The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

Right onto the cobra’s cage. Still, miraculously, lit.

  Basti yelps; the snake reels, hissing and rearing in terror; wax drips dangerously close.

  ‘This is why I never want children in my life!’ Basti thunders, red with rage, instantly changed. He whips off his jacket and throws it on the cage. The flame’s snuffed. The snake thuds crazily against the bars as if it’s been struck by burning wax. Basti extracts it, flings up the chair lever and then storms off, slamming a door somewhere on the ground level.

  Leaving us dangling. Alone. In silence.

  Er, right. The control on my chair won’t work now. Of course. Panicky, I jiggle it. Again, and again. Nothing.

  We’re stuck. Fifty feet up.

  ‘Sorry, Uncle Basti,’ I cry to an empty house; Scruff follows suit.

  No one emerges. No one responds. Just a lot of reptiles and it feels like they’re laughing at us now; laughing and licking their lips; they’ve won.

  ‘Baaaaaastiiiiiiii?’

  How long how are we meant to be up here? Is endurance part of the test? Are we staying up here all night?

  ‘Nice one, troops,’ Bert snaps sarcastically.

  ‘I was looking forward to that hot chocolate.’ Scruff sighs.

  ‘And coffin.’ Bert.

  ‘I think we’ve failed the test,’ Scruff rubs it in.

  Pin starts to cry in mortification, and I soothe him, all the while peering down in panic and willing our uncle to appear. Nope. Right. Well and truly stuck here. For what feels like an eternity.

  Pin’s crying turns to sniffles then silence then suddenly he wraps his pudgy little arms around my neck – ‘I love you, Kicky’ – and I’ve never loved him back so fiercely in my life. But what to do? We dangle, wait, periodically yell, ‘Basti.’ Five minutes, ten, fifteen . . .

  Pin starts to cry again.

  Bert swings the swing wildly, viciously.

  ‘Stop it!’ I snap.

  ‘What else is there to do?’

  ‘We can . . . we can . . . sing! All of us. Come on.’

  I launch into one of Dad’s favourite songs, ‘Bound for Botany Bay,’ heartily, desperately, over and over; he used to get us singing it whenever we were afraid of something, loudly, crazily, to giggle us up and make us forget. The others join in, louder and louder until ‘Too-ral-li-ooral-li-addity!’ is ringing out under the glittery dome and then slowly, miraculously – ‘Too-ral-li-ooral-li-ay!’ – a head emerges from the slammed door; and slowly, miraculously, an uncle steps out. Walks to the lever by the front door, and gently drops us to the ground.

  Pheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. We tumble out.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Basti shakes his head, laughing helplessly, soft again. ‘I’m not very good at . . . people. You see, it’s been so long. I’m all rusty with it. Pushing you away and inviting you in and then storming off and doing it all over again. Oh dear . . . it’s quite a mess, isn’t it? All mixed up. So terribly hard for me, and you. I’m . . . sorry.’

  I smile reassuringly. ‘It’s all right. Really. No one’s perfect.’

  Because Dad’s always saying that, about himself, when another letter arrives from the bank; or from Aunty Ethel, instructing him to just grow up and sort his children’s lives out.

  Basti smiles back in gratitude. ‘Your father taught you that song, didn’t he? He was a good man.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘yes,’ and without knowing why, just burst into tears.

  Basti doesn’t know how to react. His hand hovers near my face as if he wants to wipe away a tear but can’t, quite, bring himself to do it.

  ‘I . . . we . . .’

  ‘Come on, troops,’ Scruff says, firmly, ‘let’s get some cocoa. Don’t we need it. All of us. Kicky?’

  And with infinite gentleness he puts his arm around me. It’s Basti’s cue. He leads the way through a door to the kitchen. I’ve never loved my brother more, often feel like thumping him but right now just want to kiss him hugely in relief (he’d prefer the decking: less girl germs).

  And that’s how the four of us suddenly find ourselves sitting around an enormous kitchen table with an affronted-looking cobra before us in a huge cage.

  ‘It’s the Reptilarium Hospital in here,’ Basti explains.

  Scruff looks startled and guilty.

  ‘She’s all right, she just got a fright. Her name’s Perdita, by the way.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Perdy.’ Bert winks.

