The Kensington Reptilarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  ‘You’re really brave,’ Scruff observes.

  ‘Selectively brave, Master Scruff, selectively. And certainly not with things like . . . people. Or buses. Or horns or batons or policemen. Or children.’ He shuts his eyes in pain. ‘My nerves . . . quite shot, you see. Quite shot indeed. Not good with the world, any more. You may have noticed. Still trying to work it all out.’

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story.’

  ‘Were you in the war? With Dad?’

  ‘The Great War.’ He sighs. ‘Indeed I was, Miss Kick.’ He puts the snake back in its cage.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Not the same place. Your father was in Gallipoli, I was in Northern France. It’s a toss-up which was worse.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  Basti’s silent. He bows his head as if the weight of it is too much to bear.

  I come close. ‘Please?’ I put my arm around his back. He doesn’t shrug it off. Faintly, ever so faintly, I can feel him trembling under his velvet coat. I squeeze, ever so slightly. ‘Sometimes it’s good to talk,’ I say softly. ‘Dad’s always saying that. When we’re clogged up . . . with Mum and things.’

  Another sigh. The trembling is getting stronger. ‘They strapped me to the wheels of a gun carriage, if you must know. A cannon. On a cart. My own people. “Field Punishment Number One,” it’s called. I was chained to this cart while it was firing. In the middle of a battlefield. Boom, boom . . . the whole thing would lurch, pound, shake . . .’

  He’s silent, I squeeze him firmer; Bert comes up the other side and puts her arm around him, too.

  ‘I, I couldn’t do a thing . . . the sounds, smells, mates getting blown up in front of me, horses screaming, everyone in agony, crying for their mothers, for hours it seemed. Hours and hours.’

  ‘Gosh, what did you do to deserve that?’ Scruff asks. ‘It must have been something really naughty. Did you steal a car? Like Kick? She took Dad’s ute once and drove it into a dam. She’s the naughtiest person I know. But now it might be you.’

  I’m now giving my brother the Number One Look-of-Death: tonight, bedtime, you’ll keep.

  ‘Naughty? Me?’ Basti laughs. ‘Well, I certainly didn’t think so, Master Scruff. But others did. You see, I slipped off to a French village one afternoon. Got lost, as you do. Stupid really, absolutely stupid . . . that’s what happens when you venture into a world you don’t know.’

  Bert gives him a squeezy cuddle and he hovers his hand gently over her back.

  ‘The ridiculous thing is, Miss Albertina, that before my bit of silliness I’d been quite the war hero. Oh yes. Everyone in the square here knew about it, they were preparing for a hero’s welcome home. You see, I’d dragged four mates from the battlefield under heavy fire, all wounded. Three made it, one didn’t. Quite the hero, yes. But then a little sojourn in a French village completely ruined it. Changed my life. So. Now. Everything is much quieter. Nothing disturbs my little world. It’s very peaceful here and the crucial thing is, I am completely in control of it. I always know what’s around the corner. No one orders me about, punishes me unfairly, forces me to do anything I don’t want to –’

  ‘Except for us!’ Scruff reminds him. ‘We’re here now!’

  I give him a swift kick. Basti does not need any reminder at this point as to why his life has suddenly galloped from his control, and I’m worried about that Scottish policeman who may come back. I also now know that this reptilarium has to be kept intact by any means, not just for its reptilian inhabitants but its human one, too. This is a refuge, of the most vital sort, and Basti’s sanctuary cannot be destroyed under any circumstances.

  Because it would destroy him.

  ‘Yes, you lot,’ Basti sighs, holding the yellow taipan venom up to the light. ‘All I can say is, thank goodness for Charlie Boo. Between Perdita and my butler I don’t have a need for anyone else.’ He looks down at us, arches an eyebrow. ‘Certainly not four children from Woop Woop who are far too . . . smiley . . . for their own good. And who frankly –’ he peers in distaste, as if he’s only just realised it ‘– haven’t a clue how to dress.’

  We gaze at our mishmash of Horatio-clothes . . . but have nothing else . . . are tired . . . starving.

  ‘My tummy’s got a headache,’ Pin announces as if on cue.

  Basti looks bewildered.

  ‘Meaning “he’s still hungry”,’ Scruff explains.

