by Debi Gliori
Game, set, and match, thought Pandora, restraining a desire to stand on the tabletop and cheer.
Apparently embarrassed by this catty interchange, Mrs. McLachlan had taken refuge behind her powder compact, peering into its oval mirror and tutting as she made ineffectual little dabs at her nose with a tiny sugar-pink puff. Latch sighed and buttered another slice of toast. Personally, he thought, Flora McLachlan had no need for such lily-gilding. The boss was absolutely right: good genes knocked spots off paint and powder. . . .
Something in the nanny’s mirror had displeased her, though—displeased her mightily—for Mrs. McLachlan snapped her compact shut, hurled it into her handbag, and stood up abruptly, shooting Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell the look that Latch had privately defined as “The Hairy Eyeball.” She hoisted Damp out of her high chair, scrubbed porridge off the baby’s cheek with a napkin, and turned to Signora Strega-Borgia. “If you have no objections, madam, I thought I would take the girls into the village for a spot of Christmas shopping.”
“Good idea,” agreed Signora Strega-Borgia, “and Titus . . . ?”
“Pandora, dear, run and fetch your coat and we’ll meet you at the front door.” Mrs. McLachlan smiled at Titus. “I haven’t asked you to join us because I know you’ve done your shopping already.”
“I did mine online,” Titus said with unbearable smugness. “So much easier. Avoid the crush and rush. No parcels to carry. No old ladies spearing you with their umbrellas. No grumpy crowds on the streets, no cheesy Santas in grotty grottoes. . . .”
Vaguely comprehending that her favorite icon was being unjustly slandered, Damp gave a small squeak.
“No, dear,” agreed Mrs. McLachlan. “Though I hardly think downtown Auchenlochtermuchty can compete with the horrors of Christmas shopping on Oxford Street, but I’m sure that you’re right.” Clutching her handbag, Mrs. McLachlan bore Damp off upstairs to dress her for the excursion.
On their way through the hotel grounds ten minutes later, Mrs. McLachlan and Pandora saw Latch taking the beasts out for their morning exercise. Tock bolted across the vast manicured lawn, his webbed claws leaving a trail of prints on the white frosted grass. The crocodile halted under a skeletal oak and began to dig frenetically with all four paws. Silver frost turned to green grass and then to dark earth as Tock clawed downward.
Assuming incorrectly that this was standard procedure for reptiles about to off-load the previous night’s dinner, Mrs. McLachlan’s party strolled on past the earthworks. They failed to grasp the significance of the black armband tied round one of Tock’s front legs. By the time they reached the main road, they were too far away to notice Tock pause in his labors, reverently place a small brown leathery object in the recently dug hole, and then begin to fill it back in again.
Auchenlochtermuchty was not given to extravagant flights of Christmas decorations. Strung across the main street were some rather haphazardly spaced strings of colored lightbulbs, and in the window of the hardware store, a tatty sign blinked a myopic greeting of M Y C RI TMAS. Each of the four banks had posters displayed in their windows encouraging passersby to MAKE THIS CHRISTMAS ONE TO REMEMBER, if only for the level of debt incurred. The mini-market demonstrated that the rogue apostrophe was alive and well in Auchenlochtermuchty, with banners offering FREE-RANGE TURKEY’S, FINE WINE’S, and, oddly, FRESH ASPARAGU’S.
And a Merry Christma’s to you, too, thought Pandora, pushing open the door of the shop in order to admit Mrs. McLachlan and Damp in her stroller.
Two hours later, they had finished. The parcel tray on the stroller sagged under the weight of stripey carrier bags from the mini-market and the packages from the hardware shop. Mrs. McLachlan decided that lunch was overdue and led her charges into the lounge bar of the Quid’s Inn. They settled in a battered leather snug and, after a brief consultation, ordered two chickens with fries and a bowl of tomato soup for Damp. The baby had fallen asleep and now lay sprawled across her stroller, pink-cheeked and snoring faintly. Mrs. McLachlan and Pandora happily examined their purchases, comparing notes on the suitability or otherwise of their various gifts.
“What on earth is that thing?” Mrs. McLachlan held a tiny bundle of string and twigs up to the light, turning it around, trying to work out what it might be for.
“The man in the hardware store said that it was a spider ladder. Here—let me.” Pandora unfolded the bundle, which did, indeed, reveal itself to be a miniature ladder, complete with tiny wooden rungs. “I thought Tarantella might find it useful for hoisting herself out of baths. I couldn’t find anything for Tock, though, could you?”
