The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  ‘Yes!’ Pin squeaks but I dread to think of what he imagines a mitten is – and worse, why Charlie Boo is letting us do this.

  ‘Why?’ I ask him.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Bert adds.

  ‘Your uncle’s worms – that feed off the tears of hippopotami – are arriving at precisely eleven-twenty-five this morning. They are extremely delicate, and need absolute quiet to settle into their new surroundings. Your uncle is concerned that they will not last the distance with so much new – elephantine – disturbance in the house.’ Is that a smile in the corner of his lips?

  ‘Ha!’ Scruff bursts out.

  He gets a withering look. ‘I have assured your uncle that I will deal with this matter most effectively. As always. I have not explained to him how. I never explain how. But I would like you all to remain in the attic until eleven o’clock precisely, at which time you will make your way downstairs as silently as possible and meet me in the scullery. At eleven-o-nine exactly.’ He raises an eyebrow at me. ‘No sooner, no later. Understood?’ Flexing the cane. ‘I shall not hesitate to use this little beauty, you know, if anyone – anyone – steps out of line. I need perfect and absolute and utter . . . obedience. Do you hear me, Master Scruff?’

  ‘Aye aye, captain!’ Scruff snaps a salute.

  Charlie Boo winks.

  ‘What time did you say again?’ I ask, grinning.

  ‘Oh, you heard, Miss Kick, you heard.’

  Eleven-o-nine precisely. Four kids in the scullery, wrapped up in all manner of warm gear and just about jumping out of their skins with excitement.

  Charlie breezes in. ‘Come on, you lot,’ he urges, his accent growing thicker and coarser by the second as he hurriedly shrugs on his winter coat, unlocks the back door and ushers us through. ‘One, two, three, four little monkeys – off you go!’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘The East End, Master Scruff.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Quickly we’re led through the back garden, too quickly, gazing longingly at Dinda’s house but there’s no time to call out, to catch her eye; I’ve got so many questions about disappearances and yellow paper and Basti and Dad but Charlie Boo’s striding so fast, no time for a greeting let alone a wave.

  The midnight gate’s still lying broken on the ground but the butler doesn’t notice as he sweeps off to another gate in the back fence, which leads onto a narrow cobbled lane where, waiting for us, purring, is the long black panther car that brought us to the Reptilarium in the first place. Which seems like so long ago.

  ‘In you get,’ Charlie Boo sings, then leans down to Scruff. ‘Now, let’s see if we can find you some friends, young man!’

  Scruff grins from ear to ear. Winks at me and mouths ‘genius’.

  I roll my eyes, groan. Right. Can just see it. Insufferable, from this point.

  The car revs impatiently. I hurry inside it but suddenly catch sight of Dinda standing at her back window, a knuckle in her mouth as she stares out at us. I go to call out to her – leave the car again – but Charlie propels me firmly in . . . can’t yell . . . too late.

  Staring back as the car revs away. She doesn’t look happy – she looks worried. Extremely worried. Not a good sign. She’s trying to tell me something. To mime something. Can’t work it out.

  ‘Wait!’ I cry but no one hears in all the excitement – with a roar the car’s off.

  ‘Woohoooooo!’ Scruff and Bert are shouting at the top of their voices. Pin’s clapping his hands.

  ‘Who are these friends?’ I ask Charlie Boo above the rabble, staring back.

  ‘Never you mind, Miss Kick.’

  ‘I need to know. Dad would want me to.’

  ‘Don’t you worry your little head.’

  ‘Where are you taking us? Where are we going?’

  ‘Just wait and see. Relax. Enjoy yourself. It’s about time you did, young lady. Look outside. Soon all the bomb damage will be cleaned up – you’re lucky to be seeing London like this. It won’t last for long.’

  I stare out at half houses, windows blown in, roofs gone.

  ‘If you think this is bad,’ Charlie Boo adds, ‘wait ’til you see the East End.’

  ‘Of what?’ Scruff repeats.

  ‘Of London, dear boy. You’re in the West at the moment. I’m taking you to the East, where the shipping docks and industrial areas are clustered. A region that’s particularly densely populated and because of this was targeted – most obscenely – by Mr Hitler.’ He sighs wearily. ‘And I, of course, chose to live in the very centre of it. As you do.’

