Even the young hippos’ teeth were.
The young hippos were grunting and squealing with indignation. So were the birds. They glared at me and I knew how the daddy hippo’s fleas must feel.
Except the fleas weren’t having to struggle to keep their heads above the mud like me.
‘Cool,’ said the daddy hippo. ‘We normally don’t get fed till four o’clock. Hey, you’re a seriously plump swamp rat. Nice tartan packaging too.’
Other daddy hippos lumbered towards me, and a few mummies. All licking their lips.
I started to think I should have given this plan a bit more thought.
Then I heard my name being yelled, louder then it had all day. Not angrily, like before. Heroically.
And not by Maddy.
By Dad.
Suddenly he was in the mud next to me, just as I’d hoped, thrashing around, driving the hippos back with big sweeps of his arm and sprays of mud and dollops of ice-cream.
‘Woah,’ said the first hippo. ‘Take it easy, dude. We’re a protected species. Is that vanilla?’
The next few moments were a blur. Dad dragged me out of the mud, and while he heaved us both over the railings, I spent a bit of time upside down in his armpit, which was much nicer than the hippo pit.
Then Maddy and Dylan were hugging me and neither of them seemed to mind how muddy they got or how many other zoo visitors took photos of their muddiness.
‘Ralph,’ said Maddy, ‘why did you do that?’
I didn’t try to tell them. Sometimes it’s better to keep quiet, specially when your mouth’s full of hippos’ lounge room.
Then Maddy and Dylan hugged Dad for ages, which made them even muddier.
‘You saved Ralph’s life, Dad,’ said Dylan.
‘And you risked yours,’ said Maddy.
After the hugging, Dad went back to checking me over for injuries. There weren’t any, luckily. But Dad didn’t stop till he’d made absolutely sure.
He didn’t seem to care that mud and slime and hippo poo were oozing out of my doggie smock, even though he’d crocheted it himself.
While he checked me over, I saw the way Maddy and Dylan were looking at him. At his sticky hair and his ripped shirt and his one shoe missing and at the mud and slime and hippo poo oozing out of his pockets.
I could see in their eyes they’d realised something.
Something that, if only I could speak, I could have told them a long time ago.
That their dad is a brave and noble creature from the wild, and no matter how long Mum is away, they’ll be OK.
‘Dad,’ said Maddy. ‘After you’ve persuaded the zoo officials not to call the police, can we go home and have toast fingers?’
‘And after that,’ said Dylan, ‘can you buy me some new underpants?’
It’s been a long trial. Nearly two weeks so far. Mum must be exhausted. I think that’s why she’s doing the amazing thing she’s doing now.
‘Ms Beckwell,’ growls the judge. ‘Are you eating?’
Everyone in the courtroom stares at Mum. A couple of people snigger. The prosecutor rolls his eyes. The jury looks jealous.
Mum swallows whatever she’s got in her mouth.
I’m shocked. When Mum started letting me come here after school to watch her work, the first thing she said was never eat in a courtroom.
The judge is glaring at Mum.
Mum hesitates. I’m pretty sure she’ll own up. The truth is important to her. She spends a lot of time advising her clients to tell it.
‘Sorry, your Honour,’ says Mum.
The judge growls.
The jury looks wistful.
The prosecutor, whose tummy looks like he does a lot of eating himself, goes back to questioning one of the defendants about the alleged crime.
I’m sitting up the back in my favourite seat, the one that lets me see everything Mum does. I can see what she’s doing now. Fiddling with something under her table.
It’s a chocolate wrapper.
Now I’m really shocked.
Mum’s eating chocolate in court. Which is a bad thing to do in any courtroom, but a really bad thing to do in a courtroom where the two defendants’ alleged crime is stealing three hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars worth of Easter animals.
Chocolate ones.
‘I put it to you,’ the prosecutor says to one of the defendants, ‘that the nine hundred and three boxes of chocolate bilbies found in your storage unit came from the same hijacked truck as the five thousand two hundred and seventeen boxes of chocolate bunnies also found in your storage unit, or should I say, in your storehouse of crime.’
