The Secret Five and the Stunt Nun Legacy (2 page)

In the kitchen, Betty’s Aunt Trinny was carefully toasting and buttering some home-made muffins which had, in truth, been made at someone else’s home. Betty’s elder brother Daniel, who was over twenty-and-seven-eighths, rather tall and just as serious, was seated at the kitchen table sucking Sugar Puffs up his nose through a straw. This was the first day of their holiday with their aunt, and Daniel was keen to impress. He was also keen to save up enough money for a Ninstation Y-Box Pii 4 games machine. So far he had saved over thirty-one pence, and very soon he would have marginally more. His secret ambition, though, was to buy into an off-shore high-yield tax-diverted bond. Thanks to his casual job as a part-time window mannequin for the local Oxfam shop, buying an on-shore no-yield win-diverted premium bond was far more likely.

It was at that point that Whatshisname came loping into the kitchen, his nose in the air, which is an ideal place for a nose to be if you value your life. Although Whatshisname was, officially, Betty’s dog, he was disliked equally by everyone.

‘Woof woof woof,’ Whatshisname woofed, because he always woofed in threes. Then he began licking and sniffing and snuffling and wagging. Especially wagging, as that was his very
very
favourite. Apart from licking, that is, which took some beating. In fact, whenever Whatshisname sat and thought about it (which he did quite often when searching within his canine consciousness for an idealistic comprehension of morality and truth and his inner doggy-existentialism) when he licked he actually sniffed as well. Indeed, he probably snuffled and wagged at the same time, so all this talk about favourites is a complete waste of your time and mine so let’s hear no more about it.

Very soon, all this uninhibited licking and sniffing and snuffling and wagging woke up Ricky and Amy. They were, by birth, and rather painful ones at that, Aunt Trinny’s two children, which made them cousins to Daniel and Betty, brother and sister to each other, son and daughter to Aunt Trinny, and grandfather and grandmother to their own future grandchildren in their respective marriages. As annoying young adults (although we shall call them
children
, just to irritate them) they hadn’t really given much thought to the rigours of grand-parenting, except for Ricky, who had recently shown an interest in an advert for trousers with an expandable elastic waistband and an integral incontinence trough. He had even built up an impressive collection of stamps. Enough, he thought, to minimise the amount of queuing time at post offices in his old age. Good old Ricky. He was probably going to grow up into an outstandingly sensible adult and utterly boring old fart.

But enough of this pathetic attempt at characterisation. They all knew that it was high time for some gritty dialogue, and Ricky was the first to take up the challenge. ‘Hello, everyone,’ he said as he and Amy wandered sleepily over to the kitchen table. He was obviously keen to establish himself as a major character at an early stage, but we’ll have to see about that, won’t we? I mean, all that girly blond hair doesn’t help his cause.

‘What’s for breakfast?’ asked Amy in a strangely timorous way, for she was a moist girl of timid disposition and had no redeeming qualities whatsoever except perhaps . . . except perhaps . . . no, definitely no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

‘Breakfast? It looks like we’ve got wholemeal muffins and watered-down rhubarb & turnip flavoured J3O,’ replied Betty. ‘Do you want some, Amy? And you, Daniel?’

‘Hey! What about me?’ whined Ricky. There we go again! Ricky often felt a little left out of it all. This was
typical
. No-one ever thought of
his
feelings, those feelings there they go again burning holes in the brain burrowing into my psyche undermining my courage until all I have left yes all I have left is a mouse-like no hamster-like notion of underwhelmingliness what a terrible faddle-fiddle what an utter nuisance je suis oh what a rot I’ve forgotten how to speak French again . . .

‘Ricky!’ Betty snapped. With her very own eyes, she glared a reasonably sized glare directly at him.

Ricky jumped. ‘Yes?’

‘Were you indulging in a stream of consciousness and interior monologue just then?’ Betty asked, frowning quietly. ‘And were you using the first person tense
and
dubious punctuation? Hmmm? You know we don’t allow all that stuff in The Secret Five. It’s against our written constitution.’

Of course, Ricky knew he’d been caught out. Maybe if I could bluff my way out of it and crikey that looks very much like a big zit on Betty’s nose . . .

‘You’re doing it again!’ Betty squealed.

‘What?’ queried Amy. ‘I didn’t notice him doing anything like a stream of . . . a stream of whatever.’

‘Consciousness! And
you
wouldn’t!’ said Betty irritably. ‘It’s so obvious! His head goes all funny when he does it!’

