Angola Gaffletter Chapter 11.

Chapter Eleven.

 

Purchases and Sales.

 

Angola Gaffletter, newly married and newly signed, neatly and without smudges, rose at six, washed, dressed, and inspected her reflection with calm satisfaction. Marriage had not altered her routine. It had simply added a new surname and a new set of responsibilities.

Albert Arthur Cyril Gaffletter was still asleep, breathing the steady, gentle breaths of a man recovering from the emotional effort of standing upright through an entire wedding ceremony. Angola left him to it. Waking him would only result in him asking if she wanted tea, and she did not.

She had business to attend to.

The lodging house must be secured.

The rooms must be inspected.

The contracts must be read.

And above all, the bannisters must be assessed for polishability.

She folded her hands, checked the clock, and said aloud:

“It is time to visit the estate agents.”

Albert, half‑awake, murmured, “Yes, dear,” without knowing what he was agreeing to.

The village was already stirring as Angola stepped out. Mrs Pottle swept her step. Mr Trubshaw polished his boots. Mrs Hargreaves watered her roses with the air of someone who disliked roses but grew them out of duty.

“Morning, Mrs Gaffletter,” Mrs Pottle called.

Angola inclined her head. She approved of the new form of address. It sounded tidy.

The estate agents’ office sat between the post office and the butcher’s shop, its window filled with handbills for properties that were too large, too small, or far too untidy for Angola’s purposes.

Inside, Mr Matchem was sorting papers with the air of a man who had been sorting papers since 1880.

He looked up. “Ah. Miss Muppert. Back again.”

Angola gave him one of her sternest looks.

“Mrs Gaffletter,” she corrected.

Mr Matchem flushed. “Of course! Congratulations. I assume you are now ready to look for a property that meets your requirements?”

“I am.”

He rummaged through a stack of papers. “We have several properties that might suit a lady of your… organisational abilities.”

“I require a lodging house,” Angola said.

“Yes, yes,” he said, still rummaging. “You mentioned that before your… ah… nuptials.”

Angola gave him a precise look that made him straighten his collar.

“I require a property with sound floorboards, a straight staircase, and bannisters that respond well to polishing.”

Mr Matchem paused. “Bannisters?”

“Yes.”

“Not all clients begin with bannisters.”

“Most clients,” Angola said, “are untidy.”

He wisely did not argue.

He produced a thick folder. “This one, No. 9 Wimple Terrace. Respectable frontage. Solid roof. A little worn, but nothing a capable lady couldn’t improve.”

Angola scanned the first page.

“This will do.”

“You haven’t seen the others!”

“I do not need to. This one is tidy. How soon can we inspect it?”

“It is quite a distance, Mrs Gaffletter.”

“Distance is not a problem.”

He surrendered. “The earliest train arrives at half‑past ten.”

“We shall take it.”

“You and Mr Gaffletter?”

“Yes.”

“I shall wire ahead.”

“We will be at the station at nine.”

“The train is at nine‑twenty.”

“Correct.”

And with that, she left, having reorganised his morning without touching a single paper.

Angola stood on the platform at nine o’clock sharp. Gloves immaculate. Boots shining. Handbag clasped firmly, as though preventing the universe from sliding into chaos.

Albert arrived at nine‑ten, breathless but tidy.

A small gallery of villagers watched them depart.

The train journey was a study in contrasts.

Angola sat bolt upright, reading the property particulars.

Albert sat beside her, trying not to spill his tea whenever the carriage lurched.

A passing guard eyed them curiously. The gentleman looked as though he might crumble under pressure. The lady looked capable of stopping the locomotive by sheer force of will.

Their arrival in the Capital was a confusion of steam, shouting porters, and cabs. Albert looked overwhelmed. Angola remained unfazed, stepping onto the platform as though the Capital were simply a larger drapery shop needing dusting.

Waiting for them was Mr Matchem’s junior clerk, a thin young man clutching a brass‑bound clipboard and looking anxious.

The inspection began immediately.

Angola did not merely view the building. She audited it.

She shook bannisters to test for wobble.

Tapped floorboards with her boot heel.

Peered into fireplaces.

Opened and shut every window to test the sashes.

Albert followed her from room to room, nodding earnestly.

The junior clerk grew steadily more impressed, and faintly terrified.

