The School for Talking Pets

by Kelli Anne Hawkins

  Shock kept him glued to his chair. He stared vacantly at the screen as Davinia Morton and Richard Hamilton patted the talking puppy and asked the llama and cat idiotic questions like, ‘Do you enjoy talking?’ Rusty could not believe he’d actually won something. Let alone something as amazing as a week at a school for talking animals.

  Rusty didn’t wake his father. Mr Mulligan was never in a good mood if woken after a night shift and Rusty wasn’t sure even this momentous news would be worth risking his father’s grumpiness. The program finished and some ladies came on and started talking about steam mops. With a jolt, he realised it was time for the school bus. He had just enough sense to put Bongo back in his warm enclosure before he left. Of course, Rusty tried to tell Bongo the brilliant news, but the lizard just licked a dead beetle from the windowsill and closed his eyes as he chewed.

  Children crowded around Rusty as he came through the school gates.

  ‘Rusty!’

  ‘Hey, Rusty, we heard . . .’

  ‘Oh. Em. Gee! Rusty, my main man, how awesome . . .’

  Kids he’d never spoken to before slapped him on the back. Someone carried his bag. Arms were slung around his shoulders. He was pulled towards Miss Chester’s classroom as the bell rang, still having not said a word. Rusty sat at his desk in stunned silence as the kids around him chattered.

  ‘QUIET, children!’ said Miss Chester as she entered.

  Today, Rusty hardly noticed her screechiness. The other kids took their seats, but they didn’t stop talking. They directed their words to Miss Chester instead.

  ‘Did you hear, Miss?’

  ‘Rusty won!’

  ‘Rusty’s going to the talking-pet school!’

  ‘Children, children,’ Miss Chester continued, until finally the class quietened.

  Rusty was puzzled to note his teacher wore the flowery dress she usually only donned for end-of-year assemblies. Miss Chester glanced at the door, tidied her uncommonly neat bun and smiled at them with the gentle look she reserved for when the school principal popped into their classroom unannounced.

  Miss Chester turned to Rusty. He frowned. She was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen on her face before. Not when it was directed at him, anyway.

  Pride.

  ‘Rusty Mulligan.’

  Despite her smile, Rusty was nervous. He wasn’t used to having his teacher’s full attention. ‘Yes, Miss Chester?’ he asked, trying to keep a wobble from his voice.

  ‘Congratulations, young man. Of course I tuned in this morning to hear the announcement. Professor Fluffypants, Bubbles and Princess — we were all watching. I knew a few children from our school were entering the competition. Indeed, I helped — well, mentored really — several of them. But you, Mr Mulligan,’ she smiled fondly, as if he’d won the competition especially to please her, ‘you surprised me.’ She wagged a finger at him playfully.

  Rusty didn’t know what to make of this new teacher who had taken over Miss Chester’s body, so he said nothing.

  ‘But now, I have a surprise for you.’ She looked meaningfully at the door, then back to the children. ‘A television news crew has come to film our lucky winner. And his excited friends. And, of course, his proud teacher. Come in, Mr Dennis.’

  The door swung open and five men entered the room, weighed down by big black cameras and microphones.

  ‘Thanks, Miss Chester, ah, I mean Monica,’ said a moustachioed man in a dark suit who smelled strongly of peppermint.

  ‘This is Mr Dennis from Channel 8 Nightly News. What do you say to Mr Dennis, children?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Dennis,’ chanted the class in unison. Only Rusty remained silent. He desperately wished he could teleport himself back to his familiar, safe bedroom.

  ‘Good morning, children,’ said the man. His teeth were very white. ‘Now, where’s our winner?’ he asked, peering around and gesturing a camera operator to move closer.

  ‘He’s just over there in the middle of the room. Stand up, Rusty, please.’

  Rusty knew his face was bright red, but he scraped his chair back and stood up.

  ‘OK. I see you now. Come out here, kiddo. Let’s have a little chat about your win, hey?’

  Rusty made his way to the front of the class as the reporters set up their equipment and the children’s chatter grew louder. Mr Dennis offered him a mint and Rusty accepted it. Sucking on the mint gave him an excuse not to talk as he was shuffled around by the news crew. Mr Dennis directed him to stand in front of the whiteboard. After what seemed an age, one man hung a long fluffy thing over Rusty’s head, another shone a bright light in his eyes and a third trained a camera on his face. Mr Dennis powdered his own nose, made the introductions and started asking questions, his white teeth on prominent display.

