Amanda Cadabra and The Hidden Depths Holly Bell (top rated ebook readers .txt) 📖

‘Yes, Granny,’ said Amanda, picking it up off the bed.

‘I remember my mother would occasionally remind me to make sure I had a clean handkerchief before I went out, in case of … accidents.’

These had, no doubt, been accidents befalling other people, almost certainly at the hands of the young Senara.

‘Yes, well we don’t need to remember all that now,’ Grandpa intervened. ‘You look a fair picture, Ammee, love.’

‘Pity your inspector isn’t seeing fit to attend,’ commented Granny.

‘He has more important things to do than attending village parties for local celebrities. And he’s not my —’

‘Yes, dear, as you are so fond of saying.’

Amanda got her best cream coat out of the wardrobe and put it on.

‘Are you going alone?’ asked Grandpa, casting an eye towards one of her pillows.

Tempest, with an air of long-suffering, heaved his furry bulk off the bed, and stretched on legs growing like architectural cranes. He yawned, dropped silently to the floor and stalked towards the bedroom door.

‘Ready?’ Perran checked.

‘Ready,’ replied Amanda stoutly.

Senara nodded. ‘Have fun,’

‘Er, thank you.’ How odd. Granny never said, ‘have fun’.

***

John Bailey-Farrell opened the proceedings with a short but heartfelt speech of thanks. Mr Quillet from the local free paper, Barnet Briefing, had been invited just to get one picture to publish in the next edition. There was a flash from his camera and applause.

Next, at John’s insistence, Jane the rector took the floor to give a brief speech of blessing.

‘John, dear, I’m sure it needs no blessing from me,’ Jane had protested over tea with the cricketer at the rectory.

‘That’s kind of you, Rector, but I know it’s the sort of thing my mother would like. Just a word of well-wishing. Please? I’ve brought a copy of the book, so that you can confirm that there is nothing at all objectionable in it. I promise you there is nothing even a child could not read.’

Jane had not been able withstand so sincere and eloquent an appeal. She had indeed checked the contents and her speech reflected what she had found there.

‘Dear parishioners and visitors, may this book be blessed and go forth to inspire both young and old to pursue their dreams with the same integrity as its author.’

‘Hear, hear!’ cried Dennis and led the applause as the rector went to shake John’s hand. Jane was called over to the refreshment tables and the cricketer, wreathed in smiles went to join Mrs Pagely and Ryan. They were holding copies of the books in front of the artfully arranged display stand. It was adorned with gold and silver balloons rising from behind a white cloth-covered table.

‘Amanda, help yourself to Cava,’ said the librarian, seeing her favourite reader and gesturing towards a table laden with champagne glasses. ‘Soft drinks and food over there,’ she added, pointing to another.

Mrs Sharma approached Amanda.

‘Are you all right, dear? The crowds not too much?’

‘I’m fine, thank you, Aunty,’ she answered her kind neighbour, whose mother had baby-sat Amanda when she was little, enchanting her with tales of India.

‘Good. We have an extra treat this afternoon of which the Raj will approve.’

‘Really?’

‘Contributed by Hugh and Sita,’ Mrs Sharma added, referring to Mr and Mrs Povey, who had bought Sunken Madley Manor barely a year before. After a brief trial period, during which Amanda had had some strange experiences restoring the Manor banister, the village had taken the kindly couple to its bosom. ‘Yes, they would not want this generally known, but between us, they gave me a fund for some smoked salmon and caviar. Over there.’

‘How generous! Oh, yes, that will definitely meet with Tempest’s approval!’

Refreshments flowed as villagers were coming and going, offering congratulations and good wishes. There were book purchases, requests for signings, and laughter.

Claire arrived, imbibed, snacked, chatted and had just made it to Amanda’s side when her phone rang and with a ‘sorry!’ to her friend, was gone.

Cling-cling-cling! Dennis was tapping on his glass with a pen. A medium hush fell.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, pray raise your glasses in a toast. To our local celebrity author!’

‘Our author!’ they chorused merrily and followed Dennis’s lead into ‘For he’s a jolly good fe –llow!’

John, smiling shyly, seemed quite overcome by this tribute and thanked one and all with a shake of his head. He grinned all the wider, seeing Amanda approaching.

‘Congratulations, John. May I buy a copy?’

‘I’d rather you had it as a gift.’ He had already picked one up from the table and was signing it.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, with a smile.

‘John!’ Dennis was eager to chat with the star of the show, and she excused herself.

‘Amanda, dear!’

‘Miss de Havillande.’

‘You’re looking quite charming, my dear, quite charming.’

‘Thank you. The dress is a present.’

‘From Claire, yes, the gel has excellent taste. Oh, there’s Joan. I must have a word.’

‘Well then,’ said a voice at Amanda’s elbow.

‘Sylvia. Are you enjoying yourself?’ She was just back from her afternoon stint of seeing the school children safely across the road. Her arrival also heralded that of some of the youngsters who had received an invitation.

‘Oh yes. A nice turnout. Good to see some of the kids here.’

Amanda looked around and received a ‘Hiya!’ from Ruth and Kieran.

Sylvia gave a firm nod of the head. ‘I like those two. Ever so polite, they are. A bit serious, if you know what I mean. Old heads on young shoulders, if ever I saw them. But lovely, the pair of them. There’s Olivia.’ Joan gestured with her ham and Branston pickle sandwich towards the daughter of Joe Mazurek, the milkman. ‘Now she’s all right but honestly, look, that Becky Whittle.’ The buxom 15-year-old had just sashayed through the glass doors of the entrance and was gazing around with a predatory air. ‘Only here to ogle Jonathan.’

‘Oh I expect she’s here to enjoy the party too,’ protested Amanda temperately, thinking, after all, she could admire the assistant librarian at any time during opening hours.

‘Only reads that pulped fiction.’

‘Well, it’s all literature, Sylvia. At least she is reading.’

‘When