Mr Bambuckle's Remarkables on the Lookout Page 5

  Mr Bambuckle took the last bite of his apple, then flicked the core over his shoulder. It landed swish-bang in the centre of the garbage bin near his desk.

  ‘Good shot!’ said Harold.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the teacher. ‘I was a junior champion at apple core tossing back in my day.’

  Ren was eager to find out more about Vex. ‘Tell us … what did you see?’

  Carrot sat at his desk. ‘We used your clue about the supermarket as a starting point. We knew Vex headed in that direction, so it’s where we began looking.’

  ‘We asked to see the supermarket manager,’ said Slugger. ‘We told him we were doing a school assignment … which is true … it’s an assignment to find Vex. Anyway, we said that one of our classmates was leaving us special clues in a geography activity.’

  ‘Then what happened?’ asked Sammy Bamford.

  ‘The manager agreed to let us watch the CCTV footage if we could prove what our classmate looked like,’ said Carrot. ‘So we described Vex and the fact he would have been riding a unicycle.’

  ‘The manager’s eyes lit up,’ said Slugger. ‘He told us the boy on the unicycle was a thief. He said he took things from the shop without paying for them.’

  ‘But he found out he was wrong,’ said Slugger. ‘He said something happened later that made him change his mind, but he didn’t go into the details.’

  ‘He did show us the security tapes from outside the supermarket though,’ said Carrot. ‘We saw Vex riding out of the shop. He was flying down the main street, heading towards the river.’

  ‘So that’s where we went next,’ said Slugger. ‘We found Vex’s camp site. There were unicycle tracks everywhere. We waited and waited for him to come back … but he didn’t. We ran out of time and had to return to school.’

  Myra, who had been itching to take up the case, put her hand in the air. ‘We should pick up the trail immediately. There’s still time this afternoon.’ She pulled out two fake moustaches – leftover from her novelty pop-up shop – and handed one to Albert. ‘Will you be my partner?’

  Albert put the fake moustache over his top lip, making him look somewhat like one of his heroes – Einstein. ‘I’m in.’

  Mr Bambuckle rubbed his hands together. ‘This sounds like the perfect opportunity for us to do one of our creative lessons. I’d like each of you to come up with a rather ridiculous use for a fake moustache.’

  Albert and Myra, not wanting to miss out on the fun, quickly scribbled down their answers before racing out the door.

  Still wearing their fake moustaches, Myra and Albert returned to room 12B moments before the final bell. They were greeted by a smiling Mr Bambuckle and a frowning Miss Frost.

  ‘I assume you have tracked down the wretched runaway,’ said the assistant principal. Her icy demeanour had returned.

  Albert and Myra exchanged wary glances. They recognised the tone in her voice and were reminded of her past cruelty.

  Miss Frost was beginning to feel the pressure of the situation. There were just twenty-four hours until Friday afternoon – the time Vex’s parents would be arriving to pick him up from school. If the boy failed to turn up before then, her career was as good as over.

  ‘Well?’ said Miss Frost. ‘What did you find out?’

  Albert offered a tentative reply. ‘We didn’t find him, but we think we’re closer than ever.’

  Miss Frost’s lips twitched, as they often did when things didn’t go the way she liked. ‘If you don’t find that boy by this time tomorrow,’ she said, addressing the entire class, ‘expect severe consequences.’

  ‘What concert fences?’ said Harold, who had misheard in his typical fashion. ‘I don’t see any pop stars.’

  ‘Consequences,’ said Miffy.

  ‘Oh,’ said Harold.

  Miss Frost folded her arms. ‘Enough of this silliness. Albert and Myra, what did you find out about Vex’s whereabouts?’

  Myra fiddled with the tip of her fake moustache. ‘We started at the bridge near the river and found the unicycle tracks Carrot and Slugger were talking about. We followed one of the tracks back up the hill towards the main street, and that’s when we noticed something weird.’

  ‘Dog tracks,’ said Albert. ‘Dozens of them.’

  Miss Frost took a deep breath and adjusted the diamond bobby pin in her hair. ‘What do dog tracks have to do with anything?’

