Melody Trumpet Page 5

  But then she remembered: it was against the rules to talk to other people. Not even the children of the Trumpets’ staff. Her family’s big festering lie loomed over her again.

  ‘Um,’ she stammered, ‘I . . . I have to go. Right now. You didn’t see me. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, I did. You’re right here.’ He beamed at her. ‘Melody Trumpet mixing with us ordinary folk. I never thought I’d see the day.’

  ‘No. No, listen.’ Melody stepped closer to the boy. ‘Please . . . I wasn’t here. My parents will kill me — or worse!’

  He grinned another big toothy grin. ‘What’s worse than being killed?’

  Melody fought back a smile. ‘Just trust me. If you tell anyone, I’m done.’

  ‘You mean grounded?’

  Melody had essentially been grounded her entire life, but she nodded anyway. This was no time to explain the complexities of what was at stake. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Righto. It’s a secret then.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Melody said, turning towards the doors at the end of the hallway. She paused. ‘I mean it. No one can know.’

  ‘Who could I even tell?’ he asked with a shrug.

  ‘Principal Sharp, your father, my father . . . my mother.’ She shuddered. ‘You could tell everyone.’

  ‘Well, I won’t. Not even my goldfish, Bert. Not anyone.’

  ‘Thank you, uh . . .?’

  The boy crossed his arms over his chest. ‘You don’t know my name, do you?’

  Melody went to protest, then shook her head.

  ‘It’s Freddie Bloom. But just Freddie is fine.’

  ‘Okay. Well, bye, just Freddie.’

  ‘See you round. In the garden . . . right?’ He grinned at her again.

  Melody tried again not to smile back. ‘Right.’

  ‘Here, take this.’ Freddie passed his cap to her.

  She looked at it in confusion.

  ‘If you don’t want anyone else to recognise you, you need this more than I do,’ he explained.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ Melody removed her headband and slipped on the cap. ‘I’ll find a way to repay you.’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just a hat. I’m good.’

  She tried to think of something she could give him. ‘Well, if you do need to tell someone you saw me, you can tell your goldfish. Secrets aren’t always easy to keep to yourself.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,’ Freddie said. He laughed, then pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key. ‘Nah, I won’t tell anyone. Besides, that Bert is a real blabbermouth. Enjoy the hat, Melody Trumpet!’

  * * *

  Melody pulled down the baseball cap to disguise her face as she stepped over the cobblestoned strip that ran around the sides of Town Square. The air was thick with the sound of music, and rich with the smell of roast beef, sizzling onions and melted cheese radiating from the food trucks lining the street. It was the first time Melody had ever been there alone. She was enjoying being free to go at her own pace without Mrs Trumpet hissing at her to hurry up, or Royce encouraging her to get in the limousine before the paparazzi snapped another photo.

  Melody stopped to pat an orange kitten that was scratching its claws on a wooden post. She ignored the statue of her parents looming large by the ice-cream parlour and stepped on the cracks in the pavers with abandon. This afternoon, there were no rules. No obligations. As far as everyone in Trumpet Manor was concerned, Melody was still holed up in Mr Pizzicato’s music studio practising piano scales for the six hundredth time that day. She had just under two hours before she had to race back to the school to meet Royce, who had never arrived to pick her up later than three twenty-nine.

  Melody’s jaw dropped at the colourful sights as she walked deeper into Town Square. Crowds queued by the food trucks. Buskers dotted the perimeter of the square: jugglers, cartoonists, painters, didgeridoo players, magicians, saxophonists. She wandered closer, drawn in by their bright costumes and amazing skills.

  Her stomach grumbled as she passed a food truck serving kebabs. The line was so long it wrapped around the square like a snake. Melody let person after person go ahead of her while she patted down her pockets in search of loose coins. But there was none, and no notes either, and nothing clinking in the bottom of her backpack. Unsurprising, really, as the Trumpets rarely paid for anything with cash.

  Sighing, Melody left the line and made her way deeper into a crowd of people forming around a busker singing in the centre of the square. She couldn’t see much but she could hear the strum of a guitar and a girl’s voice that was gentle and full of lightness, like it might wrap around Melody and lift her feet off the ground.