Mrs. McLachlan dug deep in a stripey carrier bag and produced a trio of plastic bath ducks.
“Perfect!” said Pandora, unwrapping one of her brown-paper packages. “And look what I found for Knot.”
Mrs. McLachlan peered at the bottle in Pandora’s hands. “‘Organic hair detangling conditioner,’ ” she read. “What a good idea—that yeti’s fur defies every hairbrush ever in-vented. . . . What’s that, dear?”
“It’s a ‘Handy Motorist’s Fire Extinguisher,’” said Pandora, reading the product label. “‘For boat or caravan use,’ ” she quoted, adding, “Also handy in expensive hotels for extinguishing tablecloths.”
“That’ll be for Ffup, I take it,” said Mrs. McLachlan. “Oh, look, here comes our lunch.”
They repacked their purchases and sat back in their seats while a waitress slid two laden platefuls of chicken and fries onto the table. “Salt ’n’ sauce? Ketchup? Vinegar? Mayonnaise?” she inquired.
“Yes, please,” said Pandora and Mrs. McLachlan in unison.
The waitress disappeared and returned immediately with all five condiments, a pile of paper napkins, and a bowl of tomato soup for Damp.
“This is so much nicer than the hotel,” said Pandora through a mouthful of fries. “I really don’t like that Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell and I know she doesn’t like us much.”
Mrs. McLachlan stopped chewing and looked Pandora straight in the eye. “On the contrary, dear,” she said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin, “Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell is unusually fond of your father.”
“Yeuchhh,” said Pandora. “She’s way too old for him, and besides, he’s married. To Mum.”
“Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell is also married,” said Mrs. McLachlan, “but she’s not the kind of woman to let a little thing like wedding vows stand in her way. Mark my words, dear, that woman is trouble. She intends to do her level best—” Mrs. McLachlan suddenly stopped in mid-prediction, conscious that she’d said far too much already. Bending her head, she applied herself to her plate as if her life depended on it.
“How come you know so much about her?” Pandora’s brows knitted themselves into paired question marks. “Can you read minds or something?”
“Mmm . . .” Mrs. McLachlan sought refuge in a cloud of vagueness, hoping that Pandora would drop the subject.
This was not to be. “Come on, Mrs. McLachlan, prove it,” challenged Pandora. She put her cutlery down on her plate, closed her eyes, and concentrated. “Right, I’m thinking about something now—if you can really read minds, then tell me what’s in mine.”
“Pandora, stop being silly—your lunch is getting cold.”
“I’m concentrating,” said Pandora. “Surely that makes it easier for you.”
“Don’t be daft, dear. . . .”
Conscious that Mrs. McLachlan was weakening, Pandora smiled. Her eyes were still tightly shut.
“Oh, very well,” Mrs. McLachlan sighed, pulling out her powder compact from her handbag, “but you must keep your eyes closed.” She lifted the compact’s lid and peered inside.
Black as pitch, the tiny mirror began to undergo a subtle transformation. Its surface bubbled like boiling toffee, turning dark brown, then bronze, and finally clearing to a beautiful transparent gold. Below the mirror, the face powder swirled as if there were a hidden undertow running below its surface. At the very instant an image formed in the mirror, the face p
owder halted in its tidal motion and threw up the words:
WHAT A PIG YOU ARE, CHILD
Mrs. McLachlan stifled a laugh as she realized that this referred to the mirrored image of Pandora eating a vast slab of Banoffee Pie, the current dessert on the Quid’s Inn lunchtime menu. She looked up and found Pandora staring at her.
“I peeked,” Pandora confessed. “Sorry, I just couldn’t resist. So: what was I thinking about and, more importantly, what is that in your hands? Is this what you meant when you wouldn’t tell me your secret the day Mum Band-Aided the roof?”
Mrs. McLachlan rolled her eyes in despair. Glancing in her compact before she closed its lid, she caught a glimpse of a Pandora-shaped cat with all four paws in the air, and written in the powder was the observation:
. . . AND SUCH A NOSY ONE, TOO
“In answer to your impertinent questions, your mind was full of Banoffee Pie, but now, dear, you’re feeling a wee bit ashamed. Curiosity killed the cat . . . ?”
“Meow,” whispered Pandora in as apologetic a tone as she could muster. “But, Mrs. McLachlan, what is it?”
