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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2019
Published in this ebook edition in 2019
HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,
HarperCollins Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Text copyright © Adam Baron 2019
Illustrations copyright © Benji Davies 2019
Cover design copyright © HarperCollins Children’s Books 2019
All rights reserved.
Adam Baron and Benji Davies assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Source ISBN: 9780008267049
Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008267056
Version: 2019-05-09
For Rachel, Frances, Betty and Marjorie – the grandmothers
Contents
Cover
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Book Report
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
Books by Adam Baron
About the Publisher
Here’s something you won’t believe.
Veronique Chang did NOT get a Distinction in her Grade 5 piano. In fact, she only just passed! Why should you be surprised? Well. This is Veronique we’re talking about – our class genius. Answers LOVE her! They seem to float down to her from the ceiling before they get to anyone else (Marcus Breen calls her Siri). It was her birthday last month and I asked her what she wanted.
‘War and Peace,’ she said, and I frowned at her.
‘Greedy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you can’t have both,’ I said. ‘And anyway, I’m not the prime minister, how am I supposed to organise either?’
Veronique looked at me. ‘It’s a book. By Tolstoy?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Bet it’s not as good as Mr Gum, though.’
And when I found a copy later in the Blackheath Bookshop I realised that it certainly wasn’t.
As for music, Veronique is INCREDIBLE. When she did her Grade 4, Mrs Johnson (our last head teacher) made her stand up in assembly. Veronique, she announced, had got the highest mark in the whole COUNTRY. Veronique wasn’t even surprised.
‘I was lucky,’ she said, looking down at me with a shrug. ‘My glissando was off.’
I was about to ask what she meant but Mrs Johnson made her go up to play one of her pieces. Wolfman Amadeus … Gocart (I think). And wow! The only time I’ve seen fingers move as fast was when Lance brought in a bag of Haribos on his birthday.
Marcus Breen started clapping at one point, but that was actually a quiet bit and Veronique went on some more. When she did finish, I stared at her.
‘Amazing,’ I said. ‘If also quite boring.’
Lance agreed. ‘You’re brilliant,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you can play … um …?’
‘What?’
He was so in awe he could hardly say it. ‘Star Wars?’
‘I don’t know,’ Veronique answered. ‘Who’s it by?’
Lance had to think about it. ‘Obi-Wan Kenobi.’
‘Is he Renaissance or baroque?’
‘Jedi,’ Lance said.
That was six months ago. She got the Grade 5 back last week. I was at her house. Veronique’s mum came into the kitchen waving an envelope. She had a smile on her face – but it faded. Her mum had the envelope in one hand and the results in the other and she just stared at them, amazement about to turn to disbelief, when she sighed – and picked up her phone.
‘I think there might have been a mistake,’ she said. ‘It’s Veronique Chang. C. H. A. N. G.’
But there wasn’t. The woman on the phone was sure of it. Veronique hadn’t got a Distinction and she hadn’t even got a Merit.
‘Well done anyway,’ her mum said (because she’s really nice). But then she got on the phone again, this time to Veronique’s piano teacher, and walked off into the living room to talk to him. I don’t think Veronique wanted to be there when she came back so we went outside, then down to the little wooden house at the bottom of their garden where her granny used to live (who she calls Nanai). It was quiet in there. And dusty. We stood for a minute, not speaking, just looking at all the old photographs that lined the walls, and then down at Nanai’s chair. It was even emptier than the rest of the place. There was a hollowed-out bit, likethe empty spaces we’d seen at the Pompeii exhibition at the British Museum. On top of it was a photograph. Old. Black and white, no glass left in the frame. I picked it up and we both stared at it until Veronique did something that scared me.
She began to cry.
Eeek! I watched her, with no idea WHAT to do until my hand went out, hovering over her shoulder like an X-wing starfighter, just about to land. It stayed there until her dad came in.
‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said, setting a spade down against the wall. ‘It’s just a grade exam.’
‘What?’
‘It’s okay to be disappointed. But you can do better next time, can’t you?’
