Mr Bambuckle's Remarkables Go Wild Read online

  About the Book

  Meet your new assistant principal – Miss Frost!

  Uh-oh, that's not good.

  At least we're away on camp.

  Mr Bambuckle lets us eat marshmallows before dinner!

  Is that a spark-maker beetle?

  Shh! What was that noise?

  The class in room 12B are having fun in the wilderness. Until Miss Frost crashes camp …

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  The Students of Room 12B

  Chapter 1: Birds and Buses

  Chapter 2: How to Put Up a Tent

  Chapter 3: Around the Fire

  Chapter 4: The Suck-up

  Chapter 5: Snap

  Chapter 6: Conversations with Canteen Carol

  Chapter 7: Kindness and Teamwork

  Chapter 8: The Subtle Art of Catching Z’s

  Chapter 9: The Challenge

  Chapter 10: Totes Morse Code

  Chapter 11: Hide and Sneak

  Chapter 12: The Snow Crocus

  Chapter 13: Fifteen Ridiculous Uses for a Stick

  Chapter 14: Teamwork Charades

  Chapter 15: The Hit-man Hairdresser

  Chapter 16: Packing Up

  Mr Bambuckle’s Remarkable’s: On the Lookout

  Copyright Notice

  Read More at Penguin Books Australia

  The yellow bus rolled away from Blue Valley School with an air of excitement. Its driver, the much-loved Mr Bambuckle, whistled a tune that matched the sparkle of his blue suit. While it was usual for the children to be taken away on a yearly camp, it was completely unusual that they knew nothing of this year’s destination. In this case, Mr Bambuckle had been arranging the surprise for quite some time.

  ‘Do kindly close your eyes,’ said the charismatic teacher, ‘for we will soon approach a section of the journey you mustn’t see.’

  The fifteen children obeyed without the slightest delay. They had come to learn their teacher operated in remarkable ways, and this was something they were beginning to relish.

  ‘You may now open your eyes, dear students,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Sammy Bamford, straightening his baseball cap.

  ‘Approximately nine seconds,’ said Albert Smithers, a blond-haired boy who wore glasses and liked to read a lot.

  The bus passed beneath a stone bridge the children had never seen before. To the left wound a river, shimmering like diamonds in the afternoon sunlight. Thick forest lined the opposite bank.

  ‘Where are we?’ said Albert. ‘I’ve studied every map of the Blue Valley region and there are no stone bridges.’

  Mr Bambuckle grinned. ‘It’s amazing what you miss when you close your eyes for nine seconds. Dodger chose this location especially, you know.’

  Only days before, the secluded camp site the bus now chugged towards had been discovered by a lively blue jay – Mr Bambuckle’s beloved pet, Dodger. The destination had been carefully selected to accommodate top-secret schemes the teacher had been hatching.

  ‘I can’t believe you let a bird choose the camp site,’ said Miffy Armstrong.

  ‘There’s a good reason for it,’ explained the teacher. ‘Dodger has the ability to locate GPS black spots.’

  ‘GPS dreadlocks?’ said Harold McHagil. ‘I’d like to see that.’

  ‘He said black spots, you funny bunny,’ said Scarlett Geeves, with a chuckle.

  ‘I’m confused,’ said Miffy. ‘What do GPS black spots have to do with anything?’

  ‘My dear Miffy,’ said Mr Bambuckle, ‘I would love to tell you more, but that would be taking away the fun of the chase. You’ll work it out when the time comes.’

  ‘The chase?’ Miffy shrugged her shoulders, though she could tell by her teacher’s tone that he was plotting something quite extraordinary. It sent a tingle down her spine, and as far as tingles go, this one was particularly delicious.

  The bus slowed down and turned left, bumping over another stone bridge that crossed the river. The road straightened out and stretched deep into the forest. Albert adjusted his glasses and squinted outside, determined to find a landmark that sparked a map-reading memory.

