Melody Trumpet

  Dedication

  For Sienna,

  who makes everything extraordinary

  Contents

  Dedication

  1. The Trumpet heir is born

  2. An unhappy birthday

  3. The special invitation

  4. Hoping for a miracle

  5. Claudette Rouge and the Debut Gala gown

  6. Mr Pizzicato’s last shot

  7. The auditions

  8. A sudden goodbye

  9. Hello, Freddie Bloom

  10. Clementine the busker

  11. Secrets between friends

  12. An unfortunate misunderstanding

  13. Through the hidden passage

  14. A new plan

  15. Welcome to the Workshop

  16. The magic begins

  17. One extraordinary day

  18. Silly Mr Trumpet

  19. A visit from Principal Sharp

  20. The Trumpets’ wicked plan

  21. Performance of a lifetime

  22. Breaking in

  23. Over the fence

  24. An unwanted disguise

  25. Miss Sprinkles in charge

  26. Lost in Battyville

  27. The troupe step up

  28. The Charity Gala

  29. To Crescendo Hall

  30. The truth is out

  31. Under the spotlight

  32. The perfect place

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Gabrielle Tozer

  Copyright

  1.

  The Trumpet heir is born

  Melody Trumpet burst into the world with a screech that rattled the windowpanes of Trumpet Manor. It was a perfectly ordinary sound for a newborn baby startled by the cold air, yet the doctor and nurses gasped at the shrill wail. The world expected the daughter of opera superstar Viola Trumpet and renowned conductor Barry T Trumpet to have a voice so beautiful that even the hardest, coldest person would cry tears of joy at a single note.

  Years of the Trumpets winning awards and touring the globe with orchestras, ballet companies and theatre troupes had set the stage for this moment. The long-awaited appearance of this cherub was supposed to be extraordinary. That was what everyone expected, from the doctors and nurses, to the international press waiting outside the manor for news of her arrival.

  The expectation had been set thirty-nine years earlier, when baby Viola’s first teary gurgles were so sweet and harmonious that the nurses had swaddled her in a soft woolly wrap and carried her from cot to cot to calm the other newborns with her song. And now Mrs Viola Trumpet was the face of opera around the world — an icon whose voice box was insured for millions of dollars. As far as the Trumpets were concerned, it was perfectly acceptable for ordinary babies to shriek out of key. But not a Trumpet. Especially not one deemed a medical marvel!

  Mrs Trumpet had been told by doctors for years that she could never have a child. She’d almost given up hope until one day the impossible became possible and she was granted her wish.

  A daughter.

  An heir.

  A gift from the musical gods.

  Mr Trumpet had fallen to his knees and sobbed with happiness at news of the miracle, his moustache drooping low as it filled with fat tears. For nine months, he conducted the air around Mrs Trumpet’s belly morning after morning, night after night. Music from his thirteen award-winning classical compositions soared around the nursery, bouncing off the lemon and peach walls that had been decorated with musical notes.

  The Trumpets were considered music royalty across the globe. Year after year the duo received so many awards and honours that they needed to build a new wing in Trumpet Manor to house them. Mrs Trumpet had received more curtain calls than anyone in history, twelve distinguished authors had written books about her and Mr Trumpet’s brilliant careers, and they had so much money they didn’t know what to do with it all.

  They were certain their wondrous miracle child would carry on the musical legacy of the Trumpet name. In preparation, they placed their unborn baby on the waiting list for the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children — the most prestigious and selective music school in the world. Mr and Mrs Trumpet had met there as children, and now giant oil paintings of them adorned the school’s many hallways and staircases for the more ordinary students to admire and dream of maybe one day being half as talented. The Trumpets dreamed of the day their child would become the rising star of the school, then of Battyville, then the country, then the world — just as they had done.

  But dreams don’t always come true — as it was discovered when baby Melody squawked her first out-of-tune note and then wailed into the wee hours.

  ‘Honeypot, what shall we do?’ Mrs Trumpet asked her husband, rocking a red-cheeked Melody in the pair’s enormous four-poster bed. ‘The beastly creature won’t shut up.’

