Clementine Rose and the Famous Friend 7 Page 5

  She glanced up. ‘It’s nothing, Mr Morley. Just a little project.’

  ‘Well, not everyone’s as talented as my Dennis,’ declared Mrs Morley. She grinned and revealed a set of teeth as yellow as cheese. ‘But you mustn’t give up, dear. If you stick with it and perhaps join some writers’ groups, you never know what might happen. Although at your age you really mustn’t leave it too long.’

  Miss Richardson frowned and a squeak escaped from her lips. Clementine watched her closely from the other side of the table.

  Digby Pertwhistle entered and cleared the entree plates.

  ‘And what is it that you’ve written, Mr Morley?’ Miss Richardson asked.

  ‘Dennis has done a lovely little book for kiddies,’ his wife answered for him. ‘It’s about a train and a dragon and there are some fairies too.’

  Clementine’s eyes lit up. ‘Are you famous, Mr Morley?’

  ‘Clemmie,’ Lady Clarissa whispered and frowned at the child. ‘Manners, darling.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy. It’s just that I have to do a school project about a famous person and I wondered if Mr Morley was famous.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like to boast but I did just have a lovely spread in our village newspaper,’ the man replied.

  Mrs Mogg and Uncle Digby arrived bearing the main course as Miss Richardson coughed delicately into her napkin.

  ‘Where can we buy this book of yours, Morley?’ Mr Biggins asked as Mrs Mogg set a plate of roast beef and vegetables in front of him.

  Mrs Morley answered for him again. ‘Well, it’s not quite ready yet and we’re just waiting to hear back from a publisher, but they’re very excited about it. I’m sure they’re going to take it on.’

  A ‘huh’ sound blurted from Miss Richardson’s lips. She took a mouthful of food and chewed it rapidly.

  ‘Your project sounds exciting, Clementine,’ Mrs Lee said from the other end of the table. ‘Who else do you think you might choose for it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Clementine said, her brow furrowing. The question had been in the back of her mind all afternoon. ‘I thought about Tilda and Teddy’s mum, Ana, because she was a famous ballerina. But Tilda is going to talk about her and it would be silly to have two projects on the same person.’

  ‘What about a singer?’ Mr Lee suggested.

  ‘No, the child doesn’t want popular nonsense,’ Mr Biggins tutted. ‘She should be studying a prime minister or an explorer.’

  Aunt Violet rolled her eyes. ‘Well, that sounds frightfully dull.’

  It seemed that almost everyone around the table had an opinion about Clementine’s project.

  Digby Pertwhistle stepped forward to top up Clementine’s water glass. ‘What about your favourite author? The one who writes all those poems and stories we like,’ he whispered.

  Clementine’s eyes lit up. ‘That’s a great idea, Uncle Digby.’

  The others continued their chatter until Clementine announced, ‘I’ve decided.’

  The hubbub died down.

  Just as she was about to speak, Clementine noticed Mrs Biggins’s napkin moving. It seemed to flutter upwards.

  Clementine leaned forward and tilted her head as far as she could to see over the table.

  Mrs Biggins jabbed a piece of meat with her fork. But instead of lifting it to her mouth, she put it in her lap.

  The napkin moved again.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Biggins, but why are you feeding your napkin?’ Clementine asked.

  Eight pairs of eyes suddenly turned towards Mrs Biggins, who hastily set her fork on her plate.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she snapped, then shovelled some more food onto her fork and gobbled it down.

  But Clementine wasn’t convinced and neither was Miss Richardson, who jumped when the napkin wriggled again. ‘Mrs Biggins, is something in your bag?’

  Mrs Biggins frowned and smoothed the napkin on her lap. Just as she did, a fluffy white head poked out.

  ‘Oh my heavens, what’s that?’ Aunt Violet shrieked.

  Miss Richardson giggled. ‘You’re very cute!’

  Clementine giggled too.

  ‘What are you laughing at? It’s not funny at all!’ Aunt Violet cried.

  The tiny creature pushed itself forward and stole a piece of roast beef from Miss Richardson’s plate. The old woman’s eyes lit up. ‘Cheeky!’

  ‘Get it out of here!’ Aunt Violet demanded.

