Chapter Ten
Enter the Pumpkin
May your Ewoks be plenty.
Beatrice was used to treating her wheelchair like a racing car. But, as she tried to steer it under a mask of deconstructed egg boxes flapping against a wind that could hurl a yacht across Loch Fyne, Beatrice’s ability to race was as possible as a comatose turtle’s.
Ms Frasier marched on, turned back, stood beside her comrade, huffed, marched on, turned back, and stopped . . .
“By the time we get there, the pop-up library will have popped up, closed down, and popped up again,” she snapped.
“You wanted it large,” came Beatrice’s voice, muffled under the mask.
“There’s large and then there is large,” muttered Ms Frasier.
“And look, people are staring,” said Beatrice into her mask. “An audience.”
“No wonder—you look like you hav
