by Heide Goody
“There’s a library here,” Ella said to the teapot.
“Course there is,” said the teapot as it rummaged through a box looking for undamaged crockery to assault.
“Can you take me there?” she asked.
“Not the dungeon?” said the teapot.
“What is it with you and the dungeon?”
“I’m just saying…”
“Maybe later.”
“Right-o. Library, a fortifying cuppa tea to keep us goin’ then the dungeon.”
The library turned out to be another celebration of antiques. Ella scanned the books on the shelves, and nearly everything appeared to be at least a hundred years old. The reference books in the workroom must be Gavin’s own. The library contained accounts of battles, catalogues of flowers, books of household management and animal husbandry.
She looked at her father’s notes and went quickly to the shelf that related to the Makepeace Alexander book. The system was a good one, and it took her only moments to establish that the book wasn’t there. In fact there was a line in the dust that indicated it had been removed. Ella sighed in resignation.
“Aw, someone sounds like they’re in need of a lovely cuppa!” said the tea pot. “Am I right?”
“I was hoping to find a book.”
“Is it a book about tea?”
“No. It’s about Solomon. King Solomon, I supposed. It’s something my mum mentioned. And OCD too, actually. Something to do with a jar.”
“Jar!” spat the teapot venomously. “Teapot wannabee you mean!”
Solomon Re-examined might have been missing but there were a number of volumes on fairies and fairy tales in the library. There were first editions of Lang’s Red, Blue and Green Fairy Books, an incredibly old binding of the works of the Brothers Grimm and a nice imprint of WB Yeats’ Irish Fairy and Folk Tales among others.
“A bit of bedtime reading,” said Ella, gathering them into a pile.
“It’s not bedtime yet,” said the teapot. “It’s off to the dungeon.”
“Really?”
“After a nice cuppa tea!”
The teapot really did make excellent tea.
After a refreshing brew, Ella followed the hyperactive teapot down a staircase towards the dungeons. The very bottom of the staircase was bare stone, decorated in the traditional shades of sludge green and grey. It was extremely chilly. The dungeon smelled of mildew and was bare except for a set of four cells, which were all locked. Ella peered into them and failed to see anything. There was nothing down here.
“Everyone wants to see the dungeons, huh,” she said.
“Wanta look inside one of the cells?” said the teapot.
“Is there anything to see?” said Ella.
“There’s a table in that one.”
Ella wobbled and gripped the wall for support.
“A table?” she said sarcastically. “I might just wet myself with excitement.”
“It’s a nice table,” said the teapot. “Keys’re on the rack up there.”
There was indeed a rack on the wall at the bottom of the stairs which held large iron keys. She fetched the keys and tried each one in turn. Moments later she had the door open. She took the key out of the lock (she wasn’t taking any chances) and stepped inside.
The short table was short, made of polished walnut with a veneer inlay and probably not worth a great deal. There was a narrow crescent window in the cell wall. Ella stood on tiptoes and looked out. She could see only sky.
The teapot burbled happily behind her. Something grasped her leg and she cried out with shock. She looked down and was startled to see that the small table was humping her leg like a randy beagle.
“Not one of your better ideas, Oscar mate,” yelled the teapot, smacking the table with its tripod leg. “Soz about that, he’s excited to be free, see.”
The table released her leg and ran out of the cell door. It failed to stop in time and slammed into the opposite wall, gave a yelp and then scuttled around the corner out of sight.
“Friend of yours?” said Ella.
“Partner in crime,” said the teapot. “We’re like Batman and wossisname.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I’m ‘elping ‘im in ‘is personal quest for justice.” There was a clattering sound from the stairs. “And ‘es really good at breaking stuff.”
The teapot gave an excited whoop and scuttled off after his table friend. Ella followed the sound of things breaking.
At one o’clock sharp, Cheeky was at the study door with a plate of sandwiches for Ella.
Ella put her finger on the page she was reading.
“Hey — Ernst, isn’t it? — did you know that the fairies of European folklore are pretty much the same as the djinn in Arabian tales? Wish-granters who are controlled or who control others with words.”
“Is that so, miss?”
“They’re not part of this world but they’re not one of God’s creatures. They’re just… other, part of a secondary world.”
“Fascinating, miss. Mr Dainty would like you to join him for dinner this evening.”
“Oh, okay.”
“And he has provided some alternative clothing, which you will find in your room.”
“Ah.”
Ella was pleasantly surprised to discover that the clothes Mr Dainty had provided for her were of a style and fit she would have gladly chosen herself, albeit of a much higher quality. It was as though he had instructed his stealthy serving staff to neatly ransack her bag of clothes and made purchases accordingly. It was creepy, chauvinistic, domineering and controlling but it was nice nonetheless to climb into trousers and a jumper.
When Cheeky returned to take her to dinner, he led her to a different dining room, with a much more reasonably sized table. In the corner a record player played mournful string quartet music, its tones gliding up and down as though the record player couldn’t decide what speed it should be played it.
Mr Dainty beamed at Ella as she entered.
“How delightful to see you. The clothes are pleasing to you, yes?”
