The Extremely Inconvenient Adventures of Bronte Mettlestone

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Then I peered more closely down at the carriage window and saw that a woman had stuck her head right out now, and was waving and pulling similar faces! She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue.

  After a moment, they all stopped carrying on and simply smiled at one another.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, staring. ‘She’s beautiful! When she stops making faces, I mean.’

  Aunt Maya laughed. ‘She was always the beauty of the family. Cheekbones, willowy neck. Never seemed to notice it herself.’

  ‘Wasted on her,’ Aunt Lisbeth agreed.

  ‘No wonder she caught the heart of the King of the Mellifluous Kingdom,’ I said, feeling grown-up about this comment.

  My aunts turned to me in surprise. ‘Who told you she married a king?’

  ‘Well.’ I frowned. ‘How else did she end up as a queen?’

  ‘Why, she happened to be visiting right when they had a vacancy!’ Aunt Maya said.

  ‘Took up the reins of power and, by all accounts, she’s been doing a ripper of a job running the place.’

  ‘Topnotch queen, that one. And I can’t say I’m surprised. She was always bright, and she’s got that quiet sort of authority. Works wonders. Come on, Junior Captain Bronte, let’s go meet her!’

  And they tore down the gangplank, waving madly again. I followed, swinging my suitcase.

  There was a lot of hugging and prancing around between my three aunts. They were like children. Aunt Alys had tumbled out of the carriage when she saw us coming, and she shook my hand and smiled at me very warmly, then she, Aunt Maya and Aunt Lisbeth started the hugging and prancing. There was also much chattering. I couldn’t follow it. All three wiped away tears. I supposed they did not see each other often.

  Security guards hovered nearby, looking stern. After a bit, these guards muttered to Aunt Alys in an urgent tone, and she thanked them for their concern, and went on chattering, laughing and whispering for another fifteen minutes.

  Eventually, Aunt Alys sighed and gave her sisters one, final hug each.

  ‘Shall we get going?’ she said to me.

  I thanked Aunts Maya and Lisbeth for the cruise and they took turns swinging me around.

  ‘You were a dream,’ they said to me. ‘Look after this one, Alys, she’s the cat’s pyjamas.’

  Aunt Alys said, ‘Of course she is,’ and took my hand to help me aboard.

  But I had only taken one step when all three aunts said, ‘Hey! Will you be going to—’ and stopped, because of the coincidence of speaking at the same time.

  ‘To the party for Patrick and Lida?’ Aunt Alys finished.

  Aunt Maya nodded. ‘Of course.’

  Aunt Alys said she would see them there, and we stepped aboard. The guards clicked fingers and clapped their hands together. The driver said, ‘Ahead!’ in a firm, stately voice, and we rolled smoothly away.

  Aunt Maya and Aunt Lisbeth removed their captains’ hats and waved these at me exuberantly.

  If you have been imagining the interior of Queen Alys’s coach to be luxuriously appointed, with puffy silk cushions and soft brocaded curtains, and if you have pictured this coach sliding along country roads through bright green fields spotted with curly sheep or glossy cows, and neatly divided by quaint stone walls, past thatched cottages with colourful doors, by occasional shining ponds and lakes, through cherry orchards whose trees were thick with clusters of rich-red cherries, and then into a little town, wide streets lined with placid trees, boxes of flowers on every window ledge, and on through wrought-iron gates into elegant grounds, past a rotunda set up with circles of chairs, musical instruments resting on these chairs, flowerbeds radiant with roses and camellias, all of this eventually leading to a picturesque stone castle, lively with turrets—if you have been imagining all this, dear reader, well, you have the most uncanny imagination.

  For you are perfectly right.

  Sometimes life turns out to be exactly as you hope, only better. All along the journey, I bounced on the puffy cushions and exclaimed at how pretty it all was.

  ‘It is lovely, isn’t it?’ Aunt Alys agreed. She spent most of the journey scribbling on stacks of cards. But whenever I exclaimed, she glanced up and smiled and, now and then, pointed out a particularly interesting pond or mill. When we passed the cherry orchards, she said, ‘Cherries are our primary export: we are famous for our cherries.’ When we passed the rotunda of instruments, she asked, ‘Do you know how the Mellifluous Kingdom works, Bronte?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  I was a little confused by the question. Did kingdoms ‘work’? Wasn’t that what people did?