  I’m desperate to steer the conversation away from annoying new house guests, wounded pets and failed tests. I ask Basti about the neighbour outside and her big cardboard box, and what were the candles all about?

  He flinches, drops the spoon in the hot chocolate he’s stirring. ‘Blast!’

  I leap up and help him fish it out; perhaps I should have stuck with wounded pets.

  ‘There’s a tradition, Kick,’ he says abruptly. ‘From 1898. There was a refuge here once.’

  ‘What’s a refuge?’ Bert asks.

  ‘When you say no!’ Pin exclaims. Everyone laughs, even Basti, despite himself.

  ‘No, not refuse, young man, although I do rather like that. It’s a place that provides shelter. And there was a refuge, in this very square. For Jewish people. The owners put lit candles in the windows of their building, every Christmas Eve, as a secret signal. It meant that every lonely Jewish person without their family around them would always find a meal and a bed there, around that time; a home among strangers, so to speak. They just had to look out for the candles.’

  ‘How marvellous!’ I exclaim, a touch too longingly.

  ‘Yes, quite.’ Basti looks at me sharply. ‘But then one night some people stoned the house. Smashed all the windows, every single one. It was terrifying and horrible.’

  ‘How awful!’

  ‘Yes. And the next Christmas Eve, each person living in this square decided to put candles in every one of their own windows. In solidarity. And the one after that, and the one after that. Every single house in this square, every single window. To say to the world that they wanted to hide the Jewish refuge among all their own places; so that any horrid outsiders who were thinking of stoning it wouldn’t be able to work out exactly in which building the shelter was located. Ingenious, eh? But they’d tell any refugees that needed it where the magic building was.’

  We’re silent, spellbound.

  ‘It worked. The refuge was never attacked again. And the tradition lives on to this day – well, apart from the past six years of blackouts – even though the shelter is long gone.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Bert whispers.

  ‘Candles! Candles!’ Scruff punches the air in excitement.

  Pin runs madly around the table in anticipation, fuelled by cocoa, watched by Perdita. Can a reptile get dizzy? ‘Where are they?’ Pin declares, ready to troop off to each window in the house.

  ‘But not every house, right?’ I ask Basti softly, placing my hand over his. It’s brushed off.

  ‘No. Quite.’

  And I just know, from that suddenly clipped voice, that we’ll never get our uncle to light a candle on Christmas Eve, and most likely he never has. He’s so mysterious and murky and cantankerous, like a big huge knot that can’t be undone, and we hardly know much about him but I do know one thing: he’s a man of deep, deep habit. Who’s cemented himself firmly into this strange, removed world of flying machines and domes and cages and snakes and it’ll be impossible to change him, to crack him.

  But it’s worth a try.

  Suddenly, there’s an angry thumping on the front door. We rush out of the kitchen, hearts pounding.

  ‘Police! Open up. Immediately!’

  We stare at each other in terror . . .

  ‘No, no, no.’

  Basti’s changed completely again – staring at the front door, shaking his head like he’s stuck. Like he was when he was outside, in the middle of the street; a roo in headlights, lost.

  ‘Kicky?’ Pin begs. ‘Do something.’

  ‘What do I say?’ I whisp
er fiercely to an uncle now clutching my arm in panic.

  ‘Say . . . say you’re Lady Holland’s niece. From Australia. She’s gravely ill –’

  ‘And cannot be disturbed under any circumstances,’ I finish calmly for him.

  He looks at me, astounded. ‘Why yes.’ As if I may be of some use after all.

  I stride to a front door now shaking with the thumping of police batons. Everyone clusters behind me. Deep breath.

  ‘Could you please be quiet,’ I admonish through the wood in my most grown-up of grown-up voices. The batons abruptly stop. ‘I am Lady Holland’s niece. She is gravely ill and demands absolute silence. And why on earth are you doing whatever you’re doing? At such an ungodly hour.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. We’re just trying to find some . . . intruders . . . in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Intruders?’

  ‘Of the, er, reptilian variety.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have you gone quite mad?’

  ‘Er, yes, ma’am, quite . . . I mean no. Of course, no. Nothing to worry about. Apologies. Good evening to you, and give our regards to Lady Holland.’

  ‘Good evening. And please do not disturb us with this commotion ever again. Reptiles, in this neighbourhood? Ridiculous. We’re not in the jungles of Rangoon.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am. Good evening, ma’am.’

