Clover Twig and the Magical Cottage

by Kaye Umansky

  “But I haven’t washed up.”

  “I’ll wash up.”

  “Ah, but you won’t, will you?”

  “I will. I will. But I makes a mess when I’m workin’. I can’t have you standin’ around fussin’ an’ tuttin’ an’ tryin’ to clear up after me. You go on up. And don’t worry if you hear noises in the night. I gotta brush up the protection spells, and that involves chantin’. I’ll try and keep it down.”

  “Right.”

  “Ignore any funny smells. It gets a bit whiffy.”

  “Right.”

  “Whatever you hear, don’t pay no mind. Just me, workin’.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sleep Won’t Come

  Clover stood in her tiny loft bedroom. Oh, the luxury of having it all to herself. To find it just as she had left it—all clean and tidy. Nobody had hidden her nightdress. Nobody had used her comb and left it full of tangled hair. Nobody was fighting over the pillow.

  Tired though she was, she went through the nightly ritual. Lit the candle. Combed out her hair, then braided it again. Poured out cold, clean water and washed her face. Cleaned her teeth. Put on her nighty and hung her dress on the hook. And hurried across to the window.

  Outside, there was a full moon, and the sky was splashed with stars. The tips of the distant trees made a dark silhouette, like faraway mountains. She could hear the branches of the cherry tree rustling. From somewhere not so far away came a small, high-pitched screech, then silence. She hoped Neville had nothing to do with it.

  Leaving the window ajar, for some fresh air, she drew the curtain closed, hurried shivering across the bare boards, and dived into the narrow bed. She blew out the candle, snuggled down, closed her eyes …

  … and failed to sleep.

  She lay on her back. She lay on her side. Then her other side. Then her tummy. Then her back again. She tried counting sheep but got bored after twenty. She sat up, thumped her pillow, and laid down again. She tried counting ducks going to market, frogs leaping over lily pads, and geese flying south for the winter. None of them worked.

  The trouble was, the bed was strange. The mattress didn’t mold itself to the shape of her body like the one at home. There was no one breathing beside her. No one rolling over and taking all the blanket. No one throwing out a sleepy arm and whacking her in the eye. No little Herby appearing ghostlike around the curtain, whimpering because he’d had a scary dream.

  There were strange noises, too. Creaks and groans as the timbers cooled and the old cottage settled down for the night. Little scuttlings in the walls, as the mice went about their business. Little tappings as the ivy brushed against the window pane and swishing noises from the cherry tree. Her own cottage made noises at night as well—all old buildings do—but these were unfamiliar.

  She thought about home. Pa’s snores would be rattling the rafters. Ma would be mumbling, “Stop doin’ that, you three,” in her sleep. Her sisters would be dead to the world, arms out-flung in a tangle of bedclothes. Herby would be lying in his little cot, thumb stuck in his mouth and small hands twitching.

  She missed them. Quite a lot, actually.

  Suddenly, there was a scraping noise from the window. Seconds later, a huge weight landed on her middle, driving all the air from her lungs. It felt like a ton of bricks—except that bricks don’t smell like old carpet.

  It was Neville. His huge, flat face was inches away from her own. His whiskers tickled her chin. His paws were kneading the blanket, and he was purring and dribbling, clearly back from fox patrol and ready to settle down for the night.

  “Get off, Neville,” she said, struggling to sit up. Neville hooked his claws into the pillow, determined to stay right where he was.

  “You can’t sleep here,” scolded Clover. “You’re too big and stinky.”

  She reached out in the darkness and fumbled for the matches. After a moment, she got the candle lit. On the bed, Neville was making himself at home. His yellow eyes blinked up at her, happily Firmly she pried his claws loose, then wrapped her arms around his warm body.

  “Miaaaaaaoooo,” he protested, as she swung her legs onto the floor and stood up, heaving him with her.

  “Come on. I’m taking you back downstairs.”

  Arms full of cat, Clover pattered across the floor to the trap door. Neville scrambled up onto her shoulder and draped himself around her neck, like a fur scarf.

  She lifted the trap door, carefully descended the ladder, and walked along the short, dark landing to the flight of twisty stairs leading to the kitchen. She was just about to go down when something made her hesitate.

  A raised voice was coming from below. It belonged to Mrs. Eckles, and it sounded irate.

