Even if you knew London well, 45 Bemberton Street, Chelsea, was not easy to find. It was a little street tucked in amongst other streets, so close to the Thames you could hear the tugs hooting. Francesco and Anna never would have found it on their own. Fortunately for them, Christopher had often dropped bits of information about Britain into his conversation and one was: “Nothing to touch an English bobby if you want help.” And then he would sing “If you want to know the time ask a policeman.” So at the station when they arrived they had found a policeman and showed him S’William’s letter and had been told to get to Sloane Square on the Underground, and then to take a bus to Chelsea Town Hall.
“When you get there,” the policeman had said, “ask again.”
So at the Town Hall they had asked again. They chose an old man selling newspapers.
“Funny you should ask me,” he said, “ ’cause I don’t suppose many about here knows where it is.” Then out of a pocket he took a piece of paper and a pencil and drew them a little map. “Stick to that an’ you can’t miss it. Foreign, aren’t you?”
“Not now,” Francesco explained.“Now we are British but it is not long we have lived here.”
“You’ll be all right in Bemberton Street,” the paper man promised. “Proper United Nations up that way.” Then he went back to selling his papers.
Bemberton Street was very shabby-looking. Paint was peeling off the wall, windows were cracked and so were the two steps leading to the front door of number 45. But to Anna the house was a fairy palace for in it lived Madame Scarletti. Francesco rang the bell, which was not answered, so he rang again. This time after a pause a grown-up girl wearing a black tunic and ballet shoes opened the door.
“We wish,” Francesco said politely, “to see Madame Scarletti.”
The girl looked amused.
“Many people wish to see Madame. They come from all over the world. But Madame sees no one without an appointment.”
Francesco was appalled. He had agreed to the journey because Anna could not go alone, but it had not occurred to him that having got here Madame Scarletti would refuse to see them.
“Would you perhaps beg for us a few minutes, you see we come a long way and we will not have the money to do this twice. At least not till S’William gets home. Look!” He fumbled in his pocket and took out the envelope containing Sir William’s letter. “You see, we are told to come here.” He handed the girl the envelope and when she had opened the letter he pointed to the portion addressed to Anna.
The girl read what Sir William had written. Then she looked at the envelope, then turned it over and read “Sir William Hoogle” on the back.
“Docksay,” she said. “Would you be the children Sir William Hoogle rescued after an earthquake?”
“We are two of them,” Francesco agreed. “There is another called Gussie but he is not here.”
The girl came to a decision. “Wait here. I will show Madame this letter.”
It seemed to Francesco a long wait but Anna was not worried, she had reached Madame Scarletti’s doorstep, it never crossed her mind she might get no further.
Anna was right to have faith. Presently the girl came back.
“Come along,” she said. “Madame will see you.”
Madame Scarletti was indeed very old but, as so often with dancers, she had kept her figure. She was small and looked as if she were made of frail porcelain. She had immense gleaming black eyes and her white hair was piled in intricate plaits on the top of her head. She was wearing a long taffeta dress and round her shoulders was a vivid scarlet shawl. On her feet were ballet shoes.
Madame Scarletti was sitting on a high-backed chair. Beside her was a long cane with an ivory top. Francesco and Anna approached her, then Francesco bowed and Anna, instead of her usual bob, made a lovely obeisance right down to the floor.
Madame Scarletti’s voice was surprisingly strong for anyone so old. She looked only at Anna.
“Your father was Christopher Docksay.”
Anna felt she ought to curtsey again but she didn’t. “Yes, Madame.”
“And he married Olga Popouska.”
Anna looked at Francesco. “Was Olga called Popouska?” she asked him.
Francesco did not know. “I do not think we knew. She was just Olga and our father was Christopher, and our grandfather and grandmother were Jardek and Babka and our horse Togo.”
