The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  ‘You don’t have to, Kick,’ Bert jumps in, ‘really.’

  I push her. She stamps on my foot.

  ‘Temper temper,’ Basti admonishes me. ‘I’ve heard all about it, Miss Kick. And I do not relish it. Or any type of physical fight, from any of you. Or noise, or squealing, or shouting, or talk. So this, I’m afraid, is where I depart – quick smart.’ He walks backwards, fast, hands out in horror at the lot of us.

  I stamp my foot. He’s as contradictory and changeable as . . . as . . . me. And I will win this.

  ‘Look out!’ Scruff yells.

  Too late.

  ‘Ow! I say.’

  Basti’s just bumped smack bang into that terribly glamorous neighbour who’s now head to toe in tiger print – hat, boots and coat – and staggering down the hill with an enormous box she can barely see over the top of. She stops as if she’s seen a ghost. As if she absolutely cannot believe what’s in front of her.

  ‘Sebastian? Is it . . . you? Outside?’ She’s shaking her head in wonder. ‘Well, I never.’

  Basti snaps up his glasses. Eyes widen in surprise. Snaps them down again. The neighbour blushes. Steps back. Drops her box in a flurry of confusion and hundreds of little white candles fall out and tumble roly-poly down the hill, gleefully running away from the lot of us. Fast.

  ‘Uuuuuuuurghhhh,’ she yells in frustration and she’s off running furiously, swooping on as many candles as she can in her tall tiger heels.

  ‘Troops – run!’ I grab little white sticks left, right and centre.

  Everyone joins in except for Basti, who just stands there, bewildered, with a snake wrapped around his neck; he starts pointing to any candle still on the loose, directing. ‘There . . . over here, boy . . . under the Roller, quick!’

  Scruff’s so keen he slides into a tummy-dive; Pin’s managed just two candles, which he’s now trying to stick in his ears; Bert’s got a sarong full. When the candles are back in their box the neighbour says thank you, to the four of us, then just stares pointedly at the culprit.

  I know that look. I’ve seen it on Mum, years ago. At Dad. I’d forgotten it until now. One of those glares that has years and years of things said and not said and it’s all too hard and someone’s right cranky at someone but no one’s saying anything; no one’s diving in and clearing it up. Grown-ups, they’re so complicated. Who’d want to be one.

  ‘Well, well,’ the woman says. Finally.

  A very long pause. As if these two people have a huge amount to say to each other but never will. Basti just stands there, nervously stroking his snake. He’s breathing jaggedly but trying not to. He’s agitated, lost for talk.

  ‘Basti?’ I prompt.

  He glares at me in annoyance: back off.

  Bert goes up to him and clutches his hand then turns her eyes coolly on his neighbour, warning her away, girl to girl.

  The neighbour waves a single candle at them both. ‘You’ve forgotten what these are for, haven’t you, Sebastian?’ Her tongue clucks in annoyance. ‘Or can’t be bothered.’ She glances around the square. ‘Your house – please don’t make it the only dark one this year. The only one, year after year. This is our ritual, remember, and you haven’t done it since 1919. Oh yes, I’ve been taking note. And every year I’ve prayed for . . . a miracle. That you’d somehow change. Be what you were. Spring back into life. Somehow.’ She sighs, in hopelessness, looking at him with the most peculiar expression. ‘And the rest of us of course haven’t lit the candles for six endless years, blackouts and all that. But we need to now. Urgently. More than ever –’ She stops, clogged. ‘After Europe, after everything that’s gone on.’ Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘The camps. Have you seen the pictures? We need the lights in the windows, Sebastian, this year of all years. Please.’ A pause. ‘Are you even listening?’

  No one speaks.

  ‘It’s the not knowing, Seb. The never knowing . . . with us.’

  She’s almost crying, the air is prickly with it.

  ‘Sebastian?’

  Silence. She flings the candle back in the box.

  Our uncle just stands there, stroking his snake, looking at his pet and no one else, in a world of his own. The reptile hisses and lashes out.

  The lady groans in fury and storms off. ‘Why did I think it’d be any different this time around? Why?’

  ‘Will you adopt us,’ Scruff yells out after her, ‘if our uncle doesn’t work out? Like – maybe – tonight? Really quick?’

