The Coldest Day in the Zoo

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  The Coldest Day in the Zoo

  Alan Rusbridger lives in London with a family that includes, a wife, two daughters, a dog called Angus and a cat called Retro. He has forgotten why the cat is called Retro. He also edits the Guardian.

  ALAN RUSBRIDGER

  The Coldest Day in the Zoo

  Illustrated by Ben Cort

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

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  Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London, WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published 2004

  8

  Illustrations copyright © Ben Cort, 2004

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-195841-5

  For Tib and Lizzie

  Chapter One

  It was slap bang in the middle of the coldest day of the coldest week of the year that the central heating broke down at Melton Meadow Zoo.

  Worse still, the coldest day happened to be a Friday. The central heating repair man was called. He poked, rattled and rumbled around for an age and announced that he couldn’t possibly mend it before Monday. The system needed something called a new flange. Flanges were not to be obtained on a Friday afternoon in midwinter in Melton Meadow.

  ‘Are you sure?’ enquired a shivering Mr Pickles, the head keeper, who wasn’t quite sure what a flange was, but didn’t like to ask.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said the central heating repair man cheerily. ‘See you on Monday. That will be twenty-two pounds thirty, please.’

  Mr Pickles shivered again and shook his head. How, he wondered, was he supposed to look after the animals all weekend? He looked out of his window and saw that they were already beginning to feel the cold.

  The lion’s teeth were ch-ch-ch-chattering. The penguin was flapping

  his wings and bouncing up and down on the spot, which made Mr Pickles feel rather giddy. The anaconda had wrapped herself around the flex above the light, so as to be near the warm bulb.

  Only the polar bear was chirpy and, I’m afraid to say, couldn’t resist walking past some of the shivering animals with an unmistakably smug look on his face. The others glared back just a shade sourly. But not too sourly, because they remembered only too well the long, hot summer days when they’d done just the same to the sweltering bear.

  Mr Pickles surveyed all this and the solution came to him in a flash. He called all the keepers into his room and explained the problem. ‘The central heating is broken,’ he said. ‘It’s er, um, a flange. And Melton Meadow is all out of flanges until Monday morning.’

  The keepers shook their heads in a worried sort of way. They didn’t know what a flange was either, nor did any of them like to ask.

  ‘So,’ said Mr Pickles, ‘what we have to do is this: each keeper must take his

  or her animal home with them for the weekend, keep them warm and then bring them back again on Monday morning. Any questions?’

  The news came as such a surprise that none of the keepers could think of a question. And so they all trooped off to pick up their animals.

  And this is the story of what happened to some of those keepers and animals that frosty weekend in Melton Meadow…

  Chapter Two

  Mr Pomfrey, the penguin keeper, took his penguin home to his little house in Pumpernickel Lane. Friday night was Mrs Pomfrey’s bridge night, when she invited some of her friends around to play cards in the sitting room, so Mr Pomfrey, who was well house-trained, took the penguin straight upstairs to their bedroom. He left him sitting on a blanket on the floor and went downstairs to find something for the penguin’s tea. As luck would have it, Mrs Pomfrey had made a delicious fish pie for supper and had a couple of pieces of haddock left over.

  Mr Pomfrey went back upstairs to the penguin, gave him the fish and left him to it. This was Mr Pomfrey’s first big mistake.

  The penguin, who had always hankered after the good life, recognized that this was as near to it as any penguin could decently hope for. He was an emperor penguin – a posh penguin to you and me – and it was a source of some dismay to him that his aristocratic status had never been properly acknowledged by the powers that be at Melton Meadow Zoo.

  If he had been living in the wild, he would have lorded it over his fellow penguins. On colder days he would have required them to huddle around him to keep his flippers nice and toasty.

  His grandmother had told him all about his noble breeding and this huddling thing. She said it was called a turtle, which had always puzzled him because he was a penguin, not a turtle. He wondered whether, when lots of turtles huddled together, they called it a penguin. But since he was the only penguin in Melton Meadow there was no one to lord it over, or even keep him warm by pretending to be a turtle.

  But as he looked around the Pomfreys’s bedroom he suddenly felt at home. He gazed in admiration at the bedclothes, the deep purple carpet and the matching bedside lights, and he realized that this was what he had been missing all these years. This was what he had been born to. These were, indeed, surroundings fit for an emperor penguin. He resolved to make himself comfortable. He would start by having tea in bed.

  So he picked up his fish supper, flipped on to the eiderdown, snuggled under the ample goosedown duvet Mrs Pomfrey had recently purchased and settled down for a nice meal and a dreamy

  When Mr Pomfrey returned an hour later, night was falling and he could not see the penguin anywhere, but his nose told him that something unfortunate had happened. He turned on the light. True enough, there was the penguin, snoring contentedly under the bedclothes. And there were Mrs Pomfrey’s new bedclothes, littered with fish bones, smeared with fishy smears and stinking to fishy high heaven.

