The Eddie Dickens Trilogy

by Philip Ardagh

  Episode 6

  Orphanage

  In which geese save Rome

  Every story is told from a certain point of view. The storyteller – who is me, me, ME in this instance – tells a story in a certain way and sticks to it.

  Apart from the occasional trip to Mr and Mrs Dickenses’ bathroom, this story has been told from the point of view of staying with poor young Eddie. Wherever he goes, we go. When he got into the carriage, we went with him. When he spent the night in the stable of The Coaching Inn, we spent the night there too. When he was staring down the barrel of a fake revolver, we didn’t run off and leave him there …

  … but let’s not be too proud of ourselves for standing our ground. If the revolver had been the genuine article and a bullet had been fired, Eddie would have been the one who was shot and bleeding, not us. I might be able to invent a book that fires a bullet at its readers when they turn to page 46, but imagine the mess it might cause in bookshops or public libraries.

  No, the important thing is that nowhere in the story have I said ‘meanwhile’ and switched the action away from Eddie to somewhere else.

  It’s perfectly okay to do that in a book. There’s nothing wrong with it. There are some really good stories where the author says ‘meanwhile’ and switches the action to somewhere else … but what a good storyteller doesn’t do is suddenly change the point of view.

  After all this time of not saying ‘meanwhile’ and switching the action to somewhere else, he doesn’t suddenly say ‘meanwhile’ and switch the action to somewhere else …

  Meanwhile, back at Eddie’s home, his parents were in a state of panic. The reason why the Dickenses were panicking was the small matter of their house being on fire.

  Nothing can spoil a late afternoon as much as having flames leaping out of all the upstairs windows, licking at the woodwork. This was a direct result of the latest stage in Dr Muffin’s Treatment for their terrible ailment – even hotter hot-water bottles.

  The Dickenses were only allowed to get up three times a day. They had to suck special ice cubes and they had to snuggle up in bed with piles of hot-water bottles. When this failed to achieve the desired results, the good doctor decided that their hot-water bottles couldn’t have been hot enough.

  He solved this by devising a new system especially for them. This system would heat the hot-water bottles while they were actually in the bed with the patients, and Mr and Mrs Dickens were the very first people he tried it out on. As it turned out, they were to be the only people he tried the system out on, because he guessed (correctly) that setting fire to those in his care wasn’t particularly good for building a bond between any doctor and his patients.

  (I say ‘his patients’ rather than ‘his or her patients’ because there weren’t any women doctors in those days. They weren’t allowed. It was something to do with the belief by the Medical Experts With Huge Beards Association that women’s hair would somehow get in the way of their stethoscopes when trying to listen to heartbeats. It was a pretty feeble excuse, but the governing body of the Medical Experts With Huge Beards Association really did have very impressive beards, so no one dared argue with them.)

  Anyway, back to Dr Muffin and his hot-water bottle heating system. At his home, the doctor had a special tray on the sideboard of his dining room designed to keep food hot. Under the tray were three liquid paraffin burners with adjustable wicks to make the flames bigger or smaller. He took these burners to the Dickenses’ house and put them under a bed.

  The idea was that the flames would gently heat the mattress, which in turn would gently heat the hot-water bottles, which would, in turn, gently heat Eddie’s parents. That was the idea. Of course, when the doctor did his first ‘test run’ on the bed in Eddie’s room (because he was on his way to Awful End and wouldn’t be needing it), Eddie’s mattress burst into flames.

  Fortunately for the doctor, he was holding a hot-water bottle, from which he whipped the stopper and poured the contents onto the mattress and extinguished the conflagration (which is a twenty-eight-letter way of saying what ‘put the flames out’ says in fifteen).

  Eddie’s parents could smell the burning but couldn’t investigate because they’d already been up three times that day – once to have a sword fight with the Thackerys over at The Grange, once to go shark fishing with the Trollope family who were renting a houseboat on a nearby lake, and once to throw an old boot at a cat that was yowling on top of the compost heap – so they knew they must stay in bed. Dr Muffin would be very angry with them if they got up a fourth time, and might refuse to allow them to pay him lots of money to treat them any more.

