Humming a tune so tuneless that it would probably be illegal to call it a tune in some very strict countries, his great-aunt was trimming her stuffed stoat’s nostril hairs with a pair of gold-plated nail scissors. Nothing wrong with that, you might say. There are probably some teachers you can think of who could do with shaving their nose hairs or ear hairs (like Miss Boris, when I was at school) … but it was what Mad Aunt Maud was doing with the trimmed hairs that had caught Eddie’s attention. She was storing them in her own ears.
All thoughts about nuts had gone out of the window (like his aunt’s watch in an earlier episode). No, that’s not strictly true. All thoughts of Mr Pumblesnook dressed as a hazelnut had gone out of the window. Eddie was left thinking about another kind of nut: the nut who was sitting there with stuffed-stoat-nostril-hair trimmings in her ears … and he was going to have to live with this woman at Awful End until his parents were cured!
He shuddered.
‘Are you ready to rise to the challenge, Master Dickens?’ asked Mr Pumblesnook. ‘Are you prepared to take on the character of an orphan boy and remain in the character – in that acting role – for the rest of this journey? In fact, are you prepared to take on this character and remain in the character until I tell you otherwise?’
‘I guess,’ said Eddie. It might help take his mind off what lay ahead: life in a strange house with a very strange great-aunt and great-uncle indeed.
‘Do you promise to remain in character?’ demanded Mr Pumblesnook, leaning across Mad Aunt Maud, who was busy returning the nail scissors to her bag, so – momentarily – letting Malcolm rest on her lap. The actor-manager seized the opportunity of this stuffed-stoat-free moment to look Eddie full in the face, without the fear of a furry sideswipe of tail, nose or paw. ‘Do you promise on your family’s honour to stay in character?’
‘Yes,’ said Eddie Dickens, meeting Mr Pumblesnook’s gaze.
‘Family honour’ was much more of a big deal way back then. In those days, if you punched a bishop or tickled someone collecting money for charity, it wasn’t just you who were disgraced, but your whole family.
People would say: ‘That’s Mrs Harris whose boy ate that statue made out of lamb chops at the art gallery,’ and they wouldn’t sit next to her at church. Or people would cross the street to avoid walking on the same pavement as any members of the Munroe family, just because Mary Munroe had painted the entire Thompson family bright red while they were sleeping next door. No, family honour was important, so to swear on your family’s honour was important too.
And Eddie Dickens had just sworn on the honour of the Dickens family that he would act the character of an orphan and keep acting the character of an orphan until Mr Pumblesnook told him to stop.
Now, Einstein wasn’t born when the events in this story occurred, and he’s dead now that you’re reading this, but it’s still worth saying that you don’t have to be Einstein to work out what happened. If you’ve got a good memory, you’ll recall that you were first told that Eddie was going to end up in St Horrid’s Orphanage for Whatever It’s Called as long ago as page 50-something, and this is page 86 … so it isn’t exactly news. Now, though, we actually come to the moment when events headed in that direction.
*
Mad Uncle Jack pulled on the horse’s reins and ordered: ‘Whoa, boy.’
The horse, not used to his master giving sensible instructions, was so surprised that he actually stopped, which was exactly what Mad Uncle Jack had wanted. He had wanted to stop because there was a man with a very tall hat standing in the middle of the road. If Mad Uncle Jack hadn’t ordered ‘Whoa, boy’ and the horse hadn’t been surprised enough to stop, the man would probably have been wearing a very squat, crumpled hat by now, and would probably have been somewhat squat and crumpled himself. Mad Uncle Jack had wanted to avoid this because, even in the failing light of early evening, he could tell that this man was a peeler.
Now, you may be forgiven for thinking that a peeler is something you use to take the skin off potatoes, and you’d be right … but this peeler was a different kind of peeler. This peeler was named after a man called Sir Robert Peel and, if you think that this is beginning to sound like a history lesson, then you’d be right again – so I’ll keep it short. As well as being famous for being a British prime minister, Robert Peel also founded the first proper police force in Britain, and the policemen were nicknamed ‘peelers’ after him. If his name had been Sir Robert Bonk, they’d have been nicknamed ‘bonkers’, so they should think themselves lucky.
