‘That’s exactly what I’m claiming. Yes, sir,’ said No-Sir, who had, indeed, made the startling revelation only moments before.
‘What about all the eyewitnesses who state that he was right next to his father, down on the driveway, when the chimney flattened him?’
‘So you don’t believe me, then, sir?’ said No-Sir.
‘I don’t believe you then.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘I’m suggesting that you were mistaken, at the very least,’ said the detective.
‘Like I said, the chimney was already balanced sideways on the parapet when I came out onto the roof and, moments later, I saw Master Edmund give it a shove.’
‘And you’re sure it was him?’
‘As sure as eggs is eggs.’
‘As eggs is eggs?’ asked the detective inspector.
‘As eggs is eggs,’ No-Sir nodded.
‘Which leaves me with four possibilities. One, you are lying –’ The ex-soldier was about to protest, but Inspector Bunyon frowned. Despite looking like a stick insect in comedy clown pants, he still had that indefinable air of authority about him, and No-Sir fell silent. ‘Two, you imagined the whole thing. Three, you are mistaken. You genuinely thought you saw Edmund Dickens but, in actuality, you did not.’
‘And four?’ asked No-Sir.
‘I was just coming to that,’ said the inspector, ‘and four, you were right – it was Master Edmund – and everyone else was mistaken.’
‘It must be that last one,’ said No-Sir, emphatically.
‘I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt at this stage,’ said the policeman, ‘and am willing to rule out options one and, possibly, even option two. You don’t drink, do you?’
‘Oh, yes, sir!’ said No-Sir proudly. ‘Gallons of the stuff. That’s what they teaches you to do in the army.’
Detective Inspector Bunyon had a fleeting image of men being given their daily grog ration, then decided that that was for sailors in Her Majesty’s Navy.
‘Stops deforestation,’ No-Sir explained.
The inspector looked at him like he was an idiot, which was probably appropriate. ‘Do you mean dehydration?’ he asked.
‘That too,’ said No-Sir, his medals jangling.
‘So when you say that you drink, you mean water, don’t you?’
‘The very same, sir,’ said the ex-private. ‘Adam’s Ale.’
‘We all drink, man!’ said the inspector. ‘If we didn’t drink, we’d die!’
‘My point exactly, sir,’ said No-Sir. ‘Which is what they teaches us in the army.’
‘So when I asked whether you drink, I meant drink drink, not drink … Don’t you see?’ asked the now somewhat exasperated policeman.
‘No, sir,’ said No-Sir.
‘Do you drink alcohol?’
‘Never touch the stuff.’
‘Never?’
‘No, sir,’ said No-Sir.
‘Good,’ said the detective inspector. ‘Then I’m inclined to rule out the first two options, which leaves three and four. And your being mistaken, rather than everyone else, seems likelier, doesn’t it?
Detective Inspector Humphrey Bunyon had steered Ex-Private Sorrel away from his three card-playing companions and they were now some way off. From their vantage point on the lawn, he looked back at the iron skeleton of the treehouse and Fandango Jones’s bridge that was beginning to take shape.
‘What is the point of this bridge you’re building?’ he asked the old soldier.
‘None whatsoever, sir,’ he replied. ‘It’s a mad idea. Not as dangerous as some of the things we’re asked to do, though, and I quite enjoys the riveting.’
‘So nothing the Dickenses get up to surprises you any more?’
‘Not really, sir,’ said No-Sir.
‘So Master Edmund pushing that chimney over the edge was just another typical Dickens act then, was it?’
‘Yes and no, sir,’ said No-Sir.
‘Yes and no?’
‘Yes it would have been another typical Dickens act if it had been any Dickens but Master Edmund doing it.’
‘But Master Edmund is – what did you call him? – normal. And dropping a chimney on to one’s family is hardly normal, now, is it?’
‘That’s my point exactly, sir,’ said No-Sir. ‘Though I can’t blame him.’
‘You can’t blame him?’
‘There’s many a time I’ve wanted to strangle Mad Major Dickens, or run him over with a train, or poison him, or stab him repeatedly –’
‘Repeatedly?’
