Maintain the Mischief Read online

  Hi! We’re the Selwood Boys!

  We can’t wait for you to read the latest book in our series, written by bestselling kids’ author Tony Wilson.

  These books are all about our childhood, growing up in Bendigo, Victoria. With four footy-mad boys in one house, you can probably imagine the things we used to get up to!

  In these stories, Tony has taken inspiration from all the funny things that happened to us as kids, and then he’s added even more!

  We’ve loved making these books with Tony and we hope you love reading them.

  Troy, Adam, Joel and Scott

  THE SELWOOD BOYS

  COLLECT THEM ALL!

  OUT NOW!

  Book 1 – Battle Royale

  Book 2 – The Miracle Goal

  Book 3 – Hit the Road

  Book 4 – Maintain the Mischief

  DEDICATION

  For Mum and Dad

  — Troy, Adam, Joel and Scott

  To thirteen cousins under thirteen:

  Paddy, Polly, Ned, Barney, Georgie, Susie,

  Greta, Harry, Jack, Max, Abby, Joe and Alice

  — Tony Wilson

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  About the Selwoods

  About the Author

  Copyright

  APRIL 1998

  ‘Okay, your turn, Joel. Truth or dare?’ The Selwoods’ older cousin Justin stared at Joel.

  ‘Truth,’ Joel said.

  The Selwood boys and their cousins groaned. ‘Oh come on, Joel, you always choose truth!’

  Joel shrugged. He did always choose truth, but only because the older boys’ dares had become so terrifying. Last time they’d visited their cousins’ farm in Raywood, Joel had picked dare, and going down a shearing chute grappling a sheep had given him splinters in his bum.

  ‘Okay, if it means for sure Geelong wins the premiership this year, would you …’ Justin gazed around the woolshed, searching for something disgusting. He fixed on a wooden pen containing two merino sheep still waiting to be sheared.

  ‘Would you … kiss a sheep on the mouth?’

  Adam and Troy whooped with laughter and slapped Justin on the back. Justin was sixteen and already tall like a grown-up. He was quiet but funny, and able to make or fix anything around the farm. The four brothers looked up to him in every way.

  Joel shrugged, wanting to play it cool. ‘Yeah, of course I would.’

  ‘Yuck,’ said Scott.

  ‘Gross!’ squealed their cousin Monique, who was nearly fourteen, just like the twins. Cousin Sophie giggled too. She was nine, the same age as Joel, and played footy as well as any of the boys in her grade. She screwed up her nose. ‘Ewwww!’

  Joel kept playing it straight. ‘Yeah, I reckon I’d rather kiss a ewe, Soph, but if it meant a Cats flag, I’d even risk the horns and pucker up for a ram.’

  Justin laughed hard at this, which made Joel happy. The twins and Scott joined in, too.

  ‘Okay, go kiss a sheep, then,’ Troy said. ‘I dare you. There are two pretty ones over there.’

  ‘My turn’s over,’ said Joel. ‘I chose truth.’

  ‘Well, the Cats might not win the premiership, then!’ Adam said. ‘And it’ll be your fault.’

  ‘What, for not kissing a sheep?’ Joel replied.

  Adam tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, It’ll be on your head.

  Joel really would do almost anything for a Cats flag. It was his number-two daydream — Cats captain Barry Stoneham stepping up to receive the premiership cup. Joel closed his eyes and imagined it for about the millionth time. His number-one daydream was that one day he’d be a part of a Cats premiership.

  Joel actually would kiss a sheep if it meant that would come true.

  It was Monique’s turn next and she chose dare.

  ‘Dare you to cut off a bit of your hair with the shears,’ said Adam.

  Monique didn’t even blink. She was born and bred on a working farm and had loads of courage. She had shoulder-length dark hair, and ten seconds after the dare, she had one lock less.

  Everyone cheered.

  Scott chose dare, too. ‘Cover yourself completely with that big fleece over there,’ said Justin.

  A freshly shorn, untreated, brown-white fleece was draped over the wool table. Flies buzzed around it.

  Joel could see Scott was nervous as he got close to it, but knew his little brother would eventually do it. Scott was like that — always proving himself against the big kids, never wanting to be left behind. He shooed the flies and used all his eight-year-old might to lift the fleece. Then he slipped under it until he was totally covered by a very smelly, very hot sheep doona. The flies resettled on it.

