by Jack Lasenby
“Watch out! You could burn your bare feet on these ashes.” Uncle Chris brushed them off the lids with a wet sugarbag.
“I smell snarlers!” said Lizzie.
“Snarlers smell I,” said Alwyn in a sad little voice. He was thinking of Banana Bob, but we were too hungry to worry about him.
“How about that!” Uncle Chris lifted off the lids and showed us big, juicy, shiny, brown sausages about a foot long for the big kids! Tiny, curly, crispy sausages smaller than a little finger, specially for the little ones!
We sat around the camp ovens and picked them out with our fingers, blowing on them, wrapping them in bread and butter, and dipping them in tomato sauce. They smelled even better than they looked, and they tasted even better than they smelled.
After tea, Uncle Chris had a cup of tea. “Don’t go telling your Aunt Effie I did this.” He tipped it into the saucer, just like Banana Bob, and slurped it up. “It’s supposed to be bad manners,” he said and read our hands again.
“You’ve eaten so many snarlers, your skin’s all stretched. It’s changed the lines on your hands,” he told the little ones. “And that means your future’s changed, too. You’re not going to be Prime Minister after all.” The little ones cried. “Well, just for a day perhaps.
“But the lines on your hands all say something else – something about an island.”
“Yes?” we all said. “Yes?”
“It says on your hands that the island’s sunk,” said Uncle Chris. “Who ever heard of an island sinking?”
“We did!” said Jared. “Does it say anything about treasure?”
“Let’s have a look. I can see a shark, and a … I think it’s a crocodile. Yes, and a wrecked ship!”
“The Evil Fancy!” said Casey.
“There’s something else. Something shining, and gleaming, and winking. It might be treasure, but it’s getting too dark to see.” He looked at Alwyn and shook his head. “Poor boy! So young to be fed to the Phantom Drummer.…”
“That’s not fair,” said Lizzie. “Alwyn saved us from being trapped in your black box.”
“I told you I’d try to save him. Look how dark it is! We’d better hang a lantern on the cowshed, to show Aunt Effie the way home, then it’s time you were all off to bed.”
We climbed into our hammocks. Alwyn took ages to put on his pyjamas and climb into his.
“Tell us a story?” the little ones asked Uncle Chris. “Or we won’t go to sleep.”
“One about lions and tigers?” asked Jessie.
“One about why Mr Firth built the Tower?” asked Lizzie.
“Once upon a time,” said Uncle Chris, “lions and tigers ran wild around Matamata. Along came Mr J.C. Firth.
“‘Ooh, look!’ said the lions and tigers. ‘A human! I wonder what he tastes like?’
“But Mr Firth ran away. ‘Come back!’ the lions and tigers roared. ‘We just want to be friends.’
“But Mr Firth ran up the hill and built his Tower. He pulled his ladder up through the door and locked himself inside. And he put battlements round the top so he could fire cannons, and loopholes in the walls so he could fire arrows.
“The lions and tigers surrounded the Tower. ‘Please Mrs Firth,’ they called as if his mother was there, ‘can Mr Firth come out and play?’
“The lions and tigers rolled on their backs and smiled and held up their paws to show what good friends they would be. But Mr Firth looked down from the top of the Tower and saw their sharp teeth and hidden claws.
“‘Stick your paws through the loopholes, so I can shake hands with you and be friends for ever,’ he said.
“The lions and tigers grinned at each other. They jumped up the walls and stuck their paws through the loopholes. When they felt Mr Firth shaking hands with them, they roared and stuck out their claws. But Mr Firth had lassoed their paws together so the lions and tigers couldn’t pull them back through the loopholes. They were stuck!
“Mr Firth shoved his ladder out the door, climbed to the ground, and went around pulling the lions’ and tigers’ tails that hung down the walls. ‘How do you do?’ he said. ‘How do you do? And how do you do again?’ When the lions and tigers roared, Mr Firth pulled their tails once more and said, ‘Listen to the bells in the Tower ring!’”
Uncle Chris opened his mouth and roared. And the little ones opened their mouths and roared back. He showed his terrible white teeth and tapped them, and the little ones showed their terrible white teeth and tapped them back at Uncle Chris.
“Mr Firth sold the lions and tigers to Banana Bob who nailed them inside banana crates, put them on the back of his Model T, took them up to the Matamata A. and P. Show at the racecourse, and sold them to his friend, the Sideshow Man.
