Everything is very, very still.

‘I regret to in-inform –’ I start reading aloud all wobbly then can’t go on because the words are dancing, swimming on the page, and Horatio takes the paper with a sudden, startling gentleness. I look up at him. Drop slowly down to Bucket and hold her tight and she licks my cheeks like she’s saying come on, girl, stand up straight, be the head of the family because you must.

Horatio looks around. ‘I think it’s best just to carry on, eh?’

And so he does. In a new silence entirely. Because there’s an awful stop. To everything.

Dad is missing.

Vanished.

It doesn’t look good.

Horatio tells us that the only clue to what happened is a note on a ragged piece of yellow paper that was pinned by his hunting knife to a tree trunk somewhere up Woop Woop and he indicates north, vaguely, which means anywhere really – and what happened to the big adventure to save the world? Did Dad even begin it? Did he get diverted on the way by the thought of a monster croc? He’s always wanted to find the biggest one in the world, he’s told me that. My head’s hurting, trying to work it all out. Can’t. Horatio’s explaining that the note’s only just been found and who knows how long it’s been there, who knows anything any more.

It’s in Dad’s lovely handwriting, neat when so much of him wasn’t, like all the letters are standing to attention:

The note stops bang, right there. Scruff’s taking huge gulps of air like he can’t breathe properly. Bert’s screwing her eyes shut as tight as she can and not opening them, the drama queen again.

‘Datty? Where Datty?’ Pin’s just not getting it.

‘Weeeell, my child, we’re not sure . . . exactly . . .’

Horatio looks hopelessly at the policeman, who hurriedly hands me the ivory-handled knife, which is stained with something, blood or rust, I don’t know, can’t tell, I’m shaking, going to faint.

‘Wherever he is, he wanted you to have this.’

At the sight of it Scruff lets out an unearthly wail into the tall blue sky then wraps his arms around his head as if it’ll shut everything off, make it all go away; Bert’s just standing mute, in shock; Pin thumps me like I’ve just killed our father myself.

And somewhere from far, far away I’m hearing some kind of explanation: ‘It’s all up in the air . . . the Melbourne lot aren’t too keen, an aunt just left . . . they’re so very Australian . . . the blackfellas look out for them . . . the eldest kids are crack shots, real bushies, could kill a King Brown with a spade but cripes, not sure how they’d go in the big smoke . . .’

‘Yee-ees.’ Horatio’s now inching back and looking around as if he expects monster crocs as well as deadly snakes to emerge from under house, dog and car any moment. He goes to say something – but another fly pops in his mouth. Miraculous.

‘Well, blow me over with a feather,’ the policeman says, and we’re all now gazing in wonder at this exotically fabulous creature before us. A bona fide Fly Magnet no less. Priceless in these parts.

‘Who are you?’ Scruff asks to no one in particular.

‘Species: lawyer,’ the policeman helpfully explains. ‘Habitat: Pall Mall, London. Food: pheasant, I’m guessing, from the looks of him, and treacle and, er . . .’

‘Fly!’ Horatio declares. ‘I’m your human fly trap. Didn’t you realise?’

‘Can we keep him?’ Pin squeals in excitement, clapping his hands.

What a perfect accessory out here. Suddenly, despite ourselves, we’re all laughing. Mr Horatio swallows again then giggles as if he can’t quite believe what he’s just done. And at that I get the feeling that this bizarre person from another planet entirely could, actually, grow on us. Because he’s got the air of someone who’s completely hopeless around kids – but possibly, inside, is one himself. A very big one. Which was what Dad was like a lot, especially when he was making slingshots with the exact knife I’m now squeezing tight, so tight, because I’m thinking of his cackly glee as he whittled away with it; my knuckles are bone white as I clutch that knife with the string around the handle that he rebound so perfectly, on his last night with us . . .

Dad. I can’t bear it. No one to stroke my cheek with his finger, I can feel it even now, no one to tuck me up at night, no one to tell me I’m all right since he’s the only one who ever does that.

