Amanderella and the Haunted Mill Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

 

The Pencil on Wheels

 

Amanderella let herself into No. 9 Wimple Terrace, where the hallway gleamed so brightly it could have been used to signal ships. Before she could close the door, Mrs Gaffletter materialised from the sitting room like a well-trained ghost, eyes already sweeping Amanderella’s boots for signs of foreign soil.

“You’re back,” Mrs Gaffletter said, in the tone of someone discovering a smudge on a polished banister.

“I finished my lecture,” Amanderella replied. “I need my overnight case.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyebrows rose a fraction, the only sign of the internal alarm bells ringing. “Not another adventure surely? You have only just returned from the last one.”

“Only for a few days,” Amanderella said.

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed, a sound that could strip paint. “Well, I’ve kept your travelling bag in the airing cupboard to prevent dust settling on it. Dust,” she added darkly, “gets everywhere if you let it.”

Amanderella nodded. “Thank you.”

Mrs Gaffletter stepped closer, peering at Amanderella’s boots with the intensity of a customs inspector. “No mud today. That’s a mercy. I’ve only just finished the hallway.”

“I came straight from the lecture hall.”

“Hmph. Those places are full of germs. And people. Often the same thing.”

Amanderella decided not to argue. She went upstairs, packed her clothes, notebook, spanner, emergency biscuits, coil of string, and collapsible lantern, then came back down with her travelling bag.

Mrs Gaffletter was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, arms folded, expression set to stern but fair. “You’ll be wanting supper before you go.”

“I’m stopping at Gottsnobbler Hall first.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyebrows rose so sharply they nearly left her forehead. “Oh, are you now. Well, you’d best brace yourself.”

Amanderella paused. “Brace myself for what?”

Mrs Gaffletter tapped the folded newspaper on the hall table, the one she had clearly read three times already. “Your mother’s seen that article.”

Amanderella closed her eyes. “Oh dear.”

“Oh, dear indeed,” Mrs Gaffletter said. “She sent a boy round with a note. Said she wished to see you ‘at once’. That’s never a good omen.”

Amanderella picked up her bag. Mrs Gaffletter opened the door for her, then added with the solemnity of a prayer,: “And don’t let her blame you for that man’s nonsense. Everyone knows Mr Wibberley couldn’t report a sunrise without getting the colour wrong.”

Amanderella wheeled her motorcycle out of the shed at the bottom of the garden, where she kept it under lock and key to keep it safe from passing villains and nosy neighbours. She strapped her travelling bag to the back, tugged each buckle to ensure it would not wobble, adjusted her goggles, and swung into the saddle with the calm assurance of a woman who had once crossed a swamp by riding a log.

She kicked the starter. The motorbike gave a polite cough, then settled into a steady hum, the sound of a contented beetle with excellent manners.

Amanderella set off down Wimple Terrace, scarf streaming behind her like a pennant. Mrs Gaffletter watched from the doorway, arms folded, expression set to I disapprove, but I approve of the tidiness with which you’re doing it.

The moment Amanderella reached the valley road, she opened the throttle. The bike surged forward, smooth and sure, and the countryside blurred into green and gold streaks around her. Villagers reacted as they always did. The butcher dropped his sausages. The baker let his bread collapse. The milkmaid nearly spilled her pail.

“Look!” cried the blacksmith, pointing with a horseshoe. “It’s a pencil on wheels!”

And indeed, with her straight dress, pointed hat, and determined posture, Amanderella did look remarkably like a pencil scribbling briskly across the landscape. She turned the corner at a perfectly reasonable speed, though Mrs Thimblewick, sweeping her doorstep, gasped as though witnessing a circus stunt.

“Good heavens,” Mrs Thimblewick whispered. “It’s her.”

Mr Pottle, emerging from the general store with a sack of flour, stared. “On that?”

Amanderella raised a hand in greeting, as if arriving on a motorbike were the most natural thing in the world, which, for her, it was.

The road straightened. The hedgerows parted. And ahead, rising with stately calm above the valley, stood Gottsnobbler Hall, its windows glowing warmly in the late afternoon light. Amanderella eased off the throttle, letting the bike settle into a polite purr as she approached the gates.

Her parents were waiting on the front steps, pale with resignation. They had, after all, lived through the Amazon expedition and the Moors incident, but motorcycling still took some getting used to. Her mother pressed a hand to her forehead. “Amanderella, dear… must you always arrive in such a manner?”

Amanderella followed her parents into the drawing room and removed her goggles. “It was perfectly safe. And considerably faster than the omnibus.”

She stood with her back straight as a ruler, her tall hat adding six inches of unimpeachable authority. Her mother sat down, wrapped herself in three shawls, and clutched a damp handkerchief. Her father hovered nearby, nose drooping like a quill left out in the rain.

