The Notion Potion

by Nick Vincent Murphy

  Mr Jackson had kept their destination a secret, so as the class approached, their excitement was building.

  ‘I’ve never been on a science trip before,’ said Padraic feverishly. ‘I wonder what wonders we’re about to see!’

  ‘Rocket boots?’ suggested Martin, eagerly. ‘Robot ninjas? Time-travelling trampolines?’

  ‘Space chocolate? Alien toffee? Computer sandwiches?’ squealed Padraic, who was clearly getting hungry.

  But before they could wonder some more, Mr Jackson came to a halt outside the main gates. ‘Behold!’ he shouted, gesturing at a large sign in front of them. ‘We are here at last!’

  Martin read the sign with confusion. ‘The Roscommon Museum . . . of Tractors?’

  ‘Is it behind this place?’ asked Padraic hopefully.

  ‘It is this place, Padraic. We have reached our destination!’ proclaimed their teacher proudly.

  The entire class sagged with disappointment, and there were grumbles of ‘I should’ve flippin’ well known’, ‘I can see stupid tractors at home’ and ‘I wish we’d swallowed those poisonous berries’.

  Mr Jackson pretended not to hear their moans. ‘That’s right, gang! The one and only Roscommon Museum of—’

  HONNNNNNNNKKKKK!

  His voice was drowned out by the arrival of a huge bus, and Mr Jackson leaped back into a muddy puddle to get out of its way. Several gasps were heard, as this bus was like none we’d ever seen before. Brand new, ultra-modern, and completely dirtless, it was the colour of money – a sleek, shiny silver – and it glittered like one of the trophies on the Winners Wall. Through its windows we could see well-groomed students with blow-dried hair and soft, make-upped faces. They peered down with mild amusement at Martin and his dishevelled friends who gawked up at them from the mud below. As the bus crept past, it belched fumes in our faces that smelt like warm caramel.

  ‘Now that’s a bus,’ I sighed.

  ‘Flippin’ posh school!’ griped Mr Jackson, as he splashed out of the puddle. Then he spotted a sign for the toilets. ‘Right, gang, who needs the loo?’

  Almost every hand went up.

  ‘OK, let’s get in there quick before that other bus parks. Go, go, go!’

  Everyone charged off, and I turned to Martin who was left standing there, alone.

  ‘You don’t need to pee, buddy?’ I asked, in disbelief. ‘You always need to pee.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are, Sean. Must be because of all that sherbet I ate on the bus. It tends to absorb every drop of liquid in my body.’

  ‘Maybe we should’ve given Wilbert some sherbet too,’ I muttered, as we watched him generously marking his territory around the museum.

  I should say that calling this place a ‘museum’ was a bit of a stretch. It was little more than a big shed, or a barn. In fact, I think it actually was a barn, as we noticed a few hens fluttering out the back door. But the words ‘MUSEUM – not a barn’ were painted on its side to avoid any confusion, and there were some flowers planted around it, which Wilbert was busy watering. He dashed out of sight, and then we heard a whimper, followed by a booming voice:

  ‘Whose Wonkey is this? Whose Wonkey just peed on the pansies?!’

  We hurried over to find a large-bellied, bushy-bearded man holding Wilbert by his ears. He was imaginary, but not an IF like myself, as he seemed to be employed by the museum instead of by a Realsie, judging by his friendly name tag and unfriendly expression.

  ‘Eh, he’s mine,’ I confessed.

  ‘Curb your Wonkey, sir!’ he boomed at me.

  I nodded, unsure what he meant, and took hold of Wilbert, who looked petrified.

  ‘Are you here for the tour?’ he asked me.

  Martin and I shared a confused look. ‘I’m here for his tour,’ I explained. ‘About . . . tractors?’

  ‘What about the imaginary tour?’ demanded the man.

  ‘There’s an imaginary tour?’ asked Martin, curious.

  ‘Of course there’s an imaginary tour! Every museum in the world has an imaginary tour! You think Realsies got anything done without their imaginary friends? The Realsie tour is about great Realsies; the imaginary tour is about great IFs. Ready to start?’

  ‘Ehhh . . .’

  ‘Magnificent! I shall be your guide. The name is Brendan. Brendan McSnozz!’ He then noticed Crunchie wandering around behind us. ‘You’re coming too, are you, my wrestler friend?’

