Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Flies Again

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  Mum and Dad looked in the rearview mirror. Armed police were climbing out of a hatch onto the roof behind them and pointing their guns at the Tooting family camper van.

  “Bang! Bang!” yelled Little Harry.

  “They are saying that the top of the Eiffel Tower is strictly no parking,” said Lucy. “And they’re saying that the Republic of France takes parking restrictions very seriously.”

  “I didn’t know you spoke French,” said Dad.

  “What did you think I was doing when I was locked in my room?” said Lucy. “Polishing my nails?”

  “Well, your nails always do look unusually well polished.”

  “I was studying stuff, including French.”

  The police were still yelling.

  “They say we’re not moving quickly enough.”

  Everyone clambered out and walked toward the police with their hands up.

  “Oh, wait!” said Dad. “The keys . . .” But as he grabbed the hefty, oily crank handle, the police yelled louder and waved their guns.

  “Dad, they think you’re going to use that to assault them, and if you don’t drop it, they’re going to shoot. Mown down in a hail of bullets in Paris when my life has barely begun!” Lucy sighed. “How beautiful.”

  Mum had often daydreamed about going to Paris. She had pictured herself wafting along the riverbank, browsing the book stalls and the flower market, drinking coffee in the cafés. She had never once pictured herself being handcuffed and shoved into the service lift of the Eiffel Tower by a troop of armed policemen.

  “This is so much more exciting than I imagined,” she said. “Children, you’re very lucky. This is a side of Paris that tourists never normally see.”

  “Allez! Vite!” shouted the biggest armed officer as the lift doors opened.

  A tall man with grey hair and a pipe came toward them. “Good morning,” he said. “I am the most important police officer in Paris, and before this day is through, I am going to find out what you are playing at. Are you terrorists? Protesters? Pathetic self-publicists? Or part of some clever criminal conspiracy? I will know. Follow me to the police car.”

  They did try to follow him to the police car, but by now hundreds of people were gathered under the tower, and as soon as they saw the Tootings, they rushed forward, taking photographs and shouting questions.

  “Monsieur Tooting, you have parked on the tower as a protest against cars and pollution, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Non! It’s a protest about the lack of parking spaces in Paris. C’est vrai, Monsieur Tooting?”

  “It’s an insult to the Eiffel Tower and to French civic engineering.”

  “Imbeciles! Monsieur Tooting is not protesting at all. It’s a work of art — isn’t it, Monsieur Tooting? A camper van on top of the Eiffel Tower. C’est élégant. Surreal. Paris loves you, Monsieur Tooting! Down with the police! Down with the police! Down with the police!”

  When he heard this, the Most Important Police Officer tried to shove Dad and Mum into the waiting squad car. Dad turned round to the crowd and raised his hands for quiet.

  “Lucy, can you translate for me?” he asked.

  “Bien sûr, Papa,” said Lucy, and she did. Dad thanked everyone for coming and promised everyone that he wasn’t a criminal. “I have parked there,” he said, “because the first time I went out with my wife, we saw a film. A film set in Paris. Since then our hearts have been entwined with each other but also with Paris. We have never been to Paris until today. I parked there because I wanted her to wake up with Paris all around her. I wanted to spread Paris at her feet like a big Paris-y towel at the end of a long bath.”

  For a moment no one said anything. Then someone started to clap. Then everyone started to clap. Except the Most Important Police Officer, who wiped away a tear and sniffed. “I have investigated many crimes of passion,” he said in French, “but I have never seen passion like this.”

  “What did he say?” said Dad.

  “He said something revolting,” said Lucy.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said you and Mum were romantic. It was disgusting. It really upset me.”

  “I think that’s quite nice,” said Mum. “And also true. He’s obviously a good detective. He got that right.”

  “Kiss her!” yelled someone in the crowd. “Kiss your beautiful wife.”

  “Kiss her!” cried someone else. And “Kiss her!” shouted everyone else.

  “Please don’t,” said Lucy. “Oh. Too late.”

  Mum and Dad kissed, and a thousand mobile phones filmed them doing it.

