The Fabulous Phartlehorn Affair

by M. L. Peel

  “Who’s a naughty boy?” squawked Chippy from beneath Grandpa Trevor’s dislodged comb-over.

  “Better late than never, eh?” The old man chuckled. “Anyway, a detention wouldn’t be so bad if you were monitoring it, Miss Goodwin.”

  Bruno stared down at the ground in embarrassment. Perhaps, on second thoughts, he should have warned Grandpa Trevor that his hair had come unstuck. Now the teacher was looking at him as if he was some kind of lunatic.

  “I’m afraid,” she said with a bemused smile, “that the time has come to say your goodbyes. Here, let me take that suitcase for you, Bruno.”

  Trevor Pockley bent down to give his grandson a hug. Bruno breathed in the familiar scent of warm jumper encrusted with fried egg.

  “Mind how you go, love,” said Grandpa Trevor. “Don’t be sailing into any hot water. I’ll be worrying about you, y’know.”

  Miss Goodwin put a reassuring hand on the old man’s arm. “There’s absolutely no need to worry, Mr Pockley. Your grandson can’t possibly get into any trouble while he’s with me.”

  And of course the kind-hearted teacher believed every word she said.

  5

  All Aboard the St Ermingarda’s School Jet

  For most people, a school trip means a few hours aboard a smelly old bus followed by an afternoon trooping around an ancient monument or museum, pausing every now and again to take a brass rubbing or to eat a sweaty packed lunch. Not so for the pupils of St Ermingarda’s. For, as by now I am sure you’ve guessed, the pupils of St Ermingarda’s were not most people. They were the sons and daughters of megastars and millionaires. They did not eat packed lunches or take brass rubbings and they most certainly did not travel by school bus. As far as they were concerned, there was only one way to travel — and that was by private jet. And not just any old private jet, either: a big shiny silver one emblazoned with the St Ermingarda’s school crest.

  The school grounds were easily big enough to accommodate a runway (between the many playing fields, heated swimming pools and tennis courts). Last year, before Bruno had joined the school, his class had flown all the way to Australia to learn to scuba-dive on the Great Barrier Reef. This year, as part of a project they’d been doing on the history of cinema, they were off to a film festival in the South of France.

  “Blimey,” Grandpa Trevor had said when he signed the permission form. “Best school trip I ever went on was to a hosepipe-manufacturing factory. Surprisingly interesting it was, too, watching how they got the holes in the rubber tubing. But a film festival — well, we didn’t go on trips like that in my day. You make the most of this opportunity, my love.”

  “Yes, Grandpa,” said Bruno, not wanting to sound ungrateful.

  Just how ungrateful the average St Ermingarda’s student was would have been obvious to anyone looking in on Bruno’s classmates as they waited on the runway for take-off. Had you been there, for instance, stowed away beneath a seat, I’m sure you’d have been shocked to see the rows of children staring goggle-eyed at mobile phones and laptops. Only one girl was looking out of the window with excited anticipation of the journey ahead. This girl had bobbed brown hair, bright green eyes and a neat button nose. It was the first time she had ever been on an aeroplane. Her name was Grace Chalk and she was even newer to St Ermingarda’s than Bruno. She had joined just a few weeks ago, at the start of the spring term.

  On Grace’s first day the headmistress had introduced her in assembly. “Please give a big round of applause to Grace Chalk, winner of our annual scholarship for exceptionally talented linguists.”

  Back at home, Bruno had looked up the word “linguist” in the dictionary. Perhaps this could be his special talent too. After all, if he didn’t know what a word meant, how was he supposed to know if he was any good at it?

  linguist/ n. someone with a gift for speaking foreign languages.

  Bruno’s heart sank. He was bottom of the class in French and German, and the only kind of Mandarin he would ever get his tongue around was the kind with pips and an orange skin. Here was yet another talent he did not possess.

  The funny thing was that for someone who was supposed to be so good at speaking foreign languages, Grace did not seem very fond of talking. Bruno had hardly heard her utter a word since the day she’d arrived. She rarely spoke in class and she spent all her break times alone in the library. No doubt she thought she was far too clever to mix with anyone else.

