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  “When is this competition?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow,” said Royston. “Maybe you should enter so you can watch me win. I already know what I’m going to make and it’ll be miles better than yours.”

  “Want to bet?” said Bertie.

  “Suits me.” They shook hands.

  “See you tomorrow then!” said Royston, swaggering off with his nose in the air.

  Bertie watched him go. He would teach that goofy-faced show-off how to make a sandcastle. Wait till tomorrow, then they’d see who was best!

  CHAPTER 2

  That evening, Bertie’s family ate supper back at the flat. Whiffer hovered beside Bertie’s chair hoping he would drop some chips on the carpet.

  “Dad,” said Bertie. “Can I enter a sandcastle competition? They’re having one on the beach tomorrow. Royston reckons he’s going to win.”

  “Huh! I bet he does!” said Dad. “We’ll see about that.”

  “His dad’s buying him a new bucket and spade,” said Bertie.

  “Typical,” said Dad. “We’ll get you a new one in the morning.”

  “That’s not fair!” grumbled Suzy. “What about me?”

  Mum rolled her eyes. “Aren’t you taking this a bit seriously? It’s only a sandcastle competition! It’s meant to be fun. What does it matter who wins?”

  “Of course it matters!” said Dad. “I’m not letting Gerald Rich’s son win.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s a smelly-pants show-off!” answered Bertie.

  “Exactly,” said Dad. “Anyway, we’re bound to win. We just need to think of something clever.”

  “WE?” said Bertie.

  “Yes, me and you. We can be a team.”

  Bertie’s mouth fell open. “But it’s a children’s competition!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dad. “I’m not going to interfere, I’ll just be there to offer advice.”

  Bertie had heard this before. When his dad offered advice it usually ended with him taking over completely. Like the time he’d helped with Bertie’s history project and had stayed up half the night making an Egyptian pyramid out of yoghurt pots. Bertie didn’t want to be the only boy in the competition who’d brought along his Dad. It would be so embarrassing!

  Dad stroked his chin. “The question is what to make? It’s got to be something eye-catching. What about the Houses of Parliament?”

  “No!” groaned Bertie.

  “Or the Eiffel Tower?”

  “No!”

  “Or an airport with planes and runways and a control tower…”

  “NO, NO!” cried Bertie. “Dad, I’d rather do it by myself. Please.”

  Mum patted Dad on the arm. “Maybe Bertie’s right. You come shopping with me and Suzy.”

  “Okay!” sighed Dad. “I’m only trying to help you win.”

  “It’s not the winning that counts,” said Mum. “It’s the taking part.”

  Bertie said nothing. Anyone could take part. He wanted to win. But if he was going to beat Royston he needed a good idea. Everyone would be making crummy old sandcastles; his entry had to be something different. Something no one else would think of. He glanced down. Whiffer was still eyeing his chips with his tongue hanging out. That was it! Of course! Instead of a sand-castle he’d make a sand-dog! It was different, it was original and best of all he could get Whiffer to act as his model. Bertie sneaked a chip off his plate and dropped it on the carpet. That prize was as good as his!

  CHAPTER 3

  Next morning Bertie arrived at the beach with his brand-new bucket and spade. Whiffer trotted eagerly at his heels. It was a bright, breezy day, with a few grey clouds out to sea. A large crowd of children had turned up for the competition. Bertie noticed many of them had brought shells and flags and other stuff to decorate their sandcastles.

  “You’re sure you don’t want us to stay?” asked Dad.

  “No, it’s okay,” said Bertie. “Whiffer will keep me company.”

  “Can we go to the shops now?” moaned Suzy.

  Mum glanced at the sky. “It looks a bit cloudy,” she said. “You better take my umbrella just in case. We’ll be back for the judging. Good luck, Bertie,” she called, as they headed off.

  Royston Rich pushed his way through the crowd. Like Bertie he had a brand-new bucket and spade, though his were big enough to dig to Australia.

  “Hello, Bertie! Come to watch me win?” he smirked.