  ‘Who – me?’ asked Crunchie.

  ‘Excellent. And you can mind the Wonkey, Clown Man.’

  ‘Do what?’ asked a bewildered Lou.

  ‘This way, this way,’ cried Brendan, ushering Crunchie and me into the tractor museum.

  Martin went to follow us, but Brendan stopped him. ‘Sorry, my boy. Realsies go on the Realsie tour.’

  ‘Oh.’

  And with that, he whisked us inside and slammed the door shut with a loud boom!

  CHAPTER SIX

  ST WHIMMION’S AND THE MAD MECHANIC

  As Crunchie and I followed Brendan McSnozz through the exhibits, another tour guide – a real one – was outside greeting the new arrivals. Martin’s class were still on their toilet trip, but the posh kids were disembarking from the silver bus, wearing snazzy blazers that bore the crest of their private school.

  ‘Welcome, St Whimmion’s!’ said the plump, smiling tour guide. ‘My name is Moira. Are we ready to venture into the wonderful world of tractors?’

  She paused for a cheer, but the grumpy group took one glance at the museum and looked immediately bored. There were mutters of ‘When are we going back to Dublin?’, ‘There’d better be video games in there’, and ‘I need another cappuccino’.

  ‘Yes we are, Moira!’ Moira replied to herself with a chuckle. ‘Now let’s get a headcount!’

  She proceeded to count their soft, perfumed heads as one of them, a sharp-nosed girl named Veronica, put on a pair of stylish sunglasses – even though the sun wasn’t shining and had not actually shone for two months and six days.

  She noticed Martin smelling the bus nearby, savouring the whiff of caramel.

  ‘Are you the tea boy?’ she asked.

  Martin looked startled. ‘What? Eh. No, I’m the . . . Moone boy.’

  She pointed at him. ‘Hey, look everyone – it’s one of the locals! Are you from the Country?’

  ‘The country?’

  ‘The Country!’

  ‘This country?’ asked a confused Martin. ‘Don’t let my tanned complexion fool ya!’ he chuckled, pointing at his face, which was about as tanned as a jar of mayonnaise. ‘I am indeed from Ireland.’

  ‘Not the country. The Country.’

  Martin looked flummoxed. ‘Oh, you mean the . . . countryside? No, I’m from a town. Called Boyle. The greatest town in Ireland!’

  ‘Is it in Dublin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’re from the Country.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Martin, even more befuddled. It seemed that a Dubliner’s map of Ireland was a lot emptier than regular maps.

  ‘Anyhoo . . . Welcome to Outside Dublin. Martin Moone’s the name.’

  ‘I’m Vronny,’ she replied, ‘and this is my boyfriend, Max.’

  A handsome boy with spiky blond hair smirked at Martin. ‘Hey, Marty – what’s happenin’?’

  Martin was unsure how to answer this. Wasn’t it obvious what was happening? He was talking to Vronny. But then he thought, maybe Max was a bit simple. That might explain why his shirt collars were pointing straight up. Martin looked him over, but nothing else was backwards. Just upside-down collars. It reminded him of the time Padraic’s dog came back from the vet wearing a large cone around his neck. Was this a similar safety measure? Surely Max wasn’t in danger of licking stitches off his bum? But then again, Martin had never met people from Dublin before . . .

  ‘You here for the tour?’ asked Max through his pointy collars. ‘Or do you live in that barn?’

  Martin glanced at the museum behind them. �
�Eh. No, I’m here for the tour. But my class are all in the loo. They wanted to beat you to it.’

  ‘They needn’t have bothered,’ scoffed Vronny. ‘We’ve got lots of loos on board.’

  ‘And a bath,’ added Max.

  ‘A bath? On a bus?!’ gasped Martin.

  ‘And a pastry chef.’

  Martin was flabbergasted. ‘So . . . hang on. You’re saying that you can order a cake. And eat it in the bath? On the bus?’

  ‘Can’t you do that on your bus?’ asked Vronny.

  Martin thought of the busted bus with its holes, graffiti and chewing-gummed seats. But then he remembered that there was a dip in the floor around the third row, where rainwater sometimes gathered, having leaked through the roof.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve . . . kinda got a bath,’ answered Martin vaguely. ‘I suppose I could eat my sandwiches in it on the way home.’

  Just then, a damp-haired teacher hopped off the silver bus, smelling like lavender and warm butter.

