‘Charlie mentioned him,’ Bert says, ‘but I can’t remember who he is.’
‘When we first arrived at the Reptilarium Basti threatened to get rid of us,’ I say. ‘Remember? He said he’d send us off to his friend Darius, who works at Brompton Cemetery. Preparing dead people or putting them in coffins or something horrible like that …’
Bert’s eyes shine. ‘Coffins! Ghosts! What are we waiting for?’
I look at my brother, the one with the ghost phobia that stops him in his tracks. ‘I’m so sorry, Scruffty-mate. But he might be our key to all this. Dad’s certainly not going to talk, and I’d hate to see him cranky all over again. Charlie Boo certainly won’t be saying anything else. And we can’t count on Basti.’ Because he lives in a world of his own making, is deeply unreliable, always off with his own projects, in cahoots with Charlie Boo as well as Dad and no doubt alerted already about this. Scruff starts biting his nails. Always a bad sign: it means super nervous. He asks when we’ll be doing this.
‘Tomorrow. Right after Dad’s gone.’ He nibbles his nail again – it’ll be bitten to the quick before long. ‘We have to work fast, mate. Sorry. The four of us have to get out of here … somehow.’ I look around dubiously. ‘Dad just needs to be thinking we’re safe and sound, helping Basti in the Reptilarium. Just waiting quietly to go home.’
‘Since when have we ever been quiet?’ Bert giggles. We all burst out laughing. Because the answer’s never. And who on earth would think we’re safe and sound with a mad uncle and a house full of the most dangerous reptiles on earth?
‘The library, troops!’ I rub my hands. ‘We need a good night’s sleep. We’ve got an attic raid tomorrow. Then a daring and miraculous escape. Plan 452. Our most ambitious of the lot. We need to stock up on compasses, warm clothes, flying goggles, the whole kit and caboodle. We might have to cross continents, could end up in Iceland, Egypt, Siam – who knows! But first, we’ve got to find Brompton Cemetery. Plus – crucially – we’ve got to do it before Dad gets back.’
‘Yippeeeeeeee!’
We scurry off to the library with its warning sign:
Because of all its delicious books, I choose to believe, but you never know in this crazy house. The excitement’s bubbling over. The magical Kensington Reptilarium is full of hissing and squeaking and chattering and rustling, as if all the animals have cottoned on to our excitement and are whispering our plans, in shock, amongst themselves. Outside, snow gently falls over the square. And there are new friends out there, across the garden, impatient for all the bush skills we’ve promised to teach them. But it’ll be a huge day tomorrow – the Grand Caddy Bush Demonstration will just have to wait.
As will home. Its tall blue skies. Its ghost gums like shinbones on the red hills to the east that glow golden in the evening light. ‘It’s like they’ve trapped the sky in them, Kicky,’ Mum said once, ‘like they can’t bear to let all the beauty leak out.’ She loved gazing at it from her wicker chair on the verandah, her feet up on the long wooden extension arms, most unladylike. ‘A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,’ she’d hoot at my shock. I can’t wait to go back to it. All the laughter, that’s what I remember the most. Hold Pin tight in the envelope of my arms. A mummy. The first ever time for him. Imagine that.
He stirs and draws my arm over his tummy, deep into his warmth. We’ve got an adventure to get cracking on with here. Tomorrow. As soon as Dad’s gone. We’ll sort his life out, and Mum’s, and ours – oh, don’t you worry about that.
Plan 452: our most spectacular yet!
‘Arise, Caddys one, Caddys all. It is eight – o – ni-iiiine precisely. And a certain beloved father is soon to depart.’
‘Er, what did you say, Mr Boo?’ I tease, desperate to hear his stern Scottish vowels mangle the word ‘nine’ so exuberantly once again – he says it with about four syllables added into it.
But he’s having none of it today. ‘You heard, Miss Thomasina, you heard.’
‘Kick.’
‘Thomasina. Such a beautiful name. Now, as I said –’ The Boo glare, at me, then at Bucket, who’s curled up with me overnight. The Boo eyebrow raised, the Boo eyes at the Boo watch.
‘But where’s our mum?’ Onya, Scruff, launching straight in to it. The nub of the problem here.
‘Yes! Yes!’ we all tumble in chorus because maybe Charlie Boo has had a softening overnight and is ready to tell us everything. Yes? ‘Can we rescue her? Is she stuck?’
