He can’t know about the legend, thought Abbie. Surely he’d have told us. Her heart did a hop. ‘Do you – do you think the goblet might still be there?’
Dad’s eyebrows did press-ups. ‘Well that, my sweet, is the question.’
‘And this, you twit, is the answer.’ Grandma was standing in the doorway. Abbie hadn’t heard her approach in her soft slippers. ‘Of course not.’
Dad took a deep breath. ‘Hello, Mother.’ He turned his chair round and smiled patiently. ‘How can you be so sure?’
Grandma slurped a cup of steaming something. ‘The story stinks.’ As if to prove it, she scrunched her nose. ‘It’s obvious what really ’appened.’
Dad sighed. ‘Do tell.’
‘Donal nicked the treasure.’
Dad rubbed his forehead. ‘No, Mother. He wouldn’t have returned to Ireland if he’d taken the goblet; it was far too famous and precious for him to sell without raising suspicion. Besides, he’d never steal a sacred object – or indeed anything. He was a holy man of God, remember.’
Grandma snorted. ‘Says ’oo? The blinkin’ Annals, of course, written by the man ’imself. Course ’e’s goin’ to show ’is best side.’ She shook her head at Dad. ‘You ’istorians – so blinded by your books, you can’t see the truth when it’s starin’ down the centuries. If you could send me back in time, I’d prove it.’
‘With pleasure,’ muttered Dad not quite softly enough. Grandma shook her cup at him. Steaming something spilled onto the carpet.
‘What Dad means,’ said Abbie hurriedly, ‘is that he’d love to go back in time too. Wouldn’t you Dad?’
He nodded gratefully. ‘Er, yes, that’s exactly what I mean.’ Clearing his throat, he pretended to study the letter in his lap.
You owe me one, thought Abbie as he frowned over the note. He blinked. Then sniffed. Then tapped his foot and bit his cheek. ‘Hmm.’ He looked up. ‘Was there, um, something you wanted, Mother?’ A strange little smile twitched under his beard.
‘Thought you’d never ask.’ Grandma folded her arms. ‘A word with the Shrunkens. In private.’
‘Hmm?’ Dad was staring at the letter again. ‘Oh. Right.’ He got up. ‘I’ll, ah, leave you to it. Night all.’ He wandered out the door with the letter in his hand and the grin in his beard.
‘What’s got into ’im?’ asked Grandma. Shrugging, Abbie opened a drawer in the desk. She took out two tiny frilly nightcaps and popped them on the Feraldos. They looked like pots of homemade jam.
‘Imagine’ she murmured, ‘if the treasure was still there.’
‘Bad news,’ sighed Fernando. ‘Treasure breeng trouble.’
‘No news,’ said Grandma. ‘Because it isn’t. Now ’op off so I can ask me pals a favour.’
Abbie wandered into the hall. Never mind their carping: no amount of cold water could douse the spark that had lit in her mind and was glinting like – ooh, like gold.
Nah. Slowly she climbed the stairs. Grandma’s right. If the Vikings hadn’t taken the goblet, someone else would’ve found it on the island yonks ago. She stopped on the landing. Probably. She spread her palm over the cool banister. There was still a teeny chance – a chance that only she in the class knew about. A whiff of mystery, a sniff of a story … a journalist’s gift. And a secret.
She smiled. Because there’s nothing like a secret to win back a friend.
***
‘What’s this for?’ Chunca Inca lifted the lid and peered inside.
Behind him Quempo coughed. ‘Well.’ He could hardly say ‘Doodoo’ to an emperor. ‘Your – um – business.’
The Emp looked blank.
Quempo tried again. ‘Your offering. Contribution.’
The Emp shook his head.
‘Your gift?’
‘A prezzie? Cool!’ Chunca bent over the toilet bowl again. ‘But there’s just a puddle of water down there. Hey Bacpac, have a poke around. The present must be stuck underneath.’
The old servant got on his knees and shoved a loyal arm down the loo.
There was a rushing sound.
‘Aaaah!’ Bacpac leapt back.
‘What did I do?’ said Chunca.
Quempo sighed. ‘Pulled the flush.’
‘Wow.’ The Emp grinned. ‘Even water obeys me now.’
Bacpac wiped his dripping face.
‘Don’t cry, Baccers.’ Chunca squeezed his arm. ‘You have a go. I’ll command it to obey you too.’
Bacpac pulled. The Emp commanded. The empty cistern gasped.