  The seat next to Grace was the last empty one on the plane. Bruno had no choice but to sit down beside her. Grace did not say hello. Instead she flashed him a brief half-smile before turning back towards the window. Oh well, thought Bruno, it’s better than getting stuck next to Humbert for two hours.

  “Sixty seconds till take-off,” announced the pilot. “Please fasten your seatbelts and hand in all electronic devices.”

  Loud sighs went round the plane, followed by a bleeping chorus of mobile phones and laptops being switched off. Miss Goodwin collected them all up in a basket, to be handed back at the end of the trip. The pilot revved up the engine. Bruno clung tight to his seat as the plane sped off down the tarmac then climbed steeply into the sky. He peered over Grace’s shoulder to see the grey expanse of rooftops give way to emerald swatches of field. Then the plane was wrapped in a duvet of cloud. Bruno’s heart pounded in his chest. Boom, boom, boom, it went, like a timpani drum.

  Perhaps you are wondering if Bruno was scared. Let me assure you that this was not the case. As befits the hero of our story, Bruno was a brave boy, as unafraid of flying as he was of rollercoasters or spiders. The truth was that a tiny part of him hoped to glimpse his parents floating past the window.

  “Stop the plane!” he would yell. “That’s my mum and dad out there!”

  A much larger part of Bruno knew that this was a ridiculous idea. His parents must have fallen to earth many months ago. By now their bodies would be lying in some distant desert or at the bottom of a lonely ocean. Tears welled in Bruno’s eyes as he imagined their bones stripped clean of flesh by vultures or piranh—

  Splat!

  Just as Bruno’s daydream was becoming too terrible to bear, he felt something cold and wet land on his neck. Then whatever it was began to ooze slowly down his shirt. Bruno reached under his collar then brought his fingers back out again. They were covered in a glistening black slime and there was a reek of fish in the air.

  “Eewk!” he said, wiping his hands on his shorts. “What’s that?” Grace turned from the window. Her hand fluttered up to her mouth like a startled bird.

  “Oh no,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

  “Why are you sorry?” asked a bewildered Bruno, still trying to wipe the disgusting black gunk off his fingers. “It wasn’t you, was it?”

  Grace looked hurt. “Of course not,” she protested, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “It was Humbert. That black stuff’s caviar. Otherwise known as stinky fish eggs. Humbert often has it in his lunch box. He’s found out that I’m allergic to fish, and now he thinks it’s funny to throw food at me. Tuna sandwiches, smoked salmon bagels, pickled herrings — you name it. This time he must have missed and got you instead.”

  Bruno peered down the plane. Two rows behind them, Humbert sat smirking like a shark. Sure enough, there in his hand was an open tin of caviar. Raising the tin in a mock “cheers”, Humbert slurped up a spoonful of the fishy black slime. Bruno unbuckled his belt and knelt up in his seat.

  “You’re sick in the head, you know that, Humbert?” he shouted. “Only a total coward would pick on someone about their allergy. How would you like it if I put a wasp’s nest in your locker? Or stuffed stinging nettles down your pants?”

  The children seated around Humbert began to titter.

  Hearing the commotion, Miss Goodwin came rushing down the plane.

  “Bruno!” she cried. “Wearing a seatbelt is for your own protection. If you need the toilet, just press the button and I’ll escort you up the aisle.”

&
nbsp; Bruno slid back down into his seat, cringing with embarrassment. “Sorry, miss,” he said quickly. “I was just, erm, stretching, that’s all.”

  Miss Goodwin shook her head and returned to the front of the plane. As soon as she was out of earshot, Bruno turned to Grace.

  “You should’ve told her Humbert’s picking on you,” he said.

  Grace folded her arms across her chest. “It’d just make things worse. Anyway, it’s not like you told her Humbert was throwing stuff at you, is it?”

  Before Bruno could think of a reply, there was an outbreak of singing from the back of the plane.

  “Stink Bomb! Stink Bomb!

  Bruno Stink Bomb!

  He could take down Humbert

  If he blasts him with his bum!”

