Eating Things on Sticks Page 6

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ Morning Glory said. ‘These clothes belonged to Aunty Audrey.’

  I held up a little girl’s frock. It was the sort of daft cream puff affair Titania would prance around in. ‘What, even this?’

  ‘Aunty Audrey kept everything, right from her early childhood. Some of the clothes in this pile must be eighty years old.’

  ‘They’d fetch a fortune in London.’

  She stared at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  I held up another frock. Nothing but frills and furbelows and scallops. ‘Plenty of shops in London sell antique stuff like this. My mother’s always strolling past and scoffing at the prices.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ I dived in the pile. ‘Look! You’ve got matching shoes and handbags!’

  ‘Would they sell too?’

  ‘Of course they would,’ I assured her. I waved an arm towards the knick-knack corner. After the grand battle, it had been reduced to a few semi-unravelled owls and a couple of badly chipped piglets. But it still proved my point. ‘There’s always someone who will pay for any old rubbish.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ She sighed. ‘It would be lovely to have a bit of extra cash . . .’ No doubt remembering that my attempt to get some had ended when the phone line was dragged down, she shrugged. ‘Oh, well. Better start thinking about breakfast.’

  ‘Are there no more pork pies?’

  ‘Not quite enough,’ she said. ‘I’m going to eke them out with a few dandelion rissoles.’

  ‘That’ll be nice,’ I said faintly as she went off to the kitchen.

  ‘What’ll be nice?’ asked Uncle Tristram, coming in a moment later.

  ‘Dandelion rissoles for breakfast.’

  He made a face. ‘Are there no more pork pies?’ Glancing into the living room, he saw the clothes on the sofa. ‘Hey! Dress-ups! Excellent! When it starts raining, we can play charades.’

  When, he said, you will notice. Not just if. When.

  ‘You have to be careful,’ I warned, following him back into the room. ‘Morning Glory is planning to sell them in London.’

  ‘Not till we’ve had some fun.’ He rooted through the pile. ‘Where’s all the men’s stuff?’

  ‘There isn’t any,’ I explained. ‘It all belonged to Aunty Audrey.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ He tore off his pyjama top and dropped a huge lace frock over his head.

  ‘We have the matching shoes for that,’ I told him as he struggled into it.

  ‘Really?’ As soon as he was covered by enough billows of black lace, he modestly turned his back and stepped out of his pyjama bottoms.

  ‘What about tights?’ I suggested.

  ‘What about tights?’ he asked me, dangerously. ‘I’m only dressing up, you know. I am not strange.’

  ‘Shoes, then?’ I handed him a pair like boats. He stepped into them with no trouble. ‘She must have had enormous feet.’ He tottered around the room. ‘Hand me my bag, please.’

  I found him something fetching in sequins and jet.

  ‘What about you?’ he said. ‘You’re no fun standing there in boring old trousers and sweater.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ And, if I am honest, I was bored enough to be quite keen. So I dug through until I found the cream puff frock again. I even went one better than Uncle Tristram, and pulled on some knee-length little-girl white socks and shining Mary Jane shoes.

  ‘Your hair’s all wrong,’ he warned me.

  ‘So is yours.’

  So we went back to digging in the pile until I found a lace mantilla for me to drape over my head, and a perky hat for Uncle Tristram that had so many feathers sticking out of it that you couldn’t tell he had short hair underneath.

  ‘Now don’t we both look splendid!’ Uncle Tristram said. ‘Let’s go and give Morning Glory a laugh.’

  VERY UNWELCOME VISITOR

  We wanted to surprise her, so we crept down the hall. It took a bit of time because of Uncle Tristram’s heels. I thought I could hear banging, but just assumed that it was something to do with crushing dandelions. Only when we got closer did we realize that someone was knocking angrily on the back door.

  ‘Morn! Morn! You let me in!’

  I was about to prance forward anyway, but Uncle Tristram stopped me. He raised a finger to his lips, then pushed the door a little further open so we could spy on what was happening. Morning Glory was frying rissoles, totally ignoring the racket behind her.

  ‘Morn! I’m on official business here, so you let me in at once!’

