The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  Gosh.

  Gone.

  Completely, utterly. I tug my earlobe in bewilderment.

  Bert cries, anguished, ‘Wait!’, but the door’s firmly shut.

  Leaving us completely alone, all over again.

  Right. Well, there you go. Scruff grabs the closestthing – Pin’s beloved teddy, Banjo – and hurls him in frustration across the street. We all gasp in shock. Bert wails, punches him. Scruff opens his mouth to the heavens and Pin bawls then bites his brother hard – he’s absolutely forbidden to do this, Dad’d be marching him off to the chook house at this point and shutting him up in it – and me? Absolutely no idea what to do except sob right here in the street. For Dad, for Horatio, for help, for anything to get us out of this mess.

  But can’t.

  I shut my eyes and squeeze my hands over my ears, just shut it all out. Want to be somewhere, anywhere, still and quiet and alone. Blissfully alone, just reading a book, the thing I love more than anything in the world because when I’m doing that it’s like I calm down into stillness, I uncurl into someone else entirely, someone who I actually like and want to be with in a world that actually works. Is on my side. But this is just horrible, horrible, horrible and they’re all expecting me to get them out of it. Can’t. Just . . . can’t.

  ‘Look,’ Scruff whispers, tugging my sleeve. I shrug him off, savagely, don’t want to know. ‘No, Kicky, look.’

  ‘What?’

  I look up. Bert’s mouth is wide open. Pin’s giggling and pointing around her in delight.

  ‘All the houses.’

  Oh. My. Goodness.

  Because as the light drops, all the windows of the houses in the square are aglow, with a warm and buttery softness. As if a whole new world is suddenly, magically, coming alive; turning into something else. With a great swelling of loveliness and care and concern; a feast of food and toasty beds to sink in and Christmas trees and gifts and goodness knows what else.

  A smile of resolve blazes through me. I need all this for my lot. We’ve come this far, they deserve it, and by jingo I’m going to get it for them. Because from the Reptilarium, also, is a whisper of a glow like the faint pulse of a heartbeat, barely alive. But there.

  ‘Troops, action stations!’ I command.

  Swiftly before me, in a sudden line, is a row of three perfect salutes. I grab all the hands I can get. ‘Family, here we come. We can do this – we’re from the bush! Boy Hero, you ready?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ Scruff whispers.

  ‘Girl Hero?’

  She actually squeals. Most uncharacteristically Bert.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘Aye aye,’ Pin giggles, and throws in another salute.

  I march us forward. Great excitement. Clang the lion’s mouth. We’re here! We’ve arrived! We’re staaaaaaaarving!

  No answer.

  ‘Uncle Basti,’ I yell.

  No answer still.

  ‘Hellooooooooo!’

  We wait, and wait.

  ‘Hello?’

  An enormous, spooky silence.

  This can’t be happening. Horatio said Basti never goes out. I step back. Stare at the square.

  Surrounding us, as the afternoon light softens completely away, are real Christmas trees, paper snowflakes and little presents in the glowing windows of every single house – except this one. Oh, it’s all handmade – paper and silver fabric and kids’ cutouts – but everything is so sparkly and magical and alive, with love and delight and celebration and warmth. It feels like we’ve landed in the middle of a neighbourhood that’s busily, joyously, making do, with gratitude and giggles, after years of austerity and sacrifice and going-without. It feels so welcoming. Caring. Fun.

  The exact opposite of the scruffy meanness of this house upon whose doorstep we’ve been dumped. I shiver. Feel sick again. This is some cruel joke. I look at Scruff.

  ‘Maybe we should get adopted,’ he says.

  I shut my eyes tight. The rain’s getting harder, it’s hurting now, we have to get inside; deep breath, doorknob’s grabbed and as I go to push it with all my might, miraculously, at that very moment, the door glides silently, spookily, ominously open. Just like that.

  We look at each other. Scruff nods, urging me in first. That’d be right. Bert pushes me with one, clinching word. ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Daddy,’ the rest of them whisper.

  I step inside. The others are close behind.

  Gasps, from all of us.

  It’s not a house at all.

