Klench stared at the toffee dangling from a hook at a street stall. It looked like a sticky ponytail. He swallowed. ‘Just vun,’ he begged silently. ‘I have not eaten since lunch.’
‘Lunch voss ten minutes ago,’ barked Inner Mummy. ‘And vot did I tell you? Healthy snackss or Mummy smackss.’
Klench chewed his cheeks. ‘But, Mummy, ziss toffee is famous Melcocha, speciality off zese parts. I must try.’
‘I vorn you, vast boy – loose zose layers or say your prayers.’
Klench took a deep breath. ‘Our Fazzer who art in Heaven …’ he began defiantly. He snatched a string of toffee. His teeth sank into sugary bliss.
Mummy raised her inner hand to smack … then stopped. ‘Vait!’
‘Vot?’
‘Zat.’ Inner Mummy pointed to a newspaper on the counter.
While the stall owner was serving another customer, Klench snatched the paper and scuttled down the street. He stopped in a doorway and examined the front page. There was a photo of a building surrounded by jungle. It was huge and white, with a swimming pool on one side.
He pointed to the headline above. ‘Vot’s it say, clever Mums?’
Thanks to her degree in Spanish she translated easily. ‘Hotel Becomes Vite Elephant.’
‘But Mums, zere are no elephants in South America.’
Mummy tutted. ‘Off course not, silly billy boy. It meanss hotel cannot be used. Like you, it is vaste of space. Newly built Hotel Armadillo,’ she read, ‘stands empty in ze junkle. No customers are prepared to visit ziss remote spot. Hmm.’ A smile crept across her inner face. ‘Empty hotel … remote spot … sounds like ideal place for vickedness. Are you thinkink vot I am thinkink, my Hube?’
He frowned.
‘Here,’ said Inner Mummy, ‘I give you clue: I, V, H, M, V, C, B, Z, H, A, R, I, A, T, C, F, R, C, W, V, T, D, Z, S, Z, P, V, N, R, Z.’
Klench was good at word games. ‘Ah, I bet zat stands for: If Ve Had Money Ve Could Buy Ziss Hotel And Run It Ass Treatment Centre For Rich Criminalss Who Vont To Disguise Zemselves So Zat Police Vill Not Recognise Zem.’
‘Vay good, my chocky pud. Face liftinks, leg stretchinks, nips and tucks, pinches and plucks.’
‘And not only zat.’ Klench was getting excited now. ‘If I am in junkle, perhaps I can capture animals for smugglink again.’ He smiled at the neatness of the plan. Last summer, endangered animals had been smuggled to him at the zoo in England. He’d kidnapped that hairdresser woman to smarten them up for selling on as pets. But the project had been thwarted when a meddling girl with crazy curls had rescued the woman. Now he could resume the business from the other end, trapping the animals and selling them directly, without the complication of a zoo.
‘Most absolutelies.’ Mummy patted him on the inner head. ‘Now zere is phone number. You must ring and buy hotel. But before you do zat, you must raise funds. And before you do zat, you must go for daily svim. Remember – you vork out or Mums vill shout.’
6 - Fun and Blames
The children gathered at the café entrance. Wendy was waiting in her green overall with silver buttons.
The teacher held out his glove to Wendy. ‘Branston Dabbings,’ he said. ‘Goodness, what lovely buttons.’
Wendy blushed. ‘Wendy Wibberly. I like your gloves. Especially the six fingers.’
Mr Dabbings’s sideburns trembled. ‘Bit of a mistake. I knitted them myself. Please call me Bran.’
The children filed into the café.
‘She’s really gone to town,’ Abbie whispered to Perdita. Wendy had draped a banner across the window.
it said in shiny red letters on a gold background and, underneath,
Claire Bristles and Ursula Slightly came over. ‘Can we sit with you?’ said Claire.
‘Sure,’ said Abbie, trying to sound cool while her heart did a handstand. It was the first time anyone had asked all term. Jeremy Boing came too and Craig Nibbles, a small boy who blinked a lot. Henry Holler looked hopeful until Ursula put her rucksack on the seat beside her and squeaked, ‘No room.’
The grown-ups sat at a nearby table. Abbie looked at Mr Dabbings. He was staring at Wendy as she poured coffee. Catching Abbie’s eye, he looked away quickly. Then he bent over his rucksack, took out a Thermos flask and unwrapped a knitted scarf from its neck.
Grinning, Abbie opened her lunch box. The grin vanished. Mum’s idea of a fun picnic was a tuna sandwich, three crackers, an apple and fourteen raisins.
