The Hippo at the End of the Hall Read online

  OUT OF HOURS

  CHAPTER 1: The Invitation

  OPENING HOURS

  CHAPTER 2: A Secret and Peculiar Memory (of Dad)

  CHAPTER 3: Come Now or Come Never

  CHAPTER 4: Eavesdropping

  CHAPTER 5: Time and Feathers

  CHAPTER 6: The Other End of the Hall

  CHAPTER 7: The Sengi

  CHAPTER 8: Measuring Time

  CHAPTER 9: The Hippo

  CHAPTER 10: The Bee Stories

  CHAPTER 11: The Chameleon

  CHAPTER 12: A Witch in a Bottle

  CHAPTER 13: Eggs for Dinner

  CHAPTER 14: The Shipwrecked Stone

  CHAPTER 15: Mom’s Egg Story

  CHAPTER 16: A Bottle of Trouble

  CHAPTER 17: Constance Garner-Gee

  CHAPTER 18: A Speckle of Life

  CHAPTER 19: The Pufferfish

  CHAPTER 20: Teatime and Bee-Time

  CHAPTER 21: The Mist

  CHAPTER 22: Through the Fog and Filthy Air

  CHAPTER 23: Spite and Malice in the Fish Room

  CHAPTER 24: Terms and Compensation

  CHAPTER 25: What Became of the Elephant Bird’s Egg

  CHAPTER 26: Wild Magic

  CHAPTER 27: The Weir

  CHAPTER 28: A History

  CHAPTER 29: Stormy Weather

  CHAPTER 30: Trespassing

  CHAPTER 31: Hunted

  CHAPTER 32: The Roughest Day

  CHAPTER 33: A Strange River Craft

  CHAPTER 34: Julian Pike Is Brought Down to Size

  CHAPTER 35: The Watercow

  CHAPTER 36: The Diamond

  CHAPTER 37: The Watercow’s Breath

  CHAPTER 38: Unexpected Visitors

  CHAPTER 39: The Pufferfish and the Ark

  CHAPTER 40: Time Past and Time Present

  CHAPTER 41: What the Hippo Ate That Morning

  CHAPTER 42: And What He Drank

  OPENING TIME

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  AT THE DARKEST AND MOST DESPERATE HOUR, when everyone should have been sleeping, a dull light gleamed from a pufferfish lamp in the office at the Gee Museum. The light was so dim that it hardly spilled more than shadow over the miniature printing press that stood on the desk. Yet somehow one last invitation was printed. And somehow five tiny words were added on the reverse, though these were written with a pen that was almost too large to hold. This is what the words said:

  Afterward the light blinked out.

  Then nothing moved until dawn, when the front doors opened just a crack, and out flew an envelope. It was addressed to 33A Treadlemill Road. It was carried off into the pewter fog by bee-mail.

  33A Treadlemill Road was a basement apartment beneath a shop on the other side of town. A boy named Ben Makepeace, who had eyes as sharp and dark as a sparrow’s and tousled tawny hair, lived there with his mom. Sometimes Ben helped in the shop. Other times he helped in the apartment. That morning, when he went to bring in the milk, he found an envelope propped up behind it.

  Ben was always wary of letters. Occasionally mail still came addressed to his dad, but he saw with relief that this wasn’t one of those. And it wasn’t addressed to his mom either. In fact, it wasn’t addressed to anybody at all. The flap of the envelope was unsealed. Ben hoped it wasn’t another bill. He peeked inside.

  At first, seeing only a piece of thin card with a picture on it, he guessed it was an advertisement. He sneaked it out to see it better because the picture showed lots of animals. Ben liked animals — though he didn’t have any pets: they weren’t allowed to keep pets in that apartment. In any case, these weren’t the sort of animals you could have kept at home. There was a giraffe, and a hippo, and a grumpy-looking owl, and in the bottom right-hand corner was a shrewlike creature with a pendulous nose. Ben’s heart began to beat faster as he gazed at the picture, for it stirred his most secret memory — a secret that he had never told to anyone at all.

