Starcross (7 page)

‘It is as if the hotel and the land about it, out as far as that small island in the bay, have been moved instantaneously through space to a warm and watery world,’ mused Mother, looking out of the
window at all the little dancing diamonds of light upon the sea. ‘But short of a Shaper engine, I cannot think of a machine which could accomplish such a thing … And besides, what world has such oceans, apart from Earth, and we are not on Earth …’

‘Oh, don’t worry about how it comes to be here, ducks!’ called the large, beaming lady. (She was addressing the colonel, but clearly hoping to be introduced to us. I felt Myrtle give a quiver of distaste at such forward behaviour.) ‘Just ’op in an’ enjoy it, I say! There’s nothing like a nice dip for lifting the spirits, eh, Colonel?’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ the colonel chuckled, plainly approving of her good humour. He wolfed down a triangle of toast and introduced us. ‘Mrs Mumby, children, this extraordinary lady is Mrs Rosie Spinnaker, that celebrated practitioner of the Terpsichore muse.’

‘Ooh, ’ark at ’im!’ cried Mrs Spinnaker, spraying toast crumbs over her companion. ‘Don’t you listen to his blandishments, my dearies. I’m just a simple songbird. “The Cockney Nightingale” they calls me, back ’ome in dear ol’ London. Maybe you’ve ’eard that little ditty of mine …’ and, beating time upon the table with a jam spoon, she launched into a chorus of ‘My Flat Cat’.

Myrtle turned pale, and might have fainted had I not supported her. ‘Can we never escape that abominable jingle?’ she groaned.

‘Eh?’ asked the Cockney Nightingale, cupping a be-ringed hand to her ear. ‘What’s that? Speak up, dear! I’m quite deaf, you know!’

‘Myrtle is something of a musician herself,’ said Mother, to cover Myrtle’s embarrassment. ‘She is learning to play the pianoforte.’

‘Ooh, so you tickle the ivories yourself, do you, ducks?’ chortled Mrs Spinnaker. ‘We’ll have to have a recital, won’t we, ’Erbert? My hubby, ’Erbert, is my usual accompanist, you see, but he’s under the weather at the moment; sprained both wrists during my third encore at the Farpoo Apollo.’ (’Erbert opened his mouth as if to add some explanation, but closed it again as his wife’s stream of words went rushing on.) ‘That’s why we came here, see, for a rest cure. But if your Myrtle can play the old Joanna we’ll be able to ’ave a lovely ol’ sing-song, won’t we? We’ll do all the old
favourites – “My Flat Cat”, “Were’t Not for the Linnet”, “Nobby Knocker’s Noggin” … Lord, what larks we’ll ’ave!’

Myrtle glared at me as if it was all
my
idea, which I thought most unfair. But everyone else in the breakfast room seemed delighted by Mrs Spinnaker’s proposal. Colonel Quivering raised his tea cup in a toast, and something which I had taken till then to be a large potted plant suddenly clapped its fronds together and said in a leafy sort of way, ‘What an agreeable notion, Mrs S.!’

‘Ah, Ferny!’ called the colonel. ‘Come and meet Mrs Mumby. Mrs Mumby, Art, Myrtle, this is Professor Ferny, the Educated Shrub.’

The professor, whom I saw had been standing with his roots in a large bowl of breakfast mulch, removed them, wiped them carefully upon a napkin and came rustling across the floor to our table. He bowed low and extended a broad leaf, which Mother, Myrtle and myself took turns to shake.

‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ he announced. ‘I trust you will enjoy Starcross. Sea bathing is not to my taste, but perhaps you will do me the honour of visiting the gardens? Mr Titfer has asked me to help him with the planting there. Speaking of which, I fear I must leave you, ladies and gentlemen. I have some Screaming Lupin seedlings which will run quite wild if they are not potted up at once …’

‘From Venus,’ explained Colonel Quivering, as the sentient shrub departed. ‘Grew from a seed brought back by Captain Cook. Turned out to be uncommonly intelligent. Director of Xenobotany at Kew Gardens now, I gather.’

Our toast and marmalade arrived, along with tea in a gleaming silver pot on clockwork legs, which poured itself. We ate, and drank, and Mother said, ‘The hotel seems pleasantly quiet. Tell me, are we the only guests?’