  Mrs Biggins grasped at the animal but the little dog leapt from her lap onto the table. It danced down the centre, knocking the candelabra into a flaming wobble, which Uncle Digby somehow managed to catch. Arms reached out from all over the place to stop the escapee.

  ‘Polly! Come back!’ Mrs Biggins shouted.

  ‘I’ll get her.’ Clementine took off after the powder puff, which was half the size of Lavender.

  Polly ran towards Aunt Violet, who dived left and then right trying to block the creature’s path. ‘You’re not going anywhere, mutt,’ Aunt Violet yelled.

  But Polly had other ideas. She ran straight through the middle of Aunt Violet’s plate, leaving paw prints in the gravy, and jumped onto the woman’s lap and down to the floor.

  ‘Urgh, my suit! It’s ruined!’ Aunt Violet stared in horror at the brown stains on her cream outfit.

  By now the entire party was on their feet, set for the chase.

  Mrs Mogg was coming to check on the progress of dinner when Polly raced through the woman’s legs and down the hallway. The little dog left yet more gravy splodges in her wake.

  ‘Polly!’ Clementine called and raced after her. The rest of the group were hot on her heels.

  ‘Oh, my darling doggy,’ Mrs Biggins wailed. ‘Don’t you hurt her!’

  ‘That’s not a dog. It’s a polishing cloth with legs,’ Aunt Violet squawked.

  ‘How dare you?’ Mrs Biggins gasped.

  ‘And how dare you bring a dog to dinner? I’m sure Clarissa told you that we don’t take pets. Heavens knows how much they’d upset Pharaoh – and Lavender, for that matter.’

  Clementine saw the creature disappear through the swinging kitchen door and ran after her. Finally Polly stopped by the cooker, trapped between Pharaoh and Lavender, who hissed and grunted at their unexpected visitor.

  ‘Polly,’ Clementine called in a singsong voice. ‘Here Polly, would you like something to eat?’ Clementine spotted some leftover beef on a plate on the table. She grabbed a small piece and offered it to the dog.

  By now the entire dinner party was standing behind the child, craning their necks to see the tiny pup.

  ‘What is it?’ Mrs Lee asked.

  ‘It’s a Teacup Pomeranian,’ Mrs Biggins said. ‘But what on earth is that?’ She pointed at the sphynx cat.

  ‘That’s my Pharaoh and you’d better hope he doesn’t take a dislike to Polly or things might get ugly,’ said Aunt Violet.

  Polly sniffed the air as Clementine slowly walked towards her. Pharaoh yowled.

  ‘You can have some too,’ the child said. She tore the tasty morsel in half and offered a piece in each hand. Pharaoh slunk forward and took the meat before retreating to Lavender’s basket.

  Lavender watched the little dog, whose tail swished like a windscreen wiper on high speed.

  Polly took two steps forward then danced back. She wriggled and waggled her tail and eventually snatched the piece of meat from Clementine’s hand. Clementine reached out and picked the little fur ball up, clutching her to her chest.

  ‘Give her to me!’ Mrs Biggins demanded.

  Clementine stroked the top of the dog’s head. ‘You’re so cute,’ she cooed.

  Mrs Biggins snatched the dog from Clementine’s arms.

  ‘Well, I think we should be getting back to dinner,’ Lady Clarissa said loudly, hoping that the adventure hadn’t caused her other guests too much distress. The last thing Penberthy House needed was a bad review.

  ‘That dog’s not welcome!’ Aunt Violet sniffed.

  ‘Come along, Muri
el,’ Mr Biggins blustered. ‘We’ll get our things.’

  ‘Yes, and I’ll be sending you a bill for my dry-cleaning too.’ Aunt Violet spun around and stalked away.

  Most of the group retreated to the dining room, leaving Clementine and her mother with the Bigginses.

  ‘There’s no need for you to leave,’ Lady Clarissa said calmly. ‘We don’t usually accommodate pets but it’s getting late and there are no other hotels close by. Why don’t we get one of Lavender’s spare baskets and a water bowl and some food, and Polly can spend the rest of the evening in your room.’

  ‘That’s very kind, Lady Clarissa,’ said Mr Biggins. He glared at his wife. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ the woman whispered.

  ‘I told you we should have left her with your sister but oh no, why would you listen to me,’ Mr Biggins hissed through gritted teeth.

  ‘Clemmie, run along to the dining room and let Uncle Digby know we’ll be ready for dessert in ten minutes,’ Lady Clarissa instructed.

