Drawing Stories

On the evening before the argument, we had enjoyed a meal at a restaurant after a tiring walk around the city, and our heated dispute was over whether our starter had contained passata or chopped tomatoes. For the record, Jo hadn't heard of passata then, so can be forgiven for her mistake. Nevertheless, to this day she still stubbornly maintains we had chopped tomatoes. This is the kind of thing that can end a relationship. Determined not to let it ruin our holiday, we laughed it off as a silly row about nothing.

As dinner time approached the following evening, I casually suggested that we might like to each make a written record of all the foodstuffs on our plates at the next restaurant. A pained expression appeared on Jo's face.

"Ah, but then we'll have to agree on a definitive ingredients list," she replied; foreseeing further arguments.

"That's okay. If there's a difference of opinion, we'll ask the waiter to arbitrate!" I exclaimed, suddenly triumphant.

As we walked the streets of Florence looking for somewhere to eat, I felt a weight had been lifted from me. This was followed by intense self-satisfaction. Through an evidently irresistable combination of charm and diplomacy, I had avoided a second, possibly terminal, landmine.

While Jo and I were discussing what food we felt like eating that night, I noticed that a short, fat middle-aged man who was standing a few metres away appeared to be gesticulating at us. Grinning like a fool, he was repeatedly half raising his arm and nodding his head, like an annoying schoolboy trying to attract the attention of a teacher.

"Jo, why is that man waving at us?"

"What man?"

"Over there," I replied, flicking my elbow in his direction. "Don't look at him!... Oh God, he's coming over."

As the tubby little man came closer, I noticed that he had a slightly wonky pencil moustache and wore an earring.

"Please don't say anything rude or embarrassing," Jo implored.

"Of course I won't."

"Buona serata."

"Look, if you want us to part with our euros, surrrender our souls to the Catholic faith, or are just plain mad, we're not interested."

Jo glared at me and gave my arm a whack. The stranger smiled beatifically.

"De firsta two you say - no. De lasta - you'll 'ave to aska my wife! Permit me to introduce myself. I'm Georgio Francesco Giovanni Antonio Piero Lombardi... but you can call me Don."

"Don," I repeated tremulously. "You're not the..."

"Oh no, no Signore! It's a nickaname - after Don 'enley, de singer in de Eagles groupa. Biga fan you see. (Sings) Welcome to de 'otel California / Such a lovely place... You know it? (Sings again) You can check-out any time you lika / But you can never leave!"

"Are you sure you're not the Mafia?"

"No Signore. I'm just a 'umble Florentine. You English, si?"

I grunted in affirmation.

"I knew it!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together in apparent excitement. "I 'earda you talking. You look for somewhere to eata, si?"

Ah, now we're getting to it, I thought.

"I own a little bistro ten minutes from 'ere. Delizioso Italian food, just lika my papa maka!"

"Your papa? Isn't it usually your mamma?" I asked, surprised.

"Mamma's food no good. Lasta year she take a 'oliday in England. Now she'll only cook roasta beef and toad in de 'ola. - Disgustoso! No offence."

"None taken," I replied, chuckling.

"Tonight Signore, Signora, you'll dine lika de Medici for free. But first you must 'elpa my friend. Come, come, follow me per favore," he insisted, flapping his arms like an overanimated chicken.

We followed Don down several back streets, up a steep hill, then though some rusty iron gates which led into a small park. The first thing that struck me about the place was that it was populated by animals that you wouldn't normally expect to see together in the wild. A koala and a walrus lounged by a fish pond, a baby elephant poked its trunk out from behind a rose bush, and under a monkey puzzle tree, in an apparent stand-off, a chimpanzee stood nose to snout with a pig.

"It's a sculpture garden!" exclaimed Jo, elated.

"Shhh. Keep your voice down. He might hear us," I replied.

"So what?"

"Why do you think he's brought us here?"

"To help his friend, he said."

"Or accomplice. He could be anyone. Look, keep hold of your purse, and if they try anything, you hit them with your handbag and I'll call the police."

