by Kaye Umansky
“No thack you.” Miss Fly stared around. “Eddyway, there’s nowhere do sid.”
“Don’t you worry,” said Humperdump. He patted his tree trunk thighs and wiggled his hairy eyebrows up and down. “You can sit on my lap.”
“Cerdedly dod.” Hastily, Miss Fly backed away.
“This is dod a social call. I’b jusd here do ward you there is do be ad idspecshud.”
“Eh?” said Humperdump.
“An idspecshud. By her ladyship.”
“She means inspection, boss,” said Jimbo. “I’ll go get the broom.” And he scuttled off.
“Why didn’t you say?” cried Humperdump, heaving his vast bulk out of the chair. It took some time for his outer reaches to wobble to a halt. “I gotta change! I gotta oil the manacles, swab out the cells, scrub off the graffiti, catch up on the paperwork, clear the place up. What time’s she comin?”
Panic stricken, he stared down at his filthy clothes, licked his thumb, and rubbed at the worst of the stains.
“Now,” said a crisp voice from the doorway. “She’s coming now.”
Hastily, Humperdump wobbled to attention as Mesmeranza swept into the guardroom, high heels clicking. She was dressed all in purple. Purple gown, purple gloves, everything purple except for the new red shoes.
“Evenin’ m’lady,” croaked Humperdump. “I didn’t ‘ear you comin’.”
“Evidently. You seem quiet down here, Chunk. I gather there are no prisoners, seeing as you haven’t bothered to lock any of the doors?”
“No m’lady. Fresh outta prisoners.”
“Well I shall have to do something about that. I’m not paying you to sit about.” Mesmeranza stared around. “Why is there an old mattress in here? What’s the dartboard doing there?”
“Just dumped temporarily. I bin meanin’ to clear ’em out.”
“Why is there a filthy old cooker?”
“Jimbo makes ’imself a cuppa sometimes.”
“I suppose the mattress is his too, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Rubbish. You’ve been sleeping on the job again, haven’t you? Sleeping and playing darts and sitting around drinking tea. On my time. Don’t the pair of you ever do any work?”
“We been countin’ the spare keys. I can show you the paperwork …”
“This guardroom is a slum. Wouldn’t you agree, Fly?”
“I would,” said Miss Fly, promptly. “Id’s shockig.”
Humperdump gave his beloved a hurt little glance. Miss Fly tightened her lips and said it again. “Shockig.”
“Follow me, Chunk,” said Mesmeranza, turning on her heel. “I wish to inspect the cells. Bring a lantern.”
Humperdump seized a lantern from a hook on the wall and lumbered after her. Mesmeranza walked a few paces down the passageway, then stopped by the nearest cell. She ran a finger along the top bar. It came away filthy.
“See that?”
Humperdump looked and said nothing. Mesmeranza stalked on, peering through the bars. Humperdump followed her, casting sad little glances over his shoulder at Miss Fly, who wouldn’t meet his eye.
“When did you last change the straw?” demanded Mesmeranza.
“I dunno,” admitted Humperdump, scratching his head. “Bin a while.”
“Well, I expect better than this. I have important things to do, demands on my time. I can’t be expected to keep running down here to make sure you’re doing your job. I’ve warned you before. No more slacking. I expect my staff to pull together as a team.”
“We will,” promised Humperdump. “Me an’ Jimbo, we’ll get it sorted out, I promise.”
“This is your last warning. And now I have other matters to attend to. I wish to inspect the cake. I take it the cake is ready, Fly?”
“Yes,” said Miss Fly. “Jusd waiding for the icing to dry, Mrs. Chunk says.”
“Someone’s birfday, m’lady?” asked Humperdump, trying to be sociable.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Mesmeranza. “What do I care about birthdays? The cake is part of the Plan. The Plan to get the cottage back.”
“Oh,” said Humperdump. “Right. That.”
“Yes. That, as you say.” “Right. That.”
“Mum said you was gearin’ up to have another go.”
“Well, she was right. I am.”
“Haven’t given up, then, m’lady?”