  Clementine nodded and scampered away.

  Fortunately, no one else seemed terribly offended by Polly the Pomeranian. The guests were all chattering happily when Lady Clarissa returned with Mr and Mrs Biggins in tow.

  ‘I thought you were leaving,’ Aunt Violet sniped.

  ‘No, your niece has kindly allowed us to stay. Polly’s in our room,’ the man said. ‘She won’t be bothering you again.’

  ‘Clarissa, we have rules about pets,’ Aunt Violet began. ‘And this suit will not clean itself.’

  Lady Clarissa ignored her aunt and walked to the other end of the dining room.

  ‘I’m happy to pay for your dry-cleaning, Miss Appleby,’ Mr Biggins offered.

  ‘Oh, yes you … Oh. Right. Just as well, then.’ Aunt Violet pulled a face and took a large gulp from the glass in front of her.

  Clementine was watching Miss Richardson, who was quietly watching everyone else around the table. She looked serious again but Clementine remembered that she’d laughed when Polly popped up. Maybe she wasn’t as cranky as Clementine had first thought. She could have one of those faces that looked cross even when she didn’t mean to.

  ‘I thought Polly was funny too, Miss Richardson,’ Clementine said to the woman. ‘It was just like a story Uncle Digby read with me last week. It was about a naughty dog who wriggled into the next door neighbour’s house through the cat door and ate everything, including the father’s socks.’

  Miss Richardson frowned. ‘Did you like that story?’

  Clementine nodded. ‘I loved it. It was Melville the Mangy Mutt by Agnes Wells. She’s my favourite writer in the whole world. That’s who I’m going to do my project on. I was about to say that when Polly escaped.’

  A deep row of frown lines furrowed Miss Richardson’s brow. ‘I thought children didn’t like her books any more.’

  Clementine shook her head. ‘I love them.’

  ‘Well.’ A strange smile settled on the woman’s lips. ‘That is a surprise.’

  ‘Do you know her?’ Clementine asked.

  ‘I did a long time ago,’ Miss Richardson replied.

  Mrs Lee smiled. ‘I loved her books when I was a little girl too, Clementine. They were old-fashioned romps even –’

  Mrs Morley interrupted her. ‘I’ve heard she’s a crotchety old thing. Doesn’t like children at all. Imagine that! Not like my Dennis. He adores children and they adore him.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Miss Richardson asked.

  ‘There was that article about her in the newspaper recently. The journalist said that her books were dull and old-fashioned and showed no love of children at all. If I were her I’d retire to the seaside and forget about writing another thing.’

  Miss Richardson’s face fell. ‘You shouldn’t always believe everything you read, Mrs Morley.’

  Clementine’s eyes were wide. ‘Could you help me with my project, Miss Richardson?’

  Lady Clarissa had been listening to the conversation too. ‘Clementine, Miss Richardson doesn’t have time for that. She’s very busy working on her book.’

  Miss Richardson didn’t say a word. She simply focused on the passionfruit cheesecake that Uncle Digby had just put down in front of her.

  ‘Oh well, Mr Smee will help me,’ Clementine said. ‘And Uncle Digby.’

  Digby Pertwhistle gave the girl a wink.

  The rest of the weekend whizzed by. Apart from Miss Richardson, all the guests were gone by midday on Sunday. Clementine was disappointed not to see Polly again but Mr and Mrs Biggins had left first thing on Saturday morning. Mr Biggins was true to his word and left an envelope with a rather large sum of money to pay for Aunt Violet’s dry-cleaning. On Sunday Ana had telephoned to invite Clementine around. She had spent the day with the Hobbs children, exploring their garden by the stream and playing in the newly built tree house.

  On Monday morning, twenty pairs of eager eyes greeted their teacher in the Year One classroom. ‘Good morning, Mr Smee,’ the children chorused.

  Clementine thought he looked especially handsome today with his red polka-dot tie.

  ‘Did everyone have a chance to think about their Famous Friend project over the weekend?’ the teacher asked.

  The children nodded.

  ‘Well, I’m keen to know who you’ve chosen.’ Mr Smee pointed to Angus. ‘Who’s your famous friend?’

  ‘I’m doing Hedley Humphrey,’ said Angus. ‘He was a famous mountain climber.’