As I spoke, I realized that I no more knew the telephone number of the Italian police than I did the Pope's. It also dawned on me that even if I did manage to get through to an officer, my complete ignorance of the Italian language meant that I would have no way of communicating with them if they didn't speak the Queen's English. Before the holiday I had only bothered to learn the phrase: 'Dove posso prendere l'alcol?', meaning: 'Where can I get alcohol?', in the hope that the listener would use clear directional hand signals. Although this phrase would admittedly be of no use during a mugging, I took some comfort in the knowledge that it would prove invaluable after one.

A worried expression appeared on Jo's face.

"You don't really think..? Hold on, why does it have to be me who does the hitting?"

"Because you can't operate a mobile phone!.. Oh sod it, let's just go."

"Signore, Signora, we 'ave arrived!"

Don had turned around to face us and was flapping his arms again.

"So where's your friend?" I asked.

"'Ee's behind me," replied Don, stepping aside.

A few feet beyond him lay a bench on which a square-jawed man in a brimmed hat sat stiffly; his eyes staring blankly ahead as if he were in a trance. The man's right hand, which was resting on his lap, held an open book, while his left arm was stretched across the back of the bench. He, like most of the other inhabitants of the park, was made entirely of metal.

"But he's -"

"- a very bookish chap," said Jo, finishing my sentence. "What's his name?"

"Dis Signora, is my dear friend Frederico." Don turned to face him. "Frederico, questi sono i miei nuovi amici dall'Inghilterra... Frederico is delighted to meeta you."

"How do you know?" I asked, not in the mood to play along.

"I can tella by 'is body language."

"Doesn't he always sit like that?"

"Of course not. 'Ee'd geta de crampa."

"What's he reading?" asked Jo.

"Ah, dis is why I needa your 'elpa. It's a learn to speak English booka."

"Hold on. You want us to teach him to speak English?" I replied.

"Si."

"Why can't you do it?" I asked, not quite believing I was having this conversation.

"Frederico wants to learna de language of Milton and Shakespeare, and express 'is passionate feelings in de sublime words of de Romantic poets. 'Ee can only do dis with de 'elp of someone 'ooze tongue is an English mother."

"Dante and Petrarch not good enough for him then?"

"Of course. But 'ee's desperate to speak English."

"But why?" asked Jo.

Don raised his arm and pointed to a bronze statue of a young woman that stood a short distance away on a small hill between two apple trees. She wore a tattered straw sailor hat and a shoddy coat which almost reached her knees. Around her skirt was tied an apron, while her rough old leather boots had seen better days. She was clutching a small basket of flowers.

"It's Eliza de English flower girl," said Don. "De soppy idiota 'as only gone and fallen in amore."

"Wow, that's wonderful!" exclaimed Jo, suddenly animated.

I now couldn't tell who was more crazy: my girlfriend or Don.

"She comes from Lisson Grove in your London," Don continued. "Before she came 'ere, she was selling 'er blooms in Parc Guell in Barcelona."

"How did Eliza end up in Florence then?" asked Jo.

"She didn't lika de rain in Spain."

"So what would you like us to do?"

"Just sita next to Frederico. I promise - 'ee's very friendly."

Jo smiled nervously, shrugged her shoulders, then tentatively walked over to the bench and sat down. Don stood the other side of Frederico.

"'Ee will speak to you in Italian. I will translate."

"Hold on. - He talks?" I asked, incredulous.

"Ee's Italian!"

"Of course he is."

"Frederico speaks very softly Signora," said Don. "Lean in closer and 'ee will talk into your ear."

"Okay."

Jo tilted her head towards Frederico's and listened, while Don leaned in closer.

"'Ee says you are de second most beautiful girl in de park."

"Oh thank you Frederico," replied Jo, blushing.

I felt my eyes roll in my head, then turned to look around me. Apart from the three of us and the sculptures, the only other occupant of the park appeared to be a lone man walking his dog.

"So how many girls are actually in the park at the moment?" I enquired.

Jo swung her head around and gave me a look.