  ‘My darling Viola, there must have been a mistake,’ Mr Trumpet assured her. ‘A Trumpet would never make such a terrible noise. That doctor owes us an explanation. Somehow they’ve misplaced our little angel.’

  ‘Oh, that horrific bleating sound! We’ll be a joke,’ Mrs Trumpet hissed. ‘Laughed out of the town! All our plans, our dreams . . . and our reputations. Barry, our reputations!’

  Mr Trumpet scooped the screaming baby into his sausage-like arms and stroked her mop of straight jet-black hair. ‘We’ll work it out. With a little guidance she’ll find her way.’

  Mrs Trumpet began to sob. ‘She’s no bigger than a watermelon but she sounds like a snoring rhinoceros! Or a freight train! Or a rhinoceros snoring on a freight train!’

  Mr Trumpet stared down into Melody’s big chocolate-brown eyes. They were the same colour as his own. ‘We’re Trumpets, Viola. We’ll set things right — whatever it takes.’

  She nodded. ‘You need to fix this, Barry. No one else can ever find out that our baby is not at all extraordinary.’

  ‘Yes, my darling.’ Mr Trumpet squeezed her hand. ‘Consider it done.’

  But what could he do?

  Despite growing public interest, the Trumpets hadn’t yet dared to hold a press conference or send out a media release announcing Melody’s arrival. Too much was at risk. Their entire musical legacy could be obliterated with just one of Melody’s squeals.

  Melody. Even her name, which meant ‘a sequence of single notes that is musically satisfying’, was now almost too painful to utter aloud. Melody hadn’t been born with the voice of an angel like her mother. In fact, she seemed about as musical as a gumboot.

  What would people say if they discovered the Trumpets’ prodigy was just a crying, pooping baby like any other?

  Mr Trumpet did the only thing he could think of in such dire circumstances: he and his wife starved the world of all information about their heir. Everyone assumed she was a child prodigy who remained in seclusion to focus on her training, and naturally the Trumpets didn’t correct the assumption. In fact, they fuelled it by refusing to answer any questions at all about Melody. Any journalist who asked even a single question about her was banned from interviewing the Trumpets ever again.

  To maintain the secret, Melody spent much of her childhood in her wing of Trumpet Manor. A high-security fence ran all around the grounds so no one could spot her on the rare occasions when she was allowed outside. She was home-schooled by a private academic tutor, and friendships were banned the way other parents banned sweets. Forget about joining a dance class or sports team. Banned. Forget about using a mobile phone or spending an afternoon in the library or at the park. Absolutely, definitely BANNED.

  Aside from the Trumpets’ driver and bodyguard, Royce, and their housekeeper, Miss Sprinkles, the only other person privy to the family’s secret was a man by the name of M
r Pizzicato. He was one of the greatest music teachers the world had ever known, and the Trumpets paid him an outrageous amount of money to become Melody’s music tutor when she turned three. He was to give her private instrument and vocal lessons in a secret soundproofed room inside the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children.

  Mr Pizzicato’s greatest achievement to date was tutoring a chicken named Clive to become one of the most beautiful-sounding soprano opera singers to ever grace the stage.

  ‘Mr Pizzicato will find Melody’s talent and make her a true Trumpet,’ Mr Trumpet declared as he and Mrs Trumpet waited for Mr Pizzicato to walk down the steps of the private jet they had sent for him. ‘Remember your performance with Clive in Venice, my darling?’

  Mrs Trumpet nodded. ‘Oh yes. And Melody will be better than that feathery diva once Mr Pizzicato is done with her. She’ll be the best!’

  And so Melody’s private music lessons began. No one, not even Principal Sharp, ever saw her enter or leave the school. Royce drove her in the family limousine to a secret entrance every morning at eight thirty on the dot, where Mr Pizzicato met her and ushered her through a twisting, turning secret corridor high above the classrooms to the private studio that had been built with money donated by Mr and Mrs Trumpet. The routine was performed in reverse at the end of each day when it was time for Melody to be escorted back to Trumpet Manor.

  Over the years, Mr Pizzicato and Melody clocked up thousands of hours of lessons. Singing, musical scales, theory, improvisation, and every instrument you could think of. Thousands of hours — with no improvement. Not even a little.

