Goth Girl and the Fete Worse Than Death Page 5

  *Hairy oxen are very bad-tempered, particularly when having their coats brushed. They are also very smelly and produce sour-tasting milk. Also known as yucky yaks.

  ‘The chimney caretaker will show you the way.’ Ada saw Kingsley coming towards the front of the house from the direction of the hobby-horse stables. The grooms trooped back out through the front door and joined him. Somewhere from the depths of Ghastly-Gorm Hall, there came a long mournful whine. ‘I’ve got other matters to attend to, so Kingsley’s in charge,’ Maltravers told the grooms. He turned and hurried back inside, slamming the door behind him. The Cumbrian juggernaut lurched back into motion, as Kingsley, Arthur and the grooms walked ahead of the hairy oxen in the direction of the drawing-room garden. ‘Well, since it’s such a beautiful day, I think I’ll have to make do with some landscape sketches,’ said J.M.W. Turnip, without much enthusiasm. ‘Can I sketch with you?’ asked Emily,

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  her eyes wide with excitement. ‘I’d be delighted,’ replied J.M.W. Turnip, cheering up. ‘There’s a rather interesting feature over there,’ he said, pointing to the Hill of Ambition, ‘which will afford us excellent views.’ ‘But what about repotting the purple geranium?’ Ada asked Emily. ‘We can do that another time, Ada,’ said Emily, hurrying after J.M.W. Turnip, who was striding off towards the hobby-horse racecourse. Ada watched her go, feeling left out. Then she turned on her heels and walked along the gravel drive, following the deep grooves left by the wheels of the Cumbrian juggernaut. When she reached the drawing-room garden she found it in turmoil. The garden furniture had been cleared

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  away and the hobby-horse grooms were running backwards and forwards across the lawn as they unloaded pieces of the Spiegel tent from the juggernaut, and tried not to trip up or get in each other’s way. ‘You break any of those and its seven years’ bad luck,’ shouted the driver of the juggernaut at a line of grooms struggling with large mirrors in decorative frames. ‘And don’t pet the oxen!’ she called over. ‘It only encourages them!’ The team of oxen stood in harness, ignoring the commotion around them as, shaggy heads down, they munched at the lawn. Kingsley opened the book of instructions and started to read.

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  ‘Can I help?’ asked Ada. ‘Perhaps another time, Ada,’ said Kingsley distractedly. He scratched his head as he turned the pages. ‘If guy-rope D goes there, where does guy-rope E go? . . . oh, I see . . . then doll-rope two needs two pegs . . .’ Around them, the grooms hurried back and forth. ‘Careful!’ Ada turned round. It was Arthur Halford, in the middle of the lawn surrounded by bundles of rope and piles of tent pegs. ‘Guys and dolls,’ he called to the other grooms. ‘Try not to get them mixed up. Round pegs to the left; square pegs to the right!’ Ada stepped around the tent poles, decorative mirrors and brightly coloured canvas that were rapidly filling the

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  lawn, until she reached Arthur. ‘Is there anything I can do?’ she asked. Arthur smiled at her. ‘That’s fine, Ada,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We’ve got a system going. It’s just like riding a hobby horse. Hold on tight and hope for the best!’ He hurried away to help the head groom, who’d just been butted in the stomach by a hairy ox. Ada walked slowly away. In the bedroom garden, she bumped into William, who had taken his shirt off and was blending in beautifully with a bed of I-didn’t-forget-yous. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’ Ada began. ‘Sorry, Ada,’ said William, putting his shirt back on,

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  ‘but I’m late for my calculating-machine lesson in the Chinese drawing room. I was on my way there when I saw these,’ he said, looking at the purple-and-yellow flowers, ‘and I couldn’t resist! I’ll see you at the Attic Club tonight!’ he called as he ran down the garden path and disappeared around the corner. Ada went into the kitchen garden, where she found William Flake the baking poet and Ruby the outer-pantry maid standing next to an iron stove on wheels. ‘It’s very exciting,’ said Ruby when she saw Ada. ‘I’m helping Mr Flake bake his famous Jerusalem cake. It’s a recipe from ancient times . . .’

