The Kensington Reptilarium
Page 18
And was punished most savagely for it.
‘Come on, Basti,’ I plead at the polar bear door. ‘Come out, have a look.’
‘No!’ comes the muffled cry. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘I’ll give you half my Cadbury’s ration chocolate,’ Scruff entreats. ‘It’s one of my all-time favourites . . . and yours. And it’s not given away lightly. As you well know.’
‘No.’
A pause. ‘I’ll give you the whole lot. This is some sacrifice here.’
‘No.’
‘Basti! Basti! Cuddle?’ Pin begs.
Hesitation. Then, ‘No,’ quiet, from the other side.
‘Please, Basti,’ Pin persists, ‘I love you.’
Silence.
Then the captain does something none of us hear very much: he cries a wail of complete abandonment. I look at Scruff, at Bert, my heart breaking. Because it sounds like Pin’s weeping not just for Basti but for Dad too. He’s well and truly gone, we know that, he’s never coming back and it’s hit Pin at last and it’s all, finally, pouring out. Our little brother gets it. Finally. He’s growing up.
Look.
The polar bear door, opening a sliver.
A velvet cap peeking out – the one Bert’s been trying to get her hands on the entire time we’ve been in this place. Two bushy eyebrows. Two most concerned eyes. The hat leans down, right at Pin-level, and jiggles.
Jiggles again, most enticingly.
Pin giggles despite himself and gently lifts the cap off its rightful head and places it triumphantly on his own – then thinks better of it and places it on Bert’s.
‘Yes?’ I ask.
‘Yes,’ Basti sighs. ‘Resistance is futile. You lot, you lot.’
‘Yippeeeee!’ we all exclaim.
‘Come on, the window.’ Scruff’s now pulling both his uncle’s arms.
‘Twenty seconds and that’s it.’
Oh no. The Caddy kids are having none of that. We march our uncle to a window and keep him there, trapped. As luck would have it we’ve got Dinda right outside, on a tall ladder, looking most un-Dinda-like in a checked apron and high heels (leopard print) and a matching handkerchief around her head. She’s briskly scrubbing a pane of glass next to an extremely dashing man from down the road. He shakes each of our hands.
‘Captain McAuliffe – Ian to you and me. Delighted to be of your aquaintance. Delighted indeed!’
He’s feverishly painting the window frames. Has just returned from the war himself. When he sees Basti his eyes light up and he gives the older man the most respectful, most heartfelt salute.
Basti’s eyes widen. He steps back in shock. ‘But I’m a terrible embarrassment . . . aren’t I?’ He looks at me in bewilderment. ‘None of them want me here.’
‘Actually,’ I say, ‘they couldn’t think of anything more horrible than you being taken away from this Square. On Christmas Eve, of all nights. You’re a big part of it, Basti. You’re a legend. A hero. Just like a lot of other people around here. And you know what? They want to help.’
Scruff flings up the window and shouts to all the neighbours swarming over the house. ‘You’re doing this for Basti Caddy, aren’t you? He needs to hear it with his own ears!’
‘Yes!’ they cry out, ‘yes!’
‘Basti, welcome back, old man.’
‘Jolly good show!’
‘We expect a tree to be climbed before tonight.’
‘Just trust us, mister.’ Dinda smiles the most beautiful smile, right at him, the ghost of a fifteen year old in it from long, long ago. ‘Just trust us, you, for once.’
‘Three cheers for Mr Caddy!’ Captain McAuliffe yells.
And Uncle Basti?
Well, let’s just say that at this very moment, with the cheering all around him, it looks like he could almost burst into light.
With happiness.
The night before Christmas and not a creature stirring, not even a mouse.
And look! Look! At Campden Hill Square. All its tall buildings, its squat chimneys, its green lampposts. And in every single window, in every single house, right up to the sky – is a candle.
Lit.
Twinkling at each other, right around the square. Neighbour to neighbour, house to house. It’s the most magical, beautiful, enchanting sight. And it’s extra special this time around because for the past six years London’s been in a grim wartime blackout, and the candles have stayed unlit. But now the gruelling hardship is over. Finally. The city’s children have returned from their country exile, the heavy curtains have been taken down, the bomb shelters cleared, the toy factories fired up, the train stations returned to their rightful use. So just imagine it, on this night, December 24th, 1945: the light. (And let’s never forget the first time that the people of Campden Hill Square had done this. The reason why. The big hearts, the fierce sense of justice, the tolerance. Way back when the trail was blazed: the lights of kindness and community, no matter who you were or where you’d come from.)