‘Deary me, wasn’t I the rambler. We will forget that unfortunate conversation from last night immediately.’ Oh no we won’t. ‘I repeat, immediately.’ The Boo eyebrow once again. ‘I know nothing. In fact, I never know anything in this place, including, for instance, where you’ve hidden the entire secret stash of Christmas chocolate rations. Master Ralph?’
Scruff gives his magnificent ‘I didn’t do it’ face in response, which fools everyone but his family and Charlie Boo.
‘The head of the house would like to know immediately. As would I.’
‘Excuse me,’ Scruff responds indignantly, ‘but do you have any idea of the enormous pressure I live under here? Two stinky sisters and a brother who are all desperate every second of the day to get their hands on my secret supplies. One needs certain things to get by in life. Man to man. You know.’ Charlie Boo’s face says he does not. ‘There’s, like, crucial information for survival that must be kept to one’s self, Mr Boo.’
‘Well said, old boy!’ booms a voice from the doorway. ‘Chocolate stashes are sacrosanct in my book.’
Uncle Basti, of course, resplendent in his morning attire of yellow velvet as blaring as a sunflower. The suit, the matching shoes. Only broken by a jumpy red shirt far too big for him, a green tie, one pink and one blue sock, round mirrored sunglasses and a chameleon perched on his head. Who is red, er, no. Green, er, blue.
‘What is this cacophonous cacophony in here? We have an invalid in the house. And you’re meant to be in a library, my dear family-types, in case you haven’t noticed. A library.’ His voice drops to a whisper. ‘Which means deathly quiet. And, er, dog-free. But I’m never going to win that one, am I?’
‘Nope!’ Bert giggles.
Scruff sidles up to him, rolling up his sleeves. ‘Basti, me old mate, what’s all this about our mum? Come on, you can tell me, man to man.’
Our uncle sighs exhaustedly. Looks at his nephew, then Charlie Boo, then Bucket, who puts her head quizzically to one side, then his nephew once again. ‘I am so very sorry. But there’s absolutely nothing you can do, my boy. You must accept it. Your mother is gone and that is a fact. Full stop. End of story. You must forget Charlie Boo ever said whatever he said, in his most unprofessional lapse. He’s getting old, you know.’
Charlie Boo raises a startled eyebrow at his boss.
‘You are,’ Basti says. ‘And my bouncy little tiger cubs, as you bid farewell to your father please don’t – under any circumstances – mention any of this ridiculousness. His poor heart has been weakened most terribly by his ordeals, and we don’t want to give him any more stress. Do we? Because the consequences –’ he sighs ‘– could be fatal.’
He’s right. Keep Dad out of this. As much as we don’t want to. But the thought of him opening the door to Mum when he comes back! It will keep us going. We will never be persuaded from Plan 452’s course.
The doorbell suddenly rings, most insistently. Basti sighs. ‘Far too vigorous, too young and too early for any of my acquaintances. Off you go. Why on earth did I let you into my world? Why? Why?’ He hits his head in frustration then suddenly smiles. ‘Because it’s good for me, of course. Dinda keeps telling me this. You lot, apparently, stop melancholy and madness and indulgent thoughts. All thoughts, in fact, except despair at never again having a peaceful moment in my life.’
‘Love you, Uncle Basti!’ ‘See you soon!’ We race downstairs to the front door, followed by a wildly excited Bucket. Friends! Snowballs! Sleds!
Oh yes indeed. A cacophonous cacophony of brand new mates
. Hannah, Violet, Lauren and Anton, Dave, Hen, Georgie, Noah and Becky, Max and Charlotte, Otto and Chasper, Eva and Luke, who’ve all raced from their neighbourhood houses and crowded around the Reptilarium, calling us out, snug as bugs in their winter hats and coats. ‘We want to see a whip cracked!’ ‘Where’s your slingshot?’ ‘Do your freckles go all over?’ ‘Even your belly button?’ (Scruff being Scruff answers yes to that one and volunteers to show it, which has Bert and me in fits of, ‘Stop, stop!’) ‘Can you ride a kangaroo?’ ‘An emu?’ ‘Is your dog really one of those dingo things?’ ‘I’ll swap you a sled for a hunting knife.’
‘Not on your life,’ I smile, ‘it’s special,’ clutching the knife on its strap of leather around my neck.