  William Flake opened the stove door and peered inside before closing it again. ‘It’s rising nicely, Tyger-Tyger,’ he chuckled, stroking his ginger cat as she brushed against his leg. ‘Now for the icing . . .’ He straightened up and turned to Ruby. ‘Ah, Ruby,’ he beamed. ‘Bring me my bowl of burning gold, bring me my spatulas of desire, bring me my whisk, and logs untold,’ he chuckled, turning back to the stove with its gently smoking funnel, ‘to fuel my chariot of fire!’ ‘Sorry, Ada,’ said Ruby happily, ‘I’ve got to dash. I don’t want to keep Mr Flake waiting.’ She turned and ran into the kitchen. Everybody was so busy, Ada thought miserably, as she walked away. Cooking, calculating, constructing . . . ‘Everybody but me,’ she sighed.

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  Chapter Eight or the rest of the day, Ada kept herself busy. She went over to the hobby-horse stables and took out the smallest hobby horse she could find. It was called Tiny Timothy and was a bit rusty and rattly, but Ada’s feet could just about touch the ground. Outside the stable door she saw one of the Twee Raffelites, Stubby

  George, painting a portrait of Lord Goth’s newest bicycle, the Lincoln Green Armchair. Sir Stephen Belljar was holding the hobby horse by the handlebars for him and shaking his head. ‘A little too fancy for my tastes,’ he muttered through his enormous bushy beard. ‘Simple plank of wood between two cartwheels should be enough for any man.’ Ada rode over the cobbles and out across the west lawn, past the Alpine Gnome Rockery. Another of the Twee Raffelites, Maxim de Trumpet-Oil, had set up his easel and was painting a portrait of one of the gnomes.

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  It was life-size, and so real-looking that Ada felt she could almost reach into the picture and pick it up. When she got to the hobby-horse racecourse she saw Emily and J.M.W. Turnip sketching on top of the Hill of Ambition. Ada waved but they were so engrossed in conversation that they didn’t notice her.

  Ada rode through the dear-deer park, the tiny animals scattering at her approach. Romney Marsh was sitting on the bandstand under ‘Old Hardy’, painting the portrait of an oblong sheep as it grazed nearby. Not wanting to disturb them, Ada steered a wide course around the overly ornamental fountain and back behind the new icehouse and then up towards the Lake of Extremely Coy Carp. By the time she got there, she

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  was quite hot. She climbed off the hobby horse and sat beside the lake in the sunshine. It was beautiful and had been the site of water meadows back in Anglo-Saxon times. The Sensible Folly, a well-maintained copy of a Greek temple, where Maltravers lived, was reflected in the lake’s still waters. There was no sign of the outdoor butler. Ada lay back and stared at the fluffy white clouds in the clear blue sky. What was he up to? she wondered sleepily. She should tell Lord Sydney about the strange grocers and their poodles, and ask him for the latest news on her father, and then there was Marylebone . . . When Ada awoke, a bright full moon was reflected in the mirror-like surface of the lake. Ada sat up and stretched. ‘I must have slept away the entire afternoon,’ she said to herself, getting to her feet and climbing on to her hobby horse, ‘Mind you, I have had some rather late nights recently . . .’

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  She rode back towards the house, and as she approached the east gardens she gasped. There in the centre of the drawing-room garden stood

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  the Spiegel tent. Kingsley, Arthur and the grooms had done a fine job. The tent looked magnificent in the moonlight. Ada went up to the Spiegel tent’s entrance,* which on closer inspection resembled a wardrobe. She pushed open the double doors and stepped inside. The interior of the Spiegel tent was huge, with mirrors in ornate frames lining the circular walls in which Ada saw herself reflected back a hundred times. ‘You dance beautifully,’ said a voice from above, ‘so wonderfully light on your feet.’ ‘And you are a most elegant partner . . .’ came the reply in a light, lilting voice with just the trace of an accent. Ada looked up. There, floating in mid-air, was her governess, Lucy Borgia, arm in ar
m with Lord Sydney Whimsy. They were twirling slowly round and round, Lucy supporting Lord Whimsy by the waist and

  *The entrance to the Spiegel tent was made by Mr Tumnus, the cabinet-making faun, and his apprentice, Lucy.