"Lots... A few... More than two, okay!"

Jo turned back around to Frederico and tilted her head towards his again.

"'Ee wants to know 'ow 'ee should tell Eliza 'ee loves 'er," said Don.

"He could keep it simple and just say 'I love you'," replied Jo.

Don turned to Frederico. "Ti voglio bene. - Ayeeee laaaarv yoooo."

Jo and Don leant towards Frederico and listened.

"Mmm... Frederico says 'ee wants to be a tiny bita more poetic when expressing 'ow Eliza 'as stolen 'is 'arta," said Don.

"Oh, right... Well I suppose he could tell her that she's the most beautiful bloom in the garden..."

"Gooda." Don turned to Frederico once more. "Sei il fiore più bello del giardino."

"...That his heart aches every time he looks at her..."

"Il mio cuore fa male ogni volta che ti guardo."

"...Eliza is his soulmate..."

"Sei la mia anima gemella, Eliza."

"...and that she feels a part of him."

"Ti senti parte di me."

I noticed that Don had begun to weep.

"I'm so sorry," said the Italian, wiping a tear from his cheek. "Dat's exactly 'ow I feel about Sofia."

"Ahh... Is that your wife?" asked Jo.

"Oh no Signora. It's de name of my Vespa. She means everything to me... Now please promise you'll writa down your beautiful words when you get to my bistro. I'll giva dem to Frederico to learna."

"Okay."

"Forgive me, I don'ta know your names."

"'I'm Neil."

"Signore Neil."

"I'm Jo."

"'Joe? Isn't dat a signore's name?"

"I'm a female Jo."

"A female Joe?.. Ah, yes! We 'ave dem in Italy too. Well, live and leta live, as my nonna used to say."

"No, you don't -"

"I'll writa down de address of my bistro," interrupted Don.

Reaching into his trouser pocket, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and a pencil. Quickly flattening out the paper, he began to scribble.

"Ecco qua Signora," said Don, handing Jo the address. "See you at my bistro in 'alf an hour where a feast will awaita you! Don'ta be late."

Before Jo could say anything else, Don turned on his heel and hurried out of the park.

"Oh my god! Does he think I'm..?"

"Yes Jo, I think he does," I replied, trying to hold back a laugh.

"Shit shit shit!"

"Well, what do you expect when you tell him you're 'a female Jo'."

"What was I supposed to say?"

"How about: 'It's short for Joanne'?"

"Ugh! I hate that name. It sounds so prim and proper. I'm Jo and I'm free!"

"De besta things in life always are my bella Signora. I'll take you."

We both looked around to see where the voice had come from. A moment later, a shabbily dressed old man with outstretched arms slowly emerged from behind a camel; his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Letting out a shriek, Jo bolted towards the park gates; nearly knocking over the man walking his dog who, on regaining his composure, let out a torrent of Italian expletives. In all the time I had known her, I had never seen her move so fast.

"Don'ta run away! Papa will look after you... Bella Signora!"

The old man caught my eye and sneered. "Stupida puttana!"


I found Jo standing just beyond the park gates. She was doubled over, panting; her hands gripping her legs for support.

"Why am I always a magnet for weirdos?" she gasped.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" I replied.

"Not you! People like that. What a country! - Even the geriatrics are on heat! I'm sure they must put something in the water... Right, can you get the map out so we can see how to get to Don's bistro."

"You're not seriously thinking of going are you? The man's one topping short of a pizza."

"Well, I suppose he's slightly eccentric," Jo replied, giggling.

"Slightly eccentric!.. That address he's given us could lead us anywhere."

"His bistro?"

"No. - Down some back alley where he and his fruitcake friends might be waiting to do God knows what to us."

"Look, if Don was going to do anything, I think he would have done it by now. Can't you give someone the benefit of the doubt for a change?"

"Like him, do you? Or is it Frederico you've fallen for?"

"Oh don't be so ridiculous!"

"I can't believe you've been taken in by him. All for the promise of a free meal! Well, I suppose I should expect it from someone who's so stupid they can't even tell the difference between passata and chopped tomatoes!"

