‘You can’t have friends,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘You have a big secret, one that you have to keep for all our sakes. Friends can talk. You don’t want anything or anyone to get in the way of you and your reputation.’
‘You mean your reputation. And I don’t care about that any more. I care about Freddie and Clementine.’
Mr Trumpet chortled. ‘You’ll forget about them in a day or two when you get to your new school. You’ll have everything you need there — and here’s the best part: they don’t teach music! No more pointless practice for you. In fact, they don’t teach anything creative at all. And there are no expectations either, not at a school for the ordinary. Isn’t that wonderful?’
Melody stared at the floor. ‘But I won’t have my friends.’ Tears slid down her cheeks.
‘Calm down, child,’ her father said. ‘You’ll be a whole new person as soon as you get on that plane. You can pick whatever name you want for yourself — any name at all. You’ll have the whole flight to think one up.’
Melody’s tears turned to sobs.
‘Do we need to sedate her?’ Mrs Trumpet asked Mr Trumpet, her voice rising with panic.
‘Viola! No! We . . . we . . . well, I don’t know what to do. I thought this would be exactly what she wanted.’
‘You’re right, honey bear. It is what she wants. She just doesn’t know it yet.’ Mrs Trumpet turned to Melody. ‘The media are still outside. We need a disguise for when you leave . . . and we need to do something with your hair. You can’t look like . . . well, like Melody Trumpet any more. Barry, get Miss Sprinkles up here.’
‘Miss Sprinkles doesn’t know how to cut hair!’ Melody said. ‘She tried when I was little and it looked awful.’
‘You’re right,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘If anyone knows fashion and beauty in this manor, it’s me.’
She took a pair of blunt silver scissors from the desk drawer and teetered towards Melody, the metal flashing in her hand. She snatched a section of Melody’s thick ebony hair.
Snip.
Snip.
Snip.
Mrs Trumpet stepped back and admired her work. ‘Well, I suppose it will do.’
More tears rolled down Melody’s cheeks as the long strands of her hair fell to the floor.
* * *
‘Keep your head down low,’ Mrs Trumpet said, pulling Melody through the dark towards the limousine parked in the driveway. The media had dispersed hours ago but her parents were still worried about their plans being revealed.
Melody dragged her feet along the cement and her mother nudged her in the back. ‘The faster we go, the faster this will be over. Then life can get back to normal for everybody.’
Melody grimaced. That wasn’t true. Not now. Her fingers traced over the choppy, hacked edges of her new short haircut. This wasn’t her normal at all. Even less normal was the fact that she was being pushed into the family limousine in the middle of the night and was about to be sent away to another country. And despite her parents trying to tell her this was an opportunity for a fresh start, she knew they were just forcing her to pretend to be something she wasn’t. Again. She couldn’t live another lie.
She could hear her parents whispering to each other. ‘I’ll get the decorators in tomorrow morning before the charity event kicks off in the afternoon,’ Mrs Trumpet said. ‘We’ll jazz up that entire wing, maybe even knock out a wall or two. We can go big, Barry. Let’s do something really special with the space and not let it go to waste any more.’
Melody’s arms erupted into goosebumps in the cool night air and she came to a halt, fists clenched.
Mrs Trumpet didn’t realise and walked into her. ‘Heavens, child! Watch where you’re going!’
‘No,’ Melody said, her voice shaking, ‘enough of this pretending everything is fine. I’m not going any further until you tell me exactly what’s going to happen to Freddie and Clementine.’
Mrs Trumpet narrowed her eyes at Melody’s sudden defiance. ‘We are doing all of this for you, you ungrateful child. And all you care about is those grotty little brats who broke into our beautiful home! Isn’t our family important to you too? I mean . . . you do love us, don’t you?’
Melody didn’t reply, biting her tongue to stop herself from blurting out the real question should really be whether her parents loved her.
Mrs Trumpet cleared her throat. ‘It’s better this way, I promise. Boarding school will be a good fit. You can be yourself there. Oh, and I organised something for you. Royce?’
Royce, wearing sunglasses despite the dark, handed Mrs Trumpet a present wrapped in a hot pink bow.
