“I don’t suppose you’ve seen any treacherous types hereabouts?” asked the Queen. “Someone has stolen Big Ben.”
“It was on the radio, ma’am,” said Bucklewing. “London is in a state of panic. First the defeat in the World Cup, then Big Ben was stolen, and now they say that you are lost without a trace.”
“I’m not lost,” said the Queen. “I’m just in Kent.”
“In London all anyone knows is that you vanished during halftime.”
A thoughtful look spread over the Queen’s face. “If they think we’ve vanished, Soapy,” she said, “couldn’t we sort of . . . stay vanished? Couldn’t we take the car and . . . disappear. Couldn’t we just ride away to Paris, or Egypt, or look for lost cities or the North Pole. I’ve always wanted to see the North Pole.”
“Me too,” said Dad.
“Majesty,” said Soapy, “London is in a state of panic. Your people are frightened and sad. One wave from you and all would be well. As one of your subjects, I can tell you that when I’m feeling blue nothing cheers me like the smile on your cheeky royal face.”
“Oh, all right, don’t go on about it,” she muttered, trudging off toward her car.
“I’ll see you to your motorcar, ma’am.”
“If you find those traitors,” called the Queen over her shoulder as she waved good-bye, “I’ll ennoble you all or something.”
The Tootings looked despondently at the wreck of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
“Where can Little Harry be?” sobbed Mum.
“Perhaps he wasn’t in Chitty after all,” said Dad, considering the damage to the car. “You know, she looks bad, but I really think she can be fixed.”
Jem glanced upward. The two plumes of smoke he had noticed earlier were no longer climbing into the sky. In fact, they were plummeting down toward them like guided missiles. Closer and closer they came. As they swooped near, Jem could see that they seemed to have faces. Stern, staring faces wearing big black goggles. They whistled over the Tootings’ heads, close enough to ruffle their hair. They dropped down on the grass. They were children! A blond little girl and a dark-haired boy, each wearing a pair of flying goggles and a jet pack. The girl peered at the Tootings through her goggles. The huge lenses made her look like a big, furious insect.
“Who are you?” said Mum.
“I know who they are,” said Jem. “You’re Jemima and Jeremy Pott, aren’t you?”
“Yes, we are.” The girl smiled. “Was that the Queen just now? Are you friends of hers?”
“No. She just gave us a lift.”
“Jeremy and Jemima Pott!” said Dad. “This is a very exciting moment for us. We’re big fans of your father’s work. I mean . . . Chitty Chitty Bang Bang — what a car. I’m a mechanic myself, you know, so I appreciate the finer points of —”
“We’re looking,” interrupted Mum, “for our little son. He was last seen sitting in your car — in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang — pretending to drive it.”
“Yes, he was there when we drove off,” said Jemima. “We felt sorry for him. I wanted to adopt him. He was sweet — he kept wanting to use our jet packs.”
“Wow,” said Dad. “Jet packs. I always wanted a jet pack. Did your father invent them?”
“Yes,” said Jeremy.
“What a genius.”
“Never mind about jet packs,” snapped Mum. “Where is Little Harry?”
“Oh. That was all a bit strange,” explained the girl. “We were watching the World Cup Final. Father had the Remote Control Big Ben Launcher in his pocket. He was going to press the button the moment the final whistle went. Suddenly the countdown counter started to turn. Someone had initiated the launch sequence. Naturally we all jumped into Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and set off to try to stop it. When we got there, Big Ben was —”
“Don’t say any more,” interrupted Jeremy. “This is all top secret. Even the Queen didn’t know about it.”
“Your father turned Big Ben into a rocket?” said Dad. “What a genius!”
“Yes, he is a genius,” said Jeremy.
“It was supposed to be a lovely surprise,” said Jemima. “Big Ben was going to fly all around the world ringing its chimes to celebrate England winning the World Cup. Now it’s all spoiled.”
“Get to Little Harry,” said Mum.
“Big Ben was making a terrible racket. Little Harry — so funny — he came with us to see what was wrong. Mimsie and Daddy dashed inside to try to save the nation and told us to wait in the car. While we were waiting a lady dressed all in red, with red hair, came over and looked at Chitty . . .”