“They’re very nice, thank you.”
“And your accommodation is most splendid, yes?”
“Very nice too,” she said. “Actually, I wonder if I could make use of a telephone.”
“A telephone?”
“Just to call my dad and let him know how well you are treating me. He is getting married in five days and I’m sure he’d like to hear from me.”
Mr Dainty stroked his chin.
“Sadly, there are no telephones in the house. It is a very old building. And I am most afraid that there is no signal for cell phones out here.”
“That is a shame,” said Ella, displeased.
Mr Dainty indicated for Ella to sit.
“But I tell you what. I will ask one of my men to make a call to your father when they are next in town. They will pass on any messages you have.”
Ella sat. Mr Dainty poured a glass of wine for her.
“This is an excellent red, from a vineyard that I own. I am an expert in all matters of food and drink. Try the gritnicu.”
Ella politely picked at the starter in front of her. Spirals of something pink and rubbery sat on a bed of dark leaves. She tried one of the spirals and chewed it with increasing thoughtfulness.
“Pickled fat?” she asked.
Mr Dainty nodded encouragingly. “From the ram’s belly. Food is something that is taken very seriously in my home country. How would you like to taste a dish that has been famous in my family for at least twelve generations, hmmm?”
“Yes, that sounds very nice,” said Ella.
“Hah! Very nice!” yelled Mr Dainty, thumping the table. “Very nice. The English gift for understatement. How I would love to hear you say that something is fucking glorious. You have the words in your language, but you are afraid to use them, yes?”
Ella gazed at him steadily. “We have plenty of words, it’s true. It means that everyone can choose the ones th
at they like the best.”
Mr Dainty thumped the table again. Ella noticed that no tableware was placed anywhere near his thumping hand.
“I love this girl! She knows her own mind. Let’s get married, what do you say?”
Ella laughed, and then stopped as Mr Dainty’s face registered no amusement.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t marry you,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked. “I’m great catch. I am rich and extremely cultured. You only have to see how many antiques I have, yes? You will want for nothing. Give me one good reason why you shouldn’t marry me.”
“I’m already engaged to another man,” said Ella, in a desperate attempt to close the conversation down.
“Hah! I know this to be a lie,” roared Mr Dainty. “You think I entertain house guests without knowing all about them? I know you are good friends with some guy who owns a garden centre, but seriously? He is not the man for you. Now, I have made my offer, and it simply remains to convince you that it is in your best interest. I will do this, believe me. I am man of passion. I know love.”
He stood and crossed to the record player.
“This music,” he said of the meanderingly dour string quartet. “My man, Ernst, is playing the violin. And my chauffeur, Plev, is playing the cello.”
“Is that so?”
“They were members of the People’s Committee’s National Orchestra. I saved them from the noose, yes, when the generals sent their tanks into the capital. We escaped through the sewers, myself, two men and two sheep.”
“Sheep?” said Ella.
“My people revere the sheep. I love the sheep. The descendants of those two rescued sheep live now in my barn. They are queens among sheep and we are honoured to eat them on special occasions.” He clicked his fingers and servants cleared the starters away. “You will try the schleppie and you too will love sheep as I do. Sheep-angels are so popular that an animated cartoon Ovcá was made in the nineteen eighties. It remains one of my country’s most famous exports.”
He lifted the needle on the record player and reverently placed another vinyl long player on the turntable. The record crackled and then, a reedy voice sang. Mr Dainty joined in, softly.
“Dashuria ljubav, onaj me crvenim obrazima kuqe rukama punih plot.” He quickly translated. “My love, the one with the red cheeks and hands full of yarn. I will take you to my barn and marry you. But your hands are so cold. Një ću pranje gjatë ovce, bërë dati pitati, atit za ovce do ćemo. Too long you have been doing your father’s washing. I will ask dear Ovcá, sheep of my heart, to give his wool to me.”
There was a tear now in Mr Dainty’s eye and a catch in his voice as he translated.
“We will weave gloves of love with his yarn. Oh, Ovcá, Ovcá. Your wool warms my love’s hands and my heart. Vjenčanja ruke Ovcá. Mi dashurisë. We will feast on your eyes at our wedding banquet. Ovcá, we love you.”
There was a tearful sniff behind her and Ella turned to see Eyepatch and Hook dabbing at their eyes.
Cheeky came in with their dinners and placed them before the two diners with the solemnity of a priest at communion.
“Eat your schleppie,” Mr Dainty told her. “Cherish the meat our sheep-angels have given us. Feel, in the marriage of potato and onion, the greatness of a country now lost. Taste the passion and know that I am capable of great acts of love.”
Ella stuck her fork in the potato topping.
“This is shepherd’s pie, isn’t it?” she said.
Ella went back to her room after Mr Dainty had made multiple promises to woo her in a way that would show her why English men were second rate lovers. As she walked along corridors, she again heard the distant sound of destruction and wondered if Mr Dainty would be quite so keen if he knew she had unleashed a very naughty table from his dungeon. Back in her room, she considered the situation and wedged the velvet chair under the door handle to keep the disruption at arm’s length while she slept. As an afterthought, she unwedged the door, carried the rococo mantel clock outside to the corridor and went back inside to renew her barricade.
