Goth Girl and the Sinister Symphony

by Chris Riddell

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  high with freshly fried potatoes with salt and vinegar pots and a sauce-boat sidecar at the rear. Everybody helped themselves as The Frying Scotsman chugged past. It was delicious, and the steam engine returned to the kitchens three times to be refilled, returning the last time with a rear carriage carrying a barrel of sparkling water. ‘Swansea Spa Water!* My favourite!’ declared Sparkling Lady Carole, pouring a glass and taking a sip. ‘Why, my dear Goth, I thought for a moment our dinner was going to turn a little flat, but how wrong I was!’ She soaked three napkins in the sparkling water and gently but firmly handed them to Mademoiselle Badoit,

  *Swansea Spa Water comes from a spring in the hills just above the town and is bottled by a grumpy bard called Dylan who is allergic to dairy products, which he complains about in his poem Under Milk Wouldn’t.

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  Miss Highland Spring and Miss Malvern. They wiped the Vanity Fair make-up off their faces a little reluctantly but soon brightened up when they saw the sparkle in Lord Goth’s eye when he looked at them. Lord Goth dipped a chip into a sauce boat of mayonnaise and ate it.

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  ‘My compliments to the cook,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Lord Goth,’ said Tailor Extremely-Swift, who had appeared in the doorway. ‘I did the best I could. Mrs Beat’em went to bed after she discovered the cabbages and tomatoes had gone missing from the larder, and the kitchen maids have done such a wonderful job with the rose petals I told them to have an early night. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get started on the washing-up.’ She gave Lord Goth a dazzling smile and turned to the others.

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  ‘Goodnight, sweet ladies, goodnight.’ ‘She’s an absolute treasure,’ said Lady Carole brightly, after Tailor Extremely-Swift had gone. She turned to the fashionable ladies. ‘Now, if everyone has finished, might I suggest a little after-dinner entertainment?’ ‘Yes . . . charming idea . . .’ said Lord Goth absent-mindedly as he gazed at the empty doorway. ‘Oh yes!’ chorused the fashionable young ladies. ‘I shall recite Lord Goth’s favourite poem, The Grime of the Ancient Mariner. It’s about a sailor who didn’t like water,’ said Miss Malvern.

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  ‘And a wee bird told me Lord Goth loves yodelling songs, so I shall sing “The Call of the Timorous Beastie”,’ said Miss Highland Spring, winking at Ada. ‘And I shall perform an interpretive clog-dance,’ said Mademoiselle Badoit, lifting the hem of her skirt to reveal a pair of wooden clogs that Ada’s French governess had left behind.

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  ‘That sounds splendid!’ said Sir Sydney Harbour-Bridge enthusiastically. ‘I had no idea you liked any of these things, Goth,’ said Lady Carole to her son. ‘Nor did I,’ said Lord Goth with a puzzled frown. Ada and Emily giggled.

  Chapter Nine da brought the meeting of the Attic Club to order, which meant starting the meeting, according to Emily, who knew about these things. The members were sitting on old coal sacks stuffed with dried beans, arranged around a table made of fruit crates. They were, as their name suggested, in the very large attic of Ghastly-Gorm Hall. Everybody else was in bed and the moon shone in on the meeting through the small round attic windows. Ada raised the wooden spoon above her head, which meant the Attic Club meeting had started. Arthur Halford, Ruby the outer-pantry maid, Kingsley the chimney caretaker and the two Cabbage children all stopped chatting and turned towards Ada. ‘I think we should talk about Gothstock. I’m

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  worried it might not be the success my father hopes it will be,’ she said, looking at the others. ‘Maltravers is up to something. My father told him to hire the best orchestra he could find. Gothstock starts tomorrow and there’s still no sign of them.’ Arthur Halford raised his hand and Ada handed him the wooden spoon which meant he could speak next. ‘I think you’re right to be worried,’ he said. ‘All the invitations have been accepted and the camp ground will be full. Everyone will be expecting to hear a great orchestra, not just singing hermits,