‘Who’s Basti?’ Scruff pipes up. The mood snaps to attention.

‘Er . . . ah . . . you don’t know?’

Evasion. Hmm. Not good. Scruff’s right to be curious. This situation’s suddenly getting stranger by the minute. A spider of fear creeps up my back. Who’s Horatio, let alone Basti? Dad never mentioned either. And what’s this Kensington Reptilarium? Now that sounds vaguely familiar but I’m not sure why, like it’s from some childhood story because every night we’d snuggle around Dad in his big high bed and I’m sure he spoke of that place but I can’t remember details among all the yarns of pyramids and mosques and temples and jungles – how could I forget! My head’s spinning. Too much in it. Too much to set right. I step forward, my hand on Bucket.

Horatio blusters, defensive, nodding at me. ‘Why, everyone knows Basti, young lady.’

‘We don’t,’ I say, calm. Too calm. Not young and not a lady.

‘He’s just . . . Basti. And how terribly fortunate you are!’

‘And what’s this Kensi Rep-il-air-y thing?’ Scruff scowls a squint.

‘Ah! The Kensington Reptilarium is only the most magical, mysterious building in the whole of England –’

‘England!’ we all yell.

‘Why, yes.’ Horatio looks at us like we’re quite mad. ‘Where else do you think it would be?’

‘Alice Springs?’ Bert suggests, looking sideways, eyes narrowing, trying to take all this in. Because that’s the farthest we’ve ever been, three hours east as the crow flies, population 950 and a mighty metropolis in our book.

‘Oh no, good grief, the Reptilarium is in London. It’s your new home. And believe me, you are the luckiest children in the whole wide world.’

‘No we’re not.’ My voice is low, quiet. Because I absolutely love an adventure, dream of gulping up the world but on my own terms, no one else’s, thank you very much. Accompanied by someone I can trust. And not abandoning my former world just like that.

‘You’re extremely poor now, you know,’ Horatio chatters on. ‘There’s no money. Oh no. Not a jot. No one to run the land, pay bills, mend fences, er, feed animals.’ He looks down at Bucket. My mouth goes dry. ‘You’re paupers, the lot of you. There’s no other way to put it.’

The four of us silently back away, dreading what’s coming next. I know Dad was endlessly having money problems but I can’t believe it’s come to this.

‘You’re to travel to England immediately. The bank’s taking over the property. It has to. Do you understand?’

I do. I’m just not going to admit it, Mister Fancy Pants. Tears are coming again and I’m trying to hold them back. This is so . . . unfair. To lose everything, all at once. I look at my brothers and sister, they look back at me, as if I can make it better because I’m always doing that. Well, I can’t, troops, I can’t. But they’re not hearing it.

‘There’s not a second to be wasted,’ Horatio urges. ‘I represent Basti. I’m here to collect you.’ Four faces stare up at him, stock-still, not budging an inch. ‘The alternative is an orphanage. It can be arranged, you know.’

The policeman nods, grim. Like there’s no escape from this. Bushy to bushy there’s just nothing he can do, sorry mates.

I gulp. An orphanage. One of those places with flour sacks for blankets and whippings and wallopings and walls so high you can never, ever escape. Maybe we shouldn’t have been so . . . boisterous . . . with Aunty Ethel. Maybe she was our best bet.

I’ve got to keep us together, keep us buoyant, keep us strong. Pin climbs onto my shoulders and hangs on tight and Scruff bolts his hand into my pocket and Bert wraps her fist around my waist and locks on fierce. Bert, of all people!

Nup, not budging. Any of us. All four of us silent and defiant before this city slicker, interlocked. Get the picture? Horatio just stands before us muttering, ‘Reptilarium – orphanage, Reptilarium – orphanage,’ as if he really can’t decide.

‘Leave this?’ Scruff explodes. ‘Our whole life? Our mum’s buried under that desert rose over there, did you know?’

‘She needs us!’ Bert wails.

‘Leave Bucket?’ I hug our dingo girl tight.

