The Notion Potion Page 4

  Later, Martin followed Moira back outside with the kids from St Whimmion’s. He glanced around for his classmates, but there was still no sign of them.

  ‘So that concludes our tour,’ Moira told them, with slightly less fanfare than Brendan McSnozz. ‘But if any of you are feeling inspired and would like to make an invention of your own, there’s a big competition coming up soon. It’s a lot of fun, and there’s medals and trophies for the winners.’

  Martin’s ears pricked up. Medals? Trophies? That was exactly the kind of thing he needed to get a place on the Winners Wall! And she said ‘soon’ – how soon? Was it something he could actually win before . . .

  ‘EOPS?!’ he blurted out in a panic.

  Everyone looked at him.

  ‘Sorry?’ asked Moira.

  ‘Oh. Eh. I meant . . . Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, it’s called the Invention Convention,’ she explained, ‘and it’s for young scientists like yourselves. Would anyone like an application—’

  ‘Max and I have already entered!’ interrupted Vronny. ‘And we’re totally going to win.’

  ‘We sure are!’ chuckled her teacher. ‘I mean – they are. Because teachers aren’t allowed to help. Which is why I’m not. Helping. Or hiring professional scientists to do the work. Because that’s also banned. Which is why I’m not doing that either.’

  Hugh stopped talking. He was sweating slightly, and he glanced around uneasily.

  ‘I’ll take an application!’ piped up Martin.

  Moira handed him a form as Max and Vronny scoffed.

  ‘Do you even have science in the Country?’ sneered Max.

  ‘More like Sty-ence!’ chimed in Vronny.

  Martin looked at her blankly.

  ‘Cos it smells like a pigsty,’ she explained.

  Max laughed, but Martin scowled. He’d had just about enough of all their countryside-bashing.

  ‘You know, just because you live in the city doesn’t mean you’re better than us,’ he snapped.

  ‘You sure about that?’ asked Max doubtfully.

  ‘I’m . . . mostly sure, yes! We might not have a bus that’s filled with profiteroles*, but we’re just as clever as you lot, and we’ll easily beat you in that Invention Convention!’

  Max and Vronny burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re going to beat us?!’ jeered Vronny. ‘With your invention of what? Muck burgers? Potato hats? Pointy spears?’

  ‘We’re not a bunch of savages, you know!’ retorted Martin.

  Just then, Moira spotted an approaching group. ‘Ah, the boys from Boyle – just in time for the next tour!’

  Unfortunately for Martin, his teacher and classmates happened to look exactly like a bunch of savages at that moment. They were munching large turkey legs, with their faces covered in ketchup, and their clothes were ripped and dishevelled.

  ‘Where were you, Martin?’ called Padraic. ‘We wanted a snack, and Declan found a place that sells turkey legs! But we had to climb through a thorny ditch to get there!’ He held up a bone that he’d been gnawing. ‘Want some?’

  Vronny and the others sniggered at the sight of the Country cavemen. ‘What was that about not being savages?’ she jeered.

  The rich kids sauntered back to their sweet-smelling bus and climbed aboard.

  ‘You just wait!’ shouted Martin, as the rest of the St Whimmion’s crew hopped up the steps. ‘I’ll build the greatest invention ever! I’ll wipe the floor with you lot!’

  Hugh smirked at him. ‘Sure ya will, Marty. Sure ya will.’

  ‘Oh, you’d better believe it. And now, if you’ll stand aside, I’d like to take my pastry bath.’

  Hugh closed the door in his face, and the St Whimmion’s bus drove off, leaving behind the scent of freshly baked flapjacks and the sound of ‘Ghostbusters 2’ playing on their in-bus entertainment system.

  ‘Hey, buddy. What did I miss?’

  Martin turned to see me standing beside him. He opened his mouth to answer, but I stopped him. ‘Ya know what? Tell me later. In great detail – so I can put it all in the book!’

  ‘I said curb your Wonkey!’ yelled a familiar voice.

  We turned to see Brendan chasing Wilbert away from the pansies. It seemed that Loopy Lou had done a runner.

  ‘Oh balls,’ I muttered.

  ‘Come here, you weak-bladdered beast!’ ordered Brendan, but the Wonkey sprinted away and darted through the main doors of the museum with Brendan hot on his heels.

