Kiss! Page 3
“Bertie, you know that restaurant you like?” said Mum.
Bertie gasped. “Pizza Pronto?” Pizza Pronto served the biggest, yummiest pizzas in the world.
“Yes. There’s one opposite the concert hall.”
“Can we go? Please!” begged Bertie.
“Okay,” said Mum. “As long as you play in the concert.”
Bertie hesitated. This was bribery. On the other hand it was the best pizza in the world.
“It’s a deal,” he said.
Dad groaned. Bertie playing the trumpet – in a concert? This could only end in disaster.
CHAPTER 3
Rehearsals took place every Tuesday at Pudsley Hall. When Bertie arrived for his first practice the other children were seated on the stage. They clutched violins, flutes, trombones and tubas. A girl struggled with a cello twice her size. Bertie looked round for somewhere to sit. He spotted Flora practising her clarinet.
“Hello,” he said, sitting down.
“You can’t sit there,” said Flora, rudely.
“Why not?”
“Duh! You’re with the trumpets. Over there with Nigel.”
Bertie clambered over chairs and music stands to reach his place. There were two boys, both holding shiny trumpets. The one called Nigel wore a velvet bow tie.
“Hello, I’m Bertie,” said Bertie, sitting down.
“You can’t sit there,” snapped Nigel.
“Why not?”
“That’s for first trumpets. Second trumpets sit behind.”
Bertie sighed wearily. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!” said Nigel. “I’m first trumpet because I’m better than you. Why do you think I’m playing the solo?”
Bertie rolled his eyes.
“Go on then! Move!” ordered Nigel.
Bertie moved to the seat behind.
The conductor, Mr Quaver, arrived. He droned on about the music they were going to play. Bertie yawned. He got his trumpet out. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to play? He took a deep breath.
Pffft! Pfffft!
Not a sound. He tried again, holding down the keys. Nothing.
Then he noticed a small key he hadn’t yet tried. Bertie pressed it. A glob of spit dripped on the floor.
Wow! thought Bertie. A dribble key!
Mr Quaver finished talking and asked them to open their music. Bertie stared at the page – it was covered with squiggly black tadpoles.
Mr Quaver tapped his stand. He raised his baton and the orchestra began to play. The violins scraped. The flutes tootled. The drums boomed. Nigel and the others raised their trumpets. Bertie copied.
PAA PA-PA PA PAAA!
Pfft! Pfft! went Bertie, not getting a note.
The trumpets rested. The music went on. Bertie noticed Nigel raise his trumpet, ready for his solo. Bertie leaned forward and pressed his dribble key.
“EWWWWW!” howled Nigel, leaping to his feet.
“What on earth’s the matter?” asked the conductor.
“Something dribbled down my neck!”
Nigel swung round, glaring at Bertie.
Bertie smiled back.
“Nigel!” sighed Mr Quaver. “Can we please get on?”
Bertie sat back in his seat and smiled. Maybe rehearsals wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Over the next weeks, Bertie’s trumpet practice drove his family mad. At first he couldn’t get a note but eventually he got the hang of it. Terrible noises came from his bedroom – parps and poops and deafening squeaks. Dad said it sounded like a herd of trumping elephants. Suzy went about with her fingers in her ears. Mum said she wished she’d never given Bertie the trumpet in the first place. One evening she decided they needed to have a talk.
“Bertie,” she said, “it’s nice you want to practise, but I’m not asking you to actually play in the concert.”
Bertie shrugged. “It’s okay. I want to.”
“Yes, but it’s better if you don’t.”
“Why?” asked Bertie.
“Because, well … you can’t really play the trumpet!”
“I was playing just now!” said Bertie.
“Yes, but a concert is different,” said Mum. “There’s an audience. If you make that horrible noise people will hear!”
“I want them to hear,” said Bertie.
“That’s the whole point,” said Mum. “They’ll realize you can’t play.”
Bertie frowned. “So what you’re saying is, I just have to sit there and pretend?”
“Yes,” said Mum. “Pretend but don’t play.”
