Amanda Cadabra and The Strange Case of Lucy Penlowr by Holly Bell (i like reading .TXT) 📗

Typical, thought Tempest, perched on the roof of the van. Blame it on the cat.

‘Thank you for reacting so quickly,’ the mother said to the pizza delivery boy, who had ascertained that his already somewhat battered scooter had escaped unscathed. ‘Sure you’re ok? If you’re late with your delivery, I’ll pay for it. The least I can do.’

‘That’s all right, I’ve still got time. Not the first spill I’ve had, or this bike,’ he replied good-naturedly.

Amanda looked back at the senior beside her. His hand shook as he put it to his head.

Seeing her concerned expression, he gruffly assured her.

‘I’m fine. No damage.’

‘But that was rather a shock. You’re probably feeling it as much as I am. Look, sir, we’re right outside a café. Let’s go in and have a cup of tea and something sweet.’

The man looked at her from under beetling brows, but answered,

‘All right, I won’t say no.’

The van driver led the way with a stack of boxes for the café. Within, Amanda left her companion at a table and went to the counter.

‘Two teas, please, and, er, something sweet.’

‘Course, my lover,’ replied the lady who was serving. ‘I see what ’appened. If it’s for the gentleman, ’e likes a bit of saffron cake. Doesn’t come in here often, but when he does he’s partial to that.’

‘Thank you. Two slices then, please.’

‘Dreckly,’ the lady assured her, meaning, ‘at some point’. But Amanda was in no hurry.

Back at the table, the man commented,

‘I haven’t seen you in these parts. Not that I gets out much.’

‘I don’t live here, sir,’ Amanda explained.

‘Ah. Visitor.’

‘Emmet?’ she replied with a gleam, giving the dialect word which wasn’t always used entirely complimentarily. ‘Not exactly a tourist either. I’m visiting friends for a week or two.’

‘But you speak Cornish?’ he asked.

‘I was born here. And although I’ve grown up and lived my life Up North, across the border, I learned Cornish from my grandparents. I studied it formally too, took exams and so on.’

He nodded in approval.

‘Well, good to hear it spoken. ’Scuse my cursing, then, miss.’

She smiled. ‘Not at all, and please call me Amanda.’

‘Well then, Amanda, I wasn’t expecting you to understand me.’

‘Let’s say my education in the language has been fairly wide!’ That brought forth an unwilling grunt of amusement. ‘Are you feeling better, sir?

‘I am. And no need to “sir” me. My name is Pasco.’

Amanda had only ever heard of one Pasco. But it was a common enough Cornish name, she thought, especially among the older generation, surely. And he seemed perfectly amiable under the crustiness.

The two of them chatted about the town, dropping into Cornish, until they both became conscious of the time.

‘It’s been a rare treat,’ Pasco commented.

‘For me too,’ agreed Amanda.

‘If you fancy a cup of tea again and a bit more Cornish practice, I could make the time before you go.’

‘Oh, I’d like that,’ Amanda accepted enthusiastically. ‘I am at a bit of a loose end during the daytime. Would Friday be too soon?’

‘Hm ... I s’pose. All right then, Amanda: 2 o’clock, here, on Friday.’

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, by comparison, until the chance discovery of a bargain pair of leather gloves in Amanda’s favourite colour. This so delighted her that it put her new friend quite out of her mind, even when Trelawney came to find her and drop her back to get ready for the evening.

When Thomas went upstairs to the bathroom at Hogarth’s, he detected the smell of new carpet. Tracking it to its source, he found it had been fitted in Mike’s bedroom where he appeared to be camping out on a new mattress. The bedroom furniture was huddled in the spare room.

Amanda’s new friend also went unmentioned over dinner, when Hogarth took a kindly interest in her new orange gloves. He entertained Amanda and Trelawney with a glove story of his own until tea and pudding, and the next instalment of The Story ....

Chapter 7

Sir Philip’s Answer

Cal possessed his soul in patience for a week while, presumably, his parents held conclave. Finally, he was asked to come to the office. He straightened his black-and-yellow-striped school tie and entered at his father’s invitation.

‘Have a seat. Right then, Cal. We’ve considered your proposal, and I have one of my own. You don’t choose your place of tertiary education until next year. If you are still determined upon this course of action at that time, we will facilitate your installation as a prospective agent in Cornwall.’ Cal’s face lit up.

‘You will?’ He looked at his mother. She nodded, twinkling.

Two years later, Cal sat opposite his father for the last time as a mere schoolboy.

‘You’re sure?’ asked Sir Philip.

‘Yes, Dad, surer than ever.’

‘Hm. We’ll find a way for your mother, at least, to see you from time to time. You can always pull out, you know. At any juncture.’

‘And blow my cover? Undo everything I would have achieved?’ Cal shook his head. ‘Still, it’s good to know that the ejector seat will work,’ he added on a lighter note. His mother laughed at the James Bond reference.

‘Well, don’t expect an Aston Martin or a visit to Q,’ she said.

Sir Philip smiled and withdrew a large manila envelope from his desk drawer.

‘In two weeks, it’s our anniversary. We will go out to dinner at Simpson’s: the three of us. There we will enter into a heated debate as to your future. You will express your defiance of our wishes and storm out. The next day, you will take a train to Heathrow and thence a flight to Paris.’

Sir Philip took out a photo from the envelope and turned it to face Cal.

‘This man, Fabrice, will meet you at