Clover Twig and the Magical Cottage

by Kaye Umansky

  “Mrs. Chunk has outdone herself,” said Mesmeranza. “The cake is magnificent. At least one person does their job properly in this castle. I take it that’s the Poncho?” She pointed to the empty space between the Umbrella and the cake.

  “Yes,” said Miss Fly. “Id is.”

  Mesmeranza wiggled her fingers in the space. “Where?”

  “Oh doh! Id was here a biddid ago. Id musd have slibbed dowd.” (Oh no! It was here a minute ago. It must have slipped down.)

  Miss Fly scuttled forward and began batting at thin air. Then she bent down and peered under the table.

  “Hurry up,” said Mesmeranza.

  “I’b lookig. Id’s by doze, I cad breed.” (I’m looking. It’s my nose, I can’t breathe.)

  Face flushed, gasping for breath, Miss Fly staggered upright and clutched at the table.

  “I’ve god all dizzy. I cad bed doud.” (I’ve gone all dizzy. I can’t bend down.)

  “So? Don’t expect me to look. You lost it. Stick your foot out, it can’t have gone far.”

  Miss Fly stuck out a tentative foot and waved it about. Suddenly, the tip of her hairy brown shoe vanished, as though cut off.

  “Ah. Here id is.”

  “I suppose I should try it on, just to be sure. Put it on the table, turn around, and don’t look until I tell you.”

  Obediently, Miss Fly did as she was told. There was a short pause. Then …

  “All right, you can look now. Tell me what you see.”

  Miss Fly turned round. She was staring at empty space. Apart from a pair of feet, that is. A pair of solid feet wearing the red heeled shoes.

  “I cad see your feed,” said Miss Fly. “Id’s a bid shord.” (I can see your feet. It’s a bit short.)

  “Really? That’s a nuisance. Of course, I am taller than Grandmother. I’ll try bending at the knees. How’s that?”

  “I cad still see theb. Try pullig id dowd bore.” (I can still see them. Try pulling it down more.)

  “It won’t pull down more, not with the hood up. If I put that down, you’ll see my head, won’t you?”

  “You could wear flad shoes,” suggested Miss Fly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mesmeranza, coldly. “I’ve already explained about these shoes, Fly. They are new and wonderful and I intend to wear them, even with a poncho. Especially with a poncho. I must retain some semblance of glamor. Oh, the beastly thing’s so scratchy, I must take it off.”

  Miss Fly watched in fascination as, with a rippling effect, an expanse of red robe materialized up as far as the waist. Mesmeranza’s top half was still nonexistent. Then, slowly, the rest of her body appeared. There came the sound of muffled cursing. Her arms—rather unnervingly lacking hands—waved around at shoulder level, clearly struggling to tug the invisible garment over her head.

  Finally, the head appeared, with the hair in some disarray.

  Mesmeranza dumped the Poncho on the table, and her hands reappeared. “What time is it?”

  “Sewud o‘clog,” said Miss Fly, adding, pointedly, “the cad’s subber tibe.” (Seven o’clock. The cats’ supper time.)

  “The cats can wait. I haven’t finished with you yet. There are things I need you to do.”

  “There are?” moaned Miss Fly.

  “Yes. This is the Big Night, Fly, I do wish you would enter more into the spirit of things. Go down to the stables and tell the groom to prepare Booboo. He’ll need his Vanishing Saddle. Total invisibility for both of us is essential for the first part of the venture. The Umbrella can go in the saddle bag, and I’ll keep the Hypnospecs in the Poncho pocket. I’ll have to hold the cake on my lap and shield it as well as I can with the sleeves. And I’ll wear this around my neck, on a string.”

  Mesmeranza picked up the black stick, gave it a little shake, and held it to her ear.

  “Grandmother’s Wand,” she mused. “They don’t make them like this any more. Plenty of charge left. I can hear it humming. It’s almost as though it’s alive. All ready and waiting to unleash a mighty blast of power on the next unfortunate victim. What are you hanging about for, Fly? Go and tell Mrs. Chunk to bring supper. I shall eat now, before I ride out.”

  “Alride. Anythig else?”

  “Yes,” said Mesmeranza. “Blow your nose.”

