The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  Scruff’s got a pirate thing going on, all buckles and swords and waistcoats and with every weapon imaginable. Berti’s . . . well . . . kind of everything, if that’s possible, but it works magnificently and it’s all in black of course and topped off with three tiaras and an ostrich feather on a turban. Pin’s a little Lord Fauntleroy in a cram of velvet and lace (well, we may have played dress-ups on him). And me? Jodhpurs and lace-up boots and a corset and a big white shirt and a nifty leather baseball cap and mirrored sunglasses just like Basti’s with only one crack –

  Hang on . . . what’s that smell?

  We look at each other and race through to the next room squealing with excitement. Basti claps his hands at the crazy, mishmashed sight of us.

  ‘Bravo!’

  Dressed for dinner, to his liking, at last.

  In the centre of the room now stands a red and orange Arabian tent. Four lit candelabras are at its entrance and inside, on a Persian rug, is an enormous jumble of velvet cushions surrounding an array of golden bowls with – what?

  The smells!

  The most delicious aromas we’ve ever smelled in our lives. We’ve never seen anything like it: food that’s pink, blue, purple; odd-looking leaves, chocolates in lizard and cobra shapes.

  ‘I promise it’s not dried ants, Master Scruff,’ Basti declares, busily setting out pewter plates and golden spoons and wine goblets with what looks like cocoa inside them. He’s now wearing a velvet jacket the colour of a bright yellow sunflower. On one shoulder is a bearded dragon and on the other a butterfly lizard. When the banquet’s set he runs to the corner of the tent and cranks up an organ grinder. ‘My most esteemed guests, let the feast commence!’

  We run forward, squealing.

  ‘Now you look like you belong in this place,’ he says. ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Yes,’ I laugh, ‘and nowhere else.’

  ‘Knocking!’ Pin says.

  ‘What?’ I say, above all the shrieking and exclaiming.

  ‘Knocking, Kicky. Downstairs.’

  We strain for a moment to hear, but the rest of us can’t wait, we’re ravenous, what the heck, we have to dive in.

  ‘Come on!’ Basti urges. ‘I can’t send you out into the world starving, can I?’ He leans in. ‘My dears, I guarantee this will make you feel like nothing you’ve felt before. A most singular and spectacular feast awaits you – everything has been prepared as if you were nothing less than kings and queens of foreign climes!’ He takes what looks like a fried grasshopper’s leg, throws back his head, pops it in his mouth and shuts his eyes in ecstasy. It’s Scruff’s cue. He throws a grasshopper leg high in the air and catches it in his mouth, chews, swallows, and his entire body jiggles with delight. He’s our tester, it must be good, and he’s now closely followed by the rest of us.

  Mmmmmmmm indeed.

  Everything.

  In the middle of her third helping of thistle ice cream Bert yawns the longest, widest yawn we’ve ever seen on her and falls headfirst into her bowl.

  ‘Good grief!’ Basti stares. ‘Is that what children do nowadays?’

  ‘We need to get her to bed.’ I haul her up. ‘Er, if she has a bed?’

  We look enquiringly at our uncle. The room hushes, this is the big moment. Have we – or have we not – passed the test?

  Breaths held.

  Basti’s face lights up. ‘Oh, but you do have a bed, you do! The like of which you’ve never seen before . . .’

  ‘Hurrah!’ From Scruff and I.

  ‘But . . . well . . . do you dare?’

  Bert sits straight up as if in a trance. ‘Bed . . . bed . . . bed . . .’

  ‘There was knocking, Kicky,’ Pin urges, ‘rat-tat-tat, tatty-tat!’

  ‘Come on, quick!’ Basti exclaims, not hearing him. ‘You’re exhausted, silly me, I should have seen it. There’s not a second to be wasted!’

  Basti, with renewed vigour, pushes across a huge drum on the attic floor.

  It’s hiding an enormous hole cut into the ground. Our uncle cackles with glee; we peer down. Lo and behold, a twisting silver slide! Down, down it swirls, so far that we can’t see where it ends – or what’s at the bottom.

  ‘This will keep you quiet,’ Basti giggles, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

  I lurch back, never completely sure with him. ‘What will?’

  ‘Master Scruff, for one night, and one night only, your bedroom awaits,’ he announces.

  It takes Scruff all of two seconds to jump in. ‘Wheeeeeeeeeeeeee!’ His voice disappears.