‘It’s not a storehouse of crime,’ says the defendant. ‘No way.’
I look across at Mum to see if she’s going to object to what the prosecutor said. She’s a brilliant defence lawyer and she doesn’t let prosecutors get away with anything. But this time she stays silent. Mostly because her mouth is full.
I can’t believe it.
If I was a defendant, I’d be ropeable that my barrister couldn’t speak up because she had a gobful of Dairy Milk.
The defendants don’t seem to have noticed.
Neither, luckily, has the judge.
The jury has. All twelve of them are staring at Mum. A few are licking their lips. It’s ages since lunch and I don’t think the criminal justice system includes afternoon tea.
Then the chocolate penny drops.
I realise what Mum is doing.
She’s reminding the members of the jury how irresistible chocolate is. So that if they find Theodore Conway Tucker and Christopher Waylon Tucker guilty of stealing a truckload of it, they’ll be a bit understanding and recommend a light sentence. Weekend detention picking up chocolate wrappers in a supermarket carpark, something like that.
Phew, I was worried there for a moment.
I thought Mum was being a greedy pig, but she’s just being a good lawyer.
‘Mum,’ I groan. ‘What are you doing?’
I stagger into her bedroom. It’s the middle of the night. I was fast asleep until the noise from her bedroom woke me up.
‘Sorry, love,’ says Mum. ‘Have I got it up too loud?’
She’s in bed with her iPad. Sometimes she can’t sleep so she watches movies. But it’s not the iPad I’m staring at. It’s the chocolate wrappers all over her bed.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘I was a bit peckish,’ says Mum.
‘Peckish?’ I say, still staring at the remains of half a chocolate shop on her duvet. ‘That’s not peckish, that’s being a greedy pig.’
Mum loses it.
‘Jemma,’ she says angrily. ‘How dare you speak to me like that. Go back to bed.’
But I don’t. I stand there, glaring at her. Just like I’ve seen her do to a cop in court who won’t give her a straight answer.
Finally Mum sighs.
‘I felt like a bit of chocolate,’ she says. ‘Is that a crime?’
‘A bit of chocolate?’ I feel like saying. ‘A bit?’
But I don’t because this isn’t a courtroom and it’s not a good idea to cross-examine your own parent when she’s already furious.
‘You don’t even like chocolate,’ I say quietly.
‘I just got out of the habit of eating it,’ says Mum. ‘I used to love it when I was a kid. And last week, when I had to sit through all those hours of expert witnesses testifying how the bunnies and bilbies in the defendants’ warehouse had exactly the same smooth and creamy cocoa butter content as the stolen chocolate, I started tasting it again. My imagination started salivating. My taste buds went crazy. So I got myself a bar.’
I don’t know what to say.
That actually sounds quite reasonable.
‘But when you eat it in court,’ I say, ‘that’s for the jury, right? So they’re reminded how easily people are tempted by chocolate, specially eleven and a half tonnes of it.’
Mum looks at me, frowning.
‘That
is the reason you’ve been eating it in court,’ I say. ‘To get your clients a lighter sentence?’
Mum grins.
‘That is so clever,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think of that. You’re going to make a great lawyer one day.’
It isn’t the reason.
There’s another reason Mum’s eating chocolate in court, and it’s making me sick in the stomach just thinking about it.
We’re in court now and the jury’s been sent out because they’re not allowed to hear a legal argument that has to happen between Mum and the prosecutor.
Mum has explained to me that these legal arguments are a very important part of a trial. And she’s very good at them. But today her words aren’t flowing like they usually do. Mostly because she popped three squares of Lindt Extra Creamy into her mouth just before she started speaking.
‘Are you alright, Ms Beckwell?’ says the judge. ‘Do you need a glass of water?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, your Honour,’ says Mum, swallowing.
She’s not fine.