Now look at this: all the angry policemen, specialists roped in from out of town, pulling up in their vans and spilling out. Looking terribly determined in their belted suits and hats, faces grim, batons raised in readiness; they’re going to find this mysterious Reptilarium and shut it down no matter what. Clear it out. Cart the owner away. Grab the children. Entirely dismantle the house. Just like that!
The policemen run up the hill and across the streets, through the snow-wrapped garden, along the icy pavements, up and down and back again. Trying to find a clue, any clue, to this legendary house they’ve just been told is so obvious, so sad and lonely and unloved – and crucially – dark.
But you know what?
They never find it.
Because every single house in the square looks incredibly clean and smart, and every single house has its windows lit.
By candles, twinkling in the frosty quiet.
And every time the police rap on a door and ask about the wild, evil man in their midst who’s putting all their beleaguered lives most terribly at stake, the owners shake their heads and say no, not here, not this square, absolutely not.
And don’t you worry about those four crazy Caddy kids transplanted most cruelly from their beloved house. Oh no. Because you wouldn’t believe it. Every other child in the square has decided to donate one of their own Christmas gifts, from under their own trees. But even more wondrously, every child in the square has decided to be their friend. And most gloriously, there are rather a lot of children who live in Campden Hill Square.
So in the fading light of Christmas Eve four kids from the desert on the bottom of the world end up on all manner of sleds and crates, in the wondrous snow that they’ve never before seen. End up making snowmen and throwing snowballs at just about everyone in sight amid big blousy drops of chilly wet. And that night they excitedly count up a rather obscene amount of Christmas presents, in fact; more than they’ve ever had in their lives. When all they were expecting was mouse-tail spaghetti and dead rats!
And do you know where they place the gifts, in preparation for Christmas morning?
Right under the golden cage of Perdita, who’s looking at all the crazy people in her Reptilarium – especially her Basti, who’s quite suddenly flushed – with those eyes as knowing as a cat’s.
And some of the mothers and the fathers of the square have promised that when Father Christmas comes, later that night, he’ll be directed straight to the Kensington Reptilarium, where – apparently – there are four extremely deserving and helpful and wonderfully kind children, fast asleep. In a bath, a library, and a four-poster bed. Well, they hope. Pin, are you listening? Pin? Pin? No disappearing on us any more, all right? That goes for you, too, Bert.
And the grandest turkey feast is planned for tomorrow. Dinda’s supplying the roast. Guests of honour: four kids. Species: Childus Australis Desertus. Their uncle: the war hero to everyone who’s there. Who’s said, actually, that perhaps he’d like to see a little more of his neighbour
now that his world seems to be sorting itself out – it’s a chink of light at last – and it’s spoken with the most beautiful smile they’ve ever seen in their lives.
Also coming: one extremely chuffed Horatio Smythe-Hippet, who’s been assured that all reptiles in the vicinity will be most firmly locked up. He’s to be accompanied by the bewitching and freshly divorced Mrs Henrietta Witchum Maggs. ‘Ahem,’ chuckles Basti, every time it’s mentioned, ‘ahem.’
As well as twenty-five coveted bananas from Charlie Boo’s mysterious contacts – and don’t worry, there are twenty-five more, one for every person who’ll be crammed around his own table at the legendary Bethnal Green Insectarium, for his annual, extremely squashed, but incredibly jolly Christmas feast.
But wait . . . there’s one more thing . . . the most incredible thing of the lot –
The doorbell.
In the middle of an extremely raucous Christmas feast. Me in a dress, of all things – yes a dress, styled by Berti of Kensington, no less – and who would have thought.
‘Who could that be?’ Dinda asks. ‘I’m not expecting anyone else.’
We all run to the door.
Hear a bark.
A bark?
No. Look at each other.
My heart leaps.
I look at Basti. He nods, smiling most mysteriously, full of chuff. I burst open the door. I know that bark, know it anywhere.
Bucket – Bucket! – leaps into my arms.
Knocks me over with her joy and almost licks me to death and us kids pile on top of her in one big squealy, licky, laughy, squirmy mess. Bucket, Bucket, our dear, lovely girl!
