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    Phredde & The Leopard Skin Librarian
    Phredde & The Leopard Skin Librarian
    Phredde & The Leopard Skin Librarian
    Ebook157 pages2 hours

    Phredde & The Leopard Skin Librarian

    By Jackie French

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    About this ebook


    What do you do when your school librarian starts dressing in leopard-skin and goes off chasing dinosaurs? A school excursion to the Big Koala goes horribly wrong when Phredde, Pru and Bruce - and their vampire teacher Mrs Olsen, and Miss Richards, librarian and martial arts expert - head back into the time of the dinosaurs, not to mention giant marsupial lions, a dinosaur with diarrhoea and an exploding volcano. Who will save them? Can one kid, two phaeries, a vampire and a librarian dressed in leopard-skin survive in the past with just a laptop computer, a flying carpet and a plastic spoon? Ages 7-12
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins Publishers Australia
    Release dateApr 1, 2010
    ISBN9780730444688
    Phredde & The Leopard Skin Librarian
    Author

    Jackie French

    Jackie French AM is an award-winning writer, wombat negotiator, the 2014–2015 Australian Children's Laureate and the 2015 Senior Australian of the Year. In 2016 Jackie became a Member of the Order of Australia for her contribution to children's literature and her advocacy for youth literacy. She is regarded as one of Australia's most popular children's authors and writes across all genres — from picture books, history, fantasy, ecology and sci-fi to her much loved historical fiction for a variety of age groups. ‘A book can change a child's life. A book can change the world' was the primary philosophy behind Jackie's two-year term as Laureate. jackiefrench.com facebook.com/authorjackiefrench

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      Book preview

      Phredde & The Leopard Skin Librarian - Jackie French

      Chapter 1

      The Trouble with Werewolves

      It was an ordinary day in our castle.

      Mum was down in the dungeons working on a crossword (she says the gloom helps her concentrate) and Dad was up in the Great Hall watching the cricket on TV.

      I was feeding my leftover last night’s dinner to my piranhas in the moat (chicken and zucchini curry—yuk!) and watching them gobble up the chicken bits and spit out the zucchini (even piranhas don’t like zucchini—which proves my point) and Mark was howling up on the battlements.

      Mark does a lot of howling on the battlements, especially when it’s a full moon, which it was this afternoon, sailing faintly through the afternoon sky like it was a balloon some dopey kid had let fly into the air.

      When it’s a full moon Mark turns into a werewolf, which is okay by me because, as big brothers go, he’s pretty okay when he’s a werewolf, especially that time he bit Amelia on the bum when she slagged off my science project at school Open Day.¹

      Mum gets a bit narky sometimes at the wolf hair on the sofa and when Mark lifts his leg on the front door, but like Mark says, werewolves have to mark their territory and she should be grateful he just lifts his leg and doesn’t do SOMETHING ELSE. Then Mum asked, who left the doggy doo on her geraniums? And Mark said…but I was telling you about him howling on the battlements, wasn’t I?

      Well, there was I, watching the curry sauce turn the moat water yellow, and there was Mark right at the top of the castle howling, ‘Pruuuddeeence!!!!!! Pruuuuuuuddence!!!!!!!!!’

      ‘What do you want?’ I yelled.

      ‘Coooommmmee uuuppp heeeere!’

      ‘What’s the magic word?’ I shouted.

      ‘Turkey!!!’ howled Mark.

      Turkey? That meant that Mark knew it was me who took the Christmas turkey and fed it to the piranhas before Mum had a chance to stuff its bum with herbs and breadcrumbs. Well, it was an experiment, wasn’t it? If a school of piranhas can skeletonise a cow in ten minutes, how long does it take for them to eat a frozen turkey? (If you’re ever asked that question in an exam the answer’s four minutes and twenty-one seconds, ’cause I timed them.² )

      Anyway Mum doesn’t know and I hope she never finds out because she was a bit upset when she discovered the turkey was gone, even though there were plenty of turkeys left in the deepfreeze cabinet at the supermarket.