‘Do you want my crisps?’ said Ursula. ‘Salt and vinegar burns my lips.’
Abbie beamed. Today was turning out gazilliantly.
After lunch they did PE. There was ostrich racing for the sporty: Jeremy Boing, Terrifica Batts, Robbie Rudge and Greg Fnigg. Coriander offered an ostrich to Marcus, but he just scowled and sulked on the sidelines, his face and hair still red. The giant birds flounced to and fro like huffy aunts, while the children sat on their backs and clung on for dear life.
‘Don’t try this at home, dears,’ Coriander warned.
There was tortoise racing for the timid. Ursula and Craig lured Clement and Persephone across the grass with vegetables. Clement won by a turnip.
And there was spider racing for the icky. Snorty Poff and Henry Holler each held the hairy leg of a tarantula – the harmless sort, Perdita assured them. She blew a whistle and the boys let go. Babs beat Hilda to the finishing post, a dead fly.
Claire won Giraffe Hoopla. She threw five foam rings over Alphonse’s neck. The gentle beast was so busy munching the leaves of a tree, he didn’t even notice.
Then they played Hungry Hippo. The class gathered by a pool of foaming water.
‘Forty-eight bottles of bubble bath in there,’ said Perdita. ‘Grab some sugar cane, everyone.’ She pointed to a bucket filled with thick brown sticks. ‘See who can throw it into Hepzibah’s mouth.’
‘Where is her mouth?’ asked Jeremy Boing. Only the hippo’s ears poked above the bubbles.
Coriander began to hum, low and slow. Hepzibah’s head rose from the water. She gave a grunting, creaking yawn.
‘Wow,’ gasped Rukia. ‘It’s like you called her. Can you talk to animals?’
Eyes went wide. Murmurs went round.
‘Awesome.’
‘Magic.’
‘Dr Doolittle.’
Coriander raised her hand. ‘No,’ she laughed, ‘nothing like that. It’s just that I’ve travelled all over the place, collecting rare specimens of hair. And I guess I’ve collected sounds too. My song attracted Hepzibah, reminded her of Africa – of mudbanks and grasslands and hot red earth.’
That seemed to satisfy the class, although Abbie knew it was more than that. She’d watched last summer as Coriander’s humming had calmed a crocodile and charmed a tiger into letting her clean his teeth.
The children took it in turns to throw. Hepzibah caught every stick in her monstrous jaws.
‘We don’t usually let visitors feed the animals,’ said Coriander. ‘But this is a special day.’ You could see it was special for the hippo too. The water frothed as she chomped and gaped for more.
‘Heppie adores sugar,’ said Perdita. ‘She’ll do anything for a mouthful.’
‘Those teeth,’ squeaked Ursula. ‘Are you sure there shouldn’t be a fence round the pool?’
Coriander patted her arm. ‘Don’t worry, dear. You’re perfectly safe. She only comes out at night to feed.’
Craig shuddered. ‘On what?’
Coriander laughed. ‘Grass. She’s our lawn mower. As long as you treat her with respect there’s nothing to be frightened of.’
Terrifica Batts pointed to the path ahead. ‘Cu-yoot!’ An orang-utan was bounding towards them. Behind her trailed a metre of auburn hair.
‘Winnie!’ cried Abbie. She ran from the bridge to hug the orang. The rest of the class stood round, cooing and oohing. Behind Winnie’s hair came a man with enormous ears and wearing green overalls.
‘This is Charlie Chumb, our zookeeper,’ said Coriander.
; ‘Hi, Charlie,’ said Mr Dabbings.
‘Pleased to, er …’ Charlie nodded shyly. ‘Let me introduce, um …’
‘Winnie,’ Perdita finished for him. The orang raised her hand.
‘High five,’ said Mr Dabbings, though he was holding up six. He slapped her palm with his glove.
‘What’s with her hair?’ asked Jeremy.
‘Long story,’ said Abbie, deciding that the class had had enough excitement for the day. Now wasn’t the time to explain how Winnie had been injected with Samson juice, which made her hair grow long and her muscles strong.
Winnie peered round the faces. Then she lunged at Marcus and lifted him in her mighty arms.
‘Oh dear. She thinks you’re an orang,’ laughed Coriander, ‘with your red hair.’
Marcus wasn’t laughing. ‘Get off !’ he howled as Winnie hugged him tight.
‘Let go!’ he screamed as she smothered him in smackaroos.
