by Mandy Morton
Hettie bowed, not knowing what else to do, and Tilly didn’t respond at all; it had been several years since she’d heard her full name spoken and she had quite forgotten what it sounded like.
Downton Tabby nodded and stood waiting for further direction from the reception committee, swinging back on his heels. As none was forthcoming, Bugs Anderton came to the rescue and defused the rather awkward situation by moving things along. ‘If you would care to follow Miss Jenkins, she will be pleased to show you to your accommodation. I would then be delighted to offer you some light refreshment in our hospitality area.’
Tilly stepped forward as the chauffeur unloaded a number of suitcases out of the boot of the Rolls-Royce, handing two of the heaviest ones to Hettie. The party made its way into the accommodation block, where Tilly opened up three of the rooms. One had been made into a pleasant sitting room, filled with the best furniture borrowed from Turner Page’s own quarters, and the other two were bedrooms which had been hurriedly redecorated and still smelt of emulsion paint.
‘And where will you be staying, my dear lady?’ asked the celebrity. ‘Our brief encounter in my Rolls-Royce must surely be the beginning of a wonderful weekend, full of promise.’
Bugs Anderton was flattered by his remarks but knew she would have to get a grip before her reputation lay in tatters around her. She had read widely about Downton Tabby’s amorous adventures and had even found herself daydreaming about what it would be like to become one of them, but she had a job to do.
Satisfied that Bugs had everything under control, except perhaps her pulse rate, Hettie and Tilly backed away from the festival’s star and made their way back to the events tent, where Charlene Brontë was reading a passage from Jane Hair to a captivated audience, even though the microphone was somewhat intermittent. Her sisters sat on the front row, looking bored and fidgeting with their lanyards.
‘All peaceful in here,’ whispered Hettie. ‘Time for an ice cream?’
Tilly nodded enthusiastically and the two friends headed for the tea tent, leaving Charlene in raptures over her own novel and the audience in raptures over Charlene.
Two vanilla tubs and a strawberry Mivvi later, Hettie and Tilly returned to the marquee in time to hear the dying moments of Nicolette Upstart’s presentation. She was revealing some of the more lurid details of the research she had undertaken to create the perfect murder, and received a standing ovation started by Polly Hodge, who had been sitting on the front row. As the author left the stage, there was a stampede towards the book tables and Nicolette darted round the back of the tent in time to execute her pop-up stall and cash in on the crowd’s enthusiasm.
The marquee was suddenly peaceful again. There was an hour’s break before Muddy Fryer gave her performance and Hettie and Tilly sat on the edge of the stage, awaiting her arrival to help with her soundcheck. ‘It’s a strange business, all this book stuff,’ said Hettie, thinking out loud. ‘These cats spend their days writing about the worst things imaginable, making up the nastiest murders as if it were some sort of competitive sport. I wonder how they’d react if they had a real murder to deal with? And then there are the Brontës – what’s that all about? Pushing themselves at every possible opportunity, descending on us like harpies from hell and competing with each other to sell the most books. And as for Downton Tabby – he’s like a character straight out of his own TV series. A bumbling upper-class twit, really, with an air of his own importance that might strangle him one day.’
Tilly giggled at Hettie’s assessment of the festival participants so far. ‘I think you’re being a bit harsh,’ she said. ‘There are so many books out there to choose from and, if you’re an author, you’ve got to promote them whenever you can – that’s what these festivals are for. And every festival needs a Downton Tabby or no one would come.’
Hettie thought for a moment about Tilly’s logic, then waded in. ‘If you need to go to such extremes to promote the books, why write them in the first place? Every cat you meet these days seems to think they have a book in them, and judging by the state of the Brontës’ camper van, there’s no money in it. Writing a book is a self-indulgence that everyone else is expected to pay for, and when you’ve bought and read the book, what use is it? I admit that Downton Tabby attracts a good crowd, but by the time Turner Page has paid all the costs involved in putting the festival on, he’ll be lucky to have enough left to reseed his lawn after the whole town has tramped across it.’