  The woman freezes at the word ‘adopt’, her back still to us. ‘And what are you doing with . . . children . . . of all things?’ Her voice is icy. ‘You? I can imagine it when you were younger but . . . now?’

  Basti looks wounded. ‘My nephews and nieces,’ he cries after her. ‘They’ve been sent to me because . . . because . . .’ He turns in panic to the lovely home we’re standing outside, notices a Christmas tree in its window, a holly wreath on its door, peers, as if he hasn’t seen any of this for years. ‘Because of Christmas, if you must. They’re family. And they’re here . . . with me, yes me . . . for it.’

  Well well, what a scene: four Caddys leaping into the air, yelling and whooping with the joyiest joy you’ve ever seen in your life. Because we’re staying! Christmas is coming! Everything will be all right!

  ‘What?’ It’s spat. As if to her this is the most ridiculous arrangement in the world.

  We stop.

  ‘In your home? Do you even know when Christmas is? What you do?’

  ‘Er, well –’

  ‘And what will you be feeding them, pray? Roasted rattlesnake? Mouse-tail spaghetti? Would you like that, children, would you? Most delicious, hmm?’

  ‘I –’ Basti splutters.

  ‘And presents? A snakeskin, perhaps? A desiccated rat?’ The woman is now back with us, bending down, whispering, ‘I’m so frightfully sorry,’ as if whatever’s ahead is rather terrible for children and she knows it. She cups her hand under Bert’s chin, strokes it in pity, then hands to each of us a single white candle. ‘Merry Christmas, my dears. He was fun, once. But those days have long gone. Good luck.’ And then she walks off. As fast she can. ‘And for Pete’s sakes, Sebastian, get them dressed,’ she yells like a headmistress, without looking back. ‘There must be something in that attic.’

  Two elderly neighbours walk past.

  ‘Helen, Rupert,’ she calls to them, ‘look, it’s Basti, he’s out and about, can you believe it?’ She’s choked up with emotion. ‘And he’s having family over for Christmas, how extraordinary.’

  ‘Oh Basti, dear Basti, you’re finally stepping out!’ says the elderly woman, with gladness. ‘We’re so frightfully happy you’ve . . . recovered. Your mother would be so pleased, dear boy. Such a kindly soul, as are you. Were you. She’d be so happy to have her darling boy back.’ A pause. ‘Yes?’

  Basti shakes his head, backs away, from all of them, all of us. The neighbours shake their heads sadly, bewildered, as if they know they’re pushing their luck with this. Basti turns from them without a word, and they disappear swiftly into the dark, embarrassed, awkward.

  Leaving the five of us alone once again.

  ‘NOOOoooooooooo!’ I cry.

  All the normality in our lives. Vanished in the dark.

  Pin’s bottom lip trembles, he’s about to launch into a huge wail. I know what he’s thinking: it’ll be fried rat in a few days, a snakeskin wrapped in newspaper, gecko porridge, iguana cake – Christmas is absolutely hopeless, as is just about everything in this new life.

  ‘Mouse-tail sketti?’ he sobs, looking up at his uncle. ‘Uncle Basti?’

  The man can’t answer. He just looks at us Caddy kids, absolutely stuck. Runs both hands through his hair in frustration. How did he get himself into this? ‘I can’t . . . I don’t . . .’ he stumbles. ‘I didn’t mean to –’

  ‘What?’ I snap. ‘What? Invite us over for Christmas, perhaps? Was that a most horrible mistake? That you’re about to withdraw?’

  Basti can�
�t answer, he looks at us helplessly.

  Pin’s now howling like a child lost in a crowd at a country fair.

  ‘She’s right,’ whispers Scruff, ‘he can’t do it.’

  And now we’re all imagining the Christmas ahead: an uncle who doesn’t want us one bit, no proper presents, no laughter, no cuddles and most of all, no Dad. No tossing in the air, one by one. No sleeping in his bed, the five of us at once. No Peter Pan airplanes as he holds us as flat as ironing boards and zooms us around in bright air. No magic coins appearing from behind ears, no gum from the Yanks. No bedtime stories of Santas arriving on camels and wombats and crocs, and no camping expeditions to sacred sites – ‘Don’t walk on them, tiger cubs, we must respect that’ – and no piggybacks because the sand is too hot for any of us but Dad’s feet are as tough ‘as old Bible leather, chaps!’ No slingshots carefully whittled, four of them, in descending size, with names carefully engraved in cursive script and lined up as obedient as soldiers on the mantelpiece.