Angola identified two loose roof slates, a dry chimney flue, and an improperly fitted window latch.

Back in the hallway, she folded her hands and delivered her verdict:

“This will do.”

She turned to the clerk. “We shall return once the legal papers are prepared. Mr Gaffletter must give notice at the clock‑mender’s, and we have affairs to settle in Nether Wintle.”

The clerk nodded so vigorously his spectacles slipped.

Albert smiled, relieved that Angola had already factored his employment into her plan.

They walked back through the city with tidy purpose and boarded the afternoon train home.

The next morning, Albert walked to the clock‑mender’s shop with polished boots and a fast‑beating heart.

“Morning, lad,” Mr Hobbins said. “You’re early.”

“I must give notice,” Albert said.

“Notice? You’re not ill?”

“No, sir. My wife and I are moving to the Capital.”

Mr Hobbins set down his screwdriver. “A grand step.”

Albert nodded. “I shall seek employment with a clockmaker there.”

Mr Hobbins studied him, then smiled proudly. “You’ve been reliable. Exceptionally reliable. I’ll write you a reference that will open any shop door in London.”

Albert’s ears went pink. “Thank you, sir.”

Two days later, a letter arrived from a clockmaker’s shop on Wimple Terrace, a modest establishment with a respectable frontage and a reputation for punctual repairs. They had received Mr Hobbins’ reference, were “impressed by its clarity,” and invited Mr Gaffletter to take up a position as assistant clock‑mender beginning the first Monday of the following month. Albert read the letter twice, his ears turning a pleased shade of pink. Angola approved at once. “It is tidy,” she said. “We shall be within walking distance.”

Meanwhile, Angola began packing, not emotionally, but with labels, lists, and an organisational system so fierce that even the cat avoided the hallway.

One trunk for linens.

One for crockery.

One for essential items.

One for items not essential but undeniably tidy.

Her father watched, shaking his head. “You don’t waste a minute.”

“Time wasted is untidy,” Angola said.

Vera listened from the parlour, smiling softly. “You’ll make a wonderful home there.”

Angola sat beside her. “We shall visit you in Switzerland as soon as you are settled.”

“I know you will.”

Nether Wintle hummed with gossip:

“The Gaffletters are moving to the Capital.”

“A lodging house, they say.”

“Trust Angola to run it properly.”

“Boots like mirrors, that lad.”

All very approving. All very tidy.

On the twelfth day, a letter arrived: the contracts were ready.

“We shall go on Friday,” Angola announced.

Albert nodded. “Yes, dear.”

Angola stood behind the counter one final morning while her father spoke to Mr Pennington, the solicitor.

“The sale has gone smoothly,” Mr Pennington said. “Once these papers are signed, the business is officially transferred.”

Corning breathed quietly, not relief, but the gentle acceptance of an ending.

Angola nodded. “It is time.”

Her father signed first. His signature, written thousands of times before, felt entirely different now.

Angola signed next, brisk, precise, without a smudge.

The drapery was no longer theirs.

“The new proprietors will keep the name Muppert’s Drapery,” Mr Pennington said.

Corning’s eyes softened.

Angola approved. “It is fitting.”

The village reacted with gentle sadness.

Mrs Pottle bought muslin she didn’t need.

Mr Trubshaw bought ticking “just in case.”

Mrs Hargreaves bought ribbon for her roses.

“It won’t be the same without the Mupperts,” everyone said.

Vera’s doctor insisted the Alps were her only hope. Angola visited her mother each evening.

“You will be comfortable there,” she said.

“I’ll miss seeing you,” Vera whispered.

“You will write.”

Her father packed their trunks, muddled, but heartfelt. Angola quietly corrected the worst of it.

“Everything’s ready,” Corning said at last.

“Then you and Mother will leave in the morning.”

Vera reached out. Angola took her hand briefly.

“You’ll write,” Vera whispered.

“I shall write every week,” Angola said. “And you will reply.”

Her father added, “We’ll send photographs of the mountains.”

Angola did not respond. She did not approve of mountains, nor photographs of them.

The parlour lamp glowed softly.

The trunks stood neatly in the hallway.

The drapery was sold.

The papers for Wimple Terrace awaited signature.

Albert’s notice was complete.

Everything in Nether Wintle was tidy, settled, and properly arranged. All that remained was the departure, and Angola’s next decisive step into her new life.