  And with every day that passed, with every dollar spent, Melody grew more and more aware that she was the thing her parents despised more than anything else. She was completely, utterly and painfully ordinary.

  2.

  An unhappy birthday

  Ten candles burned on Melody’s seven-tier, rainbowcoloured ice-cream cake. Taking centre stage was an extravagant cake-topper — a small and edible version of Melody in a sparkly purple dress singing into a microphone. Miss Sprinkles had outdone herself with the birthday cake this year.

  She clapped her hands, then leaned over to straighten the red headband and green bow in Melody’s long jet-black hair. ‘Well, blow out the candles!’ Miss Sprinkles said in her usual excitable and breathy voice. ‘And don’t forget to make a wish, my sweet Melody. Turning ten is a special day, you know. What are you waiting for?’

  Melody glanced at her mother’s empty seat at the head of the long, narrow dining table. She’d rushed off to take an urgent phone call five minutes into dinner and hadn’t returned. She’d already missed the entree and main course. Melody didn’t want her to miss dessert too.

  Her father was sipping his drink and rewatching an old clip of himself accepting a Hall of Fame Award. He spent most dinnertimes reminiscing about the golden years of his career as a conductor. Even on Melody’s birthday.

  ‘Mr Trumpet, sir, Melody’s cake is . . . well, it’s ready,’ Miss Sprinkles said. She pursed her lips and pointed at the ice-cream cake, which was melting into a lopsided mess.

  ‘My word!’ Mr Trumpet broke away from the clip to see the cake and its fiery glow of candles looming towards Melody. ‘Quick, blow them out, child!’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ Melody said, steadying the leaning tower of cake with her spoon. ‘We should enjoy it together, as a family.’

  But her father was absorbed in the screen again.

  Shaking her head with disappointment, Miss Sprinkles took her place behind Melody, who hadn’t shifted her gaze from the cake. The big grandfather clock ticked away the minutes, accompanied by an occasional sigh from Miss Sprinkles or a satisfied grunt from Mr Trumpet as he watched the old footage.

  By the time Mrs Trumpet burst through the doors, red feather boa flying, Melody’s birthday cake was a sugary puddle that had oozed over the edges of the plate and soaked into the tablecloth. The candles, all fizzled out long ago, were now just black streaks through the technicoloured ice-cream.

  ‘We have a problem,’ Mrs Trumpet announced to Mr Trumpet. She didn’t seem to notice that her daughter was sitting in front of the destroyed cake with her head hung low.

  Mr Trumpet sat up, startled, knocking his cutlery onto the floor. ‘What is it, my fuzzy coconut?’

  ‘You’re not going to like this one bit. It’s that’s nosy principal from the school!’ Mrs Trumpet stopped and glared at Miss Sprinkles, who was taking her time picking up the dropped cutlery.

  Miss Sprinkles lowered her head and said, ‘I think I’m needed in the kitchen. Happy birthday again, my sweet Melody.’ And she scuttled off, a stack of plates rattling in her arms.

  Melody licked melted ice-cream off her fingertips, not saying a word.

  Mrs Trumpet took a long gulp from her glass. ‘Do you know what year it is, honey crumpet?’ she moaned to Mr Trumpet. ‘It’s the year!’ She paused, realising Melody was still in the room. ‘Ah, child, you can go to your wing now.’

  ‘But Mother, it’s my birth—’

  ‘To your wing!’ Mrs Trumpet repeated. ‘I have something important to discuss with your father.’

  Melody bit her lip. It was clear where her mother’s priorities lay. She swiped her finger through the melted ice-cream again and stood up to leave.

  ‘Where are your manners?’ Mrs Trumpet scolded with a raised eyebrow. ‘This is not a household for wild animals.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Melody whispered as she pushed her chair in under the dining table, then did a quick curtsy.

  Mrs Trumpet’s eyes remained cold as she released a thin-lipped smile. ‘Good night, my child. Sleep well.’

  Melody nodded, mumbled, ‘Thank you, Mother,’ and left the dining room.

