Melody Trumpet Read online

  Mrs Trumpet stopped abruptly and her eyebrows shot up in shock. But she quickly recovered and forced another fake smile. ‘Mmm,’ she murmured, glaring at Melody.

  Melody felt her cheeks flush red. She sucked in another long gulp of lemonade.

  ‘But of course you’ve managed to secure another wonderful music tutor, just as he suggested,’ continued Principal Sharp. ‘What a fool I was for doubting the great talent of the Trumpet heir without Mr Pizzicato by her side. Of course she’s thriving. Please, forgive my ignorance, Viola, but I’m sure you understand his departure came as quite the surprise after all these years.’

  ‘Ahhh, yes, it was a little surprising,’ Mrs Trumpet said with a thin smile. ‘A little surprising indeed.’

  * * *

  ‘You could not be in more trouble, child!’ bellowed Mrs Trumpet as she paced up and down the side of the pool.

  Melody cowered in the water behind her coconut. ‘But Mother —’

  ‘But Mother nothing!’ Mrs Trumpet raged. ‘Oh, Barry, can you believe this disaster? The lies! So many lies!’

  ‘Lies, yes, awful,’ he said, fishing a chocolate doughnut out of his robe pocket and chomping into the icing. ‘Wait . . . what lies again, turtle dove?’

  Mrs Trumpet groaned but kept her glaring gaze on Melody. ‘She’s been lying to all of us. Me. You, my sweet. Royce. Spending time at school with no supervision, doing heaven knows what. It’s a wonder that she hasn’t landed us on the front page of the newspaper! “Battyville Girl Reaches New Levels of Stupidity By Lying to Loving, Supportive Parents”. And to think Mr Pizzicato has gone off and left us to deal with this mess on our own.’

  ‘He has?’ Mr Trumpet shook his fist in the air. ‘Outrageous!’

  ‘Keep up, Barry,’ huffed Mrs Trumpet. She teetered back and forth along the side of the pool, her heels clicking on the tiles, a stomping, fuming tower of anger. Melody was surprised there weren’t flames scorching from her mother’s mouth.

  ‘But . . . but . . . things have been progressing, haven’t they, child?’ Mr Trumpet asked Melody. ‘The Debut Gala is so soon, and the public is eagerly anticipating your performance. Not to mention their Royal Highnesses!’

  Melody gulped. Sometimes you have to be brave, she thought. You have to do the thing you don’t want to do. Tell the truth, even if your heart’s thumping so fast you think it might burst straight through your chest.

  ‘I’m not really progressing. In fact the whole thing is going to be a disaster because Mr Pizzicato has left and I can’t sing and I can’t play an instrument and I have no idea what I’m doing,’ Melody said in one long breath.

  ‘Enunciate, my child,’ Mr Trumpet said, leaning closer.

  Mrs Trumpet let out a gurgled shriek. ‘For goodness sake, Barry, the little clam is just confirming what we already knew. She’s hopeless, Mr Pizzicato has gone and the Debut Gala performance is doomed.’

  ‘There has to be a mistake,’ Mr Trumpet said. ‘There has to be. All that time, all that money . . . she has to have improved.’

  Melody knew there was no clearer way to say it. So she didn’t. Instead, she swam to the edge of the pool, pulled herself out of the water and sang.

  ‘Here we are, just us four, hours in the sun, together on this day,’ she squeaked and crackled. ‘How long I have dreamed, for a place such as this . . .’

  By now her parents were kneeling on the tiles with their heads in their hands.

  ‘Enough!’ Mr Trumpet cried, holding up his hand in surrender. ‘I can’t take it any more. What shall we do, my darling Viola?’

  ‘It’s time for Plan B,’ Mrs Trumpet said without missing a beat. ‘The Prince and Princess will be arriving in Battyville any minute. If they, or the media, get a sniff of something peculiar, everything will be ruined.’

  ‘Plan B?’ asked Melody, her teeth chattering as she reached for her towel. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just remember, this is all your doing,’ Mrs Trumpet hissed at her. ‘You drove Mr Pizzicato away! He was our last hope.’

  ‘But I tried my best,’ Melody protested. ‘That’s all I can do. He shouldn’t have left me.’

  ‘ENOUGH!’ Mr Trumpet roared.

