Nothing. Again.
What’s wrong with me?
I stare despairingly at two eyes glaring with . . . what? Hostility. Coldness. Horror. No. Ridiculous. We’re family.
I bite my lip. He’s not going to see my furious tears, he’s not. I look around. Horatio, this was a mistake. A humiliating one. We need to exit here. Fast. Get to Claridges, the hotel where you’ve headed to. Get a new family, a new house. I wipe my eyes fiercely.
Scruff looks at me, ever the trusty lieutenant, wondering what’s next, because of course I’m the big tough desert pirate who’s always making things right for them – crow’s nest lookouts and slippery-slide mattresses and flying foxes and cuddles and kisses goodnight. Yep, the queen of it, whether Bert likes it or not. But now this. And I’m stumped. Because we’re utterly unwanted. It’s as simple, and as horrible, as that.
A deep breath. I’ll be bigger than him. I smile wider and hold out my hand once again. ‘I’m Kick. Very pleased to meet you, Basti.’
Nothing.
Bert’s had enough. She jumps on the sofa, plucks the flying cap off the new head with a gleeful cackle, clips it on her curls and balances on the back rim of the seat like a world-famous tightrope walker gathering up the adulation of the crowd, just as she does, endlessly, on the picket fence at home. Arches into a backflip. Then turns to the hostile eyes and holds her fists under her armpits like a monkey. No! No! An extremely cheeky monkey, which is precisely the most completely wrong thing at this point. And a monkey who’s, er, proudly in possession of a brand new hat.
‘Albertina!’ Scruff and I shout in exactly Dad’s voice. ‘Are you mad? So sorry.’
We’re apologising profusely to the new eyes but they’re now focused on something else: our crazy brother on the end of the couch preparing for his very own death-defying circus routine, the running jump and flip, as if he wants to compete with Bert. Because someone’s always there to catch him – us. But no one’s there now. We’re too far from him and there’s no time. And just as he flips and propels himself wildly into the empty air the hat owner leaps forward – quick as a flash – and catches him in his arms. As if he knew all along the boy was going to do this.
‘Wheeeeeeeeee!’ Pin sings in gratitude. ‘Basti the best,’ he says, then turns his rescuer’s cheeks insistently this way and that by firmly steering his chin – ‘Turn around, turn around, now, other cheek’ – as he plants big smacks of kisses on both sides of his uncle’s face.
Basti drops him abruptly to the ground.
‘Ow!’
Our uncle reels back in terror, checking his pockets, patting them, making sure everything is all right and in its place. As if he’s never been kissed in his life, as if he’s never seen a child, held one, as if he’s just been infected with the most deadliest of germs and the interlopers are out to steal his valuables and pets and handkerchiefs and entire life.
‘I do not do CHILDREN,’ he roars.
Dead silence.
A chameleon suddenly appears from behind his shoulder. ‘That is why.’ His eyes dart to his friend. ‘I have too many other things to think about.’ The creature runs up Basti’s head, perches on the top, tilts its face and rapidly changes from blue to red. The four of us giggle, can’t help it. It hisses angrily back.
Right. Great. So even the animals here feel the same way about us. A green tree-python peeks delicately out of one jacket pocket and a frill-necked lizard out of the other.
Scruff says ‘good day’ to each of them, can’t help himself; Bert mouths the same. Python and lizard disappear fast into pocket depths. Our host’s face is like thunder.
‘Obviously you did not get the wire.’
Silence.
‘I cannot possibly take you in. An orphanage in Berkshire awaits. All has been arranged. Mr Smythe-Hippet was meant to – meant to – deliver you there directly. This is a mistake.’
Four Caddy mouths, wide with horror.
‘Speaking of, where is the man?’
‘There was a lady he had to meet,’ Bert pipes up. ‘The future Mrs Smythe-Hippet. He’s thirty-nine. It’s dire. His life is almost over.’
Uncle Basti screws up his face in shock, in revulsion. ‘I don’t want to know. Because while he’s gallivanting about town I’m stuck with you. Aren’t I? Most unfortunately. This wasn’t meant to happen. Charlie Boo – where are you?’ Basti raises his voice in panic, but no one answers back. A horribly awkward silence. ‘Where’s Charlie Boo when I need him? DON’T EVEN DARE TO GET COMFORTABLE.’ He glares at little Pin, who’s now sunk to the ground as if the weight of this trauma is just too much to bear. ‘Don’t get comfortable, oh no. You’ll only be here for five minutes, young man.’