She woke in the morning to the clock chiming next to her head, and the chirpy tones of the teapot.
“Rise and shine! Time for a nice cuppa!”
There was the rumble of an engine outside, as of a lorry. Ella opened her window and leaned out slightly so that she could see the courtyard at the landward side of the house. There was indeed a huge lorry there, and a man closing the rear door, having just unloaded a great many tables onto the ground.
“Wait!” called Ella.
She ran from the room, sprinted down the corridors and took the stairs two at a time, crashing through the door just in time to see the rear end of the truck disappearing through the courtyard gate.
“Now that’s annoying.”
She turned to the furniture that crowded the courtyard. There were mostly tables and chairs, smaller pieces piled on top of large ones. Sideboards and troughs for plants were in the minority, but were some of the most eye-wateringly horrible things that Ella had ever laid eyes on, all cracked vinyl, peeling laminate and rusty iron. A couple of aged tea trolleys completed the picture.
“These aren’t antiques,” said Ella. “I can’t imagine Mr Dainty wanting stuff like this.”
The teapot was close behind.
“Right, let’s ‘ave a bit of order! Oscar! These are your people.”
Oscar the table bounded forward and moved amongst the newly arrived furniture. Ella couldn’t hear any noise, but had the feeling that Oscar was murmuring small comments, and somehow appraising his new recruits. Moments later, there was movement. Hard to spot at first, but not only was the furniture starting to move, but it was organising itself. It moved position according to Oscar’s instruction. Some of the pieces were immediately light on their feet, while others were a little bit slower to come to terms with their new abilities. One of the tea trolleys had a squeaky wheel that made a piercing eep-eep as it wove through the crowd.
“Has he just taught all this furniture how to move?” whispered Ella.
“Nah, it already knew, deep down. He just reminded it. He’s telling it how to move. Lining it all up.”
Sure enough, there were now orderly ranks of furniture, arranged by size. A nudge from Oscar and the small pieces at the front started to make their way up the steps into the castle, followed by the rest.
“What’s going on?” Ella asked the teapot.
“I told you, treacle. Oscar’s ‘elping me weed out the competition. An’ I’m ‘elpin’ in ‘is quest for vengeance.”
“By…?”
“Recruitin’ a table army so ‘e can get revenge on the one who killed ‘is parents.”
“Parents? How can a table have parents?”
But the teapot had vanished.
“Ella, good morning!” called Mr Dainty, across the courtyard. “Did I hear you talking to someone?”
“No, just myself,” said Ella.
“I have been hearing many unusual noises,” said Mr Dainty, “some of them sounded somewhat like breakages of vases and urns and wotnot. I like that word, ‘wotnot’. Very English. I trust that you haven’t damaged any of my precious possessions?”
“No,” said Ella truthfully. “I’ve been very careful.”
“That is good, very good. Feel free to put my vases to use, should you find yourself in possession of any flowers.”
“Thank you,” said Ella.
“But what are you doing out here? Exploring?”
“A little,” she said.
“Perhaps, you thought to see my queens.”
“Your…? Oh, the sheep.”
Mr Dainty nodded deeply. “I piqued your interest, yes. Tell me, Ella, do you ride?”
“Sheep? No.”
He bellowed with laughter.
“You are funny as well as clever, Ella. Rare qualities in a woman. Come with me.”
A low door in the side of the courtyard led through narrow corridors that must h
ave once been part of servants’ quarters and out into a stable yard where tall, silky-coated horses looked at them over stable doors. A servant with ragged scars across his hairline paused in the sweeping of dung and straw and nodded servilely at Mr Dainty. Ella noted the pistol holstered beneath his tweed jacket. The place was like a retirement home for battle worn villains.
“Where are my queens, Uric?” asked Mr Dainty.
“In the upper field,” Scarhead replied.
“Good.” He looked at Ella. “Then we ride.”
Ella had ridden before but that had only been a weekend’s pony trekking in the Brecon Beacons. Controlling one of Mr Dainty’s mares required more strength and skill than Ella had ever utilised before. She soon gave up on exerting her will over the beast and just settled for staying in the saddle and letting it follow Mr Dainty’s even bigger mount.
They rode out along the coastline, up to where the wind-blasted fields of grass and gorse rose to a high promontory. Mr Dainty halted his horse at the prow of the promontory and, to Ella’s relief, her horse stopped too.
Mr Dainty sat high in his saddle and made a great show of taking deep breaths of the sea air.
“It is good, isn’t it?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” Ella agreed.
“A man could be a good man in a place like this.” He pointed into the fold of the land ahead. “See. See there.”
Ella squinted and saw a dark thin man-blob and a dozen fluffy white sheep-blobs.
“They are perhaps the only good things in my life,” said Mr Dainty. “White. Pure. Like the skin of children.”
Ella’s eyes were drawn to movement even further away among distant bushes. She couldn’t be certain at all but an eerily insistent part of her brain told her that the object slipping furtively from gorse bush to gorse bush was a long grey wolf-blob.
