Angola Gaffletter Chapter 2

Chapter Two.

 

Miss Ganner’s Finest Pupil.

 

By the time Angola Muppert turned twelve, she had become something of a local legend. Nether Wintle was not a village known for prodigies, unless one counted Mr Pottle’s enormous prize marrows, yet even the butcher admitted that “the eldest Muppert girl” had a remarkably formidable air about her.

Angola herself would have said she simply had standards.

The Muppert household now ran with the smooth precision of a well‑oiled railway line. Angola’s first timetable, pinned neatly beside the umbrella stand, had grown into a full weekly rota. It included:

Mud Inspection Hour, Botswana and Sudan failed every single day.

Jam Tart Amnesty, Mauritius handed over his tarts with the tragic dignity of a boy losing a best friend.

Togo’s Sliding Prohibition, broken every Thursday without fail.

Vera Muppert, who had once considered herself a firm mother, now found herself quietly obeying her twelve‑year‑old daughter. She removed her boots at the back door. She folded tea towels along the grain. She even stopped placing the sugar bowl slightly off‑centre, having learned that Angola could detect a quarter‑inch misalignment from across the room.

Corning Muppert returned from his weekly mill journeys, paused in the doorway, sniffed the air, and murmured, “It smells… organised.”

Then Angola would appear, check his collar, and inform him that his boots were “an insult to civilised society.” Corning accepted this with the weary resignation of a man who had lost control of his own hallway around the time Sudan learned to walk.

Nether Wintle’s residents spoke of Angola in hushed, admiring tones.

Mrs Pritchard at the post office said, “That girl will run something big one day. Possibly Parliament.”

Mr Pottle, polishing a giant marrow, muttered, “She’ll be running my vegetable patch if I’m not careful.”

Even Miss Maudy Ganner, who rarely praised anyone twice in a decade, remarked that Angola had “a spine that could support a collapsing barn.”

In truth, Miss Ganner was delighted. More and more parents sent their daughters to her classes, convinced that if Miss Ganner could produce someone as capable as Angola, her lessons were worth every penny.

Botswana overheard this praise and tried to stand straighter, but her spine preferred gentle wandering. Miss Ganner said nothing about Botswana’s posture. She simply wrote in her private notebook:

Angola: Exemplary. (A grade she had never used before and doubted she ever would again.)

Botswana: Unpredictable, but kindly. (Botswana’s curtseys drifted sideways and her speech wandered like a stray sheep, but she was never unkind, merely whimsical.)

Soon Miss Ganner decided to expand her business. She announced a new class: Basic Gentlemanly Conduct for Boys. She had rejected “Male Deportment” (too medical) and “Civilising the Young Male” (too honest).

She pinned a notice to the saddler’s door:

MISS MAUDY GANNER 

Instructor of Dance, Deportment & Elocution

Now Accepting Boys for Gentlemanly Conduct 

(Clean boots preferred)

Nether Wintle reacted with curiosity and alarm. The village had never attempted to refine its boys before. Most parents thought it hopeless. But Angola’s success, and a rumour that Miss Ganner had taught Millicent Pottle how to sit without slumping, proved irresistible.

Within a week, a small troop of boys arrived for the first lesson.

Miss Ganner surveyed them with the wary look of someone who had just discovered a hornets’ nest under her sofa cushions.

Sudan Muppert was there, tracking mud despite having walked only twenty yards.

Togo had tied his winter scarf tightly around his waist “for sliding momentum,” though Miss Ganner had no idea what that meant.

Mauritius had sticky fingers and was already eyeing the lavender water bottle with dangerous interest.

Four other boys completed the group:

Edwin Pottle, who slouched like a half‑empty sack of potatoes.

Timothy Blench, who giggled every time anyone said “gentleman.”

Arthur Peebles, who had never removed his cap indoors and refused to start now.

Albert Arthur Cyril Gaffletter, who was always called by all four names.

Albert Arthur Cyril’s mother insisted on all four names. His father obeyed. Albert Arthur Cyril himself seemed faintly surprised whenever anyone addressed him, as though he was still getting used to carrying so many names around.

Miss Ganner regarded him with interest. Boys with multiple names, she believed, were destined for greatness or chaos. Albert Arthur Cyril seemed unsure which direction to choose.

He stood very straight, not from good posture, but from fear of dropping one of his names. He spoke in tiny, careful syllables, as though words were eggshells. He bowed with a dramatic flourish, as if he had once seen a picture of a prince and was trying to copy it.

He was also noticeably short, not small, exactly, but economical. People instinctively looked around for a footstool.

Albert Arthur Cyril had another problem: he could not speak to girls. Whenever a girl looked at him, he blinked twice, bowed once, and made a squeak that might have been a greeting or an apology.