‘Sorry, Bacs.’ Chunca patted his shoulder. I guess we can’t all have superpowers.’ Linking arms, he led his servant out of the bathroom.
‘Hey,’ came his voice from the bedroom. ‘You gotta try this!’ There was a boing of bedsprings.
Quempo leaned his forehead against the cool bathroom wall. One more night, thank goodness, then this imperial idiot would be on the plane to England and out of his hair for good.
***
Sitting on his prison bed, Klench looked at his watch. Eight fifty-two and nineteen seconds. He yawned loudly. ‘Time for sleepinks.’
‘Vy so early?’ snapped Inner Mummy. She scoured his brain in search of trickery, just as she used to scour his bedroom in search of doughnuts. ‘You can’t hide, I know your mind. All your secrets I vill find.’
‘No secrets, Mums,’ he said as lightly as he could, while she rifled through his inner wardrobe. ‘I am just tired bloke. Vy not you sleeps too? You are not as young as look.’
Inner Mummy’s suspicions were calmed by the compliment. ‘Zat iss true, my toffee pie. Sleepink keeps me smart and spry.’When she was snoring away in her inner granny flat, Klench stood up. He grabbed the mint-green sponge bag on his bed. He skipped out the door and along the prison corridor to the bathroom. He cleaned his teeth, flossed, gargled and cleaned them again. Then he returned to his cell, changed into his mint-green pyjamas and bedtime tie, put on his hairnet and got into bed. Glancing at the calendar on his wall, he chuckled. ‘Not as spry as you think.’ Mummy had been so busy searching his brain she’d forgotten to look and see he had a meeting tomorrow. A meeting she’d be very unhappy about indeed.
3
Holy Father
Abbie raced into the classroom next morning. ‘Guess what?’ She plonked her bag on her desk. ‘I’m coming!’
Perdita was perched on the neighbouring desk talking to Claire. She grinned like a radiator. ‘Brill.’ Then she groaned like a fridge. ‘But can you believe it? Claire isn’t.’
‘I’ve got to go to my cousins’ for Easter.’ Claire stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Pig.’
‘Oh, pig,’ agreed Abbie. Oh, prancing white horse with a whinny like bells, she thought. ‘We’ll really miss you.’ Like a verruca. ‘Are you sure you can’t come?’ Be sure, be sure.
‘I’m sure.’ Claire sniffed.
‘You poor thing. That’s just …’ Abbie shook her head. Brilliant. ‘I mean what a complete …’ she sighed. Whoopee.
She sat down, party popping inside. As soon as Claire was out of the way she’d tell Perdita about the legend. Not that there was any problem with Claire. In fact, in the last eight seconds, Abbie had realised what a lovely person she was. But hidden treasure was for a best friend’s ears alone.
Before she could nab Perdita’s ear, though, Mr Dabbings burst in. ‘Twinkly Friday!’ he cried, bounding up to the front. ‘I can’t wait to hear which of you lucky lentils are coming on the trip. But first I’ve got a surprise. Settle down, everyone.’
All the children sat on their chairs except Henry Holler who sat on Ursula Slightly. She burst into silent tears.
‘Didn’t see her, Sir. Honest.’
Mr Dabbings nodded sympathetically. ‘Easily done, Henry. Now, back to your seat. We’ve got a very special visitor.’
Abbie rolled her eyes. Their last very special visitor had been a salad farmer who’d taught them how to dress winter lettuce, not in oil and vinegar but cardigans.
‘Plea
se welcome,’ cried Mr Dabbings, ‘all the way from the tenth century …’ he threw out his arms, ‘Father Holybald!’ Everyone turned to the door.
A figure came through. He wore a dark brown robe that reached the floor. A rope was tied round his waist. A grey cloak fell from his shoulders. A pointy hood covered his head. He glided to the front, his hands clasped in prayer.
‘A monk,’ murmured Claire.
‘A ghost,’ whispered Jeremy Boing, clutching his huge knees.
‘A choo,’ said Snorty, whose nose didn’t cope well with stress.
Ursula gasped so loudly that a fly on her shoulder almost heard.
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Marcus nervously. ‘It’s an actor.’
The figure stopped at the front. He turned to face the class. He threw back his hood. ‘The Lord be with you.’ He made the sign of the cross.
Abbie squeaked. The Lord must be having a day off. Because the clown in the gown was Dad. On his head was a pink swimming cap. Circling the cap was a ring of grey hair. Her cheeks burned. She slid down in her chair. If I pretend not to recognise him, perhaps no one else will.