  “Paris loves the Tootings!” shouted the crowd.

  “Am I still alive?” asked Lucy. “Because I feel like I’ve died and woken up in hell.”

  “Please get into the police car,” said the Most Important Police Officer.

  “Are we still under arrest?” said Mum. “After all that kissing?”

  “No,” said the Most Important Police Officer. “I would like to offer you my car and my driver for the rest of the day. He will drive you to wherever you want to go here in Paris. You are Guests of the City.”

  Mum kissed Dad again, and Lucy said to the police officer in French, “Honestly, it would be better for everyone if you just arrested them.”

  At that moment another car pulled up in front of them, and a man with big hair and a big microphone jumped out, quickly followed by a woman with a film camera.

  “Monsieur Tooting,” bawled the man, shoving the microphone through the car window, “I am Jean Charles Roué, presenter of the most popular television emission in France — Car Stupide. This is our cameraperson — Ernestine.”

  Ernestine was a tiny woman with a massive camera balanced on her shoulder. “Bonsoir,” she said. “Please to look into the lens when you are speaking.”

  “Our viewers would love to know how you achieve such a magnificent piece of parking,” said Monsieur Roué.

  The lens of Ernestine’s camera stared at Dad like a blank, accusing eye. He couldn’t look into it. He looked into the air and shrugged, which only made people like him even more, because it looked surprisingly French.

  “Monsieur Tooting,” said the Most Important Police Officer, “has parked his van for love. Love is a mystery. So you must allow him to retain the mystery of his parking.”

  “Of course. But if I can only ask . . . How are you going to get down again?”

  Another shrug from Dad — he couldn’t speak in French, but he was enjoying shrugging in it.

  “If I can only ask then . . . WHEN are you going to bring it down?”

  Dad tried to shrug again, but the Most Important Police Officer answered for him instead. “Tonight,” he said. “Ce soir. Parking on top of the Eiffel Tower is one thing — charming, picturesque, romantic — but taking up residence there is another thing entirely. He will move the motorcar down this evening, after he and Madame Tooting have appreciated Paris.”

  Monsieur Roué turned to Ernestine’s camera. “People of France, you heard it first on Caaaar Stupide. This very evening, Monsieur Tooting will perform the extraordinary feat of removing a camper van from the top of the Eiffel Tower. Only he knows how he is going to do it.”

  Jem was wondering, How will Dad get it down? We know it can fly, he thought, but we don’t know how to make it fly. It flew when Mum was driving in Dover, but she drove about half a mile before it took off. We can’t do that on the roof of the Eiffel Tower. There isn’t room.

  The wings opened when it fell off the cliff, thought Dad, so maybe they’d open if I just drove off the edge of the tower. Maybe. It’s not something I want to risk. I mean, what if they don’t open?

  “Monsieur Tooting,” bawled Monsieur Roué, “how will you do it? Our viewers are desperate to know.”

  “Well, you know”— another French shrug —“what goes up must come down, ha-ha.” He winked at Jem, as though he had a secret plan.

  Great, thought Jem. He’s obviously got a secret plan. I’ll just relax
and enjoy the afternoon.

  “Tune into Caaaaaaaar Stupide tonight, when Monsieur Tooting will reveal all.”

  The first place that the police car took the Tootings was the famous and beautiful cathedral of Notre Dame, where the archbishop himself showed them round and even let Little Harry swing on the bells in the bell tower, which no one had been allowed to do since the days of Quasimodo. They thanked him profusely, and he said, “It’s nothing really. Though, if you were to wish to tell me — discreetly — how you are going to get your van down, I would be honoured to hear.”

  “The word today,” said Dad, “is just wait and see.”

  “That’s actually four words,” said the archbishop.

  “He hasn’t even told us yet,” said Mum, “but he’s got an idea. We can tell. Isn’t that right, Jem?”

  “That’s right,” said Jem.

  Dad tried not to think about it, but the truth is that wherever you go in Paris, you can see the Eiffel Tower (except from the Eiffel Tower, of course), and every time Dad saw it, he was reminded that the Hour of Doom was coming closer.

