Amanda Cadabra and The Hidden Depths

by Holly Bell

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Mrs Sharma dipped gracefully and drew out a packet of Orijen Tundra Cat Treats from under the counter. She extracted a single piece, laid it on a napkin and handed it over to Amanda, who placed the offering before Tempest. He signified, with a subtle tilt of the head that he both accepted and approved.

  ‘Of course,’ Dennis insisted, ‘do tell your Aunt Amelia that she is uneclipsed in my affections.’

  ‘I promise to reassure if she has any concerns on that score,’ Amanda promised with a mischievous smile. She handed over the money for her purchase. ‘Well, nice to see you all. I must get …’

  ‘To The Grange, yes, of course,’ agreed Joan.

  ‘Only your third day back,’ added Sylvia.

  ‘I’ll be right there, Amanda,’ promised Miss de Havillande. ‘Moffat will start you off with some tea and some of Jim’s macaroons, and dear Gwendolen will be on hand if you need her. Churchill! Heel!’

  The elderly terrier was taking refuge in a far corner and eyeing Tempest nervously.

  ‘Thank you, Miss de Havillande.’ Amanda bade the company farewell and led the source of Churchill’s anxiety towards the door.

  ‘Mind ‘ow you go,’ said Sylvia kindly.

  ‘Look out for Dreamy Eyes!’ called Joan. ‘You never know …’

  ‘Could be your Mr Right,’ added the lollipop lady.

  ‘What?’ asked Amanda momentarily bemused before registering there was matchmaking afoot. ‘Er, sorry, must be on my way!’ She made good her escape into the High Street.

  Chapter 4

  The Grange

  Getting into the Vauxhall, Amanda put the conversation in The Corner Shop out of her head. Her mind was busy. Although she was happy to continue with the restoration, there was a task she was planning to persuade Miss de Havillande to take elsewhere. Rehearsing her speech, she turned the car off Grange Way and into the driveway of The Grange, where a few brave crocuses were showing their golden buds.

  Having parked, she opened the rear passenger door for Tempest. He had condescended to come along, especially as Amanda had been careful not to mention the matter of Natasha. This was the lady, a cream seal-point, silken-furred, sapphire-eyed temptress of a Nevskaya Maskaradnaya, into whose good graces he had been unsuccessfully aspiring to insinuate himself. After his last failed attempt to win her favour, he had decided that not only was he going to play it cool, he was going to play it subzero temperatures.

  Moffat, a man of girth and stature, aged, it was speculated, between 75 and 100, was general factotum and manager of the house and estate, but generally referred to himself as The Butler. This dignitary emerged, issued a beneficent welcome and insisted on getting Amanda’s tools out of the car. He walked ahead into the small dining-room, where her on-site workshop was set up. A pot of tea, under a vintage floral needlepoint cosy, was set on a tray, with a delicate china cup and saucer, sugar, milk and gingernut biscuits.

  ‘Will there be anything else I can get for you, Miss?’

  ‘Thank you, Moffat, this is splendid.’

  ‘Hello, my dear. Ah Moffat, you have already brought it in.’ observed the diminutive Miss Armstrong-Witworth — co-owner of the house and bosom friend to Cynthia — as she pattered gently into the room.

  With a brief bow of the head, Moffat absented himself. Miss Armstrong-Witworth looked fondly towards the door he had just closed behind him.

  ‘Such a treasure. I don’t know what we would do without him.’

  ‘Hello, Gwendolen. He is indeed.’

  ‘I just wanted a quick word before dearest Cynthia returns. Something occurred to me. About the ballroom. I know we should have thought of it and mentioned it before. I do hope you won’t be too put out.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t. It’s all part of the process,’ Amanda replied understandingly.

  ‘Yes, well … It’s the walls, you see.’

  ‘Ah.’ That sounded like a big job.

  ‘Yes … the paint.’

  ‘The paint?’

  ‘It’s rather old … I don’t think it’s been repainted since the Regency.’

  ‘Oh.’ Amanda knew what that meant.

  ‘Which means …’

  ‘Yes. I see. Lead.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Well, to do a proper job, it will have to come off. We can either halt the course of the restoration, take everything down from the walls, burn away the lead and repaint or … we wait until all of the mirrors have been done and do it then. Either way, it’s going to add to the time it all takes.’

