Alas, their luck changed when they rolled a six and landed directly on the doorstep of a place called Notables’ Nest.
In contrast to Squatters’ Swamp, Notables’ Nest was one of the most prestigious and expensive parcels of real estate on the entire board. If you are a well-versed Monopoly player you might liken it to such properties as Mayfair or Park Lane, which encourage you to mortgage all your assets in order to call yourself their proprietor. They may hardly ever be landed on by other players, but you feel satisfied simply to have such a place in your investment portfolio. Even if you are beaten miserably, acquisitions like these remain a small triumph and help to soothe your wounded pride. I know this from many a game lost to my ruthless cousin, Thomas, who claims to have infallible strategies and always hotly denies that his control of the bank has anything to do with his success.
Notables’ Nest was nothing like a nest and, despite being constructed from cardboard, was as imposing as if it boasted real marble pillars and a genuine crystal-studded letterbox. Miss Pawpaw clawed at her thimble in dismay when the motorcar skidded to a halt outside it. Grouse, who was less subtle, stomped his stockinged feet in rage.
The rule book informed Ernest that it was exceptionally rare to land on Notables’ Nest so early in the game. It cost a grand total of five hundred pounds to purchase but its proud owner would be the envy of all the neighbours. Ernest, who had become caught up in the game, looked down at their money bags which were still rather full.
‘We can afford it,’ he said excitedly to the others.
The children were counting out their notes and discussing the benefits of owning Notables’ Nest when they heard a howl. They glanced up to see a procession of black-uniformed jail wardens with handkerchiefs covering most of their faces marching across the square. Miss Pawpaw was cowering inside her thimble but the jail wardens plucked her out by her fluffy tail.
‘Stop that!’ Milli shouted. ‘What do you want with her?’
Mr Banker looked up in surprise.
‘Pawpaw has been declared bankrupt,’ he answered. ‘Bankruptcy is synonymous with extinction. The rules are the rules.’
‘Surely there must be some way she can be helped,’ Milli said.
‘If she pays her debt of five hundred pounds she goes free. But as she has not managed her funds carefully, she can’t. The matter will now be dealt with by the judge.’
‘What happens if she can’t pay?’ Finn asked.
‘She will be shipped immediately to the remote and uninhabited island of Burr Burr where she will live out her days scrounging for food, friendless and ungroomed.’
‘No!’ wailed the cat. ‘Not banishment. Pawpaw will never survive on Burr Burr! Will no one help me?’
The children glanced at one another and then up at Notables’ Nest. It was such a magnificent property and they longed to see their names on the title. But how could they justify such an indulgent purchase when the survival of an innocent (if admittedly conceited) cat hung in the balance? One by one they tore their eyes away from the elegant doorway—all except Ernest. He was gazing at the house with such craving that Milli became quite concerned and shook his shoulder.
‘We’re paying to stop Miss Pawpaw being exiled,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have to leave Notables’ Nest behind. Perhaps next time round.’
‘Would she do the same for us?’ Ernest murmured.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Would Miss Pawpaw make that kind of sacrifice for us?’
‘I don’t know but it doesn’t matter,’ said Milli firmly. ‘We have to help her. Come on, Ernest, we have our swamp.’
Finn and Fennel, accustomed to frugality, agreed wholeheartedly with Milli’s decision, but Ernest’s face twisted into a scowl such as they had never seen on him before.
‘That swamp is the dumpiest place on the entire square,’ he fumed. ‘I want an impressive address like this one. I can hardly be expected to have my friends over at the swamp.’
Ernest himself was surprised to hear such words come out of his mouth. He had never in his life been pretentious, but inside the game he seemed to be a different person. He tried to control himself but, like hiccups, he simply could not stop the words from coming.
‘I want it!’ he insisted, tooting the car horn for emphasis. ‘I don’t care what it costs. In fact, that’s just why I like it. I vote we pay up. It’ll be worth squillions in a few years. I want to eat off silver platters and be the envy of people for miles around. If we help that fluffy nincompoop then we can’t win.’