“But I know,” said Madame Scarletti. “Many, many years ago in Warsaw there was a great teacher of dancing. His name was Ivan Popouski. I did not know what happened to him until I read in a newspaper about the Turkish earthquake.” She turned to the girl in the black tunic. “This is Maria, my keeper and guardian, without whom I could not live. Did I not say to you, Maria, that the grandfather who was killed in the earthquake must be Ivan Popouski?”
“That’s right,” Maria agreed. “That’s why I wanted you to see these two.” She looked at Francesco and Anna. “Which is the dancer for I suppose one of you is?”
Madame made an impatient tch-tch-ing sound. She looked scornfully at Maria.
“Where are your eyes, girl? Do you not recognize the face of a dancer when you see one? I knew this little girl could dance the moment she entered the studio.” Then she turned to Anna. “You have shoes with you?”
“And my tunic,” Anna agreed.
Madame waved a hand gracefully towards the door. “Take the child where she can change.”
Then she looked at Francesco. “Come and sit down.” She pointed to a footstool. “I can see you have suffered. Tell me about it. Every small thing, it is much better not to shut things away inside, keep them outside where you can see them.”
So Francesco told her. He started on the day of the earthquake. The terrible heat. The odd-looking yellowish sky.
“It was so hot that nobody is talking, and only because Olga said we must could we eat any breakfast – yoghourt and a slice of bread with black olives.”
Then Francesco explained about the picture. How Christopher had said he would have taken it to the picture framer in the caravan but it would spoil Togo’s holiday.
“You see, he was old and it would be a long way right across Turkey to the picture exhibition. Christopher could not take his picture to be framed because he must work. It was only three miles over the hill so we went. It was, I think, the only day when Jardek said it was too hot for Anna’s dancing lesson.”
Francesco paused there, seeing against the little house as they had last seen it, with Christopher, Olga, Jardek and Babka drinking tea.
After a moment Madame Scarletti gave him a friendly pat.
“Go on. Every small thing. Lay it all out.”
So Francesco went on. He described the terrible heat climbing over the hill so they were wet all over. How the picture framer was asleep on his bed so they had to leave the picture for him to see when he woke up. How they had bought figs, a leaf of mulberries and lemonade. How they had carried the food and drink halfway up the hill to picnic in the shade of some cacti. How it was then he noticed there were no birds. No birds at all. How Anna had told them the birds had left two days before, she had seen hundreds of them fly away.
There was another small pause while Francesco tried to remember. During this Anna, changed into her tunic, came back into the room with Maria. Francesco did not see them so Madame Scarletti put a finger to her lips and they quietly sat down.
“I think it was then Gussie saw the horse. As it seemed then it appeared to have gone mad, but I know now the horse knew just as the birds had known what was to happen, it was only us who did not know.”
“Then it happened?” Madame Scarletti asked. Francesco nodded.
“In the camp, men asked us often how it was but we could not say. Now I can remember a great noise and hot air, then the earth moved and we were thrown everywhere. Afterwards we got to the top of the hill and looked. All was gone. The little house, Jardek, Babka, Christopher, Olga and Togo, as if they had never been.”
Mada
me Scarletti seemed to know the end of the story.
“Then Sir William Hoogle found you and soon he discovered your uncle and your aunt with whom you are now living.”
That was when Anna joined in. “They are not nice. The Uncle thinks to dance is wrong.”
Francesco tried to be fair. “The Aunt tried to be kind but she is afraid of The Uncle. When S’William comes back I hope he will arrange things better.”
Madame Scarletti beckoned to Anna. “Go to the barre and we will see what you have learnt.” Then she smiled at Francesco.
“There is good news for you. Sir William has arrived in England. The Times newspaper printed this. Now he is home I believe you can be a little boy again.”
MADAME SCARLETTI HAD a car. She told Maria to drive the children to the station and to see them on the right train.
“I shall write to Sir William,” she told Francesco, “and arrangements will be made for Anna. It may be she will live here with me.”
