Angola Gaffletter Chapter 9.

Chapter Nine.

 

All Change.

 

Botswana’s letter arrived in early summer, written in her usual looping hand but with a new briskness. She thanked them again for their kindness after Zambezi Senior’s death, reported that Zambezi Junior was “solemn but improving,” and then added, almost casually:

“I have opened Lollingfolly House as a boarding house. One must make ends meet.”

Angola read the line twice.

A boarding house.

At Lollingfolly House.

With Botswana in charge.

She folded the letter carefully, sat at the kitchen table, and stared at the wall. The drapery ledger lay open beside her, its neat columns suddenly looking like the wrong sort of future.

Then she stood, went to the parlour door, and said briskly:

“Father, I know what I shall do.”

Corning looked up, startled. “Do?”

“When the drapery is sold, I shall run a boarding house.”

Corning stared at her as though she had announced she intended to become a lighthouse keeper.

“Angola… you cannot simply—”

She raised a hand, stopping him. “I can. And I shall.”

She paused. “I have savings.”

Corning blinked. “Savings?”

“Every penny you ever paid me,” she said. “And my profit share. I have never spent any of it.”

Corning sat back, astonished. Vera, pale against her pillows, looked at Angola with quiet pride and mild bewilderment.

Angola continued, steady and matter‑of‑fact:

“I am not helpless. I am not penniless. I can afford to begin again. Botswana has opened Lollingfolly House. If she can do it, so can I. I shall find a suitable place. Somewhere with plenty of rooms. Somewhere near the railway. Somewhere respectable.”

She paused, considering.

“In the Capital, perhaps.”

Corning opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally said, “Angola… are you sure?”

“I am.”

And she was. The idea had settled into her mind with the same solid certainty as a bolt of calico placed neatly on a shelf.

The drapery would be sold.

Vera would go to Switzerland.

Corning would accompany her.

And Angola, brisk, efficient, unflappable, would begin again.

Not as a draper.

Not as a shopkeeper.

But as a landlady.

After verifying her bank accounts down to the last farthing, Angola visited Matchem & Gudgeon, Estate Agents. As the drapery shop, warehouse, and Muppert home were already on their books, the partners were delighted to see her.

Mr Matchem pursed his lips when she instructed him to find a suitable property on the outskirts of the Capital. His eyebrows rose so high they nearly pushed his toupee off when she said she intended to open a lodging house.

“A property in the Capital is expensive, Miss Muppert,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t wish to look nearer home?”

Angola gave him the calm, level stare that had once made a travelling salesman abandon his entire suitcase of inferior calico.

“No. It must be the Capital. Near the railway. Respectable frontage. At least six bedrooms, a parlour, a dining room, and a kitchen large enough for proper work.”

Mr Matchem blinked rapidly.

Mr Gudgeon stopped pretending to sort papers.

“I have the funds,” Angola continued. “I have audited my accounts. I am prepared.”

Mr Matchem cleared his throat. “Even so… a lodging house requires a certain… standing. A mistress of such an establishment must be—”

Angola raised one eyebrow.

Mr Matchem reddened. Mr Gudgeon stepped in.

“What my partner means is that socially speaking, it would be considered inappropriate for a single woman to run a lodging house. People would talk.”

Angola nodded once. “I see. Thank you for your advice. You may find me a suitable property, and I shall find myself a suitable husband.”

That very evening, Angola called at Mrs Gaffletter’s house.

The house was neat, though not quite neat enough for Angola. The curtains hung a fraction unevenly, and the step had been swept by someone who believed sweeping was mostly enthusiasm. Still, it was respectable.

Angola knocked with firm, measured rhythm.

Mrs Gaffletter opened the door, surprised. “Miss Muppert! Is everything all right?”

“Entirely,” Angola said, stepping inside as though already invited. “I wished to enquire after your health.”

“My… health?”

“Yes. Your son was most considerate when my mother was unwell. It speaks well of him.”

Mrs Gaffletter coloured slightly. “Albert is a good lad.”

“He is,” Angola agreed. “Reliable. Steady. Clean boots.”

Albert’s boots, resting by the door, were indeed clean, though not polished to Angola’s standard.

Angola sat in the least wobbly armchair. Albert hovered in the doorway, pink about the ears, unsure whether to sit or fetch tea.

“Albert Arthur Cyril,” Angola said, “tea would be appropriate.”

He hurried off.

Mrs Gaffletter watched him go, then turned back to Angola. “Miss Muppert… forgive me, but is there a reason for your visit?”

“Yes,” Angola said. “I wished to speak with you before I speak with the Vicar.”

“The Vicar?”

Angola nodded. “I intend to arrange an interview. The banns must be read.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s mouth fell open. Albert, returning with the tea tray, nearly dropped it.

Angola continued calmly:

“Your son is a Proper Person. He does things properly. He is considerate when mothers are unwell. He does not create additional work. I require a husband of that type.”

Albert made a small startled noise.

Mrs Gaffletter stared at her son, then at Angola.

“Well,” she said faintly, “if Albert Arthur Cyril is agreeable…”

Angola turned to him. “Albert Arthur Cyril?”

He swallowed. She asked, “You are not walking out with anyone, are you?”

He shook his head.

“Well then,” said Angola.

Albert straightened his posture. “Yes, Miss Muppert. I am agreeable.”

“Good,” Angola said. “Then we shall proceed sensibly.”

And that was that, the most efficient engagement in parish history.

The Vicarage was quiet except for the ticking of a tall clock and the distant clatter of hymn sheets. Angola approached the door with her usual purposeful stride, Albert following like a man swept along by a brisk tide.

She knocked firmly.

The maid answered with solemn importance. “Miss Muppert. Mr Gaffletter. I shall inform the Vicar.”

Angola approved of her efficiency.

They were shown into the study, a room that had once been tidy but had surrendered to hopeful piles of books. The Vicar looked as though he had been interrupted mid‑sermon.

“Miss Muppert! Mr Gaffletter! Please, come in.”

Angola stepped forward. “We require an interview.”

“An… interview?”

“For the banns,” Angola said. “We intend to marry.”

Albert stood beside her, boots polished, ears pink.

The Vicar stared. “Oh! Well. Yes. Please sit.”

Angola chose the least dusty chair. Albert sat neatly beside her.

The Vicar cleared his throat. “Miss Muppert, you are certain?”

“Yes. Mr Gaffletter is reliable, considerate, and does not create additional work.”

Albert coloured, pleased.

“And you, Mr Gaffletter?” the Vicar asked.

“Yes, sir.”

The Vicar wrote down their names. “You wish the banns read beginning Sunday?”

“Yes,” Angola said. “At eleven o’clock.”

The Vicar blinked. “Ah. Yes. Eleven.”

He hesitated. “May I ask how long you have been… courting?”

Angola answered immediately.

“We are not courting. We are proceeding.”

Albert nodded earnestly.

The Vicar made a small sound of confusion. “Well. Perfectly acceptable.”

Angola rose. “Thank you. We shall attend on Sunday.”

Albert stood too, relieved.

“I wish you both every happiness,” the Vicar said.

“We intend to be respectable,” Angola replied.