Milli was taken aback. What on earth had got into her best friend? Was this a reaction to some new allergy? She spoke gently, not wanting to agitate him further.
‘We’re not actually going to live here,’ she said. ‘This is a game, Ernest.’
‘She’s just a stranger,’ he muttered sulkily.
Milli glanced behind her at the crowd of onlookers who were eavesdropping unashamedly. The twins shook their heads in concern and furrowed their freckled brows. Fennel, who was still feeling indebted to Ernest for his performance in the Wood of Tartar, sprang to his defence.
‘This is the game talking,’ she said. ‘It isn’t Ernest.’
‘Remember what the sentinel told us?’ Finn said. ‘The game is the only way to differentiate between friend and foe.’
Milli thought hard. The word ‘Monopoly’ meant domination, power and control. Perhaps this game was not quite as innocent as it seemed.
‘If this is a test,’ she said slowly, ‘then we must be failing.’
The twins nodded grimly.
‘We have to cure Ernest before he costs us the game!’
Milli and the twins tried their best to snap Ernest out of his trance. They pleaded with him, bribed him, and even firmly laid down the law as they had so often seen their parents do. Nothing worked. Ernest was just opening his mouth to instruct the wardens to take Miss Pawpaw away as her howling was beginning to get on his nerves when Milli remembered something Mr Trevor Treble used to say. According to the music master, the best way to cure a spoilt child was to simply tell them what you think of them with no sparing of their feelings. Milli had often seen this method work effectively for Trevor Treble; no one had ever had the audacity to argue with him. Perhaps it was worth a try now.
She thought back to all the scoldings she had received from teachers and parents over the years and tried to emulate their tone.
‘That’s quite enough!’ she projected her voice above the others and gave Ernest a slap she hoped would sting him to his senses. ‘Can’t you see you’re letting the game take over? You’re talking about gold and riches as if they are the best things in the world. Keep this up and you’ll lose every friend you ever had. Don’t you dare let me hear you say the words “I want” again. This is not just about you, Ernest Perriclof. We’re not here to buy expensive houses. We’re here to find a way home, but you’ve already gone and forgotten that. Fancy valuing bricks and mortar over someone’s life. You’re embarrassing us all!’
That made an impact on Ernest all right. He was speechless for a moment, then shook his head as if to clear it. He looked at Miss Pawpaw and his usual expression of worry and soft-heartedness crept back onto his face.
‘I don’t know what came over me,’ he said truthfully. ‘Of course we must help Pawpaw.’
Ernest personally delivered the money bags to the distraught cat, who had begun chasing her tail in an effort to keep from thinking about the prospect of exile. Pawpaw’s eyes filled with tears at the unexpected show of solidarity, whilst the jailers seemed disappointed to be denied a prisoner. They brightened up when Grouse was spotted trying to steal from the bank while everyone was distracted.
The goblin was led away to the birdcage shaking his fists.
Rattled, but rather pleased at having resisted the first temptation, the children continued with the game. I am sorry to say they did not get much further. When they had completed an entire lap of the square and were bac
k to starting position, Finn waved the rule book at Mr Banker.
‘According to this, we are entitled to two hundred pounds every time we pass Go,’ he said. ‘Goodness knows we need it!’
‘I expect you do,’ Mr Banker replied ‘but I am a firm believer that children must work for their keep. You’re going to have to earn it!’
He removed one shiny shoe to reveal a patched sock (perhaps he wasn’t as wealthy as he appeared to be) and waggled his toes in front of the children. ‘I am quite partial to foot massages.’
The children’s decision to forfeit their two hundred pounds, much as they needed it, was unanimous. The result of this was that Mr Banker began demanding taxes for all kinds of bizarre things and soon they could barely purchase a hamburger without their funds drying up completely.
Things got progressively worse as Miss Pawpaw did everything she could think of to ingratiate herself with Mr Banker. She massaged the balls of his feet, trimmed his toenails and praised his alluring eyes, his smart outfit and his trim figure (which was an outright lie). This earned her two hundred pounds plus a little extra just to tide her over every time she passed Go. Very soon, Miss Pawpaw was buying up sites and erecting tawdry hotels all around the square.
