Episode 3
A Cracking Time
In which an enemy is vanquished and we welcome a new arrival
‘Battle stations!’ cried Mad Aunt Maud, not to be confused with Battle Station which is a railway station between Crowhurst and Robertsbridge on the Hastings to London line. (It was at Battle and not Hastings that the Battle of Hastings took place, but it wasn’t called Battle – the place, not the fighting – until after the event, of course.) She threw the axe to the ground, snatching her stuffed stoat off the pile of stacked logs where she’d positioned him to ‘watch’ what she was doing.
The huntsmen didn’t stand a chance. I won’t go into details as to how she got them off the Dickens estate, but I will say that some of Even Madder Aunt Maud’s victims smelled of bats’ urine for a good few days after that (despite regular bathing) and, of those who fell down the freshly dug pits, only three had broken bones.
As for the fox, it’s far from clear as to whether they were actually chasing one. There was some talk in the local villages about Stinky Hoarebacker setting the dogs on a foreign brush salesman – both the salesman and the brushes being foreign – who, unfamiliar with British ways, had made the unforgivable error of knocking on the retired major’s front door, rather than trying his luck at the tradesmen’s entrance around the back.
Either way, the huntsmen were repelled, and the senior members of the Dickens family felt triumphant in victory. (Even the younger actors had been enlisted to help. The ex-St Horrid’s orphans particularly enjoyed themselves, some even wielding cucumbers, evoking memories of the old days.) Fabian was a little overwhelmed by it all. He still found it difficult to adjust to life at Awful End. It wasn’t just that, having been brought up amongst travelling gypsies, he was used to forever being on the move, but also had to do with the fact that he found his recently discovered relatives – er – a little eccentric. Oh, all right: he found them CRAZY.
I’m not sure of the derivation of the word ‘crazy’, and I don’t have an ordinary dictionary to hand, because I’m living out of boxes at the moment. (More on this later, no doubt.) What I do have is Old Roxbee’s Dictionary of Architecture & Landscape Architecture (in the revised edition of 1972, long after Old Roxbee had become So-Old-He’s-Long-Since-Dead Roxbee). According to this, ‘crazy paving’ – the nearest thing I can get to the word ‘crazy’ on its own – is so called because it’s made up of cracked paving stones seemingly laid without order … which is a pretty good description of the majority of the members of the Dickens family at the time: cracked and orderless. By comparison, Fabian’s family was very normal. His mother behaved like a loving mother, glad to be recognised by her blood relatives at long last. Baby Oliphant behaved like a baby Oliphant, rather than, say, a baby elephant.* His father, Alfie, behaved like anyone with a bad cough: coughing badly, a great deal.
Poor Alfie Grout had one of those coughs that sounded so rough you could imagine it sandpapering his innards every time it started, but it also had a strange rattle that suggested he was far from well. One minute he’d be having a pleasant conversation about the annual gypsy horse fair over in Garlington Wake, and the next minute he’d be bent double coughing and rattling with a pained expression on his face.
This caused different reactions from different members of the Dickens household. Fabian would politely ignore it, because his father had told him to. Oliphant would dribble and coo. (That was his job, being a baby.) Fabian’s mother would put a sympathetic arm around her husband and offer words of encouragement. Eddie would offer to get him a glass of water. Gibbering Jane would gibber. Dawkins, the gentleman’s gentleman, would await instructions. Mrs Dickens would urge him to try stuffing his mouth with something … anything. Mr Dickens would hurriedly hold a handkerchief up to his own face for fear of catching something (usually muttering ‘If Ardagh gives this hacking cough to anyone else, it’s bound to be me!’, whatever that meant). Which leaves Mad Uncle Jack and his lovely wife Even Madder Aunt Maud. Mad Uncle Jack would usually give Alfie a hearty slap on the back with a cheery, ‘That’s the spirit!’, whilst EMAM was more likely to beat him with Malcolm with an ‘Oh, do be quiet!’. Interestingly, it was these last two approaches that seemed to have the best effect on poor Alfie, short-term at least. Which only goes to show something, but I’m not exactly sure what.
