The Race Against Time

  “No.”

  “Gosh, weddings take a dashed long time, what with all the tying people up and firing machine guns and so on. Or am I being impatient just because I’m excited?”

  “No,” agreed Mum, “it is more complicated than most weddings.”

  The Tootings looked at one another uncomfortably. None of them wanted to explain that a bride-to-be who ties you up in a barn, fires a machine gun at you, and then drives off in your car is probably not the bride-to-be for you.

  “I have half a mind,” said the Count, “to skip the whole thing and go straight to the Prix d’Esmerelda’s Birthday Cake.”

  “Great idea!” said Dad, a bit too quickly. “Isn’t that a great idea, everyone?”

  “Of course, I could never do it really.” The Count sighed. “It would disappoint the lady, and a gentleman never disappoints a lady.”

  “Speaking as a girl, . . .” said Lucy.

  “Which is exactly what you are,” said the Count.

  “. . . I think she won’t be disappointed.”

  “Gosh, that would be terrific. But I say, why wouldn’t she be disappointed?”

  “Hard to explain. It’s a girl thing. Girls change their minds a lot.”

  “I see. So . . .”

  “Go and race. It’s what you’re good at. Chitty will get you to the starting line, won’t you, Chitty?”

  “Ga gooo ga!” sang Chitty.

  The first person ever to own a car in America was a young man from New York by the name of D. Runyon Van Mellon. The car was a Renault Voiturette, which he had imported from Paris. The day it rolled off the boat, he had a quick read of the manual, cranked up the engine, and set out for his mother’s house in Connecticut. It was her birthday, and the car was going to be her birthday present. D. Runyon Van Mellon hadn’t read the bit in the manual about filling up the tank, so he just kept going until he ran out of petrol. The people in the small town where he came to a stop had never seen a car before. They were excited and generous. Some of them had their photo taken with it, while others went to fetch petrol. But when D. Runyon asked for directions to Connecticut, they had no idea how to get there. D. Runyon made a guess and carried on until he ran out of petrol again. In that town, people had never even heard of Connecticut. Anxious not to miss his mother’s birthday, D. Runyon drove on and on, increasingly worried, because whenever he stopped to fill up with petrol, nobody seemed to have heard of Connecticut. Even so, it was still quite a shock when the sun came up one morning on sand and cacti and men on horses driving cattle through clouds of dust. Hungry, thirsty, and very much in need of a change of underwear, D. Runyon Van Mellon had arrived in New Mexico. Three thousand miles off target.

  D. Runyon was a proud young man. He pretended to have done it all on purpose, took a right, and headed back toward New York. It made him the first man to drive completely round the United States — an amazing feat of endurance. Anyone who cared to trace his circular tour on a map could see it was the shape of a gigantic birthday cake — a cake the size of America — which he had driven in honour of his mother. So the Greatest Motor Race in the World — the Prix d’Esmerelda’s Birthday Cake — was born. It took place on the birthday of Mrs. Esmerelda Van Mellon. Every year thousands gathered to watch the start. A brass band blew a bright blast, and, in an earthquake of engines, the Esmerelda Van Mellon Birthday Trophy — the longest, toughest, most dangerous, noisiest, most polluting motor race the world has ever seen — got under way.

  It was always a magical and amazing day.

  The Tootings missed it.

  Due to the morning’s kidnapping and carjacking activities, they missed the start of the race and had to chug slowly up to the field through crowds of people who were heading happily home.

  “Better luck next year,” said the race steward, rolling up his chequered flag and putting it back in his chequered-flag box.

  “Oh, dash it all,” said the Count with a sigh.

  “Nice meeting you, Count,” said Dad. “Sorry about the wedding. And the race.”

  “Shall we have a group photo?” asked Lucy, taking out her jelly-baby phone. “Just for the record. Oh!”

  The “oh!” was because she found that she had a voice-mail message. The Tootings all gathered round to listen to it. It began with a blast of music and laughter. Then they heard Nanny shouting over the racket: “Hey! Tootings! Your neighbours are such fun! Poor Tiny Jack needed someone to play with, so I invited a few people round and guess what? The whole street came! Tiny Jack says it’s his favourite party ever. Come back soon. It makes me sad that you’re missing all the fun! I suppose you’re all tied up.”

