Portrait of a Skunky Lady 2 - The Door

Chapter the Second

In which we lose a friend, eat a cake, and find a damp Earl.

Dr. Ewan was contrite about the chaos his compass manipulations had caused. Miss Magic had fallen into a room, possibly many miles deep, and the door had closed behind her. In one fell swoop we had lost our friend, my access to the fairy gods, the expedition’s navigator and our only map. We desperately needed a plot device, but nobody had thought to bring one. We sat down to consider our next move. What would Little Red Riding Hood have done, I wondered? I had always admired her uncompromising attitude to wolves masquerading as grandmothers, but she’d been dining out on the story for the past thirty-seven years and I wondered if her range of experience might not be a little limited.

Dr. Ewan suggested we knock at the door, but that seemed like an open invitation to whatever might be inside to come out. I wondered if my immense fortune could save us, but as I already owned the house and everything in it, there was nothing left to buy. Footsie suggested we should use our feet in some manner. Perhaps we should learn kickboxing? It couldn’t take more than a couple of years to become proficient at it. But nobody had thought to bring a kickboxing instructor. Shamrock said he’d heard of people on expeditions roping themselves together, although he had no idea why. He had a few feet of gardening twine, enough to tie our fingers together, if it would help. I borrowed Shamrock’s twine and amused myself with a game of cat’s cradle, despite Footsie’s dirty looks.

While we were considering our options, Tony baked us a wonderful cake from all the fish he had collected. “It’s all very well for you,” he grumbled, “all you have to do is say a thing and it’s true. I had to work out how to do it. If you make a fish cake, then remove all the fish to leave just the … well, it’s a complicated process, that’s all I’m saying. Not every chef could do it. Just don’t say I made you a jelly and ice cream, that’s all.” I opened my mouth to speak and Tony plugged it with a fish. It tasted of chocolate and I wondered how he’d done it. So did he. I had only been about to mention that Mrs. Beeton had made a fortune from her recipe for marmalade pizza with dumplings and that Tony’s cake might one day make a similar contribution to the obesity of the lower orders.

As we finished the cake, and I posted the crumbs into the play station in case Catbag was hungry, we heard the distant sound of a galloping horse. Could this be the narrative device we had been hoping for? What form would it take? Dr. Ewan suggested equestrian space bats, a technique very popular in the ancient world. Shamrock thought it would be a case of horticultural realism, maybe a beanstalk or somesuch. Footsie predicted an unreliable chiropodist, while I, dear reader, took the opportunity to break the fourth wall, which was only made of paper, to ask you what you think of the story so far. Should there be more dwarves, for instance? Miss White’s stories always have a lot of dwarves, although Nanny Macjoyce says her obsession with the nasty little vermin involves things a girl of my age couldn’t possibly understand. Bother, I’ll have to go now, the horseman has just arrived.

The rider dismounted. “Whew, I’m glad that’s over,” he said. “Have you any idea how hard it is to gallop down these corridors without knocking your brains out on the ceiling? I’d like to meet the person who invented chandeliers right now, let me tell you, and ever since I turned the last corner I’ve had my head in a river. Thought I’d drown before I got here. Ah well. Gadzooks, and all that. Sorry, I’m not very good at olden-days talk. Anyone here know the whereabouts of a Miss Skunk?”

I thought he was rather hogging the dialogue for such a new character, but since he was young, handsome and almost certainly a prince, I admitted to being Miss Skunk and waited for his marriage proposal, which I felt was bound to follow. Instead he handed me a letter. “It’s from your brother,” he explained. “I said I’d deliver it since I was on my way to visit my aged relatives in this part of the world. I’m Chuck, Earl of Woww, by the way. Your brother might have crayoned about me in his letters. I say, any of that cake left, by any chance? I haven’t eaten anything since a wandering minstrel shared his shreds and tatters with me yesterday morning.”

The newcomer extended his hand and I put the remains of my chocolate fish in it. He looked a little surprised, but ate it hungrily. Dr. Ewan had by now mentally processed the speech, decided that none of the questions required an answer and, since he was the only one of us who had met my brother, stood up and put out his own hand in greeting. Chuck shook it enthusiastically, until he realised he had just covered his host in chocolate, whereupon he hastily snatched his own hand back, making several paragraphs of confused apologies. Dr. Ewan eventually persuaded him to sit down and, preferably, to refrain from saying or doing anything more until we’d all had a chance to catch our breaths. Tony handed Chuck a plate of fish, prepared in the conventional manner, and these kept him out of trouble for several minutes.

I inspected my letter. The envelope bore the crest of Footer School and was addressed in crayon to ‘My Sister, Room 11,372, Fabulously Wealthy Heiress House, Jolly Big Place, Can’t Miss It. It was more of a parcel than a letter and when I opened it, inside was a stack of crayon drawings. I looked at the first few and they all seemed to be the same picture of a baby drawn over and over again. Dr. Ewan showed me how they worked. You flicked through them and the picture appeared to move. My brother had drawn his entire life story in the form of a flick book. It must have taken him hours.

By this time Chuck had finished his fish and was looking at me curiously. He nudged Dr. Ewan and, in a whisper loud enough to be heard back in Footer School, asked “I say, why is that chap wearing a dress?” Dr. Ewan explained that I was a woman, or at least a little girl, and that a dress was standard attire for people of the female sex. “Ah, women,” said Chuck. “I’ve read about them, of course. Never realised they were so small.” I held out my hand in case he was inclined to kiss it, but he merely pressed the remains of his fish into it, presumably he thought it was the custom in these parts, and stood up to leave.

He saluted smartly, made to re-mount his horse, looked speculatively at the river flowing along the ceiling and changed his mind. “Is there a drier route out of here, by any chance?” he asked. Footsie and Dr. Ewan looked at each other. “Why yes,” said Dr. Ewan, “Try the door over there. Very dry indeed.” “Known for its dryness,” agreed Footsie. Chuck led his horse to the door, opened it a crack and peered inside. “Ah, I see what you mean,” he said. “Well cheerio, folks. Wizard to have met you all. Damn fine fish. Sorry for the…um” With a brief wave he led his horse through the door, which closed behind him. Footsie leapt up and put his ear to the door. A minute or so later he straightened up and shrugged. The experiment was inconclusive.

And that might have been that, if not for what happened next.