Magical Mischief

by Anna Dale

  ‘Who did it?’ asked one of the men.

  ‘And where, pray, is everyone else?’ asked the well-dressed woman.

  Miss Quint’s stockpile of lies was all used up and it was left to Arthur to spin a story. ‘They did it,’ he said. ‘All the others did. They’re not here any more because they’ve been taken away for questioning!’

  Miss Quint gawped at Arthur admiringly while the two men and their female companion expressed their shock. Susan was so traumatised that she started to cry and, hearing a little girl’s sobs, Trunk peered around his flowerpot.

  ‘There, there, sweetheart!’ Miss Quint said soothingly. She pulled Susan towards her and embraced the distraught child. ‘It’s been a long day, hasn’t it? I think it would be sensible if we all retired for the night.’

  ‘Where are we all going to sleep?’ asked Arthur.

  Miss Quint relinquished Susan and looked thoughtfully at the assembled group.

  ‘Mrs Voysey-Brown can have my bed,’ she said, ‘and Susan won’t mind snuggling down in the box room. She’s slept there for the last two nights. I’ll put Mr Blenko and Mr Claggitt in the spare room. You can take the couch on the landing, Arthur, and I’ll sleep down here in one of the chairs. I know it’s not ideal, but it’s only for one night.’

  Arthur raised his eyebrows at her questioningly.

  ‘We’ll have them all back in their books in the morning,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll see.’

  .

  Chapter Eleven

  Blenko and Co.

  On Sunday morning, Arthur rolled off the couch where he had spent the night, and wandered into the kitchen in search of breakfast. The females of the household were already there. Miss Quint was pouring coffee, Susan was taking an age over laying the table and, mesmerised by the smell of frying sausages, Scallywag was getting under everyone’s feet. A motionless figure languished in a chair in the midst of all the activity. She had curled, black eyelashes and unbrushed hair and seemed to be asleep.

  ‘Er . . . hi,’ murmured Arthur.

  Susan looked up and gave him a smile. ‘Hello, Arthur! Did you sleep well? I did, like a log.’

  ‘How ghastly for you. I shouldn’t care to resemble a log, even in repose,’ sneered the woman in the chair, speaking in a lazy drawl.

  Susan’s cheeks reddened. She turned to fetch more knives and forks.

  ‘Arthur, could I trouble you to hand this cup of coffee to our guest?’ asked Miss Quint, putting on a refined accent. ‘Mrs Voysey-Brown is in films,’ she added, breathless with admiration.

  Arthur was not surprised to hear it. Mrs Voysey-Brown was a strikingly handsome woman and she looked every inch an actress despite being clothed in Miss Quint’s raggedy old dressing gown.

  ‘Thank you, darling,’ purred Mrs Voysey-Brown, revealing her eyes, which were violet blue. She raised the cup of coffee to her painted lips and took a delicate sip.

  ‘Morning, Claggitt!’ she said as a bearded colossus strode into the room. He reached the kitchen table in two strides and sat down.

  ‘Slept in,’ said Mr Claggitt, shaking his bobble-hatted head. Unlike his friend, he had bothered to get dressed. He was wearing a jumper, a parka with a fur-lined hood, trousers made from a waterproof fabric and hiking boots. ‘Wanted to check out the terrain before breakfast,’ he said. ‘Thought I’d do some exploring later.’

  ‘You like walking, do you?’ asked Arthur, who had come to enjoy exercising Scallywag every afternoon.

  ‘Walking?’ Mr Claggitt poured scorn on Arthur’s remark. ‘Do I look like a cissy to you? I’m a mountaineer, boy! I’ve scaled all the greats: Everest, K2, Kanchenjunga. Wanted to see what Plumford had to offer. Was hoping to glimpse a peak or two from my window.’

  ‘There’s a hill in Victoria Park,’ said Arthur.

  ‘Really?’ Mr Claggitt said, showing a keen interest. ‘What gradient are we talking about?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Arthur, ‘but it’s quite steep. My mad friend, Ollie, skateboarded down it once and did a lot of damage to his kneecaps.’

  ‘Breakfast is served!’ announced Miss Quint. She forged a path through the crowded kitchen with two plates of appetising food in her hands. ‘Give Mr Blenko a call, would you, Arthur?’

