Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

 

The Arrival,

 

Maudline did not simply arrive; she came down the drive with the determined rattle of a woman who had conquered several miles and intended to conquer several more. The bicycle complained under her, its bell giving the occasional startled tring whenever her thumb slipped on the lever.

The tyres, worn smooth from long service, whispered over the gravel as she skidded to a halt in a spray of dust.

The bicycle’s frame was so sturdy it could probably support a small bridge.

With each furious pump of Maudline’s legs, the leather saddle gave a high‑pitched, rhythmic shriek of protest, a sound that clashed with the clattering mudguards. The metal flaps shook uselessly, offering her sturdy woollen stockings no protection at all from the spray of grit.

Because she gripped the handlebars with the white‑knuckled intensity of a woman wrestling a bull, her thumb staying jammed against the brass bell lever.  

Strapped to the crossbar with a length of weathered twine was a hockey stick, its taped head pointing forward like a lance. It was there “just in case”.

She came down the lane with her boots stuck out for balance, ignoring the brake levers entirely and skidding to a flint‑sparking stop. The basket on the handlebars, overflowing with dried lavender and what looked very much like a startled ginger cat, rattled with every stone.

The gravel crunched in metallic protest as Maudline made her entrance, a whirlwind of spinning spokes and fluttering wool. She didn’t so much arrive as get swept along by the bicycle’s enthusiasm, her black‑framed machine listing dangerously to the left under the weight of the wicker baskets tied to it.

Before anyone inside the Hall could respond, the basket gave a sudden twitch. Something ginger and fluffy shot upwards in a blur, arcing through the air like a startled comet.

It landed on the gravel with a soft fwump, rolled twice, and came to rest in a heap of orange fur and glassy eyes.

“Oh heavens!” Lady Gottsnobbler cried from the drawing‑room window. “A cat! The cat is escaping!”

“It’s not a cat,” Amanderella murmured, already recognising the shape.

Maudline looked down with mild annoyance. “Oh bother. My scarf’s made a bid for freedom again.”

She scooped up the faux fox by its tail, shook off the dust, and slung it around her neck with the ease of long practice.

“It gets ideas,” she said cheerfully. “Terribly independent for something without legs.”

The bicycle gave a final, exhausted click.

Maudline planted her hands on her hips. “Now then! Where’s Amanderella? I’ve got a mystery and a map.”

Amanderella appeared in the doorway, tea towel forgotten. “Maudline… is that really you?”

“Amanderella! Still hovering in doorways, I see,” Maudline boomed, delivering a bracing clap to her shoulder that nearly sent the towel flying.

Drawn by the bell, the skid, and the general sense that their gravel had suffered a traumatic event, Lady and Lord Gottsnobbler edged out onto the step behind their daughter.

Maudline spotted them and strode forward with the unstoppable cheer of a marching band.

“Aunt Gottsnobbler! Uncle Gottsnobbler!”

Lady Gottsnobbler braced herself. “Oh dear. She’s coming at speed.”

Maudline seized her hands in a hearty clasp that nearly lifted her off the ground.

Lady Gottsnobbler’s hat slid sideways. “Good gracious,” she wheezed. “She shakes hands like a small earthquake.”

Lord Gottsnobbler, receiving his handshake next, staggered backwards and collided with the umbrella stand.

He straightened at once, dignity wobbling. “I shall write to the school,” he announced faintly. “No one should be allowed to develop such alarming forearms.”

Amanderella cleared her throat. “Mother, Father… shall we take Maudline inside?”

Lady Gottsnobbler nodded rapidly. “Yes. Yes, inside. Before the bicycle… expresses itself again.”

Lord Gottsnobbler eyed the faux‑fox scarf, which stared back with glassy indifference. “And perhaps before anything else escapes.”

Maudline laughed, loud and delighted. “Nonsense! Nothing escapes me for long.”

The faux fox slid slightly down her shoulder in silent disagreement.

Behind them, the bicycle gave a metallic groan and shed a small shower of gravel, as if exhausted by the journey.

Mrs Gottsnobbler jumped. “Does it always do that?”

“Only when it’s happy,” Maudline said Maudline laughed, loud and delighted, “

The procession into the parlour was less of a stroll and more of a forced march, with Maudline acting as both the commander and the heavy artillery. As they crossed the threshold, the very air in the hallway seemed to compress under the sheer volume of her tweed‑clad presence.

Lord Gottsnobbler hovered near the hat stand, watching with grim fascination as Maudline began to divest herself of her “armour”.

First came the hockey stick. She propped it against the floral wallpaper with a definitive thwack. It leaned there, curved and menacing, looking entirely out of place beside a delicate watercolour of a Sussex meadow.

Next, with a brisk theatrical flourish, she unwound the faux‑fox scarf. The glassy‑eyed creature was draped over the banister, where it hung limp and exhausted, as though it had endured a particularly harrowing gale. Then she deposited it onto the lace doily of the sideboard with a weight that made the sherry decanter jump.

Lady Gottsnobbler, having finally recovered her hand from Maudline’s strong grip, was busy counting her fingers to ensure they were all still attached.

“Do sit down, Maudline,” she managed, gesturing vaguely toward a wingback chair, the only piece of furniture she deemed strong enough to support a woman of such vigour. “Amanderella, dear, perhaps some tea? Or… a restorative? Maudline looks as though she’s just crossed the Alps.”

“The Alps? Ha!” Maudline boomed, dropping into the chair with a force that made the springs shriek in a higher register than the bicycle saddle. “Just the B‑roads, Aunt! Potholes the size of soup tureens. Character‑building, that’s what they are.”

Lord Gottsnobbler retreated toward the fireplace. He kept a wary eye on the wicker basket, which had begun to emit a faint, earthy smell, something between damp moss and old library books.

Meanwhile, the faux fox on the banister slid another inch toward the floor, its glass eyes fixed on the door as if plotting a silent escape.