  Nope, absolutely none of it.

  Just four tiny white candles. Our only gifts in a new Christmas of vast bleakness. With an uncle who’s trying his best to be rid of us. Who doesn’t have a clue. About anything. Who loves snakes more than people and it seems has never touched anyone in his life.

  Pin’s happy little soldier’s heart is quite, quite cracked. Scruff’s not far behind.

  ‘What are you going to do, Kick?’ Bert asks.

  I look her straight in the eyes. ‘This, sis. This.’

  I pick up a stick and hurl it into the garden square like I’m flinging a desert spear to shatter a mirage, to wake us all up. I’ve had enough. I need this new life to go away and the old one back, the one where I don’t have to be the grown-up any more. We have to find Horatio and demand our old world back. Get to the bottom of the mystery of Dad; storm War Offices, whatever, if we must.

  I grab Pin in one hand, Bert in the other. She seizes Scruff on the way. The lot of us march smartly down the hill, smartly into our brand new life. Where? What? Goodness knows. Anything but this. We’ll find Horatio somewhere, even if it means camping on his doorstep; he’ll sort this out.

  ‘Where are you taking us?’ Bert cries.

  ‘Home.’

  ‘But . . . where’s that?’ Scruff says in dismay. ‘I’m starving, I’ll die if we don’t eat, we’ve only just . . .’

  ‘I know what I’m doing! Troops, onward march!’

  I yank them hard. When I’m angry nothing can stop me.

  Except, er, several policemen.

  At the bottom of the square. Crossing the street. With intent.

  Right.

  Policemen, no less, who were at the standoff. Who look like they’re now trying to find the house with the cobra in it. Like they’ve visited a lot of other streets. They’re waving their torches, peering through the garden square as if this could possibly be the logical place for a man with a snake.

  They mustn’t see us. Under any circumstances. The Reptilarium might shut down if they get us, someone will crack if we’re caught. I gasp with sudden realisation: it’s the only thing we’ve now got in our lives and Basti will be left with nothing but the shell of a life. Our escape is blocked, there’s only one place to go.

  ‘Troops, about-turn!’ I whisper in panic. Quick smart I turn everyone around and quick smart march them straight back up the hill.

  A lone figure, dead ahead of us.

  Uncle Basti.

  Slowly walking to his Reptilarium. Looking so terribly all-by-himself, so much smaller and bowed and older and . . . sad . . . yes, that. He walks past his neighbour’s house without so much as a glance, just continues on to his home.

  Bert peels away, then Scruff; they both run straight up to him. Pin follows and I’m not far behind. We swarm around our uncle – ‘We’re here!’ ‘We’re back!’ – and you know what, the smile of relief on him, in the gloom, is like sunlight suddenly bursting through a storm cloud. He wipes an eye. Has he been . . . crying? Surely not. No.

  Yes?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers hoarsely. ‘I’m all of a . . . mess.’

  Grown-ups. You just can’t work them out.

  ‘Last one to the door’s a rotten egg!’

  Scruff’s shouting and we’re all dashing for it as fast as we can. Beaten, most astonishingly, by Basti, who’s like a horse straining under the reins at the sight of home. He whoops in triumph, flings open the door and slams it resoundingly shut on the world. With us – hallelujah! – on the right side of it.

  ‘One night, Miss Kick,’ he warns me.

  ‘Yaaaaaaay!’

  The reptiles in the building bristle with affronted hisses and rustles, as if they’re jealous, as I try to shush my lot down.

  ‘One only. And you will all have to prove that you’re the right type of species to spend a night in this hallowed place. No one else, apart from Charlie Boo, has ever passed the Reptilarium test.’

  ‘Who’s Charlie Boo?’ Bert asks.

  ‘Only the most talented butler in the entire British Empire. Trained in Rangoon. The best of the best.’

  ‘The Reptilarium test? I love tests! My dad says my whole presence is a test,’ Scruff declares proudly.

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ Basti purrs. ‘Just you wait, Master Scruff; I have something especially for you.’ He narrows his eyes and smiles inscrutably at him.

  I grab Pin’s hand. Our uncle’s so changeable, unknowable, unguessable. Can we trust what’s ahead? Who’s the real him?

