Chapter Seven
Holly had been learning the trumpet for two years but had never stayed long enough at any one school to have proper lessons, so had taken to teaching herself from a book, on her own, in her room. She wasn’t very good but it was noisy and she liked to play when she felt lonely because it filled the room with sound. But if she was going to persuade the music teacher, Miss Gilfeather, to let her join the band so late, she would have to play her very best.
Trumpet case in hand, she entered the small room labelled MUSIC ROOMS. It was Saturday morning when pupils had one-to-one music lessons, so Holly had decided to wait until Miss Gilfeather had a spare moment then ask if she could join the band. She could hear a flute and a piano playing a piece of classical music behind another door. Or rather, the piano was playing. The flute was desperately trying and failing to keep up.
She looked for somewhere to sit and saw that she wasn’t alone. By the side of an upright piano was a skinny boy, sitting so still that she hadn’t noticed him at first. Greasy black hair was flattened against his forehead. He didn’t look at her but she saw his grip tighten round the handle of his curved instrument case, as though afraid she might steal it.
‘Hi, I’m Holly,’ she said, sitting down next to the boy. ‘Is that a French horn?’
His dark eyes flickered nervously to look at her.
She tried again, offering her hand and saying, ‘I play the trumpet. I want to join the band. Are you in the band?’
The strange boy made a noise somewhere between a giggle and a squeak and brought a hand up to his face, compulsively smoothing down his already very smooth hair.
Holly decided to give it one more try. ‘I’ve never played in front of anyone before. I taught myself. What about you?’
When the boy answered he spoke quickly without pausing for breath. ‘I have lessons, but the teachers get scared, everyone gets scared. They don’t like being in a room with Callum, they think Callum is weird, but I still play because music blocks out the other noises. I never wanted to join the stupid band because other people aren’t as good and spoil it and I hate it when people play wrong notes, like that flute in there, but Father thinks the concert will show people that Callum isn’t a nutcase and so I have to be in the stupid band.’
The boy took a sharp intake of breath and smoothed down his hair.
Before Holly could respond, the door was flung open by a severe-looking woman, immaculately dressed in a trouser suit, holding a flute at arm’s length, as though it was the most repulsive object she had ever touched.
She walked to the bin and dropped in the instrument.
Petal Moses darted out of the room and dived to the flute’s rescue. ‘How dare you?’ she demanded. ‘My mother bought that for me. It’s an antique. It’s worth more than you earn in a year.’
‘That’s probably true, Miss Moses,’ the teacher admitted. ‘And yet in your hands it may as well be a penny whistle. I told you last week that if you didn’t practise that this would be your last lesson.’
‘If you’re so good at music, why aren’t you a proper musician like my mum, rather than just a music teacher?’ Petal snarled.
Miss Gilfeather emitted a very precise laugh in a 2/4 rhythm. ‘My dear, your mother is a pop star, not a musician.’
‘My mother has won awards,’ Petal screamed, ‘and I’m gong to call Mum and get a record contract and then you’ll see.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ said Miss Gilfeather, maintaining her composure. ‘The pop charts are full of talentless chimpanzees. Now, kindly leave. You have wasted enough of my time.’
Petal swung round and saw Holly. ‘What are you staring at?’ she demanded.
‘I think you’d better give your psychiatrist a call too,’ replied Holly.
‘Hermann is a therapist,’ replied Petal. ‘It’s Callum that needs a psychiatrist, a whole team of them, I heard.’ Petal pointed at the dark-haired boy. ‘Crazy Callum, the Prime Minister’s son.’
‘Children, please don’t argue in my rehearsal rooms,’ said Miss Gilfeather. ‘The acoustics are far too good to waste on shouting. If you wish to tear each other limb from limb, we have a perfectly good playground.’
Petal stormed out of the room, slamming the door as she left.
Holly had known that the Prime Minister’s son was in the year above her, but she had expected him to be one of the super-confident, horse-riding rich kids that she hated so much.
