Jungle Tangle

by Debbie Thomas

  Abbie’s irritation gave way to surprise. The initials B.D. were embroidered in the corner. ‘Hey, is that Mr Dabbings’s hanky?’

  Wendy blinked. ‘He, um, gave it to me before he left the zoo.’

  Matt smiled across the table at Coriander. ‘Reminds me of the time I gave you that self-cleaning hanky I’d invented. Remember how you blushed and offered to plait my fringe? That’s when I knew you were the girl for me.’

  Dad smiled across the table at Mum. ‘Reminds me of the time I gave you that pack of tissues I’d bought. Remember how you blushed and offered to iron my History essay? That’s when I knew you were the girl for me.’

  ‘Slush and nonsense,’ said Grandma, which makes an interesting sound when you’re slurping soup at the same time.

  Wendy was staring at the table, her cheeks the colour of an over-keen sunset. Abbie grinned. Could this be the start of something?

  You bet. On Monday morning Mr Dabbings bounded into the classroom with ‘I love Wendy’ written all over his face.

  OK, not actually written. But the way his sideburns quivered as he unpacked his rucksack was a dead giveaway.

  OK, not a dead one. But the way he exclaimed, ‘Let’s thank Perdita with joyful hands,’ said it all.

  OK, not all. But the way he hummed ♪ ‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small’, while stroking a familiar golden button, made it clear he wasn’t thinking of all creatures but one in particular.

  The rest of the class had gone zoo-crazy too. At break time Terrifica Batts led a procession to the horse chestnut tree, where Abbie and Perdita were collecting conkers for a tournament between Ollie and the orang-utans.

  ‘Friday was supes, girls,’ said Terrifica. ‘We’ve brought some thank-you presents.’ She handed Perdita three pots of pink body glitter. ‘To paint Gina’s trunk.’

  Claire gave Abbie a bead necklace for Alphonse. ‘It’s two metres long.’

  Ursula had brought a scarf the colour of porridge – ‘My favourite colour’ – to go with Mackenzie’s tartan cap.

  Snorty had filled a matchbox with flies’ legs for the tarantulas.

  Jeremy gave five pairs of shin pads for the ostriches’ football practice.

  ‘Wow! Thanks, guys.’ Perdita grinned all over her teeth. ‘They’ll love these, won’t they Abbie?’

  Abbie couldn’t speak. After a term of scoffing and gossip – this? Was the class beginning to get Perdita? Were they all starting to see what a way-out whizz she was?

  Not all. Marcus strolled up. ‘Sucking up, are we?’

  Behind him Greg made slurpy noises. Friday’s fun was forgotten. His sneer was back.

  Marcus tutted. ‘Just because Perdita’s got a gweat big zoo-zoo full of cuddwy cweatures and cwazy pawents.’

  Perdita turned her grin on him. ‘You’re nearly right, Marcus. The zoo is big and the animals are cuddly. But my parents aren’t crazy. You should come and meet them properly some time. How about the week after next? We’ll be in Ecuador and I bet my dad would love some help round the zoo. Why not come over one Saturday and join everyone for the staff dinner?’

  Abbie shook her head in despair. When would Perdita get it that Marcus would hate her forever – or at least as long as she beat him in class?

  * * *

  Sergeant Bernard Bolt picked up the phone. ‘Brad-leigh Police Station. Can I help you?’ He stressed the ‘Brad’ for two reasons:

  1. To make Bradleigh sound like a bigger town than it was. Bolt's recent transfer from Garton Village Police Station had been a real step up and he wanted the world to know it.

  2. To confuse him with Brad Pitt. This only worked if the caller was thick

  Sergeant Bolt was out of luck.

  ‘Doctor Terence Strode-Boylie here,’ boomed a very un-thick voice. ‘I wish to report an emergency. Bradleigh Zoo, recently taken over by the Pratts – I mean Platts –’

  ‘How are they? I’ve been meaning to pop in.’ Sergeant Bolt beamed at the mention of the family who’d brought him a moment of glory last summer when he’d stormed their museum like a Hollywood cop.

  ‘Well, you should pop in right now, my man! That place is a disaster-in-waiting. Are you aware that the animals are free to roam?’

  Sergeant Bolt chuckled. ‘Indeed I am. Young Minnie the ape urinated all over my trousers last time I visited.’

  ‘What? You mean you know about this?’

