The Secret Five and the Stunt Nun Legacy (16 page)

‘If Ricky is telling the truth, which we don’t know for sure because he’s a bit sulky and his loyalty is suspect,’ said Betty, ‘that means . . . erm . . .’

‘Absolutely right!’ agreed Daniel. ‘And so . . .’

‘I’m not sulky!’ said Ricky, sulkily.

‘Hang on,’ whimpered Amy, equally sulkily. ‘That means what, Betty?’

Betty was suddenly irritated by Amy’s whimpering and endless stupidity. ‘You can be so endlessly stupid and unbelievably silly sometimes. It means that, erm, um, it means that we now have to find Old Hag and stop her stopping Uncle Quagmire from stopping them getting together. So, what are you waiting for? Let’s go!’

Without any significant hesitation, the children and
Whatshisname all scampered off into the distance towards the Hotel Bristol
¹
.

Now, outside the castle, it all went very quiet. Very quiet indeed.

Very quiet.

Due to the fact that there were now no visible characters to provide an acceptable end-of-chapter cliffhanger, and there was no action whatsoever (apart, that is, from a rather cute and inquisitive tabby kitten which had wandered into view, and cliffhangers that involve wandering tabby kittens are never that enthralling) this left no option than to end the chapter right here.

Which would have been fine, had the cute little tabby kitten not inquisitively pawed a spring-loaded inhumane mouse trap that had been placed just outside the castle gate in order to capture inhumane mice. The trap snapped shut and the cute little kitten yowled and mewed, then scrabbled around desperately trying to shake it off. The yowling attracted the attention of a kindly old man across the street. The kindly old man, whose hundredth birthday was tomorrow, threw his precious shopping to one side and hobbled towards the kitten, but was accidentally and spectacularly killed by a speeding limousine. On the back seat of the limousine were a top government minister and his overly-attentive mistress, a lady who looked remarkably like the postman from chapter one, in a rather fetching cerise skirt and frilly pink blouse. They were both questioned by the ambitious and incorruptible policeman who suddenly appeared at the scene along with many curious and upstanding bystanders. This resulted in the beginning of a long period of government sleaze allegations and expenses scandals, denials and resignations, a dramatic fall in the
sale of duck houses, and eventually the downfall of the government itself, which in turn prompted the exposure of corruption in many other European countries’ governments and, thereafter, the mass resignation of politicians the world over, in a global war on sleaze.

But apart from the rather cute and inquisitive tabby kitten wandering into view, it was all very quiet indeed.

In which they all get a bit motivated and do some crouching; Whatshisname gains a nice collar; they meet a kindly man called Bob who may or may not want to join The Secret Five; Ricky becomes aghast and slightly agog; they meet Clarissa the stunt nun; other stuff happens, but not all at once.

They were all very excited about this new phase of their adventure as they hurried towards the Hotel Bristol in Salzburg, near Austria. But, it has to be reported, Amy and Ricky were definitely still sulking beneath all the excitement.

‘I’m
not
sulking, you know,’ Amy whispered to Ricky.

‘Nor am I,’ whispered Ricky. ‘Actually, I’m both excited and, at the same time, rather fed up. Tell you what, shall you and I start another Secret Five? The New Improved Secret Five. With added zest, but without the others? We could recruit.’

Another Secret Five? Amy wasn’t sure. She did feel some comfort in belonging. Belonging mattered. And she hadn’t yet completed her training and certainly hadn’t achieved as much as the others. For instance, she’d never managed a stream of consciousness. Never. Isn’t it sad when you think about it never never ever have I had a stream of consciousness after all this time oh I do miss my hamster gordon and his little ways oh and my word they’re all looking at me strangely as though I’m not all there what’s that noise I wonder if I can sneak back to the dungeon I felt safe there oh why are they looking at me oh those lovely dark eyes of daniel’s I wonder if I’ll ever find a boy I like before I get all saggy oh oh is that a bit of girly wind oh oh oh that’s not very good maybe they’ll not notice oooh is this a stream oh how scrummy a stream of cons. . .

‘Amy?’ Betty said.

‘Yes?’ Amy squeaked.

‘Are you . . . were you . . .’ Betty said, frowning.

‘No, not ever, ever,’ Amy snapped. ‘Ever. Anyway, I can’t.’

‘Hmmm, yes, I can believe that,’ Betty agreed.

They hurried onwards. The hotel was in sight. Amy suddenly felt good. Really good. Another tick in the box. (Actually, the first tick in the box.) Maybe The Original Secret Five wasn’t all that bad. She’d try and persuade Ricky that a breakaway group wasn’t a good idea. She felt surprisingly confident and boldly led the others to the front of the big hotel.