‘What a very highly strung young lady. Reminds me of a violin I once had,’ said Miss Gilfeather, turning to look at Holly. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘You are not scheduled for a lesson.’
‘I’m Holly Bigsby. I’m new and I want to join the band.’
‘Impossible,’ replied the teacher. ‘The concert is in five days’ time.’
‘I’m a quick learner. I only started the school recently and I was hoping the band would help me make friends.’
‘It’s not about making friends. It’s about making music.’
‘Please, at least give me an audition.’
Miss Gilfeather gave Holly a sustained stare and then spoke. ‘Very well. I will give you an audition after Mr Thackley’s lesson. Wait here.’
The boy followed her into the room and the door shut behind them. The piano started again and the French horn joined in, hitting every note perfectly and playing with feeling and precision. It sounded beautiful. Holly was stunned.
After half an hour the door opened and the boy walked out, his instrument case clasped in his sweaty hands.
‘Excellent, Mr Thackley, as usual. See you on Monday for band rehearsals,’ said Miss Gilfeather. ‘Now, Miss Bigsby, let’s see what you can do.’
Holly got up nervously and went into the room. As she passed Callum he whispered, ‘Good luck.’
‘Close the door,’ said Miss Gilfeather. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Holly Bigsby, miss.’
‘Ah, yes, the terrible tearaway. Mr Palmer has mentioned you. Well, I don’t care for rebellion in my band. Music is unique in being both a science and an art. It should be studied with the brain and played with the heart. I see you play trumpet. I will accompany you on this piece.’
She handed Holly a sheet of music.
‘I brought my own piece to play,’ replied Holly.
‘If you are hoping to play in the concert you will have to demonstrate the ability to sight-read. Given enough time you can teach a monkey to play Mozart, but they’ll never be able to sight-read.’
‘You can teach a monkey to play Mozart?’
‘Please familiarise yourself with the key and we’ll begin.’
The music looked difficult, with three flats by the stave, plus a few more thrown in during the piece. Holly took her trumpet from her case and held it up to her lips. She got the first few notes in her head, working out the fingering, then nodded to Miss Gilfeather, who sat down at the piano and began to play.
At the end of the piece, Miss Gilfeather said, ‘Well, Holly Bigsby, your embouchure is appalling, you hold the trumpet at the wrong angle, your timing is off and you seem determined to turn every first quaver into a semi-quaver.’
Holly said nothing.
‘However,’ she continued, ‘you do have some flare for the instrument and you have determination.’ She picked up a folder and handed it to her. ‘We only have two trumpets at the moment, so if you can learn all this you may play third.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Holly, smiling.
‘But be warned, I expect utter dedication from my musicians. If I think you are damaging the integrity of the music you will be out of this band before your lips can touch that mouthpiece, young lady. Hold it up straight and stick your chin out. Band rehearsal is on Monday after school and the concert takes place on Thursday, when we will spend the entire day at the concert hall.’
Holly thanked Miss Gilfeather and left. In the corridor she found Callum, apparently waiting for her, but when she got near he shrank away.
&
nbsp; ‘I got in,’ she said. ‘I heard you play, you were amazing.’
‘I like music, I like playing, it makes me feel safe,’ he said. ‘I heard you too. You made some mistakes.’
‘Don’t worry about that spoilt pop-star’s daughter. She’s just mean. She killed my pet mouse.’
‘I don’t care about her,’ he replied. ‘She doesn’t know anything, but I know. I see too much. They all think Callum is mad because of the monsters in my head. They are all in my head, but they’re real too.’
‘Who?’ asked Holly, concerned. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The doctors don’t say mad. They call it post traumatic stress instead. It’s when you go mad because you’ve been through something horrible.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘They’re in the trees. They look like trees. You think they are trees, then they move and they talk and they have wings and teeth and I know they’re in my head, they’re all imaginary. They took me before and they’ll take me again. They’ll come soon. They told me they would, but what does it matter if it’s all in Callum’s head? Callum can control it. That’s what the doctors said. There’s no such thing as monsters.’
