The Charlie Moon Collection

by Shirley Hughes

  “Oh, that was nothing to me in those days. I was a dancer, as you know, before I joined that troupe of acrobats. And I could sing too, of course. In fact, I was running through a few old numbers with your nephew here. Quite carried away I was. But I’m a bit out of practice for acrobatics, I’m afraid—put on a little bit of weight recently.”

  “You remember Mr Cornetto of course?”

  “Carlo Cornetto? Why, of course. He was one of the troupe, you know. Lovely acrobat, he was, but couldn’t speak a word of English, as I remember. Just used to smile and show his white teeth.”

  “He’s retired now and settled down right here in Penwyn Bay. Took a fancy to the place, learnt to speak English lovely, and now he’s running the Crazy Castle down at the far end of the prom. I’m expecting him here at any moment, as a matter of fact. Oh my goodness, those pork chops will be burned if I don’t have a look at them. Is that him now? Quick, children, run and let him in!”

  Mr Cornetto has changed into his best suit and is wearing a silk bow tie that resembles a large yellow spotted butterfly. He is so surprised to see Mrs Cadwallader that for the moment he forgets all his English and bursts into a flow of excited Italian, clasping both her hands and kissing them over and over again. At last Auntie Jean manages to sit everyone down at the table. Mr Cornetto soon regains his command of English, and throughout the meal all three grown-ups talk and talk, reminding one another of past dramas and excitements behind the scenes at the Royalty, of old friends long since forgotten, and telling one another over and over again how little they have changed, and how they would have known each other anywhere. Charlie and Ariadne attack their food in silence, and escape as soon as possible into the kitchen to finish up the remains of the chocolate ice-cream in peace.

  “I’m getting a bit sick of the old Royalty,” says Ariadne, licking her spoon thoroughly. “They don’t half go on about it—that Mrs Cadwallader especially. Can’t she talk!”

  “Wait till she starts singing,” answers Charlie.

  “I don’t see how anybody could have lifted her up into the air, not even a whole troupe of acrobats. You’d need a crane, if you ask me.”

  “She’s given me a quid, though.”

  “Oooooh, lucky! What for?”

  “Getting her rings back for her. It’s funny, though . . .”

  “What’s funny?”

  “When she thanked me just now, she said for both her rings.”

  “Well?”.

  “But there were three of them, all whoppers. I remember them quite well because I had them in my pocket.”

  “I expect she made a mistake.”

  “She’s only got two of them on now. I looked when Mr Cornetto was carrying on, using all those foreign words and kissing her hands.”

  “Perhaps she’s left the other one somewhere else by now. She seems pretty dotty, if you ask me.”

  At this moment they both become aware of a lull in the flow of chatter coming from the sitting-room. They stop licking their spoons and look towards the door. Einstein, who has been finishing up the remains of the pork chops under the sink, also looks up, his ears cocked. Then the lull gives way to another much more piercing sound. Einstein, with bristling fur, bolts like lightning through the pantry window. Mrs Cadwallader has started to sing.

  5

  It’s Thursday afternoon—early closing day at the Joke and Carnival Novelty Shop—and all is confusion in the little back room. Auntie Jean, wearing a gypsy costume and shawl, with a bright scarf tied over her hair and a great many jangling bracelets and beads, is pulling everything about in a frantic search for her crystal ball. She is expected at the Crazy Castle to tell fortunes at two o’clock sharp. In the passage the piled-up boxes are spilling out their contents all over the floor—packets of paper streamers, gigantic false teeth and plates of plastic fried eggs are everywhere, but no crystal ball. Charlie, who started by trying to help, has found a camera which shoots out a rubber snake when you press the button, and he is trying it out on Einstein, who sits solidly on the dresser, his eyes half closed in disgust. In the midst of it all, Ariadne is curled up in an armchair, reading.

  “Come out of that book, Ariadne, do, and give us a hand,” cries Auntie Jean in anguish. “If I can’t find the dratted thing I won’t get any fortunes told today!”

  Ariadne drags her eyes unwillingly from the page. Balancing herself with one hand on her book, to keep her place, she hangs upside down over the seat and peers under the sagging frill.

  “There’s something under here, I think. Oooooh, what a lot of fluff!” She gropes about and pulls out a long pink silk scarf and a green cigarette case, along with a cloud of dust.

