Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.4

Chapter 4.

 

Lollingfolly House.

 

The path curved gently, and the house revealed itself at last. It was old, certainly, but in reasonable condition, the sort of house that had weathered storms, summers, and several generations of Lollingfollys without losing heart.

A wide, open‑timbered porch stretched across the front, its white‑painted railings slightly chipped but still cheerful. The floor beneath was tiled in the familiar red‑and‑black quarry pattern, cool and solid underfoot, giving the porch the feeling of an outdoor room where boots were left, tea was drunk, and gossip was exchanged.

Above the porch, the upper storey showed off its half‑timbering: dark beams set against cream plaster, the lines a little wobbly with age but proud all the same. At the very peaks of the roof, terracotta finials perched like small dragons or watchful birds, their shapes softened by years of weather.

The slate roof itself dipped gently in places, as though settling into comfortable old age. Large sash windows looked out over the garden, each with a twist: the top panes divided into many small lights by delicate wooden bars, while the bottom panes were single sheets of clear glass, letting in as much light as possible. A few of the small panes were slightly wavy, catching the sunlight in a way that made the house seem to blink at her.

By the front door hung a wooden sign, hand‑painted in cheerful, uneven letters:

LOLLINGFOLLY HOUSE
Bed and Breakfast
Evening Meals

It felt like a place where odd things might happen simply because no one had ever told them not to.

Very much out of breath, the woman said, “Welcome to Lollingfolly House. I am Botswana Lollingfolly, owner, cook, bottle‑washer, tour guide, and everything else as well.”

Amanderella got off the motorbike and removed her gloves with calm precision. “Good afternoon,” she replied. “I am Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler. I believe your sister, Mrs Gaffletter, wrote to you about me?”

Botswana pressed a hand to her chest, partly from breathlessness and partly from delight. “Oh, my dear, yes, yes she did! Only she didn’t say you’d be arriving on a motorbike. Not that I mind, of course. It’s just that the gate never behaves for anyone on wheels. Or anyone on foot. Or anyone at all, really.”

Amanderella smiled politely. “I gathered that.”

Botswana gave a flustered little laugh. “Well! You’re here now, and that’s the important thing. Do come inside, the kettle is always on and I don’t know about you, but I need a cuppa.”

She ushered Amanderella towards the wide, open‑timbered porch, still slightly out of breath, still fussing at her apron, and still radiating the sort of welcome that made the whole house seem to lean forward and smile.

The white‑painted railings were chipped in places, and the red‑and‑black quarry tiles underfoot were cool and solid, giving the space the feeling of an outdoor room where boots, gossip, and muddy umbrellas all belonged.

A heavy wooden door stood at the centre, its brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head that had lost some of its fierceness over the years.

Botswana pushed it open with her hip, revealing a jumble of wellington boots in every size and colour, and a tall stand filled with dripping umbrellas that looked as though they had been caught in every storm since the beginning of the century.

Inside, the hallway was warm and dim, lit by the soft glow of a lamp with a fringed shade.

Floral wallpaper climbed the walls in cheerful patterns, and heavy brocade curtains framed the large sash windows. The furniture was a friendly muddle of mismatched antiques, a carved oak chair beside a small table with a wobbly leg, and a sideboard that had clearly been polished many times but never quite lost its scratches.

From somewhere deeper in the house came the steady, comforting tick of a grandfather clock, marking the seconds with the calm authority of something that had been doing its job for a very long time.

Amanderella paused just inside the doorway, taking it all in. It was old, certainly, but cared for. A house with stories in every corner.

Botswana, still slightly breathless, beamed at her. “There now. You’re in. And thank goodness, because I truly do need that cup of tea.”

Amanderella, out of habit, looked down at her boots to check for any scrap of mud that might need removing before she went any farther into the house. The quarry tiles were spotless, and the floral wallpaper beyond looked as though it might take offence at a muddy footprint.

Botswana noticed the glance and grinned. “No need to worry about that here,” she said. “A little bit of mud is good for the carpets, I say. Shows they’re being used.”

She waved a hand at the jumble of wellington boots by the door and the umbrella stand that seemed to drip permanently. “If the carpets minded mud, they’d have left years ago.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small smile. It was impossible not to.