  ‘You’re right, my scrumptious one,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘The time has come. My child, we can’t have you here any more.’

  Tears stung Melody’s eyes. ‘But this is my home.’

  ‘We’ll send you to a new home,’ Mr Trumpet said. ‘A wonderful boarding school overseas: Dullard Private. It’s far, far away from Battyville and the Debut Gala.’

  ‘Please don’t do this!’ Melody pleaded. ‘I won’t know a soul.’

  Mrs Trumpet sighed. ‘That’s the point, our dear little ferret. You’ll have a fancy new name and a fancy new look. No one will know you. Think of it as a fresh start.’

  ‘A chance to be a better you,’ Mr Trumpet added. ‘The person you could have been if you weren’t born into this life with us.’

  Melody cocked her head to one side. ‘So you don’t want to be my parents any more?’

  ‘We’ll still be your parents. We’ll just be on the other side of the world,’ Mr Trumpet said.

  ‘How long will I have to be away?’ Melody asked.

  His jaw hardened. ‘Just until all this drama dies down. Until the pressure is off.’

  ‘But that could take years.’ Melody’s throat felt tight. ‘What if we just tell everyone the truth now? No more lies. We’ll finally be free.’

  Mr Trumpet sighed. ‘You just don’t get it.’

  ‘Royce!’ Mrs Trumpet screeched. ‘Royce!’

  Royce hurried over from standing guard by the nearby bushes. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ he asked, chest puffed out.

  ‘Take the child to her room. Lock the door and guard the hallway.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Royce said.

  ‘No . . .’ Melody’s mind raced with everything she would leave behind: Clementine and her music; Freddie, her first ever friend; and Moe with his grumpy little face and muddy paws. ‘Please, don’t do this,’ she begged.

  ‘And, Royce,’ Mrs Trumpet continued, ‘confiscate any computers or phones or . . . or notebooks that you can find hidden in her room. Anything she could use to get a message out.’

  ‘Mother, no!’ Melody said. ‘You can’t send me away. Please, I beg you. You haven’t even let me say goodbye to anyone!’

  ‘Who on earth could you possibly have to say goodbye to?’ Mrs Trumpet asked.

  ‘Get it done,’ Mr Trumpet ordered Royce.

  He nodded and turned in Melody’s direction. Jaw clenching, Melody sprinted past him along the wet tiles.

  ‘Stop her, Royce!’ Mrs Trumpet cried, tottering towards them in her heels. ‘I said, stop her!’

  Royce lurched at Melody, who shrieked and ducked out of the way.

  ‘Grab her!’ Mrs Trumpet ordered as Melody hurried along the tiles, slipping and sliding in her attempt to escape. ‘Quickly, before she — oof!’

  Melody had crashed into her mother, sending them both into the pool with a huge SPLASH! Water sprayed everywhere, drenching Mr Trumpet and Royce. Mrs Trumpet burst up to the surface, mascara running down her cheeks.

  ‘Royce!’ she gurgled, as Melody appeared beside her, also spluttering water. ‘Seize the child and take her upstairs immediately.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Royce said, wringing out his shirt and jacket.

  ‘Out you come, my poor little possum,’ Mr Trumpet said as he pulled Mrs Trumpet from the pool. Her once-perfect curled hair was dripping and flopped over her forehead. One heel was missing.

  Mrs Trumpet grunted. ‘Remember, Royce, she’s to have no contact with anyone,’ she told him. ‘The child will be on her way to Dullard Private by the end of the week.’

  The end of the week. It was all over.

  As a soaking Melody shuffled up the staircase to her bedroom, Royce thudding behind her, she wondered if she would ever walk through this house again. If her parents were banishing her because she co
uldn’t sing or play an instrument, why would they ever bring her home?

  Melody was never going to be a performer like them. She would never be enough.

  20.

  The Trumpets’ wicked plan

  ‘Breaking news out of Battyville,’ said the newsreader on the television. ‘The heir of the Trumpet empire, ten-year-old Melody Trumpet, has been kidnapped.’

  Melody, who was very much not kidnapped but locked in her private wing with Royce guarding her, shook her head and bashed on the door again.

  ‘I haven’t been kidnapped! I’m right here!’ she yelled. ‘Help! Someone! Save me!’