  ‘Of course.’ Bolt cleared his throat. He didn’t like this geezer’s tone. Time for a spot of menace. ‘I, sir, am an officer of the law. There is nothing in Brad-leigh that I do not know about.’

  But Terry Strode-Boylie was a master of menace. ‘This is an outrage! Get me your boss.’

  ‘Certainly. One moment, please.’ Bolt pulled out his shirt and stuffed the phone receiver underneath. He wiggled it over his hairy stomach to make a crackling sound then brought it back to his mouth. ‘I’ve – ahem – informed my superior of your complaint. He asked me to convey that he is fully aware of the zoo arrangements and that, if you trouble us again, you will be fined for wasting police time.’

  The phone spluttered. ‘Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m a Massively Successful Dentist, you know.’

  ‘And I, sir, am Brad Pitt. Goodbye.’

  * * *

  Hubris Klench lay on his bed in the Baños hotel. ♪ ‘Vistle vile you cheat,’ he sang, ♫ ‘stealink iss so sveet …’ He took a sip of lemonade and told Inner Mummy it was sparkling water.

  She was so proud of his theft she let it pass. ‘You acted quick, my clever chick. Merv vill not chase you now. You must sell golden Inca box schnip-schnap. But vot about ze small head?’

  Klench frowned. ‘Perhaps I can sell zat also, to vicked pals in criminal vorld. But first I must examine.’ He opened the mint-green suitcase that lay next to him on the bed. He unpacked a mint-green toilet bag. From one of its labelled pockets he took out a pair of mint-green rubber gloves. He pulled them over his neat little hands. Then he opened the golden box on the bedside table.

  ‘Most diskustink,’ he murmured.

  The head, the size of a tennis ball, sat in a cloud of black hair. Its skin was dark grey and wrinkled. Its eyes and mouth were sewn shut. Wisps of grey string dangled from them. With its pursed lips and sticky-up nose it looked huffy and proud, as if it had died in a sulk.

  Klench tweaked the nose, unable to resist cruelty even to a dead head. ‘So ugly – you vill fetch good price.’ He ran a gloved finger across the head’s bumpy lips.

  Then a thought slid into his brain like a knife into lard. ‘Vait a sec.’ From the toilet bag he took out a pair of nail scissors. ‘I vunder …’ He snipped the twine from the eyes and mouth of the head. The lips lolled.

  Inner Mummy turned green. ‘Vot you doink?’

  ‘Vell, Mums, I vunce met shrunken head vich could talk. Perhaps ziss vun too has voice. If so, it vill fetch vast sumss.’ Klench lifted the head till it was level with his face. ‘Speak, freak.’

  Not a flicker.

  ‘Vot’s up, ugly mug?’

  Not a sausage.

  ‘Howdie-do, face-like-poo?’

  Not a dicky bird.

  Inner Mummy yawned. ‘Give it up, my podgy pup.’

  Klench punched the head. ‘Vy you not talk like Fernando?’ he shrieked, hurling it at the floor.

  ‘Fernandohhhhh!’ the head shrieked back.

  8 - Abigail Absinthe

  The zoo trip had split the class in two. On one side was the Zoo Crew, those wowed by the visit. On the other side were the Boylie Boys – Greg and a few others – who stuck by Marcus and sneered their way through the week.

  Keenest of the Zoo Crew was Mr Dabbings. On Tuesday he made the class write parrot poems to Mackenzie. On Wednesday they worked out the average speed of a tortoise that takes an hour to cross a four-metre lawn. On Thursday he replaced the North American display with Alphonse’s African savannah.

  And on Friday in Art – button collages – h
e sidled up to Abbie and Perdita. ‘Lovely round circles, girls,’ he murmured.

  Abbie wondered what other shape circles could be.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ he tucked a golden curl behind his ear, ‘maybe I could, um …’ he rubbed a sideburn … ‘tomorrow, say …’

  ‘Come over and pretend to be interested in the zoo when actually it’s Wendy you’re interested in?’ asked Perdita, gluing on a button. ‘Of course. You’re very welcome.’

  ‘No. I mean, sort of. I mean …’ Mr Dabbings’s sideburns blushed. ‘Oh, all righty, yes.’

  When he’d gone Abbie spluttered all over her buttons. ‘You could have been more subtle. Poor Mr D.’

  Perdita looked puzzled. ‘Why? He’s always telling us to express our feelings. I was just expressing his.’

  * * *

  Abbie spent Saturday morning cleaning out the chameleons’ playground with Coriander. With only four days to go before they left for Ecuador, they wanted to leave things spick and span for Matt.

