Symphony Strange and the Amazing Annabatya de Vole

By Beverley Bowry

Twelve-year-old Symphony Strange has had enough. Enough of the ‘gruesome twosome’ Phyllida and Suzette’s mean ‘tricks’ because they don't see her as being posh enough, enough of St Bartholomew’s School for Girls and most of all, enough of having no friends. 
With headteacher Mrs Grabbit and all the other pupils in the twosome's menacing grip, Symphony can’t see things ever changing. So she’s mega happy when she gets a new neighbour and best friend in the shape of Annabatya de Vole, who is also joining their year. Okay, she may seem a bit odd and is batty about bats, but Symphony thinks Annabatya is amazing and she totally is, at absolutely everything, which sends ‘the gruesome twosome’ into a meltdown. 
Promising trouble with a capital T, they threaten to snoop into Annabatya’s father’s top-secret work. Desperate to protect her new BFF, Symphony decides to play Phyllida and Suzette at their own game, but has she done more harm than good?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Apr 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9781800468610

Beverley Bowry

Suffolk author Beverley Bowry has two main passions, her family and composing compelling stories. She has a degree in English and Media, a diploma in Creative Writing and has written around eighty fun columns for her local newspaper. Charlie Palmer Says is her debut children’s novel.

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Copyright © 2021 Beverley Bowry

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador

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ISBN 978 1800468 610

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Annabel,

who inspired me to think of this story.

For Maddy and Holly,

who encouraged me to write it.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter One

Oh, I so wish my cricket bat was magic, then I’d magically whack the ‘gruesome twosome’, Phyllida and Suzette, as far away from St Bartholomew’s School for Girls as possible. But as it’s not a magic bat I’m just going to have to hold it, push my bike into this rusty old rack again and, as usual, race to get into school before they get here. Oh, no. Phyllida’s mum’s purple Porsche is already parked in the massive ‘reserved’ space next to our head teacher Mrs Hortensia Grabbit’s Range Rover. There’s no escape.

‘Well, if it isn’t stupid Symphony Strange,’ Phyllida laughs, clip-clopping towards me in a pair of super cool, sparkly, black kitten heels. ‘I don’t know why you bother locking that thing. Nobody normal would want to be seen on such a monstrosity.’

I stare down at my plain, black regulation sandals. ‘It’s fine. Anyway, my mum and dad don’t have lots of spare cash to buy me a new one.’

‘They don’t have any at all by the look of it,’ she says, her waxed eyebrows shooting up like a pair of chewed Twiglets.

‘Well, my parents aren’t super rich like yours.’

‘What do you expect when your mother’s just an English teacher at the local comp? My mother’s great-uncle only had the first Rolls-Royce in the whole county of Batcombeshire, and you should see the number of letters Daddy’s got after his name. The brass plate on his office door at McAlpenny-Hughes Solicitors is enormous.’

‘My dad’s got a Bachelor of Education degree.’

‘Yeah, well he can’t be much of a teacher, otherwise he wouldn’t have been stuck at Batcombe’s rubbish little primary school for years! Wow, check out Suzie’s new motor!’

A shiny, pink, open-topped sports car is coming through the gates with Suzette’s childminder driving and Suzette hanging over the side waving her cricket bat. Great, Phyllida’s off, dashing across to see her. Now’s my chance. I run into school, but they must have taken a shortcut through the staffroom. The minute I put my helmet and bat in my locker they pounce. Snatching my purse from my dress pocket, they put their arms through mine and sort of half-carry, half-drag me along towards Mrs Grabbit’s office.

‘Let me go!’ I yell.

‘Why should we when it’s so much fun?’ Phyllida says with a smirk. ‘Hey, Suze, let’s lock her in Hortie’s stock cupboard. She’ll go bonkers when she gets back from her early morning session in the pool and finds this strange girl in there. Her outfits cost a bomb.’

Suzette’s grinning like she always does when they play one of their ‘little tricks’ on me. ‘Great idea!’

So much for Mum and Dad saying how wonderful St Barts is. They haven’t had to put up with these two constantly going on at them for a whole year. And I wonder how they’d like being catapulted under Mrs Hortensia Grabbit’s favourite tent-sized, flamingo-patterned, frilly silk skirt in a September heatwave. Twenty minutes I’ve been stuck here now in a haze of lavender and chlorine, plus a hint of something eggy, waiting for Mrs Grabbit to find me. Oh great, I can hear her flip-flops coming over here. I need to have an excuse ready, and a good one. When she flings open the door her goggles are all steamed up and her chest’s heaving like a charging rhino’s.

‘Symphony Strange!’ she roars, spitting out her snorkel. ‘What, may I ask, are you doing in my wardrobe, er, stock cupboard?’ She rips off her goggles and glares with her milky-red gobstopper eyes. Even her faint brown moustache is bristling more than normal. ‘You know I don’t like children lurking. What does the notice on my door say? Girls expressly forbidden except in emergencies!’