"Will you stop going on about your bloody passata!"

"I was standing there watching you with my mouth open: - 'Wow, it's so wonderful that Frederico's fallen in love!' And all that stuff about soulmates and hearts aching."

"You don't really do romance do you Neil?"

"It's a metal sculpture!"

"No. It's much more than that."

"Have you ever thought you've missed your vocation as an actress Jo? - The amount of effort you put into pretending you were hearing that sculpture speak into your ear was Oscar-worthy."

"I did hear him speak."

"What?"

"Frederico spoke. His voice was very quiet, but he definitely spoke."

"Well it must have been some sort of ventriloquist's trick. - Don throwing his voice."

"You can't throw a whisper. And all the while I was listening to Frederico, I never once saw Don's lips move."

I shook my head dismissively.

"Don't you believe in magic Neil? I don't mean conjuring tridks. I mean real magic."

"Well..."

"Why not try to have an open mind and be less cynical. It might make you a better person."

"You really want to go to this bistro don't you."


Don's scribbled address led us to the top of a steep, winding hill. When we turned the final bend, I started to hear music. Ahead of us was a small, slightly run-down building fronted by awning that was patterned with the green, white and red stripes of the Italian flag. On it, in large black capitals, was written: DESPERADOS.

"Do you know, for some reason, that doesn't make me feel any better," I said, pointing at the awning.

"Oh, stop complaining!" Jo snapped back. "Let's just try and enjoy ourselves shall we."

As we walked towards the bistro, the music slowly became clearer and I could hear fiddles and accordians playing a familiar tune.

"Isn't that Take It Easy?" asked Jo.

"Wow! I'm really impressed," I replied in a mocking tone.

"Shut up."

"Did you also know that Jackson Browne wrote most of that song and planned to put it on his first album? In the end, his friend Glenn Frey, who was the guitarist with the Eagles, finished the lyrics and put it on their debut album."

"Music geek."

"Well at least we know we've found the right bistro."

"You first," said Jo, backing off as we approached the door.

"Why me? - You were the one keen to come."

"I'm scared," replied Jo timidly.

"Oh for God's sake! I thought you said that there's nothing to worry about."

As I stepped forward and reached for the handle, the door swung open and Don appeared dressed in a heavily stained apron, waving a cleaver; his face etched with a hideous grin.

"Benvenuto! Welcome to my 'umble bistro. Sorry about de 'atchet. - I'm butcheringa yoooo."

I let out a whimper then turned to look at Jo, who had turned pale; the full horror of the terrible mistake she had made written across her face.

"No, no, you misunderstanda. - Nota you," said Don, pointing a stubby forefinger at us and shaking his head. "A lady lamba."

"Ohhh," said Jo and I in unison; breathing freely once more.

"You 'ave a good time. All my friends are 'ere tonighta. Come inside, chop chop," said Don, slicing the air with his cleaver and cackling. I smiled weakly.

The interior of the bistro was dimly lit, and I could barely see the silhouettes of the diners seated at tables set around the edge of the room. The centre of the restaurant meanwhile was taken up by two cavorting fiddlers and an accordian player. Barefoot and dressed in dungarees, scarves and leather waistcoats, the three men looked like members of Dexys Midnight Runners circa Come On Eileen. Above them, swaying gently from side to side, hung a giant stuffed eagle.

"You lika my music?" asked Don.

"It's great!" replied Jo. "Wasn't Take It Easy written mostly by Jackson Browne, but finished by Glenn Frey, who put it on the Eagles' debut album?"

"Signora, your knowledge of de Eagles' music amazes me!"

Jo turned to me and grinned. Leaning forwards, Don held his hand next to his mouth mock conspiratorially.

"You've picked de righta one 'ere Signore - certamente," he said, giving me a wink.

"Yes, I've certainly picked a right one."

Jo stuck her tongue out.

"Follow me. I've saved you de besta table in de 'ouse," said Don; leading us across the room to sit down. "What would you lika to drink?"

