“Carried away? What do you mean?” asked Leni.
“Those pigeons squawk all day, all I hear is whirring, shouting and the sound of things being sawn up,” said her mum, waving her knife around. “And I can’t imagine what the inside of their huts look like. I’m worried they’ll put off the other guests.”
“What other guests?” remarked her dad under his breath. It was true, business wasn’t exactly booming.
The fact was, they’d been happy to have any guests staying at all in the quiet low season.
“I’m learning all about DNA and genes,” said Leni eagerly. “It’s made me surer than ever that I want to be a vet when I grow up.”
Her mum put her cutlery down and said, “That’s wonderful, but…”
“I know they’re a bit noisy, but the only people they’re annoying are each other,” added Leni. Her mum couldn’t think of an answer to that.
It was only when Leni had walked off with the stack of dinner plates that she brought it up again with her husband. “But Roshan, she is spending so much time with the professors,” she said. “She’s ten years old. She should be playing with her friends during the holidays. I’m worried she’ll blow herself up.”
“She’s pretty sensible,” replied her dad. “And more importantly, she’s happy. She’s the happiest she’s been in ages. This is a chance for her to be part of something special and the professors seem to like having her around. She’s so excited. Just look at her face.”
It was true. Leni’s brown eyes sparkled and she was totally absorbed when she was helping the professors. Even when she was doing the dishes, she was miles away, thinking about dodos. Did they coo like pigeons, only in deeper voices? What did they like to eat? Were they really as chubby as the artists used to paint them in the olden days?
Her mum looked thoughtful. “I’m glad you’re happy,” she said when Leni came back to the table. She looked over to the fridge where a postcard with a cockatoo on the front was stuck on with magnets.
“If only Muppa was here to see you now,” she added, almost to herself.
“We just heard from her by the way,” said Leni’s dad. He took the postcard off the fridge and read from it. “Family all well. Grandson gorgeous. Have been sharing barbecues with the kookaburras and yesterday I went for a swim with an emu. Miss you all. Love, Muppa.”
And so it went on. The days turned into nights, and the nights turned into days again. Leni and Popcorn popped in and out of the huts helping the two professors – feeding the pigeons, washing flasks and labelling test tubes. Both of them took her under their wing, but she was careful to be fair and help them both equally.
One afternoon, Leni was tidying up when Professor Scissorson let out a “Yay!” so loud it made her jump.
“I’ve done it!” cried the professor.
“Done it?” asked Leni.
“I’ve reconstructed the dodo genome!”
Leni was tickled pink. As pink as the professor’s pigeons. Professor Scissorson had stayed up late working on it for five nights in a row, and now her utter exhaustion was shot through with a glimmer of excitement.
Later that same day, Professor Flowers announced, “Glorious goldfinches, I’ve done it!” He could barely keep his eyes open, but he was almost floating on air at making the same breakthrough. “I’ve put the genome back together!”
This meant the race was really on, Leni thought. They were neck and neck.
“The professors would rather be anywhere than on an island with each other,” she remarked to Popcorn that evening, sitting in her tree house. “The only thing keeping them here is their determination to bring back the dodo.”
Popcorn bobbed his head up and down and began to preen his feathers.
“But, they have a lot in common,” Leni said, looking over at their huts. She took out some seed for Popcorn and fed him.
“I wish they’d just make friends,” she said. “They both want the same thing.”
A few days later, she was up in her tree house again, writing a letter to Muppa, when Professor Flowers’s voice interrupted her.
“Leni! Leni!” he called. “Are you out here?” Leni looked down. The professor was standing outside his hut, wearing one blue lab glove. He was squinting at the dodo tree to see if she was there.
Leni clambered down to the ground.
Professor Flowers looked pleased to see her. “Good morning, my fledgling,” he said, and together with Popcorn, they went into hut 187. Inside, his pigeons were flapping, feeding and fouling anywhere they fancied. To add to the chaos, a fan was whirring at top speed, making his notes and papers flutter around like jittery doves.
“What’s the matter?” asked Leni.