‘It means again and again, Inspector.’
‘I know what it means,’ said Bunyon, ‘I was simply wondering why you wanted to do these things, and why you’re confessing them to a police officer.’
‘Oh, you’d want to do the same if you worked here for any length of time, sir,’ said No-Sir, with utter conviction. ‘We all of us feels this way. They’re quite mad, you see … Forever changing their minds and wanting the most ridiculous things done.’
‘For example?’ asked Bunyon.
‘Like the time Even Madder Mrs Dickens made Private Drabb stand atop of me, then painted black rings around us at one-foot intervals.’
‘Why on earth did she do that?’
‘That’s what I was wondering at the time. I should have guessed when she insisted on waterproof paint.’
‘Because?’ asked the detective.
‘Because she then made us wade into the middle of that there lake,’ said No-Sir. ‘She were using us to see how deep it was.’
‘A human depth gauge!’
‘Exactly, sir. A measuring rod. Only we was no good at it because the water was deeper than we were tall.’
‘I can appreciate that life here at Awful End might be a little – er – frustrating at times,’ said the detective inspector, ‘but I do hope that you never resort to physical violence.’
‘Oh, no-sir!’ said No-Sir, snapping to attention as best a man of his age and health could snap to attention. (There was, in fact, an actual snapping noise as he did so. Bunyon hoped that it wasn’t the poor man’s bones.) ‘We all thinks it, but we’d never do nothing about it, see?’
‘I see.’
‘Thank you, Private Sorrel. You’ve been most helpful,’ said the inspector. ‘Now I’m going to have another look at that roof. In the meantime, my men must start the search for this missing Master Edmund.’
You see. No one mentioned Baby Ned. Not one of them. During Detective Inspector Humphrey Bunyon’s brief visit to Awful End (long before Brother Guck came to call, of course), Gibbering Jane happened to be taking Ned for a walk around the grounds in his pram, which is short for perambulator, from the verb to perambulate, from the Latin perambulare, meaning to walk about. Interestingly (or not, as the case may be), in its British historical sense, perambulate meant to walk around in order to assert and record a place’s boundaries … which is a bit like beating the bounds back in episode whatever.
Even more interestingly (or not, see above), baby Ned’s pram and/or perambulator was a somewhat makeshift, home-made affair. The main body of the pram was another of the old dresser drawers, and the four wheels were made from cross-sections of a large log that Eddie’s father, Mr Dickens, had made MUJ’s ex-soldiers cut up in order for him to carve from. (I suspect that lump of old wood, next to the chunk of stone, in the broom cupboard that MUJ and EMAM mistook for the private chapel, had something to do with Mr Dickens’s attempt at carving, too.)
Anyway, the pram-of-sorts was proudly made for Baby Ned by Dawkins at Gibbering Jane’s request. Of course, Gibbering Jane’s request had included much gibbering – one would expect no less from her – so it had taken time for the gentleman’s gentleman to make head or tail of what she was saying. In fact, he had enough time to rustle up an eggy snack for himself and Jane whilst she was trying to make herself understood. It was whilst he was washing up the frying pan that everything fell into place and he realised
that a pram was required of him.
Lacking any suspension, the end result – of the pram-making, not the pan-washing – was a bit of a boneshaker, but Ned seemed to love it. He spent much time laughing as he was wheeled judderingly about the place. He seemed blissfully happy if Eddie or Jane was with him and, with Eddie currently out of the picture, Gibbering Jane was doing a grand job.
Gibbering Jane’s favourite walk with Ned was along the edge of Awful Wood. Awful Wood existed long before Awful End although it was now a part of the house’s grounds (and still is today). I suspect the house must have got its name from the wood, or gotten its name from the woods if you’re American.
If you’re wondering why anyone would name a wood ‘awful’, especially when it wasn’t that bad, I suppose it’s my duty to point out that although ‘awful’ has come to mean bad or unpleasant, it also used to mean ‘to fill one with awe’. For those of you who only know ‘awe’ as the noise the movie star John Wayne used to make when he drawled, let me tell you that it also means a feeling of reverential respect mixed with wonder or, sometimes, fear. So far from being a grotty wood, this was once seen as being pretty amazing.
