Mr Bambuckle's Remarkables Read online

  Mr Bambuckle thought about this for a second. ‘I do think, Victoria, it is a most splendid idea. For homework, I want you all to come up with a quite ridiculous use for a bicycle. You can be as creative as you like.’

  ‘Is that it?’ said Carrot.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Coooool.’

  The bell rang loudly and the fifteen students stood to leave.

  Vex, who had decided to take his rebellious attitude to the next level, edged his way to the front of the room and stood within earshot of Mr Bambuckle. ‘Enjoy your chat with Mr Sternblast,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it will be your last.’

  While he was tempting fate, Vex sensed Mr Bambuckle had a few more tricks up his sleeve. He was looking forward to seeing how his new teacher would handle the situation.

  ‘I’m most certain I will enjoy the chat,’ said Mr Bambuckle. He clicked his fingers and his unicycle rode out of the corner of the room and into his waiting hand all by itself.

  With his first day at Blue Valley School under his belt, Mr Bambuckle tucked his frying pan back into one of his jacket pockets and balanced on his unicycle. ‘I’ll be seeing you all tomorrow morning, I expect,’ he said.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ replied a chorus of uncertain voices.

  Although the students of room 12B had taken very quickly to their new teacher, the threats of Mr Sternblast rang in their ears more loudly than the bell. If they knew their principal – which they did very well – they knew it was quite likely this would be the last time they saw Mr Bambuckle.

  The students cheered when Mr Bambuckle rode his unicycle into the classroom the next morning. They stopped cheering when Mr Sternblast promptly followed him through the door.

  ‘Let me explain,’ said Mr Sternblast to the students, almost apologetically. ‘We tried our best to find a more … suitable teacher for you, but nobody was available. We’ll have to try again tomorrow.’

  Mr Bambuckle dismounted his unicycle and clicked his fingers. The unicycle wheeled around Victoria Goldenhorn’s desk at the front of the room and then rode itself into the corner.

  Victoria clapped enthusiastically. ‘No stupid welcome song for us this morning?’ asked Vex.

  ‘I have a dream,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  ‘Huh?’ said Vex.

  ‘I have a dream,’ repeated the teacher.

  ‘To teach normally, I hope,’ muttered Mr Sternblast, who had decided to stay and observe for a while.

  Mr Bambuckle ignored him and straightened his blue suit. It sparkled brightly under the classroom lights. ‘I have a dream that the children of today should find their true passions and follow them. Too often we teach children to think a certain way, when all along their minds are wired for something completely different.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Victoria. ‘And welcome back, by the way – we’re glad to see you again,’ she added with a smile.

  ‘Thank you, Victoria,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘What I mean is that each of you has passions and talents hidden away; sparks that are waiting to be ignited. Unlocking these sparks and passions, and chasing them, should be our highest priority.’

  ‘Are you talking about the sparks from your beetle?’ asked Carrot Grigson.

  ‘No, dear Carrot. And this is a good opportunity for me to remind you not to ask to see it. Indian spark-maker beetles are very dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ huffed Mr Sternblast. ‘The man is out of his mind!’

  ‘Mr Bambuckle, what was your passion when you were a child?’ said Ren Rivera, a girl who enjoyed investigating.

  ‘I had many, dear Ren. Though at your age I wanted badly to be a circus performer.’

  ‘My mum says you used to be in a circus,’ said Albert Smithers, adjusting his glasses. ‘I told her all about you yesterday.’

  ‘Is that true?’ said Ren, not one for letting information slide by. ‘Did you work in a circus?’

  Mr Bambuckle’s green eyes flashed as though a memory had woken them up. ‘I most certainly dreamed of my teachers taking me on an excursion to the circus.’

  ‘We never get to go on excursions,’ said Damon Dunst. ‘I’ve always wanted to visit Paris – the city of love.’

  ‘That’s a holiday destination,’ said Vex, rolling his eyes.

  ‘And a fine place for an excursion,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  ‘I’d like to go on an excursion to the police station,’ said Ren. ‘I want to be a detective when I grow up.’

  ‘I guess the police station would be pretty cool,’ agreed Vex. ‘They might even let you race their cars.’