  Bruno didn’t need to turn round to recognize the high-pitched wail of Xanadu Messiah Brown. Xanadu: the boy with a song for every occasion. Beneath his straw hat Xanadu wore a pair of silver reflective sunglasses that hovered above his nose like a pair of flying saucers coming in to land. The adopted son of a world-famous pop star and her backing-dancer husband, Xanadu loved to be the centre of attention. Everything about his appearance, from the tip of his bleached white Mohican to the ends of his polished blue nails, screamed, “Look at me!”. At the age of seven Xanadu had been given his own TV show, Xanadu’s World, in which he’d travelled the planet in search of new dance moves. Among his more famous discoveries were the Brazilian Crossed Banana Splits and the Sichuan Shimmyhip. Personally, Bruno thought both moves made Xanadu look like a donkey trying to hold in its pee. In recent years, the child star had disappeared from the nation’s TV screens. Now he claimed to be on the brink of making a comeback.

  Grace rolled her eyes as the singing got louder and louder. “Just ignore him,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m taking it as a compliment,” said Bruno. “Musical parping is my special talent, you know.”

  Grace’s eyes widened. Bruno kicked himself. He should have known a swotty girl like her would disapprove. But then suddenly two dimples, like bites in an apple, appeared in her cheeks.

  “That’s the coolest thing ever!” she exclaimed.

  “Really?” asked Bruno. “You really think so?” Grace nodded. Bruno grinned from ear to sticky-out ear.

  “Well, thanks. It’s great to meet someone who gets how gifted I am.” The singing had now reached a crescendo. Bruno twisted round in his seat and leant out into the aisle. “Hey, Xanadu!” he called. “I reckon that might be your first hit! Remind me again, how many people downloaded your last single?”

  Xanadu’s last single had sold only two copies, one to his mum and one to his grandma. He stopped singing as abruptly as if Bruno had pulled the plug out of the stereo.

  Grace started to giggle. “You know, apart from Miss Goodwin, you’re the first nice person I’ve met since coming to St Ermingarda’s.”

  “Same here.” Bruno smiled. “How about we stick together from now on?”

  Grace grinned shyly back at him. “I’d like that.”

  By now the plane had begun its descent. The Mediterranean Sea stretched out below them like a shimmering blue cloth. Bruno felt his ears pop as the pilot turned sharply inland. He looked out of the window and saw that they were flying low over olive groves and vineyards. A minute or so later, the St Ermingarda’s school jet touched down at an airfield just outside the glamorous seaside resort of Cannes. The sun was high in the sky, and stepping off the plane felt like stepping into a lovely warm bath. A fleet of limousines waited at the end of the runway, engines purring, ready to whisk the children away to their luxury hotel.

  A few hours ago, Bruno had been determined to hate every second of the dreaded school trip. Now, with a new friend to share it with, he couldn’t help but feel just a teeny-weeny bit excited.

  6

  The Hotel Magnificent

  While an army of maids set to work unpacking suitcases, Miss Goodwin gathered her pupils together in a quiet corner of the Hotel Magnificent’s private terrace. Palm trees swayed in the breeze. An Olympic-sized swimming pool glittered in the midday sun. Grace took a seat on a lounger next to Bruno, her eyes full of wonder.

  “Have you ever seen anything like it?” she said. “The bathroom’s five times bigger than my bedroom at home. They’ve folded the end of the loo paper into a triangle, just to make it look pretty. Can you believe it? Origami loo paper! That’s what I call luxury!”

  Miss Goodwin clapped her hands for silence. She had changed into a daisy-print sundress, crochet shawl and floppy straw hat. Already, freckles, like a dusting of cinnamon, had sprinkled themselves over her nose.

  “Welcome to the sunny South of France,” she said with a girlish pirouette. “Now before we all get too excited, we must try to remember that this trip is not just a holiday, but an important learning opportunity.”

  The children gave a collective groan. Miss Goodwin’s smile remained undimmed.

  “As you know, for the past two terms we’ve been studying the medium of cinema. You’ve learnt about method acting and the technical skills of lighting and editing. We’ve covered everything from silent movies to spaghetti westerns. The time has come for you to put all that knowledge to the test. Over the next five days you won’t just be watching films: you’ll be making them. Working in pairs, your challenge is to produce a short documentary on a subject which I’m sure is close to all your hearts: Fame: is it really all it’s cracked up to be? The best film will premier here at the festival on the last night of our trip.”