  ‘Ish evwyfung awlwhy?’ called out Mrs Dickens, who on this occasion didn’t have a famous-general-shaped ice cube or an onion in her mouth, or both for that matter. The reason why ‘Is everything all right?’ came out sounding so strange on this occasion was that she had Mr Dickens’s ear in her mouth.

  Those of you with a squeamish nature, who feel sick if you tear a fingernail or see an ant walking with a slight limp, will be pleased to know that the ear was still attached to the side of Mr Dickens’s head (which was exactly where it should be).

  It was simply that Mrs Dickens had been sleeping moments before the goose in their bedroom smelled the smoke coming from their son’s room and woke them up with its loud honking. Geese were very popular in the days before battery-powered smoke alarms.

  If you think that sounds crazy, go and find a teacher – or some other kind of know-all – and ask them the following two questions:

  1. Are a flock of geese really supposed to have raised the alarm and warned the ancient Romans of an attack on the Capitoline Hill by the Gauls in 387BC?

  2. Did miners really used to take canaries down the mines to warn them of any gas in the mine shafts?

  The answer to both those questions should be a resounding ‘YES!!!’, so the Dickens family goose smoke alarm wasn’t such a crazy idea after all, now was it? In fact, the very first battery-powered smoke detector alarm was a bird, though it was a chicken not a goose. Surely you’ve heard of battery hens?

  So, where was I? Oh, yes: the smoke from Eddie’s burning mattress made the goose honk, which then woke up Mrs Dickens. She had been dreaming that she was eating a dried prune, which she discovered, upon waking, was in fact her husband’s ear. She called out to ask Dr Muffin if everything was all right and – lying – he assured them it was.

  The doctor then refined the method. He realised that what stopped the flames of the three paraffin burners from burning his food on the sideboard at home was that they heated the metal tray which, in turn, heated the serving dishes which, in turn, heated the food.

  So what he did was turf Eddie’s parents out of bed and make them sit on one of the thirty-one different types of chair designed to make you sit up straight even if your wrists were handcuffed to your ankles.(There had been thirty-two when Eddie left the house, but one had been completely eaten by a hungry woodworm since then. It must have been very hungry indeed, because Eddie had only been gone one night.)

  While the Dickenses shared a chair, Dr Muffin rolled back their mattress and placed a number of trays and serving dishes he’d found down in the kitchen on the bed springs. He then rolled the mattress back into place with a satisfying crunch of china. He placed the three paraffin burners on the floor under the bed, made the wicks as big as possible, lit them, then ordered his two yellow-and-crinkly-edged patients back into bed.

  ‘That should keep you good and warm,’ he announced. ‘You must both stay there until morning,’ he said. ‘Under no circumstances must you get up unless it is to go to the bathroom. Good day to you.’

  With that, he left the bedroom, walked past Eddie’s room, where the blackened mattress still smouldered, and made his way downstairs and out of the house. Not ten minutes later, the Dickenses’ mattress was on fire.

  ‘Perhaps it’s supposed to be,’ said Mrs Dickens, a trifle concerned.

  ‘Surely not,’ said M
r Dickens, the left leg of whose pyjamas had just caught alight.

  ‘What should we do?’ asked Mrs Dickens, the pom-pom on the end of her nightcap glowing like a golden Christmas tree bauble.

  ‘Do? Why, nothing,’ said Mr Dickens. ‘The doctor has forbidden us to get up under any circumstances.’ He had been brought up to respect the orders of a medical man.

  ‘Under no circumstances, unless it is to go to the bathroom,’ Mrs Dickens reminded her husband.

  ‘Then let’s go to the bathroom!’ cried Mr Dickens.

  ‘Good idea!’ said Mrs Dickens and they both leapt out of bed seconds before all the paper bedclothes went up in a very pretty WHOOOSH of orange flame.

  By the time they reached the bathroom – because they thought it would be cheating if they didn’t really go there – it was on fire too. So were the stairs, their bedroom, Eddie’s bedroom, the roof and just about everything else upstairs.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Dickens. ‘Wha t shall we do?’

  They decided to panic, which made perfect sense under the circumstances, because there wasn’t a lot else they could do. The goose, meanwhile, had flown out of the window and was honking to her heart’s content.

