“Sorry, madam.” The man shrugged. “This here is a national emergency.”
He pointed toward a long black limousine with a little flag flying from its bonnet. In the backseat was a young woman fiddling impatiently with her unusually sparkly hat.
“Is that . . . ?” gasped Dad.
“. . . the Queen of England?” said Mum.
“And Lots of Other Places,” added the chauffeur. “There’s been an occurrence at the Houses of Parliament. Got to get there at the double. But the blooming car won’t start.”
“What seems to be the trouble?” said Dad.
Mum curtsied and Dad bowed as they passed the royal vehicle. The Queen gave them each a slightly mechanical wave.
“She waved at me,” breathed Mum. Then she called, in a voice that was loud but respectful, “Don’t you worry, Your Majesty. Mr. Tooting will have this sorted out in a jiffy.”
“Open the bonnet,” said Dad, “and give me two minutes.”
“Really?” said the chauffeur. “Don’t mind me saying, but this is an unusually complicated engine and you seem to have unusually fat fingers.”
Dad hated anyone mentioning his fat fingers. He clenched his fists in fury, but Mum calmed things down. “They may be fat,” she said, “but they are attached to a mechanical genius.”
The chauffeur shrugged and unlatched the bonnet. “I’m opening this,” he said, “purely to demonstrate that there is no point in opening it. The engine is very old-fashioned.”
Dad stared at the powerful engine that now lay revealed in the sunlight. “I’m used to old-fashioned engines,” he admitted. “The word today is teeny-tiny problem with the carburettor cooling flange . . .” He tugged and twisted a few things. The car gave one last puff of smoke, then seemed to sigh contentedly as its carburettor cooled down. Then the engine roared.
“Remarkable,” said the chauffeur, shaking Dad’s hand. “I’m sure the Queen will give you a thank-you wave as we drive by.”
But the Queen didn’t give a thank-you wave. She wound down the window and called, “You there, Mr. Tooting. Hop in.”
“Oh, no, Dad, don’t,” begged Jem. “Think of Chitty . . .”
“Shhhh, Jem,” muttered Mum. “You can’t say no to the Queen.”
“Is this your family?” said the Queen. “Do tell them to hop in, too.”
Mum shuffled the children into the car, warning them to smile and say thank you and telling them this was the lift of a lifetime.
“Yes,” said Lucy, “but this isn’t our lifetime. We aren’t going to be born for fifty years.”
“Do get in,” said the Queen. “Plenty of room if you all squidge up. Ready, Soapy? Step on the gas. Soapy is the name of my chauffeur, by the way. And I’m . . .”
“The Queen of England,” said Mum a bit too quickly.
“. . . and Lots of Other Places,” added the Queen sniffily.
Dad introduced himself and the rest of the family.
“I’m most awfully grateful to you for fixing the car,” the Queen said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Cash would be nice,” said Lucy.
“Lucy,” hissed Mum, “you can’t just ask the Queen for cash like that. Do it like this: Cash would be nice, Your Majesty.”
“The Queen doesn’t carry cash,” said the Queen. “Tell you what, I’ll knight you as soon as I have a moment. Got to sort out this dashed national emergency first, of course. I’m as sick as a parrot about missing the match. Did you see any of it?”
“We were listening on the radio.”
“I’m most fearfully anxious about it. Why has he picked Geoff Hurst? Surely Jimmy Greaves is the better striker. If we don’t win, I’m going to pack this whole Queen thing in. I mean, really, what’s the point in ruling a country that always loses?”
“Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” soothed Mum. “England will win, definitely.”
“Four–two after extra time,” specified Dad.
The Queen gave him a searching look. “How on earth can you know that? Do you read the future as well as fixing engines? What a fascinating man your father is, children. I feel he is just the man to sort out this national emergency.”
Fast as a rocket and smooth as chocolate they sped down the A4088 to the North Circular and east toward the A5. Through traffic lights, over roundabouts, they slid through Swinging London. There were Union Jacks. Red buses. Black cabs. Policemen with dome-shaped hats riding round on bicycles.
“I love the sixties!” said Mum.
