And so there we are, climbing the Reptilarium’s ladders with a great clatter of glee then zipping across floors on their ingenious rails, whizzing and giggling as we get closer and closer to the great glass dome. The clouds are so low they almost seem to brush us like cow bellies grazing grass and we put out our hands to them in wonder – the big blue is all so far away at home.
‘We’ll be out there soon enough,’ I say.
Bucket waits patiently down the bottom while we crawl through the small golden door tucked under the dome, which opens into our wonderland of wonders – a vast accumulation of junk, from centuries ago. Stuffed camels, army tents, billycarts and cannons, hot-air balloon baskets and a battalion of mannequins. We arm ourselves with ropes and old whips and strings of bullets just for effect and feather boas along with a bellboy’s hat from Claridges (Bert) and a pirate hat (Pin, of course) and a toy silk jacket (Banjo) with Basti’s sleeping cap double-knotted around its neck along with Dad’s scarf, and long riding boots (me) and a child’s chest plate from Roman times, or Norman, goodness knows what but it’s all rather fabulous (Scruff) and he’s topped it off with Dad’s old bush hat for good luck.
‘Come on,’ I urge them after half an hour, ‘we’ve got to get out of here before anyone cottons on to us.’ Charlie Boo’s with Dad so he’s out for the day, thank goodness; Basti’s busy with all his Reptilarium tasks, lost in the bowels of the building but it won’t be for long.
Bert lingers, perfecting her outfit. A billowy black feather from a funeral horse’s corsage, a tiny Victorian velvet blazer with gold trim. ‘I might be spotted, all right? By potential clients.’
I roll my eyes.
‘Who knows where we’ll end up, Kick.’
Well, she has a point. She even grabs an old dog’s jacket made out of a mangy mink. ‘Will you stop accessorising even the dog?’ I urge. ‘Just come on.’
‘Bucky might get cold. She’s from one of the hottest deserts on earth.’
We head downstairs. Fan across the Reptilarium. Each with the mission to find a way out of here. Report back to the Glow Room. It’s not looking good. All doors: firmly locked. Ditto ground floor windows. Especially the broken scullery one that we used to sneak into Dinda’s once. Repaired. Sternly. Nup, no way out.
What to do? I spin, thinking. They always expect me to make things right and by golly I’ll deliver on this one like nothing else, if it means a proper family again plus that icky kiss at the end of it. ‘I do know a window that’s open, actually, but it’s really, scarily, high up.’ I bite my lip. ‘It’s tiny. Plus –’ I look at Bucky and sigh ‘– we’ve got a dog in the mix.’
‘She has to come with us.’ Bert holds her collar fierce.
‘I know. I know. Okay, troops, let’s do this.’ Deep breath. ‘We’re from the bush. We can solve this.’
I flash a V for Victory sign. Just like Dad’s.
‘All for one and one for all, or whatever it was,’ Scruff says.
We’re off.
We gaze up at the sky. A tiny window right at the edge of the dome. Gulp. Silence as we contemplate the sheer scariness of it.
‘I notice it every time we’re up there. It’s got this flimsy little catch –’
‘Because no one would be stupid enough to escape through it, perhaps …’ Bert trails off.
‘Precisely.’
‘Except us!’ Scruff exclaims.
‘Yep, it’s our only way out,’ I say. ‘But the problem is, troops, that it leads us onto a really tall roof. With a sheer drop. Captain Scruff, how would you be tackling the next bit?’
No further prompt is needed. ‘Well, at home, General Kickasina, we’d be removing all our shoes because, as you know, we’re better in bare feet. Years of practice. Then we’d be climbing up one by one through that hole I sawed so amazingly in the roof, to the washing-basket crow’s nest – thanks for donating that, Mum. Not that you knew.’
‘And one day, I promise, we’ll get all the washing done for you,’ I murmur, thinking of the great piles of it languishing at home.
‘Then someone would have to haul Pin onto their back, for the really tough bits.’ Scruff looks at yours truly. They all do. ‘Then there’s the dog, of course.’ Yep, me again. Thanks. Anyone else care to join the party up there on my back? ‘Then we’d just launch ourselves off the side of the house, whooshing down and down like we’re jumping off the moon –’
‘Screaming blue murder,’ Bert joins in.
‘On that slidey thing we constructed out of those flat pieces of tin we found in the shed. Gee, we were good, weren’t we?’
