‘Whatever it takes, remember?’
Mrs Trumpet sucked in a breath. ‘Whatever it takes. And after you’ve spoken to Principal Sharp, call Mr Pizzicato and remind him what’s really on the line here. He and the child have a lot of work to do — for all our sakes.’
3.
The special invitation
‘I’ve never seen one this fancy,’ the postman told Melody through the gap in the gate as he passed the envelope to her. It was silver with gold foil edges that glinted in the sunlight. ‘It’s not someone’s birthday, is it?’
Melody shook her head. Her tenth birthday had come and gone months ago, with just a melted rainbow ice-cream cake to mark the occasion.
The postman chuckled. ‘By the looks of that embossed gold, you’d better get your finest frock ready. Expecting an invitation for high tea with the Queen, are you?’
Melody wasn’t. She never expected an invitation to anything. But she smiled her most polite smile at the postman, then hurried back to her corner of the garden as soon as he’d gone.
She looked over one shoulder, then the other. Her parents were nowhere to be seen. On the other side of the lawn, the groundskeeper, Mr Bloom, was crouched in the dirt and whispering to his beloved roses. Melody listened to him happily whistle and hum as he tickled their petals and watered the soil around them. He sounded as out of tune as she did in Mr Pizzicato’s private tutoring sessions.
Behind Mr Bloom, his three wild-haired children lazed on the grass under an old tree, watching a group of ducklings marching towards a small pond. Today they were barefoot, and, as always, they were laughing. The eldest, a boy around Melody’s age, stood up, plopped his baseball cap on his little sister’s head, then launched into a wobbly cartwheel. His siblings’ eyes widened with delight and they clapped.
It wasn’t the first time Melody had seen Mr Bloom’s children playing in the grounds of Trumpet Manor. She’d overheard Miss Sprinkles telling Royce in the kitchen one night that Mr Bloom was a widower, which was why the children spent many afternoons by his side or playing in the manor’s famous garden maze. Melody often saw them while she was curled up in the shade, scribbling poems and daydreams into her brown leather-bound notebook. But, like everyone else in the world, the Bloom children were forbidden to talk to her, and she was forbidden to talk to them. So they stayed on their side of the garden, and she stayed on hers, with nothing but her notebook to keep her company.
The notebook had been a present from her parents on her ninth birthday. Like most years, they’d forgotten to organise a suitable gift or celebration, so Mr Trumpet had grabbed the nearest item from a cupboard in his study and wrapped it up in old newspaper and ribbon. Yet that time their forgetfulness had paid off. The notebook was the perfect gift for Melody, and it had barely left her side for over a year.
Now, with the postman gone, and the Bloom family distracted, Melody glanced around one last time to make sure there was no sign of her parents. Sure that she was alone, she held up the envelope. Her name danced across it in neat loopy calligraphy: Miss Melody Trumpet. This sort of thing didn’t happen every day. In fact, this sort of thing never happened.
She turned the envelope over in her hand. It was from Ms A F Sharp of the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children.
Allegra F Sharp. The school principal.
Heart racing, Melody slid her finger under the sticky seal of the envelope, edging it open millimetre by millimetre. She didn’t dare move too fast in case it ripped.
Inside was a folded piece of silver paper with gold foil edges to match the envelope. With a few gentle tugs, Melody slipped out her first piece of mail.
The Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children’s
Annual Debut Gala
Dear Miss Trumpet,
It is with the greatest pleasure that we request your presence at our upcoming Debut Gala in Crescendo Hall.
We would be delighted if you would make your debut at the Battyville Elite School For Musically Gifted Children on the first evening of spring by performing a solo piece of your choosing. Not only would you headline the Debut Gala, but the event will be a celebration of your family’s enormous successes.
The Prince and Princess of Zanjia will also be in attendance as our special guests to witness you, the heir of the extraordinary Viola and Barry T Trumpet, take your rightful place on stage.
The evening is sure to be a highlight for the school and our entire community.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Your principal,
Allegra F Sharp
Melody reread the letter in a rush, then folded the paper in half and slid it back into the envelope. What a lovely invitation. Her first. But she knew she wasn’t ready for a public performance, even though Mr Pizzicato had been working for years towards this very moment.
