Grimm

by Mike Nicholson

  With that Grandad hobbled off, heading in the direction of the fast-disappearing Bonnie, dragging Momo with him and barking, “Come on then,” at Rory and Lachlan Stagg.

  The crowd remained silent and watched them go.

  Within minutes the five of them were being ushered into the cable car by Stobo. The normally oily mechanic was wearing a fresh pair of overalls that were so new they still had deep creases in them from where they had been folded in the packaging. Stobo shut the doors with a firm hand. He looked Rory straight in the eye and gave a slight nod as if to note that all was well. Going behind the control desk, he pushed the buttons and Rory saw the glint of a smile on the man’s face as he sent them clanking and rocking slowly on their way.

  Inside the cable car the group fell silent as they moved out of the housing of the station and began gaining height rapidly. Bonnie was the first to speak. “This is fantastic! WooHoo!”

  “What a view!” said Momo. She had already found one of the telescopes and was scanning the landscape below. The car rose and lifted over the first pylon and Aberfintry dropped away below them. “I don’t know what Gordon and Gracie were complaining about,” said Bonnie with a mischievous look in her eye, craning her neck to see as well as she could out of the window.

  “Come on then. Someone describe it to me,” said Grandad. The others looked at each other to see who was going to start.

  “Don’t all shout at once,” said Grandad. “Hurry up, I might be missing something important.”

  “The town is getting so small it looks like a model,” said Rory.

  “It looks pretty from up here,” said Bonnie. “Little streets and matchstick people.”

  “We can see the park, Dad,” said Momo. “It’s a splash of colour just like it always was.”

  “You can see the path where the old Scrab Hill Race used to be,” said Lachlan Stagg. “You won that once, Hugh, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, I did indeed,” said Grandad.

  “I didn’t know that,” said Rory turning from the window to look at the old man.

  “Oh no, here we go again,” said Grandad. “Well it’s no secret. The medal is in that box of mine. You need to spend a bit more time in there looking for things.”

  Rory forced himself to look back at the crowd in the centre of town. They seemed to be milling around but it was impossible to tell what the mood was.

  “We’re nearly there,” said Bonnie. “Hold on, Mr Munro. Stand by for it slowing down.”

  The station at the ledge came quickly into view, the cable car slowed to half its speed and then came alongside the small building. Grimson was there to greet them. He was dressed in black, as usual, but looking smart and brushed,

  “Welcome!” he said. “Would you all like to step this way?” He turned and began to head the short distance down the path to the ledge. As the group followed on, Rory spotted the first thing that had changed since he had been up here last. The new sign read “The Halfway House Café. A warm welcome to all,” and just beyond it was something more familiar.

  “Grandad. You might remember this,” said Rory taking him by the arm and leading him over to the side of the path.

  “What is it, son?” said the old man. The wolf statue was standing upright, positioned as the first thing to greet every visitor as they walked from the cable car to the Halfway House.

  Grandad dropped his white stick and reached out with both hands, his fingers brushing the stone with tenderness. He whispered to himself as he touched it. It was as though each mark in the stone was one that he remembered making. The group stood back for a moment and watched as he wiped a tear from his eye. Clearing his throat he spoke.

  “Know what? Whoever did that had the makings of a master stonemason.” His face cracked into a grin. “Come on. What else is there I should see?”

  As they walked on, the cable car began its journey back downhill, the little wheels humming on the cables as it went. It seemed as though Stobo had even found some special grease for the occasion to make things run more smoothly.

  “Mmm,” said Lachlan Stagg. “If I’m not mistaken that is the smell of a Sandilands Special.”

  “What’s that?” asked Bonnie.

  Stagg took a huge sniff of the air. “I think there are fruit scones, ginger snaps, chocolate spice cake and of course a pancake or two.”