  ‘That’s quite all right. I do think Cynthia will say to wait.’

  ‘Very well. Yes … after the ball.’

  Amanda remembered her grandfather’s advice about disturbing old walls. In a word: ‘Don’t.’ She had already had experience of the consequences of accidentally having done so elsewhere in the village.

  ‘Hm … well, we shall just have to take extra care,’ Amanda said cautiously. ‘I suppose I should have thought of it myself.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear. This is the first time you have been involved with restoration on this scale. And very fortunate we consider ourselves to have you!’

  At that moment the tall, wiry frame of Cynthia de Havillande breezed in with Churchill at her ankles. The terrier took one look at Amanda and glanced around nervously for an accompanying feline presence. Tempest, enthroned in the centre of the table, gave him a speaking look.

  ‘Stop it, you!’ Amanda whispered to her familiar. ‘It’s his home. Stop bullying.’

  Tempest turned his attention carelessly back to the wary birdlife beyond the window. Churchill now possessed the field, but decided discretion was the better part of valour and toddled off.

  ‘Miss de Havillande!’ Amanda began, about to launch into her prepared exposition.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say, Amanda, dear. And yes, I did heed your advice, but Messrs. Ebony, Merchant and Ivory in Hatfield are backed up too. Now I know you’re not a specialist. But you did wonders with Mrs Uberhausfest’s piano. You have done for years.’

  ‘It’s not a …’

  ‘Do your best. That’s all I ask.’

  ‘Can we at least consult with Mr Frumbling? I know that he’s long retired but no one knows more about piano restoration than he does.’

  ‘He’s at Pipkin Acres Retirement Home now. But, of course, I shall call him. Now, I’ll leave you to finish up what you’re working on before you move on to the grand. You don’t mind, do you, dear? It would mean so much to us to have it back to its old self in time for the Equinox Ball.’

  Amanda gave in. She smiled resignedly. ‘If I can talk to Mr Frumbling ... I’ll do my best.’

  ‘That is more than good enough for me. Think of it as a challenge.’

  It’ll be that all right! thought Amanda.

  ‘Now, as for the guests, I’ve told the girls and Simon to make themselves useful, so if you want any help, just ask them. They’re about here somewhere.’

  ‘They’ve gone out for breakfast,’ contributed Miss Armstrong-Witworth.

  ‘Ah.’

  Good, thought Amanda, if I can just be left to get on. I wonder if it would look rude if I wedged a chair against the doorknob?’

  Chapter 5

  Pamela, and Perran’s Advice

  First, Amanda heard voices in the hall outside the small dining-room. She had put a chair against the door while she had a piece of coarse-grained brown paper sanding, a few yards away. It had responded to her spell:

  ‘Rutstric ynentel.’

  Now she whispered across to it,

  ‘Sessiblinn,’ just to be on the safe side. But who was that speaking?

  ‘Gran and Great-Aunt Cynthia said we should make ourselves useful,’ urged gentle female tones.

  ‘I’d have to change my shoes. But that wouldn’t be a problem.’ That came from a well-spoken man.

  ‘’Scuse me? With this nail art?’

&
nbsp; Amanda’s heart sank. That voice was all too familiar.

  ‘I’m more the supervisory type,’ it continued as the door burst open, sending the chair flying, and a bored, sulky, tall brunette 19-year-old struck a pose on the threshold. In green hot pants over tights and crocheted halter top, if she was cold on this British February day, she wasn’t showing it.

  ‘Hi Amanda, I was just saying, I wouldn’t want to get in your way. I’ll pop in from time to time and you can ask for my feedback.’

  ‘Hello Samantha.’ Daughter of Damian Gibbs, whose new Asthma Centre in Little Madley was still vibrating with the scandal of recent events, the teenager had, alas, come Amanda’s way before. She added politely, ‘That’s considerate of you.’

  ‘Great. Pammy will help, won’t you, Pammy? See you later. Come on, Simon,’ she called to the unseen male in the hallway, and mercifully removed her presence.

  A girl of the same age, shorter, with a self-effacing air, looked timidly into the room.