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  arm. His pale blue eyes never left her face. In the mirrors surrounding them, Ada could see Lord Whimsy’s reflection but not Lucy’s. Ada gave an embarrassed little cough. Lucy and Lord Sydney looked down. ‘We have company, Lucy, my dear,’ he said smoothly. They floated to the ground and Lord Sydney stepped back and took a bow. ‘You charming ladies will have to excuse me,’ he said. ‘In my line of work one’s time is not one’s own.’ He brushed past Ada and left the tent before she had a chance to ask him anything about Maltravers. Ada turned to her governess. ‘Everybody is so busy with the Full-Moon Fete,’ she complained, ‘and I want to help Marylebone but she won’t leave the wardrobe

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  and Maltravers is up to something I’m sure of it and . . .’ Lucy reached out and took Ada’s hand. Her touch was ice cold. ‘I’ve been speaking to Lord Sydney,’ she said, her eyes sparkling, ‘and I’ve been telling him what a gifted pupil you are, Ada. He was very impressed by my reports of your umbrella fencing.’ ‘He was?’ said Ada, pleased. ‘Oh yes,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m sorry I’ve missed our lessons, but I’ve been helping Lord Sydney with his preparations for the fete . . .’ She glanced at one of the mirrors that lined the wall. ‘You know, Ada, I haven’t seen my reflection in three hundred years . . .’ Ada could hear the sadness in her voice. ‘I had my portrait

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  painted once by the young painter Lord Sydney so reminds me of. He said it was his masterpiece. I don’t know what became of it. How I would love to see that picture again.’ Ada saw Lucy’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Lord Sydney is a good man, a fine man . . . If only things were different . . .’ The governess turned away. ‘Forgive me, Ada, but I feel quite unable to concentrate on lessons tonight.’ Lucy rose into the air, her arms raised, before transforming herself into a black bat and flapping

  up towards the dome of the Spiegel tent. She flew around the hanging mirrorball, once, twice, before swooping out of one of the openings and disappearing into the night. Even Lucy was too distracted to spend time with her, Ada thought sadly. Ada’s tummy rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, she realized, and her supper would be waiting for her in her bedroom. She hoped it was something cooked by Heston Harboil. After that there was the Attic Club meeting to go to. There would be plenty to talk about. Ada caught her reflection in one of the mirrors. She hated to see Lucy Borgia so upset. Then Ada smiled back at herself. Supper could wait; there was something she had to do first . . .

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  Chapter Nine oud and shrill, like the sound of a seagull having its tail feathers plucked, the steam whistle sounded. Ada, who’d just stepped out of the Spiegel tent, stood rooted to the spot. Coming round the corner of the new icehouse was an enormous traction engine, with a tall black funnel belching out smoke, a round boiler and four huge iron wheels powered by steam. Behind it, the engine was pulling four black carriages with shuttered windows and pointy roofs. The steam whistle toot-tooted again as the traction engine trundled through the gate of the drawing-room garden and came to a halt beside the Spiegel tent. ‘What a beautiful moonlit night,’ said a gloomy voice. ‘You must be the little Goth girl.’ He was bald, white-faced, with extremely large

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  ears and, Ada saw, very long fingernails. He was dressed all in black, and as he climbed down from the traction engine he was followed by a white-faced woman and two miserable-looking children.

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  ‘We’re the Glum-Stokers,’ said the driver with an expressive hand gesture. ‘I’m Vlad and this is my wife Glad, and our children, Mlad and Blad.’ He pointed a long bony finger at the traction engine and the carriages behind it. ‘This is our Transylvanian Carnival,’ he announced joylessly. ‘All the fun of the fair . . .’ Ada followed the sweep of his curving fingernail and read the spiky white letters carefully painted on the pointy roofs of each carriage. ‘Shy coconuts’, ‘Darren the Memory Goat’, ‘Bat Circus’ and the one at the end which read ‘Private – Keep Out’. ‘That’s where we sleep,’ said Glad glumly. The four of them exchanged looks, then turned back to Ada. ‘No, please, don’t bother,’ said Vlad gloomily. ‘We’ll set everything up ourselves. With no help whatsoever. We always do. Don’t let us keep you. If you see Lord Whimsy, can you tell him we’re here?’ The four Glum-Stokers looked at Ada forlornly.

