Abbie read the note.
Dear Dads and Daddellas,
The class is invited on an Easter field trip to the island of Remote Ken. We’ll be spending ten nights in self-catering cottages, enjoying the wonders of Nature. Parental volunteers are required to come and help supervise the children. Everyone must bring a sleeping bag and clothes that harmonise with the natural world.
Abbie imagined a T-shirt singing duets with a tree.
I give/do not give permission for ____________ (name of child) to embrace the earth and rejoice in rain.
I am happy/not happy to come along and lend a hand because that’s what hands are for.
Signed ____________ (parent or guardian)
Abbie wrinkled her nose. Earth plus rain equals mud, she thought. And self-catering’s just a sneaky way of saying washing up. She scrunched the letter into a ball.
Perdita frowned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Cold, wet, miles from anywhere?’ Abbie shuddered. ‘No thanks.’
‘But we trekked through the Amazon jungle last term. You can’t get more miles from anywhere than that.’
‘Those were hot miles. Exciting miles.’
Perdita thumped her arm. ‘Oh come on,’ she laughed, ‘don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ Abbie pictured her head poking up from a bog.
‘Hey, I thought you wanted to be a journalist.’ Perdita took the scrunched-up letter and smoothed it out. ‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’
Curled up under the duvet eating Jaffa Cakes, thought Abbie. But she couldn’t admit that to Perdita. Sighing, she dropped the letter into her bag. There was only one thing wrong with brilliant friends who loved any adventure. They loved any adventure.
Mr Dabbings returned to his desk. ‘Letters back tomorrow, please. We break up next week so I need to start organising.’ He wrote a number on the board. ‘If your parents have any questions they can ring me tonight. But not after nine. That’s Buddleia’s bedtime.’
A snigger went round. Mr Dabbings’s baby wasn’t due till October. But he’d told the children how, every night, he sang his wife’s stomach to sleep while she played the triangle.
‘Now, back to work everyone.’ The teacher held up a ball of wool. ‘Needles out. We’re going to knit babygros.’
At lunchtime Abbie sat with Perdita and Claire.
Marcus came over to their table. ‘Who’s on for this trip, then?’ He sat down next to Abbie.
‘Not me.’ She opened her lunch box. ‘Sounds grim.’ Which went for her lunch, too. Oil had leaked from the tuna wrap Mum had packed. Her apple was slimy, her biscuit mushy.
‘Yeah,’ said Marcus. ‘I mean – of all the places to choose.’ He held out his crisp bag to Abbie.
‘Thanks.’ She took five. It was amazing what they agreed on these days. You’d almost think they were friends. What a change from last term, when Marcus had done everything he could to ruin her life. But after she’d stood up to his bullying dad, Marcus had begun to treat her with respect. He’d even kicked the football to her three and a half times this term.
Which was three and a half times more than to Perdita. Marcus still couldn’t stand her. Or rather he couldn’t stand the way she beat him in maths tests.
Not that Perdita needed his friendship. Her kindness and sense of fun, and the amazing zoo where she lived, had made her top of the pops with the rest of the class. ‘Well I’m definitely going,’ she said. ‘How about you Claire?’
Claire Bristles nodded so hard her fringe bounced. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Yess!’ Perdita smacked the table. ‘Hey, do you want to share a cottage?’
‘I’d love to.’
A needle twisted in Abbie’s chest: a tiny wire of pain.
‘Done.’ Perdita grabbed Claire’s hand and pumped it up and down.
The pain sank to an ache in Abbie’s stomach.
‘Let’s seal the deal.’ Perdita took a pot from her lunch box. ‘Dad’s latest invention – blackcurrant hair gelly. Fizzes the tongue and whizzes the fringe.’ Unscrewing the lid, she passed it to Claire who dipped in her finger and licked it.
‘Wahay!’ Claire’s fringe flew in all directions.
Abbie scowled. ‘I thought I was the whacky snack taster.’
‘Go ahead.’ Perdita passed her the pot.
But Abbie didn’t feel like whizzing. Didn’t Perdita care that she wasn’t going? Maybe I should go, she thought, biting into soggy wrap, just to remind her who’s her best friend. But what if it didn’t? What if there were only two people per cottage and Perdita still wanted to share with Claire? What if they ignored Abbie all holiday? What if, when they got back, Perdita wanted to go and sit by Claire, and they never spoke to Abbie again, and no one else did either, and she grew up alone and misunderstood and ended up living in a lighthouse with only seagulls for company, and even they ignored her, and she died of loneliness and an overdose of herring?