  Well, the first little bit of it is. The entrance hall, which looks very much like what an entrance should look like, with a hat rack and an umbrella stand and a mirror. But then there’s a door. Quite a modest little thing. Which of course we open, because why not? We’re from the bush and haven’t been raised along those lines of ‘children should be seen and not heard’ and all that, ‘children should just wait, patiently wait, in endless, non-fidgety stillness’ etc., etc. – oh no, we can’t possibly do any of that.

  We push this door wide . . . and that’s when more gasps come in.

  Before us: an enormous tower. As if we’re suddenly inside a lighthouse. But in the middle of a city. In what appears to be an extremely scruffy but utterly normal house – but it’s not. Wondrously. And from floor to ceiling are what look like cages. Containing, well, we can’t make out exactly what in the low honey light from hundreds of candles, all around us, right up to the sky. Someone likes their candles a lot here and I smile because I do too, much more than the harshness of electricity, as did Mum; the flickering softness of their lovely light.

  The door shuts firmly behind us. We jump. Locked. Can’t get out.

  Goosebumps.

  Pin’s fingers find mine, the candles shiver as if from an invisible breath, the hairs rise on the back of my neck. We’re being watched. I just know it. We spin around.

  ‘Hello?’ I try saying but nothing comes out.

  Heart’s pounding. Mustn’t let them know. Must be in control of this. The candles catch the gold in the tiles at our feet and the brass bars of the cages that reach up to a glittery golden dome high above us. It’s an enormous star with five plunging points and through huge slivers of glass is the London sky with its rain silently streaking, like enormous, fat tears. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and the saddest, all at once, like this whole place is crying.

  Boom! The centre of the room bursts into a blinding white light. As if a war spotlight’s been switched on.

  ‘W-what’s that?’ Scruff grabs my arm. Points.

  An enormous cage on a circular mahogany table. Dead centre.

  A brass plaque resting in front of it.

  Right. That’s saying it. Blood, pounding in my ears. Hands, trembling. And yep, this is the toughest girl in the desert here. The one who chases roos with woomeras and decapitates venomous snakes in a single blow, who tames dingos and rides emus and who always sets things right.

  ‘Kick?’ Bert urges. ‘Come on.’

  Teeth, clenched. Reputation must be maintained. I step firmly towards the cage – and reel back. Because inside, staring with cool yellow eyes as knowing as a cat’s, is a cobra. Coil upon coil. In front of it is an extremely dead mouse on its back, red eyes wide in shock. And the clasp that holds the cage shut is just a tiny, breakable slither of a thread.

  ‘Kick, i-isn’t that one of the deadliest snakes in the world?’ Scruff whispers.

  Can’t speak.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  Out flicks the snake’s tongue, tasting the new scent of very young – very fresh – flesh. That would be ours. Slowly I retreat, hands pulling Bert and Pin with me, soothing, ‘Sssshhhhhhh.’

  ‘Daddeeeeeeeeee!’ Pin suddenly wails, losing his nerve.

  That’s it. It’s all on. Pin screaming, Bert jumping up and down and giggling – ‘New toy! This is more like it! None of that doll stuff!’ – and Scruff murmuring, terrified, ‘Nice snaky, nice snaky, she’ll be right.’
>
  ‘Can anyone help – I mean, hear?’ I yell loudly to the waiting house.

  We spin around. In the long silence that follows are rustling and hissing, clicking and scrabbling noises. As if the place itself is alive, the very air of it. As if we’re deep in the Amazonian jungle and it feels like there are whispers over the animal sounds, we can almost make words out and turn in a mystified, horrified huddle. Because it feels like hundreds of eyes – thousands of them – from all manner of invisible creatures from around the building are looking straight at us. Checking us out. And licking their lips.

  How to get out? Get a rescue happening here? Make us all safe? I look wildly around. There are wooden ladders on brass railings up to the ceiling and on various levels are doors leading off to goodness knows what. Need to move, think, fast, or Pin’s going to be swallowed up by fright and Bert’s going to let that cobra out. Scruff’s just standing behind me making a terrified humming noise and it’s getting louder and louder and the cobra’s now banging angrily against its cage; it wants the sound shut off as much as I do and it’s only a tiny thread holding it in, mate.

  ‘Scruuuuuuuuuuuff!’ I cry.

  He jerks still.

  ‘I’m, I’m going –’

  ‘Where, Kick, where?’ He looks up at the cages in terror.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I cry.