“I shall write a letter of complaint to the motorcycle manufacturer. This is unacceptable.”

“What is unacceptable, Father?”

He gestured vaguely at the world. “All of it.”

Lady Gottsnobbler dabbed her eyes. “And now this dreadful article. Giant parrots! Portugal! Monkeys with opinions! Amanderella, how could you?”

“I didn’t,” Amanderella said calmly. “Mr Wibberley did.”

Her mother shuddered. “That man should be stopped.”

Her father straightened, suddenly resolute. “I shall write him a letter.”

Amanderella sighed. “Please don’t.” She picked up the newspaper and read the offending article.

EXPLORER LADY APPEARS IN GRASS SKIRT, CLAIMS FRUIT HAS EMOTIONS By T. P. Wibberley (who was present)

A lecture of considerable eccentricity was delivered last evening at the Society for the Advancement of Natural Curiosities, where Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler (recently returned from the Tropics, or possibly Cornwall) spoke on her search for the elusive ‘Bangolin Tree’.

The audience was taken aback when Lady Gottsnobbler appeared wearing what she described as a ‘traditional grass skirt’, though this reporter notes that it shed considerably and may have been assembled in haste.

Lady Gottsnobbler claimed that the Bangolin fruit ‘responds to melody’ and must be sung to in order to ripen. This reporter interprets this as a poetic exaggeration, though she did insist that the fruit becomes ‘sulky’ if ignored.

A series of lantern slides was shown, including one labelled ‘Fruit attempting escape’, which caused alarm among several elderly attendees.

A map was displayed, allegedly of the Bangolin’s native habitat. This reporter observed that many of the markings resembled bus routes, though Lady Gottsnobbler denied this.

The grass skirt shed further during the demonstration, prompting concern from the janitorial staff. Her boots were notably shiny.

The Society confirms that no fruit sang during the lecture, though one attendee claimed to hear humming. This was later traced to the radiator.

“Amanderella,” her mother whispered, “why were you wearing a grass skirt?”

“I wasn’t,” said Amanderella. “At least not in the lecture hall. I did wear one when climbing the Bangolin tree to pick the fruit. After all, a lady should never display her legs, even in the jungle.”

Lord Gottsnobbler’s nose drooped in sympathy. “And the fruit sulks?”

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Amanderella.

Lady Gottsnobbler dabbed her eyes. “And the map, why does he think it is a bus route?”

“Because he cannot read maps, Mother.”

Lady Gottsnobbler folded the paper with a snap. “Well. I shall have to tell Mrs Thimblewick that my daughter is not encouraging fruit to develop emotional needs.”

Lord Gottsnobbler straightened. “I shall write Mr Wibberley a letter.”

Amanderella groaned. “Please don’t.”

She folded the newspaper and set it gently on the table, as though it might explode if handled too briskly. “There is something else,” she said.

Both parents stiffened. Her mother clutched her shawls. Her father’s nose drooped in anticipation.

“I only stopped in to tell you that I shall be away for a day or two. Possibly three.”

Lady Gottsnobbler inhaled sharply. “Away? Again? But you have only just returned from Sillingwold Lodge or wherever that dreadful man thinks you were.”

Amanderella kept her tone calm. “I have been asked to look into a small matter at Lower Widdersham.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Lower Widdersham? That sounds rural.”

“It is,” Amanderella agreed.

Lord Gottsnobbler’s nose sagged another inch. “Is this another… situation?”

“A minor one,” Amanderella said. “The villagers believe their old watermill is possessed.”

Her mother gave a faint cry and pressed her handkerchief to her forehead. “Possessed! Amanderella, why must it always be you? Why can’t these things happen to someone else’s daughter?”

Her father straightened with sudden resolve. “I shall write to the Preservation Society at once and tell them to stop it.”

“Please don’t,” Amanderella said.

Lady Gottsnobbler leaned forward, shawls rustling like agitated pigeons. “Tell me you are not going inside that mill.”

“I am,” Amanderella replied. “Mr Paltry insists the villagers are quite beside themselves. Mrs Pottlewick is carrying two Bibles, and Mr Hobbins refuses to pass the mill unless accompanied by a goose.”

Her mother blinked. “A goose?”

“A steadying influence,” Amanderella said.

Lord Gottsnobbler looked pained. “This is all very alarming.”

“It is not alarming,” Amanderella said firmly. “It is almost certainly a mouse.”

Her mother dabbed her eyes. “Mice do not whistle.”

“This one might,” Amanderella said, picking up her travelling bag. “I shall let you know.”

Lady Gottsnobbler rose unsteadily. “At least promise me you will not wear a grass skirt.”

“I promise,” Amanderella said.

Her father nodded gravely. “And I shall not write any letters.”

Amanderella paused at the door. “Thank you.”

She stepped outside before either parent could change their mind.