Abbie put her head in her hands. There was only one thing wrong with brilliant friends who liked everyone.
They liked everyone.
***
The bus wheezed into Quito. Pulling into the city’s central station, it burped to a halt. Passengers stumbled off, yawning and stretching after the six-hour journey that had shunted them up from the Amazon jungle to the capital of Ecuador, perched high in the Andes mountains.
Last to climb off were three men. You’d never guess that the two older ones, who looked in their spry mid-seventies, were actually in their incredibly spry mid-four hundreds. They wore flowery shirts, jeans and baseball caps. Behind them came a much younger man, who’d insisted on buying these modern clothes to avoid attracting attention. Imagine the fuss if the papers got wind of an ancient emperor and his sidekick turning up alive and well in Quito.
Chunca Inca blinked in the sunlight. ‘Blimey. Can’t see a thing.’ Shielding his eyes he looked up at the sky. ‘Hey, Granddad, turn it down.’
The sun blazed even brighter, as if annoyed by his cheek.
The young man took off his sunglasses. ‘Here, try these. The light’s much stronger in the mountains.’
‘Cheers, Quempo me lad.’ The Emperor hooked the shades over his ears. Well, they were more holes than ears, thanks to the whopping golden discs which had filled them till yesterday. ‘How about you, Bacpac?’
The old servant bowed. ‘My eyes are used to your radiance, O Dazzling One. A little extra sunlight makes no difference.’ (Which was a noble lie. When the Emperor turned away, Bacpac pulled down the rim of his baseball cap.)
The Incas gazed in wonder at the bustling streets: the shouting people, the strange signs and, above all, the shiny boxes on circular legs, rushing along and honking like a herd of hairless llamas.
Chunca whistled. ‘Quite a kingdom you’ve got here.’ He slapped Quempo on the back. ‘Where to, laddie?’
‘A gold dealer’s. You need to sell some of your jewellery before you go anywhere. I have a friend who can rustle up some passports and visas for a not-so-small fee. Then on to a travel agent to buy your tickets.’
Chunca frowned. ‘Run it by me again, dude – what are they for?’
Quempo sighed. How many times did he have to explain to this right royal thicko? ‘For catching the plane to England and finding that stoutest crook.’
***
Who, at that very moment, was parting his lemon hair with a comb. Dr Hubris Wildebeest Klench, super-baddie and flabster supreme, looked in the mirror. He sucked in his cheeks. Not so bads, he thought, considerink I am in cell in Bradleigh Prison and haff vay little chances for exercice.
‘Don’t fool yourself, kid,’ hissed a voice in his brain. Oh no. Inner Mummy had woken up from her nap. ‘Sucking ins von’t hide your chins.’
Klench took a deep breath. He was slowly learning to stand up to the dead parent who lived on in his mind. ‘Who cares, Mums?’ he said quietly. ‘I know a voman who likes my chins and forgives my sins.’ He
smiled at the thought of the old lady who, on her weekly prison visits, was teaching him to break free from Mummy’s wicked influence. Funny really, considering that she was the grandmother of Abigail Hartley, the very girl who’d brought about his arrest in the Amazon jungle last Christmas.
As usual, Inner Mummy did her best to squash Klench’s affection for Grandma. ‘Don’t be lummock,’ she snapped. ‘Who could stomach your vast stomach?’
Klench gasped. Mummy, who so loved to rhyme, had repeated a word! Was she finally losing her touch and loosening her grip on his brain? A spark of hope lit up in his heart.
2
History and Hogwash
‘Course,’ said Mum, washing up that evening, ‘you know why Wendy suggested this trip.’
‘Why?’ Abbie was at the kitchen table, frowning over her maths homework.
Question 5: After 3 months, what fraction of Baby is formed?
‘To get rid of Mr Dabbings. She needs a bit of space.’
‘Jumpin’ Jemimas,’ said Grandma, ‘they’ve only been married five minutes.’ She was drying up. Well actually, she was holding a plate while Chester wriggled over it. The shy patch of chest hair worked very hard as her wig and home help. Now he flew over to Abbie, grabbed her pencil and wrote ‘⅓’ next to Question 5.