“Oh, no!” Mum gasped. “I know what’s coming next. Don’t say any more. Oh. Yes. Do — tell us everything.”
“We weren’t surprised she was looking at Chitty. People are always looking at her because she is so beautiful. But then Chitty gave a blast on her Klaxon. She does that when she’s upset.”
“I gave the lady a hard stare,” said Jeremy.
“Which was brave of you because she did look quite fierce. But she seemed to know Little Harry. She said his name. ‘Hello, Little Harry,’ she said. ‘How would you like to come and play a game?’”
“Little Harry knows better than to talk to strangers,” said Mum.
“She didn’t seem like a stranger. It seemed like he remembered her from somewhere.”
Little Harry did indeed remember seeing the lady dressed in red before. He was just a bit hazy about some of the details. He remembered her being nice and smiley and something about food. Somehow he did not remember that the food in question was himself and that she had been going to feed him to a pool of piranhas.
“The lady said her motto was ‘Fun, fun, fun.’ And Little Harry said ‘FUN!’ really loudly, just like that. Then she asked him what his favourite kind of fun was.”
“Dinosaurs,” said Mum, through her tears.
“That’s exactly what he said — dinosaurs. And do you know what the woman did then? She opened her handbag and took out a dinosaur egg of the kind a stegosaurus might lay. Isn’t that extraordinary — what kind of woman would just happen to have a dinosaur egg in her purse? The little chap seemed terribly excited about it. He trotted after her into Big Ben with a smile on his face. Oh, dear, should we have stopped him?”
Mum was too upset to reply.
“Anyway, the next thing we knew, there was a deafening explosion and a blinding flash and Big Ben took off with Mimsie and Daddy and the woman in red . . .”
“. . . and Little Harry . . .”
“. . . all on board. Goodness knows what’s going to happen to them.” As Jemima said this she looked up at the sky, trying to imagine the fate that awaited them all.
“The woman in red,” explained Jem, “is called Nanny. She looks after a very small evil genius called Tiny Jack. We believe it was Tiny Jack who detonated the Big Ben rocket with your parents on board.”
“And now she’s got Little Harry.” Mum grasped Dad’s hand in despair.
“I’m sure my father will deal with this Jack fellow in no time,” Jeremy said with confidence. “Especially if he’s tiny. Father is six foot two. He used to be in the Navy. He’s also a genius.”
“It’s not as simple as that,” said Jem. “Tiny Jack is a thief. He’ll steal anything — the Sphinx, Stonehenge, the Pyramids. But most of all he likes to steal cars. In fifty years’ time he will steal this car—” he pointed to the wreckage of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang —“and use her as the greatest getaway car ever. He could use her to steal all the gold from ancient El Dorado and escape into the future . . .”
“But that would change the course of history,” objected Jemima. “Father said we must never travel in time unless we are accompanied by a responsible adult.”
“Tiny Jack would probably think that was fun,” said Lucy.
“Fun?!” exclaimed Jeremy. “To make England lose the World Cup?”
“His idea of fun,” explained Lucy, “is different from ours. He plays Snakes and Ladders
with real snakes . . . What’s the Time, Mr. Wolf? with an actual wolf. He wants to be the greatest supervillain the world has ever known.”
“But we can stop him,” said Jem, “with the help of you and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”
Jeremy pointed out that Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was now a smouldering wreck.
“The word today,” said Dad, “is patch and mend. We’re in probably the greatest scrapyard in the world. This scrapyard is a compendium of British engineering genius. I’m sure I can get Chitty Chitty Bang Bang up and running in no time. The word today is joining forces to defeat evil supervillains.”
“We can do it,” said Jem, “as long as we have Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” He almost added that this was what Chitty wanted, this was why she had brought them to 1966. But he didn’t say that, for fear that they would think he was mad.
“Chitty will save them,” said Jemima, as if she could hear Jem’s thoughts. “When we were kidnapped by gangsters, she took Mummy and Daddy right to their hiding place. I think she really cares about us.”
