The Curious Mr. Blueberry E-Book

Harriet M. Winter

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 123

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

She is short for her age. She has a head of hair that resembles a crow's nest. She has no idea what to expect from her first school year. Yet, Hilda (that's her name) places her school bag the size of a small cabinet on her back and heads off to school to meet her new classmates and teachers. It all seems normal, even though almost every teacher is named after a vegetable. Yes, normal indeed, except for Mr. Blueberry. Whenever he is around, bullies who call other kids by nasty names seem to grow teeth of an old nag and a bum the size of a pumpkin. Hilda sets out to get to the bottom of Mr. Blueberry and soon discovers his secret. Unfortunately, so does Mrs.Turnip, a fun-hating school director determined to weed out bad seeds like Mr. Blueberry. But what happens when Mrs.Turnip and Mr. Blueberry get into a battle of wits and deeds? Caution: you will be surprised.

Leseprobe

The Curious Mr. Blueberry

Author's NoteChapter 1 First Day of SchoolChapter 2 KevinChapter 3 HalloweenChapter 4 Growing SuspicionsChapter 5 The MeetingChapter 6 Secret UnveiledChapter 7 At the LakeChapter 8 Another MeetingChapter 9 Unexpected SupportChapter 10 School DanceChapter 11 The ConfrontationChapter 12 The UnionCopyright

Author's Note

Dear Reader The story you are about to read is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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. The story is dedicated to all the teachers around the world, who continue to educate and tirelessly fight for our children, even when it seems impossible. Thank you for your dedication.

Chapter 1 First Day of School

“Hilda, Hilda,” a quiet whisper called out. “It’s time to wake up, we mustn’t be late.” Up on her bunk bed, Hilda lay in a huddled, quiet lump, having no intentions of opening her eyes. It was early morning, around a quarter to seven, and Hilda’s mom stood patiently by her bunk bed. It wasn’t really a bunk bed, but just a bed built at a height. Underneath the bed was a secret cave, protected by a wall with a window made of canvas.

This is where Hilda would find a cozy hideaway, watching Peppa Pig or some other kids’ program on her computer together with her little brother, Jonah. But right now, she was up in her bed with Jonah, still half asleep, bundled in her blanket from head to toe. Jonah was usually quick to awaken—an early bird—but Hilda was the complete opposite. She needed her time until she could get her eyes to open.

Hilda’s room was, to put it nicely, a treasure trove of toys, colors, stacks of magazines, and tiny knick-knacks scattered around. Hilda’s mom thought it was in a right chaos, but if you knew where to place your toes and trod lightly, chances were you wouldn’t get a Lego block wedged in your foot. It was always a gamble, according to mom, but Hilda and Jonah liked leaving their toys around, so they could continue their play whenever they wanted. In Jonah’s case, this was very surprising. He was generally very particular about order and things being in their right places.

When he had arranged his toys in a certain way, no one was allowed to touch anything. If mom had forgotten to decrust his toast, or hadn’t applied enough chocolate spread on it, he was quick to point this out, and mom would be given detailed instructions as to the correct way to do it. Hilda and Jonah’s mom was a very patient woman. Her ability to understand knew no limits, because Jonah reminded of herself in her childhood. Having been quite demanding herself, she had a unique way of dealing with cranky pants like her son.

The bed was equally full of toys—stuffed ones—and it was a miracle to even locate the two siblings among them. Every toy animal had its place, some stayed by the pillow, others sat at the foot of the bed.

“Hilda, really, it’s time,” mom said again and lifted her daughter gently out of the bed, trying not to disturb Jonah, who usually woke up grumpy in the morning. The plan was to get Hilda to school without disrupting the peace in the house. Dad was still asleep, and it was his task to bring Jonah to kindergarten. Much later.

After carrying Hilda to the bathroom and placing her on a little stool with a hamster holding a red flower on top, mom began to clean Hilda’s teeth. Slowly, Hilda shook off the sleep from her eyes, asking, “Am I going to school today?” “Yes,” replied mom, “I’ll take you there.”

From the living room, you could see the town square and the five towers for which the town was known. They were the towers of the Church of Mary and of the adjacent 84-meter Red Tower, steeped in the town’s 1200-year-old history. The Red Tower had presumably got its name from the blood court held at its base—in the Middle Ages, death sentences would be pronounced to wrongdoers at the foot of it.

Fortunately, those dark and gruesome days were long gone. The skyline from the balcony wasn’t particularly spectacular, as this middle-sized town in Eastern Germany had been subjected to a lot of devastation before the fall of the Berlin Wall. It wasn’t that the town didn’t have a long-standing history; it had rather been left to fall into oblivion, one old building at a time.