“Not even a bit?”
“No,” said Mum firmly. “Remember, no playing or no Pizza Pronto.”
Bertie sighed. There was no pleasing some people – they just didn’t appreciate good music.
CHAPTER 4
The night of the big concert finally arrived. Bertie fiddled nervously with his clip-on bow tie. He’d never performed in a concert before. He would be playing (or not playing) in front of hundreds of people, including his whole family. Still, what could possibly go wrong? All he had to do was pretend. It was a small price to pay for a Pizza Pronto Cheese Feast pizza.
His family came with him to the dressing room. Mrs Smugly was there brushing Flora’s hair.
“Hello, Bertie,” she trilled. “I’m so looking forward to hearing you play!”
“Me too!” grinned Suzy.
Mum nudged her to keep quiet.
Just then, Mr Quaver hurried in, looking flustered. “Disaster!” he cried. “Nigel’s got a tummy bug! He can’t come, and he’s playing the solo!”
Mrs Smugly tutted. “Well, surely someone else can do it? What about Bertie?”
“M-ME?” gasped Bertie.
“Yes, your mum’s always saying how talented you are. Here’s your big chance!”
Mum gulped. “But surely—”
“Splendid! That’s settled, then!” interrupted Mr Quaver.
“I’m sure you’ll be marvellous!” said Mrs Smugly, patting Bertie on the head.
Bertie felt sick. This wasn’t happening! He’d wanted to play his trumpet, but not by himself. How could he play a solo when he could barely manage two notes?
The audience clapped as the Pudsley Junior Orchestra walked onstage. Bertie could see his family in the front row. Gran waved. Suzy gave him a thumbs up. Next to her, Mrs Smugly clapped madly. Bertie glanced at the exits. Maybe if he made a run for it now he could escape? But Mr Quaver was marching onstage and bowing to the audience. He raised his baton. The concert began.
The violins swelled. The flutes tootled. The drums boomed. Bertie pretended to join in with the trumpets. He was sweating. He should never have let his mum talk him into this. On and on went the music, rising and falling. Suddenly he noticed it had gone very quiet. Mr Quaver’s baton was pointing at him. Yikes! The trumpet solo! This was his big moment.
Bertie stood up and raised his trumpet to his lips. He blew.
Pffft! Pfffttt!
Nothing.
Pffft!
Silence.
He blew with all his might. A single note wailed out like a dying bluebottle.
PAAAARRRRRRRPPPP!
The audience gasped. Bertie’s mum went bright red. Mrs Smugly looked as if she was going to pass out. Next to her, Gran and Suzy were shaking with laughter.
Bertie lowered his trumpet, bowed and sat down. All in all he felt it hadn’t gone too badly. At least he’d still be going to Pizza Pronto.
After the concert, Bertie’s family collected him from the dressing room.
“Come on,” hissed Mum. “Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us!”
But at that moment, the door opened and in walked Mrs Smugly. She bore down on them like a battleship.
“Never!” she fumed. “Never in my life have I heard anything so dreadful! Your son ruined the whole evening!”
Gran grinned. “I quite enjoyed it.”
Mrs Smugly ignored her and rounded on Bertie. �
��The truth. Have you taken any music exams?”
“Well, um … no,” admitted Bertie.
“And have you ever in your life had a trumpet lesson?”
Bertie shook his head.
“Just as I thought,” snapped Mrs Smugly, glaring at Mum. “He can’t speak French, he doesn’t go to ballet and he can’t play the trumpet. Tell me, is there anything he can do?”
“Actually there is,” said Bertie. “Do you want to hear?”
He took a deep breath…
Copyright
STRIPES PUBLISHING
An imprint of Little Tiger Press
1 The Coda Centre, 189 Munster Road,
London SW6 6AW
Characters created by David Roberts
Text copyright © Alan MacDonald, 2011
Illustrations copyright © David Roberts, 2011
First published as an ebook by Stripes Publishing in 2012.
eISBN: 978–1–84715–405–7
The right of Alan MacDonald and David Roberts to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved.
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