  Pin squeals in excitement. Charlie Boo raises an eyebrow and looks knowingly at him.

  ‘If only we’d had Captain Phineas in the war room, I do believe the hostilities would have ended a good deal quicker than they did. Coventry, for one – that mighty city – would have been saved with you on board, I’m quite convinced.’

  ‘I’m the captain!’ Pin giggles triumphantly, throwing up his arms.

  ‘Precisely. And you are invincible.’ Charlie Boo trails off.

  I bite my nails, staring out the window, thinking of Dinda craning her head to follow us, standing on tippy toes, trying to signal something – what? – until we were completely gone from her sight. It was as if she desperately needed to keep track of where we were going, what direction, but couldn’t, couldn’t . . .

  ‘I mustn’t have you disappearing on me, all right? Don’t, please, do that.’

  . . . as we are sped off to goodness knows what.

  We’re shocked into silence as the car glides through the damaged heart of the city.

  We had no idea it was this bad. Entire blocks gone, tube stations boarded up, huge piles of rubble, churches smashed in half – some with only their steeples left. A general layer of dust and decay over everything. No – weariness – that’s the word. Like it will take a very long time to put everything right.

  Charlie Boo catches my eye. ‘Sometimes I like to think, Miss Kick, that the gods and ghosts of this grand place have slipped away from their broken churches, and the glee of them, at finally being free, is all around us. Close your eyes. Can you feel them? You can if you try.’

  We all shut our eyes.

  ‘Now open. Look around you. Joy! Yes?’

  We laugh. Because he’s right. Suddenly the tired-looking, pasty-faced people are gone and all we can see is laughter and smiles and bustling crowds, Christmas trees stacked by shops, holly wreaths on vegetable carts, and kids staring in wonder at one newspaper flyer in particular:

  STOP PRESS

  BANANAS ON WAY

  AT LAST

  ‘Look, Charlie Boo, look!’ Scruff’s jumping up and down in his seat.

  ‘Indeed. And the Reptilarium will be getting one of the very first bunches. I can guarantee it.’ He taps his nose.

  The car whizzes around the towering dome of St Paul’s Cathedral. It’s enormous, beautiful, looming in pale splendour. I’ve only ever seen it in pictures and read about it, of course, and it looks exactly as I imagined: the breathtaking, beating heart of a mighty city.

  ‘Several of Mr Hitler’s bombs struck home but they weren’t successful, thank goodness. Our little chapel is extraordinarily stubborn. It’s the fifth on the site. London, my dear Caddys, is a most glorious place. You can play in history in this city. Endlessly. Several thousand years of it, layer upon layer. I, for one, have been doing it my entire life. Most delightfully.’

  ‘Can we too?’ Bert asks.

  ‘Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease,’ Scruff pleads.

  ‘Of course. When we’ve got our friends. With our friends!’

  Pin exclaims joyously.

  I say nothing. Don’t know what’s ahead, what I’ve got our family into; Dinda’s still too much in my mind plus the secret of the yellow notebook. Charlie Boo just smiles at me as if he knows exactly my thinking.

  ‘Well, we’ll just have to wait for another shipment of hippopotamus worms, won’t we? Now, we�
��ve almost arrived. You will be good, won’t you?’ Everyone nods. ‘Albertin-a?’ Yes, even Bert. He just glares at Scruff as if he’s given up. Back to me. ‘It’ll be okay, Miss Kick. Really. Relax. Enjoy yourself.’

  A weak smile.

  The car turns down a tiny cobbled side street and lands smack bang in the middle of a cricket match. An old plank of wood is the bat and an oil drum is the wicket and the players are a ragtag collection of kids, all ages, all sizes, and various stages of grubbiness – all cheering madly at the new arrivals.

  That would be us.

  We stare back at them in shock.

  Charlie Boo begins to speak. ‘These are –’

  But Scruff’s already out the door – ‘Let’s go!’ – closely followed by Bert. Dad’s been teaching her the perfect spin bowl, been teaching all of us, and she’s off. I jump out too, can’t resist. Dad said I was the best spinner in the Western Desert and it’s time to prove it.

  Hang on. Pin.

  I go back to retrieve him but no, he’s not needing any help. Charlie Boo’s turned to him in the absence of anyone else. Our little man’s sitting in the car extremely still, and quiet, looking up at the butler in absolute obedience, and awe, and shyness. The butler’s face is softening at the sight.