  The black bitumen soon turned to dirt, and the road curved around to the left, taking it back towards the river. The trees – tall and impressive – cast shadows that blinked over the windscreen.

  ‘I need someone to take the wheel for a moment,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Slugger, would you be so kind?’

  Slugger Choppers, a bulky boy with arms as thick as the trees outside, lumbered to the front of the bus. ‘Me?’

  ‘That’s right, Slugger. I believe you have experience.’

  Slugger’s mind flashed back to a few weeks earlier when he had taken advantage of a government typo that allowed anyone older than eight the same rights as eighteen-year-olds. He had spent an entire day behind the wheel of a 42-seater. ‘Yeah, I can drive for you.’

  Mr Bambuckle slid out from his seat and stood near the door while Slugger took control.

  ‘What’s happening?’ said Evie Nightingale, a small girl who was easily frightened.

  ‘I have an urgent matter to attend to,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Slugger, would you please?’ He tapped the door.

  ‘Open it?’ said Slugger.

  ‘That’s right.’

  Slugger shrugged and pressed a button on the dash. Wipers suddenly swished across the windscreen. ‘Oops.’

  He tried another control.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, baby, you make my heart go wiiiiiiiiiild.

  ‘That’s the radio, Slugger,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  Slugger’s meaty fists fumbled over the dash as he punched yet another button. The toilet at the back of the bus flushed loudly. ‘I’ll get it in a minute,’ he apologised.

  ‘Try the orange switch,’ said the teacher patiently.

  The door swung open and Mr Bambuckle stepped out of the moving vehicle.

  The students gasped.

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘I can’t see him!’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Did we run over him?’

  Before they had time to fully register what had happened, Mr Bambuckle stepped back onto the bus – seemingly out of thin air. ‘All is well, dear children. It appears Dodger had flown into some difficulty.’

  The blue jay fluttered its wings, perched on the teacher’s shoulder. He chirped sweetly.

  ‘Dodger!’ cried Sammy. ‘Is he all right, Mr Bambuckle?’

  The teacher nodded. ‘Yes, though the speckled-dagger vulture can be rather nasty this late in the afternoon. I managed to get there just in time.’

  Albert shot his hand up. ‘I’ve read over twenty-seven books about birds and there’s no such thing as a speckled-dagger vulture.’

  Vinnie White, a tall girl with curly brown hair, laughed. ‘Over twenty-seven books! What does that even mean?’

  ‘Twenty-eight,’ said Albert. ‘And there is no such bird.’

  ‘That’s because it hasn’t been discovered yet,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  While Albert would usually argue a point, he was beginning to trust his teacher’s knowledge. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You learn something new every day.’

  Dodger fluttered off Mr Bambuckle’s shoulder and looped around the inside of the bus. The students clapped as the blue jay performed some difficult spins and dives.

  ‘He really is a beautiful bird,’ said Slugger, who usually reserved words like ‘beautiful’ for cooking.

  ‘He most certainly is,’ agreed Mr Bambuckle. ‘And, Slugger, keep an eye on the road as you’re no longer on
it.’

  ‘Argh!’

  The bus slammed to a halt, inches from a giant, twisted gum tree.

  ‘We’re very close to those branches …’ said Carrot.

  ‘We’re here!’ announced Mr Bambuckle. ‘Kindly unpack your belongings and set up your tents before dark.’

  The students stepped off the bus and into a clearing. The twisted gum, which stood impressively in the centre of the small camp site, was surrounded by soft grass that carpeted the ground. To one side of the tree, about a dozen fallen logs formed a circle around what was clearly a fire pit. On the other side, a pebbly path led from the edge of the scrub to the river. The rest of the clearing was surrounded by deep green forest. It was picturesque.

  Once everyone was unpacked, Slugger reversed the bus back to the dirt road and parked it there.

  ‘You’re not just a talented cook,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Nice manoeuvre.’

  Slugger beamed, his cheeks flushing the colour of sautéed radishes.