  A thud.

  Silence.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Bert asks.

  ‘Possibly,’ Basti chirps.

  ‘Come on, Pin.’ I drag His Sleepiness onto my knees and hold tight; wherever Scruff is we need to be there too. Basti gives us a savage push.

  ‘AAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!!!!’

  We land in sand.

  Red sand, the colour of home. It even smells like home.

  I lie back in it, laughing in sheer delight and wonderment; Pin tries to burrow into it, to curl up and sleep. I gaze up, quite forgetting for a moment about a lost brother who may need rescuing. This room is too lovely. The ceiling and walls are painted a tall, sky blue – our sky – with soft white clouds of a summer’s day – our clouds. For a precious moment I’m home, alone, without a care in the world.

  Bert lands behind us, giggling, and Basti after her, still talking, as if the conversation never stopped.

  ‘I’ve been preparing this room for my sweet little dragons. It’s almost done. The slide’s an old remnant from a most glorious childhood. I’d utterly forgotten about it – until now.’

  ‘Did you say dragons?’ Scruff, suddenly poking his head from a door.

  ‘Why yes. My baby komodos, Clemmie and Winny. They’re waiting for you, in a holding pen next door. They look extremely cuddly but are absolutely fearsome –’ Basti notes Scruff’s face ‘– to anyone they don’t like. Which I’m sure will not be the case with you, young man.’

  I wonder for a moment: is he doing this on purpose – to make us leave the Reptilarium of our own accord?

  ‘But where am I sleeping?’ Scruff looks around in panic. ‘I’m not too good at sharing rooms with scaly, spiky . . . dragons.’

  ‘Oh dear boy, no no no, you’re not sleeping in here –’ Basti runs across to a double door and flings it wide ‘– but here!’

  A bathroom. As big as Scruff’s bedroom at home. With a huge bath in the centre that has lion claws for feet.

  ‘Your bed.’ Basti sweeps his arm across it. ‘Imagine. Pillows, cushions, silk throws – a chamber fit for a king! With two fearsome foot soldiers to protect you at the gate. No goblins or witches or three-headed dogs will dare take a bite out of you now.’

  ‘Or ghosts?’

  ‘Well, those one cannot stop no matter how much one tries.’ Basti looks distractedly at Scruff’s stricken face. ‘But I’m sure our friends from the other side won’t go near a bath. Too . . . er . . . chilly.’

  My brother climbs into his new bed. His face . . . not sure. The rest of us hold our breaths – I don’t think beggars can be choosers in this situation and oh dear, this isn’t going to work, we’re failing the sleeping test at the first hurdle. Perhaps it’ll be the orphanage after all. Right now.

  ‘You know what?’ Basti says brightly. ‘I think we need to find a room right by you for that fanged tiger in our midst.’

  ‘The . . . the . . . what?’ Scruff’s eyes are wide. Oh brother, please.

  ‘Your sister, dear boy. Miss Kick. Terrifying, don’t you think? Let’s go!’

  Scruff laughs with relief. ‘I’ll take this room!’

  Basti has both fists clenched behind his back. ‘Excellent. Now as a reward, you may choose a hand. Another test.’

  ‘Left!’

  In the centre of Basti’s flattened palm is a chocolate with a red aeroplane on it. ‘For my fellow chocoholic.’ Basti smiles, popping it into Scruff’s mouth.


  ‘I’m a choccy-wolic too!’ Pin holds out both his palms.

  ‘Well then, young sir, you must also choose a hand.’

  ‘That one. And that one.’ Everyone laughs as he retrieves a chocolate from each palm, pops one in his mouth and gives the other to me. I hand it to Bert.

  ‘Gee, thanks,’ she says, with a look that says you’re all right, sis, actually, you’re all right.

  ‘Just one more thing, Basti,’ Scruff asks. ‘Is there an alarm clock?’

  ‘Goodness no, we do not believe in rising early here. This establishment knows only one eight o’clock in a day – or nine, or ten, for that matter.’

  ‘But it’s to wake me for my midnight feast that’s going to consist of nothing but chocolate! Every single night, at the stroke of twelve!’

  A clap on his back. ‘A man after my own heart!’

  And my smile is wide – because Basti didn’t retort that we’d only be here one night; that we’d be out in the morning; which means that maybe, just maybe, everything will be fine.

