The Race Against Time

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  “I don’t know about safer. She’s certainly faster,” said the Count, as he clambered over Jem. “Guess what I named her? Pretty clever actually. I called her Chitty Chitty Bang Bang . . . the Second. There. What d’you think? Got a bit of a ring to it, wouldn’t you say?”

  The moment he said this, Chitty’s engine stopped purring and started roaring, and Chitty went from gliding back to bouncing through the waves. Lucy grabbed the Count’s hand as he struggled to keep his balance. Dad tried to reach the brakes, but it was no good. With a terrible splash, the Count tumbled into the dark, freezing water.

  “Quick! A rope!” called Lucy, afraid that the Count might be left to drown as the car sped away. But as soon as the Count hit the water, Chitty’s engine cut out. She rocked idly on the waves, making a low, watery, stuttering noise that sounded for all the world like a chuckle.

  “See?” said the Count as, shivering and dripping, he struggled back on board. “She does have a temper.”

  They wrapped the Count in towels and blankets and used the heat from the pistons to brew him a mug of hot chocolate, while Chitty sailed upriver.

  “Ice cream! Ice cream!” yelled Little Harry, pointing ahead.

  “Too cold for ice cream, darling,” said Mum.

  “Ice cream! Ice cream!” insisted Little Harry.

  “Too cold,” said Mum, but Jem thought, Little Harry is always right. He looked where his brother was pointing — and there, pale and cloudy against the sunset, rising up from the waters, was the colossal figure of a woman; on her head was a crown and in her hand — raised above her head — was what seemed to be a gigantic ice-cream cone.

  “That’s actually the Torch of Freedom,” explained Lucy, “not an ice cream. We are looking at the Statue of Liberty.”

  As they watched, a fat full moon ballooned up behind the statue’s head, like a silver speech bubble, flushing the giant face with moonlight. Music drifted toward them over the water, as though Liberty herself were singing. Someone was having a party at the base of the statue. Chitty puttered up to the Liberty Island landing stage, and the Count led them all ashore, saying, “Say what you like about Chitty — she could always sniff out a good party!”

  At the base of the Statue of Liberty is a kind of fort. That night it was covered in fairy lights and pulsing with piano music. The shadows of dancers flickered across every window. A couple of elegant young men in beautiful suits were chatting in the doorway. They seemed delighted to see the Count.

  “Count Zborowski!”

  “Count Basie!” said the Count. “Tootings, this gentleman is the finest piano player in New York.”

  “In fact, I’m not even the finest piano player in this doorway,” said Count Basie. “Allow me to introduce Duke Ellington.”

  “Count Zborowski,” said the Duke.

  “Duke,” said the Count.

  “I hope you are in good shape for the big race tomorrow,” said the Duke, “as I have a large bundle of dough riding on your victory.”

  “Duke,” said Count Basie, “have you not heard? This very afternoon the Count drove with such skill that he left the entire New York City Police Department for dust and escaped across the river.”

  “With a driver of such skill, my money is safe,” said the Duke.

  “As a matter of fact,” said the Count, “I wasn’t driving. It was my young friend Jem Tooting here. Finest getaway driver in the business.”

  “Well, friends, here we have an excellent reason to celebrate,” said Count Basie. “Let us step inside and dance.”

  “Oh! Yes!” said Lucy. All the other Tootings stared at her.

  “But you hate dancing,” said Dad.

  “And it’s been an unusually long day,” said Mum.

  “Sixty-six million years long, to be precise,” said Dad. “I think we’re too tired for music.”

  “You know,” said the Duke, “everything is music. Out here in the cold, we have the music of the waves, the music of the gulls, the music of the sea breezes, and, if you listen closely, the music of the spheres. Indoors we have the music of Duke Ellington. Just another music. Only my music is indoors and warm, and accompanied by fine food.”

  “We are hungry,” said Mum.

  “Just for five minutes, then,” said Dad.

  As they walked through the doors, a lady with hair like candyfloss and lips the colour of raspberry sauce came at them with a silver tray. “Ice cream, anyone?” she said.

  Little Harry really is always right, thought Jem.

