Amanderella and the Marduk Affair Chapter 4

Chapter Four.

Arrival.

Pentegfawr was the sort of seaside town that looked as though it had been put together by someone who liked the sea very much but wasn’t entirely sure how towns worked. The promenade ran in a perfectly straight line, as if trying to behave itself, even though the wind kept shoving it sideways. At one end lay a shingle beach that rattled like a box of marbles whenever the waves rolled in. At the other, a rugged hill stuck out into the water with the stubbornness of something that had been told to move and absolutely refused.

A row of substantial stone houses faced the sea with an air of polite superiority, as if judging the waves for splashing too loudly. Behind the harbour, the fishermen’s cottages huddled together in a tangle of chimneys and washing lines, looking as though they were sharing secrets about the tide. The harbour itself held half a dozen small boats that bobbed about in a restless, fussy way, like elderly uncles complaining about the weather.

The road squeezed between the houses and the sea, doing its best not to fall in, then turned behind the harbour and wandered off towards the next town as if it had lost interest in being coastal.

Away from the water, Pentegfawr had one main road that behaved as though it were terribly important. It ran straight through the middle of the town, lined with shops that tried their best to look busy even when nobody was inside. Between them, small side roads wandered off at uncertain angles, each dotted with cottages of every possible age and style, as though the town had collected them over the years and forgotten to sort them properly.

Pentegfawr was unusually well supplied with chapels. There were five, each a different size depending on how wealthy or enthusiastic the founding members had been. Some were tall and proud; others looked as if the builders had run out of money halfway through and decided to stop before things became embarrassing.

At one end of the main road stood St Margaret’s, the Church of England building that towered over everything else with the calm authority of something that had been standing there far longer than anyone could remember. Next to it loomed the Glyndwr Arms, a five‑star hotel that behaved as though it were slightly too grand for the rest of the town but had decided to stay anyway out of politeness. The local school sat close by, keeping a watchful eye on both of them, as schools tend to do.

Not far from the centre were the Council Offices, a square, sensible building that housed the Library and the Museum. These two lived together in a state of polite disagreement: the Library liked quiet, the Museum liked school groups, and neither was entirely sure about the other’s habits.

The coastal train rattled into Pentegfawr with a final, exhausted sigh, as if relieved to have reached somewhere that wasn’t blowing salt directly into its face. Dotty and Amanderella stepped down onto the platform, the wind immediately trying to rearrange their hair into new and unhelpful shapes.

Dotty took a deep breath. “Home,” she said, sounding both fond and slightly apologetic.

Amanderella looked around. “It has character.”

“It has several,” Dotty said. “Some of them quite loud.”

She led the way along the promenade, her bag clutched to her chest. “I have to take you to the hotel first,” she explained. “Mrs Pugh‑Chapel Gate, my landlady, expects her tenants in by half past five. She says wandering about after that time encourages habits.”

Amanderella decided not to ask what sort of habits.

They reached the Glyndwr Arms, which stood beside St Margaret’s like a well‑behaved giant. Aunty Mae Pugh was waiting in the doorway, hands on hips, looking exactly like someone who could run a five‑star hotel with one hand and organise a chapel tea with the other.

Dotty straightened her hat. “Lady Amanderella, this is Aunty Mae,” she said. “Everyone calls her that. She’s a Pugh, you see, and there are so many Pughs in Pentegfawr that the young waitresses had to think of something before they all went mad. ‘Mrs Pugh’ was too formal, and ‘Mae’ was too familiar, so she became Aunty Mae to the whole town.”

Aunty Mae gave a brisk nod, the sort that suggested she approved of the explanation but would not be expanding on it. “Welcome to the Glyndwr Arms, Lady Amanderella,” she said, sweeping her inside with the efficiency of a woman who could run a hotel, a chapel tea, and a minor emergency without breaking stride.

Dotty hovered in the doorway, already glancing anxiously at the sky as if it might be keeping track of the time. “I have to go,” she said. “Mrs Pugh‑Chapel Gate expects me in for the evening meal. She can tell if I’m late even when she’s in another room.”

Aunty Mae snorted. “She always could. That woman’s got ears like a bat and opinions to match.”

Dotty nodded solemnly, as though this were a well‑established scientific fact. “I’ll meet you in the morning,” she told Amanderella. “After breakfast. If you’re able to stand.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “Is breakfast here dangerous.”

“Only if you have plans afterwards,” Dotty said gravely. “Goodnight.”

With that, she hurried off towards Chapel Gate, determined not to risk the disapproval of Mrs Pugh‑Chapel Gate, who was the sort of landlady who believed punctuality was next to godliness and possibly more important.

Amanderella watched her go, then turned to the warm glow of the Glyndwr Arms. Aunty Mae led her through the hall, which smelled faintly of lemon polish and warm bread. The floorboards shone as though they had been scrubbed by someone who took cleaning as a personal challenge. A brass bell sat on the reception desk, but it looked as though it had never been needed; Aunty Mae gave the impression she could hear a guest thinking about ringing it from three rooms away.

“Room three,” she said, handing over a heavy brass key. “Supper in half an hour. Fish tonight. Fresh as they come.”

Amanderella wasn’t sure whether that meant “caught this morning” or “still surprised to be here,” but Aunty Mae was already marching her up the stairs, so she decided not to ask.

Her room was bright and tidy, with crisp white sheets that crackled faintly when she touched them. The pillows were soft and feathery, the sort that tried to swallow your head in a friendly way. The curtains were thick enough to keep out draughts, daylight, and possibly small weather systems. A jug of hot water waited on the washstand, steaming gently like a polite volcano.

Supper was served in a dining room that took itself very seriously. The fish arrived looking faintly startled, as though it had been swimming past the harbour only a few hours earlier and had not expected to end its day on a plate. The vegetables were arranged in neat little piles, and the bread rolls were warm enough to suggest they had only just been persuaded to leave the oven.

Afterwards, Amanderella carried her coffee into the lounge. The leather armchairs were so deep and comfortable that she felt herself sinking into one like a pebble into soft sand. Aunty Mae passed through now and then, checking that no guest had disappeared entirely into the upholstery.

By the time Amanderella climbed the stairs to bed, she felt warm, full, and slightly horizontal. She slipped between the crisp sheets, sank into the feathery pillows, and thought she could get used to living like this.

Outside, the sea murmured against the shingle, and Pentegfawr settled into its evening with the quiet confidence of a town that knew exactly who lived where, who was related to whom, and which Pugh was which.