Botswana beamed, delighted to have put her at ease. “Now then, tea. The kettle’s been boiling itself silly waiting for us.”

Botswana led the way down a short passage and pushed open a door with her elbow. Warmth and the faint smell of baking drifted out.

The kitchen was large and old, with a floor of deep‑red quarry tiles worn smooth in the places where generations had stood to stir pots or peel vegetables. In the scullery corner, the tiles changed to a black‑and‑white chequered pattern, as though the house had once tried to be modern and then thought better of it.

The lower half of the walls was lined with white glazed tiles, easy to wipe and slightly cracked with age. Above them, the top half was painted in a sensible stone‑coloured distemper that had clearly been chosen for practicality rather than beauty.

At the centre of the room stood a massive, thick‑topped table. Its surface was scarred by decades of bread‑kneading, pastry‑rolling, and vegetable‑chopping. Amanderella ran a gloved hand lightly across it and felt the dips and ridges left by years of work. It was a table that had seen stories.

Copper pans hung from hooks. A kettle puffed steam on the range. A tabby cat lay curled in a basket by the fire, opening one eye just long enough to decide Amanderella was not a threat.

Botswana bustled to the stove. “There now,” she said, lifting the kettle with both hands. “I told you the kettle was always on. Sit yourself down, dear. You must be tired after that dreadful lane.”

Amanderella sat, feeling the warmth of the room settle around her like a blanket. It was not like the Brazilian jungle or the vine‑covered hills of Burkoland, but it had its own kind of mystery, the quiet, homely sort that crept up on you.

The far wall was taken up almost entirely by a cast‑iron range set deep into a wide chimney breast. It was a coal‑fired beast, black and solid, with multiple heavy doors for different temperatures. Some glowed faintly with heat, others clanked softly as the metal expanded. A constant, dry warmth radiated from it, the sort that seeped into your bones and made damp socks forget they had ever been wet.

A brass rail ran along the front, hung with tea towels in various stages of drying. They fluttered slightly in the rising heat, as though nodding in agreement with everything Botswana said.

A thick piece of coconut matting lay before the range, worn smooth in the middle where countless feet had stood to stir pots, turn loaves, or warm themselves after a walk in the rain.

Amanderella stepped onto it and felt the warmth rising through the soles of her boots.

Botswana lifted the kettle from the hottest plate with practised ease. “There we are,” she said. “This old thing never lets me down. Except when it does, of course, but we don’t talk about that.”

She set the kettle on the massive, scarred table, where the steam curled up into the soft light of the kitchen.

Amanderella breathed in the warm, comforting air. It was a world away from Number 9 Wimple Terrace, and yet it felt strangely familiar, as though she had stepped into a story she had always known.

As Botswana poured the boiling water into a stout brown teapot, Amanderella let her eyes travel around the room. The kitchen was larger than she had first realised, and full of the sort of details that spoke of long, busy days and many breakfasts served.

Against one wall stood a towering dresser of dark oak or pine, its shelves bowed slightly under the weight of the “best” breakfast service. Heavy stoneware plates with a blue cornflower pattern were stacked in neat piles, while willow‑pattern bowls sat proudly above them. The bottom cupboards, with their stiff hinges and worn handles, were firmly shut, but Amanderella suspected they hid bulk sacks of flour and sugar, the sort that came in paper bags too large to lift comfortably.

Above her head, a wooden pulley‑maid hung from the ceiling on thick ropes. It was draped with drying linen, tea towels, aprons, and a few odd socks, and, tucked at one end, a bunch of rosemary and thyme hung upside‑down, filling the warm air with a faint, comforting scent.

Near the range, a heavy door stood slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of cool darkness beyond. Botswana noticed her glance.

“That’s the pantry,” she said, setting the teapot down with a clink. “Walk‑in, of course. Wouldn’t be a proper kitchen without one. Mind your head if you go in, the top shelf has a habit of leaping out at people.”

Amanderella smiled. The steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway drifted through the doorway, blending with the soft hiss of the range and the faint rustle of drying linen overhead. It was a room full of life, warmth, and stories.

Botswana placed two mismatched mugs on the table. “There we are, dear. Sit yourself down. Nothing in this house works properly unless someone’s having a cup of tea.”