Von Gobstopper's Arcade (6 page)

‘I’m not going to ask you again,’ Milli threatened. She could hear peals of laughter in the background and other little voices whispering together.

‘Pop goes the weasel!’ they shrieked before someone wrangled the phone from them.

Ernest apologised on behalf of his siblings and explained that they were probably
hyper
from eating too much roasted chickpea gelati. Milli wanted him to find Bas and spank him with a hairbrush but then remembered the purpose of her call.

‘Can you believe it? I mean, it’s such an amazing thing to happen. Who would have
thought someone as important as Von Gobstopper would be interested in us! I simply can’t wait for Friday!’

‘How poor are they that have not patience,’ Ernest replied.

‘Ernest, please! I can’t understand you when you speak like that.’

‘Is the excursion the only thing we’re going to talk about till Friday?’ Ernest said sulkily.

‘What else is there?’ asked Milli.

‘Have you finished your Chemistry homework? It’s due tomorrow.’ Milli was instantly deflated. ‘There was Chemistry homework?’ she said, and rang off.

The rest of the week was excruciatingly long for the Sparrows and Starlings of St Erudite’s Academy. They tried their hardest to concentrate on school work and be deserving of the treat that was in store for them, but it wasn’t easy. Every conversation found its way towards the subject of the imminent excursion. Milli drove Ernest mad with her incessant predictions of how the day might turn out. A poet had more important matters to think about. Toys were
childish objects designed to occupy the minds of the very young. Whilst in principle Ernest had nothing against a little fun, he also remembered the consequences the last time the town allowed itself to indulge in what it believed to be harmless entertainment. But when he voiced his reservations to Milli, he found her enthusiasm could not be quelled.

‘This is different,’ she reasoned. ‘Our parents and teachers are in on it, and, what’s more, there’s no one alive less like a villain than Von Gobstopper. You really need to relax, Ernie! Drink some more of that passionflower tea your mum’s always brewing and try to stop being such a wet sock.’

‘I think the expression is wet blanket and I’m not.’

‘Fine,’ Milli pouted. ‘Just don’t go spoiling things for the others. They have every right to be excited after everything they’ve been through.’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled a contrite Ernest.

Due to the number of students involved, it was decided that the excursion would be staggered
over two days. On Friday morning, it was the first-formers who crowded around the school car park, all trying to get as close as possible to the door of the yellow bus in order to get on first and nab the prized back seats. Their animated chatter was relentless and the teachers accompanying them were already wincing in pain. The students were dressed in their dazzling best, having been permitted to be out of uniform for the day. They wore colourful beanies and jackets and carried little backpacks with packed lunches and clipboards should any note-taking be required. Most of the children had brought along their life savings (or as much of them as they had been permitted to withdraw) for the purchase of souvenirs. Milli had packed lightly, and swiftly disposed of her clipboard so as not to be weighed down during the tour of the arcade. Mrs Perriclof had packed Ernest’s bag and every compartment was bursting with items that might come in handy. Milli spotted several thick spiral notebooks, a tin of coloured pencils, packets of tissues and throat lozenges, an extra pair of thick socks and a thermos of cream of asparagus soup.

Miss Macaw insisted the Sparrows form a civilised queue and ticked off names as they boarded the bus. ‘Stop buzzing like bumblebees!’ she cried. ‘Stop chattering like chipmunks!’ But she was smiling so they concluded she must understand, if not share, their excitement.

The trip to the arcade was a mere twenty minutes but this didn’t stop the children from singing at the tops of their lungs as if they were heading off on a journey of several hours. They mostly sang one song, made up by a predecessor whose name had been forgotten. Parts of it made no sense at all but this did not, of course, detract from their pleasure in singing it. It was only the bus driver’s face that turned purple in exasperation by the time they had run through it for the fourth time.

Oh, off we go
—
dippy-dee, dippy-doe,
Bouncing on the ends of our tippy-tippy toes.
Hungry little beavers
—
eager to see,
Feeling dreadfully sorry for any absentees.

We look up, we look down,
We look left and right and round,
Not a thing do we miss,
Not one Bruce or Dick or Chris.

All the other children are doing ordinary things,
While here in our bus we sit like kings
And now we’re on our way!

As they sang they passed around bags of boiled sweets. Ernest munched on some roasted chestnuts that had turned as hard as pebbles. A boy called Ha-Ha Pyles shared his tin of blueberry marshmallows, which everyone had a try of. Ha-Ha Pyles was a sunny and good-natured boy despite his rather unfortunate surname. (Look it up if you think it doesn’t sound too bad.) Ha-Ha was a nickname acquired from a habit of laughing at most things people said to him. You could say a casual ‘It’s looking like rain’, or the slightly more sober ‘My grandmother has just been diagnosed with dementia’, and Peter’s (his birth name) inevitable response was ‘Ha-ha’. His teachers told his
parents he would eventually outgrow the habit, and they were right; but the nickname stuck.

The singing stopped abruptly when the bus turned into a gravel driveway lined with poplars and pulled up in front of a magnificent construction that looked as if it had floated across the world from a Renaissance city. Milli and Ernest barely recognised the place that had once been their adoptive home. The twisting gravel drive was the only thing that had not been transformed. It seemed appropriate that what had once been a prison that repressed individual thought should now function as a place that celebrated childhood and enjoyment.