  The moment the door closed, Mesmeranza set the Wand back on the table. She picked up a chair, moved it directly in front of the cake, and sat down. She opened her jewelled purse and took out a small hand mirror and a pair of silver tweezers. She brought the mirror close to her face.

  “Ooh!” squealed the mirror. “How lovely you look tonight!”

  “Shut up,” snapped Mesmeranza. “I need to concentrate.”

  The hand mirror lapsed into silence. Very carefully, without blinking once, she tweezed out a single eyelash.

  She stretched out a hand and plucked the cherry from the cake. Holding the eyelash between finger and thumb, she placed it in the dent left in the snowy expanse of icing. Then she replaced the cherry on top.

  “There,” she breathed, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “That should do the trick.”

  Down in the castle kitchen, Humperdump Chunk sat slumped at the table, his head once again in his hands.

  “I don’t fink she loves me, Mum,” he groaned.

  “There, there,” said his mother soothingly. “Course she does, Humpy. Fine figure of a man like you.”

  “But she never stuck up for me in front of ’er ladyship. She made fings worse. It’s like she wanted me to get in trouble.”

  Mrs. Chunk placed a huge, steaming plate before her love-struck boy.

  “There, son. Get that down you. Roast turkey with all the trimmings. Your favorite.”

  Humperdump picked up a fork and dug in.

  “Didn’t even reply to me love notes,” he sniffed, through a mouthful of roast potato.

  “I’m sure there’s a reason, Humpy. She’s probably a bit shy, that’s all.”

  “That’s what Jimbo said,” said Humperdump.

  “You see? Give it another try, son. She’ll come round.”

  “You’re right,” said Humperdump. “Soon as I’ve cleaned out the dungeon, I’ll write ‘er another one. Give ’er one more chance. Jimbo said he’d help. Any more gravy?”

  “Loads. And now I’m going to make you some pancakes.”

  “With clotted cream and treacle?”

  “And jam,” promised Mrs. Chunk. “I don’t like seein’ you so down, Humpy You need feeding up.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  A Strange Tale

  Night was falling in the forest, and Wilf was also making pancakes.

  Pancakes were a big treat for Wilf and Grampy. It wasn’t often that they managed to get hold of the basic ingredients. But tonight, they had. Well, Wilf had. The hens had both laid an egg a record six days in a row, and instead of eating his, he had secretly been saving them. There was a bit of flour in the cupboard—not much, but enough. And there was a tiny knob of butter.

  Of course, after the excitement of the day, making pancakes wasn’t quite as thrilling as usual, but Grampy would be surprised, at any rate.

  After leaving the cottage—(the flying cottage!)—Wilf had made a detour to Tingly Bottom to pick up his weekly three pence from Old Trowzer. He blew half of it on a twist of sugar, a lemon, and a jug of milk, none of which he got at a discount, despite being an employee. He had somehow managed to get everything home without mishap, despite the fact that his miraculous new skills had deserted him.

  Cooking was always a hazardous occupation for Wilf, and tonight was no exception. He was finding it hard to concentrate. So far, he had dropped the frying pan on his foot, broken one of the precious eggs on the floor, spilled flour on his clothes, rubbed the skin off his hand when using the lemon grater, and briefly set fire to his trousers.

  Back to the old routine, he thought, patting his smoking rear, sucking his skinned hand, and sadly staring around at the carnage. It was really horrible to go back to
being his old clumsy self again, after that wonderful, fun filled hour spent under the influence of the Changeme Serum.

  Still. He had made the batter. It was rather lumpy, and not quite as much as he had hoped after the accidents with the egg and the flour, but there was enough for two pancakes each.

  He stood over the frying pan, watching the butter melt. The candles were lit, two clean(ish) plates were laid on the table. Now all he needed was Grampy. The firebox was nearly empty, which meant he was probably out gathering wood. He would be pleased to find everything ready to go. Well, perhaps not exactly pleased, because showing pleasure wasn’t something Grampy did. But, hopefully, he’d be less grumpy.

  The shack was a very basic affair. It consisted of one room in which Wilf and Grampy sat, slept, cooked, and ate. Neither of them did much housework, because neither of them cared much about that sort of thing. The few sticks of furniture were falling apart, but they had learned to live with that. They just avoided sitting on the worst of the collapsing chairs and remembered not to lean on the wobbly table, which sent your supper scooting into your lap if you weren’t careful.