‘Callum, what are you saying?’ asked Holly anxiously.
‘No one believes Callum. No one does.’
‘I want to help you,’ she persisted.
‘No one helps me.’
Holly reached for his arm, but he shrugged her off, turned round and hurried down the corridor.
‘Callum, wait,’ she called after him, but he quickened his pace, smoothing down his greasy black hair.
Chapter Eight
Looking at the green English countryside whizzing past the train, Dirk felt a tingle of nerves in his stomach. London was his home. It was where he felt safe. All this space made him feel uneasy.
The train had been travelling for a few hours when, finally, it stopped at a small village station with a sign that read Stonegarth, where Professor Rosenfield alighted, carrying the silver case. He looked up and down the empty platform. The train pulled away and Dirk jumped over Rosenfield’s head on to the station roof. It was a bright, sunny day and Dirk was glad that dragons cast shadows upwards.
He peered over the other side of the roof. In the car park of the station was an old yellow car, its paintwork chipped and eaten away by rust. Two men were leaning against the side of it. Dirk recognised them instantly.
‘What’s he a professor of, then?’ said a short fat man with tightly curled red hair.
‘Although a valid question, my tubby sidekick, I’m afraid that Mr G has not furnished me with a full biography of the gentleman concerned, so I will have to decline from honouring your inquisition with a satisfactory answer,’ said the taller man with a merest wisp of hair combed carefully across his head.
‘You mean, you don’t know?’
‘I am saying words to that effect, yes, Reg.’
It was the two idiot crooks who worked for the Kinghorns, Arthur and Reg. They had no idea that the Mr G they spoke of was in fact a dragon, the mysterious Vainclaw Grandin.
‘Mr G don’t tell us much, do he?’ said Reg. ‘I still don’t know what we were doing with all those cats.’
‘He certainly likes to play his cards close to his chest, Reginald,’ agreed Arthur, ‘but remember, it was he who paid for the lawyer who got us off. We owe him a great deal.’
‘We only got arrested because of him in the first place,’ protested the fat man.
‘Ah, look yonder, this must be the chap,’ said Arthur, noticing Professor Rosenfield standing outside the station scratching his head.
Arthur walked towards him and extended a hand. ‘Professor Rosenfield, I presume,’ he said, grinning.
‘Er, yes,’ replied the professor, shaking Arthur’s hand uncertainly.
‘My name is Arthur and this big-boned gentleman is my colleague, Reg. We are here to provide vehicular transportation to your destination.’
Professor Rosenfield looked vaguely at the two men.
‘We’re the wheels,’ added Reg. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t understand half of what he’s on about neither. The trick is not to get too bogged down in listening to the words.’
‘I’m sure the professor understands me perfectly adequately,’ said Arthur. ‘He too is a man of learning.’ He turned to Rosenfield, opened the back door of the car and said, ‘Worry not, Reg has very little in the way of grey matter but he is fully familiarised in the ways of motorised wheel control.’
The professor looked at the crooks as though they had just landed from a different planet. ‘Er … Are you sure it’s me you’re here to pick up?’
‘I suppose there is a possibility that we have been sent to collect a different man with the same name as you from this exact spot, yes, but you would have to admit that it would be a staggering coincidence,’ replied Arthur.
‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ admitted the professor. ‘In you go, then. ‘Arthur helped the professor into the back. ‘Look at that, we’re already discussing probability,’ he said. ‘It is nice to have civilised company for a change.’
‘I know about probability,’ said Reg. ‘It’s gamblin’, ain’t it?’
‘You see what I have to put up with,’ sighed Arthur.
The two men took their seats in the front and drove away.
Dirk followed, firstly using the roofs of the houses, then, when they reached the edge of town, flying low behind the hedgerows, keeping his wings out of sight from the road, but also watching out for any farmers who might see him. He skirted the edge of a field of cows that mooed fearfully at him and retreated to the other side of the field.