Veronique didn’t answer. Instead she just stared at her dad and shook her head, tears tumbling out of her eyes like kids from a school bus. Then she did something that amazed him. She stopped crying – and began to laugh! She laughed and laughed and didn’t stop and her dad was confused. He didn’t know why she was laughing, though I did – I knew perfectly well. Of course I did! It was her NOT getting a Distinction! For the first time EVER! It wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t something to make her cry.
In fact, believe it or not, getting just a pass on her Grade 5 piano was one of the best things to happen to Veronique Chang in her WHOLE LIFE.
And this book is all about why.
(See you in the next chapter, then.)
TWO-AND-A-HALF WEEKS EARLIER
It began on a Wednesday. Though not any old Wednesday. A Wednesday when someone did something.
And it was BAD.
And they did it to Mrs Martin.
I am going to repeat that.
They did it to Mrs Martin, who is, in my opinion, the best teacher ever to exist apart perhaps from Socrates, who our teacher, Miss Phillips, told us about last week. Socrates was really clever and taught this other guy, Plato, in ancient Greece. He’s a teacher legend, though Miss Phillips also told us that he drank poison and died, which must really have upset Plato’s learning pathway. Plato would also have got a supply teacher, wouldn’t he, and if he was an old horror like Mr Gorton (who we get) Plato would have been IN for it.
It happened after PE. We were up on the heath doing athletics (even though it was fr-e-e-e-e-zing). Mrs Martin does it with us because long before she was an AMAZING teacher she ran for Botswana. She even went to the Olympics, which Lance did too when they were in London (though he was only five). His dad took him but he got so excited he wet himself. By the time they got back from the loos, Usain Bolt had already finished.
‘Two hundred pounds,’ his dad says, nearly every time I go round. ‘Each, Cymbeline. To see a man jogging round a track with a flag round his shoulders.’
I’d laugh but I can’t talk, actually, because when my Uncle Bill took me to the fair once I wet myself on the Ferris wheel. It went down on the man below, who shouted up that he was going to punch Uncle Bill’s lights out. When we got off, we had to leg it (as fast as Usain Bolt, actually).
Anyway, our class was up on the heath doing running trials with Mrs Martin to pick who would be on the athletics team. I came third, after Billy Lee and Daisy Blake, though she’s so tall I really don’t think it’s fair. Each one of her legs contains about five of mine. Afterwards, we came back down to school and followed Mrs Martin towards our classroom.
We were just approaching the stairs, and Marcus Breen was doing these incredibly realistic sounds with his armpits (you know what I mean). Mrs Martin wasn’t telling Marcus off – she was trying to do even better ones. THAT’s how cool she is. She was still trying when we all got to the stairs, where she’d left her normal shoes next to one of the drip buckets which catch leaks. Our school’s really old and these buckets are dotted about here and there, and now every class has a Drip Monitor who rushes out when it starts raining and makes sure the buckets are in place. There used only to be one or two leaks, but it’s been getting worse and there are about ten buckets now.
Anyway, Mrs Martin’s shoes were open-top ones, with no straps. We all stopped as she did this little hop thing to get out of her trainers. We watched as she reached out her big toe, using it to slide her right shoe towards her. And it happened, something I need to prepare you for in case you faint, or scream, or simply drop down DEAD when you find out what someone had done.
So here goes—
Brace yourself …
I’m going to say it.
No, I really am this time …
Actually, I don’t think I can say it.
Okay, here goes, really—
They’d put jelly in her shoes.
Actually, that doesn’t sound too bad, does it?
Jelly, in her shoes? Even BLUE jelly?
It was almost funny.
The problem was, this was Mrs Martin, the most totally superb teacher in the WHOLE world, and she didn’t seem to see it as funny – and neither did some of the other kids. Vi Delap gasped. Elizabeth Fisher’s mouth shot open in amazement, though probably just because she’s never done ANYTHING bad in her WHOLE life. Other kids were shocked too – because of WHO this had been done to. You see, it’s not just me who thinks Mrs Martin is AMAZING. On our first day in Year 3 she told us all to line up. We were nervous and didn’t know what she wanted. Vi was first, all shy and worried, until Mrs Martin grinned at her.
‘What’s your favourite hobby?’ she asked, her voice all soft.
‘Football,’ Vi said, because she’s really good (and no, not just for a girl – sexist!).