“Yes,” said Jem, a bit too enthusiastically. But that was all right. No one heard him anyway because . . .
“Ga gooo ga!!!!”
Everyone swung round to look at Chitty. While they had been talking, Hornblower Bucklewing XI had attached a length of chain to her radiator, and now that chain was taut and quivering. Whatever was on the other end of the chain was pulling the car toward itself with incredible strength.
“Oh, good,” said Jeremy. “Bucklewing’s got her the right way up again.”
But Chitty did not agree. Her mighty wheels ran backward, her engine screamed, as she pulled with all her mechanical muscle against the chain.
“Look!” said Lucy, pointing down the long avenue of smashed cars and abandoned tyres toward a machine — a towering metal machine, shaped like a huge mouth. Its tongue was a long black conveyor belt. For teeth it had two rows of jagged metal spikes. For a stomach it had a thumping great crusher that pumped slowly up and down like a slow-motion fist. A rusty old pickup truck wobbled up the conveyor belt and into the machine’s mouth. Glass splintered. Steel twisted. Tyres exploded. Rubber burned blue. Then out of the other end came a perfect metal cube, about the size of an old television set.
Chitty was next in the queue.
“He’s feeding Chitty into a car crusher!” gasped Mum.
“I’ll stop him!” called Dad, sprinting off toward the machine, yelling, “Mr. Bucklewing! Mr. Bucklewing!”
“He’ll never make it!” wailed Jemima.
She’s right, thought Jem. He hurled himself after Chitty. He vaulted over her door. He jumped into her front seat. He stamped on her brakes. Still the chain dragged her toward the jaws. He pulled on the hand brake. Her wheels locked tight. But still the machine pulled, sledging Chitty through the splurging mud. Wings, thought Jem. “Surely she can fly out of here . . .” He pulled on the flight lever. Chitty’s chassis shuddered as she engaged her wings. A yellow light flashed the message SPEED in thick black letters on top of the flight lever, adding the word IDIOT! in even thicker letters. Even though he was possibly about to be crushed to death, Jem allowed himself a smile. Chitty had never communicated with him in actual words before. He pressed the accelerator. He shifted gear. Instead of trying to back away from the terrible machine, Chitty raced toward it. There was a familiar jolt, the jolt that always came when her wings caught the wind. The rushing air pinned Jem right back in his seat. “Whoopeee!” he yelled, as Chitty soared into the air and skimmed over the top of the crushing machine. Chitty twisted in the air triumphantly.
The triumph lasted exactly forty-two seconds.
Having twisted once, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang twisted again. And again. Until Jem was sick and dizzy. Looking down, he saw his family waving at him wildly. He couldn’t hear what they were shouting over the hungry mechanical chomping of the crusher. But it was obvious what they were trying to say. Chitty might be in the air, but the chain was still attached to her radiator. Link by link the chain was hauling her back toward those massive jaws.
Jem searched the dashboard. There were buttons that adjusted the wing mirrors, the mudguards, the angle of the seats, but there seemed to be nothing that could save him. “Come on, Chitty,” he breathed, “give me a clue.”
A light on the dashboard glowed pink. Black letters appeared across it.
GIVE UP!
“No!” snarled Jem. There must be something he could do. Could he crawl along the bonnet and unhook the chain? By now Chitty was turning and turning in smaller and smaller circles, whirling faster and faster. Jem could feel his brain knocking against the inside of his own skull.
The pink light on the dashboard darkened to an angry red.
JUMP!
“Never!”
Every light on the dashboard flickered as though Chitty were turning into a terrified Christmas tree. Suddenly they froze and black letters spelled out the words HOLD TIGHT! across them all.
Before he had time to wonder what this meant, Jem felt his ears being pressed against the sides of his head . . .
his head being pushed down into his neck . . .
his knees being forced up into his stomach . . .
and his stomach turning somersaults.
The trees turned somersaults, too . . .
and so did the clouds.
Clouds and trees appeared and disappeared in sequence as though the whole world were in a washing machine.