I’ve just realised the horrible truth. My own mother is addicted to chocolate. Which is putting her career seriously at risk. Not to mention her health. We did it at school. Sugar is poison. Too much gives you diabetes, tooth decay and chocolate stains on your sheets.
Well I’m not sitting here and letting it happen.
Mum might not be able to save Theodore Conway Tucker and Christopher Waylon Tucker, but I’m going to save her.
Mum’s gone to bed.
I thought she never would.
When Mum decides we need a family talk, it can go on for hours.
At least this evening she confessed. Admitted she’s been overdoing the chocolate lately. Though it wasn’t so much a confession as an excuse. She reckons she needs cheering up because things have been a bit bleak since Dad left.
I could have told her that.
‘Mum,’ I said. ‘If work’s not bringing enough joy into your life, find yourself a hobby or a project. Weeding national parks or volunteer dog walking or something.’
I didn’t tell her what my new project is.
Getting her off chocolate.
Good, it’s melted.
I give the rich smooth liquid a stir, careful not to rattle the saucepan on the cooktop. Mum’s bedroom is right up the other end of the house from the kitchen, but sounds travel more at night and a chocolate addict can probably hear chocolate from streets away.
Now for the magic ingredient.
I sprinkle a big spoonful of dried chili powder into the melted chocolate and give it another stir.
We learned about this at school too. If you have a very painful experience, it can turn you off nice things you were doing at the time. Like if you’re wearing green shoes and a dog pees on your feet, it can put you off wearing green shoes ever again. Specially if the yellow pee turns the green shoes blue, which is my least-favourite colour.
It’s called psychology.
I pour the molten chocolate and chili into the ice-cube mould and put it into the fridge.
It’ll be set by morning. I’ll get up very early and put the squares back into the gourmet-chocolate-shop bag. When I give it to Mum as a sorry-for-calling-you-a-greedy-pig present, it’ll look like ordinary chocolate.
The man in the gourmet chocolate shop said this type of chocolate is perfect for melting and re-setting.
‘Are you going to make shapes?’ he asked. ‘Easter bunnies?’
I shook my head.
The only shape I’m interested in making is Mum’s mouth screwed up into a I’m-never-eating-chocolate-again shape.
I still can’t believe it.
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ said Mum on our way home from court yesterday. ‘Your present was delicious. How did you know I love chili chocolate?’
I stared at her, but she didn’t notice.
Just gave me a kiss.
Her breath smelled of chocolate. And chili.
I waited till we’d had dinner and watched TV and she was in bed, and then I crept into the kitchen again. I peered into the fridge.
To save Mum I needed something that would make chocolate taste truly revolting.
I saw the perfect thing.
Fish.
A piece of leftover raw snapper from the fish cakes Mum and I made for dinner.
I chopped it into tiny pieces, melted some chocolate and stirred the fish in. I added a slurp of Asian fish sauce just to make sure.
What a waste of time.
When I got to court this afternoon, Mum wasn’t looking even a tiny bit like she wanted to vomit.
She was busy questioning the driver of the chocolate truck. Gently, because he looked upset. He’d lost his job and said that since the trauma of being robbed he’d also completely lost his appetite for chocolate.
Mum didn’t comment on that, but I could see she felt very sorry for him.
‘Did you see the faces of the individuals who robbed you?’ she asked him.
‘No,’ he said. ‘They had Donald Duck masks on.’
‘Would you recognise them from their clothes or the shape of their bodies?’ asked Mum.
In the dock, Theodore Conway Tucker and Christopher Waylon Tucker both tried to make themselves look very small.
‘No,’ said the driver. ‘They were wearing bumble bee onesies.’
Mum said ‘no more questions’ and sat down and while the judge was telling the truck driver he could go, she popped a piece of fish chocolate into her mouth.
And sucked it happily.
I had to control myself. You’re not allowed to scream with frustration in the public seats of a courtroom.
I wondered if Theodore Conway Tucker and Christopher Waylon Tucker would be interested in robbing Mum of all her chocolate.