  Arthur went to the door and was on the verge of shouting up the staircase when he saw a young man in a reddish-purple uniform strolling down the steps, sniffing the air.

  ‘A fry-up, eh?’ said the man, skipping down the last few steps and patting the newel post as he passed it. ‘This ain’t such a dive after all!’ The young man winked at Arthur and proceeded to introduce himself. ‘Me mates call me Jimmy,’ he said, shaking Arthur’s hand.

  ‘Mine call me Art,’ said Arthur, preoccupied with Jimmy’s attire. Jimmy was dressed like a drummer boy in plum-coloured trousers edged with gold piping, a close-fitting jacket and a round, brimless cap.

  ‘Want to know ’bout me uniform, do you, Art? I’m a bellhop, ain’t I? London’s finest.’ Jimmy brushed his jacket sleeves and grinned at Arthur’s bemused face. ‘A bellhop’s a feller who works in a hotel. When the bell’s rung we ’op to it sharpish, carrying cases and opening doors.’

  ‘Like a sort of servant,’ muttered Arthur.

  ‘Ain’t they bangers I can smell?’ said Jimmy, pushing past Arthur. ‘Out the way, chum! Let me at that nosh!’

  Breakfast was a riot. The three more senior members of the group gathered at one end of the table and Jimmy the bellhop seated himself at the other, flanked by Arthur and Susan. Mr Claggitt talked the most. In a voice that never dipped below the volume of a foghorn, he regaled the two ladies with stories of his hair-raising adventures in the world’s most hazardous mountain ranges. He hardly ever paused for breath, but when he did, Mrs Voysey-Brown was ready with a dry, sarcastic comment. Miss Quint barely said a word. She was far too busy frying more food and refilling the mountaineer’s plate to make any contribution to the conversation, although she did find time to shoot scathing looks at Jimmy, whose table manners were dreadful.

  Everyone ate at different speeds. Mr Claggitt tucked into his helpings of sausages, eggs and tomatoes with gusto, more than making up for Mrs Voysey-Brown’s poor appetite. A thin, willowy person, she picked at her plateful of food like a finicky cat, and spent the duration of the meal dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Miss Quint snatched the odd mouthful of titbits on the hoof.

  At the other end of the table, the children finished their meals long before Jimmy Blenko had gobbled down his. Jimmy was a born entertainer. He knew a raft of jokes and rattled them off, one after the other, keeping Arthur in stitches. Susan giggled too on the rare occasion that she managed to understand one. An excellent mimic, Jimmy progressed to doing impressions of all the staff and clientele, from toffs to riff-raff, who had passed through his hotel.

  When breakfast was over and Susan and Miss Quint were bent over the kitchen sink doing the washing-up, Arthur changed out of his pyjamas and went downstairs, intent on having a root around the shop in search of the missing books, Tinseltown Ticket, Rockfall! and Champagne for Geraldine. Miss Quint had mentioned to him that she had had a probe at daybreak when everyone else was still in bed. Her search had proved to be fruitless, but Arthur was hopeful of doing better.

  The bookshop was quiet and undisturbed. Everything was in its proper place. The books were filed correctly, the black cat bookends stood symmetrically either side of Ibsen’s plays, and the ducks in the painting of Lake Tahoe were asleep with their heads tucked under their wings. The only lively presence was Trunk. He was frolicking back and forth on his shelf, curling up his trunk and shooting it straight out again, like a party blowout. His behaviour was very out of character. Arthur asked the elephant if something was the matter, but, of course, having no mouth, Trunk was unable to answer him.

 
After half an hour, Arthur abandoned his hunt for the books, which were still nowhere to be found, and made his way towards the stairwell. Before he could reach it, however, Arthur heard the sound of feet tramping down the stairs and was joined on the shop floor by Miss Quint (closely followed by Susan), the three new house guests and Scallywag.

  Miss Quint was carrying a shopping bag and Mr Claggitt had a tartan rug tucked under his arm. Mrs Voysey-Brown was wearing a pair of borrowed sunglasses.

  ‘The weather forecast is tip-top!’ declared Miss Quint. ‘It’s a shame I never got round to buying a new swimsuit. Still, there’s more to being beside the sea than bathing. All set, Arthur? Plentiful Sands, here we come!’