Ever obliging, she did. He collapsed on the ground in a weepy heap.
‘Easy, Marcus, easy.’ Mr Dabbings grasped his shoulders. ‘Try and put your feelings into words.’
‘Mnnff,’ Marcus sobbed. ‘Gckk. Hhnng.’
Mr Dabbings frowned. ‘Not the best English. But we understand, don’t we, children? Marcus is making it clear that being dumped by an ape is not uplifting.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Coriander, grabbing Winnie’s hand before she could cause any more trouble, ‘I think we’ll call it a day.’
‘No!’ cried Snorty Poff.
‘I want to see the tiger!’ hollered Henry.
‘Next time,’ laughed Coriander. ‘Now, I hope you’ve enjoyed the trip’ (there were ‘Yays’) ‘because we certainly have’ (and ‘Hoorays’). ‘Come again soon’ (there were ‘Greats’) ‘with your parents’ (and ‘Can’t waits’).
Wendy came to wave them off. Abbie noticed she’d changed into her pink overall with gold buttons.
‘Goodness, what a lovely uniform,’ said Mr Dabbings – though it was Wendy’s face he was looking at.
* * *
‘Outrageous!’ bellowed Terry Strode-Boylie, stomping round the lounge.
‘You poor boy,’ said Marcus’s mum. She stroked his hair, still undeniably pink after its fourth wash.
‘Pooped on by a parrot, squirted by an elephant, mauled by an ape – it’s an insult to the family name.’ Which, recalled Mrs Strode-Boylie, had been the rather more humble ‘Strodboil’ until Terry had changed it. But now wasn’t the moment to remind him.
‘And stop snivelling. I can’t abide mucus, Marcus.’
Marcus’s mum kissed his cheek. ‘More hot chocolate, darling?’
He nodded, wiping his nose on her sleeve. ‘They don’t cage their animals, Dad.’
‘What?’
‘The elephant and the hippo – they can wander anywhere.’
‘You’re joking! Those are wild beasts. That’s a safety hazard, a health hazard, a fire hazard, a wind hazard.’
‘What’s a wind hazard, Dad?’
Puffed up with rage, Terry Strode-Boylie demonstrated. ‘Genevieve!’ He gave his wife a shocked look.
She knew the routine; it happened often enough. ‘Pardon me,’ she mumbled obediently.
* * *
The evening was warm and still. Mountains pierced the sky like the fingers of a gigantic hand, cupping Baños safely in their palm.
Or not so safely.
The town’s tubbiest tourist waddled down the street. He glanced scornfully at the other foreigners, wandering arm in arm or chatting at café tables in their T-shirts and shorts. How good it felt to be back in his tight white suit after those dreadful elasticated swimming trunks. And even better to be out of that stinky volcanic pool with its snot-coloured water and giggling bathers …
‘Vot you starink at?’ he’d snapped at three little boys who’d stopped their game of piggy-in-the-middle.
‘A real piggy,’ the smallest one had squealed in Spanish (Inner Mummy had rather unkindly translated). Klench had done a mean little jump in the pool, nearly drowning the boys …
Now, just as he was wondering how to sneak a snack without Mummy noticing, he saw a shop on the right.
Merv’s Mini Marvels
said a little sign above a low wooden door. Underneath it said:
Tiny treasures from terrible times
Klench – who could resist the word ‘treasures’ no more than he could resist a doughnut the size of Wales – stopped. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured. ‘Here perhaps I can steal small treasure. Zen I can sell it and buy Hotel Armadillo.’
‘Super plan, my chubby man,’ agreed Inner Mummy.
Klench pushed the door, breathed in and squeezed in.
It was dark and musty inside, crammed with wooden tables and shelves. Scattered on top were all sorts of knick-knacks: chipped pots, leather sandals, old books and tarnished brooches. It looked like any old junk except for its size. Every item could fit inside a handbag.
‘Can I help you?’ piped a voice.
Klench screwed up his already screwed-up eyes. Through the gloom he made out a face. A man was resting his chin on the shop counter.
‘Vy do you speak Inklish,’ said Klench suspiciously, ‘ven you are in Ecuador?’
‘Because I am English. Came here on holiday ten years ago and forgot to go home. Why do you speak in an accent I can’t quite place when you are in Ecuador?’
‘Becoss I am from place you can’t quite place,’ said Klench. ‘Now stand up pleasse so I can check you are not Inklish policeman come to arrest me for eefil-doinks, vich I have not done.’
