The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  Golly. This strange, strange country. I’ve read about its long winter dark that begins at – horror! – three o’clock. This is London in deepest December after all. The winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. In our desert there’d be searing heat on the longest day of the year, the light blazing deep into the night, endless tossing and turning under our mossie nets and a layer of sweat.

  But now this. Utterly still, in silver satin sheets.

  Twelve a.m. Pitch dark. The Reptilarium: deathly quiet.

  The Caddy kids: hugely, obscenely awake. Scrambled by all the different time zones we’ve been hurtling through.

  Hang on, someone’s missing.

  PIN!!!!

  Three Caddy kids sit bolt upright.

  ‘The knocking,’ I groan. ‘He’s been banging on about it all night. He’s gone to investigate. I just know it.’

  Bert clamps on her turban, Scruff grabs his slingshot, we race downstairs. The inner door is wide open. Perdita looks at the three of us wearily as if to say, oh no, not you again. At that very moment a note crashes through the letter flap in the front door. It’s addressed to ‘The Reptilarium’s Newest Inhabitants’. That would be us. I snatch it up.

  ‘The candle lady. I bet.’

  ‘Do we dare?’

  ‘What about Pin?’

  The front door: locked. No way to open it from the inside – except with a key – which Basti’s got around his neck. Stuck. Drat.

  ‘Catch her!’ Scruff whispers.

  I lift up the letter flap – she’s just leaving the front gate. ‘Wait!’ I cry as loud as I dare.

  She stops. Comes running back to the door, leans down. ‘Quick,’ she whispers, greatly agitated, glancing around. ‘Before he finds you.’

  ‘But we’re locked in,’ Scruff exclaims.

  ‘The scullery window. At the back of the house. The catch is broken, it’s always open. Your brother found it. Come on.’

  So that’s where he is! Phew. The little monkey.

  ‘Crawl through. Drop to the ground. There’s an old gate in the garden fence. It leads through to my place. Quick.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Scruff asks.

  She looks at him witheringly. ‘I was a child once too.’

  ‘But how did you know Basti wouldn’t get to the note before us?’

  ‘He’s a heavy sleeper and a late riser.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Oh, I know many things. He’s a creature of habit. And I also know that children love exploring strange new environments in the dead of night. I took a punt and I was right. Quick, come on, I’ll meet you over there. It’s easy!’

  We race through the Reptilarium, squeeze out the window; it’s broken, just as the lady said. Drop to the icy ground. The garden’s so still, silent, with a ghostly frost. Blackened and mildewed statues loom all through it; they look like they’ve been frozen in the middle of play. Spooky.

  I glance across at Scruff. He’s being brave, trying not to look too close. The moon’s full. An owl hoots. Bert squeals. Scruff grabs her hand to stop her waking the entire neighbourhood, to hold onto someone, anyone, even a spiky sister at this point. But where’s the gate? The wall’s solid with icy ivy; no sign of a gap, no sign that anyone’s used it for years. We creep, panicky, along the fence.

  ‘Nope, not here,’ Bert declares. ‘Maybe it’s a trap.’

  ‘Ssssh!’ Scruff and I snap.

  But she’s right. Where is the blasted gap? Suddenly, a creaking noise.

  Panting. Ivy breaking, snapping; the gate’s being worked open from the other side.

  ‘Help,’ gasps the neighbour’s voice feebly.

  We rush.

  ‘Push. From your side. It’s been decades . . .’

  There it is! We flatten our palms on the wood and shove and with a creaking groan the rotting wood gives way. Plop. Off its hinges, with the three of us on top. And, er, someone underneath.

  ‘Aaaaagh.’

  A dreadful quiet.

  ‘Gosh, have we killed her?’ Bert whispers in horror.

  Before we can find out who she really is? Where our Pinny’s gone? Why she was so desperate to avoid the Reptilarium and why she’s suddenly changed from all fury and frustration to nice?

  We leap away. From the ground: a soft giggling sound. Or it could be a gurgle. Frantically we pull the broken gate aside; two ghostly hands rise up like they’re coming from a coffin. ‘Help, please.’

  Scruff grabs one hand, me the other, Bert pushes from behind, and together we haul our neighbour into a standing position.

  ‘Well, that calls for some cocoa!’ she says brightly.

