Goth Girl and the Wuthering Fright
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took a whistle out of his waistcoat and blew it twice. Down in the kitchens there was a distant clatter as the kitchen maids loaded the carriages, followed by the sound of chugging which grew rapidly closer. The dog-show judges, novelists and poet all leaned forward expectantly, their eyes on the Corinthian serving hatch. Suddenly there was a billow of steam through which a small steam engine emerged. It had a tall funnel, fast-moving pistons and a shovel-shaped scoop at the front, similar to the seat of the Difference Engine. Charles Cabbage smiled delightedly and, from beneath the table, three little heads in red hats popped up.
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‘A new invention of mine,’ said Charles Cabbage, ‘which I think your father will appreciate. I call it the cake-catcher. Not yet . . .’ he said to William, Heath and Robinson. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s time.’ At the other end of the table, Ada saw her father looking over at Dr Cabbage. He wasn’t smiling. The steam engine chugged down the viaduct and slowly around the table, pulling carriages laden with Mrs Beat’em’s first course of Constantinople artichokes, coddled whelks in regret-me-not sauce and a large tureen of Ghastlyshire gruel. Around the table there was the clink of cutlery as the guests helped themselves. Flushman elbowed William Cabbage in the ribs as he scooped a large portion of coddled whelks into his own bowl. ‘Where are the Vicarage sisters?’ Ada asked Emily. ‘They’re having supper with their brother in
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his room,’ said Emily. She sounded concerned. ‘They’re very worried about him.’ She glanced over at Flushman, who was tossing whelks to the monkeys and laughing uproariously. ‘We must try to help.’ The steam engine disappeared through the hatch and a few moments later the clatter in the kitchen increased. ‘Tell me, Doctor,’ said Lord Goth, leaning back in his chair, ‘what progress have you made with your calculating machine?’ Dr Cabbage swallowed a mouthful of Ghastlyshire gruel.
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*Charles Cabbage’s Cogwheel Brain is indeed one of the miracles of the modern age and unrivalled in its calculating and computing capabilities, even if I do say so myself.
‘I call it the “Cogwheel Brain”,’ he said proudly, ‘but, as with all such scientific endeavours, progress can be slow and difficult . . .’* ‘Surely, Doctor, performing primates can only serve to distract you from your work,’ said Lord Goth, fixing the monkeys with a stern look, ‘not to mention hazarding the safety of my dinner guests.’ Next to him Dean Torville, his arm in a sling, struggled with his Constantinople artichoke. ‘Ah, yes, the banana skin.’ Dr Cabbage’s face reddened. ‘Rather unfortunate . . .’
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‘As was taking my daughter to a coaching inn,’ said Lord Goth icily. ‘But, Father, I explained . . .’ began Ada, only for Lord Goth to silence her with a wave of his hand. ‘I’m not angry,’ he said. ‘Just very disappointed.’ He turned to Countess Pippi Shortstocking and Hands Christmas Andersen, and smiled. ‘Tell me, how are you enjoying our simple country fare?’ he asked, as the steam engine chugged back into the dining room, travelling faster, smoke billowing from its funnel and carriages hurtling behind it. A partridge pie, a pigeon pie and a plover pie, each bigger than the one before, were followed
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by potted rabbit, jugged hare and jellied goose on increasingly large platters. William Timepiece Thackeray gallantly served Homily Dickinson and Georgie Eliot as the steam engine rattled past, but not without splattering Plain Austen with a poorly aimed spoonful of jellied goose. ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged that a dining companion with food stains is in want of a napkin,’ she said sternly.
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Flushman was enjoying himself enormously and grabbed most of the partridge pie as, gathering speed, the steam engine chugged past. ‘Wizard grub!’ he exclaimed enthusiastically, showering William in crumbs. The steam engine disappeared back through the serving hatch. ‘My dear Lord Goth,’ said Dr Cabbage, calling for hush by tapping the side of his glass with a spoon, ‘and esteemed guests, allow me to demonstrate my latest invention . . .’ He turned to the monkeys. ‘Now!’ he said. William, Heath and Robinson jumped up and proceeded to run along the table placing small cakes on the tracks in front of each guest.