The children had rolled a ten and the motorcar was hurtling along when they rounded a corner and caught sight of something quite terrifying. The flashy red walls of the Hotel de Pawpaw were drawing closer and the car was beginning to slow. They hoped, prayed and even attempted fiddling with the brakes in an effort to stop before they reached it, but their destination was decided. With a screech, the car pulled up directly in front of the lobby of Pawpaw’s hotel.
A porter with his jacket buttoned up to his chin strode out to greet them, but before he could get very far a figure burst through the hotel’s rotating door. It was Pawpaw herself, in pink stiletto heels and a shawl made of glossy mouse fur. Given the generous donation the children had made to save her hide, they thought she might have the magnanimity to waive the rent. But cats are known for their gluttonous ways and gold was the only thing on Miss Pawpaw’s mind.
‘I own this corner!’ she cried. ‘That means you owe me one thousand pounds.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Milli snorted. ‘We haven’t got that kind of money.’
Mr Banker took this as his cue to intervene. Puffing out his chest, he unrolled a scroll of parchment from his waistcoat pocket.
‘Players Klompet, Perriclof and Twins, it gives me great pleasure to announce that you have been declared officially bankrupt!’
The children had no time to wonder where or how Mr Banker had learned their names. They did not even have time to ask what would become of them now. Miss Pawpaw’s victorious yowl of delight rang in their ears as handcuffs were snapped shut around their wrists and the announcement rang out: ‘Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Magic Word
Jail was the old-fashioned birdcage they had seen on arrival. It sat in the remotest corner of the square, half-buried in shadow. Its original noisy occupant had disappeared and the children joined Goblin Grouse instead, who was so sulky he did not even acknowledge their arrival.
Inside the birdcage, pipes ran along the bars of the roof and dripped a gummy liquid smelling of shoe polish onto the prisoners’ hair and clothes. There were cots with threadbare and moth-eaten mattresses. As the children watched, an earwig emerged from one of them waggling its pincers, to discourage any inclination they might have had to take a nap. The cell floor was patched with damp sawdust so there wasn’t even a place to sit down, and a flickering red light made even the rat scurrying across the floor appear more threatening than it probably was.
Goblin Grouse sat cross-legged on a cot, as far from the children as possible. He was engaged in a heated debate with himself about who should carry the blame for his current predicament, muttering fiercely and shaking his head.
Milli occupied herself by staring through the bars at the game board. Miss Pawpaw was being congratulated by a red-faced Mr Banker, who was pumping her paw enthusiastically. Surrounded by bulging sacks of money, Pawpaw bounded about in excitement like a pogo stick. It wasn’t fair, thought Milli, how could the shallow cat’s need to see Queen Fidelis possibly exceed their own? She watched miserably as the thimble began to spin in readiness to transport its avaricious passenger to the toadstool palace. But wait! The thimble was not heading towards the steps out of the ravine. It had rotated and was now moving away from them. Miss Pawpaw looked confused and waved her snowy paws at Mr Banker, but he merely tipped his hat courteously as the top half of the letter P in the centre of the board opened like a porthole and swallowed the thimble whole. It sealed again with a resolute crunch.
Hard as they tried, the children could make little sense of this unfolding of events. Miss Pawpaw had been the wealthiest player. She had won the Monopoly game hands down. Why would she now be turned away? Had the game seen something malicious inside her? If this was the cat’s reward for victory, what must the game think of them to throw them into prison? They looked across the cage where Finn was busy trying to engage the unresponsive Grouse in conversation in order to glean some information. The goblin remained engrossed in his own deliberations, which had become heated enough to include him wagging a crooked finger at his own nose and punching himself on the arm.
‘Everybody getting along okay?’ an agreeable voice asked. The children jumped to see Mr Banker peering at them through the bars of the jail.
Upon his arrival, Goblin Grouse promptly found his voice. ‘Let me out of here,’ he demanded threateningly. ‘I’ll set my flock of crows on you! They’ll peck your chubby cheeks off and use your whiskers as toothpicks!’