‘Thanks Chess.’ Abbie tickled him. ‘I wonder which third. Head and shoulders? Tum to bum?’ Chester shrugged and flew back to Grandma.
Mum pulled off her rubber gloves. ‘Well, I know how Wendy feels. She wants some time to get things ready for the baby, have a good polish, without Branston breathing all over the place.’
Grandma grunted. ‘She should’ve married a spoon. No breathin’, and the silver comes up lovely.’
Mum laughed. ‘Don’t get me wrong. She loves him to bits. It’s just that she wants everything to sparkle when the baby comes. And she says it’s a chance for Branston to enjoy his precious Nature. He won’t be doing much hiking after the birth.’
‘But it’s not due for six months.’ Abbie shut her book. ‘And just because Mr Dabbings wants to wade through mud, why do we have to?’
‘You don’t. No one’s making you go. If you ask me, it’s a no brainer.’ Mum shuddered. ‘Rejoice in rain, indeed. Get the note and we’ll write a big No.’
Abbie nodded. She’d shown them Mr Dabbings’s letter at dinner. Dad had taken it to his study, saying he wanted to check something.
She went into the hall. Running her fingers along the wall, she told herself she was glad. But her stomach was filling with cement. Scenes flashed across her mind. Claire and Perdita paddling in streams. Perdita and Claire singing round camp fires. Pillow fighting, midnight feasting. Fizzing and whizzing through a whole soggy week, without even mentioning her name.
Dad was sitting at his desk, thumbing through a book. Mr Dabbings’s letter lay on his lap. He turned and grinned at Abbie. ‘Ha! The very girl. Wait till you hear this.’
Oh no. History moment. Rolling her eyes, Abbie went over to the desk. When would Dad realise she was his daughter, not his number-one-superkeen pupil?
His study was a shambles. Books were piled on the shelves and floor. Next to Forts and Crosses and other Celtic Games was Smelling History. On top of Tudor Toilet Bags lay the Viking joke book Løeff Your Soeks Üff. In the far corner a spider had spun a theme park for her nine hundred and fifty-two children.
Beside the book on Dad’s desk stood a family photo, three used teabags and, oh yes, a pair of shrunken heads. Fernando Feraldo, the topmost remains of a Spanish conquistador, and Carmen, the topmost remains of his wife, were yawning.
‘Hi,’ said Abbie, standing behind Dad’s chair. ‘Busy day?’
‘Eight client,’ said Fernando.
Carmen tossed her long black hair proudly. ‘All happy ever after.’
In return for doing paperweight duties, Dad let them live in his office. During the day, while he taught history at Bradleigh Secondary School, they used it to run their new business. ‘Head to Head’ was a counselling service that offered advice to couples with marriage problems. Well, it was more of a show really. Estranged husbands and wives would sit in gobsmacked silence as the Feraldos told their four-hundred-and-thirty-four-year-old tale of shrinkage and separation in the Amazon jungle. The punch line of the story was, ‘Eef we get back together, so can you.’ After that the clients would be rudely dismissed. So far, every couple had gone home and patched things up. There was no charge. Clients simply had to sign a form saying they wouldn’t tell any journalists about their unusual counsellors.
Fernando yawned again. ‘Time for esleep. I tiredy boy.’
Dad patted his nose. ‘Well, I’ve got a great bedtime story for you.’
The heads grunted their approval. They might be in their four hundred and sixties, but they still insisted on being read to every night.
Abbie perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Go on then.’
‘When I say story,’ said Dad, ‘there’s definitely some truth in it. The question is, how much?’ He picked up Mr Dabbings’s letter. ‘I knew Remote Ken rang a bell. I heard of it years ago, at university. In the Stuff ’n’ Nonsense module.’
‘The what?’
‘Stuff ’n’ Nonsense. Real historical facts that have been spiced up over the years.’
‘You mean legends?’
Dad nodded. ‘King Arthur, Atlantis – that sort of thing. I remembered there was some tale about Remote Ken but I’d forgotten the details. So I looked it up in History and Hogwash.’ He patted the book on his desk and began to read.
‘Like all legends, the story of Remote Ken is based on fact. It is known that three monks fled there when their monastery in Ireland was attacked by Vikings. Gentle Father Kenneth and two humble brothers set up home on the deserted island, building simple shelters and living off fish and seabirds. There they lived out their days, close to God and cut off from the world.’
