Fennymore and the Brumella (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

In which the story starts
because Aunt Elsie is late

The day on which the story begins is a Sunday in August, almost three years after the disappearance of Fennymore's parents. Fennymore had just watered the herbs in the living room, had prepared Monbijou's lunch and was waiting for Aunt Elsie.

Aunt Elsie did not come. Normally she was very keen on punctuality and turned up at The Bronx at exactly three minutes past three, lurching and wheezing through the front door, loudly calling, ‘Fennymore! Dinner!'

Fennymore was rather surprised when Aunt Elsie had not come lumbering through the door by four minutes past three. By seven minutes past three, when ‘Fennymore! Dinner!' had not echoed through the house, he started to worry.

‘I'm sorry, Monbijou,' he said to his bicycle, which was standing in the middle of the heap of hay that he had put out for it, ‘but I'm afraid you'll have to eat that up later. We have to find out where Aunt Elsie is.'

Monbijou gave an indignant snort. He was feeling hard done by because he always had to eat in the kitchen when Aunt Elsie came visiting. Normally he ate in the living room, but Aunt Elsie thought a bicycle eating hay was ridiculous and didn't want to have to watch.

Fennymore didn't let Monbijou's snorting bother him. He grabbed his newspaper hat and pushed his bicycle outside. It had just stopped raining. The air was steamy and the ground was still soft. Tiny rainbows hung between the celery plants, but Fennymore scarcely noticed them. First he cycled once around The Bronx. Maybe Aunt Elsie was somewhere in the garden. But no, nothing. Coming around to the front door again, Fennymore stuck his head in and called, ‘Aunt Elsie?'

When he didn't get an answer, he called a little more loudly, ‘Salt-baked dachshund?'

That was kind of pointless because even if there had been a salt-baked dachshund in The Bronx it wouldn't have been able to answer. But it was eleven minutes past three and Fennymore was in a bit of a state.

Monbijou braked hard. He always did that when things weren't going his way. Fennymore was feeling a bit antsy himself. He had never gone to town on a Sunday before.

What'll I do if the town isn't there on Sundays?
Fennymore thought to himself. It was there on Wednesdays, he knew, because he cycled there on Monbijou to help with the dachshund hunt. And on Thursdays, when he cycled home after helping to prepare the salt-baked dachshund, it was also there. And it was there on Fridays when he went shopping. But on Sundays?

Monbijou gave a doubtful snuffle. He really didn't feel like moving.

But Fennymore Teabreak was an inquisitive boy.
If I don't find out, I'll never know,
he said to himself. Deftly, he disconnected Monbijou's brakes, a trick his father had taught him, and off they went.

It was dry and sunny again. Fennymore could see the path stretching out in front of him, so at least that was there on Sundays, as far as he could see. At first they followed the little dirt track edged with sunflowers. Then they turned onto a country laneway where wildflowers and weeds grew on either side. And finally, by a stand of apple trees, they reached the main road, which had a white line down the middle and only a ditch along the side.

Not much was happening on the road. Monbijou gave a disgusted snort every few metres, and Fennymore sang ‘We were approaching Madagascar' to him at the top of his voice to cheer him up. That was his favourite song. Also, he had stuffed a handful of hay in his pocket, and he offered Monbijou a few wisps of it whenever he slowed down.

After half an hour, they had reached the outskirts of town. So the town was there on Sundays too. The shopping street with the twenty-four rain-hat shops was there, the butcher's shop, and even the Tristesse Ice-cream Parlour, outside of which sat ten or eleven pensioners with their dachshunds, eating coffee sundaes.

So many dachshunds!
thought Fennymore.
I must immediately inform Aunt Elsie.

CHAPTER 3

In which a silvery grey gentleman materialises and everybody speaks at once

Two men and an old lady were talking excitedly at each other outside the door to Aunt Elsie's building and waving their arms about in the air. The old lady was Aunt Elsie's neighbour. She owned a white dachshund and she always carried it around in her arms. Fennymore wondered if maybe she knew what Aunt Elsie'ss favourite food was.

Herr Muckenthaler, Fennymore's teacher, was also there, and an old man with a large white moustache and a black coat, carrying a black suitcase. In the other hand he had a lead with a fat orange-striped cat on the other end of it. This was Dr Hourgood. Fennymore had visited his surgery a long time ago because he'd had tonsillitis. He'd been very small at the time, and Dr Hourgood had given him a horrible-tasting medicine. But what were Frau Plüsch, Herr Muckenthaler and Dr Hourgood doing standing outside Aunt Elsie's apartment block? And where was Aunt Elsie? It all seemed very odd to Fennymore.

Suddenly a man appeared in the doorway. He came out of nowhere, you might say.

Fennymore immediately got the hiccups. That always happened when something unusual and exciting was going on. The last time it happened was the time Aunt Elsie had accidentally prepared salt-baked dachshund with sugar instead of salt.