  ‘According to sources,’ the newsreader continued, ‘the only child of the musical icons — a prodigy who was due to give her debut performance in front of the Prince and Princess of Zanjia — was reported missing after failing to show up for dinner last night. Viola and Barry T Trumpet are working with authorities to try to bring Battyville’s golden girl home.

  ‘Crossing now to our reporter on the ground just outside Trumpet Manor. Are there any updates on little Melody’s whereabouts?’

  ‘Thank you, Christine,’ the reporter said. ‘None of the reported sightings hold up at this stage. However, if anyone has any information they’re urged to contact police as soon as possible. The clock is ticking.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the Trumpets?’

  ‘I have, and they are devastated. Viola Trumpet is so heartbroken she broke down on camera, wailing in pitch-perfect key.’

  ‘Tragic indeed. Such an extraordinary family. How could this terrible thing happen to them only days before the prestigious Debut Gala?’

  ‘It’s a question we’re all asking, and hopefully we’ll have some answers soon. For now, let’s hope young Melody is safe and unharmed.’

  ‘Hope is all we have. And yes, here’s to her safe return.’

  Melody switched off the television in a huff.

  She went to her window, which was slightly ajar, and tried once again to slide it open. It wouldn’t budge. Grimacing, Melody gave it another tug. Her arm muscles quivered and ached but she wasn’t strong enough to open it. The window was stuck, just like her.

  Melody’s gaze fell on a large yellow umbrella hanging from a hook behind her door. She took the brolly and aimed its pointy tip at the open window. The umbrella trembled as Melody tried to lever the window open, but then . . . SNAP! The brolly collapsed under the strain.

  Melody drew in a deep breath.

  She looked outside past the enormous tree winding its way past her window and into the sky, and gazed down into the manor gardens. Freddie was sitting on the grass, playing his guitar and chatting to Mr Bloom who was pruning a hedge. There it was. A ray of hope. A small chance at freedom. Melody called out to Freddie for help through the sliver in the window but her words got lost in the wind. She tried again, screaming until her throat burned, but she was too high, too far away.

  Melody wondered if Freddie believed she’d been kidnapped. Surely not? But then again . . . why wouldn’t he? She wasn’t going to be peeking at him through the window of the secret passage, and she wouldn’t show up at Town Square either.

  Freddie may know her parents were eccentric, but he had no idea they could go so far as to fake a kidnapping to save their reputation. Melody wouldn’t have believed it herself if Royce hadn’t been guarding her bedroom door all night.

  The bedroom door rattled, causing her to jump. It was just Royce, struggling to balance the key and a silver tea tray covered with fluffy white scones, a jug of cream and a bowl of blood-red jam.

  ‘Mealtime, Miss Trumpet,’ he said, and lumbered towards Melody’s desk to put down the tray.

  Melody took two scones. If she was going to be sent away, she may as well have a stomach full of Miss Sprinkles’ delicious scones, jam and cream.

  Royce hummed to himself as he placed the spoons into the bowls of jam and cream. The ditty sounded familiar. Out of tune, but familiar.

  ‘What’s that song?’ Melody asked him.

  He paused. ‘You know, I’m not sure, but it’s catchy. You were humming it yesterday — something about “together on this day” — and it’s been stuck in my head ever since.’

  It was her song. Melody’s heart panged at the thought of never seeing Clementine, Freddie, Moe or The Workshop troupe again.

  While Royce was distracted with the tea, Melody peeked outside and saw that Freddie had swapped his guitar for a shovel. But he wasn’t using it. He was still daydreaming, probably imagining the crowd cheering and throwing gold coins the next time the three of them performed in Town Square.

  Melody clenched her fists. If only she could contact her friend to tell him what was happening. Or maybe she could . . .

  ‘Royce,’ she said, crossing her legs and hopping from side to side. ‘I really need to . . . you know.’

  He cocked his head in confusion. ‘Dance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Skip?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What is it, Miss Trumpet?’ he asked, growing impatient.

  ‘I need to . . . you know . . .!’

  His eyes widened. ‘Number one?’

  Melody pursed her lips. ‘Royce! I need to go. Now. And I need some privacy.’

  He crinkled his nose. ‘You’ve got one minute.’

  ‘These things can’t be rushed,’ Melody said. ‘I need to soap my hands, and rinse my hands, and dry my hands —’

  ‘Four minutes,’ he said. ‘And not a second longer.’