  ‘Sorry, gang – didn’t realize we’d arrived! I was just in the tub having a quick croissant*. Are we all set?’

  Vronny turned to Martin. ‘Want to join us on the tour? Or are you gonna wait for your toilet friends?’

  ‘Eh . . .’ murmured Martin, unsure.

  ‘Hey, Hugh!’ called Max.

  Their teacher, who apparently didn’t mind being called ‘Hugh’, strode over to Martin with a fascinated look, like Max had just discovered a strange local insect.

  ‘What have you got there, Maxo?’ he asked, peering at Martin.

  ‘Mind if we let this mucker* join us on the tour, Hugh?’ asked Vronny.

  ‘I think you mean, can we join this mucker on his tour? This is bogland, Vronzer. We’re in his neck of the woods.’

  Hugh beamed at Martin. ‘What do you say? Can we join you?’

  Martin was a bit baffled, but just shrugged. ‘Can I have an eclair afterwards? In the bus-bath?’

  Hugh grinned. ‘It’s a deal, little man.’

  And with that, Martin and the rich kids all followed Moira into the museum, passing the Wonkey, who was happily gnawing on a pair of clown shoes while a barefoot Loopy Lou tiptoed away, quietly abandoning the clueless creature.

  The museum left a lot to be desired. There were a few photos on the wall and some old bits of farm machinery lying around, while the odd goat wandered between rooms. But Martin enjoyed Moira’s tour. The highlight was an exhibit about an Irish inventor called Harry Ferguson. His nickname was ‘The Mad Mechanic’, and he led quite a life. He started out as a bicycle repairman, but loved to tinker with engines, and invented all sorts of contraptions. He built motorbikes, made the first ever four-wheel-drive Formula-One racing car, and he even invented his own aeroplane.

  ‘Harry Ferguson wanted to be the first Irishman to fly,’ Moira told them. ‘He crashed his plane hundreds of times, but kept fixing it and trying again, determined to reach his dream before the end of the year 1909. But by late December, he still hadn’t done it. The weather was brutal, and all seemed lost. But he decided to make one last attempt.’

  ‘I’ve been on a plane!’ yelled out Max. ‘Flying is easy!’

  There were murmurs of agreement from his classmates.

  ‘Yeah, you just sit there.’

  ‘I ate pretzels!’

  Only Martin seemed captivated. ‘So did he do it?’ he asked Moira.

  She winked at him and led him over to a display where there was a framed page from the Belfast Telegraph. She read out one of the paragraphs:

  ‘The machine was set against the roaring wind, but the splendid pull of the new propeller swept the big aeroplane along as Mr Ferguson advanced the lever. The plane rose into the air at nine, and then twelve feet, amidst the hearty cheers of the onlookers. The poise of the machine was perfect and, despite fierce gusts of wind, Mr Ferguson made a splendid flight of 130 yards!’

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Martin, mightily impressed as he gazed at the picture of Ferguson soaring through the sky.

  ‘I thought this was a tractor museum! Why are we talking about planes?’ griped Max.

  ‘Yeah, good point, Maxo,’ added his teacher.

  ‘Because,’ continued Moira, ‘Harry Ferguson also invented tractors. He made the original Ferguson tractor in 1926 that is the same basic design for all tractors used today, and his name lives on in the Massey Ferguson company. He helped to transform farm machinery from horse-drawn contraptions into modern machines, like this one, my favourite of all his inventions: The Black Tractor.’

  She gestured to a dark, sleek contraption that glistened in the shadows, and even the rich kids were impressed.

  ‘Oooooooh.’

  Martin had never heard of an Irish inventor before, but here was one who’d invented tractors, motorbikes, racing cars and aeroplanes! And he even had a cool nickname. There was a fella in Boyle called ‘The Peculiar Plumber’ who could fix a leaky toilet with just a rubber band and a wad of earwax – but ‘The Mad Mechanic’ was even more inspiring!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BARNEY BUNTON AND THE INVENTION CONVENTION

  ‘Behind every great Realsie is a great IF!’ boomed Brendan McSnozz at the end of the imaginary tour. ‘And each of these incredible inventors had an imaginary friend looking over their shoulder. When they failed, their IFs bucked them up. When they were flummoxed, their IFs unflummoxed them. And when they succeeded, it was their IFs who cheered the loudest. Without them, would any inventor have made anything?!’ he demanded, staring at us with great intensity.