The road ran alongside a large lake and Dirk skimmed across the surface, dipping his claws in and causing water to spray up. He had forgotten how much fun proper flying could be. Maybe it was good to get out of London, after all.
The car took a road that cut through a dense forest over a small hill. Dirk flew over the trees, keeping the car in sight. At the base of the hill it turned on to a smaller dirt track that led deeper into the forest. At the end of the track was a rundown old cottage with black-and-white walls. The car stopped outside and all three men got out.
Dirk swooped down and ducked behind the low stone wall that surrounded the cottage.
‘Well, Professor Rosenfield,’ said Arthur, opening the professor’s door. ‘It has been a pleasure. As you can imagine, working mostly with Reg I am generally starved of intellectual discourse. Except on the subject of light ales from around the world, Reg has very little in the way of knowledge.’
The professor climbed out of the car, holding the silver case with both arms.
‘Who did you say you worked for?’ he asked.
‘Sadly, we are not at liberty to divulge that particular piece of information, are we, Reg?’
‘What? About working for Mr G? No, can’t say a word,’ replied Reg.
Arthur raised a hand and casually whacked Reg on the back of his head.
‘Ow, what d’you do that for?’
‘I must apologise for my colleague,’ Arthur said to the professor. ‘He is as foolish as he is fat.’
‘But who is Mr G?’ asked the professor. ‘Is that the man with the deep voice?’
‘Goodbye, professor,’ said Arthur.
‘Nice to meet you,’ added Reg.
The two men got back in the car.
‘Aren’t you staying with me?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ replied Arthur. The engine started. ‘Our instructions were to leave you here. We will return each morn to provide transportation for procurement of provisions. Come on, Reg, allez!’
‘A what?’
‘It means go, you nincompoop.’
Reg let the handbrake off and they drove away, leaving the professor to enter the cottage through its only door.
Dirk scurried forward. There were two windows on either side of the cottage. Looking through the nearest one, he could see that the cottage was
small and squalid and what an estate agent might describe as ‘full of potential’. In other words, it was falling apart. Rosenfield sat down on a rickety wooden chair and placed the silver case on the kitchen table. He pressed a button on the side of the case and the lid opened, blocking out the professor’s face. Dirk needed to see what he was doing, but suddenly he felt a sharp pain shoot through his tail.
He looked round to see the silver bark-coloured skin of a Tree Dragon. Its teeth were clamped over Dirk’s tail. Its pale green eyes were staring at him wildly.
Chapter Nine
Dirk tried to swing his tail, but the Tree Dragon’s grip was firm, secured by its claws digging into the ground like roots. Its mossy teeth had penetrated the soft underside of his tail, drawing dark green blood. The pain was immense.
Dirk opened his mouth and sent a line of fire, singeing his own tail but forcing the Tree Dragon to release him. He leapt on to the dragon’s back, pressing the tips of his claws against its throat.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered, not wanting to attract the professor’s attention. ‘Why did you attack me?’
‘Get off me. You’re ouching me.’
It was a female.
‘Tell me and I’ll get off your back,’ replied Dirk, holding down the Tree Dragon’s writhing limbs and digging his claws further in.
She screamed in agony.
‘Who’s there?’ shouted the professor from inside the cottage.
Dirk released the Tree Dragon, who darted up an oak tree, her body twisting easily around the thick trunk, disappearing into the dense forest.
‘Who’s there? Show yourself,’ yelled the professor, coming to the window.
Not wanting to be seen by a human, Dirk took after the Tree Dragon.
Tree Dragons are fast movers in their own territory where they can swing from tree to tree, so it was difficult to keep up. He followed her deep into the forest until she stopped, landing on a malformed dead tree in the centre of a clearing, illuminated by white sunlight cutting through the green leaves.
The Case of the Wayward Professor Page 4
