The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  Trigger, gently pressed. Stillness. As if the entire desert is listening in.

  Splat.

  An egg. Right across the policeman’s face. Great. Bert squeals in triumph from the water tower. I groan. Now they know where she is. Good one, girl.

  The policeman wipes the egg from his eyes. ‘You have a very special visitor, you lot. With some important news.’

  Eh? Wasn’t expecting that. The pistol’s lowered.

  Bert’s suddenly transfixed; no more eggs. The car door opens. Out steps . . . slowly . . . a foot in a very shiny shoe . . . a leg in a very white suit . . . a new person entirely. He doesn’t belong in this car. This desert. This dirt. And it’s like he’s kind of . . . squirming. He steps into the dust like he doesn’t quite trust it; as if he’s been told there are deadly snakes everywhere, which of course there are but not in the open, silly, any bushy knows that, which you obviously aren’t.

  Splat.

  Another egg. It’s as if the entire desert sucks in its breath.

  ‘Alber-TINA,’ I whisper in fury, like I do ten thousand times a day in my life.

  ‘Now that’s a greeting.’ The man stares down at his freshly yolked suit. Nice work, girl, dead centre. Perfect in every respect.

  We’ve never been invaded by a white suit before. I peer around the doorframe with the field glasses. Hmm. Skin that can’t cope with sun, shoes that’ve never seen dirt, hands that’ve never skinned a roo let alone held the gun that shot one.

  I glance at Bert and Scruff, now both up in the water tower and covered from head to foot in red dust with crazy stick-up hair and rag clothes held on with twine and ochre smears like wild Indian paint and bare feet as tough as old boots; lordy, they look like some feral species of bird up there, spawned by another planet entirely. Wild, untameable, alone, oh yes – and never being dragged from this place that sings in our blood and our bones.

  ‘The war is over,’ the Suit declares.

  Silence.

  ‘We won. Perhaps you haven’t heard.’

  Well. Okay. We did know something of this and if you expect cheering it’s not going to work because in these parts the big shebang up north has barely registered except that it took away all the cattle to feed the troops; and Dad, every now and then, on his secret missions and he’d always come back crammed with tall tales about Nazis and B-52s and the Luftwaffe and the Blitz.

  ‘There’s something else . . .’ the Suit says.

  Don’t want to know, mister. I fire the rifle two feet above his head. We will not be taken from here, we will not. The sound pings through the desert sky. The man doesn’t flinch. Hmm.

  ‘Kick.’ The policeman’s losing patience. ‘You need to hear this.’ A sigh. ‘In person.’

  I lower the pistol. Because the way this policeman’s speaking suggests this might well be the toughest thing he’s ever had to do in his life. It’s in his voice. Bucket suddenly sits before the man, utterly still, poised.

  ‘It’s about your father . . .’

  A cry from the water tower, abruptly cut off, as if a hand’s been slammed across a mouth.

  The Suit takes off his hat. ‘I’ve come all the way across the world to speak to you.’

  Right. So. They’re all waiting for me. Even Bucket. It could be a trick.

  Our dingo girl makes a decision. She pads across to the strange new man, turns and looks straight into me. As if to say ‘come on, you’. The man holds her face close and whispers something. Bucket whimpers, licks him.

  My mouth’s suddenly dry, I’m breathing hard, can’t move. What’s he saying? And then – hang on – three apparitions slowly emerge before the men, covered in red dust, weapons lowered. Disorder in the ranks! They’re not meant to do this. There’ll be hell to pay later. Stop, troops, stop!

  ‘Kick?’ the policeman yells. ‘We’re just waiting for you now. And then we can commence.’

  Can’t. Stuck. Because tears are suddenly pricking my eyes. Furiously I smear them off; too old for this. Can’t make them stop. But I’ve got a reputation to maintain here, the fiercest one of the lot, no one can see me like this.

  ‘Man to man. Woman to man. Girl to man,’ blusters the Suit.

  I spit in frustration. Bucket’s looking straight at me. Scruff too, needing his mate to say what’s next because we’re a team, all four of us, and this needs sorting out. Bert starts to plead ‘Kicky’ over and over like we’re suddenly best friends. No one’s noticing Pin, who’s wandering off as fast as his dear pudgy legs can carry him. It’s his party trick, he’s always getting lost because his curiosity is endless and boundless, to Dad’s infinite delight, but he’s about to disappear out the gate into – great, guys – the deadliest desert on earth.