These words were like a Te Deum to Francesco. Madame would write to Sir William. Madame would make all the arrangements. Madame might even have Anna to live with her.
Because of being taken by car to the station, the children were home in good time, but Gussie was home before them. He had felt annoyed at this, for he wanted to tell them about a film he had seen on TV and he must do it before supper, for the last thing he wanted was Francesco and Anna being late going to bed. If he was to wake up in the middle of the night he should go to sleep early.
“Where have you been?” he demanded.
“To see Madame Scarletti,” said Anna.
Anna spoke in so pleased a voice it maddened Gussie.
“And what for? Who is to pay for lessons in London?” Then he turned to Francesco. “Why did you let her go? It had been hard to get fifty pence for that Miss de Veane, to get enough for Madame Scarletti and to get Anna to London is impossible.”
Francesco was too happy to mind what Gussie said.
“Imagine! S’William is in England. It is in The Times newspaper. Have you been to the farm to put Bessie and the hens to bed?”
Gussie would have loved to say “Yes, I have!” but he couldn’t. Rushing home to tell the others about the television he had seen and the food he had eaten he had forgotten the farm in his annoyance at finding the other two out.
“No. But I will go now.”
“Both will go now,” said Francesco. “If we run we should not be back late for supper. But if we are, do not worry, Anna, keep saying ‘S’William is back’, then nothing The Uncle says will matter.”
The boys ran all the way to the farm. It was dark when they got there so the hens were waiting to come into their coop. Bessie, of course, could get into her sty but there was a padlock on her door at night, the key of which was kept under the grating with the house key. Wally had lent them a torch.
“If S’William answers my letter soon,” Francesco said, “have you a plan? I mean, we know about Anna but what about us? What do we want if the picture sells for much money?”
“I do not wish to live with The Uncle,” said Gussie.
“I do not wish either,” Francesco agreed. “But where else do we wish to go?”
Gussie fixed Bessie’s lock.
“If it was possible I would like a caravan. Not of course as before – that can never be – or perhaps a little house like Babka and Jardek had, but I do not think that is possible in Britain. There will be police and laws about children living alone.”
Francesco held out his hand for Bessie’s key and turned the torch on to the grating.
“The only rule in Britain that we know is the one of which Christopher always spoke. Do you not remember how, if we made an extra noise when he was working, he would say ‘I will have hush. If you kids lived where I was brought up I’d refuse to keep you, then they’d clap the lot of you into a home’?”
Gussie felt a sort of heave in his inside.
“Suppose The Uncle did not want us. Could he put us in a home?”
“Not unless we did something bad. But he does not have to have us. You remember how The Aunt said: ‘He does not like children so it is hard for him that you are here, but he does his duty, he gives you a home.’ ”
Gussie, wondering if painting a gnome was so bad you could be clapped in a home said:
“And you said: ‘We did not ask to come.’ ”
Francesco put away the keys.
“We are not going to do anything bad, but it is good that when we see S’William we tell him where it is we wish to live.”
Gussie did not say much on the way back to Dunroamin. He wished now he had not agreed to paint a gnome blue, especially as there was no money in it, but it was too late now to do anything about it.
It had seemed to Gussie that evening that Francesco was never going to sleep. He was so excited about S’William coming home he had to talk about it. At last Gussie in desperation pretended to be asleep, in fact he pretended so well he was almost asleep when something reminded him of what he had to do. He sat up in bed and looked towards Francesco’s bed. He certainly did seem to be asleep. Very quietly, Gussie slipped out of bed. The window was already open so, fixing a loop of the length of string Wilf had given him round his left big toe, he dropped the other end, which had a small weight on it, out of the window, got back into bed and promptly fell asleep.
