The Adventure Calendar of Mr Timothy Hope is a seasonal story of unlikely accidents and hair-raising escapes told in 24 letters sent home by Timothy Hope as he journeys in the Arctic Circle. Featuring characters such as the unhinged big-game hunter Baronet Oxshott, the scatter-brained genius Professor Cumulus and the always inventive Timothy Hope, the story is a frequently silly, always exciting sleigh ride across crevasses, through wolf packs, into the heart of Christmas itself.
9th December
My Dear Lady Misericordia,
I hope this letter finds you well.
It's lucky that you have Viscount Fox there with you to make such funny jokes about schools of fish devouring their teachers. I'm not sure that he's quite as funny as he seems to think he is. I'd like to see him hanging on for dear life over the briny deep while a shark snaps at his feet.
And I'm sure Baronet Oxshott will be delighted that you thought him terribly brave and daring. I will be sure to tell him. At some point. I'm sure I won't forget.
Anyway, Oxshott is not popular with the rest of us at the moment, ever since we had to leave town in something of a hurry. Fortunately your father was able to use his Parliamentary debating skills and, more importantly, his ducal gold, to persuade the train driver to leave several hours early, otherwise we might have been in serious trouble.
The port we landed in was a small town huddled down by the shore at the end of a valley, surrounded by majestic and awesome mountains, rearing up into forest and snow all around - what the locals call a fjord. It seemed like such a wild place, these few wooden buildings amidst this great and overpowering scenery, but it was a bustling and homely little town, just the place to complete our stocks and prepare for our journey into the north.
Until, that is, the argument about the shark.
As I mentioned in my last letter, the Baronet was determined to preserve the head of the shark he killed so that he could give it to you as a present. He said that it was the kind of present that only he could give, and I could only agree with him that no one else was ever likely to give you a fish head as a gift.
This did not go down well and the Baronet threatened to send you my head instead.
Anyway, Oxshott went to summon the cook of the inn we were staying in and tried to explain to him with shouting and hand waving what he wanted done with the beast. I offered to help translate, since I have already picked up a smattering of Norwegian, but Oxshott offered to have my tongue in a sandwich, so I left him to it.
The cook, frightened and confused by Oxshott's yelling and gesturing, gathered the rest of the staff of the inn around him, then passers-by join the crowd, and neighbours started popping out of their doors to see what the commotion was, until almost the whole town came running to join the growing throng.
After much muttered and frantic debate the cook and the Town Mayor apparently came to a decision, bowed to Oxshott and shook his hand, mustered some strong men and carted the enormous dead fish away.
We got on with collecting our provisions and preparing the specially commissioned train which was to take us inland, away to the North.
Finally lunchtime came and the Mayor reappeared, along with a delegation of elders, who ushered us all to a long, low building that could only be the town hall. There we discovered all the townspeople, all sitting down, ready to eat, with a top table set exclusively for us as guests of honour.
We were, of course, touched and delighted by this and took our places. There followed a number of speeches from various people I can only assume were important locals and from members of our group, including his Lordship, your father, and the Professor. Of course, we couldn't understand them and they couldn't understand us, but everyone seemed jolly pleased with themselves and, more importantly, with the prospect of lunch.
At last the cook from the inn came out, once again with the group of strong men who had carried off the shark, but this time carrying a huge cooking pot. The pot was set down in front of our table and, with a proud flourish, the cook lifted the lid.
We all stood up to peer inside, only to see a hearty looking stew, full of vegetables and bubbling away heartily. We raised our hands to applaud the chef, but, as one, we froze in mid clap as, out of the broth, bobbed the boiled and gleaming teeth of the shark.
Dripping pieces of carrot and herb, the head of the fish rose up through the steam, turning a single reproachful eye on us before dropping back out of sight beneath the potatoes.
We stood and stared at the pot with our hands still raised, barely sure of what we had just seen.
Then Oxshott went berserk.
Picking up his chair, he flung it at the cook's head, who only just ducked in time, and it smashed into the table behind him, upsetting plates and cups all over the people sitting there. Oxshott heaved at our table, turning it upside down in front of him, scattering knives and forks everywhere. And then he was over it and leaping at the cook with his hands outstretched, a howl on his lips and a murderous gleam in his eye.
Before we knew what was happening, the men who had brought in the cauldron had leapt to the cook's defence, and then the people hit by the chair and then everyone else, the whole town, their hospitality rejected, their dining room upset and their cook assaulted, descended on Oxshott in one great pile.
Thinking fast, his Lordship grabbed me and together, with Harry's help, we dragged Oxshott from the mayhem and beat a hasty retreat through an open window and made for the train station as fast as we could.
Oxshott was not to be denied, however, and as the town ran for the exit to follow us, he ran round the rear of the building, in through the kitchen door and grabbed hold of the pot before anyone had spotted him.
While his Lordship persuaded the driver with large amounts of money, we all boarded the train and were treated to the sight of Oxshott staggering up the main street, dragging the great cooking pot behind, the shark's head swishing about inside, stew slopping around in his wake as the townspeople came swarming up behind him, waving spoons and forks in a threatening manner.
At the last moment he climbed onto the platform, threw the pot into the luggage van and hurled himself on after it as we huffed our way out of the town, the curses and shouts of the outraged townspeople following after us as a goodbye.
Oxshott, still smelling strongly of fish stew, has been confined to the luggage van in disgrace ever since, but he is quite happy in there, cleaning turnips out of his shark's head and getting it ready for preservation.
Yours,
A little tired of fish suppers
Timothy Hope, Esq, Tutor
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