Chapter 1 - Miss Worksham’s Institute for Young Ladies of Noble Families Fallen on Hard Times

   

Despite the fact that Wendy – like all children – tried her very uttermost not to grow up, the moment came when she was old enough to leave her family and go away to school.

To tell the truth, Mr. Darling maintained that they were too poor to be able to afford the fees required by a private academic institution. However, all the neighbouring children who were Wendy’s age had been enrolled for quite some time at some prestigious school or another, and Mrs. Darling was in a state of profound embarrassment. She didn’t know what to say when the other ladies asked her, ever more insistently: “Where are you sending your daughter next year?”

Therefore, in the summer of 1907, Mr. and Mrs. Darling embarked on a long and difficult search for a school with fees that were within their means (albeit at the cost of making great sacrifices, as Mr. Darling continued to stress). Finally, they settled on Miss Henrietta Worksham’s “Institute for Young Ladies of Noble Families Fallen on Hard Times”.

In her younger days, Miss Worksham had been governess to James, son of the fifth count of Heavycourt. In the course of fifteen years of honourable service in that austere and aristocratic house, she had learned from her Ladyship, the countess, how to cultivate the correct attitude of haughty disdain. She felt nothing but contempt for all those who were not of noble birth, except for persons like herself, who had dedicated their life to the service of the blue-blooded members of society. It was with this commendable spirit of service to others that Miss Henrietta had decided to open a private institute with accessible charges reserved (at least in principle) to young girls of noble families who were in economic difficulties. To her great surprise the enrolment of such pupils to her school never happened with one exception, which we will talk about later. Instead the school soon had girls from the well-to-do middle class, whose parents hoped for nothing more that there would be a chance for their girls to sit next to a daughter of even a poor Lord, as long as she had a bachelor brother a little older.

Perhaps deluded by her expectations, as years went by, Miss Worksham's attitude towards the world at large changed from being just simply haughty to one of a heavy and icy distain. However, strange as it may seem, the superior air she affected when she met the parents of her middle class pupils did not frighten them off. Instead, it constituted the best possible advertisement for her Institute.

On the day she received Mr. and Mrs. Darling, Miss Worksham looked even more disdainful than usual and this put a great strain on poor Mr. Darling. Under her icy stare, Mr. Darling soon became quite hot under the collar. He swallowed hard, terrified that Miss Worksham might refuse to accept Wendy, even though, up until a moment before, he had been complaining that the fees were tremendously expensive and that he couldn’t possibly afford them.

When, after what seemed an endless ordeal, he was finally informed by the headmistress that Wendy would be allowed to attend the school, Mr. Darling was so overjoyed that he quite forgot himself. He leapt to his feet, shouting “Bingo!” just as he had done that time when he won first prize at the parish fete – an action that Miss Worksham considered so vulgar that she momentarily considered withdrawing her decision to accept young Miss Darling.

On that occasion, Miss Worksham (like the Reverend Swell on the day of the fete) formed a decidedly poor opinion of Mr. Darling and decided to accept Wendy purely because the Institute was experiencing a few financial difficulties. However, personal contact with the young girl soon convinced her that the recent controversial theory developed by Mr. Darwin concerning the evolution of the human species was probably correct.

It was precisely because of young Miss Darling’s many good qualities that Miss Worksham assigned her a bed in the dormitory right next to Betty Ffink Pfenninger Jones, the pupil with the most distinguished pedigree in the entire school.

Naturally, the fact that Lord Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones, Earl of Dollingmere, one of the richest men in England, had decided to place Betty, his niece, in Miss Worksham’s school, had filled Miss Henrietta’s heart with righteous pride. However, she would no doubt have felt rather differently if she had known that Lord Bryan’s choice had fallen on her institute simply because it was the cheapest in the country.

Being unaware of his Lordship’s motives, Miss Worksham had steadfastly devoted herself to the thankless task of endowing poor Betty with the three “Ds” (Decorum, Decorum, Decorum) that she considered her duty to instil into each pupil and especially those of aristocratic descent. With Betty, however, she had had scant success.

The little girl seemed to be totally indifferent to all Miss Henrietta’s efforts. She had been brought up by her uncle’s servants, who had given her little care or affection. She was clumsy and unpolished, with a vague and absent-minded air about her and her appearance wasn’t improved by a tangled mass of unruly fair hair that seemed to fly out in all directions.

