Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.3

Chapter 3.

 

Cudwick-under-the-Moors.

 

Cudwick‑under‑the‑Moors appeared suddenly, as though the countryside had grown tired of being empty and decided to produce a village out of habit. Amanderella eased her motorbike down to a steady hum as she rolled onto the single, wavering strip of tarmac that served as the main road.

It was the only road.

On either side stood cottages that had once been whitewashed but were now a soft, weather‑beaten grey, the colour of old porridge. Their thatched roofs sagged gently, and tufts of grass and the occasional dandelion sprouted cheerfully from the ridges. A few windows leaned at angles that suggested the houses had settled into their foundations with a sigh and refused to be moved again.

The village consisted of:

The Cudwick Arms, a pub with a sign so faded the painted boar looked more like a large, confused dog.

St Mildred’s Church, its tower slightly crooked, as though bowing politely to visitors.

A Village Hall, square, stern, and clearly built in the era when concrete was considered modern and exciting.

A green, which was more brown than green, with a bench that had surrendered to moss years ago.

Amanderella brought the motorbike to a halt beside the green. A hen strutted past with the air of a creature who paid road tax. A dog opened one eye, decided she was not worth the effort, and went back to sleep.

It was exactly the sort of village where a family curse might go unnoticed for decades simply because everyone was too polite to mention it.

An elderly man stood outside the pub, leaning on a stick and watching her with mild curiosity.

“Morning,” Amanderella said.

He nodded. “You’ll be for Lollingfolly House, then.”

Amanderella blinked. “Yes. How did you—?”

“Only folk who come through here on a motorbike are either lost or going to see Botswana Lollingfolly,” he said. “And you don’t look lost.” You’ll want to turn left at the barking dog,” he said.

Amanderella blinked. “Is there a sign?”

“No,” he said. “Just the dog.”

As if on cue, a deep, indignant woof echoed from somewhere ahead.

“It’s always there,” the man added. “Doesn’t belong to anyone. Or possibly belongs to everyone. Hard to say. Follow that till the road gives up. Then keep going. You’ll find it.”

Amanderella nodded politely, thanked him, and rode on. Sure enough, at the very edge of the village, where the cottages thinned and the road began to give up, a large, shaggy dog stood by a gap between two leaning garden walls. It barked once, loudly, as though announcing her arrival.

“That must be the turning,” Amanderella murmured.

She steered left.

The dog, satisfied with its work, lay down and went to sleep.

The lane grew steadily wilder as Amanderella rode on. The hedges leaned over the rutted, muddy surface as though trying to shake hands with one another above her head. She slowed the motorbike to a careful crawl. Falling off into the mud, she told herself, was not at all a ladylike thing to do, and certainly not how she wished to arrive at Lollingfolly House.

A cow put its head over a gate and greeted her with a loud, unexpected bellow. Amanderella jumped, then composed herself.

“Good morning,” she said firmly.

The cow blinked, apparently satisfied with this polite exchange, and turned back into the field to continue its normal activities, which seemed to involve chewing thoughtfully and staring at nothing in particular.

A little farther on, a hen scuttled across the lane with the air of a creature late for an appointment. The hedges thickened, the mud deepened, and the lane narrowed until it felt more like a suggestion than a road.

Amanderella pressed on.

Around a very sharp bend, the sort of bend that seemed designed deliberately to catch an unwary traveller out, the lane straightened suddenly and presented her with a five‑barred gate.

It sagged on its hinges in the traditional manner of rural gates everywhere, as though it had been doing its best for far too many years and was now considering retirement. Amanderella slowed to a halt, put her feet down carefully to avoid the worst of the mud, and regarded it with polite resignation.

The hedges pressed close on either side, whispering in the breeze. A crow cawed somewhere overhead, sounding faintly amused. The cow she had greeted earlier let out a distant, approving moo, as if to say she had found the right place after all.

Amanderella switched off the motorbike. The sudden quiet felt deep and expectant.

This, she suspected, was the entrance to Lollingfolly House.

To one side stood a weathered wooden post. From it hung a small brass bell, the sort that might once have belonged on a bicycle or a schoolroom desk. A faded hand‑painted sign above it read:

PLEASE RING. GATE TRICKY.

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. She gave the bell a polite tap.

It produced a bright, surprisingly confident ding! that echoed down the lane.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, from somewhere beyond the gate, came a flurry of movement, the unmistakable clatter of someone tripping over something wooden, and a voice calling, “Coming! Coming! Do hold on, my dear!”

A figure appeared, bustling down the path with the breathless energy of someone who had been interrupted in the middle of six tasks at once. Her apron was askew, her hair escaping its pins, and her expression a mixture of delight, relief, and mild alarm.

The woman, for it was indeed a person of the female variety, reached the gate, wrestled with the latch in a manner that suggested a long and complicated history between them, and finally managed to heave it open just wide enough for a motorbike.

 “This wretched gate never behaves for strangers. Or for me, come to that,” she said.

Amanderella smiled. “I gathered as much.”

Botswana beamed, flustered and fond all at once. “Do come through before it changes its mind.”

Amanderella started her engine and eased the motorbike through the half‑open gate and onto the garden path. Behind her came the breathless patter of boots, the woman hurrying along with the determined fluster of someone who had been expecting her for hours and yet was somehow still surprised.

The garden made its introduction at once.

It was higgledy‑piggledy, untidy, and entirely charming. Late spring flowers grew wherever they pleased, clumps of primroses crowding the path, forget‑me‑nots spilling into the grass, and a brave patch of tulips standing at attention despite the weeds pressing in around them. The borders had long since given up any pretence of straight lines, wandering off in gentle curves as though following their own thoughts.

A lilac bush leaned companionably over the path, brushing Amanderella’s shoulder with a fragrant greeting. A pair of sparrows burst out of a tangle of honeysuckle, scolding her for disturbing their morning. Somewhere near the house, a bee hummed industriously, entirely at home in the cheerful disorder.

Amanderella took it all in with a small, approving nod. It was not tidy, but it was alive, a garden that had grown according to enthusiasm rather than plan.

Behind her, the woman puffed, “Mind the lupins, my dear, they do like to wander. Oh, and the hollyhocks have ideas above their station this year, but we let them, don’t we?”

She had not yet seen the house, nor learned the woman’s name, but she already suspected she had arrived somewhere quite unlike Number 9 Wimple Terrace It was not like the Brazilian jungle or the vine‑covered hills of Burkoland, but it was just as mysterious in its own quiet fashion, a place where odd things might happen simply because no one had ever told them not to.

The garden rustled softly around her. The woman behind her caught up at last, still breathless, still unnamed, still flapping gently at the flowers as though trying to tidy the air.

Amanderella switched off the motorbike. The engine ticked into silence. The sparrows settled. The lilac bush swayed as though nodding in welcome.

Whatever waited at the end of the path, she was ready to meet it.