  Ripples of melody and thrills of rhythm filled the air. Champagne corks popped. Girls giggled. Cigarette smoked drifted and candlelight blushed. There were men in loud check jackets with scars on their faces. Girls in dresses covered in beads and feathers, with bobbed hair and sparkly shoes. And the strangest thing to Jem and Lucy was that everyone knew how to dance. There was no embarrassing shuffling or stomping. People turned and spun and clapped in time to the music and in perfect tune with each other. This was the first time Lucy had ever been to a party that didn’t involve pass-the-parcel and cake. It was the most fabulously beautiful event she’d ever seen. Up on the stage, Count Zborowski was speaking into a microphone.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, and especially Tootings,” he said. “Tomorrow I shall be racing in the greatest motor race in the world — the Prix d’Esmerelda’s Birthday Cake. I had a new car built specially for the race, and a jolly fine car she is, too, with a jolly fine name for her — Chitty Chitty Bang Bang the Second. Until now, I have not had a mechanic. Tonight that has changed. Tonight I have found the greatest motor mechanic in the history of the world . . . not just a great mechanic, but a great inventor . . . Mr. Tooting.”

  All the lights went out apart from one big spotlight that was trained on Dad. The crowd cheered. Applauded. Slapped him on the back. Dad looked uncomfortable.

  “Speech!” cried everyone.

  “The word today,” mumbled Dad, “is I can’t think of a word to say.”

  “I’ll pay you heaps of money,” promised the Count. “And there’ll be heaps of food.”

  “Thing is,” said Dad, thinking sadly of the day he lost his job at Very Small Parts for Very Big Machines, “I’ve got these fat fingers . . .”

  But no one heard him over the cheers and applause.

  “You’ll be marvellous,” said Mum, pinching Dad’s cheek. “I’ve always thought Grand Prix racing would suit you. Let’s dance.”

  Jem and Lucy watched in horror as their parents moved toward the dance floor. Surely they weren’t going to dance?

  “What are we doing here?” groaned Lucy.

  “I was just wondering that myself,” said Jem. “Think about it. All the time we thought we were driving Chitty, it turned out she was driving us. Taking us all over the world to collect her old spare parts. She took us to the Cretaceous period to escape from Tiny Jack. Now she’s brought us here. There must be a reason.”

  “The reason,” said Lucy, “is obvious.” She was watching the dancers closely, wondering if she could learn the steps. “Or it will be when you’re older.”

  “Lucy, what are you talking about?”

  “Chitty is in love with the Count.”

  “What? Why would she be in love with the Count?”

  “Because he’s handsome and dashing. He hands out champagne to strangers, and he knows all these other counts and dukes, and he takes us to parties.”

  “She’s a car. Why would a car be in love with a man? Why would a car want to go to parties? Wouldn’t a car be in love with another car?”

  “Cars don’t fall in love with cars. They fall in love with drivers. The Count drove Chitty to all her greatest triumphs. They won cups and prizes together. People poured champagne on her bonnet. She misses him. She loves him. She wants him back. It’s not easy to find a man as brave and stylish as the Count . . .”

  “Hem, hem,” said Jem, nodding his head meaningfully at Lucy. She looked behind her, and there was the Count, standing right at her shou
lder. Had he heard all the things she’d said about him being handsome and dashing and brave? Lucy felt hot and embarrassed.

  “What ho,” said the Count, glancing at the dance floor and taking a deep breath. Oh, no, thought Lucy, he’s going to ask me to dance, and I don’t know how to dance, but I really would like to dance. “What . . .” said Lucy, “oh . . .”

  The “ho” came out as an “oh” because she had just seen the Worst Thing She Had Seen All Day. Worse than rampaging dinosaurs threatening her baby brother, worse than the New York City Police Department shooting at her, worse than plunging into the Hudson River — she saw . . . her parents dancing.

  Why? Why? Why? Why were they dancing? They didn’t have a clue! They tried to copy the other dancers, but they kept bumping heads and stepping on each other’s toes. Somehow, instead of this making them want to die of embarrassment, it was making them laugh and . . . Oh, no. They had their arms around each other. They were going to smooch.

  “I wonder,” said the Count, “if I could interest you in a little . . .”