  A rare murmur of interest went around the class. Miss Goodwin was right. Fame was something her pupils knew a lot about. Xanadu wasn’t the only one who saw more of his parents on the television than he did at home.

  “Want to be partners?” Bruno asked Grace.

  She gave an awkward shrug. “I’m not sure,” she said. “You’d probably be better off with someone else. Fame isn’t really something I know much about. I’m just — you know — normal.”

  “Don’t be an idiot!” Bruno laughed. “That’s what’s so great about you.”

  The other children were also busy arranging themselves into pairs. Nobody wanted to go with Humbert. He stood beneath a palm tree, scowling at anyone who dared look in his direction. In the end, Miss Goodwin said that he should make up a three with Xanadu and a girl called Natasha Oblonsky.

  As far as Bruno was concerned, the trio deserved each other. Natasha was the only daughter of a Russian oil baron and a prima ballerina. Her toes were always pointed and her lips always pursed. She wore her long black hair in a plait trussed up with tartan ribbons, which swung behind her like the tail on an over-groomed pony. Although she tried her best not to show it, even Miss Goodwin was a little unnerved by the girl’s coldly sophisticated manner. As Natasha liked to boast, there was not a five-star hotel that she had not stayed in. Nor a designer dress she wanted that she did not own. The world was Natasha Oblonsky’s playground, and yet she always managed to look bored. Having to work in a group with Humbert and Xanadu should give her something to really sulk about for a change, thought Bruno.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” asked Miss Goodwin.

  Natasha tapped her foot, pouting until she got the teacher’s attention. Why she couldn’t just put her hand up like everyone else, Bruno would never understand.

  “Go ahead,” said Miss Goodwin with a nod.

  “Film-making sounds like a cool assignment,” admitted the young heiress, “but how are we supposed to make a film about fame with you tagging along? No offence, Miss Goodwin, but that sundress is not exactly stylish.”

  For the first time that day, the smile dimmed on Miss Goodwin’s face. She fiddled nervously with one of the straps of her dress, then pulled her shawl tight about her chest.

  “No offence taken, Natasha,” she stuttered unconvincingly. “Actually, you’ll be pleased to know that for once I won’t be ‘tagging along’ beside you. The headmistress and I have agreed that on this occasion you will
be allowed to work unsupervised.”

  The children gawped at each other in surprise. St Ermingarda’s prided itself on allowing pupils a high degree of independence, but they were never usually allowed to do anything completely on their own.

  “On one condition,” added Miss Goodwin, raising her voice above the excited chatter. “Other than during our organized outings, all filming is to take place within the grounds of the hotel. Just obey that one little rule, and you will be fine. And before any of you rascals decide to sneak off to the beach, be warned. I’ll be on the prowl to check up on you. Right then, if there are no more questions, could one person from each pair come forward and collect a camera and a microphone.”

  Now I think it’s time to let you in on a little secret. A few tables away, unnoticed by anyone but you and me, a man with a handlebar moustache sat listening with interest. He was dressed in a three-piece suit and polka-dot cravat. At the man’s side crouched a large white dog. This dog was rather unusual to look at, with long droopy ears and a fleshy brown nose. Two enormous nostrils twitched greedily at the air as the dog strained on her leash. The man was observing her behaviour with a mounting sense of excitement. Could it really be that after all these weeks spent combing the countryside, finally they’d found the very thing they were looking for, here at the hotel?

  “Well, well, well, Trumpet,” he muttered to the dog. “Who’d have thought it? Right under our noses!”

  With any luck, one of these children was about to make the man with the handlebar moustache a very rich man indeed. He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. It was time to give the duke some good news…

  Later that same afternoon, Bruno and Grace were huddled beneath a sunshade sharing a watermelon sorbet. Bruno had just finished demonstrating his technique for trumping a tune on demand and now they were trying to come up with a winning idea for their film project. Grace chewed on the end of her pencil. Bruno screwed up his face, thinking as hard as he could. It was no use. His mind was as blank as an exercise book on the first morning of term.