One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing

by David Forrest

  There is a meeting on at present. The language is Cantonese. Wo Dung, who was in charge of the party assigned to capture the message from the 25th Earl, is making his report.

  “Then, this long-nosed white devil ... how would you describe him, comrades? Perhaps as one of the mountain lake lotus-blossoms, enveloping in delicate leaves the deadly haspnich beetle? He sidesteps adroitly, and therefore my well-cast lance passes within the thousandth of a millimetre of his heart. And he runs like a forest hare up the balustraded staircase of the lower museum section.”

  “So . . . ?” sighed Lui Ho, the group leader and political commissar.

  “However, Comrade Leader,” interrupted the sarcastic tones of Fat Choy. “Wo Dung did score a minor triumph. His well-cast lance transfixed a bear--a Russian bear.”

  Lui Ho’s skeletal face showed neither pleasure nor anger. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a copy of the Quotations from Chairman Mao Tse-tung. He placed it on the table in front of him, and studied the red plastic cover. Fat Choy noticed that the exact centre of Lui Ho’s bald head was beginning to change colour. It was the spy-squad’s only indication of their leader’s humour. The centre of his pate chameleoned to a maroonish yellow. Lui Ho was angry.

  Wo Drag, the second-in-command, failed to notice the ominous warning. He giggled as he continued. “And then, dear Comrade Leader, our Indian braves ... You should have seen them in their warpaint. They attacked, but were frustrated by a woman ... a schoolteacher. I would have killed her, but she had many children with her. Therefore, I ordered the warriors back to the ship.”

  “So . . . ?” sighed Lui Ho, his scalp colour now nearing purple.

  Wo Dung smiled. “But, oh, illustrious War Lord, our closely pursued enemy agent committed a fatal manoeuvre. With his monstrous capitalist footwear, he stamped on the feet of one of those long-nosed nanny- ladies often to be seen in Central Park, guarding the offspring of the aristocracy. Whereupon, affronted by his sudden aggression, she smashed him in the face with her handbag. He fell--dead. By a ruse, pretending qualifications in medicine, I examined him. He was NOT carrying the message.”

  “Sam Ling,” said Lui Ho, in a soft voice. “Tell me, why did Wo Dung fail in this assignment?”

  Third-in-command Sam Ling eased his Adam’s apple over the collar of his tunic. His drooping moustache moved. His lips stayed still. “Simple reason, Comrade Leader. Unsuccessful assassination alerted enemy agent, who evaded pursuers and had time to secrete or pass on the message before having coronary.”

  “So . . .” sighed Lui Ho. He polished condensed steam off the lenses of his spectacles with the side of his thumb. “Sam Ling, you are promoted to second-in- command.” He belched, loudly, then jerked his head at Wo Dung.

  “But, beloved Comrade Leader. Our Illustrious Country’s choicest...” began his demoted deputy.

  “Elimination,” said Lui Ho, firmly. The other spies grabbed Wo Dung, swung him off the ground and forced him, feet-first, into the spin-drier. His pleas became muffled as he disappeared inside, and silent when the door was slammed against his face. Lui Ho nodded. Wo Dung’s face stared mistily out through the glass.

  Pi Wun Tun, round-faced treasurer of the group, rummaged in his pocket then slotted a handful of coins into the machine.

  “It’s not only his failure, but also the elaborate imperialistic manner in which he explains it,” commented Lui Ho, his head returning to its normal parchment yellow. “He’d make a better poet than spy, and poets are nothing more than drones in the hive of the People’s Republic, and flies in the ointment of the Tse Eih Aei. Watch closely, and realize that extensive and honourable labours have their rewards for all, while incompetents and misfits are a capitalist luxury.” He pressed the spin-drier starter switch. The machine shuddered. Wo Dung’s face righted itself, then jerked upside-down again. The drum gathered speed until the face fattened out and revolved into an indistinguishable blur. Lui Ho twisted the control switch over to the maximum position and smiled. “And how the earnest worker’s morale, in our beloved China, will be elevated when they learn that the late Wo Dung lost his life as the result of a revolution in America!”

  Lui Ho looked around the small room. “With one less, now all can sit.” He opened a large notebook on the table in front of him. “So, we can assume that either the Englishman delivered the message, or that he failed to deliver the message.”