When they went to bed on Wendy’s first night at the Institute, Betty had just been subjected to one of Miss Worksham’s dreaded tongue-lashings. She was cowering under the bedcovers, crying her heart out. The kind-hearted Wendy immediately tried to comfort her.

“Would you like me to tell you a story before we go to sleep?” she asked Betty. “I always told the lost boys one when I was their mother on the island of Neverland…”

At these words, the sobbing suddenly stopped and a frail little voice came out from under the blankets: “What’s the Neverland?”

As you can imagine, it wasn’t long before Wendy became Betty’s best friend. Night after night, she told her all about her family, her brothers and her nursemaid Nana, who was a dog. She also told her about Peter Pan, who lived with the fairies, and who lost his shadow in her nursery one evening, and how she had sewn it back on again. And then she had described the little fairy, Tinker Bell, and the fairy dust that made you able to fly and how she and her brothers had flown to the Neverland, where she had been captured by the pirates and their wicked Captain Hook.

There were so many other wonderful things that Wendy told Betty that first term before Christmas, in Miss Henrietta Worksham’s Institute for Young Ladies of Noble Families Fallen on Hard Times.

As Christmas was drawing near, Miss Worksham’s young pupils began to get ready to go home to spend the festive season with their parents and Wendy asked Betty what she was going to do during the holidays. Just think how upset she was when she learned that her little friend would be staying on at school and that she had NEVER gone home for Christmas. She had always been left on her own, either with her uncle’s servants or with the Institute’s domestic staff.

At that point Wendy told her a secret. Mrs. Darling, she whispered, had promised that if she was the top of her class, she could go for a few days with Peter to the Island, immediately after Christmas.

After this revelation, which quite took Betty’s breath away, Wendy proceeded to invite her to come to the Darling’s house in London to spend Christmas with Mr. and Mrs. Darling, Nana, John and Michael. Afterwards, on the 28^th December, they would both go with Peter and her brothers to the Island.

It was the Friday night of the last weekend before the holidays and the girls had no homework for the following Monday, so young Betty decided to do something that, as we’ll find out later, would have terrible consequences for the outcome of our story. She decided that she must absolutely, immediately, without delay, write a letter, a long letter, no - a GREAT LOOOOOOOOOONG letter to her brother William, telling him all about the wonderful holiday she was going to have.

Chapter 2 - William

  
 Lord Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones was sitting in his lavishly furnished study in Belgravia, lost in thought, when his butler’s voice brought him back down to earth.

“Your nephew is here, Milord. Master William asks if you can see him.”

It was only five days before Christmas and Lord Bryan thought that probably the boy had come to wangle some money out of him, so he was tempted not to receive him. Then he reflected that William was almost seventeen. It wouldn’t be long before he came of age and then he might start wondering just why the family title and fortune had been passed on to his uncle, and not to him, when his parents died.

Lord Bryan felt pretty safe as far as that was concerned. His lawyers had made such a good job of faking all the documents that young William would have considerable difficulty proving that his inheritance had been subtracted by his uncle’s artful manoeuvres.

What Lord Bryan was more concerned about was the magnetism and charm that his nephew had inherited from his mother, who had been considered the most fascinating woman in England. William was the most popular boy at Eton where he had fortunately won a scholarship to attend, as his uncle would never have paid for the expensive fees. His classmates adored him and he was the mythical captain of the cricket team. His Lordship feared that when William’s friends, who were all sons and heirs of noble families, reached adulthood, they might rally around their old school pal. And then they could certainly become more dangerous than a legion of lawyers.

“Send him in,” he therefore told the butler.

William came in and Lord Bryan was again surprised that his nephew was surrounded by the same magical aura as his mother. It seemed, in fact, that a mysterious ray of sunshine appeared the minute William stepped through a door, drawing everyone to him.

“Hello, William! Merry Christmas,” muttered the Earl. “What brings you here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

William’s sunny smile was almost dazzling: “Hello, uncle, I’ve come to see you because I’m worried about Betty.”

Now, if William had one failing, it was that he tended to be too trusting. Coming here to speak to his uncle about any problems that he or his sister might have, was a mistake he ought not to have made. Lord Bryan had built his empire on other people’s errors. The Earl brightened up immediately, putting on an expression of kindly interest as he went to sit beside his nephew. “Tell me, my boy. Tell me!” he growled softly.