Bert rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, really subtle, that. No one will notice a washing basket and tin slide in London, will they?’
‘Would you stop being thirty-two?’ Scruff snaps at her. ‘You’re being a bit too parent for my liking.’
‘Rope,’ Pin declares serenely over the two of them. We stare at him. He’s right. As he so often is. But we don’t have enough for the entire building’s height. ‘What else have we got that’s rope-like?’ I ask. ‘Bert, come on, we need something really long here.’
‘Easy peasy.’ She smiles like a cat with the richest cream. ‘Thank you for asking, Kick. As the most intelligent one here I’d suggest curtains.’ I let it pass, she’s got a point. ‘My room’s got – two – four – eight of them. Plus sheets. There’s a closet full of them in the dressing room. Pink satin, Scruff. Brace yourself.’
We rush to her bedroom. The curtain rods are awfully high. How to reach?
‘Climb them, like a fireman’s pole, but going up,’ Scruff exclaims. And before we can say stop, wait, he shimmies up a silvery streak as tall as the ceiling and pushes a strip of fabric off its rod. But how to come down once the second curtain’s gone? ‘Pile up all the cushions you can find,’ he commands, hanging off the curtain rod like a monkey, ‘and just watch this superboy leap! I’ve been practising for this moment for days, troops.’
‘But every single cushion here is pink,’ I warn.
He shuts his eyes, braces himself. ‘Well, we’ll just have to cope, Scruffter boy.’ Then he flashes an enormous grin. ‘It’s all a matter of holding your nose!’ Which he does as he takes a wild flying leap. Again, and again, until we have eight enormous fabric strips and a pile of sheets swallowing the floor.
‘But will this be long enough?’ Bert mutters to herself as she ropes it all together with a canny knot Dad taught her, just for those moments when you’re tying down a camel pack or, alternatively, escaping from a London house.
‘It’ll have to be,’ I snap.
Because there’s no other way to do this. And we need to have double the length so we can loop it over something and then bring it all down after us, so no one knows we’re gone. ‘More sheets, we’re not done yet!’ I command, and Bucket barks at the sea of silver and pink before her, in excitement as well as terror.
‘I think we need to muzzle you, girl,’ I murmur, looking around for something, anything. ‘But with what? You’re not allowed to scupper our plans. Yet we can’t leave you here because we might need you for your nose – you could sniff Mum out anywhere, couldn’t you?’ She whines in agreement. Does a little jiggle of excitement. I swear she understands everything. ‘Plus that grumpy Perdita the cobra might eat you up if you stay here.’
Banjo the teddy is languishing on Bert’s bed with Dad’s checked scarf around his neck. Perfect. I pick him up.
‘Kicky …’ Pin growls.
‘I promise I’ll give it back. As soon as we’re free.’ Reluctantly Pin allows me Dad’s precious scarf but stuffs Banjo firmly into his belt; they’ll be going on this operation together whether any of us like it or not. Then we all cram onto the flying chair that will whizz us to the ceiling, our escape hatch, Bucket across our laps and a mountain of material spilling down below us like a great dragon’s tail. We have lift off, slowly – too slowly – there’s too much of us – excruciatingly slowly, creaky, come on – then just as we near the dome t
he kitchen door opens.
No, no, no.
Breaths held.
Out steps Basti. In his white lab coat, wheeling his trolley loaded high with Insectarium delicacies. Feeding time.
Nooooooo!
I crash down the lever and the chair lurches to a wild swaying stop; Bert gasps and Scruff slams his hand across her mouth; Pin wobbles and almost tumbles out; I grab him back as well as Bucket, who’s not liking this one bit. We all gaze down. Nope, our uncle’s utterly oblivious, phew, singing away as he measures out a mixture of mashed cockroach and earthworm. Then, just as I lift the lever to proceed on our course, Pin’s pirate hat tumbles down, down – thud – to the ground.
‘My hat!’ he yells.
‘I say … what?’ Basti gazes up, squinting to work out what’s going on. ‘Childus Desertus Australis times – good grief – four? Plus one canine.’ He can scarcely believe what he’s seeing crammed into the seat. ‘Explain yourselves,’ he snaps.
‘Oh, you’ve caught us!’ I laugh down at him, trying to smooth the panic from my voice. ‘We’re just rehearsing here. It’s a big surprise, Uncle Basti. Our grand show of celebration. For Twelfth Night. To say thank you to everyone. For everything. It’s a big secret. Mr Boo’s in on it. He approves. He says it will cheer you up no end.’