  Talking of “meanwhile” – as I was earlier, if you recall – Eddie meanwhile was sitting on the edge of a metal-framed bed in a dank cell of a huge prison-like building called St Horrid’s Home for Grateful Orphans.

  Words his wise old mother had spoken came back to him. They were something she’d uttered before he’d set off with Mad Uncle Jack: ‘Do be careful to make sure that you’re not mistaken for a runaway orphan and taken to the orphanage where you will then suffer cruelty, hardship and misery,’ she’d said.

  And now here Eddie was …

  What’s really annoying is that we don’t know how he got here. We were so busy with our meanwhile-back-at-home-with-his-parents that we missed the main action. action. PPerhaps we’ll never find out how he ended up in this godforsaken place. Perhaps we’ll find out in the next episode.

  In the meantime, we must leave Eddie frightened and alone in his cell, while his parents are trapped upstairs in a burning building.

  Sometimes life can be really tough.

  Episode 7

  Escape!

  In which we finally get back to poor old Eddie

  ‘Oh dear, Mr Dickens!’ cried Mrs Dickens. ‘Whatever shall we do now?’

  ‘Do, Mrs Dickens?’ said her husband. ‘Why, we shall burn to dea th, of course.’

  ‘Do you think that was Dr Muffin’s intention?’ asked Mrs Dickens, beating out the row of little orange flames that were licking at the bottom of her nightgown.

  ‘Well, being burnt to a crisp would most certainly cure us of our dreadful illness,’ Eddie’s father pointed out.

  Anyone eavesdropping on this conversation would never have guessed that these were the same two people who, moments before, had been in a terrible state of panic.

  Anyone eavesdropping on this conversation would also have been very hot. The reason why Eddie’s parents were suddenly so calm was that they were in the bathroom, and the bathroom contained a cabinet which contained a bottle which contained Dr Muffin’s Patent Anti-Panic Pills. Mr and Mrs Dickens had both eaten a fistful.

  The reason why anyone eavesdropping would also have been very hot was that the bathroom was now a wall of flame.

  The Dickenses’ alarm goose, meanwhile, had flown to the nearest house – The Grange, owned by the Thackery family – and was busy telling their alarm goose what had happened.

  Here follows a rough translation of the conversation between the two birds:

  Thackery goose: You smell of smoke, Myrtle.

  Dickens goose: Hardly surprising, Agnes. The Dickens residence has gone up in flames.

  Thackery goose: Oh dear.

  Dickens goose: Yes. Such a shame.

  Unfortunately, all the Thackerys’ daughter – who was sitting near the geese at the time – heard was:

  Thackery goose: Honk honk honk honk, Honk.

  Dickens goose: Honk honk, Honk. Honk honk honk honk honk honk honk honk.

  Thackery goose: Honk honk.

  Dickens goose: Honk. Honk honk honk.

  Even if she had understood every word the two geese had spoken, this still wouldn’t have been much use to the poor old Dickenses trapped in their burning home. Charlotte Thackery was less than a year old and, although she made a wide selection of exciting noises from ‘goo’ to ‘ga’ with a ‘guck’ thrown in for good measure, her doting parents couldn’t understand a single word she said.

  Fortunately for Eddie’s parents, however, help was at hand. Those of you who can remember all the way back to page 4 will recall that the cupboard under the stairs of the Dickens household was occupied by Gibbering Jane.

  Gibbering Jane was a chambermaid who had failed the eight-week bed-making course and lived a life of shame in the darkness. She never came out of her under-stairs hideaway. F ood was slipped under the crack between the floor and the bottom of the door and, if you really want to know how she washed and went to the loo, I’ll have to draw you a very detailed and complicated diagram which will cost you a great deal of money.

  The only other person in the house – apart from Eddie’s parents, of course – was Dawkins, Mr Dickens’s gentleman’s gentleman, who lived in a basket (with plenty of tissue paper) in the kitchen. He’s also been mentioned before, but I can’t remember the page he first put in an appearance. I do remember that the Dickenses often didn’t remember Dawkins’s name and sometimes called him ‘Daphne’, though.

