The Christmas of Adventure

©2015 June E.

Philip, Dinah, Jack and Lucy-Ann are excited at the prospect of spending their first Christmas together, but by Christmas Eve all their plans lie in ruins. Things get even worse when a severe snowstorm brings the country to a standstill and leaves Bill snowbound, hundreds of miles away. Forced to fend for themselves in Bill's remote moorland cottage, rumours abound of a strange and terrifying creature lurking in the woods nearby... and with a ruthless thief on the loose, striking at night and stealing birds from the local Sanctuary, the scene is set for a frightening and perilous adventure. Can they stop the thief before it's too late? Or will Kiki be the robber's next victim?

Chapter 15: 'Looks like I'm back just in the nick of time.'

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At the same moment that Jack was discovering footprints in the snow, Mrs Grouch was putting her key into the door of Oak Tree Cottage, oblivious to the fact that she was about to make a discovery of her own. Bill had forgotten to tell her that Kiki would be one of his guests, and she had absolutely no idea that there would be a parrot in the cottage.

Hilda Grouch was a very neat and precise middle aged woman, and she had been Bill's housekeeper for the last three years. She and her husband Burt lived just a short walk away, in a little cottage in the village. Their cottage was a tiny place, but it was always spotlessly clean and extremely tidy. Mrs Grouch would not tolerate any dust or dirt, and cleaned her own house from top to bottom every day. She was also very fussy about her appearance. She had her grey hair curled and set each week, and never left the house without applying copious amounts of hair lacquer – a stray curl or unruly wisp of hair was a thing she would not tolerate. She always wore an immaculate, freshly pressed apron over her lavender-scented dress, and before doing any cleaning or washing she protected her bright red polished fingernails by donning a pair of sturdy rubber gloves.

Burt Grouch was quite a different kettle of fish. He was a tall, heavily built man with straggly, grizelled hair, bushy sideburns, and cheeks reddened by life-long exposure to the weather. In his youth he had been a sailor and had travelled all over the world, picking up souvenirs from places as far flung as Russia and Australia. Burt had a sullen disposition and was not particularly clever, and he was the bane of his wife's existence. The primary cause of grief and marital strife was Burt's job – he worked as a pig man on a local farm, and a dirtier, smellier job does not exist.

'Them pigs 'ave more sense than most people I know,' he told his wife regularly. 'There aren't many creatures as intelligent as a pig.'

Then, under his breath he would add, 'And best of all, they don't nag me, or give theirselves false airs and graces. A pig's a pig, and he ain't ashamed of it.'

Every day, Burt arrived home from work with his overalls stained with pig swill, dirt and mud, a foul stench rising from the pig-muck splattered boots on his enormous feet. Every day he made at least one squelching, stinking, sloppy brown footprint on the sparklingly clean kitchen floor before remembering his wife's strictest rule: he must take off his heavy winter coat and hat, and all his farm clothes, in the shed at the end of the garden. Then he must wash himself from head to foot in a bucket of cold water. He was not allowed to enter his own home until he was washed and changed into clean clothes. This was a rule that he deeply resented.

'A spot o' pig muck never did nobody any 'arm,' he would mutter to himself each day, whilst fishing about in the cold water bucket looking for a grubby sliver of soap, his teeth chattering with the cold all the while. And his grumbling would continue as he towelled himself dry on an ancient, threadbare grey towel.

'Allus givin' 'erself airs and graces,' was one of his favourite complaints.

Another reason for dispute between Hilda and Burt Grouch was his longing for a pet – any pet. They had had many arguments about it over the years. About six months previously, Burt had taken his courage into both hands and once again broached the subject. This time he was determined to get his own way.

'I want a pet – I don't care what – a budgie, a parrot, even a dog will do,' he demanded.

'Are you out of your mind?' screeched his wife, shocked to the core. 'You want to mess up my nice clean house with a grubby, germ-infested animal? You can forget that idea, Burt Grouch – and don't bother to mention it ever again!'

'But I need someone to talk to,' he persisted in his gruff, sullen voice, picking his nose and wiping it on his trousers.

'You can talk to me!' his wife snapped sharply. 'And for heaven's sake use a handkerchief. Why you have to look so grubby and scruffy I really don't know... what on earth will the neighbours think.'

Hilda Grouch sniffed the air delicately. Grimacing, she held a lavender-scented handkerchief to her freshly powered nose.

'I'm sure I can smell pig manure,' she said sternly, fixing Burt with a steely glare. 'Did you leave that filthy stinking coat down in the shed where it belongs? It's high time that ancient garment was put on the fire, you've had it for over 30 years.'

'Don't you talk like that woman! That coat 'as seen me through many a bad winter. I got it in Russia, I did, back in my seafaring days. And there's nothing colder than a Russian winter, and only fur will keep stop you from freezing to death. Oh, those were the days...'

His wife was still preoccupied with the source of the bad smell in the kitchen, and having heard her husband's reminiscences many times before, she interrupted him abruptly.

'Did you wash yourself properly before coming indoors?' she barked.

'As best as a man can wash 'isself, standing in a shed with a bucket of cold water,' Burt grumbled.

'I only ask one thing in life... one little thing...' Mrs Grouch whined, not for the first time. 'That you don't bring farm muck into my nice clean house and that you don't stink of pigs.'

'Them are two things,' growled Burt, stomping out and slamming the door behind him.

