‘Erm, please sire,’ said Daniel, now recovered from his relapse but showing signs of becoming even more inebriated. ‘We – me and Betty – are from another planet – no, I mean from another time – hic – really we are! I can’t remember for the life of me from where – but we are – I’m sure.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Betty, aiming a silent frown in Daniel’s direction. ‘And we do know all about your disastrous fire, the one that now seems not to have happened.’
‘What I find most confusing,’ said the Squire, ‘is why you are so concerned about this notion of a fire, of all things?’
Just then, Older Mrs Wells jumped up, causing all attention to be directed at her. ‘Ah!’ she cried in the same insufferably didactic poets’ voice. ‘Would I not be keen to wait and tarry, / But to pluck myself away from thee, / Alas there is a need to hurry, / I am bereft, I need to go and pee.’ And with that she scurried out of the room, clutching her long black Victorian dress around her short white Victorian legs.
Betty was suddenly quite worried. ‘I’m quite worried,’ she confirmed to Daniel.
Daniel tried hard to focus his gaze on Betty. ‘And me,’ he replied, reassuringly. ‘Because other people keep drinking the wine! S’not fair! It’s rather scrummy, don’t you think? A bit like Ribena with a kick. No more ginger beer for me from now on.’ He leaned over and grabbed at a full bottle of wine from right under the nose of the Parson!
Betty was astonished at his unseemly behaviour! ‘I am sorry for his conduct, Mr Parson, sir,’ she said. ‘Daniel!’ She grabbed Daniel’s arm but, as she did, the bottle toppled over! Red wine gurgled onto the table and dripped onto the floor.
‘Sis! Huh! Look what you’ve done!’ moaned Daniel, pointing at the wine spill.
‘Urchins!’ bellowed the Magistrate, aiming his bellow directly at them. ‘Stop this unnecessary behaviour or I will have you back in my court before you can say final convulsion!’
But Daniel was far too busy scooping wine from the table into his glass.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Betty. ‘Please forgive my brother. He had a difficult birth, apparently, and the effects have lingered.’
‘Fascinating,’ said the Psychologist.
Betty looked around the room. Older Mrs Wells, the Poet / Arsonist, was still nowhere to be seen!
Bertie leaned towards Betty. ‘I do not like to interfere with the operational tactics of The Secret Five, but should you not be vigilant and meticulous about the whereabouts of Older Mrs Wells? Or maybe you should have a meeting? I could take notes if you like.’
Betty frowned. She had to take immediate decisive action! Everyone looked at her, awaiting her immediate decisive decision. After a few minutes of looking, most people became quite bored and started to chat amongst themselves about the indecisiveness of Victorian Urchins.
Whatshisname, still lying at Betty’s feet, opened an eye when he heard a drip drip drip sound. The open eye saw some sort of red liquid forming a puddle close to his head. He opened the other eye. He lifted his head. Was it blood? Had there been a massacre while he had dozed for a few sticks? Maybe he was the only living member of The Secret Five now! What an opportunity! He’d be able to redefine the constitution to introduce special rules, like increased rest and recuperation time, and more efficient logistics for the supply of peanut butter and bones.
Then again, no, a massacre was unlikely, as he always slept with his senses taut, coiled like a spring, ready to uncoil at a thousandth of a stick’s notice. Could it be tomato sauce, then? He liked tomato sauce. A lot. Especially when it smothered a grilled Cumberland sausage. Carefully, yet diligently, he sniffed the growing red puddle. No, it didn’t smell bloody or tomatoey at all. Hmmm, maybe slightly fruity with reticent overtones of warm tartan slippers. He stuck out his long pink tongue and, rather hesitantly, licked the puddle. Nope, he was wrong about the warm tartan slippers. Much less subtle, but with something that hit the palate with a discernable touch of sweet cherries, warm brioche, and overripe postman’s ankle with a delicate nuance of Marks and Spencer 50% wool-mix sock and athlete’s foot powder.
Above the table, Betty was still quite worried, and had been sitting patiently waiting for the Whatshisname narrative to finish.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Listen up. As a responsible founding member of The Secret Five, it is ordained that I have to follow Older Mrs Wells in case she is tasked to start a disastrous fire, at long last. Daniel, you explain to the Squire all about the notion of a disastrous fire, if you will.’
