The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories by Garth Nix, Joan Aiken, Andi Watson, Lizza Aiken Page B
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous stories, Action & Adventure, Family, Juvenile Fiction, Magic, Fantasy & Magic, Family Life, Short Stories, Short Stories (Single Author), Families
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keeping quiet all these years, eh? Didn't want to waste yourself on us, I suppose?"
"Ah,” said Ruby, the blacksmith's daughter, “they've heard as how Mr. Pontwell's going to have a recording made on Monday night."
In fact, there was a general rumor going round that Mr. Pontwell had something special up his sleeve, and that was why he was so particular about the singers and the practices; though whether he was having the singing recorded, or royalty was going to be there, or some great impresario was staying at Gramercy Chase to hear them, was not known.
Mr. Pontwell made a particular point of asking them to wear tidy dark clothes and rubber-soled shoes so that they should not squeak on people's gravel.
"What a fusser he is,” Mark complained to Harriet.
"Never mind,” she replied. “At least we're going to be there ."
Nothing untoward happened to Mark and Harriet on Monday the nineteenth. Indeed the day was suspiciously quiet, and they both of them became slightly anxious as evening approached. However they got safely away from home and met the other carol-singers in the vicarage at eight o'clock, as had been arranged. The vicar was handing out torches and carol books.
"Now, are we all assembled? Excellent, excellent. I suggest we start off with a good rousing 'Adeste Fideles' outside the church, just to get our lungs in, then through the village as far as Little Foldings (should take a couple of hours), where Mrs. Noakes has very kindly promised us hot drinks, and Sir Leicester is sending the station wagon to collect us all there. We are expected at Gramercy Chase round about eleven o'clock."
As they were starting on their first carol, Mark felt a cold nose pushed down his neck, and turned his head to look into the reproachful green eyes of Candleberry, their unicorn.
"Goodness! I thought you were shut up for the night. Go home, bad unicorn,” he said crossly, but Candleberry shook his head.
"Dear me, is that a unicorn ?” said Mr. Pontwell at the end of "Adeste Fideles." “He shouldn't really be here, you know."
"I'm very sorry,” said Mark. “I can't think how he got out. But he's extremely well trained. He won't interrupt, and he could carry anyone who got tired."
"Very well,” said Mr. Pontwell. “He certainly makes a picturesque addition. But if there's the least sign of trouble, mind, you'll have to take him home."
However, there was no trouble, though they had so many requests for encores that they arrived at Little Foldings very much behind schedule and had to gulp down their drinks and hurry out to the station wagon, which sped away through the dark across Gramercy Wold, with the unicorn easily keeping pace beside it. Even so, they arrived at the Chase well after half-past eleven.
Sir Leicester welcomed them, and hurried them at once round to the terrace where they were to sing. Mark and Harriet tried to get a look at the hideousness of the house as they walked past it, but only received a general impression of a lot of pinnacles and gargoyles. The terrace was enormous—at least half a mile long and twenty yards wide, extending to a low wall, which was topped by a series of lampposts, now fitted with electric lamps.
The singers, hot and panting from their hurry, flung down coats and mufflers on the wall, and clustered together opposite the orangery door, where they were to sing. As they were finding their places for the first carol, there was a prodigious clattering of hoofs, and Candleberry arrived, galloping down the terrace like a Grand National winner. Mark went to meet him and quiet him down. When he returned, he muttered to Harriet:
"Now I know what all the fuss was about. There are some blokes over there in the shade with a television camera. That's why Mr. Pontwell's been taking such a lot of trouble."
"Well, do keep an eye on Candleberry,” she muttered back. “Oh, look, here comes Mr. Pontwell. Thank goodness, now we can start before I get nervous."
They were halfway
"Ah,” said Ruby, the blacksmith's daughter, “they've heard as how Mr. Pontwell's going to have a recording made on Monday night."
In fact, there was a general rumor going round that Mr. Pontwell had something special up his sleeve, and that was why he was so particular about the singers and the practices; though whether he was having the singing recorded, or royalty was going to be there, or some great impresario was staying at Gramercy Chase to hear them, was not known.
Mr. Pontwell made a particular point of asking them to wear tidy dark clothes and rubber-soled shoes so that they should not squeak on people's gravel.
"What a fusser he is,” Mark complained to Harriet.
"Never mind,” she replied. “At least we're going to be there ."
Nothing untoward happened to Mark and Harriet on Monday the nineteenth. Indeed the day was suspiciously quiet, and they both of them became slightly anxious as evening approached. However they got safely away from home and met the other carol-singers in the vicarage at eight o'clock, as had been arranged. The vicar was handing out torches and carol books.
"Now, are we all assembled? Excellent, excellent. I suggest we start off with a good rousing 'Adeste Fideles' outside the church, just to get our lungs in, then through the village as far as Little Foldings (should take a couple of hours), where Mrs. Noakes has very kindly promised us hot drinks, and Sir Leicester is sending the station wagon to collect us all there. We are expected at Gramercy Chase round about eleven o'clock."
As they were starting on their first carol, Mark felt a cold nose pushed down his neck, and turned his head to look into the reproachful green eyes of Candleberry, their unicorn.
"Goodness! I thought you were shut up for the night. Go home, bad unicorn,” he said crossly, but Candleberry shook his head.
"Dear me, is that a unicorn ?” said Mr. Pontwell at the end of "Adeste Fideles." “He shouldn't really be here, you know."
"I'm very sorry,” said Mark. “I can't think how he got out. But he's extremely well trained. He won't interrupt, and he could carry anyone who got tired."
"Very well,” said Mr. Pontwell. “He certainly makes a picturesque addition. But if there's the least sign of trouble, mind, you'll have to take him home."
However, there was no trouble, though they had so many requests for encores that they arrived at Little Foldings very much behind schedule and had to gulp down their drinks and hurry out to the station wagon, which sped away through the dark across Gramercy Wold, with the unicorn easily keeping pace beside it. Even so, they arrived at the Chase well after half-past eleven.
Sir Leicester welcomed them, and hurried them at once round to the terrace where they were to sing. Mark and Harriet tried to get a look at the hideousness of the house as they walked past it, but only received a general impression of a lot of pinnacles and gargoyles. The terrace was enormous—at least half a mile long and twenty yards wide, extending to a low wall, which was topped by a series of lampposts, now fitted with electric lamps.
The singers, hot and panting from their hurry, flung down coats and mufflers on the wall, and clustered together opposite the orangery door, where they were to sing. As they were finding their places for the first carol, there was a prodigious clattering of hoofs, and Candleberry arrived, galloping down the terrace like a Grand National winner. Mark went to meet him and quiet him down. When he returned, he muttered to Harriet:
"Now I know what all the fuss was about. There are some blokes over there in the shade with a television camera. That's why Mr. Pontwell's been taking such a lot of trouble."
"Well, do keep an eye on Candleberry,” she muttered back. “Oh, look, here comes Mr. Pontwell. Thank goodness, now we can start before I get nervous."
They were halfway
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