We stare, stunned. This brother of our father is not like our father at all. In any way. Doesn’t sound like him, doesn’t look like him. No wonder he was never mentioned. They must have had some huge and horrible falling out.
Basti’s wearing a battered red soldier’s jacket with brass buttons from some war of long ago; black trousers with gold braid up the sides; one green sock, one yellow, and long black velvet slippers that have a B embroidered on them in thread as golden as egg yolk. He looks like he’s from another world entirely, like he’s missed – completely – the last six years of the war. And Dad – the polar opposite. All grizzly muscles and khaki and workboots and a stained bushman’s hat that rarely comes off.
‘I bet you were never even in a war!’ I fling, can’t help it, as I scoop Pin up, thinking of Turk bullets and trench whistles left back at home. Thinking of proper, grown-up, fighting men; out in the world, on secret expeditions, doing something with their lives.
Basti flips up his glasses, takes another close look at the sheer and utter stain of me, shivers in revulsion and what feels like a cold, cold hatred, and flips the glasses back.
‘Ignore her, mate,’ Scruff says companionably. ‘She’s just the embarrassing big sister going through . . . whatever girls go through.’ It’s his turn to shiver. ‘Ask Aunty Ethel. She’ll tell you. My sister’s always rubbing people up the wrong way. Hey, you know, we wouldn’t mind something to eat here. I bet you’ve got a corker of a kitchen. Down . . . there . . . is it? I love to cook. Eggs. My specialty.’
‘What?’ Basti hisses.
He steps forward, head to one side. Utterly bewildered by the astonishingly talky, grubby tidal wave of us. Peers at the freckles that cram everyone’s faces as if he’s never seen anything like them. Shudders. Peers at our eyes like he doesn’t quite trust the colour of them, like we’re impostors who couldn’t possibly belong to this esteemed family that graces every inch of his precious velvety space.
‘We’ll be up on this wall one day!’ Scruff jumps in cheerily, following his uncle’s eyes and flinging his arms wide. ‘Continuing the proud family tradition. Bags the centre spot! Just need some food first, or I might die sooner than expected.’ He laughs. ‘How about it, Uncle Basti. Any bananas in the house? Jam? Chocolate?’
‘I don’t. Think. So.’ Basti peers at the embarrassment of our mishmash of clothes. The affront of Scruff’s bare feet. The horror of our filthy faces still faintly marked by desert war paint. He’s making us feel like nothing so much as a brand new species of reptile here – a species that’s never going to pass muster. And on top of everything, a species that steals hats. He glares at his now.
Bert backs up, trembling. It’s a splendid new fashion item – and we all know how much she’ll be wanting to hang onto it.
‘No cage, Uncle Basti,’ she says nervously, holding her head. ‘Please.’
‘He’s not going to put you in a cage,’ I soothe, steely, staring straight at him.
‘Unless you don’t give that hat back, Albertina,’ Scruff says, through gritted teeth.
Basti raises his eyebrows. An idea. Bert whips back the hat quick smart. It’s clipped onto its right ful head.
‘Chocolate’s my favourite thing, Basti,’ Scruff announces, man to man. ‘I get violently ill if I
don’t have some every hour, on the hour.’
‘Ssssh.’ I kick him. Doesn’t he get it? We’re not wanted.
Scruff punches me hard, I punch back.
Basti backs away fast, holding up his hands. ‘No. No. No. I don’t do little people. Especially fighting ones. Absolutely not. This stops now.’
‘We can be angels, too,’ Bert jumps in eagerly. ‘We’ll even take your pets for walks.’
‘Pets! Pets!’ Pin cries excitedly. ‘Bags Cobry!’
‘Why meeeee?’ Basti yells to the heavens.
‘Because we don’t have anyone else,’ I yell back.
Everything, suddenly, is very still.
‘I –’ Basti stops. ‘I don’t . . . I just . . . can’t . . .’ His glasses snap back. ‘I don’t do people. Children. Especially.’
‘Even tiny little ones?’ Pin asks, his enormous eyes welling.
