Mr Bambuckle's Remarkables

by Tim Harris

  ‘I’m going to work soon, Evie,’ she says. ‘You’ll be in big trouble if that washing isn’t done by the time I come home.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it.’

  The last item at the bottom of the washing machine is my favourite white dress. I reach in and pick it up, placing it gently on top of the pile of clothes. This isn’t so scary. Maybe I was imagining everything that happened before. Maybe it’s an ordinary washing machine after all.

  I’ve now completed three loads and nothing bad has happened. The clothes are beautifully washed and they smell like springtime. Mum will be so pleased with me. I hum a tune I heard on the radio and reach to close the lid.

  Without warning, the lid slams down and traps my arm. I was not imagining things! The washing machine tricked me!

  I try to yank my arm out but the lid bites harder. Something inside the machine wraps around my wrist and starts pulling me. The lid flies back open and I can see a plastic cord tightening its grip on my arm. The machine starts filling with water. It’s trying to drag me down into it. It’s trying to drown me!

  I scream for help but it’s useless. Nobody else is home.

  The cord continues to wrap itself around my arm and pulls harder. My feet are almost off the ground. I use my other arm to try to free myself.

  The water keeps rising. It swishes madly inside the machine and gurgles louder by the second.

  I struggle against the cord. I tug frantically. The washing machine is too strong.

  I see some soap on the sink next to the machine. I reach for it with my free hand and manage to clasp it between my fingers. I thrust the soap into the swirling, rising water to make it wet. I rub it all over the cord on my arm. The soap makes my skin slippery and I manage to slide my wrist free.

  I fall back onto the floor of the basement, panting. The washing machine growls and slams its lid shut, eyes glowing an angry red.

  The doorbell rings upstairs.

  The doorbell.

  Upstairs.

  That’s where I run.

  A salesman dressed in a brown suit is standing at the front door. He’s holding a black suitcase.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I say, puffing. I still haven’t caught my breath.

  ‘Perhaps it is I who can help you,’ he says.

  There’s something about his voice I don’t like. Something dark.

  I close the door a little, just enough to show him I’m not interested in what he has to offer.

  He points to a badge on his shirt. ‘Chap is the name. I represent H. O. Roar Appliances. Are you interested in buying any new electrical goods?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say, shutting the door.

  Chap wedges his foot in the doorway to stop it from closing. ‘I believe you may be interested in what I have to offer.’

  I shake my head.

  Chap’s eyes peer into mine. They remind me of lasers …

  I drop my guard and find myself answering. ‘We do need a new washing machine.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ says Chap. ‘I’ll leave this with you.’ He pulls a business card from his pocket and gives it to me.

  The business card says:

  ‘I’ll be seeing you soon,’ says Chap, turning to leave. He gives me a nasty smile and I get a clear view of his crooked teeth.

  I watch through the window as he goes to the next house, and I hope for the neighbour’s sake that nobody’s home. I never want to see him again.

  I throw the business card in the bin and go to my room.

  Mum is impressed that I have washed three loads. ‘You’re braver than you think, Evie.’ She smiles.

  ‘You have to listen to me,’ I plead. ‘We need to get a new washing machine.’

  Mum hobbles on her crutches to the top of the basement stairs. ‘Bring the three loads up here so I can see your hard work.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I can’t go back down there.’

  Mum’s good mood vanishes. ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘It tried to kill me,’ I say.

  ‘What stupidity. Go and get the clothes now!’

  ‘Please,’ I beg. ‘I can’t go down there. I can’t cope with that washing machine.’

  ‘And I can’t cope with your games. This new promotion requires longer hours at work. All I’m asking for is a little help around the house until my leg heals. Besides, it’s about time you started earning your pocket money.’

  My face feels like it’s drained of blood. ‘I’m sorry, Mum. I can’t do it.’

  Mum growls and totters away on her crutches.

  I’m lying on my bed, crying into the pillow. I am such a bad daughter. Miss Schlump was right all along. I am nothing but a gutless girl.