  ‘You go and boil your head, Tom Watkins!’ Morning Glory said.

  ‘Don’t be so rude! And you should be calling me Officer Watkins, not Tom! I haven’t come about anything personal. I represent the law.’

  ‘You represent your own silly self,’ scoffed Morning Glory. ‘That door’s not even locked. And mind you wipe your feet before you come in here, or you’ll be mopping up after yourself on your way out.’

  I whispered to Uncle Tristram, ‘Shouldn’t we go in?’ and added, though it seemed unlikely, ‘She may need a little help.’

  Uncle Tristram glanced down at his black frock and shoes and handbag, and then across at me, dressed in my cream puff. ‘Maybe creep back and change first?’ But he was clearly far too curious to leave his spying place, so we just stood there through what sounded like a very thorough scraping of Tom Watkins’ feet.

  Finally, in he came. No beard!

  Uncle Tristram gave me the nod that meant, Yes! This is the very same officer who flagged me and Morning Glory down on the trip across the island.

  Officer Watkins took off his cap. ‘You’ve let that garden I dug over become a mud bath,’ he complained to Morning Glory.

  ‘I didn’t let it,’ she snapped. ‘I could hardly stop it, since it rained all last week and all the week before and it was raining all day yesterday.’

  ‘It hasn’t stopped, you know,’ said Officer

  Watkins sarcastically. ‘If you look out of the window, you might notice that it’s still raining now.’

  ‘Good,’ Morning Glory said, ‘if that means you get even wetter.’

  We turned to raise our eyebrows at one another.

  ‘So!’ Uncle Tristram breathed. ‘Do we suppose this is the old boyfriend who dumped her?’

  ‘It certainly sounds like it,’ I whispered back. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t eavesdrop.’

  ‘No,’ Uncle Tristram said. ‘We should just tiptoe away at once.’

  He made no move.

  Inside the kitchen, the very unwelcome visitor reached in the frying pan for a dandelion rissole. Morning Glory slapped at his hand.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Officer Watkins said. ‘You know I love your grub.’

  ‘Crawler!’ I heard Uncle Tristram muttering beside me. ‘Why is that man here? What on earth does he want?’

  ‘Rissoles?’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh, do be quiet!’ Uncle Tristram hissed. ‘I’m trying to listen.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why I’m here,’ said Officer Watkins (rather conveniently) to Morning Glory. ‘I’ve come to search your house.’

  ‘Search it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Officer Watkins said importantly. ‘For missing persons.’

  ‘Well, you should recognize them easily enough,’ said Morning Glory. ‘Being a bit of one yourself.’

  He glowered at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Where were you on that Saturday night?’

  ‘At the dance,’ Officer Watkins snapped. ‘I hung about for hours, waiting for you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I pushed the door a little further open, so we could both watch Morning Glory turn beet-red.

  ‘And speaking of missing persons on that same Saturday night,’ said Officer Watkins, ‘where, I might ask, were you?’

  ‘I was at home,’ said Morning Glory, ‘waiting to be picked up.’

  ‘I couldn’t pick you up,’ said Officer Watkins. ‘I couldn’t get the squad car bec
ause Delia needed it to fetch the chips. I told your dad to tell you.’

  ‘That was a little daft of him,’ hissed Uncle Tristram, ‘to trust that miserable sad sack with any message that might lead to some fun.’

  He must have hissed it just a little too loudly, because Officer Watkins suddenly turned. ‘Who is behind that door?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘No one,’ said Morning Glory. (I think she must have panicked.)

  ‘Really?’ asked Officer Watkins. ‘Because the other day you did appear to be out and about with’ – he spat the words out quite aggressively – ‘a brand-new boyfriend.’

  ‘No, I was not,’ said Morning Glory. ‘That was some smoothie-chops estate agent who happened to pop over to value the house before I try to sell it.’

  I looked at Uncle Tristram. Uncle Tristram looked at me.

  Officer Watkins persisted, rather unpleasantly, ‘So what were you doing in his car? Dressed in that nightie?’

  ‘It was a day dress. And he was simply giving me a lift to my dad’s.’