  ‘Indeed, the police station would be a most excellent place to have an excursion. It’s actually something I was thinking about just yesterday,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  Mr Sternblast scribbled something into a little notebook he was carrying and stomped out of the room. His heavy footsteps – a common occurrence when he missed out on getting another job – shook the floor.

  ‘Was it something I said?’ asked Ren.

  ‘Most certainly not,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘But I have another idea. I do believe, dear Ren, that you should start keeping a diary. The best detectives in the world have done so for years. And to be the best, you have to act like the best.’

  Ren thought about this for a while. As much as she wanted to be a detective, she wasn’t much of a writer and disliked the idea of having to keep a diary. Writing, to her, seemed about as pointless as Mr Sternblast combing his balding head.

  Mr Bambuckle had a way of reading his students that would make even the most sensitive of teachers jealous. ‘My dear Ren, if your passion is strong enough, you’ll do things you didn’t realise you had in you.’

  Ren smiled. It was the encouragement she needed to get started.

  ‘Give it a week,’ said the teacher.

  ‘A week it is,’ said Ren.

  A week later, the students in room 12B were still discovering how extraordinary their new teacher was. Mr Bambuckle had been enthralling them with his tricks, tales and utterly surprising teaching methods.

  Although Mr Sternblast was frustrated a replacement couldn’t be found, he had been taking the opportunity to pick Mr Bambuckle’s brains. In this case, however, picking was more like stealing. ‘Tell me more about this nonsense excursion to the police station,’ he had demanded one afternoon in his office.

  ‘A most exciting prospect,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Research shows the tremendous value of excursions.’

  Mr Sternblast jotted something down on a piece of paper and muttered. ‘This might help in my next interview …’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  Mr Sternblast twigged to what he’d just said. ‘None of your business, Bambuckle. Out of my office!’

  Mr Bambuckle stood to leave.

  ‘One more thing,’ snapped Mr Sternblast. ‘Get through tomorrow and we’ll see about the next day.’

  Mr Sternblast had said the same thing to Mr Bambuckle every afternoon during that first week. ‘Get through tomorrow and we’ll see about the next day.’

  The principal had been frantically trying to get rid of the popular new teacher ever since he arrived. Mr Sternblast disliked Mr Bambuckle’s strange teaching methods because he didn’t understand them, and this led him to dislike Mr Bambuckle himself.

  So, every afternoon, Mr Sternblast hauled Mr Bambuckle into his office in an attempt to squeeze any useful information out of him. That, and to look for an excuse to fire him on the spot. It was the best he could do until a new permanent teacher could be sourced.

  In the meantime, Mr Bambuckle relished every day with his class. He rode his unicycle into room 12B after that first week with as much gusto as ever.

  ‘Can you tell us more about the time you went into space?’ said Albert Smithers, who was interested in all things scientific.

  ‘I believe it is you who should be telling me about space,’ said Mr Bambuckle, turning one of the many sausages in his self-heating frying p
an.

  Albert grinned and went back to reading one of his favourite books – 101 Physics Facts That Will Expand Your Knowledge of the Known Universe.

  ‘I want to hear more about your adventures in Scotland,’ said Harold. ‘Geography is my new favourite subject.’

  ‘What was your favourite subject before geography?’ said Vex.

  ‘Lunchtime.’

  Harold would not have dared to make a joke in class before Mr Bambuckle’s arrival. Miss Schlump had run a strict classroom where such comments were frowned upon.

  Mr Bambuckle did anything but frown.

  He burst out laughing and turned another sausage. ‘Dear Harold, you would simply adore the food they serve in the heart of Scotland. Perhaps lunchtime will become your favourite subject again one day.’

  ‘My pop says lunchtime was his favourite subject at school too,’ said Carrot Grigson.

  ‘Your pop’s a silly old dinosaur,’ said Vex.

  ‘Dinosaurs eat pests,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘And we don’t want to be a pest now, do we, Vex?’

  Vex growled. ‘Whatever.’

  Harold, whose growing confidence was beginning to outweigh his shyness, chuckled. ‘Mother says you’re funny, Mr Bambuckle.’