Without even thinking, Mrs Martin sang:
When you’re in goal and the ball flies by,
Who d’you think kicked it? Must be Vi!
Then she did a double high-five with Vi followed by a toe touch and then another toe touch. Vi went bright red and beamed, and then it was Lance’s turn. He said cycling, of course (that’s his thing), and in a flash Mrs Martin sang:
In front of me is my main man Lance.
He’s going to win the Tour de France –
Legally.
She gave Lance a low-five followed by a high-five and then they both pretended they were cycling really fast. Lance grinned like a two-year-old in Santa’s grotto, and then it was Marcus Breen. He said sleeping, because, well, he’s Marcus Breen. We all groaned but Mrs Martin laughed.
Think you’re good at snoozing, meet Mr Breen.
This boy’s gonna show you how to dream.
She gave Marcus a double cross high-ten and then pretended to sleep. And she did this with everyone. EVERY person in our class got their own instant song and their own greeting, though some were harder than others.
‘Cymbeline Igloo,’ I said.
Mrs Martin drew her hand across her forehead. ‘Phew.’
‘And I like football but I also like art.’
‘DOUBLE phew. But here goes.’ And she sang:
If you need to get a penalty, don’t throw in the towel –
Cymbeline Igloo can draw a foul.
I got a double high fist bump after which I got a double toe touch like Vi, but with Mrs Martin and me both doing air drawing at the same time. And I felt this warmth beginning to grow in the middle of my chest, like there was a radiator in there, until it had reached all the way to my ears. It made me feel special, it made us all feel special – and every single morning began like that! This sunny sort of warmth came to us from Mrs Martin and stayed for the whole day. She gave us our own individual greeting with our own rhyme and she NEVER got anyone’s wrong. It was amazing, and I can tell you this: nowhere on the entire Internet does it say that Socrates did the same thing.
And he only had Plato.
So, to see someone play any kind of trick on Mrs Martin was probably too much for some of us. Everyone stopped as Mrs Martin gasped and looked down. We all did the same. The jelly (the BLUE jelly) oozed up between her toes like something you might see on Doctor Who, though I wouldn’t know because my mum says I’m too young to watch it (even if Lance does and he’s THREE DAYS younger than me).
Mrs Martin looked confused at first, not quite able to understand what she was seeing. Then her expression changed. And I expected her to be angry. Miss Phillips would have set her face, hands flying out to her hips. Mr Gorton would have gone VESUVIUS. But what Mrs Martin did was worse somehow.
This brilliant teacher we all love did not frown. Or shout. Or get mad. Instead, she just went still and said, ‘Oh …’, like you might if someone you REALLY like was saying you weren’t invited to their birthday party, and you’d already bought their present.
And that’s when I did something I couldn’t quite believe. Mrs Martin stepped back a little. She looked down at us, a sort of not-quite-able-to-believe-it look on her open, worn-in face. Everyone looked away from her, unable to meet her gaze – except for me. When her eyes fell on mine I was suddenly nervous, and unable even to move, because the weirdness of it had crept up on me. Someone putting jelly in her shoes? WHAT? It suddenly seemed so bizarre that instead of a radiator in me there were these weird, frothy bubbles.
And I giggled.
I don’t know why – honestly! It just came out. A stupid, childish, RIDICULOUS giggle that was SO loud! It stopped Mrs Martin. It stopped me. Mrs Martin looked even more upset – and surprised – and I could see her mind ticking over, and the completely WRONG conclusion about to make itself inside her head.
‘No,’ I said, as fast as I possibly could. ‘That doesn’t mean—’
But before I could go on I was interrupted. It was Mr Baker (our new head teacher). He was showing some men round our school, but he turned to Mrs Martin, a curiosity on his face that seemed to snap her away from me. And she turned, bent down and picked up her shoe, along with the other one, which had also been filled with jelly. Then she edged through us all, glancing quickly at me with my face burning, before hurrying off towards the staff room, one hand dangling her shoes, the other held up to her face.
Halfway there she broke into a run.
We were quiet that afternoon. We got on with our work. Or tried to. I couldn’t: the word IDIOT was trampolining in my brain. At last play I didn’t even join in when Billy Lee got his football out, or give my expert opinion on how many goals Jacky Chapman was going to score for Charlton on Saturday. I just looked round the playground as some kids in our class went on as normal while others talked about what had happened.