‘I didn’t notice anything either,’ mumbled Daniel.

‘Woof woof woof!’ said Whatshisname, who did.

‘I can’t help it,’ whined Ricky. ‘I’m quite conscious – so I have some degree of consciousness. And I indulge in the occasional streaming. It’s what I do as a character, apparently.’

‘Really!’ snapped Betty. ‘I do hope we don’t have to put up with that all the way through the adventure.’

‘What adventure?’ enquired Amy, quite enquiringly.

‘The adventure we are guaranteed to have,’ reassured Betty.

‘Oh,’ said Amy, who was still trying to get to grips with her own character, let alone understand everyone else’s, streaming or no streaming.

‘All right,’ said Betty. ‘Ricky, we’ll leave it this time, but if there’s any more of that stuff, you’re out of our guaranteed and spontaneous adventure, okay?’

‘Okay,’ lied Ricky. Yes, a hamster-like notion of underwhelmingliness what an utter faddle-fiddle . . .

‘So, now we’ve sorted Ricky out, I need to ask,’ asked Betty, ‘where is Uncle Quagmire?’

‘Yes,’ said Ricky. ‘Where
is
Uncle Quagmire? And, more importantly, why do I always have to call him that? Isn’t he married to you, Aunt Trinny? And am I not the fruit of his loin? And why do I not call you
Mummy
? Did not Amy and I emerge through your dilated cervix, attached to your umbilical cord, at some stage?’

Aunt Trinny laughed quietly, but it was far too quiet for the children to hear so let’s make her laugh again. Aunt Trinny laughed, a little louder this time. Ricky looked quizzically at her. Amy was bewildered by all the talk about diluted servants and umbrella cords, and the freckles on her nose started to gather together into one big freckly huddle.

‘Ricky and Amy, my sweets,’ Aunt Trinny said, kindly yet heartlessly, as she ferociously buttered some more muffins. ‘When you were both born, Uncle Quagmire and I thought that you calling us Mummy and Daddy would be bowing to certain aspects of the irrational global concept of parenthood in modern society and, although we didn’t want to abrogate our childrearing responsibilities, we had to consider the social aspects of care-giving and include a variety of visual, verbal and physical behaviours so that we could engage you both emotionally and successfully manage our interpersonal and intergenerational exchanges.’

‘Oh, that’s alright then,’ chirped Ricky, trying to sneak a peek down Betty’s dressing gown.

‘And,’ Aunt Trinny added, ‘we just can’t wait to experience empty-nest-syndrome. Bring it on, I say.’

‘So,’ Amy said, ‘thank you for making it all so clear, Aunt Trinny. And it’s very comforting to be part of a loving family unit, but where is, erm, Uncle Quagmire?’

‘Where indeed, Annabelle,’ Aunt Trinny said. ‘Sorry, I mean Amy. It is Amy isn’t it? Whatever, I’m so glad you’ve reminded me.’ A frown crossed her brow then, rather strangely, crossed back again. ‘He went out to buy some Brussels sprouts and some of those new state-of-the-art eco-friendly condoms, and he hasn’t come back yet.’

‘When was that, dear Aunt Trinny?’ Daniel asked, sensibly and incisively.

‘About two . . . no, not two . . . it must be three weeks ago,’ Aunt Trinny said. ‘Now, children, who wants some fried muesli and baked beans?’

‘But what if he’s had an accident?’ whined Ricky. ‘Or been kidnapped? Or abducted by aliens and methodically dissected in their mobile experimental laboratory? Or run off with a rather fit blonde lap dancer? Or . . . gosh, did you say fried muesli and baked beans?’

‘I think I did,’ said Aunt Trinny, uncertainly. ‘But help yourselves anyway. You all must be old enough by now to drive mopeds with an engine capacity not exceeding 50cc on UK roads, so you should manage to serve yourself fried muesli and baked beans. I’m just nipping out into the garden to carefully slaughter one of the unsuspecting goats for tonight’s dinner.’ She looked pensive. ‘I’m looking pensive,’ she said, ‘because I think I’ll choose Blodwyn . . . yes, Blodwyn it is then. She’s usually the most unsuspecting, what with only three legs now and a painfully inadequate short-term memory.’

Aunt Trinny wandered pensively out of the kitchen, leaving
the four children and their faithful dog Whatshisname to fight over the next line of dialogue.

‘Hey,’ said Daniel, pleased that he’d got in first. ‘Cool! Yo! Rispect! That’s hella swag, Uncle Quagmire goin’ hooky like tha’, fo sho, innit, like, peeps?’