‘Everyone!’ she boldly said, in an effort to motivate the restless troops. ‘Let’s crouch here, underneath the hotel restaurant window!’ This is it! The new Amy, full of motivation, confident, self-assured, cool, assertive.

And the others obeyed! They dutifully crouched under the hotel restaurant window, making full use of the well-practiced covert surveillance techniques which were a fundamental part of Secret Five basic training. Whatshisname also crouched, although to an untrained onlooker it might have looked as though he was napping for a few sticks.

‘Amy,’ said Betty, ‘you’re probably the most dispensable and minimally gifted of us all, so you peek in through the window.’

‘Why? Why me?’ Amy moaned, instantly losing her motivation, confidence, self-assuredness, coolness and assertiveness. In fact, the only discernable
ness
she now had left was mellowness, and Secret Five adventure tactics had no prerequisite for mellowness.

‘Why do we have to have all this
why why why why why
?’ Betty moaned. ‘It’s so irritating. Why do you do it? Hmmm? Why? Why?’

‘Just take a look, Amy,’ encouraged Daniel. ‘It’d be easier for us all to do as Betty says.’

Amy frowned in protest which, sadly, went unnoticed. She
uncrouched a little, and took a discernibly mellow peek through the window.

‘I can see Mr Bartle,’ she said, ‘with Old Hag at a table, eating and talking. No, wait . . . they’re just eating now . . . no, now they’re just talking . . . they’re eating again . . . talking . . . eating. . . eating
and
talking . . .’

‘We get it, Amy,’ said Betty. ‘Can you see Uncle Quagmire at all?’

‘Oooh, yes! He’s just come into the restaurant! With that stunt nun Clarissa,’ Amy gasped. ‘He hasn’t seen Old Hag and Bartle yet. We ought to have an on-site meeting so that we can agree a good plan.’

‘Hang on a moment!
I’m
the one who is supposed to call meetings,’ said Betty, rather irritably.

‘Why can’t I?’ asked Amy, even more rather irritably. She so yearned to be assertive again. ‘Why is it always you?’

‘Why me?’ said Betty. ‘I’ll tell you why me! Because I’m the one who’s been on the distance-learning training courses all about meetings! You must take into account that I have the necessary skill base that allows me to call meetings, cancel meetings, take meetings, facilitate meetings . . . end meetings . . . erm, order the meeting’s biscuits . . . and instantly recognise every species of wetland plant native to Britain.’

‘It’d be good if you could add to that list
remind Ricky about meetings
,’ Ricky muttered. ‘Girls Aloud!
Girls Aloud!
’

‘You didn’t hear about the Holiday With Kylie privilege,’ Amy whispered.

‘Kylie?’ Ricky groaned. ‘
The
Kylie? Holiday? When? How?’

‘Thanks Amy,’ Betty said through heavily-gritted teeth. ‘Thank you very much.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Amy brightly. That had done her confidence no harm at all. ‘Now, about Uncle Quagmire and Clarissa. If we’re not going to have an on-site meeting, I think it’s safe for you all to look at them now.’

Betty, Daniel and an even grumpier Ricky immediately stopped
all the crouching and edged up cautiously to take a look inside the restaurant. Uncle Quagmire glanced at them and waved. Clarissa the stunt nun turned and waved at them as well. The children waved back.

‘This covert surveillance is working well, but maybe one of us could go in,’ suggested Betty. ‘We should warn Uncle Quagmire that Old Hag is mysteriously being a danger to his secret mission.’

‘What if we send in Whatshisname with a note on his collar,’ said Ricky. He’d decided to prove to the others that he was faithful to the cause, whatever that was.

‘Good idea, Ricky!’ said Betty. ‘Anyone got any paper?’

‘No,’ the others said.

‘Anyone got a pencil?’ Betty asked.

‘No,’ the others said.

‘Whatshisname hasn’t got a collar,’ observed Amy.

They were all quiet for a while.

‘Anyone got any other ideas?’ asked Betty, eventually.

‘No,’ the others said.

‘Woof woof woof woof woof woof,’ said Whatshisname, which meant ‘Please Miss, I have a plan! If only I had the physical arrangement of the human glottis and larynx, and could therefore master the vocal abilities of homo sapiens, I could tell you all about it!’

‘So, nobody has a plan,’ said Betty.

‘Woof! Woof! Woof!’ said Whatshisname.

They all crouched down under the window again and started to sulk, a bit like spoiled children. Exactly like spoiled children, in fact. But just then, without any significant warning, they heard a voice. ‘Hello, children!’ it said. They looked up and there was Uncle Quagmire following his voice out of the restaurant. ‘I must have overheard you asking about paper and pencil,’ he said, ‘so I’ve brought you some.’

