by Tim Harris
About the Book
He’s the first teacher to cook us breakfast.
Is his spark-maker beetle really that dangerous?
I heard he drank yak’s milk in Mongolia.
He’s the only person who isn’t afraid of Canteen Carol.
My mum says he used to be in the circus.
The class in room 12B has a new teacher, and nothing is ever going to be the same …
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
The Students of Room 12B
Chapter 1: First Impressions
Chapter 2: The Washing Machine from Hell
Chapter 3: Courage and Soup
Chapter 4: Conversations with Canteen Carol
Chapter 5: Chocolate and Brainstorming
Chapter 6: Snappy Appies
Chapter 7: A Disappearing Trick
Chapter 8: Parental Rental
Chapter 9: End of the First Day
Chapter 10: Fifteen Ridiculous Uses for a Bicycle
Chapter 11: A Cheer and an Idea
Chapter 12: Spycrophone
Chapter 13: Totes Notes
Chapter 14: A New Project
Chapter 15: Drone Flown Home
Chapter 16: Guided by Love
Chapter 17: How to Take a Girl on a Date
Chapter 18: Before the Bell
Mr Bambuckle’s Remarkables Fight Back
Copyright Notice
Mr Bambuckle’s first day at Blue Valley School was a most remarkable day. The fifteen students of room 12B straggled in after the bell to find their new teacher balancing on a unicycle, on top of his desk. He was singing in full voice about ‘glorious days’ and ‘magical ways’ and, as the students took their seats, he told them it was a rare Mongolian welcome song.
The students looked at him in wonder and delight – and a little trepidation. He was clearly going to be far more exciting than the class’s previous teacher, Miss Schlump, who had fallen in love with a helicopter pilot and moved to Switzerland. In fact, the students would soon find out that Mr Bambuckle was the sort of teacher they had only ever dreamed of – young, funny, clever, handsome, full of surprises, and in all ways mysterious.
Mr Bambuckle was dressed in a dazzling blue suit, which sparkled nearly as brightly as his mischievous green eyes. Draped tastefully around his neck was a woollen scarf that looked so soft the students longed to touch it. He had dark hair, and his caramel tan suggested he had spent a great deal of time outdoors. Either that or he was from a distant overseas country. The students couldn’t work out which. But they could work out they liked him from the get-go.
‘Hey, new teacher – what’s your name?’ said Vex Vron, a boy never lacking in confidence but always lacking in manners. Vex had a strong reputation for being a troublemaker, and he wasn’t going to allow good feelings about a new teacher to spoil the fact.
Mr Bambuckle stepped down from the desk and placed his unicycle in the corner of the room. He flicked his wrists and produced an egg and two rashers of bacon – seemingly from midair – and started cooking them in a frying pan, which was apparently self-heating. Sizzles and pops soon filled the air.
‘You got a name or what?’ said Vex.
‘Good morning, Vex Vron. I’m delighted to meet you,’ said Mr Bambuckle. His voice was crisp, and it danced with the rhythm of a favourite song.
Vex frowned, his eyes turning as dark as his black hair. ‘What …? How did you know my name?’
‘That’s an excellent question, Vex. I can tell we are going to get on splendidly.’
‘Bet you don’t know my middle name.’
The class sat forward, eager to hear any insight the new teacher might have.
Mr Bambuckle turned a piece of bacon in his pan. ‘I do believe, dear Vex, your middle name is … Wilberforce.’
Vex squirmed in his seat, embarrassed his best-kept secret was no longer that. ‘Oh, you do know it.’
‘I know everything,’ said Mr Bambuckle.
Vex clenched his jaw. He couldn’t let this intriguing new teacher get the better of him so early in the game. ‘But what’s your name?’
Mr Bambuckle walked over to a girl sitting near Vex and shook her hand. ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Scarlett Geeves. My name is Mr Bambuckle.’
Scarlett smiled.
And just like that, Mr Bambuckle answered Vex’s question without answering it at all.
‘I suppose you would like to know a bit about your new teacher,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Feel free to ask any questions. Just don’t ask me to show you my Indian spark-maker beetle.’
All fifteen students thrust their hands in the air.
‘Too many questions for politeness,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘You’ll have to call out.’
‘Where did you get your unicycle?’
‘Lithuania.’
‘How did you learn to sing like that?’
‘My cousin is an Icelandic rockstar.’
‘Why are you wearing a blue suit?’
‘It’s rather dashing, don’t you think?’
‘May I please have some bacon?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘May I see your Indian spark-maker beetle?’
‘Uh-uh, it’s far too dangerous.’
‘What kind of name is Bambuckle?’
‘What kind of name is Vex Wilberforce Vron?’
The students were in awe. Mr Bambuckle was easily, by far, without doubt, incomparably and unquestionably the most interesting teacher they had ever had.
A sharp knock at the classroom door disrupted the good feeling. It was Mr Sternblast, the school principal, and he was frowning – something the students saw all too often. ‘Bambuckle, I take it you found the classroom.’