  They trudge away. I slam my back hard against the front door in relief.

  ‘Magnificent,’ Basti whispers, looking at me afresh, ‘quite magnificent, Miss Kick.’

  Footsteps return outside. We freeze.

  ‘Ah jist think we should try again with this one,’ says a different younger-sounding voice with a Scottish accent. ‘There’s something about this place . . . would Lady Holland really be in this . . . Ah jist don’t know . . .’

  ‘Come on!’ yell the rest of them.

  ‘My tea’s waiting . . . it’s cheese rarebit.’

  ‘Lucky you, I’ve got Potato Jane.’

  ‘I’ve got Tomato Charlotte tonight!’

  ‘Oooooh, Tomato Charlotte,’ and off they all go, laughing like it’s the funniest joke.

  Basti taps his head. ‘Did anyone mention feeding time?’

  ‘Yeeeeeeeeeeees!’ Scruff yells.

  Basti pushes imperiously through two mirrored doors, turns back to us and winks. We lick our lips, shuffle forward. Food at last!

  ‘I do believe there are some extremely hungry mouths to be fed,’ Basti declares.

  We smile in anticipation.

  The doors snap shut behind Basti with a horrible finality.

  Oh. Right. The truth dawns: it’s not our mouths he’s talking about. Basti is all rusty with other people, yes.

  Scruff goes deathly pale, clutches his stomach, whispers, ‘I’m going to die, sis, if I don’t eat something right now, I mean it,’ and falls to the ground.

  Bert screams.

  I drop to my brother, slapping his cheek. ‘Basti!’ I cry. ‘Quick!’

  ‘I’m busy,’ comes the voice from the kitchen.

  ‘This is an emergency.’

  ‘I don’t do emergencies. You’re on Reptilarium time now, and that means nothing is hurried. It feels like we’ve been in the midst of a tornado since you lot arrived and now I need some blessed routine, and peace.’

  Scruff moans, he’s sweaty and pale.

  ‘Scruff’s in pain. You have to come.’

  Deathly silence.

  ‘Food . . .’ Scruff moans.

  ‘He needs something to eat right now.’

  ‘I do not take to being ordered about. In my day children were seen and not heard. Oh yes, word has travelled about your pranks, Miss Kick.’

  ‘Come here. Now.’ It’s my Aussie nurse voice. ‘I’m getting an ambulance immediately if you don’t.’

  A blanket of silence falls over the house.

  Stand-off.

  Bang! The double doors are flung open with a dramatic slap. Uncle Basti emerges wearing a crisp white apron. Behind him is a magnificent, many-tiered trolley crowded with silver trays holding all manner of delicacies.

  I venture over, reel back. Nothing for humans, in any way. Splendid porcelain tureens of such things as . . . ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, grasshopper legs, fried mouse tails, worm soup.’

  Great. Scruff’ll be thrilled at all that.

  ‘What about my brother?’

  Basti examines the problem. Examines his trolley.

  ‘Hmm. My top-secret Bolivian paste may just do the trick.’ He indicates a purple goo piled high in a silver bowl. Scoops up a spoonful, holds it under Scruff’s nose. ‘Dried spiders,’ Basti adds helpfully.

  Scruff flurries back in alarm, fully awake now.

  ‘Go on, Master Scruff!’ his uncle urges. ‘It’s a hundred times more effective than chocolate.’

  Scruff looks at him dubiously.

  ‘It’s good for you.’ Basti moves closer, drops his voice. ‘Man to man, my boy. It’ll put hairs on your chest. Come on.’

  Our hearts tighten, tighten at something Dad said to Scruff all the time. I bite my knuckle, bite away tears. Why did Dad never speak of Basti? Why are we really here?

  ‘Daddy used to say that,’ Bert ventures. ‘Hairs on your chest . . .’

  ‘Sssh, yes, now eat, boy, eat.’

  Gamely, gingerly, Scruff dips in a finger. Licks it, makes a horrible face, and swallows. Basti spoons some more into his mouth, quick smart. Scruff gulps. Holds out his tongue for more. More. And more. Until the purple goo is quite, quite gone.

  ‘I bet you feel like a million pounds now. Pay attention to your uncle and you’ll go far, young man.’

  Scruff springs to attention and gazes ravenously at the rest of the trolley.