So now you can see why Eddie’s great-uncle was reluctant to run this man over with his horse and carriage. It was as true then as it is today: policemen get annoyed if you run them over. Especially if you crumple their tall hats.
This peeler’s hat – like all peelers’ hats – was very tall and thin. It was about as tall as three top hats, one on top of the other. This isn’t a very helpful description if you’ve never seen a top hat. It’s a bit like saying to someone that, when your mother sings in the bath, she makes a noise like a Greater Racket-tailed Drongo, when the person you’re talking to has never even heard of a Greater Thingummy-Whatsitted Drongo, let alone heard the noise it makes. So, if you’ve no idea what a top hat looks like, tough luck. This peeler’s hat was still the height of three top hats one on top of the other, whether you’ve seen a top hat or not.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the peeler to Mad Uncle Jack. ‘Would you be kind enough to step down from your seat?’
He didn’t ask to see Mad Uncle Jack’s licence and vehicle registration documents, because these hadn’t been invented yet – and he didn’t ask him to take a breathalyser test, because he wasn’t interested in finding out whether Mad Uncle Jack, or his horse, was drunk. This peeler had more important things to do. ‘I’m looking for an escaped orphan,’ he explained. ‘He ran away from St Horrid’s Home for Grateful Orphans.’
‘Ungrateful swine!’ snarled Mad Uncle Jack.
‘Exactly what I said,’ agreed the peeler. ‘I suggested that they change the name to St Horrid’s Home for Ungrateful Orphans, when I heard the news.’
‘We must get up a collection to do that at once!’ said Mad Uncle Jack, who, once he liked an idea, seized upon it and wanted to act quickly. ‘It shouldn’t cost too much to change. You simply need to find a local painter to add the letters “U” and “n” in front of the word “grateful” on the sign at the gate … I assume there is a sign at the gate?’
‘Oh, yes indeed there is, sir,’ nodded the peeler.
‘Good. I would imagine that a “U” and an “n” would not be too expensive,’ mused Eddie’s great-uncle. ‘I remember having an engraving made on the back of a watch for my beautiful wife some years back, and that only cost a farthing a letter … speaking of which, I imagine that St Horrid’s has headed notepaper?’
The peeler nodded respectfully. This coach driver was no ordinary coach driver. He was obviously a gentleman.
‘So the headed paper will need to be altered from “Grateful” to “Ungrateful”, also,’ said Mad Uncle Jack. ‘No problem there, though. That could be a job for some of the ungrateful orphans themselves. Up at five in the morning, and write a few “Un”s before “grateful”s on the headed notepaper before going up chimneys or down mines or whatever it is the ungrateful little swine have to do for the rest of the day to earn their keep.’
‘A splendid solution, sir,’ beamed the peeler. After all, it had been his idea to change the name to St Horrid’s Home for Ungrateful Orphans, and here was a true gentleman agreeing with him wholeheartedly.
‘Let me give you a contribution towards the campaign for such a name change,’ said Mad Uncle Jack.
‘Well, sir,’ said the peeler a little hesitantly. Like all policeman, he had to be very careful about accepting bribes. What one person might see as a genuine contribution towards a legitimate and important cause, an investigating panel might see as a bribe to do – or not to do – something. Then again, the peel
er didn’t want to upset this fine gentleman by not accepting whatever the amount was he was slipping out of his pocket. Ten shillings? A pound? Five pounds? A dried electric eel.
A dried electric eel?
‘I’m sorry I don’t have a halibut to give you,’ said Mad Uncle Jack, ‘but I spent my last one at The Coaching Inn coaching inn.’
The policeman gave him a sideways glance that police officers – men and women – are very good at giving. It’s a look which seems to say: ‘I don’t know what your game is, but I know you’re up to something and I intend to find out what it is.’ The peeler had never been so insulted in all his life. A dried electric eel? This was the worst bribe he’d ever had. He’d been given half an apple once, but at least he could give that to the police dog back at the station … but a dried electric eel? And to think that he’d thought this man was a gentleman!
