mrs Fellows then strode towards the office. As he vanished into the school, the Barrington dog sauntered over to the car park and irrigated the wheels of the Weekend Yarner.

"Darned dog," muttered Mrs Fellows from the rear.

Tareq Barrington had also spotted the Barrington dog, but his mild blue eyes never blinked.

"Oh no!" groaned Cecelia Arkwright as they trailed into their classroom. "I just thought - we've got P.E. next!"

"We always have P.E.," pointed out Bron.

"But it's boiling."

"It's always boiling in March." Bron took off her sandals and changed into her sports shoes.

"It's not fair!" bleated Cecelia. "That man is going to take our pictures and we'll all be sweating like pigs! I mean - what will people think?"

"They'll think we've been doing P.E.," said Bron.

Cecelia flounced out.

Mr Granger was waiting out on the basketball court. Cecelia sighed. She hated Mr Granger. She hated his hairy legs and his bristly chin and his horrible whistle. She was sweating already. "We'll all get sunstroke," she said to Alida. "We'll all die."

"Oh, be quiet," said Alida.

"Right troops!" said Mr Granger. "We'll start by running round the oval for a warm-up."

Cecelia moaned.

"Twice," said Mr Granger evilly.

Behind him, the Barrington dog cocked its leg against a goal post.

Class Six moved off at a reluctant jog trot. Chests were heaving and throats were tight when they finished their first circuit, but Mr Granger was implacable. "You're a lot of old nanny goats!" he yelled.

"He can't say that, it's verbal harassment!" said Rebecca Billing.

"Shut up," said Cecelia. "He'll add another circuit."

As they staggered back to the basketball court, the Weekend Yarner man came to meet them.

"Oh no," moaned Cecelia with the last of her breath. "Oh no!" Dragging air into her lungs she squinted up and puffed her clammy fringe out of her eyes.

"Hold - it!" said the photographer cheerfully.

Click.

And Cecelia Arkwright was captured on film. Steaming, sweating, cross-eyed. Cheeks puffed out like an idiot. She could have wept.

The Barrington dog irrigated the other goalpost.

"Great!" said the photographer. "I like candids. Right, kids - what are your names?"

"Cecelia Arkwright," muttered Cecelia.

"Celia?"

"Speak up, child!" hissed Mr Granger.

"CE-celia!" said Cecelia loudly.

"Cesspools," muttered Simon Clegg.

"Right, Cecelia. How old are you?"

"Eleven."

"And you?" He smiled at Bron.

"Bronwen Jones. I'm eleven too."

"Bronwen J - blooming heck!"

The photographer dropped his ball-pen and jumped away.

The Barrington dog had struck again.

TROUBLE WITH THE BARRINGTON DOG (3)

Class Six laughed heartlessly, and Mr Granger glowered at them. "Remove that dog," he snapped.

"Yes sir! Where, sir?" Hamish McClaren leapt into action.

"Wherever it came from," said Mr Granger. "Does anyone know whose it is?"

Cecelia Arkwright opened her mouth, but Tareq Barrington was watching, so she closed it again.

"Yes, Cecelia," said Mr Granger, who had heard her intake of breath,

"Well - I mean - that is - " Cecelia's eyes roamed the playground for inspiration and lit on a battered orange vehicle that was just pulling into the car park. It had a mesh cage on the back, so she pointed, wordlessly.

"Ah, someone has called the dog ranger," said Mr Granger.

"I think it was Miss Jofferson," put in Bron helpfully.

"Ooh, what a hunk!" murmured Rebecca Billing as the young ranger approached.

The Weekend Yarner man was shaking his trouser leg and swearing under his breath. The Barrington dog was obviously planning a return engagement with the goal post.

The dog ranger smiled shyly. "What's the trouble?"

"A dog," chorused Class Six gleefully. Some of them knew the dog ranger, who often went out with Cassandra Lang's big sister. The Weekend Yarner man shook his trouser leg again.

The Barrington dog cocked its leg against the goal post.

"Anyone hurt?" asked the dog ranger, taking in the mild demeanour of the Barrington dog.

"Only my pride," said the Weekend Yarner man. "And my trousers."

The ranger grinned, and winked at Cassandra. "I'd better take this fellow into custody," he said, "unless someone wants to claim him now?"

Eyes turned in silent accusation on Tareq Barrington, but nobody spoke.

"I see," said the ranger with a sigh. He advanced on the Barrington dog, clicking his fingers. "Come on boy, good old chap," he said. "If you come quietly we'll omit the pawcuffs."

The Barrington dog looked down his narrow nose and walked away.

The ranger followed.

The Barrington dog gave a hunted look over his shoulder and broke into a jog.

The ranger lengthened his stride.

The Barrington dog began to run.

Class Six shuffled and cast hopeful glances at Mr Granger as the Barrington dog and the ranger vanished around the corner of the school building.

The Weekend Yarner man turned to give his trouser leg the benefit of the afternoon sun and whistled softly to himself and pursuer and pursued reappeared from the other direction. A smile lurked behind his eyes.

Mr Granger crumbled. "Oh, all right," he said.

With a whoop, half of Class Six took off to join the hunt.