  ‘My mum says you’re actually teaching me,’ said Albert. ‘Unlike Miss Schlump.’

  ‘My mum likes you,’ said Evie, trying to control her giggle.

  ‘I know who I like,’ said Damon Dunst, staring at Victoria with love-struck eyes.

  Vinnie White, a thin girl with curly brown hair who sat next to Ren in class, put her hand in the air.

  ‘Yes, Vinnie?’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  Vinne paused. ‘You know how you asked Ren to keep a diary for a week?’

  Mr Bambuckle nodded.

  ‘Well, she let me read it last night and it’s really good.’ She elbowed Ren, who pulled out a notebook from under her desk.

  ‘I’m not surprised in the slightest,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Even after a few days, I noticed an improvement in Ren’s writing.’

  Ren stood up and carried her notebook to the front of the room – an initiative she wouldn’t have dreamed of just days earlier. ‘Would it be okay if I read some to the class?’

  ‘Not until you each come and take a sausage,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Then, dear Ren, we’d love to hear the whole thing.’

  I’ve always been suspicious of teachers. It’s something about the way they huddle in small groups and talk in whispers. Mr Bambuckle is the only teacher who doesn’t do it. But every single other teacher at Blue Valley School does. Why do they lower their voices when students are around? Are they keeping things from us?

  I’ve decided to find out.

  I ordered a spy kit on the internet. It came with a mini microphone and earphones. I want to hear what the teachers are talking about. I want to learn their secrets.

  I take the microphone out of the box and attach it to Vinnie’s shirt. Vinnie is my bestie and she wants to help me with my mission. We’ve been doing everything together for years because we live next door to each other.

  ‘Can you feel anything?’ I say. ‘Does it pull on your shirt?’

  I want to make sure the microphone is detection-proof, like it says on the box. You never know with stuff from the internet.

  ‘No, I can’t feel a thing,’ says Vinnie.

  ‘Great,’ I reply. ‘Let’s test it.’

  Vinnie walks over to the other side of the library. I put the earphones in and give her a nod. She whispers and her words come through loud and clear. ‘Can you hear me, Ren?’

  This is going to be too easy. The microphone will be our top-secret spy microphone – a spycrophone! Now all we have to do is choose our first target.

  We settle on Mr Vincent.

  Mr Vincent teaches science. He’s not the sharpest teacher at Blue Valley School, so he’s the perfect choice. We’ll put the microphone on him.

  ‘You do the honours, Ren,’ says Vinnie. She hands me the mini microphone and we leave the library.

  The science lab is only a short distance away. We stop outside the door and quickly work out a plan.

  ‘I’ll distract him,’ says Vinnie. ‘Then you put the microphone on his shirt.’

  ‘Done,’ I say.

  Vinnie pushes the door open and we walk over to Mr Vincent. He’s busy marking exercise books at a table in the middle of the room. He smiles and stands up to greet us.

  ‘I wanted to let you know,’ says Vinnie, ‘I think you’re the best teacher in the whole wide world.’

  Mr Vincent smiles. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘You deserve it,’ says Vinnie. ‘Ever since you taught me about the life cycle of a frog, I’ve been madly in love with your teaching.’

  Mr Vincent blushes. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  I lean closer to Mr Vincent and press the microphone clip open. It’s like a hungry plastic mouth, ready to latch onto its cotton prey.

  ‘You don’t need to say anything,’ says Vinnie. ‘Your teaching does the talking for you. You’re educationally divine, like the god of all learning.’

  Mr Vincent thinks about this comment for a while. ‘Is there something you need, Vinnie?’

  ‘Just more good teachers like you,’ she says, smiling sweetly and twisting one of her brown curls around a finger.

  Mr Vincent looks pleased with himself. ‘Why, thank you, Vinnie. If I may say so myself, the secret to good teaching is –’

  ‘See ya!’ says Vinnie. She’s seen that I’ve clipped the microphone to his shirt and is already halfway out the door.

  We hurry outside and scoot down the corridor, before hiding behind some lockers. In a moment, when the bell sounds, Mr Vincent will step outside and start talking to another teacher. We’ll get to hear what they’re talking about. We’ll get to hear their secrets.