  ‘Yaaay!’ they all roared. ‘Go, Scooter!’

  The twins chose truth, and both got the same question. Who was their crush?

  ‘Haven’t got one,’ said Troy.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Adam.

  Joel didn’t think either of them was being very truthful. Last week, Adam had blushed bright red when Joel had caught him buying a can of soft drink for Laura Arthur at the Harley Street milk bar. And Troy was having really long ‘homework conversations’ on the phone with some mystery study mate. On Wednesday, Joel had picked up the other phone in his parents’ room and listened for a few minutes. The highlight had been when the female voice had asked Troy for his favourite Backstreet Boys song. ‘I’m not sure I could choose just one,’ Troy had gushed. ‘I like them all equally.’ Joel had nearly guffawed down the line.

  He didn’t say anything now, though. If he admitted to eavesdropping, Troy might toss him in the feed trough.

  ‘Truth or dare, Joely?’ Joel hadn’t been concentrating. Was it his go again already?

  ‘Dare,’ Joel said and regretted it immediately. His mind had been elsewhere. He always chose truth.

  ‘Well, hoo-ray!’ said Adam, rubbing his hands together. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Joel Selwood is finally stepping up to the plate for a dare. Let’s make it a good one.’

  Justin was a dare genius. His dares were always funny and challenging, and sometimes stomach-turning. He had one within seconds. ‘What about this? Joel, you’ve got to shear your name onto a sheep.’

  Joel did a double-take. ‘What? How?’

  Justin laughed. ‘It’s easy. We’ll hold the sheep for you. You just grab the electric shears and write your name.’

  ‘No,’ Joel stammered. ‘I can’t. Mum would kill me. They’re not my sheep.’

  ‘They’re ours,’ said Sophie. ‘We don’t mind, I promise. It doesn’t hurt the sheep. They like it.’

  ‘I’ll get caught,’ Joel said. ‘My name will be on a sheep!’

  ‘Stop worrying,’ Adam said. ‘The shearers will be back first thing tomorrow. They’ll fix it up. Nobody will know. And write “SEL” if you like. We’ll take the blame, too.’

  Joel was still shaking his head when his cousins and brothers jumped into the pen to corner a ewe. Justin chose the one that was a little slower to move. He raised his arms slowly, and then nabbed it firmly under the jaw. He waved for the twins to hold the hind legs. Monique fired up the clippers with a wicked grin. ‘Write your name, Joel Selwood. That’s the dare.’

  ‘I dunno,’ Joel said. ‘I’m not a great shearer …’

  Justin got things started with the S. He swirled it through the wool like a barber wie
lding clippers. Sophie was right. The sheep didn’t seem to mind. The twins began singing: ‘Click go the shears, boys, click, click, click.’

  Nervously, Joel took over for the E and the L. It was fun! The wool was brown-white on the outside but a pure spotless white down close to the skin. The letters stood out really well. When he was finished, he received a round of applause.

  ‘Hooray for Joel,’ said Troy. ‘Hooray for SEL sheep!’

  ‘Nobody’s dared you yet,’ Joel said to Justin. ‘I dare you to do the same. Write your name on a sheep.’

  Justin shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world. He cornered the other sheep, casually straddled it, and started writing his name: C-R-A-P-P.

  Justin wasn’t being rude. Crapp really was his name. Or at least the start of it. He was Justin Crapper, just as Monique was Monique Crapper, Sophie was Sophie Crapper, and the absent eighteen-year-old Leigh was Leigh Crapper. They were the Crapper cousins. Mum had been a Crapper before she got married and became a Selwood. Mum and Uncle Mick often boasted that they were descendants of the great Thomas Crapper, who made bathroom fittings and was the inventor of the flush toilet. They were proud Crappers, one and all. And now Justin was writing the Crapper name on the side of a sheep.

  He ran out of room after the second P.

  Adam started laughing. ‘It looks like we’ve got a SEL sheep and a CRAPP sheep,’ he said.

  ‘My writing is neater,’ Joel said, tilting his head to the side to admire his own work.