  ‘The fearsome Kick,’ he winks, ‘you’re next. If you dare.’

  I gulp.

  There is good reason to.

  The plaque on my new door. Hmm. Large and to the point.

  ‘Any room but this one,’ I whisper. ‘Please, don’t let it be a saltie.’

  ‘Oh, much more exciting than a crocodile!’ Basti sorts through a huge pile of keys around his neck. His voice lowers. ‘This room is more precious to me than any other. And I’m entrusting it to you, Miss Kick. And young Master Pin, if he cares to join you.’

  ‘I’ll protect you, Kicky!’ Pin exclaims. ‘I’ll save you from the knocking.’

  Great. Something else to add to the worry list.

  ‘Now, what do you dream of being when you grow up, I wonder? An aviatrix, possibly? An explorer, an adventurer? All three, perhaps?’

  ‘How did you –’

  ‘You’re too much like your mad father for your own good. Stubborn, singular, fearless, that wild Caddy streak. Oh, I’ve been getting master intelligence from various family members over the years. They all seem to say you’re very ingenious, practical, a natural leader – but never good at following orders from those in authority. Which makes me think you might be up there with Livingstone and Shackleton one day – but a woman, oh yes!’ He looks at me sideways. ‘And a rather fierce one at that. Far too outspoken. Kind of glary, but extremely intelligent. Oh yes, terrifying. Which are exactly the qualities one requires in an explor-ix, and master spy. Mata Hari crossed with Lawrence of Arabia, a most formidable mix.’

  I’m laughing despite myself.

  ‘Young lady, in your chosen profession, one needs to do a lot of research. And this . . . perhaps . . . may be of some help.’ He flings the door wide. I squeeze my eyes shut in terror, open them to –

  A library!

  The most amazing library I’ve ever seen (all right, the only library I’ve ever seen, but I’ve read about them). Every wall’s lined with books, reaching to the ceiling; an enormous map of the world is painted on the roof; a huge globe you can spin is in the centre of the room; there are armchairs with bellies grazing the floor; and desks with cameras and sketch pads and paintbrushes on them and there are easels with waiting paper and wooden ladders on railings that slide along the shelves just like the ladders in the main room of the house and so many books that Dad would adore, would devour, would command I devour . . .

  It’s so perfect I want to cry. I breathe in deep the smell of waiting words, paper, stories, lives; could stay here forever, yes!

  ‘Off you go, young lady. Dive in, if you please.’

  Nothing could stop me. I spin the globe and loll in the chairs and examine sextants and quadrants, marvel at shells and rocks under glass domes and climb the shelves with the rest of the Caddy troops gleefully, wondrously, alongside me; all the time fingers flitting across books, feeling them, caressing them. Now we’re enormous spiders darting across the walls, now we’re climbing the Andes and Everest; now we’re medieval scholars staring in wonder at illuminations; now circus performers sliding along the runners and scrambling from ornithology to geography by way of mythology, zooming up to the ceiling and leaping down from enormous heights.

  Oops.

  Ouch. That hurt.

  Basti winces from the door. ‘You need a landing pad, troops.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I gasp.

  ‘Oh,’ he sighs, ‘I was a child once too. Believe it or not. And may even, actually, have done exactly what you’re doing right now. I think you should lie down for a moment, Miss Kick. Catch your breath.’

  Oh no, too much to gulp in this place. An enormous couch under the window, ten feet long, is perfect to sleep on; Pin at one end, me the other. I spin around with the widest grin: this is grand. Endlessly we can play in here, work out circus routines and have exploring classes and, most lovely of all, read books. All of them. Every single one, I can do it. Dad will be so thrilled!

  Would be. Would be thrilled. I bite my lip.

  ‘Er, and me, Basti?’ Bert asks, twiddling her hair.

  ‘Aha! I’m saving the best ’til last,’ Basti smiles. ‘Now I know, Albertina, that you were eyeing those long wooden boxes in the attic – but I thought you may like to consider one other sleeping arrangement first before you fold up like a bat.’

  We follow him out. Basti reverently opens a large white door on the same floor as the library. Steps back. Lets us wander inside, absorbing, while he waits; I look back at him, catch his eye, he nods and smiles tight. As if he can’t quite bear to venture in himself.

