Letting the Witches Out; the Sideshow Man and the Phantom Drummer; the Challenge; the Black Spot; Silly Old Bugaboo; Three Gigantic Gorillas; The Starting Gun; and 800 lb p.s.i.
The rising sun silvered dewy cobwebs between the fence wires. Steam had blown gently all night from the Stanley Steamer and kept us warm. Uncle Chris was connecting a hose to the boiler under the bonnet of his car.
We saw what he was rigging and scampered to be first under the hot shower. Around us the ground was white with an early frost, but we were warm inside a circle of steaming-hot spray. We jostled and fought for the soap. We shoved each other out through the watery curtain. Our toes curled up from the frost, and we shrieked and pushed back inside again.
For breakfast, Uncle Chris cooked our eggs in his boiler. When the little ones finished theirs, Uncle Chris pointed. “Look up the top of the Tower!” They stared up, and he flipped over their empty eggshells.
“But I ate my egg!” said Casey as she looked down at her eggcup.
“You’ve got yellow all round your mouth,” said Uncle Chris, “so you must have. Try eating it again.”
Casey tapped the top with her teaspoon. “It’s empty!”
“You must always knock a hole in the bottom of an eggshell,” Uncle Chris told her, “to let out the witches, or they’ll tie knots in your hair.”
He gave the little ones some more boiled eggs and cut off the tops. They ate them, turned the shells upside down, and poked holes through. “To let the witches out!”
“To keep the Phantom Drummer away,” whispered Alwyn.
Ah-oogah! Ah-oogah! Banana Bob’s Model T wobbled towards us.
A grim man sat in the driver’s seat, working the pedals with his bare feet. Banana Bob leaned across and steered from the passenger seat. His head was so pointy this morning, it stuck up under the canvas hood of the Model T. He took one hand off the wheel and pointed at Alwyn. “That’s him,” he said. “The one who gave me lip!”
The grim man turned dark eyes on Alwyn. We looked at him and ran and stood by Peter and Marie. “He’s got a tattooed face!”
“The Sideshow Man!” said Uncle Chris.
The lines and whorls of the Sideshow Man’s tattoo deepened and darkened as he stared at Alwyn.
“What’s that?” cried Daisy and swooned. Among the crates of bananas, a massive black shadow moved. We thought we could see a white stripe like a parson’s collar around its neck. Its mouth opened, flames came out, and it seemed to lick its lips as it looked at Alwyn. “Boom! Boom! Boom!” – the sound made us go goose-pimply all over.
“The Phantom Drummer!” said Uncle Chris, and his voice shook. We all cried.
“We’ve come for Alwyn,” said Banana Bob. “We’ve come to take him away!”
“Well, you can’t have him!” said Uncle Chris.
The tattooed Sideshow Man bounded out of the driver’s seat, jumped up and down. “Ugh!” he grunted. “Ugh!” He waved the tea-tree stick with the lady’s hand mirror lashed on the end, rolled his eyes, poked out his tongue – and we saw with horror that it was tattooed like his face.
“Wasn’t there someone else with a tattooed tongue?” asked Peter. Daisy woke, took one look, and swooned again.
Grunting, the Sideshow Man capered across, and laid a scroll of paper in front of the Stanley Steamer. “Ugh!” He poked out his tattooed tongue and waved the tea-tree stick. Before Marie could stop him, Alwyn went, “Ugh!” and poked out his tongue in return.
“Ugh!” With one leap the Sideshow Man landed in the driver’s seat, pushed down a pedal, and Banana Bob steered the Model T away. From among the crates of bananas on the back, the evil shadow of the Phantom Drummer stared at Alwyn, licked his lips, and flames came out of his mouth again. “Boom! Boom! Boom!”
Uncle Chris unrolled the scroll. “Where are my reading glasses?” He patted his pockets and felt on his forehead.
Daisy snatched the scroll. “We hereby challenge you to a race from Tower Hill to the Waterfall and back,” she read in a loud voice. “All Motor Spirits, Oil, and Kerosene to be carried on the vehicles. The drivers must bring back a bottle filled with water from Waterfall Creek.
“If the Stanley Steamer wins, you get a case of bananas. If the Model T wins, we get Alwyn. Signed: Banana Bob, the Sideshow Man, and the Phantom Drummer.”
“What’s that?” Peter pointed.
“Banana Bob can’t write,” said Uncle Chris, “so he always signs with a cross.”
“And that?”
“The Sideshow Man’s signature. You can tell because he always signs his name in blood. He writes it twice, once with each hand – just to show off.”
“And that?”
“The Phantom Drummer can’t write either, so he makes that mark with his thumb. It’s called The Black Spot!”
Daisy gave a little cry and swooned again.
“Is the Stanley Steamer faster than the Model T?” we asked.
“Heck, yes!” said Uncle Chris. “But we’ll have to watch out for the Phantom Drummer’s dirty tricks. Wake up, Daisy, and read us that bit at the bottom.”
“Mr J. C. Firth has agreed to be the Starter and Judge.” Daisy enunciated elegantly. “He will fire a cannon from the top of the Tower to start the race at six o’clock tomorrow morning. The winner will be the first car or part thereof to cross the finishing line. The Judge’s decision will be final. That’s all it says.” Daisy sounded disappointed there wasn’t more for her to read.
“What’s a ‘part thereof’?” asked Lizzie.
“Lawyers’ silly scribble-talk,” said Uncle Chris. “It just means any bit of the car. We could back over the finishing line and win, just so long as we’re first.
“We’ll fill the Stanley Steamer’s boiler before we start, and refill it at the Waterfall. Banana Bob will have to stop somewhere and fill up his tank with motor spirits, so that makes us even. But they’ll cheat like anything, specially the Phantom Drummer.”