  ‘Kids!’ sang a voice at the door of the shed. It was Mum. ‘We’ve got cordial and lamingtons!’

  At the sound of Mum’s voice, everyone started climbing out of the pen. Justin scrambled to turn off the buzzing shears and jumped over the gate. Joel feared that their startled escape made them look guilty. Mum wandered over with Uncle Mick.

  ‘What’s this?’ Uncle Mick asked, peering over at the sheep. He was wearing his battered old straw hat, and his faithful dog Bull was at his feet. Uncle Mick’s fingers pinched his sun-cracked lips when he saw their efforts. Joel couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused.

  With Mum it was more obvious. ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake! Which one of you boys did this?’

  ‘How do you know it wasn’t Monique?’ Troy was outraged. ‘How do you know it wasn’t Sophie?’

  ‘Was it Monique or Sophie?’ Mum asked.

  All seven kids shook their heads.

  Justin tried to plead their case. ‘It was a dare,’ he said. ‘I mean, Dad, it’s funny, isn’t it? We wrote our names on sheep. It’s not like they won’t get fixed up when the shearers come back tomorrow.’

  Uncle Mick finally took his hand away from his mouth. ‘The thing is, Justin,’ he said slowly, ‘the shearers have knocked off for the week. They weren’t going to do these two.’

  Joel felt his insides tighten.

  ‘They weren’t?’ Justin suddenly sounded nervous.

  ‘No, they were not,’ Uncle Mick replied. ‘Kids, meet Esmeralda and Queen Jane. Our prize ewes. We were going to enter them in the Easter Show. Although we probably won’t now. The judges are unlikely to go for one with CRAPP written on the side.’

  Esmeralda bleated. She sounded as miserable as Joel now felt. Queen Jane stared at them dumbly. Bull wagged his tail. At least the dog was finding something enjoyable in all this.

  ‘Sorry, Uncle Mick,’ Joel said, staring at the slatted floor.

  His brothers and cousins fell into line.

  ‘Sorry, Uncle Mick.’

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’

  Uncle Mick had his hands on his hips, in his usual laid-back way. ‘There’s afternoon tea up at the house,’ he told them. ‘Come on, you lot.’

  Joel wondered if he saw the flicker of a smile on his uncle’s face.

  ‘Joel, Scooter! You want to come help me with the eggs?’

  Aunty Marg knew how much Joel and Scott loved collecting freshly laid eggs, so on Raywood visits, she would wake them up in the frosty daybreak for a walk down to the henhouse.

  They pulled on their gumboots and dressing gowns over their pyjamas and met Aunty Marg at the door. Joel loved the way the dew-covered paddocks sparkled to life with the sunrise. He was staring so much at the swaying gums and the golden sky that he didn’t see Scott eyeing off a puddle.

  ‘Gotcha!’ Scott yelled as a slick of cold water drenched Joel’s right pyjama leg.

  Joel tried to return fire, but Scott was already running. Joel only succeeded in splashing icy water over his left leg, too.

  Joel didn’t have time to worry about puddle justice. Scott was now running for the henhouse.

  ‘I’m gonna get the most eggs!’ Scott called.

  It was a competition. With the Selwoods, everything was a competition. The Crappers had fifteen hens, and on a good morning, the boys might collect a dozen eggs. A perfect, warm, unbroken egg was a goal, worth six points. A dirty, cracked or poop-smeared egg was a behind, worth just one.

  Each of the hens had a footballer’s name. A black-and-white one with a red beak was called Justin Peckett, after the St Kilda defender. A fluffy brown-and-yellow one was called Daniel Chick-en, after Hawks onballer Daniel Chick. But the one the boys feared was a massive white leghorn called Hen Archer, after North Melbourne defensive enforcer Glenn Archer.

  Hen Archer was the best layer in the coop. The trouble was, she was also a serious nightmare, who pecked the living daylights out of anyone who dared to approach her nest.

  It was a tactical battle. Joel and Scott tried to build up their goal tally by dashing to the less heavily guarded nests first. That’s what Scott was doing as Joel hurtled into the coop.

  ‘Two goals one!’ Scott yelled.

  ‘Scoo-ter, we haven’t started yet!’

  ‘Three goals one!’ Scott called. He got so excited celebrating his latest find that he crushed it with his right hand.