‘No, indeed, not quite,’ said Colonel Quivering. ‘There is a young French person, Miss Delphine Beauregard …’

‘Such a sweet, beautiful young lady, poor thing!’ cried
Mrs Spinnaker.

‘She suffers from an Ailment or Malady,’ confided the colonel.

‘She is confined to a wicker bath chair,’ said Mrs Spinnaker. ‘And can go nowhere unless she is pushed about by her nurse …’

‘The nurse is neither sweet, nor beautiful, I am afraid,’ sighed Colonel Quivering.

‘You shall see ’er for yourself quite soon, no doubt,’ Mrs Spinnaker promised. ‘She breakfasts early, and has ’er nurse push ’er along the promenade to take the morning air.’

‘Perhaps you and Miss Beauregard may be friends,’ said Mother to Myrtle. ‘It would be an opportunity for you to practise your French conversation …’

‘And don’t forget the Honourable Ignatius Flint,’ suggested Mr Spinnaker meekly.

‘Oh, we had not
forgot
the Honourable Ignatius Flint!’ cried Mrs Spinnaker. ‘’Ow could anyone forget the Honourable Ignatius Flint? We was merely saving ’im till last, as being the most exotic of our number and therefore the most interesting.’ She leant closer to our table and said, ‘The Honourable Ignatius Flint is a young gentleman who came ’ere but a week ago. A young gentleman of a dusky
hue, but so ’andsome! I reckon he is travelling under an assumed name, and that ’is father must be one of them Indian rajahs.’

Myrtle perked up somewhat, as girls disappointed in love often will when they hear of an Indian prince in the offing. But she drooped again almost immediately as Mrs Spinnaker went on, ‘Between you and me, dears, we think there is a little romance going on between the Hon. Ignatius and our Miss Beauregard. He, too, breakfasts early. He ’as been paying the most constant attention to her.’

‘Aha!’ said Colonel Quivering. ‘There is Miss Beauregard now.’

Naturally we did not wish to stare, but the colonel and Mrs Spinnaker had painted such intriguing pictures-in-words for us of our absent fellow guests that we could none of us restrain ourselves from turning to peek out of the windows. There, approaching along the curve of the promenade, we saw a wicker bath chair propelled by perhaps the largest and ugliest lady I have ever seen. Mrs Spinnaker was large in an agreeable, floury-dumpling sort of way, but Miss Beauregard’s nurse was quite enormous, and clad in a vast dress of black bombazine, which covered her right up to the chin, where the black ribbons of her
black poke bonnet were tied in a tight black bow. Out of the depths of this bonnet, like a goblin peering out of a coal scuttle, a little, sour, wizened face regarded the passing world with black button eyes.

But none of us looked long at this ogress, for we were far too busy gazing at her charge. Upon the embroidered cushions of the wicker chair reclined the loveliest young lady ever seen outside a painting of fairyland. She had pale skin and golden curls and forget-me-not eyes, and looked in all respects so like a porcelain shepherdess upon a mantel-shelf that it was hard to believe she was real, and alive. And yet a certain pallor in her cheeks, a certain restlessness about her manner, reminded us of what Colonel Quivering had said about her
suffering from a Malady or Ailment, and so our admiration for her beauty was sweetly mixed with pity.

‘She is not all
that
beautiful,’ said Myrtle, torn between delight at the prospect of trying out her French conversation on this Vision, and annoyance at finding herself no longer the prettiest girl at Starcross.

‘Why, Myrtle,’ I said, ‘I do believe you’re jealous!’

‘Hush!’ said Mother.

Colonel Quivering was drawing our attention to the far end of the seafront, where a second group of promenaders had come into sight. ‘And there is our Indian prince and his servants!’ he said proudly.

The Indian prince wore a suit of white linen, and was followed at a respectful distance by two servants in coats of black broadcloth, one an Ionian, the other some manner of small Jovian hobgoblin. A wide straw hat shadowed his face, so that all I saw of him as he strolled over to greet Miss Beauregard was his smile. But I saw the servants plain enough, and was so amazed I dropped my toast. The Ionian was my old friend Mr Munkulus, I was quite sure of it … And his goblin companion was none other than Mr Grindle!