  Mum is in the kitchen. I can hear her rummaging about as she reads the mail and empties the bins.

  ‘What’s this business card?’ she says. ‘We need some new electrical appliances.’

  I stop sobbing and sit up to listen. Has she found Chap’s card?

  I can hear Mum talking. She is on the phone. ‘I would like delivery tomorrow, please,’ she says. ‘We are in desperate need of a replacement.’

  I shiver at the thought of Chap Spark coming back to our house. I wish I had the courage to run and tell Mum to hang up. I wish I had more courage full stop.

  ‘Tomorrow after school should be fine … I’ll be at work but my daughter will be home.’ Mum lowers her voice and I strain my ears to listen. ‘Evie tends to be easily frightened. If she doesn’t answer the front door, the spare key is in the pot plant. You can let yourself in.’

  Mum ends the call and I hear her shuffling towards my room. ‘Evie,’ she calls through the door, ‘if that washing is not upstairs and put away by tomorrow night, there will be big trouble. Mark my words, there will be big trouble.’

  ‘I’ll do it for you,’ I croak. ‘Goodnight, Mum.’

  I take a deep breath and try to sleep. I try to ignore thoughts about the basement and what the washing machine will do to me. I try to ignore thoughts about Chap Spark coming into our house when I’m alone. I try to ignore it all. But I can’t.

  This is it. I have to do it. I have to go back down the stairs to the basement to collect the clothes. I have to face the washing machine from hell.

  I stand on the top step for an age, waiting for the courage to move. The staircase to the basement is a giant black throat. It wants to swallow me.

  There will be big trouble … all I’m asking for is a little help … it’s about time you started earning your pocket money … Mum’s words echo inside my mind, reminding me what I have to do.

  I take a deep breath and place a foot on the next step.

  Nothing happens.

  I steady myself and inch down again. All I can hear is the blood pumping inside my eardrums. It’s not a comforting rhythm. It’s the rhythm of impending doom.

  Still, nothing happens.

  I take five or six quick steps and stop.

  My heart freezes. Something moves at the bottom of the stairs. I hear metal scrape on concrete. Something large whizzes overhead, brushing my hair. There is a loud thud on the stairs behind me.

  I turn and scream. It’s the washing machine. It’s standing between me and the top of the stairs. It rocks menacingly from side to side, daring me to try to run past it to freedom.

  The same plastic cord that tried to drown me slithers out of the half-open lid like a snake. It latches onto the doorhandle at the top of the stairs and pulls it shut. The cord flicks the bolt on the door, locking us in the basement, before stretching down to me and sliding over my face like a horrid, thin tongue.

  The red eyes of the washing machine stare at me without blinking.

  It begins to move slowly down the stairs, the plastic cord licking my face, forcing me backwards.

  I am trapped. I can’t get past. I reach the bottom of the stairs.

  The washing machine herds me further into the basement. I manage to find the string and the light globe flickers to
life in the blackness.

  The washing machine backs me into the darkest corner. It presses me against the cold concrete wall. It’s going to crush me.

  The doorbell rings upstairs. Mum’s delivery has arrived.

  The washing machine stops squashing me and listens.

  The doorbell rings a second time. I hear a man’s voice call out. It doesn’t sound like Chap. It’s a friendly voice. I’m saved!

  I open my lips to scream, but before I can call for help, the tongue-like cord extends further out of the machine and wraps around my mouth. It’s suddenly a lot harder to breathe.

  I hear the jiggling of a key at the front door and footsteps overhead. The deliveryman is inside our house.

  I must signal for help. I try to scream but the cord over my mouth is too tight.

  I stamp my foot on the ground.

  ‘Is someone there?’ The man’s voice calls through the locked basement door.

  The washing machine is fast and a second cord extends from under the lid. In a flash, it binds my feet together and pins them against the floor. A third cord wraps around my wrists. I can’t move a muscle.