"Do you have any un-hoppy beer?" asked Jo.

"Beer? Wouldn't you like a wina or a sherry?.. (lowers voice) Now you're a lady."

"I've always been a lady."

"Of course you 'ave Signora," replied Don, tapping his nose with his forefinger. "Beer it is. And you Signore?"

"Ooh, I quite fancy a Babycham," I replied, laughing.

After Don had left the table, I took a look around the room. When I had first come in, I had felt that there was something odd about the diners. Now, as my eyes slowly became accustomed to the gloom, I saw that it was because their silhouettes weren't moving. Just then, Don appeared at our table again, this time waving a small notepad and pen.

"Your drinks are coming. But in de meantime Signora, please writa down your sublime words of English lovey-dovey, so Fred can woo like Casanova and win Eliza's 'arta."

"Anything to help," replied Jo with a smile, taking the pen and notepad.

"It's very dark in 'ere. I'll turna de lights up so you can see," said Don, disappearing to the back of the restaurant.

A few moments later, the room was illuminated. Seeing our surroundings clearly for the first time, we both took a sudden intake of breath. Amongst the thirty or so diners seated at tables in the restaurant, Jo and I were the only ones not made of metal or stone. An angel was entertaining a large, laughing Buddha, a beautiful lady from antiquity sat with a gargoyle, and on an end table, a lion appeared to be having an intimate tête-à-tête with an antelope. Jo and I looked at one another.

"Let's pray that the food's real," I said.

"I'd definitely avoid the stone baked pizza," replied Jo, chuckling.

Don returned carrying a tray of drinks.

"Eccoti. - One un'oppy beer and one Babycham," he said, placing a glass of beer with a sad face drawn on it and a baby's bottle filled with sparkling wine onto the table. Don smiled and shook his head. "You English are very strange!"

We both stared at our drinks.

"So, do you lika my friends?" Don asked, gesticulating towards the sculptures and statues with a wave of his arm.

"I hope they're paying for their dinner; although the lion seems to have brought his with him." I replied.

"Why are they all here?" asked Jo.

"Oh, it's a sada story Signora. Nota many outsiders know dis, but Florence 'as many secret parks and gardens," said Don, sitting down at the table. "Unfortunately all deeze beautiful places are locked up and 'idden behind tall bricka walls, so only a lucky few can enjoy dem. Most 'ave one or two forlorna statues. Deeze poor souls 'ave no companions and 'ardly anyone but de owners to visit dem; feeling abandoned and unloved."

Jo looked as though she was about to cry.

"Don't upseta yourself Signora," said Don. "Things are better. - I 'elpa dem. Eacha month under de cover of darkness, my friends come 'ere to socialize, flirta - even fall in love!"

"Are you telling us you're running a lonely hearts club for garden statues?" I asked.

Don grinned and nodded.

"You see de gorgeous Grecian lady and de gargoyle over in de corner? - Going steady for sixa months! 'Ee's such a charming signore."

"Well I suppose he'd have to be with a face like that!" I replied.

"No you are wrong Signore. My friends are nota lika you and me - a stupid little Italian obsessed with 'is fancy suits and keeping 'is Santoni shoes shiny. Appearance and reputation don'ta bother dem. Love is pure. Such a beautiful thing!"

I was speechless.

"Have they ever been missed or caught trying to leave their gardens?" asked Jo. "Surely someone would spot them walking down the street."

"My friends are very discreeta Signora."

"But how on earth do they move?" I asked.

"Faster dan you thinka."

I remembered what Jo had said about keeping an open mind. Perhaps this was all real. Towards the end of the evening, after I had washed down a delicious risotto with six baby's bottles of fizz, I was prepared to believe anything.

When we got up to put our coats on, Don seemed very reluctant to let us go. Clamping us to his wobbly chest to kiss us fervently on both cheeks, he made us promise we'd come again for another meal the following evening.