  Turn, you lot, turn! Grab him.

  Right. Obviously I won’t be resigning from parenthood at this exact point. Absolutely hopeless, the lot of you.

  I drop the rifle and stride from the house into the hurting glare, one enormous scowl of indignation, and march straight past them to little Pin toddling along, oblivious. He’s our medieval kissing post, we all gravitate to him for cuddles and snuggles and giggles and I’m not about to lose him now, his job is too important. I grab his hand, he’s all squealy and squirmy, and swing him around. ‘Kicky! Kicky!’ he chortles. But the ferociousness of the grip soon stills him down.

  Big breath.

  I face the lot of them, fierce. Bucket comes up to me and I find the softness of her ear and caress it over and over. ‘What’s up, mate?’ I whisper and she’s licking away the smear of tears like she knows why they’ve been there and why they’re going to be there for years to come. My heart’s suddenly tight in my chest as if a great fist is squeezing it.

  The Suit mops his face with his hanky. Clears his throat.

  It’s Bucket’s cue: she jumps up right at him and leaves red paw prints smeared across that crazily clean linen. The man yelps in horror, steps back, drops his hanky; Bert dashes forward and plops it on her head. That’d be right. Always desperate for something new, anything she can grab, especially if she can wear it and turn it into high-fashion fabulousness and believe me, out here we don’t see much that’s clean and shiny and city. Which is this stranger all over.

  ‘Bucky, Bert, down,’ but no one’s listening and it’s now just a big crazy mess of barking dog and squealing kid and dust and the Suit’s trying to say something but no one’s catching it and I’ve got a straining dog in one hand and a straining girl in the other and Pin’s all rabbity behind us and there’s only one way to describe this chaos: sheer, utter, typical Caddy madnesss.

  ‘I said,’ the Suit is suddenly declaring, ‘my name is Horatio Smythe-Hippet, the Honourable, and I’d like to extend to this most esteemed, er –’ he doesn’t quite know what ‘– gathering . . . my sincere and utmost –’ a breath ‘– sympathy.’

  What’s he saying? Scruff’s not paying attention, itching to try his slingshot, just a tiny pebble, soft, right on that city shin – I can read him like a book – and this Horatio Something Something’s speaking in a voice we can’t get our heads around and oh my goodness we’re all suddenly transfixed because a fly’s just about to go into his mou–

  Yep. It’s in. Bingo. He shuts his lips in horror. Blows out his cheeks. A huge gulp. We laugh.

  ‘They’re good for you,’ Scruff offers helpfully. ‘Full of protein.’

  Horatio looks helplessly at the officer. ‘I’m not sure how to proceed,’ he says, and thrusts some big thick envelope at me that has ‘official’ stained all over it. ‘I’m frightfully sorry.’

  It’s like a candle’s suddenly been blown out.

  Everything is very, very still.

  ‘I regret to in-inform –’ I start reading aloud all wobbly then can’t go on because the words are dancing, swimming on the page, and Horatio takes the paper with a sudden, startling gentleness. I look up at him. Drop slowly down to Bucket and hold her tight and she licks my cheeks like she’s saying come on, girl, stand up strai
ght, be the head of the family because you must.

  Horatio looks around. ‘I think it’s best just to carry on, eh?’

  And so he does. In a new silence entirely. Because there’s an awful stop. To everything.

  Dad is missing.

  Vanished.

  It doesn’t look good.

  Horatio tells us that the only clue to what happened is a note on a ragged piece of yellow paper that was pinned by his hunting knife to a tree trunk somewhere up Woop Woop and he indicates north, vaguely, which means anywhere really – and what happened to the big adventure to save the world? Did Dad even begin it? Did he get diverted on the way by the thought of a monster croc? He’s always wanted to find the biggest one in the world, he’s told me that. My head’s hurting, trying to work it all out. Can’t. Horatio’s explaining that the note’s only just been found and who knows how long it’s been there, who knows anything any more.

  It’s in Dad’s lovely handwriting, neat when so much of him wasn’t, like all the letters are standing to attention:

  The note stops bang, right there. Scruff’s taking huge gulps of air like he can’t breathe properly. Bert’s screwing her eyes shut as tight as she can and not opening them, the drama queen again.

