Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

 

Home Visit.

 

Amanderella drew herself up to her full height, hat and all. “Mother, Father, I have come home to make something perfectly clear. I do not need suitors. Of any kind. Ever.”

Her mother dabbed delicately at her nose. “Yes, dear.”

“And I would be grateful,” Amanderella continued, “if you would stop sending them to call on me, writing to them about me, or hinting to them that I am in any way,”

Her father cleared his throat. “My girl, we quite understand.”

Amanderella blinked. “You… do?”

Her mother gave a small, tragic sigh. “Since that poor Tarpduk Beeschecker came to visit us.”

Her father shuddered. “The boy looked as though he had stared into the abyss.”

“and after the dreadful experience he had with Mrs Gaffletter,” her mother went on, “we have come to a sad conclusion.”

Amanderella felt her boots tighten around her ankles. “What conclusion?”

Her mother folded her damp handkerchief with great ceremony. “That we are wasting our time with you, dear.”

Amanderella’s mouth fell open. “Wasting your,”

Her father nodded gravely. “Quite. Entirely. Hopelessly.”

Her mother added, “We have decided that you are… unsuitorable.”

Amanderella stared. “Unsuitorable is not a word.”

“It is now,” said her father.

Her mother sniffed. “We made it up specially for you.”

Amanderella was taken aback. “So, you are going to stop trying to find a husband for me?”

Her mother sighed. “Amanderella, dear, we quite understand. Truly we do. Ever since that unfortunate business with Mrs Gaffletter’s sister’s letter,”

“Which you handled admirably,” her father added quickly, “we realised that your life is… complicated.”

“But it was poor Tarpduk Beeschecker who convinced us,” her mother said, pressing a hand to her heart. “He came to call on you the very next day.”

Amanderella frowned. “He did?”

“He did,” said her father. “And he made the mistake of knocking on Mrs Gaffletter’s door.”

Her mother shuddered. “She was still in a state. Quite undone. She had only just recovered from the shock of her sister’s letter, and when she opened the door and saw a gentleman caller,”

“She collapsed again,” her father finished. “Right onto his boots.”

“Face down,” said her mother. “Clutching the umbrella stand for support and wailing that she could not possibly house her sister because she had nowhere to put the antimacassars.”

“Tarpduk tried to help her up,” her father said, “but she latched onto his coat like a drowning sailor. He staggered about the hallway with her attached to him like a determined limpet.” “And that,” her mother whispered, “was when Mr Gaffletter came out to see what all the noise was about.”

Her father closed his eyes at the memory. “He opened the door and found his wife clinging to a strange young man’s ankles, shrieking about antimacassars.”

“He thought,” her mother said delicately, “that Tarpduk was proposing.”

“On the doorstep,” her father added. “In broad daylight.”

“Mr Gaffletter let out a roar,” her mother went on, “and poor Tarpduk panicked. He tried to run, but of course he couldn’t, because Mrs Gaffletter was still attached. So, he hopped. Down the path. With Mr Gaffletter in pursuit.”

“Brandishing a watering can,” her father said. “A full one.”

“He drenched the poor boy,” her mother finished, “and Mrs Gaffletter, and most of the begonias.”

“He escaped eventually,” her mother whispered, “but he was white as chalk and shaking like blancmange. He said he could never face such emotional upheaval again.”

Her father nodded gravely. “And we agreed. We cannot, in good conscience, send any more young men into such danger.”

Her mother dabbed her eyes. “So, you see, dear, we have given up. Entirely. You are… unsuitorable.”

Amanderella drew herself up even straighter. “Then what was your letter about? I quote: ‘an old connection of ours, someone whose presence once brought such warmth and promise to the household.’ If not a suitor?”

Her mother dabbed at her nose with a very damp handkerchief, and her father looked embarrassed enough to study the carpet.

“Oh, my dear, I should have written more clearly,” her mother protested. “Please sit down and we will try to explain.”

Amanderella did not sit. She folded her arms.

Her father cleared his throat. “When we wrote of an ‘old connection’, we did not mean a gentleman.”

“No, no,” her mother said quickly. “Goodness, no. After the Beeschecker–Gaffletter incident, we would not dare.”

Her father nodded. “We meant someone else entirely. Someone from your school days.”

Her mother twisted her handkerchief. “Someone who used to visit us in the holidays. Someone who always brought such… energy.”

Amanderella’ asked, “Mother, are you talking about Maudline Ppockingstull?”

Her parents exchanged a look of deep, shared dread.

Her father sighed. “We are.”

Her mother whispered, “She has written to us.”

Amanderella blinked. “Maudline? Written to you?”

Amanderella sank slowly into the nearest chair.

Maudline Ppockingstull. Her best friend at school. At least, she had been until the year Maudline discovered Sport, the kind spelled with a capital S and spoken of in reverent tones by games mistresses everywhere. Almost overnight she had transformed from a perfectly ordinary thirteen‑year‑old into a tree‑trunk‑legged Amazon with a hockey stick she swung like a battle‑axe.

While Maudline was thundering up and down the pitch, flattening obstacles with cheerful enthusiasm, Amanderella had been quietly teaching herself the skills she thought an explorer ought to have: knot‑tying, map‑reading, and how to climb out of a window without being noticed.

They had drifted apart, as people sometimes do, though never unkindly. Maudline had gone on to become a Physical Education teacher at their old school. She was not one of those terrifying P.E. teachers who barked orders and blew whistles until the walls trembled. She was nice. Very nice. Just… extremely energetic. And extremely strong. And extremely enthusiastic about involving everyone else in whatever she was doing.