  ‘Hello there,’ Amanda greeted her kindly. ‘Pamela, is it?’

  ‘Erm, yes, that’s right. Erm … Amanda? I can sand things, if you like. I know you have asthma and dust isn’t good for you.’

  Amanda was surprised. ‘What a kind offer. Are you sure?’

  ‘I help Mummy with the decorating and Daddy in his Pottering Shed, as he calls it. When they’re around. We made a birdhouse together in the summer,’ said Pamela, glowing.

  Amanda smiled. ‘Well done. That was one of my first projects with my grandfather.’

  That further brightened Pamela and she took out her phone from sand coloured dungarees worn over an old brown sweater. ‘Would you like to see? I’ve got photos.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Amanda, with genuine interest. She inspected the images. ‘Is that dovetailing?’

  ‘Yes. My first attempt. Not perfect, as you can see. Bit of a gap there.’

  ‘Still. All credit to you.’

  ‘I think,’ said Pam, gathering confidence, ‘I’d like to be a cabinet maker or work for the Forestry Commission but ... my parents …’

  Amanda nodded understandingly.

  ‘Apart from those,’ the girl went on, ‘I’m not sure what I want to do. I know I should be by now. That I’m supposed to have drive and direction like Gran and .’

  ‘I think you’ll find that there are far fewer “supposed tos” in life than we are led to believe,’ Amanda assured her. ‘The world is full of extraordinary people doing extraordinary things that they adore doing, who came to that through a long and winding path. You have time. Your parents might support you in one of the things you’d like to do, after all.’

  ‘Yes, Mummy and Daddy are being very understanding, not pushing me at all, giving me this year to just try things out. I’m very lucky, I know. I love them so much and they love me, and that just makes it all the harder. I don’t want to let them down, you see.’ Pamela sighed and looked at Tempest vacantly.

  There was a pause before she spoke again, this time wistfully.

  ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

  Tempest preened.

  ‘He’s a he, actually,’ Amanda replied gently ‘but —’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean the cat.’

  ‘The cat’, unused to such a demeaning appellation, turned his head in affront and glared.

  ‘No,’ Pamela expounded, ‘I mean Sam.’

  ‘Samantha? Well …’ Amanda was so overwhelmed by the unattractiveness of Miss Gibbs’s personality that her physical attributes tended to fade into the distance. ‘I expect, yes, many people would consider her so.’

  ‘About six-foot tall, legs that go on forever, all that glossy hair, perfect features, confident. Men can’t help turning their heads when she walks by. I wish I was like her.’

  ‘You do?’ asked Amanda, in surprise.

  ‘Look at me. Dumpy, freckles, limp hair, sort of washed-out-red-nothing colour. I’m never going to be like Sam.’

  Amanda rather considered this a matter for congratulations, but said diplomatically,

  ‘You just haven’t found your own style yet, that’s all. A lot of people do prefer someone who’s ... quietly intelligent and kind and modest.’

  Pamela looked at her piercingly.

  ‘Like you.’ she pronounced.

  ‘Well … thank you ….’

  ‘But none of the people who prefer it seem to be boys,’ observed Pamela with catastrophic honesty. ‘And I don’t want to be ... quiet. I want to be … oh, flamboyant and … Gran says my trouble is that I hold everything in. I’m like a pot with the lid jammed on tight and she worries one day it‘ll fly off and I’ll do something wild and —’

  ‘Now then, you two!’ a hearty voice echoed through the room. ‘Good to see you getting on.’

  ‘Hello, Great-aunt Cynthia.’

  ‘Hello, Miss de Havillande,’ Amanda greeted her politely.

  ‘Well done, Pamela, helping out. Unlike some,’ Cynthia uttered pointedly. ‘You’ve got all you need, Amanda?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘If you require some muscle, just call for Moffat. Hillers and Humpy will be here tomorrow.’

  Oh good grief, thought Amanda. ‘Miss de Havillande?’

  ‘Yes, my dear?’

  ‘Please hide the gramophone!’

  Amanda didn’t think she could bear another week of the 1920s hit, Black Bottom, played at ear-splitting volume. It was Humpy’s current favourite.