“People paid to see the lions and tigers being fed. The Sideshow Man made so much money, he bought the Fire-Eater, the Tattooed Man, and the Fat Lady.
“And with the money he got for selling the lions and tigers, Mr Firth bought wheat seed and planted the Matamata Estate and bought a steamer, the Kotuku, and cleared the Waihou River.”
“Poor lions,” said Lizzie.
“Poor tigers,” said Jessie.
“What do they give them to eat?” asked Jared.
“Cheeky boys,” said Uncle Chris.
“Poor Alwyn,” said a little voice from Alwyn’s hammock.
Later that night we woke to a scream. “He’s coming to get me! Banana Bob’s coming to drag me out of my hammock by my tongue! And he’s going to nail me into a banana crate on the back of his old Model T lorry and take me to the A. and P. Show at the Matamata racecourse tomorrow morning and sell me to the Sideshow Man!”
But Peter and Marie got up and made Alwyn a cup of cocoa and told him they wouldn’t let anyone sell him to the Sideshow Man. Uncle Chris woke up where he was sleeping on the seat of his Stanley Steamer and said he’d see what he could do about Banana Bob, and Peter and Marie made him a cup of cocoa. Then they made cups of cocoa for everyone, because we were all wide awake and crying.
“Where’s Aunt Effie?” asked Lizzie.
“Maybe the shops weren’t open in Matamata after all,” said Uncle Chris.
We heard him go back to his Stanley Steamer, and he must have set the burner going under the boiler, because we heard steam hissing out, and the terrible noise like bagpipes again. It made us feel safe, knowing Uncle Chris was there, and that his Stanley Steamer was keeping up a good head of steam.
We all pulled our blankets up over our noses, and Jessie said, “My eyes feel as big as ping-pong balls.”
“Go to sleep,” said Becky. “Banana Bob won’t come as long as Uncle Chris is here.”
Chapter Fourteen
Letting the Witches Out; the Sideshow Man and the Phantom Drummer; the Challenge; the Black Spot; Silly Old Bugaboo; Three Gigantic Gorillas; The Starting Gun; and 800 lb p.s.i.
The rising sun silvered dewy cobwebs between the fence wires. Steam had blown gently all night from the Stanley Steamer and kept us warm. Uncle Chris was connecting a hose to the boiler under the bonnet of his car.
We saw what he was rigging and scampered to be first under the hot shower. Around us the ground was white with an early frost, but we were warm inside a circle of steaming-hot spray. We jostled and fought for the soap. We shoved each other out through the watery curtain. Our toes curled up from the frost, and we shrieked and pushed back inside again.
For breakfast, Uncle Chris cooked our eggs in his boiler. When the little ones finished theirs, Uncle Chris pointed. “Look up the top of the Tower!” They stared up, and he flipped over their empty eggshells.
“But I ate my egg!” said Casey as she looked down at her eggcup.
“You’ve got yellow all round your mouth,” said Uncle Chris, “so you must have. Try eating it again.”
Casey tapped the top with her teaspoon. “It’s empty!”
“You must always knock a hole in the bottom of an eggshell,” Uncle Chris told her, “to let out the witches, or the
y’ll tie knots in your hair.”
He gave the little ones some more boiled eggs and cut off the tops. They ate them, turned the shells upside down, and poked holes through. “To let the witches out!”
“To keep the Phantom Drummer away,” whispered Alwyn.
Ah-oogah! Ah-oogah! Banana Bob’s Model T wobbled towards us.
A grim man sat in the driver’s seat, working the pedals with his bare feet. Banana Bob leaned across and steered from the passenger seat. His head was so pointy this morning, it stuck up under the canvas hood of the Model T. He took one hand off the wheel and pointed at Alwyn. “That’s him,” he said. “The one who gave me lip!”
The grim man turned dark eyes on Alwyn. We looked at him and ran and stood by Peter and Marie. “He’s got a tattooed face!”
“The Sideshow Man!” said Uncle Chris.
The lines and whorls of the Sideshow Man’s tattoo deepened and darkened as he stared at Alwyn.
“What’s that?” cried Daisy and swooned. Among the crates of bananas, a massive black shadow moved. We thought we could see a white stripe like a parson’s collar around its neck. Its mouth opened, flames came out, and it seemed to lick its lips as it looked at Alwyn. “Boom! Boom! Boom!” – the sound made us go goose-pimply all over.
