Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.6

Chapter 6.

The Lollingfolly curse.

Amanderella nodded, but kept her thoughts to herself. “And what about the Lollingfolly Curse that you mentioned in the letter?”

Botswana took a deep breath, folded her hands, and lowered her voice, as though the very walls might be listening. “Well,” she said, “if you truly wish to know about the Lollingfolly curse.

It all began in the reign of Good Queen Bess,” she said, lowering her voice. “My ancestor, Gallywag Lollingfolly, was first mate on a little lookout ship in the Channel. When the Spanish Armada came into view, he was sent to Plymouth to warn Sir Francis Drake. Only when he burst in with the news, he tripped over the bowls and sent them flying. No one could tell who was winning. Sir Francis looked at the mess, sighed the deepest sigh in naval history, and said, ‘Curse you, Gallywag Lollingfolly, you bring chaos wherever you go.’ And that was it. The Lollingfolly Curse.”

She nodded gravely, as though this were all perfectly obvious.

“And it showed itself straight away. The very week Gallywag’s son was born, he marched up the gangplank of his pinnace to look important, only he missed it entirely and went straight into Plymouth dock. Splash! Right under the noses of half the harbour. Someone shouted, ‘It’s the curse!’ and from that day on everybody knew the family was cursed.”

“Have there been other Lollingfolly people taken by the curse?” Amanderella asked.

Botswana nodded. “Lots of them. My late husband, may he rest in peace, went through the family records and started to write them down, but he gave up in the end. He said it was too sad.”

She stood up. “I have the list here, if you are interested.”

“Yes, please,” said Amanderella.

Botswana took a few sheets of dusty paper from a shelf and handed them over.

Amanderella blew the dust off and quickly scanned the badly written, misspelled lines.

Gadsnook Lollingfolly shot himself with an arrow. He was practising, and he turned to explain something while he was still pulling the bowstring. The arrow slipped, shot straight up, hit a beam, bounced, and came down on his head.

Bumblewick Lollingfolly was a gardener to a Duchess. He was showing her how the fountain in her garden worked when he fell in the water.

Great‑Grandad Lollingfolly got a job making scissors in Sheffield.

Dad ran away from home and joined a circus. He was the human cannonball, for a while.

Amanderella put down the papers and looked at Botswana. “Your late husband? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No problem,” replied Botswana. “It was a long time ago. A couple of weeks after our son was born, Zambezi,  went out one night to search for a lost sheep. We found him and the sheep next morning at the bottom of a cliff. The curse must have pushed him over the edge.”

Botswana dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron, then straightened up with a determined little sniff. “Well! That’s quite enough doom and gloom for one afternoon. You must be tired after your long ride. Let me show you to your room.”

Amanderella rose at once. “Thank you. A wash and a change of clothes would be most welcome.”

Botswana bustled ahead of her, leading the way up the narrow staircase. The banister wobbled cheerfully under her hand, and the carpet runner had ideas of its own, but the house felt warm and lived‑in, as though it approved of visitors.

At the top of the stairs, Botswana pushed open a door with her hip. “Here we are. The Blue Room. It’s not really blue any more — more of a sort of determined grey — but it’s clean and the window opens if you give it a firm talking‑to.”

Amanderella stepped inside. The room was small but cosy, with a patchwork quilt on the bed and a jug of flowers on the windowsill. A washstand stood in the corner, its bowl already filled.

“There’s plenty of hot water,” Botswana said proudly. “I lit the boiler specially. If you fancy a bath after your drive, you just say the word. I’ll keep it stoked.”

“That is most kind,” Amanderella replied. “A bath would be very pleasant.”

Botswana beamed. “Good! I’ll go and see to the evening meal. Nothing fancy, I don’t hold with fancy, but it’ll fill you up. And you’ll eat in the kitchen with me, if you don’t mind. I don’t usually sit with guests, but it seems silly to leave you on your own.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “I should enjoy the company.”

Botswana gave a pleased little flutter of her hands. “Lovely. I’ll call you when it’s ready. You take your time.”

She bustled away, her footsteps pattering down the stairs like a cheerful drumroll.

Amanderella closed the door behind her and allowed herself a small smile. The room was simple, the house was untidy, and the curse was almost certainly nonsense, but there was something comforting about Lollingfolly House, something warm and human beneath all the fluster.

She set her bag on the bed, unbuttoned her coat, and prepared to wash away the dust of the road.

When Botswana called her down, the kitchen was full of good smells: onions, herbs, something bubbling in a heavy pot. The table was laid with mismatched plates and a jug of water.

Botswana ladled out generous portions of stew — thick, hearty, and steaming — with slices of crusty bread on the side.

“I don’t usually sit with guests,” she said, lowering herself into a chair with a sigh, “but it seems silly to hide in the scullery when there’s company to be had.”

Amanderella tasted the stew. It was simple, honest food, the sort that warmed a person from the inside out. “This is excellent,” she said.

Botswana flushed with pleasure. “Oh, it’s nothing special. Just a bit of this and that. But it keeps body and soul together.”

They ate in companionable quiet for a moment, the fire crackling in the grate and the wind sighing faintly at the window.

Somewhere beyond the kitchen window, the wind shifted across the Moors, carrying with it a faint, curious sound that Amanderella could not quite name.

Once the meal was eaten, Amanderella excused herself and went back upstairs. The bathroom was small and steamy, the mirror fogged, and the hot water sloshed comfortingly around her ankles as she stepped in. Amanderella let out a quiet sigh. The warmth eased the stiffness from her shoulders, and the scent of lavender soap drifted up in gentle clouds.

Outside, the wind brushed against the windowpane, but inside everything was still.

Wrapped in the patchwork quilt, Amanderella felt the day’s miles slip away. Lollingfolly House creaked softly around her, as though settling into its own dreams. The curse was nonsense, of course, but the list of mishaps was impressive in its own peculiar way. She closed her eyes, listening to the wind sighing across the Moors, and let sleep take her.