  ‘The dog tracks appeared to be following the unicycle tracks. They were easier to follow because they left muddy prints on the grass and footpath. They led all the way to a clothes shop.’

  ‘And that’s when things got really interesting,’ said Myra. ‘We went inside the clothes shop and asked the attendant if she had seen a boy with dark hair riding a unicycle. She said she had – just this morning! We are getting really close!’

  Mr Bambuckle applauded from his own unicycle. ‘What marvellous detecting. I should think we’ll find him around this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Umm …’ Myra hesitated. ‘There is some bad news.’

  Miss Frost scowled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We don’t know where he went after the clothes shop. We lost the trail … he could be anywhere.’

  The assistant principal narrowed her eyes. She was on the verge of lashing out at the very students who held her fate in the balance.

  Mr Bambuckle was quick to react. He whizzed around Victoria’s desk on his unicycle and handed Miss Frost a brightly coloured glass cup. ‘I expect another dose of Himalayan tea should do you some good.’

  All it took was one sip for the assistant principal to regain her composure. She sat at the teacher’s desk, her muscles relaxing.

  The final bell rang and Mr Bambuckle singled out Grace. ‘I believe you’ve been working on some magnificent writing.’

  Grace was clearly surprised with the sudden attention but nodded nonetheless. It was true.

  Mr Bambuckle held out a hand. ‘I’d be most delighted to read over your work. I’m quite a big fan of extraordinary tales.’

  Grace reached into her bag and clutched something, unsure what to do.

  ‘It would be an honour and a pleasure,’ said the teacher, his kind face ridding any doubtful thoughts Grace clung to.

  The silent twin passed a blue diary to Mr Bambuckle. He took it and scanned the first page. ‘I’m very much looking forward to hearing your voice …’ He tapped the book. ‘Inside here.’

  Grace smiled. This teacher understood her.

  As the students filed out of the classroom, Mr Bambuckle turned to Miss Frost. ‘What say you and I go over this work together? Perhaps we can collaborate on the feedback. After all, there is great treasure to be found in a good story.’

  The Himalayan tea had worked its magic, not only on Miss Frost’s tense muscles, but also her anxious mind. It had warmed her cold heart, defrosting her iciest feelings. Despite the delicious taste in her mouth, she wasn’t sure if it was the drink or Mr Bambuckle’s constant kindness that made her feel light and dizzy. She said something the students would not have believed had they still been in the room. ‘I would love to read over the writing with you.’

  Mr Bambuckle’s mischievous green eyes sparkled with hints of amber, reflecting several more strands of Miss Frost’s hair that had changed colour. She was on the brink, it appeared, of shaking away her winter forever. He sat down next to her and opened the diary.

  Me and talking don’t see eye to eye. Or voice to voice. Or whatever you want to call it. That’s why writing a diary suits me to a tee. Or suits me to a silence. You get the idea.

  Life at Blue Valley Grammar is always interesting. But today something really weird happened.

  At lunch, I went to band practice like I do every Tuesday. I unpacked my trumpet from its case and was ready for action.

  ‘Grace,’ said Miss Treblenote, ‘you may put your instrument away. I have a different job for you today.’

  I had no idea what she meant, but she’s a nice teacher so I followed her instruc
tions. I held up my trumpet case to show that I had packed it up.

  ‘You’re a good student, Grace,’ said Miss Treblenote. ‘I’ve been thinking about how to help you along … how to help you find your voice … so to speak.’

  I’m not sure if she meant ‘so to speak’ as a pun or not, but it made me smile.

  ‘I know you play the trumpet because it’s a loud instrument,’ continued Miss Treblenote. ‘I was quiet too when I was your age. It’s why I got into music. Instruments let me produce the sound my mouth didn’t want to.’

  Everything she said was true of me too. It was like she could read my mind.

  Miss Treblenote pointed to a door at the side of the concert hall where we practised. ‘There are some conducting batons in the storeroom. I’d like you to choose one. Today I’m going to teach you how to lead the band. I’m going to put you in charge of as much sound as you can manage.’