  It’s a room that’s gloriously, glamorously girly. All silk and satin and lace, with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the garden square through silver curtains plunging like foam at a beach. A four-poster bed has matching silver curtains. A mirrored dressing table is crammed with lipsticks and powders. A jewellery box has a tumble of pearls and diamond bracelets. Over a marble fireplace is a portrait of the most beautiful woman in a silver dress, holding a cobra. She has the bluest of eyes rimmed with green. Just like Bert’s, like all of ours.

  The four of us stand under it, mouths wide. Who?

  ‘My mother,’ Basti explains from the door. ‘Albertina, in fact. And she loved clothes too, Albertina Number Two. But she was not quite as boisterous and, er, pointy as the new version that’s crashed into my life.’ He shakes his head. ‘This is the first time I’ve opened this door for a very long time.’ He pauses. ‘Years, actually.’

  He’s quiet. He smiles across at Bert with something like fondness.

  ‘She’ll look after you, Bert. Very well. You’ll never be lonely in this room. She’ll be with you. It’s why nothing must happen to this old house – it looks after quite a lot of us.’

  And the current Albertina? Er, Albertina? Calling Number Two?

  Hopeless. Barely listening. Because she’s just discovered a walk-in closet stuffed with ballgowns and kimonos and coats and hats, most of them in either silver or black. And there’s no other way to describe it: Bert is in heaven.

  Pin clambers onto the enormous bed with his little bottom poking out.

  ‘Duddle?’ he asks expectantly. ‘This can fit four, Kicky. Come on, duddle. All of us.’

  I smile through tight lips, my heart breaking. Because this is exactly what he says every night, to Dad, at bedtime, has always said ever since he could talk – except he hasn’t requested it since Dad left.

  ‘Duddle?’ he asks again.

  We each have our own bed waiting. We’re not wearing pyjamas but we’re all suddenly so incredibly weary, I can tell, tired like a huge rake is pulling us down into sleep. We should retreat.

  ‘Of course, little babe.’ I lie down beside him and without a word Scruff does the same on his other side. Bert comes over and joins us and little Pin squeals in ecstasy; turning from one to the other to the other and patting each of our faces tenderly, gleefully, as if he can’t decide which one is giving
him the most delight. We giggle. Safe, warm, snuggly and ready for sleep at last.

  Basti quietly closes the door.

  Leaving the four of us laughing on his mother’s bed, laughing away all the ghosts and the dragons and the snakes, laughing away the policemen and the candles, the cold and the rain and the bomb craters and the dark; and most of all, laughing away the sharpness embedded in each of our chests – that our dad is gone, and is never, ever coming back.

  Something none of us can bear to think about properly yet.

  Then suddenly, just like that, Bert’s asleep, snoring on her back, with her turban and three tiaras still attached.

  Followed by Pin, on top of her, spread tummy down on her chest. Gently I remove Bert’s turban and roll Pin softly onto his side so as not to wake him up and kiss his dear, plump little cheek. His hand hooks like a crook around my neck and draws me in, as he always does in his sleep. I chuckle. Some things never change, no matter what part of the world we’re in or how much we’ve been through. Softly I free myself.

  ‘So have you got your new life worked out yet, Captain Scruff?’ I ask.

  ‘Oooh yes.’ He rubs his hands in anticipation. ‘Chocolate feast. My room. Midnight. Seven days a week. You ready, sis?’

  ‘Only if you’re good, remember,’ I tease in exactly Basti’s voice. ‘No noise! No bouncing! No hats!’ My hands clamp in mock-fear over my head.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Scruff cackles, ‘perfection from now on. From all of us. Guaranteed. We’re going to be here for a while yet, Kicky, just leave it to me. Through Christmas at least . . .’

  ‘Perfection? From, er, you? Oh no,’ I groan. ‘Well, that’s all of us on the street then. First light. You’ll be lucky to last a single night, mister.’

  But Scruff’s already asleep.

  ‘Knocking –’ Pin tosses and turns ‘– knocking, Kicky, must check.’

  I’m too tired to give him another kiss, to soothe him, to do anything but close my eyes at this point. The knocking, the policemen, Christmas preparations, the mystery of Dad’s fate, they’ll have to wait for now. Exhaustion is dragging through my body, dragging me down into deep, beautiful sleep. I glance at my watch – only five o’clock – but outside it’s pitch dark.