‘I do hope tea will be served promptly,’ declared Mrs Roach, sniffing the air as if she were in a stable. ‘We were just at a lunch thrown by Lady Eckhart to celebrate my birthday. The journey across town was merciless and I am terribly parched, as are my girls.’
‘That’s right, Mother,’ said Bernadette Roach with a nod of her head, ‘we are in desperate need of refreshments. Are we not, sister?’
‘Most definitely,’ said Philomena Roach.
The sisters were perched on the edge of the sofa beside their mother, who sat regally in an armchair. Mrs Roach was as wide as she was tall (which was very tall) and had the great fortune of resembling a cowbell. Her girls were about my age and perfectly ordinary in every way – blonde hair worn in ringlets, small brown eyes, inoffensive noses.
‘Hurry along with the tea,’ said Mother Snagsby, waving me towards the door, ‘and bring the refreshments for our guests.’
‘Not right now, dear,’ I said, wedging myself between the Roach sisters with heartbreaking delicacy. ‘I thought we might engage in some pleasant small talk first. You will find me fascinating and I promise to look as if I feel the same about you. That way, we might get to know one another and become bosom friends.’
Mrs Roach regarded me with all the fondness of an axe murderer. ‘My girls are very selective when it comes to the company they keep. It is a great risk, taking a child off the streets – one never knows what one is going to get.’
‘It must be beastly, not knowing where you came from,’ offered Bernadette, shifting away from me. ‘You might belong to anyone, anyone at all.’
Philomena shuddered at the thought.
‘Fetch the tea,’ said Mother Snagsby, and her voice allowed no room to disobey.
‘Yes, Mother Snagsby.’
Mrs Dickens and I mounted the stairs – me carrying the cake plate, Mrs Dickens the tea tray. The housekeeper stopped at the top to catch her breath.
‘Are they nice girls, then?’ she asked.
‘Monstrous. But it’s clear that they have taken rather a shine to me, which is terribly helpful, as I am told they host the most wonderful parties full of thrilling entertainments.’
Mrs Dickens smiled kindly at me. ‘Some folks take a while to warm up to strangers.’
I patted her on the head. ‘I have a birthday surprise for Mrs Roach, which is sure to win her affection. And one bite of my almond cake will have Mother Snagsby and those girls eating out of the palm of my hand.’
‘What sort of cake is that?’ said Mother Snagsby when I put the plate down on the side table.
‘Almond.’
She murmured her approval. ‘It doesn’t look completely inedible.’
Bernadette eyed the cake greedily. And I distinctly saw Philomena lick her lips.
But Mrs Roach was less enthusiastic. ‘I despise almonds – the nut of peasants, my late mother used to say.’
‘Was your mother something of a halfwit?’ I fished out the candles and placed them by the cake. ‘I only ask because it’s a known fact that almonds are the finest nuts in the world. Queen Victoria munches on them morning, noon and night.’
‘What a dreadful thing to say!’ snapped Mother Snagsby.
‘My mother was a woman of great accomplishment,’ declared Mrs Roach haughtily. ‘She spoke seven languages, studied art in Rome, was made an honorary Professor in Greek Mythology and could recite the entire works of Shakespeare line for line.’
I smiled sympathetically. ‘The poor cow must have been exhausted.’
The entire Roach family seemed to clutch their chests and gasp as one.
‘Who’s for tea?’ chimed Mrs Dickens loudly. ‘Ivy, you fetch the cups and I will pour.’
I did as she asked. And felt it was the perfect moment to make pleasant chitchat.
‘Mrs Roach,’ I said, holding a cup and saucer while Mrs Dickens filled it with piping hot tea, ‘your entertainments are the talk of London. Everywhere I go I hear people exclaiming that Mrs Roach is a –’
‘Lemon!’ growled Mrs Roach.
‘Well, you’re slightly sour, dear, but I won’t fret about it. As I was saying, if I were to be invited to one of your wonderful –’
‘My tea, you fool!’ she hissed. ‘I want lemon in my tea.’
I released a playful giggle. ‘I didn’t mean to imply that you are an unpleasant shrew with a vinegary nature. It was just a slip of the tongue. A joke between friends.’
‘Idiotic child,’ muttered Mother Snagsby.
With the tea poured, I dropped a slice of lemon in the cup and handed it to Mrs Roach.
‘As you recently celebrated a birthday,’ I said, starting to place the candles around the cake, ‘I thought it only fitting to mark the occasion with a few candles.’
Mrs Roach’s stern expression softened. Just slightly. ‘How kind.’
‘A cake so fine needs to be presented properly,’ said Mrs Dickens. She placed the plate on a silver trolley and wheeled it before Mrs Roach and her daughters.
‘We must all sing a round of “Happy Birthday”,’ I said, retrieving a box of matches from the mantel.