‘I’m afraid so, yes, all of it. Terribly sorry. A frightful mess . . .’

The policeman nods again, straight at me, pleading for help. Throws up his hands. I look around, bite my lip. Leave everything we fiercely love for that faraway place where the sky is so low it almost touches the rooftops and its bridge is falling down – we’ve heard all the stories, I’ve read all the books, Dickens and J.M. Barrie and Sherlock Holmes and my favourite, the history tales, London Stories – but now its eggs come in powder and ham in tins and the huns have just smashed it to smithereens, haven’t they? And, and, what’s left of it? Really. Anything? Roofs? Umbrellas? Spoons? Because hasn’t everything been melted down?

Nope. We’re not shifting. We can do this ourselves. Bert stomps over to her trusty bike with a snake basket on the handlebars that she’s painted a fetching shade of black. Tyres long gone but she can get the steel rims to work. She hauls it up. Sits. Her face says it all: she’s never shifting in her life, thank you very much.

‘Now, who else has flying goggles besides Miss Kick?’ Horatio enquires. ‘Uncle Basti’s plane is waiting most impatiently at the Alice Springs airfield. Did I mention that, Miss Albertina? Red leather seats. Customised. Just for him. Anti-aircraft guns still attached. Real pounders. Boom, boom.’ He looks straight at Scruff, who’s listening with his head cocked, and raises one eyebrow. ‘Basti’s fabulously wealthy, you know. We’ll be island-hopping . . . Borneo, Sumatra, Ceylon, something like that, hopeless at geography, hopeless at quite a lot actually. But it’s all those exotic places your madcap father has spent years visiting. Bunty the pilot, he’ll know. I must say, chaps, the adventure of your life awaits . . .’

Scruff lets go of me. I know him: it’s the guns, it’s Dad’s old haunts, a killer combo, he’s on alert.

Bert cocks her head. Narrows her eyes. Looks suspiciously at this Horatio bloke. He nods.

‘There’ll be new outfits awaiting you in London, Albertina. Velvets, laces, collars and cuffs, all the fashions from Harrods. Paris, if you must!’ He winks. Does this little hop and step sideways with arms outstretched. ‘Brrrrmm.’

Right. Quite a dance he’s got going there.

‘Brrrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmm.’

Bert looks at him with her fists on her hips and her chin jutting out. Assessing. Horatio’s plane does a little circle in the dirt and the brrmming gets louder. ‘London, Paris, Harrods, Claridges, Selfridges! Fabric shops, to make your own fabulousness!’ he chants then leaps onto the balcony and jumps off, clearing all five stairs at once.

That’s it.

Bert jumps up and runs as fast as she can to the house with her hands wide, squealing: ‘Goggles! Flying goggles! Bucket, quick. Daddy might be waiting for us at the other end!’

Bucket runs wildly after the Caddy in the family who’s wanted to be a fashion designer in a world capital – any, take your pick – ever since she could walk. Yep, that’d be right: Horatio’s managed to pick the one and only thing guaranteed to work with that girl. How did he know?

He looks straight at me. ‘We’ll be flying over the exact spot Miss Earhart is rumoured to have disappeared from. Can even stop on a nearby island if you’d like.’

I gasp. Number One hero: Amelia Earhart. I can just see it now . . . finding her, sunburnt and stricken but alive. The world acclaim. A new mum in my life and a pilot’s apprentice to boot, all from sitting tall and squealy on those red leather seats with binoculars glued over the rumoured spot . . .

Bucket’s now barking crazily with excitement. The policeman throws wide his hands like he’s given up. He looks straight at me. ‘Best dog in the desert, right? Leave her with me. She’ll be waiting for you.’

‘Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!’ Bert screams in joy. London, Paris, crowns and couture, here she comes.

And what can the rest of us do?

Nothing, I’m afraid, but fall into line.

Because it all seems to have been decided upon.

So. There we have it. London, Uncle Basti, the Kensington Reptilarium and goodness knows what else – here we come. The four of us, the whole fierce crazy lot.

Whether you like it or not.