  “What are you doing out there?” called Mom.

  Ben guiltily slipped the card back inside the envelope. Then he brought the mail to the table and laid the envelope beside it.

  Mom had the same eyes as Ben but different hair, and she ran the shop upstairs. “What’s that?” she said, glancing down.

  “It came with the milk.”

  She opened the envelope, then went very still. Yet all she said, after glaring for a while, was “I thought the old Gee Museum had closed down.”

  Ben took the card from her and examined it as he munched his crunchy almond flakes. The shrew in the picture was holding a pen as if it had just finished writing the motto at the bottom, which read:

  “It looks like an invitation to get in for free,” he said. “Maybe it’s reopened.”

  “Maybe,” said Mom. She was biting her lip.

  “I’d like to go,” said Ben.

  “Would you?” Mom sounded tense.

  “It says admit two.”

  “But I’m not sure when I’d have time.” She looked rather pale. The rest of the mail was on the table, and as she glanced through it, Ben could tell there were a lot of bills. He knew Mom was worried about money. He knew she couldn’t often leave the shop.

  Their shop was called Perfect Pastimes. Once it had been simply a craft shop, but nowadays Mom sold a bit of everything: art materials and embroidery thread, buttons and yarn, stationery and stickers, and the kind of model kits that you took home and painted, and some interesting books, and all sorts of oddments that children liked. Sometimes it was busy. More often it was not, though Mom liked Ben to help on Saturdays in case there was a rush.

  Tomorrow was Saturday.

  Ben waved the invitation. “Could I go myself on Sunday?”

  Mom frowned at the bills and said nothing.

  “You’re always saying you used to go everywhere on your own at my age.”

  “True enough,” said Mom, though her voice was unusually gruff.

  “Well, then . . . can I go on my own?”

  “It’s . . . I don’t think it’s . . . Look, I like you to be independent, but it’s a bit far on your own. Anyway, I don’t think you’d like it.”

  “Where is it?” Ben turned the slip of paper over. There was no address on the back, only those five tiny handwritten words:

  He peered inside the envelope and found a small brown feather nestled in the bottom — nothing else.

  Mom said, “It’s down by the river on the other side — close to the bridge, I think — not far from the weir, but I certainly don’t want you going near that.”

  Ben sighed. “I won’t go anywhere near the river. I’ve promised you I won’t a million times. I want to go to this museum. It’s not that far. Why don’t you want me to go? Is there something you don’t like about it?”

  Mom began unpacking a box of art equipment to take upstairs. She hadn’t finished her cereal. Ben was afraid she wouldn’t say any more, as she so often went silent when she wanted to end a conversation. But after a moment she continued, “I never said I didn’t like it. It’s just . . . Anyway, since when have you been interested in museums?”

  “I’m interested now. Could we have a look for it online?”

  She chewed her lip. Then she relented. “I suppose you could have a quick look before school, seeing as you’re ready. Mind you, I doubt it’ll have a website — unless it’s changed a lot. It used to be run by a very old lady — though she must be dead by now.”

  There wasn’t much time. And Ben couldn’t find any listing for the Gee Museum, although he found a website for the newly refurbished Discovery Museum. It looked very modern.

  Mom glanced over his shoulder. “Perhaps you could go there instead,” she said. “Lo
ok, it’s in the center of town — that’s much closer. And it’s got stuffed animals too. And . . . wow, look at that lady who runs it. Do they imagine she looks welcoming?”

  “She looks like a giant insect,” Ben said with a giggle. “I’m not going there — she might eat me up.”

  “Don’t be so fresh,” said Mom, but she was smiling in spite of herself.

  Ben didn’t want to spoil her smile, so he didn’t mention the museum again, but before he left for school, he propped the invitation on the shelf in his room where he kept his collection of special objects. He decided to ask his teacher about the Gee Museum. She might know something.