The town had gradually been rebuilt, but its façade still remained somewhat grey and gloomy. Despite the town’s washed-out veneer and its long-faced, often scruffy-looking inhabitants, there was a distinct decency and uprightness in the atmosphere, largely due to the fact that East Germans were “the early risers” and proud of being hard, dependable workers. In fact, the whole federal state had the motto “We get out of bed early.”

Standing up, Hilda bent over the sink to rinse her mouth. To an onlooker, it would be hard to believe that she was old enough to start school. Although she had already had her sixth birthday, she looked small for her age, with skinny arms and a little tummy. Hilda’s mom believed it was much too soon to put her in school, but the doctor had deemed her ready.

After she was finished in the bathroom, Hilda stepped out to the hallway and got dressed. It wasn’t very cold outside— normal August weather— and she chose a light Hello Kitty t-shirt with a comfortable pair of trousers her mother had stitched for her. Being comfortable was important to Hilda. She only wore clothes in which she was at ease, even if she had to wear the same ones four days in a row. She only had one pair of comfortable shoes and one pair of comfortable trousers. Finding suitable footwear had always been an ordeal, and Hilda’s grandma must have bought about 3 or 4 pairs of girly shoes, only to have them decided unfit by Hilda for chafing or otherwise for feeling too tight.

Another thing that Hilda was very particular about was her hair. She was one of those fortunate children born with a full head of hair. Hers was curly and prone to entanglement if she wasn’t careful. Hilda’s hair had been let to grow from the day of her birth, and it now reached her little bum. The struggles she and her mom had faced with her curls over the years were aplenty. It had to be combed regularly, or it would develop a web of knots and dust, resembling multiple crow’s nests. There would be no comb strong enough to tame that mess. Hilda always wore her hair in a bun, so her messy-locks wouldn’t get in the way of playing.

Hilda turned her eyes to her ridiculously huge schoolbag, which was actually of the standard size, but it seemed like it was built for a fourth grader, because of her modest stature. This little girl was to carry this monster of a bag—albeit a nice one, with a mermaid on it—every day to school. How on earth would she manage to haul it, with all its heavy books and other school supplies, not to mention the lunch box?

Hilda’s mom had already imagined the scene and seen her fall down on her knees with a crash the moment the bag was placed on her back. But there it was, and there was no getting around it. Hilda seemed determined to carry her new bag, much like tiny ants manage to transport loads many times their weight. When it was time to go, mom placed the school bag on Hilda’s back. It was the beginning of a new routine for both Hilda and her mom, who would bring her to school on her way to work. 

The way to school wasn’t very long, but it was uphill almost the whole way. Hilda’s mom was a gentle but stubborn woman; she could not see herself driving in a city with all its chaotic traffic. She had chosen a bike as a mode of transport years ago, and when her children were born, she had bought a suitable trailer to transport her kids around.

It was around 07:25 now, and the school would open its gates at 07:35. Hilda’s mom’s mission was clear: she would have to deliver her daughter to school on time.  Riding along the steep uphill path with a child and a school bag in 10 minutes was no small feat.

Though pedaling at walking speed, mom was determined to make it without having to walk. “Hurrah!” she thought to herself as she finally reached the top of the hill, huffing and puffing. The rest of the way it would be smooth sailing—well riding, I suppose. 

It wasn’t long until she swerved in front of the school. The school yard was buzzing with children and their parents. Some older kids knew what was coming, but many newcomers, like Hilda, clung to their moms and dads, cautiously taking in the surroundings. Suddenly, a bell rang and the front door to the old and respectable school building flung open.

Out came an older, friendly - looking lady. Her name was Mrs. Cauliflower. She had short, white hair and wore a pair of glasses, but the most striking thing about her, Hilda thought, was her all-embracing, warm smile. She wore a pair of sturdy shoes and looked altogether at home in them.

Mrs. Cauliflower was married, but her children were much older than the kids she worked with every day. They had already started their own families and lived in houses of their own. Now, when Mrs. Cauliflower finished work, she was welcomed home by her old cat, Mustard.

“Good morning,” she said in a low, reassuring voice. She greeted every child as they made their way inside. Some older kids went up to her, giving her a gentle hug, as they had not seen her since the end of the last school year. She even exchanged friendly words with many of the parents, while a stream of children and parents continued bustling in through the door.