  ‘Two goals two!’ Joel corrected. ‘Urrrgh! Yolky hand! Get away!’

  A giggling Scott chased Joel around the henhouse, trying to wipe the yolk on his brother’s dressing gown. Joel dodged him once, then twice, then caught Scott’s wrist and forced him to wipe his hand in his own hair.

  As Scott howled, Joel got to work on the nests. Justin Peckett gave up a perfect egg. Daniel Chick-en another goal. Two unguarded nests bore a cracked egg each. He’d drawn level!

  ‘I got another goal!’ Scott shouted as he dethroned the big red-and-white monster they simply called Plugger.

  Joel eyed the nests. There were only three left. Joel scooped a dirty egg from one nest, the next was empty. That left one more containing …

  Hen Archer.

  The toughest hen ever.

  The oversized chook jerked her head from side to side and clucked madly as the boys began their approach. Scott hip-and-shouldered Joel and dived for glory. Hen Archer pecked wildly. With a yelp, Scott retreated.

  Joel was still in the game. He snaked his left hand up from below, but there was no fooling Hen Archer. Peck! Peck! Peck! Joel jerked his hand back, howling in pain.

  Then he had an idea. It was a trick he’d seen Uncle Mick do once. It involved using the shovel that the Crappers left leaning against the wall for cleaning up what Uncle Mick called ‘coop poop’.

  Joel ran to collect it.

  Scott reached in once more, desperate for the win. Again, Hen Archer defended brilliantly. Peck! Peck! Peck!

  ‘Yowwwww!’

  Joel tiptoed forward with the shovel. He eyed Hen Archer. Hen Archer eyed him. Joel edged closer still, and placed the shiny metal blade of the shovel right in the angry chicken’s face.

  Hen Archer pecked like crazy, her beak tink-tinking against the metal. She was attacking her own reflection!

  Joel leaned gently on the shovel, carefully avoiding any eggs, and eased Hen Archer backwards. Then he reached in and dragged out … one gleaming, glorious egg.

  ‘Unbelievable!’ Joel said. ‘What a come-from-behind victory by Joel Selwood over his false-starting, cheating brot
her Scooter! Have you ever seen anything like it!’

  Joel got right up in Scott’s face. He continued the taunting commentary. ‘This is the most egg-cellent victory ever. How will Scooter even face his supporters after this? To think he’s lost the unlosable. And he’s lost by a single point. Just one egg in it.’

  Scott didn’t say a word. He just reached into his basket, picked up an egg, and slapped it over the top of Joel’s head.

  ‘Two eggs,’ Scott said, as he started to run. ‘He’s lost by two eggs.’

  The yolk was dribbling over Joel’s brow. He screamed with fury.

  ‘Mum!’ Scott shrieked as he sprinted for the house. ‘Mum! Muuuuum!’

  ‘You are all being so naughty,’ Mum said, after both boys had returned from a yolk-removing morning shower. ‘I’m absolutely fed up with it.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Scott, as he tucked into a cheese, ham and mushroom omelette, made with the eggs they’d collected earlier that morning.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ Joel parroted. It was always a good idea to apologise, Joel felt.

  Adam shook his head, as if he were the disappointed parent. ‘It’s really not good enough, boys.’

  Troy joined in, barely holding back a grin. ‘Totally agree. It’s about basic respect.’

  Mum was having none of that. ‘You zip your smart mouths, Adam and Troy! It’s one week since Dad and I had to suspend your allowances for throwing eggs at Katie Hanns and Rosie Caldwell. You are in no position to give egg lectures!’ Mum glared daggers at the twins, her hands on her hips. ‘This is the last warning for all four of you. Start behaving yourselves or there are going to be consequences!’

  ‘And that goes for you Crapper kids, too,’ said Aunty Marg, as she flipped sausages and bacon. Joel breathed in the smell. They might have been in trouble, but this was turning into the most delicious breakfast ever.

  ‘What did we do?’ asked Justin, palms outstretched, innocent as a lamb. ‘We were tucked up in our beds!’

  ‘It’s sixteen hours since you wrote your name on a sheep!’ Aunty Marg said crossly. ‘You’re all going to start behaving yourselves. Or else!’