Rosy took to this new experience with her normal equanimity. She at first evinced a great interest in the sea; presumably, Adrian thought, because the sight of so much liquid forced her to the conclusion that it was drinkable and possibly intoxicating. However, finding it unobtainable from the deck, she soon gave that up and settled down to her normal rhythmic swaying from side to side, with her eyes half closed.
It was quite dark by the time they reached the Island of Scallop and, having disembarked, Rosy and Adrian made their way along the narrow cobbled streets of the town, pausing now and then to ask directions from strangers.
Eventually the road led them out of the town, over some sand-dunes, and there in the middle of the dunes like an extraordinary piece of flotsam was a small cottage constructed entirely from weather-beaten planks and bits of wood that must, at one time or another, have been cast up by the sea. Lights peered but of the windows and above the sigh of the sea Adrian could hear wafted to him the mournful sounds of a tuba in inexperienced hands, picking its way through what he, with difficulty, recognised as “My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.” The sand-dunes stretched away in every direction without a sign of any other habitation, and Adrian decided that this must be the house of Ethelbert Cleep. He and Rosy scrunched their way across the dunes and knocked on the door. The tuba uttered a discordant bellow like a bull and fell silent. After a moment, they could hear footsteps approaching the door.
“No artistry,” shouted a voice from behind the door. “Bloody Philistines, banging and crashing when I’m in the middle of practice. Who is it? Who is it?”
Adrian cleared his throat.
“I’m Adrian Rookwhistle,” he shouted.
“Adrian, did you say?” enquired a voice from behind the door. “A boy?”
“Yes,” said Adrian, for want of a better reply.
The door was flung open and there stood a little man as tiny and as fragile as a sparrow. Adrian surveyed him incredulously. He was dressed in a long, thick, mustard-coloured cardigan which stretched almost to his knees and was done up with a series of enormous, bright gold, heavily embossed buttons; pearly grey velveteen trousers and a pair of black and white boots of weird design completed his ensemble, He had a mass of straw-coloured hair arranged in a style that made it look like an exceptionally wind-blown haystack, and he was wearing a pair of the most enormous pearl earrings that Adrian had ever seen. His thin, pale face was dominated by his eyes which were dark and shrewd and as restless as butterflies. This apparition leant provocatively against the door and surveyed Adrian.
“Darling boy,” it said at last, “what did you say your name was?”
“Adrian, Adrian Rookwhistle. I was told to come and see you by Black Nell.”
“Darling Black Nell,” said the apparition. “A woman who really understands a man’s needs. How thoughtful of her.”
“You are Ethelbert Cleep, aren’t you?” said Adrian.
“Yes,” said Cleep archly. “My friends call me Ethel. Don’t let me keep you standing here, chilling yourself to the bone. Come in, Come in.”
“Well, there’s Rosy,” said Adrian.
“Rosy?” said Cleep. “Surely you don’t mean to say you have had the bad taste to bring a woman with you?”
“No,” said Adrian gesturing at the sands outside, “this is Rosy.”
Ethelbert Cleep peered out of the door and at that moment Rosy, whose manners were always impeccable, lifted up her trunk and uttered one of her falsetto trumpetings. Simultaneously Ethelbert deep uttered a squeak of surprise which was almost identical in timbre, and retreated into the passageway.
“What,” he enqired in a hushed whisper of Adrian, “is that?”
“It’s Rosy,” said Adrian. “She’s my elephant.”
Ethelbert Cleep was holding a fragile heavily beringed hand to his chest as though in danger of suffering a heart attack.
“Is it for me, darling boy?” he asked. “If so, although I am overwhelmed by your generosity, I really feel I must refuse such a lavish present.”
“No, no,” said Adrian. “If you’ll just let me come in a moment, I can explain everything to you.”
He tied Rosy up and made his way into the Cleep establishment.
The whole cottage was one big room. At one end a staircase led up to a half-loft where, behind discreetly drawn chintz curtains, were Ethelbert’s sleeping quarters. The whole room was full of chairs covered with antimacassars, tiny tables on which were precariously balanced glass domes full of decaying-looking stuffed birds and similar trinkets presumably dear to Ethelbert Cleep’s heart, so that it made it almost impossible to move without knocking something over. Over the years, apparently, Ethelbert Cleep had developed a sort of bat-like system for avoiding damage to his objets d’art, and he flitted through the room with the greatest of ease, seated himself on a sofa and patted the cushion by his side.
“Come and sit down, darling boy, and tell me everything,” he said.
Adrian picked his way carefully through the forest of bric-à-brac and lowered himself into a chair at a convenient distance from Ethelbert Cleep.
“Well,” he began, “its like this . . .”
“Er, wait,” said Cleep holding up a long forefinger. “A little refreshment.”
He fluttered across the room and disappeared behind a Japanese screen covered with enormous dragons that looked as though they were in the last stages of thyroid deficiency. He reappeared carrying a decanter and two glasses, poured out a drink for Adrian, pressed it into his hand, and patted his cheek.
“Now then,” he said as he seated himself on the sofa. Adrian sniffed the wine and it seethed innocuous. “My own, dearest heart,” said Ethelbert Cleep, “I make it every year out of elderberries from the headland. Incredibly nourishing. Now, tell me your story. I’m sure I shall find it absolutely riveting.”
So Adrian told him his adventures, and Ethelbert Cleep proved an exemplary audience. He sat with his eyes growing rounder and rounder, the glass forgotten in his hand, occasionally giving a little nervous giggle of laughter like a schoolgirl.
“Dear boy,” he said when Adrian had finished, “an absolutely fascinating story.”
“Well, it may sound like one, but it isn’t when you live through it,” said Adrian bitterly. “Anyway, Black Nell said I was to tell you all about it, and then to rely on your advice.”
“My advice in everything, I hope,” said Cleep archly, “but let me think, let me think.”
He finished his wine, then produced from the interior of his repulsive cardigan a heavily embroidered smoking cap with a long silk tassel, wedged it firmly on his mop of hair, closed his eyes and leaned back.
“You see. . .” began Adrian.
“Hush,” said Cleep without opening his eyes.
For some five minutes or so Adrian sat there finishing his wine and watching Cleep who appeared to have gone into a trance. Adrian was beginning seriously to wonder whether Black Nell had been right in sending him to this extraordinary little man. It looked as though he was more liable to get himself into further trouble than anything else.
“Got it!” said Cleep suddenly, removing his cap and putting it back in his cardigan. “Down in the town, darling boy, they have a theatre. It is, in actual fact, quite posh. You see, this place is becoming more and more of a resort.”
He shuddered faintly at this thought and poured himself another glass of wine. “I assure you, darling boy,” he continued, “that the droves and droves of hideous, purple-faced families that come flocking here are something that have to be seen to be believed.”
“Yes, but what about the theatre?” said Adrian.
“Well,” said Cleep, “it has only recently been built by one Emanuel S. Clattercup, a bovine and repulsive individual who, having spent the greater part of his life swindling the masses, has now decided that it is time to inflict some culture on those same unfortunate beings. Needless to say, culture at a profit.”