Mr Banker just rolled his eyes and smiled at the children.
‘Beds comfortable?’ he asked.
‘Actually, they’re a little—’ began Ernest before he was brusquely cut off.
‘I’ll give you all the gold I have,’ declared Grouse. ‘I have quite a hoard, you know. In fact, I have a gooseberry tree that bears golden fruit—pips, flesh and all. You can have it, or at least part of it. What do you say to your own orchard, eh? You’ll be the wealthiest man that ever lived.’
‘I hardly need more money,’ Mr Banker tutted before turning back to the children. ‘I suppose you’ve never been in prison before?’ he asked them.
Milli examined him carefully. If she wasn’t mistaken, there was a glimmer in his eyes and a note in his voice that encouraged them to do or say something in particular. But what?
Ernest, too, had caught Mr Banker’s signals. ‘How long do we have to stay here?’ he asked.
‘As long as it takes,’ came the reply.
‘For what?’
‘For you to learn your lesson. Otherwise, a lifetime on Burr Burr should suffice.’
‘I’ve learnt my lesson!’ piped up Grouse. ‘I’m a changed goblin; totally reformed. Can’t you see the difference?’ Everybody ignored him.
‘You can’t mean to banish us just for losing a silly game!’ Finn said in outrage.
‘There’s nothing silly about a game that sorts people out,’ Mr Banker replied. He began to drum his fingers on the bars and hummed a tune softly to himself. Clearly he was waiting for something.
The children looked at one another with frustration. Should they confide in this stranger the details of their escape from Battalion Minor and their quest to free the stolen children? There was nothing to indicate they could consider the man who had put them behind bars an ally and yet his continued presence suggested that he might be.
‘Will you deliver a letter to the Queen for us?’ Milli asked, but Mr Banker just clicked his tongue impatiently.
‘Why can’t you children say anything useful?’
‘What do you want us to say?’ Milli and Ernest cried in unison.
Shaking his head, Mr Banker—their only hope of release—began to walk away.
Milli was suddenly angry. If the g
ame sorted people out, as Mr Banker claimed, then it had clearly failed in picking up their intentions.
‘Wait!’ she called after him, deciding that truth was their only option. ‘Don’t you understand that the lives of hundreds of children depend on our seeing the Queen? We have reason to believe that an attack against Mirth is being plotted and the Fada are in grave danger. We must warn Queen Fidelis before it’s too late. We’ve risked a lot to come this far and could end up as fish food if we’re caught. If you set us free, a war might be prevented. You must help us—please!’
Mr Banker jumped a foot in the air, his porky face swelling with pleasure.
‘The magic word!’ he cried in relief. ‘You finally used the magic word! I was beginning to doubt that you children had any breeding at all.’
The others stared at him, unable to recall a single instance where words like ‘Abracadabra’ or ‘Zippity Zap Zoo’ or ‘Bonko Binonko’ had been used.
‘Please, please, please,’ gabbled an inspired Grouse, but Mr Banker took no notice. Removing a key from around his neck, he unlocked the cage and the children were free. Grouse was left calling out ‘please’ in as many languages as he could remember: ‘S’il vous plaît? Per favore? Bitte? Prosze?’ (Educated goblins are usually multi-lingual, for those of you who didn’t know.)
The children were making their way out of the square and leaving the fickle board game behind when the sound of an engine drew their attention. They turned to see their token, the shiny silver motorcar, chugging reliably behind them. Its doors opened invitingly.
‘Need a lift?’ Mr Banker said.
Safely seated and buckled in, the children wondered how the vehicle was going to navigate the steep steps. But they needn’t have worried: with a little phut the car sprouted…not a pair of wings as you avid fantasy readers were probably expecting, but a pair of old-fashioned egg-beaters. Ernest gave a shout and would have leapt straight out of his seat had Mr Banker not restrained him. The car trundled along, steadily gaining speed, until the spinning egg-beaters acted as propellers and lifted it into the air.