Alice Dent pages 14.

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2 Palmer Street, Frome,

Somerset BA11 1DS
Alice Dent pages 14.25/18_Chicken House 15/12/2017 09:46 Page iv

Text © Gwendolyn L. Lowe 2018

Illustrations © Sarah Horne 2018

First published in Great Britain in 2018

Chicken House
2 Palmer Street
Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS
United Kingdom
www.chickenhousebooks.com

Gwendolyn L. Lowe has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted or utilized
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying
or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Cover and interior design by Steve Wells

Cover and inside illustrations by Sarah Horne
Typeset by Dorchester Typesetting Group Ltd
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

The paper used in this Chicken House book is made 

from wood grown in sustainable forests.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.

PB ISBN 978-1-910002-91-9
eISBN 978-1-911490-15-9
Alice Dent pages 14.25/18_Chicken House 15/12/2017 09:46 Page v

To my fantastic foursome:
for Cait, my favourite animal magnet,
for Phil, the perfect partner for all weathers,
for Ian, who knows the secret of happiness,
and for Beatrix, who turned out so much
nicer than I expected when she grew up.
Alice Dent pages 14.25/18_Chicken House 15/12/2017 09:46 Page 1

CHAPTER ONE
Number Nine Nettle Close

M r and Mrs Dent were the sort of parents who

didn’t much like children.
‘They’re such grubby little creatures, always
picking their crusty little noses and spreading germs
and mess everywhere,’ declared Mrs Dent that
morning.
Dangling daringly out of the kitchen window,
she extended her best long-handled grabber and
expertly plucked their daily newspaper from the

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mailbox on the gate.

Mrs Dent never went outside; not if she could
help it.
‘It’s a shame there aren’t more fantastic parents
like us, always on top of dirt and diseases,’ she
continued smugly, shaking a bottle of disinfectant
into a foaming fizz. Soon the paper was drenched
and Mrs Dent thrust it into the hot oven to toast.
Her words and the warm fumes nearly made
Alice Dent choke.
Alice was sitting very quietly at the kitchen
breakfast table in Number Nine Nettle Close,
pretending that she was invisible. She was good at
doing this; sometimes her parents forgot about her
for hours at a time.
But that wasn’t going to last, not today.
And very soon Alice knew she was going to be in
the worst trouble on the planet.
All because she had a cold.
If I sneeze, I’m dead! she thought in panic, pinch-
ing her nose as she forced down her over-boiled egg.
Perhaps they won’t notice, she consoled herself. But
this seemed unlikely, especially because she had to
keep diving under the table to wipe her nose.
‘Manners!’ barked Mr Dent sharply, as Mrs Dent

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took the sterilized paper out of the oven and

handed it to her husband.
‘Sorry,’ muttered Alice, now stifling a cough.
There was no way she could have guessed that these
symptoms were the first sign of the strange and
incredible world-changing events to come. And not
knowing that was a great pity, because right now
Alice could seriously do with being cheered up.
Meanwhile, Mrs Dent bustled around the kit-
chen, boiling shoelaces and polishing the soles of
Mr Dent’s work boots. She certainly didn’t believe
in changing the world. She thought that was a very
dangerous idea.
‘Those boots look just so, poppet,’ said Mr Dent
approvingly, lifting his head out of the smoking
newspaper as Mrs Dent threaded the laces back in a
perfect pattern. They smiled at each other fondly.
Alice hid her face and tried not to be sick. Her
parents were perfectly matched. While Mrs Dent
was ferret-like, sharp-nosed and keen on clean, Mr
Dent was large and brawny and zealous about law
and order. He liked things just so. ‘Everything ship-
shape and Bristol fashion,’ he would say, sliding his
strong arms into his protective suit for another day
in pest control. Nothing made him happier than