The peeler’s attitude towards Mad Uncle Jack became decidedly chilly. ‘I need to search the carriage for the orphan,’ he said, dropping the use of the ‘sir’. ‘Do you have any objections to my doing so?’
‘Not at all. Not at all,’ beamed Eddie’s great-uncle. He had no idea that he had offended the peeler and thought that they were still ‘bosom buddies’.
‘And who, might I ask, resides within the carriage?’ the peeler continued, walking towards one of its doors.
‘My wife Maud, the famous actor-manager Mr Pumblesnook and my nephew’s son Edmund.’
‘I see,’ said the peeler. ‘And no one else?’
‘Just Sally,’ said Mad Uncle Jack.
‘A maid?’ asked the peeler.
‘A stuffed stoat,’ explained Mad Uncle Jack.
‘I see …’ said the peeler. He looked through the open window in the carriage door to find one side of the carriage completely empty, and three figures and a stuffed stoat squeezed into the other.
He eyed the stuffed animal on Mad Aunt Maud’s lap. ‘Sally, I presume,’ he said.
‘Maud,’ said Maud.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the peeler. ‘I was referring to your stoat.’
‘His name is Malcolm,’ said Mad Aunt Maud.
Eddie noticed the peeler raise an eyebrow, and that simple raised eyebrow seemed to say: ‘Here’s a group of people who haven’t got their story straight. They must be up to something. They must have something to hide.’ Of course, what the policeman had no way of knowing was that Mad Uncle Jack was mad, and always called Malcolm ‘Sally’. Or maybe it was the other way around? Maybe Mad Aunt Maud was mad, and always called Sally ‘Malcolm’. Maybe they were both mad, and the stoat’s name wasn’t Sally or Malcolm but Cornelius or Edna?
‘I see,’ said the peeler, slowly. ‘And who might you be, sir?’
‘I,’ said Mr Pumblesnook, puffing his chest out and looking very grand, ‘am the Empress of All China.’
You can probably guess what had happened. While we were following the action outside the carriage with Mad Uncle Jack and the peeler, Eddie, Mr Pumblesnook and Mad Aunt Maud weren’t sitting in silence until it was their turn again. Life’s not like that. They carried on talking … and at the same time that Eddie had agreed on his family’s honour to stay in the character of an orphan boy, the actor-manager had agreed to take on the character of the Empress of All China … and very good he was at it too.
Just because he was facing an officer of the law, Mr Pumblesnook wasn’t about to go back on his word and back to who he really was. He had promised to play the Empress of All China, so the Empress of All China he would be.
He didn’t have an audience larger than the peeler, Mad Uncle Jack peering over his shoulder, Mad Aunt Maud and her stoat, and Eddie the Orphan Boy, but they were an audience – and this cramped seat was his stage.
‘I am the Empress of All China,’ Mr Pumblesnook repeated. It’s worth noting that, although China was no nearer or further away in miles then than it is today, it was much further way in time.
Today you can jump on a plane to China, or see the country and its people on television. Back then, few people had been to China or met a Chinese person. Having said that, the peeler was in no doubt that this man was not the Empress of China. This man was a liar.
‘I see,’ said the peeler. So far he had been confronted by a coach driver who was trying to make a fool of him by giving him a dried electric eel, a stoat called Sally pretending to be a stoat called Malcolm, a woman claiming to be ‘Maud’, a grown man pretending to be a Chinese woman … which left a boy with blood all over his face, dabbing his nose with a hanky.
The peeler pulled a notebook out of his top pocket, and read what he had written only a few hours before on his visit to St Horrid’s:
There was blood on the broken glass … and there was blood on the face of this boy, trying to hide himself between two bulky grown-ups.
‘And who, may I ask, are you?’ the peeler asked Eddie. ‘The Czar of Russia? The Queen of Sheba?’
Eddie gulped. ‘No, sir,’ he said, trying to sound as orphaned as possible. ‘I am a poor little orphan boy.’
The peeler leant into the carriage, slid his fingers down the back of Eddie’s collar and pulled him out onto the road with one swift yank.