Then . . . thud. He was sitting on top of a broken bus. But somehow he was still in the lovely leather driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, trying to figure out why the view had changed. Whereas before he was looking at spinning trees, now all he could see was a massive noisy machine gnashing its way toward the back end of the car that was hanging out of its jaws. The license of the car was GEN II, so that car must be . . . wait! No!
It couldn’t be!
Chitty had activated her ejector seat and sent Jem rocketing to safety.
“Ga gooo . . .”
. . . Nothing.
There was a terrible crunch. It sounded like a massive cube of metal falling from the top of a huge metal machine onto a pile of scrap metal. It was made by a massive cube of metal falling from the top of a huge metal machine onto a pile of scrap metal. That cube of metal had once been Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
Everyone stared at the Cube of Metal That Had Once Been Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. No one knew what to say.
Hornblower Bucklewing XI strode over, carrying a big basket. “I saved the picnic for you.” He smiled over the top of the creaking hamper. “It was strapped to the back bumper. Lots of goodies in here.”
Slowly Jeremy looked up at him. “You squashed our car,” he said.
“Legally it was my car. Once anything comes through that hedge, it belongs to the Bucklewing Scrap and Salvage Company. Always has done, right back to the Royal Charter of 1216.”
“You squashed the most beautiful car on Earth,” snarled Jemima.
“Oh, come on. It was really old-fashioned.” Bucklewing shrugged. “This is 1966. We want things to be modern and speedy. Your car was really old-fashioned and square.”
“Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is not square,” said Jemima with a sniff.
“Not anymore.” Hornblower smiled. “Now she’s a cube.” He put the picnic hamper down on top of the cube. “Look, it’s sort of a trendy table now. I’m going to crush all these old-fashioned cars. They’ve been here so long, just getting old and rusty. That’s why I bought this brand-new, ultra-modern car crusher. I’m going to clean this place up and make it look modern and with-it.”
“She doesn’t look like a table,” said Lucy. “She looks like a gravestone — the gravestone of the most fabulous car in history.”
Jem looked at the Cube of Metal That Had Once Been Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. He thought of all the terrible things that were happening simply because that car was no longer a car — his own little brother was stuck in a rocket-propelled Big Ben, he
ading for a crash landing who knew where.
So were Commander and Mimsie Pott, and with them all hope of defeating Tiny Jack. The whole world could be destroyed, all because of this cube of metal.
No one knew what to say, but Dad had a go. “Children,” he said, “you must be feeling sad and frightened. After all, your parents could be about to sink into the Pacific, or smash into a Himalaya, or plop into a volcano. I’d just like to say that the Tooting family is at your service. If there’s anything we can do to help . . .”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Jeremy, “but I’m sure we’ll manage. Thanks anyway. Shame we can’t save the world together.” He attached wires to the corners of the Cube of Metal That Had Once Been Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. The wires were attached to the twins’ tool belts. They had strapped on their jet packs and were preparing to fly away.
“Good-bye,” said Jemima, shaking Dad’s hand. “I do apologize if Jeremy offended you by not accepting your help. You’re welcome to the picnic.”
“Thanks,” said Dad, taking the picnic basket and looking inside.
“But you can’t just go,” pleaded Jem.
“Good afternoon,” said Jeremy. “Enjoy the picnic.”
“No, wait! There must be something we can do. Your father is a top-secret inventor. Maybe one of his top-secret inventions . . .”
“Father’s top-secret inventions,” said Jeremy, “are top secret.”
The twins pulled down their goggles. There was a blast of smoke, a flash of flame, and, whoosh, they were gone, hauling the last sad remains of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang dangling in the air behind them.
For a long time, the Tootings just watched the Pott twins and the Cube of Metal That Had Once Been Chitty Chitty Bang Bang soaring over the woods and into the twilight. A chill crept into the air. Night came.
“At least we’ve still got this terrific picnic,” said Dad, lifting the lid of the handsome hamper to reveal a row of bottles of homemade lemonade, some cold sausages, a pot of mustard, strawberry puffs, and a bag of boiled sweets.