  ‘Ahh, food. But no one’s dressed properly. And in this house, one always dresses for dinner. Because one must.’

  We look at each other in despair. Right. Well, that’s that then.

  Basti claps his hands. ‘But wait, there’s an army of people upstairs, in the attic. They can help! Of course.’

  Our heads turn skyward.

  So we’re not alone in this place?

  My back prickles up again. Bert’s coffin’s up there somewhere, and goodness knows what else in this madly eccentric, endlessly surprising house.

  I look back at Basti. Not good with people, yes, and quite dangerously erratic. Do we want this help or not?

  But – wonders! – the rest of them are laughing.

  How my lot used to, all the time. The joy’s bubbling over as they’re heading out the kitchen and gazing up in wonder and chattering about what’s next and the sound of it reminds me of home, achingly, how it always made our dad gleeful because he’d always say that when his lion cubs are happy, he’s happy. ‘So laugh, Billy Lids, laugh!’ he’d yell as he tickled us before telling us to scat, git, skedaddle, seize the world, be curious.

  I watch them all now bounding madly up the ladders and sailing along the railings, shrieking with delight, higher and higher, grabbing the glee and goodness – my heart, all of a sudden, feels like it’s swelling, like a ship’s sail caught the wind, bursting with . . . what?

  Possibility. Hope.

  That this might, actually, work. And it’s the first time I’ve felt like this since we’ve been here. And maybe, just maybe, I can finally relax. Be a kid again myself.

  If we can convince Basti to let us stay (difficult). If we can make ourselves indispensable so he’ll never give us up (impossible). If the Scottish policeman never comes back (unlikely). If we can squeeze a Christmas out of our uncle (highly unlikely). But there’s nothing I can do right at this point, except follow the glee, surrender the worry, and climb.

  ‘You first, Master Scruff,’ Basti urges as we all bunch at a tiny door under the dome. ‘They’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Who?’ Scruff turns sharply.

  ‘Just you wait.’

  I can see it in my brother’s face – the dawning realisation. New people, up here, does he mean . . . ghosts? Frankenstein’s monsters? Some mad scientific experiment? It’s awfully quiet in there.

  ‘Ah, are they . . . a-alive?’ stutters the kid with sunshine in his soul who soars during daylight but shrinks in terror from the mysteries of the night.

  Basti prods him on, mercilessly. ‘Clothes, boy. Quick. Dinner demands proper attire.’

  Food or dead people, food or dead people – oh, I know my brother, know his stomach. Everyone’s watching.

  ‘It’s a test,’ hisses Bert. ‘Don’t let us down.’

  Test, the magic word.

  ‘I’m going in.’

  Bingo. And with a deep breath, Scruff’s off.

  Silence. We can’t hear a thing.

  ‘He’s not very good with the dark,’ Bert whispers to her uncle. ‘Monsters and goblins and all that. He sees them everywhere.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Basti says vaguely. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have –’

  ‘I, on the other hand, am fascinated by ghosts. Are there any here?’

  ‘A multitude, my dear Albertina, a multitude. You will be in your element.’

  A shout from above: ‘Holy moly!’

  That’s it, Bert’s off, pushing impatiently through us, Pin’s quick behind her and I’m not far behind them. We tumble int
o a space crammed with, well, everything, and I mean everything, a kid could want. Holy moly indeed. Billycarts and butterfly nets, dressmaker’s dummies and dollies, croquet mallets and cannons and parachutes, pickle jars and balloon baskets, sleds and skis and even an army tent erected alongside a stuffed camel.

  ‘Off you go,’ Basti urges. ‘This place hasn’t been disturbed for years. It’s all yours!’

  We jump on rocking horses, fence with swords, sing through gas masks and balance on penny-farthing bicycles. Woo-hoo! Scruff topples and lands on Basti, who promptly slams on a tin hat for protection: ‘The war was never as, er, bouncy as this, young sir.’

