The Race Against Time

by Frank Cottrell Boyce

  “Oh, no,” said Dad. “You’re too young to drive. This is a big city.”

  “But Diamonds is the finest getaway driver in New York!” wailed the bride-to-be. “Please say yes. This is my happy day.”

  “Why would anyone need a getaway driver for a wedding?” asked Lucy.

  “So we can ‘get away’ on our honeymoon, of course.”

  “But you can’t just get married,” said Mum. “What about all the nice things — a wedding dress, confetti, bridesmaids . . .”

  “My mother told me, ‘Always be ready for anything, especially anything romantic,’ ” said the bride-to-be, producing from her huge handbag a gorgeous silk-damask wedding dress. “If you’ll all just look away for a moment, I’ll wriggle into this. Especially you, Louis. It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding.”

  Within seconds she was transformed into the perfect bride, complete with cloud-coloured dress, ivory veil, and a bouquet of snowdrops. “And look what I found!” she gasped, brandishing a fistful of very, very pink cloth at Lucy. “The perfect bridesmaid dress for the little lady.”

  “Oh, no,” said Lucy. “Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no. No!”

  “Oh, but, Lucy,” pleaded Mum, “it’s lovely.”

  “Mum, I’ve seen the back end of a pterodactyl and the front end of a Megatherium. But I have never seen anything half as horrible as that dress.”

  The bride-to-be began to cry big, mascara-smudging tears. “Ever since I am a little girl in Little Rock, all I want is pretty bridesmaids on my wedding day. That is all I ask.”

  The Count began to panic. “Lucy,” he said, “help. You know all about girls. This one is crying. I don’t know what to do. Can you make it stop?”

  “I’ll wear the dress,” groaned Lucy.

  “Really?” cooed the bride-to-be. “I do believe my mother will be so proud when she sees how prepared I am. Why, here I even have ribbons to decorate the car. And . . . all sorts of other things that may be useful.”

  As she said this last sentence, Jem saw her wink at Man-Mountain.

  Dad would agree to let Jem drive only if he could sit in the front passenger seat alongside him. They set off into the bay, with Chitty’s ribbons flying and Lucy’s ribbons stuck firmly in her mouth as she sucked them angrily while Mum tied her hair into tight, tiny braids, each one fastened with a little gemstone butterfly.

  “What do you think?” asked Mum, showing her herself in a mirror.

  “You made my hair look like spaghetti infested with insects.”

  Out in the bay, the wind and seagulls were louder. Jem whispered to his dad, “There’s something very strange here.”

  “Yes, what is it? It’s very sticky,” said Dad, who had put his foot on the roll of prehistoric spider’s web.

  “I’m not talking about that,” hissed Jem. “That’s prehistoric spider’s web. I’m talking about this so-called wedding.”

  Dad bundled up the spider’s web and tossed it onto the backseat.

  “Sticky!” yelled Little Harry, patting it enthusiastically.

  “Oh, Little Harry! Now I’ll have to untangle you.” Dad sighed.

  “Dad, listen. Why would they get married if they’ve only just met?”

  “Haven’t you heard of love at first sight?”

  “Why is Man-Mountain carrying a violin case?”

  “Because he plays the violin?” said Dad.

  “How can he play the violin? He’s got big fat fingers.”

  “Are you saying,” growled Dad, “that there is something wrong with fat fingers?”

  “No, no,” said Jem quickly. “I’m saying there’s something strange going on here.”

  By now they had crossed the bay and trundled onto the jetty and into the streets of Little Italy. It was early morning. Street sweepers were cleaning the pavement, and traders were piling their stalls with fresh fruit and vegetables. Seeing a beautiful car with a bride in the back, the sweepers waved their brushes in the air. Whenever Jem had to stop at a traffic light or a road junction, the stallholders came with bags of sugared almonds for the bride and the children. One of them even sang to her.

  “Che bella sposa,” he sang.

  “How romantic,” said the bride-to-be, then singing along.

  Determined to find out exactly what was going on, Jem looked at her in the rearview mirror and said, “I was just wondering . . . What’s your name?”

  “That’s exactly what I was wondering!” gasped the Count. “Darling, what’s your name?”