  Clover crept down the first three stairs and poked her head around the corner.

  The kitchen door was closed. But, being an old door, it didn’t fit the frame properly and there was a gap beneath, with a thin strip of space at the top and sides. And through that gap and space poured light. Strange, acid green light that certainly wasn’t made by an oil lamp or candle. It drifted lazily in the air, coiling like smoke and glowing before slowly fading to nothing.

  Clover could make out words now. Angry words. Mrs. Eckles said, “I’m tellin’ you’re to refuse! That’s my last word on the subject.”

  “And I’m telling you I don’t have a choice in the matter. It’s the rule. It’s written in the manual. There’s no point in discussing it.”

  The strange voice was high and squeaky, like it should belong to somebody really little. Somebody with tiny little lungs and a miniature throat. Probably about the size of—what? A mouse? A mushroom? A—fairy? If it was a fairy, it was a very cross one.

  “To blazes with the rule!” roared Mrs. Eckles. “You know what she’s capable of. I don’t put nothin’ past ’er. She won’t try anything while I’m here, but when my back’s turned, that’s a different matter. Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “It’s not a question of taking sides. If I’m summoned, I have to obey orders. You know that. The manual clearly states—”

  “Forget the blasted manual! I’m sick of hearin’ you quote the manual at me! Treated you fair, ain’t I? You ain’t exactly ’ad to kill yerself with work.”

  “So? It is a part time job, you know.”

  “No time more like!”

  “Anyway,” went on the strange voice, sulkily, “anyway, it won’t come to that. She can’t get in, can she? Not if you’ve got the protection spells in place.”

  “Course they’re in place. What d’you take me for?”

  “There you are, then. And you say you’ve got a reliable girl in this time. So what’s all the fuss about?”

  “I’ve got to cover all eventualities. Spells can be broken. Girls can be—persuaded. Sometimes, not very nicely. Do you want that on yer conscience?”

  “Not my concern. I’m not breaking the rule.”

  “I’m gonna open the doors,” said Mrs. Eckles, disgustedly. “I don’t like the smell in ’ere.”

  Her footsteps approached the door.

  Quickly, Clover lifted Neville from behind her neck, set him on the stair below, and gave him a little nudge with her bare foot.

  “Go on,” she whispered. “You’re on your own.”

  And with that, she turned and fled back up the stairs, along the landing, up the ladder, and into her bedroom. She lowered the trap door and shot the bolt across.

  Shivering, she jumped into bed, blew out the candle, lay down, and pulled the covers up over her ears.

  It took her a long time to get to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Dungeon Inspection

  Here we are again, back in Castle Coldiron. The weather has not improved. Storms are blowing in from the north. Miss Fly’s cats are restless. They just slump around shedding hair, watching the clouds gather, and demanding more fish heads. Miss Fly is beside herself. Not only is her room filled with chunks of fallen ceiling plaster, frankly, it’s getting rather
stinky.

  Humperdump Chunk, on the other hand, doesn’t care about the worsening weather. He lives deep in the dark, dripping dungeons, where it’s always the same. Hot, cold, day, night, war, peace—it’s always the same in the dungeons.

  Right now, he is in the guard room. This is a fair sized room with stone walls, dimly lit by a couple of oil lamps suspended crookedly from hooks. His head is sunk in his hands, and his meaty elbows are propped on a small table, which contains an empty tin plate and a mug the size of a Yorkshire Terrier full of cold tea. It has a specially designed handle to accommodate his banana fingers.

  The chair he is sitting on is specially reinforced. It has to be, because Humperdump Chunk is big. Not only does he go a long way up, there’s a lot of sideways, too. His name really suits him. It flashed into his mother’s brain when she first set eyes on him as a baby. After she had stopped screaming. Until that moment, she had been going to call him Trevor.

  (Mrs. Chunk, by the way, is the castle cook—and a very good one. She’s had plenty of practice over the years, trying to keep up with her son’s gigantic appetite. Not that she minds. She’s proud of Humperdump, now that he’s all grown up and in charge of the the castle dungeons.)