Tilly was about to discuss the importance of community events when Muddy Fryer made a somewhat unusual entrance through the tent flap at the back of the stage. She seemed to be wearing a pair of wings and a hood with a bright orange beak protruding from it. Alarmed at the vision before her, Hettie moved to help as Muddy – unable to see where she was going – made several attempts at climbing up onto the stage. ‘I’ve got to start with me raven telling the future before I go into me knights of the round table,’ she explained, testing her wing span and sprinkling loose feathers everywhere.
Just in time to return some sanity to the tent, Poppa appeared to help with the stage set-up and soundcheck. He was no stranger to roadie duties and had assisted Hettie during her music days as driver, gofer and sound engineer. ‘Blimey, it’s a hot one out there,’ he said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his paw. ‘Nice to have a bit of shade in here. What needs doing?’
Muddy pointed one of her wings towards the round table. ‘I’ll need that up here on the stage and that screen for me quick changes. I’ve got to go from raven to King Arthur before I work me way through all the knights, then Merlin’s the big bit at the end with the dry ice and pyros.’
Tilly was fascinated and couldn’t resist asking the folk rock star a question. ‘Will you be including Guinevere in your performance, Miss Fryer?’
Muddy looked up as Hettie and Poppa struggled with the table. ‘I’ve had to edit her out. Going from chain mail to a long frock is a bit of a big ask, so I just have to pretend she’s under the table. You won’t miss her once I get going.’
As Muddy sorted through her props, Poppa checked her vocal mic and plugged in the small electric ukulele on which Muddy accompanied herself. Hettie and Tilly bagged two seats on the front row and sat spellbound as the musician took flight with the first song in her Arthurian cycle. Satisfied that the sound was good, Muddy clambered off the stage, placing herself out of sight of the audience which was now on its way to hear her.
If it hadn’t been for Downton Tabby, Muddy Fryer’s performance would have undoubtedly been the highlight of the festival. Her voice soared, her costumes enthralled, and the pyrotechnic display at the end was a master stroke, in spite of singeing a little fur here and there. Hettie was so charmed by the spectacle that she had quite forgotten that she was next up, sharing the stage with the cat whom everyone wanted to catch sight of. Reality struck when the applause eventually died down and Poppa leapt onto the stage to shove the round table to one side, quickly replacing it with two comfy armchairs which gave the stage an instant ‘in conversation’ look.
Hettie rose from her seat and made her way to the backstage area as Bugs Anderton took her place next to Tilly on the front row, having safely delivered her charge. The marquee had been full for Muddy’s performance but now it was bursting at the seams as more and more cats squeezed themselves into the smallest of spaces to get a glimpse of the main event. She found Downton Tabby in deep conversation with all three Brontë sisters at the backstage entrance. He seemed to be waving his cane in the air as if swatting them like flies. All three sisters looked thunderous, and Hettie moved in swiftly to avert another altercation. ‘Sir Downton, if you would like to follow me, I will introduce you.’
Downton Tabby looked pleased to be rescued from the resident banshees and followed Hettie into the backstage area. The Brontës headed for the hospitality tent, which had been abandoned by all but Delirium Treemints. With the exception of those four cats, the entire festival population was crammed into the events marquee for the
headliner’s first appearance of the weekend. Hettie had hardly finished her introduction before a deafening roar visibly lifted the roof and Downton Tabby stepped out into the limelight to a standing ovation which continued for some time. Prunella Snap raised her camera in the air in the hope of gaining the front page of the Sunday Snout, clicking away continuously until her film ran out and she was reduced to scrabbling around in the crush, trying to reload her camera.
Hettie proffered one of the armchairs and placed herself in the other, and the two cats sat opposite each other waiting for the applause to die down. Hettie’s mind was racing. Where would she start the conversation? It wasn’t just about the cat in front of her; it was about her own ability to discuss his work and entertain the hundreds of cats who now looked on in expectation. She looked for Tilly on the front row and found her squashed up with the rest of their friends – Jessie, Poppa and Bruiser, all rooting for her; Tilly raised her paw in encouragement. There was a deathly hush as the audience waited for Hettie to begin. ‘Sir Downton,’ she ventured. ‘What first inspired you to write your TV series In the Kitchen and Up The Stairs?’
