The Goat Who Joined the Brass Band

The village band rehearsed on the green every Thursday evening. Tonight they were working on the harvest march, and the conductor, Mr. Pettigrew, waved his arms like a man shooing wasps. “No, no! Cellos, you come in on the second beat, not the third!”

At the back, Tessa counted under her breath. She played the smallest drum, the one that went tippity-tap. Her grandmother had played it before her, and the drum still smelled faintly of peppermint.

A rustling came from the hedge behind the music stands. Then a goat pushed through. It was grey and wiry, with one crooked horn and a look of great purpose.

Before anyone could move, the goat seized Mr. Pettigrew’s sheet music and began to eat it. “Stop!” cried Mr. Pettigrew. “That’s the only copy of the harvest march!”

The goat chewed calmly, as if it had all evening. The trumpeter dropped his trumpet. The cellist covered her mouth. Tessa watched the pages disappear one by one, and felt a strange, guilty giggle rise in her throat.

***

After that, the band tried to shoo the goat away. Mr. Pettigrew flapped his jacket. The trumpeter made shooing noises. The goat merely blinked and swallowed the last corner of the march.

“Go on! Off with you!” said Mr. Pettigrew. The goat walked to the edge of the green, then stopped and looked back.

When the musicians packed up, the goat followed them. It followed the trumpeter past the bakery. It followed the cellist past the well. Then it turned and followed Tessa down the lane to her yard.

“Shoo,” said Tessa, without much feeling. The goat settled beside the woodpile and yawned.

Tessa’s mother came to the door. “Is that the goat that ate the music?”

“It followed me home,” said Tessa.

“Well, it can’t stay,” said her mother, and went back inside.

Tessa looked at the goat. The goat looked at Tessa. She fetched a handful of dry oats from the bin and held them out. “You’re a menace,” she whispered. The goat ate the oats and hummed a low, contented note.

Tessa glanced at the kitchen window, then fed it another handful.

On Thursday evening the band gathered on the green again, and Mr. Pettigrew rapped his baton on the music stand. “Positions, everyone. We’ll start with the harvest march.” He raised his hands. The trumpeter stared at his empty stand. The cellist cleared her throat. “Sir, we haven’t any music.” Mr. Pettigrew frowned. “Nonsense. You’ve played it a hundred times.” They tried. The trumpeter began boldly, then wobbled into silence. The cellist guessed a different tune entirely. The drummer, who had been counting on his fingers, came in four beats late with a loud thump that made everyone jump. “Stop, stop,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “From the top. And this time, think.” They thought. It didn’t help. The second try was worse than the first. The clarinet squeaked like a startled mouse. The flute player hummed a note that was not in any key known to the village. Mr. Pettigrew’s moustache drooped lower and lower. Finally he set down his baton. “It’s no use,” he said quietly. “We can’t play a concert from memory. The harvest concert is cancelled.” A groan went round the band. The drummer kicked a stone. “But it’s the biggest night of the year,” said the cellist. “I know,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “But without the music we’d be a laughing stock.” He packed his baton away. “I’m sorry, all of you. I truly am.” The musicians drifted off the green, and nobody noticed the goat watching from behind the hedge.

***

Tessa walked home slowly that evening, her flute case under her arm. The goat was waiting by the woodpile, as if it had always lived there. “You started all this,” she told it. The goat blinked and hummed a low, steady note. It was the same note it had hummed after the oats. Tessa stopped. She hummed it back. The goat’s ears twitched, and it hummed again, a little louder. Tessa sat down on the step. “That’s a B-flat,” she said, half to herself. She fetched her flute and played the note. The goat hummed along, perfectly in tune. Tessa’s eyes went wide. “You’re a pitch pipe,” she whispered. “A furry, four-legged pitch pipe.” The next morning she ran to Mr. Pettigrew’s house. “Sir, I’ve had an idea. We don’t need the music. We can learn by ear.” Mr. Pettigrew looked doubtful. “By ear? How?” “With the goat,” said Tessa. “It hums the starting note. Once we have that, we can find the rest of the tune together.” Mr. Pettigrew rubbed his chin. “That is the strangest idea I have ever heard,” he said. “But we’ve nothing to lose. Bring the goat.” That afternoon the band gathered in Tessa’s yard, and the goat stood on the woodpile like a small, hairy conductor. It hummed a low note. The trumpeter found it on his instrument. The cellist found it too. Slowly, note by note, the old march came back to them, and nobody had to read a single page.

For the next five afternoons, the band met behind Tessa’s woodshed. They kept their instruments wrapped in blankets and crept in one at a time. The goat stood on the woodpile, humming the first note of each tune. Mr. Pettigrew waved his baton like a man shooing wasps. “Again, from the top,” he whispered. “And this time, trumpets, remember the goat is not a trumpet. Do not play louder than the goat.”

The trumpeter, a boy named Sam, nodded. “Sorry, sir. The goat hums so quietly I can hardly hear it.”

“Then listen harder,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “The goat is the only music we have left.”

On the fourth day, a shadow fell across the yard. The mayor, a round man in a tall hat, stood at the gate. “What’s this?” he said. “Secret rehearsals? I heard music from the road.”

Tessa’s heart thumped. “Just practising, sir,” she said. “For the harvest concert.”

The mayor peered at the goat. “With that animal?”

“He’s our mascot,” said Tessa quickly. “He hums. It helps us keep time.”

The mayor squinted. “Hums? Goats don’t hum.”

Mr. Pettigrew stepped forward. “Actually, sir, this one does. Remarkable pitch.”

The mayor looked at the goat, and the goat looked back. Then the goat hummed a low, steady note. The mayor blinked. “Well,” he said. “I’ll be. Carry on, then. But I want a proper concert on Saturday. No goat tricks.”

When he had gone, the band let out a breath. “That was close,” said Sam. “What if he comes back?”

“He won’t,” said Mr. Pettigrew. “He’s too busy counting turnips. But we must be ready. One more rehearsal, tomorrow, and then the concert.”

On the morning of the harvest concert, the whole village crowded into the square. Lanterns hung from the bandstand, and the air smelled of apples. The band stood in a line, instruments polished. The goat waited behind the curtain, a blue ribbon around its neck. “Remember,” whispered Tessa. “When I give the signal, hum as loud as you can.”

The goat twitched its ears. Mr. Pettigrew raised his baton. The crowd went quiet. Then the goat marched onto the stage, its little hooves tapping the boards. It stopped in the centre and hummed a low, clear note. The trumpets came in, then the cellos, then Tessa’s flute. The old march filled the square, bright and steady. People tapped their feet. The mayor beamed. When the last note faded, everyone clapped and stamped. The mayor climbed onto the stage and shook Mr. Pettigrew’s hand. “Splendid,” he said. “And that goat—I’ve never heard anything like it.” He turned to the crowd. “I hereby declare this goat the official mascot of the village band.”

The goat hummed once more, and Tessa laughed. She had never been so proud of a creature that ate sheet music for breakfast.