by Ann Michaels
Benny Nutters: Secrets Under London
Ann Michaels
copyright 2015, Ann Michaels
Contents
Chapter 1. Ghost, Brooms and Secret Rooms
Chapter 2. Museums and Spice and All Things Nice
Chapter 3. Esmeralda down the Hole
Chapter 4. Deeper and Down
Chapter 5. Dog Soap and Unicorns
Chapter 6. Beastly Things and Wartime Secrets
Chapter 7. What Lies Beneath
Chapter 8. Seeking and Finding
Chapter 9. The Man Lion
Chapter 10. A Fan of Nelson’s Words
Chapter 1.
Ghost, Brooms and Secret Rooms.
January, 15, 2002
I stumbled upon the secret room, one cold, sleeting day in the middle of winter. At this time, I had been living with my Great Uncle Crispin, in London, for ten years. Though, Uncle Crispy is not really my uncle at all; he is my grandad’s twin brother, and my legal guardian.
My grandad, Phineas, who had become an anthropologist, because he believed that he would be involved in something rather ground breaking (ha, ha), actually disappeared during an anthropology expedition, out in Africa, in 1989.
At the time, he was following in the footsteps of the great archaeologists’, Mary and Louis Leakey, who had discovered the skull of some ancient, human-like creature, that they called ‘Dear Boy’; even though most other people called him, ‘Nutcracker man’. What really blew my mind, when I eventually heard about this nut-eating gent, was that, he had last breathed a few million years back!
I was a mere rug rat when my grandfather disappeared, being only one year old at the time. So I don’t remember him at all. But there is a large photo in the album of him, standing next to his brother, Crispin. They are aged about seventeen in the photo, with a couple of horsey looking heads, on top of their gangling bodies. Both are attired in matching safari suits. Not a good look, even back then. Crispin is holding a butterfly net, whilst looking at something beyond the frame, and Phineas, has a lopsided smile on his face, like he didn’t agree with having his picture taken, but he is putting up with it. They were an off-beat looking pair. That is for sure.
The only thing that I really have belonging to my grandfather, is, a gold necklace, which was put around my neck at my birth, with the instruction that I must always wear it. And I do, but I keep it hidden under my clothes, as it is a bit corny looking; with its roaring lion’s head stuck on a cross. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about it, but I might someday.
The Georgian terrace, in which I now live with Uncle Crispy, is located in an unexceptional part of London called, Bayswater. There are various stories which tell how this area came by its mellifluous name; but the one I like the most, tells how a man, by the name of Mr Bays, used to own a public-house around here. Supposedly, members of the public would breeze in to Mr Bays’ establishment, to water their horses. This may or may not be true.
We happen to live a very short hop, skip and a jump from Hyde Park, and so, I often ramble about that pasture after my tutor has left for the day. Yes! I spilled this bit of biography rather early that, I don’t go to an actual school at all. My schooling takes place every weekday until 2 p.m., in the small library (as we sometimes call it), which can be found in the basement of the terrace. The main library belongs to Uncle Crispy and it occupies part of the third floor, at the back of the building. It is a wonderful, gruesome, yet interesting place; but more about that later.
Mr Osborne my tutor is a potty old fellow, and as ancient as dirt. If you look hard enough, you can even see the grey dust in the creases of his carrot-shaped, craggy face.
In my studies, this esteemed pedagogue insists that, I learn Latin and Greek, and that I study what he calls ‘natural philosophy’ (what I understand to be science). We also cover: mathematics, philosophy (ordinary), literature, poetry and history. But what I will be equipped to do in this modern world is anyone’s guess.
It was late afternoon on this cold, dark day, and I toiling away like miner at the coalface, on my homework, in the small library. There I was, busily writing an essay, titled: ‘Is an Honest Politician Possible?’ when I vaulted up from the chair to search for a particular learned tome about the Emperor, Marcus Aurelius, who had lived in the times of ancient Rome, as I had noticed a book about this philosopher politician, on the shelf a few weeks ago. But now, I couldn’t find it.
I started to puck out books, one by one. Soon, a whole row of leather volumes was lying topsy-turvy, on the walnut table. There was, however, to my surprise, another row of books behind the first one, and some of these books looked very interesting indeed. One book was called, Memoirs of an Old Wig. Another, The History of a Dog. Written by Himself, and Published by a Gentleman of His Acquaintance. Translated From The French. I put those aside, with the intention of reading them later. Then, I noticed a small, round, ball-like shape, attached to the bookcase, which I decided to pull. This caused a small section of the bookcase to swing open, as though released, and I could dimly see some squalid looking stairs, leading downwards into darkness.
All thoughts of my essay were forgotten, as I ran about like a demented mammal. I was heading toward my bedroom, in the attic, to get my torch, when I remembered having recently clapped my eyes on one of those gigantic, silly looking torches, in the laundry, which was located in another part of the basement. Strangely, this laundry, although underground, also has access to the back garden. I think this is because we are sitting on a bit of slopping land.