  ‘Oh no!’ groaned Mr Pomfrey. And then: ‘Ppffoooooooooor!’ as he got nearer and savoured the full impact of the fishy pong.

  Holding his nose, he awakened the dozing penguin. ‘Come on. Out you get.’ And he led the dopey penguin downstairs and left him in the kitchen while he went upstairs to change the sheets and get rid of the smell. This was only partially successful, and for months afterwards Mrs Pomfrey was prone to dreams about haddock and chips.

  Leaving the penguin downstairs in the kitchen was Mr Pomfrey’s second big mistake. Penguins have sensitive nostrils and I am afraid to say that Mr Pomfrey’s penguin was quick to realize that there was yet more fish to be had. His nose took him to a dish sitting on the kitchen surface to the left of the sink. It was just too high to eat where
it was, so he niftily swept it on to the floor with a flipper and set about licking the fish pie off the floor, taking care to leave behind the potato topping, which was not to his taste.

  By the time Mr Pomfrey came downstairs the penguin was sitting happily on the floor, preening his feathers and wondering what more life had to offer. The immediate answer to this was being banished to

  the potting shed, where he was forced to spend a night in conditions he did not consider remotely befitting a noble emperor penguin. Though Mr Pomrey did supply him with a blanket and a paraffin stove.

  It would be kinder not to dwell on Mrs Pomfrey’s reaction when her bridge evening ended and she emerged to find the whole house ponging of fish and Mr Pomfrey clumsily trying to knock up a supper out of some old sausages he’d found stuck behind a mouldy lettuce in the fridge.

  All in all, the weekend was not a great success.

  Chapter Three

  Mr Emblem, the elephant keeper, took his elephant home with him to his house in Enderby Drive. Now, of course, it had never occurred to Mr Emblem that he would ever have occasion to entertain an elephant at home, or else he would have bought a larger house. As it was, he had bought a small house. Too small for an

  elephant. And it was some way from Melton Meadow Zoo. Too far for an elephant to walk. Or, at any rate, too far for an elephant who was a touch out of condition. So, by the time the pair of them made it to Enderby Drive, both were a tiny bit grumpy.

  Mr Emblem had been plotting on his way home. Though the house was small, it had a big garage and Mr Emblem had a small car. So – he figured as he tried to avoid the curious stares of passers-by – there would be plenty of room for the elephant in the garage as well as a car.

  This was Mr Emblem’s first big mistake.

  Mr Emblem left the elephant in the garage and went off to get her some food.

  The elephant, weary after the long walk from the zoo, decided to sit down. She sat on the car. The car was squashed.

  Not only squashed but flattened. It is a little known fact that an elephant can weigh up to six times the weight of a car. On this occasion, it was no contest. Mr Emblem’s shiny Mini – second-hand, but still his pride and joy – was as flat as a pancake.

  ‘Oh no!’ groaned Mr Emblem when he returned and saw the elephant sitting smugly on a bed of mangled Mini. And then ‘Grrrrrrrrrrr!’, which was his way of telling the elephant he was not entirely pleased with her.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Out!’

  And he led the elephant into the back garden, with a duvet over her head to keep her warm. It is probably best to pass over the subsequent incident, which involved a water butt, a quantity of icy water, the elephant’s trunk and an astonished neighbour.

  Two hours later a local scrap dealer came round and took away the pile of twisted metal that had once been Mr Emblem’s pride and joy.

  The elephant was allowed back into the garage, where she remained for the next forty-eight hours.

  All in all, the weekend was not a great success.

  Chapter Four

  Mrs Crumble, the crocodile keeper, took her crocodile home to the small house she shared with Mr Crumble in Cross-stitch Crescent. On her way home she pondered the best place to keep the crocodile since, as you know, they like to split their lives between living on land and living in water.

  She decided the best place to keep him would be in the bathroom which was a nice big room. She would fill the bath with pleasantly warm water and the crocodile could decide whether to lie on the tiles or in the bath itself.

  This was Mrs Crumble’s first big mistake.

  As luck would have it, Friday night was the evening that Mr Crumble came home late from work. It was also the evening that Mrs Crumble went to her evening class in lawn mower maintenance. Before she went out, she fed the crocodile, led him upstairs to the bathroom and scribbled a note for Mr Crumble, which she left on the kitchen table.

  Mrs Crumble was getting quite good at maintaining lawn mowers, but she was still not very good at spelling. She was considering trying spelling night classes once she had finished with lawn mowers.

  The note read:

  Diner in the uven. Bewaire. Crock in bath.

