The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories by Garth Nix, Joan Aiken, Andi Watson, Lizza Aiken Page A
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous stories, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Magic, Fantasy & Magic, Family Life, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author), Families
Ads: Link
dashed straight to the vicarage and inquired for Mr. Pontwell, but were told that he was round at the church.
The new vicar was a red-faced, rather pompous-looking man. He seemed slightly embarrassed at meeting Mark and Harriet.
"Oh—er, hullo, my dear children. What can I do for you?"
"Well, sir, it's about our being in the carol choir,” Mark plunged.
Mr. Pontwell frowned. “Dear me, I thought I had made that perfectly plain to your dear mother. I am afraid I cannot see my way—"
"No, but,” said Harriet, “we feel sure that you are acting under a wrong impression of our voices. You probably heard us on some occasion when Mark had a cold, and I was, um, suffering from my laryngitis, and of course you had quite a mistaken idea of what we could do. We just want you to be very kind and hear us again."
"Well really, my dear children, I don't think that is the case, and there hardly seems much point in reopening the question—however, if you insist—"
"Oh, we do insist,” agreed Mark. “What shall we sing, Harriet, ‘Oh, for the Wings of a Dove'?"
They were much more confident this time, and opened their mouths to their widest extent.
"Oh, for the weengs, for the weengs of a dove—
Far away, far away would I rove."
When Mr. Pontwell heard their exquisite treble voices soaring about among the rafters of the church, his eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he sat down suddenly in a nearby pew.
"Good gracious,” he said, “I had no idea—of course, you were quite right to come. My dear children—gracious me, what an extraordinary thing. I had quite thought—but there, it only shows how mistaken one can be. You will indeed be an addition to the choir."
He went on saying things like this as they walked through the churchyard.
"You will come to the practices on Wednesdays and Saturdays, will you?"
"Of course,” said Harriet anxiously, “and when are we going out singing?"
"Monday evening, the nineteenth.” Mark and Harriet did some rapid calculation. Monday the nineteenth would be the last day of their thirteen days, which seemed cutting it rather fine.
"I suppose it couldn't possibly be any earlier?” said Harriet. “You see, rather odd things sometimes happen to our family on Mondays—rather unaccountable things—and it would be so awful if we were late or prevented from coming or anything.” She was thinking of the day when their home had suddenly turned into a castle on the Rhine for twelve hours.
"No, my dear, I'm afraid the date cannot be changed, as I have already made several arrangements for the evening, including a visit of the choir to Gramercy Chase. Sir Leicester will be most interested to hear you sing, so I do trust that you will not let any of these—er—unaccountable things happen during the day, or while you are out with the choir.” He looked at them sternly.
* * * *
"So you're really in the choir?” said Mr. Armitage that evening. “And going to Gramercy Chase. Well, well, it's a good thing it will be dark."
"Why?"
"It's the most hideous house between here and Birmingham. Sir Leicester always says he wishes he had a good excuse to pull it down. It was entirely rebuilt, you know, in nineteenth-century gothic, except for the haunted terrace."
"Haunted?” said Harriet. “Oh, good. What by? That's where we're going to sing."
"Oh, some bird, called King William's Raven (don't ask me why), who only appears to foretell bad tidings to the house of Gramercy. The last time was just before the current baronet was killed at Waterloo. He flies above the terrace lighting torches in the brackets—of course, they've put in electric lighting now, so I don't know how he'd manage—"
* * * *
Harriet and Mark had a somewhat difficult time at the choir practices, as all their village friends were only too familiar with their usual voices, and they had to face a considerable amount of chaff and a lot of astonishment at this sudden development of flute-like tones.
"Been
The new vicar was a red-faced, rather pompous-looking man. He seemed slightly embarrassed at meeting Mark and Harriet.
"Oh—er, hullo, my dear children. What can I do for you?"
"Well, sir, it's about our being in the carol choir,” Mark plunged.
Mr. Pontwell frowned. “Dear me, I thought I had made that perfectly plain to your dear mother. I am afraid I cannot see my way—"
"No, but,” said Harriet, “we feel sure that you are acting under a wrong impression of our voices. You probably heard us on some occasion when Mark had a cold, and I was, um, suffering from my laryngitis, and of course you had quite a mistaken idea of what we could do. We just want you to be very kind and hear us again."
"Well really, my dear children, I don't think that is the case, and there hardly seems much point in reopening the question—however, if you insist—"
"Oh, we do insist,” agreed Mark. “What shall we sing, Harriet, ‘Oh, for the Wings of a Dove'?"
They were much more confident this time, and opened their mouths to their widest extent.
"Oh, for the weengs, for the weengs of a dove—
Far away, far away would I rove."
When Mr. Pontwell heard their exquisite treble voices soaring about among the rafters of the church, his eyes nearly popped out of his head, and he sat down suddenly in a nearby pew.
"Good gracious,” he said, “I had no idea—of course, you were quite right to come. My dear children—gracious me, what an extraordinary thing. I had quite thought—but there, it only shows how mistaken one can be. You will indeed be an addition to the choir."
He went on saying things like this as they walked through the churchyard.
"You will come to the practices on Wednesdays and Saturdays, will you?"
"Of course,” said Harriet anxiously, “and when are we going out singing?"
"Monday evening, the nineteenth.” Mark and Harriet did some rapid calculation. Monday the nineteenth would be the last day of their thirteen days, which seemed cutting it rather fine.
"I suppose it couldn't possibly be any earlier?” said Harriet. “You see, rather odd things sometimes happen to our family on Mondays—rather unaccountable things—and it would be so awful if we were late or prevented from coming or anything.” She was thinking of the day when their home had suddenly turned into a castle on the Rhine for twelve hours.
"No, my dear, I'm afraid the date cannot be changed, as I have already made several arrangements for the evening, including a visit of the choir to Gramercy Chase. Sir Leicester will be most interested to hear you sing, so I do trust that you will not let any of these—er—unaccountable things happen during the day, or while you are out with the choir.” He looked at them sternly.
* * * *
"So you're really in the choir?” said Mr. Armitage that evening. “And going to Gramercy Chase. Well, well, it's a good thing it will be dark."
"Why?"
"It's the most hideous house between here and Birmingham. Sir Leicester always says he wishes he had a good excuse to pull it down. It was entirely rebuilt, you know, in nineteenth-century gothic, except for the haunted terrace."
"Haunted?” said Harriet. “Oh, good. What by? That's where we're going to sing."
"Oh, some bird, called King William's Raven (don't ask me why), who only appears to foretell bad tidings to the house of Gramercy. The last time was just before the current baronet was killed at Waterloo. He flies above the terrace lighting torches in the brackets—of course, they've put in electric lighting now, so I don't know how he'd manage—"
* * * *
Harriet and Mark had a somewhat difficult time at the choir practices, as all their village friends were only too familiar with their usual voices, and they had to face a considerable amount of chaff and a lot of astonishment at this sudden development of flute-like tones.
"Been
Similar Books