  The bride-to-be’s eyes narrowed.

  Lenny Man-Mountain growled, “What? You didn’t hear what the stallholder guy said? Her name is Bella Sposa.”

  Lucy pointed out that “Bella Sposa” was just Italian for “Beautiful Bride.”

  “Well, quelle coincidence,” said Bella Sposa. “Bella Sposa is what I am called, and Bella Sposa is exactly what I am.”

  “How charmingly uncomplicated,” said the Count with a smile.

  “Thank you,” said Bella. “I think you’re uncomplicated, too.”

  The Count looked happier than ever when she said this. Even Mum said, “Aaaah!” and Bella Sposa kept singing that song. “After all,” the bride-to-be said, “not everyone has a song named after them.” Jem, though, was more suspicious than ever.

  “Mr. Man-Mountain,” he said, as they drove into Brooklyn, “I bet Bella would love it if you accompanied her on the violin.”

  “Bet?” said Man-Mountain. “How big a bet? I don’t bet on anything under two g’s.”

  “I didn’t mean actual money. I was just using a figure of speech.”

  “When it comes to figures, cash is better than speech,” said Man-Mountain. “Every time.”

  The Brooklyn streets were full of schoolchildren. They ran after Chitty, daring one another to jump up on her running-board.

  “Look at the beautiful car!” they cried.

  “Ga gooo ga!” answered Chitty.

  “Look at the beautiful bride!”

  Bella Sposa waved at them all.

  A boy with very bright red hair jumped up on Chitty’s running-board, right beside the Count. “Hey, mister! New York’s finest shoe shine for your big day — ten cents?”

  “Oh, my!” gasped Bella. “Look at his hair. It goes so well with the bridesmaid’s dress. What’s your name, kid?”

  “Red,” said the kid. “Like my hair.”

  “Such decorative hair. Climb in and you can be my page boy.”

  “OK, lady. It’ll cost you a dollar, though.”

  “Wait,” said Mum. “Hasn’t your mother told you never to get into a car with strangers?”

  “Sure, but my grandma told me there was no such thing as strangers, only friends we haven’t met yet. Dollar, lady?”

  “Yes, yes.” Bella opened her big bag again and pulled out a white sailor suit and offered it to the boy. “Put this on. You’ll look so dinky.”

  “You never mentioned no sailor suit before, lady,” he said. “That’s gonna be another dollar.”

  “Louis, darling, would you give this sweet little boy five dollars just for me.”

  The Count handed Red five dollars.

  “Five dollars! Gosh, thanks, lady. I bet you’re going to be the prettiest bride in the whole state.”

  “When you say ‘bet,’ ” said Man-Mountain, “how big a bet exactly?”

  “Do not bet with Lenny Man-Mountain, honey,” said Bella. “Lenny Man-Mountain never lost a bet yet. Take a left, please,” she added, as they reached the edge of town.

  They turned down a narrow street. At the end, set back from the road, was an abandoned house, its windows shuttered and dark. Hunched over it, like a giant hippopotamus about to swallow it whole, was a vast, shadowy barn.

  “Here we are!” shouted Bella. “I think the page boy should open the doors.”

  “Wait,” said Jem. “This isn’t a church.”

  “Excellent observational skills,” said the bride-to-be, patting Jem on the h
ead as she climbed out of the car. “I suppose that’s important if you’re a getaway driver.”

  “But if it’s not a church . . .” pressed Jem.

  “. . . then it’s a surprise. In we go. I am most excited. Groom first. Then our guests, Red and the Tooting family, then my bridesmaid . . . and finally Mr. Lenny Man-Mountain . . .”

  When Jem tried to follow the others in, Bella put her hand on his chest and said, “Stay in the car. Keep the engine running. We won’t be long.”

  “But . . .”

  As he tried to protest, Red came running out. “Rope,” he said. “The big guy says he needs some rope.”

  “Why would you need rope for a wedding?”

  “Does the phrase ‘tying the knot’ mean nothing to you?” snapped Bella. “Get some rope.”

  “We don’t have any rope. Just that pile of prehistoric spider’s web . . .”

  Red picked up the hunk of spider’s web and ran back inside. One second later, he was outside again, wiping strands of spider’s web from his hands.