  ‘Rusty Mulligan, you must be thrilled to win this competition. No-one in the world has seen anything like this talking-pet school before, and you will be one of the first visitors, along with your’ — he consulted his notes — ‘blue-tongued lizard. Bongo, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Dennis’s moustache appeared a little grey after the dusting of powder it had received.

  ‘You must be very excited.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you ever been overseas before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must be very excited about that too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Dennis paused and rubbed his moustache, sending a small puff of powder into the air. He sniffed, apparently underwhelmed by Rusty’s responses.

  ‘OK. Hmm. Miss Chester, your wonderfully supportive teacher, told me you lost your mother to cancer when you were small. Almost an orphan child, and now a world-wide competition winner. What a change, hey?’

  Rusty glared at Miss Chester, who was too busy grinning at the reporter to look at all embarrassed — like she should be — for talking about Rusty’s private business to a stranger. He thought about objecting, but as usual he didn’t want to make a scene and instead stood in silence. Mr Dennis took a different tack, turning to the class.

  ‘Children, you must be very proud of your classmate,’ he said jovially.

  ‘Yes!’ they chanted.

  ‘What do you think about it, young man?’ Mr Dennis asked, holding a microphone towards Matt Davidson in the front row.

  ‘Rusty’s my best friend! We play handball at lunchtimes,’ Matt blurted.

  Handball? Rusty’s eyes widened. Matt hadn’t spoken to him all year, let alone played handball with him. You had to be invited by one of the cool kids to play handball, so Rusty would definitely remember if he’d ever played.

  ‘And you?’ he asked of Isabella Morgan, who sat behind Matt.

  ‘Oh yes, Rusty’s the best. He’s the funniest kid in class. I’m so happy for him,’ Isabella gushed, batting her eyelashes at the camera.

  Rusty wasn’t funny. At least, he was pretty sure he wasn’t funny. He certainly couldn’t remember Isabella ever laughing at anything he’d said.

  The reporters eventually left but the rest of the day continued in the same way — that is to say, extremely unusually — with everyone behaving so oddly that Rusty longed to go home to Bongo.

  Only Charlotte acted normally. At recess, she found Rusty hiding behind the atlases in the library. She strode over and punched him in the arm. Hard.

  ‘Ow. What was that for?’ Rusty asked, rubbing his throbbing bicep.

  ‘To stop you getting a big head,’ Charlotte said, then laughed.

  Rusty laughed too.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to enter?’ she said, plopping onto a beanbag beside him and grabbing a large dictionary.

  ‘Yeah, you did.’

  She smiled at him, pulling out a chocolate milk and sipping it while keeping one eye out for their scary librarian, Mrs Pine. If she saw Charlotte with a drink in the library, it would be detention for a week.

  ‘Well done, Rusty. I’m so jealous. What an adventure for you and Bongo,’ she said
, eyes shining.

  Rusty suddenly realised he didn’t know any details about when he was leaving, how he was getting to the island or what he needed to pack. He hadn’t even told his father he had won. ‘I hope so, Charlotte.’

  She punched him again, but not so hard this time. ‘Of course it will be, Rusty. What could possibly go wrong?’

  CHAPTER 8

  PROUD AS PUNCH (NOT)

  ‘You won? Really?’ Mr Mulligan’s mouth hung open.

  Rusty and his father stood in front of Rusty’s computer. Bongo lay under the heat lamp in his enclosure, snoring. On the screen, an open email confirmed ‘Mr Rusty Mulligan’ and his pet blue-tongued lizard, Bongo, had won a place at Miss Alice Einstein’s School for Talking Pets. They would be welcomed for a one-week stay at the school, beginning the coming Sunday. Flights had been booked and departure times were listed at the end of the email.

  Mr Mulligan frowned at the screen and turned to his son. ‘Well, I never. You actually won.’ A hint of a smile flashed across his face, but it vanished so quickly Rusty wasn’t sure he’d seen it after all. For a wonderful moment, Rusty dared to believe his father was proud of him.