  Phew. Absolute relief. I can strike ‘suspected murder’ from the worry book.

  ‘How did Pin find you?’ I ask.

  ‘The little sprite was so quick and light he climbed the ivy. Up and over, just like that. I heard him crashing through the backyard and thought I better investigate. He kept going on about knocking or something. Can I keep him? He is rather adorable, you know.’

  ‘That’s our boy,’ I smile.

  ‘Now quick, come inside before anyone discovers you’re missing.’ Her face is grave. ‘Or more importantly . . . where you’ve gone.’

  We race after the rapidly disappearing flurry of stylishness, Bert leading the way – two kindred spirits. And stop abruptly. Because we’re on the doorstep of a glass conservatory. Which you’d think would be filled with greenery but no, it’s teapots. Yep. All sizes and shapes, hanging from the ceiling and resting on tables, with the most beautiful pink and red flowers planted in them. This really is the most surprising country. Are all its people like this?

  ‘One of my whims,’ the neighbour exclaims breezily. ‘Bring on the colour! Especially in the direst months. Come on, through the chandelier room, fast. The neighbours can see you here through the glass roof. Can’t have that.’

  ‘But why have you . . . changed?’ I ask shyly. ‘You were so cross before.’

  ‘I know. And I’m very sorry for it. I calmed down, and had a think. I’d been most rude to the lot of you and I apologise. Temper, temper, it’s always getting the better of me.’ She taps her head. ‘Now, where was I? A fresh start, I think!’

  Pin comes racing towards us at that moment with a delighted shriek. I sweep him into my arms. ‘You little monkey,’ I scold, spinning him around. ‘You absolute monkey of monkeys.’

  ‘The nice lady found me, Kicky, just like she found you. She finds all of us! Can we keep her?’

  ‘Well, we’ll see about that, young sir.’

  We step into a room crowded with chandeliers all across the ceiling, red ones, green, blue.

  ‘An admirer from Venice’s Murano glass factory,’ the woman says. ‘He showered me with gifts. Endlessly. Exhaustingly. All to no avail, I’m afraid, but I did get one very illuminated room out of it. Now, downstairs, quick, to the work room!’

  She bounds down to an enormous kitchen, with row upon row of black-and-white photographs pegged on strings stretching the length of the ceiling. Portraits, mainly, and fashion shots. ‘This is my real world.’ Her arms sweep across the pictures. ‘I’m a fashion photographer. In the war I was travelling across the country photographing the home effort. I was barely here, for six years solid. It’s good to be back.’

  ‘Wow,’ Bert whispers in awe, roaming among the pictures like she’s wandering through sheets on a clothes line. The woman follows us close, holding out her hands in a square, zooming in on our desert faces, freckly hands, matted hair, on our crazy mishmash of attic clothes.

  ‘Delicious. Like four mini Masai warriors playing dress-ups. I’d love to photograph you some day.’ Her eyes sweep admiringly down the length of Bert’s getup. She lifts up Bert’s turban. ‘I used to wear this myself,’ she laughs, ‘but it’s so much better on you. Just fabulous, madam. What a look. You can direct my photographic tableaux any day.’ Turns to me. ‘And you’re quite beautiful, aren’t you? Under all that scowl.’ She smoot
hes my forehead and pulls out a reluctant curl from behind my ear. ‘But you don’t know it, do you? No.’

  I blush. Never blush. But I can feel a creeping red, don’t know where to look; have perfected the fierce desert glare over the years and now, quite suddenly, can’t do it.

  The neighbour lifts my chin. ‘Your mother must be very proud,’ she says softly. ‘All that you do for everyone. I bet you’re just like her; endlessly looking out for everyone but yourself. Little Pin here is extremely worried about you, that you’re not smiling enough right now. He wants his old Kick back. It’s why I thought you might need some rescuing, old girl, some bucking up.’

  My eyes shut tight on hot, glittery tears. Cracked by kindness, again! And she’s wrong: Mum was so impossibly dainty and stylish and glamorous that I could never be like that, ever; and Dad doesn’t need reminding of the loss of the love of his life, which is why I am, ferociously, what I am. Totally different to the way Mum looked, deliberately, in every way. The woman’s staring quizzically, right into me, trying to coax out a smile, which is making me blush even more.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Scruff saves me. Ever the rescuer.