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  even if they are really loud. Kingsley and I could hear them when we were setting up the village stocks.’ Kingsley the chimney caretaker took the spoon when Arthur passed it to him. ‘A lady from the other band warned me that after spending so much time being solitary hermits in fashionable gardens, when they get together they like to let their hair down . . .’ ‘And they do have a lot of hair,’ said Emily, taking the spoon. ‘Sir Sydney Harbour-Bridge thought they were singing otters when he sketched them by the lake, he was telling me after dinner while the fashionable ladies were

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  performing.’ She giggled. ‘Ada, your father looked so bored!’ She passed the spoon to her brother. ‘We should keep an eye on the hermits,’ said William, who was the colour of the coal sack he was sitting on. ‘I think they’re up to something.’ ‘I do too,’ said Ruby the outer-pantry maid, shyly holding the spoon. ‘Mrs Beat’em has

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  has been in a terrible mood ever since she discovered that all the cabbages and tomatoes for her soup had disappeared from the larder.’ William Cabbage took the spoon from Ruby and turned the colour of the moonlight shining through the attic windows. ‘When I followed Maltravers this evening,’ he said, looking round the table, ‘I saw one of the hermits giving him a ten-shilling note.’ William handed the spoon back to Ada.

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  ‘I think the Attic Club need to keep its eyes and ears open more than ever,’ she said. *

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  ‘I find a stroll over the rooftops to look at the chimneys helps concentrate the mind,’ said Kingsley the chimney caretaker, ‘and there is a beautiful full moon tonight.’ The other members of the Attic Club had said goodnight to each other and gone downstairs, leaving just Ada and Kingsley looking out through a round attic window. ‘Shall we?’ said Kingsley, opening the window. ‘Just a short stroll,’ said Ada with a smile. ‘After all, it’s late and Gothstock starts tomorrow.’ Ada stepped out on to the rooftops and sighed happily. The ornamental chimney pots of the broken wing stretched away in front of her, the moonlight glittering on barley-sugar twists, chequerboard tiles, gargoyles and sooty cherubs. She loved walking over the rooftops, balancing on the ridges and skipping down the gutters. Her governess, Lucy Borgia, the three-hundred-year-old vampire, had taught Ada to fence with an umbrella up here last summer. Ada had inherited a head for heights from her mother, Parthenope the tightrope

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  walker, and Lucy had been very impressed by Ada’s progress. Kingsley had a head for heights too, and loved his job sweeping the ornamental chimneys and keeping them in good repair.

  Ada and Kingsley strolled across the rooftops and came to a chimney in the shape of a Greek pillar with a terracotta fat cat for a chimney pot.*

  *‘The Very Hungry Cat-and-Pillar’ is in a part of the rooftops where the chimneys are decorated with adorable flower fairies and dancing unicorns, and is known as ‘Where the Mild Things Are’.

  The moonlight fell on the cat’s polished head. ‘Swept this one today,’ said Kingsley, tapping the side of the chimney. ‘It leads down to a room with a large wardrobe in it, covered with carvings of goat boys and tree ladies.’ The broken wing was Ada’s favourite part of the house. It was full of rooms with forgotten and unused things in them, and Ada loved exploring it whenever she had the time. She was about to suggest that Kingsley showed her the room with the wardrobe, which she was sure Shaun the Faun would like, when there was the sound of wheels on gravel. Kingsley and Ada walked over the rooftops and peered down at the rickety tiles of the unstable stables below. There, in the stable yard, was Maltravers, talking to a grumpy-looking man with extremely high-waisted trousers that almost reached to his chin, and carefully combed hair that stuck up straight from his head. He was sitting on a large

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  covered wagon with a WET PAINT sign hanging from it. Two enormous shire horses snorted and stamped their feathery feet. ‘Simon Scowl, as I live and breathe,’ Ada heard

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  Ma
ltravers say in that wheezing voice of his. ‘I thought you’d never get here!’ ‘You’re lucky I showed up at all,’ said Simon Scowl, climbing down from the wagon and hitching up his trousers, ‘considering how little you’re paying me.’ ‘I’ve prepared extremely comfortable rooms for you in the east wing,’ said Maltravers, bowing and scraping, ‘and the orchestra can go in the stables.’ ‘You heard him, ladies and gentlemen!’ Simon Scowl called to the