The Trumpets had often spoken of the school’s prestigious Debut Galas over the years — tales of extravagant gowns, standing ovations, international guests and show-stopping performances, often their own.
Her mind ran over the details of the invitation:
A solo piece of your choosing.
Headline the Debut Gala.
The Prince and Princess of Zanjia.
The heir of the extraordinary Viola and Barry T Trumpet.
The first evening of spring.
That was just a month away!
Melody gulped. Maybe the invitation wasn’t as lovely as she’d first thought.
* * *
Melody pressed her nose against her bedroom window, watching her parents sashay towards their limousine in the driveway. Mrs Trumpet flirted and laughed with Mr Trumpet, twirling her feather boa around, before Royce ushered her into the back seat of the limousine. The Trumpets were off to their weekly croquet session at their country club, which meant they’d be gone for the rest of the afternoon.
Melody nibbled on her thumbnail and turned her attention to the pale blue baby grand piano in the corner of her bedroom. It had been a fourth birthday present from the school board. A sign of things to come, the card had read. Mr Trumpet had ripped it up and none of them had ever spoken of it again.
Her gaze moved to the hot pink electric guitar and purple saxophone leaning against her bookshelf. She had hours to practise if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. The instruments looked so perfect, and Melody already knew she couldn’t play them — not the way a real Trumpet would.
She plopped onto her bed, reached under her pillow and pulled out the envelope. She peeled it back to reveal the invitation, and traced her fingertips over its gold embossed edges, cringing as she remembered how Principal Sharp had invited her to take her rightful place on stage. She was going to be exposed as a huge fraud.
Her imagination ran wild with the headlines that would blast around the globe:
HORRENDOUS TRUMPET HEIR!
TRUMPET’S A FAKE!
OUT-OF-TUNE TRUMPET!
Her parents would appear on the television news, wiping away tears as they apologised to the good people of Battyville. Meanwhile, Melody’s heart would feel heavier still, because she’d let down the people she wanted to make proud: her parents and Mr Pizzicato.
But what if I don’t let everyone down? she thought. What if I surprise everyone for a change?
How would she prepare for the Debut Gala? Where should she begin?
Melody thought of her mother twirling her feather boa as she walked towards the limousine . . . then it hit her! She knew just where to start.
After slipping the invitation back under her pillow, Melody tiptoed out of her bedroom and into the hallway. She hurried down the sweeping staircase to the grand foyer, slipping in her polka-dot socks on the freshly polished floor, then up the other sweeping staircase that led to her parents’ wing.
As she approached the top step, loud humming echoed from the dining room. Melody froze, then peeked in to see Miss Sprinkles crouched beneath the table, wearing fluffy white headphones as she hummed
and scrubbed the floorboards. Holding her breath, Melody continued past her and into her parents’ bedroom.
She paused at her mother’s dressing table to size up her reflection in the enormous gold-plated mirror. Her fingers traced over the pewter dishes filled with trinkets and jewels, and the collection of peculiarly shaped perfume bottles — and paused on a small burgundy bottle with dimpled edges and a thick tassel. It had been a gift from her father on the night her mother was honoured with her third Most Outstanding Performer Award. Melody remembered the evening well. She’d been sent to her own wing for the night, as usual, but had snuck out to sit on the top step of the staircase to watch her parents leave for the party in her mother’s honour. ‘I spray just a smidge, my handsome poppyseed,’ Melody remembered her mother telling her father. ‘Just enough to leave people wanting more.’
Melody held the perfume bottle above her, just like she’d seen her mother do, and spritzed the air with two hard bursts. Her nose wrinkled as the smell of roses filled the room. Spluttering, she walked through the scented mist.
On her mother’s bedside table stood a black-and-white photo of a younger Viola Trumpet on stage at the International Music Awards, her arms filled with trophies. Mr Trumpet was in the background, beaming with pride and holding a number of trophies of his own. The photo wasn’t colour, but Melody knew the trophies were gold. For the Trumpets, the trophies were always gold.