  She wriggled through the crowd for a better look. The busker wore faded denim overalls and was perched on a tiny wooden stool, swaying as she strummed the guitar and tapped her sneakers — which were ripped around the edges and revealed her big toes — to the beat. Her long, fiery red hair was braided into a thick plait that cascaded over one shoulder. A scruffy-looking white terrier with muddy paws lay at her side, dozing in the warm sun.

  The girl finished performing and everyone clapped. A few people threw coins into the empty guitar case on the concrete in front of her. Most didn’t.

  As the crowd moved on, Melody walked forward, keeping her cap down low, and dropped down to pat the scruffy little dog.

  ‘Wait, I’ve got more!’ the busker cried out to the departing crowd. She leaped to her feet. ‘Don’t leave yet. I’ve saved the best till last, I promise. A new song, just for you all.’

  But people continued to walk away, chowing into their kebabs and pizzas.

  Shaking her head, the busker plonked back onto her stool and swung her guitar strap around her neck. She began to play, and still no one stopped or turned around. But then she opened her mouth and her voice, soft, husky and beautiful, drew the crowd back to her.

  ‘Just once,’ the girl sang, her eyes closed, ‘Just once I’d like to be, in the kind of place that’s in my head, the perfect place for me.’

  Melody stood up a little straighter. Was she hallucinating with hunger after skipping lunch? Or was this flame-haired busker really singing lines from her private notebook?

  By now, the crowd was smiling in admiration. Even the scruffy little dog had woken up and was wagging his tail.

  Melody thought she must be imagining it. No one had ever read her scribblings. She’d never shown a soul. Not even Mr Pizzicato.

  Yet there was no denying it: the busker was singing her poem.

  Where it’s all okay,

  And it’s all alright,

  And nothing is a pain.

  Where the sun’s not too hot,

  The clouds aren’t too grey,

  And no one hates the rain.

  10.

  Clementine the busker

  Everyone clapped and cheered as the busker sang the final note. She jumped to her feet to give a comical curtsy. Her dog barked, still wagging his tail.

  ‘Thanking you, Battyville!’ the girl said, holding up her guitar. ‘If you’re new here, I’m Clementine and this is my best friend, Moe.’ The dog barked again. ‘We’re here often — same spot, different times. Tell your family, tell your friends, tell your enemies. Just tell people. Thanking you again, Battyville!’

  The crowd gave her another round of applause and this time they swarmed to throw money into the guitar case.

  Melody waited for the crowd to thin out, her teeth grinding while Clementine’s new fans asked for hugs, photos and pats of Moe the dog. Eventually, she was the last person left. Moe glared at Melody, but Clementine didn’t seem to realise she still had company. She poured the money into her backpack, then popped the guitar into its case and strapped it onto the back of a green tandem bicycle with rainbow streamers that was leaning against a nearby pole.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, finally noticing Melody standing behind her. ‘Howdy there. Did you like the show? I suppose you’re after a photograph or autograph?’


  ‘I did like the show. Until you stole my words.’

  Clementine froze, then faked a gasp. ‘Steal? Me? I would never.’

  Melody pointed to the sauce-stained brown leather-bound notebook peeking out of the straw basket hitched onto the back of the bicycle. ‘That’s mine. I’d know it anywhere.’

  ‘No, no, that’s my notebook. My very special book. Mine, all mine.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Melody raised an eyebrow. ‘If we look at whose initials are scribbled on the front, and the words filling the pages inside, the facts will suggest otherwise.’

  ‘Facts? Is this an inquisition? Do I need to call a lawyer?’ Clementine laughed. ‘Go home. Build a fort. Collect stamps. Play with your friends.’

  Melody stepped in front of Clementine’s bicycle.

  ‘Seriously,’ Clementine continued, ‘don’t you have something better to do than harass a lowly busker trying to feed herself? This is a free country.’

  ‘But that book isn’t free. It belongs to me and you know it. Look at the first page. You go to the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children, do you? And your initials are M T for Melody Trumpet?’

