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walked past, and he raised his top hat and smiled back at them, while the fashionable ladies, who had recovered their composure, giggled and twirled their umbrellas around him. Ada could tell that her father was enjoying all the attention. ‘We’re looking forward to the concert!’ the festival-goers called from the windows of their cosy folk wagons as they boiled kettles on little stoves or dried their socks on little washing lines. ‘We hope there are plenty of rose petals to throw!’ ‘Thank you for the gumboots, so thoughtful of you!’ ‘Gumboots?’ said Lord Goth. ‘Just something I thought would be useful if it rained,’ said Tailor Extremely-Swift striding past pushing a wheelbarrow. She gave Lord Goth a dazzling smile. ‘Miss Extremely-Swift,’ said Lord Goth, lifting his top hat. ‘Is there no end to your talents?’ He reached out and took the handle of the wheelbarrow.
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‘Please, allow me,’ he said, his dark eyes twinkling. ‘By all means,’ said Tailor Extremely-Swift and the two of them strolled off through the rain back towards the house. ‘Well, I never!’ said Miss Highland Spring. ‘The cheek!’ said Miss Malvern. ‘Attishoo!’ sneezed Mademoiselle Badoit.
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Chapter Eleven ady Carole and Sir Sydney Harbour-Bridge escorted the fashionable ladies back to the house, as they complained loudly about the weather, Lord Goth and the gumboots, while William Cabbage went off to look for Alsatian the lion cub. Ada and Emily strolled on past the Bavarian folk wagons, admiring the different space-saving devices and imaginative designs. By the time Ada and Emily got back to the house, the thunderstorm had lifted and the sun had come out, shining down brightly over the bandstand. The village stocks had been assembled and rows of seats lined up, each with a bucket of rose petals beside it. Lord Goth was standing on the bandstand with Tailor Extremely-Swift, who had taken off her Baa-baa jacket to reveal
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a beautifully tailored summer dress beneath. As Lord Goth talked, she smiled and looked deep into his eyes. ‘They make a lovely couple,’ said Emily, looking back at them, and Ada had to admit they did. ‘I like Tailor Extremely-Swift,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘but I don’t think my grandmother would approve. . .’ Just then a large carriage drove up the drive and came to a halt by the front steps. It was drawn by six white horses and was pulling an enormous cannon. A large warrior woman climbed down from the seat at the front of the carriage and held out a quill and a piece of parchment.* ‘Delivery for Lord Goth,’ she said briskly. ‘Four composers and a medieval cannon . . . sign here.’ Ada took the quill and dipped it in the ink pot the lady thrust at her.
*The Concert & Opera Company is run by women who pride themselves on next-month delivery on any items ordered, under the slogan ‘It’s not over until the opera singer warbles’.
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‘A. Goth,’ she wrote on the dotted line. The lady took the parchment and quill and then opened the carriage door. ‘They’re all yours,’ she said.
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Chapter Twelve he evening was warm and balmy. The fragrance of rose petals filled the air and a hundred lanterns flickered in the branches of the tallest tree in the grounds of Ghastly-Gorm Hall, ‘Old Hardy’. Next to it, the bandstand was bedecked in ribbons and freshly picked flowers from the bedroom garden, chairs from the library neatly laid out for the orchestra, together with music stands with musical scores clipped to them, which were fluttering in the breeze. In front of the bandstand were the village stocks, with a plumped cushion ready for each of the famous composers. In the chairs beyond, the festival-goers had gathered, chatting and laughing and gazing up at the bandstand expectantly. The cockle-warmers from Clacton were singing sea shanties and performing percussive routines with
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with spoons to warm up the crowd, while Donald Ear-Trumpet was complaining in a loud voice that the medieval cannon standing by Old Hardy wasn’t as big as he’d expected.* ‘It isn’t large enough, Moravia,’ he barked at his bored-looking wife. ‘It should be YUGE . . .’ Milling around at the back of the bandstand, giggling loudly, were the B.A.D. Boys. McOssian the Tartan Bard
*Donald Ear-Trumpet had very tiny hands which he was very self-conscious about. This is why he was obsessed with very big things, particularly cannons.
