Bunty’s second best Daimler had seen lots of action, but not so much as when she had hired the new chauffeur, Clarkson, who was whizzing around the treacherous bends on the coastal road leading from Gusset to Lola’s home Much Schlepping beyond lower Minge. Lola had declared that she didn’t have the right stockings for sub arctic temperatures, preferring something in black with a back seam and had insisted that they head for Schlepping Towers so that Mrs Damson, her trusty if psychotic housekeeper could repack her trunk.
” I say Bunty, I don’t much like the new chauffeur, he’s talking to himself in a strange running commentary as if he’s on the wireless!”
Indeed they could hear him droning on about “How this stately model hugs the road like an aristocratic Oxford undergraduate would his favourite teddy, with a rear end that’s built for a toasting fork and hot buttered crumpets and no crying to matron!”
“Yes Lola, he’s terribly vulgar and horrid-he’s a former patient from Appen so I rather inherited him with the car when Bingo disappeared, but a jolly good get away driver when in a hurry and no questions asked!” said Bunty, who was clearly practicing the “Lingo” before they got to Bolshie clink to “Spring” Sparky, who did have a real name but Lola appeared to have forgotten it but was quite certain he’d invented the light bulb or could change one, like most things, she wasn’t entirely sure and preferred to invent her own reality, which had a disconcerting habit of coming true.
“Hmmmn!” said Lola, “Clearly losing interest for the time being, “Bunty, I’ve inherited some money from the Gefilters; ancient money, held in vaults in the Transylvestite Mountains guarded by many treacherous paths, so obviously we had to go because I have a map!”
Bunty groaned; whenever a map was involved she and Lola were bound to get spectacularly lost. She had however brought her trusty Hansel and Gretel cake, modelled fiendishly on the witches ginger bread house but glowed in the dark somehow but was so inedible that no living thing would eat it if they left a trail of crumbs thus guaranteeing that they wouldn’t get lost.
“Shall we go on the way there or back?” asked Bunty. It was easier to concede to Lola.
They reached Schlepping Towers, sent Clarkson to the garage and gave orders to Mrs Damson.
Lola poured herself a stiff gin and tonic and ordered Bunty some tea as she lifted her mail from a silver salver and visibly blanched (which was quite an achievement for someone so pale) and her hand shook as she read the correspondence written apparently on horrid graph paper in read ink.
It fluttered to the ground where Bunty swept it up and read only;
“Five out of ten-see me!”
“Lola, does this mean?”
“Yes Bunty, I’m sorry to say that I think it does!” said Lola.
They said, almost in unison.