by Mandy Morton
‘We thought that about Jam Makers Inn, but it’s been just lovely here,’ Tilly said, buttoning up the travel cardigan that Lamorna had successfully dried out after her fall down the mineshaft; Absalom had gone to great pains, too, to retrieve her missing wellington from the hole in the snow. ‘It’s a shame we’ve got to leave today. I’d love to spend Christmas here – we had such a jolly time last night.’
The memory of her overindulgence inspired Hettie to change the subject before she revisited her breakfast. ‘We’d better make tracks,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and fetch the suitcase down if you can manage the tartan shopper, then we’d better say our farewells and throw ourselves on the mercy of Marlon and his van.’
Evergreen Flinch had resisted the temptation to disrupt their luggage, and it was with some regret that they closed the door on Damson and bumped down the stairs and out into what was now a very muddy yard. True to his word, Marlon had his engine running, but, as Hettie looked over the bright red vehicle, an air of uncertainty engulfed her: the engine sounded like it had been modified for a tractor and the actual bodywork still clinging to the chassis of the small van was sporadic; there was a wheel arch missing from the front, and the number plate was tied on at a jaunty angle, dangling in the mud at the back where one of the doors had suffered some sort of impact. She glanced across the yard at the stable where Absalom’s rescue horse was devouring a nosebag of oats, and wished with all her heart that their onward journey to Crabstock Manor could be achieved in the same manner as they had arrived. Seeing her hesitation, Marlon leapt from his driver’s seat and took charge of the luggage, hurling it into the back of the van in case she changed her mind; Lady Crabstock offered him a handsome fee for transporting her guests from Jam Makers Inn, and he wasn’t about to jeopardise that.
‘There’s room for you both up front,’ the post-cat said as he secured the back doors with a length of rope. ‘Best to share a seat close to the ’eater as it won’t reach the back.’
Hettie and Tilly struggled through the mud to the passenger side of Marlon’s van and eyed up the space they were to share. As they were about to get in, Absalom strode across the yard, waving towards the archway. They looked in the direction to which he pointed and noticed that their carefully constructed snow cat, Osbert Twigg, now wore one of his old wide-brimmed hats and a red-and-green striped scarf, and stood waiting to wave them off. Lamorna joined Absalom in the yard and thrust a warm parcel into Hettie’s paws. ‘’Ot pasties just out of my oven for your journey. Make sure you both come back an’ see us very soon.’ Absalom grunted in agreement and Hettie and Tilly climbed into Marlon’s van and settled themselves amid a sea of empty Doom Bar bottles and crisp packets.
Marlon revved up the van and released the handbrake, setting the back wheels spinning in the mud and splattering Lamorna and Absalom from head to toe. Now that both the landlord and his lady were as filthy as they could be, there was no reason why they shouldn’t pitch in to release the van from its quagmire – and pitch in they did, using every ounce of strength they could muster until the van finally broke free of the mud and shot across the yard and out through the archway.
The rear-view mirror revealed an endearing image of Lamorna and Absalom Tweek, lying prostrate in the mud and lifting their paws in unison in a final act of hospitality as they waved their visitors off across Bodkin Moor. In fact, Tilly could have sworn that even Osbert Twigg smiled and nodded as they spun past him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The moor was still deep in snow and the tracks remained hazardous, although it was clear to Hettie and Tilly that Marlon Brandish was master of this wild terrain, with or without his Doom Bar habit. The van rose and fell with every dip and bump in the road, slipping and sliding first on the ice and then on the mud; eventually, as the winter sun rose in the sky, Marlon forced his way through perilously deep floods of melted snow.
The van may have seen better days, but sadly there was nothing wrong with the cassette machine which poked its way out of the dashboard. Marlon’s passion for Cornish choirs didn’t sit too well with Hettie’s or Tilly’s ears for a good tune, and by the time they left the moors behind and were heading for the south coast, they would both have been thrilled to set Trelawny free by taking up the good sword and a trusty paw themselves. It was no surprise that this Cornish cat of legend had been imprisoned in the Tower of London if he sang in the same aggressive manner as the Rinsey Tom Cat Ensemble, who had been delighting and disturbing in equal measure since the journey began.