  DAYTIME AT THE GEE MUSEUM PASSED AS USUAL. The building was crowded as always — with shadows, since the windows were small and the walls were a shade of mahogany brown and the lights were powered by a generator that had never worked terribly well even when it was new. Nowadays it was not new, and those lights shone like a flashlight with an old battery. Sometimes they flickered, and sometimes they went out altogether, casting the rooms into a soft darkness that smelled of mothballs, and honey, and long-unopened boxes, and time passing.

  All the same, the building was enchanting — if you could get inside.

  If you could get inside, you might discover a crystal hive with live bees, or the giant egg of an extinct elephant bird, or a sundial that fit on a spoon.

  If you could get inside, you might find a silver bottle that was rumored to contain a witch, or a fabulous and rare collection of stuffed animals, or all manner of lugubrious specimens in cabinets and drawers and jars, and some of those seemed to have a touch of magic about them.

  If you could get inside — but usually you couldn’t. The Gee Museum was almost always closed.

  Most days Constance Garner-Gee, the old, old director, felt too tired to open up for the public. Instead, she waited, hoping for something that was probably impossible, wishing, while her time and money trickled away, and the happy thoughts and words of past visitors seemed to gather in the gloom like ghosts.

  “I’ve never heard of the Gee Museum,” said Ben’s teacher. “But I’ve been sent a heap of information from the Discovery Museum. Would you like a leaflet for that instead?” She held one out to Ben. It had the insect woman on the front of it.

  “No, thanks,” he said.

  She looked doubtfully at her computer screen. “Well, I can’t find it online. I suppose you could try asking at the Central Library. It isn’t open this afternoon, but you could ask your mom to take you tomorrow.”

  Ben was reluctant to mention the museum to Mom again. Anyway, she allowed him to go to the library alone. He was allowed to do lots of things alone because she was always so busy. Unfortunately Ben’s friends weren’t allowed the same freedom. This meant that Ben was on his own rather a lot.

  Well, I like exploring on my own, he always told himself. I’m just like my dad.

  Actually he had no real idea if this was true, because his dad was dead. He had died before Ben was three years old, had sailed away in a one-man boat and never come back.

  “Lost at sea,” Mom said. No one knew why or where. Mom didn’t like to talk about it, and if Ben ever asked questions, she would go still and look upset, and then she would change the subject. Indeed, over the years Ben had learned there was never a good time to ask questions about Dad. He certainly couldn’t ask her anything upsetting at the moment, because she was really worried about their rent. It had gone up again, and she was afraid that the landlord was planning to sell the building they lived in.

  “He wants us out of here,” she sometimes said. “Then he can sell the land to a developer. They make a fortune from demolishing old buildings and putting up new ones in their place.”

  “But it’s our home,” Ben always insisted when she talked this way. Mom would often look even more worried until Ben gave her a big hug and said, “We’ll be all right. You’ll see.” And he hoped that if he said that enough times, it would be true.

  Nowadays, when Ben thought of his dad, he felt curious rather than sad. The truth was that he hardly remembered him. He could recall in detail only one afternoon they had spent together, and that was a very peculiar memory. He had thought it was probably a dream — until he’d opened that envelope.

  If it was a real memory, then he must have been very young, because he remembered Dad carrying him up some steps, through two huge black doors, and into a dark, noisy room. The noises scared him, so he buried his head inside Dad’s coat. The coat lining was silky and torn. It smelled of engine oil and mint candies. It smelled good.

  But Dad didn’t carry him for long. After they’d crossed into the next room, Dad set him down on an expanse of dark wooden floor. A tall window cast a patch of light upon the boards. As they waited there, Ben stamped in and out of the light, feet flat and furious, because he hadn’t wanted to be set down and felt rejected.

  Then an old lady appeared. He could remember her blunt white hair and dark-blue dress, and her kindness. Dad turned to Ben and beckoned him, and then they’d both followed the old lady to a doorway with a sign above it.

  Through that doorway there was another doorway with a sign above it. And through that was another, and another — many repeating doorways, so that it was like standing between two mirrors and looking at the repeating reflections — except that at the very end of that long hall there stood a hippopotamus. As they’d walked along that hallway, Ben had known that the hippo was waiting for them. Yet when they’d reached it, the grown-ups had passed right by.