“Yes, everything’s so modern now, isn’t it?” agreed the Queen. “Look at this, for instance . . .” She twisted a knob on her armrest. A panel opened in her door and a gloved robot hand — beautifully dressed in silk and lace — popped out and began to wave to the empty streets. “For centuries monarchs wore themselves out waving to people. Now that we’re in the 1960s, I’ve got this to do all my royal waving for me. Saves frightful wear and tear on the royal elbow, and allows one to get on with one’s knitting.”
“We’ve got some terrific gadgets in our car, too,” said Dad. “There’s even a thing that pops gumdrops into your mouth if you get stressed while you’re driving.”
“You never mentioned that,” said Mum.
“I thought if other people knew about it, they might eat all the gumdrops.”
“Soapy, switch on the radio,” said the Queen. “We’re missing the game.”
All the way down Regent Street the Queen’s automatic Royal Wave Machine karate-chopped backward and forward so fast it was just a blur, while the Queen herself leaned forward, listening to every kick of the match.
“This is so exciting,” whispered Mum, snuggling up to Dad. “You are now car mechanic by royal appointment. We really could live like this.”
When they stopped outside the Palace of Westminster, the Queen peered out of the car. “Well,” she said, “everything looks normal enough, but what’s that noise?”
The air was filled with a strange throbbing sound. Jem could see now that a huge crowd had gathered.
Dad got out of the car. The paving stones were vibrating slightly, as were the kerbstones. The water in the Thames was bubbling as though it were a giant Jacuzzi. It was the unmistakable sound of something massive about to happen.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had any warnings?” asked Dad. “About earthquakes, for instance?”
“The epicentre,” said Lucy, “appears to be Big Ben. The leaves on the trees here are shaking, but in front of the tower whole trees are rocking. Look.”
The throbbing noise grew louder. First it was worryingly loud, then it was frighteningly loud. People began to run across Westminster Bridge to the south side of the river.
“What is going on?” asked the Queen.
“It’s not what’s going on that’s worrying me,” said Dad. “It’s what is about to go off.”
The moment he said this there was a huge explosion around the base of the tower of Big Ben. The whole tower shook. It looked as though it was going to come crashing down.
But it didn’t come crashing down.
It did something much, much more surprising.
“Whoever did this,” said the Queen, as Big Ben soared over the Embankment, “is extremely irresponsible. What if it flies over Wembley and distracts our players? It could lose us the World Cup.”
“What if it lands on Washington or Moscow?” said Lucy. “It could start a world war.”
“If it lands on Wembley itself,” said the Queen, “it could lead to disqualification! Who would do a thing like this? Who would steal a two-hundred-foot-tall Gothic tower?”
A name was already beginning to hover on the edge of Jem’s mind.
“Who would want to steal it?” said Mum.
The name in Jem’s mind was “Tiny Jack — supervillain.” Tiny Jack had already stolen the Sphinx and Stonehenge; of course he would want Big Ben.
A huge crowd was rolling up the Embankment to see the empty space where once the famous to
wer had stood. They were so horrified and amazed that barely any of them noticed the Queen sitting there in her car.
“This is a national disgrace,” said Her Majesty, shaking her head so that the diamonds on her crown sparkled like tears.
“Cheer up,” said Dad. “After all, it’s just a big clock. Whereas it’s almost over at Wembley, with the teams tied at two–two. The word today is extra time during which England scores two more goals and wins the World Cup.”
Mum stared at the radio in astonishment and despair. “But,” she squeaked, “we should’ve won!”
“Oh, yes, we should’ve won,” growled the Queen. “Of course we SHOULD have won. Where does SHOULD get you? Big Ben SHOULD be over there. But is it?”
“Typical England,” moaned Dad. “The one time in history we win the cup, we go and lose it.”
“What a day!” The Queen sighed. “The World Cup and the world’s most famous clock tower, both lost in a single afternoon. It’s treason, that’s what this is. I’m still allowed to chop people’s heads off for treason, so whoever did it had better watch out.”
“Talking of things going missing,” said Lucy, “has anyone seen Little Harry?”