  ‘This is a kingdom built of music,’ Aunt Alys explained. ‘See the instruments in that rotunda?’

  We were moving fairly slowly at this point, and I peered through the window. I could see a grand piano, a number of violins, a double bass, a row of saxophones glinting in the sun, and then we took a curve in the driveway and I lost sight of it all.

  ‘Those are the ancient Mellifluous Instruments,’ Aunt Alys continued. ‘Each evening, musicians play them as the sun sets. In such a way, our Kingdom remains in excellent repair. All the buildings freshly painted, roof tiles repaired, and so on. If we need a bigger school, say, or a new hospital? The music knows this, without being told, and the necessary buildings slowly grow themselves over several days of playing.’

  I stared at her. I’d never heard of such a thing.

  ‘I didn’t believe it either when I first came here,’ she told me. ‘I was touring the Kingdom with my jazz band. We all laughed when the locals told us. I mean, we thought we knew a thing or two about music: it sounded good, but it wasn’t a handyman! However, the morning after we arrived, there was a terrible storm, hailstones as big as your head, Bronte. It lasted three days, and nobody dared come outside. The orchestra could not play the Mellifluous Instruments and, once the storm was over and everyone emerged into the streets again, you should have seen the state the town was in! Buildings battered! Doors sagging off their hinges! Because they hadn’t been playing their music.’

  ‘Surely the storm caused that,’ I said. I was trying to keep my voice polite, but honestly. Nobody had told me Aunt Alys was daft.

  We had reached the castle entrance now, but we remained sitting in the carriage while Aunt Alys considered my question.

  ‘Yes, that’s what we thought, too,’ she said. ‘But near sunset that day, a voice shouted up and down the streets, Is there a drummer anywhere? It seemed the Kingdom’s drummer had been killed by a falling branch during the storm, and they urgently needed a new one. Well, my band found that very insensitive. We thought the town should grieve the lost drummer rather than run around shouting for a new one. But I was also curious. I stepped out of the hotel lobby and called, Yes! I am a drummer! And I was rushed to the castle grounds, and led to the drum kit, and somebody hastily explained what we were to play.

  ‘And then, the music began.’

  Here, Aunt Alys’s eyes became distant and dreamy, and a slow smile formed on her face. But before the smile had completed itself, she blinked and looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, only a few days later they were advertising for a new Queen, and I applied and got the job. It’s near sunset now, Bronte. Time for the orchestra to play.’

  She stepped out of the carriage. A cluster of men and women in smart suits surged forward to greet her. To one of these people, she handed the stack of cards she had scribbled on during our journey. To another, she offered my suitcase, and requested that the Emerald Guest Room be made ready. A third was instructed to bring refreshments to the rotunda.

  All the time, her voice remained calm and measured.

  ‘Ten minutes until sunset, I estimate,’ she said, studying the sky. ‘Shall we go, Bronte?’

  And she reached into the back of the carriage, drew out a picnic blanket, and set out along the driveway. I hurried to keep pace with her.

  Aunt Alys, I should have mentioned earlier, was not wearing a crown. Nor was she wearing a sequined go
wn. However, she was wearing a very slight frown. I noticed this as we sat down.

  Ha ha. I did not plan to make that paragraph a poem—it turned into one on its own.

  We were sitting, Aunt Alys and I, on a picnic rug, while the orchestra tuned up on the rotunda. The sky was still blue, but the softer blue of twilight now, as if it was getting sleepy. A steady stream of families trooped through the gates and set up picnics of their own on the grass around us. They called polite greetings to my aunt: ‘Evening, Your Majesty,’ or, ‘Fine day, Majesty?’

  Aunt Alys nodded and said, ‘Evening, Roger,’ or ‘Indeed it was, Barb’—she called everybody by name—and when small children passed by, she asked them things like how their wobbly tooth was going, or whether they’d done any more marvellous paintings for her to hang on the palace refrigerator.

  I wondered about my cousin, Prince William. Was he going to join us, or was he too much of a handful to attend a picnic concert?

