Class Act (6 page)

C
HAPTER
10

HEARTENING HONEYCAKE

It was a higgledy-piggledy, itchy-twitchy, restless mess of a day. The sort of day that, if it was human, would be sent out of class for flicking paperclips round the classroom.

While the children whispered and fidgeted, Mrs Florris shouted more than ever. She shouted at Clodna Cloot for writing too slowly and at Gary Budget for writing too quickly. She shouted at Skinny Ginny for sneezing, at Kevin for sniffing and at a stapler for running out. She shouted at the moss that had died on the nature table at the back of the classroom. And she shouted at Tracy for gazing out the window. ‘You do not come to school to gaze, young lady. Gazing is not an exam subject. Gazing does not improve your grades.'

‘What?' Tracy gazed at her.

‘Pay
attention
!' Mrs Florris's fingers closed round a rubber. Her fist rose.

Like a many-limbed creature with a single lung, the class held its breath. She wasn't actually going to …?

There was a knock at the door. The teacher's hand dropped. Garda Poggarty came in.

You may not have heard of Tullybun's annual Favourite Grandpa competition. And if you say you have, then you're lying, because there wasn't one. What was the point? Filo Poggarty would have won every year. A round, smiley man, he looked more like an overgrown robin than a garda. His grey hair stuck out in feathery tufts. His jacket was always open, flanking his stomach like too-small wings. His cheeks were two little sunsets.

He was the best and worst policeman you could imagine. Best at helping old ladies across the road and cats down from trees. Worst at catching vandals and robbers who had plenty of time to run away, and even stop to buy a Twix, as he shuffled after them. No one could be scared of Garda Poggarty.

Except Brian O'Bunion.

It wasn't the hair or the smile, the stomach or the cheeks. It was the job. Brian had been terrified of the gardaí ever since the Great Unspeakable. Of course Dad hadn't reported the truth about Mum's death. But Brian knew the police would discover it one day. They had to. It was only fair. And then he'd get what he deserved.

But he wasn't going to help them find out. And until that day, he'd vowed to lie low. He slumped in his chair as Garda Poggarty shuffled to the front of the class.

‘Sorry to bother you, Mrs F.' He wasn't smiling today. ‘Just a quick word.' His eyebrows were little nests of worry.

‘Of course, Sergeant Poggarty.' Florrie had put four tablespoons of sugar in her voice.

He looked gravely round the room. ‘As you probably know, one of your classmates has been, er, temporarily mislaid. I'm here to ask if anyone might know anything at all about his, ah, movements since Saturday.'

Heads shook. Bottoms squifted (shifted squirmily) and shirmed (squirmed shiftily) in seats. Clodna fiddled with her pencil case as if, perhaps, Alec was hiding inside. When no one spoke, Garda Poggarty took a notebook from his jacket pocket and wrote for what seemed like a month.

Oh dear.
Brian swallowed down the guilt he always felt when something went missing in class.
Was it me? Have I forgotten that I kidnapped Alec by mistake on Sunday?
As far as he could remember he'd spent the morning in Smile-in-the-Aisle, showing Alf his bee earring. (Uncharged. Brian couldn't trust even his best two-legged friend with his best six-legged one.)

At last the garda closed his notebook. ‘Thanks for your time, folks. And don't worry.' He glanced at Florrie. ‘There's bound to be a simple explanation. Alec probably went to stay with an aunt or a friend and – ahem – forgot to tell his parents.' The sergeant didn't look as if he'd fooled even himself. ‘I'm sure he'll turn up very soon. Eh, Mrs Florris?' She nodded in a noble, law-abiding way.

But he didn't. And for the rest of the morning it wasn't only Brian who failed to concentrate. The class was one big fidget, twiddling its twenty-five pens and biting its fifty lips.

When Florrie ran out of shout, she ordered them outside. ‘Four times round the yard.' She was a great believer in physical pain to restore peace and order.

But it did just the opposite. Peace and order would mean Unbeatable Pete coming first, like he always did in anything involving legs. Today he came fourth. When Mrs Florris yelled at him to pull his socks up – not easy, considering they were ankle-length – he looked at her in bewilderment. Then he bent forward, as if to do that very thing. But instead of reaching for his ankles, he sat cross-legged on the ground and rubbed his eyes.

‘Get up at once!' screeched the teacher. ‘Resting is not on the school curriculum. I will
not
have resting in my class.'

At the end of school there were twice as many parents as usual at the gates. Word must have spread about Alec's disappearance. Not as far as Number Six Hercules Drive, though; Dad was nowhere to be seen. Slinging his schoolbag over his shoulder, Brian hurried along the pavement, his nerves nibbling his insides. What if Alec's kidnapper was here on High Street, lying in wait for another victim? What if he or she was disguised – as that sweet little lady going into the post office, for instance? She might
look
like Miss Emer Pipette, retired teacher and the secretary of Tullybun's Small Fruits Appreciation Society, but perhaps beneath the strawberry headscarf and kindly smile lurked a ruthless child trafficker. Perhaps the real Miss Pipette had been kidnapped too.