“Little Harry?” Mum looked around frantically. “I thought he was with you?”
“Where did you last see him?” said Dad.
“When we were looking at Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,” said Jem. “He was pretending to drive her.”
“Ga gooo ga!”
Lucy heard it first. She stuck her head out of the window and looked up and down the Embankment.
“Lucy, kindly behave in a more ladylike manner — there’s a monarch present,” snapped Dad.
“Ga gooo ga!”
This time they all heard it. Then they all saw it — the plume of exhaust smoke billowing like a ribbon along the Embankment, the musical roar of a mighty engine, the flash of racing green. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was just passing by.
“Little Harry!” gasped Mum. “Stop that car!”
“If a car needs to be stopped, I shall say so. After all, I am the Queen,” said the Queen.
“But,” cried Jem, “that was them!”
“Who?”
“The traitors who launched Big Ben!”
The Queen blinked. “Soapy,” she commanded. “Put your foot down. Follow that car! The rest of you, fasten your safety belts. Get ready for the queen of car chases!”
The brakes of the royal limousine squealed, its tyres coughed blue smoke, as Soapy swung the car around. The Tootings and the Queen were thrown from one side to the other as it charged onto the Embankment. A big red London bus was coming the other way. It squealed to a halt just in time. The driver pounded on its horn in fury. Though when the Queen glared at him through the window, he took off his cap and bowed his head.
Lucy gave Jem a hard look.
“We have to get Little Harry back.” He shrugged. “We can explain the rest when we catch up.”
“Unless of course she chops off Commander Pott’s head before you get the chance,” commented Lucy.
They could see Chitty Chitty Bang Bang ahead of them now. They were so close they could read GEN II on her number plate. Soapy flashed the royal headlights and tooted the royal horn (a melodious but slightly aggressive fanfare) to tell Chitty to stop in the name of the Queen. But Chitty did not stop. Instead she blew a great cloud of exhaust smoke into the royal limousine’s path, then sped off faster than ever.
“Oh, that makes me mad,” said the Queen. “What is the point of being a monarch if you can’t stop traffic? Soapy, slow down — I want to talk to this London bobby.”
Just in front of Cleopatra’s Needle was a young policeman on traffic duty. The Queen called him over. “Bobby,” she said. “Get Scotland Yard. Tell them to raise Tower Bridge. Quick about it.”
Before he had time to say “Right away, Your Majesty” she was gone. At the Tower of London Chitty swerved to the right, powering onto the bridge.
“Now we’ve got them!” The Queen giggled. The two sections of road that make up Tower Bridge were slowly rising into the air. Already there was a wide, windy gap where the two used to touch.
Ahead of them, as the bridge rose, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang stopped. Her Majesty rubbed her hands with excitement. “This,” she cried, “is the most fun I’ve ever had as Queen.”
But Chitty Chitty Bang Bang did not behave as expected. Her engines revved and banged. Her tyres spun. Her motor roared. Instead of rolling gently backward, she ploughed right up the almost vertical road and shot into the air. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. Then there was a thud as she landed gently on the far side of the bridge and sped off south along the A100.
“We’ve lost her.” Jem sighed.
“I’m a monarch. Surely my car is more powerful than theirs. It’s the law,” snarled the Queen. “Rev it, Soapy.”
Soapy revved the engines. The mighty limousine roared up the still-rising bridge and shot into the air. “God save the Queen!” whooped the Queen as they whistled over the Thames before landing on the other half of the bridge, which was now as steep as a slide. The limousine slithered, skidded, slipped, and finally smashed into a postbox. There was no sign of Chitty.
“They’ve gone,” said Mum.
“Maybe we could head them off,” said Jem. “I mean, they’re probably heading back to their house, just off the A20(M) near Dover.”
“How on earth do you know where they live?” asked Dad.
“Their address was written inside the front page of the logbook. For some reason it stuck in my head.”
“Soapy!” commanded the Queen. “Take us to Dover.”
“Certainly, ma’am, only . . .”
“On the double!”