Walking past it now, wheeling Baby Ned in front of her, gibbering away happily to him, Gibbering Jane caught a glimpse of what looked to her like a Red Indian wigwam nestling between the trees, but which could be more accurately described as a Native American-style tepee (what with Native Americans being neither red nor from India, and the thing Jane saw being tent-like, and a wigwam being more dome-shaped).
When Gibbering Jane finally returned to the house, the police had long gone and all the talk was of attempted murder, Eddie and Horsey’s disappearance and what to have for supper. Baby Ned couldn’t have been further from their minds.
Episode 10
‘Here’s Eddie!’
In which saying too much here might give the game away
The fact that the monks at Lamberley Monastery didn’t take baby Ned straight to the police made Eddie think about his own situation. Obviously, his primary concern had been to try to get his memory back, and the monks had been very kind to him. Because he didn’t know who he was or where he rightfully belonged, he wasn’t missing anywhere specific and, anyway, he liked it there. This had meant that, strange though he found some of the rules the Bertian order had about getting involved-but-only-so-far in the outside world, he hadn’t been too bothered by them.
In the past few days, however, Eddie was beginning to think that he should visit the police station himself. There was nothing to stop him going out and about, and he should probably take Ned with him.
Eddie decided to speak to Abbot Po about it. As usual, he found him in his office.
‘I’ve decided to go into town,’ said Eddie.
‘You’re leaving us?’ asked the abbot.
‘No … I was thinking more of a day trip,’ said Eddie. ‘I’d like to carry on living here with you until I’m claimed.’ He paused. ‘If that’s all right?’
Abbot Po looked at Eddie across his big oak desk. ‘Of course you can stay with us, Neddie, for as long as you like.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eddie. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.’
Abbot Po looked at his hands. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask to visit the town,’ he said. ‘I knew that you’d come around to it in your own good time, and that would prove you were ready to make the next step. This had to be a decision you came to yourself.’
‘I’d like to take Ned with me,’ Eddie suggested. ‘His parents may be worried.’
‘It would probably be better to leave him here for the time being,’ said Po. ‘He’s getting better treatment than he’d get from any nurse or certainly any poor-house or orphanage. But, by all means, tell the authorities of his whereabouts.’
‘That’s a great idea,’ said Eddie.
‘As a matter of fact, we have a lad of about your own age visiting the monastery today,’ said Po, getting to his feet. ‘He’s interested in the possibility of taking up religious orders so his father made arrangements for him to come and see us. When he’s finished, I’ll ask him to accompany you into town. It’s a big step you’re taking, Neddie. It’d be good for you to have young company.’
‘Thank you,’ said Eddie, blissfully unaware that things were about to change in a big way.
He spent the rest of the morning helping some of the brothers make a more permanent repair to the break in the fence that had allowed the sheep to escape. It was whilst he was being chased around the field by one of the friskier of the fleecy beasts that he had another one of his flashbacks. This time he had memories of being chased by policemen with sheep on leashes … if they were memories. It seemed far more likely that his befuddled mind was playing tricks on him again. All these so-called flashbacks he’d had were so weird.
A job well done, Eddie, Brother Guck, Brother Pugh and a Brother Klaus were sitting under a tree, sharing a pitcher of water. (That’s a pitcher as in jug, rather than something you look at hanging on the wall of a gallery.) Brother Po came striding across the pasture with a boy at his side.
David Thackery, for it was he (and if you can’t remember who this particular he was, look back here to refresh your sadly failing memory), was surprised to find Eddie Dickens in a monastery of all places and dressed in a habit. The truth be told, he was a little jealous. ‘Eddie!’ he said.
‘Neddie,’ Eddie corrected him, because he’d got so used to this being his name.
‘No, David,’ said David, thinking that Eddie thought that he was someone called Neddie, rather than Eddie telling him that his own name was Neddie which, of course, it wasn’t anyway. (You get the idea.)
‘My name’s really David?’ asked Eddie in amazement.