  Arthur gaped at Miss Quint in disbelief. ‘We’re not going to the seaside today!’

  Susan’s face fell immediately. ‘Aren’t we?’ she said. ‘Why don’t you want to go, Arthur? Miss Quint says there are castles built out of sand and fish made from jelly and watery things called waves.’

  Feeling like a heel, Arthur struggled to explain. ‘It doesn’t mean we can’t go another day,’ he said. ‘It’s just that today Miss Quint and I had made plans. We need to have a look around a farmhouse. It’s urgent. We’ve already put it off once.’

  Susan started to sniff. Within seconds, Arthur found himself accused of making her cry.

  ‘What did you expect me to do with them?’ Miss Quint whispered fiercely in Arthur’s ear. ‘I’ve got to entertain these people somehow. They’ve been promised a day on the beach. I can’t suddenly change my mind!’

  ‘Face facts,’ said Mr Claggitt, slamming his hand on to Arthur’s shoulder. ‘You’re outvoted, sonny boy!’

  Miss Quint drove and Mr Claggitt blotted out half the windscreen with a map and made a hash of doing the navigating. For a seasoned explorer, he did not seem to understand the basics of map reading. He urged Miss Quint to take short cuts through barbed-wire fences, in between trees and over railway tracks, until Miss Quint was able to get the message across that in England, when journeying in a car, one was required to travel on roads.

  ‘Up and over,’ Mr Claggitt advised whenever they came to a roundabout. ‘Go, go, go!’ he shouted when the traffic lights were red.

  The odds were against them arriving in one piece with Mr Claggitt in the passenger seat, but they did eventually reach their destination without so much as a scratch, mostly thanks to Miss Quint’s cool head and the regular smattering of signposts.

  Plentiful Sands was well named. The cove arched in a golden crescent for miles and miles. It was not quite summer, but the sun was out and the weather was pleasant enough to entice the usual horde of day-trippers, who were prepared to don their bathing costumes at the first sighting of a patch of blue sky.

  There was a place that hired out deckchairs, and an ice cream kiosk, but Miss Quint told the others, regretfully, that she could not afford any extra treats. She spread the tartan picnic blanket over the sand and gave them each a paper bag, which contained their lunch, explaining that they would have to make do.

  Jimmy had other ideas, it seemed. Kicking off his shoes, he sauntered down the beach and returned with a beach ball, a deckchair, and two straw sun hats for the ladies. Later on in the afternoon, on another jaunt, he came back with a bucket and spade and six ice creams. Arthur and Jimmy leaped about with the beach ball, spraying sand everywhere, getting hot, pausing for a dip in the sea and then starting their ball game all over again.

  They were not the only members of their group to find ways to enjoy themselves.

  Never one to let the chance of a paddle pass her by, Miss Quint took off her tights and ventured down to the water’s edge. While she was swishing about in the water, Scallywag thundered across the sand and launched herself into the waves, barking with insane delight. Susan was more reserved than the other two and would only allow the foam to tickle her toes.

  Mr Claggitt hung around for a short while, moaning that the beach was far too flat. As soon as he had sighted some cliffs in the distance he was off. He weaved a route through the sandcastles and windbreaks in his parka, weatherproof trousers and hiking boots.

  Mrs Voysey-Brown confided to the others that she was more of a St Tropez type of person. She hogged the only deckchair and hid underneath her wide-brimmed hat for the entire afternoon. To amuse herself, she criticised people’s swimwear, and she flatly refused to help Susan look for seashells along the shore.

  ‘Really, darling, have some sense,’ she told the disappointed child. ‘Famous actresses don’t get their ankles wet in public!’

  All in all, it was a thoroughly enjoyable day and they were loath for it to end. They waited until the setting sun was poised to touch the horizon before they plodded from the beach and piled into the van. They were sticky and sunburnt and had sand between their toes, but no one could remember having had a lovelier time.

  When they pulled up outside Hardbattle Books, Arthur yelled a hasty goodbye and scooted off home on his bicycle. It was left to Susan and Miss Quint to organise supper. The sea air seemed to have sapped everyone’s strength and most of them were too tired to lift their forks to their mouths. Once the meal was out of the way and the others had trooped off to bed, Miss Quint tidied up the kitchen.