Mesmeranza reached up and grasped his big, red, hairy ear, which she pulled down to her level. “Chunk,” she said. “I never give up.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Day of Departure
Clover and Mrs. Eckles stood at the garden gate examining the donkey cart. It was a ramshackle affair, little more than a box on wheels with an old tarpaulin draped over a flimsy frame.
The donkey was ramshackle too. His back sagged in the middle. He had a scruffy coat with bald patches, large ears, and soulful eyes. He fidgeted and munched on a thistle.
“His name’s Archibald,” said Mrs. Eckles, stroking his nose.
“Well, he’s certainly bald,” said Clover. Archibald flicked her a reproachful glance.
“Always takes me to the Fayre, don’t you, Archie? Good as gold, he is. Run and get him a carrot, Clover.”
“Must I?” sighed Clover.
She was trying to keep out of the kitchen. Wilf was in there. He had been roped in to help out, but he was proving to be more of a hindrance. It was his day off, apparently. Right now, he was in the process of tying up boxes. He kept getting the string tangled and had already cut his finger on the knife. Clover couldn’t bear watching him.
“Go on. And don’t let Wilf bring the boxful o’ remedies, he’ll drop it.”
“Right,” said Clover. And she trudged off back to the kitchen. So far, it had been a busy day.
The morning had been busy too, spent in a whirl of preparation for the trip. There was food to be cooked, for a start. Clover had chopped, sliced, baked, fried, steamed, and boiled, wrapping everything in neatly labelled little packages and packing them into an old wicker hamper. The rest of the time had been mostly spent in washing, ironing, and mending Mrs. Eckles’s “best” clothes. These consisted of an identical black frock and woolly shawl to the ones she always wore, but Mrs. Eckles had pointed out that they didn’t have so many holes. There were still quite a few, though, so Clover’s sewing box was put to good use.
Clover hadn’t mentioned the nighttime incident. The business with the squeaky voice and the strange green light. When she had arisen in the morning, she almost persuaded herself that she had dreamed it. Almost.
She had gone down expecting to find the kitchen in turmoil, but in fact, it was looking quite respectable. Mrs. Eckles had even washed up the supper dishes, as promised. The only evidence that she had been up all night working were the row of little jars and bottles lined up on the kitchen table. They had labels covered in her scrawly writing. Purple Haze—3 drops for the flux. Hairy Frogweed, for hevy swetin. Maiden’s Hope—a spuneful on retirin. Swampgherkin. Waxwort. Sloproot. Mambipamb. Clover had never heard of any of them.
“She says don’t touch the box with the jars,” said Clover, entering the kitchen.
“All right,” said Wilf. “I’ll bring the hamper.”
He stooped down to pick it up, straightened, and cracked his head yet again on the low beam. Clover picked up the carrot and walked out, quickly There was something about the regularity of it all that was beginning to get on her nerves.
“What would you like me to do while you’re gone?” she asked Mrs. Eckles. She passed over the carrot and leaned on the gate, which seemed to be either asleep or sulking.
“That’s up to you. You can knit a few lines of Neville’s blanket, if you like. I ain’t takin’ it, won’t ’ave time. Too busy rakin’ the money in.”
“But I can’t just sit and knit for three days.”
“Clean, then,” said Mrs. Eckles, feeding the carrot to Archibald. “That’s what you like doin’, ain’t it?”
<
br /> “But that won’t take long. There’s no one here to mess it up.”
“So do it yerself. Go mad. Wreck the place, then tidy it up again.”
“That’s silly,” said Clover. “I can’t mess things up on purpose. It goes against my nature.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Eckles. “Now, I can ’elp you there.”
Wincing, she bent down to the battered old carpet bag that lay at her feet. There came the clink of bottles as she rummaged around inside. Finally, she straightened. In her hand was a tiny, black, corked vial. She held it out to Clover.
“Here. Take three drops, as needed. No more, mind.”
“What is it?” Clover took the little bottle and held it up to the light.
“Changeme Serum. It’s a personality reverser. Whatever your nature is, it turns you into the opposite.”
“I see. I’m naturally tidy, but if I took this, I’d—what? Drop crumbs on the floor?”