“The Phantom Drummer!” said Uncle Chris, and his voice shook. We all cried.
“We’ve come for Alwyn,” said Banana Bob. “We’ve come to take him away!”
“Well, you can’t have him!” said Uncle Chris.
The tattooed Sideshow Man bounded out of the driver’s seat, jumped up and down. “Ugh!” he grunted. “Ugh!” He waved the tea-tree stick with the lady’s hand mirror lashed on the end, rolled his eyes, poked out his tongue – and we saw with horror that it was tattooed like his face.
“Wasn’t there someone else with a tattooed tongue?” asked Peter. Daisy woke, took one look, and swooned again.
Grunting, the Sideshow Man capered across, and laid a scroll of paper in front of the Stanley Steamer. “Ugh!” He poked out his tattooed tongue and waved the tea-tree stick. Before Marie could stop him, Alwyn went, “Ugh!” and poked out his tongue in return.
“Ugh!” With one leap the Sideshow Man landed in the driver’s seat, pushed down a pedal, and Banana Bob steered the Model T away. From among the crates of bananas on the back, the evil shadow of the Phantom Drummer stared at Alwyn, licked his lips, and flames came out of his mouth again. “Boom! Boom! Boom!”
Uncle Chris unrolled the scroll. “Where are my reading glasses?” He patted his pockets and felt on his forehead.
Daisy snatched the scroll. “We hereby challenge you to a race from Tower Hill to the Waterfall and back,” she read in a loud voice. “All Motor Spirits, Oil, and Kerosene to be carried on the vehicles. The drivers must bring back a bottle filled with water from Waterfall Creek.
“If the Stanley Steamer wins, you get a case of bananas. If the Model T wins, we get Alwyn. Signed: Banana Bob, the Sideshow Man, and the Phantom Drummer.”
“What’s that?” Peter pointed.
“Banana Bob can’t write,” said Uncle Chris, “so he always signs with a cross.”
“And that?”
“The Sideshow Man’s signature. You can tell because he always signs his name in blood. He writes it twice, once with each hand – just to show off.”
“And that?”
“The Phantom Drummer can’t write either, so he makes that mark with his thumb. It’s called The Black Spot!”
Daisy gave a little cry and swooned again.
“Is the Stanley Steamer faster than the Model T?” we asked.
“Heck, yes!” said Uncle Chris. “But we’ll have to watch out for the Phantom Drummer’s dirty tricks. Wake up, Daisy, and read us that bit at the bottom.”
“Mr J. C. Firth has agreed to be the Starter and Judge.” Daisy enunciated elegantly. “He will fire a cannon from the top of the Tower to start the race at six o’clock tomorrow morning. The winner will be the first car or part thereof to cross the finishing line. The Judge’s decision will be final. That’s all it says.” Daisy sounded disappointed there wasn’t more for her to read.
“What’s a ‘part thereof’?” asked Lizzie.
“Lawyers’ silly scribble-talk,” said Uncle Chris. “It just means any bit of the car. We could back over the finishing line and win, just so long as we’re first.
“We’ll fill the Stanley Steamer’s boiler before we start, and refill it at the Waterfall. Banana Bob will have to stop somewhere and fill up his tank with motor spirits, so that makes us even. But they’ll cheat like anything, specially the Phantom Drummer.”
“I think the Phantom Drummer is the Bugaboo!” said Lizzie.
We all shrieked. The Bugaboo lived under Aunt Effie’s enormous bed at home. When we jumped down off it, he used to grab our feet with his bony fingers. He didn’t have proper fingers with flesh on them, just bones – like a skeleton’s hands. We hadn’t ever seen the Bugaboo, but we often told each other how it felt to be grabbed around the ankle by his bony fingers.
“Nonsense!” said Marie. “The Bugaboo’s back home under Aunt Effie’s bed. He can’t be in two places at once.”
We all felt better when she said that. “He can’t be in two places at once!” we all shouted.
“Silly old Bugaboo!” Alwyn yelled.
“Shhh!” we all told him. “Aren’t you in enough trouble already?”
“Oobagub old silly!” Alwyn whispered.
“Besides,” said Marie, “the Phantom Drummer reminded me of somebody we’ve seen before. Anyway, how could he sign the challenge if he has bones for fingers?” She waved the scroll at us, and we looked at the Black Spot. It was large and round.