It was a simple enough story; Betty had always been a dreamer, but now Miss Worksham had put her in the bed next to another girl, a certain Wendy Darling, who had convinced her there were spirits, elves, pirates, redskins and mermaids living on a magic island. Wendy claimed that you could only get there by flying through the air and going second to the right, and straight on till morning.

“Oh  well, young girls often believe in these kind of things,” said Lord Bryan, somewhat disappointed.

“Oh, I know that girls love fairy tales,” said William, pulling a sheaf of crumpled writing paper out of his pocket. “But the fact is that this Wendy has invited Betty for the holidays and she has promised to take her to a place called the Neverland after Christmas. They’re supposed to be flying there with a certain Peter Pan.   I’m really worried,  Uncle Bryan, ” the boy went on, “You read so many terrible stories in the papers…I’ve asked around, but nobody knows these Darlings…and as you’re Betty’s guardian….”

“What are these bits of paper?” his uncle asked, his interest aroused. It occurred to him immediately that if he could demonstrate that Betty wasn’t quite right in the head, he would be able to take her away from school and save the fees. What’s more, the child was an orphan and maybe he could put her in one of the orphanages he managed, where she could take one of his famous courses of open-air-economics.

When he found that the letter contained descriptions of the island, the story of its inhabitants and how to get there by flying through the air, plus all that other nonsense about this Peter who was supposed to come to London on the 28^th December to pick up the children, Lord Bryan – had he been Mr. Darling - would have jumped to his feet with his arms raised high and shouted “Bingo!” But Lord Bryan was an astute businessman and so he concealed his emotions. He decided he must absolutely get hold of the letter and then he would decide what to do next. He remembered that Lord Bargain, the county judge, had recently asked him for yet another favour. He hadn’t obliged him yet, because he hadn’t known what to ask in exchange. However, perhaps with this letter, he could get his friend the judge to issue an order giving him full custody of the little girl. If he had direct custody of the child, he could use her as a hostage in case William should ever become a bit too inquisitive.

“Oh,” he said, assuming a look of concern, “Give me that letter, William. I’ll find out all about these Darlings right away and let you know.”

Just at that moment, the telephone on his desk began to ring.

“Yes?” his Lordship said. William overheard an excited voice with a thick German accent on the other end of the line, saying: “It vorks, Milort! It vorks! Zi machine iss vorking wunderbar!”

“We’ll come right over!” cried Lord Bryan, leaping up from his chair. With one hand he slammed down the receiver and with the other he whipped the letter out of William’s hand.

“Mortimer! Mortimer!” Lord Bryan called his son, as he locked Betty’s letter in the drawer of his desk.

A moment later, the door opened slightly and the eel-like head of the slimy Mortimer Ffink Pfenninger Jones poked through the gap.

Mortimer slid into the room, just like the eel he resembled. He didn’t really walk. He slithered sideways. Instinctively, he never moved into the middle of a room, but he seemed rather to be drawn, in some mysterious way, to the darkest corners, as if something sucked him into the twilight zones.

The two cousins could not have been more different: William was golden-haired, cheerful and charming, while Mortimer was pallid and baleful, with shifty eyes that were half hidden under his scanty fringe of greasy black hair.

Mortimer put his head to one side and smirked at his cousin, without showing his teeth and William wondered if Mortimer actually had any teeth.

It wasn’t just a question of Mortimer’s teeth, William couldn’t help thinking to himself. The whole of him was poisonous, from his head to his toes. If a cobra bit him, it would be the cobra that died amidst atrocious sufferings. But then, William reflected further, if Mortimer ever wanted to kill somebody, he wouldn’t even need to bite them - touching them would be enough!

“Mortimer!” Lord Bryan cried excitedly. “Octopus just phoned. It seems that this time the machine really is working! We must go and see it. Get ready at once! As for you,” he said, turning to his nephew. “ Don’t worry, my dear William, I’ll take care of Betty!”

He was so pleased that, for a moment, he forgot how much he disliked his nephew. In an unusual burst of generosity he even offered him a lift to the station in his car, so that he could catch a train for Eton before nightfall.

Chapter 3 - Lord Rubbish

Lord Bryan’s carriage drove smartly out of London and headed towards the open countryside.