“Ooh, a lot better than that. Go on a rampage o’ mindless vandalism is more like it. The effects is quite dramatic.”
“And the point of that is?”
“No point. Just a bit o’ fun.”
“Sounds like a waste of time,” said Clover.
“Go on, give it a go. It won’t ’urt you.”
“I’d sooner make a start on the front garden.”
“Suit yerself. But stick it in yer pocket, just in case you changes yer mind. The effects only lasts an hour. Then you goes back to normal and cleans up. You’d enjoy that part.”
“I think I’ll pass,” said Clover, dropping the little bottle into her apron pocket. “But thanks anyway.”
Wilf came staggering down the path with the hamper.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Eckles. “‘Ere ’e comes. Straight in the cart, if you please, Wilf. Stand back, Clover, give ’im room. Open, gate!”
“Opening now!” barked the gate, all keen and efficient.
Clover stood back, and it opened, allowing Wilf to lurch through. He tottered towards the cart and gave a heave. The bottom of the hamper snagged on the tailboard, jerked out of his arms and tumbled into a nearby ditch. There came the sound of a plate breaking.
“He could do with a few o’ them drops,” whispered Mrs. Eckles.
Mrs. Eckles let Clover and Wilf do most of the work loading the cart. She seemed to be taking an awful lot for three days. As well as the hamper, there was a small folding table, the cauldron, the broom, a saucepan, a teapot, cups and saucers, blankets, an oil lamp, and a tiny tent to sleep in. The only things she insisted on dealing with herself was the box of “remedies.” Clover tried to help when she saw her puffing down the path with it, but Mrs. Eckles shooed her away.
“Volatile,” she gasped. “Gotta be kept steady. Get away, I know what I’m doin’.”
Finally, it was all done. All the bags and boxes were in, and Mrs. Eckles had kissed and hugged Neville so many times that he struggled out of her arms and fled into the forest.
“I’m off,” she said, climbing stiffly into the cart.
“Don’t forget what I told you, Clover. I’ve strengthened the protection spells. You’ll be all right as long as you don’t invite no one in.”
“I know,” said Clover. “You told me. Loads of times.”
“Yes, well, it’s important. There’s a certain person that just might try ‘er luck while I’m out o’ the picture. It wouldn’t be the first time. Wilf knows what I mean. Don’t you, Wilf?”
“It was only an old woman selling tomatoes,” said Wilf. He sounded rather sheepish, Clover thought.
“So she said. I ain’t so sure.” Mrs. Eckles picked up the reins. “Anyway, you shouldn’t ‘ave let ’er in the garden … no strangers on the premises. That’s what I told you.”
“I thought the gate was supposed to weed out friends from enemies.”
“The gate’s rubbish, we all knows that. Goin’ on the scrap heap soon as I got the cash for a new one. Anyway, enough talk. Make sure you lock up the chickens properly, Clover. Don’t let Neville stay out after dark.”
“All right,” said Clover.
“Oh! If another o’ them cakes arrives by any chance, take it in. I don’t want the slugs to get at it. They come out when it’s damp. But wait ’til I get back before you eat any.”
She clicked her heels against Archibald, who instantly set off at a fast clop, keen to be off and away.
“Do come again,” called the gate, rather bitterly.
Clover and Wilf waved until she was out of sight.
“Now what?” said Wilf.
“I’m going in to straighten up,” said Clover.
“Need any help?”
“No thanks. Haven’t you got things to do?”
“Nope. It’s my morning off. Any chance of a drink?”
Clover sighed. All she seemed to do was make tea.
Chapter Fourteen
The Serum
Mrs. Eckles’s departure had caused quite a bit of mess. There were footprints all over the floor, bits of string, and dirty cups from the endless cups of tea she had consumed. Wilf sat at the kitchen table, slurping tea and tossing sugar lumps in the air, while Clover bustled around tidying.
“I do wish you wouldn’t do that,” she sighed, as the third one bounced off his nose and fell on the floor. “Mrs. Eckles has taken the broom, and it takes ages to sweep up with the little brush.”
“Just practicing,” said Wilf.