And with that, she jumped up and hurried out of the room. Constable Landscape, considering it his duty to perform undercover back-up duties, hurried after Betty, his Victorian truncheon at the ready.
But Daniel was far too busy replenishing his glass of wine to notice all this exciting activity that was happening around him. He sat humming a little tune to himself.
The Psychologist coughed. ‘Oh,’ Daniel said, looking up and trying to focus on all their staring faces. There now seemed to be twice the number of people in the room, far too many characters for an effective narrative, he thought.
He sensed that people were looking at him expectantly yet patiently. He stood up. He suddenly felt quite happy and very important! This was his moment! Daniel is the Man!
‘Well . . . right, erm, Shquire,’ he said, leaning on the table and still trying hard to focus both his eyes on the mass of fuzzy people. ‘I have to exshplain a noshun, I think. So . . . we, led by me . . .’ he glanced about him furtively yet stupidly, ‘are the shparehead . . . er, shpearhead contenginshy of The Secret Five! Oh yes we are! We are on a MISHUN, to shave the world! All of it! And all becush your . . .’ – he wagged his finger at the Squire – ‘great-great-great . . . great . . . great grandshun Shamspon . . . Shammon? Anyway, he is doing shumthing rather naughty and wants to domino the world, or shumthing like that.’ He took a big sip of yummy wine. ‘Do you know, thinking about it, I can’t actuary remember why we are here. Shumthing about Spamsong de Nylon and the United Shtates of Amerigo . . . ah! yes! got it! Where you . . .’ – he waved his wine glass in the Squire’s direction – ‘will move to after the disastrush fire! That’s it!’ He raised his glass and knocked it back in one go.
‘America?’ the Squire laughed. ‘And, pray, why should I travel all the way over there just because of a little disastrous fire, tell me? It is far too preposterous for words!’
‘Prepostrush? No no no! No! Americo is the Land of the Free!’ announced Daniel. He slammed his glass down and staggered over to the Squire. He grabbed the Squire’s handy lapels. ‘Let me tell you, Shquire, that Americons will send men sssshooting into the shky and into shpaysh!’ He stepped back and waved his arms in the general direction of space. Everyone looked up. It was silent for a few moments, except for a gentle lapping sound from under the table. ‘They will float shlowly about in shpaysh and . . . and mend stuff,’ Daniel continued, now waving his arms about in a floating manner. ‘And Americons will have great huge big houshes and all the shtreets are paved with reeeeal goldy woldy stuff, absholute bucketfuls of it, all going shpare, and shopgirlies and farmers and everyone will have huge big monshter cars and there will be heaps of global warming and loadsh of cheerleaders in very short shkirts.’ He performed a cute little cheerleaders routine in front of the Squire. ‘Give ush an esh, give ush a queue, give ush a you . . .’
‘Stop this at once!’ said the Squire, holding up his Squire’s hand to stop it at once. ‘Did you say gold? I must now confess to being mildly interested. Cheerleaders? Short skirts, eh? But wait, have I not so much more to keep me here in jolly old England?’
‘I would say so!’ said the Parson. ‘Bless my Victorian Parson’s soul, our Britain has so much more to offer! Think of the string quartets. The Romantic Poets. The doe-eyed orphans begging on street corners . . .’
‘Yes, the firm yet gentle line of English hill and dale,’ suggested Bertie. ‘The tranquillity of the deer parks and the splendour of the ancient oaks,
hayricks on farms and great wooden barns, gaggling geese and diving ducks on sunlit village greens, shining threads of foaming rivers and gurgling brooks, the clatter and clink of silverware on broad stately tables . . .’
‘And,’ added the Magistrate brightly, ‘the hangings. We must not forget the hangings.’
‘And, to add a further bright note, do not forget all the rampant diseases,’ said the Psychologist. ‘Cholera, diphtheria, typhoid, spermatorrhoea. And echoing asylums full of lost souls!’ He rubbed his Psychologist’s hands together with relish. ‘Lost souls waiting for me to polish up my proficiency in taxidermy.’
‘What about Bird’s Custard?’ suggested Mrs Wells the Younger. ‘These Victorian days, I understand, Bird’s Blancmange is available in no fewer than fourteen flavours! And, gentlemen, do not forget the wallpaper in stylish two-dimensional floral designs. We do have lots of that. You would miss the wallpaper.’