  “Now whatever have you got there?” says Auntie Jean, bending down to inspect them closely.

  “Not your crystal ball, I’m afraid. Perhaps they belong to Mrs Cadwallader. I think this scarf matches the dress she was wearing when she came the other evening.”

  “I believe you’re right! That’s her cigarette case for sure.”

  “She must be awfully absent-minded, leaving her things behind all the time, I mean. First the rings that Charlie found, and now these. Typical, I suppose.”

  “You’d better slip up to the Hydro and give them back to her. Pop them into a package with her name on it, so you only have to leave them at the reception desk.”

  “Oh, all right,” says Ariadne, “I’ll do it when I’ve finished this chapter.”

  Auntie Jean resumes her search, with a great deal more commotion and fuss. At last the crystal ball is discovered under a bit of blanket in Einstein’s cat basket. It has to be well washed and polished before being restored to its black velvet coverings. Ten minutes late already, Auntie Jean whisks her shawl straight and bustles away up the prom.

  “Walk up to the Hydro with us, Charlie,” asks Ariadne, throwing down her book and yawning.

  “No thanks, not likely,” says Charlie. “I’m not going up there again. I hate the place. And anyway the Old Moaner might catch me.”

  “How pathetic,” says Ariadne. “Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to go on my own.”

  Having put Mrs Cadwallader’s things into a package and addressed it carefully in large curly letters with her felt pen, Ariadne strolls off with it under her arm, up the hill to the Hydro. Today the reception desk in the big hall is attended by the manageress herself, who is busy with a typewriter and a great deal of paper work. She hardly raises her eyes as Ariadne enters.

  “I suppose you’ve come about the job,” she says. “It’s only the one time, you know. We need extra help because of the Carnival Lunch we’re having, but otherwise we’re perfectly well suited. How old are you?”

  “Thirteen,” says Ariadne promptly. She is really only twelve, but can never resist adding on a year.

  The manageress looks her up and down over her glasses.

  “Well, I really had someone older in mind. I’m not allowed to employ anyone of your age on a permanent basis, of course. You look like a reliable girl, though. It’s just to help the waitress and clear up afterwards. Can you lay tables?”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “Well, you might do. I’ll take your name and address at any rate.”

  “I’m Mrs Jean Jones’ niece, from the joke shop on the prom, but I haven’t come after the job,” Ariadne manages to tell her. “I’ve brought this. One of the ladies staying in this hotel, Mrs Cadwallader, left some things behind when she came to see us the other evening.” And she puts the package down on the desk.

  “Oh, I see. Why didn’t you say so before? Mrs Cadwallader and her sister-in-law are in the Palm Lounge at this moment, I believe, so you can give them to her now if you like. It’s just over there, to the left.”

  Ariadne shuffles her feet and stays where she is.

  “Well?” asks the manageress. She has already turned her eyes back to her papers.

  “I’d like to take the job if you want someone. I could help the waitress like you said. And I can wash up, too.” />
  The manageress looks at her again. After a bit she says:

  “Well, as I know your aunt I’ll give you a try. But only if she gives her permission first, mind. We’ll pay you 75p an hour and you get a free meal. I’ll need you here on Saturday week at twelve noon, sharp. Don’t forget now.”

  “I’ll be here,” says Ariadne. Inwardly she is surprised at herself for making such a sudden decision. As she writes her name and address, she is already wondering what Auntie Jean will say, and if she will allow her to work at the Hydro. She hadn’t really meant to ask for the job, or to pretend to be older than she is. Somehow the words just slipped out. But the manageress has already returned to her work, and the matter seems to be settled. Picking up the package, Ariadne goes off in the direction of the Palm Lounge.

  At first she can’t see Mrs Cadwallader anywhere. The huge room is nearly empty. Walking all round it, she soon hears low, angry voices coming from a little alcove, hidden by a forest of foliage.

  “. . . vulgar in the extreme,” hisses one voice, and Mrs Cadwallader answers:

  “You’re always trying to spoil my fun, Mona. Just because I meet up with a couple of old friends and have a chat about old times, you have to try and stop me.”