  Mr Dabbings appeared at the door of the reptile house. ‘Hi there.’ He waved a woolly glove. Each finger was a colour of the rainbow.

  Coriander waved back. She dropped her cloth. It landed on a stone. The stone scuttled away. ‘Oh, there you are, Hue!’ She laughed. ‘I was wondering where you’d got to.’ She crossed the playground to meet Mr Dabbings. ‘Sorry, Toney,’ she said, tripping over a branch that wiggled its tail.

  Mr Dabbings was looking nervously through the open door of Edie’s cage. The crocodile was looking un-nervously back.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ laughed Coriander, ‘if you love her, she’ll love you.’

  ‘That’s what worries me,’ mumbled Mr Dabbings.

  ‘Gosh, Mr D, you look thirsty.’ Coriander winked at Abbie. ‘Why don’t we pop over to the café?’

  Abbie grinned. She finished wiping the chameleons’ climbing frame and followed them out of the reptile house.

  In the café Wendy was polishing the chocolate wrappers. ‘Oh,’ she gasped as they came in. Abbie hadn’t told her that Mr Dabbings was planning to visit, in case he didn’t turn up. Wendy wasn’t good at disappointment.

  ‘Hello,’ said the teacher. ‘I was just passing and, um …’

  ‘He needed a drink,’ finished Coriander.

  ‘Great,’ said Wendy, ‘I mean, right. Toffee or Cea? I mean –’

  ‘Do you have nettle pop?’ said Mr Dabbings.

  ‘Er, no. But there are some nettles by the bird house. I could go and pick them.’

  ‘Allow me,’ said Mr Dabbings gallantly. ‘I have gloves on.’ He held up his left hand. Wendy giggled at the seven fingers. They headed out together.

  ‘They’re acting like school kids,’ said Abbie disdainfully, forgetting for a moment that she actually was one.

  ‘We’ll leave them to it.’ Coriander smiled. ‘Now, come and have a muffin and tell me what you’ve packed.’

  When Wendy and Mr Dabbings returned Abbie had written lists on four serviettes. The headings were Underwear, Overwear, Medical Supplies and Emergency Rations. While Mr Dabbings and Wendy crushed nettles, Coriander the World Wanderer advised Abbie on what to add (‘More toothpaste, dear. Cleaning your teeth is the high point of the day in the rainforest’) and what to leave out (‘No chocolate. It’ll melt over everything’). And, while Wendy and Mr Dabbings sipped and gazed at each other, Abbie decided that, chocolate or not, she was the luckiest girl in the world.

  * * *

  Monday was the girls’ last day at school. Abbie fidgeted through Maths and fiddled through English. When the final bell rang she and Perdita ran for the door.

  ‘Waity-ho.’ Mr Dabbings raised a hand. ‘Before you go, girls …’ He brought out a card from his desk. On the front was a map of South America with Ecuador marked in the top left. Llamas, gold necklaces and ponchos had been drawn all over it. Some of the class had signed inside. ‘Recycled paper, of course,’ said the teacher. ‘Sorry I couldn’t persuade everyone to sign.’ Abbie didn’t mind. It was the best card she’d ever had.

  She showed it proudly to the family that evening. They were in the sitting room after dinner. Dad was jotting down some fabulous facts about the Inca people who used to live in Ecuador. Grandma was sitting on the sofa. She had the local newspaper on her knees and was frowning at the crossword. Fernando sat next to her. He still hadn’t got over Dad’s performance on the Hiyaa! show and kept correcting him. Mum was perched on the arm of the sofa, chewing her lip in a not-going-to-cry sort of way. Ollie was on the floor, Sellotaping toilet-roll tubes together to make South American pan pipes.

  Grandma tutted. ‘I’ll never manage them Ecuador papers. The crossword clues’ll be Greek to me.’

  ‘Spanish actually, Mother,’ said Dad.

  ‘I know that!’ she snapped. ‘I’m not just a pretty face, you know. Three down – attractive appearance. P somethin’, F somethin’.’

  ‘Pretty face?’ said Abbie.

  Grandma sniffed. ‘Obviously.’ She filled it in. Then she gave up on the crossword and leafed through the rest of The Bradleigh Bellow.

  ‘’Ere!’ she said suddenly, looking up at Abbie. ‘I’ve ’ad a brainwave. You could write articles for The Bellow. You want to be a journalist, don’t you? Well now’s yer chance. You can describe Ecuador for the folks back ’ome. Paint a picture in words, scribble a scene in sentences.’ Grandma threw out her arms, knocking Fernando off the sofa.