  “Those people,” wailed Lucy, “are having a party in our house!”

  “To the car, everyone,” said Dad. “We’re going home right now.”

  “I thought we were going to 1966 first,” said Jem. “We won’t be able to defeat Tiny Jack on our own. If we go back on our own, he might get Chitty off us. We have to get the Potts to help us first.”

  “Whatever we’re doing,” said Mum, “we need to start. I want those people out of my house.”

  But when they went to get back into Chitty, the Count was sitting in the driving seat. “I don’t suppose I could take her for one last spin? I have missed the old girl.”

  “Not really,” said Jem. “We’re in the middle of trying to save the world from an evil supervillain.”

  “Jem!” snapped Mum. “After the Count has been so nice — taking us to parties, inviting us to his wedding — it’s the least we can do. Get in, everyone.”

  “But you said . . .” objected Jem, as they settled into their seats and Dad cranked the engine.

  “A lap of the park can’t do any harm,” he said incorrectly, as he clambered aboard. Very, very incorrectly.

  The moment the Count touched the starter, Chitty’s exhaust backfired twice — Bang! Bang! — like an artillery salute. All over the meadow, people shrieked and ducked. “Chitty-chitty-chitty-chitty,” muttered her engine. The Count let slip the hand brake. She leaped forward, bouncing down the cinder track, throwing up dust, belching smoke, racing after the other cars.

  “Count, it’s been an honour and a pleasure,” yelled Dad. “But if you could just turn her round . . .”

  “The wheel won’t turn. Also the accelerator seems to keep — well — accelerating.”

  Dad watched in horror as the needle on the speedometer crept toward a hundred miles an hour. A hundred and five. A hundred and ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five . . . Every rivet in Chitty’s body rattled. Her engine whined. Her passengers screamed.

  “We’re never going to make it!” yelled Mum, as they hurtled toward a sharp left bend.

  For the briefest moment, Chitty slowed down into the bend, but then she powered out of it at a hundred and thirty . . .

  “She always was good on the corners,” yelled the Count.

  “That’s a comfort,” said Lucy, “because there’s another one right ahead.”

  “What?” gasped the Count.

  “The road is bending back on itself as it descends an incredibly steep hill . . .”

  “I see, but . . .”

  It was too late. Chitty smashed through the fence that marked the side of the road and leaped into the air.

  Jem was almost relieved when he felt Chitty leave the ground. Surely now her wings will open, he thought, and we’ll fly gently and happily above the trouble. But no . . . There was a terrifying crunch as Chitty smacked into the rocky ground, barged through undergrowth, skittered over scree.

  Below them they could see the next bend in the road and a convoy of cars speeding along the highway, jostling and dodging around one another.

  “That’s the race!” yelled the Count triumphantly. “We’re in with a chance after all.”

  “No, we’re not in with a chance,” said Dad. “Because we’re not in the race. The word today is stop the car, we have a world to save!”

  “Are you sure that’s all one word, old
sport? It sounds like quite a mouthful to me.”

  Chitty swung onto the highway.

  Motor racing is a dangerous and demanding sport. The great skill of it is to get your car into a good position, wait for the driver in front to take a corner a little bit wide, or come out of a turn just a bit too slowly, or fail to accelerate decisively enough down the straight, then grab your opportunity and roar into the lead. Most drivers like to do it with a mixture of cunning and courage. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang didn’t bother with the courage or the cunning. She preferred force and fear. She didn’t slide through the gap. She blazed up to the bumper, headlights glaring, Klaxon blaring. She shunted the cars in front of her, barged the cars alongside her, shovelled smoke at anyone who tried to sneak up behind. Drivers slowed down, pulled over, let her pass, afraid that she was some terrible mechanical demon.

  Soon there was just one single car ahead of them. Unlike the other cars, it made hardly any noise. No clouds of smoke came shovelling from its exhaust. Quick, quiet, and creamy white, it threaded through the chicanes and slid round bends like a high-speed ghost.