Lance and Vi Delap were saying how stupid it was, Marcus Breen wondering why anyone would want to waste perfectly good jelly. You should have seen Daisy Blake, though. She LOVES Mrs Martin. When Daisy’s grandpa died last year, Mrs Martin was epic, telling her that crying was fine if she wanted to cry, and not if she didn’t, changing her morning greeting to add a really long hug at the end, holding Daisy’s hand at home time until her mum or dad came. So Daisy was one hundred per cent ANGRY.
‘Oh, come on!’ I said, when I realised that she was glaring at me. ‘I’d never! I wouldn’t!’
Daisy studied me, then put her hands on her hips as she turned to look round the playground.
‘Then who was it?’ she said. ‘Who did it, Cymbeline?’
And she wasn’t the only one who wanted to know that.
Mr Baker held a SPECIAL ASSEMBLY before home time. After we’d all trooped in, he stared down at us from the stage. He went on about respect, and behaviour, and asked for the culprit to come forward. Elizabeth Fisher glanced at me, which made me go bright red again even though I was really trying not to. Did Mrs Martin notice? I kept my head down, hoping she wasn’t looking at me.
‘Well,’ Mr Baker said, when no one owned up. ‘I was told that this school was full of kind, considerate pupils. And honest ones too. It seems that this might not be true.’
We were all given an envelope which we were told to take home to our parents. We filed out, my neck and face burning YET AGAIN when I had to walk past Mrs Martin. She was standing next to the wall bars and I could finally sort of understand how Daisy felt. Mrs Martin was trying to look cheerful, as if it was all just some stupid thing.
But she couldn’t really manage it.
I kept my head down and followed Vi into the playground, where Daisy was sucking on a new stick of rock (which she must have snuck into her schoolbag because there was NO WAY her parents could have allowed her to bring it in). She was glaring at the passing kids.
‘What are you looking at?’ said Billy Lee, when it was his turn.
‘You tell me,’ said Daisy, pointing the stick of rock at him. I thought they might get into an argument actually, but his mum was there to pick him up so he walked off.
There was no one there to pick me up – not yet anyway. I do ICT club after school on Wednesdays because Mum works. I’d rather do football but that costs more and, anyway, Mum says I can use the time to catch up on my homework.
‘Spellings especially,’ she says.
I want to argue – but I can’t really. Spellings! There are just so many letters! And the way they join together, the Is and Es always swapping places like Year 1 kids trying to wind up Mrs Mason. We’ve also started doing these things called apostrophes, which at first I didn’t understand.
‘They show you own something,’ Miss Phillips said. ‘Like “Cymbeline’s football”.’
I nodded but I still didn’t get it. Everyone knows that it’s Billy’s football. As for where you put the apostrophes in the actual words, that’s just not possible to know. You may as well be playing pin the tail on the donkey. I can’t wait until I can use a computer to do my writing because of the wavy red lines that help you out, and it makes me wonder: why has no one invented a pencil which does that?
‘Hi, Cym,’ Mum said later that day, putting her head round the door of the ICT suite. ‘Ready?’
I said I was and when she’d signed me out I put my coat on. I followed her into the playground and through the gate on to the road. There were some men out there with clipboards, staring at the school and making notes. One was even on the roof. The police …? Mr Baker really was taking this jelly thing seriously. I grabbed Mum’s hand and pulled her up the steps towards Blackheath.
Now, if I’ve done something at school which perhaps I shouldn’t have, I would NOT normally want to tell my mum. This time, though, I did want to tell her, because Mum knows Mrs Martin. They’re both in the Friends’ Forum, which raises money for St Saviour’s. They do things like getting everyone to bake cakes to sell to themselves at the school fair and they ask parents to donate back the same bottles of cheap wine they won at the last fair and didn’t drink. Toys as well. In Year 2, Lance’s mum donated his old Buzz Lightyear for the Christmas Fair without telling him. Darren Cross won it in the tombola. Neither of them knew until Darren’s mum donated it back for the Easter Fair without telling him, and who should pull it out of the lucky dip? Lance!