‘Hey, it’s Abigail’s dad,’ said large and loud Terrifica Batts. Abbie’s stomach leaked into her toes.
‘Indeed it is.’ Dad grinned. ‘And yours, too.’
Terrifica blinked in alarm.
Dad chuckled in a deep, medieval way. ‘I mean that, as a monk, I’m the spiritual father of you all.’ He raised his arms. ‘Bless you my children.’
Abbie stuffed her chin into her neck. How dare he? In front of my friends. In front of my un-friends. How could he? Why would he?
The silence was unbearable. She had to look up. Dad winked. And suddenly she knew. It was all her fault. Last night – what had she said to Grandma? That he’d love to go back in time. And that’s exactly what he was doing.
‘A special thank you to Abbie,’ he said, ‘for inviting me on this trip as your historical advisor.’
Before Abbie could shout, ‘Over my dead body!’ Mr Dabbings had thrown a matey arm round Dad. ‘When Mr Hartley phoned last night, I jumped at his offer to step into the shoes of yesteryear.’ Dad pulled up his robe, baring leather sandals and hairy legs. ‘But you won’t be coming along to model clothes, will you, Father H?’
‘Indeed not.’ Dad clapped his hands. ‘I’ll be your medieval advisor, teaching you about the monks and how they eked out a living.’
‘What’s eking?’ asked Craig Nibbles.
‘This.’ Henry pulled Ursula’s ponytail.
‘Eek!’ she cried obligingly.
‘Not quite,’ said Mr Dabbings. ‘Eking is living off the land, making do with what Nature provides. But that ponytail brings us to a fascinating – or should I say fashionating? – fact from the tenth century, doesn’t it Father H?’
Dad pointed to his head. ‘Anyone know what you call this hairstyle?’
Hands went up. ‘Prince Charles?’
‘Egg in a skirt?’
‘Bonkers?’
‘Correct,’ said Dad encouragingly, if inaccurately. ‘A tonsure. Now, in those days, monks had different kinds. This was the traditional Roman tonsure, arranged in a ring like Christ’s crown of thorns. But this –’ he stuck his hand in the pocket of his robe. A gasp went round as the tonsure reshaped into a vertical arch over his crown, like a hairband – ‘is the style worn by Irish monks.’
‘Wow!’ said Claire whose own fringe looked a bit jealous of the hairy gymnastics.
‘Aweslicks!’ shouted Henry.
‘How did you do that?’ gasped Jeremy.
Abbie caught her breath. She and Perdita had introduced the class to lots of remarkable creatures last term: an elephant who could paint, a superstrong orang-utan, a poetic parrot. But they’d always hidden Chester. Whenever Ollie asked to take him to school for Show and Tell, the shy patch of chest hair trembled on Grandma’s head. The Hartleys and Platts had agreed he should never be put on show. And now here he was in front of a crowd. Chester would die of stage fright if Dad introduced him.
‘Batteries,’ Dad lied.
Phew. Abbie breathed out.
‘The remote control’s in my pocket,’ Dad continued smoothly. ‘It flips the tonsure between the two styles.’ Chester moved back and forth from Roman ring to Irish arch.
The children applauded. Dad bowed. Chester danced for dear life.
Mr Dabbings slapped Dad on the back. ‘A wonderful preview, Father H. We’ll be honoured to have you on our trip, won’t we kids? Let’s all put our hands together in a grateful way.’
Abbie kept her hands apart in a very ungrateful way.
When Dad had glided out, Mr Dabbings looked round. ‘Now then. Who’s decided to come?’
Perdita waved her hand. ‘Me. And my parents would love to. But they can’t leave the zoo.’
Mr Dabbings sighed. ‘What a shame. Their skills would come in very useful.’
Abbie pictured Coriander singing to seals until they ate from the children’s hands and Matt inventing a food processor that turned mud into chocolate.
‘I’m game,’ said Terrifica. ‘I worked out that I can earn at least three badges for Girl Guides. Finding Your Way, Cooking Outdoors and Making Do for Loo Roll.’
Marcus’s hand slunk up. ‘I’ve got to go. My dad wants me to develop leadership skills.’
Winnership, you mean. Abbie could just see Dr Strodboil wagging his finger and telling his son to ‘Be best at everything, boy!’
‘Me too.’ Everyone turned to Ursula. Her eyelids fluttered like moth wings. ‘My parents are going away for Easter. They said the trip will build my character.’ She gulped.