  The door opened, and Grampy walked in. He was tiny and shrivelled, with a bald head and big, flapping ears. He wore a grubby collarless shirt, and his trousers were held up with string. His mouth was collapsed inwards, because as usual, he hadn’t bothered to put his teeth in. There was no sign of any firewood.

  Wilf waited for the usual greeting. It could be one of several. Either “Blimmin’ parky out there!” or “What’s that muck yer cookin’?” or “What’s that smell? You set fire to sumthin’ again?”

  Tonight, none of them were forthcoming. Grampy looked—unsettled, somehow. A bit pale. Not quite himself.

  “All right, Grampy?” asked Wilf. He waited for the response. Typically, this would be, “Nah, blimmin’ freezin’. What you let the fire go down for?”

  But it didn’t happen. In silence, Grampy sank into his old easy chair.

  “Not much kindling around? Never mind. I’m making pancakes. That’ll cheer you up.” Wilf picked up the ladle and turned to the bowl of lumpy batter. “I’ll do yours first. I think you’d better toss it, or it’ll end up stuck on …”

  “Wilf,” interrupted Grampy. “I know I’m gettin’ on in years, but tell me the truth, lad. I ain’t goin’ bonkers, am I?”

  “No. No, of course not, Grampy. Why?”

  “It’s just that—well, I think I might be seein’ things. Hearin’ things. Things what ain’t there.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like …” Grampy hesitated, then came out with it. “Like … a phantom ’orse.”

  “A phantom horse?”

  “Aye.”

  “I haven’t seen any of those around lately,” said Wilf, carefully. He put down the ladle and moved the frying pan away from the flame. “Um—what makes you think you did?”

  “Well,” said Grampy, slowly. “I was out gatherin’ wood, close by old Mother Eckles’s cottage. She don’t like me doin’ it, but I reckoned I was safe with her bein’ away at the Fayre. That’s what you told me, although I noticed there was a light in the window, so somebody must be ’ome.”

  “Clover,” said Wilf.

  “Who?”

  “Clover Twig. She’s looking after the cottage.”

  “What, Jason Twig’s eldest? The sensible one?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Good choice. Well, anyway. I gets a good armful an’ I starts comin’ back along the track, and all of a sudden I ’ears ’orses ’ooves. A big blighter, it sounds like, and it’s comin’ towards me at a fast lick. All the little stones is jumpin’ about on the path. Then it passes by, close as you are to me. So close, I can ’ear it snortin’. Big, ’ot, ’orsey breaths they was. But …” Grampy cleared his throat. “No ’orse.”

  “What?”

  “You ‘eard. I can ’ear it, I can feel its breath, but I can’t see it. It carries on past me down the track a bit. Then it slows down, right? And I ‘ears what sounds like someone dismountin’. But there still ain’t nothin’ there.”

  “Probably your ears playing tricks,” said Wilf. “When the wind’s in the wrong direction, you can often hear things that sound close, but really …”

  “That ain’t all,” said Grampy. “Know what I ‘ears next? The sound of a hand slappin’ the ‘orse’s rump. And know what I sees then? I sees the branches of the trees movin’, first low down then higher up. Like there’s somethin’ big risin’ from the ground and—kinda pushin’ ’em apart, passin’ through ’em. Terrible smashin’ noises, twigs an’ leaves rainin’ down.”

  “Well, like I say, the wind often …”

  “Nothin’ to do with the wind.” Grampy waved him quiet with an irritable hand. “It were the ’orse that weren’t there. It were takin’ off into the air. That’s what I saw an’ that’s what I ‘eard. I ain’t makin’ this up. And there’s more.”

  “There is?”

  “Aye. The ’orse that ain’t there’s gone, right?”

  “How d’you know it’s gone? It might have been parked right above your head. You’d never know, unless it did a dirty great big invisible p …”

  “Are you gonna carry on bein’ clever, because if you are …”

  “No, no, sorry, sorry. Go on. Then what?”

  “The ‘orse is gone. Everythin’s quiet again. And then—then I sees sumthin’ else.”