I galloped into the damp smelling, laundry room, pulled the cord of the lion’s head wall sconce, grabbed the ridiculously enormous torch from the haunted cupboard, and scrambled back to gawp at that mysterious staircase. Luckily, I didn’t disturb the ill-tempered ghost, who has lived in that laundry for over a hundred years.
The laundry ghost’s name is Edgar and according to Uncle Crispy, Edgar, also used to live in this very house, back in the 1800’s, while he was still in the land of the living. But Edgar, it seems, fell terribly in love with the laundry maid named Bessie, whilst still a young chap. Edgar’s parent’s, a pallid pair of social climbers, were completely scandalized and driven bonkers by the idea, of their son, romancing a washer woman. So, Edgar was shipped off to Australia, where an adventurous relative, lording over a gold mine, stood ready to take the errant young Edgar in hand. It was some weeks after Edgar had been despatched to the antipodes, to learn his place, and his lesson, that the ship he was on, sunk in the Southern Ocean. And so, the love-sick Edgar was lost at sea. Edgar’s ghost, however, managed to make it back to the laundry room, of Inverness Terrace, Bayswater, London, where happily, he was able to haunt the object of his affection, for some years. He still resides here.
I directed the beam of light down the stairs into the darkness, where I could see about ten steps, and a begrimed, red, brick floor. I moved the light around and I saw that there was a queer looking light switch, stuck to the side of this wall. I ventured downward, noting the frigid air and deplorable smells, and flicked on the overhead light. It spluttered to life.
Looking about in the orange glow, I could see a kind of study room, with a moth-eaten, Persian rug on the floor, a tall bookshelf, and desk of some very dark and depressing timber. There were also a lot of antique looking, storage boxes, stacked about, haphazardly.
I felt excited about finding this secret room, but I was also puzzled, what purpose did this room serve? And why was it hidden? So, I trotted down the stairs and immediately started to rummage about in some of the dusty and disagreeable boxes. In one box, I found a fragile, cobwebby old Morse code machine. In another, there were reams of yellowing
papers, some featuring nausea-inducing poems (just reading them made me feel somewhat seasick!). Other papers had the words ‘Statistical Analysis’ typed importantly at the top. And others were covered with letters and numbers: what appeared to be an attempt to decipher code.
I noticed then, a huge rectangular, box-like thingy in a corner, covered with a mass of decaying valves and crumbling knobs. And it suddenly occurred to me that, this room had probably been used during World War II, by a spy or code breaker. And the strange looking machine, which looked like it had been whipped straight out of a superannuated Dr Who TV series, may have been an early computer, used for cryptanalysis. Fancy That!
It was probably about supper time, so I skedaddled back up the stairs and closed the bookshelf door; it clicked neatly into place. I would ask Uncle Crispy about this secret room, over the soup.
A short time later, Uncle Crispy and I were seated at one end of the Hepplewhite dining table, slurping our onion soup. I had just told my uncle about the secret room that, I had discovered in his house and he had leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. I waited patiently, as he remembered days of yore.
‘Well, my young chap, you do bring back the memories! I don’t suppose that, I ever told you about how Phineas, your grandfather and I, were radio spies back during World War II?’
I shook my head like a febrile basset hound; my mouth agape.
We were very green, young fellows at the time, only about twenty as I recall. In our prime, though! when we were recruited by M18, to intercept secret codes being broadcast by the Nazis’, during the early part of the war.’ Uncle Crispy looked at me from under his snow, white, caterpillar-like eyebrows, to check that I was interested. I was enthralled.
‘Phineas and I proved ourselves to be dashed good at intercepting the Nazi secret codes’ and so, we were trained up to undertake an extremely covert operation. That is, we were dropped into occupied France, with suitcase radios!’ Uncle Crispy beamed happily and explained further; ‘radio transmitters and receivers hidden inside ordinary suitcases.’
I must have been looking rather pie-eyed, because, Uncle Crispy chortled like an iron kettle coming to the boil, before he continued. ‘Phineas had an excellent grasp on the French lingo, but I was a bit of a bumbler in comparison.’ I knew this was mere modesty; however, I smiled, hoping that he would continue.
‘It was called Operation Pork Chop. And it began when we were dropped into occupied France by parachute, one murky, mournful night,’ he shuddered like an electric eel. ‘We had to recruit resistance fighters and provide reports about German activities. Then, send this intelligence information to Algiers.’ He glared at me and paused for a moment. ‘We were able to obtain a map showing all the German retreat positions in southern France and this helped greatly with the organisation of the Allied landings….I don’t really wish to revisit some of those experiences, but let me just say that, if we were caught by the Jerry, we would have been burnt toast. Yes, burnt toast, indeed!’