Mrs Dickens brought over a stack of serving plates. ‘Where on earth did you get the flour, lass? I only just brought a pound home from the market as there wasn’t a speck left in the pantry.’
I took out a match and struck it, the head sparking into life. ‘Ezra keeps some in the workshop,’ I said, igniting the first candle, then using it to light the rest. ‘He practically insisted that I take it.’
‘Flour in the workshop?’ said Mrs Dickens doubtfully.
At which point, Mother Snagsby leapt up from her seat and ran at me. She may have also cried out, ‘Stop! Stop!’
Which was rather odd.
‘What on earth?’ huffed Mrs Roach.
I was placing the last candle back into the cake when Mother Snagsby lunged, grabbing my arm with tremendous force. This caused the lit candle to drop from my hand and fall on to the cake. That really shouldn’t have been a problem. Except that it was.
For the cake did something rather unexpected. It exploded. In hot chunks. Bursting into the air and flying about the room like missiles. Pieces splattered against the wall, the windows and the door. Dark ash fell about the room like rain. But the real damage was done to the Roaches.
Cake detonated all over them. Mostly over their heads. Mrs Roach had a chunk up her nose and in her left ear. Bernadette’s eyes and forehead were smothered in icing and almonds. Philomena had largely vanished behind a mask of red-hot cake.
And they were all shrieking and hollering as if something dreadful had just happened.
‘Have you no sense?’ barked Mother Snagsby, as a generous lump of icing slipped from her gigantic mole. ‘That was not flour you stole from Ezra’s workshop, it was gunpowder!’
‘Well, that explains things,’ I said brightly.
‘Gunpowder?’ squawked Bernadette.
‘My girls could have been killed!’ cried Mrs Roach. ‘I could have been killed!’
And poor Philomena began rocking back and forth, mumbling something about a bomb strike and urging us all to hurry to the nearest bunker.
‘My skin is on fire!’ bawled Mrs Roach. ‘I will be scarred for life!’
Mrs Dickens and Mother Snagsby were doing their best to clean up the guests with napkins and water. But I knew that something else was required.
So I bolted from the room. Stormed into the kitchen. Grabbed the necessary items. Then bounded back upstairs.
‘Fear not,’ I declared, bursting into the drawing room, ‘I have a most excellent remedy for cake burns.’
As I approached her, Mrs Roach began to recoil. There wasn’t time to apply the treatment with a brush. Which is why I cracked the egg on her forehead.
‘Young lady!’ thundered Mother Snagsby.
With the egg slithering down her face, Mrs Roach squealed like a pig in a butcher shop. I plucked out most of the shell – being a stupendously considerate sort of girl – and began gently rubbing the yolk around her nose and ear.
‘I am dreaming!’ cried Mrs Roach. ‘This must be a hideous dream! It must!’
‘It only feels like a dream because the egg is so soothing, dear,’ I said tenderly. ‘This remedy is a balm that will ease the redness and leave no trace of a mark.’
‘Get off my mother!’ roared Bernadette, pulling me away.
‘Do not fret, girls,’ I said, picking up the four remaining eggs, ‘I have plenty for you as well.’
This clearly excited Philomena, because she jumped up and began running from the room, followed swiftly by her sister. Fortunately I reached the door before they did, slamming it shut.
‘You will thank me for this, girls,’ I announced, in my most calming voice. ‘In certain parts of Japan an egg to the face is a sign of great respect.’
‘Put down those eggs this instant!’ ordered Mother Snagsby.
‘Ivy, you mustn’t,’ offered Mrs Dickens.
‘Quite wrong, Mrs Dickens, for I must.’
The girls were now running about the room, pulling cake from their hair and crying like lunatics – and desperately searching for a way out. I had little choice but to chase after them, hurtling the eggs from a distance.
One smashed directly on Bernadette’s right cheek. She screamed and cursed my ancestors. Another hit Philomena square in the face. She wailed with gratitude. Even dropped to her knees.
‘Don’t be shy,’ I told them. ‘Rub the remedy in vigorously.’
‘Get away from us!’ screeched Bernadette.
‘Run, children!’ shouted Mrs Roach, leaping to her feet and making a dash for the door.
By that point I was on the other side of the drawing room with only one egg left. Bernadette pulled Philomena to her feet and they ran towards their mother, just as she threw the door open.
‘That child is a devil!’ Mrs Roach bawled as she bolted down the hallway, a girl clutched in each hand. ‘Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals has buried the last of us, you mark my words!’
‘Thank you so much for coming!’ I called after them. ‘I will keep an eye out for my invitation to your next glorious party!’
The drawing room was in rather a shocking state.
Mother Snagsby was sitting in an armchair with her head in her hands. Mrs Dickens was looking about the room in wonder. And Mrs Roach and her two daughters charged down the stairs and ran screaming from the house. Which was most undignified.