by Mark Evans
‘Down, quickly!’
She pushed us forwards; we stumbled on the top step, fell and now finally the anvil came into its own as its huge massiness provided momentum to our descent, rapidly turning it into a plummet until we landed in a heap at the bottom, where the atmosphere was already brackish and thirst-making.
Then we ran.
Not fast, obviously, because an anvil was involved. But eventually we were deep in the salty maze of the mine, and paused to catch our breath. As I panted desperately, I could already feel thirst starting to tickle my throat with its maddening fingers.
‘We should be safe for a while,’ the servant said. ‘Hardthrasher won’t dare come down here without help.’
At that there was the sound of dozens of men entering the salt-mine, for the headmaster had a huge number of wastrels, brigands, rapscallions, ne’er-do-wells, miscreants, savages, brutes, sadists and criminal scum at his disposal, whom he utilized as both PE teachers and security guards for hunting down escaped boys.
‘Ah. He now has help. Run again!’
We did.
Still not very fast because of . . . well, you know.
The anvil.
The briny air filled our lungs but emptied our mouths of moisture. Thirst’s fingers were now not just tickling maddeningly but clawing angrily.
‘Oh, the salt!’ cried Harry. ‘It’s driving me mad! It’s making me hallucinate. I keep thinking I can see a giant rabbit!’
‘Harry, I’m disguised as a rabbit,’ I reminded him.
‘Damn, now there’s two of them!’
‘This way!’ The servant wheeled towards a sliver of light in the distance – could it be the way out she had talked of?
But, alas, as we approached the luminous glow of safety, a great phalanx of the headmaster’s roguish battalion placed itself in our path, cutting off both light and escape, while behind us we could hear the rest of his barbaric force approaching. We would shortly be trapped between these two grim groups.
‘Behind here!’ the servant shouted, ushering us towards a large, salty rock, and we hurried behind it and sat still, scared and very, very thirsty. Indeed, so thirsty that Harry started trying to lick his own forehead for the sweaty moisture thereon, succeeding only in increasing his thirst and spraining his tongue.
‘Where have they gone?’ demanded Headmaster Hardthrasher, his frustration and rage as obvious as a large transvestite who has forgotten to shave or put on a lady-wig. ‘Everybody, halt!’
Silence fell like a shot goose.
‘Now, where are you, little ones? Don’t you want your birthday presents, Harry Biscuit? I’ve brought them with me. Just for you.’
I could see a twitch of gift-avarice in Harry’s eyes, and quickly clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘Harry, I know how much you love presents, but we must keep completely quiet or we will die.’
Harry nodded and, trusting him like only a best friend could, I released my hand from his mouth.
He immediately starting yelling, getting no further than ‘Presents! I want pre—’ before I re-clamped my hand over his mouth, but the damage was done.
I stared at him. Pippa stared at him. The servant stared at him. The anvil stared at him. Or would have done, had it had eyes. In fact, I quickly picked up two pebbles and placed them on its surface such that they looked like eyes and then the anvil did stare at him.
‘What?’ said Harry, all hurt, misplaced innocence.
There now came a headmasterly shout of ‘Over there! Get them!’ and then massed footsteps were racing towards us.
‘Right,’ said Pippa. ‘I am going to weep now and, just to avoid any confusion, I am informing you in advance that it will be very much of the forlorn and despairing nature. Wah-blee—’
The servant cut her off. ‘No! We must never give up! Never surrender!’ She lifted her head and sniffed. ‘Is that— Can I smell pepper?’ She instantly sneezed in affirmative answer to herself. ‘Of course, the pepper-mine neighbours the salt-mine!’ She approached a nearby wall and touched it. ‘There is a crack. Pepper is getting through. We must smash this wall down and let the pepper mix with the salt!’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it!’
She grabbed a piece of rock and started smashing it against the wall. The rest of us joined in, hitting the wall, tugging at it with our hands, digging as if our lives depended upon it, which they did. Finally, the wall gave way and great gusts of pepper swept into the mine, mingling with the salt and forming a blizzard of seasoning.
A lot of sneezing now started, from us, the headmaster and his approaching horde.