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  and anything else that drops off! Now where are those rooms?’ Maltravers took two large bags from the covered wagon and Simon Scowl followed him into the broken wing. Meanwhile, from the back of the wagon, stooped, dusty figures started clambering out into the stable yard and making their way jerkily into the gloomy interior of the unstable stables. Ada watched, wide-eyed. It was as if the figures in the old paintings that hung on the walls of Ghastly-Gorm Hall had somehow come to life. There were elegant but ragged Tudor ladies in yellowing ruffs clutching lutes and recorders, Cavaliers and Roundheads with violas, violins and battered-looking trumpets, and thin, white-faced gentlemen in wispy powdered wigs struggling with rickety harpsichords. They all stumbled out of the covered wagon and into the stables without saying a word. The last figures to emerge were wearing rusty Saxon helmets and tattered

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  cloaks and looked the most ancient of all. They carried large kettle drums, harps and percussion instruments made from axe handles and round shields. As the last of them disappeared inside the stables, Ada turned to Kingsley. ‘Well, at least the orchestra has arrived,’ she said. ‘I hope they sound better than they look.’

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  Chapter Ten rumble of thunder woke Ada up on the day of the festival. She jumped out of bed, ran across her extremely tidy bedroom and opened the curtains. Outside, it was pouring with rain. Big, fat summer raindrops splashed down on to the gravel drive, collecting in large puddles, while rainwater gushed down from the gutters and spouts all over Ghastly-Gorm Hall. The dear deer sheltered beneath the spreading branches of the elm trees in the park, while the oblong sheep and rectangular cows carried on grazing on the wet summer grass, unconcerned. In the distance, Ada saw that the festival-goers were arriving in caravans, carts and wagons of every description. Hobby-horse grooms, standing under umbrellas by the gates, were directing

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  them towards the camp ground in the middle of the dear-deer park. As the rain continued to fall, the caravans, carts and wagons reached the camp ground, churning up the wet grass and leaving muddy tracks behind them. There was a knock at the door and Emily and Tailor Extremely-Swift came in. ‘Oh, good!’ said Emily. ‘You’re out of bed. Look what Tailor has made for us.’

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  Ada saw that Emily was wearing a green waxed jacket with a large corduroy collar, and Tailor was holding another. ‘For you,’ she said. ‘I made them last night when I heard the thunderstorm. In these you won’t even notice the rain, just like the sheep. I call them Baa-baa jackets.’ ‘And in case it gets muddy,’ said Emily, ‘Tailor’s given us these.’ She held up a pair of shiny green boots. ‘They’re based on the ones worn by General Arthur Gumboot,’ said

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  Tailor. ‘I brought a carriage-full, just in case.’ Ada chose a summer frock with blue cornflowers on it to match the garland Cordelia Coppice had given her, which she’d put carefully on her dressing table the night before. Then Tailor helped her on with the Baa-baa jacket and gumboots. Tailor’s own jacket was gathered in at the waist and her gumboots were tall and elegant. Ada thought she looked very pretty. ‘I’ll just see if your grandmother needs anything,’ said Tailor with a dazzling smile, striding out of the room and down the corridor. ‘Then, after breakfast, she’d like you to join her and your father for a walk,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Shall we see if the fashionable ladies need some fashion tips?’ said Emily, with a mischievous smile.

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  * After a breakfast of brambled eggs and extremely cross buns, Ada, Emily and William found Lord Goth and Sparkling Lady Carole standing on the steps outside the front door. It was still raining. The fashionable young ladies were standing round Lord Goth twirling their umbrellas and adjusting the nor’easter bonnets

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  Tailor Extremely-Swift had made for them. They were wearing them back to front (having heard that was the most fashionable way) and were having difficulty seeing where they were going. They were also wearing elegant dancing pumps rather than the gumboots Tailor had given them. ‘Such a pity about the rain, Lord Goth,’ said Mademoiselle Badoit, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘I do hope it stops before the concert tonight.’ ‘I love long walks in the rain,’ cooed Miss Highland Spring, gazing into Lord Goth’s eyes, ‘with the right companion.’ ‘My bonnet ribbon has become undone,’ said Miss Malvern, elbowing the other two aside. ‘Whatever is a poor girl to do?’ ‘Allow me, dear lady,’ said Sir Sydney Harbour-Bridge, who had just stepped out on to the steps. He was holding a dog leash which he handed to Ada. ‘If you could just take Alsatian while I help Miss Malvern . . .’ Miss Malvern looked extremely disappointed