  ‘Wilbert!’ I shrieked, as Martin and I raced after them.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  N.P.

  A loud ‘HEEE-HOOWWWWWWLLLLLL!’ reverberated through the museum-barn. We scrambled after the sound, following it to the main exhibit area, and when we got there we found Brendan wrestling the Wonkey on the floor.

  ‘Get off, ya big . . . slobbering . . . jackanapes*!’ he grunted, as the Wonkey licked his face and sucked on his beard.

  ‘Just play dead! He’ll lose interest eventually!’ I called to Brendan, remembering a tip from my Wonkey handbook.

  But they continued to wrestle.

  ‘Give it back!’ Brendan boomed. ‘Give it back, I say!’

  ‘Give what back?’ I asked.

  ‘The cap! Barney Bunton’s cap! The silly beast just ate it!’ wailed Brendan. ‘I knew we should have left it on the old hook.’

  ‘Who’s Barney Bunton?’ asked Martin blankly.

  ‘Who’s Barney Bunton?!’ snapped an exasperated Brendan.

  ‘Don’t worry!’ I called. ‘Wilbert has a very delicate stomach. We’ll have that cap back in a jiffy.’

  I dug in my pockets, pulled out some monkey nuts, and offered them to Wilbert. He immediately sprang to his feet and gobbled them up. Then sure enough, just a moment later, his stomach started gurgling again.

  Brendan was now free from the Wonkey, but his mood had not improved. ‘That hat was priceless!’ he fumed, ‘It was our sole link to the great—’

  ‘I’d stand back if I were you,’ I suggested.

  Brendan paused, and then retreated from the Wonkey.

  ‘Aaaaatttcceeewwwhhhooowwwwl!’ Wilbert sneezed, splattering a wet gob of mucus on the floor.

  But he wasn’t done yet. He’d eaten too many monkey nuts for that. More gurgles were emanating from his insides. He looked quite pale and was doing lots of little burps. Then he perked up and seemed much happier. Then he looked sleepy. Then he seemed confused. And then he barfed all over the room.

  It was an extraordinary amount of puke. And floating in the middle of this steaming stew was Barney Bunton’s cap.

  ‘Good heavens,’ murmured Brendan. ‘I’ll . . . get the mops.’ He stumbled out of the room in a state of shock.

  Wilbert gave a sigh of relief, much happier now, and bounded away with a cheeky wink, leaving a trail of wet puke-steps behind him.

  I picked up the famous cap, which was in quite a sorry state. I gave it a shake and tried to scoop out the goop from inside it – when I felt something and paused.

  It was a lump. A lump inside the hat.

  I ran my finger over it, curious, and saw that there was a hidden fold in the fabric, like a little pocket. A secret pocket.

  Why would Barney Bunton have a secret pocket in his cap?

  I reached inside and pulled out a small, green glass bottle. It was like a medicine bottle with an old faded label stuck to the glass.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Martin, peering over my shoulder.

  ‘N.P.’ I murmured.

  ‘N.P.?’ he asked. ‘What’s N.P.?’

  But that was all the label said. Just those two letters: N.P.

  We were both wondering what this could possibly mean when Brendan clattered back with armfuls of mops and buckets. He looked over towards the cap in my hands, worried. ‘Well?’

  ‘Good as new!’ I lied.

  I tossed him the soggy hat, but decided not to mention our discovery, and quietly pocketed the glass bottle.

  ‘You stole it
?’ whispered a shocked Martin when we were back outside.

  ‘I just borrowed it,’ I assured him. ‘And besides – Brendan didn’t even know he had it! You can’t steal something from someone who doesn’t know that the something you’re stealing from them even exists!’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ll return it later,’ I promised. ‘But not until we’ve solved its mystery.’

  Martin gave a reluctant smile, and we strolled off to rejoin his classmates.

  A few hours later, we were back home in Boyle. I’d filled Martin in about the imaginary tour, and after I’d walked Wilbert, fed him a dandelion cake, and sung him to sleep, we sat in Martin’s bedroom, staring at the bottle again.

  ‘N.P. . . .’ I murmured, as we peered into the green glass.

  ‘Not Pizza?’ suggested Martin.

  ‘Well, it’s definitely not pizza.’