  The guard room shows little sign of official business. It is decked out as a kind of squalid leisure room, with an old mattress, a dartboard, and a small, greasy cooker with a blackened kettle on the top. There is a toppling pile of magazines in one corner—back issues of a monthly publication entitled GOTCHA! Big pictures of handcuffs! Humperdump gets it on subscription, which is paid for by his mum.

  The only hint that this is the dungeon’s business center is the row of hooks hammered into the rough stone wall, on which are hung a number of rusty keys of varying sizes. These are mostly for show, as there is a big, gleaming master key that opens pretty much everything. Humperdump personally takes care of this key. It hangs on a ring at his belt, together with another collection of useless keys, which he keeps mainly for the jingly sound they make.

  A heavy, partially opened door reveals a glimpse of stone passage. This is where the cells are. All six of them are empty.

  Time to listen in.

  “Any o’ mum’s doughnuts left, Jimbo?” asked Humperdump. You would expect a man of his size to have a deep, hoarse, rumbling voice, but in fact it was surprisingly high and reedy.

  “No, boss. You ate ’em all.”

  This is Jimbo Squint, Humperdump’s right-hand man. He is small and wiry, with shifty little eyes. Funnily enough, Jimbo does have a deep, hoarse voice. It is as though the pair of them swapped. Right now, Jimbo is counting the spare keys on the wall and making notes on a clipboard. Humperdump and Jimbo solemnly counted the spare keys every day It was a meaningless little ritual, but it filled in time and didn’t involve heavy lifting.

  “Did I? Funny, I don’t remember.”

  “That’s the fing wiv comfort eatin’, though, ain’t it, boss? You dunno yer doin’ it. Shush, I’m countin’ the keys. One—two—three—”

  “What about the chocolate biscuits?”

  “I fink you comfort-ate them too, boss. Four—five—six—”

  “You see?” sighed Humperdump. “That’s what she’s doin’ to me. Makin’ me eat without even knowin’ I’m doin’ it.” He slumped back in his chair, folded his arms, and stared morosely at a puddle on the floor.

  “Cheer up, it’ll be time for yer second breakfast soon,” said Jimbo. “She might come to the kitchens. You might see ’er.”

  There are two ways into the dungeons. You can go by way of a long corridor leading from the courtyard, involving a lot of keys and gates. The shorter way is via the kitchens, where Humperdump is frequently to be found feasting on vast, meaty meals provided by his mum, who feeds him on demand.

  Humperdump has another reason for hanging about in the kitchens besides eating. He has his eye on Miss Fly. He loves everything about her—her hair, her nose, her shapeless cardigans, her screwed up hankies. He is forever hoping she will stop by for a bucket of fish heads for the cats, or a tray to take up to her room. Sometimes he is lucky—although she never stays long these days. Just scuttles in and scurries out again, not looking to the right or left. Certainly not looking at him, even when he flirtatiously sticks his leg out.

  To Humperdump’s great disappointment, so far Miss Fly seems totally unaware of his deep interest. He has tried all the tricks he knows—ogting, leering, waving, winking, tripping her up, and so on—but for some reason, she isn’t responding. So Humperdump is trying a new tactic. He has begun sending her love notes. So far, he has sent four. She hasn’t responded to them either, and he is getting seriously worried that she hasn’t found them.

  In fact, Miss Fly has read them all. They fill her with horror. She dislikes Humperdump intensely. Most people do, apart from his mum. Besides, all her love is for her cats.

  “You’re sure you stuck the last note under the right door?” asked Humperdump.

  “I did, boss.”

  “So why ain’t she replied?”

  “I dunno. Perhaps she’s playin’ hard to get. Maybe she ain’t had time to read it.”

  “What about the other three? She’s had time to read them.”

  “Maybe she’s a slow reader. Maybe the cats ate ’em. Thirteen—fourteen—”

  “She’s breakin’ my heart, Jimbo.”

  “I know, boss. Fifteen—sixteen—”

  “Is she doin’ it on purpose, or what?”

  “I dunno. Seventeen—eighteen—”

  “She’s the shinin’ star in me thingy. The wind beneath me whatsits.”

  “ … nineteen—twenty. That’s it. All keys present and correct. Shall I write it in the book?”

  “I don’t care,” said Humperdump, miserably. “Do what you like. Why is she doin’ this to me?”

  “Cheer up, boss,” said Jimbo. “Why don’t you go and have a little lie down on the mattress? Look at yer handcuff pictures?”