  “What?”

  “Shoes,” said Grampy “A pair o’ red shoes. Shoes with feet in ’em. Walkin’ off down the path, back towards Mother Eckles’s place. All by themselves. Daft, red, strappy things with heels. And you know what? You won’t believe me, but floatin’ above the feet is a cake. A blimmin’ great fancy iced cake with … Wilf? What the … ? Wilf!”

  He was too late. Wilf was gone.

  “Neville?” called Clover. “Come on, Neville, where are you?”

  She stood at the kitchen door with the biscuit tin, peering out into the moonlit garden. The stars were out, and there was no sign of any clouds. The chickens were safely in the coop making comfortable little clucking noises. Now all she had to do was get Neville in and she could bar the door and settle down for the night. Make a last hot drink, maybe knit a line or two of the green blanket, and retire to bed.

  “Neville? Hurry up!” Impatiently, she rattled the tin.

  No sign.

  Clover was undecided. Mrs. Eckles had been very clear about making sure Neville was in after dark. Should she go and look for him? It was a fine night, but somehow, she didn’t want to step out into the still, silent garden.

  A small breeze blew up, sending the cherry blossom whirling like dark snow. Clover gave a little shiver.

  “Neville!” she shouted. “You have to come in right now!”

  To her great relief, there was a rustle down by the bench and a familiar shape came strolling across the lawn, pausing every so often to spit out feathers.

  “There you are! I’ve been calling for ages!” scolded Clover. “Come on, then, let’s go in. I want to get the door bolted.”

  Things felt much better inside. Clover stared with pride around the cozy kitchen. Everything was neat and tidy, just as she liked it. The curtains were drawn, the fire flickered, the lamps glowed. The private cupboard was firmly padlocked and it felt—safe. Neville twined in and out of her legs, making it clear that the bird was just a snack and he was more than ready for the hard stuff.

  She gave him a bowl of milk and a handful of biscuits, which he disposed of in double-quick time. Stifling a yawn, she poured the last of the milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove, then flopped tiredly into Mrs. Eckles’s rocking chair. It had been another long day.

  Neville thumped up onto her lap.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it? On our own,” said Clover, stroking his matted fur as she waited for the milk to heat. “It’s even funnier for me, because I’m used to being with lots of people. But we’re all right, aren’t we? The night’ll soon be
over. Tomorrow I’m going to carry on with the front garden. I’ll have to pop in to Tingly Bottom, because we’re out of milk. Or ask Wilf to deliver some.”

  The fire suddenly sparked, making her jump. The clock ticked. Neville purred and drooled. His eyes were lazy slits.

  “We’re all right,” said Clover, again. “Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all …”

  There came a noise from outside. A footstep.

  Neville froze. His purring stopped, and every bit of him went absolutely rigid. His eyes, now huge, yellow circles, were fixed on the door.

  Clover’s heart skipped a beat. Her mouth went very dry. She could hear faint rustling noises and an odd little scraping sound outside.

  “Who’s there?” she called, sharply. “Is that you, Wilf?”

  There was a pause. And then—then came three little knocks on the door. Timid little knocks, with a pause between them. They sounded—shy. Polite. Humble.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  She stood up, spilling Neville from her lap. He growled, deep in his throat, slowly backed away, then turned and fled up the stairs.

  Clover walked to the stove and turned off the milk. Then she went to the kitchen window. Taking a deep breath, she took hold of the curtain, wrenched it open, pressed her nose to the glass, and peered out into the garden.

  All was still. No movement, except for a few silvery blossoms drifting down from the cherry tree. Nobody stood on the doorstep.

  There was something else, though.

  A cake. A magnificent cake covered in white sugar icing with a large, red cherry in the middle, tied with a red ribbon and spectacularly lit by the moon.

  Clover went weak with relief.

  “It’s just another cake, Neville,” she called. “Come on down, you scaredy cat.”

  But wherever Neville was, he was apparently happy to stay there.

  Clover stood at the window, debating what to do. She didn’t particularly want to undo all the bolts again, now that the cottage was all safely tucked in for the night. But it was such a beautiful cake. Supposing the squirrels got at it, or the slugs? She really ought to bring it in and put it in the pantry.