Bonniface was packing quickly. Explorers are good packers. Quickly, quickly he packed seven pairs of underpants, one pair for each day of the week. Quickly quickly he pulled on his favourite red thermal underwear, then lovingly folded his second-best blue thermal underwear and pushed it in beside his underpants. He packed his long johns (top and bottom), his second-best long johns, his woollen shirts (one red, one blue and one green) and his best explorer’s padded waistcoat made of polypropylene.
“I’ll be cosy, I’ll be clean, in my polypropylene,” he sang as he folded this splendid garment. On top of his waistcoat, he packed woollen outer socks, vapour-barrier liner socks and a pair of thin polar-fleeced socks to go inside the other two. He packed sweaters, a fleecy inner jacket, an outer survival jacket, three balaclavas and a neck gaiter (which covered the part of his neck where his collar left off and his balaclava began). He also packed inner gloves, outer windproof mitts, sunglasses and snow goggles.
“But what about my feet?” he cried aloud, and began a feverish search, tossing there sandals and sneakers left and right in his desperation. “Where are my fleecy salopettes? Where, oh where, are my mukluks?”
Shoes flew out behind him in all directions.
“Aha!” he cried in rapture a there moment later. “Mukluks! My mukluks! Marvellous!”
Soaring up from the trampoline and looking through the window yet again, Sophie saw her father hugging two tall, tough, hard-and-heavy laced-up, bright blue boots, especially made for walking in snow. She saw him plant smacking kisses on either shiny toe.
“Dad’s kissing his mukluks,” she cried as she plunged back to the trampoline.
“Uh-oh!” cried Edward, shooting up to see for himself. “Mukluk kissing means trouble. Not just ordinary trouble either. Mukluk kissing means real trouble.”
Little Hotspur gave the cry of a particularly worried thrush.
But then all three children fell down and began rolling around on the trampoline, giggling their heads off. Something exciting was about to happen and, naturally, they loved excitement.
CHAPTER 8 Two Different Careers
Bonniface Sapwood grabbed his passport, some spare money and his notebook, along with various lists and maps which he then packed safely. He unlocked the safe in the corner of his room and took out a covered green folder filled with maps and pages covered with scribbles and question marks.
“Ready to go!” he cried happily and danced downstairs.
Sophie and Edward were trying to tell little Hotspur what was going on. It was hard to know if he could understand them, but they told him just the same.
“Dad’s packed his terminal underwear!” cried Sophie.
“Thermal, not terminal,” Edward said. “Get it right!”
“Terminal means the end of something, and it might be the end of Dad,” argued Sophie. “It nearly was, last time.”
Hotspur crowed like a rooster. Rooster voices answered him from backyards all over the city.
“Hey, what will Daffodil say?” asked Edward beginning to bounce again.
“You already know what she’ll say,” cried Sophie.
“Who’s going to look after the kids?” the two of them cried together, and they began laughing again. Only Hotspur looked uncertain.
“Don’t worry, Hotspur,” Sophie declared. “We’ll look after ourselves.”
“We always do,” agreed Edward. “We’ve had to, haven’t we? I mean, Dad’s done his best, but we’re the clever ones.” And he began bouncing high… high… maybe higher than he had ever bounced before.
“Edward’s going into orbit,” shouted Sophie, looking up at him in admiration. “He’s a distant planet.”
Inside the house, Bonniface Sapwood, faithful brown suitcase in hand, came thundering downstairs in his mukluks.
“What’s for breakfast?” he cried joyously.
But his housekeeper, Daffodil, was standing at the door with her own suitcase (a pink one) packed and bulging beside her. They stared at each other in horror.
“Where do you think you’re going?” they cried together, pointing at one another’s suitcases.
“I’m an explorer, remember!” Bonniface declared. “I’m going to find The Riddle. That’s always been my dream.”
“But I’ve got a chance of dancing in a Christmas ballet,” Daffodil declared right back at him. “And that’s always been my dream. I’ve been practising for weeks.”
“Who’s going to look after the kids?” they shouted simultaneously, glaring across the kitchen at each other.
Out on the trampoline, Edward, Sophie and Hotspur were listening, rolling on the trampoline, and laughing crazily.
“They’re your kids!” said Daffodil at last.
“But listen…” begged Bonniface. “I’ve just had a new theory about where we might find the wreck of The Riddle. Daffodil, I must find that lost ship before anyone else does.”
“It’s just an old ship,” said Daffodil. “It probably won’t ever sail again.”
“It’s The Riddle!” yelled Bonniface. “The First Mate, Escher Black, led the crew to safety after the ice closed in on it, but that’s only part of the story. If I find The Riddle, I’ll find the ship’s logbook, and then I’ll know exactly what happened and why. I’ll write a book about it all. It’ll be a bestseller and someone is bound to make a film of it. Maybe even a ballet – a mukluk ballet!”
“Listen!” said Daffodil. “I told you when I came to work here that I’d have to go when I had a chance to dance. I thought you understood. Well, you said you did.”
“But I’ve already packed my thermal underwear and my best polypropylene waistcoat,” said Bonniface. “Be reasonable!”
“And I have packed my tights and my tutu,” said Daffodil. She leaped to straighten the curtain at the kitchen window – a leap so graceful that Bonniface was distracted by her footwork and failed to see the expression of great cunning which crossed her face. “Oh well, perhaps I will be reasonable,” she cooed, turning round again, “Eat up your fried egg and we’ll argue about it later.”
The fried egg certainly smelled good.
But out on the trampoline, Edward, Sophie and even Hotspur had all seen that expression of cunning cross Daffodil’s face.
“Shall we tell?” asked Sophie, while Hotspur twittered like a fantail. Fantails came out of the garden trees and twittered back at him.
“Let’s just see what happens next,” said Edward. “That’s what you do in stories. I might take a few notes.”
A writer never knows just what is going to turn out to be useful.
