In which we learn that music does not always soothe the soul
‘You’re late, Olive!’ snapped Anastasia. ‘Everyone has chosen their instrument. There is nothing left for you but the trombone.’
‘Trom-bone?’ barked Scruffy. ‘I want the bone!’
‘You’re too small,’ said Valerie the owl. ‘Here, take this piccolo.’
‘Pickle-o!’ Scruffy growled with disgust. ‘Dogs don’t eat pickles!’ He dropped down onto his front paws and yipped three times at Valerie. Then, dashing between Thistlebloom’s feet, he scooted out of the library, down the corridor and out of sight. He spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden, digging up flowers and rolling in the compost.
‘I thought the jello sounded yummy,’ sulked Blimp. ‘But Num-Num took it.’
‘It’s a cello!’ sighed Wordsworth, rolling his eyes. ‘Not jello. You can’t eat it.’
‘Num-num-num-num-num-num-num!’ said Num-Num. A lone cello string dangled out the side of her mouth. She smiled stupidly at Olive and bit into the bow, the only part of the instrument remaining. ‘Num-Num lub music!’
Thistlebloom marched to the front of the library. Bullet Barnes’ cannon sat beside the borrowing desk and she cast a slow, disparaging glance along its full length. Bullet smiled and continued to wriggle backwards, down into the barrel. Thistlebloom tightened her lips, sniffed and turned to Mrs Groves.
‘I am Francine Thistlebloom,’ she declared. ‘The Inspector of Schools has sent me.’
‘Oh, goody goody gumdrops!’ cried Mrs Groves. ‘We have been wanting a new cleaning lady for quite some time. There is honey absolutely everywhere in my parlour. I have tried mopping it up with crumpets, but it just isn’t the same as having someone wipe through with a damp cloth, is it? The spider webs have become so thick that the students have started using them as blankets on these chilly winter nights. Goodness knows what the poor spiders do for warmth! Although many of them are sleeping in my bed. Why, last night I awoke with three daddy-longlegs up my nose! And I won’t begin to tell you about the strange moss that is growing in a ring around the bathtub . . . and in a ring around Tiny Tim’s ankles, oddly enough!’
‘It’s because I never change my socks!’ shouted Tiny Tim. ‘Ever!’ His face shone with pride.
Small red blotches broke out on Thistlebloom’s neck. She pulled herself up to her full height. ‘I am not a cleaning lady!’ she snapped. ‘I have been appointed by the Inspector of Schools as your new –’
‘That’s lovely, dear,’ cooed Mrs Groves. ‘Lovely, lovely, lovely. But I am rather busy now. I am forming an orchestra for the Queen’s visit. Just run along up the back there. You might enjoy a little music.’
Olive led Thistlebloom to a seat between the bookshelves. ‘You’d best stay here,’ she said. ‘It’s the safest spot to be.’
‘Safe?’ scoffed Thistlebloom. ‘Why would I need to be safe during a simple music lesson?’
Mrs Groves tapped her baton on the music stand. ‘Ready?’ she called. ‘After three. One, two, three.’
KABOOM!
Bullet Barnes, human cannonball, shot from his cannon. He flew across the library, his cape flapping heroically, his hands shaking a pair of maracas with rhythm and verve, until he slammed into one of the bookcases. An avalanche of books tumbled from the shelves until Thistlebloom was buried up to her neck.
‘Oh dear! Oh me! Oh my!’ babbled Mrs Groves, flinging her baton out the window.
‘Don’t panic! Don’t stop!’ shouted Wordsworth, flicking through the pages of his Little Blue Book of Wise and Witty Sayings. ‘The show must go on!’
‘You’re absolutely right, dear,’ cried Mrs Groves, pulling herself together. ‘Let’s find the happy place! Come along, everybody. Make music that comes from the happy place in your heart.’
‘Look!’ shouted Tommy. ‘I can make music that comes from the happy place in my nose!’ He wedged his recorder up his left nostril and played a beautiful melody from Mozart’s Magic Flute.
‘Ooh, that’s lovely,’ sighed Valerie. ‘Brings tears to my eyes.’
Thus inspired, Hamish tinkered with the triangle, Star plucked at the double bass and Eduardo joined in on the clarinet.
‘Oh, mercy!’ honked Glenda the goose, who had just waddled through the door. ‘There’s a goose being held prisoner in that clarinet. I can hear it honking in distress! Somebody save it! Save it! Set it free!’ She flapped her wings, rolled her eyes and fell down into another dead faint.
Eduardo shrugged and continued to play. Chester and Blimp jumped up and down on the timpani drums. Bozo and Boffo clashed the cymbals. Anastasia tootled on the flute. Peter and Frank joined in on the trumpet.
And Fumble, dear short-sighted Fumble, played the bells. Twelve bells of different size and tone dangled daringly from his antlers. Blindly, blithely, he danced around the room like a wind chime in a tornado, scraping paint off walls, skin off noses.
Olive threw back her head and laughed from the depths of her belly. She longed to be part of this joyful performance, but the giggling took her breath away. She had not a gasp to spare for the trombone. It was all very amusing.
Unfortunately, Thistlebloom was not gifted with a keen sense of humour. Bursting from her prison of books, she shrieked, ‘Cease and desist! I have seen – and heard – quite enough!’
Fumble froze, but his bells dangled on a little longer, sounding strangely melodic and defiant at the same time.
Thistlebloom glared at Mrs Groves. ‘I am not a cleaning lady, madam. I have been sent by the Inspector to prepare your school for the Queen’s visit. And not a moment too soon, it would appear.’
Mrs Groves gasped. ‘Goodness gracious me!’
‘What Mrs Groves means,’ said Olive, ‘is thank you very much. It is extremely kind of you to offer, but we will be just fine.’ She giggled, then pulled herself together. ‘You see, we are having ever so much fun preparing on our own.’
The naughty boys, talking animals and circus performers all smiled and nodded in agreement. Except for Glenda the goose and Bullet Barnes. They were both unconscious.
‘It is too late!’ declared Thistlebloom. ‘I have already been appointed. My contract is signed and sealed. I am, as of this very afternoon, embarking on a mission during which I will guide you all from rudeness to manners, barbarism to refinement, filth to cleanliness.’ She stopped, sniffed and cast an accusatory glare in the direction of the rats. ‘You will be civilised, chastised, sterilised and traumatised until you are fit to meet Her Majesty the Queen. If you cannot make the grade, you will be expelled. Welcome to Operation Transformation.’
‘But I don’t want to be transformed!’ cried Tommy. His words were accompanied by a series of whistles and toots, the recorder still being lodged up his nostril.
‘Nor I!’ shouted Sparky Burns. He smiled and winked as he juggled three flaming torches, Lucky the kitten and a smouldering library book.
‘Nor I!’ snuffled Reuben the rabbit. ‘I just disappeared down a saxophone and emerged from the end of a French horn. I’m a magic rabbit! My life is an enchanted bubble of whimsy and joy! Why on earth would I want to change?’
In fact, nobody at Groves wished to be transformed.
But that, dear reader, was hardly the point.
‘That is hardly the point!’ snapped Thistlebloom. ‘You will be transformed for the Inspector of Schools has made a very serious announcement. If the Queen’s visit is anything less than a blazing success, the doors of Mrs Groves’ Boarding School for Naughty Boys, Talking Animals and Circus Performers will be closed . . . forever.’