The Extremely Inconvenient Adventures of Bronte Mettlestone

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  ‘Here’s Sebastian.’ Aunt Sue indicated the boy now slicing bread.

  I reached out my hand. ‘Sebastian,’ I said.

  He seemed surprised, but remembered himself, wiped his hand on his trouser leg and shook my hand firmly.

  The one who’d slid along the floor with pizzazz now slid towards me so fast that I thought we would collide. His hand was out ready to shake.

  ‘I’m Nicholas,’ he announced.

  ‘Nicholas,’ I repeated.

  Aunt Sue pointed to the boy by the fridge, a jar of raspberry jam in his hand, and to the little one on the chairs: ‘Connor and Benjamin,’ she said.

  ‘Connor,’ I said. ‘Benjamin.’

  ‘She keeps saying our names,’ said the middle one by the fridge.

  ‘She does,’ agreed another.

  All four of them now looked at me quizzically, as if awaiting an explanation.

  ‘She’s come all the way on the train from Gainsleigh,’ Aunt Sue put in, and there was a sort of, ‘aaah’ in the boys’ expressions. They turned back to their activities.

  A moment later, it seemed, the boys were all at the table, eating jam sandwiches and making paper chains. They were very busy about it. I wondered if I was expected to help, but suddenly I was so tired that I could hardly blur them, if you see what I mean. They weren’t even blurs through my eyes—they were shapes between blinks. No, not even shapes. They were the sounds that shapes make, and my head was bobbing, and Aunt Sue’s voice was murmuring me down the hall and back to the bedroom and I was saying, suddenly clear and loud, ‘I must build you a new chimney!’ and Aunt Sue was saying, ‘Hush now, hush, you’ll be so tired, and I should have thought!’ and then I was in the bed, fast and deeply asleep.

  The next morning, there were buttermilk pancakes, bright red strawberries, a pot of coffee, and a lot of scraping and banging for breakfast. My cousins scraped their chairs back and banged the kitchen door behind them as they ran out to feed dogs or collect eggs or fetch the ball that had been kicked into the pigs’ enclosure. Each of these tasks was recalled suddenly, with a mouth full of pancake and a proud little glance in my direction. Between all this, the boys kept a soccer ball skidding back and forth across the kitchen floor, in and out of chair legs. Meanwhile, Aunt Sue was busy at the stove, flipping pancakes with a dreamy smile on her face.

  The table was now even more crowded, for along with the breakfast there were coils and coils of colourful paper chains. They must have been making paper chains until midnight! The littlest boy, Benjamin, had a pancake in one hand and the end of a chain in the other, and he was doing great loops around the room, dragging the chain behind him. It draped across shoulders, over the backs of chairs and wound around people’s ankles. Now and then an older boy would cry out, ‘Benji! Put that down! You’ll break it!’ and Benji would glance at that boy and carry on marching around.

  Uncle Josh arrived from somewhere outside in the midst of this, brushing leaves from his shoulders. He wore glasses and had lots of curly hair.

  ‘Look, Dad, it’s Bronte!’ the boys cried, pointing at me. ‘This is our dad,’ they informed me. ‘She’s our cousin,’ they informed him.

  ‘I am indeed,’ their father confirmed, ‘and she is indeed,’ nodding solemnly in my direction. ‘Indeed, and she is Bronte.’

  ‘You can call him Uncle Josh,’ a boy suggested. They all looked at me and waited.

  ‘She’s not doing it.’

  ‘Say his name,’ another urged.

  Uncle Josh gave the ball a firm kick with the side of his foot, dragged out a chair, sat down, and turned to me.

  ‘You’ve grown,’ he said. ‘The last time I saw you, you were as big as this little fingernail.’ He held up his smallest finger and pointed to the nail.

  This seemed unlikely. I was ready to disagree, but then I saw he was joking. He had a dash of spark in his eye.

  ‘It’s a lucky thing you’ve grown,’ he continued. ‘Or we’d lose you in the cracks in the floorboards. We’d always be after finding you. We’d be saying, Where’s Bronte now? Is she in your pocket, Benjamin? You haven’t gone and washed her down the sink, have you, Connor?’

