Read Online The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories by Garth Nix, Joan Aiken, Andi Watson, Lizza Aiken - Free Book Online
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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through their first carol when Mark noticed that Candleberry seemed very uneasy; he was shivering, stamping his feet, and looking over his shoulder a great deal. Mark himself glanced rather fearfully down the long, dark expanse of terrace.
At the same time, Harriet heard something in her ear that sounded like a ratchet screwdriver being painstakingly worked into granite. She turned her head to listen and realized that it was Mark singing. She caught hold of his hand and tapped his watch.
"Hey,” she whispered under cover of the singing, “it's midnight and we've lost our voices. Better pipe low. Bang goes our chance of charming thousands of listeners."
Mr. Pontwell was energetically conducting “The Holly and the Ivy” when an unpleasant scent invaded his nostrils. He sniffed again—yes, it was the smell of burning clothes. Could it be that dratted unicorn, with its incandescent horn? Had it set fire to somebody's cap? He glanced about angrily, and then saw a flame leap up on the terrace wall.
"I say,” called a voice through the singing, “someone's set fire to our coats!"
In fact, the pile of coats and scarves was now blazing up in a positive bonfire.
Instantly there was a clamor of angry voices, and the singing died away.
"Ladies—gentlemen—my dear friends,” cried Mr. Pontwell in anguish, “please—the evening will be ruined—"
"It's that perishing unicorn,” someone exclaimed furiously. “—Never ought to have been allowed to come—"
But at that moment Candleberry came galloping in hot pursuit of something that was flying along the terrace carrying a light. As they passed through the illumination of the bonfire this was seen to be an enormous dark bird carrying a lighted candle, the flame of which streamed over its shoulder.
"Good heavens,” cried Sir Leicester, who had gone very pale, “it's the family raven."
"Please, my dear singers,” implored Mr. Pontwell, who thought of nothing but his performance, “let us have a little order. What do a few coats and scarves matter? Or a little natural fauna? Let me hear a nice spirited rendering of ‘We Three Kings.’”
But at that moment a man dashed towards them from the television camera, crying: “Bring that unicorn back. It's miraculous! A real unicorn chasing a ghostly raven—good Lord, this will be the television scoop of the century! Stand back, will you? Who owns the unicorn? You, sir? Can you get him to come this way?"
Mark called Candleberry, and the unicorn galloped back, driving the raven in front of him. It was still crossly looking for something to light with its candle. It had been foiled by the electric lamps and had had to fall back on the heap of coats. At last with a croak of decision it swooped down and set fire to somebody's carol book.
"Stop it, stop it,” shrieked Mr. Pontwell, but the TV expert at the same moment shouted “Hold it, hold it. Stand aside, you others. Hold out your books. This is wonderful, wonderful!"
Only Mr. Pontwell was not pleased with the evening's work. Everyone else was warmed and exhilarated by the fire and informed that their fees as television performers would amply cover the loss of coats and carol books. Sir Leicester himself seemed to have disappeared, but his chauffeur drove the choir back, cheerful and chattering, at about three in the morning.
"Poor man,” said Harriet to Mark, “I expect he's worrying about what dreadful doom is going to fall on the House of Gramercy. After all, it's not so funny for him."
At breakfast next morning the telephone rang. Mr. Armitage answered it, and after listening for a few minutes, began to laugh.
"It was Sir Leicester,” he said, returning to the table. “He's had his dreadful doom. The architect's report on Gramercy Chase has come in, and he's learned that the whole place is riddled with dry rot. It's all got to come down. He's simply delighted. He rang up to ask if I knew of a comfortable cottage for sale."
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At the same time, Harriet heard something in her ear that sounded like a ratchet screwdriver being painstakingly worked into granite. She turned her head to listen and realized that it was Mark singing. She caught hold of his hand and tapped his watch.
"Hey,” she whispered under cover of the singing, “it's midnight and we've lost our voices. Better pipe low. Bang goes our chance of charming thousands of listeners."
Mr. Pontwell was energetically conducting “The Holly and the Ivy” when an unpleasant scent invaded his nostrils. He sniffed again—yes, it was the smell of burning clothes. Could it be that dratted unicorn, with its incandescent horn? Had it set fire to somebody's cap? He glanced about angrily, and then saw a flame leap up on the terrace wall.
"I say,” called a voice through the singing, “someone's set fire to our coats!"
In fact, the pile of coats and scarves was now blazing up in a positive bonfire.
Instantly there was a clamor of angry voices, and the singing died away.
"Ladies—gentlemen—my dear friends,” cried Mr. Pontwell in anguish, “please—the evening will be ruined—"
"It's that perishing unicorn,” someone exclaimed furiously. “—Never ought to have been allowed to come—"
But at that moment Candleberry came galloping in hot pursuit of something that was flying along the terrace carrying a light. As they passed through the illumination of the bonfire this was seen to be an enormous dark bird carrying a lighted candle, the flame of which streamed over its shoulder.
"Good heavens,” cried Sir Leicester, who had gone very pale, “it's the family raven."
"Please, my dear singers,” implored Mr. Pontwell, who thought of nothing but his performance, “let us have a little order. What do a few coats and scarves matter? Or a little natural fauna? Let me hear a nice spirited rendering of ‘We Three Kings.’”
But at that moment a man dashed towards them from the television camera, crying: “Bring that unicorn back. It's miraculous! A real unicorn chasing a ghostly raven—good Lord, this will be the television scoop of the century! Stand back, will you? Who owns the unicorn? You, sir? Can you get him to come this way?"
Mark called Candleberry, and the unicorn galloped back, driving the raven in front of him. It was still crossly looking for something to light with its candle. It had been foiled by the electric lamps and had had to fall back on the heap of coats. At last with a croak of decision it swooped down and set fire to somebody's carol book.
"Stop it, stop it,” shrieked Mr. Pontwell, but the TV expert at the same moment shouted “Hold it, hold it. Stand aside, you others. Hold out your books. This is wonderful, wonderful!"
Only Mr. Pontwell was not pleased with the evening's work. Everyone else was warmed and exhilarated by the fire and informed that their fees as television performers would amply cover the loss of coats and carol books. Sir Leicester himself seemed to have disappeared, but his chauffeur drove the choir back, cheerful and chattering, at about three in the morning.
"Poor man,” said Harriet to Mark, “I expect he's worrying about what dreadful doom is going to fall on the House of Gramercy. After all, it's not so funny for him."
At breakfast next morning the telephone rang. Mr. Armitage answered it, and after listening for a few minutes, began to laugh.
"It was Sir Leicester,” he said, returning to the table. “He's had his dreadful doom. The architect's report on Gramercy Chase has come in, and he's learned that the whole place is riddled with dry rot. It's all got to come down. He's simply delighted. He rang up to ask if I knew of a comfortable cottage for sale."
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