  “I’ll be watching Car Stupide tonight,” said the archbishop. “I never miss it.”

  The archbishop put the Tootings onto a special boat — a bateau mouche — which took them up the river to the Louvre. On board the boat, a little orchestra played just for them. All along the riverbanks and in passing boats, people waved and threw flowers.

  “This is so embarrassing,” said Lucy.

  “Actually I quite like it,” said Jem.

  The captain asked Dad if he’d like to try steering. As he guided the boat between the barges, under the bridges, past the great buildings of Paris, with his wife’s hand on his shoulder and the breeze in his face, he said with a sigh, “I could live like this.” Every time he looked up, he saw that tower, thrusting into the sky like a huge blade that was about to fall.

  Inside the Louvre, the Man in Charge took the Mona Lisa down from the wall just so Mum could get a better look at it. After that he let Mum pose with it for photographs.

  She held it next to her face and tried to copy the Mona Lisa’s smile.

  “You could be twins,” said the Man in Charge.

  “Good grief!” said Lucy.

  “How can we thank you?” said Dad.

  “Well, you can tell me what all of Paris is burning to know,” said the Man in Charge.

  “No,” said Dad.

  Back on the river, waving to the cheering crowds, Mum said, “When I was daydreaming about my trip to Paris, this is exactly how I imagined it. I wish it could go on forever.”

  “So do I,” said Jem as they floated back toward the Eiffel Tower. “Look — power steering, an onboard computer that tells you your average speed and fuel consumption, a camera that shows you exactly what’s behind you when you’re docking — why can’t we have a car like that?”

  “Oh, look! The Eiffel Tower!” said Mum. “I didn’t know you could see it from here.”

  You can see it from everywhere, thought Dad. Even when you close your eyes.

  As the sun set over the Seine, the Tootings arrived at the tower. A great cheer went up as Mum stepped out onto the bank.

  “Tom, there are hundreds of people here — thousands, in fact. Just for us.”

  “I know,” said Dad.

  Cameras flashed like fireworks. People waved and shouted as though it was a football match. Monsieur Roué and Ernestine emerged from the crowd. He spoke into his big microphone. “Paris holds its breath. Monsieur Tooting and his family are about to climb the tower and reveal the mystery of how they are going to get the van down. Monsieur Tooting, on behalf of Car Stupide, we ask one last time . . . How are you going to do it?”

  “I’m afraid how we will do it is a secret between Sneezy and the Tooting family.”

  “Excusez-moi, who is Sneezy?”

  “It’s just the name we call the van.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Lucy.

  “The children thought it up,” said Dad.

  “Most certainly did not,” snarled Lucy.

  “Little Harry likes it,” said Dad.

  “Yuck!” said Little Harry.

  “OK, Car Stupide viewers, let’s go!” yelled Monsieur Roué, and he led the Tooting family through the crowd toward the tower. Reporters called out questions as they passed:

  “Mademoiselle Tooting, is it true that your father cruelly made you carry the pieces of his van up the steps of the tower all night so that he could assemble it on the roof?”

  “Is it true that you are not going to move the van at all, but you’re going to live in it as a protest about the lack of homes for working people here in Paris?”

  “Is it true that the van was carried up there by hot-air balloon?”

  “Is it the case that the van is in fact a balloon disguised as a van?”

  “Is it true that you are aliens?”

  “Is it true that the van is in fact not a van at all but a gigantic cake, and tonight it will be cut into slices and we will all get some?”

  “Madame Tooting, would you accept this gift from me? It is a sculpture of your whole family in the form of larger-than-average jelly babies. Here is you in raspberry, and this is your son in lime, and so on. It is a work of art you inspired in me. . . .”

  The lift seemed to take an amazingly long time to get to the top of the tower.

  “The lift seems to be taking an amazingly long time,” said Dad, “to get to the top of the tower.”

  “That’s good,” said Monsieur Roué. “It’ll all add to the suspense for our viewers on Car Stupide.”

  “It takes a long time,” said Ernestine, “because it’s such a very long way up.”

