by Alan Brough
‘That’s it,’ I said. ‘The insect orchestra. That sounds perfect. Doesn’t it sound perfect, Colin?’
‘I PRATTLE AT BOATERS.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ I said.
58
THE THEATRE
Following the very grumpy beetle’s directions, Colin and I wound our way through the busy flea market until we came to a set of shiny wooden double doors. On one of the doors was a sign:
I quietly pulled open the double doors. Behind them was a thick glass wall. I looked through the glass wall and saw a beautiful theatre. Everything inside was gold and red: the carpet, the seats, the thick wallpaper covering the walls. The only part of the theatre that wasn’t red and gold was the huge, brightly coloured painting of a peacock – with its tail-feathers fully spread – above the stage.
The stage was lit – not brightly – sort of like when the sun has set but it hasn’t started to get dark yet.
‘Wow,’ I said to Colin. ‘How did they fit a normal-sized theatre into this big pile of rubbish?’
‘They didn’t,’ said Colin. ‘I FRET WITH FASCINATORS! That wall isn’t made of regular glass. It’s made of magnifying glass. The theatre is insect-sized. The magnifying glass lets you . . . you get it?’
I did get it.
Coming from the stage I heard beautiful – and strange – music. Music like I had never heard before. Music I wanted to hear more of.
Right at the front of the stage someone – or something – was standing with their back to us.
‘Is that the conductor?’ I said to Colin.
‘I think so. I SWEAR AT SWEATBANDS!’ said Colin.
‘I really, very, super need to talk to the conductor,’ I said. ‘How do I get in?’
‘You don’t,’ said Colin.
I tapped on the glass.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to the conductor even though I didn’t know whether they could hear me or not.
Then I saw the sign:
Bum! I hated not doing what signs told me to do.
I wanted to apologise to the conductor but that would mean I would need to get their attention and that would mean tapping on the glass again.
I would ask Colin what to do.
‘I BELLOW AT BALACLAVAS!’ said Colin.
I wouldn’t ask Colin what to do.
Just then the conductor stopped conducting.
The music stopped.
The conductor turned around to face us.
‘Hello,’ she said.
The conductor was a millipede. She stood up straight on the two legs at the bottom of her body while all her other legs (or arms – I don’t know) were holding conducting batons.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry that I tapped on the glass but I was wondering if this is the insect orchestra?’
59
THE ORCHESTRA
‘Well, it’s mainly insects but we do have a few frogs,’ said the conductor.
‘Won’t the frogs eat the insects?’ I said. ‘Frogs love eating insects.’
‘We only employ vegetarian frogs,’ said the conductor. ‘Actually, at the moment all our frogs are vegan.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said to the conductor. ‘This magnifying wall is really thick. How can I hear what you’re saying? How can you hear what I’m saying?’
‘Telepathy,’ said the conductor. ‘We are communicating with our minds.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘No,’ said the conductor. ‘I’m wearing a microphone and there’s one hanging just above where you are standing.’
I stepped right up to the magnifying glass wall and got a much better view of the insect orchestra. Each musician sat on a small square platform that was raised off the stage on a long metal pole.
‘It’s just like a real orchestra,’ said the conductor. ‘We have a percussion section. Though our percussion section doesn’t have drums. It has Stuttering Frogs.’
The conductor raised one of her batons and pointed it towards the back of the stage. The Stuttering Frogs started playing percussion. Well, they weren’t really playing. They were just doing what they do. They were just being. I suppose they were playing themselves.
Whatever they were doing it did sound like percussion. It just didn’t sound like any percussion I had heard before.
‘We have a string section,’ said the conductor. ‘Great Andean Crickets.’
She pointed another baton at the left-hand side of the stage.
An eerie sound filled the theatre.
It sounded like violins.
It also didn’t sound like violins.
It would be the perfect music for a horror movie. A horror movie that I would never be able to watch because it would be too, too scary and would be about people having their minds taken over and that is something that really scares me because I think it is actually happening all the time and nobody is reporting it and even if they do they probably report it to someone who already has had their mind taken over and because of that they ignore the report.
‘There’s a wind section.’
She pointed another baton to the right.
A delicate wheezing started up.
It sounded like a clarinet having an asthma attack.
‘What is making that music or noise or whatever it is?’ I said.
‘Some dung beetles don’t use their balls of dung as a place to house and feed their young,’ said the conductor. ‘They hollow out the dung ball, make holes in it and then play it by blowing through the holes. Dung beetles have been doing this for thousands of years. In fact, they inspired one of the oldest person-made instruments: the ocarina.’
‘Awesome,’ I said.
I hate the word ‘awesome’. I think people use it too much. But it was the only word to describe the insect (and a few frogs) orchestra. It had filled me with some awe. Therefore it was, properly, awesome.
I had so many questions I wanted to ask that they had all got stuck in a sort of question-jam in my head and none of the questions could get out of my brain, into my mouth and out towards the conductor’s ear.
So instead of asking questions I just stood still with my mouth hanging open and nothing coming out of it.
I realised the conductor was staring at me.