  ‘Datty? Where Datty?’ Pin’s just not getting it.

  ‘Weeeell, my child, we’re not sure . . . exactly . . .’

  Horatio looks hopelessly at the policeman, who hurriedly hands me the ivory-handled knife, which is stained with something, blood or rust, I don’t know, can’t tell, I’m shaking, going to faint.

  ‘Wherever he is, he wanted you to have this.’

  At the sight of it Scruff lets out an unearthly wail into the tall blue sky then wraps his arms around his head as if it’ll shut everything off, make it all go away; Bert’s just standing mute, in shock; Pin thumps me like I’ve just killed our father myself.

  And somewhere from far, far away I’m hearing some kind of explanation: ‘It’s all up in the air . . . the Melbourne lot aren’t too keen, an aunt just left . . . they’re so very Australian . . . the blackfellas look out for them . . . the eldest kids are crack shots, real bushies, could kill a King Brown with a spade but cripes, not sure how they’d go in the big smoke . . .’

  ‘Yee-ees.’ Horatio’s now inching back and looking around as if he expects monster crocs as well as deadly snakes to emerge from under house, dog and car any moment. He goes to say something – but another fly pops in his mouth. Miraculous.

  ‘Well, blow me over with a feather,’ the policeman says, and we’re all now gazing in wonder at this exotically fabulous creature before us. A bona fide Fly Magnet no less. Priceless in these parts.

  ‘Who are you?’ Scruff asks to no one in particular.

  ‘Species: lawyer,’ the policeman helpfully explains. ‘Habitat: Pall Mall, London. Food: pheasant, I’m guessing, from the looks of him, and treacle and, er . . .’

  ‘Fly!’ Horatio declares. ‘I’m your human fly trap. Didn’t you realise?’

  ‘Can we keep him?’ Pin squeals in excitement, clapping his hands.

  What a perfect accessory out here. Suddenly, despite ourselves, we’re all laughing. Mr Horatio swallows again then giggles as if he can’t quite believe what he’s just done. And at that I get the feeling that this bizarre person from another planet entirely could, actually, grow on us. Because he’s got the air of someone who’s completely hopeless around kids – but possibly, inside, is one himself. A very big one. Which was what Dad was like a lot, especially when he was making slingshots with the exact knife I’m now squeezing tight, so tight, because I’m thinking of his cackly glee as he whittled away with it; my knuckles are bone white as I clutch that knife with the string around the handle that he rebound so perfectly, on his last night with us . . .

  Dad. I can’t bear it. No one to stroke my cheek with his finger, I can feel it even now, no one to tuck me up at night, no one to tell me I’m all right since he’s the only one who ever does that.

  ‘Who’s Basti?’ Scruff pipes up. The mood snaps to attention.

  ‘Er . . . ah . . . you don’t know?’

  Evasion. Hmm. Not good. Scruff’s right to be curious. This situation’s suddenly getting stranger by the minute. A spider of fear creeps up my back. Who’s Horatio, let alone Basti? Dad never mentioned either. And what’s this Kensington Reptilarium? Now that sounds vaguely familiar but I’m not sure why, like it’s from some childhood story because every night we’d snuggle around Dad in his big high bed and I’m sure he spoke of that place but I can’t remember details among all the yarns of pyramids and mosques and temples and jungles – how could I forget! My head’s spinning. Too much in it. Too much to set right. I step forward, my hand on Bucket.

  Horatio blusters, defensive, nodding at me. ‘Why, everyone knows Basti, young lady.’

  ‘We don’t,’ I say, calm. Too calm. Not young and not a lady.

  ‘He’s just . . . Basti. And how terribly fortunate you are!’

  ‘And what’s this Kensi Rep-il-air-y thing?’ Scruff scowls a squint.

  ‘Ah! The Kensington Reptilarium is only the most magical, mysterious building in the whole of England –’

  ‘England!’ we all yell.

  ‘Why, yes.’ Horatio looks at us like we’re quite mad. ‘Where else do you think it would be?’

  ‘Alice Springs?’ Bert suggests, looking sideways, eyes narrowing, trying to take all this in. Because that’s the farthest we’ve ever been, three hours east as the crow flies, population 950 and a mighty metropolis in our book.

  ‘Oh no, good grief, the Reptilarium is in London. It’s your new home. And believe me, you are the luckiest children in the whole wide world.’