“I’m in a bit of a muddle,” the professor confessed. He scratched the back of his neck with his gloveless hand. Leni looked over at the bin, where he had thrown the peeled-off glove. It had missed.
“I was listening to the cricket on the radio and I injected one of the pigeon eggs with the dodo DNA,” he said. “Then Winston got a hat-trick and in the excitement, I became confused. Now I can’t remember which of the pigeon eggs it was.”
Leni looked over at the lab bench, where there was a basket of half a dozen eggs. They all looked exactly the same.
“And to top it off, I can’t find my logbook either. Oh, blithering buzzards. It’s just not my day, is it?”
Leni looked around for his missing logbook, but it was nowhere in sight. She began to search under his piles of paperwork, which were weighed down with various objects, including some of the dodo snow globes he’d bought at the market.
“Don’t worry,” she said. This seemed to be enough reassurance for Professor Flowers, as he slumped into a chair and put his feet up on his battered travel trunk.
“So, tell me,” he said, trying to sound like he didn’t care in the slightest. “Is she anywhere near getting an egg yet?”
“I’m not sure,” said Leni casually. She picked a leaf out of her hair.
“Not sure!” squawked Popcorn, perching on the back of his chair.
Professor Flowers stroked the parakeet’s green feathers. “That woman really is a thorn in my side,” he sighed. “I don’t know why she’s so bitter. With us academics, healthy rivalry is natural. And when it’s not your turn in the limelight, you just have to take it on the chin. No sulking.”
He peeled off his second glove and threw it at the bin. This time it made it in.
“Bullseye!” he shouted, clapping his hands.
“You should be proud, Leni,” said Professor Flowers, “that you found those bones. Neither me nor her,” (he nodded in the direction of Professor Scissorson’s hut) “would even be doing this if you hadn’t helped. Now, I just need to find that logbook.”
Suddenly there was a knock at the door. Leni peered out of the shutters and mouthed “Professor Scissorson.”
Professor Flowers opened the door and barricaded himself between it and outside, while Professor Scissorson craned her neck in an attempt to see in. “I don’t mean to be a sticky-beak,” she lied. “I just wondered if Leni’s here?”
“Leni’s here!” squawked Popcorn.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Professor Scissorson. “Leni!” she called. “Could you come over and help me with something? Whenever you get a moment? Like now?”
“Just coming,” said Leni, appearing at the door. “See you soon, Professor Flowers!”
No sooner were they inside hut 603 than Professor Scissorson was asking her, “So, what’s the prof up to?”
“Oh just the usual,” said Leni vaguely. She felt uncomfortable talking about each to the other so she stayed tight-lipped whenever they tried to get information from her. She twirled her hair around her index finger.
“Hmm, never mind,” said Professor Scissorson. “Look, Leni, I have something really exciting to show you.”
She led Leni round the back of the hut to the pigeon loft. Hers was not as ramshackle as Professor Flowers’s. Sh
e had installed a walk-in aviary made of black wire mesh panels, with a door. Each bird had a cubbyhole to roost in, and they shared an area out front, a sort of pigeon-playground.
In one of the compartments sat an elegant pink pigeon. His cubbyhole was labelled “Lionel”. Professor Scissorson gently lifted the side of his pinkish-grey belly. There, lying on a bed of straw underneath the bird was a beautiful white egg.
“Wow,” gasped Leni. “Have you, have you…?”
“Yes,” breathed the professor. “I’ve injected this little egg with my reconstructed dodo DNA. Now we wait. And hope.”
Leni looked at the egg and felt amazed. It was quite small, smaller than a hen’s egg, but what was inside could be making history.
“Lionel is stepping up to the role of dad and he is doing a fantastic job of keeping the egg warm,” said the professor. “He sits on it all day and then at dusk, Loretta, the mum-to-be, takes over and sits on the egg all night.” Professor Scissorson let go of Lionel’s belly and gave him a gentle stroke on the head.
Leni clenched her fists and started jumping around. “Ooh I can’t wait! I just can’t!” she cried.
“Just can’t!” parroted Popcorn.