  Mr Crumble returned home and read the scribbled note in the absent-minded sort of way that he had. He was long accustomed to Mrs Crumble’s eccentric fashion with spelling.

  A what in the bath? He puzzled vaguely. A clock in the bath? That didn’t sound right. A frock in the bath? That seemed very unlikely. A crack in the bath? That was bothersome.

  He would have to call the plumber. Whereupon he forgot all about it and settled down to watch the news on television.

  After the news he went upstairs and started running the bath. He was still distracted by Mrs Crumble’s mysterious note, and he quite failed to notice that the bath was already half-full.

  The Friday Night Bath was Mr Crumble’s favourite moment of the week. With Mrs Crumble out of the house, he could pamper himself rotten. So this week, as with every other week, he lit some scented candles, selected his favourite bubble bath oil and began to sing to himself,

  quietly at first, then a little less quietly.

  So absent-minded was he that he had quite forgotten all about clocks, frocks and cracks – and entirely failed to notice the croc.

  The croc, however, had not failed to notice him.

  From his vantage point under the heated towel rail he eyed Mr Crumble (who was now undressing) with some disdain and decided he would have the bath first. As Mr Crumble lit his final scented candle the croc slipped unnoticed beneath the bubbles.

  The first that Mr Crumble knew of anything was as he lowered himself into the tub. SNAP! The crocodile bit Mr Crumble on the bottom.

  ‘AA – ooo – ow!’ yelled Mr Crumble, leaping out of the bath.

  He turned round and saw a green and disgruntled figure emerging menacingly from a mass of foam.

  ‘A croc!’ he said. ‘A croc in the bath. Why on earth didn’t she say so?’

  And with that he fled downstairs stark naked, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

  ‘Oh no!’ said Mrs Crumble when she returned from her evening class and found Mr Crumble – hiding beneath the kitchen table without any clothes on. And then ‘Hrumph!’, which was her way of telling the crocodile he had misbehaved something rotten.

  And then she led the crocodile out into the garden while she stuck a sticking plaster on Mr Crumble’s bottom.

  ‘You can just stay out there for a bit to cool off,’ she said severely.

  Taking the crocodile out into the garden was Mrs Crumble’s second big mistake. For in the middle of an immaculately mown lawn (courtesy of Mrs Crumble and her hand-renovated eighteen-inch Suffolk Punch mower) was an ornamental pond, surrounded by little gnomes and stocked with Mr Crumble’s precious pet fish collection.

  To most people one fish is much like another fish. Mr Crumble was not most people. Mr Crumble had spent his life building up his fish collection. He did not bother with mundane goldfish. He was, truth to tell, something of a fish snob, and many was the argument he had had with Mrs Crumble over the amount of money lavished on his fish which could have been better spent on curtains, foreign holidays or lawn mowers. His life savings had gone into the most exotic species he could find. He had, over the years, specialized in carp: koi carp, bronze carp, Prussian carp, red carp, leather carp and – some said – the biggest collection of mirror carp outside Japan.

  In the summer he had a Pond Open Day and fish-fanciers came from as far afield as Macclesfield in order to admire his fish.

  The crocodile knew none of this, and cared even less. He was still most put out from being disturbed in his bath and rather rudely ordered to wait outside while Mr Crumble’s bottom received medical attention.

  Spotting the pond, he thought this would be an excellent opportunity to wash off the Essence of Hyacinth bubble bath with which he had been coated.

  So, ignoring the little gnomes, he sli
thered into the icy water of the pond. There, he cooled off nicely and then perked up no end when he saw

  Mr Crumble’s life work swimming in front of his eyes.

  He had been wrong to think bad thoughts about Mrs Crumble, he reflected. She was right to patch up her husband’s bottom. And she was so thoughtful to lay on such a delicious fresh fish supper.

  He was a well-brought up crocodile and did not rush. Each mouthful was rolled around the tongue and savoured before slipping down his gullet. By the time Mrs Crumble came out the crocodile was on to his last little silver bream carp. And very tasty it was too.

  All in all, the weekend was not a great success.

  Chapter Five

  Mr Raja, the rhino keeper, took his rhino home to his semi-detached house in Rumbold Road and placed him in the sitting room, which was the largest room in the house and thus, thought Mr Raja, the most suitable. A kindly man, Mr Raja did not wish the rhino to become bored and so he switched on the television to keep him happy while he went to the kitchen to get him some supper.

  This was Mr Raja’s first big mistake.

  Mr Raja thought he would leave the rhino with something calming, yet educational. So he avoided EastEnders, the Shopping Channel and MTV and switched on a demonstration of knitting techniques on Channel Four. The rhino gazed at it with moderate interest. But while Mr Raja was out of the room the knitting programme ended, to be followed by a wildlife programme.