The nanny passed the object across the table to Pandora. “Its official name is the soul mirror, but the manufacturers prefer us to call it the i’mat.”
“Is this what you swapped your makeup case for?” Pandora peered at the golden compact, admiring the intricate filigree engraved on its surface.
“Sort of.” Mrs. McLachlan smiled but didn’t volunteer any more information as to its provenance. Pandora held the i’mat gingerly in the palm of her hand. “Don’t worry,” Mrs. McLachlan continued, “it won’t bite you, and unlike my makeup case, you can’t actually use it to change anything; it’s really just for seeing things. . . .”
Pandora was only half-listening. The compact lay in her hand, surprisingly heavy for such a small object. Something about its weight, its sheer presence, made her wary. Sensing this, Mrs. McLachlan leaned across and opened it for her. “Go on,” she said. “Try it out. See what Damp is dreaming of.”
Carefully, as if it might detonate in her hand, Pandora pointed the compact at her baby sister. Instantly, the mirror turned to gold and the powder popped out the incomprehensible message:
NUM NUM NUMM
“What?” Pandora squeaked. “What on earth . . . ?” Tinted with gold, the mirrored image was of a huge breast. “For heaven’s sake, Damp, what is this?” Pandora groaned, not understanding at all. In the mirror, a tiny winged Damp clamped herself to the breast with a beatific smile.
“Eughhh. GROSS,” Pandora gagged. “I’m never going to have babies when I grow up.”
The powder in the compact shuffled to form the single word:
YUM
Snapping the compact shut, Pandora returned it to its owner. Damp stirred in her stroller, her lashes fluttered, and she awoke. In front of her, a bowl of tomato soup steamed invitingly. Trying to reconcile the food of her dreams with the hot soupiness of reality was too much for the baby. When Mrs. McLachlan dipped a spoon in the bowl and offered it to her, Damp took one look, opened her mouth, and burst into tears.
Despite Mrs. McLachlan’s best efforts, Damp was still sobbing when they arrived back at the hotel. Signora Strega-Borgia was having an afternoon nap, and Pandora found her father in the residents’ lounge helping Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell trim the Christmas tree. To Pandora’s disgust, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell had turned this innocent activity into an opportunity for close physical contact with Signor Strega-Borgia. To wit: “Luciano, be a darling and pass me up that glass angel—oh, I’m so sorry, I simply can’t reach, you’ll have to come up the ladder here beside me. . . .” and: “Can I just pass this garland over your shoulder like so . . . ?”
At this tender moment, Pandora announced her arrival by jumping onto a box of decorations. “Oh, heck! What have I done? Gosh, sorry—I hope it wasn’t too valuable?” Glancing upward as she delivered this patently insincere apology, Pandora distinguished her father’s look of utter relief as he disentangled himself from Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell’s garlandy embrace as well as the manageress’s slitty-eyed gaze of utter loathing.
Signor Strega-Borgia descended the ladder and wrapped an arm round Pandora’s shoulders. “Let’s go and wake Mum up, shall we?”
“With a kiss,” said Pandora, smiling fixedly up to where Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell perched, stranded in a tangle of abandoned greenery, looking for all the world like the Wicked Fairy in a geriatric version of Sleeping Beauty.
Beastly Behavior
Mortimer Fforbes-Campbell (Brigadier ret’d) sprayed gray fluff out of an aerosol can onto a crate of bottles of inferior Bulgarian red. Earlier that day, he’d removed all the wine labels and replaced them with some that he’d had printed specially for the evening’s festivities. The labels he’d removed had proclaimed the contents of the bottles to be TANNIN UT TRANSYLVANIA and sported a rather jolly illustration of a Bulgarian housepainter steeping his brushes in a vat of T ut T. Whether this was a warning or a recommendation was hard to tell, but the new labels re-identified the wine as RIOJA DE TOROMERDE. The tasting notes printed on the little label on the reverse of the bottle read, “Aged in oak stalls, this wine has been described as Old Spain’s most famous export.”
Since Toromerde translates literally as “bull excrement,” the label was being disarmingly truthful. Mortimer, in a state of total ignorance of the meaning of any language other than English, was blissfully unaware of what the new wine labels signified. All he knew was that he could get away with charging more for Spanish Rioja than Transylvanian Brush Restorer. He finished spraying gray fluff over the bottles and stood back to admire his efforts.