  “In your dreams,” said Bertie.

  Just then Mr Rich appeared. Bertie stared. He was carrying a new bucket and spade too.

  “Wait,” said Bertie. “Your dad’s not entering – is he?”

  “Oh yes, didn’t I mention it?” said Royston. “Parents are allowed to help – it’s in the rules. Luckily my dad’s brilliant at making sandcastles.”

  Bertie glanced around. It seemed everyone else was here with their mum, dad or grandma. He was the only one entering by himself! He looked for his dad, but it was too late – he’d already gone. That two-faced rat Royston. He’d done this on purpose!

  A large square of sand had been roped off for the competition. A woman wearing huge baggy shorts stood on a box to address everyone. She had a whistle round her neck and a clipboard in her hand. Bertie thought she looked like Miss Boot’s ugly sister.

  “You have one hour to complete your sandcastles,” she barked. “When time is up I shall blow one blast on my whistle, like so. PEEEEP! That means put down your buckets and spades, immediately. I will come round with the other judges to inspect your work. Any questions? Splendid. Then on my whistle, begin!”

  Everyone began digging furiously. Parents drew lines in the sand while their children stood by looking baffled. Royston and his dad were digging like slaves and had already produced a mountain of sand. Bertie, meanwhile, was trying to get Whiffer to pose.

  “Sit boy! Sit!” he ordered. But Whiffer was too excited to sit. There was nothing he liked better than digging.

  “SIT!” yelled Bertie.

  He wrestled Whiffer’s bottom to the ground and began to dig. Whiffer barked joyfully and bounded over to help. He kicked up showers of sand in all directions. Bertie sighed. So much for using Whiffer as a model! He’d just have to work from memory.

  He set to work as Whiffer ran back and forth, leaving a trail of paw prints over a dozen sandcastles. Bertie pretended it wasn’t his dog.

  Forty minutes later, he stopped to wipe the sweat from his face. Building sandcastles was hard work. The grey clouds had drifted closer. The woman in baggy shorts passed by.

  “Ah!” she said. “That is … hmm … well, what is it?”

  “It’s my dog,” said Bertie. She was obviously blind as a bat.

  “Really? Good heavens! Is there something wrong with him?”

  “No,” said Bertie, glancing round for Whiffer. He caught sight of him halfway up the beach chasing a flock of seagulls.

  “Never mind, keep at it!” barked Baggy Shorts. “You’ve only got five more minutes.”

  She marched off, checking her watch and glancing at the dark sky.

  Bertie took a step back to inspect his work. Even he had to admit it hadn’t turned out quite as well as he’d hoped. His sand-dog looked more like a melting snowman. One lumpy blob stood on top of a bigger lumpy blob. The top one could have been a head but it was hard to tell. The nose was squashed, one eye had fallen off and the paws stuck out like a pair of mud pies.

  Bertie turned to check out the competition. He stared boggle-eyed. Some of the other entries were amazing! There were playful dolphins, tiny sea horses and fairy castles covered with pink shells. Next to him was a mermaid with seaweed hair. And best of all was a speedboat so real that it seemed to be skimming the waves. At the wheel was a goofy boy in a sailor’s cap. Royston Rich. He caught sight of Bertie and waved.

  Bertie’s shoulders drooped. There was no way he was going to win. Royston’s speedboat would walk it. And for the next million years he’d have to endure his endless bo
asting at school.

  By now a crowd of people had gathered to watch. Bertie spotted his parents among them. They had rescued Whiffer, and Suzy was trying hard to stop him running off again.

  Big black clouds blotted out the sun as Baggy Shorts climbed on to her box and blew a blast on her whistle. PEEEEP!

  “Time’s up!” she barked. “Everyone put down your—”

  But her words were drowned out, as the clouds burst and the rain came pouring down.

  CHAPTER 4

  Everyone fled. Children dropped their spades and ran. Bertie’s family ran too, finding shelter under the roof of the Beach Café.

  “Where’s Bertie?” asked Mum, suddenly.