  “I just don’t think they’re suitable people for you to mix with,” says Miss Mona. “That awful joke shop. I’ve never seen so much cheap rubbish in all my life. And who is this Italian with his ridiculous side-show?”

  “It’s not ridiculous. He’d be doing very good business if he were over at Penwyn. Just needs a bit of brightening up, that’s all. He was a lovely acrobat, too, in the old days, when I first knew him. He could do four back somersaults and land on his hands, no trouble at all, and then jump up into the air like a jack-rabbit! You should have seen him!”

  “I’m very glad I didn’t. I should have thought you’d want to forget about your previous career, now you have a social position to keep up.”

  “It was me that Caddy married, after all,” retorts Mrs Cadwallader, “and he didn’t give tuppence for social position!”

  Before Miss Mona can answer this, Ariadne clears her throat loudly and edges round the potted palms, with the package held out before her.

  “Well, I never did!” says Mrs Cadwallader, after greeting her warmly. “What’s this? Don’t tell me I left these behind at your Auntie’s? I’ve been looking for them everywhere.”

  Miss Mona eyes Ariadne with annoyance.

  “Really, Connie,” is all she says. “Isn’t that the cigarette case you had as a wedding present? I wish you’d try to look after your things better. Give those to me right away. I’ll take them upstairs for you.”

  Mrs Cadwallader ignores her.

  “You’re a good lass,” she tells Ariadne. “A pair of good kids, you and your cousin. I’m grateful to you both. Here’s a pound. And as you’re here, I’ll walk back with you to your Auntie’s for a breath of air.”

  “She’s telling fortunes at Mr Cornetto’s this afternoon,” Ariadne tells her. “She’s ever so good at it. But I don’t need a reward, really.”

  “Take it, dear. Never refuse money when it’s honestly earned. So Jean’s fortune-telling at the Crazy Castle, is she? I think I’ll go along there, then, and see how she’s getting on.” She rises to her feet, and winds the long pink scarf several times round her neck with a flourish. “Cheerio, Mona. See you later, alligator, as we say in Show Business!”

  Miss Mona does not answer, but the tilt of her small beak of a nose makes her feelings very plain.

  6

  “More life! More sparkle! Music, lights, razzle-dazzle!” exclaims Mrs Cadwallader, waving her scarf about.

  “What was that last one again?” asks Mr Cornetto cautiously.

  “Razzle-dazzle. Excitement, glitter—you know. It’s what this place needs.”

  “Oh, yes. I see.” Mr Cornetto chews his moustache thoughtfully.

  The Crazy Castle has closed for the day, and they are all eating ham sandwiches at one of the little round tables in the entrance hall. Auntie Jean is still wearing her gypsy costume. There have been more visitors than usual that afternoon, and she has seen a good many exciting futures in her crystal ball.

  “Apart from a lick of paint and a good smarten up, you need some kind of special attraction,” continues Mrs Cadwallader. “Something that’ll bring in the crowds—as well as Jean’s fortune-telling, of course.”

  “What about lots of gambling-machines?” says Ariadne. “Or a space-machine like they’ve got over at Penwyn?”

  Mr Cornetto shakes his head.

  “Things like that cost a lot of money, and I’ve hardly any in the bank. The bank manager keeps writing me letters about it.”

  “When Mum and I went to the circus,” says Charlie, “there were people outside the big tent, dressed up, beating a drum and shouting ‘Roll up! Roll up!’ to get people to come inside.”

  “My word, that’s given me an idea, Charlie!” cries Mrs Cadwallader excitedly. “You know those old costumes you’ve got at your place, Jean? We could have an Old Time Night here—you know, dressed in old-fashioned costumes, and getting people to join in with songs that they all remember. I could lead the singing—and you can still play the piano, can’t you, Carlo?”

  “Oh yes, indeed. But I’m not sure . . .”

  “We could open up the portcullis here and have coloured lights. And we could smarten up the waxworks, too, while we’re at it. Re-hang the curtains, polish up the mirrors, all that kind of thing. I’ll help with the expenses.”

  “And I’ll help with the sewing if I can,” says Auntie Jean. “Come on, now, Mr Cornetto. Things are that slack at the joke shop this season, I’ll have to close down if we can’t attract some more people over here somehow. Anything’s worth a try. Would you children be kind enough to help out, d’you think?”