  But then Mr Mulligan shook his head and peered at Bongo, whose scaly body rose and fell rhythmically in his sleep. He frowned again. ‘Don’t expect too much from this whole talking-pet thing, Rusty. Blue-tongues aren’t cats or dogs, you know. They’re cold-blooded creatures. Lazy. Not too smart either. Look at that reptile.’ He waved a hand at Bongo. ‘He just wants to lie in the sun and eat bugs or broccoli or some such thing.’

  Rusty looked over at Bongo, who didn’t stir.

  ‘I’m sorry, son. I just don’t think you, or the Einstein woman, or anyone — not even that clever cat from the TV — will be able to teach your lizard to speak.’ Mr Mulligan shrugged, then walked out of the room, throwing words over his shoulder as he went. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, boy. And go brush your teeth. It’s bedtime.’

  CHAPTER 9

  MEETING THE BOYS

  Rusty had been travelling for more than twenty-four hours and was standing slumped at the baggage claim section of Heathrow Airport in London, trying to get his jet-lagged brain to figure out which of the fifty black suitcases on the carousel belonged to him, when something wet prodded his leg.

  Bongo was sprawled across Rusty’s shoulder and, at the slobbering nudge to his calf, he spun around. A dog’s nose was pressed against his bare skin. The dog — a lanky black and brown animal with long floppy ears and mournful eyes — trotted around and stood in front of him, sniffing one shoe, then the other, before tracing a damp path up Rusty’s other leg.

  ‘Very sorry about that, old chap.’ The voice, sounding even more uppity than Nader Heydar, came from behind Rusty.

  He turned around. Before him stood a tall boy with white-blond hair and long limbs.

  ‘I’d demand Bismarck remove himself from your person, but it’s no use, I’m afraid. Bismarck adores sniffing and there’s nothing I have ever been able to say that will stop him. Too many delicious new smells, you see.’

  The boy’s wide mouth stretched into a smile beneath his straight nose, and Rusty could tell he smiled a lot. He had the twinkling eyes and raised eyebrows of a person looking for fun . . . or trouble.

  ‘I’m Braithwaite Kingsley-Smythe, Duke-in-Waiting of St Albans. The dog currently sniffing your leg is my Bloodhound, Bismarck. We’ve just returned from my family’s annual sojourn to our holiday chateau in the Loire Valley. That’s in France,’ he added for Rusty’s benefit.

  Rusty’s foggy brain finally realised this was one of the other competition winners.

  The boy wore ripped blue jeans and an old black hoodie with graffiti-like writing on it that didn’t match his posh voice. Beside him stood a shorter, handsome man in a black suit wearing a peaked cap.

  The man rested one of his very muscular arms on a trolley piled high with matching suitcases monogrammed with the letters BKS. Rusty glanced at the luggage carousel, picturing his own small suitcase. He wondered if he should have packed more.

  As if imagining his bag had conjured it out of thin air, Rusty located his suitcase on the conveyor belt right in front of him. ‘There you are!’ He grabbed it with relief and yanked it off as more black suitcases continued past.

  The white-haired boy peered at him, a half-smile on his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rusty in his quiet voice. ‘I’d been looking for that for ages. I’m Rusty Mulligan, from Australia.’

  The boy’s smile widened. ‘Yes, I’d guessed as much. I saw you had a lizard on your shoulder and I deduced it at once. I’m clever like that,’ Braithwaite said with a nod and a wink. ‘Also — no offence — you do have the general look about you of a person who might be from Australia. Those board shorts are not what one usually wears in the mother country.’

  Rusty reddened.

  Braithwaite laughed, though not unkindly, and Rusty mustered a small smile. He peered down at the new chequered board shorts he’d been so proud of when he’d boarded the plane in Sydney the previous day.

  Mr Mulligan had farewelled Rusty with a tired wave at security before heading off to his night shift. Rusty had flown first-class to London via Singapore, Bongo beside him on his very own seat. Somehow Miss Alice Einstein had avoided all the usual quarantine problems, and the lizard had been allowed on the plane just like a human. Rusty had carefully placed a soft airline blanket over Bongo’s scaly back and the lizard had settled down to watch a wildlife documentary on the television screen before him. Rusty ate spaghetti bolognaise, while the flight attendant had presented Bongo with a small bowl of dead flies and crickets, holding it with the tips of her fingers and grimacing as she set it onto the tiny table in front of him, before beating a hasty retreat. Rusty had dozed, but nerves kept him awake for most of the trip. As they descended into London, he’d chewed his now very-gnawed fingernails and tried to imagine what was to come.

