Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 6

Chapter 6.

 

A Letter arrives.

 

After Mrs Thimblewick left, Amanderella’s mother sat for a long moment in the garden chair, the newspaper clipping trembling slightly in her hand. Lectures. In the city. Parrots. Vines with opinions. Tea and biscuits. It was all too much.

She rose with sudden determination and went indoors to the writing desk, which had not been used since the year of the unfortunate jam‑making incident. She opened the drawer, found a sheet of paper that had yellowed respectably with age, and selected her best pen, the one that only blotted on special occasions.

She began to write.

My dearest Amanderella,
We have heard the most alarming news. You must not overexert yourself. The city is full of dangers, including soot, unsuitable company, and now apparently parrots of unusual size…

She filled the page with maternal concern, warnings about draughts, as no one would ever want to marry a woman who sneezed. She added a postscript about the importance of wearing wool in February, regardless of fashion.

Then she sat back, satisfied. The letter was exactly the sort of thing a responsible mother ought to send.

Only one problem remained. She had absolutely no idea where to send it.

Amanderella’s mother stared at the envelope. She wrote:

Lady A. Gottsnobbler
Somewhere in the City
Possibly Near a Library
England

She frowned, crossed out “Possibly Near a Library”, and replaced it with “Care of Any Respectable Establishment”.

This seemed no clearer, but it looked more dignified.

She sealed the envelope, marched it down to the village post office, and handed it to Mr Pottle. He examined the envelope with the weary patience of a man who had seen worse. Only last summer he had successfully delivered a postcard addressed simply to “The Tall Man Who Fixes Things, Near the Gate, That Place With the Goose”. Compared with that, “Miss A. Gottsnobbler, Somewhere in the City, England” was practically a street address.

He gave a small nod. “I’ll do my best,” he said, which was the strongest promise he ever made.

Amanderella’s mother looked relieved. “The post always knows,” she said, with the unshakeable faith of someone who lived near a village where the only directional sign read “Turn left at the dog that barks”. The dog in question had died a long time ago, but the sign remained, and everyone still used it.

Mr Pottle tucked the letter into the outgoing tray, where it lay with the air of an item embarking on a long and uncertain journey.

And thus, the anxious letter began its travels, not towards Amanderella, who was entirely unaware of its existence, but towards whatever unsuspecting postal clerk first attempted to decipher the address.

The letter took an astonishingly indirect route through the postal system. It travelled to three cities, two sorting offices, and one bewildered haberdashery before finally arriving at Mrs Gaffletter’s, where it was delivered with the air of a parcel that had survived a minor war.

Amanderella opened it over breakfast.

She read her mother’s anxious warnings about parrots, draughts, and the dangers of biscuits in urban environments. She read the postscript about wool and sneezing. She read the address, which had been corrected by at least four postal clerks and one person who had simply written “Try Here”.

She sighed.

It was, she decided, the sort of letter that required a personal visit.

Mrs Gaffletter, who was polishing the already‑polished banister knob, approved. “A visit is always wise, Lady Gottsnobbler. Parents fret. It is their occupation. How will you get there?”

Amanderella considered the matter for precisely three seconds “I shall travel in style,” she said. She walked down the High Steet and  into a reputable dealership, and purchased a motorbike.

It was a sensible machine: sturdy, reliable, and painted a respectable shade of green. She strapped her bag to the back, adjusted her goggles, and set off for Gottsnobbler Hall with the calm assurance of a woman who had once crossed a swamp by riding a log.

She zoomed down the valley, her scarf streaming behind her like a pennant. The villagers stopped in their tracks. The butcher dropped his sausages, the baker let his bread collapse, and the milkmaid nearly spilled her pail. “Look!” cried the blacksmith. “It’s a pencil on wheels!” And indeed, with her straight dress and pointed hat, Amanderella did look remarkably like a pencil scribbling across the countryside.

She turned the corner at a perfectly reasonable speed, the motorbike humming like a contented beetle. She slowed politely outside the general store.

Mrs Thimblewick clutched her chest. “Good heavens. It’s her.”

Mr Pottle stared. “On that?”

Amanderella raised a hand in greeting, as if arriving on a motorbike were the most natural thing in the world.

By the time she reached Gottsnobbler Hall, the news had outrun her by a full minute.

Her parents were waiting on the front steps, pale with horror.

Her mother gasped. “Amanderella! You might have been killed!”

Her father added, “Or worse, seen!”

Amanderella removed her goggles. “It was perfectly safe. And considerably faster than the omnibus.”

Her mother swayed. “But… but… a motorbike?”

Her father whispered, “What will the village think?”