Hang on.
Brian stopped. Who said Alec had been kidnapped? Maybe he'd run away from home and left a note.

Dear Mum and Dad,

You guys are boring. School's boring. This whole lousy village is boring. I'm off to seek my brainy fortune.

Your loving son, Al.

No. If that was the case, Sergeant Poggarty wouldn't have suggested Alec might have gone visiting and forgotten to tell his parents. It sounded as if the gardaí were clueless. But a person couldn't just disappear like that, without
someone
seeing or hearing something, could they?

Who better to ask than the man who watched Tullybun come and go? Brian hurried along High Street to Smile-in-the-Aisle.

‘Aye Aye, Cap'n.' Alf waved from the till.

Mrs Clattery scowled as he dropped her packet of All-Bran to stand and salute. Brian saluted back.

‘With you in a sec, Cap'n.' Alf sat down again and scanned the packet. ‘Bit clogged up are you, Mrs C? All-Bran's your man. You'll be running like the Liffey in no time.'

When she'd marched out, red as a pepper, Alf popped a ‘Till Closed' sign across the conveyor belt and came out. ‘Heard about Alec? Dreadful business.'

‘What do you know, Alf?'

‘No more than you, I dare say. His mum was here this morning asking if I'd seen him in the shop over the weekend. She said he didn't come down to breakfast Sunday morning. She thought he was having a lie-in. When he didn't appear at lunch, she thought maybe he'd gone out early to meet one of his friends. It wasn't until the afternoon that she phoned him. But he hadn't taken his mobile.' Alf shook his head. ‘I mean what kind of parenting is that? They've only got three kids. Talk about hands off.'

It wasn't like Alf to criticise, but Brian knew how much he disapproved of the Hunrattys' relaxed attitude. If he could, Alf would buy a cell phone for each of his forty thousand bees so they could keep in touch while foraging for nectar. It was true that Alec's parents hadn't seemed very interested at the prize-giving. Brian recalled his mum fiddling with her phone and Mr Hunratty writing on his hand. But even if they didn't show it, they must have felt proud of their son.
Unlike Dad
, he thought.
Would he even notice if I went missing? And there's only one of me.

‘You OK, Cap'n?' Alf patted his shoulder. ‘Look, I'm just finishing my shift. Why don't you come round for a cuppa? Looks like you could do with a slice of Dr Alf's Heartening Honeycake.'

Brian nodded. ‘I'd better tell Dad.'
As if he'll care.
‘Could I borrow your phone?'

While Alf handed over to Anemia Pickles, Brian called home.

Dad answered after ten rings. ‘No problem. See you later. Bye.'

Alf lived in a ramshackle cottage at the edge of the village near Tullybough Woods. With their soft glades and secret light, the ancient woods had once been Brian's favourite picnic spot. Not any more. After the Great Unspeakable he'd never set foot in them again.

They had tea in the back garden. The air was squeaky with sunlight. Rose bushes spilled shadows onto the sloping lawn. At the bottom the River Tully ran past, dark and gleaming like a film reel.

Alf cut a slice of cake and pushed the plate across the table.

‘Thanks.' Brian lifted the golden wedge.

‘Watch out!' Alf's hand shot forward. He flicked at a bee that was nibbling the icing. ‘Buzz off, Sue.'

‘Aah!' Brian dropped the cake. The bee ambled off through the air. ‘I nearly swallowed her.'

‘Ugh.' Alf's smile vanished. ‘My poor Susie.'

Brian had been more worried about his throat. But he knew better than to say so. ‘How on earth do you know that was Susie?'

Alf cut another slice of cake and put it on a plate in the middle of the table. Four bees settled on top.

‘There you go, girls, feast your feelers on that.' Alf pointed to them in turn. ‘Claire, Edna, Jan and Beyoncé.
Course
I know my bees. And I'd know if one went missing too.' He gazed at Edna – or was it Beyoncé? – as she probed the dips and mounds of the cake with her antennae. ‘That's the saddest part. Alec's parents not noticing for nearly a day.' He rolled a cake crumb between his finger and thumb. ‘They're worried enough now, though. Poor Mrs Hunratty. She was wrung out this morning. Can't have slept a wink. She kept saying, “You're sure, Mr Sandwich? You're sure you didn't see him?” Like if she asked enough times, she'd get the answer she wanted.'

On Brian's list of top ten favourite people, Alec came fifty-third. But he had to agree it was a terrible thing. ‘I wish I could help,' he murmured.