  “I could paint up some of the pictures of kings and queens and things on the front of the building,” offers Ariadne. “I’m good at painting. I hardly ever go over the lines.”

  “I’ll polish up the magic mirrors, if you like,” says Charlie.

  “You’re all very kind,” says Mr Cornetto, “very enthusiastic. All right, we’ll give it a try, then.”

  “There’s sensible!” cries Auntie Jean, giving him a clap on the shoulder, which makes him swallow his sandwich the wrong way.

  “I’ll come down first thing tomorrow morning,” Mrs Cadwallader tells him, “and we’ll get started. I must practise all my old songs. Oh, I’m so excited! It’ll be just like old times, Carlo, dear.”

  The grown-ups embark upon a long chat about plans. Charlie and Ariadne wander off with Lordy to look at the sea. The tide is coming in fast. Lordy, forgetting his age and dignity, gallops about in the fading light like a skittish judge, barking wildly at sea-gulls. They follow him along the tide-line, sometimes pausing to throw a stone or two out to sea.

  “She’s a bit overpowering, Mrs Cadwallader, isn’t she?” says Ariadne. “She and that other lady—her sister-in-law, or whoever she is— were having a real old row up at the Hydro this afternoon. In fact, they’re both rather bossy, if you ask me!”

  “Mr Cornetto doesn’t seem to mind being bossed,” says Charlie.

  “Pretty pathetic of him. You know what, Charlie . . .”

  “What?”

  “I told a bit of a fib this afternoon to the manageress at the Hydro.”

  “What fib?”

  “Well, I pretended I was older than I was so that they’d give me a sort of waitress job. It’s only for one day, to help with the Carnival Lunch. I hope Auntie Jean’lI let me.”

  “Don’t see why not. But I can’t think why you want to go and work at that old place. I bet they’re as mean as anything. They’ll probably make you wash up piles and piles of dishes and then not pay you anything.”

  “Oh, dear. I hope not. I thought it seemed sort of exciting, like the girl in my book who is all alone in the world and has to go and be a governess in a big house
.”

  “Well, don’t get in the lift. You might get stuck in there for ever and not be found until there’s nothing left but your whitened bones.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t go near it,” says Ariadne with a shudder.

  The following morning the portcullis of Carlo’s Crazy Castle is lowered, with a notice on it saying “Temporarily closed for renovations. Watch out for our Grand Reopening and Old Time Night on Thursday next!” Inside Mr Cornetto, in rolled-up shirt-sleeves, is already at work rearranging the entrance hall, nailing up strings of coloured lights and bringing in more chairs from the outhouse at the back. Charlie is the first to arrive.

  “Ariadne’s looking after the shop today while Auntie Jean gets on with the sewing. She’s found some smashing costumes and she’s altering ’em now,” Charlie tells him. “She’s got ever so many of them—animal suits and uniforms too, with medals and that. Where’s the ladder and bucket?”

  Mr Cornetto has put them out ready for him in the Hall of Mirrors, so he gets busy at once. The mirrors are very dirty and fly-blown, and difficult to clean, too, because they are not flat like ordinary ones. He finds that when he has too much soapy water in his cloth, it slops down the surface and dries in streaks. But he soon discovers that if he wrings the cloth out and lets the clean glass dry until just the right moment, he can get a good polish on it. He rubs away, moving his head up and down now and again to observe his reflection melt from a squashed-lemon shape to dripping candle-wax. From the entrance hall comes the sound of Mrs Cadwallader’s voice. She has come to practise her Old Time songs on Mr Cornetto’s piano. Charlie finds that the water in his bucket is already dirty. Rattling the handle noisily and whistling, he climbs down the ladder and goes out through the Hall of Waxworks to refill it at the outside tap in the back yard.

  As he opens the back door there is a sudden rush of footsteps, and a dustbin goes bowling over with a clatter. He is just in time to glimpse a figure—or is it more than one?—disappearing over the wall. Before Charlie can open the gate and peer out into the back alley-way, whoever it was has disappeared round the corner. Charlie doesn’t feel like giving chase. He sets the bin upright again and picks up most of the escaped rubbish. Thoughtfully he slooshes the bucket of dirty water down the drain, refills it and goes back inside, locking the door carefully behind him.