  Dad stared. “I thought he was with us!”

  Suzy shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t ask me, I was holding Whiffer but he ran off.”

  They peered through the pouring rain. The beach was empty apart from one large yellow umbrella. Under it they could just make out a boy and a dog sitting next to a shapeless lump of sand.

  At last the rain stopped and everyone crept back to see what was left of the sandcastles.

  The beach looked like a battlefield. The mermaid was a clump of seaweed, while Royston’s speedboat was a soggy heap. Everywhere lay messy blobs of sand which had once been dolphins or sea horses.

  The judges huddled together for a moment and Baggy Shorts climbed back on to her box.

  “I regret to say the competition has been cancelled,” she said. “The rain has ruined everything. There’s really nothing left we can judge.”

  “Yes there is!” Everyone turned round. It was the boy with the dog.

  “Look,” shouted Bertie. “It’s all right! I kept it dry!”

  The judges stared. Bertie’s sandcastle resembled an alien from the planet Blob. Nevertheless, it was the only entry left. They mumbled together, and finally Baggy Shorts turned to face the crowd.

  “I’m pleased to announce that we have a winner. First prize goes to, um…”

  Bertie whispered in her ear.

  “To Bertie for his … er … unusual portrait of a dog. Well done!”

  Bertie stepped forward to receive his prize. It was a giant hamper stuffed with cakes, sweets, toffee apples and goodies. As he carried it off he passed a goofy, red-faced boy throwing a tantrum. Bertie gave Royston a cheery wave.

  Victory had never tasted so sweet!

  CHAPTER 1

  Bertie was watching TV when Mum and Dad burst into the lounge.

  “Great news!” beamed Dad, excitedly.

  “We’re getting a hamster!” cried Bertie.

  “No, better than that, we’re moving house!”

  Bertie almost fell off the sofa.

  “MOVING?” he gasped. “When?”

  “As soon as we’ve sold our house,” said Dad. “It’s going up for sale next week. Isn’t that marvellous?”

  “But I don’t want to move,” said Bertie.

  “Where would we live?” asked Suzy.

  “In Poshley Green,” said Mum. “It’s a much nicer area and we’ve already seen a house we like!”

  “But I don’t want to move!” grumbled Bertie, raising his voice.

  Mum took no notice. “It’s got a lovely long garden and a park over the road. And wait till you see the size of your bedroom, Suzy.”

  “Cool!” said Suzy.

  “BUT I DON’T WANT TO MOVE!” yelled Bertie, jumping up and down.

  Mum sighed. Dad frowned. “How do you know?” he said. “You haven’t even seen the house yet.”

  “I like our house,” said Bertie. “It’s got my bedroom and all my stuff.”

  “Well you can take your stuff with you,” replied Dad.

  “And I’m sure you’ll make lots of new friends,” said Mum.

  “What for?” asked Bertie. “I’ve got friends already.”

  “I mean at your new school.”

  New school? Bertie stared. Had they all gone raving mad? This was an outrage! A disaster! He had been going to Pudsley Junior practically all his life! It was HIS school! He could walk there from his house, meeting Darren and Eugene on the way. He didn’t want to go to some horrible new school where the teachers had you flogged for breathing too loud in class.

  “Well I think it’ll be nice,” said Suzy.

  “No it won’t!” scowled Bertie. “It’ll be horrible!”

  “Just ’cos I’ll have the biggest bedroom!” crowed Suzy.

  “No you won’t, smelly-pants!”

  “Will!”

  “Won’t!”

  “Stop squabbling!” cried Mum. “I’m sorry, Bertie, but Dad and I have decided and we’re going. I’m sure once you’ve settled in you’ll love it.”

  Bertie slumped back on the sofa and turned up the TV. It wasn’t fair! Nobody asked if he wanted to move. Why were parents always ruining his life? Well they could move if they liked but he wasn’t going. He would lock himself in his room and never come out. Ever.

  …Except to order pizza.