As the vehicle drew near the city dump, it began to pass trucks piled high with refuse. Despite the fact that it was a freezing cold day and the air was sharp and crisp, the nauseating smell that assailed the noses of the passengers became quite overwhelming, the nearer they got to their destination.

Lord Bryan had hit on the idea of opening a community waste disposal facility quite by chance. One day, he had mislaid a pair of gold and diamond cuff links. Fearing that they had somehow fallen into one of the rubbish bins, he had summoned the servants and ordered them to comb through all the garbage, while he stood by, with his eagle eye, watching them. He had been astounded to see just how many things the servants carelessly threw away. As no trace of the cuff links could be found, he had then enquired where the city tip was situated. He had gone there and forced his servants to rummage through the refuse for three whole days. He did not find what he was looking for. However, his belief that a rubbish heap contained everything you can possibly think of was confirmed. All you had to do was look.

Remembering that he owned an old abandoned mine, he had leased it to the city council - naturally at an exorbitant price - so that they could use it as a dump. And then he had had a brilliant idea. How could he recover all the iron, copper, paper, cloth and bits of wood that the foolish Londoners discarded so easily?

Ah! he thought, orphans! That’s it! There are plenty of orphans around! The orphans became another of his lucrative sidelines. In no time at all, he had obtained gifts, charity donations and public contributions to build two orphanages where he gathered a hundred and fifty orphans, and he spread the word that he was giving them the benefit of an advanced course in economics. The children, he said, worked up to ten hours a day in the open air, in close contact with Nature, where they studied the sacred principles of economics, the first of which was not to throw away anything that might prove useful.

Occasionally, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps the children did not enjoy scavenging in the garbage with their bare hands, summer and winter, in sunshine and rain. This doubt upset him a little. In fact, he was forced to admit that some of these horrid, lazy, ungrateful little urchins even ran away sometimes. This was deplorable, because he received benefits from the government for each orphan in his care. The more children ran away, the less money he received.

His lively and enterprising mind had therefore devised a means of solving the problem. He created a category of “Humanitarian Guardians», made up of fifteen hefty young thugs, led by a certain Johnny the Stinker. Each “Guardian” was made responsible for ten children. Their services were rewarded with 10% of the profits gained from the sale of all the material recovered (the remaining 90% went into his own pocket and the children got nothing, naturally). It has to be admitted that, thanks to this incentive, the Humanitarian Guardians were sometimes a little rough with the children. They often beat them to make them work harder. However, the Earl reflected, this was all quite understandable. After all, the children had to learn that one of the pillars of the science of economics was the division of labour.

The fact that the kids called him Lord Rubbish did not perturb him. After all, he thought, there were the “Coal Barons” and recently, in the City, strange foreign personages dressed in long ridiculous caftans had begun to make an appearance. These were known as “the New Petroleum Lords”. The aforesaid petroleum was a horrible black liquid with a worse stink than his refuse. Did these Lords get offended? Of course they didn’t! So why should he care?

If anyone should be ashamed, his thoughts ran on, it was the children. They ought to be more respectful towards his person. He, Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones, was one of the greatest benefactors of mankind - or so he had been classified by “The Times”.

To tell the truth, “The Times” had not exactly mentioned him directly. The Earl had read the headline and the first sixteen lines of an article (he rarely read more than that). This stated - if he had understood correctly – that, according to the theories of a distinguished expert in the economic field, much appreciated in the City (a certain Adam Smith, as he recalled), entrepreneur who produced wealth in a free market system did not work for himself alone. He brought riches to the whole of society by creating work for people, who would produce more and consequently spend more.

In other words, a benefactor of mankind.

Now, he pondered, as England was a free market and he was the richest man in England, he was therefore the greatest benefactor in the kingdom! This revelation, which he had gleaned from the pages of the most authoritative daily paper in the country, had relieved him of all the niggling doubts that assailed him every so often. He was not unscrupulous, he told himself proudly. He was not a cynical scoundrel (as many people claimed). He only liked doing business, just as a child likes playing. And the great thing about playing about on the Stock Exchange and in the City was that, if you managed to do good business, you also became a benefactor!

Then, one day, he had met the brilliant Dr. Otto Kohops, whom he had jokingly nick-named Dr. Octopus. This was because his hands were always flying around in a frantic search for his notes, papers, pencils, pipe, watch and so on. He moved his arms so fast that there seemed to be more than two of them.