  “Ramsay!” called Rory. A figure in a chef’s outfit turned towards him. “Ah, Rory McKenna. Welcome to The Halfway House.” Ramsay Sandilands waved grandly around himself. The ledge had been set out with tables, each with a white linen tablecloth, and surrounded by animals — Grandad’s stone animals. Stobo had spent some of the week transporting them in a barrow from Grandad’s workshop to the cable car. The Curse of the Stonemason had been laid to rest.

  In the background the pavilion had been transformed from the shell that Rory had last seen. The glass-walled building stood once more, sitting neatly under the rock overhang. Inside, Rory could see some of Grimson’s portraits on display. He could also see Finkleman busying away making tiny adjustments to tables. Even from this distance Rory reckoned that the American had shed a few pounds and benefitted from being out in the sun for a few days. Grog was there too, seated at a cash register near the door. All around the walls was a bank of glass cases; the old fish tanks from the pavilion of years ago. Stepping closer Rory could see that some of Grog’s more attractive pets had made the move from the bathroom to a new home at The Halfway House as an additional talking point for guests.

  Rory became aware that Bonnie had split from the group and had gone on her own towards the edge of the ledge. He walked over to join her.

  “You okay?” asked Rory.

  “Yeah,” said Bonnie in a quiet voice. “I’ve never been so high up before. I can see as far as anyone else can. I feel tall, Rory … I actually feel tall!”

  Grandad’s telescope had been fixed permanently at the edge and Rory looked through the lens, focusing on the scene at the bottom of the hill. What he saw made him stop. Close to the cable car station he could see his father getting out of his car. He removed the learner sign from the roof and tossed it into the boot, before joining the back of a very long queue of people snaking out of the cable station. Rory watched him begin talking to the people he was standing beside, his newspaper uncharacteristically tucked under his arm. Then, emerging from the station, the cable car began its journey up towards the ledge.

  “Ramsay!” shouted Rory.

  “Yes, my dear boy?”

  “Better get ready behind the scenes.”

  “Why? What is it?” said the whiskery man.

  “There’s a full cable car on its way and a very long queue for the one after that.”

  There was a momentary look of disbelief on Ramsay’s face but one glance down the hillside confirmed that what Rory had said was true.

  “Oh my word, oh my word,” said Ramsay bustling about, his nose twitching in anticipation.

  “Boys, this is our moment. This is it!” Rory couldn’t think at first who Ramsay was talking to and then he twigged.

  “Er … no disrespect, Ramsay, really, but I think you should keep the wee guys out of sight. At least until you get things going.” Rory nodded towards a couple of twitching heads in Ramsay’s pockets. For a moment Rory thought that he might have touched on Ramsay’s raw nerve once again, but the rat collector’s face showed a new look of professionalism and determination.

  “You’re right, Rory McKenna. After all … you are the marketing genius! You know best!”

  “He’s right, Rory,” said Bonnie looking around at the café. “This is a great piece of work.”

  “Aye, son,” said Grandad. “Not bad for a lad who prefers to sit back a bit!”

  A tall figure approached them, coming down the path from the hotel. Granville Grimm’s hair was cut short and he wore a dark suit with a bright cravat in the same scarlet colour that Rory remembered from Gwendolen’s dress in Grimson’s painting.

  “Is th
at who I think it is?” said Bonnie.

  “Good morning, Rory,” said Granville Grimm as he approached. “How did things go down in the town?”

  “Pretty well, I think,” replied Rory. “The first customers are on their way.”

  “Excellent,” said Granville Grimm. “I look forward to welcoming them. We’ve had an amazing week here. I already have so much to thank you for. I think things are finally looking up.”

  The little group watched as the sun shone on Aberfintry, on Hotel Grimm and on the approaching cable car full of people. They could see the figures inside it pointing to views and to things that they had not seen or not taken the time to look at for years. Granville Grimm was right. Things were definitely looking up for Hotel Grimm.

  Later, when Rory thought back on that day, he could picture people stepping falteringly out of the cable car station, not quite sure what they were coming to, only to be met by a fabulous view of their own town and a charming, personal welcome from Granville Grimm. He could see the looks on their faces as they took their first bites of Ramsay’s baking and had a clear image of people approaching Grimson and asking him to do portraits for them. By the end of the day he had twelve commissions.