  One of Dawkins’s duties was to feed Gibbering Jane. He was just passing through the hallway, making his way towards the cupboard under the stairs, when he noticed that the whole of the upstairs of the house was on fire.

  Without a moment’s thought for his own personal safety, Dawkins knew exactly what he must do. He dashed back into the kitchen and rescued his tissue paper from his basket.

  He snatched the paper up in his arms and ran outside with it, leaving it beside a tree (weighed down with half a brick). Satisfied that this was a job well done, he decided that he’d better go back inside and see if Gibbering Jane or his master and mistress needed any help.

  ‘Help!’ cried Mr Dickens from upstairs.

  ‘Help!’ cried Mrs Dickens from upstairs.

  ‘Are you talking to me?’ Dawkins shouted.

  ‘Oo aw yaw tawkin’ taw, Dawkins?’ asked Mrs Dickens, who had just stuffed another fistful of Dr Muffin’s Patent Anti-Panic Pills into her mouth.

  Dawkins was well used to his mistress talking with her mouth full and instantly translated this latest communication to mean: ‘Who are you talking to, Dawkins?’

  ‘Why, to both you and the master!’ he shouted, then coughed as a cloud of smoke billowed down the stairwell.

  ‘Well, we were indeed calling for help from anyone who might hear us and that most certainly includes you, Daphne,’ cried Mr Dickens. ‘Unless you can help us sooner rather than later, my wife and I are sure to end up dead before the end of Episode 7.’

  ‘Before the end of what, sir?’ shouted the gentleman’s gentleman, who had no idea that he was a character in a story.

  ‘Never mind, Dawkins,’ yelped Eddie Dickens’s mother (who, as you can tell from her voice, had now swallowed her pills). ‘Just rescue us, will you.’

  Dawkins thought this was an excellent idea, if only he could think how to rescue them. He heard some gibbering at ankle height and looked down to see Gibbering Jane. It wasn’t that she was so small that she only came up to his ankles – that would be ridiculous. It’s just that – apart from Eddie – she was about the most sensible person we’ve run in to in this adventure. She knew that hot air (which includes smoke) rises, so the best thing to do if you don’t want to suffocate is to lie on the floor with a wet flannel over your face.

  Gibbering Jane was lying on the floor, but she didn’t have a flannel, so she was using a knitted ladder.

/>   In all the years Jane had been in the cupboard under the Dickenses’ stairs, she’d spent at least eleven hours and thirty-six minutes a day knitting. To begin with she’d made all the usual things – scarves, tea cosies, bobble hats – but, over time, she’d become more adventurous, knitting everything from fireplaces to ladders.

  Dawkins saw the knitted ladder and, without so much as a ‘May I borrow this for a moment?’ he snatched it from Gibbering Jane’s grasp.

  This wasn’t the sort of ladder Dawkins could climb up to rescue the Dickenses. It was all floppy and would need to be fixed in position upstairs in the first place … but if he could somehow get the knitted ladder up to them, Mr and Mrs Dickens could then tie it to something heavy, throw the other end out of the window and clamber down.

  ‘I have a plan!’ Dawkins shouted.

  ‘This is no time to be frying eggs!’ cried Mrs Dickens.

  ‘He said “plan” not “pan”,’ said Mr Dickens.

  ‘What plan?’ shouted Mrs Dickens, whose eyebrows had just been singed off by a passing fireball.

  Unfortunately, Dawkins had misheard his mistress’s response to mishearing him. He thought she’d said: ‘This is now time to be frying eggs,’ so – being a very obedient servant who never questioned the Dickenses’ instructions – he’d already rushed to the kitchen to prepare them a mouth-watering eggy snack instead of putting his rescue operation into effect.

  Gibbering Jane, in the meantime, was gibbering – which should come as no surprise – and also crawling across the hall floor to safety. Parts of the upstairs of the house were now joining the downstairs by the quickest route, which was by falling from a great height in burning chunks.

  Unless either Mr or Mrs Dickens could come up with a good plan and put it into operation within the next eight paragraphs, there was no way they’d come out of this alive … and that way Eddie would rightfully be in the St Horrid’s Home for Grateful Orphans rather than because of some dreadful mistake.