  I was also thinking how unexpected it was that Queen Alys was not wearing a crown or gown, but a loose linen suit, pale mint-green, with sandals to match. Now she pulled off the sandals and pressed her toes into the grass.

  One of her assistants approached carrying a picnic basket, and Aunt Alys said, ‘Ah, here we are. Thanks, Dirk.’

  Dirk bowed. ‘Your Majesty.’

  ‘Let’s see what we’ve got,’ Aunt Alys said to me, opening the basket. Salmon fish cakes, a cheese-and-bacon tart, roast chicken drumsticks, and a potato salad.

  Two plates, cutlery for two, two cloth napkins, and two plastic cups. It seemed that Prince William wasn’t coming after all. I was relieved not to have to start taming him.

  ‘There’s also a chocolate cake for after,’ Aunt Alys said, peering deeper into the basket. ‘Oh and here’s a jug of lemonade.’ Now, she was smiling all this time, but there was always that slight frown in her forehead.

  I wondered if this was because a part of her knew that musical instruments did not actually build and repair kingdoms.

  But then Aunt Alys looked across at the rotunda, and the frown deepened.

  ‘See there?’ she said, pointing. ‘We have no trumpeter.’

  It was true that a trumpet sat untouched on a chair, but the drums were also unattended.

  ‘Maybe late?’ I said.

  ‘Our trumpeter resigned the other day,’ Aunt Alys explained. ‘Poached by the Gainsleigh Philharmonic. We’ve advertised for another, but so far no takers.’

  I was eating a slice of the cheese-and-bacon tart, and it was delicious. Flaky pastry drifted about. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a new one soon,’ I told her.

  Aunt Alys nodded. ‘Yes, we will. I’m just worried what effect this delay might have on our Kingdom. My advisers tell me that we have a good strong brass section, and they doubt a week or so with no trumpet will make any difference. But I’m not so sure.’

  More and more people arrived, and the grass became a patchwork of picnic blankets. The sky began to flower into oranges and pinks.

  I was just thinking that the orchestra took rather a long time to tune up when there was a sudden shout.

  ‘Your Majesty!’

  Everyone turned. The shout was coming from somewhere along the driveway. ‘Your Majesty!’ it came again, accompanied by running footsteps.

  Aunt Alys rose, brushing down her pantsuit, and squinted into the dim light.

  The footsteps pounded louder, and then a large man, burly and broad-shouldered, was thudding across the grass towards us. In his arms was a huge plant-pot.

  He reached us and bowed, but he was breathing so noisily that the bow did not seem all that respectful.

  ‘What is it, Carl?’ my aunt enquired.

  ‘It’s this!’ And he thrust the pot towards her.

  Alys peered into the pot, and so did I. A twig in soil.

  ‘It’s a sapling,’ Carl gasped. ‘A cherry sapling. This morning, it was thriving. And now?’

  We looked again. The twig was gnarled. It looked quite dead.

  ‘It’s happening to all the cherry trees,’ he wheezed.

  Now there was a buzzing from the crowd around us. Word flew from one group to another. Two of Aunt Alys’s assistants-in-suits stepped smartly towards her and hovered.

  ‘My niece and I passed the orchards on our way here from the docks,’ Aunt Alys told the burly man. ‘The cherries seemed to be in good form.’

  ‘It’s happened in the last half hour,’ the man said. ‘Cherries are rotting. Leaves are curling up.’

  The buzz around became louder and more anxious.

  Aunt Alys looked at the man’s face, then at the dead tree in the pot. She looked up at the rotunda.

  ‘It’s the trumpet,’ she said firmly.

  There was another rise in chatter now, some agreeing, others disputing the idea. ‘But the music is for buildings,’ I heard people saying. ‘It’s never been for trees!’

  ‘It’s the trumpet,’ Aunt Alys repeated, ignoring all the talk. She raised her chin and spoke over the noise. ‘We need the trumpet played. Immediately. Can anybody play?’

  There was only more clamour in response and Aunt Alys spoke quickly to her assistants. They began to move about the crowd, addressing groups in turn.

  ‘Can anybody play the trumpet?’ Aunt Alys called out again.