‘I am standing up,’ said the man. He reached a hand across the desk. ‘Merv Periwink, pint-sized collector of pint-sized plunder. Dinky Inca trinkets and conquistador curios to stow in your suitcase.’
Klench eyed Merv thoughtfully. ‘You have small head,’ he said, ‘vich means small brain. Zat vill be vay helpful to me.’
Merv smiled happily. ‘Glad to oblige, mate.’
‘Now, small Merv, I seek small treasure. Somethink most pricey and compact. Somethink I could pinch vizzout you noticink. Somethink to make me vay rich if I voss bad man, vich I am not.’
‘Mmm …’ Merv stroked his teeny moustache. ‘What about that Inca hanky on the table next to you. It’s woven from llama wool.’
Klench shook his head. ‘It vill not fetch much prices.’
‘Well … how about this silver sword from the doll’s house of a conquistador’s daughter?’
‘Zat iss better,’ agreed Klench. ‘But it sits on your desk. I could not distract you for lonk enough to snatch it if I vonted to, vich I do not.’
‘Mmm, see your point, mate.’ Merv rubbed his mini chin. ‘Well – there’s always that golden Inca box on your right, with an engraving of the sun on the lid and – oh yes – a shrunken head inside.’
‘Aha!’ Klench unscrewed his extra-screwed-up eyes till they were merely screwed up again. ‘Now you are talkink. Pleasse look out off vindow, vhere you vill see a flyink potato vearink orinch knickers.’
‘Where?’ Merv craned his teeny neck. ‘I can’t see it.’
Thirty seconds later Klench was running down the street on his very short legs.
Behind him ran Merv on his even shorter ones. ‘Stop thief!’ he yelled. ‘Bring back me treasure!’
Klench stopped. ‘You mean ziss box viz shrunken head inside, vich I could take to police becoss it iss crime for you to sell such an object?’
Merv stopped. ‘Really?’ He scratched his head. ‘Ten years in Ecuador and I never knew that.’
‘That iss becoss you are vay stupid man.’ Klench chuckled. ‘And if you tell anyone about ziss stealink, or try to stop me from sellink ziss box so I can buy hotel in junkle, you vill be even more stupid – becoss I vill spill beans on your shrunken-head crime.’ And off he capered, with the box in his hand and the song in his heart that came from ruining someone’s day.
7 - Zoo Crazy
It was Saturday even
ing at the zoo. The Hartleys and Platts were sitting round the picnic table with Wendy and Charlie. Because of the cold weather they’d chosen the reptile house for the weekly staff dinner.
In front of them, through the open door of her cage, lay Edie the crocodile.
‘Sounds like the class visit was a roaring success,’ said Dad. He slurped a spoonful of tomato soup.
‘There was certainly lots of roaring,’ said Perdita, ‘from Marcus.’ She threw a breadstick to Edie, who snapped it between her jaws.
‘Poor Marcus,’ said Coriander. ‘Not his day, was it? I felt so sorry for him.’
‘Me too,’ said Perdita. ‘’Specially when his dad picked him up from school. Did you see them, Abbie?’
‘Who didn’t?’ The whole class had watched Dr Strode-Boylie explode at his red-faced, tear-stained, mud-spattered son. They’d all stared while he bundled Marcus into the car. And they’d all listened while he roared at Marcus to ‘Take those filthy trousers off before you ruin the seat!’
‘It was brilliant,’ she giggled.
‘Abbie, dear.’ Coriander frowned. ‘How would you feel, going through a day like that only to be shouted at by your dad?’
Abbie grabbed a bread roll from the table. ‘What is it with you Platts? Why do you always stand up for Marcus? He’s the biggest pain in the biggest bum and you know it!’ She ripped the roll in half.
Coriander stirred her soup. ‘Have you ever wondered why he’s a pain, Abbie? People often cause pain because they’re in pain. Let’s try to understand him.’
‘I do. I understand he’s just horrible!’
‘No one’s just horrible,’ said Perdita. ‘Everyone has good bits too.’
Abbie’s eyebrows went highbrow. Here we go. Touchy-feely, understandy, love-and-lentils la-la-la. ‘You’re as bad as Mr Dabbings,’ she said.
Coriander beamed. ‘Now there’s a compliment. What a nice man.’ She winked across the table at Wendy. ‘Don’t you think so, dear?’
Wendy spluttered soup over Charlie’s arm. ‘Oops,’ she gasped. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t, um … it’ll come off in the – you know,’ he mumbled as Wendy pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped his sleeve.
Jungle Tangle Page 4