  At one stage I’m gazing out a little round window with binoculars, across the vastness of London, as far as I can see. Houses upon houses, streets upon streets, right to the horizon; and all the sounds! A great cram of horns and cars, buses braking and dogs barking, people laughing and chattering as they walk down the street. Usually my world is filled with endless emptiness, space, thrumming silence – and now this. In such a short time. The energetic rush of a mighty metropolis, with its heartbreaking bombing scars of rubble everywhere. It’s like the entire city is still suffering from some strange pox; horrible wounds of destruction and hate. What they’ve all been through. And Horatio told us there are other children in this square who’ve lost fathers, mothers, just like us. We’re not the only ones. I wonder what they’re all doing tonight. I look around the room – Scruff swinging like Tarzan on a rope from the ceiling, Bert trying to turn a Union Jack flag into a ballgown, Pin talking earnestly to a stuffed dog that he’s instantly christened ‘Buccatoo’ – Bucket Two. I bet whatever those other kids are doing, it’s nothing like this.

  Could we possibly live here for good? This city makes me feel very small and lost. I’m a child of the bush, its strong, hurting light is deep in my bones, along with its quiet that’s so alive it hums. And now such vast . . . difference. The air tastes sour like it’s filled up with dirt and cars and smoke. Even walking on London’s hardness feels odd after a lifetime of sand, and mainly in bare feet.

  But this is our future now, according to Horatio, under this sky that grazes the rooftops like a giant cow’s belly. Because our house scorched by the sun now belongs to someone else. As well as Bucket, my darling dingo girl, but I can’t think too much about that. I squeeze my eyes shut on tears. Dad would be appalled if he knew we’d left her behind; he rescued her as a tiny pup from the side of the road, her mother’s carcass still warm and all her siblings crushed. ‘Keep her close, she’ll look after you’ – they were the last words he said to me as he hugged us both tight, so tight it hurt, like he never wanted to give us up.

  And now I have no one. I’m not quite ready for that. I’m sorry, but it’s too horribly soon to be utterly alone in the world, to be entirely responsible for all the big decisions in my family’s life let alone my own. What if I get it all wrong? Let the rest of them down? Never get Bucket back? I want independence, yes of course, want to be the chief pirate and the general and the bossy boss, but I want someone to put their arm around me sometimes, too – achingly – and to tell me I’m all right; chin up. I shake my head and laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I’m just as mixed up as Basti in this place.

  I look across at him. Lovingly stroking a glass jar with a stuffed baby croc curled inside. Basti catches my eye.

  ‘This, my friends, is the Reptilarium’s very first specimen. Isn’t she pretty?’

  We gather to him, nod.

  Basti’s suddenly serious, his face fierce. ‘But you must never breathe a word about her. Or me. Or any of this. To anyone. Because as I’ve said before, it will mean certain . . . fatal . . . calamity.’ Goosebumps. ‘The solemn family tradition is to protect all that the generations beforehand have – most wondrously – created.’ We nod. ‘Protect, Not Obliterate. That is our motto.’

  ‘But what does the Reptilarium actually do?’ I ask, shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘This esteemed institution was initially a shop on Oxford Street before the authorities shut it down. So my great-grandfather took the operation underground, and moved it here. To his home. Which now protects hundreds of exceedingly rare and valuable reptiles from all manner of barbarians.

  ‘London, you see, is a most extraordinary place. Before the war you could buy anything you desired – cobras from us, lion cubs from Harrods, Egyptian mummies in the East End and medieval manuscripts in the West End. This great city is a world centre for many things, including the underground animal trade. We find them. We rescue them. We breed them if they’re rare, to perpetuate the species. The only animal I’ve ever wilfully held onto is my Perdita –’ Basti chuckles fondly ‘– because, well, she won’t go. But there’s a whole team of secret helpers, ably coordinated by Mr Boo. Horatio – hopeless – won’t step near the place. Petrified of snakes, but good for other purposes. The business arrangements. You see, we repatriate, so to speak. Return whomever we can to their natural habitat. It’s why I own a plane.

  ‘So that, my dears, is why you have this.’ He looks around in satisfaction. ‘A vast accumulation of centuries of . . . wonderments.’ He taps his head. ‘Including, somewhere, old clothes.’ He smacks his head. ‘I quite forgot! My friends will help. They’re waiting so patiently for you.’

  Four Caddy heads swivel in bewilderment. Nope, quite alone here. Scruff’s hand finds mine. Is this the signal for the ghosts?

  ‘Now I must leave you to it,’ Basti purrs, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

  Is this how Basti makes sure the Reptilarium will never be obliterated? Will we never emerge from this room?