  Damon Dunst approached the teacher, a sheepish look on his face. ‘Umm … bit of a problem …’

  ‘I am always here to help,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Just tell me what it is.’

  Damon scratched the side of his head. ‘I kinda forgot to pack a tent.’

  The late afternoon sun was the colour of golden syrup. Albert scrunched up several pieces of newspaper and placed them around the base of a woodpile. ‘It’s ready for lighting, Mr Bambuckle.’

  The teacher stepped forward, reaching deep into one of his pockets. ‘Kindly stand back, dear children. This can be rather dangerous.’ He bent down next to the pile of wood and cupped his hands, taking great care not to show the students what he held.

  ‘It must be the Indian spark-maker beetle,’ whispered Victoria.

  ‘The Indian spark-maker beetle!’ echoed Sammy, his voice trembling with excitement.

  Ever since the students in room 12B met Mr Bambuckle, they had been pressing him about the mysterious insect. Whenever the subject was raised, however, the teacher dismissed it as being ‘too dangerous’ or ‘incredibly deadly’.

  Mr Bambuckle reached into an opening in the pile of wood. As he did, yellow sparks flew in several directions, setting the kindling alight. Flames soon licked the base of the woodpile, growing stronger by the second.

  ‘Well,’ said the teacher, his hands still cupped, ‘that’s one way to light a fire.’

  The students inched closer to Mr Bambuckle. It was a moment they had been dreaming of.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ said Albert.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ said Myra.

  ‘Pure dead brilliant,’ whispered Harold.

  ‘Can we see the beetle?’ pleaded Victoria.

  ‘What beetle?’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  ‘The Indian spark-maker beetle – the one you used to light the fire.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the teacher, opening his hands for the children to see. ‘I used a match.’

  The students groaned, disappointed at the sight of the blackened stick.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Please don’t ask to see my Indian spark-maker beetle, for it is extremely unsafe.’

  ‘Like the speckled-dagger vulture?’ asked Albert.

  ‘Far, far more dangerous, dear Albert.’

  The students sat down on the logs around the fire, admiring the flames against the darkening sky. Their faces glowed in the warmth.

  Mr Bambuckle glanced at a small grey tent away from the fire. Inside slept Vex Vron, a boy badly fatigued by too many late nights.

  Vex had made a deal with his father, agreeing to work in one of the family’s car yards after school. In exchange, his father had offered vehicle upgrades to members of Blue Valley’s school board. The deal had guaranteed the return of Mr Bambuckle to room 12B after he had been fired by Mr Sternblast. While Vex was initially happy to make the sacrifice, the late nights had caught up with him. Hints of his rebellious nature had begun to resurface.

  Vex’s tent was pitched just far enough away from the others to ensure he couldn’t be disturbed. The children were told this was simply to allow the troubled boy to sleep. Mr Bambuckle, however, had a greater plan in mind for Vex. Sleep was only the beginning.

  ‘Do you think Mr Sternblast would allow a camp fire?’ asked Sammy.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Albert. ‘He’s always angry these days.’

  Mr Sternblast had indeed been in fine form of late. Having recently missed out on a higher-paying job in the city, the principal had introduced a new discipline policy to help boost grades at Blue Valley. With the new policy came a new assistant principal – the ever-icy Miss Frost. Along with Mr Sternblast, she was making life miserable for everyone.

  Even Mr Bambuckle was struggling against the tyranny of administration and procedures. He was working extra hard to ensure room 12B appeared to fall into line with the principal’s demands and had enlisted the help of Dodger. The blue jay would fly into the room and chirrup a tune to warn the teacher if trouble was coming.

  If Miss Frost was on her way, Mr Bambuckle would clap his hands. ‘Barnacle.’ This was the code word for his students. The children would rush madly around the room, shoving their experiments, models, novels and projects into cupboards, before racing back to their desks.

  Dodger would give a final chirp and disappear into one of the inside pockets of Mr Bambuckle’s jacket.