I tried to speak. Nothing.
I knew that, in a second, all my questions were going to come out at once in a big stream of jumbled-up words which would seem to have no connection to each other.
A second passed.
Then it happened.
‘Why did . . . beetle . . . jungle . . . kidnapping . . . net . . . jam jar . . . shoebox . . . blowfly banjo . . . down your shirt . . . accidentally step on the tuba player . . . is there even a tuba? . . . documentary . . . hotel . . . ’
‘I understand that you have a lot of questions,’ said the conductor.
60
THE ANSWERS
‘There are billions and billions of insects – and frogs – on Earth,’ said the conductor. ‘Almost all of them make sounds. Some of them can make music. A very small percentage of them can be trained to perform music. Oswald Orchestra – his name really was Oswald Orchestra – started this orchestra sixty years ago as a way of making sure that musically talented insects and frogs were given a chance to perform music and have people enjoy it.
‘For a while Oswald Orchestra’s Insect Orchestra was the most popular orchestra in the land. Perhaps even in the world. People would come from everywhere to hear them. They made records, got played on the radio and even performed for kings and queens.
‘But tastes change. Audiences started to find the music too odd. Too difficult to listen to and impossible to dance to. People stopped coming to see the orchestra. Their records stopped selling. The radio didn’t play them. Kings and queens were no longer interested.
‘By now Oswald’s son – Orson Orchestra – had taken over the orchestra. He kept it going even though audiences were becoming smaller and smaller.
‘Orson had no chil
dren. Several years ago, as he lay dying, he asked me to take over. I was honoured. I swore to him I would do my best to make Oswald Orchestra’s Insect Orchestra popular again. To make this music loved once more.’
‘Would it help,’ I said, ‘if you had some singers?’
‘That would change everything,’ said the conductor. ‘Oswald and Orson always dreamt of finding an insect that could sing. Neither of them ever did.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Because, as it happens, I know three singing cockroaches who need somewhere to live.’
As a child, Oswald Orchestra was only interested in two things: insects and playing the trombone. Unfortunately he was an awful trombone player. So awful that he wasn’t allowed to practise in the house. He had to practise in the dark, damp washing house (‘washing house’ is an old-fashioned word for the laundry) tucked down the back of his family’s overgrown garden.
One Saturday afternoon Oswald leant his trombone against the wall while he took a break from practising. He was having a drink of water when sounds started to come from his trombone. Amazing sounds. Beautiful sounds. Strange sounds.
Oswald looked into his trombone and there he saw a large cicada. This cicada was rubbing its legs together like normal cicadas do, however, the noise this cicada was making was not like normal cicada noise. Not at all.
Oswald had an idea.
He put the cicada in a jar and took him into his room. He found a long, thin stick, put a record on and started conducting the cicada.
After a few minutes the cicada got the idea and started playing along with the music.
Oswald couldn’t believe it.
He wondered if there might be more insects like this cicada. More insects he could catch, who could be taught to play along with real music.
The young Oswald Orchestra became obsessed with catching insects. (His parents were very pleased as it meant he stopped practising the trombone.) After two years he had found thirteen insects who were able to play along to records.
Oswald Orchestra’s Insect Orchestra was born.
The orchestra’s first ever performance was at Oswald’s school talent show. The orchestra was a hit. (Oswald didn’t win the talent show. The winner was Olive Scunthorpe, who could move her pigtails up and down without using her hands.)
As soon as Oswald turned eighteen he packed up his orchestra and headed overseas to find fame, fortune and more musicians for his orchestra.
The orchestra grew and grew, as did Oswald’s celebrity and wealth.
Soon, Oswald Orchestra’s Insect Orchestra was the most famous orchestra in the world.
Unfortunately, at the height of his fame Oswald died suddenly. He was riding along on his bike when a fly flew into his mouth and he choked.
61
THE WAIT
I left Colin with the insect orchestra. They were trying to decide what song to do first. Colin wanted to sing a country song he had written called ‘I Fell In Love With An Old Woolly Hat But When I Kiss It My Lips Feel All Yucky’. The orchestra did not want to do Colin’s song.
Even though they didn’t like his song Colin was happy. The orchestra was happy. I was happy.
Everyone being happy hardly ever happened.
By the time I made it back to Hils’s caravan it was afternoon.
It was a school day. Hils was at school. I was not at school.
Normally this would make me really, very, super worried. But this time I knew I didn’t need to worry because Hils would have made up a really good excuse for why I wasn’t at school.
EXCUSES HILS MIGHT HAVE MADE UP FOR WHY I WASN’T AT SCHOOL
I had been doing my science homework and had accidentally dissolved my eyebrows and now sweat was constantly dripping into my eyes and I couldn’t see and not being able to see meant that I couldn’t walk to school.
I had been doing my science homework and had accidentally shrunk myself down to the size of a mouse. I was afraid of being eaten by a cat on the way to school and had decided to stay home.
I had been doing my science homework and had accidentally died of boredom.
I had been kidnapped and would only be returned safely if all my classmates were allowed a whole week off school.