  “So ... so ... so ... so ... so,” agreed the other spies.

  “Therefore, as the Western pigs have not yet exposed the plan, I have deduced that the message has not been passed.”

  “So... so... so... so... so.”

  Lui Ho looked at his five spies, “then where is it?” He hammered the plywood table with his fist. “Fools, it must be in two of several places. It is either in the museum, or ... or it is with those long-nose nanny-ladies. If it is in the museum, it’ll be like looking for a noodle in a haystack. Not possible to find. But ... if it is with the nanny-ladies, undoubtedly it will reach the running dogs, and this must not happen. So, we must act as follows. We eliminate the nanny- ladies--tonight. You, Fat Choy, will deliver explosive packages to their apartments.” Lui Ho paused. “The remainder will attack the museum building with phosphorus grenades. It will be totally destroyed. Attacks are to be made simultaneously from all sides.”

  “So ... so ... so ... so . . .” said four of the spies. “Possibly not so . . .” said the fifth.

  “Not so, Sam Ling?” asked Lui Ho, coldly. His eyes forced themselves to narrow even more.

  “No, Comrade Leader,” said Sam Ling. He pictured Lui Ho playing a musical gong in Central Park, while half of New York burned. “Your original idea is much better.”

  “Original idea?”

  Sam Ling crossed his fingers beneath the table. “Yes, Comrade Leader. That idea you mentioned briefly earlier in the meeting--before you were distracted by Wo Dung. You suggested that the nanny-ladies did not have the message. You will remember that you asked me if I checked the Englishman’s timetable in the museum, and I told you that I had, and that there were just two minutes unaccounted for when the disastrous leadership of Wo Dung permitted the long-nose to escape our vigilance and dispose of the microdot”

  “I did?” said Lui Ho.

  “Yes,” continued Sam Ling. “You perhaps remember suggesting that, although the nanny-ladies might not have the information, they may know of its whereabouts.”

  “I believe that I begin to remember my saying this.” Sam Ling felt an inward relief. He wished, again, that his government would place the work of espionage in the hands of trained agents, rather than with political enthusiasts.

  “You suggested that we should recover the information and return it to our homeland. Thus bringing great credit to this department.”

  “Yes ...” said Lui Ho. “I remember the last bit quite distinctly. I also remember reading somewhere, and it can only have been in the works of our illustrious leader, that the enemy should always be attacked in its soft underbelly.”

  Fat Choy raised his eyebrows and looked at Pi Wun Tun.

  Lui Ho continued enthusiastically, “So we will attack the soft underbellies of the nanny-ladies.” Fat Choy giggled. Lui Ho stared at him coldly. “We will capture the nanny-ladies and their fat, overfed, delinquent spawn. We’ll show them a new way to dry nappies. We’ll put them in the spin-drier--still on the children. Twenty minutes should be enough. The nanny- ladies will make truthful confessions to alleviate their charges’ suffering.”

  “You certainly said that,” said Sam Ling. “But you had one much more brilliant idea.”

  “Go on,” said Lui Ho, “remind me.”

  “Yes. You said that we should remember the hated, imperialistic times in our beloved Motherland when the bloated families of the white devils who exploited us had such nanny-ladies attached to their families. You so wisely recalled that nanny-ladies were not delicate flowers, even though their complexions resembled the orchid. Orchids with pig-ski
n petals! Remember the whole battalion of Japanese troopers in the Maidok Mountains ... put to flight by one such orchid who resented the commander raping one of the housegirls?” “She probably desired the girl, herself,” grinned Fat Choy.

  “No. In times of stress, these strange, childless and husbandless women show an almost fanatical resistance to pressure. They’re not paper tigers.” Sam Ling switched his gaze from Fat Choy to Lui Ho. “You suggested we should follow the nanny-ladies at all times, and keep a very close watch on them. Tap phones ... check conversations. Let them give us the information we need without their even knowing we want it.”

  “So ...” Lui Ho beamed at his new deputy. “You are quite correct. I did say all that. Sam Ling, you will put electronic listening devices in the nanny-ladies* apartments. You will bug all places where they may talk. And you will arrange a watch on them, EVERY MINUTE OF THE DAY AND NIGHT. Understand?” “Exactly, Comrade Leader,” said Sam Ling. “A most sagacious order.”