  He was pretty funny. I laughed, and the boys laughed too, although then someone remembered, ‘The lambs!’ and all of them—even littlest Benji, who now finally dropped the paper chain—rushed from their seats and banged out of the kitchen.

  By the time they returned, Uncle Josh had asked me more questions than I had thought possible: he poured out questions the same way he poured maple syrup onto his pancakes, always with smiles or chuckles at my replies. I was so busy answering that I stopped wondering whether I was supposed to cut the pancakes into little pieces (as the oldest boy seemed to do), or roll them up with strawberries tucked inside (as the two middle boys did). I simply ate them, even reaching for the maple syrup myself.

  As the boys returned, scraping back their chairs once again, Uncle Josh carried on talking and my cousins looked from their father to me with interest.

  The biggest cousin, Sebastian, interrupted with a question of his own. ‘Do you play a musical instrument?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Trumpet.’

  ‘I once played the piano,’ Sebastian told me. ‘For a year. But then I gave up, didn’t I?’

  I wasn’t sure how to answer.

  ‘For a year!’ exclaimed Uncle Josh. ‘You played the piano for a year! How tired you must have been!’

  Everybody fell about laughing, including Sebastian, who stopped looking at me in his strange, fierce way. A tiny white fly landed on the edge of the water jug. I’d never seen a white fly before.

  ‘Which aunt are you visiting next?’ the second boy inquired. That was Nicholas, and he seemed the quickest and liveliest. He often flourished his hands as if dancing.

  ‘Aunt Emma,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve visited her,’ Sebastian told me, ‘on Lantern Island. It’s good. You?’

  ‘Never,’ I admitted.

  ‘And then?’ Nicholas pressed, jiggling about.

  ‘Aunt Claire,’ I replied, then began to count them off, ‘followed by Aunt Sophy, Aunt Nancy—’

  Here, the third cousin, Connor, interrupted. He was the most solid of them, and shared Sebastian’s fierce gaze, but gentled by flicks of humour. ‘Have you already met any of the other aunts and cousins, or will they all be strangers to you? As we are?’

  ‘Some of them,’ I began, ‘but—’

  ‘What about the queen?’ one of the other boys jumped in. Connor nodded as if this was the point he’d been driving towards.

  You see, one of the aunts, Aunt Alys, had grown up to become a queen, and no, I had never met her, nor her son, Prince William.

  ‘Neither have we,’ the boys all agreed, disappointed.

  ‘Has anybody met the queen?’ Uncle Josh demanded.

  ‘Well, I have,’ Aunt Sue put in tartly, joining us at the table. ‘Isn’t she my sister?’

  ‘Sure, and you’ll have met her,’ Uncle Josh agreed. ‘She is your sister, after all.’

  ‘But we hardly ever see or hear from her,’ Aunt Sue now admitted. ‘Except for a telegram now and again, asking our advice about her son. He must be quite a handful.’

  I decided it was my turn to ask a question.

  ‘Is there a reason you’ve all been making paper chains? Or is it just a hobby?’

  This turned out to be the right question, because they rushed to answer: today, or did I not know? Of course she doesn’t know, she’s from Gainsleigh! But isn’t it a marvel that she’s here for it! For that, today…!

  Today, it turned out, the Festival of Matchstick would take place.

  ‘The Festival of Matchstick?’

  ‘A celebration of the elves,’ they all explained.

  ‘You have elves here?’

  Which ignited them again. And does she not know, of course she doesn’t know! She is from Gainsleigh. I waited patiently. Eventually, they explained. When the first settlers came to Liv
ingston, they accidentally brought with them a handful of elves who were living in a crate of lettuce. The elves scattered amongst the orchards and now formed a thriving community.

  ‘They keep mostly to themselves,’ Aunt Sue told me. ‘Except for today, for isn’t it the festival today?’

  ‘It is,’ they all confirmed.

  ‘The highlight of the festival,’ Uncle Josh added, ‘is the elven soccer match.’

  ‘The Dariens will win,’ Sebastian declared.

  ‘Sure, and they will not!’ shouted Nicholas. ‘It will be the Glassrings!’

  ‘The Glassrings! Not a chance!’

  They clashed back and forth, slamming the table sometimes, Uncle Josh and Aunt Sue both joining in. There was talk of one elf having a sprained ankle and another a touch of fever, and talk of rain, little Benjamin pointing out that Glassring feet often got jammed in mud.