“Well, do it somewhere else. I’ve got work to do.”
“Like what?”
“I’m going to make a start on the front garden. Pull the weeds up and fish the frogs out of the well.”
Wilf stretched out his legs, sat back in his chair, and whistled tunelessly for a bit. Then he said casually, “What was that she was saying about drops?”
“Drops?”
“I heard what she said. When I dropped the hamper. She said I could do with a few drops. What drops?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What drops?”
“Not important.”
“What drops?”
Clover gave a sigh.
“If you must know, she gave me a bottle of something called Changeme Serum. It’s supposed to turn you into the opposite of what you are.”
“What—so I’d turn into a short, fat boy, with golden curls and tiny little ears?”
“No.” Clover gave a little giggle at the thought. “I don’t think it changes the way you look. Just your nature.”
“Where is it?”
“In my pocket.”
“Let’s see.”
“Why?”
“I just want to see what magic serum looks like, that’s all.”
Clover took the tiny vial from her pocket and placed it on the table. Wilf reached out his hand.
“Don’t touch it!” said Clover. “I know you. You’ll drop it.”
“Are you saying I’m clumsy?”
“Do wolves pee in the woods?”
“Hmm.” Wilf rested his arms on the table, studying the bottle. “But I guess, if this stuff really works, I’d be the opposite. What’s the opposite of clumsy?”
“Skillful? Graceful? Whatever it is you’re not.”
“How long do the effects last?”
“An hour.”
“Hmm. A whole hour of being skillful and graceful. I’d like that.” His eyes had a certain, thoughtful gleam.
At exactly the same time, they shot their hands out towards the bottle. Wilf got there first, because he was nearest.
“Aha!” he cried, snatching up the bottle, fumbling, nearly dropping it, then catching it again by accident.
“Give it back,” demanded Clover.
“No way,” said Wilf, uncorking it and sniffing.
“Oooh! It smells of anise.”
“I’m telling you, Wilf. Give it back.” Clover leapt towards him.
He held her at arms’s length, at the same time shaking out three drops onto his tongue. He swallowed. Then he re
corked the bottle, popped it in his pocket, smacked his lips, and said, “Mmmmmm.”
“What does it taste like?” asked Clover, curious despite herself.
“Anise. Yum.”
“Well, it’d serve you right if it tasted awful. You had no right to do that.”
“Just listen to you,” said Wilf. “You do go on.” He reached out his hand, selected a sugar lump, and casually flipped it into the air, opening his mouth at the same time.
His ginger eyebrows shot up in shocked surprise as it cleared his teeth and plopped neatly onto his tongue. He crunched and swallowed.
“I caught it,” he said, wonderingly. Then a huge grin enveloped his face, and he shot up an arm, punching the air in triumph. “Woo-hoo! Did you see that?”
“I did,” said Clover. “Try again.”
Excitedly, Wilf took another lump and flipped it high into the air. It hit against a rafter, deflected sideways, slid down a bunch of herbs hanging from a hook, and fell neatly onto his extended tongue.
“You see? Tricks, even! Admit it, you’re impressed.”
“Actually,” admitted Clover, “actually, I am.” She couldn’t help smiling at his pleasure.
“Got anything complicated you want doing?” Eagerly, Wilf leap to his feet. For once, he didn’t crack his head on the low beam. “Come on, come on. Any needles you want threading? Clocks mending? Quick, I need to do something that requires a steady hand!”
He began running about the kitchen looking for things to demonstrate his newfound skills.
He snatched up a clothespin and balanced it on the end of his nose. He spotted Neville’s ball and dribbled it around the kitchen, still balancing the clothespin. He grabbed two eggs out of the egg basket and began juggling them.
“See this? See? I’m an egg juggler!”
“Don’t,” said Clover, nervously. “Just calm down, why don’t you?”
But her eyes opened wide when he added a third. Then a fourth. Then a fifth. Then, unbelievably, a sixth! The air was full of flying eggs.
Clover put her hands over her face.
When she removed them, all the eggs were safely back in the basket. Much to her alarm, Wilf was now brandishing a large kitchen knife in one hand and an apple in the other.