Hang on? What’s this? I’ve just noticed an old dictionary up on that shelf there, by the battered box of Scrabble and something called Kerplunk. This isn’t my house so I had no way of knowing that there’d be one so readily to hand. Excuse me a moment. I can look up ‘crazy’ after all. Craggy … cram … crambo … CRAMBO? … apparently that’s a game in which a player says a word for which the others must find a rhyme … craw … crayfish … crazy. Here we are! ‘Unbalanced … absurdly out of place …’ And, chiefly in North America – as opposed to a North American chief – crazies with an ‘i’ are crazy people. Not to be confused with crazes, without the ‘i’, which refers to widespread but short-lived enthusiasms for collecting brightly coloured plastic things, or wearing weird clothes which look very silly and outdated in next to no time.
So, there you are. How did I get onto this? I’m not sure, so let’s pause for a picture of me in my current surroundings, then return to the main action.
Lovely. (Do you think my new glasses suit me?)
*
The family were gathered in the library. Eddie loved this room. There were books here, there and everywhere, and in places where there weren’t books, there were things made to look like books. For example, when the doors were closed it was difficult to see them at first glance because they too were built to look like shelves of books. In Eddie’s day, books in a such a fine library were leather-bound with the title (and sometimes author) embossed on the brown leather spines with gold lettering. Even the fake wooden book spines on the doors were embossed in this way to create the illusion of uninterrupted shelving all the way around the walls. The only spaces were for the windows but, when it was dark out, wooden shutters could be folded across them and on these were painted yet more book spines.
Though there has been a library, of sorts, for as long as Awful End has stood on that spot, it was Eddie’s great-grandfather – in other words, Mr Dickens’s grandfather and Mad Uncle Jack’s father – Dr Malcontent Dickens who had turned the library into this splendid room. Malcontent Dickens (whose full name was Malcontent Arthur Rigmarole Dickens) was a great lover of knowledge, or ‘nolidge’ as he called it, spelling not being his greatest forte, and believed (rightly) that much knowledge could be gleaned from books.
The Dickens family had expected great things of Malcontent and he had achieved great things but, sadly, not longevity. He was untimely killed by a human cannonball. It was an accident, and need not distract us here. Eddie’s grandfather, Percy Dickens, had inherited the love of books from his father, but not Awful End, which eventually ended up in Mad Uncle Jack’s hands. Jack had little time for books but, fortunately, didn’t decide to flood the library to make a fish tank (which the eldest brother, George, had considered doing), or to use the books to build his treehouse.
So here they all were, in the library, on the evening that Stinky Hoarebacker’s fox hunt had been repelled from the estate in shambolic retreat.
‘Congratulations are in order!’ said Mad Uncle Jack, raising a glass of sherry high above his head. It hit a light fitting and shattered.
‘In order of what?’ demanded Even Madder Aunt Maud. She was still wearing a camouflage hat made of laurel leaves which she’d used to sneak up close on her targets. Her original plan had been to bite the horses’ legs so that they’d rear up and throw their riders. Then, she’d reasoned that it wasn’t the horses’ fault – they were just doing what they were supposed to do – so she’d bitten the riders instead. ‘In order of age? Size?’
‘In whatever order you like, my fountain of love!’ said Mad Uncle Jack, in a voice he reserved for speaking to his beloved wife. He was dusting the t
iny sticky shards of broken sherry schooner (glass) from what little hair he had. ‘You choose!’ said Even Madder Aunt Maud.
‘Then I choose congratulations in any old order!’ announced MUJ.
The others raised their glasses and drank, but not until they’d lowered them and put them to their lips. You try drinking with a glass raised above your head. It’s not easy.
Their celebration was interrupted by a sudden outbreak of gibbering which, as the brighter sparks amongst you will have guessed, was caused by Gibbering Jane. She ran into the library, the singed piece of knitted tea-cosy she always wore on a string around her neck, trailing out behind her, like a scarf on a windy day. She was clutching an enormous egg with both hands. It appeared to be cracking.