  “Sorry,” said Lucy. “Got to put Little Harry to bed.” She grabbed Little Harry and headed for the exit.

  “Me, too,” said Jem.

  “What,” said the Count, as they vanished into the crowd, “ho.”

  Jem and Lucy didn’t like Mum and Dad’s dancing, but all the other guests were crazy about it. In New York in 1926, no one had seen anyone twist and shake like Dad before. Everyone wanted to copy it. An amazingly beautiful woman called Josephine Baker was the first to learn. She called the dance “the Toot” in honour of the Tootings. Seven minutes later, everyone on Liberty Island was doing the Toot. Seven days later, everyone in Manhattan was doing it. Seven weeks later, everyone in America was Tooting. And seven months later, they were Tooting in Brisbane and Belfast and Bali.

  On the dance floor, Mum and Dad were surrounded by young people asking them to show them the steps.

  “No, no,” said Mum. “He has to go and lie down. After all, he’s in the big race tomorrow.”

  “But I’m having such a good time,” said Dad.

  “Me, too.” Mum smiled.

  Jem was just about to step outside when a hairy hand with manicured nails and a big diamond ring grabbed him. At the end of the hand was a muscular arm. At the end of the arm was a broad, solid shoulder, and on top of the shoulder was a head with carefully brushed hair and a smile wide enough to hang washing from. The smile was unusually twinkly . . . How could any smile be that twinkly? thought Jem.

  “If it is no bother,” said the owner of the smile, “I would like you to make my acquaintance. I am known hereabouts as Mr. Lenny Man-Mountain.”

  “Diamonds!” said Jem, who had finally worked out what made the smile so twinkly: every one of Lenny Man-Mountain’s teeth had a diamond in the middle.

  “Well, Mr. Diamonds, I hear about how you leave the New York City Police Department for dust today in your amphibious automobile, and, I admit, I am most impressed.”

  “Thanks,” said Jem. He was about to explain that his name was not Diamonds but Tooting, when Mr. Man-Mountain turned to the beautiful young woman with the candyfloss hair and the tangfastic lips.

  “This,” he said, pointing to Jem, “is Mr. Diamonds, the celebrated getaway driver.”

  “Oh,” squealed the beautiful woman, “let me give him a big lipsticky kiss!” As she peeled her lipsticky lips from his cheek, Jem found he suddenly no longer felt the need to say his name wasn’t Diamonds, or that he was just a little boy from Basildon and not a New York getaway driver.

  “I am most surprised by the youngness of his age,” said the beautiful young woman. “It is impressive that he achieves so much in such a short life.”

  “This is true,” said Mr. Man-Mountain. “Mr. Diamonds, if ever you wish to make a large amount of money by using your getaway driving skills to help me avoid the unwelcome attentions of the police, I will most certainly hire you.”

  “Sure,” muttered Jem in a voice that he thought suggested that he was getting offers like this all the time. “Why not?”

  Down at the jetty, Lucy was putting Little Harry to bed on Chitty’s backseat. She wrapped him in a thick, fleecy tartan rug and made a pillow of his little red backpack. It felt heavier than usual and was so full it wouldn’t zip up properly.

  “What have you got in there?” asked Lucy.

  “Dinosaur,” said Little Harry, stuffing it under the blanket.

  “So that’s where you’re keeping your remote-control dinosaur? OK. You keep it nice and warm under there. And you can use my coat for a pillow.”

  Just as Little Harry was nodding off to sleep, a voice said, “What ho!” The Count leaned over the running-board and smiled at Lucy.

  “Oh. Don’t you like the party?” Lucy asked.

  “It’s an absolute corker of a party. I just thought I’d volunteer to do a spot of lookout duty.”

  “Lookout duty?”

  “The party is stuffed to the rafters with criminal types and illegal hooch. Someone has to look out for the police. I tend to do that because everyone else likes to talk. I like to talk, too, of course, but I tend to get a bit stuck once I’ve said, ‘What ho!’ ”

  “I see.”

  “What ho, by the way.”

  “What ho to you, too. Are Mum and Dad coming out soon?”

  “Gracious, no,” said the Count. “They’re the toast of New York. They seem to have invented this new dance. Would you like me to teach it to you?”

