Clementine Rose and the Surprise Visitor 1 (2 page)

The telephone rang before Lady Clarissa could reply. She walked over to the hall table and picked up the receiver.

‘Good morning, Penberthy House, this is Clarissa,’ she said. ‘Oh, hello Odette, how are you?’

On hearing that name, Clementine ran halfway down the staircase towards her mother.

‘Yes, of course we’d love to have Sophie and Jules. That’s fine. No, no guests on Sunday night. It’s no problem at all. We’ll see you then. Bye,’ Clarissa said and hung up.

‘Are Sophie and Jules coming?’ Clementine called. She was bouncing up and down on the spot like Tigger.

‘Yes, on Sunday. Pierre and Odette are going to look at a new van and its hours away. They’re going to stay in Downsfordvale for the night.’

Clementine’s eyes lit up. Sophie was her best friend and Jules was Sophie’s brother, who was two years older.

‘I can’t wait!’ Clementine was already thinking about all the things they could do.

‘Well, you’d better run along and get dressed quick smart if you want to come with me to the village, Clemmie. We have some guests arriving this afternoon and I need to get back and make a start on dinner,’ her mother instructed.

Clementine skittered back upstairs to the landing.

‘And I’d better get on and dust those bedrooms,’ said Digby. He turned from the mirror he was polishing and grinned at Clementine. ‘We don’t want our guests complaining about grubby rooms.’

‘No, that’s true. There are enough other things they can complain about,’ she replied. She was thinking of the previous weekend, when a lady called Mrs Pink ran screaming into the hallway saying there was a snake under her bed. Clementine was in her room on the third floor when she heard the commotion and suddenly remembered that she had been playing in that room the day she lost her giant rubber python. It seemed Mrs Pink had found it and wasn’t at all happy about it.

Lady Clarissa had to give the woman three cups of tea and a promise of a reduced charge before she’d go back into the room. Clementine was sent to apologise to Mrs Pink, who spent ten minutes telling her off for being so careless with her things, and then the next hour complaining about her sore feet and her bad back and her creaky bones. Clementine had decided right there and then that getting old was not a very sensible thing to do.

Now Clementine ran off to her bedroom. She had been sick with a cold all week and was looking forward to getting out of the house. And she couldn’t wait for Sophie and Jules to come on Sunday too.

‘There you are, Lavender.’ Clementine found her pet lying in the basket on the floor at the end of her bed. ‘We’re going to see Mrs Mogg.’

Lavender looked up and grunted.

Clementine thought for a moment about what she would wear and then got dressed as quickly as her fingers would allow. She snapped Lavender’s lead onto her collar and together the two of them hurried downstairs to meet her mother.

‘Oh, Clemmie, that looks lovely. A little overdressed for collecting the mail, perhaps, but I think Mrs Mogg will be thrilled to see you in it,’ Lady Clarissa commented.

Clementine twirled around. ‘Mrs Mogg makes the best dresses in the whole world.’

Clementine wore a navy smocked tunic and her favourite red patent Mary Jane shoes. Lavender, her tiny teacup pig, wore a sparkling ruby-red collar, which matched Clementine’s shoes perfectly.

Lady Clarissa tucked Clementine’s blonde hair behind her ear and re-clipped her red bow.

Lavender squealed.

‘And I’m sure that Mrs Mogg will notice how lovely you look in your new collar too, Lavender,’ said Lady Clarissa as she reached down and patted the top of the tiny silver pig’s head.

No one knew where Clementine got her sense of style but it was there, all right. As a baby she would point at things she liked and wave away anything that she didn’t want to wear.

Given the poor state of Lady Clarissa’s bank balance, she couldn’t afford to buy much for Clemmie. But dear Mrs Mogg loved to sew and as a result Clementine had a huge wardrobe of clothes to wear for every occasion. The child especially adored dresses and as Mrs Mogg loved to make them for her, it was a match made in heaven.