‘It’s hatching!’ she yelped, before resuming her more usual senseless gibbering. The room was galvanised, which is a strange phrase when you come to think about it. A galvanised bucket is a bucket coated in a protective layer of zinc using electricity (named after the Italian psychologist Luigi Galvani, who’s probably better known for using electricity to make dead frogs’ legs twitch … perhaps having nothing better to do.) A galvanised room is – in this case, at least – when the people in the room were excited – yippee! – into action.
Everyone put their drinks down, except for Even Madder Aunt Maud who simply let hers fall to the floor, narrowly avoiding a library chair, (which could be folded out to form a ladder to reach some of the books on the shelves at mid-height). The glass bounced on a rug woven into the shape of the Baltic States by a distant cousin of Eddie’s mother, spilling its contents without breaking.
Maud snatched the egg. ‘Mine, I believe,’ she said, which was true enough. The egg had been a gift from the Head of Aviaries at The Royal Zoological Institute in Kemphill Park (not to be confused with the Royal Zoological Gardens in Regent’s Park, which later became better known as Regent’s Park Zoo and then, even more recently, as plain old London Zoo.)
The Head of Aviaries at The Royal Zoological Institute, a certain Dr Marcus Loach, wasn’t in the habit of giving away eggs to almost total strangers, but it was by way of an apology for what had happened to EMAM during a recent visit to the zoo.
Dr Loach had been under the impression that Even Madder Aunt Maud was a member of a group of visiting foreign dignitaries with a particular interest in zoology, who had suffered an unfortunate accident whilst under his care. Little did he realise that the woman clutching the stuffed stoat was simply tagging along. (The foreign dignitaries assumed that she was a member of staff – possibly in charge of small mammals, by the looks of the rather strange creature she was holding.) She had, in truth, forced her way through a hole in the hedge to the wilderbeast enclosure whilst on what we today might call ‘a fungus foray’ (in other words, looking for mushrooms).
As for the accident, she hadn’t fallen into the crocodile enclosure (as Loach had assumed) but had deliberately climbed over the railings and into the water to get nearer to the single croc occupying it which, she later told her doting husband, ‘gave me a warm feeling as it reminded me of one of my dear late mother’s handbags’.
She was just about to introduce Malcolm to said crocodile, which was observing her movements with a seemingly indifferent gaze through a half-closed eye (whilst, in all probability, actually sizing her up as a potential pre-lunchtime snack), when she was spotted by what, today, we’d call a zoo keeper. Without a moment’s thought for his own safety the man, a Mr Johnson, dived into the pea-soup coloured water and dragged a protesting Even Madder Aunt Maud to safety, receiving a mouthful of algae and several blows from a stuffed stoat for his trouble.
Dr Marcus Loach, whose job it had been to escort the dignitaries throughout the day, though birds were his area of expertise, was mortified (which may sound as if it has something to do with the lime, cement, sand and water mix used to bond bricks together, but, in the case of Dr Loach, meant embarrassed and humiliated). The whole reason he’d been entrusted with the task of showing these important folk about the place was because the Director of The Royal Zoological Institute in Kemphill Park was grooming him as his successor.
When monkeys groom each other, it usually involves carefully going through each other’s hair, removing ticks and bugs and eating them. This was certainly not the way that Sir Trevor Hartley-Poole behaved towards Dr Loach. He was simply preparing the younger – though not young – man for the role. This was excellent news for Dr Loach for he knew that, on Hartley-Poole’s recommendation, he would become the new director unopposed. A visiting VIP being almost eaten by a crocodile would not be the kind of thing to impress Sir Trevor, hence Loach’s feeling of mortification.
Dr Loach had to think quickly. He sent the heroic Mr Johnson to change out of his wet clothes and to have the afternoon off, on the strict understanding that he say nothing to anyone about the incident, hinting that his silence may well result in his promotion to Keeper of the Queen’s Giraffe (which was one of the most sought-after jobs in the institute). He gave the crocodile an extra-large lunch (to make up for not having eaten EMAM). And, as for Even Madder Aunt Maud, he took the unusual step of offering her a little something for her collection. (All the dignitaries had animal collections of varying sorts. That’s why Sir Trevor Hartley-Poole had instructed Dr Loach to show them around the zoo in the first place.)