  “Not now,” said Lucy. “Or ever.”

  “Just looking out, then,” said the Count. “Perhaps you’d like to look out, too?”

  Lucy and the Count sat in comfortable silence on Chitty’s long, warm bonnet. A faraway ferry sounded its hooter. The great cliff of the Statue of Liberty towered above them. Cascades of moonlight flowed down the folds of her skirts.

  “Makes you wonder,” said the Count.

  “Wonder what?”

  “Who she is. How she got there. Who built her.”

  “Who built who?”

  “The Statue of Liberty. Look at her. She’s dashed enigmatic, isn’t she? Keeping the jolly old secrets of her origin and her significance to herself. She is a mystery mankind will never really solve.”

  “The Statue of Liberty,” said Lucy, “was designed by the sculptor Frédéric Bartholdi. It was a gift from the people of France to the people of America on the occasion of the centenary of American Independence. Made in France, it was shipped in pieces and assembled here on Liberty Island. When the pieces arrived, they were driven through New York and given a ticker-tape parade. Bartholdi originally wanted the statue to be covered in gold, but it was too expensive. The finished statue is a hundred and fifty-one feet high.”

  “Gosh. Well, that’s cleared up that mystery, then. It must be terrific being clever.”

  “You’re clever. You can change a tyre while the car is driving.”

  “Ah, cars are different. You know where you are with a car. It’s girls that confuse me. Take the Statue of Liberty — she’s a girl — and gosh was I confused about her. Until you came along. Thanks a mill.”

  “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Do you happen to know anything about girls that aren’t a hundred and fifty-one feet high and made of copper?”

  “I am a girl.”

  “So you are. Now if you were a different girl — for instance, the one with the red lips and the candyfloss hair — speaking as a girl, what would you say to her if you were a chap?”

  “I might say, ‘Nice to meet you,’ but I prefer someone dark and intelligent and a little mysterious and not so obvious.”

  “Really? And you think she’ll like that?”

  “Why don’t you just say, ‘Hello, would you like to dance? ’ ”

  “I can’t really dance.”

  “Then just say, ‘Hello.’ ”

  “What if she laughs in my face?”

  “Why would she do t
hat? You know, she might be in there right now thinking, That Count Zborowski, he’s so dashing and brave and handsome, why doesn’t he ever talk to me?”

  “Do girls have thoughts like that?”

  “Of course they do.”

  “Extraordinary. That’s exactly the type of thoughts that chaps have.”

  “Girls or boys — everyone is just people.”

  “You know, I think I’ll jolly well give it a shot.”

  The Count went back to the party. Thirty seconds later, he left the party with the girl with the candyfloss hair holding on to his arm. “Jolly excellent advice, Lucy,” he called. “You’ll never guess what . . .”

  But the girl with the candyfloss hair didn’t give her time to guess. She just blurted it out: “Count Louis and me are gonna be married!”

  “Married?”

  “I’m so excited. I am never married before in all my long life. Except that one time. But that was in Arkansas. Also that was months ago. And who remembers that far back?”

  “Not me, certainly,” said the Count.

  “OK,” said the bride-to-be. “Let’s go to church!”

  “You’re going now?” gasped Lucy. “But I thought you were about to drive in the Greatest Motor Race in the World.”

  “Crikey, the Prix d’Esmerelda’s Birthday Cake! I completely forgot,” gasped the Count. “I say, you wouldn’t care to get married after the race, I don’t suppose?”

  “But, Louis! We’ve already told all these people . . .” People were pouring out of the party: Duke Ellington, Count Basie, Josephine Baker, Mum, Dad, Mr. Man-Mountain. They were all standing on the jetty, waiting to wave off the happy couple. “I want to go now. I’m going crazy waiting here,” said the bride-to-be.

  “There’s no ferry until morning,” said Lucy.

  “That’s exactly why it’s so fortunate that your car is amphibious. Where’s Diamonds? Diamonds is going to drive us.”

  “Who is Diamonds?” asked Dad, surprised to hear that someone else was going to drive his car.

  “That would be me,” muttered Jem, blushing as he stepped out from behind Dad.