She entered her mother’s walk-in wardrobe — the silliest of names for a room that was twice the size of Melody’s bedroom. The walls were adorned with shelves covered with trophies and treasures. Brightly coloured gowns, skirts, blouses and coats burst from hangers in every direction. Melody plucked a hat with an enormous peacock feather from one of the many hatstands and plopped it on her head. Next, a pale yellow feather boa, which was so long she snaked it around her neck three times and it still dragged along the carpet.
She skipped past a rack of dresses, and paused in front of another jewellery box. She lifted the lid and peered at the diamond bracelets and gem-laden necklaces inside. She selected a rose-gold cuff and slipped it onto her arm. It was so big it went all the way up to her shoulder. Swallowing, Melody reached into the box for a pearl ring that she knew was her mother’s lucky ring. She’d recorded every chart-topping album while wearing it.
The ring slid off Melody’s pointer finger, so she put it loosely on her thumb, then stood in front of a full-length mirror with gold trimming. She faked a high-pitched laugh, like her mother’s whenever they had company.
‘Why, yes, I am the Melody Trumpet,’ she said to her reflection, putting on a posh voice to rival her mother’s. ‘Yes, daughter of Viola and Barry T Trumpet and heir to the Trumpet throne.’ She curtsied. ‘I am delighted to be here at the annual Debut Gala, Principal Sharp, what an honour.’ Melody paused, eyebrow raised, feigning embarrassment as she clutched her hand to her collarbone. ‘A genius, you say? Little old me? That’s very kind of you, but I simply can’t accept. Well, if you insist . . . oh, you do insist?’
Melody waltzed over to her mother’s shoe collection: an assortment of rainbow-coloured, leopard-print and patent-leather heels, boots and sandals. Without removing her socks, she pressed her feet into a pair of cream strappy heels.
‘If the shoe fits . . . Oh, please don’t mention that genius word again, Principal Sharp!’ Melody waved the feather boa at her reflection. ‘Are the rumours true? I can’t say much . . . I can’t, I shouldn’t . . . but yes, okay, all the rumours are true. My talents are extraordinary. There is nothing ordinary about me. Nothing at all.’
She spun in the heels. ‘Melody by name, Melody by nature! I’m off to the Debut Gala and everything will be — ooomph!’
Melody tripped on the rug and fell backwards into a stand dripping with rainbow scarves. As it crashed down, she became tangled in metres of long, flowing fabric and knocked over a pair of silver heels, which sent her mother’s entire shoe collection tumbling like dominoes around the room.
‘Oh no,’ Melody said, looking around at the mess. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’
The door creaked open and a worried face peered through the crack. ‘Hello in there,’ Miss Sprinkles said, her voice shaking. ‘You should know I’m moments away from calling the police!’
‘Wait!’ Melody cried.
‘The manor will be surrounded in seconds. Our Battyville boys in blue don’t waste any time.’
‘Miss Sprinkles, hold on! It’s me!’
‘Melody?’ Miss Sprinkles burst through the door, clutching a pile of fresh towels with the Trumpets’ personalised monogram to her chest. ‘My goodness,’ she stammered, taking in the sight of Melody surrounded by mountains of clothes. ‘Your mother will skin you alive for touching her things! Do you have any idea what all this is worth, what trouble you’ve got yourself into? We have to clean this up at once.’
‘I know.’ Melody took off the feather boa and hung it back on the nearest stand. ‘I didn’t mean to make a mess.’
Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. It had felt so wonderful to be someone for a few minutes, even if it was only make-believe. A genius — adored, appreciated and glamorous, and fit to perform at Principal Sharp’s annual Debut Gala.
Miss Sprinkles crouched down. ‘We’ll tidy this all up and pretend it never happened. But you must never come in here again, sweet Melody. You have no idea how it feels to disappoint your mother. She has certain . . . expectations.’
Melody wiped her eyes and didn’t say what she was thinking.
She knew how it felt to disappoint her mother.
She knew better than anyone.
4.