Otto was a master of what Lord Rubbish indulgently referred to as “Confused Science”. He had attracted the Earl’s attention with his idea of building a “Synthesizer”. This was a machine that, he claimed, would be able to extract and reproduce the chemical elements of any chosen sample of trash.

Lord Rubbish could already see this “Synthesizer” in his mind’s eye, standing between two gigantic conveyor belts. A big glass dome containing the samples to be duplicated in the middle, and all the London waste would be poured onto one of the belts, while duplicated tins of beans, tomatoes, lettuce heads and all other kinds of goodies would issue from the other belt. The pleasure of thinking that he could make money out of something he had been paid to destroy kept him awake at night.

His dreams were filled with this vision. He was elated at the thought that the scrapings and peelings he recovered from the garbage could be given to the hungry poor he saw hanging about at street corners. Naturally, he told himself, they would have to pay something for it – not much maybe - but they would definitely have to pay. There were many honourable members of the Opposition who heatedly claimed that money should be doled out to the poor. Lord Bryan firmly believed that this was a dangerous idea and, if it were taken too far, it would seriously undermine the honest, hard-working spirit of the British.

The secret laboratory where he had confined Octopus was in the middle of the immense London rubbish dump. The poor man carried out his experiments with a clothes peg constantly on his nose so that he wouldn’t be overcome by the noxious fumes. “You will leave here, “Lord Rubbish had told him, half serious and half in jest, “When your machine works.” Then, with one excuse or another, he had prevented him from ever leaving the laboratory.

However, after innumerable experiments the machine still did not work properly and the Earl started to get impatient. He began to think that perhaps it wasn’t sufficient just keeping the professor shut up in these unsavoury surroundings. Maybe it would be a good idea to let him wander around amongst the garbage for a night or two in summer, when there was a lovely full moon. All the rats would be seen in the light and the moon would make the gangs of stray dogs howl louder than ever.

It was this careful attention to details, plus his ability to motivate his collaborators and workforce, combined with his extraordinary business instinct, that had made Lord Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones the richest man in the realm.

As the carriage drew nearer to their destination, they came across groups of children between six and eleven years of age, laboriously pushing wheelbarrows loaded with junk. They were followed by brawny thugs who greeted Lord Rubbish by raising their knobbly sticks as a sign of respect.

Finally, they reached the laboratory. “Professor!” the Earl cried gaily. “Well then, have we brought it off?”

“Ya, ya! Kom, kom, I zshow you.”

The professor’s pronunciation, which was normally almost incomprehensible because of his heavy Teutonic accent, was even more nasal and unintelligible than usual because of the peg on his nose.

An enormous machine puffed and wheezed in the centre of the shed that housed the laboratory. Piles of refuse were being fed in at one end and neat rows of tins of beans, tomatoes and fruit flowed out the other end. Some samples were on display under a big glass dome. The duplicated cans seemed perfect and even the labels were identical to the originals.

“Excellent, professor! The outside looks great! What about the inside?”

“Zame inzide! Kemical kontents identical to original!” replied the professor. “Ja! Vun problem only…”

“Only what?” his Lordship demanded in an aggressive tone. “You didn’t bring me here to show me the usual botch up, I hope?”

“Octopus,” said Mortimer in a quiet, deadly voice. “If that food is as good and wholesome as you say, you eat some of it. Go on! Right now, like a good fellow. Show us, take a little from each tin.”

“Excellent idea, Mortimer! Eat up, professor!” the Earl agreed. “Let’s see you!”

“Jaa,” poor Octopus twittered,  “I cout eat zum. Only…”

“EAT!!!” ordered father and son together and the professor was obliged to eat Recycled Jones in the varieties: Special Beans, Special Bacon and Special Tutti-Frutti.

When he had finished, Mortimer sneered, “Well, professor, what was wrong with it?”

“Iss only zat food from machine…. stink! Wissout peg on nose nein eat!” poor Otto cried.

“Is that all?” Lord Rubbish said calmly. “These paupers who are always complaining won’t expect us to sell them caviar and champagne, will they? They want healthy, nourishing food that’s cheap? They’ll get it. It may smell a bit strange, but if they’re really hungry, they’ll end up buying it - you’ll see, professor.

“I remember,” he mused, “When I was a child, I hated spinach and my nanny always said: ‘Bryan, hold your nose. Be a good boy and eat up and then I’ll give you a treat. I’ll take you to the merry-go-round!’ And so I ate it!”