The curious gentleman who was the cause of Fennymore's hiccups this time was unbelievably tall and thin, so tall and thin, in fact, that it looked as if he might snap in the middle at any moment. His old-fashioned clothes – he wore a morning coat with tails and a bowtie – were all silvery grey. Even his hair and his face seemed to be silvery grey, just like his large thin hands. In one of these silvery grey hands he held a long silvery grey wand, and at the tip of this wand was a bright light.

The silvery grey gentleman stood for a moment beside Frau Plüsch, Herr Muckenthaler and Dr Hourgood, though they didn't seem to notice him at all. They were still waving their arms around and talking over each other. Only the fat cat hissed and arched its back, which made it look even fatter. Dr Hourgood jerked impatiently on the lead.

This silvery grey gentleman looks familiar somehow
, thought Fennymore, though he couldn't remember if they had ever met. The man's face looked awfully old and wrinkly, but somehow not unkind. For a moment, they caught each other's eye. The silvery grey man stretched his eyes in surprise, and Fennymore felt a chill running down his back, as if someone had stuck a scoop of vanilla ice-cream down his collar. He gave a particularly loud hiccup. And suddenly the silvery grey man disappeared.

But Frau Plüsch, Herr Muckenthaler and Dr Hourgood had spotted Fennymore on the opposite side of the street and came running towards him, all of a flap.

‘My poor, poor boy,' wailed Frau Plüsch, tears running down her face.

She dug her pointy little fingers into his arm and the white dachshund in her arms began to lick his ear. Fennymore pulled a face and hiccupped.

Herr Muckenthaler spoke sharply. ‘Frau Plüsch, I must ask you to take that dog away. You must see that Fennymore is quite overcome.'

Indeed Fennymore Teabreak was rather overcome. And so he was very glad when Dr Hourgood cleared his throat and Frau Plüsch and Herr Muckenthaler fell silent and looked respectfully at the doctor.

‘Hmmm,' went Dr Hourgood. ‘Dear Fennymore Teabreak …'

But he said no more. He just looked thoughtfully at the gleaming toes of his polished shoes.

‘Yes?' said Fennymore and hiccupped. He gave an embarrassed grin.

Dr Hourgood drew his bushy eyebrows together in a frown and regarded Fennymore suspiciously.

‘Hmmm,' went Dr Hourgood again. ‘Dear Fennymore Teabreak, I have to inform you that your great-aunt, Elisabeth Grosskornschroth, has gone from us.'

Fennymore was not quite sure if he had properly understood what Dr Hourgood had said. Elisabeth Grosskornschroth was Aunt Elsie. That was her full name. And ‘gone from us' meant that she had died. Stone dead. Kicked the bucket.

‘I – Aunt Elsie –
hic
– is dead?' Fennymore asked. ‘That –
hic
– can't be true,' he added quietly.

But it could be true. That was clear to Fennymore when he looked into the mortified faces of the adults.

Suddenly he felt quite lost and dreadfully small. He gulped.

Frau Plüsch gave a heartrending sob. ‘Oh, the poor boy!'

Dr Hourgood gave a thoughtful frown. His big white moustache trembled a little.

‘So, well then, um, hmm,' he said. ‘My dear Fennymore Teabreak, I must ask you, in view of the situation, to sign the death certificate of the late lamented Elisabeth Grosskornschroth, for the record.'

Dr Hourgood handed Fennymore a parchment scroll and took a large old fountain pen out of his coat pocket. Since Fennymore hardly ever went to school, he couldn't read all that very well, but of course he could write his name. He inscribed
Fennymore Teabreak
artistically in the place that Dr Hourgood pointed to with his fat finger, using Dr Hourgood's big old fountain pen.

No sooner had Fennymore finished than the doctor rolled up the parchment, said, ‘Hmm,' again, ‘good,' gave his eyebrows a thoughtful wiggle and took his leave. Fennymore watched him go and hiccupped.

CHAPTER 4

In which there is tea with honey cookies and Fennymore sits in an outlandishly decorated living room

No sooner had the doctor disappeared than Frau Plüsch's white dachshund started trying to lick Fennymore again.

‘Frau Plüsch, I think you'd better go indoors,' said Herr Muckenthaler crossly. It was pretty clear that he wanted to get rid of the old lady along with her dog.

Fennymore had had enough of all this nonsense.

‘Could somebody here please tell me what has actually happened?' he yelled so loudly that the pensioners across the road in the ice-cream parlour nearly dropped their false teeth into their sundaes.

And so loudly that his hiccups disappeared.

Frau Plüsch and Herr Muckenthaler gazed in astonishment at Fennymore Teabreak, as if they had forgotten that he was there. Then Herr Muckenthaler put an arm around Fennymore and looked ingratiatingly at Frau Plüsch and her ridiculous dog.