The next day Jo and I decided to visit the Accademia Gallery. Arriving in the morning, just after its doors had opened, we were aghast to find that the museum was already teeming with visitors. An excruciating chorus of high-pitched voices echoed around the Halls. As we approached the Tribune, we found that the cacophony was coming from a group of overexcited Japanese tourists who had crowded around Michelangelo's David to take pictures.

"Do you think many other people know?" asked Jo as she stared at the scene.

"Know what?"

"About them."

"Japanese tourists?"

"No, silly. Statues."

"I don't know. I'm not sure I believe myself."

"Listen, I'm going to have a quick look around the gallery on my own. I know you like to spend hours reading all the description labels. I'll meet you outside when you've finished."

A little while after Jo had left me, I spotted her in the middle distance at the quieter end of one of the Halls. She was nervously swivelling her head from side to side; appearing to check whether anyone was nearby. A moment later she pulled out a pocket Italian phrase book, which she'd bought earlier that morning, walked up to a statue of a Roman emperor, then began speaking to it; tilting her head forward every so often to listen for any response. During the next hour I secretly followed her around almost every corner of the gallery; watching in amazement as she spoke in turn to Pope Julius II, one of The Three Graces, Neptune and the Virgin Mary. A few minutes after I had wandered off to read some description labels, I heard a commotion behind me. Turning around, I could see Jo standing on the wrong side of a security wire, desperately clinging to the buttocks of a large male nude, while two burly guards struggled to pull her off.

"Let go of me you imbeciles! I'm asking him something," Jo cried as she was finally peeled from the statue.

Lifting her off the ground by her armpits while she screamed and kicked, the guards hurriedly carried Jo through a large crowd of astonished onlookers and bundled her through the exit door. Slowly squeezing my way through the hordes to follow her outside, I found Jo sitting on the gallery steps; her head in her hands.

"God, that was embarrassing!" she said, hiding her eyes.

"I'm surprised they didn't call the police. Well I suppose if you're going to make an exhibition of yourself, it may as well be in an art gallery!" I replied, sitting down beside her.

"Very funny... I wasn't damaging anything you know. I just wanted to get a bit closer."

I gave her a stern look.

"Jo, were you talking to the statues?"

"Talking?.. No."

I raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Well maybe just a little bit. I'm sure you would've done the same if you'd heard Fred."

"What did you ask them?"

"Lots of things. - I asked Neptune to recommend a good seafood restaurant, the Virgin Mary the directions to the ladies -"

"Hold on. - Of all the questions you could have put to the Virgin Mary, you asked her where the toilets were?!"

"I was limited to the questions in my phrase book."

"So? - Did any of them talk back?"

"Er... Not really."

I shook my head.

"That doesn't mean they don't speak, just that my Italian pronunciation's rubbish."


When we arrived at Desperados that evening, we found Don standing outside under the awning waiting for us. I braced myself for a double kiss, but instead of clamping me to his breast, he threw his arms in the air; a pained expression on his face.

"Disastro! Disastro!"

"What's wrong Don?" Jo asked.

"Fred whispered your sweeta nothings to Eliza."

"That's good isn't it?"

"'Yes, but 'ee was so nervous 'ee got all 'is words mixed up."

"Oh..."

"Instead of saying: 'You are my soulmate', 'ee said: 'You mate my are soul'!"

"Gosh."

"It didn't 'elpa when 'ee followed dat with: 'You feel a part of me'."

"What did Eliza say?"

"It was something lika: 'Shuta yer face yer tom tit! I ain'ta no brass nail. Come 'ere again an' I'll kicka yer in de Bexley 'eefa!' Fred didn't understand a word she was saying, but said she looked very angry. What shall 'ee do Signora Joe? 'Ee's worried 'ee's ruined 'is chance of love."

"Well -"

"May I?" I interrupted.

"Be my guest," replied Jo.

"I'm ashamed to say I've a huge amount of experience when it comes to saying the wrong things to the people I love. Unfortunately, I can't give poor foreign language skills as an excuse. With matters of the heart, it's important to be honest and sincere. Fred should say to Eliza that he'd been struggling to teach himself English so he could tell her how fond of her he was; but when the moment came, nerves got his tongue in a twist. He should finish by telling her he's very sorry he caused her hurt. If Eliza's good enough to give him the benefit of the doubt and has a shred of romance in her, she'll understand. If she doesn't, she's not worth it."

