Amanderella Gottsnobbler and the Bangolin Tree Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

A Home Visit.

The pad was her expedition stationery, the waterproof kind that had once survived a week in the Amazon wedged under a capybara, and she examined the point of her pencil with the air of someone preparing to issue orders to a small army.

Her luggage, after all, was still at the harbour. She wrote: Captain Trumpuffer,
Please release my luggage from your safekeeping and have it conveyed to Mrs Gaffletter’s boarding house at your earliest convenience.

P.S. If any member of your staff attempts to reorganise my expedition equipment for neatness, remind them that I have returned from the Amazon with a sharpened hatpin and no fear of using it, and a very steady aim.

Mrs Gaffletter, upon hearing the postscript read aloud, nodded with approval. “A young lady should always be prepared,” she said, “especially when luggage is involved.”

Amanderella agreed. Luggage brought out the worst in people. Hatpins brought out the best in her.

Captain Trumpuffer did not deliver luggage himself. Harbour masters did not carry things. They pointed at things, they catalogued things, and they shouted at people who carried things. The actual carrying was left to the porters, who came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and levels of ability.

Amanderella’s luggage fell to Mr Blodger Tump.

Mr Tump was a round, cheerful man whose cap was always slightly off‑centre, as though it had been surprised by his head. He had the remarkable ability to drop objects without ever quite letting go of them, which meant that everything he carried travelled in a series of small, panicked bounces.

He arrived at Mrs Gaffletter’s doorstep pushing Amanderella’s hold‑alls on a trolley that squeaked in protest.

“Delivery for Lady Gottsnobbler,” he announced, beaming with the pride of a man who had successfully transported something without losing it in the harbour. “Mr Tump, at your service,” he added, patting the trunk.

Amanderella opened the door. Her eyes travelled from Mr Tump’s hopeful smile to the trunk, which was leaning at an angle that suggested it had recently attempted a somersault.

“Mr Tump,” she said, “did you meet difficulties?”

“Oh no, miss,” he replied cheerfully. “Only the usual ones. A gull tried to make off with your hatbox, but I told it that was not proper behaviour. Then the trolley wheel came off, but I put it back on. Then it came off again, but I put it back on again. Then the trolley tried to roll into the water, but I stopped it with my foot.”

He held out his foot for inspection.

Amanderella inspected his foot. It was damp.

“And the hold‑all?” she asked.

Mr Tump brightened. “Only fell over twice, miss. Three times if you count the bit where it slid down the ramp, but I caught it before it reached the fish barrels.”

Mrs Gaffletter, who had appeared silently behind Amanderella, gasped. “Fish barrels,” she repeated, horrified.

Amanderella placed a steadying hand on her hatpin. “Mr Tump, I appreciate your efforts. Truly. But I must ask, did anything inside the trunk suffer damage?”

“Oh no, miss,” he said confidently. “Everything is exactly as it was. Except the tin cup, which made a sort of ringing noise when the trunk tipped over. But I think it enjoyed the excitement.”

Amanderella exhaled slowly. “The tin cup does not enjoy excitement.”

“No, miss,” Mr Tump said, nodding earnestly. “I see that now.”

She paid him, thanked him, and watched him wobble away down the street, whistling a tune that didn’t seem to have any actual notes.

Mrs Gaffletter folded her arms. “If he ever touches your luggage again, I shall have words.”

Amanderella smiled. “If he ever touches my luggage again, I shall have my hatpin.”

She opened the first hold‑all. Everything was, miraculously, undamaged. The tin cup gleamed. The compass pointed north.

Amanderella nodded with satisfaction She set the hold‑alls neatly beside the bed, each one lined up perfectly straight. With her luggage safely delivered and Mr Tump wobbling off into the distance like a man held together by enthusiasm rather than bones, she turned her attention to the true challenge of the afternoon.

The hallway was quiet. Mrs Gaffletter, thank goodness, was nowhere in sight. The woman had a sixth sense for dirt, and Amanderella had no desire to trigger it prematurely.

She carried her boots to the small washstand by the window, set them down as carefully as if she were preparing for surgery, and rolled up her sleeves.

The boots were disgraceful. They were also magnificent. Every scuff was a story; every smear of mud a reminder of rivers, vines, and creatures that had tried to eat her compass. But even sentiment had limits, and Mrs Gaffletter’s carpets certainly did.

Amanderella tapped the heel of the first boot over the basin.

A clod of dried mud fell away, and something in it caught the light.

She frowned, leaned closer, and tapped again. More flakes dropped, scattering into the basin like dry crumbs from a biscuit. And there, nestled among the dust, was a glint.

Amanderella reached for her magnifying glass, the same one she had used to identify Whistling Blue Monkey tracks at twenty paces, and bent over the basin.

She blinked. The mud was full of diamonds.

Tiny ones, yes, no larger than coarse salt, but unmistakably diamonds, winking up at her as if they knew they were worth a fortune.

“Well,” Amanderella murmured, “that explains why the mud was so reluctant to leave.”

She tapped the second boot. More glitter. More tiny, perfect stones.

Amanderella fetched a specimen tin from her hold‑all, labelled it Amazonian Alluvial Curiosity, Sample A, and began collecting the sparkling grains with the brisk efficiency of a woman who had absolutely no intention of letting Mrs Gaffletter discover that her hallway had nearly been sprinkled with gemstones.

Only when the boots were clean, the diamonds secured, and the basin rinsed to an innocent shine did she allow herself a small, satisfied nod.

Her boots gleamed. Her vest clinked. And the world, she suspected, was about to become very interesting indeed.