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suspicious-looking lumps and bumps beneath his tartan robes, and Herman Hermit the Bavarian Bard, who was carrying a large alpine horn, seemed to have something up his enormous sleeves. Kenneth Mintcake the Cumbrian Druid was clutching a Celtic harp and had a sack with Mistletoe scrawled on it, while Thomas Chatterbox, holding Rowley the ventriloquist’s dummy, was standing on a wooden crate. He was holding a very small triangle. The Ladies of G.A.G.G.A. were standing next to them, preparing to go on-stage. Cordelia Coppice was frowning, Heggarty Hedgerow looked
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embarrassed, and Clara Clip-Clop swished her tail and stamped a hoof. Mariah Weep gave nothing away beneath her curtain of willow branches, while beside her Björk Björksdottir was humming an Icelandic saga to keep her spirits up. Maltravers was standing beside the bandstand next to Simon Scowl, looking extremely pleased with himself. Ada and Emily sat at the back with the rest of the Attic Club and waited nervously for the concert to begin. They were wearing dryad dresses made by Tailor Extremely-Swift, and garlands freshly woven by the Ladies of G.A.G.G.A. Lord Goth was sitting in the front row beside Sparkling Lady Carole and her fashionable ladies, who were casting dark looks across at Tailor Extremely-Swift, who was wearing a dryad dress of her own and was sitting next to Moravia Ear-Trumpet. Lord Goth adjusted his gothkerchief and got to his feet.
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‘Welcome to Gothstock,’ he said to the audience, ‘on this beautiful summer evening.’ He nodded to Maltravers and sat down. Maltravers nudged Simon Scowl, who was frowning furiously and fiddling with his gothkerchief. ‘Eh? What?’ he said. ‘You’re on . . .’ wheezed Maltravers. ‘Ah, yes,’ said Simon Scowl, hitching up his high-waisted trousers and climbing up on to the bandstand. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, in a
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bored sarcastic voice, ‘no expense has been spared to bring you the finest musicians available –’ he glanced over his shoulder at the rickety covered wagon that had just drawn up behind the bandstand – ‘at such short notice –’ he scowled at Maltravers – ‘to form the Ghastlyshire Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Europe’s leading composers . . .’ Four heads appeared from behind the trunk of Old Hardy and then disappeared again. ‘But first, to charm you with arboreal anthems, it is my great pleasure to present the Ladies of
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Simon Scowl pulled his trousers even higher and left the stage, as the ladies climbed the steps of the bandstand. Shaun the Faun clip-clopped across the boards and sat down beside a beautiful garland of peonies. He had a pair of pan pipes in his hand which he raised and began to play. ‘The trees are alive with the sound of music . . .’ sang the Ladies of G.A.G.G.A. in perfect harmony, and the crowd began to sway back and forth.
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The song finished and the festival-goers clapped enthusiastically. Next, Shaun played a jolly tune. ‘If you go down to the woods today,’ the ladies sang, while Clara Clip-Clop did a four-hoofed tap dance. The song finished and the crowd cheered. ‘Things are going well,’ Ada whispered to Emily. In the front row Lord Goth gazed across at Tailor Extremely-Swift. Lady Carole noticed and leaned forward,
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opening a large fan to block his view. ‘Delightful song, don’t you think so, ladies?’ The fashionable ladies all giggled and fluttered their eyelashes at Lord Goth. Shaun began playing a sad tune on the pan pipes and Mariah Weep shuffled to the front of the stage and started singing a sad song called ‘The Lament of the Weeping Willow’. At the end the audience got to their feet and clapped and cheered, and threw handfuls of rose petals as the Ladies of G.A.G.G.A.
bowed and left the stage. ‘And now, from the fashionable follies and gothic grottos of England . . .’ Simon Scowl announced in a bored voice, ‘the B.