It occurred to Hettie that a little light conversation might serve as good reason to turn down the in-van entertainment, and, after a bit of a shouting match, Marlon’s paw reached for the volume control. Relieved not to have to sit through ‘Bread of Heaven’ one more time – it was clearly one of Marlon’s top tunes – Hettie launched into a series of questions which she thought he might enjoy answering. Almost by accident, Tilly hit the eject button on the cassette, allowing the Rinsey choir to leap into the footwell along with the empty Doom Bar bottles; it was a perfect example of teamwork, and the journey continued in a slightly more peaceful fashion.
‘Do you have any deliveries to do today?’ Hettie asked, noticing that there was no postbag in the van.
‘Not as such,’ Marlon replied, crunching his gears. ‘I tries to limit the hours I’m out at this time of year – on account of the weather, see. We gets snow on the moors an’ storms on the shores, an’ all sorts in between, an’ my poor van an’ me suffer from the weather. We don’t come out unless there’s a proper job on.’
Hettie thought for a moment, staring at Marlon’s crumpled uniform and mentally comparing his lacklustre approach to that of their own postmistress, Lavender Stamp, who presided over the town with a rod of regulation and an iron will to make sure that the mail was always delivered on time. ‘Isn’t delivering the mail a proper job every day?’ she enquired innocently, picking up speed on the subject as Tilly giggled into her scarf.
‘Well, if we’ve got weather, cats don’t go out – so there’s nothin’ in the boxes to collect an’ that means there’s nothin’ to deliver either. If we gets a nice day without weather, then I know I’ll be busy ’cause they all go out an’ post their letters an’ then I can collect ’em up for delivery. Mind you, if the next day is a day when we ’appen to ’ave weather again, I ’ave to wait to deliver, so that means they ’ave to wait.’
‘So what about Christmas?’ Hettie continued. ‘Aren’t you really busy at this time of year?’
‘Well, we starts the Christmas early you see. If it isn’t in the box by the first of December, there’s no real chance of it getting there if the weather comes in, and Cornish folk are used to that.’
Hettie decided to give in to Marlon’s unshakable logic. It made no difference to her one way or the other, but she inwardly marvelled that Lady Crabstock’s summons had ever reached the No. 2 Feline Detective Agency at all if Marlon Brandish had had anything to do with it.
By now, the wildness of the moors had given way to rolling farmland and the occasional small village. The landscape was littered with towering, redundant tin mines standing dark against the melting snow, and, as the daylight began to fade, lamps came on one by one in solitary farmhouses, bringing the countryside to life. As they passed on through the villages, twinkly Christmas lights lit up the windows and kittens swathed in scarves, hats and mittens dragged their toboggans home for tea.
The heat from Lamorna’s pasties which had served as a hot-water bottle for the first part of the journey had died down, but the smell of the pastry was becoming unbearable to Hettie; it was some time since they had consumed their full Cornish. ‘Shall we stop for a bite to eat?’ she suggested, unwrapping the parcel and admiring its contents.
‘I’d rather keep the engine running,’ said Marlon, swerving into the side of the road as he reached across Tilly for one of the pasties. ‘If we stops now we might not get going again, an’ we got a few miles yet before we reach Porthladle. You woul
dn’t want to get stuck out ’ere in the dark.’
Hettie and Tilly agreed, and the three cats contentedly munched their way through Lamorna’s parting gift until there was hardly a crumb of evidence left. The rest of the journey was taken up with sharp bends, steep hills and worrying floodwater, and Marlon had to drag himself out of his driver’s seat twice to remove branches in the road while Hettie kept her paw on the accelerator, revving it up in case the engine stalled. The thaw had sent torrents of muddy water down from the hills onto the roads, and Marlon strove to negotiate the various hazards as the wind began to pick up, growing ever stronger as they neared the coast and their eventual destination. ‘Bad weather comin’ in,’ he said, almost gleefully. ‘I shall be forced to keep myself indoors till this one blows itself out. Shouldn’t be surprised if it don’t last well into the New Year. Porthladle – she’s famous for ’er storms. Folk come from all over to see the waves.’
‘Isn’t it dangerous?’ asked Tilly nervously.
‘Only for them that drowns. Waves can pick you up an’ throw you into the sea, and there’s no chance of bein’ saved. Days later you come ashore – naked, skinned, and proper dead.’