‘We need a spark to ignite the mixture!’ shouted the servant, between her own sneezes.
‘Why?’ I asked, baffled.
Back then, neither I nor science knew of the tremendous explosive potential of combined salt and pepper. True, most people knew of someone who had inexplicably exploded while eating soup or been found spontaneously combusted over a plate of chops, but in our ignorance we attributed such deaths to the cook using deliciously flammable ether in the consommé or to random acts of a pyromaniac God, while continuing to cause explosion after explosion by putting salt and pepper in the same shaker; only recently have we separated them on the dinner table, saving thousands of lives a year.4 Yet somehow this servant knew what she was doing.
‘We must strike a rock on something to get a spark! But what?’
‘I know!’ Harry cried excitedly. ‘Pip’s marrow!’5
He raised a rock and drove it hard into the marrow I was still carrying.
There was no spark.
Though there was quite a lot of splattered marrow.
‘Oh, well, didn’t work, we’re probably going to die.’ As he calmly wiped splatted marrow from his face, Harry seemed resigned to his fate, glad even. ‘At least I won’t have to haul this anvil around any more.’
‘That’s it!’ I shouted, for surely I had just had the idea that would save both the day and us. ‘Pippa’s anvil!’
‘Of course!’ The servant raised a rock into the air above the anvil, and struck it a mighty, spark-summoning blow.
Nothing.
She struck it again.
Still nothing.
She struck it a third time, and that joyous phrase ‘third time lucky’ leaped into my mind, though only to think how wrong it was because there was still nothing.
She struck it a fourth time, and this time there was a spark.
The rest was silence.
Apart from the massive explosion, obviously.6
1 There is no fruit in this chapter. No one knows why the author wrote that. Unless he was working from notes and copied down a bit of his shopping list by mistake.
2 The medical establishment of the time insisted bleeding was a valid treatment on the basis of some incredibly dodgy statistics. Doctors would often bleed people to death but still claim a cure, claiming that the disease had technically stopped at the same time as the patient.
3 The word ‘cool’ originated around this time as an acronym for ‘Colossally Obvious Object of Laudability’.
4 This was because many people mistakenly used saltpetre instead of domestic salt. Saltpetre, or potassium nitrate, is the oxidizing element of gunpowder, and therefore obviously explodes.
5 Perhaps the author thought the marrow was a fruit and that is what he is referring to in the chapter heading. But it’s not, is it? It’s a large courgette or a small hugecumber and therefore I think actually a squash.
6 I have just discovered that the courgette is technically a fruit and that therefore so is the marrow. So I was wrong. Apparently. But I’m not happy about it. Stupid biology and its silly Linnaean classification.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH
Though an unlucky number, not an unlucky chapter
The first explosion, that of salt and pepper, was great indeed, a concussive blow of detonated seasoning, but it was what it in turn ignited that saved us. For the headmaster had been carrying Harry’
s deadly birthday presents, namely a grenade, some unstable nitroglycerine and a dynamite cake, and the salt and peppery blast swept these volatile substances into its ka-boomy embrace as if they were old friends met on the way to a particularly loud and destructive party, joining forces and sweeping through the mine in a gigantic storm of violent combustive relief.
Tucked behind our rock and far from the gift explosions, it seemed as if we had survived. Certainly, if I had not survived and was now dead, I was most surprised to discover that Heaven looked a lot like a salt-mine that has just been exploded.
The servant was the first to recover her boom-addled wits, clearing the rubble from us and standing. ‘Is everyone all right? Pip?’
‘I think so.’ I felt my body for injuries and found none, though my rabbit disguise was now badly ripped.
‘Pippa?’
‘I am well, thank you.’ Though my sister’s disguise was also torn, her face etched with grime and her hair a tangled mess of stony debris, to me she had never looked more serene or beautiful, apart from maybe six or seven hundred times. ‘Though I do not see my anvil.’ She began searching for the beloved paternal memento among the rubble.
‘And, Harry Biscuit, are you all right?’
There now came a scream of pure Harry horror.
‘Aaarrggh!!! My arm! My arm’s come off!’
At this I could not help but make a medical observation. ‘Harry, you’re still disguised as Nelson.’