  Basti’s all too happy to oblige. ‘Dried mice, crushed ants, pureed cockroaches, grasshoppers. Yes! Grasshoppers. That’ll do the trick. You’ll have your energy back in no time.’

  Scruff lifts up a spindly green leg and with a grin throws it whole into his mouth. And another. Falls into grasshopper-agonies on the floor.

  ‘Right, that’s breakfast, lunch and dinner for you, then.’ Basti steps breezily over him, slapping his hands at a job well done.

  Scruff sits up, giggling. Pulls down his singlet and examines his chest. ‘Any sign? Am I a man yet?’

  ‘Oh, we’ll toughen you up in no time,’ Basti laughs. ‘Now come, troops, there’s work to be done. You’ve barely begun the test.’ He looks us dubiously up and down. ‘The desert, eh?’ Shakes his head. ‘They breed ’em tough out there, so I’ve heard. Well, we’ll just see about that. Some fortification first.’

  Basti picks up a silver spoon, scoops out a lavish portion of orange mash streaked most alarmingly with green and plops it straight into his mouth. Indicates to the rest of us, with a wink. None of us take him up on the offer.

  ‘Hold him, behind the head, like this,’ Basti instructs, handing me a glow worm. We’re in the Lumen Room, according to a plaque outside its door.

  ‘Quick, I’ll just turn off the lights. Now . . . watch!’

  We gasp as the animals’ skins come thrillingly alive in the dark. Spin around . . . the black painted walls are filled with the creatures . . . hundreds and hundreds of them . . . all softly, magically glowing.

  ‘You could read in here, Miss Kick. I hear you’ve always got your head in a book – when you’re not throwing woomeras at people.’

  I turn, laughing, mouth wide. It’s magnificent, wondrous.

  Basti catches my expression. ‘It’s my favourite room too, you know.’

  ‘Can I sleep in it?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got something else in store for you. Now, to the ladders! Third floor. Green door on the right. Quick!’

  Real life’s intruding. It’s time to ask him about food and clothes and beds as mouths yawn and little bodies slump but Basti’s so madly, crazily enthusiastic, sweeping us off as if there’s not a second to be wasted, like a big kid with t
he keys to the secret kingdom and only for a night!

  ‘Quick, my little girlies are hungry!’ he cries.

  In a lime-green room he coos at four goannas then throws them eight mice in bunches by their tails. ‘Don’t worry, freshly dead, easy to handle.’

  In the room next door he holds a tiny, almost transparent gecko and explains that its tail will detach if it’s being chased, it will twist and cartwheel – ‘to throw its predator off the scent. This dear little chap is a complete wonder of nature.’

  Hang on.

  My back prickles up.

  Because everything, suddenly, is quiet. Too quiet. Well yes, there’s noise: but crucially, no sister-noise.

  ‘Bert?’

  No answer.

  ‘Albertina?’ Still no answer and it usually makes her come.

  I launch myself onto a ladder. ‘Come on, everyone, Bert could be wrapped in the coils of a twenty-foot python by now!’

  ‘This is why I don’t allow children in the house,’ Basti says, slipping his gecko reluctantly into his pocket, ‘because they most inconveniently get swallowed and eaten and bitten and lost.’

  My heart’s thudding. Because with Bert something’s only ever wrong . . . when she’s very, very quiet.

  Well well well.

  It doesn’t take long.

  Perdita’s cage, of course. The hospital one. Trying her hardest to work out the combination of its tiny padlock, all the while blowing chirpy little kisses to its disgruntled inhabitant. Perdita’s crouched at the back, her eyes cool and unmoving, watching her rescuer like it’s the last thing she wants in her life.

  Basti firmly propels her away. ‘Now, what was I saying about not having children in the house? Perdita is deadly. For everyone here but myself. Please take note, young lady. Please. She will not make a good scarf.’

  He extracts another snake from a cage near the sink.

  ‘Milking time,’ he instructs, ‘and this is why you have to be careful in this place. This dear little taipan, as you may know, is the deadliest inland snake in the world. One drop of its venom can kill two hundred men.’

  The snake lashes out as Basti attempts to milk its fangs over a glass jar. The powerful tail wraps around his arm, trying to derail him; he wrestles with the reptile and firmly brings it under control, smartly clamping its head over the lip of the lid.