  At that moment, I looked at the kitchen clock.

  ‘My parents’ instructions say I have to walk along the river this morning,’ I told them. ‘Before I do, could I write a postcard to Aunt Isabelle to let her know I am safe?’

  The boys looked at me quietly, as if they found me both astonishing and not quite the thing.

  ‘Of course,’ Aunt Sue said. ‘Onwards and upwards!’

  This seemed a signal to everybody to leap to their feet and clatter plates and cutlery to the kitchen sink. Uncle Josh set me up at a desk in the corner of the room to write my postcard.

  The Dishevelled Sofa was a small café, dim in the storm-cloud light. I chose a table by the window and ordered ‘Today’s Special!!’ without knowing what it was. (My parents’ instructions recommended the house-made lemonade but didn’t specify what I should eat.) Today’s Special!! turned out to be a crockpot of lamb and vegetables, with huge croutons bobbing about like somebody’s joke.

  This was the first time I had ever eaten alone in a public establishment, and I felt very nervous. Strangely, so seemed the people at the other tables: bright eyes, quick movements and whispers everywhere. As if they were all dining alone for the first time, too.

  But they were actually dining in groups. Phrases began to drift towards me: ‘The confectionary table is already full!’ and ‘The scorekeeper must not fall asleep again,’ and ‘Yes, it is sure to rain, is it not, but it will pass, as rain does,’ and I realised that it was not nerves, but excitement about the Festival of Matchstick.

  I ate my Today’s Special!! and drank my house-made lemonade, and the clink of my fork, the clunk of my glass, the violent crunch of those croutons, all began to seem much too loud. Embarrassed, I set down my fork and sat back in my chair.

  I studied a painting on the wall. In the painting, a boy in a red jacket sat on a swing while a girl in a blue dress stood by a seesaw. The girl faced out of the painting, looking directly at me, it seemed. Almost as if she was demanding that I join her on the seesaw.

  Well, I can’t, I thought. I’m eating lunch.

  I smiled to myself, turned to the window and saw raindrops scattered over the glass.

  ‘Not long and it will bucket down!’ declared a voice at a nearby table.

  I raised my hand for the bill.

  It was raining steadily as I followed the path along the river back towards the farm. ‘Take an umbrella!’ Aunt Sue had urged when I set off earlier, and she had pressed one into my arms. Now, as I opened it, I saw that it was bright yellow, with a pattern of ladybirds. I liked it.

  Across the river, a boy was also walking along, keeping pace with me. He had no umbrella, but he didn’t seem bothered by this. His clothes were shabby, his feet bare. He glanced across at me and smiled. A friendly face. I smiled back.

  I imagined how I must look, striding along in my new dress, which was apple green with a full skirt. So the boy was seeing a girl in a new green dress with a yellow umbrella, a girl who had just dined alone in a café, ordered food and paid from her own crocheted purse. Of course, the boy could not know about the food and the bill, and he certainly can’t have known about my crocheted purse. But I felt that he could sense how grown-up I was. Anyway, I was very happy.

  I carried along on my side of the river and the boy continued on his. Now and then we glanced at each other and smiled again. The river was too wide to talk across, otherwise I think we might have chatted. I liked the fact that he was alone, like me, and not part of a big, noisy, paper-chain-making, soccer-ball-kicking family. He might have been heading home to such a family, I supposed. But somehow I doubted this.

  Around me were little roads with shops and people hurrying about under umbrellas, but when I reached the edge of the village, there were no longer roads or people.

  The river seemed pleased to be out amongst paddocks and orchards. This is more like it, it seemed to say, hurtling along. The rain also pleased the river, I thought, for it was rollicking and turning this way and that, like a dog being vigorously petted.

  It certainly was a slapping sort of rain, I realised, for it had been growing heavier. Now it was a regular downpour, the air crowded with water, the sky dark with low cloud. The path was no longer paved here, but dirt. I hadn’t noticed this on my walk into the village, but now, of course, I stopped looking across at the boy and turned my attention to avoiding muddy puddles.

  The rain and wind were making such a racket! I seemed to be pushing myself through the noise. The path was no longer a path but a sort of muddy stream.