Hoping for a miracle
Tension filled the room as the Trumpets and Mr Pizzicato sat around a cheese platter in the manor’s dining room. Mr Pizzicato gnawed on his fingernails, which were already chewed down to the quick. Mrs Trumpet sloshed her drink onto the floor with every frustrated gesture, while Mr Trumpet slathered a thick slab of blue-vein cheese onto a cracker and shoved it into his mouth.
The silver envelope with gold foil edges, now covered in crumbs and wine stains, lay next to the platter. Melody had given the invitation to her parents upon their return from the country club and they’d immediately called an emergency meeting with Mr Pizzicato.
‘An audience . . . the spotlight on her . . . the Prince and Princess of Zanjia! It’s not possible,’ Mr Pizzicato whispered, running his hands through his thinning grey hair. ‘I’ve tried everything with Melody, ma’am, everything . . . and all for nothing. Seven years of my life sacrificed for this family.’ He groaned. ‘How did we think this day would never come?’
‘We need you to fix this, Pizzicato,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘We’re almost out of time.’
Mr Pizzicato cleared his throat. ‘I fear it’s not possible. I’ve spent decades working with the best. But I can’t crack her. If word gets out that I’ve failed to conjure musical talent from a Trumpet of all people . . . well, I’m doomed. My career will be over. You have to tell Principal Sharp that Melody can’t do the Debut Gala.’
‘Not an option,’ Mr Trumpet said through a mouthful of cheese. ‘She’s ten. It has to happen. Imagine if a Trumpet was exposed as a fraud . . . there is such a thing as bad publicity, Pizzicato.’
‘I’m at a loss,’ Mr Pizzicato said. ‘The trombone, the alto horn and the cornet are out. And you don’t want to know what happened with the trumpet, or the tuba or the French horn.’
‘What about the helicon?’ Mrs Trumpet asked, topping up their goblets. ‘The mellophone? The flugelhorn?’
Mr Pizzicato dry-retched, and took a second to recompose himself. ‘My ears are still ringing after Melody attempted the flugelhorn. I should mention that the bassoon and oboe are also most definitely out.’
‘What about the string instruments?’ Mr Trumpet said, cracker crumbs flying from his mouth. ‘The woodwinds? The bagpipes? She must take to something.’
‘The brass sounded ghastly, and the strings literal
ly snapped at her touch,’ Mr Pizzicato said. ‘As for the bagpipes, it took several days for my hearing to return.’
Mrs Trumpet clutched her heaving chest. ‘This is a nightmare!’
‘Even the violin?’ Mr Trumpet asked. ‘We’ve always been fond of the violin.’
‘She broke eleven violin strings last week alone.’ Mr Pizzicato hung his head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Are we certain she can’t sing?’ Mrs Trumpet asked. ‘With her gene pool, I just can’t understand it!’
‘Please, ma’am, I can’t bear another minute of listening to Melody attempt to follow in your footsteps. It’s not going to happen.’
‘But you got that blasted chicken to sing!’ Mr Trumpet said. ‘You’re telling us you can’t do the same with our daughter?’
‘And need we remind you that your teaching services came highly recommended all those years ago,’ Mrs Trumpet said, stepping closer to Mr Pizzicato and baring her lipstick-covered teeth. ‘It’s the only reason we hired you.’
‘My reputation is unparalleled, but I’m not a magician,’ Mr Pizzicato said, wringing his hands. ‘There is no one in the world who could get a single note out of Melody that’s worth listening to. I’m sorry but it’s true!’
Mr Trumpet slammed his fist on the table. ‘What are you trying to tell us?’
‘The same thing I’ve been telling you for years,’ Mr Pizzicato said, arms flailing. ‘She’s a delightful child and my affection for her is great, but Melody doesn’t have a musical bone in her body. In fact . . .’ He paused to take a huge gulp from his goblet. ‘I believe it’s time for me to hand in my resignation. Perhaps you will find a magician to replace me who is able to conjure talent from an empty well.’
The Trumpets swapped dark looks, their lips cemented into stiff lines. They knew they’d never find such a person. Mr Pizzicato was the best music tutor in the world.
‘We want you to finish the job we paid you for,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘You’re a music teacher, so teach her music! We saw the footage of you training that baboon to play the piano.’
Melody Trumpet Page 2