Then she thought of Professor Flowers next door in 187. The kindly old man getting in a flap looking for his precious logbook. She wondered how he’d feel about the fact that Professor Scissorson already had a pigeon sitting on her dodo-DNA-injected egg.
A glum feeling took the edge off her glee and Leni stopped bounding around. “What’s the matter?” asked Professor Scissorson.
“Oh nothing, it’s just Professor Flowers…he…”
“So he’s not reached this stage, then?” guessed Professor Scissorson, her hands on her hips. “Well, he’ll be disappointed. He’s bound to be. But you can’t win them all, can you?”
“I suppose not,” said Leni.
“Anyway, let’s not count our chickens,” cautioned the professor. “Or our dodos for that matter. I can inject more eggs if this one doesn’t go the distance. But this is the first. Let’s wait to see if it hatches into a live baby bird – a squab. I so hope it does.”
“Me too,” said Leni.
“Me too!” chirped Popcorn.
Leni leaned in and gently lifted Lionel’s belly to get another look at the egg he was guarding so closely. “Come on, little dodo chick,” she whispered. “Keep growing strong.”
Outside, in the bushes, Pawpaw grabbed Beanbag’s sleeve. “Let’s get up to HQ right away,” he said. A fiendish smile crept across his lips. “The dodo has landed.”
“But dodos can’t fly…” began Beanbag.
Pawpaw swiped him with a rolled-up comic. “You doughnut! Come on, let’s go.”
Up at Shoober’s mansion, the Sugar King was in his drawing room, posing for his latest portrait. He was sitting on a gold-plated “throne”, wearing a crown on his head and swathed in a purple robe. In one hand he held a piece of raw sugar cane, and in the other, a golden sugar bowl – like a newly crowned monarch holding a sceptre and orb.
“Hold still, sir. That’s it,” said the artist painting him. He was putting the finishing touches to Shoober’s head on the canvas. “Just a little longer.”
Meanwhile, his wife Giavanna was lounging on the couch, talking into her mobile phone.
“That sounds amazing, sweetie,” she cooed. “I can’t wait. Catch up soon, honey. Bye bye.”
“What was that?” asked Shoober through his forced smile.
“Oh nothing important. Just a new face mask I’m going to try. Apparently, it completely rejuvenates the skin and banishes fine lines.” She smoothed the corners of her mouth with the pads of her fingers.
“What’s in it?”
“Snail slime.”
Shoober almost dropped his sugar bowl. “Hold still,” the artist ordered.
“You could use some too,” Giavanna rasped, noticing that her husband’s forehead had crumpled up. Her gold earrings jangled as she rose from the couch. “I’m off to get my nails done now, then it’s the hairdresser, then lunch and a massage. It’s non-stop, honey! I’ll see you tonight.” She tottered off in her high heels, leaving the pungent, musky smell of her perfume in her wake.
“Perfect,” declared the artist to his subject. “You can relax now.”
Shoober was just taking off his crown when Pawpaw came running in so quickly he had to skid to a halt, almost knocking over the artist and his easel.
“Boss, we got news for you,” he gasped.
“Oh yeah?” asked Shoober, raising an eyebrow. He signalled for the artist to pack up and leave.
“We gotta talk turkey,” said Beanbag.
“Dodo actually,” said Pawpaw.
Shoober got up from his throne, moved to the couch, sat down again and lit a cigar. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Have those crazy scientists made a dodo yet?”
“Not quite, but one of them, the woman, has just injected an egg with dodo DNA,” said Pawpaw. “And now it’s growing into a dodo chick. There’s a pigeon sitting on it.”
This got Shoober’s back up. Really. The hair on his back actually began to stand up on end. Maybe it was static electricity from the robe. Anyway, he started thinking about dodos waddling all over the land he wanted. He glanced down at that day’s edition of the Mauritian Pigeon Post, which was lying on the coffee table. The headline read:
“Dratted eco-warriors, I hate the lot of them!” he fumed. “First the kestrel, then the parakeet. Now the pink pigeon! Mark my words. If those goofy dodos come back again, they’ll be sure to designate a ‘dodo protection zone’ or whatever, for them too.”
