‘What?’ I rub my head.
‘Tomorrow, troops, tomorrow, we’re all so tired now . . .’ He waves us off in exhaustion, and shuffles away.
We look at each other. The War Office? Is that really what he said?
Tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
The day before Christmas. Minus one degree. Frost outside like held breath.
Four Caddy kids: champing at the bit. Because Basti mentioned the War Office, in the same breath as Dad, and it’s blindsided us. What? Our father’s too old, he was taken from a tree, possibly by a croc . . .
Wasn’t he?
But Basti’s not up yet and so we must wait. In agony. I’m trying madly to distract, to get all of them making four new hats from bits and bobs from the attic – our Christmas presents to our uncle – but it’s hopeless, no one can concentrate.
Finally, a song. Basti’s awake, downstairs, checking on his Reptilarium charges. We rush out.
‘So the War Office?’ I demand.
‘And good morning to you, Miss Kick. What about it?’
‘Our father. You said last night –’
‘I did indeed. Surely you must have known?’
The four of us look blank.
‘I thought you knew. The mission. In deepest Borneo. To rescue the Australian prisoners of war from the Japanese.’
‘What?’ I shake my head in confusion.
‘Your father had previous war experience, from all his adventures over the years, and a highly specialised knowledge of the area. He knew that particular region intimately. There was a group of diggers being held there, at a little-known camp, and his assistance was requested. It was a top-secret mission. Hugely important.’ Basti sighs. ‘And hugely brave, and foolhardy, and ridiculous to accept. But that’s my brother. Always has been. As you know. Plus it would have got him out of financial trouble – they were offering a tidy war chest if he helped out.’
‘But the note, on yellow paper . . .’
‘Yes, yes, you keep on going on about that, don’t you? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I, being listed as his next of kin, received a telegram from the War Office saying your father was missing in action. I presumed I shouldn’t have to do anything about . . . children . . . until I’d received some kind of official notification of, of . . .’
‘Death,’ I wince.
‘Quite, Miss Kick. Then shortly after the telegram arrived I received a handwritten letter from him, along with his hunting knife. It was all a bit of a babble. He was under great stress, saying something about telling you that he was on a croc hunting expedition and that he couldn’t say the truth because it was highly secret, official government business. You see, he was spying. To put it plainly. In a combat zone. A huge and most delicate mission. And he loved you all so much because you always made him laugh or something, yet he couldn’t say which was his favourite but he’d tell you when he got back. If he did. Sentiments like that. You see, he feared capture. Imminently. And he was correct. Which is why he got a trusted villager to send the letter and his knife. To me. The kid brother who he had a lot of faith in, apparently. To make everything right. Of all things. Me.’
‘But how did we end up getting everything then?’ I yell in anguish, my hands at my head, it doesn’t make sense. ‘The yellow note was in his handwriting. It was, it was him. What’s going on here? What’s the truth?’
‘I don’t know, Kick.’
‘You must!’
Basti’s face flushes, he raises his voice. ‘I would not lie to you. I may do many things – fall short in many ways – but I do not lie.’
A throat being cleared. Behind us. Charlie Boo. He’s crept up silently.
‘If I may be so bold.’
‘Please do, Mr Boo, please do.’ My hands are on my hips.
‘I read the letter,’ says the butler.
Basti gasps.
‘You left it on your desk, sir. I thought long and hard about what to do. I, perhaps, saw it differently to you. Four children. Orphaned.’
Scruff cries out in anguish.
‘Possibly orphaned. You, their closest living relative. In a rather large house. Christmas approaching. As a father, as a grandfather, I found it difficult to bear. A lot of families around us have lost the father of the house. Sometimes, tragically, the mother too. The older brother, the uncle; in some instances whole families have been wiped out. I could go on.’
Basti shuts his eyes in pain, shakes his head.
‘So, sir, if I could make a difference to one single family, just one, then by God I was going to.’
‘You did what?’ Basti asks.