  The teacher nodded. ‘Good choice. Have you thought about what you’re going to wear?’

  Angus’s eyes lit up. ‘Yup. I’ve already got some ropes too, and Dad said that I could borrow a pickaxe but I’m the only one allowed to touch it.’

  Mr Smee frowned. He’d speak to Angus’s dad about that. ‘What about you, Clementine?’

  ‘I’m going to be Agnes Wells,’ the child replied.

  ‘I loved her books when I was a little boy but I didn’t know kids still read them today. I think she’s gone out of fashion, although I don’t know why. Maybe we could read one of her books together in class.’

  Clementine nodded. ‘That’s a great idea. But I don’t know anything about her apart from her books. Can you help me find out some more things about her, Mr Smee?’

  ‘Sure can, Clemmie. We’ll do that this afternoon. Miss Critchley is going to help us too.’

  The morning sped past. Mr Smee led the children through all sorts of reading, writing and mathematics activities. After morning tea there was singing and craft. Finally, after lunch, the children met Mr Smee and Miss Critchley outside the library.

  The head teacher was very impressed with the famous friends the students had chosen, apart from Joshua’s pick. Once she and Mr Smee convinced him that Batman wasn’t a real person, it was time to get down to work. Tilda’s job was easy because she was doing her project on her mother. But Mr Smee said that she still had to write her talk and work out how she was going to present it to the group. Tilda was planning to give the audience a short ballet lesson.

  ‘Where can we find out about Miss Wells?’ Clementine asked Mr Smee.

  ‘Sometimes there are facts about authors at the back of their books,’ he said. ‘And why don’t we type her name into the computer and see what comes up?’

  Clementine flipped to the back cover of the book she’d found on the shelf. There was a black-and-white photograph of a serious-looking young woman. Her hair was pulled back and she wore glasses on the tip of her nose. Pinned to her lapel was a sparkly brooch in the shape of a heart.

  Clementine began to read the words aloud, sounding out the hard ones she didn’t know. ‘It says that Miss Wells has written lots of books and she lives in the city.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Mr Smee scratched his chin. ‘I’ve just printed something off for you, but I’m afraid it doesn’t tell us much. Miss Wells seems to be a very private person.’

  ‘Could I just say a few things about her and then recite one of her poems for my presentation?’ Cle
mentine asked.

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ Mr Smee agreed. ‘You only have a minute or two anyway, or the assembly will go all afternoon.’

  Mrs Bottomley’s head appeared over the top of one of the bookshelves. ‘Yes, and we wouldn’t want that, would we Mr Smee?’

  ‘Oh, hello Ethel,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Mrs Bottomley, thank you,’ the woman snapped. ‘Next thing the children will be calling you Roderick. Jolly hippy.’

  Mr Smee waggled his eyebrows at Clementine, who tried not to laugh.

  ‘What are you doing over here anyway?’ Mrs Bottomley demanded. ‘I was planning to bring Kindergarten for story time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Bottomley,’ said Mr Smee. ‘I booked the library so that Year One could start their projects.’

  ‘No, you didn’t. I can’t see your name anywhere on this list.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s last week’s sheet,’ Mr Smee said.

  Ethel Bottomley scanned the page. She squeezed her lips tightly. ‘Oh. I’ll just take a book back to class with me then.’

  Before she left, Mrs Bottomley scribbled ‘Kindergarten’ into every afternoon slot for the rest of the week.

  Clementine stood in the middle of the front stairs, looking up at her grandparents’ portraits. She was practising a poem for Friday’s presentation, but something wouldn’t stick. She recited the first verse then her mind went blank again.

  ‘It’s hopeless,’ she said and stamped her foot.

  Clementine hadn’t noticed Miss Richardson standing on the landing. The woman had spent most of the week hidden in her room, but Clementine had bumped into her in the garden a couple of times. On those occasions they’d talked a little, but whenever Clementine asked about Miss Wells, the woman made an excuse and scurried off as fast as her little legs would carry her.

  Clementine started the poem from the beginning again. She stopped at exactly the same place.

  ‘And just as quick, you save the day, and make the bad things go away,’ a voice said from upstairs.

  Clementine turned and saw the grey-haired woman. ‘Oh, thank you, Miss Richardson. I don’t know why I can’t remember.’