Clementine held Lavender’s lead and the three of them took their usual shortcut into the village. They walked through the field at the back of the garden, over the stone bridge across the stream and finally through the churchyard of St Swithun’s, where Father Bob was tending his roses by the fence. His ancient bulldog, Adrian, was fast asleep, snoring, on the steps of the church. In the driveway of the rectory next door, Clementine Rose could see Father Bob’s shiny new hatchback gleaming proudly in the sun. Her mother had won the little car but decided that Father Bob had much more use for it than she did.

‘Good morning, Lady Clarissa. Good morning, Clementine,’ he called. ‘And good morning, Lavender,’ he said in a funny deep voice.

‘Hello Father Bob,’ the two called back. Lavender squeaked her hello.

‘Your roses are looking magnificent,’ Clarissa said.

‘Thank you, dear. Just between us,’ he said, and tapped his finger to his nose, ‘I’m hoping for a win at the Highton Mill flower show, God willing. I seem to lose out to Mr Greening from Highton Hall every year and I think it’s about time I took home the cup. That one there,’ he said, pointing at a particularly beautiful crimson rose, ‘is called William Shakespeare and it might just do it for me.’

Clementine skipped over to the fence and pulled one of the blooms towards her.

‘Careful, Clemmie,’ her mother called, but it was too late. The stem snapped and the perfect rose fell to the ground.

‘Oops!’ Clementine exclaimed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right, Clementine,’ said Father Bob. He walked over and picked it up. ‘It’s weeks until the show and that flower would have long been finished. Take it with you.’ He handed her the stem.

‘I didn’t mean to break it,’ she replied.

Father Bob waved her away. ‘Of course you didn’t. It’s just a rose, Clementine. Another will grow in its place, my dear.’

The child smiled, even though she wasn’t entirely sure she was happy. She hoped that Father Bob was telling the truth when he said he didn’t mind.

Clarissa and Clementine said goodbye and together with Lavender they walked out through the stone gateway at the front of the church and across the road to the store. Mrs Mogg’s old tabby cat, Claws, was sunning himself on the bench seat on the veranda. Clementine reached down to give him a pat and he purred like a diesel engine. Lavender knew better than to come within the cat’s reach, having been scratched on the snout several times before. A bell tinkled as Clarissa opened the shop door.

Clementine leaned over and nuzzled her neck against Claws’s face. She was rewarded with a sandpapery lick on her ear.

‘Yuck, Claws, that’s revolting.’ She wiped her ear, then tied Lavender’s lead to the opposite end of the bench. She patted the pig’s head and followed her mother into the store. Clementine loved its smells: cold ham, hot pies, musk lollies and most of all Mrs Mogg, who smelt like rose petals and powder.

‘Good morning,’ chirped Margaret Mogg. She was standing behind the counter carefully placing a batch of fresh scones onto a cake stand. ‘And don’t you look lovely, young lady,’ she said to Clementine.

‘It’s my favourite,’ Clementine replied.

‘Well, let me have a proper look at you then.’ Mrs Mogg twirled her finger and Clemmie spun around. ‘Gorgeous. But I’ve got another on the go.’ She winked as she reached under the counter and pulled out some pink polka dot material. ‘What do you think about this, then?’

‘I love it!’ Clementine exclaimed.

‘Margaret, you spoil her,’ said Clarissa, shaking her head.

‘There’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. As long as Clementine is happy to wear my clothes, I’m very happy to make them.’

Margaret Mogg turned away from the counter and pulled a pile of mail out of one of the pigeonholes on the wall behind her. Her general store also housed the post office. Everyone in the village had their own little slot in the wall.

She handed Clarissa a small bundle of letters and retrieved a stack of magazines from under the counter. ‘I hope you don’t mind, dear, but I started a couple of the crosswords. With Clyde away visiting his mother, I’ve no one to talk to and it’s been rather dull in the evenings. I don’t for the life of me know how you finish the whole things. I can’t understand some of those clues at all. I’ve earmarked all the competitions too.’

Mrs Mogg had also benefitted from Clarissa’s good luck. When Mrs Mogg’s refrigerator broke down, Lady Clarissa won an entire white goods package, which, having just won a remodelled kitchen for Penberthy House, Clarissa didn’t need at all.

Clementine was standing in the far aisle looking at the ribbons Mrs Mogg had recently got into the shop. There was a very pretty pale blue one that she was hoping to add to her collection.