As he recalled this incident, the Earl’s face lit up. “We’ll do the same thing as my nanny did! Whoever buys three tins of Recycled Jones will get a free peg so he won’t notice the smell. What’s more, I’ll get some top designer to create the peg. We’ll make blue ones for the Dads, red for the Mums, pink for little girls and pale blue for little boys.

“And I will promote the peg in person. When I attend Parliament, and the Opposition begins to speak, I’ll don my clothes peg and have them  write on the first page of “The Times”: “Lord Bryan Ffink Pfenninger Jones can listen to the Opposition without vomiting, but that is only because he put his special peg on his nose.” It will be a wonderful advertisement!”

Like all great men, the Earl was immediately aware of the historic importance of that moment. He was sure that the words that were to issue from his mouth would be handed down from generation to generation. He was absolutely convinced that the Ffink Pfenninger Jones family would come to an end that night. Instead, in its place, a Dynasty would be born and the words of the Founding Father would be recorded for posterity.

“My son,” Lord Bryan said, leading Mortimer to the window, where he could admire the view of the dump in the light of the moon. “Just think, one day, everything that you see, all this,” He made a sweeping gesture with his left hand towards the piles of refuse, while he placed his right hand on Mortimer’s shoulder, “All this” he repeated, “Will be yours! In every major city of the world, wherever garbage exists, we’ll be there!

“I can guarantee, son, that a day will come, and perhaps I shall no longer be amongst you, when we’ll manage to eliminate the smell. And we’ll be able to produce every single thing - even bigger and better diamonds than that detestable De Beers…. 

“We shall be the biggest economic power in the world, son, and you will be at the helm!”

Lord Bryan stood in silence for a moment, then he shook off his vision of the future, took his arm off his son’s shoulder and said gaily, “This is a truly wonderful day! All my dreams have come true! Just think! Even my dream of finally getting rid of William and Betty. As luck would have it, Betty’s dreams are going to help me achieve this!

“Here we are dreaming about conquering the world and – believe it or not – she’s dreaming about Peter Pan and the Neverland!”

“BETTER BAN?! ZE NEZERLAND! WHO ZAYS ZEEZ FINKS ARE DREAMS?” exclaimed Dr. Kohops in great agitation, speaking through his nose more than ever. “Ziss iss no dream. Ziss iss zi truf, Milort!”

“Professor, what are you saying?” cried Lord Bryan. “How can there be a Neverland? How can you believe you can fly there?”

But the poor professor was unable to reply because he had burst into tears.

“Come now, come now, professor! What’s this all about? Why are you crying?”

You may not be able to believe this, but the professor told them that when he was a little boy, he had been with Peter Pan and the lost boys in the Neverland. Then he had wanted to grow up and Peter had sent him away.

How sorry he had been! How often he had longed to return! But- he explained, sobbing louder than ever – nobody could go back to the Neverland without Peter’s permission and some fairy dust.

It was almost impossible to convince Lord Bryan that this incredible story could be true, but, in the end, Otto more or less succeeded.

“In island, nicht dirty, everyzink pure, everyzink beautiful, everyzink clean…” cried the professor, who then added in a wistful tone, “Why we don’t go to ze Island, Milort?”

At this point, a short and rather absurd exchange took place between Lord Bryan and Octopus that was, however, to have unforeseen and drastic consequences for everyone in our story.

“All right, professor, but how do you get to this Neverland?”

“Iss zimple, Milort: only need to fly!”

“Yes, I realise that,” snapped the Earl  impatiently. “But how can you fly?”

“Even more zimple. Zu jusst need fairy dust!”

“But, curses, how do you get hold of some of that?” shouted Lord Rubbish, whose patience had often been sorely put to the test by Octopus’ extravagant theories, “Where do you get fairy dust?”

“Now everyzink zimple wiss my new great invention: zu get fairy and put it into Synthetyzer!”

At this point, the Earl put an end to the conversation. He decided that if, as was likely, the stories spun by Betty and this lunatic Octopus were nonsense, he would still have the excuse he needed to get rid of his nephew and niece for ever. But, on the other hand, if this Peter really existed and came to get the children, he would be able to get hold of some fairy dust…

Now, he decided, the first thing to do was go back to London and read Betty’s letter.