  Everyone clapped. It was no secret that conducting Blue Valley Grammar’s orchestra was a big deal. It was also no secret that I never spoke. Miss Treblenote was giving me a chance to shine.

  Feeling ten feet tall, I made my way over to the storeroom. The door creaked open and I flicked on the light switch. A single dim globe warmed up. It barely lit the room.

  The shelves were filled with musical memories of yesteryear – a snapped violin bow, loose sheets of chord progressions, broken music stands, odd drumsticks, a couple of stringless guitars and a pile of baton boxes.

  I picked up the first box and opened it. The wooden baton inside was cracked and barely in one piece. The black handle had come apart from the white tip. I frowned and put it back.

  The baton in the next box looked a bit like a magician’s wand. It was slightly twisted and had tiny knots along the edge. I felt like Harry Potter, choosing a tool of great importance. But this baton didn’t feel right, so I put it back.

  I spotted a slender box towards the rear of the shelf. It wasn’t like the other boxes. It looked older, more elegant, and there was a blue jay painted on the lid. I reached forward and picked it up. Tingles ran along my arm. Even before opening it, I knew this was the one.

  I unclipped the latch and peeled back the lid. I could have sworn the blue jay on the top winked at me as I did.

  Unlike the other batons, it was made entirely from one piece of wood – a reddish timber, maybe mahogany. The pear-shaped handle flowed smoothly to the main rod, its tip a perfect point. Although it wasn’t polished, it seemed to glow with mystery.

  I closed the storeroom door and carried the baton into the hall.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Miss Treblenote. ‘Did you find one you like?’

  I nodded. I didn’t just like the baton, I loved it. It made the tiny hairs on my arms fizzy and fuzzy.

  Miss Treblenote invited me to stand in front of the orchestra. ‘Grace, are you ready to learn how to conduct?’

  I held up the baton.

  Miss Treblenote instructed the band to watch me. Then she showed me how to set the tempo. I copied the rhythm of her arm movements, the tip of my baton swishing delicately through the air, guiding the band. The wood felt warm in my hand.

  ‘Grace, it sounds amazing,’ said Miss Treblenote. ‘I’ve never heard the ensemble play so well. Your rhythm is impeccable.’

  It was true. The music – loud and proud – resonated through the entire hall. The usual squeaks and squeals of collective off-notes had disappeared. It was as though the band were under a trance.

  When the piece was finished, Miss Treblenote patted me on the back. ‘That was some conducting, Grace. How would you like to lead the band at assembly on Friday? We can have some extra rehearsals to give you more confidence … not that you appear to need it.’

  I grinned to say yes – extra rehearsals seemed a wise idea. If only I knew the trouble I was about to cause.

  Miss Treblenote let me take the baton home to practise in front of the mirror. I imagined the music playing in my head and directed it with my arm movements. The baton warmed up in my hand, sending tingly goosebumps along my arm.

  Mum walked into my bedroom to see what I was up to. ‘Have you done your writing homework, Grace?’ she asked.

  I pointed to the books on my bed.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget how important top grades are.’

  I sighed. Not this again. Why couldn’t she be more relaxed about school?

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Mum, pointing to the baton in my hand.

  I waved it to show I was rehearsing, though the baton had lost its warmth. Suddenly, it became cold.

  Strange.

  Without warning – and following the movement of my wrist – Mum punched herself in the face. ‘Ouch!’

  My jaw dropped. What did she do that for?

  Dad burst into the room. ‘What happened? I heard someone cry out.’

  I waved the baton again and shrugged to show him I was practising in front of the mirror and had no idea why Mum hit herself. Dad’s legs lifted out from underneath him and he landed hard on his bottom. ‘Ow!’

  Was it my baton? I tilted it upwards and Dad leapt to his feet. I swished to the left and he jumped the same way, bumping into my drawers. I pointed back to the right and he slid across the floor.

  ‘Grace!’ yelled Mum. ‘Stop waving that thing around!’ She tried to snatch it out of my hand.