  ‘Nor Pandas?’

  ‘Nope, it’s not pandas either.

  ‘Nothing Perhaps?’

  ‘It’s definitely something, Martin.’

  We hadn’t been brave enough to open the bottle yet, but we could see something inside it.

  ‘Noodle Perfume?’ suggested Martin. ‘Nut Pipe? News Paper?’

  ‘Martin, are you just saying any N.P. words that pop into your head?’

  ‘Neck Pancakes?’

  ‘I’m not sure this is super helpful, buddy.’

  ‘Namby Pamby? Night Paint? Nail Polish?’

  ‘OK, just stop! Actually . . . Nail polish – that comes in little bottles too. Maybe it is nail polish.’

  ‘Only one way to find out, Sean.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Time to paint our nails!’

  I scratched my beard. ‘Hmmm. That’s probably not the only way to find out – but it’s definitely the most fun! And these old mitts of mine could do with a dash of colour. Let’s open it up!’

  I pulled out the cork and peered inside. Whatever was in there, it wasn’t a liquid. I tipped the bottle into my hand, and out fell several dried-up fragments, like ancient, shrivelled raisins.

  ‘What are they?’ wondered Martin.

  I picked up a few and popped them into my mouth.

  ‘Mmm. Crunchy,’ I noted, munching on them. But as they got wet, they became rather more slimy. I swallowed and was left with a revolting taste on my tongue.

  We were still no closer to the truth.

  Just then, Fidelma marched in with a stack of books.

  ‘Out,’ she ordered. ‘I need this room to study.’

  ‘But . . . this is my bedroom,’ protested Martin, a bit taken aback.

  ‘It’s not your bedroom – it’s Sinead’s too,’ pointed out Fidelma.

  ‘Fine. It’s half my bedroom. So get out of my half.’

  ‘No can do. I’m sick of studying in my bedroom. So I’m studying here now,’ she insisted, dropping her books on to Martin’s bed.

  ‘Ow!’ he yelped, diving away from the book avalanche. ‘Why can’t you study in Sinead’s half?’

  ‘I prefer your half. There’s fewer holes in the walls.’

  ‘You can’t do this! It’s not fair!’

  Fidelma rolled her eyes. ‘MAM!’

  ‘Shh!’ I hissed, glancing at Wilbert. But the noise had already woken him, and he was stretching like he was ready to begin a new day. I groaned as he bounded happily out of the room just before Debra looked in with a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Sorry about this, Martin. But Fidelma has a lot of work to do and she needs to vary her study spaces. You can’t expect her to just sit at the same desk all the time.’

  ‘I’m not a robot, Martin,’ said Fidelma.

  ‘She’s not a robot, love,’ agreed their mother.

  ‘I know she’s not a robot!’ snapped Martin. ‘A robot wouldn’t kick me out of my room! I wish she was a robot!’

  ‘You should be proud,’ his mother told him. ‘Some day your sister’s going to be the first female Taoiseach* of Ireland.’

  Martin shook his head at this terrifying thought and trudged away in defeat to the kitchen.

  I let Wilbert outside to relieve himself, and we sat down at the table to resume our brainstorming session, but we were soon interrupted by Sister Number Two.

  Trisha started digging through cupboards, banging pots and pans, and holding them up to her ears. She was trying to make a follow-up to her nose-ring design and was struggling to find an idea.

  ‘All of this stuff is so boring!’ she snapped. ‘I need inspiration!’

  ‘Maybe you should take a nice, long walk,’ suggested Martin hopefully.

  But he only succeeded in catching her attention.

  ‘Gimme your shoes. I want to try them on as earrings.’

  Martin had already lost his bedroom and wasn’t about to lose his shoes too.

  ‘Have you looked through the bin yet?’ he asked. ‘One man’s garbage is another man’s treasure!’

  Trisha turned to the smelly, overflowing bin. ‘That’s actually not a terrible idea . . .’

  Moments later, she was rifling through the rubbish, and we tiptoed away as she tried to hook an empty egg box to her ear lobe.

  Next, we tried the shed, but behind this door we found Sister Number Three. Sinead was savagely punching a sack of potatoes that was hanging before her like an Irish piñata*. Liam was helping her train for the Sack-Punching Finals, where she was due to face the Champion of South Roscommon, Fury O’Hare, a florist from the town of Knockcroghery. He roared encouragement as she pummelled the potatoes. ‘C’mon, Sinead! No mercy! Slap those spuds!’