  “Violin,” he said.

  “On the backseat of the car.”

  “You know, no one mentioned all this running and fetching. It could cost you another dollar.”

  “Just hurry it up, kid. Some of us are waiting to get married.”

  Red dashed back inside the barn.

  There was a flash of flame.

  A burst of gunfire.

  A yell. A scream.

  Man-Mountain strode out of the barn, followed by Red. He slammed the door behind them. “That concludes our business for today,” he said. “OK, Diamonds, move it.”

  “What?” screamed Jem. “What did you just do to my family?”

  Man-Mountain reassured Jem that his family wasn’t dead. “At least, not yet they ain’t. If you want to keep it that way, drive and drive fast.”

  “But what have you done with them?”

  “Kid, you’re the getaway driver, not a talk-show host,” snarled Man-Mountain. “Just drive.”

  “I won’t!” yelled Jem. “You can’t make me!”

  “Now we both know that that isn’t true.” Bella Sposa smiled.

  “Say what you like,” said Jem. “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang won’t go anywhere without the Tooting family. She probably won’t even start without them.”

  “Like a bet on that?” asked Man-Mountain.

  “He hasn’t lost a bet yet,” warned Bella Sposa.

  “I bet my life on it.”

  Man-Mountain cranked the engine, then leaned into the car and pressed the starter motor. Chitty started the first time.

  “You lose.” Man-Mountain smiled. “Now drive. We’ll sort out the life you bet later.”

  As soon as the Tootings and the Count were inside the barn, Man-Mountain had opened the violin case Red had brought him and said, “Put your hands in the air.”

  “Oh, marvellous! Another new dance craze!” cried the Count.

  “This is not a dance. This is a stickup. Put your hands up or I’ll shoot.” Man-Mountain took out a machine gun and fired into the air, frightening a lot of pigeons and making jagged holes in the roof of the barn.

  “Here, kid,” said Man-Mountain, throwing Red the ball of prehistoric spider’s web. “Help me tie these good folks to that wooden pole there.”

  “OK, but it’ll cost you. Another dollar at least,” said Red.

  The barn smelled of damp and hay. The only light came from the handful of sunbeams that stabbed through the holes in the roof made by Man-Mountain’s machine gun.

  “Weddings are so much more complicated than I imagined,” said the Count. “I honestly thought there was going to be a bit of confetti, some prayers, and a cake. This is masses more interesting. What happens next?”

  “Hmm,” said Dad. “I’m trying to think.”

  Dad felt something tugging at his wrist. He tried to look around, but he was tied so tightly all he could see when he moved his head was Lucy’s butterfly-infested hair.

  “I suppose she did say we would be tying the knot,” said the Count.

  Now Lucy felt a tug on her arm. At first she thought it was her phone vibrating, but then Dad said, “What is that tugging?” so he could feel it, too. He tugged back. Something was on the other end of the spider’s web.

  “Little Harry?” said Lucy. “Where is he?”

  “Little Harry?” called Mum.

  A happy little voice answered from the dark. “Sticky!” it said.

  Yes! Man-Mountain had forgotten to tie up Little Harry. But the toddler had somehow managed to get himself stuck to the loose end of the spider’s web. Gently Dad tugged at the rope, pulling Little Harry nearer and nearer.

  “Sticky!” he cried.

  “Yes, Little Harry, sticky,” said Dad. If he could just get him near enough, then his youngest son might be able to help them free themselves.

  “Bang! Bang!” cried Little Harry.

  “Yes, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is gone,” said Dad. “But we’ll get her back . . .”

  “Bang! Bang!” insisted Little Harry.

  If Jem had been there, he might have figured out exactly what Little Harry was trying to say. But he wasn’t, so everyone just assumed that Little Harry was talking about Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.

  That’s why everyone was so surprised when Little Harry toddled out of the shadows saying, “Bang! Bang!” and carrying a machine gun.

  “Now, Little Harry,” said Mum, with all the quiet and calm she could muster, “put the gun down. Put it down very gently.”

  “Bang! Bang!” said Little Harry.

  “Exactly,” said Mum. “We’ll all go bang-bang, and we don’t want that, do we?”

  “Please put it down, Little Harry,” begged Dad.