  * * *

  Melody told herself to count to ten while she waited inside the bathroom, but only made it to six before impatience got the better of her. Holding her breath, she opened the bathroom door slowly to avoid it creaking or groaning and peeked out. Royce, his back to her, was pacing the hallway and humming to himself again.

  Guarded toilet breaks, locking her in her bedroom, a fake kidnapping — these were new lows for her parents. Was fame really worth all this?

  She snuck out of the bathroom, gently closing the door behind her, and tiptoed in the opposite direction from Royce, until she reached a door that led to another corridor. Melody opened it and sprinted along a hallway that wasn’t as opulent as those in the main part of the manor. She was in the servants’ quarters now and she knew exactly where she wanted to go. To the staff entrance.

  She ran past doors and rooms, up steps, down steps, around corners, not daring to look left or right, focused only on making it to her destination. Breathless, she finally reached a thick brown door. She dragged it open to see a steep, twisting concrete staircase that she knew led out to the garden.

  Melody pounded down the steps, and paused in the doorway that led to the gardens. She could see Mr Bloom and Freddie arguing over how to use a rake properly. She tried not to laugh as she watched Freddie rolling his eyes. He may have been top of his classes at school, but he hadn’t inherited Mr Bloom’s passion for gardening.

  Melody couldn’t risk being spotted by anyone other than Freddie, so she needed to get creative. She looked around for something — anything — to write on. Her gaze settled on a neat pile of leaves, bark and twigs under a nearby tree. She crept over, hid behind the thick, gnarly trunk, and squatted down to pluck a sharp stick from the pile.

  She found a large piece of bark and scratched SOS. MT not kidnapped. Locked in bedroom! onto it. She knew it was a desperate move, but she was willing to try anything to avoid Dullard Private.

  Please work, she thought, before tiptoeing towards Mr Bloom’s gardening tools. Freddie’s backpack was sitting next to them. Jackpot!

  Freddie’s argument with his father had turned into a leaf-throwing competition. Within moments, they were chasing each other around the garden with their rakes, before cracking up laughing and crash-tackling each other into a wrestling match on the grass.

  Glad of the distraction, Melody unzipped the front of Freddie’s backpack. Screwing up her nose at the sight of a soggy blueberry muffin squashed in there, she th
rust the piece of bark inside, then just as quickly zipped the bag shut again.

  She sprinted back through the staff door, up the staircase and along the winding hallway, until she reached the door to her own hallway. Royce was still pacing up and down and humming.

  The moment his back was turned, Melody raced to her bathroom door. Then she gave the door a nudge, causing it to swing, and pretended she’d just stepped out.

  ‘Four minutes,’ she announced. ‘As promised.’

  Back in her bedroom, Melody rushed to the window. The Blooms were gone. So were Mr Bloom’s tools and Freddie’s backpack. She hoped Freddie found her message before it was too late.

  All she had now was hope.

  21.

  Performance of a lifetime

  ‘Is that everything you want to take?’ Mrs Trumpet asked Melody. She sat her plump behind on the suitcase in an attempt to close it.

  ‘What I want is to not go at all,’ Melody said. ‘I have friends in Battyville!’

  ‘But they’re forbidden.’ Mrs Trumpet’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who are they?’

  Melody didn’t reply.

  ‘Well, you won’t be seeing them again anyway. You’re leaving tomorrow so keep packing – and no more tantrums. We’re not turning around the private jet if you forget anything.’

  ‘I’m not going away forever.’ Melody crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Or am I?’

  Mrs Trumpet bounced on her bottom to squash the suitcase down a little more. ‘Forever is such a strong word. So permanent. I prefer to think of this as an eternally temporary change. What you fail to understand, child, is that being a Trumpet isn’t just a name. It’s a lifestyle and, more importantly, a business. We must all protect the family reputation. Besides, I heard your new school has a swimming pool . . . isn’t that great?’

  ‘We have a pool here!’ Melody said.

  ‘Listen, you little ant, your father and I have spent decades building the Trumpet empire. And before that, it was years and years of music practice, no friends, no holidays, just doing what my mother told me to build my career. I refuse to have all my hard work destroyed because you’ve failed to live up to expectation. With you away at boarding school, we all benefit. You get a future, and your father and I get —’