The villagers, gathered discreetly behind the hedge, thought many things, none of them calm.

Amanderella stood in the drawing room of Gottsnobbler Hall, her back as straight as a ruler and her tall hat adding a further six inches of unimpeachable authority. Across from her sat her mother, huddled in three layers of knitted shawls and clutching a damp lace handkerchief.

“You will catch your death, Amanderella,” her mother wheezed, punctuated by a thin, watery sneeze. “I told you before you left, exploring is a damp, unwholesome business. People who go up rivers always return full of sneezes and tropical agues. It is quite a medical certainty.”

Amanderella tilted her hat, her eyes bright and her breathing as clear as a mountain bell. “On the contrary, Mother,” she declared, her voice ringing through the room. “The Amazonian air is remarkably bracing once one learns to breathe around the mosquitoes. It is Gottsnobbler Hall that is the hazard. The draughts under the skirting boards have more ‘ague’ in them than the entire jungle itself.”

To prove her point, Amanderella inhaled deeply and exhaled with a vigour that made the crystals on the chandelier tinkle. She had not so much as sniffled since she left the port, while her mother was a walking chorus of nasal congestion.

“I have returned with a clear head and a firm purpose,” Amanderella continued, “and enough diamonds stuck to my boots to ensure you needn’t sneeze in a draughty drawing room ever again. I have sold them to Ferdinangle Fromlager, and the cheque is quite substantial. You may fix the roof, replace the windows, and perhaps even consider a fire that burns hotter than a discontented candle.”

Her mother dabbed her nose. “Oh, Amanderella… such extravagance.”

“It is not extravagance,” Amanderella said firmly. “It is structural necessity. The house wheezes more than you do.”

She went on, “No funds may be used for statues, fountains, likenesses, or memorials of any relative, living or dead.

No curtains may cost more than the combined price of a loaf of bread and a sensible hat.

No furniture may be acquired unless it can support the weight of a fully grown goat.

And finally, no portraits. Ever. Of anyone.”

Her father cleared his throat, a small, papery sound, like a moth attempting to make a speech. He folded his hands over his waistcoat, stared at the carpet for a long moment, then lifted his gaze to his daughter with an expression that was equal parts pride, bewilderment, and mild terror.

“My dear,” he said, “we are… grateful. Truly. The roof, the windows, the coal — all of it. You have done more for this house in a week than we have managed in twenty years.”

He paused, as if assembling his courage from several distant corners of the room.

“But you must understand,” he continued, “your mother and I are not… built for modernity. We are accustomed to draughts. We are accustomed to leaks. We are accustomed to living within the boundaries you set, even when we do not entirely understand them.”

He glanced nervously toward the window, where the motorbike gleamed like a mechanical scandal.

“And as for that machine,” he added, voice wobbling, “I do not pretend to approve. But I have seen you ride it, and I have seen the village faint, and I have concluded that you are… unstoppable.”

Amanderella inclined her head, accepting this as the closest thing to paternal endorsement she was ever likely to receive.

Her father stood, straightened his threadbare jacket, and placed a tentative hand on her arm.

“Go on, then,” he said softly. “Do what you must. Explore, if you must. Lecture, if you must. Terrify the village, if you must. But… do come back. The house sounds less draughty when you are in it.”

It was, for a Gottsnobbler, a declaration of profound emotion.

Her mother dabbed her nose. “And we must  have your address, dear, in case of emergencies.”

          Amanderella closed her eyes for a moment, gathering the patience of a woman who had once negotiated with a tribe of whistling monkeys.

Her father placed a tentative hand on her arm. “We only wish you to be… settled. In a respectable manner.”

Amanderella rose, tall and composed. “Father, I am perfectly settled. And the motorbike is entirely respectable.”

Her father made a small, strangled sound that suggested he disagreed but lacked the vocabulary to express it.

She put on her hat, adjusted her gloves, and strode toward the door.

Behind her, her mother murmured half‑to herself half‑to the draughty room: “She gives us rules for everything… except husbands.”

Amanderella reached into her pocket and handed her mother a small, neatly written card.
“My address,” she said. “For future correspondence.”

Her mother clutched it as though it were a life‑preserving charm. “Oh, Amanderella,” she breathed, “this will make everything so much easier.”

Her father murmured, “And so much harder to lose.”

Amanderella swung onto the motorbike, settled her hat, and started the engine. It hummed to life. With a steady turn of the handle Amanderella rode down the drive, leaving behind a faint trail of dust, a house full of shawls and anxieties, and two parents who loved her in their own bewildered way.

Her father watched until she vanished around the bend, then sighed, a soft, draught‑ridden sound. “She really is unstoppable,” he murmured.