Eva Ibbotson - Island of the Aunts

“Yes.” But Minette was doubtful. If she ran away to her father, her mother would be cross and if she ran away to her mother, her father would be cross. “I’d just like to wait till the boobrie’s laid her egg.”

And in the end, before they could make further plans, the children always fell asleep.

But as the days passed there was one thing that really annoyed Fabio, and that was Lambert.

Fabio didn’t mind working hard. All the same, he and Minette both had blisters on their hands from trundling the wheelbarrows up and down to the loch; Minette had strained her wrist trying to get a comb through the old mermaid’s tangled hair; and both of them were bruised by the young seals bumping and flopping against them as they gave them their bottles. And there was Lambert doing nothing — absolutely nothing — except kicking and screaming and throwing his food about.

“Why doesn’t someone thump him?” said Fabio crossly.

But nobody did. Aunt Myrtle wasn’t a thumper and the other aunts said that using force when training animals never worked. As for Art, he might have killed a man once but that was as far as it got. So each day Lambert was brought his food on a tray and each day he kicked and yelled for his father and his mobile telephone while Fabio and Minette did his share of the chores.

It was at the end of the first week that Fabio cracked, and it was because of the stoorworm.

The children had grown very fond of the worm. He ate the peppermints they gave him without fuss and the questions he asked were interesting, like Why don’t we think with our stomachs? or Why are we back to front in the mirror but not upside down?

But wrapping him round a tree was an awful job. It wasn’t just his thoughts that got stuck halfway down his body, it was all the messages which told his lower end what was happening, and on a day when they had spent a whole hour disentangling him from a bramble thicket, Fabio suddenly snapped.

Art was just making his way down to the boathouse with Lambert’s lunch on a tray.

“I’ll take that for you, Art,” said Fabio.

Art handed over the tray and Fabio opened the door.

Lambert looked up. Then he did what he always did when someone came into the room; he picked up whatever was closest to him and threw it hard. This time it was a sawn-off log ready to go on the fire.

Fabio ducked neatly. Then he threw the tray at Lambert. The tray contained a bowl of lentil soup, a slice of bread and butter, fried tomatoes on toast and a banana milkshake. All of these landed on Lambert except for the bread and butter which went slightly wide.

“Yow! Wheel Yuk!” Lambert spluttered and danced round the room, blinded by the tomatoes which were the large splodgy kind with a great many pips.

Fabio gave him a few moments to clean himself up. Then he said, “Right. You’re not getting anything more to eat till you come and work. Minette and I are sick of doing the jobs you ought to be doing.”

“I won’t! I won’t come and work!” Lambert tried to stamp his foot on the floor but stamped it into his soup bowl which split in half and skidded across the room. “I won’t stay here on this horrible island and I won’t stay with these creepy women and I won’t do anything. I want my father and I want my mobile telephone and I want to go home.”

Fabio waited. “I don’t care what you want,” he said. “Minette and I want things too, but that doesn’t mean we get them. From now on you’re going to do your share and if you don’t I’m going to thump you.”

Lambert had cleaned the tomato out of his eyes now. “You’d better not,” he said. “I’m bigger than you.”

This was true but it didn’t bother Fabio. “You may be bigger but you’re weedier.”

Lambert was a coward, but Fabio was very small and slight. Lambert put up his fists and danced forward. He had never boxed but he had seen people do that on the telly.

Fabio on the other hand had boxed. He didn’t care for it but it was taught at Greymarsh Towers as part of making people into English gentlemen. He let fly with his right hand and landed a blow on Lambert’s chin.

“Oow! Eeh!..You’ve bust my jaw. I’m going to tell my father. My father’s rich and…Oowee…” Lambert was crouching down on the floor nursing his chin and moaning.

“Get up,” said Fabio.

“I won’t.”

“Yes, you will. Get up or you’ll be sorry.”

Lambert got slowly to his feet. The bruise on his chin blended nicely with the colour of the tomato smeared on his collar. Then suddenly he went for Fabio, tearing at his cheeks with his fingernails.

It hurt, but to Fabio it was a relief. He knew about fighting dirty. He had been doing it ever since he was three years old in the streets of Rio and if that was what Lambert wanted it was fine with him. Ignoring the blood streaming down his cheeks, he took hold of a handful of Lambert’s hair and yanked the snivelling boy’s head backwards, knocking it against the wall. Then he kicked him extremely hard on the shins.

“Ow!” moaned Lambert. “Stop it!”

“I’ll stop it as soon as you say you’ll come and do your share of work.”

“I don’t want to. I want my father. I want my mobile tele—”

Fabio yanked his head forward, then pushed it back again hard against the wall, and went on kicking.

“Are you going to come out and work or not?”

“No.”

Fabio kicked again — and suddenly Lambert crumpled up and collapsed on the floor.

“All right,” he blubbered. “I’ll work, but stop it.”

Fabio stopped at once. “Come on, then,” he said. “You can help me muck out the chicken house.”

The aunts saw the boys come. Fabio was carrying the remains of Lambert’s lunch on the tray, including the broken soup bowl.

“You can take it out of my pocket money,” he said, handing them the pieces.

“What pocket money?” asked Aunt Etta.

“Even kidnapped children have to have pocket money,” said Fabio firmly.

So Lambert began to work. He worked badly and he worked slowly. He complained because the television was on the blink and whenever he could, he crept off to look for his mobile telephone which he was sure Myrtle had hidden somewhere. But when he stopped for too long, Fabio just looked at him and he picked up his tools once more.

Everyone agreed that such a tiresome, blathering boy had to be kept away from the unusual creatures — the selkies and the boobrie and the stoorworm — so they gave him jobs to do in the house or with the animals on the farm. But a couple of days after Fabio had beaten him up, Lambert crept down to the shore with a lemonade bottle he had stolen from the larder. Inside the lemonade bottle was a message he had written to his father telling him to come and rescue him, and he was going to throw the bottle into the sea.

But he never got as far as doing that. Instead he dropped the bottle, which smashed on the stones, leaving a dangerous mess of broken glass, and came back to the house blubbering and screaming at the top of his voice.

“I saw a thing ! I saw a horrible creepy thing!” His whole body shook with terror. He looked as if he was going to have a fit.

“What sort of a thing?” asked Fabio.

He and Minette were sitting at the kitchen table, shelling peas for supper.

“A girl…all queer and horrible. She didn’t have any legs — not any!” He sobbed and gulped again and a runnel of snot ran down his nose.

Minette handed him her handkerchief. “What do you mean, Lambert?” she asked.

“The bottom end of her was a monster. She had a tail all covered in scales. It was growing from her body.” Lambert retched and turned his head away. “I saw it. I saw it. I won’t stay here, I won’t!”