‘Gotcha!’ said the peeler, with a broad grin. There’s nothing a police officer likes more than feeling a villain’s collar and, in his book, escaped ungrateful orphans were villains all right. In his book, villains were probably spelled ‘viluns’ … but what did spelling matter at a time like this?
‘There’s a nice warm cell waiting for you at the police station,’ he said. ‘Then, after that, you can go back to a nice cold one at St Horrid’s.’
‘But that’s my great-nephew,’ said a puzzled Mad Uncle Jack, watching the proceedings with interest.
Eddie managed to twist his head around and look back into the carriage. He looked to Mr Pumblesnook, hoping beyond hope that he would say that it was okay to be out of character now – to admit to the policeman that he wasn’t really an orphan – but no such luck.
The Empress of All China gave him a little imperial bow, but said nothing.
‘I’m just a poor little orphan boy,’ said Eddie, the worry sounding in his voice. His family’s honour was at stake here.
‘My mistake,’ said his great-uncle, losing interest. ‘You look just like Edmund and you were riding in my carriage, so I obviously thought you were my great-nephew.’ He turned to the peeler. ‘Feel free to take him away in shackles,’ he said.
‘But … But …’ Eddie began to protest. Then the Empress of All China gave a stern cough behind him and he remembered his promise.
The peeler wasn’t sure what shackles were. He seemed to recall from Sunday school classes that slaves went around in shackles, so he guessed that they must be those skimpy loincloths slaves were forced to wear instead of proper clothes. He thought he might get funny looks taking the escaped orphan back to the home in a skimpy loincloth, so he clapped him in irons instead.
‘Come on, lad,’ he said. ‘Mr Cruel-Streak will be glad to have you back under lock and key.’
Funnily enough, Mr Cruel-Streak didn’t sound like a very nice man to Eddie. And how right he was.
Episode 10
Oh Dear! Oh Dear! Oh Dear!
In which Eddie wants out
Eddie hated the cell in the police station, until he was taken out of the cell, popped into a cosy brown sack and ended up in his room at the orphanage. The room at the orphanage was more like a cell than the cell was. There most certainly wasn’t enough room to swing a cat, not that any cats in their right minds would have gone into the room in the first place. They’d have been too afraid of the rat.
Notice that I said ‘rat’, singular. Not ‘rats’ as in ‘lots’. Just the one … and Eddie was sharing his room with it. If it had been a cartoon rat, it would have been wearing an eyepatch and would have had a great big tattoo on its arm. It might even have been chewing a match in the corner of its mouth. Because it was a real rat, it was just enormous a
nd very frightening.
It’s true to say that, like wolves, rats have a bad press. Whenever three little pigs’ houses are blown down, or a plague spreads across Europe killing millions of people, either wolves or rats get the blame. Rats are, given the chance, probably very nice, clean, friendly, lovable creatures who smell gorgeous and would give half their money to charity if they earned enough. This particular rat, however, was none of the above. This rat was the sort of rat who lived up to the motto of St Horrid’s Home for Grateful Orphans.
Now, this would be a good time to tell you what that motto was. It would also be a good time to tell you who St Horrid was. Saints are, on the whole, good people. That’s how they came to be saints in the first place.
There was one chap, called Kevin, who became a saint for sticking his hand out of a window. Well, there’s more to it than that. He stuck his hand out of the window – probably to wave to a friend or to see if it was raining – and a bird landed on it and, thinking it was her nest, laid her eggs on it. All I can say is that he must have had a very hairy hand, or the bird was very short-sighted.
Anyway, the bird thought his hand was a nest, and sat patiently on her eggs, waiting for them to hatch. The man waited too. Rather than moving his hand he just stood there … He stood there until the eggs had hatched and the chicks had grown big enough to fly away. Then, and only then, did our man move.
You can bet your life that the first thing he must have done is rush to the toilet. He must have been there for weeks – with his hand out of the window, I mean, not sitting on the loo. You can be equally sure that he must have had terrible arm-ache. Think how tiring it is when you put your hand up to answer a question, and forget to put it down again (because there’s something far more interesting going on just outside the classroom window). Well, he was made a saint.
The Eddie Dickens Trilogy Page 6