  ‘Letting you drive?’

  ‘I wasn’t driving. I simply mentioned I was planning to buy a car like his. He was just letting me sit in the driving seat to see how it felt.’

  ‘At forty miles an hour!’

  ‘I pressed the wrong thing. Then my foot slipped on the pedal.’

  ‘I might believe you,’ Officer Watkins offered, ‘if, when I search this house, I find he isn’t here.’

  ‘He’s not!’ said Morning Glory, sounding desperate.

  ‘Well, let me look then. Then I’ll believe you, and we can make up and go to the fair together.’

  ‘We can make up and go to the fair together anyway.’

  I looked at Uncle Tristram again. He looked at me.

  ‘That sort of settles it,’ I whispered. ‘You are quite definitely second-best.’

  ‘It does seem that way,’ he admitted ruefully. Then he cheered up. ‘Mind you, there’s always this Delia . . .’

  Inside the kitchen, Officer Watkins was pressing home his advantage. ‘Anyhow, it doesn’t matter what you want. We have two missing persons on this island. One of them is probably already dead, and the other is definitely kidnapped. We’re searching everywhere. And this house is next.’

  He tried to push his way past Morning Glory, who thought to distract him with a kiss. It must have been very long kiss, because it gave us more than enough time to creep back down the hall, and while we were on our way I thought about all of Uncle Tristram’s other hopeless relationships, and all the speeches I had ever heard my mother make to him.

  Then I made this one for her. ‘Listen,’ I whispered sternly. ‘She’s much more in love with him than you are with her. And he loves her back. He even likes her grub. And you and Morning Glory have nothing in common. Nothing. Just think about it. She might even want you to live on this island! So I certainly hope that for once you’re going to be sensible, and do The Right Thing.’

  THE RIGHT THING

  As Officer Watkins burst into the living room a few moments later, Uncle Tristram put out his hand and trilled, ‘Good morning! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Aunt Susan.’

  Morning Glory stared.

  Adjusting his feather hat, Uncle Tristram pressed on in what he clearly took to be an aunt-like fashion.

  ‘And from the look of you, you are a Man of the Law! Could you,’ he simpered, ‘by any chance, be the delightful PC Tom Watkins of whom we have heard so much from our dear Morn?’

  Now Officer Watkins was looking as startled as Morning Glory.

  Uncle Tristram turned to me. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘is my precious little daughter Titania. Say hello to Officer Watkins, dear.’

  I reached up to make sure that my mantilla was in place. ‘Hello,’ I chirruped. And then, since Uncle Tristram had lumbered me with ghastly Titania’s name, I thought I might as well take on her personality as well. ‘Thall I thing everyone a little thong?’

  ‘Beg pardon?’ said Officer Watkins.

  Uncle Tristram moved slightly so he was standing between me and Morning Glory’s boyfriend. He slapped my head, hard.

  ‘That would be lovely, dear,’ he trilled. ‘You sing like an angel. But now is not the time. Officer Watkins is busy.’

  I grasped a fistful of cream-puff frock on either side and did a curtsey. ‘How about a vewy quick danth, then?’

  ‘No,’ Uncle Tristram said.

  I cocked my head to one side and took a stance. ‘One little rethitation? I know a thooper little poem about a thongbird who gets trapped in a greenhouse and gradually thtarves to death.’

  Uncle Tristram leaned over to kiss me. ‘You precious little duck!’ he carolled. Then he hissed in my ear, ‘You will be dead yourself if you don’t watch it.’

  I thought I’d better watch it.

  Uncle Tristram turned back. ‘Well!’ he warbled. ‘I’m sure Officer Watkins has work to do. Houses to search, and such . . .’

  That seemed to bring our visitor to his senses. He started looking under chairs and peering around suspiciously. ‘Bit of a mess in here,’ he mentioned, pointing to the heaps of clothes on the sofa.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind that lot,’ Uncle Tristram chirruped. ‘Dear little Titania and I are still unpacking.’