  ‘These are my grandchildren, young man,’ he’s explaining to him. ‘They just keep coming . . . and, er, coming. Their names are Lachie, Ollie, Thea, Linus, Lily, Harry, Zachary, Martin, Ella, Paddy, Lucie, Reuben, Clara, Eddie, Justin, Luc, Charlotte, Cissi, Will and cheeky little Jago – who is not unlike yourself. And they are your new friends.’

  Pin’s smile cracks wide. ‘Friends,’ he whispers in wonder, as if he can’t quite believe it. He climbs up and gives Charlie Boo a kiss on his papery old cheek.

  ‘Now now, no need to get all gooey on me,’ the old man murmurs. Then he holds out his hand and the two of them step carefully from the car. He reaches into his pockets and draws out two bulging handfuls of sweets and throws them high into the air and the kids scramble madly after them. I stand beside him – grinning, forgetting – despite myself. At all of it.

  ‘Told you I was a dab hand at the black market, Miss Kick.’ He hands across one last sweet. ‘Go on. You’re allowed to be a kid too, you know.’

  I take it. As the new kids swarm around; like they can’t get enough of us. Like they’ve never seen anything like it. Bush kids. From the upside-down world. Brand new species! Check them out! They’re stroking our attic clothes and folding out our rough palms and running their fingers through our sun-blasted hair – ‘Feel, feel!’ – and asking endless questions about home – ‘What does kangaroo taste like? You can eat their tail? Have you really got a dingo as a pet? What’s a brumby?’ – and they want to know everything about the strange way our school is taught. The one that came after all the governesses. After Dad had completely given up.

  ‘Yes, by radio,’ I’m laughing. ‘Really.’

  ‘So you could talk to the teacher but couldn’t see her? She was three hours’ drive away?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Did you wear a uniform?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So you could be in your pyjamas all day?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘School-of-the-air, we want school-of-the-air!’

  ‘What happens when you’re naughty?’

  ‘The teacher speaks to our dad.’

  ‘Oh. That’s not good.’

  ‘Was he strict?’

  ‘Well, his voice was. Mr Eager was his name. He had the most smashing ties, apparently, even though we couldn’t see him. But we could hear him. And worse – he could hear us. And he could get cross. Which was sometimes quite a bit. With us. In particular.’

  Everyone laughs, nodding knowingly.

  ‘Come on, six and out, bags first bat!’ Scruff’s had enough, he’s champing at the bit.

  ‘Half an hour, you lot, then tea time,’ Charlie Boo declares, surveying the squealy, jumbly mass of kids before him.

  I can see it in his face: we’re all, instantly, friends, his grand plan has worked. He grins at me, I smile back. Brimming. Surrendering to trust at last, putting my faith in another grown-up besides my dad, and it feels wonderful, liberating. Who would have thought.

  ‘Off you go, Miss Kick. Six and out. I bet your dad played it with you a lot. I have great faith in you holding up the Australian end of things.’

  ‘Where is my dad, Charlie?’

  ‘He is where he is.’

  My heart beats faster. I stare at him. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Did I? I can’t say that. But if he is, I know he’ll be doing his darndest to find his way back to you. And if he isn’t –’

  ‘What can I do?’ I cry. ‘Anything? Please help us.’

  ‘What can you do?’ The old man sighs sadly. ‘That I do not know. This war, and the previous one, has done terrible things, to so many people. Talk to your uncle, Miss Kick. Be on his side. He’s not your enemy. But now, run off and enjoy what’s before you. Quick. We don’t have long. Give your sister and brothers an afternoon of happiness, come on.’

  At that very moment a cricket ball comes sailing towards me. I catch it in a nifty snap. Scruff, Bert and Pin shout in triumph and, well, that’s it, I’m off to the crease.

  A huge cheer goes up. A boy comes up to me and claps me on the back. ‘Bags you,’ he says. ‘My team, come on.’

  I blush, it’s all through my cheeks. He’s my age.

  He stops, grins. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  ‘Kick,’ I say, suddenly shy.

  ‘You’re . . . swell,’ he says, looking at me, head to toe. ‘Just swell.’ Steps back.

  A smile, right through me, shining me up.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘Linus. And don’t you forget it.’