Relief filled his face. ‘Of course! Here it is, tucked into my jacket. Phew.’ Though the relief in his face was quickly chased away by a renewed panic. ‘Aaargh!!! My eye! I’ve lost an eye!’
‘Harry, you’re dressed as Nelson.’
Relief found its courage and in turn chased panic away.
‘Yes, of course, you’re right, here it is, under this eye-patch. Phew.’ Panic suddenly returned and started a brief wrestle with relief. ‘Did I have a third leg? No . . . don’t think I did. I’m fine, everyone! Fine!’
Around us there was only devastation, apart from the odd bit that was simply destruction. The mine had been utterly destroyed, and it seemed we were the only survivors. But then we heard a voice, a familiar and hated one.
‘What have you done to my school? You shall be beaten, all of you! Now bend over!’
Somehow the headmaster had survived and was advancing on us, cane held high, his face pocked with nicks and cuts, seemingly as indestructible as a terrifying mechanical man sent from the future with a name perhaps something like ‘the Killerator’, though of course such an idea is preposterous.1
As he neared, however, I heard a strange whistling sound, as of a large object plunging to earth from a vast height. Indeed, we all heard it, as one by one we turned our heads skywards to where the noise was coming from.
‘Ah, there it is,’ said Pippa. ‘My beloved anvil.’
The whistling grew louder, the anvil grew closer and its trajectory became obvious: it was descending directly towards Mr Hardthrasher.
‘Ah,’ he began. ‘Oh, boll—’ he finished, in more ways than one. I will never know what word he was about to utter, possibly ‘bollards’ or ‘boll weevil’, for before he could fully syllable-ize the anvil landed, and not in a soft way, like a dove descending upon a branch or a bee alighting on a nectary flower, but in a gory, unpleasant way, like a dove landing in a threshing machine or a bee alighting on an automatic bee-burster,2 as it struck his head with a loud, splatty crump, killing him stone, or rather anvil, dead.
‘Papa’s anvil helped us!’ Pippa danced a jig of smug delight. ‘I knew it was worth bringing.’
I nearly pointed out that without the anvil slowing us we might have got away quickly enough to need neither explosion nor head removal but did not for, delicate rose though she was, my sister also possessed a fierce streak and a fine right hook. Besides, this was no time for recrimination for we had survived and, above us, could see the clear blue morning sky of freedom.
As we climbed from the rubble and out on to the surrounding moors, we saw that St Bastard’s and St Bitch’s had also been destroyed. By some miracle, no pupils or nuns had perished and now they ambled around, stunned by their freedom, many of them feasting on somewhat heavily seasoned grouse that had died deliciously in the explosion. My escape had also proved their escape, and I felt a warmth inside me, as if I had just eaten a freshly baked scone of satisfaction.
‘Well, now that’s all over, I can remove these garments.’ The servant stood and began to disrobe, amid our desperate pleas for her not to.
‘No!’ ‘Stop!’ ‘I don’t want to see what’s underneath!’ were all things we said, but she paid us no heed, instead peeling off layer after layer like a rotten onion, until she stood clad in a woollen and leather outfit of jerkin, trousers and boots, which made her look not scrofulous, disease-bearing and old, but dashing, clean and young.
Now she attended to her face, removing warts, unscrewing a false nose, which I hoped had a real nose underneath or I was likely to feel a bit sick, taking pieces of padding from her cheeks, discarding a wig and then washing off the remaining grime and dirt in a nearby stream.
Finally she stood before us: young, beautiful and oh-so-bold; and also oh-so-familiar, her face being so known to Pippa and me that we could not help but exclaim, ‘Mother! Can it be?’
‘No. Not Mother,’ this once hideous woman responded. ‘Just a friend. Or should I say an aunt? Aunt Lily, to be precise.’
‘But . . . we have no Aunt Lily.’
‘Perhaps she’s my aunt Lily,’ suggested Harry.
‘You have an aunt Lily?’ That might explain things.
‘No,’ he replied, moving an explanation no further into sight.
‘I am your mother’s twin sister, Lily. I have hidden my existence for a long while, but in time of family need I have returned.’