I was at school. I was just really, very, super well camouflaged.
I waited for Hils. I waited outside her caravan. I knew better than to try to get into her caravan when she wasn’t around.
Booby traps.
Lots and lots of booby traps.
‘Hils,’ I said as she walked towards me. ‘I found somewhere that the cockroaches will be safe. Not The Lurker. Me. I found it. So we don’t need The Lurker any more. Let’s grab Pavaroachi and Sister Roachetta and I’ll show you where it is.’
62
THE DISAPPEARED
‘THE COCKROACHES HAVE DISAPPEARED!’ I shouted.
Hils had let us into the caravan. (After she had disabled the booby traps. The lots and lots of booby traps.)
‘PAVAROACHI! SISTER ROACHETTA! THEY’RE MEANT TO BE IN THEIR BOX!’
‘They are not in their box,’ said Hils.
‘THEY’RE MEANT TO BE IN THEIR BOX!’
‘We need to conduct exhaustive reconnaissance on the HQ.’
That’s the army way of saying, ‘We need to have a good look around the caravan.’
‘THEY’RE MEANT TO BE IN THEIR BOX!’ I shouted as I started to look around the caravan.
‘THEY’RE MEANT TO BE IN THEIR BOX!’
I looked in the rubbish bin.
‘THEY’RE MEANT TO BE IN THEIR BOX!’
I looked under the sink.
‘THEY’RE MEANT TO BE IN THEIR BOX!’
Using a small mirror, I looked up my nose.
‘What are you doing?’ said Hils.
‘I’m checking up my nose for the cockroaches.’
‘You would know if they were up your nose.’
‘Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe my nose isn’t very sensitive and the cockroaches crawled up there and I didn’t even feel it. Maybe they’re up there right now making a nest and preparing to lay thousands of eggs.’
Hils flicked my nose with her finger.
Really, very, super hard.
‘Owwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!’
‘Your nose is sensitive. The cockroaches are not up there.’
‘THEY’RE MEANT TO BE IN THEIR BOX!’
I took some frozen peas from Hils’s tiny freezer and pressed them against my sore nose.
‘THUH MUNT TA BH UN TUTH BUX!’ I shouted through the bag of frozen peas.
‘I have ascertained the whereabouts of the detainees,’ said Hils.
‘WHUH AH THUY?’
‘Take those frozen peas off your nose.’
I took the bag of frozen peas off my nose and shoved them into my pocket.
‘WHERE ARE THEY?’
‘They said they love to sing for people,’ said Hils as she pointed to the newspaper lying open on the table.
There was an advertisement.
‘We’re going to the theatre,’ said Hils. ‘We’re going to need weapons.’
THE NEWSPAPER
Hils gets the newspaper delivered every day. She does this for several reasons.
In case someone is using the newspaper to try to send Hils secret coded messages.
In case someone is using the newspaper to try to send Hils’s enemies secret coded messages.
In case she runs out of toilet paper and needs something to wipe her bottom. (I don’t know if you have ever wiped your bottom with the newspaper. Don’t. It feels really yucky.)
63
THE WEAPONS
Hils’s caravan is amazing. It is full of secret hiding places, hidden cupboards and things that look like boring things but turn out to be not-boring things that, sometimes, have even more not-boring things hidden inside them.
‘I almost forgot,’ said Hils, pulling a crumpled blindfold from the pocket of her shorts. (Hils is the only person I know who carries a blindfold around in her poc
ket.)
She handed me the blindfold.
‘Put this on. You don’t have a high enough security clearance to observe this operation.’
That’s the army way of saying, ‘I don’t want you to see where my secret hiding places are.’
I put on the blindfold.
I don’t know why but the blindfold Hils carries around with her has two tiny holes in it right where my eyes are. That means I can see through the blindfold.
I have never mentioned that the blindfold has holes. Hils has never asked whether the blindfold has holes.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t I be preparing for this mission as well?’
‘I will oversee mission logistics for the entire company.’
Army-talk = ‘No.’
Through the holes in my blindfold I watched Hils as she got ready for the mission.
The caravan had a tiny kitchen with a tiny fridge, oven and sink. Hils pushed the plug into the sink and turned it until it clicked. She then pulled the plug up and the sink came up and out of the cabinet where it sat to reveal that, underneath it, was a set of shelves stocked with small-but-important-and-definitely-dangerous-looking bits and pieces.
Hils started clicking lots of small-but-important-and-definitely-dangerous-looking bits together.
‘What are you doing?’ I said, pretending that I couldn’t see what she was doing.
‘Assembling a weapon.’
‘What weapon?’
‘The Stinky Sandstorm,’ said Hils.
‘You know what I’m going to ask next, don’t you?’ I said.
‘Affirmative. The Stinky Sandstorm is a turbo-charged vacuum cleaner that is permanently set on blow. You aim it at the approaching hostile, pull the trigger and sand blasts out at them and gets in their eyes, mouth and nose. It’s not just normal sand, though. It’s sand from cat litter boxes. Sand that smells of cat wee and is full of old, hard and deadly sharp fragments of cat poo.’