  The bell sounds and the corridor starts to fill with students and teachers heading to class. Just as we predicted, Mr Vincent steps outside and bumps into another teacher. It’s Miss Klemmer, the year five teacher.

  Vinnie and I snuggle up to the earphones so we can both hear what they’re saying. We peer out from behind the lockers like curious meerkats.

  ‘Are you taking year three for the afternoon?’ asks Miss Klemmer.

  ‘Yes,’ says Mr Vincent. ‘But there’s something I can’t stop thinking about.’

  The two teachers scan the corridor to make sure nobody is watching.

  This is going to be good. Vinnie and I clutch each other in excitement.

  Mr Vincent waits for a student to pass and then leans in close to Miss Klemmer. He lowers his voice. ‘I like caramel donuts.’

  ‘I like caramel donuts too,’ whispers Miss Klemmer.

  Mr Vincent licks his lips. ‘There’s something about the icing I just can’t resist.’

  ‘I understand what you are saying.’

  ‘I had a caramel donut for breakfast.’

  ‘I’m so pleased for you.’

  ‘I might even have a caramel donut for dinner.’

  Vinnie and I can’t help it. We start giggling uncontrollably.

  Mr Vincent hears us and marches over to the lockers. ‘What are you two doing?’ he demands.

  ‘Just thinking about your brilliant lessons,’ says Vinnie.

  Vinnie’s response is all I need to unclip the microphone from Mr Vincent’s shirt. He is too pleased with himself to notice me take it. This confirms what an easy target he is. He walks back to the science room with a spring in his step.

  Vinnie and I head to class, feeling quite satisfied with our first test. While the only juicy information we got was that Mr Vincent is addicted to caramel donuts, we learned the spy kit is a success. It is the perfect tool for eavesdropping.

  Clipping a microphone to Mr Vincent is one thing. But clipping a microphone to Ms Goss – that is another story altogether. I think I’ll do it tomorrow.

  Ms Goss says more words to other teachers than anyone. The proble
m is I never hear most of those words. She’s always lowering her voice so students can’t listen. Ms Goss is also a bit scary. Some of the kindergarten kids in her class think she’s a witch because she wears a cape and has a crooked nose. I just think she’s ugly.

  At lunchtime, Ms Goss is on playground duty. We get ready to approach her. I hold the microphone behind my back. Vinnie will act as the distractor again, and I’ll attach the microphone to her cape.

  ‘Don’t forget to make her look the other way,’ I remind Vinnie. ‘She won’t be as easy to distract as Mr Vincent.’

  ‘Got it, Ren,’ says Vinnie.

  We do our best to walk up to her casually. She sees us coming and frowns. It’s nice to feel loved.

  ‘You’re the best, Ms Goss,’ says Vinnie.

  Ms Goss doesn’t take the bait. ‘What do you want?’ she replies flatly, her voice cackling.

  ‘Just to tell you what a great teacher you are.’

  ‘You’re up to something.’

  ‘Up to my neck in admiration for all that you do for our school.’

  Ms Goss’s frown becomes frownier.

  Vinnie points to the other side of the playground. ‘Look! One of your kindergarten students is eating a football!’

  Ms Goss spins around to investigate. ‘Who? Where? I’ll curse the critter!’

  It’s all I need to clip the microphone to her cape.

  ‘Never mind,’ says Vinnie. ‘My mistake. I thought it was a football but it’s just a ham sandwich.’

  Ms Goss’s frowny frown becomes so frowny her eyebrows almost touch her lips. ‘Haven’t you got somewhere else to be?’

  Vinnie and I slink away and take cover behind some bushes. The waiting game has begun. It’s only a matter of time until we can listen in on a juicy conversation.

  We don’t have to wait long.

  Mrs Wordsmith, the other kindergarten teacher, has come to replace Ms Goss on playground duty. She loves a chat just as much as anyone.

  ‘Anything to report?’ asks Mrs Wordsmith.

  ‘Just a couple of pesky girls,’ says Ms Goss. ‘But they’ve gone now.’