  Rory remembered children clustering around the large glass tanks as Grog, dabbing his mouth with a hanky, cheerfully explained for the umpteenth time what all of the creatures were. And beside the till, even Lachlan Stagg’s “Beast of Corridor Five” outfit had been displayed — cymbals, bellows, gasmask and all — but with an additional twist. If you put a coin in a slot in one outstretched hand the dummy clashed, stomped and puffed just like the old days.

  Ramsay had even succeeded in keeping his rats out of sight and, to his surprise, Rory even found himself feeling a bit sorry for them. They’d missed out on such a good event.

  Meet me up on old Scrab Hill

  We’ll see what we can see.

  Sitting in the Halfway House

  We’ll have a cup of tea.

  Looking down we’ll see the town

  With pretty little streets,

  And count the tiny matchstick folk,

  While munching on some treats.

  Up above, Grimm Manor,

  Towering splendid in the sun

  Perfectly crowns the hilltop,

  Welcoming everyone.

  Winner of The Halfway House competition for their

  latest advertising campaign (sponsored by

  The New Aberfintry Chronicle)

  Epilogue

  Editorial

  Sometimes newspaper editors have to take risks. Sometimes they have to go out on a limb, unsure of what the reaction of a readership will be.

  It is my belief at The Chronicle that Aberfintry is a fine town with equally fine people. That has been made clear in recent days by the willingness of people to be honest and forgiving in a range of remarkable stories. In the past The Chronicle has tried to be an example to the town, but I have seen, in the last few days, that some people in the town have been providing a far better example to this paper and its editor.

  I have made mistakes and would like to apologise for these. Sometimes personal issues can be so deeply entrenched that they affect how we behave, and that goes on to affect other people. I apologise to Granville Grimm and his family for any hurt caused over the years.

  I wish to draw a line and move on. In the spirit of The Halfway House, it is time for a new view and a fresh outlook and thus I hereby launch The New Aberfintry Chronicle.

  Derek Goodman

  Inside this issue:

  — Agatha Finkleman and Alistair McGroggan give their recollections of a fiery night at Hotel Grimm and a life-saving act of bravery.

  — Rats: have we got it all wrong? Scum of the earth, or household pets and companions of the future? Ramsay Sandilands pleads their case.

  — Feature: The Curse of the Stonemason: curse or coincidence? We speak to Hugh Munro as he prepares to give his sell-out presentation on stone carving.

  — Ramsay’s Recipes: the master chef from the Halfway House shares some of his tricks of the trade for you to try at home.

  — Bella Valentine Meets the Beast: We report as Bella Valentine meets the man who was the Beast of Hotel Grimm.

  — In hiding: Lachlan Stagg talks of his years at the now re-named Grimm Manor and his plans for a book on the experience.

  — Obituary: the life of Gwendolen Grimm.

  — Return of the Scrab Hill Race. Entry form on Page 5.

  — Marketing genius or normal boy? Rory McKenna comes clean about his source of inspiration for the Zizz campaign.

  Keep reading for a sneak peek of Catscape,

  another hilarious book by Mike Nicholson.

  1. A Time-keeping Problem

  Ever since he had first looked in the window of Crockett’s Watches and Clocks, Fergus Speight had known exactly what he wanted for his twelfth birthday. Looking beyond the carriage clocks and the padded velvet trays of shiny silver watches, Fergus’s gaze had come to an abrupt halt on the display of digital watches. Each of the watches had blinked at him as they counted time, but one in particular had caught his eye. It was spinning slowly around on its own little podium and a tiny plaque at the bottom declared that this was “The DataBoy.” A small card alongside proudly proclaimed that the DataBoy was “One Funky Watch with Twenty Funky Functions,” while a list below showed that these included a stopwatch, calculator, thermometer, light and a display of times in twenty-five countries around the world … and those were only the first five.