  Crouching down to pick up a napkin, which had fallen on to the floor, Miss Quint spied a small pile of letters under the kitchen table. It was Scallywag’s job to collect the mail from the doormat every day, and while she was fairly successful at this, she was not so adept at delivering it to Miss Quint. Consequently, it was not unusual to find letters scattered all over the house.

  Miss Quint retrieved the pile of post. There were three brown envelopes and a postcard.

  She laid out the post on the table in front of her, then opened the three brown envelopes first. Two were bills and one was an order. Finally she looked at the postcard. On its front was a picture of a pier, which was described as being in Great Yarmouth. She turned the postcard over and saw that Mr Hardbattle had sent it. The weather in East Anglia he described as ‘good’ and the food as ‘rather chewy’. He mentioned that Arthur’s method of rating the buildings had been working well, and listed the marks that he had dolled out thus far. Miss Quint noted, with a sharp intake of breath, that only one of the eight places he had visited had racked up a score of more than forty per cent.

  Contained in the final few sentences were the words that Miss Quint had been dreading: Will be returning Tuesday eve. I assume all is well. Kind regards, Mr H.

  Miss Quint was not the sort of person who went in for swearing. ‘Oh, knickers!’ she said, and reached for a chocolate biscuit.

  .

  Chapter Twelve

  Arthur Manages

  The next morning, Arthur skidded to a stop outside the bookshop. He flung his bike on the pavement and knocked insistently on the door until his knuckles hurt. The reason for his urgency was the call from Miss Quint. She had telephoned his house very early that morning, before any of the Goodenoughs were up, and had left a rambling, incoherent message on the answerphone. He had recognised her voice, high and hysterical though it had been, and he had heard her say his name and also the phrase ‘We’re in the soup’. As it was half-term week, Arthur was able to head straight over to Hardbattle Books without the worry that it would make him late for school.

  He gave up knocking, and pushed the letter box open instead.

  ‘Hello!’ he yelled through the slender gap. ‘Is anyone there? Miss Quint, can you hear me? Are you all right?’

  Arthur heard a muffled exclamation and saw a familiar floral pattern pass across his vision. He recognised it as the print of the dress that Miss Quint had been wearing the day before. There was the sound of a key turning in a lock. Arthur let go of the letter box flap and waited for the door to open.

  ‘Miss Quint, you look strange,’ he said. For a person who took
pride in always dressing neatly, she had let her standards slip. She stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed. Her dress was creased, her hair was wild and on one side of her face there were tell-tale weals, which indicated that she had been resting it on something uncomfortable. Her appearance suggested to Arthur that she had not been to bed.

  ‘Oh, Arthur!’ said Miss Quint dramatically. She beckoned him inside. ‘We’re in bother.’

  ‘What have you done now?’ asked Arthur, lingering warily in the doorway. ‘You haven’t been making any more wishes –’

  ‘No. Perish the thought!’ Miss Quint said, shuddering. ‘It’s Mr Hardbattle. He’s been in touch. He’s coming home tomorrow, and from what he said in his postcard, I don’t think the places he’s seen have been much good.’

  ‘What a bummer!’ said Arthur.

  ‘He’s pinning his hopes on us,’ yammered a panic-stricken Miss Quint, ‘and we haven’t got our act together and looked around that farm yet!’

  Like Miss Quint, Arthur felt at fault. He had had no choice but to go to school in the week, and on Saturday his schedule had been full (what with the visit to his granny’s and the tea party), but Arthur knew, just as Miss Quint did, that Sunday had been free, and that they should have spent it checking out the farm at Thornwick instead of at the seaside having fun.

  ‘We’ve been a bit stupid to leave it so late,’ he said. ‘But I don’t really get why you phoned up in such a tizz. We’ve still got time to go to the farm.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten about our other problem,’ said Miss Quint. ‘Our four other problems to be precise.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the book characters.’

  Miss Quint nodded and wrung her hands. ‘Can you imagine what Mr Hardbattle will say when he finds out about Susan and the rest of them? I’ve been thinking that we might try to conceal them in the attic, but I can’t see Mr Claggitt being cooperative. He’s too outdoorsy to agree to being penned in.’