  ‘What about all these bits of wool and broken ornaments? Has this room seen some kind of fight?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I wath jutht playing a little game with thome of the knick-knacks. You thee, I thent the little china pigs off to the fair, and then thome very naughty owls flew over and they—’

  Once again, Uncle Tristram stepped between me and Officer Watkins and surreptitiously cuffed me.

  ‘Anyhow, a lot of them got thmashed and torn,’ I finished hastily.

  Officer Watkins peered in the cupboards in a businesslike manner. Then he went to the door.

  ‘I’ll search upstairs now.’

  ‘While you are up there,’ Uncle Tristram cooed, ‘would you be a perfect treasure and empty the buckets?’

  Morning Glory followed Officer Watkins out of the door and up the stairs to the landing. Even before the two of them were out of earshot, they had taken up their quarrel.

  ‘I said I heard voices,’ Officer Watkins grumbled. ‘Why did you tell me there was no one there?’

  ‘Why should I tell you anything?’ said Morning Glory. ‘You’re not still my boyfriend.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘I am if you want me to be. Do you?’

  ‘Only if you want to be.’

  ‘Of course I want to be. You know I love you. You know I always have.’

  ‘And I love you as well.’

  Uncle Tristram got up from his armchair and pushed the door shut so he didn’t have to hear them kissing. He turned to me. ‘I hope you’re satisfied. Now I have to sit here in this stupid frock until those two have finished billing and cooing.’

  I jumped to my feet just like Titania would at any such opportunity. ‘I could thing you a little thong! Or do a little danth!’

  He grinned. ‘You’re very good at imitating her.’

  ‘I’ve had a lot of practice – not with the frock!’ I added hastily. ‘Only the voice.’

  ‘Well, go on,’ Uncle Tristram said. ‘Amuse me. Do that stupid poem of hers about those pathetic kittens who run away from home and die in a snowstorm.’

  ‘It wath a dark and fearthome night?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘All right.’ I climbed on the coffee table and, bunching the sides of my frock in my hands, curtsied before simpering, ‘I’m going to rethite for you a very thad thtory.’

  Already Uncle Tristram was shaking with laughter.

  I clasped my hands together and began the poem that we’d been forced to sit and listen to politely only about EIGHT BILLION TIMES.

  ‘It wath a dark and fearthome night.

  The kittenth lay thafe in their bathket.

  To go outthide wo
uld cauthe them fright.

  No one would even athk it.’

  ‘Appalling!’ Uncle Tristram crowed with glee. ‘Simply appalling. Oh, don’t stop, Harry!’

  I carried on. It’s a long poem. I was still in the middle when Officer Watkins and Morning Glory came back in. He had his arm around her waist, and they were giggling.

  Uncle Tristram raised a finger. ‘Hush, hush!’ he warbled. ‘While we were waiting, my dearest Titania here embarked on a short recitation. May we just hear her out?’

  Officer Watkins sat down politely. Morning Glory sat on his knee and tickled him behind the ears as I pressed on.

  ‘Then, through the thnow and through the thleet

  The little kittenth picked their way.

  All dethperate to find a plathe

  Where they could thyelter till the day.’

  Around the tenth verse, Uncle Tristram suddenly covered his face with his hands and rushed out. And as I reached the very last two lines –

  ‘Came to their mother as a fearthome blow

  To thee thothe little corptheth in the thnow.’

  – I could distinctly hear behind me, through the hole in the windowpane caused by some kamikaze piglet, the sound of roars of laughter that could not possibly have been made by anybody’s real Aunt Susan.

  MY DAILY DIARY

  Finally – finally – Officer Watkins tore himself away from Morning Glory and made for the door.

  ‘Now don’t forget tomorrow at the fair!’ he told her gaily, stepping out into the garden. Instantly both his shoes sank so deep in the mud he nearly lost them. Prising them upwards, one by one, over and over with a series of horrible sucking noises, he gradually picked his way towards the gate.

  ‘I ought to dig a drainage ditch through this back garden,’ were his last words. ‘No wonder your apple tree fell over. This place is turning into a swamp.’

  Uncle Tristram and I went back into the living room and scrambled out of our frocks. ‘I saved your bacon there,’ said Uncle Tristram sternly to Morning Glory.