“That’s been made by a fat thumb,” Marie said, “not a skinny bone!”
Lizzie smiled. “Silly old Black Spot!”
“Spot Black old silly,” said Alwyn.
“Not so silly,” said Uncle Chris. “I warn you, we’ll have to watch out for the Phantom Drummer’s dirty tricks.…”
We spent the rest of that day getting ready. We filled the boiler and made sure the pilot light was going. Uncle Chris checked the spare kerosene for the burner, and topped up its reservoir. We greased and oiled all the pistons, joints, and moving parts of the Stanley Steamer. We polished the red mudguards, the brass headlights, and the boa constrictor horn. We polished the silver side-lamps, the red wooden spokes, and rubbed the seats with oil till the leather shone. We polished the mahogany steering wheel with the shammy cloth, and rubbed the brass with Brasso till it glowed gold.
“Might be an idea to throw on a couple of timber-jacks,” said Peter. “Just in case we need them.”
Early next morning we got up and had hot showers and boiled eggs for breakfast, and everybody knocked holes in the bottom of their empty eggshells to let out the witches.
We topped up the boiler. Uncle Chris pulled a lever, and the burner came on with a thump. The fresh water took a while to boil, and we watched the needle on the gauge creep up to over five hundred pounds per square inch.
“We need eight hundred,” said Uncle Chris. He was pumping up the tyres, and tightening all the nuts and bolts. “It’ll be too cold driving with the windscreen down.” We put it up and tightened the butterfly nuts.
Uncle Chris put on a big brass fireman’s helmet he found in the black box. It had a horse’s mane on top like a Roman helmet, and it made him look very fierce, so long as you couldn’t see his face. Marie and Peter wore Great War flying helmets and goggles out of the black box and sat beside him.
The rest of us found motoring caps, goggles, gloves, and big white dust coats in the black box. We sat Alwyn in the middle with the little ones so he’d be safe, and the rest of us perched all over the Stanley Steamer.
“It’s nearly six.” Uncle Chris let off the hand brake. The boa constrictor horn went, “Whaaeeeish!” spat steam, and whistled, “Whooo-ooo-oooh!” Uncle Chris opened the throttle just a little.
The Stanley Steamer glided silently to the starting line.
“Eight hundred!” Peter nodded at the pressure gauge.
“We forgot a bottle for the water from Waterfall Creek!” Marie jumped out and ran to our travelling cowshed, the chin-strap on her flying helmet flapping.
“Hurry, Marie! We can hear them coming! Quick, climb on board! She’s got a bottle! Hooray!”
“That’s no good,” said Daisy. “It’s one of Aunt Effie’s Old Puckeroo Skin Bracer bottles. I can smell it from here. Skin Bracer indeed! I’ve always suspected it’s actually strong drink. Matamata’s a dry district, and she could get us all arrested, bringing in forbidden liquor.”
“The rules didn’t say what sort of bottle it had to be,” Marie was telling Daisy when, Ker-rang! Clank! Clank! Bang! Bang! the Model T backfired and pulled up beside us. We stared in horror for inside it were three gigantic gorillas who pointed at Alwyn, clashed huge red teeth at him, and dribbled blood as if they were eating him already.
“It’s all right,” said Ann. “It’s just them in gorilla suits.” But the little ones cried because they looked like the gorillas of their dreams, the ones that eat little children.
“Remember the powerful gorillas on Aunt Effie’s Ark?” Ann said to them. “They were real gorillas, and they were gentle.” The little ones nodded but still cried as the gigantic gorillas in the Model T beat their chests and roared, “Gruff! Gruff! Gruff!” The one in the driver’s seat stuck out his tongue, and we could see it was tattooed.
“Look at the one in the passenger seat,” said Becky. “Look at his puku!”
Sure enough, a round belly like half a basketball stuck out under the gorilla suit. And his pointed head stuck up under the canvas roof.
“It’s Banana Bob!” yelled Alwyn. “We can see you, Banana Bob!”
“Shut up, Alwyn!” we all cried, but it was too late.
“Arrgh! Grrrr! Grrrah!” the three gorillas roared and jumped up and down in the Model T. They shook the folding struts that held up the canvas hood, as if they were shaking Alwyn. They pointed at him and showed their terrible red teeth and their terrible black fingernails, and a cannon boomed on top of the Tower.