  ‘I must be imagining things,’ says the deliveryman.

  Footsteps move into the kitchen. He is directly overhead. I hear him call to another person. A second pair of footsteps enters the house.

  ‘Take the old one to the van and bring the new one in here. She wants it delivered to the kitchen and unpacked.’

  The footsteps bang around for a minute or two, the door slams, and then they are gone. It’s quiet upstairs. The house is empty again.

  The washing machine opens its lid fully and lets out a horrible metallic laugh.

  The cords around my arms and feet lift me into the air. The machine spins its washer at a dangerous speed like a giant blender. The cords are pulling me inside headfirst. Water starts to fill from the bottom. It’s going to drown me and this time there is no way out.

  My head is almost completely inside the machine. I’m so close I can read the label on the inside rim. It says:

  The washing machine pulls me in further. The frothing, sloshing water licks at my hair.

  Crash!

  Something bursts through the locked basement door like a cannonball. It zips down the stairs and slices through the cords, freeing me. I stumble back and fall to the floor.

  Silver streaks of light flash through the air. Something is whizzing around at lightning speed. It’s pounding into the washing machine from all directions. It’s punching and pummelling, denting and destroying.

  It’s a toaster.

  The toaster stops to admire its work, winking a bright green eye at me, before delivering a knockout blow. Sparks fly out of the washing machine and it topples onto its side.

  It is dead.

  Mum takes a beautifully cooked piece of toast out of the new toaster. She spreads butter over it and watches as it melts evenly into the crust.

  ‘I’m not sure what you managed to do to that old washing machine, Evie, but you made your point,’ she says.

  ‘When is the new one being delivered?’ I say.

  ‘This afternoon. Is that okay with you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Mum leans on one of her crutches and kisses me on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so tough on you, Evie. I know life has been harder for you since I broke my leg. But the cast comes off next week and then things will go back to normal.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I say.

  My mouth waters at the sight of Mum’s golden-crusted toast. ‘The funny thing is,’ I say, ‘I thought you’d ordered another one of those H. O. Roar appliances.’

  ‘They’re no good,’ laughs Mum. ‘That was the brand of our last toaster and it kept burning everything.’

  ‘I’m pleased,’ I say. ‘I like this new brand.’

  I place a piece of bread into the toaster and flick the latch down. I run my finger gently over the label on the side of the machine.

  Mr Bambuckle threw the orange bouncy ball at the switch and the lights flickered back on. ‘Thank you for that remarkable story, Evie.’

  ‘Okayyy,’ said Vex Vron.

  Evie’s gaze dropped to the floor. ‘Nobody believes me, do they?’

  Mr Bambuckle thought about this as the ball disappeared back inside his pocket. ‘The only thing I don’t believe is how lucky we are to have someone as brave as you in our class.’

  Evie looked up at the teacher. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Truly.’

  Mr Bambuckle’s green eyes twinkled, urging Evie to take heart.

  ‘You don’t think I’m weird?’

  ‘Not as weird as that Chap Spark fellow. Brown suits went out of fashion in 1984.’

  Evie smiled. Although she was small in stature, her grin could fill the room.

  ‘The truth is,’ said Mr Bambuckle, ‘I’ve not met a braver girl. The way you faced that washing machine was nothing short of heroic. Most people would have run in the opposite direction at such danger. But you … you ventured down those stairs with all the courage in the world.’

  ‘You’re braver than me,’ said Victoria.

  ‘You’re a bit of a hero,’ said Carrot Grigson, a boy with bright orange hair.

  Mr Bambuckle walked to his desk and retrieved a small sheet of stickers. ‘I have just the thing for you, Evie. You deserve this sticker.’

  Evie’s chuckle filled the air. It was the most she’d laughed since Damon Dunst had accidentally crashed Miss Schlump’s car during the car wash fun day.

  ‘How did the stickers arrive so quickly?’ said Vex. ‘You only ordered them at morning tea!’