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  ‘I’ll look forward to seeing your carnival,’ said Ada politely. She climbed on to her hobby horse and set off awkwardly as the Glum-Stokers stared unblinkingly after her. ‘Mirth and merriment,’ said Glad stonily. ‘Larks and laughter,’ said Mlad and Blad, unsmiling. ‘All the fun of the fair,’ repeated Vlad soberly. Once round the corner of the east wing, Ada broke into a run, the wheels of Tiny Timothy spinning over the gravel. She bypassed the west wing and raced over the cobbles towards the hobby-horse stables. What odd people to be running a carnival, she thought to herself. But instead of stopping, Ada continued, past the unstable stables, with its sagging roof and walls propped up with scaffolding, and on towards the oldest part of Ghastly-Gorm Hall, the broken wing.*

  *The broken wing of Ghastly-Gorm Hall has many forgotten rooms containing interesting and obscure things such as ruby slippers, old fir trees and rolled-up carpets from Turkey.

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  It was called the broken wing because it was in need of repair. But it was out of sight at the back of the Hall, a jumble of rickety rooms, abandoned alcoves and crumbling chambers, and so was largely forgotten about. Most of the rooms were empty but a few were filled with old, overlooked things – the sorts of things Ada liked best. She stopped and propped Tiny Timothy against the wall, before opening a small arched door and entering. The broken wing had many winding, cobwebby corridors and could be confusing, but Ada and her friends in the Attic Club had been busy exploring.

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  They wrote about the discoveries they made, among other things, in their journal, The Chimney Pot.

  Ada knew exactly what she was looking for, and where to find it. She made her way quietly down several corridors, turning left, then right, until she came to a door she recognized. She opened it, and entered a long narrow room. A painting, wrapped in a sheet, was propped up against the far wall. Ada went over and picked up the painting. Then she left the room and hurried down the cobwebby corridors without looking back. She’d tell her father about Maltravers taking in uninvited guests as soon as he got back from his book tour. But right now she was ready for her supper. She emerged from the broken wing into the entrance hall and climbed the stairs to her bedroom two at a time. When she got there, she propped the painting against the mantelpiece and kicked off her shoes. Her supper was waiting for her on the more-than-occasional table. Ada lifted the lid and gave a little sigh.

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  It was one of Mrs Beat’em’s cheese smellywiches (two slices of bread with a piece of Blue Gormly cheese between them). There was also a glass of milk and a generous slice of baked Scunthorpe for pudding. It wasn’t the Heston Harboil treat she’d been hoping for but Ada ate everything, even the humbug parasol stuck in the top of the baked Scunthorpe. She was just about to go up to the top of the house for the Attic Club meeting when the door of the wardrobe in her dressing room opened, and the tip of a shiny black nose appeared.

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  Ada looked at the great-uncle clock on her mantelpiece. It was almost nine o’clock, the time the Attic Club began its weekly meeting. But this was the first time her lady’s maid had put so much as a nose outside of the wardrobe when Ada was in the room, and Ada didn’t want to discourage her. ‘Why don’t you come out here?’ said Ada. ‘You can sit next to me on the Dalmatian divan and we can talk . . .’ The shiny black nose trembled and Ada heard a sad little sigh. ‘There’s only me here,’ said Ada. ‘There’s nothing to be afrai
d of.’ There was a long pause. Ada sat down on the Dalmatian divan and pretended to examine her nails. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marylebone shuffle very slowly out of the wardrobe and pad across the Anatolian carpet. She had a red velvet cape with a fur-trimmed hood over one arm. Ada stared at a fingernail and waited.

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  The little bear reached the divan and sat shyly down. Ada glanced at Marylebone. Her lady’s maid was wearing an apron with lots of pockets containing what looked like sewing needles and bundles of thread, and on the end of her nose a large pair of spectacles. Ada reached over and squeezed Marylebone’s paw. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ she said. ‘What happened to my mother was terrible,’ she went on, ‘and you have looked after me so well, Marylebone.’ Ada felt Marylebone’s paw squeeze her hand.