‘And Dinda too,’ Pin throws in.
‘It’s a dress rehearsal,’ Bert adds. ‘And I’ve got this idea to make the stage curtains using silver cloth, and to turn the entire Reptilarium into this huge theatrical set. It’ll be amazing. Just you wait.’
‘But you can’t look!’ Scruff cries. ‘Not yet. It’ll spoil it.’
‘Especially the finale involving one Rasti the lovable red rat and Minda the Mighty Mouse, black-haired, of course,’ I laugh.
Basti clasps his hand to his chest. ‘Oh, I do love the thought of a jolly good show! Just make sure you return those curtains tonight.’
‘Of course!’
‘Oh, and Basti,’ Scruff adds, ‘you know that grasshopper mash you’ve got there? Um, you might like to think about making a new batch. I got a bit peckish last night. Started experimenting. Added what I thought was sugar to what I thought was cake mix … but it was baking powder and … well, I know that makes ants explode. So I can’t imagine what it might do to a skink?’
‘Oh, you vexatious creature!’ Basti roars, all changed. ‘I knew there was a reason why I shouldn’t have let your species into my world.’ He flurries back to the kitchen to make up an entirely new batch. ‘No chocolate ration for a week! Make that two. A year,’ he grumps.
‘Okay.’ Scruff grins meekly, and raises a cheeky V for Victory sign at our departing Uncle’s back.
‘Exploding ants. Nice one, mate,’ I wink.
‘We just lied to him, Kicky,’ Pin says gravely.
‘I know, Pinny Pin. And it’s not good, not good at all. But sometimes you have to. To save your skin. And our mum’s skin. And buy about fifteen minutes of escape time. So come on. Trust me, little captain. Please.’
‘I always do!’ His beautiful big eyes shine with anticipation and chuff. ‘This is the best adventure of our lives and then there’s that great big kiss at the end of it. I don’t forget, Kicky.’
We reach the top of the Reptilarium. Slip off shoes for extra grip. Look dubiously at the tiny window that’s our key to outside, to the world, and to Mum. This has to be done.
I’m out in a flash, into a blast of cold air. Brrrrrr. It’s brisk out here. Plus there’s accumulated snow. Not pleasant. Pin’s hauled up behind me with Scruff pushing his little bottom through the tiny opening. Bert then lifts Bucket through, all wriggly protesting limbs, then helps Scruff up and last but not least hauls herself out with all the champion gymnast’s easiness that she’s famous for. We crawl along the terrifying edge of the roof next to slippery slate tiles; everything is so cold and grey and precarious and too far-up. ‘Don’t look down!’ I warn.
‘I’m scared, Kick.’
‘Do we have to do this?’
‘I want to go back.’
Even Bucket’s whining through her muzzle. Am I mad here? Yes. Why have I dragged them all into this? I shut my eyes for a moment, push on. ‘Mum’s out there somewhere,’ I urge, ‘she might be needing us right now.’ I flurry briskly across to a gargoyle.
Then there’s an unearthly scream, from Bert.
Like nothing I’ve ever heard in my life.
Pinny has stumbled, is almost over the edge – one leg, one arm – tipping and scrabbling at an ancient lead gutter that looks like it’ll come loose any moment.
Scruff grabs his brother’s waistcoat, he’s slipping through it, I race over and flop onto my belly and grab his trousers, Bert’s got his shoulders and all three of us haul our darling bundle of preciousness up. That wasn’t good. We hold him tight and kiss him through his shakiness.
‘I’m okay, Kicky, I’m okay,’ he trembles over and over.
‘What are we doing here?’ Bert screams at me, furious. ‘This is madness. Is there a plan? Really? Actually? You can admit it, you know.’
I shut my eyes on a prickle of tears, nod. What am I doing? Am I crazy? There’s no plan beyond this roof. I’m always doing things like this – cottoning on to mad crazy schemes that then have to be carried out, ferociously, no matter what the consequences. Because I can’t lose face. Because I go too far and then can’t turn back. Because I can’t bear the thought of Bert’s sneering at my failure. Any acknowledgement of pathetic hopelessness. So I drag them all into it, whatever it is. Stealing Matilda and gunning her into the desert, jumping off the water tower onto far away mattresses, attacking police with rotten eggs. So now we’ve got this far with Plan 452, the most ingenious plan of the lot, and now we can’t go back. Because Basti will be doing his rounds now. Oblivious. I’m stuck with this. We all are.