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The sound of chugging grew louder and the steam engine came careering through the serving hatch at considerable speed, towing a row of jugs containing raspberry, caramel and white-chocolate sauces. The engine raced down the
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viaduct and on to the table. It scooped up the first cake on the track with its cake-catcher, sending it flying up in the air and down into a sauce jug. Reaching out a spoon, Homily Dickinson plucked the raspberry-coated cake out of the jug and into her pudding bowl. The cake-catcher scooped up a second then a third cake, and the guests helped themselves as the cakes landed in the sauces. Lord Goth looked impressed. The steam engine sped around the table and Flushman grabbed three cakes in one go and tossed them
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to the monkeys with a laugh. ‘Delicious,’ said Ada, tasting a white-chocolate-covered cake, ‘and so clever.’
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‘Yes . . .’ said Dr Cabbage hesitantly as the engine left the dining room at increasing speed, ‘but I think it might need a little adjustment . . .’
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Shouts and cries of dismay sounded in the distance, and there was the crash of dishes falling on flagstones. Mrs Beat’em’s booming voice sailed up from the kitchens – ‘Quick! The cheese course! Now!’ A few moments later the steam engine shot through the serving hatch at full pelt, swerving on to the viaduct and swaying perilously as it sped towards the table. This time Gorgonzola globes, mini-truckles of Gormless Blue and Cheddar Gorgeous and wedges of Wessex Whiff lay jumbled across the cheeseboards in the carriages, while cheese
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straws in haystacks wobbled along behind. ‘Shield yourselves!’ cried Sir Walter Splott as the engine careered around the first bend and several carriages overturned, sending truckles and cheesy globes flying through the air. ‘It is a truth universally . . . unckh!’ exclaimed Plain Austen, as a truckle of Gormless Blue jammed itself in her open mouth. ‘Oh, the humanity!’ exclaimed Homily Dickinson, ducking beneath the table as Gorgonzola globes rained down. Lord Goth gallantly shielded Countess Pippi Shortstocking with a raised arm as cheese straws filled the air.
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Going too fast to take the next corner, the steam engine shot off the table and came crashing to the floor, overturning in a cloud of steam. The cheese carriages followed, with what was left of their contents melting in the heat of the engine.
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‘It’s a fondue fiasco!’ declared William Timepiece Thackeray. Flushman dipped a finger in the melted cheese and licked it. ‘Wizard cheese crash!’ He laughed. Lord Goth brushed cheese straws from his immaculately styled hair and got up from the table with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘I don’t understand it,’ Dr Cabbage was muttering, parting strands of Gorgonzola and examining the crashed steam engine. ‘I distinctly remember setting it to “dinner service”,’ he said, tapping the speed dial, ‘but someone has turned it to “fast food” . . .’ ‘Dr Cabbage,’ said Lord Goth. His voice was calm and quiet, but Ada could tell from the look in his eyes that he was angry. He removed a cheese straw from behind his ear and dropped it on the floor. ‘This is the last straw.’
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Chapter Eleven hat was that?’ asked Emily, slipping down under the covers. It was the sound of a low moaning whimper rising to a mournful call, soft and distant, as if somewhere in the grounds of Ghastly-Gorm Hall a small wolf was howling at the moon. ‘It’s probably just a ghost,’ said Ada. ‘Possibly the second Lady Goth’s Prince Rupert Spaniel, who bit Oliver Cromwell, or maybe Peejay, the bald Irish Wolfhound who haunts the Whine Cellars. It’s far too cold to go and investigate now though.’ She pulled the quilt up beneath her chin. ‘Where were we?’