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wiping out a big wasps’ nest or exterminating a few

cockroaches.
In truth, the worst thing that had ever happened
to Mr and Mrs Dent was having a child. Alice
wasn’t best pleased about this either, although she
tried not to mind too much.
Alice had interesting blue eyes with amber flecks
and had to take five showers and soapy baths every
day, more if Mrs Dent insisted. In fact, over her
eleven years, Alice had been through so many showers
and baths that she was surprised she hadn’t shrunk
to being smaller than average size. And she’d
washed her long curly hair so much with strong
soap that she was sure the colour was fading into
streaks of blonde and ginger-brown.
She sighed. It wasn’t fair that she had another
cold. She really did try to stay neat and clean, even if
she wasn’t very good at it. And how could she have
picked up any germs? She hadn’t seen anyone. Her
parents hadn’t even let her go to school for a week
because of the note sent home about pupils with
stomach upsets.
‘I say – that chap’s certainly hit the ground
running,’ Mr Dent said suddenly. His voice was full
of approval as he turned the slightly charred pages

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of the paper.
Oh no! Hastily, Alice squashed her nose to trap
another sneeze. And, as if things weren’t bad
enough already, her parents were now going to go
on about the new Best Minister for Everything
Nicely Perfect again. They’d talked about nothing
else all week.
‘He’s the best thing since sliced bread,’ continued
Mr Dent, as Mrs Dent lovingly buttered his toast.
‘His ideas are marvellous, just what this country
needs.’
‘He’s brilliant! And doesn’t he look smart?’
exclaimed Mrs Dent, stopping her spreading and
peering over Mr Dent’s shoulder. ‘I wonder if I can
get a signed photo of him?’
As Mrs Dent scooped the newspaper up to the
light, Alice caught sight of the new Best Minister’s
face. She had glimpsed smaller news photos of him
before, perfectly dressed in flawless suits. But this
was the first time she had seen his features close-up,
clear and sharp.
Alice studied the picture with growing unease. The
Best Minister’s eyes were like burning black pits dug
into his pale skin, but it was his expression that made
her feel like she’d swallowed an ice cube whole.

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Something, some trick of the light perhaps, had

turned it into a sinisterly perfect wax-like mask –
and for some reason this made a chilly hand of
dread squeeze her heart.
‘They say that he’s got big plans. He’s going to
cull cats, turn ice cream vans into mobile banks and
outlaw orange clothes,’ Mr Dent told them.
‘Quite right too, orange is such a loud colour,’
mused Mrs Dent. ‘Myself, I prefer pink; you can’t
go wrong with a nice soft pink.’
‘And apparently he’s determined to stamp out
children getting disgusting infections –so he’s plan-
ning to ban lots of things like birthday parties.’
‘An excellent idea!’ approved Mrs Dent.
Alice wondered how stopping parties could stop
germs. It sounded more like the new Best Minister
was stamping out fun.
‘He’s forbidden all giggling in schools too. Any
children who giggle will have to be reported at once
to their headteacher for immediate punishment.’
‘What a man!’ swooned Mrs Dent, her eyes
shining.
That proves it, thought Alice crossly. He’s definitely
trying to make us miserable.
‘And he’s getting the police to track down smelly

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and dirty children. Those in charge are doing a

fantastic job of taking them away from their hope-
less parents and teaching them how to wash.’
‘That’s great news!’ Mrs Dent nodded approvingly.
‘Yes, that should sort out those niffy nippers. See
how lucky you are to have such good parents,
child?’
Alice boiled with rage. But she couldn’t respond,
her nose was dripping badly now and she was going
to . . .
Oh no! Panicking, Alice dived hastily under the
table again, stifling the sneeze just in time.
I can’t bear much more of this, she muttered to
herself. She was sick of trying to hide coughs and
colds. She had thought things might get better
when she got older but instead everything just
seemed to be getting worse.
‘It’s about time something was done, the state of
some of the little germ-spreaders you see now-
adays!’ Mrs Dent smugly adjusted the baby-pink
headscarf that she always wore over her short
brown hair. Then her expression changed. She leant
towards Mr Dent.
‘These rules . . . clamping down on germs and no
giggling . . . especially no giggling . . . you don’t

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think he’s worried about the pie Russ coming back?’

