Clementine Rose and the Perfect Present 3 (2 page)

‘Everyone’s invited –’ Clementine began.

‘That’s very kind of Mr and Mrs Archibald.’

‘– except me,’ Clementine finished sulkily.

‘Oh dear, that’s no good,’ said Lady Clarissa. She glanced between the road and Clemmie’s crestfallen reflection in the rear-vision mirror.

‘Were there any letters today?’ Clemmie asked hopefully.

‘Not that I remember, darling. But we can check when we get home. When’s the party?’

‘After school on Tuesday. But I don’t care.’ Clementine wiped a hand across her eye. ‘Angus is horrible.’

‘I thought you were getting on better with him,’ her mother said calmly.

Clementine shrugged. ‘Mrs Bottomley said that she told Angus’s mum not to invite any troublemakers and then she looked straight at
me
.’

‘Never mind, Clemmie. I could phone Angus’s mother and see if there’s been a mistake, if you like,’ Lady Clarissa suggested.

‘No! Then he’ll just say that I’m a crybaby. I don’t want to go.’

‘If that’s how you really feel, I’m happy not to interfere. There’s so much to do at home and I certainly need your help this weekend.’ Lady Clarissa smiled in the rear-vision mirror. ‘Poor Uncle Digby is run off his feet and Aunt Violet’s being her usual unhelpful self.’

Clementine decided not to think about Angus and his party again. There were much more interesting things going on at home.

When her mother first told her there was to be a wedding at the house, Clementine had been bursting with excitement. She couldn’t stop talking about it. She’d never been to a wedding before.

‘But where will everyone sit?’ Clementine had asked her mother at the time. Penberthy House was big but the dining room could fit only twenty people at the most.

‘We’re going to put a tent in the back garden,’ her mother had explained.

‘A tent? But that’s even smaller than the dining room.’ Clementine wondered if the people getting married were tiny, like pixies or elves.

‘Oh no, Clemmie, this tent will be enormous,’ her mother had reassured her.

‘Like the circus?’ Clementine had asked. Her mother and Uncle Digby had taken Clemmie to the circus the last time it came to the showground at Highton Mill.

‘A little bit like that,’ her mother had replied.

‘But without the elephants or the lions,’ Clementine decided.

It had all seemed so far away when her mother first mentioned it. It was before Aunt Violet had come to stay and before Clemmie had started school. And now there was only one more day until the men would come and put up the tent and then the guests would begin to arrive. Every room had been booked by the wedding party and their families.

Lady Clarissa turned into the driveway and Clementine spotted Mrs Mogg’s car parked next to Uncle Digby’s.

‘Oh, that’s a relief,’ Lady Clarissa exhaled. ‘Margaret said she’d pop over and help Uncle Digby with some of the cleaning this afternoon.’

Clementine thought she could ask Mrs Mogg if she’d brought any letters too. She didn’t
really
care about Angus and his party, of course. But she’d check anyway, just to be sure.

On Saturday morning, Clementine Rose sat on the back steps of the house. She was watching the men hammering a line of long metal spikes into the ground. A large sheet of canvas was spread across the lawn like a giant white blanket. She couldn’t wait to see it transform into the tent. Lavender was sitting beside her, dozing in the wintry sun. Both girl and pig were wearing matching pretty blue jumpers, which Mrs Mogg had knitted a few weeks earlier.

Friday at school had been awful. Everyone had been talking about their costumes for Angus’s party and Angus had demanded all sorts of presents. Clementine’s invitation had never arrived, so she decided that she would just ignore the other kids and think about what was happening at home.

But a sick feeling returned to the bottom of her tummy whenever anyone mentioned it. Even Angus had asked her about his present. She definitely wasn’t getting him anything if she wasn’t invited.

The weather had turned much colder in the past few days, and with the last autumn leaves scattered across the ground, Clementine thought the garden looked a bit sad and scruffy. She wondered if the tent would be warm enough, but her mother had assured her that this wouldn’t be any ordinary construction. Clementine thought it was looking a lot bigger than the little triangle in which she and Sophie played in Sophie’s backyard.

Digby Pertwhistle emerged from the house and stood on the step beside Clementine and Lavender. ‘Hello there, you two.’

Clementine looked up and smiled. ‘Hello Uncle Digby. Do you think the tent will be finished soon?’

The old man frowned. ‘I hope so. There’s still a lot to do. At least when the marquee is up, there’ll be one less thing for your mother to worry about.’

‘What’s a marquee?’ Clementine asked.

‘It’s just a fancy name for the tent, Clemmie,’ Uncle Digby replied. ‘I don’t think brides like the idea of having their weddings in a common old canvas tent.’

Clementine felt an excited shiver run through her whole body. She couldn’t wait to see the bride in her dress.

‘It’s a big job,’ Clementine declared.

‘Yes, it certainly is,’ Uncle Digby said. He could recall only one other wedding at the house. It was when a very young and beautiful Violet Appleby had married her first husband. Sadly, the fellow left her and took a lot of her money with him a couple of years later. At the time Uncle Digby was just a young man, and had only started working as the family butler a year before.

‘Can Lavender and I help with anything?’ Clementine asked.