  ‘I happen to know some people,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Evie’s heroics are most certainly worth the first sticker.’

  ‘Great job, Evie,’ said Victoria, eyeing off the sticker.

  Mr Bambuckle looked at his watch. ‘Now, speaking of heroes, it’s almost time for lunch.’

  ‘What do heroes have to do with lunch?’ said Vex. The teacher grinned, pulling out a bowl of hot soup from one of the many pockets inside his suit.

  ‘You keep soup in your pockets?’ asked Vex.

  ‘It’s a little trick I picked up in northern Kazakhstan.’

  ‘And that’s heroic?’

  ‘Not in the slightest. Though I believe someone has a chance to become a hero this very lunchtime. Word has it Canteen Carol is manning the tuckshop today.’

  Carrot shuddered. ‘You know about Canteen Carol?’

  ‘I know everything,’ said Mr Bambuckle.

  ‘She’s a maniac,’ said Vex. ‘Scariest woman on the planet.’

  Vex’s comment was enough to trigger a burst of conversation. Mr Bambuckle sipped his soup as the chatter flowed. He didn’t seem to notice Mr Sternblast spying through one of the classroom windows, frowning and scribbling furiously in a small notebook.

  ‘Canteen Carol yells all the time.’

  ‘She’s the rudest person I know.’

  ‘I saw her scold one of the parent helpers who didn’t say “please”.’

  ‘Yeah, she goes bonkers if you forget to say “please”.’

  ‘She has warts on her toes.’

  ‘She only accepts correct change.’

  ‘She used to be a wrestler.’

  ‘I’m too scared to go to the canteen because of her.’

  The bell rang and the students stood up to leave.

  ‘Before you go to lunch, I have something to say,’ said Mr Bambuckle. He flashed a two-dollar coin in the air. ‘Who wants to be a hero? Who wants to buy something from the canteen today?’

  All fifteen students tried to avoid eye contact with their teacher. Evie Nightingale raised her hand as far as her chest, then decided against putting it in the air.

  ‘No takers?’ said Mr Bambuckle, a cheeky grin on his face. ‘Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to meet Canteen Carol myself.’

  Mr Bambuckle skipped into the classroom
after lunch with a lively spring in his step. The students hushed quickly, eager to find out what their new teacher had in store for them. They weren’t disappointed.

  ‘Chocolate bars for everyone – courtesy of Canteen Carol.’

  ‘Amazing!’ said Scarlett.

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Albert.

  ‘Average!’ joked Victoria.

  Mr Bambuckle laughed. ‘I should give myself a sticker for that.’

  He took a moment to place the sticker on his blue jacket. He also took a moment to size up the class. He had detected a slight change in room 12B, as though an air of expectation had replaced the staleness he’d sensed earlier that morning.

  The students failed to notice the briefest of smiles that flashed across their teacher’s face.

  ‘What are we going to do this afternoon?’ said Scarlett.

  Mr Bambuckle reached into one of the pockets in his blue suit and pulled out a mobile phone. ‘We are going to play with these lovely devices while we eat our chocolate.’

  Fifteen pairs of eyes lit up.

  ‘Go on,’ said Mr Bambuckle. ‘Get your phones out of your bags or desks or pockets or earholes or wherever you’re hiding them. It’s time to do some serious playing in the name of research.’

  The class dispersed and swiftly returned to their desks, armed with their mobile phones.

  ‘We are researching mobile applications,’ said Mr Bambuckle, as he handed out the chocolate bars. ‘I want you to research apps, play with apps and brainstorm ideas for apps that don’t exist yet.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Carrot, his smile nearly as bright as his orange hair.

  The sound of chocolate wrappers being opened filled the air as the students began to browse through their phones. Mr Bambuckle waited until everyone was deep in concentration, then slipped into the storeroom at the back of the classroom and closed the door.

  The students, unaware their teacher was missing, worked as creatively as they ever had and spent almost an entire hour developing their app ideas. They were only interrupted when Mr Sternblast burst into the room.