      So I yelled, ‘Okay! Coming!’ to Mark and trotted over the drawbridge and through the front door (Mum’s right—it does pong a bit ’cause Mark marks³ his territory every time he goes through the door—like once when he goes to school and once when he comes home and another time when he goes out with his mates and another when he comes back. Four leg lifts at least seven days a week means lots and lots of little yellow puddles and after a while…

      Well, you get the generally pongy idea.

      After that I ran through the Great Hall and through the Not So Great Hall and up the Grand Staircase and then the Not So Grand Staircase and up the Really Quite Small Staircase and along the passage and up the narrow stone stairs to the battlements (you get a lot of exercise living in a castle—I’m a whiz at long distance at the Athletics Carnival now) and looked around.

      No Mark.

      ‘I’m up here!’ he yelled.

      So I panted up another set of stairs to the top of the turret where Mark has his bedroom and pushed open the door (werewolves can’t manage door handles so Mark’s bedroom has a sliding door now), and there was Mark, looking at himself in the mirror.

      ‘Hi, Pruneface. Thanks,’ he said.

      ‘Don’t mention it,’ I said. ‘And don’t mention that turkey to Mum either. What do you want?’

      ‘Could you brush my hair?’ asked Mark. ‘It’s Tracey’s birthday party tonight.’

      ‘Sure,’ I said. I know big brothers usually brush their own hair, but while werewolf paws are great at holding down their prey while they rip its jugular vein out, they aren’t much good at holding hairbrushes. I looked round and picked up Mark’s hairbrush from the dressing table. Mark has two hairbrushes now, a little normal one for when he’s human and a great big wide one for when he’s a wolf. I started brushing his back.

      Mark craned his head and peered in the mirror. ‘No dandruff?’ he asked.

      ‘No dandruff,’ I assured him.

      ‘Good,’ said Mark. ‘I found this great anti-dandruff dog shampoo down at the vet’s. It makes your coat really glossy. You should try it.’

      ‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll stick to human shampoo.’ I began to brush his legs.

      ‘Don’t forget my tail!’ said Mark, wagging it anxiously.

      ‘Stop worrying about your fruitcake⁴ tail!’ I told him. ‘It looks fine!’

      ‘Tracey hates daggy tails,’ said Mark, wagging his tail in my face. I grabbed it and began to brush.

      ‘Hey, I know a werewolf joke,’ I informed him.

      ‘Oh, yeah?’

      ‘Yep. I used to be a werewolf, but I’m over it nowhooooowwwwwlllllll!’ Actually I thought it was a pretty good werewolf howl, but Mark just shrugged.

      ‘Very funny, Pruneface.’

      ‘Look,’ I said, ‘if I’m brushing your tail you can laugh at my jokes.’

      ‘Ha, ha then.’ He craned round for another look at his tail. ‘Does it look okay now?’

      ‘Every hair is glossy,’ I told him. ‘You’ll be the best-looking werewolf at the party.’ Well, sometimes you have to lay it on thick for older brothers. ‘What present did you get for her anyway?’

      ‘A jar of flea powder,’ said Mark, examining his fangs in the mirror.

      ‘Er, Mark…’

      ‘Hey, is that a bit of guinea pig between my teeth? Pass the dental floss will you?’

      ‘Er, Mark, about the flea powder…’ ‘Yeah?’ asked Mark.

      ‘Are you sure Tracey wants flea powder for her birthday?’

      ‘Oh yeah, she really needs it. She was scratching like anything last full moon.’

      ‘Did you TELL her she needed flea powder?’

      ‘Sure. I said, Hey, Tracey, that’s a really bad itch you’ve got. You need some flea powder.’

      ‘What did Tracey say?’ I asked, fascinated.

      ‘She didn’t say anything.’ Mark gazed at himself in the mirror. ‘I really think I’d better brush my fangs again.’

