The day before Christmas. Minus one degree. Frost outside like held breath.

Four Caddy kids: champing at the bit. Because Basti mentioned the War Office, in the same breath as Dad, and it’s blindsided us. What? Our father’s too old, he was taken from a tree, possibly by a croc . . .

Wasn’t he?

But Basti’s not up yet and so we must wait. In agony. I’m trying madly to distract, to get all of them making four new hats from bits and bobs from the attic – our Christmas presents to our uncle – but it’s hopeless, no one can concentrate.

Finally, a song. Basti’s awake, downstairs, checking on his Reptilarium charges. We rush out.

‘So the War Office?’ I demand.

‘And good morning to you, Miss Kick. What about it?’

‘Our father. You said last night –’

‘I did indeed. Surely you must have known?’

The four of us look blank.

‘I thought you knew. The mission. In deepest Borneo. To rescue the Australian prisoners of war from the Japanese.’

‘What?’ I shake my head in confusion.

‘Your father had previous war experience, from all his adventures over the years, and a highly specialised knowledge of the area. He knew that particular region intimately. There was a group of diggers being held there, at a little-known camp, and his assistance was requested. It was a top-secret mission. Hugely important.’ Basti sighs. ‘And hugely brave, and foolhardy, and ridiculous to accept. But that’s my brother. Always has been. As you know. Plus it would have got him out of financial trouble – they were offering a tidy war chest if he helped out.’

‘But the note, on yellow paper . . .’

‘Yes, yes, you keep on going on about that, don’t you? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I, being listed as his next of kin, received a telegram from the War Office saying your father was missing in action. I presumed I shouldn’t have to do anything about . . . children . . . until I’d received some kind of official notification of, of . . .’

‘Death,’ I wince.

‘Quite, Miss Kick. Then shortly after the telegram arrived I received a handwritten letter from him, along with his hunting knife. It was all a bit of a babble. He was under great stress, saying something about telling you that he was on a croc hunting expedition and that he couldn’t say the truth because it was highly secret, official government business. You see, he was spying. To put it plainly. In a combat zone. A huge and most delicate mission. And he loved you all so much because you always made him laugh or something, yet he couldn’t say which was his favourite but he’d tell you when he got back. If he did. Sentiments like that. You see, he feared capture. Imminently. And he was correct. Which is why he got a trusted villager to send the letter and his knife. To me. The kid brother who he had a lot of faith in, apparently. To make everything right. Of all things. Me.’

‘But how did we end up getting everything then?’ I yell in anguish, my hands at my head, it doesn’t make sense. ‘The yellow note was in his handwriting. It was, it was him. What’s going on here? What’s the truth?’

‘I don’t know, Kick.’

‘You must!’

Basti’s face flushes, he raises his voice. ‘I would not lie to you. I may do many things – fall short in many ways – but I do not lie.’

A throat being cleared. Behind us. Charlie Boo. He’s crept up silently.

‘If I may be so bold.’

‘Please do, Mr Boo, please do.’ My hands are on my hips.

‘I read the letter,’ says the butler.

Basti gasps.

‘You left it on your desk, sir. I thought long and hard about what to do. I, perhaps, saw it differently to you. Four children. Orphaned.’

Scruff cries out in anguish.

‘Possibly orphaned. You, their closest living relative. In a rather large house. Christmas approaching. As a father, as a grandfather, I found it difficult to bear. A lot of families around us have lost the father of the house. Sometimes, tragically, the mother too. The older brother, the uncle; in some instances whole families have been wiped out. I could go on.’

Basti shuts his eyes in pain, shakes his head.

‘So, sir, if I could make a difference to one single family, just one, then by God I was going to.’

‘You did what?’ Basti asks.

Charlie Boo sails on. ‘I did what I thought was best, in the circumstances. You’d kept every one of your brother’s letters, despite never responding to them. Every single letter over the years describing exactly what these children were like. Oh, they were scamps all right, but lovable scamps, I could see that. It was like I knew them myself. And they were without a home. Without a family. Yet they had all that here, right in this very building . . . and with respect, sir, I thought it might do you the world of good. Bring you out, perhaps.’ The butler lowers his eyes. ‘I’ve known you since you were a baby, Sebastian. Seen you off to war. Seen you change. Most . . . distressingly . . . for those that care for you.’ He looks him square in the face. ‘I have loved you, sir, your entire life. And I have always wanted what was best for you.’

Basti’s fists softly unclench.

‘I forged your brother’s handwriting. Yes, I did. On your yellow notepaper. And handed it over to Horatio along with the hunting knife. Gave him strict instructions.’

Basti starts to protest, but Charlie Boo talks over the top of him. ‘I must say, sir . . . your lawyer was in agreement. He, after all, has known you a long time also. The only thing I said Horatio didn’t have to do was come near the house. We all know his pathological aversion to cold-blooded creatures. But he flew across the world, to the place that harbours three of the most deadliest snakes on earth, just for you. And for four children who’d just lost their father. Because he, too, thought it might . . . help.’

Basti shuts his eyes, says nothing.

‘Datty, where’s my datty?’ Pin tugs Charlie Boo’s sleeve.

Charlie Boo scoops him up. ‘Still lost, my boy, still lost. Deep in the jungles of Borneo. The War Office has been unable to ascertain what exactly went on – where he is.’ His voice lowers. ‘We have accepted he’s gone.’

I can’t speak.

‘And perhaps you must, too. It’s time. All of you.’

A deathly quiet.