Botswana found him delightful. “He’s like a mouse that’s been to etiquette school,” she whispered.

Albert Arthur Cyril heard her, turned bright red, and bowed three times, to Botswana, to Angola, and to the carpet.

Angola looked him up and down. “He needs proper training,” she said, in the same tone she used for muddy boots.

Miss Ganner wrote in her notebook:

Albert Arthur Cyril Gaffletter 

Height: Short

Speech: Nervous

Potential: Good, if handled gently

Lesson One: Standing Still

Standing still proved impossible.

Sudan leaned against the doorframe.

Togo wriggled like an eel.

Mauritius pressed his sticky hands against the wallpaper.

Edwin slumped.

Timothy giggled.

Arthur Peebles clutched his cap.

Albert Arthur Cyril blushed.

Miss Ganner pressed her temples. “Boys,” she said, “a gentleman stands as if he is preparing to greet a duke.”

Togo brightened. “Is a duke coming?”

“No, Togo.”

Botswana drifted into the doorway. “I think they’re doing very well,” she whispered.

Miss Ganner closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

At that moment, Angola walked in. She took in the chaos instantly and produced her sharp, compressed sandpaper sound.

Arthur Peebles was so startled he yanked off his cap.

Botswana whispered, “She didn’t even touch him.”

Albert Arthur Cyril bowed twice in admiration.

Miss Ganner sighed with relief. “Miss Muppert, your assistance, if you please.”

Angola stepped forward like a young officer.

“Sudan,” she said, “your boots are a disgrace.”

“Botswana cleaned them!” Sudan protested.

“I wiped them on the grass,” Botswana said sadly.

Angola gave her a look that made it clear grass was not an acceptable cleaning method.

With calm, firm movements, she straightened Edwin’s shoulders, adjusted Timothy’s feet, and pulled Mauritius away from the wallpaper using a clean handkerchief.

Miss Ganner watched in awe. “Miss Muppert… please continue.”

Angola did.

By the end of the hour, the boys stood in a mostly straight line. Sudan’s boots were cleaner. Togo had not slid once. Mauritius had touched only two forbidden items. Arthur Peebles was hatless. Albert Arthur Cyril was still blushing, but standing very straight.

Word spread quickly: Miss Ganner was civilising the village boys. Parents sent their sons in droves. The saddler’s stairs creaked every Tuesday under the weight of nervous boys and muddy boots.

During this triumphant period, Vera announced that Angola was to join Mrs Trillbury’s Young Ladies’ Evening Society, a weekly gathering to teach conversation, poise, and how to pour tea without spilling it.

Angola nodded seriously.

Botswana gasped. “Do they… talk to each other?”

“They converse,” Angola corrected.

Sudan, balancing a spoon on his nose, asked, “Do they have doormats?”

Angola gave him The Stare. The spoon fell off instantly.

Mrs Trillbury lived in a tall, narrow house with stiff lace curtains and a habit of making girls feel important and slightly nervous.

On the first Thursday, Angola arrived exactly on time, her gloves spotless and her hair pinned neatly. Botswana arrived six minutes late, having stopped to watch a caterpillar cross the gravel.

Inside, Mrs Trillbury clapped her hands. “Welcome, young ladies. Today we practise polite conversation. A proper lady never speaks loudly, never interrupts, and never mentions unpleasant things like mud, illness, or pigs.”

Botswana’s face fell. Mud was her favourite topic.

Angola raised her chin. “Mrs Trillbury, I should like to discuss the rules of a clean kitchen.”

“A wonderful topic!” Mrs Trillbury said.

Angola gave a crisp five‑minute talk about scrubbing floors, folding tea towels, and the dangers of messy brothers. Three girls listened in awe. One girl felt faint.

Trouble began when Mrs Trillbury brought out a silver tray of jam sponge cakes.

Botswana reached for one, but her frilled sleeve caught the lace tablecloth.

The cloth dragged.

The tray tilted.

The cakes began to slide.

Angola made her sharp sandpaper sound, so sharp it could have cut glass.

She darted forward, caught the tray, straightened the cloth, and set everything back without losing a crumb.

The room fell silent.

Mrs Trillbury put a hand over her heart. “My dear Angola… you have the quick hands of a duchess!”

Botswana whispered, “I only wanted a cake.”

Angola whispered back, “You nearly caused an untidy disaster.”

By the end of the term, Angola was the clear leader of the Evening Society. She corrected posture, guided conversation, and once moved a girl’s teacup three inches because it was “dangerously close to the edge.”

Botswana made friends with a girl from Upper Wintle who also collected caterpillars.

When Vera arrived to collect them, Mrs Trillbury whispered, “Your eldest girl is a marvel, Mrs Muppert. A complete marvel.”

Vera beamed.

Botswana handed her mother a shiny black beetle.