  ‘No we’re not.’ My voice is low, quiet. Because I absolutely love an adventure, dream of gulping up the world but on my own terms, no one else’s, thank you very much. Accompanied by someone I can trust. And not abandoning my former world just like that.

  ‘You’re extremely poor now, you know,’ Horatio chatters on. ‘There’s no money. Oh no. Not a jot. No one to run the land, pay bills, mend fences, er, feed animals.’ He looks down at Bucket. My mouth goes dry. ‘You’re paupers, the lot of you. There’s no other way to put it.’

  The four of us silently back away, dreading what’s coming next. I know Dad was endlessly having money problems but I can’t believe it’s come to this.

  ‘You’re to travel to England immediately. The bank’s taking over the property. It has to. Do you understand?’

  I do. I’m just not going to admit it, Mister Fancy Pants. Tears are coming again and I’m trying to hold them back. This is so . . . unfair. To lose everything, all at once. I look at my brothers and sister, they look back at me, as if I can make it better because I’m always doing that. Well, I can’t, troops, I can’t. But they’re not hearing it.

  ‘There’s not a second to be wasted,’ Horatio urges. ‘I represent Basti. I’m here to collect you.’ Four faces stare up at him, stock-still, not budging an inch. ‘The alternative is an orphanage. It can be arranged, you know.’

  The policeman nods, grim. Like there’s no escape from this. Bushy to bushy there’s just nothing he can do, sorry mates.

  I gulp. An orphanage. One of those places with flour sacks for blankets and whippings and wallopings and walls so high you can never, ever escape. Maybe we shouldn’t have been so . . . boisterous . . . with Aunty Ethel. Maybe she was our best bet.

  I’ve got to keep us together, keep us buoyant, keep us strong. Pin climbs onto my shoulders and hangs on tight and Scruff bolts his hand into my pocket and Bert wraps her fist around my waist and locks on fierce. Bert, of all people!

  Nup, not budging. Any of us. All four of us silent and defiant before this city slicker, interlocked. Get the picture? Horatio just stands before us muttering, ‘Reptilarium – orphanage, Reptilarium – orphanage,’ as if he really can’t decide.

  ‘Leave this?’ Scruff explodes. ‘Our whole life? Our mum’s buried unde
r that desert rose over there, did you know?’

  ‘She needs us!’ Bert wails.

  ‘Leave Bucket?’ I hug our dingo girl tight.

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes, all of it. Terribly sorry. A frightful mess . . .’

  The policeman nods again, straight at me, pleading for help. Throws up his hands. I look around, bite my lip. Leave everything we fiercely love for that faraway place where the sky is so low it almost touches the rooftops and its bridge is falling down – we’ve heard all the stories, I’ve read all the books, Dickens and J.M. Barrie and Sherlock Holmes and my favourite, the history tales, London Stories – but now its eggs come in powder and ham in tins and the huns have just smashed it to smithereens, haven’t they? And, and, what’s left of it? Really. Anything? Roofs? Umbrellas? Spoons? Because hasn’t everything been melted down?

  Nope. We’re not shifting. We can do this ourselves. Bert stomps over to her trusty bike with a snake basket on the handlebars that she’s painted a fetching shade of black. Tyres long gone but she can get the steel rims to work. She hauls it up. Sits. Her face says it all: she’s never shifting in her life, thank you very much.

  ‘Now, who else has flying goggles besides Miss Kick?’ Horatio enquires. ‘Uncle Basti’s plane is waiting most impatiently at the Alice Springs airfield. Did I mention that, Miss Albertina? Red leather seats. Customised. Just for him. Anti-aircraft guns still attached. Real pounders. Boom, boom.’ He looks straight at Scruff, who’s listening with his head cocked, and raises one eyebrow. ‘Basti’s fabulously wealthy, you know. We’ll be island-hopping . . . Borneo, Sumatra, Ceylon, something like that, hopeless at geography, hopeless at quite a lot actually. But it’s all those exotic places your madcap father has spent years visiting. Bunty the pilot, he’ll know. I must say, chaps, the adventure of your life awaits . . .’

  Scruff lets go of me. I know him: it’s the guns, it’s Dad’s old haunts, a killer combo, he’s on alert.

  Bert cocks her head. Narrows her eyes. Looks suspiciously at this Horatio bloke. He nods.