On the morning of the children's visit to Moorland Bird Sanctuary, Hilda Grouch delicately picked her way down Bill's snowy path carrying a large wicker basket. The basket contained various other items of food for Bill's larder: a loaf of freshly baked bread, a large box of eggs, bacon, potatoes and ham. A yellow headscarf was tied carefully over her freshly curled and stiffly lacquered hair, protecting it from disruption by the wind. The snow was thawing a little and she took great care to avoid stepping in any of the slushy, muddy patches. Noticing the snowman on the lawn, she remembered that Bill had four children staying with him for Christmas.

'I certainly hope they are good, clean children,' she thought to herself. 'And I rather hope they are girls and not grubby, untidy boys...'

Mrs Grouch knocked smartly on Bill's front door, but as she suspected there was no answer.

'Good,' she thought, 'they've all gone out. That will make my job a lot easier. I really can't bear having children under my feet.'

Once in the hallway, she carefully removed her headscarf and coat, put her heavy shopping bag onto the hall table and surveyed the scene. The hallway was littered with wet shoes, muddy boots, gloves, hats, a football...

'Tssk, tssk, tssk,' she tutted, shaking her head and sighing deeply. 'Yes, I can see there are boys here... that accounts for all this mess. I can see I'm going to have a busy day, clearing all this up.'

Putting on a clean apron and a pair of bright pink rubber gloves, Mrs Grouch headed straight for the kitchen and set to work cleaning and tidying the room. First, she filled the mop bucket was hot water and disinfectant. Next, she carefully stacked the sink with dirty mugs and plates, and turned on the hot tap; soon the sink was filled with steaming, soapy water.

'Lovely,' she said to herself, plunging her hands in and starting to scrub vigorously.

Mrs Grouch really loved her work, and nothing gave her more pleasure than to transform grubby chaos into gleaming, sparkling order and neatness. She was so happy and absorbed in her task that she forgot her airs and graces, and broke into song.

'My old man, said foller the van, and don't dilly dally on the way', she warbled, in a rather high-pitched and uneven voice.

Kiki, who had been cosily asleep in the sitting room, opened a curious eye. She had never heard a noise quite like it. Whatever could it be? Kiki knew it wasn't any of the children, for she was very familiar with their voices. She started to feel quite alarmed.

Mrs Grouch, forgetting herself completely, threw back her head and at the top of her voice screeched, 'But I dillied and dallied, dallied and dillied, Lost me way and don't know where to rooooooam.'

But as she drew in a big breath before launching into the next line, she heard something that made her stop dead in her tracks. For a rough, drawling man's voice sounded out loud and clear.

'Get outta here, you dirty rat!'

Mrs Grouch stood frozen to the spot, a clutch of fear gripping her stomach. Who was that? The voice had come from the living room. Had a burglar or a tramp broken into Bill's cottage? Very quietly, she put down the mug she was washing and carefully reached for the mop. Holding the mop out in front of her like a pikestaff, she started to tip-toe towards the living room door. Slowly, she used the head of the mop to push the door ajar and then nervously leaned forwards to peep into the room.

'Who d'ya think your lookin' at?' boomed a deep voice.

Staggering back in shock, Mrs Grouch's left foot plunged straight into the bucket of hot, soapy water.

'Owwwwww!' she screeched, staggering backwards, the bucket tipping over and water sloshing all over the kitchen floor. Skidding on the puddle, Mrs Grouch fell with a thud, and found herself sitting in the steaming water. The water started to soak into her dress, and her delicate lavender scent was rapidly replaced by the harsh smell of pine disinfectant.

It was unfortunate that Woffly, who had been lurking behind the teapot on the kitchen table, chose this moment to run down the table leg, having spied a large crumb of bread on the hall floor. Seeing the little white mouse running towards her, Mrs Grouch went into a blind panic, for mice were a particular horror of hers. Slipping and sliding on the wet floor, she had no option but to escape towards the sitting room.

Kiki, who by now was quite alarmed and excited by all the commotion, was flying erratically around the room. As Mrs Grouch burst in, still clutching the mop, Kiki swooped down and accidently caught her claw in Mrs Grouch's stiffly lacquered curls. Mrs Grouch did not see the bird but felt the sharp pull on her hair, and jumped to the conclusion that she was being attacked by a burglar. Swinging the mop around wildly, she lurched out of the room, heading for the front door. Slipping and sliding down the hallway, the mop flailing wildly in unnecessary self-defence, the unfortunate woman knocked the shopping bag off the hall table, sending bread, potatoes and eggs flying in all directions. She fell out of the front door and onto the snowy path in a panting, flustered, wet heap, and her misery was made utterly complete when one of the airborne eggs landed smack on her head, the remains of her once perfect coiffure now covered in an eggy, gloopy dribble.

Fred Fletcher, who had been disturbed by all the noise coming from Bill's house, peered coolly over the garden wall.

'Whatever are you doing sitting on the path, Mrs Grouch?' he inquired, raising one eyebrow quizzically.

'Th-th-th-there's a vicious burglar in that house – a real brute!' panted Mrs Grouch, looking anxiously over her shoulder and still clutching the mop.

'O aye,' said Mr Fletcher, not believing a word of it. 'And what were you trying to do – mop him into submission?'

'This is no time for jokes Fred Fletcher!' snapped Mrs Grouch. 'I've been brutally attacked I tell you!'

At that moment, Kiki flapped through the open front door squawking, 'Get outta here, you dirty rat!' in a rough man's voice.

'That ain't no burglar, Mrs Grouch,' said Fred, barely concealing a smile, 'that there's just a harmless little bird.'

Then, from the lane, came a real man's voice, calm and deep.

'Looks like I'm back just in the nick of time.'

Standing in the lane, looking tired, stern and very puzzled, was Bill!

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