One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing Read Free Page B

throwing away a teddy-bear? How could a child grow to love a teddy this way? Still, every employer had her foible. Hettie partly obeyed Mrs. Badenberg, and placed a regular order at Macy’s store. But she didn’t throw away the used bears. By Christmas, she calculated, she’d have nearly two hundred to send to the children’s hospital.
    Until the 25th Earl’s death, the bears, sitting in waiting regiments along the shelves lining her small apartment, had eyed her with affection. Now, she felt, their once-friendly faces showed mistrust.
    Forty-three years a nanny, thought Hettie. Forty-three years since she was seventeen. Six satisfied families, including a period with the royal family. Five perfect references. She reached forward and checked the push-chair safety straps, tidied the coverlet and bunched the pillow behind Simone. The face of the 25th Earl stared up at her.
    She aimed her push-chair at the park gates and along the path towards the seat where she would meet her friends. They were already there. They sat, like four white slats of picket fencing, on the long seat facing the Delacorte Alice-in-Wonderland monument.
    Old Emily was knitting another waistcoat for Tarzan, her pet parrot. He was as eccentric as his owner, and nervous. He’d been reared in front of a television set. He was unable to speak, or whistle, but gave a convincing imitation of his jungle namesake--and he’d plucked his chest naked. Emily spent all her spare moments knitting him gay, miniature waistcoats to replace his colourful feathers and keep out the chill, while Tarzan dedicated his life to unknitting each new psychedelic garment. It was an endless competition for both of them. Emily daily devised intricate new stitches which she hoped were unravelable. But by bedtime each evening, Tarzan was naked again. He’d sidle along the perch and swing upside-down on the bars until Emily dressed him in his new woolly. He’d sleep warm and cosy on his swing, then, with his ape-man yodel, would begin his sartorial beakwork the following dawn.
    “Good morning.” The nannies nodded a welcome, like a row of porcelain Buddhas.
    Hettie smiled, thinly. The four friends shuffled along, so she could join them on the bench. She parked the carriage and set the brake.
    “Didnae sleep,” she said.
    “It’ll take time, dear,” replied Emily.
    The other three nannies nodded again.
    “No,” sighed Hettie. “It’s no just Maister Quincey’s death. It’s something else. We must tell you. We need your advice.”
    She explained exactly what had happened on the museum steps and the last words of the 25th Earl.
    “There you are,” exclaimed Melissa, dramatically. “He really was a British spy! Spies always carry suicide pills.”
    Hettie was shocked. “Spy? Away with you. Charmaine-Botts would never be spies. The Silver Greyhound. We saw it, behind his lapel. He was a royal courier. Spy, indeed! Really! He was delivering a message. It must have been for Her Majesty the Queen.”
    “Well, my dear,” said Emily, kindly. “You really mustn’t blame yourself for his death. I’m sure the queen would understand. But what are you going to do? Tell the British Ambassador?”
    “No,” said Hettie, firmly. “Maister Quincey said not to trust ANYONE. We’re sure he wouldn’t have meant you, of course,” she added, hastily. “You’re friends. Good friends.” Hettie dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “It was his dying wish, you know,” she said. “That message must be very important. It’s just got to be found and sent to the queen.”
    “By registered post,” added Una. “That’ll be safe.” Emily’s pince-nez dropped from her nose, as she nodded, enthusiastically. She fumbled for them on her lap, amongst the confusion of her knitting wool, then tugged at the cord that suspended them from her neck, reeling them in like a fisherman. “Yes. AND I’ll help you to find it.”
    The nannies’ heads wagged agreement. “We’ll ALL