He turned to the men. Pawpaw was picking his nose and rolling the contents between his finger and thumb. Beanbag was looking out of the window at a gardener who was busy constructing the word “Giavanna” out of white flowers in a nearby bed.
“Well then?” said Shoober, his eyebrows raised.
“What are you waiting for?” he shouted, getting up suddenly from the couch. “I want that egg! Get it and bring it to me!”
“But how?” asked Beanbag.
Pawpaw elbowed him.
“Think of something! That’s what I pay you for, Beanbag!” thundered Shoober, waving his cigar. “You’re supposed to be the best henchmen in the business.”
“Are we?” said Beanbag, flattered. “That’s sweet. Who said that?”
“Enough! I want that egg,” Shoober declared. “You work out the details.”
As he spoke, a strange, acrid smell reached his nostrils. He shrivelled up his nose. Where could it be coming from? He looked down. A small hole had started forming where an ember from his cigar had landed on the purple robe. And it was getting larger.
“Argh!” cried Shoober. “My robe! It’s on fire!” In a flash, Pawpaw grabbed a vase of roses, pulled out the stems and threw the water all over Shoober.
“It’s okay, boss, it’s out,” gasped Pawpaw.
He looked pleased with himself. But Shoober was drenched in foul-smelling water and his sodden cigar hung limply from his mouth. He was seething.
“Get. Out. Of. Here. Now…” he said quietly.
But they were so scared they couldn’t move. Shoober took the volume up several notches.
“Did you hear me? SCRAM!”
The pair made their exit and Shoober dripped stinking, stale flower-water across the hallway to the bathroom. He took off his soggy robe and swapped it for a fluffy leopard-print towel. He caught sight of a framed photo on the wall. It was of him shaking hands with the Mauritian president.
“I didn’t get where I am today by giving in to no dumb birds,” he muttered, his damp cigar still clamped between his teeth. “And I sure as sugar ain’t gonna start now.”
The following week, Leni was up in her tree house, making up a poem about birds in her notebook. She heard the golf buggy approaching and glanced down as the cleaners arrived for their daily visit. Then she did a double take.
The cleaners got ou
t of the buggy and hauled their cleaning crates into hut 603, but something looked different about them, Leni thought. Then she realized why. It wasn’t Marion and Mimi.
“Sorry, they’re both a bit tied up right now,” explained one of the new cleaners to Professor Scissorson. She had a large forehead, slicked-back black hair and a dimple in the middle of her chin.
“Tied up?” repeated Professor Scissorson.
“Yes. They’re, er, taking part in a sponsored clean-a-thon.”
“A clean-a-thon?”
“Yes,” replied the dimple-chinned woman. “They’re cleaning non-stop…to raise money for charity.”
“Good on them,” Professor Scissorson said. “Which charity?”
“The, er, Save the Clothes Peg Foundation.”
“What?”
“Yes, they’re critically endangered. In danger of being replaced by tumble dryers. We want to conserve the clothes peg and its unique way of life,” said the slick-haired lady.
Professor Scissorson nodded politely but didn’t have a clue what the woman was talking about.
“Don’t worry, Prof,” said the other lady, who was shorter than her colleague and had rosy cheeks. “Your hut will still be cleaned. We’re the supply cleaners. I’m Shirley, but you can call me Shirl.”
Shirley grasped the professor’s hand and shook it.
“And I’m Paw…Paw…Pauline. Pleased to meet you too,” announced the larger lady, extending her hand. The professor had never seen such hairy arms.
“What, er, sweet tattoos,” she blurted out, noticing the cleaner’s knuckles. “Thanks,” said Pauline. “I, ahem, I chose them because I love cleaning and hate…dirt.”
“How lovely,” smiled Professor Scissorson as her hand was crushed in the woman’s powerful grip.
“Well, no time to lose…let’s get to work!” the woman trilled, or at least tried to. Her words came out cracked and strained.
“Oh dear. Have you got a sore throat?”
The Great Dodo Comeback Page 6