  We backed away, and finally ended up on our favourite old spot – sitting on the back wall beneath the night sky. But we were too tired to brainstorm about N.P. any more, so we just watched Wilbert scamper around on the roof, howling at the moon.

  ‘You know, Sean,’ Martin mused dreamily, ‘I can’t wait till I’m an inventor and I’ve got my face on that Winners Wall with my Invention Convention trophy.’

  ‘That’s gonna be pretty sweet all right,’ I agreed. ‘But first, I presume we’ll have to invent an invention – right?’

  ‘Ah, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve got ideas coming out the wazoo! And besides, I won’t have to do it alone.’

  ‘That’s true – you’ll have your trusty IF at your side!’

  ‘Not just you, Sean,’ he said, pulling out the application form. ‘It says I can apply as a team, with up to three others.’

  ‘A team of inventors?’ I gasped. ‘Martin, it’s what you’ve always wanted!’

  ‘Well – what I’ve always wanted is an army of trained monkeys. But I’m definitely getting closer!’

  ‘So who are you going to recruit?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ he said. ‘But I want to win this thing, Sean. So I’m going to need the best of the best in Team Martin!’

  CHAPTER NINE

  TEAM MARTIN

  That night, I didn’t quite get my full forty winks of sleep – in fact, I barely got two or three winks, as the Wonkey refused to snooze. I read stories, rubbed his belly, hugged his hoofs, whistled up his nose, and everything else they suggested in the handbook, but it wasn’t until Martin bounded out of bed, ready to start a new day, that Wilbert finally nodded off.

  So I was feeling a little groggy as I sat at the back of the classroom listening to Mr Jackson drone on. But Martin was wide awake, eagerly putting his plan into motion. And as their teacher handed out results of a class test about what they did on their science trip, the determined boy took note of which students did best.

  ‘Next up – Declan Mannion,’ called Mr Jackson from the front of the room.

  As Declan went up to retrieve his results, there were snickers from the rest of the class. This did not usually go too well.

  ‘What’s the damage, Jermaine?’ Declan asked.

  His teacher frowned at him, handing him back the test.

  ‘F minus. We may as well get married, Declan – looks like w
e’ll be spending the rest of our lives together in this classroom.’

  There was a chuckle from the room. This soon died when Declan turned around and glared.

  ‘No thanks, Jermaine. I’m never getting married again, but cheers for the offer.’

  Declan walked off, leaving his teacher a little confused. Martin wrote down the latest poor result in his copybook.

  ‘It’s pretty slim pickings here, buddy,’ I whispered.

  ‘Yeah, when did kids get so dumb?’

  ‘Trevor’s got the best score so far.’

  ‘He always does fairly well in tests. And don’t his new glasses make him look particularly clever?’

  ‘And so grown up,’ I agreed.

  ‘I should probably include him in the team – he loves being part of stuff.’

  ‘Ah, yeah. It’ll really make his day.’

  The boy nodded, happy to be doing Trevor a huge favour.

  ‘Trev . . .’ Martin called, in a hushed but excited tone. ‘Wanna be in a super-secret science team?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever,’ Trevor replied, barely looking up.

  ‘Cool. Love the new glasses, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks – they’re my auntie’s. Dad sat on mine.’

  Martin turned back to me and I gave him an encouraging look. ‘OK, so there’s you. And there’s Trevor. We’re halfway there.’

  But as Martin looked around the room, his confidence drained from his already pale face. Was there anyone else with the Right Stuff to be on Team Martin . . . ?

  During break-time, we were cornered by an irate Padraic behind the bike sheds. He’d heard about Martin’s plan and was shocked not to be automatically included.

  ‘But you’ve got to have me in the group,’ Padraic insisted. ‘What kind of party doesn’t invite the P-Dog?’

  ‘Like I said before, Padraic, it’s not a party.’

  ‘Not without me it’s not.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what, P, why don’t you use this opportunity to sell yourself to me?’

  ‘How much? I’ll not take less than a fiver.’

  ‘No, I mean, tell me what you’d bring to Team Martin.’