‘Me too, Cap'n.' The old man sighed. ‘But what can we do except keep a look-out and pray he comes back soon?'

C
HAPTER
11

RESINATING

‘Little madams! Who do they think they are?'

Sitting on his bed after dinner, Brian was beginning to wish he hadn't woken Dulcie. He'd looked forward to hearing her views on the disturbing events. He knew she'd have plenty. Her crankiness was strangely relaxing – with enough huff for both of them, she saved him the effort – and it was comforting having someone there who'd shared every part of his day. But he hadn't bargained for this.

‘Pampered brats. Fancy the old duffer knowing all their names!'

‘He may be old but he's not a duffer!' Brian glared in the mirror on his wall. ‘He's the kindest man ever.'

‘I can see that. Their own slice of cake indeed – their own plate! In my day we had to work for our food. No wonder those girls are so hefty.'

Brian hadn't noticed any flab on Alf's bees. But it wasn't the moment to mention it.

‘And that apartment block!' He guessed she meant the hive by the river. ‘Ready-built walls and roof – I ask you. Probably furnished too.'

Brian swallowed a smile, picturing TVs and sofas in each tiny cell.

‘No such mollycoddling in my day. We had to build our own home, every cell and comb. We bees are supposed to work for a living – we're
called
workers, for daisy's sake! But that lot are more like shirkers. No distant foraging for them, oh no, but flowers sitting pretty on their doorstep. Ooh!' Her wings fluttered. ‘If I could get out, I'd teach 'em a thing or two, show 'em how to bee.' She shook her head furiously. ‘Bet they can't even dance.'

‘Dance?' Brian hooted. ‘Why would they?'

Dulcie stamped her front legs so hard that his earlobe wobbled. ‘You mean you've never heard of the waggle dance?'

Brian shook his head and sucked in his cheeks, picturing Dulcie in a tutu.

‘I thought life was supposed to have evolved since my day,' muttered the bee. ‘More like
diss
olved.' She tutted. ‘A bee is born to dance. She needs nectar and pollen for food, right?'

Brian nodded.

‘So she flies around looking. And where does she find them?'

‘In flowers.'

‘Very
good
.' Dulcie clapped her antennae sarcastically. ‘When a bee finds a crop of flowers she buzzes back to the hive and dances up and down the honeycomb. And the way her bottom waggles tells her sisters where to go.'

‘Are you serious?' Brian's eyes filled his face. ‘That's incredible.'

‘But true.' She sniffed proudly. ‘Our butts are moving maps. At least …' a tiny sigh tickled his ear, ‘they're meant to be. Mine never was.'

‘Why not?'

Her wings drooped. ‘I was the youngest and smallest, the runt of the family. And that's saying something, out of thirty-five thousand, four hundred and twenty-six.'

Brian murmured sympathetically. He felt runty enough in a family of two.

‘From the moment I popped from my cell, my sisters bossed me around. They gave me the grottiest jobs: waxing the walls, polishing their wings, emptying our … you-know, from the comb.' Brian tried to picture bee poop. Chubby nuggets or skinny threads?

‘Meanwhile my sisters crept and crawled to our queen-mother. They were desperate to win Mama Humsa's favour. I didn't get a look-in.'

Brian felt a pang for this teeny Cinderella.

‘But she didn't care about any of her daughters. Her only interests were eating and sleeping and being adored. Whoever brought the most nectar was the favourite. One day it was Melanie, the next Fran, the next Arabella, that silly, frilly furball.' Dulcie squeaked contemptuously. ‘And because I was too young to fly, I was bottom of the heap, bullied like you wouldn't believe. “I've got wing itch,” they'd say, “scratch it, Dulce.” Or, “My cell needs rewaxing. Get to it, maggot.” And when they weren't bossing, they made fun of me. “Found any nectar, wimpywings?” or “Hey, sucker, you wouldn't know a pansy if it punched you in the mandible.”'

Brian winced. Thirty-five thousand, four hundred and twenty-six classmates.

‘It was a hot, dry summer. The flowers were few, the pickings low. And the hungrier we got, the more I was bossed. It became unbearable. I started to wonder why I'd bothered being born. I mean, what was the
point
?'

Brian stared in the mirror. ‘You too?' It may have been twenty million years ago, and it may have been only a bee, but boy was it comforting to know that another living thing in the history of the universe had wondered the same thing.

‘I couldn't wait to fly,' said Dulcie. ‘To whizz off and escape their bullying. I tried every day but my wings were too weak. Until one morning … aaahh.' A ripple ran through her antennae. ‘My whole body rose and my legs left the ground. I'll never forget that first flight.'