She wandered back to where her mother was sorting through the letters. Clementine noticed that there were lots of the ones with the red writing in the corner. They always seemed to make her mother frown.

Clarissa stopped at one with handwriting that was all swirly and curly.

Margaret Mogg watched from the other side of the counter as Clarissa opened the letter and began to read.

Clarissa caught her breath. ‘Oh no.’

‘Is everything all right, dear?’ Mrs Mogg enquired.

‘No, not really. Not at all. Aunt Violet is coming to stay,’ Clarissa gulped.

‘Oh dear.’ Mrs Mogg frowned, recalling all too well the last time Violet Appleby had visited the village. The woman had run up a hefty bill at the store and left her niece to pay for it.

‘Who’s Aunt Violet?’ Clemmie asked.

‘She’s your grandfather’s sister and she’s positively horrid and I rather hoped never to see her again after the last time,’ said Clarissa. She was looking very pale.

‘Is she on the wall?’ Clementine asked, referring to the family portraits that hung all over Penberthy House. She couldn’t remember her mother ever mentioning anyone called Violet before.

‘Yes, two along from your grandfather, on the stairs,’ Clarissa replied.

‘Oh, she’s beautiful, Mummy!’ Clementine exclaimed. ‘But I call her Grace because you never told me her name.’

‘There is nothing gracious about that woman,’ Clarissa muttered under her breath to Mrs Mogg and then glanced down at her daughter. ‘And remember, Clemmie, that portrait was painted about fifty years ago.’

Clementine wondered what her mother meant.

‘When’s she coming?’ Mrs Mogg asked.

‘According to this letter, she’ll be here tomorrow afternoon,’ Clarissa said. ‘We’d better get home.’

‘Why don’t you like her, Mummy?’ Clementine asked.

‘It’s complicated,’ her mother replied. ‘She wasn’t always mean. In fact, when I was little she was bags of fun. But there were some unfortunate incidents and her horridness has grown on her, a bit like barnacles.’

Barnacles! Clementine had never seen a person with barnacles. Uncle Digby had shown her barnacles clinging to the side of some boats when they went on a trip to the seaside. And they were all over the pier too. But on people? That sounded terrible.

‘Hold on a tick.’ Mrs Mogg disappeared through the door behind the counter, which led to the kitchen and the flat behind. ‘Take this,’ she called, returning with a chocolate sponge cake that was beautifully decorated with fresh strawberries. ‘Pierre dropped it in this morning on his way through the village and I don’t need a whole sponge to myself.’ She patted her round tummy.

‘Thank you, Margaret. That’s wonderful,’ Clarissa said. ‘I won’t have time to bake a thing this afternoon. Come on, Clemmie, we need to hurry.’

‘Is Aunt Violet really covered in seashells?’ Clementine asked her mother. She’d been thinking about the barnacles for the last few minutes.

Clarissa looked at her daughter quizzically. ‘Whatever do you mean, Clementine?’

‘You said that her horridness was like barnacles,’ Clementine replied.

‘Oh, Clemmie, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just an expression. She wasn’t always mean but the meanness has built up over the years, a bit like the way barnacles grow on boats and things when they’re left in the water too long.’ Clarissa smiled tightly and shook her head. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you, darling. Aunt Violet may be a lot of things but she’s not covered in seashells.’

Phew!
Clementine was glad to hear it.

Margaret Mogg smiled at the pair. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, Clementine. I’m sure Aunt Violet will be perfectly well behaved. And don’t fret, dear,’ she said, looking at Clarissa. ‘If she wants to buy anything this time, it will be cash only.’

Clarissa raised her eyebrows, gathered up the mail and placed it in her basket. Mrs Mogg packaged up the sponge in a cake box and put it into a carry bag.

‘Thank you, Margaret,’ Clarissa sighed.

‘Bye, Mrs Mogg,’ Clemmie called as she followed her mother quickly out of the shop. ‘Bye, Claws,’ she called to the sleeping tabby. ‘Come on, Lavender.’ She gathered up the lead and the little pig skittered to her feet and followed behind her.