She thanked him and passed it to Melody. ‘It’s your dress from Claudette’s. It’s so spectacular I thought you couldn’t bear to leave it behind.’
Melody shook her head in disbelief, too stunned to speak. She didn’t want a reminder of her never-to-be Debut Gala performance.
‘Better hop in,’ Mrs Trumpet said, indicating the open car door. ‘They’re expecting you at the private runway anytime now.’
‘And we’re paying by the minute,’ added Mr Trumpet with a chortle.
Gift box tucked under her arm, Melody glared inside the limousine. But there was nowhere to run, so she sighed and climbed into the back seat.
‘Let’s not make this farewell harder than it has to be,’ Mr Trumpet said, peering through the door. ‘We’ll visit. At some point. Be sure to send us postcards.’
‘The media attention will blow over soon and then we’ll . . . we’ll be in touch,’ Mrs Trumpet said, pressing her icy fingers against Melody’s cheek.
Melody shivered again. Partly from the cold. Partly because they were still lying to her. They wouldn’t care if she sent them postcards. And they certainly wouldn’t visit her. Before her parents could spit out another lie, Royce slammed the limousine door shut. Melody sat back in her seat, avoiding any further eye contact with her parents. She didn’t look back as the limousine drove away.
If Melody ever wanted to see Freddie and Clementine again, it was up to her to find a way.
25.
Miss Sprinkles in charge
Inside Trumpet Manor, the smell of freshly baked choc-chip muffins wafted through the kitchen. Miss Sprinkles puffed her chest out in pride as she bent to take a peek in the oven, and smacked her lips at the sight. She slipped on a pair of oven mitts, removed the muffins from the oven and heaped them high onto a silver platter. She paused, then picked a daisy from the vase on the countertop and sat it on top.
‘Perfect,’ she murmured, before hurrying with the platter of muffins to the dining room. The door was locked, as Royce had ordered when he left to drive Melody to the airport, so Miss Sprinkles fetched the key from her apron pocket.
‘Midnight snack, anyone?’ she asked, opening the door and peering in.
Freddie and Clementine were seated on dining chairs, blindfolded and tied back to back with thick rope so they couldn’t move their arms.
‘Miss Sprinkles?’ Freddie asked, squirming in his seat. ‘Is that you? Don’t you recognise me? It’s Freddie! Morty Bloom’s son.’
Miss Sprinkles tittered. ‘That’s a good one. Now, who’s hungry?’
Clementine’s stomach growled loudly. ‘What do you think?’ she replied.
‘Well, you’ll be happy to hear I added extra chocchips,’ Miss Sprinkles said. ‘I always like cookies with extra choc-chips, don’t you? I’ll just leave the platter here on the table for you to enjoy.’
‘Thanks,’ Freddie said, giving Clementine’s fingers a squeeze. ‘But, ah . . . maybe you could untie our arms so we can eat?’
‘Silly me! Of course.’ Miss Sprinkles hurried to their side. ‘A choc-chip muffin, or three, always makes me feel better when I’m having a tough day. I do hope you enjoy — whoops!’ She pulled her hand away from the rope with a laugh. ‘You nearly got me!’
‘So close to freedom,’ Clementine murmured.
Freddie sighed. ‘Yet so far.’
‘If you stop
being cheeky, I will remove your blindfolds,’ Miss Sprinkles said. ‘You simply have to see the size of these choc-chips.’
She untied their blindfolds, and Freddie and Clementine blinked as their eyes adjusted to the light in the dining room. This time it was Freddie’s stomach that rumbled.
‘You are hungry!’ Miss Sprinkles said. She picked up two muffins and held one to his mouth. ‘Here, taste this prize-winning treat.’ He took a big bite. ‘Good, right?’
‘Best I’ve ever had,’ he said through a mouthful of muffin. ‘Squishy and crunchy in all the right places. You’re a genius.’
She blushed. ‘You’re just saying that.’
‘No, really. You know . . . I . . . ah . . . I bet Melody loves your muffins too, Miss Sprinkles,’ Freddie said, giving Clementine’s fingers another gentle squeeze. ‘She’s really missing out by not being here.’
‘She does love them!’ Miss Sprinkles beamed, feeding him the rest of the muffin. ‘And my scones too. I just hope they have a good cook at Dullard Private.’