Von Gobstopper’s Arcade had been modelled on the arcades found in many European cities. If you have ever seen one, you will know that they are tunnel-shaped buildings with arches for entrances, and a fair bit of decoration in the form of carved stone pillars, more arches and a dome of glass. Leading up to the entrance were hedges that had been shaped with bewitching artistry into giant toys. The children marvelled at a shrub teddy bear sitting on his bottom and waving his paws, two soldiers cut from poplars
that stood on either side of the entrance, and assorted gadgets such as yo-yos, bouncy balls and even a giant train set. Above the arched entrance, a painted daisy chain spelled out the words:
Von Gobstopper’s Arcade
—
Children of All Ages Welcome.
Nearby, still outside, was a giant statue of the building’s founder. Giant statues of founders or patrons usually look rather stern, but Von Gobstopper’s statue showed a gentle, smiling man. He wore overalls, and was holding a hammer and a chisel, the most basic tools of his trade. Although he had a moustache, the crinkling around his eyes and the corners of his mouth indicated that he had never quite grown up.

Miss Macaw announced their arrival to a man in a ticket cubicle, but their presence had already been noted. She had barely finished speaking when there was a sound like the clashing of cymbals and an elegant woman in a smart suit, bubblegum pink, and with matching stilettos, appeared at the entrance and moved towards them with crisp and decisive gestures. She was inordinately tall and insect-thin. Her heels made a crunching sound on the gravel
when she walked. Her face and hands were chalk white and her lips only slightly less pale. Her black hair was swept back from her oval face, smoothed into place by some unguent and held by tortoise-shell combs. The dark circles under her eyes suggested she was not a good sleeper. Although she could not be more than twenty, her demeanour suggested someone much older. Milli noticed that she didn’t look directly at the children; rather, her eyes focused on an area slightly above their heads.

‘Welcome to Von Gobstopper’s Arcade,’ she said in a tight and formal voice. ‘My name is Ms Tempest Anomali and I am the curator.’ She almost hissed as she emphasised her title. ‘I will be conducting today’s tour and there will be opportunities for questions later. The arcade comprises various levels, each one, as you shall see, dedicated to a special genre of toy or theme. But before we begin our adventure there are some important things you need to know, so I now request your full attention.’

The rules were few and simple, as Ms Tempest Anomali explained. The arcade was not a museum and interaction with the toys was
invited. They must, however, behave respectfully at all times, as some of the items on display had travelled a long distance and were priceless. They could not wander away from the group at any time unless told otherwise, and they would be shown which shops it was possible to make purchases from. They must leave all bags and valuables in the cloakroom and the taking of photographs was strictly prohibited. Toys reacted badly to cameras flashing in their faces.

By the time the curator had finished her speech her expression had relaxed a little. She forced her mouth into a smile but it came out lopsided, as if this was the first time her lips had received such an instruction from her brain. ‘Well, then,’ she said, putting her palms together and inclining her head slightly, ‘are we ready to go inside?’

She had not anticipated the eager cheer that followed. Her head jerked back and she suddenly looked affronted. But just as quickly her composure returned, along with the smile that looked more like a grimace, and she led the way inside.

I
n order to convey to you the extent of the wonders the children were about to experience, I ask you to think about the most spectacular thing you have ever seen. Was it fireworks exploding like sea anemones across a midnight sky on New Year’s Eve? Was it the costumes in a theatre production that were so vivid and lavish they took your breath away? Was it an architectural masterpiece viewed on a cultural tour with your parents? Whatever it was, think of your reaction magnified one hundred times and you may get some idea of how the children felt.

At first, however, there wasn’t that much to
see—just a vast gallery with a richly coloured mosaic floor, decorative columns and quaint little shopfronts lining either side. Milli and Ernest observed immediately that the different levels within Hog House had been retained, forming tiers that reached upwards towards a domed ceiling made entirely of stained-glass panels that scattered beams of tinted light across the floor. There was a sweeping staircase to one side, and old-fashioned elevators, painted forest green, for those too impatient to climb the stairs.

The group stopped dutifully to read the arcade directory, which was shaped like an ancient scroll and held up by two brightly painted clay giants.

Between the giants’ colossal sandalled feet was a map. Milli ignored it and instead tried to look inside the closest shops to determine their contents. At the entrance to one were giant powder puffs acting as revolving doors. It appeared to be a beauty parlour. What was a beauty parlour doing in the middle of a toy arcade, you may ask? Milli wondered the same thing and could only conclude that some of the

toys availed themselves of such services. Another shop interior seemed to be choked with vegetation. Bulky vines hung from the ceiling and a carpet of leaves covered the floor. Milli was intrigued to see
Jungle Life
written on the plaque outside and in brackets below:
Unsupervised Entry Strictly Prohibited.

The main gallery, where they were now standing, was lit by enormous gaslights held by wrought-iron arms protruding from the walls. A familiar and mouth-watering aroma filled the air. It smelled like a mixture of popcorn and vanilla biscuits. Ms Anomali pointed a thin finger to the ceiling, and when the children looked up, they nearly jumped out of their skins. Suspended on fishing wire above them was a row of teddy bears in tutus. They did a little choreographed dance and sang a welcome song; a performance which the children rewarded with riotous applause.

Welcome to the Toy Arcade

A world filled with laughter.

Make sure you’ve left your worries behind

For there’s no room for mopers.

Welcome to the Toy Arcade We hope you’ll be enchanted.

Ms Anomali waited for the applause to subside then ushered them over to a pile of brightly coloured beanbags and indicated they should sit down. The children settled into the beanbags, which let out a ‘Please sit down’ in a range of different accents each time they adjusted their position, but fell silent when Ms Anomali began speaking.

‘It is only when a toy loses its lustre of newness that it becomes really interesting,’ the curator began. ‘Many of the toy exhibits here are part of history. They all have a story to tell. I am sure you are already acquainted with the honey-coloured bear wearing a blue raincoat and red hat, or the wooden boy in overalls with the ridiculously long nose?’ She spoke in such an alluring tone that her words sent shivers down their spines.