  ‘Gwendolen has already thought of that. And she’s got him a … a … let me see, what did she call it? … Ah yes. A vinyl turntable with wifi headphones. It’s in the study all ready for him.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Amanda, with heartfelt gratitude. Cynthia took herself off and Amanda found a job for Pamela. It wasn’t that she didn’t feel for the girl. She knew all too well what it was like to feel overwhelmed in a world where she did not fit.

  Amanda vividly recalled that, when she was eight years of age, Old Mr Jackson, the Cadabra’s irascible next-door neighbour, had let his granddaughter come to stay over the Easter Holidays. Poppet was 10, had a head of golden ringlets and eyes of such bright blue that they looked barely natural. Poppet could sing and do tap and ballet, with which gifts she did not hesitate to bless the neighbours. What she lacked in vocal accuracy she made up for in volume.

  Suffering a certain amount of insecurity, which Amanda was unable to perceive, Poppet felt the need to issue a constant stream of unfavourable comparisons with her peers. It began on the first day, as Amanda was making the journey from the house up the garden path to the workshop.

  ‘My name’s Poppet Jackson. What’s yours?’ she demanded from the other side of the fence.

  Amanda felt uneasy but saw no reason not reply politely,

  ‘How do you do? My name is Amanda Cadabra.’

  That was greeted by a crow of scornful laughter.

  ‘That’s not a name!’

  ‘I assure you it is,’ Amanda replied earnestly. ‘I can provide documentary support.’

  There was a confused pause followed by, ‘I can sing and dance. What can you

  do?’

  ‘Erm …’

  This was the herald of things to come, until Amanda sought counsel from Grandpa.

  ‘If only I could ignore her but it doesn’t seem …’

  ‘I know, bian, we don’t want to upset our Old Mr Jackson, do we now?’

  ‘But what can I do? She never stops. She’s got some sort of radar that tells her when I’m outside the cottage!’

  ‘You want my advice?’

  ‘Please, Grandpa.’

  ‘It’s this: be Granny.’

  Little Amanda raised her chin, let her eyelids droop just a shade, drew herself up to her full four-foot-two height and pronounced with flawless articulation:

  ‘Good morning, Poppet.’

  Suddenly she collapsed with giggles.

  ‘Oh I
can’t do it. I’d much rather think: “be Grandpa” and not mind her.’

  At the end of the holidays, Poppet was collected by her doting parents, to be restored to The Eastbourne Theatrical Academy for the Aspirational, never to be seen in the village again. Mr Jackson remained adamant in the face of his son’s pleas to receive the child back into his abode.

  Amanda had received a lesson that, although unpractised at the time, was later to stand her in good stead: be Granny.

  At 16 years of age, she was preparing to take the practical exam for accreditation by the London Guild of Furniture Restorers. Grandpa warned her that she might find the examiner a little traditionalist. Woodworking in general had been mostly the province of men for centuries. He gave his granddaughter his previous advice: be Granny.

  Accordingly, Amanda adopted a measure of Senara’s air of assurance and self-possession. She carried out the exam tasks, not only to the satisfaction of her assessor, Mr Coping, but to such a degree that he wrote to Perran. The letter said it was nice to see such confidence in one so young, that young Amanda was a chip off the old block and had done her grandpa proud.

  She had returned home to flop onto the sofa and exclaim to Perran:

  ‘I can do it. I can be Granny. But I can’t keep it up for long. It’s exhausting!’

  Chapter 6

  Doubt

  Thomas carried the plates into the dining-room, and his father followed with a well-chosen Chianti Colli Sinesi and two glasses.

  ‘How was the mighty metropolis?’ Kytto Trelawney asked.

  ‘I didn’t see much of it.’ Thomas put the shepherd’s-pie-laden plates in place and sat down. ‘Just the usual, Crouch End with Mum and Sunken Madley for an interview.’

  Kyt knew better than to question Thomas about his ongoing investigations, and contented himself with pouring the wine his son had brought.

  ‘A very strange interview,’ Trelawney junior said meditatively.

  Clearly, Thomas wanted to talk. Kyt calmly put down the bottle, seated himself, and picked up his knife and fork, patiently waiting for what might follow. It surprised him when it came.