‘Gosh!’ said Amy, taking the paper and pencil from Uncle Quagmire. ‘Thanks!’

‘No problem,’ said Uncle Quagmire as he went back inside the restaurant.

‘That was lucky!’ said Betty. ‘Right, what shall we write on the note?’

They chatted about what to write, and eventually decided on
Thank you very much for the paper and pencil, Uncle Quagmire. Beware Old Hag because . . .

They would have liked to write more, but the piece of paper was only one-sided and quite small, and the pencil was quite long. To make matters worse, it was an HB pencil.

‘Now, we could have put it under Whatshisname’s collar but he hasn’t got one,’ said Betty. ‘What shall we do? Any ideas? Anyone? Will our adventure stop here, for the want of a dog collar?’

Just then, luckily for the children’s adventure, an Austrian street trader suddenly appeared in the story, carrying a big tray full of dog collars of various colours and sizes.

‘Look!’ said Ricky, pointing. ‘An Austrian street trader with a big tray full of dog collars of various colours and sizes! Let’s go and buy one.’

This was his big chance for heroism! Ricky stood up and went over to the street trader, who looked remarkably like the postman from chapter one. With the money Ricky had mysteriously gained as a short-term high-interest loan from a passing impoverished author, he bought a size extra-large and brought it back to where their faithful dog was faithfully cowering. He fastened it around Whatshisname’s neck.

‘Gosh! Doesn’t he look good with a collar?’ Amy said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Betty. ‘It’s a shame it’s very pink and very fluffy with lots of sequins, but look, this note fits under it very well. Well done Ricky.’

‘Woooooof,’ said Whatshisname, now quite gloomy because, yet again, events had conspired against his mission to establish his true doggy sexuality to the world.

Betty pulled at Whatshisname’s collar and urged, ‘Go find Uncle Quagmire! Go find, boy!’

‘Woof woof woof,’ barked Whatshisname, quickly translating
gofe hind
into Classic Doggish, and slightly happier now that someone in authority had again recognised his true gender. He trotted bravely into the restaurant. The children watched as he trotted equally bravely up to Uncle Quagmire’s table, at which point he stopped all the brave trotting. They saw Uncle Quagmire smile and kick out at Whatshisname, who backed away to a safe distance. Then the children saw Old Hag, from where she sat at the other side of the restaurant, wave a piece of peanut butter sandwich in the air! Whatshisname padded over to her and snatched it from her hand. Old Hag whipped away the note from his collar! They watched as she opened it up and read it. Quite slowly and quite deliberately, she ripped it up there and then in front of their very eyes and their very noses. She glared at the children’s eyes and noses, then smiled an Old Hag smile.

‘Oh no!’ said Daniel. ‘If I’m not mistaken, this looks very much like a plot reversal!’

The children watched in horror as Old Hag and Bartle talked a bit, then they both stood up and went over to Uncle Quagmire and Clarissa’s table.

‘Oh no!’ said Daniel. ‘And now a threat to the resolution!’

Uncle Quagmire looked quite aghast that Bartle was about to talk to Clarissa, but not as aghast as Whatshisname, who had just realised what he had done through his liking for peanut butter sandwiches! Because of him the world would be threatened! He hung his head. This was dreadful! Whatshisname’s Peanut Butter Sandwiches would surely go down in history alongside Hitler’s Savoury Pancakes, Stalin’s Spaghetti Hoops, Saddam Hussein’s Pot Noodles and Napoleon’s Spicy Bean Burgers! Maybe he could bluff it out. Maybe he couldn’t. Bluffing wasn’t one of his strengths. Indeed, come to think of it, he didn’t know exactly what his strengths were. Maybe he didn’t have any! Other than knowing
his weaknesses, that is. That was a strength, for sure. Or was it? Maybe knowing your weaknesses was not actually a strength but another weakness? The fluffy pink collar could be classed as a major weakness, that’s for sure. Ho hum. Maybe Jean-Paul Sartre was right after all, we are each in charge of defining our own lives. I like peanut butter, therefore I am, Whatshisname thought. And what about an empirical worldview? Then again, what about it? Oh, this was all
so
depressing. Was canine depression curable? Probably not. It was even more depressing, knowing that his depression had no known cure. Peanut butter sandwiches had a lot to answer for. Or was it a lot to answer
to
? Oh, it was all so much more depressing, all this not knowing. All dogs, by nature, desire to know. Maybe he should have been Pavlov’s dog. He fancied a psychic secretion now and again. Preferably peanut butter flavoured. He sighed and scratched his ear, dislodging a squadron of fleas, each of which had been happily defining their own lives up to that point, and were now condemned to be free to have an empirical worldview of their very own. Until the next unsuspecting host came trotting along, that is.