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Ada and Emily were having a sleepover in the eight-poster bed and Ada was enjoying h
earing Emily’s tales of school life. Neither of them had managed to eat very much at dinner, but while the kitchen maids had cleared up the mess in the steam-engine dining room, Ada and Emily had wrapped slices of pie and chocolate-covered cake in napkins and taken them up to bed. ‘West Wuthering is smaller than Gormless and doesn’t even have a coaching inn,’ Emily said, ‘but it is very pretty, and we go for long walks on the moors most mornings.’ ‘It sounds lovely,’ said Ada longingly. ‘Would you like the last piece of cake?’ ‘You have it, Ada,’ said Emily, snuggling down further under the covers. ‘Then when we get back, Charlotte, Emily and Anne write down stories they’ve thought of on our walks. They’re very good writers, you know.’ Emily smiled sleepily. ‘There’s one called The Glass Town Girls, about three girls from Africa who visit England,
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and one called The Girls from Gondal, about three Japanese princesses, and my favourite, Look Back in Angria, about an imaginary kingdom where three short-tempered girls are always having adventures.’ ‘I’d love to read them,’ said Ada, wrapping the last of the cake in a napkin and putting it on her bedside table. She blew out the candle and pulled the curtains shut around the bed. ‘If you came to school, you could,’ said Emily wistfully. ‘They write them in tiny books in very neat writing . . .’ Her voice trailed away. In the darkness, Ada couldn’t see her face.
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‘Your father was very cross with my father,’ Emily continued. There was a tremble in her voice as if she was trying very hard not to cry. ‘My father says that if he doesn’t make faster progress with his Cogwheel Brain, Lord Goth will ask him to leave here.’ Ada reached out and gave Emily’s hand a squeeze. ‘Try to get some sleep,’ she said. ‘Things will seem better in the morning; they always do.’ Not that Ada really believed this. Lord Goth had looked very stern and his mood hadn’t been improved by Dean Torville burning a finger on some molten Cheddar Gorgeous on his way out of the dining room. Ada closed her eyes. She would have a proper talk with her father after the literary dog show. If she couldn’t talk him round, she might never see Emily again. In the distance a plaintive howl rose up in the frosty night air. *
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Ruby the outer-pantry maid woke them early the next day. ‘Mrs Beat’em’s very cross with your dad for ruining her dinner last night,’ she told Emily as she put down the breakfast tray. ‘Says she’s going to complain to his lordship, and that’s not all.’ ‘It isn’t?’ said Ada, climbing out of bed and putting on her cloak. ‘No,’ said Ruby, her eyes wide. ‘Someone’s made a terrible mess of the inner pantry and stolen a leg of ham. Mrs Beat’em suspects one of the dogs and she’s absolutely furious. She’s had words with Maltravers, but he said all the dogs were locked in their kennels in the Whine Cellars last night and rattled his bunch of keys at her.’ She shuddered. ‘Then Mrs Beat’em started throwing plates . . .’ ‘Sit down, Ruby,’ said Ada, ‘and have a nice cup of tea.’ After breakfast, Ada and Emily got dressed,
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then put on large Scotch berets and knitted Hibernian mufflers and went outside. Fancyday had just arrived with her sisters and the rest of the Gormless Quire to rehearse the music for the dog show, and Ada waved to her as they unloaded their unlikely instruments from a hay cart and carried them into the house. ‘Mr Thackeray says I’d be perfect for a part in the musical adaptation of his satirical novel of country life,’ Fancyday trilled, much
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to her sisters’ irritation. ‘It’s called Vanity Fete – perhaps you’ve heard of it. Anyway, see you at the show!’ Ada and Emily found the Vicarage sisters in front of the west wing, making a snowman with William, while Bramble Vicarage looked on shyly, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his coat. They had piled the snow into an impressive mound for the snowman’s body, so Ada and Emily helped the sisters to roll a big ball of snow. Then William and Ada picked it up and put it on the snowman’s shoulders. Emily took off her mittens and began to sculpt the snowman’s head while the others watched. ‘She’s very talented,’ wrote Charlotte Vicarage on her notepaper. ‘We love her drawing,’ wrote Emily Vicarage in neat capital letters. ‘We’d like her to illustrate our novels one day,’ wrote Anne Vicarage.