‘Uncle Crispy tell me about that prehistoric-looking computer that, I saw in the secret room?’
‘That, my young buck, is actually a reconstruction of one of the Colossus computers made from dismantled components. The actual Colossus was used, you know, to break the codes, used by Hitler's top brass…….I should donate the dashed thing to some museum, what?
‘I should think so. Yes! That would be an excellent idea’. I said.
‘I’ll look into it. In the meantime, you could clear out that humble nest, and make it into your headquarters’.
‘Sounds jolly good to me Uncle!’
‘Splendid! Splendid!’
After supper, I wandered back to the secret room with a selection of mops, cleaning cloths and a bucket of water. Edgar, however, did not make things easy for me, this time, as I fossicked about in the laundry room. He caused a collection of feather dusters to rain down upon my noggin, as I opened a cupboard. And he forced me into an impromptu tap-dance, when the brooms fell about me, like giant toothpicks. However, I managed to survive.
For the next hour, I sorted things into piles and swept and cleaned. I was feeling quite pleased with myself. Then, I opened a small cardboard box, covered with pictures of frolicking unicorns, with a tightly fitting lid. Inside, were some photos tied with a faded, blue, silk ribbon. I took them out.
Most of the photos were of exotic places in various parts of the world, featuring my grandfather, Phineas, wearing his safari suit and glaring about importantly. But there were other photos, which were intensely interesting to me.
In one faded black and white photo, there was an elephant in the background, shooting water all over itself. In front of this noble animal, however, I could see my grandmother, Clementine, holding my father; a fat pudding of a baby.
Nanny Clementine had lived here on the second floor, until two years ago. But she had been an inveterate hoarder and the entire wing that she occupied, had been stuffed with newspapers, and all kinds of flotsam and jetsam. Unfortunately, one Wednesday evening, as she toddled past to make her nightly cocoa, a towering stack of The London Evening News, fell upon her person, and she was crushed.
I do miss her.
Another photo is marked on the back, India 1988, in fading blue pen. In it, my parents are standing in the middle of a field of yellow, wild flowers. Father is smiling in a hair-brained manner, apparelled in a cloak of feathers, and mother, or, mataji, as I call her, is looking radiant, but silly, in a similar, but much smaller feather cape.
It is a long and strange story, but my father was born out in Indian, whilst my grandfather was working out there as an anthropologist. And although, father may not have had any memories of the fair land of India, having moved to London at the age of 6 months, he became convinced that, India was his true home.
Father later met mataji, at the age of 23, one sunny afternoon, before the beginning of the monsoon season, at the Temple of Rats.
At this time, Father had only recently abandoned his university studies, after declaring such knowledge to be ‘concocted’ and ‘fraudulent’. And with great purpose, he instead, had decided to embark on a spiritual quest, which involved travelling back to India. So it happened that, my father met my mother, when their eyes locked over a room of 1000 holy rats, feeding happily.
My parents fell in love and soon married. I should mention that, my father is a very tall, thin and pale gentleman, with hair so translucent that, it resembles a deep sea creature. And mataji is very small and dark, with long, lovely hair, which goes past her sari clad posterior; almost to her feet, in fact.
The wedding, my grandmother told me, was attended by about 1000 people, and just about as many rats. My mother travelled to that occasion in style, in a ‘garish’ carriage, pulled by a team of snow-white horses. And there was so much food, granny said, for people and for rats. It was a day, redolent of the wonderful spicy smells of: samosas, daal, rotti with butter, biryani, and more and of vivid colours, enchanting sounds, the crush of bodies, and memories of the softness of silk.
Immediately after they married, my parents began to travel about seeking enlightenment. However, between them, they did not possess a brass razoo, so they took to asking for alms on the street. One night, after the still love-struck pair had not eaten for several days and had fallen asleep on the dirt floor, of a village marketplace, my father, in the deepest part of the night, experienced a dream about a phoenix: a mythical bird which bursts into flame, and is then reborn.
Soon after having this dream, my father became convinced that, this legendary bird was sending him a special message; that he must start a society, based on the Truth of the Phoenix. So, he started to scribble down laws and rules, that he believed had been sent to him by the Great Bird. And believe it or not, the group soon had followers.
When I was born into that commune of phoenix followers, in a rural part of India, in 1988, my Granny Clementine, who was living back in London, was hit between the eyebrows with worry.
By all accounts, I was an odd sort of chappie, and so, it was decided that a tutor would be procured for me, when I arrived in London, in 1993; it was thought that, I may well come to grief, at a school. Uncle Crispy told me once that, he had never recovered from his own experience, at the hallowed halls of ivy, and so, he had no wish to foist such agony on me.
The problem was that, I knew no one of my own age. That is, until I met Owen, and his runty sister, Alice.