‘Perhaps an egg?’ Dr Loach had suggested, as they entered the aviary, his stoat-carrying guest having refused the offer of dry clothes. She simply squelched after the others, seemingly unconcerned by her terrible ordeal.
‘Any egg?’ she asked.
‘Indeed, madam,’ said Dr Loach.
Even Madder Aunt Maud hurried off and, ten minutes or so later, returned – somehow looking even damper than before, if that were possible – with an egg which, despite his vast knowledge of birds, the Head of Aviaries failed to identify.
‘How about this one?’ she asked.
‘Consider it yours,’ he said.
And now, after Gibbering Jane had lavished all the attention on it that she’d lavished on baby Oliphant when Eddie had found him in the bulrushes and named him Ned, the egg was hatching in the library of Awful End. Out popped a crocodile.
* For those of you’ve who’ve been waiting for an elephant joke ever since we discovered that the baby’s real name was Oliphant, your wait is over.
Episode 4
Doctor! Doctor!
In which Annabelle snaps, and Dawkins almost does
It soon became a common sight for Even Madder Aunt Maud to be followed around the house and gardens of Awful End by a tiny crocodile on a silver chain. She had removed the steps which led up into Marjorie (her hollow-cow home in the rose garden, as I’ve already mentioned) and replaced them with a ramp that Annabelle – the name she’d given the baby croc – could easily climb up and down. The work was carried out by Mad Uncle Jack’s band of loyal ex-soldiers, so took up a ridiculous amount of time and wood.
At the centre of the rose garden lay a shallow rectangular pond, which was ideal for Annabelle to splash about in.
Although Even Madder Aunt Maud was even more eccentric than your average Victorian lady of the well-to-do classes, I should point out that the keeping of exotic pets was not unheard of. There was a chap called the Marquis of Queensberry who came up with the rules for boxing (which must be why they’re called the Marquis of Queensberry Rules), and he had a sister whose married name was Lady Florence Dixie. Lady Florence had a pet puma, which she used to take for walks in Windsor Great Park. So perhaps EMAM’s crocodile on a chain wasn’t quite so utterly ridiculous as you at first imagined, hmmm, clever-clogs?!
Eddie and Fabian were fascinated by their great-aunt’s new pet and offered to take her for walks between the endless play rehearsals. EMAM was reluctant to let anyone else but Gibbering Jane (who’d kept the egg warm, remember) look after her new special friend.
For a failed chambermaid who’d spent her life under the stairs at Eddie’s previous home, before
it was burnt to the ground, Jane was now very much in demand. Oliphant really loved her, and EMAM was regularly entrusting Annabelle to her care. Eddie had never seen her so happy.
Even Madder Aunt Maud took to having a crocodile around in her stride. Though obviously still fond of him, it did seem that living, breathing Annabelle had rather taken over from tatty, stuffed Malcolm as her Number One companion. Shocking, I know, but true.
Mad Uncle Jack hardly seemed to register that his wife now had a croc in tow. He slept in his treehouse at night, and she slept in her hollow cow, with Annabelle at the foot of her bed, so that wasn’t a problem.
Eddie’s father, Mr Dickens, seemed a little concerned about there being a little crocodile about the place, pointing out that it would soon grow to be a big crocodile about the place, and possibly less friendly. But his complaints were half-hearted. His mind was on his magnum opus which, in this instance, meant his play.
The person who was the least happy about there now being a many-toothed reptile in their lives was the member of the household who got bitten the most often, and that was Dawkins.
The first time the animal had bitten him was when Even Madder Aunt Maud had instructed him to pick Annabelle up and place her in the sink. This Dawkins had done without protest, and had received a little nip for his trouble. Thereafter, Annabelle would bite him at every available opportunity, which was why the gentleman’s gentleman would often try to hide if he saw Even Madder Aunt Maud and Annabelle heading his way.
Once, Mr Pumblesnook’s wife (the truly dreadful Mrs Pumblesnook) came upon Dawkins cowering in a very large silver-plated soup tureen. He claimed that he was cleaning it, but he could see that the actor-manager’s wife was far from convinced.
Dubious Deeds Page 21