  “So... so... so... so,” breathed the other spies.

  Hettie’s shelves of teddy-bears frowned down at her, accusingly. Their eyes followed her as she stamped through her apartment to the bedroom. She unclipped her pocket-watch and laid it on the bedside table. It ticked, “Room thirteen . . . room thirteen . . . room thirteen.”

  She unbuttoned her apron, snicked off a bunch of safety pins and dropped them in a box on the dresser, then opened the linen basket. The lid squeaked ... “world security . . . world security.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, eased off her shoes and rubbed her feet. She reached down and switched on the air conditioning. The fan gathered speed. “Don’t trust anyone ... don’t trust anyone ... don’t trust ... don’t trust . . . don’t . . . don’t . . . don’t . . Hettie leaned against the bed head. It grated a soft “vital. . . important... vital.. . important.”

  She put her hands over her ears, and pushed her stubby fingers into her grey hair.

  “Och! Dammit, Maister Quincey,” she said, “why couldnae you remember what we taught you--always to look where you were going?”

  She stretched for the telephone at the side of the bed.

  Emily patted nine-month-old Lindon’s behind. He lay across her knee, face downwards, his eyes blinking in anticipation of the thumping. But he didn’t cry. The heavy handling gave him a feeling of security. He was gurgling, breathlessly. Emily swung him upright, until he was standing on her knees. She jiggled him. Lindon burped as his stomach muscles sagged. “There you are, then,” said Emily. “There you are. All nice and clean. All bathed and powdered.” She leaned forward and sniffed him. “Beautiful,” she exclaimed, smiling. She got up and lowered him into his cot.

  Outside, in the day-nursery, Lindon’s twelve-year-old sister, Dagmar, pulled a face at her elder brother, Carl. “You shouldn’t do that to nanny. It’s mean and nasty.”

  “She’s senile,” he growled. “She’s worse than the rest of them. ‘You can’t do this, Master Carl, you can’t do that. It’s not the way to behave, Master Carl. You’ve got to be a gentleman, Master Carl.’ Hell. I’ve had it for all my life. I’m fifteen, now. I’m too old for it, and, anyway, it’s important for me to go out tonight.”

  “YOU’VE got a date,” teased Dagmar. ‘“Sure, that’s what it is. You’ve got a date with a chick.”

  “Dry up,” snarled Carl. “Go and watch the boob tube if you don’t want to help.”

  “But suppose it hurts her?”

  Carl sighed. “It won’t It’s quite okay. Everybody at school uses it.”

  “It’s very naughty, but if I help, can I come out with you?”

  “Hell, no,” scowled Carl. “Tell you what, though. Help and I’ll give you a dollar. You can go out on your own.”

  “Okay,” smiled Dagmar. “How’re you going to get her to smoke it?”

  “I’m not,” said Carl. He scraped the small brown block of resin with the edge of his penknife. “I’m going to mix it with her ice-cream. She’ll never notice. It’s choc-ice.”

  Dagmar giggled. “Nanny’s going to pot,” she laughed.

  Carl grinned, and grated more resin into his palm. “That’ll do fine,” he said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Time for bed. Time for bed,” warbled Emily, walking into the room, white towels draped over each arm, and her hair standing out from her head like pipe- cleaners. “‘Come along now, you two. Baths and bed.”

  “Aw, nanny, I’m fifteen. Can’t I stay up a little longer?”

  “Time for bed, sleepy head,” sang Emily. “Early to bed, early to rise.”

  Dagmar glanced at Carl and giggled.

  “Oh, all right,” he said, and winked at his sister.

  Emily tidied their rooms while they showered and changed into their night clothes. “Supper,” she called. “It’s on the table.”

  The two children appeared in their robes.

  “Will you have something to eat with us tonight, please, nanny?”

  “I’m not hungry just yet,” said Emily.

  “Please, Nanny Emily,” pleaded Dagmar. “We miss you so much when we go to bed. Please stay and have some supper with us.”

  “I bought you an ice-cream, specially,” said Carl.

  “Well ...” said Emily, touched by the unexpected generosity. “Well, all right. Just this once, mind. Special treat. Nanny for supper.” She sat down at the table. Carl went back into the kitchen and returned a second later with a large chocolate ice cream on a saucer.

  “Here you are, nanny.”