  “Nothing to worry about, everyone,” said the Count. “I’m wearing my lucky cuff links. Nothing ever goes wrong when I’m wearing my luck —”

  Little Harry had dropped the machine gun. The moment it hit the floor, it erupted, spraying bullets, thunder, noise, and smoke all around the barn. Wood splintered above their heads. Earth flew up from the floor. Wisps of hay swarmed through the air.

  When the shooting stopped, the air was full of smoke and gunpowder, and Little Harry was sitting on the floor with a big grin on his fat little face. He clapped his hands and said, “Bang! Bang!” one more time.

  “No one hurt?” said the Count. “Thank you, lucky cuff links. Oh, I say! What was that?”

  The huge wooden pole to which Man-Mountain had tied them creaked, swayed, creaked again. It had been cut in half by a rain of bullets. Now it was falling over.

  “If we all lean the same way,” said Dad, straining. “Yes, that’s it . . .” They guided the pole to the ground, and with a bit of wriggling and some lifting, they were able to slide the spider’s web rope off the end of it and free themselves.

  “That’s better,” said the Count, dusting himself down. “Now, where can my bride have possibly got to?”

  “This is just a guess,” said Lucy, “but Man-Mountain is a professional gambler. You are favourite to win the Greatest Motor Race in the World, which is just about to start. Man-Mountain has kidnapped you and left you here so that you can’t enter the race. Meanwhile, he’s bet on another car to win . . .”

  “Of course!” cried Mum. “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang! He’s bet a fortune on her, and since the Count can’t enter, he’s bound to win.”

  “But who would drive her?” asked the Count.

  “Isn’t it obvious? The best getaway driver in New York: Jem.”

  “My poor Jem!” sobbed Mum. “He’ll be killed. Dad! Stop them.”

  “How can I stop them?” said Dad. “They’ve got a car that can fly and sail and travel in time.”

  “The finest getaway car in the world.”

  “What can I do? What can any of us do?” Dad sighed.

  Bang! The barn doors burst into splinters.

  Bang! A bomb of sunlight exploded around them.

  “Chitty!”
stuttered an engine. A massive machine, gleaming with chrome and smelling of petrol, rammed through the shattered door.

  “Chitty!” it said again as it screeched to a halt in front of them.

  “Sorry if I frightened you,” said Jem, putting on the hand brake. “Going a bit faster than I meant to.”

  “What happened?” asked Mum.

  “Well, Count Louis is the favourite for the Greatest Motor Race in the World, which is just about to start. Lenny Man-Mountain thought that if he captured the Count and held him prisoner here on Long Island, he could bet on Chitty Chitty Bang Bang to win instead. He was bound to win with me driving because I’m the greatest getaway driver in New York. Then he would pick up the prize and win a huge bet.”

  “That’s exactly what Lucy said,” gasped the Count, looking at her with disbelief. “How did you know?”

  “It was obvious.” Lucy blushed.

  “How did you get away from them?” asked Mum.

  “It wasn’t me,” admitted Jem. “It was Chitty. About a mile from here, there’s a hill. She raced up it, and just as we were coming to the summit, this little blue light started flashing on the dashboard. I know better than to ignore Chitty, so I pressed it. Turned out to be an ejector seat. Just as we hit the top of the hill, the backseat flipped up and threw the two of them into the air. I saw them come down in a field. Then Chitty turned around and came to the rescue.”

  “Good old Chitty,” said Mum, patting her bonnet.

  “Let’s see if we can get this seat back into place,” said Dad. The backseat had flipped over onto Chitty’s boot when it ejected Bella and Lenny.

  They wound its muscular springs back into place and pulled it up again. As soon as it started to move, they realized that something, or someone, was trapped underneath.

  “Am I dead?” came a boy’s voice as a mop of red hair flashed in the bullet-hole sunlight.

  “No, no, Red,” said Lucy in a soothing voice. “You’re not dead. You’re just wearing ridiculous clothes.”

  “You got wedged under the seat when Chitty ejected Bella and Lenny,” said Jem. “Chitty must like you, or she would’ve ejected you, too.”

  “Well,” said Lucy. “At least we can change out of these silly outfits.”