Charlie Boo sails on. ‘I did what I thought was best, in the circumstances. You’d kept every one of your brother’s letters, despite never responding to them. Every single letter over the years describing exactly what these children were like. Oh, they were scamps all right, but lovable scamps, I could see that. It was like I knew them myself. And they were without a home. Without a family. Yet they had all that here, right in this very building . . . and with respect, sir, I thought it might do you the world of good. Bring you out, perhaps.’ The butler lowers his eyes. ‘I’ve known you since you were a baby, Sebastian. Seen you off to war. Seen you change. Most . . . distressingly . . . for those that care for you.’ He looks him square in the face. ‘I have loved you, sir, your entire life. And I have always wanted what was best for you.’
Basti’s fists softly unclench.
‘I forged your brother’s handwriting. Yes, I did. On your yellow notepaper. And handed it over to Horatio along with the hunting knife. Gave him strict instructions.’
Basti starts to protest, but Charlie Boo talks over the top of him. ‘I must say, sir . . . your lawyer was in agreement. He, after all, has known you a long time also. The only thing I said Horatio didn’t have to do was come near the house. We all know his pathological aversion to cold-blooded creatures. But he flew across the world, to the place that harbours three of the most deadliest snakes on earth, just for you. And for four children who’d just lost their father. Because he, too, thought it might . . . help.’
Basti shuts his eyes, says nothing.
‘Datty, where’s my datty?’ Pin tugs Charlie Boo’s sleeve.
Charlie Boo scoops him up. ‘Still lost, my boy, still lost. Deep in the jungles of Borneo. The War Office has been unable to ascertain what exactly went on – where he is.’ His voice lowers. ‘We have accepted he’s gone.’
I can’t speak.
‘And perhaps you must, too. It’s time. All of you.’
A deathly quiet.
‘I wish Bucket was here,’ Scruff suddenly wails. ‘I want Bucket more than anything.’
Basti puts his hand on his nephew’s head. ‘A long time ago, you know what I wished for, Master Scruff?’
‘What?’
‘That I could live in the Reptilarium all by myself. That no one would ever stare or laugh at me, no one would ever say, “My, hasn’t he changed?” I wished that I’d never have to mix with anyone – because I didn’t need anyone. So I thought.’ He takes Pin from Charlie Boo and holds him high in the air. ‘My wish was granted.’ Pin’s gently lowered to the ground. ‘Then you know what? Over the years it became so hard to reverse everything. To say, actually, er, I may have made a mistake here. I don’t want to be this person any more, I’d like to stop now. I want to be what I used to be. Except I’d forgotten what that was.’
‘But you climbed the tree!’ Bert exclaims, and despite everything we all laugh.
Charlie Boo melts away. Snow’s now falling outside, coating the world in a blanket of stillness through my glittery eyes. I long to be in it, throwing my first ever snowball. At everyone before me. Basti especially. Cracking him open, bringing out the man who puts bananas on his head and oranges in his mouth, making him laugh and laugh, all of us.
‘It’s never too late to come outside, Uncle Basti,’ I cry, staring out at the blanket of whiteness now shimmering through a wav
e of wet.
Scruff leaps in: ‘Hey, we could start with Chr–’
Basti shakes his head, shakes Pin abruptly from his leg. Places the chameleon on his head and hurries off as if a thousand things have to be done, right now, and he’s late, so late; it’s too much. Except we know he’s not late. For anything.
The doorbell jangles. We all stop. Stare down to the bottom floor.
It jangles again. Insistently.
Who on earth could it be? The four of us run to the windows.
Dinda. Looking incredibly agitated.
Ringing again and again and glancing behind her in panic, then banging on the door with two fists. Urgently. As if the most awful thing has just happened . . .
We race downstairs.
‘Quick, quick!’ Dinda’s panting through the wood. ‘I’ve just overheard, at Lidgate’s, the butcher’s, in the ration queue –’ She takes a breath. ‘I ran straight to you. It’s the police. They’re mounting a big expedition – tonight – of all nights. There’ve been complaints. From that time you stopped the traffic. Revealed yourself, with Perdita. Certain people haven’t forgotten. They’ve put two and two together and they’re determined to put an end to it.’
‘What?’