  As the door clicked shut behind her, a wild-eyed Mrs Trumpet turned to her husband. ‘Oh, sugar plum, it’s happening — all our worst fears. Principal Sharp has just delivered the most terrible news, and for once there’s nothing we can do!’ She dabbed at her heaving bosom with a lacy white handkerchief. ‘She has personally invited the entire family, including Melody, to a very public event.’

  ‘Send her another generous contribution,’ Mr Trumpet said, returning his attention to the screen, where he was now receiving an award for his fourth concerto. ‘That should keep her off our backs for another year.’

  ‘Barry!’ Mrs Trumpet said, swatting him over the head with her handkerchief. ‘She called to personally invite us to see Melody’s first performance in Crescendo Hall.’

  ‘What?’ Mr Trumpet spluttered. ‘Why on earth would Principal Sharp be excited about that? Melody’s awful!’

  ‘But she doesn’t know that, you buffoon!’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He sank back into his seat. ‘Of course she doesn’t. But why does she think Melody’s going to be performing in Crescendo Hall of all places?’

  ‘Because she’s inviting us to the annual Debut Gala,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘Apparently, the child is ten years old.’

  ‘Ten years old, you say? You’re joking!’ Mr Trumpet snorted in disbelief. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘I checked her birth certificate as soon as I got off the phone. She turned ten today. How did we let this sneak up on us?’ she moaned.

  The Debut Gala was the most important annual event at the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children. As soon as a student reached ten years of age, they gave their first performance in the school’s great Crescendo Hall, which was one of the most famous concert halls in the world — in part due to the famous performances the Trumpets themselves had given there. Melody’s tenth birthday was a day the Trumpets had been dreading ever since her first ear-piercing cry as a baby.

  ‘What on earth shall we do?’ Mr Trumpet pondered, rubbing his enormous belly. ‘I tell you what, call that snooty-nosed Principal Sharp and tell her what we’ve always told her: Melody Trumpet is a genius who needs to be left alone to practise. Any interference will only disrupt her prodigious progress.’


  ‘That won’t cut it any more, pumpkin,’ Mrs Trumpet hissed. ‘Melody is ten! She has to perform at the Debut Gala or she’ll be . . . Ohhh, I can’t even say it!’

  ‘Publicly exposed!’ Mr Trumpet moaned. ‘We’ll be the laughing stock of the solar system.’

  ‘It gets worse. That nosy principal wants to arrange a private rehearsal this week to gauge Melody’s progress. This week.’

  ‘We’ll work this out,’ reassured Mr Trumpet. ‘Tell Principal Sharp that Melody can’t meet with her this week because she has a ghastly cold. She can’t get out of bed, let alone sing.’

  ‘A cold?’ Mrs Trumpet scoffed. ‘What are we — amateurs?’

  ‘Alright, maybe she’s . . . broken a leg,’ Mr Trumpet suggested. ‘Or she’s busy recording her first album.’ He snapped his fingers with glee. ‘Or perhaps she’s on her way to perform for the Prime Minister.’

  ‘The Prime Minister is overseas at the moment.’

  ‘Wait, I’ve got it! I’ve ripping got it!’

  Mrs Trumpet huffed. ‘Well?’

  ‘Melody can’t make it because she’s doing the first ever performance on the moon,’ he cheered. ‘Yes, that’s it! She’s in an exclusive zero-gravity environment learning how to perform in space. Sharp can forget meeting up with her this week . . . because Melody is booked out until the Gala!’

  Mrs Trumpet contemplated the idea for a second, then rolled her eyes. ‘Zero-gravity? Performing on the moon? You’ve lost it. Unless . . .’ She paused again. ‘No, you’ve definitely lost it. We’re done for!’

  ‘Take a breath, my little honeydew,’ said Mr Trumpet, sipping on his drink. ‘I’ll call Principal Sharp and thank her for the lovely request, but decline because the Trumpet heir’s calendar is already bursting at the seams with appointments and obligations booked months in advance. We simply cannot change her schedule at this late stage. After all, it takes dedication and focus to be a prodigy.’

  ‘Especially a fake one,’ Mrs Trumpet said.

  ‘Oh, my darling, I know it won’t ward off Sharp forever, but —’

  ‘But it will buy us more time. I know. Thank you, my cuddly caramel tart. I knew I could count on you.’