Actually, I bet she’d love a notice like that on the school gates too. Not that she lets it show, of course. It’s always ‘lovey’ this, and ‘darling’ that, in public. I just sort of smile and scramble to get out.

‘Good grief, mind my lovely clothes! They’re all designer, and for goodness sake don’t go dripping sweat and tears on my Persian rug. Here, have this.’ Flinging me the towel from round her shoulders, she continues giving me filthy looks while I wipe my hands. ‘Hurry up! Hurry up!’

Dropping the towel, I reach back inside for my bag. Oh, no! The strap’s stuck on something. I tug it, hard. A pile of holiday brochures, a couple of boxes of stationery, and a stack of fifty-pound notes shoot out across the floor. Never, ever have I seen Mrs Grabbit move so fast. She’s on her knees scrabbling around like a squirrel foraging for its nuts. I daren’t try and help her.

‘My spending money for the Maldives,’ she stammers, pushing the giant wad of notes down her top. Staggering to her feet, she turns to face me. ‘Well, um, yes, Miss Strange, I’m still waiting for an explanation. You better not have damaged the wood with all that banging and crying. It’s antique mahogany and worth a packet, er, a lot of money, um, it’s very valuable.’

How she thinks I managed to get inside and then lock myself in I don’t know. But there’s no way I can tell her the truth. Mrs Grabbit won’t ever hear a single thing against those ‘darling girls’ Phyllida and Suzette. Her words, not mine.

‘I’m s-sorry, Mrs Grabbit,’ I say, in the most wheedling voice I can manage while trying not to stare at her ultra-tight, lime-green tracksuit. ‘It was the mouse!’

‘The mouse?’ she shrieks, skipping from one sausage-shaped leg to another.

‘Yes, sort of grey it was, or maybe dirty white, it was hard to tell it was so quick. Your door was open…’

OMG, Mrs Grabbit’s on top of her desk. ‘That’s the last time I’m leaving my room unlocked for the cleaners while I have my Friday early-morning dip!’

I feel a bit bad but if it’s the only way to get out of trouble, well… ‘Ummm, it had reeeeeally long whiskers and tiny beady eyes, and knowing how much you hate them, I thought I’d better try and see where it went.’

‘Well, don’t just stand there, girl, er, dearheart, run and fetch Mr Bloomfield at once. He should be down the corridor with his polishing machine. Say I need him here straightaway with a cage. I don’t know how many times I’ve told Mr Whitehead not to keep those things in the biology lab. Quick! Quick!’

I don’t need telling twice. I run, I find him, and leaving him and Mrs Grabbit to it, speed down the corridor. As expected Phyllida and Suzette are in my face the second I arrive at my classroom door.

‘So, Hortie’s let you out. Pity, I was hoping you’d be in there for another ten minutes at least,’ Phyllida says, high-fiving Suzette who’s in the middle of leap-frogging over some poor first year dragging a violin case. ‘Here, have your manky purse back,’ she cries, throwing it at me. ‘Hardly worth taking for 50p. Now hurry inside, you strange girl. Have a nice day – we certainly will!’

Oh, I am just so glad I’m not in Phyllida and Suzette’s class. Being in their year is bad enough. After registration I follow the rest of my class and our teacher Ms Shufflebottom to the hall for assembly. It’s almost always taken by Miss Olive Peacock, our deputy head teacher. Apparently Mrs Grabbit is far too busy to do such things apart from on ultra-important occasions. Why doesn’t that surprise me? Anyway, Miss Peacock parades up and down the stage on tiptoe as usual, her long, pleated, aqua-blue skirt fanning out around her, while her tiny green eyes squint at us through her gold-rimmed specs.

After assembly it’s double maths – too hard for a Friday – followed by chemistry – even worse. Thank goodness Phyllida and Suzette didn’t think to look in my pencil case. At least I’ve got just enough leftover holiday money from my Great-Auntie Enid in there to buy one of our cook, Mrs Bulge’s, breaktime chocolate brownies. Mmm, yum! Apart from cuddling my gorgeous rabbit, Harvey, this is the only good bit of the day so far. It’s biology and worms next, followed by ICT, then lunch in the canteen. Typical, everyone’s either huddled in pairs or in their little cliquey groups as usual and of course Suzette Bridges-Smythe and Phyllida are together.

‘Hello, you straaaaaaange girl. All alone again?’ Phyllida calls, as I walk past them to an empty table. ‘And haven’t you heard of hairdressers, Sym-phoney? Time to have a chop we reckon. You look a right scruff! We can help with that if you like. Actually, we can help if you don’t like!’

Putting my plate down, I pull off my scrunchie, fling my head back so my brownish-red mop goes flying over my shoulders and retie my ponytail. Mum always says my hair is sort of half like hers with the colour, and half like Dad’s with the curls. It stuck out like a bush the last time it was cut. So, if I want to keep it long it’s none of their business. Those two think they’re so clever picking on me just because my surname is Strange. I really love my first name, Symphony; that’s kind of cool. My mum says it came to her when she was in the birthing pool having me and one of Beethoven’s symphonies came on the radio. But those two even have to ruin that for me. Arrrgh! I hate them so much! I’m just putting my dirty plate in the pile when the bell goes. As usual everyone shoves past me so I get to the classroom seconds before Ms Shufflebottom strides in.