she whispered, so low that Alice could hardly hear
her. She wasn’t even sure Mrs Dent had actually said
‘pie Russ’, but that’s what it sounded like.
Mr Dent went white.
‘No, surely not . . .’
Mrs Dent gripped the table, her knuckles turn-
ing as pale as the snowy tablecloth.
‘It would be the worst thing ever . . . can you
imagine?’ she whispered, her eyes wide and fearful.
‘What’s a pie Russ?’ Alice spoke without thinking.
She was breaking the house rule about children being
seen and not heard, but she really wanted to know.
Her father threw Mrs Dent a warning look.
‘We shouldn’t talk about things like that in front
of the child, poppet.’
He swivelled crossly to face Alice.
‘And you should stop sticking your pesky little
nose into things that don’t concern you.’
Alice ground her teeth in frustration. This was a
mistake – it made her cough.
Alarmed, Mr Dent peered at her more closely.
‘Is your nose running? Have you . . . have you got
a COLD?’ he demanded fearfully.
Alice could have kicked herself. But it was too

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late anyway; she couldn’t hold it back any longer.

She was going to—
‘AAAATISSSHOOOOO!’
‘ARRRGH! GERMS!’
Mr Dent ran to the sink and stuck his head
under the tap. Mrs Dent rushed out of the kitchen
and returned with a green mask strapped across her
mouth and her thin body wrapped in a pink overall.
She sprayed them both from the industrial spray
pack on her back.
‘Oh no!’ exclaimed Alice. She knew what was
coming.
‘Go to your room! NOW!’ shouted Mr Dent,
his voice quivering with fright.
‘Here we go again,’ Alice muttered. The same
thing happened every time she had a cold. And as
soon as Alice had gone into her bedroom, Mr Dent
locked the specially sealed door so that nothing
could escape.

The doctor came to visit that afternoon. She was

extremely annoyed to have to come out. She knew
the Dents well; Mrs Dent phoned her every day.
‘I suspect it’s only a virus,’ she said crossly, after
checking Alice carefully for rashes. ‘But I’ll have to

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send this swab for testing; that new Best Minister

insists on knowing what germs children have
nowadays. Yet more work for me – as if we doctors
haven’t got enough to do already,’ she added, poking
a thin stick down Alice’s throat. It tickled and
before she could stop herself, Alice giggled.
The doctor froze.
‘Have you been giggling a lot? Are you feeling
cheerful?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘No, not at all,’ said Alice, shaking her head.
‘Well don’t do it again – don’t you know how
dangerous it is to giggle right now?’ And after
another long hard stare at her, the doctor turned to
Alice’s parents.
‘If it’s anything more than a common cold, I’ll
eat my stethoscope.’
‘Thank goodness,’ said Mrs Dent from behind
the door. ‘I was afraid that she had the pie Ru—’
‘Not in front of the child!’ hissed Mr Dent.
‘No sign of that, so don’t worry. And she can
come downstairs – no need for her to stay up here
until the results are back; they take days.’

Despite what the doctor had said, Mr and Mrs

Dent were taking no chances. Dressed in frilly

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aprons, green masks and fur-trimmed gloves, they

only unlocked Alice’s door to deliver foul black
medicine on a long-handled spoon or to post chips
or toast through the narrow gap. All Alice could do
was lie on her bed, getting crosser every day.
‘I’ve got to get out!’ she muttered to her Venus
flytrap plants. There was a row of these on every
windowsill; Mr Dent insisted on it. ‘Better than
bug spray,’ he always declared.
Alice didn’t mind them; her room was quite bare
otherwise. She kept a few things hidden under a
loose floorboard, but Mrs Dent had ruined every-
thing else by putting it through the dishwasher ten
times or toasting it in the oven.
Alice was so bored that she ended up talking
to the flytraps and feeding them cold chips. After
several days, the plants were wilting and Alice was
desperate.
‘For goodness’ sake! You can’t lock me up just coz
I’ve got a cold, it’s illegal! I’m bored stiff ! Please,
please, PLEASE let me out!’ she pleaded with her
parents.
But it was no good.
‘No can do, sorry – dangerous things, colds,’ said
Mr Dent anxiously.

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