Hettie couldn’t have asked for a better response. Downton Tabby obliged her by instantly transporting himself and the audience back to his privileged beginnings. ‘I was born into a life of luxury,’ he said. ‘My ancestors had been granted house and lands from Tudor kings, and when my father died all those lands passed to me. I am what you may call “very rich indeed”, and I thought it would be jolly good fun to give less fortunate cats a peep at what life is like when you have lots of money and lots of servants. When I was a kitten, I spent a lot of my time in the kitchen below stairs with our cook, Bessie Grump. Bessie was kind to me and gave me an insight into what it was like to be poor. We didn’t pay Bessie very much, as she did get her meals and lodgings free. It was fun to see how poor our servants were and I started to write little stories about them. The poorer they were, the better my stories became. When Bessie became too old to work, we turned her out and found her a nice place at the local workhouse, where she finished her days scrubbing floors. My father enjoyed beating his servants and I would hide behind the blankets in the tack room and watch them being whipped or struck repeatedly with his riding crop. They were happy days, and I never forgot them. I wrote it all down, and when a friend of mine in publishing suggested I write a book or two, all those wonderful memories came flooding back. I added a few more bits and pieces to my original stories and – hey presto – before I knew it, I was turning the books into screenplays for television and making lots more money.’
Hettie could hardly believe what she was hearing. The inhumanity of the reply to her question had struck her dumb, but she had to continue. ‘Are you pleased with the way your stories are portrayed on television?’
‘Well that, my dear, is a very good question. I was a little disappointed at how much of the violence had been removed from my original screenplay – they said it wasn’t suitable for eight o’clock on a Sunday evening, when kittens were getting ready for bed. But they did double their offer for the second series and allowed a wonderful scene where the lady of the house had the under-butler’s paw cut off for stealing a piece of cheese. That was an excellent episode – one of my favourites actually, and almost a true story.’
‘Why do you say “almost”?’ picked up Hettie.
‘Well, the lady in question was my great aunt Clarissa, who used to stay with us each winter. She was a game old gal, loved shooting anything that moved, a real country cat. One day, she caught the under-butler nibbling on a piece of cheese that had fallen out of her sandwich at luncheon, so she took up the cook’s meat cleaver and chopped both his paws off for stealing. It was a sight to behold, and it took years for the bloodstains to fade from the grand dining-room ceiling. The TV cats thought two paws were a little over the top, so I had to settle for just the one which I thought was a shame.’
Trying to move away from the more gratuitous violence, Hettie continued. ‘One of the most shocking scenes in the recent series concerned the servant who dropped dead in front of the fireplace. Was that a true story?’
Downton Tabby beamed at the audience. ‘That’s a super story and I witnessed it from behind a curtain in my mother’s day parlour. I can’t remember the cat’s name now, but she was one of our many tweenies. She’d been sneezing all over the place for days – cat flu or something similar. Anyway, she was up at five laying all the upstairs fires one morning and keeled over in front of the grate in Mama’s parlour. I’d been watching her for some time, pretty little thing, hardly more than a kitten. Our housekeeper turned up to check her work and found her lying dead. The shocking thing was that Mama was due any moment, as she always wrote her letters in that room each morning after breakfast. Drastic measures were taken to delay her progress by sending up an extra cup of hot chocolate and cream to her bedroom while the gardener cleared the tweenie away. He took her out in his wheelbarrow and kept her in the greenhouse while he put together a rough box to put her in. The thing was, we couldn’t have Mama coming down to an untidy parlour – and having a dead servant in one’s grate is jolly untidy.’
Hettie felt that the interview was becoming a blood sport of its own and decided to throw the event open to the paying audience. ‘Would anyone like to ask a question?’