‘Awekicks!’ yelled Henry. ‘I’ll come too and un-build it.’
‘Henry, please!’ Mr Dabbings looked shocked. ‘That’s not proper English. The word you’re looking for is “demolish”. Now, who else? What about you, Snor– Barry?’
‘Can’t,’ said Snorty quickly. ‘It’s my ffhhay ffever.’
‘Too bad. Rukia?’
‘Not on your … I mean, I have to cut my fingernails, Sir.’
‘For ten days?’
‘It’s the angles.’
‘How about you, Jeremy?’
‘You must be … I’ve got pole-vaulting camp.’
‘Craig?’
‘Cake-icing classes.’
‘Oh, please. Greg?’
‘Window-shopping.’
The teacher tutted. ‘Well, I’m sorry to see such a small turnout. You Stay-at-Home Stans and Stanettes are missing a wonderful opportunity.’
‘To find treasure.’
Heads turned. Chairs scraped. All eyes fixed on Abbie.
She bit her lip. Why the poop did I say that? But blinking round at the startled faces, she knew exactly why. After the Dad disaster, what better way to save her reputation? ‘There’s this legend,’ she mumbled, ‘that the monks hid a golden goblet on Remote Ken.’
‘Awebricks!’ Henry leapt from his seat. ‘A treasure hunt.’
‘I’ll get my Gold Digger’s badge!’ cried Terrifica.
‘Not if I find it first,’ said Marcus.
Hands shot up. The room filled with volunteers.
‘My ffhhay ffever’s better.’
‘I’ll bring my nail scissors.’
‘I’ll cancel pole vaulting.’
‘Now hang on!’ Mr Dabbings rapped his desk with a knitting needle. ‘Hold your horseradishes. I’m sensing here that some motives aren’t pure. That the gold you seek isn’t sunlight on water, the silver not moonlight on sand. Well, let me remind you,’ he wiggled the needle, ‘the whole point of this trip is to enjoy the riches of Nature, not Man. There will be NO treasure hunting.’ He glared round as sternly as a man with
on his jumper can glare. ‘And only those who volunteered before Abigail’s rather unhelpful contribution will be coming.’
Hands fell. Faces fell. Silence fell. Abbie could taste the disappointment in the room.
‘Hey!’ Perdita
jumped onto her desk. ‘Here’s an idea.’
Mr Dabbings pointed his needle. ‘Desks aren’t for standing on, Perdita. Desks are for covering with kind graffiti.’
‘Sorry.’ She jumped down. ‘It’s just … maybe the people who don’t go on the trip could help out at the zoo. Then my parents can come with us.’
Mr Dabbings smacked the desk. ‘Top turnip, Perdita! Wendy could do with a hand running the café. You kids can make her dandelion tea and sing to Buddleia.’
‘I didn’t mean the café,’ said Perdita, ‘I meant the animals. Feeding the penguins, skateboarding with the gibbons, playing Parrot Scrabble.’
The cheer was so loud that Miss Bellicorn, who taught Musical Expression, burst in and told them to pipe down please, her class couldn’t hear their inner trumpets.
When she’d gone Mr Dabbings rummaged in the drawer of his desk. He brought out a woolly brown hat with a silver star on the front. ‘Perdita Platt. I hereby award you the Beanie of Brilliance for Outstanding Cheering Up of Class.’ Everyone clapped as she took the hat for the fourth time that term.
OK, not everyone. Marcus, who’d only worn it once all year, looked at the floor.
And Abbie? Obviously she was thrilled for Perdita. Praise, popularity – what more could you want for your best friend? Especially when your own father had just embarrassed the living daylights out of you. Of course she clapped … on the outside.
On the inside she had a little puke.
***
Chunca had a little puke. Bacpac held out the sick bag just in time.
‘Ooh,’ giggled the Emperor. ‘I haven’t felt this nervous since the day those Spaniards stabbed my old man. When was that again?’
Sitting on his left, Bacpac did a quick sum. ‘Four hundred and forty-one years, two months, three weeks and five days ago, your Terrificness.’ The old servant wiped his forehead. Nervous was the word. At the airport check-in he’d nearly been loaded onto the luggage belt. That was because, when the lady behind the counter had asked how many backpacks they were taking, the Emp had said, ‘Three. Mine, his – and him.’ Not that Bacpac blamed him, of course: his master was far too important to understand such lowly things as luggage.
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