The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  Because of us.

  Because of our mere being here, mucking everything up, I just know it. And we didn’t ask for it anyway, but goodness, everything we’ve made happen since we arrived! His entire world infiltrated, turned upside down. He lets out an agonised groan of frustration.

  ‘Dinda said she’d love to see us again,’ Scruff prattles on, oblivious.

  ‘Never mention that woman’s name again. Never. Never. NEVER!’

  A monstrous fury rings through the house; the reptiles wake, scrabbling and thrashing. We stare in shock. Basti steps back and covers his mouth in anguish; looking at us, looking at his reptiles, as if he had no idea he could have such an effect. And at that, it’s as if a great storm has passed. He drops his hand and an enormous weariness comes over him.

  ‘Go to bed,’ he sighs, waving us off, and shuffles away with his back to us.

  ‘Why is she called Dinda?’ Scruff again, of course, the one who never knows when to stop. Who’ll be a detective one day if he puts his head to it.

  Basti halts. ‘It’s short for Lucinda. Which couldn’t be pronounced.’

  ‘Who on earth couldn’t say Lucinda? It’s not that hard.’ Bert laughs scornfully.

  Basti turns. ‘Me, actually.’ A pause. ‘You Australians are awfully . . . present . . . aren’t you? Forward. You’ve never heard of being seen and not heard, have you? In fact, you’ve never heard of a lot of things when it comes to correct behaviour. Like abandoning the house that is hosting you – at midnight.’ It’s said more in defeat then anything else.

  We stare at Basti, lost for words and certainly not wanting to dob Pin in – even though he has an alarming habit of going adventuring at odd hours in odd places; we’ve all fallen victim to it.

  Our uncle sighs; it’s no use. Oil and water, the lot of us. ‘The name Dinda came from me, Albertina. When we were young. And obviously she’s used it . . . ever since. Who would have thought.’ Something in his voice makes us go very quiet.

  Pin steps forward. ‘I love you, Uncle Basti.’

  He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his eyes, as if he’s barely heard, and shakes his head as if he’s trying to shake the lot of us out.

  ‘Love you,’ Pin repeats.

  ‘Off to bed. The lot of you,’ Basti says, still without looking.

  Pin’s dear little face is a picture of dejection. His bottom lip trembles.

  I can’t bear it. I swoop him up and squeeze as tight as I can, squeezing all my love into him. ‘Where’s our father?’ I fling accusingly.

  ‘I – I don’t know.’

  ‘Is he dead? What do you know?’

  Basti turns. ‘Look, I – I . . .’ Then he stops. Just stops. Like he can’t go on. Comes right up to me. Hovers his hand on my head, a whisper of a touch. ‘I can’t say anything, Kick, I’m sorry.’ He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment then shuffles off.

  I feel as if my heart is being pulled with him; I want to cry out, follow.

  ‘Berti-bysies?’ Pin entreats, snuggling his hotness into my neck. ‘All of us together, Kicky? Like before.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I cry into my brother’s softness. Because it’s no use. I stare back at the impossible man who’s now disappearing through a door, the man who’s running his long-fingered hand through his hair in a way that has something ever so slightly of our father in it, an echo so faint but there, and despite everything I just want to run to him and cuddle him and smell him and cry into him in a way I haven’t cried since we got the news of Dad; because I can’t let anyone see it, I have to be strong, for all of us.

  But I’m seeing Dad everywhere. Anywhere, now. In everything I look at, think of; up there with the moon and the stars. In the sun like tent ropes from heaven piercing the clouds in the sky. At my side in bed as I try to sleep, can’t sleep. Smiling when I’m grinning, tutting when I’m frowning; he’s everywhere and nowhere; nowhere I know. It feels like our life with him was real and proper and right and everything beyond it is not.

  I need to re-find a proper life again, for all of us. Need to glean a Christmas, to put things right. A home. Someone who’ll look after us, who knows how, who can help us find Dad; get to the bottom of whatever happened.

  And Basti’s no use.

  In the morning, first thing, then. Everything will change. It must. I have to make it. I’m a look-a-philiac, Dad’s always saying that, teasing that I always have to poke my head into everything, don’t I? Well, tomorrow I start. I’ve been clogged up with grief for too long, running on empty, stunned; forgetting I love adventuring and finding out more than anything – and it’s time to get to the bottom of this. Dinda’s right, Dad’s disappearance is singular – in a way I don’t trust. We’re bush-trackers, we’ve all been taught, and it’s time to get those skills into action. To read the land, what’s round us, to ask questions and not rest until the answer is found.