  CHAPTER 2

  A week passed and nothing more was said about the move. Bertie hoped Mum and Dad had forgotten the idea. But on Friday afternoon he was walking home from school with his friends when he spotted something in the window of Floggit’s estate agents.

  “That’s MY house!” said Bertie.

  “Wow!” said Darren. “Looks like your mum and dad are really serious.”

  Bertie pressed his nose against the glass.

  “This is terrible!” he said. “We’ve got to stop them!”

  Darren shrugged. “What can we do?”

  “Maybe no one will buy it,” said Eugene, hopefully.

  They walked on in gloomy silence. Bertie couldn’t imagine living somewhere without his friends. If they moved he probably wouldn’t have any friends.

  “Couldn’t you put them off?” said Eugene.

  “Who?”

  “The people buying your house. Tell them it’s falling down or something.”

  Bertie shook his head. “They’ll see it’s not falling down.”

  “But Eugene’s right,” said Darren. “All you have to do is put them off!”

  “How?” said Bertie.

  “Easy! Tell them you’ve got vampires living next door.”

  “Tell them there’s a body buried in the garden!”

  “Tell them it’s got fleas!”

  “It’s a house, not a dog!” said Bertie.

  All the same, maybe Eugene had a point. He couldn’t stop his parents selling the house, but maybe he could stop anyone from buying it! It would just take a few unpleasant surprises.

  Back home, Bertie got out his Top Secret Notebook and began to draw up his battle plan.

  This was war.

  Monday arrived. The first people to view the house were due at four and Mum was getting frantic.

  “Bertie, have you tidied your room?”

  “Yes!”

  “And picked up your socks?”

  “Yes!”

  “And thrown away those rotten apple cores?”

  “Nearly!” shouted Bertie. Bertie had never seen his house looking so clean and tidy. Mum had swept and polished till it shone like a palace.

  DING DONG!

  Enemy attack. Bertie hurried downstairs. Operation Booby Trap was under way.

  “Now remember,” said Mum, “stay out of the way and don’t touch anything. What’s that you’ve got?”

  “Where?”

  “Behind your back.”

  Bertie brought out a box. “Nothing. Just rubbish I’m throwing out.”

  “Hurry up then,” said Mum, rushing to open the door.

  “Mr and Mrs Mossop? Do come in! Shall we start in the lounge…?”

  Battle stations! Bertie darted into the kitchen and closed the door. Setting the box down, he removed the lid and peeped inside.

  “Time to come out!” he whispered.

  Mum had finished showing the Mossops downstairs. Now for the bedrooms. She hoped Bertie had
tidied his room.

  “And this is my son’s bedroom…” she said, opening the door.

  Bertie looked up from the book he was pretending to read. He was slightly out of breath.

  “Bertie, this is Mr and Mrs Mossop,” said Mum.

  “Pleased to meet you,” smiled Bertie.

  “What a nice quiet boy,” said Mrs Mossop. “And doesn’t he keep his room tidy?”

  “Er … yes,” said Mum, giving Bertie a suspicious look. She closed the door.

  Bertie listened as they went downstairs. Any second now, he thought.

  “ARGHHHHHHH!” Mrs Mossop burst from the kitchen. “MICE!” she shrieked. “You’ve got MICE!”

  “I’m so sorry!” said Mum. “I can’t think how they got there! Please don’t go … maybe you’d like to see the garden?”

  “No thank you!” bristled Mrs Mossop. “We’ve seen quite enough!”

  The front door slammed. There was a heavy silence.

  “BERTIE!” yelled Mum. “I want a word with you – NOW!”

  Bertie crept downstairs. Mum was waiting for him with a face like thunder.

  “All right, where did you get them?”

  “Get what?” said Bertie.

  “The mice. One of them ran up Mrs Mossop’s leg!”

  “Mice?” said Bertie, sounding amazed.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Bertie. The truth. Where did you get them?”

  Bertie gulped. “Well … um … I might’ve been looking after a couple of mice for Eugene. But I left them in their box.”