I find Pin’s hand. It’s shaking, I’ve never felt it shake before; I squeeze it, with all my heart, willing him not to cry. It’s no use. A big plop of wet falls on my hand, which is then used to wipe his nose, noisily, leaving a streak of snivelly dirt across his cheek.
Basti stares, repulsed. ‘I’ve heard things,’ he says, backing away. ‘Especially about the desert variety of child. Oh yes, I know exactly what you’re like. I have my ways. For instance, I know that Childus Australis Desertus has not only shoe phobias –’ (glaring at Scruff’s feet) ‘– and kleptomania, especially when it comes to clothes, which are then customised most bizarrely –’ (Bert) ‘– but also turns every meal into a battlefield –’ (wincing at Pin) ‘– and can never be still or contained or quiet –’ (Scruff) ‘– and bangs on any available pot like they’re creating an orchestral symphony –’ (Pin again) ‘– and battles policemen and frankly anyone in authority –’ (all of us) ‘– and is quite wilfully the opposite of whatever a lady is meant to be –’ (me in particular) ‘– with the most terrifyingly hotheaded temper and is far too outspoken and loud and stroppy for their own good –’ (definitely me) ‘– and is quite despairingly wild, stubborn, obnoxious, exhausting and disobedient –’ (all of us) ‘– until your reputation has become so blighted that no one, absolutely no one, wants to go near you, I’m afraid. Especially, most especially . . . me.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘So there you have it. I cannot help you. At all. I live in an extremely orderly house. An extremely orderly and deeply secret house that will be destroyed if it is ever discovered. And I just know in my bones that you all being here will draw attention to it. Fatal attention. Your noise, your shrillness, your fulsome . . . bounce. This place carries out some extremely important work with rare and exotic animals – and it cannot be disturbed under any circumstances. I haven’t ventured outside for years. I need to protect what goes on here. So, frightfully sorry. Can’t help you in any way. Just not the type.’
Basti abruptly indicates the door. ‘Your new abode has been arranged. I’ve been wiring to various parties but, as you know, Mr Smythe-Hippet, most oddly, did not get my missives. This will be rectified immediately. Please wait in the foyer. I sent down the note thinking it may . . . quell you. Obviously this was not the case, and then you all started . . . swarming. Everywhere.’ He shudders in disgust, gathers himself. ‘There will be food waiting at your new abode. To linger will only encourage you. You can wait by the cobra. In strict silence and stillness so as not to alarm her. Good day.’
It’s like I’ve been winded. But a dragon’s roaring, from deep inside, it bubbles up until I have to let it out –
‘We thought we were getting a family. A new home. Some stability in our life. We loved being on the station by ourselves but that was because we knew there was always someone who . . . who . . . loved us.’
‘We thought you’d adopt us!’ Scruff butts in.
Basti holds up his hand, batting us away. ‘You’re to be sent to a very fine institution. Immediately. In all comfort. I’ll even throw in some gifts from Harrods. My butler will arrange everything . . .’
Fiercely I grab Pin’s trembling little hand. It’s not gifts we want, not Harrods, it’s a home. ‘Please, sir, we can’t.’
‘Oh yes you can. The only alternative is going to live with an acquaintance of mine, one Darius Davenport, who works in a funeral parlour near Brompton Cemetery and prepares cadavers for the grave.’ Bert squeals in excitement and he looks at her, befuddled.‘That is what you’ll be doing if you do not go downstairs immediately and wait for transportation.’ A curious lizard is firmly poked back into his pocket, as if this heated conversation is far too rough for its delicate constitution.
‘Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!’ My full-throttle desert roar. I whip out Dad’s war pistol in one hand; slingshot in the other.
It’s the signal. Scruff pulls out his slingshot, Bert takes out Dad’s hunting knife, Pin holds up both hands in the air like a gorilla and lets out his most piercing war cry. I aim the pistol right at Basti. He whips off his glasses, eyes wide. Starts breathing panicky, loud, fast; clutches his chest as if it hurts then stumbles out of the room, as quick as he can.
‘Charlie Boo!’ he yells wildly, desperately. ‘Charlie Boo! Where are you? Come back. I need you! I can’t do this!’