  Then, like clockwork, Miss Frost would step into the room and look around, her lips twitching as she searched for fault. ‘You there, Alfred – sit up straighter.’ Her whisper made the hairs on necks stand tall.

  ‘It’s Albert.’

  ‘It’s detention. May I remind you not to talk back to me.’

  Mr Bambuckle would stand at the front of the room and speak drably about meaningless facts and figures and the importance of boosting grades. The students would nod and pretend to listen. Then, as soon as Miss Frost exited the room, they would breathe easy and return to their original projects.

  Now, sitting around the fire, miles from the classroom, the children were beginning to unwind.

  ‘Who would like a marshmallow?’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  ‘Me, please!’ chorused the class.

  ‘First, you’ll need to find something to cook them with.’

  The students eagerly melted into the bush, searching for the perfect roasting stick.

  Carrot Grigson was the first to return, and he was panting.

  ‘Are you okay?’ asked Ren, who was the next back to the fire.

  ‘That was weird.’

  ‘What was?’

  Carrot gulped. ‘When I was looking for a stick, I heard this massive whoosh go past my head.’

  ‘How strange,’ said Ren, whipping out a notebook. ‘Can you give me more details?’

  ‘It was a deep whoosh,’ said Carrot. ‘It sounded pretty big. But it was too dark to see properly, so I ran back as fast as I could.’

  Ren scratched her head. ‘Beats me.’

  The rest of the class were now returning and each student took a seat around the fire.

  ‘Is this dinner?’ asked Scarlett. ‘Are we only having marshmallows?’

  ‘Goodness, no,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Our guest hasn’t arrived yet.’

  Before the children had time to ask who the guest was, Mr Bambuckle dipped his hand into one of his pockets, pulling out a plump packet of marshmallows. ‘Would someone kindly share these out?’

  Vinnie White was up in a flash. ‘I’ll do it!’ She opened the packet and began to move around the circle. One by one, her classmates attached a gooey sweet to the end of their stick.

  ‘Hey, Vinnie,’ teased Ren. ‘You’ll do anything for marshmallows.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said Vinnie. ‘I bet you’re going to tell the whole world about Aunt Agatha’s marshmallow pie.’

  Ren giggled. ‘You should have the honour of telling that story.’

  ‘Stories are best told around camp fires,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

&
nbsp; ‘What do you mean?’ said Vinnie, sitting down next to Ren.

  ‘What I mean, dear Vinnie, is we would be delighted to be your audience.’

  Vinnie’s face broke into a grin. The entire class leaned forward – their marshmallows roasting slowly over the embers – as she began to tell her story.

  I’ve always been a bit of a suck-up. I have this knack for being able to make adults give me what I want. Whether it be school teachers, sport coaches, shop assistants or doctors, I was blessed with the gift of persuasion.

  I’ve even had luck with Canteen Carol – no easy feat in anyone’s books. Unless you’re Mr Bambuckle.

  ‘Good morning, Carol,’ I said. ‘What a beautiful day it is.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Carol’s voice was flat and hostile.

  I curtseyed and dipped my head. ‘You look stunning today. Have you done something with your hair?’

  ‘I haven’t touched my hair since 2013. What do you want?’

  I looked through the menu and chose something healthy. ‘I’d like a bunch of grapes.’

  ‘Say “please”.’

  ‘Please, please, pleasey, o-please, o-please, o-please, pretty please, please, pleasey, pleasey, please, may I have some grapes, you beautiful woman, you.’

  Carol wiped her greasy fingers on her apron and plucked a bunch from the fruit bowl. ‘That’s fifty cents,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I said, putting my money on the counter. I had exact change. ‘You’re a national treasure.’

  Carol stared ahead without blinking. ‘You’re a national pest. Next.’

  ‘There’s just one more teeny-weeny thing,’ I said. ‘Could I please, please, pretty please have an extra grape? I’ll be your best friend.’

  Carol dropped her gaze without flinching. ‘An extra grape?’

  ‘Only if your big beautiful heart so wishes,’ I said.