‘Right, girls, there’s no careers lesson this afternoon,’ she says. ‘You’ll be doing history with Miss Trembling’s form instead.’

No! I can’t believe I’m about to be stuck in a room with you-know-who.

Cassandra stomps up to Ms Shufflebottom. ‘That’s so unfair. Why can’t we have our own history teacher? Miss Trembling is soooooooo boring.’

‘Cassandra! That’s enough. Miss Trembling is a fine teacher. It’s not her fault she… Anyway, Mr Howgego’s had to go somewhere and Mrs Aulde’s otherwise engaged this afternoon. So hurry along and no more complaining.’

I get my stuff together and hang behind the others as we trail along the corridor. OMG, Ms Shufflebottom would go berserk if our class was like this. There are books flying around, tables being rattled and girls sitting all over the place laughing and talking. Miss Trembling ushers us into some rows of spare seats lined up along the back while trying to duck the sweet wrappers being thrown at her by Phyllida and Suzette.

‘Shhh now everyone,’ she says, waving her arms around. ‘I thought it might be fun to discuss what you know about the old relics at school.’

‘Besides you, there’s that strange girl’s excuse for a bicycle,’ Phyllida shouts, pointing her finger at me.

My face feels like it’s gone as scarlet as Phyllida’s long, perfectly varnished nail.

Miss Trembling’s voice shakes even more than normal. ‘Er, that’s n-not very nice. C-can you think of anything else?’

I shoot my arm in the air. ‘Isn’t the statue at the front of the school several hundred years old?’

‘That’s q-quite correct. Based on a…’ But we don’t get to hear the rest of what Miss Trembling has to say. Phyllida’s grabbed hold of a chalk and is drawing a picture of my bike on the board. Everyone’s screaming and laughing. Everyone, that is, except Miss Trembling and me. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a lesson to end as much as this one. As soon as the bell rings I join the charge to the door. At least our class has art next. Mrs Wilde, our teacher, is very keen on what she calls ‘freedom of expression’, which basically means anything goes.

‘My goodness, Symphony,’ she says, poking her head round my easel. ‘You seem particularly zealous today. Though I applaud your enthusiasm, you need to treat the brush a little more gently!’

I look at the weapon in my hand. ‘Oh, um, sorry Mrs Wilde, I got a bit carried away.’

I don’t tell her that the huge purple and green blobs she’s admired as being an ‘excellent abstract interpretation of the two bunches of grapes’ lying on her desk are in fact Phyllida and Suzette’s faces, and the paintbrush is a means of obliterating them. As soon as the bell goes, I grab my things and head for the bike shed.

‘Well, if it isn’t that strange girl again,’ Phyllida cries, as I race past her and Suzette.

They run towards me sniggering. Both my tyres are completely flat, again.

‘Give me a break! Can’t you find something else to do besides bullying me? You’ve been doing it for a whole year, ever since we started here! Thought you might have grown up a bit during the summer holidays.’

‘Oi, bullying, that’s a very strong word, better not go round saying things like that. We’re just having a bit of fun aren’t we, Suze? And you can talk about being grown up. You’re such a baby with your dinky winky ponytail,’ Phyllida jeers, flipping her sunglasses down from where they’ve been holding back her super glossy, chestnut-coloured fringe. ‘Mummy books a private hairdresser for me. Comes to our house. Hairdresser to the stars, she is.’

I hate to say it but Phyllida’s hair is totally lush, and boy does she know it.

‘Now,’ she says, swinging it from side to side, ‘we think you could do with a bit of a trim. Got some scissors all ready, see!’

‘Don’t you dare!’

‘Oh we dare! Come on, Suze, grab her.’

‘No!’

‘Hold on, Mummy’s waving us over. She must be finished speaking with Hortie. Looks like it’s your lucky day, strange girl!’

Lucky day? She’s got to be joking. My hands are sweating so much they’re slipping all over the place, and trying to pump up my tyres while those two are doing their usual demented hyena impressions isn’t helping. I cycle home as fast as I can. The thought of having to go back to St Barts on Monday is giving me stomach cramps. It’s been absolutely, utterly, my worst day ever. If only, only, only I never have to set eyes on those two ever again. But sadly there’s fat chance of that.

Chapter Two

It’s only the sound of loud hammering that makes me look up as I turn into our close. There’s just one person in Wingfield Crescent who ever uses a hammer and that’s my dad, but he’s always at his after-school recorder club on Fridays.

Wow! Wow! Wow! There, looming above the tangled mass of hedge, hollyhocks and Michaelmas daisies in the garden of the dingy towering house next door to ours, is the most enormous SOLD