Paws shot up all over the marquee and Hettie chose a long-haired black-and-white cat at random. ‘Sir Downton, have you been asked to turn other books into screenplays?’
Downton smiled down at his audience and addressed his answer in the direction of the questioner. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I get sent books all the time in the hope that I’ll work my magic on them. I have recently been considering writing a screenplay for Miss Brontë’s Withering Sights but the novel requires too much work and I wouldn’t want to put my name to anything below par.’
‘What about doing Jane Hair?’ came a muffled voice from the centre of the crowd, sporting a distinct Porkshire accent.
Downton Tabby smiled out at the audience in the direction of the heckler before delivering another fatal blow to the Brontës’ literary talents. ‘I’m no great believer in finishing other cats’ work. I have never doubted the brilliance of the old Brontës, who were of their time, but the hijacking of unfinished manuscripts is piracy of the very worst kind. My advice to the Misses Brontë is to write their own books rather than lean on their ancestors. Having said that, Miss Emmeline writes very fine poetry and should be encouraged in that direction.’
‘You don’t mind using your own ancestors to make money, do you?’ came the indignant reply from the heckler.
Another paw went up and Hettie responded immediately, wishing to head off any further trouble from the sisters who had somehow managed to force themselves into the middle of the audience. ‘Yes – the cat in the string vest. What is your question?’
‘Whose books would you like to adapt for TV?’
‘Well, mostly mine, of course, although I do have a certain fondness for the work of P. D. Hodge – and Miss Upstart can engage with a plot, but both would have to beef up the violence for my taste.’
Polly Hodge and Nicolette exchanged looks, both clearly wanting to wipe the smile from Downton Tabby’s smug face, but the audience was lapping up his pompous outbursts. And so it went on, until the hour was up. The standing ovation lasted for a full five minutes and Poppa and Bruiser cleared away the armchairs and started to move Turner Page’s drum kit onto the stage to set up Furcross Convention’s back line of amplifiers. The festival band would finish the Friday evening with a lively set of jigs and reels, guaranteed to send the audience home with a spring in their step. It would, however, be some time before Hettie and Tilly would see their room behind the Butters’ bakery. They were in for a very long night.
CHAPTER SIX
The descending darkness had done very little to cool the temperatures of the long, hot summer’s day, or to calm the additional heat created by the Brontë sisters. The audience that had gathered to se
e Downton Tabby made its way out of the marquee to take in the night air and sample some of the supper snacks before returning to enjoy the final entertainment of the festival’s first day.
Back on stage, as Turner Page took charge of his drum kit, Hettie noticed that he had regained full use of his vocal chords and was chatting amiably with his fellow band members. Now that her public ordeal with Downton Tabby was over, she was willing to accept that Turner’s nerves had got the better of him and decided to say no more about it – provided that he didn’t rope her into any further Q and A’s across the weekend. Downton Tabby had made a swift exit from the stage as his applause died down and Bugs Anderton – crushed in the mass exodus from the marquee – was wrong-footed in her attempt to reconnect with him. By the time she had fought her way to the backstage area, he was gone. Feeling a little rejected, she decided to make her way to the accommodation block, hoping to take him up on his earlier invitation of a small nightcap.
Bruiser and Poppa busied themselves in putting the finishing touches to Furcross Convention’s set-up and helping Muddy Fryer to pack down her props; the next festival beckoned, and she was keen to get on the road. The air in the marquee was suddenly filled with the unmistakable aroma of Elsie Haddock’s fish and chips as the crowds began to drift back into the tent with their suppers, and Tilly had to push through the crush to get backstage.
‘You were fantastic,’ she said, finding Hettie slumped behind a PA speaker.
‘No thanks to the bloody Brontës! I thought I was going to have a riot on my paws for a minute. Thank God that cat in the string vest defused the situation before Charlene and co. pitched in any further.’
Tilly nodded sagely. ‘Downton Tabby doesn’t come across as being very nice, and he seemed to enjoy having a go at all the other authors. I don’t think Nicolette or Polly are very keen on him either, but the crowd loved him.’