The smell of pancakes wafted through room 12B the following Monday morning as the students took their seats. Mr Bambuckle, who had watched the news with great interest over the weekend, handed Victoria the first pancake.
‘You were right,’ she said, taking a satisfied bite. ‘Cake does make a wonderful vehicle.’
Mr Bambuckle grinned before passing the plate around the room.
Sammy Bamford straightened his baseball cap and scoffed down his pancake in one mouthful. ‘Thanks, Mr Bambuckle!’
Evie Nightingale held her pancake in two hands, nibbling it at the edges. Her eyes darted around the room, on the lookout for any signs of Miss Frost’s return.
Slugger Choppers slammed his fist down onto his pencil case in hungry excitement, scattering stationery across the floor.
Victoria, who was thoroughly energised following her cake-related adventures over the weekend, left her desk to pick up the strewn stationery.
Slugger, meanwhile, was already drizzling homemade berry jus over his pancake, licking his lips in anticipation.
Mr Bambuckle saved the last crumb of his own pancake and clicked his fingers. Dodger emerged from an inside pocket of his jacket and pecked at the pancake crumb. He chirped his thanks before taking off, disappearing through the door like a blue gem shot from a gun.
‘Where’s Dodger going?’ asked Ren.
‘Top-secret business, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Bambuckle.
‘Does Dodger sleep in your pocket?’ said Scarlett.
‘Wouldn’t you sleep in a pocket if you found one large enough?’
Evie giggled, then shrunk back into her chair at the sound of her own laugh.
‘Dodger has slept in my pocket from the time he was an egg,’ said Mr Bambuckle. There was a hint of sentiment in his voice. ‘I found him all alone in a nest in the Canadian wilderness – he had nobody to look after him.’
‘He must be like family to you,’ said Carrot. The orange-haired boy knew all about small families, having being brought up by only his pop.
‘Indeed, he is, my dear Carrot,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘But there’s something else about Dodger. Something rather peculiar …’
‘What is it?’ said Vex. ‘What’s peculiar?’
Mr Bambuckle paused. ‘I doubt you’d believe me … even if I tried to explain.’
The students knew better. They had learned to trust their teacher above all others at Blue Valley School. They pressed him further.
‘You can tell us.’
‘We believe you.’
‘What’s peculiar about Dodger?’
Mr Bambuckle clicked his fingers and Dodger flew back into the room. The blue jay circled the teacher, before resting on his finger, blinking alertly under the classroom lights.
‘He’s the same colour as your suit,’ said Ren, who was a master at observation.
‘And that, dear Ren, is the peculiar mystery,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘When I first put Dodger’s egg into my pocket, my suit was grey. But as soon as his egg hatched, my suit burst into the same colour as his feathers. He turned my jacket blue.’
While most children would scoff at an impossible story like this, the children in room 12B simply nodded in fascination – such was their understanding of their teacher’s mysterious ways.
Dodger dived off Mr Bambuckle’s finger, vanishing back inside the pocket. The students could have sworn their teacher’s jacket glowed just a fraction brighter.
Ren was in detective mode. ‘Do you ever take your jacket off?’
Mr Bambuckle thought about this, before doing something the students did not expect. ‘How about I show you?’ he said, slipping the jacket from his shoulders and holding it out for inspection.
Vex was at the front of the room in a flash, thrusting his hands into the pockets. He grew increasingly frustrated, turning the jacket inside out in his hasty search. ‘They’re all empty,’ he said finally. ‘I can’t even find Dodger.’
Mr Bambuckle casually put the jacket back on and reached into the lowest exterior pocket, pulling out a small frying pan. ‘It’s amazing what can fit into a pocket, dear Vex. This is for when I have breakfast alone.’
Vex ran his hand through his dark hair in frustration. ‘But I just checked that pocket – there was nothing in it!’
Mr Bambuckle smiled at Ren. ‘I often take it off, dear Ren. How else would I swim in the Amazon?’
‘What’s the Amazon like?’ said Sammy.
For a fleeting moment, the distant sound of drums floated through room 12B.
‘Perhaps one day you’ll answer that question for yourself, Sammy?’ said Mr Bambuckle.
‘Where else have you been?’ said Ren.
Mr Bambuckle paused. ‘I suppose an easier question would be aimed at where I haven’t been.’
Ren persisted. ‘Which is …?’
‘Nowhere.’
Fifteen collective ‘Wows’ left the mouths of fifteen impressed students. This led to fifteen hands being thrust in the air.
‘What’s the most dangerous place you’ve visited?’
‘Have you ever been lost?’
‘What’s your favourite country?’
‘Tell me more about the Scottish Highlands!’
‘Can you speak any other languages?’
Mr Bambuckle took a great deal of time answering the questions. He treated each one with enormous respect. His colourful responses – though never exaggerated – expanded the imaginations of the students. The children were in heaven.
Mr Bambuckle’s musical voice filled room 12B for hours that morning. The students – skipping morning tea to stay in the classroom – hung onto every word as though each were an invisible treasure.
By the time the lunch bell sounded, the students felt as though they’d returned from a round-the-world adventure.
Before dismissing the class, Mr Bambuckle scanned the room with thoughtful eyes. He sensed there was more potential in this odd collection of students than there was in any other group he’d ever taught. He opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to change his mind.
‘I’m going to the canteen today,’ said Albert Smithers, pulling a coin from his pocket. ‘Straight after I visit my buddy in the library.’
‘Your buddy is a maniac,’ said Vex, stifling a yawn.
‘Strong words coming from you,’ said Scarlett.
‘The canteen … what a splendid idea,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘I think I might join you, Albert. I believe the lovely Carol is on duty today.’
‘Oh no.’ Albert groaned. ‘Canteen Carol gave me a microwaved hotdog the last time she served me.’
‘What’s so bad about that?’ asked Myra.
‘It wasn’t microwaved. And it wasn’t a hotdog. It was a slab of tofu that wasn’t cooked through evenly. Some of it was still frozen hard as a rock and I chipped my tooth. Then she laughed at me.’
‘Oh,’ said Myra. ‘She gave me frozen tofu once as well. Luckily, I managed to sell it on as sibling repellent – nobody likes tofu!’
‘Fear not, dear Albert,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘I hear the chicken noodles are good this time of year. Come on, let’s go!’