  Crunchie glanced at me. ‘Is he asking us that?’

  ‘Don’t interrupt!’ bellowed Brendan, and Crunchie jumped with fright.

  ‘Now, where was I? Ah yes! Would the tractor have become the greatest vehicle on Earth without the help of IFs? And what about other inventions? Popcorn pillows? Doggie coffee? Shoe umbrellas? And would Harry Ferguson have soared through the skies without Barney Bunton at his side? WHO KNOWS?!’ he cried out, raising his arms dramatically.

  He then gave a low, theatrical bow, and dropped a little smoke bomb on to the ground. A white cloud billowed up from it, and Brendan disappeared from view.

  Crunchie burst into applause. ‘Wow! What a finish!’

  ‘Wait!’ I called. But Brendan had completely vanished. ‘I had a question!’

  Brendan popped out of a little cupboard where he’d been hiding. ‘Oh. What is it?’

  ‘Who’s Barney Bunton?’

  Brendan’s eyes twinkled. ‘Ah! The great Barney Bunton.’

  He grasped my shoulder firmly (a little too firmly) and led me to a display where there was a framed page from an old newspaper. ‘Now there was a brilliant IF! Imaginary friend to the great inventor Harry Ferguson,’ he said, gesturing at the photo.

  It showed a man flying an aeroplane while a delighted-looking IF stood behind him, waving his cap with glee.

  ‘There was nothing that he and Harry couldn’t solve; nothing they couldn’t invent! They were quite the pair, Harry and Barney – inseparable right up until the end. But we’ve still got something to remember Barney by.’

  He gestured behind him towards a silver hook on the wall.

  ‘His trusty cap.’

  ‘What cap?’ I asked.

  Brendan turned to the hook, which was empty.

  ‘It’s gone!’ gasped Brendan. ‘It’s been stolen! Our most prized possession! The greatest— Oh wait – there it is,’ he said, pointing to a different hook, which held an old cap. ‘I forgot we moved it to that hook. Any other questions?’

  Crunchie looked at him curiously. ‘You seem to like IFs a lot. Don’t you want to be one, instead of an imaginary tour guide?’

  ‘Ha! And spend my days stuck with a snotty little Realsie?’ chuckled Brendan. ‘I don’t know how you do it, gentlemen. I tip my hat to thee.’

  He tipped his hat respectfully and then suddenly raised his arms again. ‘And now our tour is CONCLUDED!’

  He hurled another smoke bomb at the gro
und, but this one didn’t go off, and just rolled under a tractor.

  ‘Flippin’ cheap smoke bombs,’ he muttered.

  Brendan squeezed back into the cupboard, opened his lunchbox, and quietly shut the door.

  I turned back to the old newspaper where Barney stood on the plane waving his cap in the air.

  When Martin had looked at the photo on his tour, he saw no sign of Barney Bunton – and the reason for this is very simple. Martin could see almost everything in the imaginary world – in the last year, he’d met talking trees, chocolate fish, a magnificent magpie and, most recently, our imaginary tour guide. But there was one thing he couldn’t see: another Realsie’s IF. Why was that? Because they didn’t exist in Martin’s head. Other IFs lived in the imaginations of other people. And since Barney was Harry’s IF, Martin couldn’t see him in the photo. Only IFs can see other IFs.

  I was trying to decide if being able to see other IFs was a blessing or a curse as I watched Crunchie’s hairy belly bound and jiggle towards me in his skimpy wrestling outfit.

  ‘They’ve got an imaginary gift shop!’ he exclaimed, and handed me a little brown bag. ‘Happy birthday, Sean.’

  ‘Aww, Crunchie.’ I smiled, incredibly touched, while also thinking, About flippin’ time!

  I opened the bag and pulled out a little vehicle with two bright lights that turned on when you pressed a button.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked, turning on the light. ‘Some kind of . . . tractor-shaped torch?’

  Crunchie nodded, grinning. ‘It’s called a Tractor Beam!’

  He giggled, but I just frowned. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘A Tractor Beam! Like in Star Wars – when they use a tractor beam to pull a spaceship towards them. But this is just a tractor. With a beam.’

  I nodded slowly. And gradually I realized that this was in fact the funniest thing ever!

  We laughed for a solid six minutes.