  ‘No!’ He bounced on the carpet. ‘You cannot esplash me over pages. I will be laugheeng stock. I will be estolen for science.’

  ‘She doesn’t have to mention you,’ said Dad. ‘She can just describe Ecuador – the sights, the sounds, the smells. Talking of smells, did you know that Inca women rinsed their hair in wee to make it shiny?’

  ‘Not reense – soak,’ Fernando corrected. ‘Now you must all be quiet while I theenk about thees plan.’ He rolled around the carpet, muttering.

  ‘Hokay,’ he sighed at last, coming to rest at Abbie’s feet. ‘You can write. But not of me.’

  Abbie picked him up and kissed his cheek – which, when you think about it, was an act of true friendship.

  * * *

  At eleven o’clock next morning Abbie and Grandma were sitting on a lumpy sofa in the office of the local newspaper. On the other side of a huge desk sat the editor of The Bradleigh Bellow.

  Corky Shocka was a hard-nosed hack with short grey hair. She listened while Abbie explained the idea. Then she leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Never you mind, cheeky,’ snapped Grandma.

  ‘She meant me,’ said Abbie. ‘Eleven.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Corky scratched her hard nose with a finger. ‘I can see the potential.’ She wrote in the air: ‘Letter from the Equator, by junior journo Abigail Absinthe.’

  ‘My surname’s Hartley.’

  ‘Oh no it isn’t. Not for this. We need spice. We need danger. We need an alcoholic drink that killed famous people.’ Corky scratched a finger with her hard nose. ‘Ouch! Four articles, three hundred words a shot. Think you can do it?’

  Abbie nodded so hard her eyebrows felt sick.

  * * *

  That night Mum came up to tuck her in. She sat on the bed and smoothed Abbie’s curls. ‘What am I going to do without you?’ Her voice trembled like a finalist’s in a quiz show who’s going win fifty million pounds if she gets the next answer right and a biro if she doesn’t.

  ‘Make the dinner? Phone your friends? Breathe?’ suggested Abbie.

  Mum didn’t smile. ‘I mean apart from that. I must be mad letting you fly across the world with a shrunken wig, a grandma head and a mother friend.’

  Abbie couldn’t quite put her finger on it but she sensed that Mum was upset. ‘Don’t worry.’ She squeezed her hand. ‘Coriander’ll look after us.’

  ‘I know. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go if I didn’t trust her completely. It’s just … I’m going to miss y
ou so much.’ Mum’s lower lip quivered like a worm who’s watching her daughter crawl towards a blackbird that’s popped into the garden for a takeaway.

  ‘I’m going to miss you too,’ said Abbie, biting her lip so it wouldn’t do the worm thing.

  ‘Phone us when you can. And email, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. But remember there’s no signal in the jungle.’

  Mum kissed her. ‘You’re a brave and brilliant girl. I’d never have the guts to do this. Be careful, darling. I love you.’ She hugged Abbie tightly, like a mother who’s agreed to let her daughter travel across the world to find a very small head in a very big rainforest but is having second thoughts.

  ‘I will. Night, then,’ said Abbie quickly, before Mum’s second thoughts became third ones.

  * * *

  ‘’Night, then.’ Genevieve Strode-Boylie kissed Marcus’s forehead. ‘I’m sure your dad’ll be over it by the morning.’

  ‘You’ve been saying that all week.’ Marcus rolled over to face the wall. ‘And he’s not over it at all. He’s getting crosser and crosser.’

  ‘It’s hard for him, darling,’ said Genevieve. ‘After that zoo trip, he feels the family name’s been dragged in the …’

  She sighed. Who cared about the family name? Surely the family was more important? Shaking her head, she turned off the bedside light.

  * * *

  Klench couldn’t believe his luck. All it had taken was a few photos of the box and a short description emailed to Wotsitworth.com. He’d received an e-certificate within a few hours from an expert evaluator who confirmed that, yes, it was genuine Incan and worth a very, very pretty packet. There had been a wobbly moment when Klench had doubted that the packet was pretty enough to buy a hotel. But now the owner, sitting across the table, was nodding at the certificate and moaning softly.

  ‘You mean you agree?’ said Klench.

  The man nodded wearily again.

  ‘You mean you vont no more proofs it iss real deal?’