wash he found his way downstairs to his Grand-mama and cake.
After tea, Grand-mama suggested that Geoffrey might like to explore the garden. She showed him the door to the conservatory, and at the far end of this the small glazed door that led down some steps to a gravelled path between tall hedges. Geoffrey wandered along the path, around a corner and found himself this time at the top of a large area of lawn and flowerbeds. In the distance he could see an orchard and a vegetable patch and a collection of old sheds. 4
Geoffrey made a bee-line towards the sheds. In his experience they were often the most interesting thing in a garden. As he walked under the ancient apple trees he felt something fall on his head. It was heavier than a leaf and was wet but not cold. He put his hand up to feel something slimy in his hair. As he looked with some dismay at the greeny-white mess across his fingers he heard a jolly voice behind him boom: ‘Do you know what that is, my lad?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, turning round.
‘That’s bird poo,’ said the voice’s owner, who was leaning on a fork, smoking a pipe. ‘It’s very good luck when a bird chooses to poo on your head, 5 young shaver, and the first bit of good luck coming to you is a Sto Lat pippin, which is the sweetest apple in the world.’
As he spoke, the old man polished a shiny red apple industriously on his waistcoat before handing it to Geoffrey. ‘My name, as writ down on my birth certificate, is Humphrey Twaddle, but no one calls me that nowadays on account of when they do I hits them with my fork. You can call me Plain Old Humphrey. Although I owe it to my ancestors to tell you, young man, that far from meaning a load of old rubbish, “twaddle” is a valuable ingredient in the making of lemonade. Not many people know that, but now there’s one more,’ he said. ‘I’m the gardener here, and if I were you I’d wipe my hand on the grass over there rather than on that smart white shirt of yours.’
Geoffrey did as he was told and then decided that if bird poo was going to bring him good luck he ought to try to keep what was left of it. He raced back through the conservatory into the house and looked around until he found a large pair of scissors in a sewing basket. He ran all the way up to the nursery and, peering into a mottled old mirror, cut off as much of the clumpy bird-poo-hair as he could and put it on the windowsill to dry out.
It was beginning to get too dark to see much outside and Geoffrey began to feel a bit lonely. He wandered downstairs to find his Grand-mama.
‘It’s been a long and busy day,’ said Grand-mama from her big armchair, ‘and I think it’s time for bed. You may take a candle to go up and you may leave it alight if you like. Don’t forget to say hello to Mister Lavatory on the way and I shall soon be up to tuck you in.’
Holding his candle, Geoffrey started back up the stairs. He wasn’t normally afraid of the dark but the flickering candlelight made strange shadows on the faces in the big old portraits hanging on the walls. He hurried along the passage to the big mahogany door Lily had pointed out earlier as the water closet. He’d heard the term before, but nothing had prepared him for the fantastic sight that now met his eyes. Shiny white tiles glistened like running water and there was a large china hand-basin with painted flowers and, at the far end of the room, a great throne-like construction. This had a huge wooden seat with a large hole in it and underneath what looked like a small chest of drawers but without the handles. A gleaming copper pipe joined the chest to a vast dark-green tank attached to the wall near the ceiling. Hanging down from the tank was a long chain finishing in a round knob. On the tank were letters that he had to think about and spell out in his head.
Geoffrey knew in theory the function of this marvel but he was mystified and intrigued by its operation. He worked out that the
After tea, Grand-mama suggested that Geoffrey might like to explore the garden. She showed him the door to the conservatory, and at the far end of this the small glazed door that led down some steps to a gravelled path between tall hedges. Geoffrey wandered along the path, around a corner and found himself this time at the top of a large area of lawn and flowerbeds. In the distance he could see an orchard and a vegetable patch and a collection of old sheds. 4
Geoffrey made a bee-line towards the sheds. In his experience they were often the most interesting thing in a garden. As he walked under the ancient apple trees he felt something fall on his head. It was heavier than a leaf and was wet but not cold. He put his hand up to feel something slimy in his hair. As he looked with some dismay at the greeny-white mess across his fingers he heard a jolly voice behind him boom: ‘Do you know what that is, my lad?’
‘No,’ said Geoffrey, turning round.
‘That’s bird poo,’ said the voice’s owner, who was leaning on a fork, smoking a pipe. ‘It’s very good luck when a bird chooses to poo on your head, 5 young shaver, and the first bit of good luck coming to you is a Sto Lat pippin, which is the sweetest apple in the world.’
As he spoke, the old man polished a shiny red apple industriously on his waistcoat before handing it to Geoffrey. ‘My name, as writ down on my birth certificate, is Humphrey Twaddle, but no one calls me that nowadays on account of when they do I hits them with my fork. You can call me Plain Old Humphrey. Although I owe it to my ancestors to tell you, young man, that far from meaning a load of old rubbish, “twaddle” is a valuable ingredient in the making of lemonade. Not many people know that, but now there’s one more,’ he said. ‘I’m the gardener here, and if I were you I’d wipe my hand on the grass over there rather than on that smart white shirt of yours.’
Geoffrey did as he was told and then decided that if bird poo was going to bring him good luck he ought to try to keep what was left of it. He raced back through the conservatory into the house and looked around until he found a large pair of scissors in a sewing basket. He ran all the way up to the nursery and, peering into a mottled old mirror, cut off as much of the clumpy bird-poo-hair as he could and put it on the windowsill to dry out.
It was beginning to get too dark to see much outside and Geoffrey began to feel a bit lonely. He wandered downstairs to find his Grand-mama.
‘It’s been a long and busy day,’ said Grand-mama from her big armchair, ‘and I think it’s time for bed. You may take a candle to go up and you may leave it alight if you like. Don’t forget to say hello to Mister Lavatory on the way and I shall soon be up to tuck you in.’
Holding his candle, Geoffrey started back up the stairs. He wasn’t normally afraid of the dark but the flickering candlelight made strange shadows on the faces in the big old portraits hanging on the walls. He hurried along the passage to the big mahogany door Lily had pointed out earlier as the water closet. He’d heard the term before, but nothing had prepared him for the fantastic sight that now met his eyes. Shiny white tiles glistened like running water and there was a large china hand-basin with painted flowers and, at the far end of the room, a great throne-like construction. This had a huge wooden seat with a large hole in it and underneath what looked like a small chest of drawers but without the handles. A gleaming copper pipe joined the chest to a vast dark-green tank attached to the wall near the ceiling. Hanging down from the tank was a long chain finishing in a round knob. On the tank were letters that he had to think about and spell out in his head.
Geoffrey knew in theory the function of this marvel but he was mystified and intrigued by its operation. He worked out that the
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