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  as Sir Sydney Harbour-Bridge stepped between her and Lord Goth and began fumbling with the ribbon of her nor’easter. Ada looked down at the lion cub, who was looking up at Ada with wide, intelligent eyes. ‘Thank you, Miss Goth,’ said Sir Sydney, who had tied Miss Malvern’s ribbon into a large knot, and turned back to Ada. He took the leash. ‘Walkies, Alsatian, there’s a good dog,’ he said, setting off down the steps. Lord Goth followed, with the ladies close behind. Ada and Emily took Lady Carole’s hand, one on either side, and walked down

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  the steps. Ada opened Lady Carole’s umbrella and held it over their heads. ‘What a fine young lady you’re turning into,’ said Lady Carole approvingly, ‘and with a mother’s guidance, your accomplishments can only grow, my dear.’ William Cabbage skipped off ahead to pet Sir Sydney’s lion cub. They all walked across the dear-deer park, the grass muddy where the wagons, caravans and carts had rolled across it.

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  ‘Oh my!’ exclaimed Mademoiselle Badoit, halting beside the biggest puddle she could find. ‘How am I ever going to get across in these elegant dancing pumps? If only a strong gentleman was at hand . . .’ ‘Allow me, dear lady,’ said Sir Sydney Harbour-Bridge, rushing over and sweeping Mademoiselle Badoit off her feet. He let go of Alsatian’s leash, and the lion cub, who had spotted Shaun the Faun by the lake, ran off in his direction. Mademoiselle Badoit looked quite cross as Sir Sydney waded across the puddle and put her back on her feet in the middle of another equally big puddle. ‘Alsatian? Alsatian!’ Sir Sydney called. ‘Has anyone seen my dog?’ Just then Miss Highland Spring and Miss Malvern both tried to take Lord Goth’s arm but because they couldn’t see out from beneath their back-to-front nor’easter bonnets, they took each other’s arms by mistake and slipped over, landing with a squelch in the mud.

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  Emily and Ada tried not to giggle as they helped the fashionable ladies back to their feet. Lord Goth turned around and raised an elegant eyebrow. As they continued their walk across the park they began to see rows of wagons, caravans and carts. Lord Goth raised his top hat to the festival-goers, who had set up various tents and were trying to light campfires without much success. ‘I’ve come all the way from New Guernsey,’ said an orange-faced man. His elegant wife was sitting under an awning beside their streamlined wooden caravan and looked rather bored. They were both wearing gumboots. ‘The name’s Donald Ear-Trumpet,’ the man said. He had what looked like a raccoon-skin hat on his head* and two sticks grasped in his tiny hands and was trying to light a fire by rubbing them together.

  *In fact it wasn’t a hat at all, but Donald Ear-Trumpet’s actual hair combed over his head from behind one ear. His famous friend Davy Crockett didn’t realize this and copied Donald by wearing a real raccoon-skin hat.

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  ‘Lord Goth,’ said Ada’s father, raising his hat. ‘Always a pleasu
re to meet our colonial cousins.’ ‘Moravia! Get some more sticks. These ones don’t work!’ said Donald Ear-Trumpet, dropping the sticks and grasping a large brass trumpet which he put to an orange ear.

  ‘Lord who?’ he barked. ‘Your trouble is you don’t listen,’ said Moravia with a yawn. Next to them was an Essex haywain, a very wide cart with lots of room inside it. A whole crowd of people were huddled in the haywain, applying face powder that made them look even more orange than Donald Ear-Trumpet. They were all wearing gumboots. ‘All right, your lordship?’ they chorused

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  happily. ‘We’re professional cockle-warmers from Clacton.’ When they saw Ada, they all waved. ‘You’re that little Goth Girl Becky Blunt talks about,’ they said excitedly. ‘We’re her biggest customers.’ Next door to the haywain were lots of Bavarian folk wagons, rows and rows of them, each slightly different but all of them extremely cosy-looking inside. The festival-goers waved at Lord Goth as he