  Bert stamps her foot crossly, exasperated – ‘You two’ – and heads straight to a ladder.

  It snaps me to attention. ‘I’m first, missy miss.’

  ‘Why you?’ Bert snaps. ‘Are you leaving us down here by ourselves to get killed, perhaps? That’d be right. Miss Bossy Boots, the champion of bossy boots.’

  Pin wails.

  ‘Whatever’s up there, I’ll be harder to swallow, all right? Listen. Stay right behind me. The lot of you.’

  Bert sticks out her tongue at me then at the cobra. The snake responds with another cool flick of its tongue as if to say, yes, little minx, we’ll see about that, I’ll tell you who’s boss.

  There’s a sudden, piercing whistle from above. We jump. Gaze skyward.

  Hurtling down from the ceiling is a huge hook on a brass chain. Speared on it, a piece of old parchment. It stops at eye-level. Jiggles. I step back. It jiggles more urgently.

  ‘I think it likes you,’ Scruff says.

  It jiggles again as if in approval. I extract the paper from the hook.

  It’s an ad. An extremely old one . . .

  Bert exclaims ecstatically at the announcement of each new creature – she can’t wait to go exploring. Pushes me impatiently. I start climbing the nearest ladder, accompanied by an enormous swelling of clicking and scrabbling and hissing sounds; on and on, Bert jumpy with impatience behind me. The first-floor platform. Now eye to eye with snakes and chameleons and . . . rats. Yep. Rats. Hate them. It’s just a thing I have.

  I grip the ladder tighter, break out in a sweat, can’t go on, can’t climb higher, this is horrible. Bert pokes me sharply. Ow! No choice. On I go. The creatures are from all over the world; some I recognise from Australia, some from Alice. Home. My mouth goes dry. This is too mysterious. Why are we here? Really. Did Dad know about all this? How are we connected with this place? Everyone’s bunching up the ladder behind me. I climb across to another ladder and whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiz!

  Goodness. Gobsmacked. Because I’ve just zoomed across the room. At astonishing speed.

  It’s like a secret button’s been activated. In a flash we’re jumping on new ladders, sliding across brass railings to other parts of the building and gliding to smooth exact stops right by ladders waiting patiently to take us to another level, and another, higher and higher. Right up to the glass roof, we can almost touch it and the place is now ringing with our glee. It’s ingenious! Amazing! Someone’s had an awful lot of giggles designing this, someone who knows a lot about kids . . .

  ‘I’m staying here foreveeeeeeeeeeeeeer!’ Scruff sings as he flies across the room, stopping now and then to announce the occupant of another cage, and another, from their little brass plaques attached to the bars.

  ‘Taipan – Deadliest Snake in the World. Well, hello, little boy . . . Goat-Eating Serpent. My, how pretty you are . . . Bearded Dragon. Show me your necklace. Come on . . . Man-eating Python. Not the Scruffter, lovely. My sisters, yes . . . Tiger spider. Death in three minutes. How about two? . . . King Brown – Second Deadliest Snake in the World. Woohoo, this boy’s from home!’ Scruff stops. ‘But . . . hang on. Only Daddy’s ever caught one alive . . . he’s world-famous for it. We have the newspaper story – how did this one . . .?’

  I shake my head, bewildered. It’s all too mysterious. The low sky’s right above me, I put up both palms, touch the raindrop tears through the glass, they fall and fall.

  Hang on –

  A sound –

  ‘Ssssh!’

  Is it possible to hear through your skin . . . with your whole being . . . with goosebumps? It’s a strange, soothing singing wrapped up like a cocoon of loveliness within the very core of the reptilian noise, like a lullaby inside a shell inside an ocean’s inky depths. It makes me feel very safe. I just want to curl up inside it and close my eyes, and sleep.

  ‘I hear it too,’ Scruff whispers in wonder.

  ‘Mama,’ Pin cries. He’s never said that in his life; my heart snags.

  Bert moves across, cuddles him fiercely. ‘It’s okay, little man, it’s all right. Where’s it coming from, troops?’

  ‘There.’ Pin points. At a beautifully carved door two floors down, smaller than the rest, with swirling snakes and lizards picked out in paint. I whistle low – it’s the hunting signal used to track roos; we’re going in.