“I think the Phantom Drummer is the Bugaboo!” said Lizzie.
We all shrieked. The Bugaboo lived under Aunt Effie’s enormous bed at home. When we jumped down off it, he used to grab our feet with his bony fingers. He didn’t have proper fingers with flesh on them, just bones – like a skeleton’s hands. We hadn’t ever seen the Bugaboo, but we often told each other how it felt to be grabbed around the ankle by his bony fingers.
“Nonsense!” said Marie. “The Bugaboo’s back home under Aunt Effie’s bed. He can’t be in two places at once.”
We all felt better when she said that. “He can’t be in two places at once!” we all shouted.
“Silly old Bugaboo!” Alwyn yelled.
“Shhh!” we all told him. “Aren’t you in enough trouble already?”
“Oobagub old silly!” Alwyn whispered.
“Besides,” said Marie, “the Phantom Drummer reminded me of somebody we’ve seen before. Anyway, how could he sign the challenge if he has bones for fingers?” She waved the scroll at us, and we looked at the Black Spot. It was large and round.
“That’s been made by a fat thumb,” Marie said, “not a skinny bone!”
Lizzie smiled. “Silly old Black Spot!”
“Spot Black old silly,” said Alwyn.
“Not so silly,” said Uncle Chris. “I warn you, we’ll have to watch out for the Phantom Drummer’s dirty tricks.…”
We spent the rest of that day getting ready. We filled the boiler and made sure the pilot light was going. Uncle Chris checked the spare kerosene for the burner, and topped up its reservoir. We greased and oiled all the pistons, joints, and moving parts of the Stanley Steamer. We polished the red mudguards, the brass headlights, and the boa constrictor horn. We polished the silver side-lamps, the red wooden spokes, and rubbed the seats with oil till the leather shone. We polished the mahogany steering wheel with the shammy cloth, and rubbed the brass with Brasso till it glowed gold.
“Might be an idea to throw on a couple of timber-jacks,” said Peter. “Just in case we need them.”
Early next morning we got up and had hot showers and boiled eggs for breakfast, and everybody knocked holes in the bottom of their empty eggshells to let out the witches.
We topped up the boiler. Uncle Chris pulled a lever, and the burner came on with a thump. The fresh water took a while to boil, and we watched the needle on the gauge creep up to over five hundred pounds per square inch.
“We need eight hundred,” said Uncle Chris. He was pumping up the tyres, and tightening all the nuts and bolts. “It’ll be too cold driving with the windscreen down.” We put it up and tightened the butterfly nuts.
Uncle Chris put on a big brass fireman’s helmet he found in the black box. It had a horse’s mane on top like a Roman helmet, and it made him look very fierce, so long as you couldn’t see his face. Marie and Peter wore Great War flying helmets and goggles out of the black box and sat beside him.
The rest of us found motoring caps, goggles, gloves, and big white dust coats in the black box. We sat Alwyn in the middle with the little ones so he’d be safe, and the rest of us perched all over the Stanley Steamer.
“It’s nearly six.” Uncle Chris let off the hand brake. The boa constrictor horn went, “Whaaeeeish!” spat steam, and whistled, “Whooo-ooo-oooh!” Uncle Chris opened the throttle just a little. The Stanley Steamer glided silently to the starting line.
“Eight hundred!” Peter nodded at the pressure gauge.
“We forgot a bottle for the water from Waterfall Creek!” Marie jumped out and ran to our travelling cowshed, the chin-strap on her flying helmet flapping.
“Hurry, Marie! We can hear them coming! Quick, climb on board! She’s got a bottle! Hooray!”
“That’s no good,” said Daisy. “It’s one of Aunt Effie’s Old Puckeroo Skin Bracer bottles. I can smell it from here. Skin Bracer indeed! I’ve always suspected it’s actually strong drink. Matamata’s a dry district, and she could get us all arrested, bringing in forbidden liquor.”
“The rules didn’t say what sort of bottle it had to be,” Marie was telling Daisy when, Ker-rang! Clank! Clank! Bang! Bang! the Model T backfired and pulled up beside us. We stared in horror for inside it were three gigantic gorillas who pointed at Alwyn, clashed huge red teeth at him, and dribbled blood as if they were eating him already.
“It’s all right,” said Ann. “It’s just them in gorilla suits.” But the little ones cried because they looked like the gorillas of their dreams, the ones that eat little children.
“Remember the powerful gorillas on Aunt Effie’s Ark?” Ann said to them. “They were real gorillas, and they were gentle.” The little ones nodded but still cried as the gigantic gorillas in the Model T beat their chests and roared, “Gruff! Gruff! Gruff!” The one in the driver’s seat stuck out his tongue, and we could see it was tattooed.
“Look at the one in the passenger seat,” said Becky. “Look at his puku!”
Sure enough, a round belly like half a basketball stuck out under the gorilla suit. And his pointed head stuck up under the canvas roof.
“It’s Banana Bob!” yelled Alwyn. “We can see you, Banana Bob!”
“Shut up, Alwyn!” we all cried, but it was too late.
“Arrgh! Grrrr! Grrrah!” the three gorillas roared and jumped up and down in the Model T. They shook the folding struts that held up the canvas hood, as if they were shaking Alwyn. They pointed at him and showed their terrible red teeth and their terrible black fingernails, and a cannon boomed on top of the Tower.
“The starting gun!” shouted Jazz. Uncle Chris opened the throttle lever, and we rolled away, silent but for the crunch of the wheels over the frosty grass. The pressure gauge on the dashboard read: “800 lb p.s.i.”