‘Frau Plüsch,' he said, ‘I think we could all do with a cup of tea.'

When Fennymore entered Frau Plüsch's house, he almost got dizzy – it was so overstuffed and brightly coloured. The carpet was so riotously patterned that he was dazzled by it, and the walls were covered with gold-framed photographs of Paula, the white dachshund. Fennymore and Herr Muckenthaler stood awkwardly in the hallway, peering into the living room, almost every square inch of which was adorned with lace doilies.

Frau Plüsch seemed not to notice how awkward they felt and waved them through the door.

‘Take a seat there on the sofa,' she said brightly, ‘while I put the kettle on for a nice cup of tea.'

Fennymore and Herr Muckenthaler looked at each other and sank into the soft sofa together. Fennymore had sat in his mucky trousers on a piece of white lace. He pulled it from under him and spread it out with his hands, which were not much cleaner. Where to put it?

He looked sideways at his teacher, who was staring at one of the dachshund portraits. He was wearing, as usual, a light-brown corduroy suit. He had put his battered leather briefcase beside him on the carpet. He was the school's youngest teacher and the only one who had not yet given up trying to convince Fennymore of the necessity of education. The other teachers had copped on long ago.

He's really very nice
, Fennymore thought to himself, with a sudden pang of conscience.

While Frau Plüsch was pottering around in the kitchen, Fennymore fiddled with the lace doily and looked more closely at the dachshund portraits. The big green eyes of Frau Plüsch's white dachshund looked out of every single gold frame. The same colour as my mother's eyes, Fennymore thought. He liked thinking about her, but somehow he had got used to life with Monbijou, Aunt Elsie and salt-baked dachshund – it was all that he had left – and now it seemed as if even that was about to come to an end.

Frau Plüsch came out of the kitchen, carrying a small silver tray. Paula, the white dachshund, came trotting behind her. Frau Plüsch handed around china cups of nettle tea.

‘You'll be hungry after that shock you got, you poor boy,' she said, pushing a plate of biscuits towards him.

Her worried tone was getting on Fennymore's nerves. Herr Muckenthaler cast an envious glance at the biscuits and cleared his throat.

‘Many thanks, Frau Plüsch,' he said. ‘And as for you, Fennymore. You'll be wanting to know what your great-aunt died of?'

Fennymore nodded. Actually, he wasn't at all sure that he wanted to know, but Herr Muckenthaler's question didn't really sound like a question at all. Without taking any notice of Fennymore's nod, Herr Muckenthaler went on talking.

‘Well, son, she died of dachshund poisoning.'

Herr Muckenthaler threw Frau Plüsch an apologetic look. She paled and dug her fingers into the hair of the dachshund that had made itself comfortable on her lap. Paula yowled.

‘We think,' said Herr Muckenthaler nervously, ‘that you are old enough to hear this. It seems that your great-aunt lived mostly on dachshund.'

Fennymore almost laughed out loud because that was not exactly news to him. He was just about to tell Herr Muckenthaler this, but looking at Frau Plüsch and her dachshund, he decided that Aunt Elsie's Sunday visits with salt-baked dachshund were best kept to himself. Frau Plüsch had gone green, and the little sausage-dog was whimpering anxiously.

At that very moment, Fennymore's tummy started to rumble. No wonder, because under normal circumstances he would by now have devoured a good quarter of Aunt Elsie's speciality. He put the lace cloth down on the table and took a honey cookie. He bit into it experimentally. He'd completely forgotten how good cookies were. Three – no, seven, no, twenty-four – times as good as salt-baked dachshund.

Drooling, Herr Muckenthaler watched Fennymore with a mixture of envy and sympathy.

‘Your great-aunt was apparently in the habit of eating a dachshund a week. But, although she prepared a – um – fresh dachshund each week' – Herr Muckenthaler spoke the word ‘fresh' with an anxious sidelong glance at Frau Plüsch and Paula – ‘it would appear that she also ate up the leftover dachshund from her larder, even if it had already started to go mouldy.

Fennymore imagined Aunt Elsie sneaking into the larder at night in her enormous flowery nightdress and gobbling up the remains of last week's dachshund.

‘Urgh!' went Fennymore.

A biscuit crumb had got stuck in his throat, but Herr Muckenthaler and Frau Plüsch interpreted his ‘Urgh' as an indication of how revolted he was by Aunt Elsie's eating habits.

‘You poor boy,' Frau Plüsch said again.

The white dachshund licked Fennymore's fingers gently with its warm, rough tongue. It tickled and made him laugh. Frau Plüsch gave her dachshund an appreciative look and gave Fennymore a smile.

‘Now, my dears,' she said, ‘it is time for my afternoon nap. Here, son, get a few more of those biscuits into you. Herr Muckenthaler, please take the keys to Elsie's flat and you and Fennymore go and rescue the valuables before that worthless crew comes nosing round.'