  What if the talking-pet school was just like his normal school, and he wasn’t very good at it? What if his father was right and Bongo never learned to talk? Hearing Bongo speak — being able to ask him how his day was, what he’d like to eat for dinner . . . just everyday things like that — was all Rusty wanted in the world.

  ‘Here comes another one,’ Braithwaite muttered, bringing Rusty back to the present.

  Walking towards them across the slowly emptying baggage hall was a shorter, rounder boy wearing a three-piece grey suit over a white shirt and tie. Rusty could see he had a small notebook in his vest pocket, along with a slim gold pen. This must be Maximilian von Zimmermann, the German winner. Maximilian grinned at them as he trotted their way. He had a round face and hair shorn close to his head, and he pulled a modern suitcase with one hand while awkwardly carrying a sleeping ginger and white cat in his other arm.

  Bismarck spun away from Rusty and galloped towards the boy, his long ears flying up and down and whacking him on either side of his head. Maximilian held his cat warily as the dog neared, but when Bismarck skidded to a halt and started sniffing his feet, he relaxed.

  ‘Guten Morgen,’ he started in German, then stopped, as if remembering no-one else present was German. ‘I mean, hello.’

  Rusty and Braithwaite said their hellos before the boy continued in his accented but very good English. ‘I’m Maximilian von Zimmermann, and this is Hannah. We are excited to be here. I’ve been conversing with Hannah day and night to prepare her for Miss Alice Einstein’s School for Talking Pets. I did not know if it would help, but I am hopeful. It is always good to get a head start on new projects, do you not agree?’

  Maximilian stroked Hannah’s back as he talked, and the cat purred in response. Fully awake now, she watched Bongo through slitted eyes, her tail swishing. Rusty put a hand on his lizard protectively.

  ‘Nerd,’ muttered Braithwaite under his breath. Maximilian frowned and smiled as though he hadn’t quite caught the word. Braithwaite continued in a louder voice, gesturing to the muscly man sta
nding patiently beside them. ‘The chauffeur said he will take us as far as the wharf. The next stage of our journey is a boat trip to the island. The girls will meet us at the boat.’

  CHAPTER 10

  MEETING THE GIRLS

  Rusty stood shivering on a rickety timber wharf that seemed to stretch halfway out into the choppy grey ocean. Braithwaite had been correct. Board shorts were not suitable attire for the ‘mother country’. Apparently not even in summer.

  Back at the airport they’d followed the chauffeur to the carpark, where they’d found a deep purple limousine.

  ‘This one?’ Maximillian had asked.

  The chauffeur nodded, and the boys grinned at one another before clambering in. They’d driven for a couple of hours along roads that grew skinnier and twistier the further they went, until finally they arrived at a small windswept town where narrow white buildings lined a largely empty promenade. A pebbly beach and the unappealing ocean sat on the other side. The chauffeur pulled up opposite the longest wharf Rusty had ever seen and the boys climbed out.

  ‘Ah, I love this place!’ Braithwaite said, sounding delighted. ‘I used to come here for ice-cream when I was a young fellow. Raspberry ripple. Belvedere would drive Nanny and me down for a lark when Father was busy at the estate.’

  Rusty looked around. He couldn’t imagine anyone choosing to come to this town for a lark. Whatever a lark might be.

  While Braithwaite and Maximilian organised their luggage and pets, Rusty, who had only the one small bag, took it and went ahead. He set down Bongo on the wharf, first checking to make sure the sniffing dog and hungry cat remained back at the car with their owners. After determining the coast was clear, Rusty laid his suitcase on its side, unzipped it and pulled out the old Driza-Bone coat that his father had insisted he bring on this trip. The thick waterproof jacket took up at least half his suitcase. Rusty stood up and pulled it on, then resecured his bag. The coat’s sleeves were too long and it flapped and snapped in the wind, but it did provide immediate warmth. He put Bongo into one of the pockets, leaving the lizard’s head poking out so he could see. Bongo’s blue tongue flicked in and out and Rusty wasn’t sure if the lizard was expressing pleasure at the warmth of the coat, or displeasure at being stuck on a cold, windy wharf in the first place.