Mr Bambuckle swung stylishly around and smiled at Mr Sternblast. ‘Thank you, dear Mr Principal, for your kind concern. Indeed, I have. Though I wasn’t expecting the numbering to go 11, 12, 12B, 14?’
Mr Sternblast went red and coughed. ‘Humph. Yes, well, we can’t have people thinking this room is unlucky. Those incidents were all just … accidents.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘In any case, I think 12B has a rather lovely ring to it.’
Mr Sternblast rubbed his balding head, furrowing his eyebrows further at the sight of the unicycle in the corner of the classroom. ‘Well, Bambuckle, make it through today and we’ll discuss work for tomorrow.’ With that, he twitched his moustache and disappeared back outside.
‘He used to be a lot nicer than that,’ said Albert Smithers, a small boy with glasses and blond hair who was a lot cleverer than most children his age.
‘He used to have a lot more hair too,’ said Vex. ‘It started falling out when he didn’t get that job at the big school in the city.’
‘He’s always especially angry when he misses out on a promotion,’ added Scarlett. ‘Dad says he’s been trying to leave Blue Valley for years – reckons he’s after more money in the city.’
‘He is still the principal,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘And for that, we shall give him due respect.’
‘Why should we respect him in June? It’s only March,’ said Harold McHagil, a shy boy who sat near the back of the room.
‘He said due respect,’ said Vex.
‘Oh,’ said Harold.
Mr Bambuckle winked at Harold and opened the top drawer of the desk at the front of the room. He picked up a box and gave it a shake. Something rattled inside.
‘That box belonged to Miss Schlump,’ said Scarlett, adjusting the red ribbon in her long dark hair.
‘Just as I thought,’ said Mr Bambuckle, opening the box. ‘Stickers and stamps. It’s always sticker
s and stamps.’
He emptied the contents of the box onto his desk. He picked up a sheet of stickers and read the first few, then pretended to vomit. ‘Bleh! These things are always so dull.’
‘What do you mean by dull?’ asked Victoria Goldenhorn, a blonde-haired girl who had received more stickers at Blue Valley School than anyone else.
Mr Bambuckle peeled a sticker from the sheet and walked over to Victoria’s desk. He opened her workbook and pressed the sticker onto a page. ‘What does it say?’
‘Keep it up,’ said Victoria, ‘and there’s a picture of a monkey.’
‘What I mean by dull,’ explained Mr Bambuckle, ‘is that all teachers use the same old methods of positive reinforcement and praise. The “Keep it up” monkey sticker is a nice way of telling us nothing.’
Vex Vron chuckled. ‘I agree. Stickers and stamps are a waste of time.’
‘Not necessarily a waste of time,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Perhaps just misdirected. Show me some of the stickers and stamps in your workbooks.’
The fifteen students opened their books and showed Mr Bambuckle a bunch of stickers and stamps that Miss Schlump had given them. They looked like this:
‘Did the stickers and stamps encourage you to improve your work?’ asked Mr Bambuckle.
‘Not really,’ admitted Victoria Goldenhorn. ‘They were just nice to get. Plus, Miss Schlump handed them out no matter how good or bad our work was. She must have really liked my work, though, because I have millions.’
‘Your honesty is your strength,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘But if the stickers are going to be more than merely a reward for having completed the work, the messages and comments need to be more direct, more honest … less flowery.’
‘So, what should the stickers and stamps say instead?’ asked Vex.
‘You tell me,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘I’ll give you twenty minutes to create some new stickers and stamps. You write the comments and draw the pictures, and I’ll research custom sticker and stamp-making websites while I finish this rather tasty fried breakfast.’
This is what the class came up with:
‘We are going to have a fabulous time,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘I’ll order these charming stickers and stamps during the morning tea break.’
And he did.
After morning tea, Mr Bambuckle asked the class to sit in a circle. ‘We are about to get very honest with each other,’ he said.
‘Honesty sucks,’ said Vex.
‘So did that comment,’ said Mr Bambuckle.
Everyone laughed.
Surprise flashed across Vex’s face. He wasn’t used to being outwitted by a teacher. This teacher was good, and Vex was going to have to step up his game.
‘What are we going to talk about?’ asked Evie Nightingale, a small girl who liked to chew on her fingernails.
‘The question is,’ said Mr Bambuckle, ‘what are we not going to talk about?’
All fifteen students stared at their new teacher without saying a word.
‘What I mean by this,’ continued Mr Bambuckle, ‘is that too often we talk about ordinary things in school. So I’ve decided we are not going to talk about ordinary things at all. We are going to talk about extraordinary things instead.’
‘What a fun idea,’ said Victoria Goldenhorn.
Evie Nightingale stopped chewing her nails and fidgeted nervously with the hem of her grey skirt.
Mr Bambuckle reached into an inside pocket of his sparkly blue suit and pulled out a bouncy ball.
‘What’s that for?’ asked Miffy Armstrong, a sporty girl who had conquered all ball games.
Mr Bambuckle threw the bouncy ball at the light switch. The lights blinked off, and shutters fell instantly over the windows, plunging room 12B into darkness.
‘I’ve never seen those shutters before …’ said Albert Smithers, who had read about shutters in books.