  Oh I won’t. I throw the ball up and down, grinning for no reason. I won’t.

  ‘Lunch time!’

  We all run to the house, to the most squished-in meal four kids from a wide brown land have ever had. And just about the best. Cheese soup, rabbit sausage, sultana casserole and yep, that good old carrot fudge again. But it’s the best we’ve ever had because we’re surrounded by a scrum of new friends who all want to sit next to us; some on wooden crates and others on a mismatch of chairs and five on the floor behind us and Linus right next to me, he’s somehow squished in tight and turfed several out and it’s a squealy shouty mess of a feast and none of us would want it any other way.

  We’re all crammed into the back room of a tiny two-up two-down house – ‘two rooms upstairs, two rooms down’ – and the dishes are served in a flurry of efficiency by Charlie Boo’s robust wife, who we’re instructed to call ‘Granny Boo’, just like everyone else. She lifts the four of us in turn and squeezes us into her powdery folds – of which there are abundantly many – so vigorously that we gasp.

  ‘It’s aboot time someone did ’at ter yer,’ she hoots in delight, her accent much broader than her husband’s.

  Bert’s in heaven. ‘Are you from London too, Granny Boo? You sound so different to our uncle.’

  ‘I’m frae Glesga, lassie, and dinnae ye forget it.’

  I can’t resist. ‘Do you happen to say “nine” just like Charlie?’

  Granny Boo looks across at her husband. Whacks him fondly with her tea towel. ‘Better. None of this fancy malarkey for the likes of me! Nine nine NINE. Aw this mixing in la-di-dah Kensington? Aargh, the daftie, he’s forgo’en hoo tae chinwag like a true Scot!’Another whack. ‘Now off with the lot of yer, I’m puggled,’ and she shoos us away from the table. ‘Just in case the bouncy li’l kangarooooooooooos here are wondering, it means tired out, exhausted. And the rest of ’em hear it a lot!’

  We’re dragged through the house by a posse of tour guides. It’s similar to the Reptilarium, bursting with cages and tanks, except they contain all manner of insects. ‘Grandpa Boo calls it the “Kensington Insectarium”,’ explains Lily. �
��It supplies the, er, needs of his Reptilarium, if you get my drift.’ She taps her nose just like Charlie Boo does.

  ‘I’ve got a pet dancing cricket!’ Harry butts in. ‘And Linus has Bolivian cockroaches. We come here every day after school and have races in the bathtub!’

  ‘You can come too,’ Linus says to me shyly. I nod.

  ‘And if yer dinnae start behaving yeselves, every single one of them’ll be ending up in me cooking pot!’ Granny Boo shouts up from the kitchen.

  ‘She’s always saying that,’ Ella giggles, ‘especially when we’re naughty. This is our favourite place in the world. We love being here more than anywhere.’

  ‘Me too,’ Scruff says.

  ‘Toffee apples!’ Charlie Boo booms. ‘Hurry up, or I’ll be bagging the lot of them.’

  With an enormous amount of whooping the whole troop of us thunder down the stairs. The entire Insectarium shakes. The neighbours next door bang on the wall.

  ‘Aye, put the broom down, Bertha!’ Granny Boo laughs, banging on the wall herself. ‘Come and get a toffee apple. Quick!’

  The neighbours most certainly do. Seven of them. More kids, more wondrous hair-stroking and gazing at freckles, more explanations about skies never rainy and teachers never seen. And so, after several more hours of playtime involving insect-feeding and charades and cricket and more cricket and ending with the Grand Final Race of the Bolivian cockroaches, Charlie Boo finally, finally calls it a day. His charges need to head home.

  Our cheeks are shining, our smiles are so wide they hurt and we’re filled to bursting with Granny Boo’s food – she’s just as amazing as her husband at wringing wonders out of a rationed world (‘With just a wee bit o’ help from me precious black market, thank yer very much!’).

  Fading light. The world dimming down. The lights of London powering up.

  Pin falls asleep as soon as the car starts moving and, as we drive back around the vastness of St Paul’s, Scruff smiles hugely, in contentment, like a cat being stroked under its chin. ‘Thank you so much, Charlie Boo,’ he yawns, then he, too, promptly falls asleep, leaning on the butler’s arm. His head slips down. With infinite gentleness Charlie positions him back.