In fact, Mrs. Cauliflower was always in a good mood. She enjoyed life’s humorous surprises, and her contagious laughter would ring out in the school corridor whenever some little mishap or the other took place. Being sensible yet sensitive, whenever a child in need came to her, she treated the children with respect. You were unlikely to find a more suitable teacher for elementary school.

Hilda, still feeling very nervous and shy, asked her mom to go in first. Hilda’s mom greeted Mrs. Cauliflower courteously, before taking her daughter’s hand and joining the crowd of kids and adults.

Inside the school, it was as Hilda’s mom had expected—tall ceilings, long corridors, and notice boards filled with useful information for parents and students. As it was the first school day, a welcoming committee of two other teachers greeted the new students and their parents, guiding them to the right classroom. “First-graders go upstairs to the third floor and then take a right. There are signs posted in front of the classrooms,” said a friendly male voice, pointing to the stairs.

The friendly voice in question belonged to Mr. Blueberry. He had a trendy, black, neatly kept beard and a pair of square glasses with a thick, black frame. His jet-black hair was partially covered with a baseball cap worn the wrong way. He looked very much in sync with the times, as prominent frames and neat beards were the “in” thing at the moment. He wasn’t a tall man—he was actually quite short—but he made a strong impression.

He was dressed in a pair of black, fitted jeans with cuts on the knees and a black t-shirt. On his feet he sported a pair of soft, comfortable sneakers. Mr. Blueberry was young, maybe about 26 years old, and you could see from his bare arms that he was no stranger to sports. If you were tall enough, you could see a half-exposed tattoo of a dragon between his shoulder blades. But of course, there was no way first graders could learn this detail about him. As Hilda would soon find out, Mr. Blueberry was the head teacher of the after-school club, so she would be spending a lot of time with him in the coming school year.

Alongside Mr. Blueberry appeared another figure, quite different from her young colleague. Her name was Mrs. Artichoke. A woman of meager height, she appeared to be slightly stooped. Her hair was grey and bushy, as if a strong gale had run its windy fingers through it. She had on a pair of glasses that changed color with exposure to sunlight. Outside in the school yard, they would become instant sunglasses, but inside, you could see her eyes through them—friendly, yet a little mischievous. She was about 55 years old and had a hint of a mustache, as older ladies often do. She had covered her wrists with woolen warmers on account of her arthritis that tended to plague her in the early mornings, especially in winter time. She seemed somewhat coarse on the surface, but as the kids got to know her better, they realized she was, in fact, very soft-hearted.

Mrs. Artichoke was a widow whose husband had passed away many years ago. But luckily, she had her best friend waiting for her at home—her little chihuahua, Cynara, whose warm greeting could make her whole world seem sweeter. Mrs. Artichoke, who was mostly dressed in brown and grey, gave an impression of having descended from trolls. Mind you, this was the story that she would entertain children with as she wasn’t at all uncomfortable with being a little out there. She also taught at the after-school club, tending to the children of immigrants, who needed to be fluent in German in order to be able to attend school.

Hilda’s school was a multicultural institution. It welcomed children from all different walks of life and from varied racial and cultural backgrounds. It was a place where one could truly feel welcome. The school’s principles were 'Learning, Togetherness, and Joy'. Being a contemporary German elementary school, it had had its share of the children of war—the masses of refugees who had arrived in Germany and to this middle-sized town, fleeing from death and destruction.

Children from Syria, Iraq, and other war-ridden countries had made it through the journey alive, ending up on the doorsteps of this town, which meant that Hilda’s school had taken in new, wide-eyed children, seeking and yearning a better life.

Although they didn’t speak a word of German, they were ushered in, with school bags and lunch boxes in hand. Other immigrant children, who had lived longer in the country, acted as interpreters and guides for them, and in the early mornings, the school’s German class would do its best to teach them the basics of the language.

Hilda and her mom climbed the stairs hand in hand, trying to dodge around the second and third graders bouncing about, occasionally changing sides on the stairs on their way to the classrooms. It felt like being caught in a herd of young sheep playfully sparring each other in an attempt to exhibit their strength and youth.

After the fourth set of steps, they finally reached the third floor. As advised, they turned right at the corner and approached a sign reading “Rag-dolls.” At the classroom door stood a slender young lady of medium-height and very appealing features. She had long, light brown hair. She was wearing a knee-length summer dress that really complemented her figure and smart-looking black shoes. Around her slender neck was a beautiful necklace made of shiny red gems, which she had inherited from her grandmother. “Good Morning,” she said. “I’m Miss Strawberry.” “What’s your name?” she asked Hilda, taking her tiny hand gently.