  Only Ben held back.

  All at once, with a smile that slashed its face in two, the hippo had spoken: “Life may be about to get difficult,” it said with a sigh. “But you’ll be safe with your mother.”

  Ben had resented this. He didn’t always want to stay safe with Mom; sometimes he wanted to have adventures with Dad. The words confused him too. Yet he could recall them still, and as he’d grown older, they had haunted him. Even now he had such a clear picture in his mind of that gray hippo head leaning down to speak to him. It had a face as cracked as the lines on a map, and eyes that winked like wise brown marbles.

  After that, the memory became more fractured, like a broken jigsaw puzzle. There was another room that smelled of beeswax, with green walls and a fire. Ben remembered that as they sat down, Dad was laughing and talking, though sadly Ben couldn’t picture his face.

  Instead he remembered teacups: pale-green teacups decorated with china bees, and a plain blue beaker of milk for him, and he’d been glad of that because he was scared of bees — even china ones. He was even more pleased by the crusty bread that stood on the tea table. He was given a slice of it spread thickly with butter and honey. As he munched, the peppery sweet taste of it mingled with the sensible round flavor of the milk. Crumbs prickled his neck. He was rubbing at them when a shrewlike creature with a pendulous nose popped out from behind a sugar bowl. It gazed solemnly at him with eyes like small black beads.

  Then it said, “It’s hard to believe you’ll ever be any use. At least wipe your mouth.”

  Ben did — on the back of his sleeve. When he drew his arm away, the creature was gone. The last thing he remembered was a pufferfish lantern that hung above a wooden desk. It began to glow. And then it winked at Ben.

  Ben tried to wink back . . .

  And that was where the memory ended. He had never recalled anything more but had often wondered if someday he would be able to make more sense of it.

  That evening, while Mom thought Ben was playing games on the computer, he continued his search for the Gee Museum.

  For a long while he found no clues. He was about to give up for the night when he came across a link to an ancient-looking website: The Past and Present Society Guide to Lesser-Known Museums. It looked like no one had added anything new to the website for years, but Ben scrolled through it anyway. And with a jolt of excitement, when he had reached almost the bottom of the entries, he found what he had been looking for.

&n
bsp; This is what he read:

  I Don’t bother — it’s hardly ever open!

  BUT if you must, there are many ways

  to reach it.

  BY BUS

  Find the thirteenth kiosk behind the train station. From there take the number 79 bus, which comes once a day. Get off at the corner of Dial Avenue. The museum is beyond the crescent, set back from the road, behind trees.

  BY CAR

  Unfortunately there is no parking lot. Visitors parking without a permit have been known to be ticketed or occasionally troubled by wild animals.

  BY FOOT

  The Gee Museum is a brisk fifty-minute walk from the city center. We recommend you carry a good map.

  BY STREETCAR

  Probably the best way to get there.

  But there aren’t any streetcars, thought Ben.

  He decided to go by bike.

  It was Sunday afternoon before his room was tidy and Ben was free to go.

  “I’m off exploring,” he said as he hugged Mom goodbye. By then he was almost itching with impatience, and nothing was going to put him off — not the cold dreary skies nor Mom’s odd air of disapproval.

  Even so, she lingered on the doorstep longer than usual.

  “You won’t go near the weir, will you?”

  “I won’t,” Ben replied, pulling his scarf up like a spy. “I’m not stupid.”

  Then she insisted on fiddling with his bike.

  Then she gave him a snack: some cookies in plastic wrap. He put them in his bag.

  Finally, finally, he waved a cheery goodbye and pedaled off before she could think of any more reasons to keep him at home.

  He had worked out his route the night before. Now he rode swiftly through the back streets and before long reached the raw gray sweep of the river. Halfway over the bridge there was a lookout point for pedestrians and cyclists. It seemed a good place to take a break and eat those cookies while he checked the map.