A.D. Boys!’ The garden hermits came bounding on to the stage and immediately started playing a very loud, raucous anthem called ‘God Save the Prince Regent’. ‘Thank you!’ shouted Thomas Chatterbox, hitting his triangle excitedly at the end of the song as the audience applauded politely. ‘A little too modern for me,’ said Lady Carole, and the fashionable ladies all agreed. ‘It’s got energy,’ said Tailor Extremely-Swift, and Ada saw her father smile. ‘This one’s about the Hairy Hikers!’* shouted Thomas Chatterbox. ‘Like a rolling scone . . .’ the B.A.D. Boys bellowed, playing their instruments extremely loudly. At the end of the song there was more polite applause.
*The Hairy Hikers are two Cumbrian bakers who travel from village to village baking cakes. They once visited Ghastly-Gorm for a bake off.
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‘This one’s about a gardener with a runny nose,’ shouted Thomas Chatterbox, holding up his ventriloquist dummy. ‘Tell them what it’s called, Rowley.’ ‘Greensleeves!’ said Rowley. The band started playing wildly, jumping about the stage and bumping into each other. At the end, the audience stood, open-mouthed. The B.A.D. Boys threw down their instruments, reached into their tunics, sleeves, sacks and wooden crates, and took out handfuls of wilted cabbages and rotten tomatoes. ‘OK, boys!’ shouted Thomas Chatterbox. ‘Let them have it!’ The B.A.D. Boys threw the fruit and vegetables, which sailed through the air. Tailor Extremely-Swift jumped to her feet, together with the Ladies of G.A.G.G.A. They were all holding butterfly nets which they raised, catching the cabbages and tomatoes as they came down. At least, most of them. A cabbage landed
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in Moravia’s lap and two rotten tomatoes hit Donald Ear-Trumpet in the face, making him look even more orange. He pointed at the garden hermits’ sandals as they trooped off the stage, laughing, and shouted furiously, ‘Fake shoes!’ ‘Well done, Miss Extremely-Swift. Well done, ladies!’ said Lord Goth. ‘Yes, well done,’ said Sparkling Lady Carole hesitantly. ‘Very well done indeed. That could have got very messy!’
‘The Ladies of G.A.G.G.A. warned me some-thing like that might happen,’ Miss Extremely-Swift replied, ‘so I thought it best to be prepared!’ Simon Scowl came back on to the stage. ‘And now,’ he announced, ‘the main event. The Disinterred Ghastlyshire Orchestra, conducted by Europe’s finest composers!’ As the audience applauded, the flap of the covered wagon opened and the orchestra clambered out. They shuffled up on to the bandstand to take their places. ‘First to the podium, Mr Joseph Haydn-Seek,’ announced Simon Scowl as a small elderly man in a powdered wig stepped out from behind Old Hardy and made his way to the front. He sat down at the stocks, which Simon Scowl closed around his legs before handing him a baton. Joseph Haydn-Seek smiled, raised the baton in the air and began to conduct. The orchestra creaked into life, playing a witty, playful symphony in which, one by one, the players
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stopped playing and left the bandstand until only one violin player, a dishevelled Cavalier, was left. Joseph Hadyn-Seek chuckled as he pulled out a violin he had
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beneath his coat and started playing as the Cavalier left the stage. The audience rose to its feet, cheering and showering Joseph Haydn-Seek in fistfuls of rose petals. Simon Scowl hitched up his trousers and released the composer from the village stocks as the orchestra clambered back on to the bandstand.
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‘Next up, Franz Sherbert!’ he announced. A jolly-faced man with unruly hair and extremely small glasses stepped from behind the tree, strode through the crowd and sat in the stocks. He raised the baton Joseph
Haydn-Seek handed over and began to conduct a wonderfully romantic symphony that suddenly stopped halfway through. ‘I mislaid my glasses . . .’ Franz Sherbert shrugged apologetically. The audience didn’t seem to mind. They leaped to their feet and cheered as rose petals rained down on Franz Sherbert’s head and shoulders. ‘Felix Meddlesome!’ Simon Scowl announced, closing the stocks around the long, thin legs of a tall man with carefully styled hair. Felix Meddlesome plumped up the cushion fussily and then raised the baton Franz Sherbert had passed to him. He began to conduct a joyful wedding march, with the Ancient Saxons throwing themselves a little too enthusiastically into their music, their helmets wobbling and clouds of ancient dust rising from their cloaks. The other players were looking rather wobbly too, with bits of tattered clothing and rusty instrument parts falling to the floor as the march gathered pace. As the wedding march ended, the audience got
got to their feet once more and threw handful after handful of rose petals high in the air over Felix Meddlesome’s head. ‘I don’t like to interfere,’ said Felix Meddlesome
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to Simon Scowl, ‘but your orchestra is looking a little the worse for wear.’ ‘They’re just a little rusty,’ said Simon Scowl, frowning furiously. ‘Ludwig van Beetlebrow!’ he announced.