  All around people were shaking their heads.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how badly,’ she said. ‘We just need it played.’ She turned to the burly man, his arms still wrapped around the pot. ‘Are they all failing?’ she said.

  ‘Every tree.’

  Aunt Alys raised her voice again. ‘We are going to lose the entire crop,’ she said. ‘Unless we get the trumpet played immediately.’

  The crowd was quiet now. Everyone was staring at Aunt Alys.

  ‘I ask again, is anyone here a trumpeter?’

  Silence.

  ‘Can anyone play the trumpet?’

  I could hear my own heart beating violently.

  ‘Even a little?’

  More silence.

  I had sticky fingers from holding a chicken drumstick, a mouthful of potato salad, and my heart was going mad.

  ‘Even if you’ve just had one lesson!’ Aunt Alys shouted.

  I put down my chicken drumstick and stood up.

  ‘I can play the trumpet, Aunt Alys,’ I said.

  Which was how I came to play a Mellifluous Instrument at sunset.

  I was terrified. You see, I’d only been playing trumpet for a year. I never practised much, and hardly ever did the lip buzzing exercises. My teacher had told me to do those for half an hour each day (‘Is he mad?’ the Butler asked).

  This explains why I didn’t leap to my feet when Aunt Alys asked for a trumpeter. I can’t really play. I’m a beginner. I explained this to Aunt Alys but she simply beckoned me to follow her.

  And so, as Aunt Alys and I walked towards the rotunda, and the crowds watched in silence, fear was running fine lines up my spine, over my shoulders and right down into my stomach. There, the lines met one another and knotted up.

  I thought Aunt Alys was walking me there as moral support, or to point out where the trumpet was—or maybe to make sure I didn’t run away—but she seated herself at the drum kit.

  Her posture was perfect.

  I picked up the trumpet and then put it back down again so I could wipe my sweaty hands on my dress. I tried again. At least I remembered how to hold it. My fingers rested on the valves—or not so much rested, as trembled on the valves.

  I reminded myself that my teacher had said my embouchure was quite good for a beginner, and then I panicked, trying to remember what embouchure was. (It’s just a fancy word for the way you hold the instrument in your mouth.)

  Don’t blow your cheeks out, I recalled. Teeth a little apart. Lips firm at the edges.

  A saxophonist handed me a stack of sheet music.

  ‘I can’t read it,’ I whispered, and she took a pen from behind her ear and quickly scribbled the
numbers for the fingering below each note.

  ‘It’s not about how good you are,’ a violinist said, turning to look at me. ‘It’s just about playing. Honestly. It’ll work even if every second note you play is wrong.’

  The cellist spoke up. ‘Still. Try not to play every second note wrong.’

  I promised to try. ‘But I’ve only been learning a year,’ I admitted. The cellist grimaced. And then a conductor was standing in front of us, and the music began.

  I played my very best.

  I remembered not to raise my shoulders when I breathed. I remembered to hold each note for a good, clean tone.

  To be honest, I made plenty of mistakes, but the music around me was so good and proud and loud, it never seemed to matter.

  I played and played—and there it was. The magic. I felt it open up and splash into the twilight. I understood Aunt Alys’s dreamy smile now: it seemed as if the bright blue sky of earlier had slid into my heart, the glowing pinks and oranges of sunset, too.

  There was a movement to the side of the rotunda, and there was big Carl, hefting the plant-pot up so everyone could see. The twig had become a little tree, crowded with dark green leaves and even a single cherry.

  I glanced over at the drums, and Aunt Alys, who was tossing her hair about as she drummed up a storm, caught sight of Carl and the pot and threw me a beautiful smile. She followed this up with a high speed, grooving drum solo, and then pointed her twirling drumsticks at me so that the crowd broke into wild applause.

  Much, much later, Aunt Alys tucked me into bed.

  This seemed funny to me. I had been putting myself to bed so often on this journey, I’d forgotten it was possible for an adult to pat your pillow and pull the blankets around your shoulders, and even sit down on the edge of the bed and smile down at you.

  We had played for hours, and word had arrived that the orchard was saved. The other musicians had shaken my hands, and the cellist even said that perhaps I had some small potential. I don’t know if I believed him. I doubt he could hear me playing: Aunt Alys’s drumming had been extremely loud.