‘I wish Bucket was here,’ Scruff suddenly wails. ‘I want Bucket more than anything.’

Basti puts his hand on his nephew’s head. ‘A long time ago, you know what I wished for, Master Scruff?’

‘What?’

‘That I could live in the Reptilarium all by myself. That no one would ever stare or laugh at me, no one would ever say, “My, hasn’t he changed?” I wished that I’d never have to mix with anyone – because I didn’t need anyone. So I thought.’ He takes Pin from Charlie Boo and holds him high in the air. ‘My wish was granted.’ Pin’s gently lowered to the ground. ‘Then you know what? Over the years it became so hard to reverse everything. To say, actually, er, I may have made a mistake here. I don’t want to be this person any more, I’d like to stop now. I want to be what I used to be. Except I’d forgotten what that was.’

‘But you climbed the tree!’ Bert exclaims, and despite everything we all laugh.

Charlie Boo melts away. Snow’s now falling outside, coating the world in a blanket of stillness through my glittery eyes. I long to be in it, throwing my first ever snowball. At everyone before me. Basti especially. Cracking him open, bringing out the man who puts bananas on his head and oranges in his mouth, making him laugh and laugh, all of us.

‘It’s never too late to come outside, Uncle Basti,’ I cry, staring out at the blanket of whiteness now shimmering through a wave of wet.

Scruff leaps in: ‘Hey, we could start with Chr–’

Basti shakes his head, shakes Pin abruptly from his leg. Places the chameleon on his head and hurries off as if a thousand things have to be done, right now, and he’s late, so late; it’s too much. Except we know he’s not late. For anything.

The doorbell jangles. We all stop. Stare down to the bottom floor.

It jangles again. Insistently.

Who on earth could it be? The four of us run to the windows.

Dinda. Looking incredibly agitated.

Ringing again and again and glancing behind her in panic, then banging on the door with two fists. Urgently. As if the most awful thing has just happened . . .

We race downstairs.

‘Quick, quick!’ Dinda’s panting through the wood. ‘I’ve just overheard, at Lidgate’s, the butcher’s, in the ration queue –’ She takes a breath. ‘I ran straight to you. It’s the police. They’re mounting a big expedition – tonight – of all nights. There’ve been complaints. From that time you stopped the traffic. Revealed yourself, with Perdita. Certain people haven’t forgotten. They’ve put two and two together and they’re determined to put an end to it.’

‘What?’

‘Highly dangerous animals and all that. There are rumours, scare campaigns flying around. Somewhere in the neighbourhood. A palace of reptilian indulgence, a public danger. There are people determined, absolutely determined, to shut the Reptilarium down!’

Basti’s suddenly behind us, deathly pale, his breath rattly; he opens the door and grabs the doorpost. Dinda clutches him by both shoulders.

‘They want you taken away, Seb. As the owner. Want you prosecuted. For keeping highly dangerous animals – and having them escape.’

That was our fault, Basti was right, we’ve brought him the fatal attention – just as he dreaded.

‘And any children in the house –’ she looks at the four of us as if she can hardly bear it ‘– they want them removed. To an . . . an . . . orphanage. Yes.’

We look at each other. An orphanage? The Reptilarium dismantled? All the animals gone, sent away, killed. And Uncle Basti – carted off to some institution? With no Charlie Boo to help him, or Perdita, or us for that matter? Living among all manner of people who don’t know him, don’t understand, care. His worst nightmare. It would kill him.

‘What can we do, Dinda?’ I cry.

‘I don’t know.’ Dinda bunches a scarf nervously about her throat. ‘There’s only one tiny chink of light in all this. The person who made the complaint . . . whoever they are . . . apparently doesn’t know exactly which building in the neighbourhood the Reptilarium is in. They’ve told the police it can only be found one way. That they’ve heard it’s not too smart-looking, but most importantly, it’s always –’ she hesitates, looks nervously at Uncle Basti ‘– dark . . . on Christmas Eve . . .’

I grab him by both arms. ‘The candles. Of course. We have to do this, Basti. You must let us. To save you. To save the Reptilarium. To save us.’

He starts backing away.

‘The police only have one chance to find the house,’ I plead. ‘Tonight. When all the candles are lit.’

He shakes his head, just can’t contemplate it, it’s too much. ‘It’s a trick,’ he yells and Perdita lashes angrily against her cage. ‘To lure me, to bring me out. It’s just some horrible ploy to get me to light those wretched candles, to force me into doing a Christmas of some sort, to get me changed, to have me dragged into life. All of you!’ he roars.

‘Basti,’ Dinda says, ‘it’s no trick. You have to trust me.’ She adds, ‘Like you used to.’

‘No! No! No!’

‘I’d never hurt you. I’ve only ever wanted what’s good for you.’ She wedges her foot in the door. ‘Come for Christmas, at my house, all of you. There’s enough food, presents. I’ve got the tree, candles, everything. I’ve always wanted to help, Basti, always. All these years. Every so often I’d knock on your door to check. But you’d never open it. I never gave up. Always hoped. It’s why I’ve never looked at anyone el–’

Basti pushes her foot away and slams the door.

In Dinda’s face.

We flinch.

In the most horrible, deflated stillness. Of a house in shock. On Christmas Eve. The most awful Christmas Eve of our lives.

Scruff looks at his uncle, man to man. ‘It’s not a trick,’ he says.

Basti just glares at him. ‘Let me do Christmas how I want to do Christmas. My way. Let me live my life the way I want!’

He storms off.