  “We’ll never catch that,” said Dad. “Unless it wants to be caught.”

  It seemed that the ghost car did want to be caught.

  They squealed around a tight bend and saw a long stretch of flat, straight road rolling out in front of them. There was the white car — half a mile ahead, dawdling along, as if it were waiting for them to catch up.

  “Tinkety-tonk!” whooped the Count. “They want a proper race!”

  He crunched down on the accelerator. Chitty shot forward and was sliding into place right alongside the ghost car. She really was a beauty — streamlined and glossy. Her silvery wheels rolled effortlessly over the rough road. Her windscreen gleamed. Her fenders shone. Her engine purred. At the wheel was the composed and immaculate figure of Crackitt the butler.

  “Great gallons of gasoline!” exclaimed the Count. “That’s Chitty the Second! That’s my new car! Crackitt! What are you doing?”

  Crackitt gave the Count a deep, respectful nod.

  “It’s no good. He can’t hear me over Chitty’s engine.”

  Crackitt, however, had thought of that. He produced a brilliantly shiny silver megaphone and addressed the Count through it. “When you were late for the start, m’lord,” he bellowed, “I took the liberty of driving the car myself. I formed the view that a man of your brilliance and resource would very soon catch up with me, even if I was doing a hundred and forty-five miles per hour. And that you would prefer to win the race if at all possible. If you’re ready, sir, I’ll leave the rest of the race to you.”

  Crackitt opened the door of Chitty the Second and shuffled over into the passenger seat. What he did not do was slow down. Both cars were moving at something close to a hundred miles per hour.

  This didn’t seem to bother the Count. He climbed right over Dad and opened Chitty’s door. With no one in charge of her, Chitty careened all over the road, until Dad dived into the driver’s seat and grabbed her wheel. The Count stood for a moment with a foot on both cars. “So you’ll be doing the race with me, Crackitt. That’ll be cosy.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. I have ironing and dusting to do at the house. I made arrangements for my return there, the moment you were available.” He nodded down the road. Speeding toward them, just a few feet above the ground, was a small yellow biplane.

  “Propellers!” yelled Jem. “Duck!” The plane’s propellers — like the blades of a giant unseeing food blender — were heading straight for them. “They’re going to dice us like human pesto. And car pesto. Car-and-human pesto . . .”

  “Louis!” yelled Lucy. “Duck!”

  “What? Oh! Ah. Excellent suggestion,” said the Count, bobbing his head just as the plane thundered over it.

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir,” yelled Crackitt. The butler leaped up and grabbed the plane’s axle as it soared away with him into the wild blue sky.

  “Au revoir, Crackitt!”

  “Indeed, sir, I’ll have the kettle on for when you return.”

  The Count was still standing with one foot on each car, but now that there was no one in Chitty the Second’s driving seat, this position was becoming more difficult to maintain. He clambered into the other car, then, just as he was sitting down, looked back at the Original and Best Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and at Lucy.

  “What ho!” he called. “Care for a spin?”

  “Oh!” said Lucy. “Yes. Please.”

  “No, Lucy,” warned Dad as Lucy steadied herself at Chitty’s door, ready to leap into the other car. “What have we told you about jumping back and forth between speeding racing cars?”

  “Nothing,” said Lucy. “The subject never really came up.”

  The Count held out his hand to her. She stood there with the freezing wind blasting through her hair, about to make the leap from one car to the other. She tingled with a sense of how fantastically, brilliantly wonderful life had been since Chitty came along. Before Chitty came, she would go for weeks — years, even — without seeing giant squid or rampaging dinosaurs or a gun-crazy gambler. The reason Dad had never given her advice about leaping between speeding racing cars is that it wasn’t something she’d ever had to do. He’d given her advice on not squeezing the toothpaste in the middle and making her bed before leaving for school, because until Chitty came along, brushing her teeth might well be the highlight of her day. Now here she was speeding along, about to jump into the arms of the dashing young Count and roar off into the lead in the world-famous Prix d’Esmerelda’s Birthday Cake! She was suddenly filled with love for Chitty, for Dad, for Jem, Mum, and Little Harry, for taking her on this fantastic adventure.