And then . . . and then . . . I look up.
To someone behind our dog.
Who’s transported her to us. All the way across the world.
Who we didn’t even notice in the excitement.
Who’s so terribly thin. And faded. Like a ghost. Half human, a skeleton, not quite real.
But no, he’s not a ghost at all.
The man steps back. Smiles. Holds out his arms, shakes his head. I bite my lip. He looks . . . familiar. Kind of. No. He’s so thin? Pale? Snowy hair, completely, utterly white. Like he’s been through such an awful lot. Could it be?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
I start to cry, for the first time in so long, big gulping galumphing sobs.
The skeleton man smiles. His mouth is trembling. I’ve never seen that in a man before. I run into his arms. Dad. Dad. My beautiful daddy. Back. He holds me and holds me and squeezes me tight, as if he’s never, ever, going to let me go.
‘Kicketty. My girl,’ he whispers. ‘And all dolled up! Who would have thought.’
Dad.
Who we never thought was coming back, who we’d given up on.
Berti and Scruff turn from Bucket, wondering what on earth I’m doing. Stare at their big sister sobbing in a strange man’s arms. Then it dawns. Scruff rushes forward and leaps at Dad with a scream.
‘Daddeeeeeeeeeeeee!’
The three of us fall flat on the ground in a huge, laughing heap; then Bert joins in, then Pin.
‘This, my friends, is why I had to do Christmas on my own terms,’ Basti says, his hands frozen at his cheeks in delight and wonderment. ‘I had a Christmas present all arranged, you see. The biggest surprise of the lot. I didn’t want it spoilt. Couldn’t.’
So. The best Christmas we ever had, in our lives. A father returned. Who had gone away on a top-secret mission that went horribly wrong. Who ended up in a prisoner-of-war camp in deepest Borneo and escaped while injured; then spent months in the jungle, lost. He was presumed dead, his next of kin was informed. A casualty of the war effort whose whereabouts were unknown. Amnesiac, barely surviving. But then one amazing day . . . he stumbled out.
And now he’s back. Courtesy of Basti, his next of kin, who was informed before anyone else. Who had a grand plan to give his nieces and nephews the most suprising Christmas present of their lives – a magical day that they’d never forget. Who rescued his brother’s station from the bank, dispatched his plane, and flew him out. With the family’s beloved dog, Bucket, by his brother’s side, of course.
Uncle Basti. Who would have thought.
He catches my eye.
‘I do it my way. As you must, Kick. Never be talked out of it.’ And he winks.
So that’s it. Who I was once. Such a fierce, funny little thing; Kick by name and by nature. And there we all were, celebrating the most amazing, surprising Christmas we’d ever had – with a father who came back. And it was a Christmas that up until the last minute Ralph, Albertina, Phineas and I never thought we’d get.
And do you know what?
The tradition of the candles, in the windows of Campden Hill Square, continues to this very day. And if you walk around that beautiful part of London on the night before Christmas, looking up at all the tall houses with their candles lit, I can tell you that one of them still holds the remnants of the Kensington Reptilarium – but you’ll never find out which.
Because the neighbours won’t tell you.
It’s their secret, all right?
Ssssssssh.
Forgive me, dear reader, for my mind is hazy now and there is one thing I have tweaked in my Kensington Reptilarium. Call it the storyteller’s deliciousness, if you will. The glorious School of the Air, which brought education to so many children of the Australian outback – and still does – started a few years after my tale begins. But I couldn’t resist slipping just a snippet of it in. I so wanted you to know about it, even if those Caddy kids were somewhat unruly recipients of its ingeniousness. For this little cheekiness, I beg your forgiveness. Thank you.
– N.J. Gemmell
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Version 1.0
The Kensington Reptilarium
9780857980519
Published by Random House Australia 2013
Copyright © N.J. Gemmell 2013
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A Random House Australia book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
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www.randomhouse.com.au
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices
First published by Random House Australia in 2013
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Author: Gemmell, N.J.
Title: The Kensington reptilarium [electronic resource]/ N.J. Gemmell
ISBN: 978 0 85798 051 9 (ebook)
Dewey Number: A823.3
Cover design and illustration by Allison Colpoys
Internal design and illustration by Allison Colpoys
Typesetting and eBook production by Midland Typesetters, Australia
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