It was Abbie’s turn to yawn. ‘Wow, Dad, amazing. Bye.’ She turned to go.
‘Hang on, itchy knickers. I haven’t got to the good bit.’
Sighing, Abbie stopped at the door.
‘The brothers’ only visitor,’ read Dad, ‘was a fellow monk. Brother Donal rowed out to the island once a year with supplies: seeds, salt and chickens. He described these visits in the Annals of Donal, a record he kept of events.’
A snore interrupted him. Carmen had nodded off.
‘And it’s in these annals,’ Dad continued loudly, ‘that Donal wrote about … oh, never mind.’ He shut the book. ‘You’re right. Boring. Forget it.’
Abbie frowned. Since when did history bore Dad? ‘Forget what?’
‘Oh.’ Dad batted the air with his hand. ‘Just some nonsense about treasure.’
Carmen’s eyes popped open. Abbie rushed back to the desk. She snatched the book.
Chuckling, Dad grabbed it back. ‘Where was I? Oh yes. Donal described an exquisite golden cup that the monks brought to the island: the Goblet of Dripping.’
Abbie snorted. ‘Not a very exquisite name.’
‘Until you hear what it dripped with.’ Dad read on. ‘The huge cup was encrusted with rubies and diamonds the size of grapes. When it wasn’t being used for religious services, the monks kept it hidden.’
‘Why,’ said Abbie, ‘if they were the only people on the island?’
‘Because they lived in constant fear of attack. Not even Donal knew its hiding place.’
‘But I thought monks were all holy and stuff. Surely they could trust him?’
‘It wasn’t a matter of trust,’ said Dad, ‘but protection. The Vikings were always finding new raiding routes from Scandinavia. The monks knew that Donal could be nabbed any time he rowed out. If he didn’t know where the goblet was hidden, then even if the Vikings caught and tortured him, he couldn’t spill the beans and rouse the wrath of God.’
Abbie sort of understood. It was like Mum not telling her little brother Ollie where treats were hidden. Even if Abbie caught and t
ickled him, he couldn’t spill the jelly beans and rouse the wrath of Mum.
Dad looked up from the book. ‘You can guess what happened next.’
‘The Vikeeng they come.’ Carmen was wide awake now. ‘Always in heestory, the men they want treasure. Vikeeng, Roman, Conquistador …’ she glared at Fernando, ‘all men same.’
‘Er, exactly,’ said Dad, before she could shout at Fernando for the quillionth time about his raid on an Amazon jungle tribe which had led to their beheading and shrinkage. ‘Brother Donal rowed out one summer to find the island deserted. He realised the monks must have been captured and either killed and thrown into the sea or taken as slaves by the Vikings.’
‘How terrible.’ Abbie pictured three kindly granddads being herded onto longboats. She heard their sobs, smelt the smoke that curled from their burning homes, felt the crack of whips on their backs. She shuddered. Never mind maths, never mind friend worries: modern life was peachy compared to the brutal olden days.
‘Terrible, yes.’ Dad shut the book. ‘And wonderful too. Because no one knew if the Vikings found the goblet.’
Abbie gasped. A huge golden cup glittered into her mind. ‘You mean it could still be there? So why aren’t people looking for it? Why isn’t Remote Ken famous?’
Dad put his hands behind his head. He was enjoying this. ‘It was, at first. Donal looked for the goblet of course. And when he couldn’t find it, he wondered if perhaps the Vikings hadn’t either.’
‘Why? They must’ve done if it was no longer there.’
‘Aha! Who says it wasn’t?’ Dad rubbed his hands. ‘The goblet never turned up in Scandinavia, or anywhere else. So Donal thought of another possibility. The monks would have seen the Viking boats approaching. Even if the goblet happened to be out – and it’s a big if, as it was hidden most of the time – they would’ve had time to hide it again before the Vikings landed.’ He waited for Abbie to try, and fail, to pick holes in the logic. ‘When Donal returned to Ireland, word got out, and hundreds of treasure seekers tried their luck. After his death the story lived on in the Annals, until thousands were visiting Remote Ken every year. But nothing was ever found. By the nineteenth century interest had faded. The Annals of Donal were chucked into a library archive and the legend was forgotten. Since then, few people have bothered visiting Remote Ken.’ He waved Mr Dabbings’s letter. ‘No wonder Branston wants to go. His precious Nature must be running riot.’
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