I looked at Jo; her face a mixture of delight and surprise.

"And I thought Englishmen knew nothing about 'ow to please women! You 'ave some Italian in you, no?" said Don, laughing and slapping me hard on the back. "I'll tell Fred what you said."

Before we left that evening, after insisting we pay nothing again when we asked for the bill, Don persuaded us to spend one more night with him at Desperados. It would be our last full day in Florence before our afternoon flight back to London.


When we arrived at the bistro, Don's three raggle-taggle musicians were again thrashing out gypsy versions of Eagles' tunes as if their lives depended on it. Sitting down at our table, we spent the evening enjoying some of the best pizza and tiramisu I have ever tasted. As Jo and I were scraping the last morsels from our dessert bowls, Don appeared; his face beaming.

"I've a little surprise for you. Justa keep looking in dat direction," he said, pointing towards some dimly lit tables set against the far wall, then disappearing into the gloom again.

A few moments later, the room was illuminated. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Huddled together at a table, amid the other chatting diners, were Fred and Eliza.

"Look, Signore, Signora. - It worked!" exclaimed Don as he returned.

All at once, a feeling of rage overtook me. Standing up from the table, I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and marched towards the door.

"Signore, where are you going? 'Ave another Babycham," Don cried after me.

"I don't want another Babycham. This whole thing's a sham!" I shouted back.


When I got outside, I stopped under the awning to think. A moment later, I heard the door open behind me and saw Jo standing by my side.

"What's the matter with you? Why were you rude to Don?"

"He had me going there for a while. I really started to think it might all be true. I can't believe we've been so gullible!"

"What do you mean?"

"Don's stolen Fred and Eliza from the sculpture garden!"

"That's ridiculous."

"Do you really think that Fred got up from his bench and casually strolled over here with his new girlfriend?"

"Well, when you put it like that..."

"All that stuff about lonely love-starved statues escaping from locked parks and gardens was a fairytale. Don's been half-inching them."

"But why would he do that?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he collects them or is selling them on."

"Okay, if all that were true and Don's just told us a pack of lies, where do we fit in? If he's a criminal like you say, why would he go to such lengths to show us his stolen goods? Why give us all that free food and hospitality? It just doesn't make sense. And remember, I did hear Fred speak."

"Perhaps he just wanted to see how stupid the English are. Look, I know you're desperate to believe in real magic, but I'm afraid all you've really seen is an elaborate trick. You do know we're going to have to report Don to the police."

"Oh no you're not!"

"It's the right thing to do Jo."

"Alright, I'll make a deal with you. Wait until tomorrow morning. We'll visit the sculpture garden. If Fred and Eliza aren't back in their usual places, we'll go to the police."

"Okay, have it your way. I don't suppose waiting a few more hours will matter that much."


The next morning we found our way back to the sculpture garden. As we walked through the rusty iron gates, I could see that its inhabitants had been moving around since we were last there. Under the monkey puzzle tree the chimpanzee now stood nose to beak with a dodo, while by the fish pond the koala had more ominously been replaced by a large grinning crocodile.

Suddenly I noticed that the same man who had been walking his dog last time was striding up the path towards us. Catching sight of Jo, he immediately stopped and began to stare; his eyes widening and mouth dropping open in recognition. Yanking hard on the lead of his protesting dog, he quickly dragged the animal away in the opposite direction.

As we walked around the baby elephant, who was still standing behind the rose bush, and up a slope, I could see that Eliza was missing from her usual spot between the two apple trees.

"See, what did I tell you?" I said. "Can we please go to the police now?"

"Wait. Look," said Jo excitedly, pointing down the other side of the hill.

I followed her as she ran to the bottom, then stood staring in disbelief. Jo turned to me and smiled.

"I don't think that any crime's been committed here."