‘That is quite true, my dear Mrs Wells the Younger,’ said the Magistrate. ‘There is indeed a lot of rather nice floral wallpaper in Victorian England. And there are dado rails! It is my daring supposition that America has not one yard of dado rail. That said, when all is said and done, what have the Americans done for us? Hmmm?’
The Squire pondered upon their words, carefully and thoughtfully scratching his rugged yet charming backside as he pondered.
‘But Americons – they have wallpaper as well!’ exclaimed Daniel, suddenly coming to life after a long bout of staring at the ceiling. ‘They have lotsh of it. On their walls. Flock!’
‘What?’ boomed the Magistrate.
‘Flock wallpaper!’ said Daniel, searching around the table for more wine. ‘But ash far as I know . . . hic . . . from all the Dreamworks filmsh I’ve seen, no doday rails.’
‘That is probably true,’ said the Squire, thoughtfully sniffing his rugged but charming fingertips. ‘And I have had a sudden yet interesting thought. Maybe I could go over there to America and introduce dado rails to their nation! I could be the dado rail magnate! I could sell it to the natives for their wigwams.’
‘Good one, Shquire!’ encouraged Daniel, grabbing an almost empty bottle and draining the dregs into his glass.
‘Woof . . . woo . . . wo,’ said Whatshisname from under the table.
Just then, there was yet another commotion as Betty and Constable Landscape returned. The Constable was holding onto Older Mrs Wells very tightly indeed.
‘Hellooooo Betty!’ yelled Daniel, waving his arm at her. ‘Sish! Come and have a drinkiepoo! And you, Conshtubble.’
‘Stop!’ said the Squire quite loudly. ‘I wish to make an announcement!’ He held up one of his Squire’s free hands.
‘What is he doing?’ Betty whispered to Bertie.
Bertie whispered to Betty, explaining Daniel’s suggestion to the Squire about America.
‘What?’ said Betty, rather too loudly.
‘I said, I wish to make an announcement!’ shouted the Squire. ‘Pay attention, as this is quite an important part of the story! I have decided that I am going to sell this house and move to America where I will set up a dado rail business, marry, and have many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will be able to travel the world and see far-off places such as Salzburg near Austria! And it is thanks to this young man, Daniel, for giving me his business advice and persuading me to go! Let us raise our glasses! To Daniel!’ He raised his wine glass.
There were cries of to Daniel from the assembled crowd. But Betty was not impressed!
‘No!’ she shouted. ‘You can’t emigrate! Think of the future of the world!’
‘Too late,’ said the Squire, sipping his wine. ‘For a start, I do not believe that you are time travellers . . .’
‘Neither do I,’ added the Psychologist.
‘And neither do I,’ said Daniel, swaying slightly.
‘Wooooo . . .’ said Whatshisname.
‘And,’ continued the Squire, ‘when I make up my mind, nothing can stop me. Mrs Wells, come help me to start packing, if you will. Then I will throw you out onto the streets with barely the clothes you stand up in, plus your blackmail money of course.’ He turned on his very own Squire’s heels and disappeared out of the Dining Room.
‘What have you done?’ exclaimed Betty to Daniel. ‘This means that Bartle de Lylow will be born as an American tourist, and then Sampson de Lylow will also be born, and he will turn into an arch villain to threaten the modern world!’
Daniel, smiling in rather a silly fashion, looked at Betty. His eyes looked very glazed, almost doubly so. He seemed to be quite confused for a moment, but the confused expression suddenly disappeared completely as his eyes closed and he keeled over onto the floor! He had mysteriously succumbed to the first recorded case of Juvenile Binge Drinking.
Everyone gathered round and looked down at Daniel where he had fallen. Whatshisname appeared from under the table, stood shakily and looked around him for a moment. He winked at the black poodle then walked unsteadily over to Daniel, his wobbly legs becoming entangled as he did so. He reached Daniel, tried his best to focus on him, failed, licked Daniel’s spectacles, then collapsed on top of him, becoming the first and only recorded case of Canine Binge Drinking.
Betty looked down, quite aghast at her brother and her faithful dog, who both began to snore loudly and dribble enthusiastically all over the Persian rug.