‘There’s a first for everything,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘When we truly open our eyes, we discover much more.’
The bouncy ball, which was now glowing orange in the dark, rebounded directly towards the teacher, who, instead of catching it in his hands, opened his suit jacket so that the ball disappeared into a pocket.
‘It’s very dark,’ whispered Victoria.
‘I can’t see a thing,’ said Scarlett.
‘Vex,’ said Mr Bambuckle, ‘please put the scissors down.’
Metal chinked somewhere in the black. ‘But … how did you even know I –’
‘I know everything.’
‘I’m scared,’ said a quiet voice. It was Evie Nightingale.
‘I know you are, Evie,’ said Mr Bambuckle. His voice was warm and gentle. ‘This lesson is especially for you.’
‘What do we have to do?’ quivered Evie.
‘Not we,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘You.’
There was a moment’s silence.
‘Evie,’ said the kind teacher, ‘please tell us your story.’
I’m standing at the top of the stairs, looking down into the basement. I don’t want to go down there. Every time I do, something bad happens.
I hear a crackling sound, as if electrical currents are being zapped about.
I really don’t want to go down there. I’m too scared. Miss Schlump was right when she called me a coward.
‘Hurry up, Evie, we need to leave soon,’ says Mum.
I tuck the washing basket under my arm and put a foot onto the first step. The crackling sound is replaced by an eerie silence. It knows I’m coming. It’s waiting to get me again.
‘What are you standing there for?’ says Mum. She taps the floor with one of her crutches. ‘You know I can’t go down there – not with a broken leg. I’m relying on you to get the washing done.’
‘I know, Mum …’ I manage.
I’ve been spending my afternoons washing clothes for Mum. It’s all I’ve done since we moved into the new house. Not that it’s an actual new house. It’s very old. And it has a basement.
‘I’ll stay here and make sure everything is okay,’ says Mum. Her voice tells me she doesn’t believe any of the stories I’ve told her.
I take two more steps down the staircase and stop to listen. It’s dead silent. It’s as quiet as it is dark down there.
‘It’ll be okay,’ says Mum. There’s a tinge of annoyance in her voice.
A sharp zap sounds up the stairs. I shriek and almost drop the basket of clothes. ‘Did you hear that?!’
Mum shakes her head and limps off. She’s in no mood for games.
But this is not a game. It’s real life. It’s my life, and my life is in danger.
I hear another zap and hold my breath. It’s teasing me with terror. It’s hassling me with horror. The washing machine from hell is at it again.
Last week, when I pulled my favourite teddy bear, Mr Snuggles, out of the machine, he had no head. He had been decapitated. I know the washing machine ripped his head off on purpose.
The week before, the washing machine tried to bite me. I had just finished putting in some clothes when the lid came slamming down, almost trapping my arm.
I take a few more steps down the stairs to the basement. Apart from the soft light at the top of the stairs, it’s almost pitch-black. I’m nearly at the bottom and I stop again to listen.
There are no zaps.
Just silence.
Darkness.
I step quickly to the bottom of the staircase. My footsteps echo into the concrete blackness of the basement. I think I hear a metallic laugh, but it could be my nervous imagination. Then again, it could be the evil washing machine. I tighten my grip on the basket of clothes.
I can just make out a piece of string hanging a few metres in front of me. It pulls the switch that turns the light on.
I lunge forward and grab the string with one hand, but something hard knocks into me. I squeal and drop the basket. I yank the switch and the light flickers on just in time to see the washing machine leap back into the corner.
It t
ried to attack me!
The washing machine is now standing there innocently, pretending nothing happened at all.
I pick up the basket and carry it nervously to the corner of the basement. Two red lights are glowing at the top of the washing machine. They look like evil eyes, burning into my soul, laser-like.
I try not to think about the machine knocking into me. I try not to think about what it might do next.
I quickly jerk back the lid at the top of the washing machine and start throwing clothes in.
The machine starts spitting them out.
I throw faster.
The clothes fly out faster.
I grab a broom and use the bristles to push the clothes back in.
The broom snags on something and snaps. The washing machine spits out a volley of wood chips.
I scream and run upstairs as fast as I can.
Mum’s frowning as she puts bread into the toaster. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Evie,’ she says. ‘All I ask is for a little help and you can’t even do a simple chore.’
‘But it tried to attack me,’ I say.
Mum shakes her head. ‘Nonsense. I think you should stop watching so much television. It’s not good for your brain.’
‘It truly did try to attack me,’ I say quietly, though I know there’s no use arguing anymore. She doesn’t believe me. Burnt toast pops out of the toaster like a jack-in-the-box and lands in the kitchen sink.
‘Another dodgy appliance,’ says Mum sarcastically. I think she’s having a go at me about the washing machine. ‘That reminds me,’ she adds, ‘we need to start replacing some of our old electrical appliances. I have just enough money saved to buy something new.’
I want to tell her she needs to start with a new washing machine. But it’s not the time. I’ve let her down and I should be braver. She’s taken on an important promotion at work and needs my help with the chores. It’s hard for her to move around the house with a broken leg.