‘If any of us die it’s your fault,’ Bert spits at me. ‘Plus my feet are freezing off. This wasn’t my idea. I just want you all to know that.’
Oh yes, we know. And you’ll be taking all the credit when Mum’s back with us, won’t you? Presenting your grand red robe to her, explaining about opening the door to Dad. Yep, you’ll be owning it, sis. And right now I just want to push you off the roof myself but need to carry on here, biting my tongue, to get you all on the ground safe and sound. It’s so easy to criticise, isn’t it?
‘Come on,’ I say cheerily, even though it feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever said in my life, ‘we’re almost there.’
Pin, of course, is the first behind me. ‘Aye aye, captain!’
‘No, you are, mister.’
‘No, you, Kicky.’ I want to turn and give him the biggest hug of his life in that moment, but can’t.
A dragon gargoyle guards the house. The curtain is tied in a loop around the scales of its belly. We snap the cloth tight, testing it.
‘Will it hold?’ Scruff asks dubiously.
‘They’re my knots,’ Bert responds.
‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ Ever the trusty lieutenant.
‘Me first,’ I smile grimly. ‘Pinny, jump on my back. Hold tight.’ He almost throttles my neck in the process. ‘Just ease up a tiny bit,’ I choke out.
Deep breath. Bert, we just have to trust you on this one – we’ve climbed down ropes from the water tower at home but have never done something like this.
Okay, we’re off. Wheeeeeeee! We slide down the cloths, feet springing from the walls, down, down, and land with a thud at the bottom. Closely followed by Bert, who makes it look easy, of course; then Scruff, with his victory sign strong for the last bit coupled with a poked-out tongue. Easy peasy, troops!
‘I say, what are you doing?’
We jump with fright. Dave and Hannah. Right behind us. Gazing up at the billowing silver rope of cloth.
‘Esca–’ Pin begins.
‘Practising!’ I jump in. ‘For when we get home. We’re going to climb Ayers Rock.’
‘What’s that?’
‘This great big boulder right in the middle of Australia. It’s about as tall as St Paul’s Cathedral.’
‘Wow. You desert kids do such fun things. Can we come home with you? And what about your dog?’ Bucky! Good grief, of course. We all gaze up at Bucket’s anxious dingo nose; our girl’s peering over the roof, whining and pacing and coming back. ‘Who’s going to do the honours?’ I look around.
No takers, just six pairs of eyes looking at yours truly.
‘Right.’ Big sigh. This is not going to be easy – Bucky’s an awfully long way away – it’ll be like climbing the water tower at home but with no footholds so worse. Yet without another word, back up I go, increasingly puffed, then slide down the make-shift rope as fast as I can, mainly one-handed with an utterly still, terrified dog cradled in my free arm and clinging on around my neck for dear life; my hand that’s supporting her clutching at the rope whenever I think we’re both going to plunge to our deaths. Which is quite a bit. I flop on my back at the bottom from the sheer exhausting effort of it all. Am rewarded with a big doggy lick of gratitude but no thanks, of course, from any of the humans here. Never any thanks from them.
Bert unknots a knot and we drag the rope from the roof and stuff it along the side of the house. No time to lose. We don’t need Basti coming outside and investigating.
‘See ya!’ We wave to our mates.
‘But where are you going?’
Would they stop with the questions here? ‘To get some supplies,’ I say. ‘For our big performance. On Twelfth Night. There’s this shop called the Seven Sisters Circusarium – and it’s waiting for us. We have an appointment. See you on the night. Front row. We’ll save you a seat.’
And before our friends can respond we’re off, just like that, walking tall down Campden Hill Square with Bucket yappy with excitement around us now her mouth has been mercifully released. Pin’s in front, walking backwards, one big ball of chuff as he stares at the whole ragtag crazy lot of us, our deeply eccentric mishmash of feather boas and medieval armour and bellboy hats.
‘I can’t believe you said that word, Kicky,’ he giggles. ‘Circus-airy – what?’ And we all have turns in trying to get it out proper – with dismal results. Too gleeful right now to concentrate. We’re out! Out. It actually worked.
The Icicle Illuminarium Page 4