Tilly wished she hadn’t asked and tried to brighten the conversation. ‘I expect Porthladle is lovely in the summer for a seaside holiday, though.’
‘Well, that depends. Beaches is too dangerous as the tide comes in when you’re not lookin’. An’ then there’s the rocks.’
Hettie and Tilly waited some time for Marlon to qualify his statement but, as nothing seemed forthcoming, Hettie did the nudging. ‘What about the rocks?’
Marlon rose to the question as he steered them out of a deep trench of water that bubbled across the road. ‘Well, take last summer. We’d been battered by the weather all the spring, an’ when things calmed down the visitors arrived to enjoy the sun, sand an’ sea. They took their picnics down the beach, found themselves a nice spot out of the wind, then crash! All over in seconds.’ Marlon paused for dramatic effect, then continued. ‘Family of four last time it ’appened, buried from the cliff fall. We found their sandwiches scattered in the sand but it took days for me an’ Sooty Perkins to dig ’em out. They sat right under them rocks, they did, an’ down they came – loosened by the storms, see.’
Hettie felt that she should ask the obvious question. ‘Were there any survivors?’
‘No chance! Sooty did a grand job of scrapin’ them off the rocks an’ we sent what was left of ’em upcountry to their nearest and dearest. We ’ad three lots like that this summer, and then there’s the paddle boarders.’
Hettie and Tilly were saved from more of Marlon’s morbid tales by the sign that loomed ahead of them, announcing that they had finally arrived in Porthladle. The road into the village was full of twists and turns with the occasional dimly lit cottage, but nothing could have prepared them for the carnival of lights that swung violently across the harbour as they rounded the final bend. Tilly gasped with sheer delight. ‘Oh, look! It’s so pretty. They’ve got reindeers in the sky, and fish – and I think that one might be a pasty.’
The light show was certainly impressive, but Hettie was more concerned with the strength of the wind that had hit them full force as they entered the harbour, buffeting Marlon’s van to the other side of the road. A tall Christmas tree stood bent and twisted on its moorings at the head of the harbour, threatening to break loose and dance into the sea, and one or two brave cats shrouded in oil skins made slow progress along the pavements, bent double against the blast as they went about their business.
Marlon steered the van past the harbour and up a short but steep hill. Suddenly, without any warning, the vehicle coughed, spluttered and died, and he brought it to what seemed to be a well-practised bit of parking outside the Atlantic Inn. The inn sat perched on a high road, overlooking Porthladle’s harbour to the right and out across the ocean to the left. Hettie and Tilly waited for Marlon to make some attempt at restarting his van, but instead he opened his door to get out. ‘That’s as far as we’re goin’ at the moment,’ he said, his words drifting away in the wind. ‘Van needs a rest before we try the hill up to Crabstock Manor. Out you get – you may as well stretch your legs an’ meet some of the locals.’
Hettie marvelled at Marlon’s transparency: clearly the van was going nowhere until he had paid his respects at the bar of the Atlantic, and there was nothing to do but follow him into his own personal port in a storm. The inn was a hubbub of noisy cats drinking, playing various table games, and filling the air with thick smoke from their catnip pipes. Marlon forced his way to the bar while Hettie and Tilly found a seat by the open fire. An elderly cat, much the worse for drink, attempted to serenade Tilly with a rather off-colour sea shanty, but he was soon brought under control by an equally drunk tabby who confiscated his concertina, hurling it onto a table in the corner to interrupt a rather tense game of dominoes. The dominoes flew through the air and showered down onto some of the assembled company as paws were raised, one or two of them landing on unsuspecting chins. Things could have got much worse had it not been for a magnificent black-and-white cat who was serving drinks at the bar; he leapt into the action, grabbing the collars of those keen for a fight and depositing them outside to cool down in the storm.
Marlon managed to make his way across to the fire with three pints of Doom Bar. Setting them down on a table, he proceeded to work his way round the immediate area with some introductions, starting with the cat who had dealt so well with the fallout from the dominoes. ‘This ’ere is my good friend Mr Sooty Perkins – a cat that ’as a claw in every pie. ’E runs the An Murdress ’Otel. ’E gardens up at Crabstock. ’E builds things out of wood, an’ lends a paw on busy nights in ’ere when ’e’s not out fishin’.’