  ‘Dinda.’

  ‘Well, Dinda,’ he says, holding out his hand to her, ‘thank you.’

  ‘For what? I haven’t done anything – yet.’ Dinda puts her arms around me and squeezes as she shakes Scruff’s hand.

  My chest feels tight, as if it’s about to crack. I close my eyes shut on a prickling of tears that won’t stop; it’s been a long time since a grown-up’s approved of me – held me – in affection or anything else.

  ‘Oh yes you have, Dinda,’ Scruff nods. ‘Yes you have.’

  She smiles. Bustles about the kitchen. ‘Now, why are you next door, exactly? Pray tell.’ Her voice is suddenly mock light, breezy, like this is the real reason she needs to chisel us out so determinedly from our new abode. She wants answers.

  The atmosphere’s changed in an instant. I step away.

  ‘Carrot fudge?’ Dinda says hurriedly, trying to draw me back as she finds a plate of bright orange blocks.

  As one we shake our heads.

  ‘Potato fudge?’

  Nope.

  ‘One becomes rather ingenious during a war,’ she explains apologetically. ‘All the rationing and what not.’ She’s stumbling, grasping for clues, fussing over the sink. Grips it suddenly, turns to me. ‘I need to know, Kick. Why on earth are you all next door? With him? After all these years.’ She’s almost bursting with curiosity.

  ‘Why is it so important?’ I snap. Because this woman might be able to do me in with a kind word and a hug – but that doesn’t mean I’m going to trust her.

  Dinda’s almost crying with frustration. ‘Because no one has visited Sebastian Caddy for many, many years. Believe me, I know. The neighbours tell me everything. Do you know what you’re getting into?’

  I lick my lips. I do not. Glance around in panic, suddenly not sure who to trust, who to listen to. ‘He’s our uncle.’ I pause. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Who says?’ Dinda asks suspiciously.

  ‘Well, Horatio. He visited us.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Did you know him beforehand?’

  ‘N-no. But Basti’s got our eyes and –’ I shrug, rubbing my forehead; I’m tired, addled.

  ‘Not entirely uncommon. Was your uncle, ah, welcoming?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I bite my lip. ‘I can’t say.’ Feeling like I’m getting in too deep.

  ‘Why are you really here? Where are your parents? Who’s meant to be looking after you? In real life.’

  ‘Mum’s dead.’

  Dinda gasps a sorry.

  ‘And Dad . . . I . . . we don’t know.’ The troops gather around me. Bert slips her hand into mine.

  ‘I see. Most mysterious. Singular. Isn’t it? You don’t know. And Basti – has he been good to you? Has he tried feeding you to the cobra yet?’

  Scruff whispers doubtfully, ‘Kick . . .’, and I know what’s going on in his head: a sudden big fat flurry of midnight doubt, fed by tiredness and deadly snakes and mysterious relatives and houses that fold out like magic boxes and contain far too many secrets and a lawyer who didn’t want to face his client and a welcome that wasn’t a welcome at all and a dad who could be anywhere, and like all of us Scruff doesn’t know who to trust any more. Why are we here?

  ‘I need to know what on earth you’re doing in Basti’s house,’ Dinda almost shouts in frustration. ‘It is not a place for children.’

  Hang on, is she trying to protect Basti here – or us? I retreat to the basement steps.

  ‘You are all right, aren’t you? Not frightened? Hurt? Who put you up to this? Not Basti, I know that much.’

  ‘No.’ Not him at all – he’s the last person who wanted this. ‘Why are you asking these questions? Do you know our uncle? What’s going on?’ I suddenly want to run from this house, this street, run to a police station, Claridges, a lawyer, anyone but Horatio, run to Dad, find him, get away from all this; just want stability and normality, Bucket and home.

  That’s it. I’m off. Closely followed by Scruff. Berti. Pin. Clattering up steps, breaths rattly with panic, racing through a Chinese room, into a bathroom, whoops, wrong way, back to the chandelier room, out a corridor and finally, finally, a front door. Unlocked. Blessedly. Out into the slap of a bitterly cold night –

  ‘Waaaaaiiiiiiit!’

  From behind us.

  ‘I knew him as a child.’

  As one, we stop.

  ‘A most singular, wonderful, cheeky, infuriating and quite marvellous child . . .’