Probably not.
On the way home I didn’t want to talk.
Mum did.
‘That chocolate you gave me this morning,’ she said. ‘It was very different to the last lot. A very complex and delicious flavour. What was it?’
‘Gourmet,’ I muttered.
‘You certainly know how to come up with yummy chocolate,’ said Mum. ‘But love, please, maybe not quite so much. I don’t want to get fat.’
I was tempted to remind her about something else she doesn’t want to get.
Fired.
If the judge had seen Mum stuffing her face with fish chocolate, her career would be in worse shape than Exhibit A27 on the evidence table, which is a yellow and black striped ski glove that got dropped at the scene of the crime and squashed by a bus.
I didn’t say that to Mum.
Mothers who are lawyers just love arguments, and Mum’s problem is too serious to waste time squabbling.
It’s so serious, I’m doing something I never thought I’d do.
Creeping into Mum’s room at two a.m.
Checking she’s asleep, which she is, I can tell by the snoring.
Hoping she’s had a sleeping pill, which she often does, specially since Dad hasn’t been around.
Keeping my torch pointing to the carpet as I reach out and very carefully insert a cotton bud into Mum’s nostril.
And gently turn it.
If this doesn’t get Mum off chocolate, nothing will.
It’s slow work, gathering somebody else’s snot in secret. You don’t get a lot for your efforts. Specially not the solid bits you need to make snot chocolate. Solid bits are extremely important if you want the person who eats the snot chocolate to really taste the snot.
After three nights I still don’t have enough.
I’ve agonised about this, but I’ll have to do it.
Add some of my own.
I can’t risk waiting any longer. The harder Mum works to prove that Theodore Conway Tucker and Christopher Waylon Tucker didn’t steal all that chocolate, the more chocolate she eats.
Today she ate heaps, just after Theodore and Christopher told the prosecutor they’d lost the address of the caravan park in East Gi
ppsland where they say they bought the chocolate.
She ate some more when the prosecutor asked them about the colour of the caravan they say the seller had the chocolate stored in.
‘I can’t remember,’ said Theodore. ‘It was just an ordinary colour.’
‘Brown?’ said the prosecutor with a sneer.
Mum put four squares of chocolate into her mouth at that point, I saw her. I think the judge might have seen her as well.
I need snot chocolate and I need it fast.
So here we go, in goes some of mine, straight from the nostril into the saucepan.
I’m her daughter, after all.
It would only be a health risk if it was from a stranger. One living in a caravan park in East Gippsland, for example.
This is weird.
It’s the first day of the school holidays and I’ve been here in court all day and Mum hasn’t eaten a single piece of chocolate the whole time. I can see the bag from the chocolate shop sticking out of her briefcase under the table, and it hasn’t even been opened.
Mum seems pretty stressed.
Maybe that’s why she hasn’t eaten any chocolate.
She has to do her closing speech to the jury soon, and things aren’t looking good for Theodore Conway Tucker and Christopher Waylon Tucker.
Theodore and Christopher aren’t looking good either.
Every day of this trial, they’ve looked more and more guilty. Sitting slumped in a guilty way. Staring at the floor in a guilty way. And if anyone mentions a bunny or a bilby or a baby chocolate animal of any type, the defendants look like they’re going to burst into tears.
Mum’s about to stand up, I can tell by the way her shoulders are going tense.
Hang on, they’re relaxing again. She’s reaching under the table. Opening the chocolate bag. Popping a piece of chocolate into her mouth.
A piece of snot chocolate.
She’s sucking it. Chewing it.
Thinking about it with a frown.
I wish she wasn’t eating it right now. The judge is instructing her to present her closing remarks to the jury. But I can see she’s more concerned with what’s in her mouth.
As you would be if you were having your first taste of snot chocolate.
Mum stands up. Starts speaking to the jury. Stops. Moves her tongue around her teeth. Frowns again, as if there’s something she can’t work out.