Sooty Perkins bowed low to acknowledge Hettie and Tilly. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, an’ I ’ope your stay will be a nice one over Christmas. If you’re lookin’ for somewhere to stay, my ’otel is just along the road. The best view in all of Cornwall if you’ve come to watch the weather, an’ my breakfast griddle is as famous as the great storm of ’75.’
Hettie and Tilly instantly liked Sooty Perkins, and felt quite sorry to have to turn down his hotel. ‘I’m afraid we’re staying at Crabstock Manor,’ Hettie explained, ‘but if we weren’t, we would love to try your griddle.’
Sooty laughed. ‘Well, let me just say this – if you ’ave any trouble up at the manor, you get yourselves out of there an’ come to me. Odd things is ’appening up there, an’ that might not be to your likin’. An’ watch out for them Bunns.’ He didn’t stay long enough to expand on the warning, and Hettie wasn’t sure whether he meant the food or the servants, but there was no doubt that they were set on a course to find out.
Marlon continued with his introductions, and Hettie and Tilly nodded to a sea of faces and a host of nicknames: Salty; Scrumpy; Potsy; Dory; Welks; Boy Cockle – who wouldn’t see seventy again – and Loveday Whisk, a buxom cat who would share a joke with anyone willing to top up her tumbler with rum. An hour and two more pints of Doom Bar passed before Marlon was finally ready to make his delivery to Crabstock Manor. Hettie and Tilly had only taken small sips from their drinks before passing them on to Boy Cockle while no one was looking. It occurred to Hettie that they would need a clear head for their first meeting with Lady Crabstock-Singe – and she was right.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Back in Marlon’s van, it was no surprise that the vehicle started first time. Refreshed from his drinks, the post-cat forced the van into gear and pulled away from the Atlantic Inn, following the road down the hill and taking the coastal route out of the village. Tilly marvelled at the high seas as the little van was buffeted by the winds, and Hettie stared nervously at the windscreen wipers, which had given up in the face of the storm. There was nothing to be seen in front of them but lashing rain as the little van climbed a steep hill with Marlon wishing it on and crunching the gears until they almost came to a standstill. Suddenly it was over. Marlon f
lung his door open, and the wind nearly ripped it out of his paw. ‘Destination straight ahead!’ he shouted as he lurched round to the back of the van to haul their luggage out.
Hettie and Tilly clambered out and took charge of the suitcase and tartan shopper, squinting through the rain for any sign of the manor house. Marlon shut the back doors and returned to his driver’s seat, wasting no time in turning the van round and heading back towards the village. Abandoned, soaked to the skin and forlorn in every sense, Hettie and Tilly moved forward as the storm reached new heights. They stumbled blindly ahead, fighting the wind and deafened by the roaring noise of the sea which seemed close enough to engulf them at any moment.
Just when all hope had left them, the edifice of Crabstock Manor rose up ahead like a threatening monster – vast, unwelcoming, and straight out of one of Tilly’s Hammer Horror films. The two friends clung to each other and dragged their luggage up a flight of steps to a huge oak door. The door looked impregnable, but Hettie hurled herself at it in an attempt to draw attention to those within. It seemed a very long time before the sound of heavy bolts being drawn across punctuated the howling wind. ‘Welcome to Crabstock Manor!’ shouted the tall, gaunt, grey cat, dressed from head to toe in livery. ‘Please step this way.’
Hettie and Tilly fell over the threshold like a pair of half-drowned rats as their saviour relieved them of suitcase and shopper. ‘I am Bunn, ’Er Ladyship’s butler, ’andy cat, an’ estate manager. I am ’ere to offer you whatever comfort you require during your stay at Crabstock. Am I correct in addressin’ Miss ’Ettie Bagshot and her plus one?’
‘Hettie!’ corrected Hettie, before realising that the aitch in her name was unlikely to be used this side of the Tamar. ‘And this is my assistant, Miss Tilly Jenkins.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Bunn, closing the door and shutting the storm out. ‘If you would care to follow me to the kitchens, I’ll leave you in the care of Mrs Bunn, the ’ousekeeper. Leave your luggage ’ere and I’ll see that it gets to your rooms.’