  We turn.

  ‘Who I care about very much.’

  A lump in my throat. I do not run.

  ‘I just want to help you. All of you. You, your uncle, your father. We need to get to the bottom of this.’

  I look at this woman who called me beautiful. No one’s ever called me that. ‘Why did you tell us it was a matter of life and death?’

  ‘Because . . . I’m worried, Kick. Because nothing like this – like you – has ever happened before. I’m not going to hurt you. Trust me.’

  ‘Why are you so angry with him?’

  Dinda sighs a big, huge, grown-up sigh. ‘Come on,’ she indicates softly, ‘back inside,’ and I trust her, we all do. Sombrely we file back down to the kitchen. She pours some red wine into a dull silver goblet, then takes down four others and splashes cocoa into them and hands each one out.

  ‘Sometimes, children, there are things that happen between grown-ups –’

  ‘I’m almost a grown-up!’ I exclaim. ‘Shoot away.’

  Dinda pulls out another curl from under my ear. Smiles. I raise my hands in mock prayer and Dinda laughs in defeat.

  ‘Yes you are. Almost. The lot of you, I suspect. I think you’ve been through so much. As have many children around here.’

  So. Over four goblets of cocoa we get an awful lot about two neighbours long ago. Who were best friends. Born on the same day. Lived next door to each other, were inseparable. All through their childhood, all through their teenage years, they knew every secret of each other and their families and their houses. ‘Basti’s may be the Kensington Reptilarium, but mine is the Kensington Fabu-larium!’

  We all giggle. Yes indeed.

  ‘So what happened?’ Scruff asks.

  With her fingers Dinda makes a square shape and squints, framing an imaginary photo of my brother’s grin. She completely wants to avoid the question – yet again. It’s obvious. Nup, I’m not having a bar of it.

  ‘Why aren’t you still friends?’ I persist.

  She drops her hands. Looks straight at me. She’s caught. A shadow passes over her face, her smile shuts down. ‘Another time, my beautiful desert rose. We’re all too tired now. It’s one a.m. I need to spirit you back to bed. Silently.’

  As if on cue Berti yawns; her head drops, she snaps it up, it drops again.

  ‘Let’s get you home.’ Dinda gently lifts a sleep
y Pin into her arms. ‘I have to get you back in one piece. But I must see you all again. Keep an eye on you. I mustn’t have you disappearing on me, all right? Don’t, please, do that. Now that I’ve found you. Apologised. Embarked on a mission to make sure you’re all right.’

  No one laughs.

  ‘Now, if you’re ever worried in any way, just climb through the scullery window.’ She drops her voice. ‘And don’t forget. I’m always here.’ Dinda puts a blood-red fingertip to her lips. ‘And tonight is our little secret. You must never, ever breathe a word of it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t hurt us, would he?’ Pin asks softly, eyes wide.

  ‘Basti? He’s got a face that’s incapable of cruelty, don’t you think? No, it’s not that I’m worried about . . . it’s –’ She murmurs vaguely, stops abruptly. ‘Now, my little warriors, off to bed!’

  We race back through the garden and climb up through the scullery window; we’ve never been up so late in our lives. The four of us round the corner and burst into the entrance hall and run smack bang into . . . Uncle Basti.

  A face like thunder.

  Clutching the keys around his neck.

  Shaking with rage.

  We gasp in shock.

  ‘Not so fast,’ he hisses furiously, raising a trembling hand as if he’s going to strike us.

  ‘What did she tell you? You’re mine, not hers.’

  ‘We are not yours!’ I respond, indignant. ‘You don’t own any of us. You’re nothing like our family, our father. Don’t even pretend to be that.’

  The air is quiet like it’s been stunned.

  ‘We just had a cup of cocoa.’ Scruff steps in and shrugs companionably, making me feel very small indeed. ‘Dinda said you used to play together, Basti.’

  Our uncle draws in his breath. His fists clench.

  I’m scared of this new uncle. He’s too unpredictable. Maybe the war broke him a bit. This is getting too hard.

  Basti suddenly bangs the table that Perdita’s cage is on, smashes his hand down so hard that his beloved snake is flung against the bars, hissing wildly. Then he covers his head in his hands as if it’s all too much, as if his whole existence is crashing in around him.