  Bert’s having none of it. ‘Horatio said Kick needed a dress. She has to start being a proper girl.’

  Scruff leaps in. ‘I think she’s beyond help.’

  ‘Troops,’ I warn. They know me. I do not do dresses. Never have. Do not do velvet or lace or silk or satin, do not do ‘girl’ of any sort.

  Basti steps closer, peers. Up and down. Nods slowly, as if he’s suddenly got the measure of me. Turns crisply to his nephew. ‘My good sir, the philosophy in this establishment is that you can be whomever you want.’ Turns to me. ‘Madam, I command you to dress like no one else. That is an order. Surprise me. I don’t care how. You see, I not only admire the courage to be different – I celebrate it. My creed has always been that one must be their own man, no matter what – er, woman . . . person.’ He turns to his other niece. ‘Miss Albertina. You, I’m afraid, are beyond help.’ He smiles. ‘And I wouldn’t have you any other way.’ With that he disappears through the door.

  Leaving us alone.

  Me, glowing. Maybe he’s not so bad after all. He gets me. No one else does. Ever. Especially the horrified succession of governesses and aunts who invariably give up. Not even Dad, who was always scratching his whiskers in bewilderment at the blunt cut hair and trench whistles and cut-off trousers for shorts. ‘Gee, Kicketty,’ he’d murmured more than once, ‘I didn’t know young ladies were meant to turn out like this.’

  ‘Kick,’ Scruff whispers, tugging me, ‘apparently we’re in a room full of people. Did you know?’ He spins. Where? How? Nudges close, his teeth starting to chatter. Trying desperately to be brave, I can feel it. Trying desperately not to think of what happens at two in the morning in a big old house . . . or right now. The attic’s deathly quiet. Shadows loom. The place doesn’t feel near as inviting all of a sudden.

  ‘W-what’s behind that curtain?’ Scruff whispers. Hadn’t noticed it before. One end of the room is sectioned off by a red velvet curtain. Right. I push past my brother. Don’t want to do this. Have to. Peek through.

  Scream.

  A battalion of . . . of . . . dead people!

  No. Can’t be. I peer closer. At row upon row of ghostly wax figures dressed in a mishmash of clothes. They’re life-sized, frozen, terrifying, and the wall next to them is piled high with long wooden boxes like waiting coffins.

  ‘Eeeeeeeh,’ Pin screams.

&n
bsp; ‘Baaasteee!’ Scruff cries.

  We don’t want to be in this place at all; we dash across the attic in horror, smack bang into Basti, who stems the tide and leads us straight back.

  ‘So you’ve discovered my little friends,’ he chuckles. ‘Ah, we used to have so much fun.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and – oh, never mind. I was a child. Ancient times. When the Reptilarium shopfront shut down it had an old waxworks above it. Thirty-eight dummies were left behind and they somehow ended up in here. You’ll find Florence Nightingale in there somewhere; Dickens, Queen Victoria, Darwin. A friend and I used to play with them. They were our army, school, family, children . . . ah, the hours spent up here . . . the fun.’ Basti wistfully fingers a lace collar. ‘They’re modelling your new wardrobe for you, you know. Off you go!’

  And with that, the terror evaporates. It’s like suddenly being in a shop and we can buy whatever we want. The four of us thread our way through the figures, marvelling at corsets and crinolines, armour and chain mail, helmets and crowns and daggers and swords.

  ‘Finders keepers.’ Basti retreats, smiling. ‘Whatever you see is yours. Just make it warm, all right?’ He winks at me. ‘And singular, Miss Kick.’

  ‘But where are you going?’

  ‘Oh, not too far, don’t you worry.’

  We look at each other. At the ghostly figures before us. Scruff salutes Queen Victoria; he’s got the measure of her now. Bert whips off the queen’s tiara. ‘Terribly sorry, ma’am; needs must.’

  That’s it, we’re off.

  Plundering bowler hats and riding boots, flying caps and feathers, pirate hats and pistols; Livingstone’s left with nothing but his britches, we don’t dare do that with the monarch but all her jewellery’s stripped along with a fur stole. The four of us are piling everything on and flinging it off, parading the room and collapsing with giggles and endlessly attempting new combinations until we’re, finally, ready, after what seems like hours – every one of us looking extremely, er . . . Basti, I guess. Singular, oh yes.