The Psychologist knelt down and studied Daniel closely. ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘anyone minds if I took him away for some invasive Victorian experiments? And maybe the dog as well, for a spot of taxidermy practice?’
‘Please do,’ said Betty as she stormed out of the room.
PART SIX
Chapter Thirty Three
In which Sampson has turned quite evil and says quite evil things; a cake slice becomes his weapon of choice; Ricky enjoys the buffet nibbles; Pam Ayres is mentioned, albeit in a thoroughly undeserved ironic manner.
It was supposed to be a very happy event, the after-The-Birthday-Party party in the gymnasium of the Stanley Gibbons School for the Fairly Gifted. It had been planned to celebrate the success of the play with copious soft drinks and an even more copious buffet. Everyone had been invited – teachers, pupils, audience. Even Ricky and Amy were there as guests of George. But everything had gone very wrong following the on-stage humiliation of Sampson. Well, maybe not everything, as the Toasted Dairylea and Angel Delight Goujons, and the Baguette with Goats’ Cheese & Oven Roasted Scooby Doo Raisin Bran Topping were both proving to be very popular amongst the guests.
And yet, a major crisis had developed right under everyone’s noses while everyone’s backs were turned and everyone’s teeth were sinking into the toasted goujons. Sampson had continued his theme of becoming very very evil after the utter humiliation during the performance, and had stamped about backstage, then stamped about off-stage, on-stage, backstage again, in the corridors, and briefly, disastrously, in the boys’ toilets when the moment dictated.
Then, to anyone who would listen, he threatened to take hostages or make a rooftop protest along the whole length and breadth of the school roof, which he quickly retracted having remembered his morbid fear of heights, lengths and breadths, not to mention the dodgy guttering and scary gargoyles, which we now have so it’s too late.
Now Sampson suddenly appeared in the gymnasium doorway, spoiling everyone’s enjoyment and looking quite evil for a boy with mightily small ears and no talent for playing castanets. George was in the middle of trying to persuade Ricky to tour with Bash! when they were rudely interrupted by Sampson (although now they had been interrupted they couldn’t have been in the middle, but let’s move on.)
‘Right then!’ Sampson yelled as he stormed in. ‘It’s about time you all took my sudden and unexpected evilness seriously! Stop talking, persuading, eating, drinking, and please pay attention! I’ve turned evil, see? And no-one will believe me!’
He grabbed a shiny cake slice from the buffet table and pointed it at Amy,
who had been secretly sulking by Ricky’s side.
‘You!’ Sampson shouted at her. ‘The secret sulky scaredy-cat girl. Come here! I want to grab you and hold this knife to your throat in a threatening manner and take you hostage until my demands, as yet undefined and not really thought through properly, are met in full!’
Amy, typically, didn’t know what to do. ‘What shall I do?’ she whispered to Ricky, who was now tucking eagerly into a plateful of buffet nibbles. He shrugged and looked puzzled. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, spitting flecks of delicious goujon onto Amy’s cheek. ‘I don’t think we ever covered hostage situations in our Secret Five training.’
‘Yes we did,’ Amy said. ‘You must have missed that meeting.’
Then, to add to Ricky’s dismay, Sampson suddenly and deliberately reached out and grabbed Amy by her closest arm. His face was relatively grim and there was a gentle hint of madness in both of his eyes as he yanked her relentlessly towards him. He dragged her backwards towards the doorway, the cake slice at her throat! Amy started to scream rather too loudly.
This was, Ricky thought, the worst adventure of all, only made bearable by the splendid buffet spread which really took some beating. And yet, some sibling instinct made him carefully place his plate back on the table and advance on Sampson. George followed him, close behind.
‘Put her down!’ Ricky shouted firmly. ‘She’s family!’
‘Come and get her,’ taunted Sampson.
‘What?’ asked Ricky, stopping in his tracks, thoroughly confused by the unexpected invitation.
‘Be careful,’ George whispered carelessly. ‘He looks a bit dangerous to me.’
‘I said . . .’ replied Sampson, a little louder. ‘Hang on a minute – secret sulky scaredy-cat girl, scream quieter, please! They can’t hear my threats.’
Amy’s screaming went quite quiet, so everyone could hear themselves thinking, which was a very good trick.
The Secret Five and the Stunt Nun Legacy Page 26