We are stunned. Can’t move. Shocked into stillness like statues. Don’t know what to do, where to go from here. We stare at each other, whispering our bewilderment, trying to work it out. What to do? Suddenly a door slams, from way below us. I wince. It sounds, sickeningly, like the huge front one.
We’ve been abandoned.
We stare at each other. Lower our weapons.
‘He’s gone,’ whispers Bert in astonishment.
No. We look around. Yes.
So. Alone. All over again. Just like that. Maybe there really is a problem with us? All alone in an agitated, whispering, hissing house. And not very friendly hissing at this moment.
‘Cuddle?’ Pin asks fearfully.
I scoop him up because maybe there’s a saltwater croc behind one of those wooden doors, or rats in the kitchen sink and snakes in the chandeliers. Our backs prickle up. If we head off through any door in this place we might be swallowed up, bitten, strangled or stung, never to return and never to find a way out – and four little skeletons might be found, years later, curled into balls in some obscure corner.
Scruff’s whimpering now. We press tighter.
The portraits glare all around us, terrifyingly stern and admonishing, as if the four of us have badly let the family down. I suddenly realise that every single painting has a reptile in it somewhere – a snake on a brooch, a lizard on a shoe buckle – but none of that’s helping us now because outside the door are several hundred creatures of very cold blood including, of course, one very large cobra. Right by the only known way out. With one very small clasp holding it in. A cobra that gives the appearance of licking its lips, in anticipation, whenever we’re in sight.
Pin tries to climb onto my back as if it’s the safest place in the world, and Bert joins him.
‘Woo-oooo . . .’ I wobble and tumble and we end up on the floor, giggling despite ourselves in one big jumbly heap.
‘Come on, you lot, we’ve got to make this work,’ I resolve.
I haul everyone up. Brush them down. Straighten their hair. Stand by the door, assess. The hissings grow louder, as if the mere presence of young flesh is infecting every single creature and whipping them into a frenzy. Deep breath. This has to be done.
I’m off! Whizzing across the room once again. ‘Down, down!’ I urge, guessing ground level’s our best bet; no plan but no one needs to know that. We scramble down the ladders, slingshots in teeth, only to be stopped by the most terrifying sight . . .
The cobra’s cage door, wide open.
Its occupant gone.
Snake on the loose. Deadly snake on the loose!
‘Okay. Okay. Okay. We . . . ah . . .’ I glance wildly around.
‘Outside.’ Scruff points to the front door. ‘Kicky, quick. We�
�ve got to save him.’
‘Who?’
‘Basti!’
‘Why?’
‘Because he said he hasn’t been out of the house for years. And everything’s completely changed. Bombs have dropped, buildings are gone, the world’s been turned upside down. He’ll be petrified. Lost.’
I snort in disgust.
‘He’s family, Kick. The only bit of family we’ve got. We need to stick together.’
Bert suddenly pushes me from behind, willing me out after Scruff. I run my hand through my hair – right, great, someone else to look after now. Just add him to the list. And a frightful someone at that. Worse than Bert – who would have thought?
‘You forced him outside,’ Scruff adds. As brothers do.
‘We all did, mate.’
‘Basti, where are you?’ Pin wails. ‘I want you.’ Obviously not getting a single thing about the past twenty minutes.
‘If we lose him we lose the key to Dad.’ Bert looks at me accusingly. ‘It’ll be your fault.’
‘All right,’ I sigh, ‘all right.’
The four of us sprint as fast as we’ve ever sprinted in our lives, out into the shivery, slippery London street. No time for any waiting cobras to slither from a cupboard let alone grab us by the legs, no time to wonder who Charlie Boo is, no time to ponder whether we’re dressed correctly for a bitter London night, no time to wonder if we’re mad, deluded, about to fall into a trap . . . Basti might be leading us straight through the gates of an orphanage for all we know.
But he’s family. They’re right.
‘Come on,’ Bert yells. ‘Chaaaaaaaaaaaaarge!’
Dad’s hunting knife – rust or blood still on it because I refuse to take whatever it is off – leads the way.
Not a soul in sight.
Suddenly, a great screech of traffic noise. Brakes squealing, horns blaring. Yelling, screaming. We look towards the bottom of the hill. A huge commotion’s going on at an intersection there; a great mad cacophony of life.
‘Basti,’ Scruff whispers.
The Kensington Reptilarium Page 5