  ‘As a matter of fact they . . .’ Clementine’s eyes widened. ‘Wait, you’re Melody Trumpet? As in . . . the Trumpets. I thought you were a myth. Where have you been hiding all these years?’

  ‘Um . . .’ Melody stammered. She wanted to run away to avoid getting in trouble. But she wanted her notebook back even more. ‘Yes, I’m Melody Trumpet.’

  ‘Well, right on!’ Clementine cheered. ‘You hear that, Moe? We’re in the company of a genius. I can’t believe it. A Trumpet! The richest and most talented family in Battyville. At my gig. I’m, like, famous by association or something. Sing us a song! Play something on the guitar! Wow us with your musical prowess!’

  This was exactly why her parents had kept her away from strangers over the years, Melody realised.

  ‘Yes, I’m a Trumpet,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘As in the Trumpets. And we’ll take you for everything you’ve got for stealing my notebook. Now give it back and I’ll . . . I’ll be on my way.’ She paused. ‘Please.’

  ‘A simple, “No thanks, I don’t feel like singing today” would have sufficed,’ Clementine said. She clicked her tongue. ‘As for taking me for everything I’ve got — I’m afraid you and the all-powerful Trumpets are in for a disappointment.’ She gestured to the bicycle, her guitar and Moe. ‘That’s my whole life right there, minus a few shabby clothes and a book or two. Just make sure you take Moe for a long walk by the lagoon every day otherwise he’ll get skittish. Oh, and he has a refined palate. His favourite food is the five-cheese croissant from the patisserie around the corner. They toss out the leftovers at the end of the day so they don’t cost us a cent. Which is lucky because I don’t have many of those. So go on — clear me out. Take it all.’

  Moe growled a warning, but Melody didn’t move. She was thinking about her private wing at Trumpet Manor compared with Clementine’s bike, guitar and a dog.

  Clementine shrugged and adjusted her overalls. ‘Okay, time’s up. Guess you’re not into stealing. The truth is, neither am I. But, you know what? Finding something and borrowing it for free from a rich family with no intention of giving it back anytime soon is a different story!’

  She scooped Moe up in her arms and popped him into the bike basket. ‘Tuck those paws in, boy — it’s going to be a quick getaway!’

  ‘You can’t do this! Stop!’ Melody shouted.

  Clementine swung one leg over the bicycle. Moe barked from the back, a warning that Melody was still there.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, kid!’ Clementine called out as she pedalled off, streamers blowing in the wind. ‘Finders keepers! Thanking you! Thanking you with all my heart!’

  11.

  Secrets between friends

  Melody plopped down on a wooden bench in the square and traced a jagged crack in the seat with her fingertip. What was she supposed to do next?

  Principal Sharp was making preparations for the Debut Gala.

  Her parents were close to throttling her.

  Mr Pizzicato’s nerves had frayed until they split.

  And now a busker called Clementine had stolen her most treasured possession: her notebook.

  ‘Where the sun’s not too hot,’ she murmured, too forlorn to cringe as her voice swayed in and out of tune. ‘The clouds aren’t too grey, and no one hates the rain . . .’

  ‘Blimey, does your voice need a tune-up or what?’

  Startled, Melody looked up to see Freddie Bloom standing in front of her, his skateboard tucked under one arm.

  ‘Lucky the words sound alright,’ he added.

  Melody blushed, wondering how much he had heard. ‘Just practising. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I followed you.’ He beamed. ‘Isn’t that obvious?’

  Melody leaped to her feet and swung her backpack over her shoulders. ‘Well, you shouldn’t have. How long have you been here?’

  ‘Not too long.’ He shrugged. ‘Fine, twenty minutes. Fine, over an hour. Fine, I’ve been here the whole time. I saw that busker steal your book, and I know you’re keeping another secret. You can’t sing.’

  ‘I was just being silly,’ Melody said with a fake laugh. ‘I’m a Trumpet. Of course I can sing.’

  ‘My mistake. You’re a Trumpet who can’t sing well.’

  Melody cleared her throat. ‘Maybe I sound so good that I don’t want to make everyone else feel bad so I pretend I can’t sing.’