What seemed to Gussie hours and hours later he was woken up by a continual tugging at his left toe. For a moment he could not remember what was happening, then it all came back to him. He felt down the bed for the string, took the loop off his toe, gave three tugs of the string as Wilf had told him, put on his dressing-gown and bedroom slippers and sneaked down the stairs. Very quietly he opened the lounge door, fumbled his way across the room to the French windows, unlocked them and he was in the garden. There he heard Wilf say “This is ’im.”Then a sack was put over his head and he was rolled over on his face. Then once more he heard Wilf’s voice.
“Now you lie still and nothin’ won’t ’appen to you. But if you tries anythin’ you know what to expect.”
Gussie, tied inside the sack, could not draw his finger across his throat but he knew all right. Just for a few moments he was puzzled. He expected to hear whispers and perhaps the movement of a pot of paint. He could not imagine why Wilf had tied him up in a sack instead of letting him paint one of the gnomes. Then a new thought came to him. Why was there no sound? Why did nobody move about, not even to give him a kick? The horrible answer soon came to him. The Gang were not wanting to paint a gnome. They had got him out into the garden so that he would leave the French windows open. They were going to steal from The Uncle.
The sack was uncomfortable and dirty but there was plenty of air inside it so Gussie could breathe. He rolled over on to his back and thought what to do. If he called for help Wilf and his friends would stop him, and anyway muffled in a sack The Uncle wouldn’t hear, sleeping the other side of the house. But Gussie was agile as an eel. He rolled up and down the concrete paths, which pretended they were crazy paving, and at last he was rewarded, the rope which had held his arms to his sides shifted to his feet. Then it was a matter of seconds for Gussie to sit up, push off the rope and wriggle out of the sack. Then what? He could not shout for help for The Gang members would hear. Then he had an idea. On his hands and knees he crept up to the lounge door and peered in.
There seemed to be three of them – Wilf and two others. Wilf was holding a torch and the other two were trying to open a safe let into the wall. Gussie did not know it was a safe but he could hear what they whispered to each other. A rough voice growled:
“You never said that ’e kept the money in a safe, Wilf.”
Wilf didn’t sound his tough self at all, in fact he almost whined.
“I didn’t know, did I?”
A third voice said:
“Better give it up. We ’aven’t the tools to open that.”
“ ’Oo says we ’aven’t?” the rough voice retorted. �
�I never bin beaten by a safe yet and this should be dead easy.”
While they were talking Gussie had got to his feet. Very quietly he took the key out of the inside of the lounge door. Then softly he shut the door and locked it on the outside. Then he ran to the twins’ wall and yelled:
“Help! Help! Thieves!”
He made such a noise that both twins woke up and shoved their heads out of their windows.
“Who is it?” Jonathan asked.
“It’s me, Gussie. How is it when you need policemen? There are three thieves in the house.”
It seemed no time after that before sirens were blowing and policemen all over the place. In most houses Wilf and his friends would have got away, but they did not know Cecil. The locks and chains on his front door were splendid, so Wilf and his friends were caught red-handed.
When the thieves, including a very cowed-looking Wilf, had been driven to the police station, the police sergeant who was in charge asked everybody to come into the lounge, including Mr Allan and the twins as well as Mabel, Francesco and Anna. By that time it was established that nothing had been stolen and no one had broken into the house.
“Now,” said the police sergeant looking at Gussie, “you say you were in the garden. Had you left the French windows open?”
Gussie’s thoughts were running around like a cage full of mice.
“Yes.”
“So you let the thieves in. Did you do it on purpose?”
“No. I was tied in a sack.”
“But what brought you down into the garden in the middle of the night?”
Gussie felt there was nothing for it but the truth.
“I was to paint a gnome blue.”
“Disgraceful!” said Cecil.
“Paint a gnome blue!” The sergeant was puzzled. “I’m afraid you want a better story than that.”
That annoyed Gussie.
“It’s true. I was to paint a gnome blue.”
The sergeant sounded very unbelieving.
“You were meeting the thieves to paint a gnome blue. Then you know who they were.”
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