  “Ummmmm. It looks delicious, Master Carl. It’s very kind of you to think of your old nanny.” The children looked at each other and stuck their noses into their cups of milk. Emily spooned the ice cream into her mouth. When she had finished she dabbed her lips with a napkin. “That was lovely. Thank you both, very much. Now... off you go to bed.”

  She tucked Dagmar under the soft blankets, kissed her goodnight and pulled the bedroom door closed behind her. She knocked on Carl’s door and called, “Sleep tight.” She frowned slightly as he laughed.

  The children’s day nursery appeared to be growing larger. It now seemed a long way from the table to the nursery kitchen door. Emily collected the supper dishes. They felt very light. She wondered if the maid had substituted plastic dishes for the porcelain ones. She took a step towards the kitchen and nearly fell. Her feet seemed to spring on the carpet, almost as though it was soft, rubber sponge.

  She put the dishes in the sink. The last cup dropped from her hand. Amazed, she watched it descend, in slow motion, into the sink. It floated down like a feather. She was quite startled when it shattered on impact, the pieces curling away beneath the washing bowl.

  “The heat ...” said Emily to herself. She fanned herself with her pince-nez as she walked towards her own apartment. Her feet dangled in the air. She had to struggle consciously to get them on the ground. She pushed open the door of her room and struggled in, puffing. The flowers on her wallpaper stood out three dimensionally. She blinked.

  “Aaaaah . . . eeeee . . . aaaaaaaah . . . eeee . . . aaaaaah,” roared her parrot, Tarzan, throwing himself, triumphantly naked, from the bars of his cage to his swing. He waited for Emily’s gentle scolding at the sight of the tangle of wool on the cage bottom.

  She felt in her handbag, swaying slightly, then produced his new waistcoat. She staggered a couple of steps towards the cage, brandishing the knitting at him. “Naughty, naughty Tarzan. But Nanny’s going to stop you, this time.” She eyed the interknotted stitches with difficulty, then opened the cage door. Tarzan climbed on to her arm and offered his head to be scratched.

  “No time, no time,” shrilled Emily, wriggling him into the new waistcoat. She pushed his wings through the miniature armholes. The bird seemed to grow heavier. Emily felt she was lifting a bucket of wet sand. She steered Tarzan toward the cage. He fluttered, angrily. Then hopped back in. He climbed laboriously up on to his perch and contemplated his latest woolly conundrum. Emily draped his ca
ge with a piece of maroon towelling. Tarzan gave a final, deafening, ape-man yodel, and settled down for the night.

  “Whee,” said Emily. She felt suddenly gay. She decided to sing, then stopped herself. Nannies don’t sing when their children have just been put to bed, she reminded herself. She switched on her transistor radio. It was no use, she just had to sing . . . No, she just had to fly. Yes, that was it ... she had to fly. She wondered what would happen if she jumped up and down on the bed. She scrambled on to the patchwork coverlet and jigged on her feet, waving her arms, like wings.

  “What’s she doing?” asked Dagmar. Carl replied without removing his eye from Nanny Emily’s keyhole.

  “She’s doing a trampoline act on her bed.”

  “Let me see. Let me see,” demanded Dagmar. Carl pushed her away.

  “And she’s singing. Her face is very red. She’s really turned on.”

  “I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack.”

  “Hell, no, she’s just doing her own thing. She’ll cool off and sleep. She’s just enjoying herself.”

  Emily watched a small green dinosaur scurry across the floor. It began to climb up the wallpaper. She stretched out a gentle hand, to pat its rump. Startled, it ducked behind the wallpaper flowers. Emily smiled, happily.

  Her telephone rang. Emily reached out a nine-foot long arm and picked it up.

  “Hello, hello,” said a Scots accent. “Hello ... Emily?”

  Emily wondered, momentarily, how the telephone came to know her name. She liked its musical voice. She decided to sing her reply.

  “It’s me-e-e-e. It’s me, it’s me,” she trilled to the tune of the “Blue Danube.”

  She conducted her singing by waving the telephone in front of her. The Scots metallic voice spoke to her from mid-air. “For God’s sake, woman. It’s Hettie here.”

  “Hello, Hettie Here,” sang Emily. She pushed the earpiece into her spiky hair. What a coincidence, she thought that the telephone should have the same Christian name as her friend