  I gave a quick flick of my wrist and Mum jerked backwards. I pointed the wand towards the door and she walked straight out of my room. With another flick Dad followed. They were obeying my every movement.

  I marched them straight to their bedroom, then slowed the tempo, rallentando style. Dad yawned. ‘I’m feeling sleepy.’

  Mum’s eyes became droopy. She curled up in bed and pulled the doona over herself. Dad was already snoring on the other side. I had conducted my parents to sleep.

  ‘What was all that about?’ said Gabby, who had been watching from the living room.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ she said. ‘I know when my twin sister is hiding something from me. I saw you waving that stick around. What were you doing? Were you controlling them? Is it magic? Slippers are on special at K-market.’

  She stood up and reached out to take the baton.

  I waved her back and she flew through the air, landing on the lounge.

  Her eyes widened. ‘How did you do that?!’

  I tightened my lips, not wanting to tell her anything.

  She leapt up and lunged at me, but I flicked her back to the sofa.

  ‘Tell me what it is!’ she demanded. ‘You’re my sister – I have a right to know.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Tell. Me. Now.’

  I raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or … or … I’ll make you pick your nose.’

  Is that the best she could think of? Well, it certainly gave me an idea.

  I pointed the baton at Gabby’s finger and raised it in the air.

  ‘You don’t want to do this,’ she said, realising what I was up to.

  I inched the finger towards her face. She stared in horror at her rogue digit, becoming cross-eyed as I manoeuvred it closer and closer to her nose.

  Gabby was desperate. ‘Please, Grace … I’ll do anything …’

  I shook my head and conducted her finger, pushing it deep into her nostril. It moved upwards like a human drill. I made her wriggle it around.

  ‘You’ve made your point,’ she said, sounding a bit like Miss Piggy. ‘Please stop.’

  I pulled her finger loose and forced her to hold it in front of her face.

  ‘You’re gross,’ she said. ‘I’m never letting you borrow my things again – especially my new dress!’

  I could feel my cheeks burning. She knew I liked her new dress. We always shared clothes, so to use it against me was a cheap shot. It was typical of our quarrels. When we fought, we fought with an intensity that only twins could understand.


  I pointed the baton at her finger and moved it closer to her mouth.

  ‘No! Don’t! You can’t!’

  I did.

  Gabby’s snotty pointer slid into her mouth. Her lips wrapped around it and she sucked and squelched and licked off everything in a foul slurp.

  She shrieked and ran to her room, though not before I made her trip over on the way.

  I examined the baton in my hand. It was letting me do things I could only dream about.

  I had never felt so alive.

  The next day, Gabby wouldn’t shut up about it on the bus to school. ‘I can’t believe you made me pick my nose and eat it. How could you do that to your own twin sister? I thought we were besties. My green highlighter is nearly out of ink.’

  I gave her a look to remind her I was sorry. I had already apologised twice at breakfast.

  Deep down, I knew that Gabby could tell I meant it. ‘It’s okay … I suppose,’ she said.

  The bus pulled up at some traffic lights. I waved the baton – which again felt cold in my hand – at a magpie perched on a powerline. I directed it to dive-bomb into a bird bath in someone’s front yard. It splashed water over a cat that was lying in the morning sun, sending it leaping away in a wet panic.

  ‘A perfect ten!’ said Gabby, with a laugh.

  As the lights turned green, I pointed the magpie back towards the powerline. It returned to its resting spot, fluttering its wings to dry off.

  ‘That baton … it really can conduct anything, can’t it?’ said Gabby.

  I nodded. I had already tested it out on the bus driver, who had treated us to some bizarre chicken movements. Every time a new passenger hopped on, he thrust his neck back and forth and yelled, ‘Begerk!’

  I had conducted the man sitting in front of us to wear his briefcase as a hat. Then I made the lady sitting opposite play air guitar to the radio. The teenagers sitting on the back seat were the quietest they had ever been – their lips pressed shut by the power of the baton.

  The bus slowed down as it pulled up behind some heavy traffic. ‘Looks like there’s been a power failure up ahead,’ said the driver. ‘The next set of lights is out … begerk!’