‘It’s Eddie, stupid!’ said David impatiently. ‘What is this? Some sort of a game?’
‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute!’ said Abbot Po. ‘Are you telling me that you know this young man?’
‘I most certainly do, Abbot,’ said the Thackery boy. ‘Has he been playing tricks on you?’
‘Please answer the question, child,’ said Po. ‘Do you know who this boy is?’
‘He’s Edmund Dickens from Awful End,’ said David Thackery.
‘Awful End!’ gasped Brother Guck. ‘I was there only the other day.’
‘Do you recognise David Thackery?’ Abbot Po asked Eddie, who’d leapt to his feet. He put a hand on the shoulder of each boy.
Eddie shook his head.
‘And the name Edmund Dickens – Eddie – doesn’t mean anything to you?’
Eddie shook his head again.
Abbot Po turned to David Thackery. ‘You’re in absolutely no doubt that this is Eddie Dickens?’
‘None whatsoever, sir,’ said David. ‘I promise you, that’s who he is.’ And David wouldn’t break a promise. He wanted to be a saint one day, remember? ‘His parents and my parents are best friends.’
‘Eddie,’ said Abbot Po. ‘This is the lad I was telling you about. The one who’s interested in taking up religious orders. God certainly works in mysterious ways!’
Now any half-decent storyteller would have put the conversation Eddie and the abbot had regarding the upcoming visit from the (then) unnamed boy much, much earlier in the story. That way, when David turned up, the reader would go, ‘Oh, so that’s who it was!’ having pretty much forgotten that anyone was due to turn up at all.
This way (my way), one minute you’re told the boy’s due to come and BAM! – a few paragraphs later – here he is and he turns out to be David Thackery. Not much of a build-up there, is there? No evidence of multi-layered storytelling or planting the seed of an idea. No suspense. No. But, then again, that’s how it happened, so that’s how I’m telling it. Publish the Truth with a capital ‘T’ and be damned, I say!
And where does this leave us? With Abbot Po and Brother Guck taking Eddie back to Awful End.
*
And here we are:
It was Even Madder Aunt Maud who
opened the door to them.
‘Do you know this boy, madam?’ asked the abbot, eager to get straight to the point.
‘I’ve never seen him before in my life,’ said EMAM.
‘You’re sure?’
Even Madder Aunt Maud leaned in closer and peered at them all in more detail. ‘I tell a lie,’ she said. ‘He came here the other day asking about sheep, and took away young Ned with him,’ she said.
‘That’s Brother Guck –’
‘A ridiculous name, if ever I heard one,’ said Eddie’s great-aunt.
‘I was referring to this boy, here,’ said Po, putting his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and pushing him forward, his heels skidding on the gravel. The abbot was beginning to suspect that this woman might be a little unusual.
‘Oh, him,’ said Even Madder Aunt Maud. ‘Of course I know him. He’s my missing great-nephew, Edmund. Why ask me if I know my own great-nephew?’
‘He doesn’t know he’s your great-nephew, you see,’ said the abbot.
‘Does that mean I don’t have to buy him Christmas or birthday presents any more?’ she asked, obviously keen on the idea.
‘Well, he’s missing no more, madam,’ said Abbot Po. ‘It’s my happy duty to return him to you.’
‘So you’ve found him then?’
‘He’s standing right in front of you.’
‘So he is,’ said EMAM, adding a ‘silly me’ with a fluttering-of-the-eyelashes that only her beloved husband Jack would find endearing. To anyone else, it was about as appealing as being in an ascending room/lift/elevator with a flatulent hippo. ‘Why’s he dressed in a sack?’
‘It’s a habit,’ the abbot explained.
‘Well, it’s a very silly habit, if you ask me, and one he should grow out of,’ snapped Even Madder Aunt Maud.
‘Are you really my great-aunt, madam?’ Eddie asked politely. The truth be told, there was something more than a little terrifying at the prospect of having this … this lady as a relative.
‘Well, I’m hardly a tucker bag full of jumbucks, now, am I?’ she demanded, proud to be able to employ some everyday Australian speech that she’d gleaned from a book entitled Everyday Australian Speech.
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