  ‘Now, if you pass, there may well be a bed of some sort for the evening. And a meal of similar – rustic – improvisation.’ He bends down to Pin. ‘And I promise you it will not be mouse-tail spaghetti, Master Phineas.’

  Pin shivers all over in delight.

  ‘And there may well be a visit to the attic to conjure up some appropriate items of clothing. There must be something up there. Haven’t visited for years. Azure blue, young lady.’ He points to my ragged top.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your colour. The colour of that wretched sky over your way. And I do believe there’s some cocoa in the house for any chocolate lovers who could, possibly, be in our midst.’

  Scruff punches the air. ‘Yes.’

  Bert clears her throat.

  ‘Miss Albertina!’ Basti hits his head in frustration. ‘How could one possibly forget? Black black black. Well, there’s most certainly that upstairs. In abundance. And I may even have a spare coffin up there for the likes of you to sleep in. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  She claps her hands in glee; I step back, not liking this coffin talk.

  ‘Now, who’s afraid of heights?’

  I step back further.

  With a flourish Basti indicates an enormous lever by the door – we didn’t notice it before. Pulls it with great effort. ‘Your first test,’ he purrs.

  Four kids, open-mouthed, gazing up at a giant steel arm emerging from the top door of the tower with a great whirring sound. A wooden seat is swinging from it, suspended by four chains. Basti directs it as the chair zooms down through the vast space and stops right by us. It jiggles expectantly. Jiggles again.

  ‘Who’s first?’ Basti enquires.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask softly, my hand firm on Scruff, who’s champing at the bit.

  ‘Oh, just some little thing I dreamt up, for when I get too creaky to climb the ladders. I’ve spent years perfecting this Reptilarium, young lady. Nothing must stop the smooth functioning of this establishment. Especially four little rock wallabies from the bush.’

  We cram into the seat together, Pin on my lap, Bert on Scruff’s.

  ‘It wasn’t meant for four,’ Basti murmurs, ‘but oh well, we’ll soon find out,’ and he secures a chain across us, whispers ‘hold tight’ then dashes back to the lever. With an almighty groan the chains lift the chair into the air, as if they can barely support this new weight. Then . . . whooooooooooooosh! The seat shoots up to the ceiling.

  ‘Whe
eeeeeeeeee!’ Pin squeals.

  Bert and I hold onto anything and everything, for dear life, then all four of us stare down from our vantage point under the dome, swinging gently.

  ‘I feel kind of sick,’ Bert says.

  ‘Not now!’ Scruff.

  ‘Don’t look down!’ Me.

  The chains suddenly drop a few metres; they’re straining to hold our weight. We scream.

  Basti’s unconcerned. ‘Now, who would you like to visit first?’ he shouts up at us. ‘My taipan, Frederica? You’ll be holding her by the end of the night, Master Scruff. The twin rattlesnakes, Osbert and Oswald? Dicken, my grumpy komodo dragon? The Reptilarium is all yours . . . for one night and one night only. Children, it’s what you wanted. May the test commence!’

  ‘Is there a Loch Ness monster somewhere in here? Can I stroke him too?’ Yes, that would be Scruff.

  ‘Not quite, but allow me, if you please.’

  And with a lurch we’re off, whizzing in huge circles, spiralling to all the different levels, stopping in at various cages.

  ‘You can do it yourself, Miss Kick. There’s a control lever to your left,’ Basti instructs.

  I lean over, find a small brass knob. We jerk wildly in the air; Pin screams; Bert demands a go.

  ‘It’s extremely sensitive!’ Basti shouts. ‘Just a gentle tap.’

  After several wildly jerky stop-starts we’re off, zinging round and round the enormous space with the wind in our hair.

  Wheeeeeeeeeee!

  Pin starts laughing wildly, it’s the most beautiful sound, then Scruff, Bert and finally myself; we can’t stop. Because we’re suddenly kids again, proper kids, letting go and not worrying and just having proper, silly fun, just like at home, for the first time since our world was turned upside down. Bert’s squeezing me in exhilaration, saying ‘Come on, Kicky girl!’; Scruff’s urging, ‘Fast, faster,’ and suddenly my eyes are prickling up – because I’m happy – for the first time in so long.

  Cracked. By kindness.

  We so needed it.

  The swing glides slowly past a candle. Scruff reaches for it, snatches it up – and drops it.

  Nooooooooooooooooooo!