Chapter Seven
Next morning, Mr Sandilands entered the classroom with a serious and thoughtful look on his face. He allowed us to settle down then began pacing the floor, scratching his chin and nodding to himself. On the small table in front of the whiteboard Sean Dingwall’s pile of red cardboard letters lay in a jumbled heap. Finally, after Mr Sandilands had paced several hundred metres, he turned to us and announced, ‘This morning, there is going to be — a denouement.’
Everyone looked blank, except Rosa Thurwell, queen of the big words. She sprang to her feet and said, ‘Denouement, from the French, it means to reveal, to make clear. A denouement takes place at the end of a mystery story where the detective —’
‘Thank you, Rosa Thurwell.’ Mr Sandilands cut her off and wagged a forefinger to tell her to sit down again.
‘Oh,’ Rosa said and took the hint.
‘I was just about to say all of that,’ Mr Sandilands went on. ‘For I am about to reveal some nasty business that took place yesterday in this very classroom. I am about to make — a denouement.’
Denou away, Mr Sandilands, I thought. You can denou until morning break if you like. This was better than doing lessons.
Mr Sandilands gathered up the red cardboard letters and let them dangle from his fingers by their nylon fishing line. ‘These were made to spell out a rude message, aimed directly at me. Two words, then my name.’
‘Hairy Dopey Mr Sandilands,’ I said aloud. Well, if Rosa Thurwell can get to her feet and make remarks, then so can I. It’s a free country. Sort of.
At these words, Isobel Simms winced, shook her head and looked sad.
Everyone else went, ‘Ooh’ in horror, then looked at Mr Sandilands to see how he’d taken it.
‘Exactly,’ Mr Sandilands agreed. ‘Those very words.’
Everyone let fly with a huge sigh of relief because the sky hadn’t fallen in.
‘And innocent Charlie Thomson was caught up in this wicked, wicked scheme,’ Mr Sandilands went on. ‘Oh, the shame of it.’
‘Yes, shame,’ said a phantom ventriloquist from the back of the room. Although it might have been the front.
‘So, look here,’ Mr Sandilands went on. ‘See how each letter has a hole punched in it so the fishing line can be threaded through.’
Everyone craned his or her neck to see the holes. ‘Oh, yes,’ said the phantom voice, this time from outside the open window. ‘I can even see them from wherever I am. Star-shaped holes.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Sandilands spoke in triumph. ‘Star-shaped holes. So, who has a hole punch that makes little star shapes? M-mm? Who owns such a thing?’
There was a silence, then a deep guilty gulp from Sean Dingwall. ‘It’s not mine,’ he said too quickly. ‘It’s Rosa Thurwell’s.’
‘Yes,’ Rosa agreed snappishly, ‘but I gave it to you, Sean Dingwall. For your birthday and no way I’m taking it back.’
Mr Sandilands asked Sean to show his hole punch that made star-shaped holes. When our teacher took the cover off the container, lots of little red stars fell out.
‘It was Rosa Thurwell’s idea,’ Sean protested.
‘No, it wasn’t,’ Rosa cried. ‘I’d never do a mean thing like that.’
‘Not when there’s someone else to do it for you,’ Sean fired back.
‘Very interesting,’ Mr Sandilands went on. ‘Our two stars on a collision course.’
‘Rosa said it would make everyone laugh.’ Sean was becoming desperate. ‘Even Charlie saw the funny side of it, didn’t you, Charlie?’
‘Yeah, it was hilarious,’ I agreed.
‘Well, we’ve had our fun,’ Mr Sandilands continued. ‘So, Sean Dingwall and Rosa Thurwell — to the principal. Go! To the miscreants’ chair; not the nice one.’ He pointed a terrible finger. Sean and Rosa stood up as one, then trudged to the classroom door.
‘Can we cheer now, sir?’ said the phantom voice from the cupboard near the window. But no one waited for permission so the rest of us let fly with whistles, clapping of hands and stamping of feet.
‘As for you, Charlie Thomson,’ Mr Sandilands said when the hubbub died down, ‘we must put things right.’
‘My Mum’s had three letters home from the principal.’ I sprang to my feet to remind him.
‘Yes, the first two you deserved,’ Mr Sandilands agreed, ‘but we’ll take back the third one.’
I sat down again and Isobel Simms smiled at me and whispered, ‘It’s a start, Charlie.’
I met Tim Wong-Smith at lunch time, sitting in a shady place, eating his strawberry flavoured luncheon wrapper. (No mess, no fuss. Nothing to take home and lie rotting in your lunch box until Mum finds it after the summer holidays.) ‘Hi, Tim,’ I greeted him. ‘Any news?’
‘There has been a mighty row in the teachers’ staff room,’ Tim announced.
‘A row, eh?’
‘Yes, a big one. Ms Dingwall asked Mr Sandilands, “Why are you picking on my son?”’
‘So, she got the letter home already?’
‘She got to deliver it herself,’ Tim explained. ‘Mr Sandilands said that Sean had it coming, and that’s all it took.’
‘Gee, I’d love to have seen it.’
‘Yeah, tea-bags and scones flying everywhere. You know teachers.’
The afternoon in class was a quiet affair. Mr Sandilands was back to his grumpy mood. Everyone had hoped for another denouement, but it was not to be. Rosa Thurwell had moved desks as far away from Sean Dingwall as she could, but Mr Sandilands said no, she couldn’t sit out in the corridor and listen to lessons through the open door. ‘We have standards, you know.’
So it looked as if the Sean/Rosa partnership was over.
Since Mr Sandilands wasn’t in the mood for serious work, he told us to do silent reading. ‘And as for you, Thurwell and Dingwall,’ Mr Sandilands said brusquely, ‘it doesn’t mean silent plotting.’
I liked that bit and got on with some reading. So, it had not been such a bad day. I’d managed to get one of my three letters home withdrawn. But what about the other two? I hadn’t deserved them either. The second letter I got for defending myself and the first one for something I hadn’t done.
Think, Charlie, think, I urged myself. How can you clear your name? Since no one was looking and Mr Sandilands was still sulking, I got out a sheet of paper and wrote down some sentences that someone had once said to me. Then I looked at them in different ways, drew lines connecting one to the other, made diagrams and plans, then in the end, I knew I’d be able to make a denouement of my own.
I had worked out who destroyed Tim Wong-Smith’s horse sculpture and I could prove it. It would let me clear my name and get those other two letters home cancelled.
But my denouement would have to wait for a few hours more, because in our school, something really jaw-droppingly dramatic took place.
In years to come, people will speak of it. Some will even wish they’d been there, but you can still buy the DVD.
I was there. In fact, I had a ringside seat. Now read on.
Stars Page 7