  We glide like swans to the door from our different ladders. Four sets of ears press to the wood. Yep, Pin’s right, the sound’s inside. I knock gently. The singing stops. Bert thumps loudly, can’t help herself, still refusing to believe – ‘Daddy! Basti!’

  I wince.

  ‘Should we just open it?’ Scruff whispers.

  I nod. Reluctantly. The singing sounds so private and personal, it’s not for us. But Bert’s had enough, there’s too much at stake here, she flings open the door . . .

  ‘Golly galoshes,’ she whispers. The last time she said that was when a willy-willy tore our water tower clean into the sky.

  We’ve never seen anything like it.

  The most deliciously comfortable-looking hidey hole; toasty warm with a huge red velvet couch piled high with cushions and blankets and furs, enormous armchairs on lion rugs complete with heads attached, tables stacked with books, wonderful books, so many – I can’t wait! – and a roaring fire happily spitting and cracking, a huge stuffed polar bear wearing a top hat in a corner upon whose arms are resting an assortment of umbrellas, and on the wood-panelled walls are paintings, in every available space, tall, tiny, oval, right up to the roof; all portraits, men, women and children, with one thing in common – startling eyes, one green, one blue.

  Five other people have those eyes. The four of us here. And Dad.

  ‘Well, hello, hello,’ I smile. ‘This is more like it.’

  It feels like we’re being pulled inside by something stronger than us, an invisible thread, luring us further and further into this enchanting space and we want to gaze at, devour, every person in the portraits, sink into the chairs, sleep, yet the room feels so private . . .

  We haven’t been invited . . . but is someone . . . here?

  My breathing’s wobbly, I’ve suddenly never felt so wrong and rude and intrusive in my life and, as the four of us creep inside, the strangest thing happens: the reptilian cacophony behind us hushes, as if every single creature in the building is now straining its ears, listening in and wondering what’s going to happen next. What we’ll dare.

  Pin’s now tight in my arms. Scruff’s got Bert sternly by the hand. The singing has been accompanying a gramophone in the corner – as if its owner needs to drown the very thought of us out. The voice now departs from the music
and drops to a rapid, soothing chatter. I can’t make anything out.

  ‘Hello!’ Pin sings out loud, excited, oblivious.

  The chattering stops abruptly.

  Breaths held. Then up comes – slowly, slowly – an old, green, leather flying hat. Trembling. As though it really doesn’t want to be emerging at all. On top of a flurry of hair as red and unbrushed as our own. Above some round silver glasses with lenses as shiny as mirrors. We lean in, peer. The glasses flip up with a snap. We gasp.

  For staring at us is a pair of eyes: one blue, one green. But they’re not in any way thrilled to be seeing long-lost relatives from across the world, oh no. They’re horrified. So appalled and disgusted, in fact, that the head they belong to is refusing to rise a single inch more. What a sight we must be, the whole raggedy, grubby lot of us. Not London at all, no, Horatio, you were right.

  It’s enough for Bert. She leaps at the hat and enfolds the face it belongs to in a ferocious cuddle of love using every ounce of her parentless strength.

  Pin cries, ‘Mama! Dada!’

  ‘Will you adopt us?’ Scruff demands.

  The eyebrows arch wildly in shock and arms encased in blue velvet struggle for balance, a muffled cry coming from somewhere within it all. But it’s smothered by Bert’s fervour, Scruff’s glee, Pin’s straining for this exciting new creature who’s the key to everything being repaired and happy and fixed in our lives. It’s my signal. Sorry. Can’t help it. Family’s the one thing this lot needs at this point. I hold out my hand for a shaking, tugging Bert back with the other.

  But nothing.

  Just my fingers hovering, embarrassed, in empty air. I move closer, urging them to be grasped. They’re being examined like they’re riddled with pox. I tremble. I’m not going to cry, I’m not. But . . . my eyes prickle. I drop my hand. What’s wrong with it? Too grubby? Stinky from the bush? Not girly enough? I suddenly feel completely, utterly, horribly . . . unwelcome. What’s a lady meant to be like? Dirt’s under my nails in little moons and the cracks of my palms are like river lines on a map. I wipe my hands furiously on my shorts and start all over again, a smile stretched tight.