"I'll head him off at the pass!" yelled Hamish McClaren. Rohan Mark and Simon Clegg followed.

They reached the mesh fence that separated Dunnydowner Primary from Billycan Street just ahead of the Barrington dog, which doubled back with a startled yap and darted between the ranger's legs.

"Go dog!" yelled Rohan, brandishing his hat.

The Barrington dog, whip-like tail clamped between its legs, went like a greyhound.

Feeling her family honour at stake, Cassandra Lang snatched wildly and went sprawling and Rebecca Billing tumbled over her legs. Hamish McClaren uttered an eerie Highland whoop and hurdled the pair of them. His foot caught against Cassandra's rising shoulder and he collapsed, winded. Simon and Rohan piled on top of him in turn, and the chaos worsened as the rest of Class Six followed.

"Stop that!" yelled Mr Granger, suspecting they'd done it on purpose.

"They've fallen at the first fence!" murmured the Weekend Yarner man delightedly. He whipped up his camera. "Bottoms up!"

Cecelia Arkwright, who happened to be at the top of the pile-up, closed her eyes in what she told her self was terminal embarrassment. Mr Granger blew a decisive blast on his whistle and began unstacking bodies. The heap, which now included seventeen members of Class Six and the dog ranger, began to unravel. At the very bottom, Cassandra Lang lay as limp as a corpse.

"Ambulance!" yelled Hamish McClaren. "Shall I give her mouth to mouth, Mr Granger, or will you do CPR?"

The corpse revived in a hurry and the dog ranger grinned.

Meanwhile, the Barrington dog, sensing a lull, trotted over to one of the baby lemon gums.

Miss Jofferson, attracted by the row, stumped round the corner. Letting out a yell of pure indignation, she ripped off a gumboot and hurled it into the scrum. Rage distorted her aim and the gumboot hit the Weekend Yarner man behind.

"Darn it!" exploded Miss Jofferson.

"Got you!" said the dog ranger, making a low snatching grab at the upraised leg of the Barrington dog.

The Barrington dog yelped and slid away from his grasp.

"Tally-ho!" cried the Weekend Yarner man happily, clicking away. Miss Jofferson retrieved her boot and hopped on one foot.

Bron nudged Cecelia. Cecelia Arkwright opened her eyes with a moan. "What now?"

"I was just wondering," said Bron slowly.

"What?"

"Where is your cousin?"

Cecelia looked about. Miss Jofferson was tugging at her boot, Mr Granger was conferring with the dog ranger, the Weekend Yarner man was checking his light meter and everyone else was comparing bruises.

The Barrington dog watched them suspiciously.

Tareq Barrington, however, was not there.

"Right," said the dog ranger. "Mr - er - Granger? I think if we approach the subject from several directions at once we may do better."

Gleefully, the boys began to edge towards the Barrington dog. "We've got you surrounded, dude!" hissed Rohan Mark. "Stick 'em up!"

"Make my day, dog," said Simon Clegg.

"OK," said the dog ranger. "I think we have him cornered. When I say Now, everyone freeze and I'll grab."

Pace by pace, the ragged circle closed in on its victim. The Barrington dog raised an uncertain leg.

"Now!" cried the dog ranger, and pounced.

"Hurrah!" yelled Class Six and the Weekend Yarner man.

The Barrington dog uttered a yelp of dismay.

"Oh no, here comes Holy Moses!" hissed Cecelia.

Mr Mostyn was striding across the schoolyard in a royal rage. He was followed by Tareq Barrington. "What is going on?" enquired Mr Mostyn awfully. "What are you doing to that poor, defenceless animal?"

Mr Granger, Miss Jofferson and the dog ranger all began to explain, while the Weekend Yarner man became very busy with his lens cap.

In his haste to justify himself, the dog ranger released his cringing captive. The Barrington dog collapsed in a heap - a vision of abject misery.

"Probably suffering from dehydration," muttered Miss Jofferson. "Serve the beggar right."

"Poor old fellow," said Mr Mostyn softly, stroking the shrinking head.

The Barrington dog whined.

"I'll pop him to the pound now," said the dog ranger.

Mr Mostyn straightened up with a snap like a pocket knife. "Don't you think the poor creature has suffered enough?"

Everyone shuffled.

"In any case," said Mr Mostyn mildly, "it is almost three o'clock. Run and get changed, people. Mr Granger, see to it. Miss Jofferson - where has Miss Jofferson gone?"

Nobody knew.

"Right, Mr - er -"

"Hiddings," said the dog ranger sulkily.

"Yes, Mr Hiddings. It appears you have wasted a trip. I do apologise, but I think it best if I ask around and see who owns this poor animal. He is obviously lost and distressed."

"Suit yourself," said the dog ranger, and melted away.

Mr Mostyn glanced at the Weekend Yarner man. "Will one of you people please see Mr Brandon back to his car? Thank you, Tareq. Thank you for coming, Mr Brandon. I trust you found your visit worthwhile?"

"Very fruitful indeed," said the Weekend Yarner man.

"This way, sir," said Tareq Barrington.

Deflated, Class Six trailed back into school.

The Barrington dog, finding itself abandoned, had a good scratch, shook itself, cocked its leg once more against the goal post and trotted off home down Outback Street.