  Since then, Fergus had tried to pass Crockett’s as often as he could. Each time he reversed his baseball cap so that he could get close enough to the window to see which of the DataBoy’s functions was on show. The previous week, one of the shop assistants had come outside to say that Mr. Crockett would prefer it if Fergus didn’t stand quite so close to the window, because he was steaming it up for the other customers.

  With his birthday fast approaching, Fergus was pretty sure that his mum would get the DataBoy for him, but had decided not to say anything until she asked him what he wanted. He was basing this tactic on a particularly hard lesson he had learned on his last birthday. A year ago he had asked her so often for a DVD called “The Pyramid Maze” that she did buy it for him, but also removed the plug from the DVD player so that he couldn’t watch it for three long days.

  It seemed to take forever between Fergus’s first view of the DataBoy and Mrs. Speight asking him about his birthday. However, when she finally did they happened to be on Raeburn Place quite close to Crockett’s Watches and Clocks. Without a word, Fergus had taken his mum firmly by her coat sleeve, and had pulled her towards the shop window, narrowly avoiding a pedestrian pile-up with a dog, a woman with a pushchair and an old man with a walking stick, in his rush to get there.

  “Are you quite sure that’s what you want?’ said his mum, smiling as she looked through the glass at the DataBoy while she tried to return her coat to its original shape.

  “It does so many things!” Fergus said excitedly, “Twenty Funky Functions!”

  “Is one of them tidying bedrooms?” his mum asked, leaning towards the window to read the information on the DataBoy.

  “I could find out for you,” replied Fergus hopefully.

  So when the morning of Fergus’s birthday arrived, just at the start of the summer holidays, it was no surprise that one of his presents was a long, slim rectangular package in shiny silver paper, about the length of a watch and strap. Fergus tore into the paper excitedly and opened the box to reveal the DataBoy, then spent most of the day staring at the gleaming watch on his wrist and testing all the functions. He checked the temperature inside and outside the flat using the thermometer, added up the items on an old till receipt on the calculator, and found out the time differences between Rio de Janeiro and Tokyo.

  The day after his birthday, Fergus was still finding ways to make use of his new watch. He and his mum had just been to the shops on Raeburn Place and we
re heading home with two bags of groceries. As they turned into Comely Bank Avenue, Fergus decided to time how long it would take to get from the traffic lights to their flat at number 81. He was concentrating so hard on the DataBoy as they walked, that he didn’t anticipate the horror that was rapidly approaching until he happened to glance up.

  Blue shoes, blue stockings, blue coat, blue scarf, blue hat and even a hint of blue in the steely grey hair underneath … Mrs. Scrimgeour was coming towards them.

  Fergus immediately tugged at his mum’s coat, whispering, “Cross the road … quick!”

  “Fergus, don’t be so rude,” said his mum who was clearly also trying to work out if dodging the traffic was worth the risk to avoid meeting Mrs. Scrimgeour.

  Fergus groaned, knowing from previous experience that an encounter with Mrs. Scrimgeour would mean being trapped in a one-sided conversation for at least fifteen minutes. As Mrs. Scrimgeour spotted them she let out a loud “YOO HOO!” Fergus felt that he was about to be enveloped by a large blue cloud from which there was no escape.

  “FIONA, FERGUS, LOVELY TO SEE YOU,” bellowed Mrs. Scrimgeour.

  “Lovely to see you too, Beryl,” said Mrs. Speight.

  Fergus switched off as Mrs. Scrimgeour launched into conversation, beginning most of her sentences with “AND HAVE YOU HEARD ABOUT THE PEOPLE AT NUMBER …?”

  He decided to continue to put his new watch to practical use by timing how long Mrs. Scrimgeour could speak without taking a breath. It was 11.33 am when he began counting the seconds. After a few goes, Fergus gave up, reaching the conclusion that Mrs. Scrimgeour must be like a frog and breathe through her skin, because as hard as he tried he couldn’t spot any gaps between the words when she might be drawing breath.