‘So that’s the Trumpets’ plan?’ Clementine asked with a raised eyebrow. ‘They’re banishing her?’
‘Ah . . . well . . . no, I didn’t say that,’ Miss Sprinkles stammered. ‘Here, have a muffin.’ She crammed the whole thing into Clementine’s mouth.
Clementine bit down hard and managed to continue speaking with crumbs spraying everywhere. ‘Delicious! So, ah . . . if Melody loves your muffins so much, why isn’t she here with us? Feels rude not to invite her, don’t you think?’
‘I would if I could — Melody loves a midnight snack, you know. But she’s on her way to the private jet with Royce right now, off to boarding school overseas.’
Clementine gasped. ‘Melody’s already left? And the school is overseas?’
‘Untie us . . . please, Miss Sprinkles,’ Freddie said. ‘I . . . I have to go to the bathroom. Badly. Right now!’
Miss Sprinkles shook her head. ‘I’m not falling for that. Not after your other tricks.’
‘At least let us help you with the washing up, Miss Sprinkles,’ Clementine said, pinching Freddie’s hand. ‘I’m sure you have a kitchen full of dirty bowls and spoons, and it must get awfully tiring doing all the cleaning and cooking. I bet you often daydream about having an assistant to help.’
‘You know what — I do,’ Miss Sprinkles said. ‘People just don’t recognise hard work these days.’
‘Well, tonight’s your lucky night,’ said Freddie. ‘You’ve got two assistants right here.’
‘We can get that kitchen looking spick and span,’ added Clementine. ‘I mean, you work and you work and you work . . .’
Miss Sprinkles beamed. ‘Thank you for noticing. My feet are so sore after standing on them all day . . . and, oh the bunions! A little help would come in handy.’
Freddie held his breath as Miss Sprinkles leaned close to Clementine, her hand resting on the rope.
But then she pulled away. ‘Whoops! Silly me. Nearly fell for that too.’
She popped another muffin in each of their mouths, then tied the blindfolds around their eyes again. ‘I suggest you stop playing games. Royce will be back from the airport soon, and once he is, he won’t let you out of his sight.’
26.
Lost in Battyville
Nose pressed against the glass, Melody watched the night fly by as the limousine whizzed along dark streets. She struggled to see signposts and numbers — anything to pinpoint where they were.
The limousine turned one corner, then another, then so many that she was lost. Dejected, she traced a big loopy M in the mist on the window.
‘Everything okay back there?’ Royce asked, staring in the rear-view mirror and smacking his chewing gum. ‘You’re not smudging the glass, are you? I just got it washed.’
Melody avoided his steely gaze and stared at the street signs flashing by the window.
Jupiter Lane.
Spy Street.
Boffin Avenue.
She sat up a little straighter. They were on Clementine’s side of town.
Humming to himself, Royce turned on the radio. ‘Now, to show our respect for a very special family,’ a deep throaty voice announced, ‘here’s a favourite. The number-one hit from the one and only . . . Viola Trumpet.’
Melody stuffed her fingers in her ears, unable to bear hearing her mother’s voice again that night.
Royce launched into a deep, out-of-key version of Mrs Trumpet’s song. Melody wasn’t sure who was the worse singer — herself or Royce.
She settled back into her seat as the limousine pulled up at a set of traffic lights. There were hardly any other cars around; just the occasional person cycling on the road or walking along the pavement.
By now Royce was screeching so loudly along with the radio that a thick vein pulsated in his neck. It looked like it might pop!
Melody’s hand tightened around her backpack strap. Her gaze went to the limousine door handle, then to the empty street outside.
The traffic light was still red as Royce struggled to reach the highest of Mrs Trumpet’s high notes, his eyes half-closed, his mouth open, spit spraying across the windscreen. This was Melody’s chance.
She opened the limousine door and propelled herself through it. Royce yelled behind her, but she didn’t turn around. She just ran.
Her breath was sharp and shallow as her feet pounded along the ground. Her backpack smacked against her side with every step. On she ran, with no idea where she was going. She darted down narrow streets, making sharp turns here and there. Eventually, after what seemed like forever, she lost Royce.