  “And soon, viewers — just imagine,” said Monsieur Roué into the camera, “Monsieur Tooting will be standing on top of it.”

  “Yes, just imagine.”

  “Of course, he’s not the first person to stand on the top. The pioneer of the parachute — Franz Reichelt — he jumped off the tower in 1912 to test his invention.”

  “Nice to know that someone jumped off and survived,” said Dad.

  “I never said he survived,” said Monsieur Roué. “His invention failed that particular test, and he was smashed to pieces by his fall.”

  “Ah,” said Dad. “Well, you live and learn.”

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Roué. “Of course, you don’t necessarily live.”

  The observation deck of the Eiffel Tower is a beautiful, curving room with fabulous views across Paris. If you look through its windows at night, the city lights look like ropes of diamonds and sapphires thrown on a velvet cushion.

  The Tooting family did not look out the windows. They followed Monsieur Roué to a narrow wooden door just around the corner from the lifts. If you’ve ever been to the Eiffel Tower, you probably didn’t notice this door at all, and if you did, you probably thought it led to a cupboard filled with mops and brushes. It doesn’t. It leads to a narrow staircase that goes up to the roof of the observation deck.

  “This is called the Solomon Door, after a cat.” The keyhole was clogged with spiderwebs and dead flies. “Solomon was a white Persian cat who came to live here while the tower was being built. The builders and the painters adopted him, but he was always getting out on to the roof and they kept having to go and rescue him. Until you Tootings arrived, I don’t believe that this door had been opened since the second-to-last time Solomon climbed out, which was in 1892.” Monsieur Roué had to bash the door hard with his shoulder to get it open.

  “Why the second-to-last time?” asked Jem.

  “Because the last time he did it, no one needed to go and get Solomon back.”

  “Why? Oh. I see.”

  “The whole three hundred metres,” said Monsieur Roué. “If you know where to look, you can still see the dent in the pavement down below. Ah. Here we are.” Finally the door creaked open. A blast of freezing wind blew in, and Monsieur Roué led the Tooting family through the practic
ally never-opened door and up the barely-climbed-in-a-hundred-and-twenty-years ladder to the roof of the Eiffel Tower.

  At the top of the ladder was a hatch that opened out onto a kind of metal platform with a fence around it, and beyond the fence, the roof of the observation deck spread out around them like a big red field. In the middle of the field, a huge radio antenna, like the skeleton of a giant Christmas tree, spiked into the starry night. There, beyond that, right against the edge of the roof, was the camper van.

  Monsieur Roué and Ernestine stepped to one side.

  “Sadly, viewers,” he said into the camera, “Car Stupide cannot go any nearer than this due to health and safety reasons. But fear not, because Ernestine has a long lens, so if the family does plunge to its doom, you will get a ringside view. Monsieur Tooting, if I may ask, are you worried about plunging to your doom?”

  “Worried? Us? We laugh at danger, don’t we, children?” said Mum.

  Little Harry laughed, and Dad tried to join in. Then they clambered over the protective fence onto the roof of the Eiffel Tower.

  The roof of the Eiffel Tower is a lot more frightening at night than it is in the morning sunshine. The wind comes at you from every direction, whipping through the antenna girders, pushing you from this side and that, like a mob of bullies with freezing hands. It was all the Tootings could do to stay upright. Their little blue-and-cream camper van was just a few yards away from them, but those few feet of open space were a kind of channel through which the wind rushed like a river of freezing air. They felt that if they took one step toward it, they would be swept off the roof and into the city below. So they stood with their backs to the biggest girder, holding on, saying nothing.

  “So,” said Mum eventually, “what’s the plan, Tom?”

  “Yes,” said Jem, “how are you going to get it down?”

  “We all know that this van can fly,” said Dad, “so the plan is to get her to fly.”

  “Yes,” said Jem. “But we don’t know how to do that. The buttons on the dashboard don’t match up with the buttons on the engine. They say radio and cigarette lighter and indicator lights, not altitude and wind speed. We don’t even know how to make the wings pop out.”