  “Jump, Lucy! Don’t be scared!” called the Count.

  What was he on about? She wasn’t scared!

  “Come and see how the new, improved Chitty runs!”

  Those were probably not the best words to use around the Original and Best Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. The roar of her engine dropped to a growl. “Bang!” went her exhaust and, inevitably, “Bang!” again. These bangs were so loud that the whole car shuddered, and Lucy was flung into the backseat of the Original and Best Chitty, which then thundered past her “new, improved” version and swung in front, waggling her triumphant fender from side to side, honking her defiant horn, and showering the immaculate white car with dust and fumes.

  “Whoa! We’re going to win this race!” shrieked Red.

  But the new, improved Chitty slid easily past the Original and Best, with barely a sound. She did not waggle her triumphant fender or honk her defiant horn. She just got smaller and smaller as she sped into the distance. Chitty slowed down, as if she had given up hope, as if she didn’t care anymore.

  “Hey!” yelled Jem. “What’re you doing? Don’t touch those!”

  Red had clambered over into the front seat. He was fiddling with Chitty’s dials and buttons. “Man-Mountain gave me twenty-five dollars to make sure the Count doesn’t win this race. We gotta beat him. Come on. I thought you were a great driver. Give me a hand here. Is this the thing to make it go faster?”

  “Don’t touch that!” warned Dad, trying to shove Red aside.

  “Really, don’t touch it!” shouted Jem, trying to pull Red away.

  As they struggled, Chitty hit the verge. Then she hit the other verge.

  “Don’t touch that handle. Please don’t touch that —”

  It was too late. Red had grabbed the Chronojuster and was jerking it up and down in its slot when Chitty hit the bend and somersaulted into the air with every Tooting screaming.

  Where before they could hear nothing but the roar of Chitty’s engine, now they could hear a skylark stitching its song into the blue afternoon.

  Where before the air had been blowing round their heads like an ice-cold, turbo-charged hair dryer, now it was gently caressing their cheeks.

  Where before the sky had been high over their heads, now the sky was nowhere in sight and what looked like th
e ground was hundreds of feet below them.

  “Hey! What’s the big idea?” snapped Red, who was holding on to the steering wheel, with his legs somehow dangling in the air.

  “It seems,” said Lucy, who — like all the Tootings — was sensibly wearing her seat belt, “that we are sitting completely still, upside down in midair, breaking all the laws of physics.”

  “I never broke no law!” yelled Red. “You can’t put that on me. Let me go!”

  “Go when you like.” Lucy shrugged. “All you have to do is let go of the wheel. But unless you’ve got a parachute, you’ll probably find yourself splattered like jam a thousand feet below.”

  This is what had happened. When Chitty somersaulted off the road and then over a cliff, Dad had pressed on her brakes. Most brakes don’t work in midair. Slam on an aeroplane’s brakes, for instance, and it will drop like a stone and smash into the ground. Chitty’s brakes were different. When Dad pressed on them, she stopped and parked elegantly in the middle of the air.

  “Shall we go back down, then?” asked Mum.

  “Not sure,” muttered Dad.

  “Not sure what?”

  “My foot is still on the brake. What if I take it off the brake and she starts falling? What if I take the hand brake off and the wings go in? What if —”

  “Honestly,” said Mum, “I think we should just trust Chitty.”

  Honestly, thought Jem, I’m not sure we can.

  “We can’t stay up here forever,” said Mum, and reached across Dad for the hand brake.

  “Wait!” said Dad. “Just let me think.”

  “Better not to,” said Mum. “Whenever you think, it all goes wrong.”

  She slipped the hand brake. Chitty turned an elegant loop in the air, came the right way up, spread her wings, and began a long, lazy glide toward the ground. Of course, when her engine started up, so did the Chronojuster, and once again they felt the bubbles of time breezing through their bodies.

  “What’s going on? It tickles,” said Red, as he sank back into the safety of his seat. “It tickles! And . . . whoa . . . what is that?”