      I decided to be frank. ‘Look, Mark, telling your girlfriend she has fleas is not tactful. And giving her flea powder so that all her friends know she’s got fleas too is really pushing it.’

      ‘Oh,Tracey won’t mind.’

      ‘Look, Mark, believe me on this one, Tracey does NOT want flea powder for her birthday!’

      Mark blinked and sat on his haunches. ‘No?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘What should I give her then?’

      I racked my brains. What would a female werewolf like? Not scent, because that’d cover up her doggy odour. Not chocolates—too much chocolate can kill a dog—it’d be a bit like giving your girlfriend a nice box of rat poison.

      ‘Er…how about a new collar?’

      Mark snorted. ‘Wolves don’t wear collars,’ he said.

      ‘Toe ring?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Essence of rotten cow to roll in?’

      ‘Look,’ said Mark, showing all his big white fangs, ‘Tracey needs flea powder. Besides, I got them to giftwrap it and everything.’

      I gazed at the pretty pink parcel on the table. Yeah, it was the best-wrapped jar of flea powder I’d ever seen.

      Mark grabbed it in his jaws. ‘See ’oo kid,’ he said and loped down the stairs.

      1 Mum doesn’t know about that, so don’t tell her.

      2 But I think their teeth ached afterwards because they kept fanging about with their mouths opening and shutting for ages. I don’t suppose piranhas eat iceblocks or other frozen stuff much, so a frozen turkey would have been a bit of a shock in the temperature department.

      3 Heh, heh. This is a joke.

      4 Ever since I was in Phaeryland last month (see Phredde and the Temple of Gloom) whenever I try to say #8 or %# or %!@ it always comes out as fruitcake! It’s sort of turned me off plum pudding too.

      Chapter 2

      The Trouble with Girlfriends

      Things were quiet next morning at breakfast time. Things are always pretty quiet at our place at breakfast because Mum doesn’t regain true consciousness till she’s had three cups of coffee and Dad’s always preoccupied keeping Dribbles’s dribble off his newspaper. (Dribbles is Dad’s giant sloth. I gave it/him/her⁵ to Dad for his last birthday. Dribbles is no trouble at all, because giant sloths don’t do anything much—except dribble of course.) And I like to get stuck into my pancakes with strawberries and maple syrup, or corn and banana muffins, or sausage and tomato pizza, or whatever else Gark has cooked up for breakfast.

      This morning it was potato cakes with homemade tomato sauce and I’d just finished my seventh when Mark wandered in, in human shape because the moon was down. Well, sort of human shape.

      ‘Er, hi, Mark,’ I said, eyeing him a bit warily. ‘Are you alright?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Mark shortly, sitting down at the table. ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Mark, reaching for the raspberry and passionfruit juice.

      ‘I mean I couldn’t help noticing your new haircut.’ Actually it looked like someone had torn out a great big clump of fur…

      ‘Where’s the muesli?’ asked Mark, ignoring me.

      ‘And your black eye?’

      ‘Pass the milk,’ said Mark.

      ‘You seemed to be limping a bit too…’

      That sort of woke Mum up. ‘Mmmpph?’ she asked blearily, then blinked. ‘Mark, what HAVE you done to your hair?’

      Dad looked up from his newspaper. ‘Are you alright, son? Eerrkk!’ He grabbed his napkin. ‘That dribble went down my back…’

      ‘I’m fine!’ yelled Mark. Big brothers can be awfully touchy sometimes.

      ‘Oh. Good,’ said Mum.

      ‘How did Tracey like her present?’ I asked. Well, okay, maybe that wasn’t the most tactful thing to say.

      ‘She’s such a nice girl…I mean werewolf,’ burbled Mum. ‘I’m so glad your girlfriend is…’

      Mark crashed the milk down so hard on the table that a splodge hit Dribbles in the eye. Luckily giant sloths don’t

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