  ‘Maybe . . .’ Freddie said with an unconvinced look.

  Melody hated lying. Her parents made her do it all day, every day, and it was exhausting. She sighed and slumped back onto the bench. ‘My parents have managed to keep my miserable lack of musical talent a secret from the town — from the world — for years. But after just a few hours on my own, I meet you, lose everything that’s important to me, and reveal the life-ruining secret that I’m just an ordinary nobody. I really am as hopeless as my parents say. And I guess now you’ll tell everyone our big secret.’

  ‘Hey!’ He sat down next to her. ‘I said I’d never tell anyone your secrets, Melody Trumpet. And that’s two now.’ He pretended to lock his lips again and threw his imaginary key over his shoulder. ‘Remember? I reckon this makes us friends.’

  ‘We are?’ Melody wanted to trust Freddie. She’d never had a friend before. The only problem was, she didn’t know how this whole friendship thing worked. ‘Does that mean you need to tell me something about you now, to even it out?’

  ‘Ask me anything,’ he said. ‘My favourite colour? Green — love the bow by the way. My favourite footy team? The Battyville Bulldogs obviously, because they’re the best — and anyone who says otherwise is a traitor. My favourite breakfast? Waffles, ice-cream and strawberry topping. What else do you want to know?’

  ‘Why would you keep my secret?’ Melody asked. ‘Everyone else at school would dob me in to Principal Sharp without a second thought. It’s a huge scandal — you could sell the story and make a fortune. You’d be famous.’

  ‘I don’t give a rat’s tail about fame,’ Freddie said. ‘And I’m not like everyone else at school. They’d be the first ones to tell you that — if you ever slummed it with us, that is.’

  Melody wrinkled her nose. She’d overheard Mr Bloom telling Miss Sprinkles more than once about his eldest’s son’s meteoric rise at the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children. ‘I thought you were top of the class? Perfect grades, destined for greatness — all that?’

  Freddie snorted. ‘You think those snobs care about my grades, or the fact I can play the piano by ear while blindfolded?’

  ‘Now you’re showing off.’

  ‘They only care about prestige and riches. Everything I haven’t got.’ He shrugged. ‘You’d probably fit right in.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Melody said. ‘I’m the outsider.’

  ‘You’re a Trumpet. Your parents’ faces are a
ll over the walls of the school. You’re who everyone aspires to be. I’m on a scholarship. I don’t have nice clothes, and I share a bedroom with my six-year-old brother and five-year-old sister. Doesn’t matter how hard I try, how many awards I win, everyone always sees me as second-class.’

  Melody swallowed. She’d had no idea.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Freddie added, tugging at his faded jacket that Melody now realised was probably a hand-me-down. ‘That’s just the way it is. But it doesn’t help that my dad works in the dirt for the richest family in town.’

  ‘Your father loves that garden,’ Melody said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a weed in my life.’

  Freddie chuckled. ‘He is obsessed. Do what you love — that’s what he says.’ He gently elbowed Melody. ‘So you really can’t sing?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What about playing an instrument? The piano?’

  ‘Can’t play.’

  ‘Guitar?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Not even the trumpet?’

  She managed a watery laugh. ‘Not even that. Pathetic, right?’

  ‘No. Just . . . surprising.’ Freddie squinted up at the sun, before flashing Melody a warm smile. ‘What are you good at then?’

  ‘I’m not good at anything.’

  ‘Come on. Everyone’s good at something.’

  ‘I’m not! I only know what I like doing.’

  ‘Even better. What’s that?’

  ‘Writing. I love writing.’ Melody sighed. ‘But that busker stole my notebook. It’s everything to me.’

  Freddie stood up. ‘Then we’ve got to get it back.’

  ‘How?’

  He held out his hand for Melody to grasp onto, and pulled her to her feet. ‘That I don’t know . . . yet.’

  ‘Freddie?’ she began, straightening the baseball cap.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You saw the busker, right? Clementine? Did you like her songs?’

  ‘Sure, especially the last one. Everyone liked it.’

  ‘That was mine. My words, anyway.’