  Whatever it is.

  I spend a horrid night of tossing and turning in Bert’s slippery satin sheets and every time an attempt is made to sneak away a little hand shoots out, or a hot pudgy leg, clamping me down and trapping me tight.

  Plus it feels like someone’s shifting a huge table right by us. The noise is intruding into my jagged, ragged dreams and the pillow’s hurrumphed over my head – urgh!

  Still there!

  Snapping awake. Hurting sunlight. Gosh. The middle of the day. And there’s that shifting-table noise again. In real life.

  Aaaaaaaaaagh!

  It’s a man. Standing right in front of us. Who we’ve never seen before. Is he from the orphanage? Has it all come to an end, so swift?

  This new person in our lives is wearing a crisp black suit and bowler hat and an extremely jolly red bow tie. And he’s clearing his throat. Very loudly. So that’s the scraping noise.

  ‘Miss Kick, I presume? I’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. Karate has been practised in anticipation.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Shaking my head in bewilderment.

  The gentleman executes a few karate moves ending with a side kick, then looks at me as if to say, not bad, eh?

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Charlie Boo. The Reptilarium’s butler and manager. And I do believe it is time to wake.’

  Phew! So we’re not being bundled out immediately from this place.

  ‘Morning. Nice to meet you. What time is it?’ I yawn.

  He crisply snaps open a fob watch. ‘One-o- nine.’

  Good grief! The latest I’ve ever slept in my life! And Charlie Boo says ‘nine’ in such a lovely way, it’s like cramming four syllables into one, making it such a giggly, wiggly, slippery snake of a word. ‘What time did you say?’

  ‘One-o-nine.’

  I clap my hands in delight and shake Scruff awake – he has to hear it too.

  ‘Master Ralph, commonly known as Scruff, I do believe.’ The butler surveys the rumpled ball of hair and whinge and scowl before him. ‘Hmm, yes, utterly appropriate and utterly as expected.’ He peers sternly at the littlest Caddy, who’s now rubbing his eyes. ‘And this, of course, must be Master Phineas.’ Prods a stirring Bert. ‘And very soon I do believe the legendary Albertina the Younger will be joining us, too. Most pleasing to see her here, as I expected this one in a coffin. Good afternoon to you all.’

  We stare in wonder. For once, Scruff is struck dumb. Then he realises what bed he’s in; what girly, satiny, frilly hell. In front of a man. I grip his hand tight, trying not to giggle, preventing him from exiting the bed-hell that sleepiness has trapped him in. Finally he breaks free, as if the satin sheets have lice in them.

  Quick as a flash, Charlie Boo grabs him by the scruff of his neck (which incidentally is how he got his nickname, because Dad was always doing it).

  Scruff yelps.

  ‘Now, first things first. Rules. And I do love a good rule.’ The butler raises an eyebrow.

  The four of us look doubtful in response. Hate rules. Aren’t good at them. Dad’s always saying that, and so did every governess
we’d had, before they would flee in terror.

  ‘Caddys major, intermediate and minor, your lives are about to change, and change utterly. Troops, sit up straight!’

  We snap to attention.

  ‘Are. You. Ready?’

  Four heads nodding, in absolute silence.

  ‘Rule Number One. You will supply a list of all that is required in this house. For instance, anything you would like to eat. Within reason.’ He looks straight at Scruff. ‘Yes, even chocolate.’ His other eyebrow is raised. ‘If, and only if, you’re good. Soldiers are meant to be paragons of discipline, as you know. There will be no malarkey in my presence. We’re not roaming among wild beasts of the desert now, are we?’

  Bert nudges Scruff savagely, trying not to laugh: he’s met his match. He pinches her in return. Ow!

  ‘Oh, you are not beyond reproach, either, Miss Albertina. I did see that, you know. You have been let off once and once only. Angels, even fashionably dressed ones, can always have their wings clipped. Now, take note. The daily routine is as follows. Every day I arrive at seven-o-nine, precisely. Yes, you heard me, Miss Kick.’ He hovers, jutting his chin out in my direction, daring me to come back at him in some way. I do not. ‘After delivering the daily supplies and seeing to your uncle’s every need I return to the world outside, to administer to the complicated needs of this august institution from beyond its hallowed walls. Right. Any questions so far?’