Brian closed his eyes. Lifting his arms, he flew with Dulcie. A paper-dry breeze blew through his mind. He danced on a cushion of air.

‘I'd never felt so free,' she said. ‘I decided I wouldn't go back. I'd buzz off and join a new colony, a crowd that would treat me well, never mind that we weren't related.'

‘Good for you.' Brian thought of Dad. Family could be overrated.

‘So I chose a route to avoid my sisters. Whenever I saw one I veered off. They'd only fault my flying, say my wings were too slow or my bottom too low. I worked with the breeze, letting it lead me far away. Until suddenly I caught a smell. A whiff of sweetness on the air.'

Brian sniffed. But the only whiff he caught was of dirty socks scattered over the floor.

‘I followed the scent to a glorious sight. Candles of white on a carpet of green. Don't ask how but I knew, I just knew, it was clover. I dived in and gorged. I stuffed my mouth with nectar and my sacs with pollen.'

Brian tasted the sweetness on his tongue, felt the weight on his legs.

‘And when I'd finished,' Dulcie peeped, ‘I knew what I had to do. Fly home and dance, lead my sisters to food.'

Brian's eyes sprang open. ‘What? I thought you wanted to find a new family.'

She sighed. ‘Family. That was just it. I suddenly knew that I couldn't let them starve. Mean as they were, they were all I had.' She shook her head. ‘Oh, I can't explain. It was a buzzing in my blood, a stirring in my heart that I had to help my own kin. And something else too.' She fixed him in the mirror with her gleaming eye. ‘This was my moment, my chance to shine. To strut my butt and prove my worth.' Her voice was getting softer. ‘To be the bee I was born to be. That I never,' she gasped, ‘got … to be.'

Brian looked in the mirror. She'd gone silent and still. What a moment to run out. He grabbed a corner of the duvet and rubbed the earring.

‘I flew back as fast as I could,' she squeaked on seamlessly. ‘As the nest came into view, I stopped on a tree trunk to catch my breath. Disaster. That's when the goo trickled onto my leg.'

Brian frowned. ‘Couldn't you just pull it out?'

‘You think I didn't try?' snapped Dulcie. ‘Look at it, puffy and packed with pollen. That's when Cleo flew past. I shouted for help. But she just laughed and carried on.'

Brian imagined Dulcie wriggling and shrieking after her sister.

‘Then the twins came by. I was up to my chest now, but together they could've pulled me out. I begged and promised to show them a feast. But did they believe me? Did they Sweet William!' She snorted. ‘Laura and Nora just sneered and jeered, rolled their eyes and slapped their thighs.'

‘Bees have thighs?'

‘This isn't easy.' Dulcie gave a little sob. ‘Allow a girl some poetry. I begged and wailed but on they sailed. Another blob fell, and another, covering my mouth, my eyes, my feelers. I thrashed with all my strength and managed to clear a small airspace round my body. But it was no good. I was caught forever, stuck in muck with no chance to dance.'

Brian saw her head droop in the mirror.
Poor thing.
What a terrible memory to haunt her forever, trapped in this eternal prison. If only he could say or do something to help.

He smacked the duvet.
Of course!

If he was officially brainy, you'd say it was a brainwave. But as he officially wasn't, let's call it a Brianwave. ‘Why didn't I think of it before? I'll crack the amber and let you out.'

‘NO!' The shriek was a skewer through his head.

When the ringing had stopped, he said, ‘Why not? You could dance your butt off.'

‘I wouldn't
have
a butt! Or a head or a thorax. After all these years, I'd probably just crumble to dust. The amber's the only thing holding me together.'

‘Oh.' The Brianwave crashed and died. ‘I hadn't thought of that.' His shoulders slumped. ‘I was only trying to help.'

‘You can. Help me look for Alec.'

‘What?' Brian blinked in the mirror.

‘It strikes me we could both do with a mission, something to make us feel useful. And what could be better than this?'

Brian stared at her. She was right. Imagine the praise, the fame, the acclaim, if they were the ones to find Alec. ‘But how? No one seems to know anything. Where would we start?'

She waved a front leg airily. ‘We'll work out the details later. Just picture the headline: “Boy Makes Beeline for Missing Mate”.'

He did. And it sure looked good, not to mention uncharacteristically modest, coming from this proud little bee. ‘Or “Bee Makes Boyline”,' he said graciously.

‘No way!' she squealed. ‘I'm not being splashed across the papers, thank you. Who knows who might steal me for scientific research? I'll lie low in your ear and direct you from here.'

‘Direct me where? If Alec's parents and the gardaí don't know where to look, how will we?'

Dulcie yawned. ‘Let's sleep on it. I'm sure we'll come up with a plan.'

You'd better
, thought Brian, reaching for his pyjamas. Because when it came to detecting, he didn't have a clue.