“Top-hole, what?” he addressed his wife, who was busy decanting a vat of jaded calamari into a series of microwave dishes. “Pile ’em high, sell ’em dear, don’tcha know, old girl?”
“Did you invite Hugh?” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell picked out a decomposing specimen of shellfish, sniffed it, and dropped it into the waste disposal.
“Who?” barked Mortimer, disappointed at his wife’s lack of interest in his endeavors.
“For God’s sake, Morty, turn your hearing aid on. HUGH: DID. YOU. INVITE. HUGH. PYLUM-HAIGHT?” she bawled.
“Never heard of the fellow. Sounds foreign. Ghastly chaps, foreigners. That bally Italian bunch we’ve booked over Christmas. Keep on whingeing about the size of their bill. Chap’s a bit too chummy with you, what?”
“Not chummy enough,” muttered Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell, sliding a batch of calamari into the irradiation unit and switching it on. A ghostly blue light played over the rancid shellfish, rendering them bacteria-free but regrettably still well past their sell-by date.
“Whatcha say, old thing?” Morty struggled upstairs with two crates of seemingly venerable, dusty bottles of vintage Rioja.
“I SAID, ‘HAVE. WE. GOT. ENOUGH,’ ” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell yelled, adding under her breath, “Moron.”
Mortimer’s reply was lost as the buzzer went off on the irradiator. Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell removed the first batch of steaming squid and slid the next trayful in. Checking that her husband was well out of earshot, she picked up the phone and dialed Hugh Pylum-Haight’s private number. “Darling,” she said in her most seductive whisper, “it’s me. . . .”
That night, the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms was hosting a Christmas Eve Wine-Tasting Event that rashly promised to BANISH THOSE WINTER BLUES WITH A MEDITERRANEAN NIGHT TO REMEMBER. GO ON—YOU DESERVE IT. And all for a mere twenty- five pounds per head. In a rare fit of financial madness induced by a total lack of ideas for what to give as Christmas presents, Signor Strega-Borgia had decided that not only did he deserve such a treat, but so, too, did his wife, nanny, and butler. This largesse was extended to the beasts and Tock, all of whom were vastly cheered at the prospect of a night in the hotel instead of the dank and depressing stable block. Permission for their re-entry into the Auchenlochtermuchty Arms had been sought from Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell and grudgingly granted with the proviso that this was a one
-time-only indulgence and that after Christmas, the beasts would go back to being barred.
Consequently, freshly washed and pressed, the beasts were the first guests to arrive in the cocktail lounge. Dressed in an off-the-shoulder flamenco dancer’s dress made of red chamois leather, Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell greeted them in a less-than-effusive fashion. “I suppose you’ll be wanting a drink . . . ?”
Sab took charge. “I’ll have lemonade, Knot had better not, and Tock? Ffup?”
Catching sight of the platters of irradiated squid, Tock slid the contents of one down his throat, belched tactfully, and turned his attention to the bottles ranged behind the bar. “Make mine a Gatorade,” he said, propping one scaly elbow on the bar rail and attempting to exude urban sophistication.
“I suppose you don’t do Dragonade,” sighed Ffup, helping himself to a shriveled peanut and turning round to stare at the door as several more guests arrived. A small Latin man in a deafeningly loud check suit limped up to the bar and kissed Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell’s outstretched hand.
“Darling boy,” she trilled, air-kissing him near both cheeks. “Vincent, how lovely to see you . . . both.” The last word was delivered with a disappointed sneer, for Vincent Bella-Vista was accompanied by his girlfriend, Vadette, who was advancing on the bar with all the subtlety of an armored tank.
“Sweetie,” Mrs. Fforbes-Campbell hissed at Vadette, “don’t you look just stunning? Haven’t you lost some weight? Doesn’t she look super, Vincent?”
“Spare me, Fifi,” muttered Vadette, plonking her considerable girth onto a bar stool. “Just pour the drinks.”
“Not Fifi, darling—I’m not a poodle.”
“Fee-Yawn, then. Pour the gut rot, there’s a good dog.”
Just in time to avert an all-out catfight, a brash of visiting American lawyers on vacation arrived at the bar. Their search for signs of the Loch Ness Monster in Lochnagargoyle’s chilly depths had drawn a blank, but they were cheered at the prospect of suing the Scottish Tourist Board for misinformation regarding the possible existence of the fabled Nessie. Their combined girths made Vadette look positively svelte, and their voices, trained in the law courts of Carolina, drowned out any further discussion.