  ‘When’s the chocolate?’

  Charlie Boo raises his eyes to the heavens and shakes his head. ‘I will endeavour to take care of your every desire, Master Scruff – as long as it is in the ration book.’ Then he leans closer and his accent broadens. ‘Now, if you desire anything else – I’m a dab hand at the black market. Years of dealing in reptilian matters, through several owners of this building, have seen to that. All that is required in return is that you arrange for the Australian cricket team to lose the next Ashes series. It’s been seven years since they’ve been played and I’ve been waiting ever so long. So when it all finally gets underway again I will require a bit of good news. Are we agreed?’

  ‘Not fair!’ Scruff laughs.

  Charlie Boo straightens. ‘Well then, no treats from the sweet end of the ration book for you, young man. Are we understood?’

  Scruff nods, not sure if he’s meant to laugh or protest.

  ‘Now, before I leave, the Master would like it be known that he has rooms you are absolutely forbidden to enter.’ He glowers. ‘On pain of death. They are marked. And he’s extremely busy right now. Which means you have a luxurious amount of time ahead of you. No supervision indeed –’

  ‘Oh.’ Scruff’s rather liking this new bloke in his life. ‘All alone . . .?’

  ‘No supervision at all.’ Charlie Boo sighs wistfully. ‘No one to ask you to eat your sprouts. Do your times tables. Clear the rubble. Paint the shed. Make your bed – even sleep in your bed. Beds, for sleeping in? Surely not. They’re for jumping on, aren’t they? And magic carpet rides and red Indian tents.’

  With a distant smile to each of us Charlie Boo hands out four pieces of paper to write our lists on, and with a wink retreats, as smoothly as velvet, nodding to each of us.

  ‘Good day to you, Miss Thomasina, Master Ralph, Master Phineas, Miss Albertina.’

  ‘Bert!’ she insists.

  ‘Albertina,’ Charlie Boo says firmly – that will be that. We are silent. ‘I do think we are going to get along famously,’ he adds, with a grin that suddenly makes him look a century younger.

  ‘What time did you say you arrived again?’ I jump in.

  ‘Seven-o-nine, Miss . . . Kick.’

  ‘Nine,’ I try, cramming all the syllables in; it’s like marbles in my mouth. The Caddys laugh.

  Charlie Boo smiles triumphantly. ‘You’ll never get it,’ he says, and with that he disappears. Leaving us . . . well, quite alone.

  With a resolve to find our father, and change our lives.

  ‘Come on, troops!’ I rally. ‘Operation Desert Tracker has just commenced.’ But as we flit by Bert’s window we catch what’s outside, and stop. Transfixed. Because it’s a world that taunts us, jaggedly, like ragged tin through our hearts. A world full of warmly dressed, rosy-cheeked kids sliding down the icy slope of the square on sledges and throwing snowballs and placing wreaths on doors and laughing hugely, joyously, freely – yes, that most of all.

  ‘Friends,’ Pin says, tugging my shirt. ‘Please, Kicky. Outside?’

  We’ve never had other children in our lives. So close. Yet so far. I bang the windowsill in frustration. Because it’s obvious that the London right outside this house is going all out to have the biggest Christmas celebration in a generation, even if that Christmas is about recycling and ration books and patching things together and making do. But there’s a lot to celebrate out there.

  Horatio told us how it’s been six long years of toy shortages in this land because its factories have been far too busy making guns and tanks. Six long years of squashing down the dreaded ‘squander bug’ – the urge to be wasteful in any way. Six long years of relatives lost, of Christmas parcels being sent back unopened, of dreaded telegrams on doorsteps. Six long years of windows being blacked out on houses and buses and shops and of no Christmas lights, anywhere, so that the enemy planes couldn’t spot them and, of course, six long years of not a single candle in the windows of Campden Hill Square.

  A girl and a boy walk cheerily backwards up the hill, pulling at what looks like their reluctant dad. They were lucky. Their family is still intact, we can tell from their faces. It hurts. Their dad’s got his eyes closed, it’s as if they’re about to yell ‘surprise’. We crane our heads until the family is swallowed inside a warm, glowing house, a pine tree covered with paper chains at its window, in readiness.