We pour out of the Reptilarium, Bucket yapping wildly then throwing in a desert howl for good measure. We all race into the snow-bowered garden square, rolling and squealing down its vast expanse of sloping white. Perfect for sleds! And brand new skis! And bits of crates! And a snowman called Lily C, which Bert decides is not stylish enough and must be instantly re-dressed – Albertina of Kensington style – or, in the tactful words of the Grand Dame herself, ‘enhanced’.
Scruff’s up a tree quick as a flash, lassoing a rope around a branch and calling me over to tie a short log to the bottom of it. He smiles, winks – we’ve done this before, on a river gum at home: instant swing.
‘Me first!’ Pin is off, promptly crashing into the tree trunk and tumbling off – oops! – up he pops. (Yep, indestructible as well as invinciple.) Max has found an old whip in his father’s study, souvenired from a cattle muster in Argentina, and hands it across with a dare – ‘Show us what you’re made of, Aussie girl!’ Oh, just you wait.
With a sharp quick flick I promptly remove the beanie from his head. ‘Anything else?’ I spin around. ‘Any heads that need removing? Toes?’
‘Max’s nose!’ cries his brother, Luke. I curl the whip under a crisp leap from Bucket then wrap it magically and harmlessly around Max’s wrist. Everyone gasps. Claps. I could grow to enjoy this.
‘Nice one, Kick. You must take after your father with that!’
I spin to the Reptilarium. It’s Dad. On the footpath, leaning between Charlie Boo on one side and his brother on the other. Ready to set off.
‘Daddy!’ The four of us race across the road.
He looks no better than last night. Is helped into Basti’s waiting limousine ever so gently by the two men. Dinda from next door clatters outside in heels far too tall, wielding an enormous bouquet of orange and black flowers that match most fabulously her tiger skin-coat. But she’s had no time to do her hair – it’s still in huge golden rollers. Rather divinely, I can tell from Bert’s look.
Basti is now standing all nervous and awkward beside her – at being out, in the open, at being next to the undeclared love of his life. Love. Urgh. It’s such weird stuff. Look what it turns perfectly sensible people into? Quivering wrecks. It’s like he suddenly can’t talk. Why do people bother with it? It takes up so much time and fret.
‘She’d look incredible in anything. A potato sack,’ Berti sighs.
‘When’s their wedding thing?’ Scruff butts in. ‘Who wants to take bets?’
Bert rolls her eyes. ‘You know nothing about love. I, on the other hand, most certainly do. There’ll be many obstacles to overcome before Basti and Dinda get to their church. Which will be a small but beautiful one in the countryside with white roses around the door. But get to it they will. In a December, to commemorate their spectacular finding of each other all over again. They will be in matching creations. From myself. I’ve already begun designing them, in fact, plus the interior of the reception hall, which will be medieval with shields and dead zebra heads and a roaring fireplace.’
‘Zebra heads?’ Pin is aghast.
‘Since when have you been an expert on … kissing stuff.’ Scruff wrinkles his nose at that horrid and deeply forbidden word that has to pass from his lips.
‘Kissing! Kissing! Did someone say kissing!’ I plant big giggly smackaroonies all over his squirmy head; Bert joins in, Pin tackles his legs and proceeds to smother his knees with wet licks.
‘Caddys major, intermediate and minor,’ Charlie Boo roars. ‘Could you please direct your energies to someone in actual need of them.’ He indicates our father, now snug in the long, low panther of a car with a tartan rug over his knees. We crowd around the door, jostling and shrieking for kissing space, Bucket leaping and snuffling around us trying to get in close.
‘Steady on,’ Dad laughs.
‘I fear someone’s kisses may well be directed towards my grandson Linus soon enough,’ Charlie Boo murmurs to him.
‘What?’ I snap, blushing.
‘Not saying,’ he teases.
‘Is she growing up, Mr Boo?’ Dad asks. ‘Is she reaching that stage already?’
‘No,’ I squeal furiously.
‘We’ll have to find a dress for her first,’ Dad says.
‘I’ll do it!’ Albertina of Kensington jumps in.
Dad grabs my hand, laughing. ‘You’re our chief tigress, aren’t you, Miss Kicky? Spitting and yowling and fighting the world. Always have been. As fierce as your mother, you know. And don’t you go changing on me.’ I look at him, clotted, want to ask him so much. Not now, Kicky, please, says his face.