“Yes, ma’am, but if I might just ask . . .” He turned his searchlight eyes on Jem. “How does this little fella know so much about these Big Ben thieves?”
“Yes,” said the Queen. “How do you know so much about them?” Her eyes narrowed. She stared at Jem. Jem squirmed. The Queen had been so helpful that it seemed wrong to lie to her, but the truth would take hours. The truth involved time travel, lost cities, piranhas, evil geniuses. Would she even believe it if he told her?
“Jem,” said Mum, “it’s always best to tell the truth.”
“And the truth is,” cut in Lucy, “that Jem used to be a getaway driver — one of the best there’s ever been. He knew all the worst criminals . . .”
“Really?” said the Queen. “He looks so young.”
“A fact he used to his advantage,” said Lucy.
Jem gave Lucy a hard look.
“He’s reformed now. He wants to make amends by fighting crime. Will you help him?”
“Soapy!” said the Queen. “Get moving! The game’s afoot!”
Soapy revved the engine.
“Luckily,” said the Queen, “there is a royal shortcut to Dover for use in times of national emergency. Please don’t mention it to anyone as it’s a secret.”
Halfway along Tower Bridge Road, Soapy steered left into a
. . . until they found themselves bowling along the open road with Chitty Chitty Bang Bang just a hundred metres or so ahead of them.
“Nearly caught him!” whooped the Queen.
Jem looked around. There was something strangely familiar about this stretch of road. Where were they? There were no road signs. Or rather there was one but it had been knocked over and was now facedown in the hedge.
“Mum! Dad! Soapy! Your Majesty! I know where this is! Slow down!”
“What?”
“We’re coming up to Bucklewing Corner — the slipperiest and most unpredictable bend in the road in the world. Please . . .”
“Certainly,” said Soapy. “I hate dangerous bends.”
Gently the royal limousine slowed its pace. Cautiously it advanced along the road. Up ahead of them, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang did none of those things. She went faster and faster. Just beyond her they could see a line of trees. That must be
where the road bent back, thought Jem. Then he stopped thinking altogether. There was a flash of light. There was a sound like a massive bowling ball running through a forest of small trees. There was a ball of smoke and a flash of fire.
“Look!” shouted Jem.
“I can’t look,” sobbed Soapy. “It’s too tragic.” Respectfully he took off his chauffeur’s cap and covered his face.
“Don’t do that while you’re driving!” snapped Her Majesty, as the royal limousine zigzagged out of control. Mum reached over the seat and grabbed the wheel. In all the fuss and panic, only Jem noticed something strange and startling. Out of the ball of smoke and flames where Chitty had crashed through the hedge had shot two plumes of smoke, powering up into the bright blue sky like firework rockets. But unlike rockets they didn’t explode into clouds of glitter; instead they seemed to come close together and stop in midair, almost as if they were looking down on the wreck, almost as if they were talking to each other.
The notorious bend at Bucklewing Corner was first mentioned as an accident black spot back in the Domesday Book in 1086. King John lost part of his Crown Jewels here when he was running away from the French too fast in 1216. He failed to slow down in time and his treasure coach crashed into the field. Over hundreds of years, hundreds of carts, coaches, and cars had also crashed here. Now the field beyond the corner looked like the scene of a motor massacre. And there among the broken-down sedans and wrecked racers, lay the smouldering remains of the most beautiful car ever built — Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
“Little Harry,” sobbed Mum. “Little Harry!” she called.
“Soapy, go and look for survivors,” said the Queen.
They all searched the wreckage, but there was no sign of life.
A young man in a sharp blue suit with a narrow black tie and shiny, shiny hair strode up to them across the field of broken cars, waving a clipboard. “All vehicles that overshoot the bend,” he said, “revert to the ownership of Bucklewing Scrap and Salvage.” He clicked his ballpoint pen impatiently. “Sign here, please.” It was as he was handing her the forms to sign that he recognized the Queen. “Your M-M-Majesty,” he stuttered, dropping on one knee. “You’re very welcome here. As was your illustrious ancestor King John in 1216. I’m Hornblower Bucklewing the Eleventh.”