  The river now seemed alarmed. It careened, foaming and white, hurtling branches and leaves along with it. Also rubbish: a single glove zipped by, a page from a newspaper, a bright-green basket, bobbing along the water at quite a pace. The basket’s edges were trimmed in white.

  The rain rushed from every angle, ignoring the umbrella, splattering my dress and bare legs. My shoes were soaked, my feet wet and cold.

  I began to run, angry at my own foolishness in being outside in this weather. I was just a child! Who cared that I had ordered my own lunch at a café?! I should have stayed and waited for the rain to finish! No proper grownup would get caught in such a storm!

  I wanted to cry. The rain roared, the river roared back, and from somewhere amidst both came a thinner, higher sound. I ran along, and that thin, high sound persisted. Was it the boy across the river?

  I looked over and there he was, running along himself. But he seemed untroubled. He ran in a loose, easy way.

  Up ahead, the green basket had caught on a snag in the centre of the river. A gust of wind, and my umbrella tore itself inside out. Useless anyway. I closed it and jogged on, the rain now pounding my bare head. As I passed the basket, still caught on the snag, waves parting around it, I saw that it held a tumble of green and white material. It must be a laundry basket.

  The high, thin sound was back again.

  I stopped.

  There was something else in the laundry basket.

  A toy. A teddy bear? A doll?

  It was impossible to see. I dashed rainwater from my eyes, stepped closer to the river’s edge, peered harder.

  There was a baby in the basket.

  A baby.

  ‘A baby!’ I screamed at the boy across the river. ‘There’s a baby!’

  ‘What?’ he mouthed back at me, skidding to a stop.

  I dropped my umbrella and bag, kicked off my shoes, and jumped into the river.

  Such a burst of cold! And the river frantic to take me with it!

  I fought it with my elbows. I kicked out with my legs. My dress clung and dragged me down. I’d taken second place in the Gainsleigh Junior Swim Contest the year before, I reminded myself. I could do this! I struck out, arms strong, feet kicking.

  I gasped, splashing up, then struck out again. I was almost at the basket.

  My hand reached out to touch it.

  My hand almost touched it.

  The basket bounced, sprung free from the snag, and hurtled onward.

  ‘No!’ I swallowed a mouthful of water. I spluttered and struck out again. It was easier to swim w
ith the current, of course, but I was tossed about, my dress still dragged. I swallowed more water, and each time I looked up, there was the basket, rushing ahead, always out of my reach. It rocked violently as it rushed.

  It would tip! It would hit another snag and the baby would be thrown into the river! The baby would drown!

  I swam harder and harder, and the next time I looked up, the basket had halted. It still bobbed, but a branch was pressed firmly against it.

  It was the boy from the other bank—he was lying flat on the grass, hands around one end of the branch. The rain still fell hard, plastering his hair to his head.

  I reached the basket, wrapped my arms around it, and trod water. The baby was a tiny one, dressed in a white cotton suit, with tears and rain streaming down its little face.

  But how was I to get the basket to the riverbank now? I might fight the river on my own, but with my arms around a basket?

  ‘Hold on!’ the boy shouted. He was pointing to the branch. ‘I’ll pull you in!’

  I stretched around the basket, still kicking hard at the water, and managed to grasp the wood—slick and wet—with one hand. My other arm was firm around the basket. I turned back towards him. He nodded.

  Slowly, slowly, we inched towards the bank. I could see the concentration on the boy’s face as he towed us in, one arm over the other.

  As we neared the bank, I took a chance and let go of the branch so I could use both hands, and flung the basket up towards him. He reached out at once and caught hold of it, pulling it up onto the shore.

  I myself was tossed along a little further, but in a final furious surge, threw myself at the bank. Tufts of weed grew there, and I used these to drag myself closer and clamber out.

  The boy was holding the baby close to his chest, talking to it. The green basket lay on its side on the grass.

  ‘We need to get the baby out of the rain!’ I cried, breathless from my unexpected swim.

  The boy nodded, still soothing the baby. He looked up at me, then squinted out at the fields.

  ‘The closest farmhouse is a good distance, I think,’ he shouted. Then his face cleared. ‘There’s a festival! I saw people setting up tents for it earlier! This way!’