Gasping for breath, she slowed to a jog and turned down the next left turn in her path. A darkened alleyway.
‘It’s just a street,’ she muttered. ‘It’s just the dark. I can do this.’
Like many people, she hated the dark. But she’d never been out in it before; she was always tucked up in her bedroom at night.
A pale white light shone at the end of the alleyway. She gritted her teeth, pulled her backpack in tight and aimed for it.
The hairs on her arms tingled at the pitter-patter of creatures scuttling around her and she jumped every time a dark shadow shifted. Sirens sounded somewhere nearby, then faded away as she headed deeper down the alleyway. She soldiered on towards the glimmering light . . . and stepped face-first into a spiderweb!
Yelping in horror, she smoothed down her hair and clothes. ‘It’s just a spiderweb. I can do this.’
Melody bent down to pick up a jagged stick from the ground. Heart pounding, holding the stick out in front of her, she bolted to the end of the alleyway and into the light-filled street — where she slammed into a stocky man wearing a top hat and black leather boots. Melody dropped the stick in shock.
‘Blimey,’ the man said. ‘Scared the life outta me. Stick or not, kiddo, you should know it ain’t safe around these parts. You better scram.’
Melody hurried away down the street, which was lined with flickering fairy lights. She had no idea which way led home to Trumpet Manor — if she could even call it home any more. But that’s where Freddie and Clementine were so she needed to get back to save them.
She looked to the left along the road. No cars. No people. No signs of life. She looked to the right. About the same, except for a black carriage and a large chestnut horse with a white mane tied to a lamppost.
The horse released a soft neigh as Melody stepped closer.
‘You hungry, girl?’ she asked. Its nostrils bristled and it pulled at its reins. Melody stuck out her hand and the horse sniffed on top, then underneath, before licking her fingertips. ‘Hey, that tickles!’
She zipped open her backpack and rifled around inside before pulling out a slightly bruised banana. ‘Snack time?’ she asked. She began to peel it, but the horse chomped the whole banana out of her hand. Melody’s stomach purred. ‘Guess you’re even hungrier than I am.’
‘Oi, you there!’ The stocky man was striding towards them. ‘Thought I
told you to scram, kiddo. Old Bertie don’t like people.’
Melody stepped back. ‘I’m sorry. She was hungry. I’m not trying to cause trouble.’
‘What kid wandering the street alone after midnight isn’t trying to cause trouble?’
‘This one?’ she replied.
The man’s thin smile creaked into a grin that showed chipped yellow teeth. ‘Righto. So what do you want? Money? ’Cos I don’t have any.’
‘No, not money.’
‘Then what?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘Well, while you work it out, I’ll be on my way. Old Bertie here needs her beauty sleep.’
‘Okay.’ Melody stuffed her hands into her jacket pockets to try to warm up. Her fingers landed on something round and hard. She pulled it out. It was Clementine’s gold coin from Town Square.
She held up the coin. ‘Actually . . . do you know Trumpet Manor? Can you take me there?’
The man yawned. ‘For one gold coin? You got a few more of those?’
Melody shook her head. ‘I don’t, but . . . but what about The Workshop? I think it’s on Dreamboat Plaza. Wait, no — Dreamers Parade!’
The horse snuggled up to Melody, sniffing around her backpack, and she patted its mane.
‘I told you, she don’t like . . .’ The man’s voice trailed off as the horse whinnied in pleasure. ‘Well, maybe Old Bertie does like some people. She’s certainly taken to you.’ He coughed. ‘Alrighty, I don’t know The Workshop but I can take you as far as the bottom of Dreamers Parade. Old Bertie won’t be able to get you up the hill, not after the day we’ve had. Whaddya say?’
‘Perfect.’
‘And hang on to that gold coin. You might need it for luck.’
Melody gave the coin a squeeze before slipping it back into her pocket. ‘Thank you.’
The man yawned again. ‘Alright, let’s go.’
Melody patted Old Bertie’s mane once more, then hoisted herself up into the carriage.
‘What’s your name, by the way?’ she asked the man. ‘I won’t forget this.’
He blushed, like someone hadn’t asked him that question for years. ‘First name’s Pat. Last name’s none of your business. How about you?’
Melody Trumpet Page 12