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‘I’m sure she’d like that,’ said Ada. ‘Emily was telling me about your stories last night. I’d love to read them one day.’ She turned to Bramble, who was looking at her from behind his unruly fringe. ‘What about you, Bramble?’ she asked. ‘Do you write stories or draw pictures?’ ‘No,’ he said shyly, ‘but I like to act out parts in my sisters’ stories when I go on long walks on my own.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘What I’d really like to be is an actor but, like my sisters, I have the family curse of shyness.’ ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ada sympathetically, ‘but perhaps you’ll grow out of it.’ All four Vicarage children stared down at their feet miserably. ‘What do you think?’ asked Emily Cabbage, turning to the others. ‘Excellent!’ said her brother, ‘but how about this for a finishing touch?’ He reached down and picked up the ham bone lying in the snow at his
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feet. It was white and glistening, with teeth-marks along its length. Reaching up, William pushed it into place on the snowman’s face. ‘Now who does that remind you of?’ he asked, smiling. ‘Hands Christmas Andersen!’ said Ada. She turned to Emily. ‘You don’t suppose that’s the leg of ham stolen from Mrs Beat’em’s kitchen, do you?’ ‘Or what’s left of it,’ said Emily darkly.
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Chapter Twelve full moon had risen in the sky, bathing Ghastly-Gorm Hall in a silvery light. The snow glistened and twinkled on the ground and the frosty air was filled with the sound of carriage wheels crunching on frozen gravel as guests began to arrive for the Ghastly-Gorm literary dog show. On the steps of the Hall, dressed in a magnificently embroidered Albanian overcoat and sheepskin fez, Lord Goth stood ready to greet everyone. Ada and Emily, wrapped up warmly in their Hibernian mufflers and Scotch berets, watched from behind one of the tall classical columns of the portico. First to arrive was Lord Goth’s oldest friend, Lady George, Duchess of Devon, without her three plump Dalmatians. ‘I left my girls at home,
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Goth,’ she told Ada’s father as he greeted her. ‘With such literary hounds on show I didn’t want Lottie, Dottie and Spottie to feel inferior – they’re so sensitive.’ She was followed by what Lord Goth called ‘the Grate and the Should’ (but only in private). They were people from other large houses in Ghastlyshire and the neighbouring county of Baa-Barchestershire, who grated on one’s nerves and thought they should always be invited to things. Lord Goth smiled politely as the Twistle-Ton-Ploughly-Hews, the Dossington-Gruffs and the Mutter-Chuffs of Mithering Grange arrived all at the same time and pushed and jostled each other as they squeezed through the front door. They were followed by the Woolfs of Willoughby Chase, Sir Orlando and his daughter Virginia, who had the habit of looking down her nose at people. ‘I do hope that tiresome village band won’t play too loudly,’ she said haughtily. ‘I swear the
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playing of rustic instruments makes me want to become a lighthouse keeper. The sound of the waves is awfully soothing, I find.’ Finally a battered chariot drawn by three horses pulled up and two gentlemen climbed out and stretched their legs. One was thin and smartly dressed, and the other was portly and scruffy. ‘Well done, Troilus, Pyramus and Thisbe,’ said the portly gentleman, patting the horses. He gave them each a carrot, then turned to Lord Goth.
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‘Sir Christopher Riddle-of-the-Sphinx R.A.,* canine caricaturist,’ he said, shaking Lord Goth’s hand. ‘And this is Mr Christopher Priestley of Cambridge, the distinguished novelist. Hair and Hounds sent us to cover your event, Lord Goth.’ ‘Gentlemen of the press,’ said Lord Goth with an icy smile. Ada knew her
*Sir Christopher is a well-known illustrator of literary dog shows and, along with William Morris-Minor the kennel wallpaper designer, is a founder of the Arts and Crufts movement.
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