And suddenly I understood why her voice had sounded so familiar to me: beneath the roving accent it had been very nearly that of my mother. ‘Why have you kept your existence secret?’
‘Partly because of my work for the British Empire Secret Service.3 But mostly because I can’t stand family functions. Oh, the needling gossip, the drunken fights, the inevitably disappointing buffets,’ she was into her stride now like a grumpy horse, ‘the bickering, the tedious grudges – and don’t get me started on Cousin Frank!’ We didn’t, but somehow she managed to start herself on the subject. ‘That man does not know the concept of personal space, especially if you’re a woman. And does he even own a toothbrush?’
She continued thusly for quite some time until I felt I had to interrupt, both because her rant was becoming slightly embarrassing and because we had to save my mother from marrying Mr Benevolent that very afternoon.
‘New-found Aunt Lily,’ I interrupted gently.
‘And then there’s Great-aunt Maud. One hesitates to use the word “bigot” but what that woman did to lovely Mr Patel—’
‘Aunt Lily!’ I interrupted ungently, stopping her mid-whinge. ‘While your family grievances might be fascinating – though actually they are not – we must rescue our mother before our guardian, Mr Benevolent, takes her away and marries her!’
‘A wedding? That’s exactly the sort of occasion I’m on about. So no thanks.’
‘But this is no ordinary wedding – it is an evil wedding!’ I protested.
‘Oh, I don’t mind those so much. And matrimonial union to Benevolent could be nothing but evil.’ She looked wistfully into the sky.
‘You know him?’
‘Vaguely . . .’ There was an absent quality to her voice, but that absence itself quickly became absent and presence returned. ‘Right, better go and rescue my sister. But I’m warning you, if Cousin Frank turns up I’m out of there.’
‘Well, I love a wedding!’ said Harry. ‘So I am definitely coming.’
‘Do you not wish to return to your own home and family, Harry?’
‘Oh, I should like that very much. But there is no home to ret
urn to. No family. So . . . may I come to the evil wedding, please?’
He looked at me with the pleading eyes of a greedy spaniel and I could not help but yield. Besides, what use is a best friend if not for aiding you in saving your mother from a malign marriage? ‘Harry, you may join us.’
‘Harrumble!’ he said incomprehensibly.
‘Harrumble?’
‘A new word I have just invented to be used instead of words such as “hurrah” or “hooray” or “hazoo”, but not instead of words such as “cauliflower” or “mattress”.’
‘Right. Good word, Harry.’
‘Thank you, Pip Bin.’ And now he turned to Pippa. ‘And if you’re going to a wedding, you’re going to need a hat, Miss Bin.’ Blushing, he handed her a hat he had woven from moorland grass and wildflowers.
‘Why, thank you, Harry Biscuit.’ She placed the hat upon her head. It immediately fell apart, cascading bad-hattily around her face and shoulders, and I’m pretty sure I saw some sheep droppings in there, but the thought it was that counted and counted it had been indeed.
‘Now, children, we must hurry to Bin Manor to rescue your mother before Benevolent can get her to a church.’
‘But Mama is in an asylum. Because of her mad mentalness.’
‘No, for though still fully bonkersed up, she is now back home.’
Home! Oh, we were to go home at last, even if in miserable, mad-mothered, malevolently marital circumstances.
‘It’s a long journey, so I have rounded up these wild moorland ponies for us.’ She had indeed procured four strong, lithe-looking beasts, and now she turned and slapped them hard on their equine rumps. ‘Ya! Ya! Go on, giddy up!’
As the horses thundered away, I couldn’t help feeling that we should have got on them first.
‘Don’t worry, Pip. While you were chatting, I attached four strong ropes from the horses to your ankles. Give it a few seconds and—’
Whoosh! The ropes at our feet uncoiled and suddenly we were flying through the air, then bumping quite painfully across the ground. As the horses dragged us along, Pippa, Harry and I looked at each other, bits of grass and mud in our hair, teeth and eyes, and we smiled: we had escaped the school, freed our schoolmates, Pippa and I had gained an aunt and were off to save our mother, and though the road ahead would be dangerous – not to mention one we would be dragged along by wild horses – we had youthful hope on our side once more.