‘Mmm.’ Uncle Digby tapped his forefinger against his lip. Most of the remaining jobs involved polishing and cleaning, and letting Clementine loose with a feather duster was not the best idea. Last time she’d helped she had accidentally knocked over one of the family’s heirloom vases, chipping the top.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Uncle Digby. ‘Why don’t you practise one of your poems and then perhaps you can entertain the guests when they arrive later?’

Clementine nodded. ‘I’ve got that new one you taught me. I could tell it to Mr Bruno and his men. They must get a little bit bored hammering pegs into the ground.’

Uncle Digby smiled at Clementine. ‘Just don’t get in the way.’

‘I won’t.’ She stood and walked down the steps. ‘Come on, Lavender.’

The little pig opened her eyes and scrambled to her feet.

Clementine marched into the garden and climbed onto a bench ready to begin her recital.

One of the older gentlemen working nearby had learned the exact same poem when he was a lad, and soon enough he was saying it along with her.

‘You’re a clever girl. What’s your name?’ the man asked when she had finished and taken a bow.

‘Clementine,’ she replied.

The man grinned at Clemmie. ‘Have you got another one for us?’

Clementine loved nothing more than an audience. She knew several poems by heart; her favourite was by a man called Mr Dahl and it was about an anteater. All of the men listened this time. Above the clanking of their hammers, all that could be heard was Clementine and the odd grunt of approval from Lavender.

Upstairs in the house, Aunt Violet was fiddling with some knick-knacks on her dressing table, when she heard Clementine’s voice outside. She wondered what the child could possibly be up to.

The old woman peered through the window. She was horrified to see Clementine nattering at the workmen who’d been stomping about the garden since yesterday afternoon.

Aunt Violet pushed the window up further and poked her head outside. ‘Clementine, what are you doing? Those men are here to work, not to listen to your gobbledegook.’

‘Oh, hello Aunt Violet,’ Clementine called back. ‘I’m just practising.’

‘You should find somewhere else to do it,’ Aunt Violet said. ‘Those men don’t have time to stand about.’

‘But I’ve no one else to practise with,’ said Clementine. She thought of the portraits in the entrance hall. ‘Except for Granny and Grandpa, and they don’t laugh as much as these men do.’

‘Your grandfather didn’t laugh much when he was alive, Clementine. I can’t imagine the old trout has changed a jot since he’s been dead,’ Aunt Violet sneered.

A stout young man looked up at the window. ‘It’s all right, ma’am. She’s not in the way and she’s very funny.’

‘Clementine, come away from those people at once,’ her great-aunt demanded.

‘What people?’ the young fellow said suspiciously. ‘Aren’t we good enough to listen to some poetry?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Aunt Violet fumed. ‘But I’ll be reporting your bad manners to whoever is in charge.’

‘That’s Mr Bruno.’ Clementine pointed at the short fellow in front of her. ‘He’s the boss.’

Mr Bruno looked up at Aunt Violet’s scowling face and then back at Clementine. ‘Is she always so lovely?’ he asked the girl.

Aunt Violet grumbled something under her breath and then slammed the window so hard that the panes rattled.

‘Oh no, she’s not lovely at all,’ Clementine replied. ‘She’s Aunt Violet.’

By midday, Mr Bruno and his men had finished their tightening of ropes and hammering of pegs, and in the middle of the back lawn stood an enormous white tent. Clementine thought it looked like a giant wedding cake. Another group of people had arrived and set up lots of round tables, and stacks of chairs were being wheeled into place too.

Clementine and Lavender were having a wonderful time exploring inside, when into the marquee blew the most extraordinary man Clementine had ever seen.

‘Oh my, oh my, there’s no time, no time, we must get to work. Places everyone, we need to get this show on the road,’ he burbled. ‘Chop, chop!’

Clementine and Lavender watched from underneath a table. The man wore a bright blue suit, a red bow tie and matching red shoes. A red-and-yellow spotted handkerchief poked out of his blazer pocket. He flapped his hands about as if he were directing traffic at a busy intersection. A stream of people poured into the tent behind him, carrying all manner of things, from huge floral arrangements to rolls of shimmering fabric.

Clemmie’s eyes were like dinner plates as she took it all in.

The man clapped his hands together. ‘It’s not much now, but just you wait and see. Places everyone, let the magic begin.’

Clementine wondered if he was going to put on a show. She scrambled out from under the table and jumped up in front of him.

The man leapt into the air. ‘Good gracious, my dear. Where did you come from?’

‘Hello,’ said Clementine, ‘I like your shoes.’

The man peered over the top of his stylish spectacles. ‘Oh, thank you. Who do we have here?’ His brow furrowed as he caught sight of Lavender, who trotted out and sat beside her mistress.

‘I’m Clementine and this is Lavender,’ Clemmie replied.

‘How darling.’ The man surveyed the child in her pretty ensemble and the pig in its matching jumper. He bent down to scratch the top of Lavender’s head. She leaned into his fingers and squirmed with delight. ‘Aren’t you the cutest little piggy in the world? And I just adore your matching outfits.’

‘Mrs Mogg made them for us,’ Clementine explained. ‘Are you a magician?’