  The four of us somehow find each other’s palms. A huge roar is in my ears as I watch: it’s the roar of the waiting world outside, a vast metropolis, my life. Waiting to be collected, rescued; somewhere else; somewhere vivid and cosy and proper and complete.

  ‘The scullery window,’ Scruff whispers, reading my mind. ‘Fast.’

  ‘It’s been fixed, I bet. Overnight. While we were asleep. There’s no other way out. We’re trapped here.’ I just know it in my bones.

  Lo and behold, I’m right.

  Starving, but no time to think about it; burying ourselves in the library, trying to find the key – any key – to Dad.

  What happened, is he alive, could he possibly be? Does Basti know?

  Scruff and Bert are right beside me scouring drawers, opening books, checking under chairs, looking for mysterious letters of instructions or crosses on maps, old family records, something, anything. Turning the room upside down and carefully placing everything back. We’re not getting any help from Basti – we have to do this ourselves.

  But nothing. Absolutely zero in terms of clues.

  ‘Operation Desert Tracker has to widen its footprint, troops.’

  ‘Okay, what’s next?’ Scruff asks.

  ‘Basti’s polar bear room. His inner sanctum.’

  Deep breaths, nods. It’ll be tough. It has to be done.

  ‘Hang on,’ says Bert, ‘where’s Pin?’

  We look around. Not a sign. Groan. Not again. And it’s far too quiet, in terms of Pin-noise. Which is terrifying. He’s not close.

  ‘Quick!’

  Frantically we run through the house – top to bottom – all the rooms we know. More frantically we do it again. Completely nowhere. And no gaps to escape from, anywhere. How can a little boy just . . . vanish? Silently. Is he in a stomach of some sort? Been spirited somewhere else? My blood runs cold as I think of Dinda, how she said we must never disappear on her, like she almost expected it. There’s so much going on here we don’t know about. And the only way out – the scullery window – is well and truly fixed. We scour the house all over again.

  ‘Hang on, what’s that?’ Scruff whispers.

  We’re back in the kitchen, th
e third time around. There is a tiny wooden door in the far corner, behind an armchair. Child-sized, Pin-sized – and slightly ajar.

  Bingo.

  Dad’s slingshot with my name on it is whisked from my pocket. Ammunition? Walnuts from a bowl on the table. Stuffed into pockets, as many as I can. Scruff does the same. Takes out his smaller slingshot from his pocket in readiness. Bert goes to the kitchen drawers and finds a breadknife.

  ‘Ready and armed?’ I whisper.

  ‘Proceed.’ Bert nods, grim.

  Slowly, slowly I push open the door. An almighty creak. We wince. What has Pin found?

  A passageway. Dark. We can hardly make it out. We creep reluctantly inside. It’s cobwebby. Narrow. Damp. Dirty yellowy water drips from rounded bricks above us. Urgh, goodness knows what’s in it.

  ‘Eeek!’ Scruff squeaks, brushing at his shoulder as something – what? – drops onto it. The tunnel leads under the footpath. How can that be? Where does it end? It’s too dark to make out. No torch. Urggh.

  The floor slopes – not good. The passage gets narrower – not good either. The air gets chillier like hundreds of ghosts are crammed into this space and screaming silently to be free – definitely not good. My heart feels like it’s leaping out of my chest here. There might be some ancient torture chamber at the end of this, a medieval skull tomb, a pit of snakes, a cage full of lost kids or worse, their skeletons. I want to be anywhere but here and yep, I’m first. Can’t let Scruff know my terror. Can’t let Bert know because she’ll laugh. Don’t scream, keep moving, keep calm.

  ‘Do we really have to do this?’ my brother moans as if on cue. ‘I’m not sure Pin’s here.’

  ‘Dad would never forgive us if he is,’ I hiss back.

  ‘Leave no stone unturned,’ Bert adds, her voice wobbling, ‘come on.’

  Pardon? Is my little sister actually working with me for once? Well well. This is a first. I grin my thanks in the gloom, she grins back. Scruff pushes on ahead of us in a strop of bravado. Cobwebs like ghostly curtains cling to our faces, we tear them off. As scared as each other and refusing to admit it, any of us. Pushing on, down, down. Weapons poised.