‘Highly dangerous animals and all that. There are rumours, scare campaigns flying around. Somewhere in the neighbourhood. A palace of reptilian indulgence, a public danger. There are people determined, absolutely determined, to shut the Reptilarium down!’
Basti’s suddenly behind us, deathly pale, his breath rattly; he opens the door and grabs the doorpost. Dinda clutches him by both shoulders.
‘They want you taken away, Seb. As the owner. Want you prosecuted. For keeping highly dangerous animals – and having them escape.’
That was our fault, Basti was right, we’ve brought him the fatal attention – just as he dreaded.
‘And any children in the house –’ she looks at the four of us as if she can hardly bear it ‘– they want them removed. To an . . . an . . . orphanage. Yes.’
We look at each other. An orphanage? The Reptilarium dismantled? All the animals gone, sent away, killed. And Uncle Basti – carted off to some institution? With no Charlie Boo to help him, or Perdita, or us for that matter? Living among all manner of people who don’t know him, don’t understand, care. His worst nightmare. It would kill him.
‘What can we do, Dinda?’ I cry.
‘I don’t know.’ Dinda bunches a scarf nervously about her throat. ‘There’s only one tiny chink of light in all this. The person who made the complaint . . . whoever they are . . . apparently doesn’t know exactly which building in the neighbourhood the Reptilarium is in. They’ve told the police it can only be found one way. That they’ve heard it’s not too smart-looking, but most importantly, it’s always –’ she hesitates, looks nervously at Uncle Basti ‘– dark . . . on Christmas Eve . . .’
I grab him by both arms. ‘The candles. Of course. We have to do this, Basti. You must let us. To save you. To save the Reptilarium. To save us.’
He starts backing away.
‘The police only have one chance to find the house,’ I plead. ‘Tonight. When all the candles are lit.’
He shakes his head, just can’t contemplate it, it’s too much. ‘It’s a trick,’ he yells and Perdita lashes angrily against her cage. ‘To lure me, to bring me out. It’s just some horrible ploy to get me to light those wretched candles, to force me into doing a Christmas of some sort, to get me changed, to have me dragged into life. All of you!’ he roars.
‘Basti,’ Dinda says, ‘it’s no trick. You have to trust me.’ She adds, ‘Like you used to.’
‘No! No! No!’
‘I’d never hurt you. I’ve only ever wanted what’s good for you.’ She wedges her foot in the door. ‘Come for Christmas, at my house, all of you. There’s enough food, presents. I’ve got the tree, candles, everything. I’ve always wanted to help, Basti, always. All these years. Every so often I’d knock on your door to check. But you’d never open it. I never gave up. Always hoped. It’s why I’ve never looked at anyone el–’
Basti pushes her foot away and slams the door.
In Dinda’s face.
We flinch.
In the most horrible, deflated stillness. Of a house in shock. On Christmas Eve. The most awful Christmas Eve of our lives.
Scruff looks at his uncle, man to man. ‘It’s not a trick,’ he says.
Basti just glares at him. ‘Let me do Christmas how I want to do Christmas. My way. Let me live my life the way I want!’
He storms off.
The door of the polar bear room: slammed.
Basti’s gone. Disappeared. And that’s one door that won’t be opening anytime soon. We slump with our backs against the front door. It’s hopeless. He’ll never come out. So much for four half-made Christmas hats or anything else.
‘I don’t want to go to an orphanage, Kick,’ Scruff cries. ‘I hate gruel. And they’ll never let me put sugar in it.’
I look at him. All of them. Right. Up to me to mend this.
Open our door. Dinda’s just disappearing, her door’s closing –
‘Wait!’ I shout, running out, three Caddys behind me. The door slams, as if she’s completely given up on the Reptilarium and its impossible knot of a family.
‘I can help,’ I say loudly, right outside her house.
The door stays resolutely shut.
‘I know exactly what to do. To fix everything.’
Still shut. One last chance. ‘Dinda, we know why Basti never speaks to you. I want to help. I know how.’
The door opens. A sliver of a crack. Dinda’s eyes are red from crying.
‘I can make this work,’ I plead.
‘Please, Princess Dindi.’ Pin holds up his hands in prayer.