  “I can’t,” groaned Humperdump. “I can’t concentrate. I keep finkin’ of ’er. Tryin’ ter work out why she’s ignorin’ me. After all them notes.”

  “What d‘you say in ’em, boss? Them notes?”

  “I puts ‘I LUVS YOU. YORE HUMPY.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well—yeah.”

  “Ah, well, there’s your reason right there. It’s too short. You should be more flowery than that. Hearts ‘n’ flowers, that’s what ladies like. You should write ’er romantic poems.”

  “I dunno any.”

  “So make one up. It can’t be that difficult. Roses is red, gray is the sky, cow pats is greeny-brown an’ I loves Miss Fly. Somethin’ like that.”

  Humperdump’s mouth dropped open.

  “Jimbo,” he said slowly, in awed tones. “That is beautiful.”

  “Oh, I dunno about that …”

  “No, I mean it. However do you do it?”

  “Ah, it’s easy,” said Jimbo modestly, adding, “Tell you what, boss. You can use it. My poem. Pretend you made it up yerself. How about that?”

  “Really? Ah, fanks, Jimbo!” cried Humperdump, excitedly. “Give us a pencil, I’ll do it right now!”

  Just at that moment, there was the sound of a faraway door crashing shut. Then the distant sound of slapping footsteps, followed by a sneeze. Then another crash. Then more footsteps, a bit nearer now. Then another sneeze.

  “Oh my!” breathed Humperdump. “I knows the sound o’ them dainty little feet! It’s ’er, Jimbo! ’Er!”

  The approaching feet were now slapping down stone steps.

  “What shall I do?” panicked Humperdump. “‘Ow do I look? Shall I stand up? Kiss ’er ’and? Go down on me knee an’ propose? What?”

  “Relax,” advised Jimbo. “Stay in the chair. You look better sittin’.”

  “But what’ll I say?”

  “Just be yerself, boss. Use yer natural charm. It’s a bit soon to propose. Keep it light, be a bit playful. Ladies like that. Tease he
r bit, make ’er blush.”

  “Blush?”

  The footsteps were slapping along the passage way now.

  “Yeah. She’ll probably tell you yer naughty an’ slap yer arm, but she’ll like it really. And compliment her on ’er hair. Ask after the cats. Offer ‘er a drink. ’Ere she comes.”

  Miss Fly came scuttling through the door. Her hair was on end;* there were cobwebs all over her cardigan. Her allergy was getting a serious grip on her, and she could no longer say her M’s, her T’s, or her N’s.

  “Ah!” cried Miss Fly. “Dere you are, Chug. I’ve beed lookig for you.”

  “Oh ho ho,” said Humperdump, teasingly, with a heavy wink to Jimbo. “Have you now? You little rascal.”

  He waited for her to blush or playfully slap his arm. Instead, she fished in her pockets for a hanky, vigorously blew her nose, and demanded, “Why are all the doors udlocked?”

  “No point. No prisoners,” said Jimbo.

  “The dungeods are supposed to be locked at all dibes.”

  “Your hair,” said Humperdump. The flirtatious teasing hadn’t done much, so he was moving on.

  “Whad? Whad aboud id?”

  “Your hair. It’s all—wiggly.”

  Miss Fly uneasily patted her cobwebby frizz and said, “Yes. Well, I’ve beed up id the lofd. Sub of us have had a busy day.”

  “I ‘spect you been busy readin’ eh?” went on Humperdump, meaningfully.

  “Whad?”

  “You know. The notes. You been readin’ the notes.”

  “Dotes? Whad dotes? I’b sure I dode dow aboud eddy dotes,” said Miss Fly, stiffly. “I’ve beed busy dealig with the cads.”

  “I ‘spect you cuddles ’em,” said Humperdump, seeing a fresh opening. “Them cats. I ‘spect you strokes ’em. Gives ‘em hugs an kisses an’ that. Tickles their tummies.”

  “Well—yes.”

  “I wish I was a cat,” said Humperdump. For him, this was serious courtship. Much more of this and he’d be engaged. He looked over at Jimbo, who gave him a thumbs up.

  “Fancy a drink?” Humperdump went on, encouraged. “Sit down, finish my tea, I’ve only had a coupla slurps.”