The others stared at him. Amy leaned forward and frowned at Daniel. ‘Do you
have
to suddenly talk like that?’ She pointed a handy wooden spatula at him.

‘Like-a what? I’z well wicked, wooo-man!’ Daniel said. ‘Random, innit?’

‘It’s alright, Amy,’ Betty said. ‘Remember his condition? He tends to go into some form of urban street-talk coma when he gets very nervous or very scared. It was all that stuff about alien abduction and dissection, it started him off. Come on, let’s talk about something normal and he’ll soon snap out of it.’

The three looked at each other, couldn’t think of anything normal to say, so Amy slapped Daniel’s face with the spatula.

‘Gosh! That was a bit harsh,’ Daniel said, holding his cheek.

‘Yes, a good slapping works as well,’ Betty confirmed.

Satisfied with progress so far, they all sat and tucked into their food, knowing that they needed the sustenance of a good breakfast should things start to happen, which they often would, especially after a good breakfast.

And things did happen, and jolly well right on time too, for when Ricky glanced out of the window he saw the letter that the typical village postman had thrown over the gate several pages ago.

‘Look!’ he said, pointing with his best finger. ‘There’s a brand new letter on the compost heap! I’ll go and get it, as it might be important and the start of another exciting and spontaneous adventure!’ He jumped up, flung open the front door and ran outside to retrieve the letter.

When he came back in again, Amy told him that it might have been a good idea to put on some clothes first, but Ricky was far too busy opening the envelope to listen to a soppy sister.

‘It’s a letter,’ he said, enthusiastically scratching his bottom with the spatula.

Whatshisname sighed. This was a bad sign. This is the way adventures start. Don’t they ever learn? Don’t read it!
Don’t
read it! Please?

‘I’m going to read it,’ Ricky said.

Whatshisname sank onto the kitchen floor, thinking slippery slopes, wedges, thin ends.

‘Who’s it from? Show us, do!’ said Amy.

The four children gathered around the letter, which was from their dear Uncle Quagmire.

‘It’s from dear Uncle Quagmire,’ said Ricky, with unnecessary predictability.

‘What does he want?’ asked Amy.

Ricky read the letter, trying his best to paraphrase it in order to avoid accusations of plagiarism. ‘It says thanks for gathering around, and he hasn’t had an accident or been kidnapped or abducted by aliens and methodically dissected in their mobile experimental laboratory. Nor has he, he says, run off with a rather fit blonde lap dancer yet, although thanks for the suggestion. But he is . . .’ Ricky stopped talking.

‘Is what?’ Amy asked.

‘He is . . .’ Ricky repeated.

‘Is what?’ Betty asked.

At this point, Ricky looked up from the letter and at each of the others in turn. His face was ashen, yes, ashen. The others were about to say exactly
how
ashen when, all of a sudden . . .

In which we experience the first of many irritating Secret Five meetings; the kangaroo doesn’t turn up; they all chat and laugh about the doctrines of the sixteenth century Reformation and its effect on religious supremacy in Scandinavia; they meet an insignificant character who is wearing a hat.

‘I say,’ said Amy crossly. ‘That was a really silly place to have a chapter break. Is this how it’s going to be?’

‘I hope there aren’t too many of those!’ said Daniel, whose voice had become quite nasal, his nostrils now crammed full of Sugar Puffs. ‘But what about the letter, Ricky?’

‘He says,’ Ricky said, ‘that he needs our help and would we like to go and see him. He says that . . . golly! He’s been forced into hiding! He’s somewhere near here in a village called Stunning Bottom, in a big old spooky house called Greentiles. He says that he chose a big old spooky house rather than a small new unspooky one with a white uPVC conservatory because that’s more fitting for our sort of adventure.’

‘How very considerate of him,’ said Betty. ‘I think this calls for an official meeting of The Secret Five.’

‘If we must,’ Amy moaned.

Whatshisname opened one eye and peeped up at them. This was silly, this relentless urge to have adventures. What
was
it about humans? He closed his eye and released a thimbleful of hell-gas. That might do it.

‘Come on everyone,’ Betty enthused. ‘Let’s sit at the table and meet. Officially.’

So they did. They sat down at the table and met, officially, but it must be pointed out that, even if it were unofficial, to an impartial
observer it probably wouldn’t have looked any different, although it would have significantly changed the meeting’s agenda, as the first and most urgent issue to discuss would have been the unnerving presence of that uninvited impartial observer inside their kitchen.