A composer frowning even more furiously than Simon Scowl strode to the front and seized the baton from Felix Meddlesome. ‘Prepare ze cannon!’ he ordered, then raised the baton and began conducting his extremely stirring symphony at a tremendous pace. Clouds of dust rose from the Tudor ladies, Cavaliers and Roundheads began to crumble, the wigs of the white-faced gentlemen began to unravel in wisps of powdery smoke, and the Ancient Saxons began to fall to bits along with their instruments. Ludwig van Beetlebrow swept his baton through the air and thrust it, quivering, towards the cannon. Unable to resist, Donald Ear-Trumpet leaped up and batted Simon Scowl out of the way with his ear trumpet, seizing the match with his tiny fingers and putting it to the cannon’s fuse. ‘You’re fired!’ he barked . . .
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The medieval cannon went off with an explosive roar, sending a shock wave across the bandstand which reduced the Ghastlyshire Symphony Orchestra to a pile of dust.
Chapter Thirteen or a moment, everybody stood staring at the bandstand as the summer breeze blew away the remains of the zombie orchestra. ‘Oh no!’ whispered Emily to Ada. ‘The festival is ruined!’ ‘That’s show business.’ Simon Scowl shrugged, tugging at the waist of his trousers. Ada glanced over to see that Tailor Extremely-Swift had jumped from her seat and gathered the Ladies of G.A.G.G.A. and the B.A.D. Boys into a huddle. There was whispering and a few giggles, mostly from the hermits, before Tailor turned and led them all back on-stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the show must go on,’ she said, with a dazzling smile. ‘Now, if you’ll permit me, I’d like to sing a song that is very close to my own heart.’ She began to sing about
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a mother and son walking in a beautiful rose garden. Emily leaned over and whispered to Ada, ‘Look at your grandmother!’ Ada looked. Sparkling Lady Carole’s eyes were glistening with tears as she gripped Lord Goth’s hand. ‘You know, my dear Goth,’ she said, ‘you might be shocked, as I know how impressed you are by my fashionable ladies, but I think I might have found just the right person for you . . .’
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Lord Goth glanced over at the fashionable ladies, who were fluttering their eyes at the composers by the greenwood tree, then at Tailor Extremely-Swift, who was just finishing her song. ‘Really, Mother?’ he said with a brooding smile, taking a great armful of rose petals, ‘Do tell me more . . .’ As the performers trooped off-stage in a shower of rose petals and thunderous applause, Simon Scowl strode over to them.
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‘Call me a fool,’ he said, hitching up the waist of his trousers, ‘but I think you’ve got talent. My orchestra has had shows in country gardens from here to Cirencester, but I think you could
do even more. The B.A.D. Boys, the Ladies of G.A.G.G.A. and Tailor Extremely-Swift – what do you say?’ A cabbage, brown-leafed and turning mushy, sailed up through the air, followed by three more, then a hail of very ripe tomatoes. The cabbage squelched off Simon Scowl’s head, another splattered off a shoulder and five tomatoes splatted against his very high-waisted trousers. The hermits roared with laughter as they threw the rotten fruit and vegetables at Simon Scowl, who was sent sprawling on the grass.
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‘I’m not paid enough for this!’ he stormed, climbing to his feet and getting into his wagon with as much dignity as he could. He paused and looked back at the garden hermits who were rolling about on the grass and laughing uproariously. Thomas Chatterbox held up his triangle and Rowley the Monk tapped away at it enthusiastically. ‘My new triangle concerto,’ he announced, ‘I’m calling it “Simon Scowl’s Trousers Are Falling Down”!’ The other
Goth Girl and the Sinister Symphony Page 5