He turns to his commando of a son, who’s at the ready here with whip in one hand and slingshot in the other. ‘Scruff, you’re my wild one, my chief defender, yarn spinner, bar mate and crack shot, so you, I do believe, have to be in charge of the hat.’ Dad winks at his eldest son, whose face is shining right up. ‘Until I can get my googlies perfected, and then we’ll be off with that cricket game all over again. But we need that bread tin, right?’
‘And what about Peter Pan airplanes?’ Bert asks. ‘You know, where you’d hold us flat like an ironing board and fly us round and round? They were my favourite, Daddy.’
‘Oh yes, I’ll put that on the list, my love, my little pet.’
‘And camping trips? Where we track goannas and cook ’em up in the coals?’ Scruff jumps in.
‘And duddles?’ adds Pin.
‘Yes, yes, all of it,’ Dad smiles. ‘Now look after our Bucket girl, won’t you?’ He plays with her ears affectionately. ‘And, Pinny, you have to mind my scarf. It’s your big grown-up task while I’m away. I think you’ll manage. You’re extremely capable. In fact, my children seem to turn out more sane and sensible the further down the line they go. How did that happen?’
‘Oy!’ I exclaim.
‘Oh, you are so teasible, Kicketty Kick. It’s rather delightful, you know.’
Charlie Boo starts the car. Pin gives his father a grave salute.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,’ Dad winks to all of us.
I smile, taking that as a signal to proceed immediately with Ingenious Plan Number 452. And won’t he get a shock – the best shock of his life – at its grand and spectacular climax. But as the car pulls away it’s like he sees something in my face, like he reads my mind and all the grand scheming in it. ‘Stay safe!’ he yells in sudden anguish. Like he’ll never see us again. ‘You’re not going anywhere, are you?’ His hand trails out the window.
We all grab on to it. ‘We love you, Daddy!’ ‘Get better soon!’ ‘We’ll have you home in no time!’
Then the four of us plus one dog tear all the way down Campden Hill Square, waving and yelling and barking and whistling our desert whistles that make brumbies’ ears prick as well as roos, until the car turns into Holland Park Avenue and is swallowed by traffic, by London, by the vast crazy busy-ness of it.
Dad’s last gesture is a V for Victory sign tall out the window.
I hold out one, high, back. Oh yes, we’ll bring him victory all right.
We’re going to find her for him. Oh yes.
The love of Dad’s life. We’re going to get us a family here that’s all fixed up. It will be the most amazing adventure of our lives. I just know it. So
let’s get cracking! I turn to the others. ‘Right. Mr Darius Davenport, here we come. Brompton Cemetery. However we find it.’
‘Dinda could help,’ Bert suggests. Anything to get close to the glamorous fashion photographer next door who she’s got a ridiculous girl crush on. Wants to be, in fact.
‘Nope, too aligned to Basti,’ I say. ‘In love.’ Scruff covers his ears in horror at that squirmy L word again. ‘We’re alone with this one, troops. Have to be. Because any grown-up who finds out about us will put a stop to it, quick.’ I look at Pin. His face reflects the enormity of this knowledge. That he’s now like a baby camel raised in captivity who’s suddenly let loose with a whole world ahead of him, an entire desert and there’s a lot of excitement out there, but scariness, too.
‘Pin? Get it?’ I warn. ‘No telling anyone. Or Mum might be lost forever.’ He nods gravely, puffed up with the hugeness of the task. ‘Now, what are we going to call this operation? Mission … what?’
‘Mission Chocolate!’ Scruff volunteers. We roll our eyes.
‘Mission Desert Rose,’ Bert says quietly. ‘The first phase of Plan 452.’
The name’s perfect. Exactly right for Mum. ‘Good one, sis.’ She smiles at me.
‘Boy heroes, you ready?’ Two crisp salutes.
‘Girl hero?’
‘Aye aye, captain!’ I look at her, incredulous. Could it possibly be that we’re on the same wavelength? Nup. Impossible. Has never happened before in our lives.
‘I’m going to get Mum opening that door to him if it’s the last thing I ever do,’ she vows. ‘It’s the most romantic thing in the world. Ever. Imagine their kiss.’
‘Uuuuuuuurgh.’ Scruff’s arms are now in revulsion over his entire face. I’m with you, mate, I’m with you. Don’t want to think about it.
‘Bucket?’
A bark of readiness. She’s our master tracker and hot water bottle and body guard all rolled into one. Essential to Mission Desert Rose.
‘Right. The attic. About turn. We need some kitting out.’
The Icicle Illuminarium Page 3