A hint of a smile.
‘We’re going to fix this,’ I say, firm. ‘Whatever it takes. Because we have to. Because it was our fault.’
‘Whatever it takes,’ Scruff repeats, looking doubtfully at me.
‘So, Miss Desert Rose, what do you propose?’
I lick my lips. Glance around at the other houses in the square. ‘We have to hide the Reptilarium among all the others. Just like that refuge was hidden once. We have to put candles all through it whether Basti likes it or not.’ A deep breath. ‘And the big task: we have to tidy it up.’ Another deep breath. ‘And then convince him to have a Christmas.’
‘A few trifles,’ Dinda laughs in hopelessness. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes. We have to make him be friends with you.’
‘Right. All that, in a day.’
I nod firm. ‘Yep. My dad says you never get anything done unless you give it a try. So just do it.’
Dinda looks dubiously at the Reptilarium then dubiously at us.
‘Caddys to the rescue!’ Bert throws up her arms.
It’s my sign. ‘Troops, action stations!’ I command before Dinda can talk any of us out of it. ‘Girl hero, you ready?’
‘Aye aye, captain.’
‘Boy heroes?’
‘Aye aye, captain!’
Swiftly before me, in a line, are three perfect salutes. I look our reluctant neighbour straight in the eye and wink. ‘We can do it, Dinda. And do you know why? Because we’re from the bush!’
Two minutes later. Four kids from the desert plus one very glamorous photographer standing on a snowy footpath of London’s Campden Hill Square, staring up at a magical but decidedly neglected building called the Kensington Reptilarium. With a plan to transform it. In a single day. On Christmas Eve. Are we mad? Yes. Barely a month ago, who would have thought that any of them would be doing this?
‘Oh my, it’s a task.’ Dinda’s shaking her head with the sheer, crushing hopelessness of it. ‘We’d need a frightfully large amount of people. And we only have today . . .’
‘Actually, we only have four hours, until it gets dark,’ Scruff says, looking at his watch. ‘That’s about three p.m., isn’t it? T
his being London and all.’
‘Steady on, mister,’ Dinda smiles, then sighs. ‘But it’s today of all days. With the last-minute shopping to do, trees to finish off, presents to wrap. Who’s got the time? Anyone?’
I look at her. I look at all of them. ‘Excuse me, but where’s our spirit of the Blitz, troops? You Brits won the war on it, Dinda. Well, we just need to see it. Here. Now. Again. It’s legendary. Give me half an hour. I’ll get them out. You told us that Basti was really respected in this square. That lots of the older people still remember him fondly. The little boy who climbed trees, the rescuer of his mates, the war hero, actually, despite what he thinks. He can’t be taken away now, he can’t be locked up. We have to save him.’
And off I set, just like that, striding away determined to the nearest house.
Rap loudly.
A gentleman answers. He’s in the throes of gluing paper chains together, a huge string is wrapped around his neck. I explain. His face softens. ‘Sebastian Caddy? Why of course. My father used to play with him all the time. Spoke of him extremely fondly.’ He unwraps himself from the chains. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Bert catches it all. Heads off to another house. Scruff strides away with Pin. Each with one goal: to save Basti, save the Reptilarium, before dark.
Because we’re from the bush. And we’re Dad’s kids. And we get things done, we make them right.
Half an hour later. Campden Hill Square. A huge group of people heading out their doors into the glittery cold of Christmas Eve – it’s just stopped snowing, the world’s twinkly and white. Every one of them cluttered up with buckets and ladders and brooms and brushes; old people, young people, tall women, short men, dogs and children and people who’ve never before met.
Heading to? The Kensington Reptilarium, of course.
And over the next couple of hours, in what little daylight London’s got left, everyone works, and works, and works. Everyone in the square, on December the 24th, summoning that renowned spirit of the Blitz. To save the man inside the shabbiest house in their midst. The one who they’ve all heard about or remember. The man who saved four mates once – and sent a candle back to this very square from the Western Front. Aged just fifteen years. And then returned to the thick of battle. Once again, for his mates.
The Kensington Reptilarium Page 17