Things went better with Ambrose and Uncle Otto and Clarence. Ambrose was nervous, but he trusted Con completely. Uncle Otto was brave, and Clarence really enjoyed it, saying, “’Igher, ’igher” happily until Con shushed him. One by one the yetis were delivered safely to the top floor and introduced to Ellen, shaking hands with her very carefully as they had been taught to do, so as not to break her arm.
At last it was Lucy’s turn. But it was horribly difficult to get her into the lift. She really didn’t fit. Con pushed and heaved. Finally he got her wedged in sideways, because she was slightly less fat that way than front-to-back, while Con had to crawl in after her and sit on the floor under her stomach. The lift moaned and clanked and squeaked, and Con was sure that they would wake the whole hotel. But they made it to the top, and Ambrose and Clarence heaved her out with their brute strength. Then they all walked quietly along the corridor and gathered at the doors of the bridal suite. Con unlocked them and threw them open.
The yetis gasped. There, on the floor in front of them, was an enormous bear-skin rug! It was a very bad moment. The yetis’ ear lids turned pale, and Lucy stumbled, almost as if she might faint.
“Bears are our brothers, you see,” explained Ambrose.
Con and Ellen felt dreadful. After all, how would they have felt if they’d been shown into a room and found a child-skin lying on the floor? But when they had apologized and rolled up the rug and put it in a cupboard, the yetis really began to enjoy themselves.
The rooms were splendid; they were very big rooms, which was a good thing, because five yetis take up a lot of space. And all the furniture — the beds, the bath, the sofas and divans — was king-size.
Clarence started turning the electric light on and off, off and on, with a blissful smile on his face. Grandma tried the beds, bouncing up and down, her fur flying. As yetis go, she was a lightweight, only about three hundred pounds, but it was touch and go whether the beds would survive. Luckily, they were built to take the weight of rajahs and billionaires, who often eat too much and get too little exercise.
Lucy stared in amazement at the dressing-table mirror and said, “Oh, look, everybody! It’s me! It’s me so clear and beautiful!”
Ambrose, meanwhile, had found the bathroom. “Ooh! What’s that? Isn’t it white! Is it made of snow? Is it for washing your feet in? I can get both feet into it! Ow! Something hot hit me. What’s a shower? Uncle Otto, I’m going to have a shower!”
But Otto did not reply. He stood gazing in wonder at a shelf beside the ornate fireplace. “Books,” he whispered. “Those are books.” It is true that the Bible is a wonderful and interesting book, but if you have had nothing else to read for a hundred years or so, then even the exciting bits, like Daniel in the Lion’s Den or the Witch of Endor, can get a little bit too familiar. Now, before his very eyes, were Flora and Fauna of the Hindu Kush, Excitements at the Chalet School, How to Win Friends and Influence People, The Compleat Angler, Nicholas Nickleby, The Tatler (1925–37), Finn Family Moomintroll, and many, many more. Otto’s vast, hairy hand wandered lovingly across their spines and, after hesitating for a moment over The Jungle Book, settled firmly on Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Otto sank onto the largest divan and was lost to the world.
Con and Ellen thought they’d never get the yetis to settle for the night — or what was left of it. After Ambrose had had his shower, the bathroom looked like a disaster area and had to be mopped from top to bottom. Then Lucy wanted Ellen to comb the hair on her stomach into a center part and make a braid on either side.
“Like yours,” she said.
“But, Lucy, people don’t wear braids on their stomach,” said Ellen.
“People don’t. But yetis might,” said Lucy. “It’s for Queen Victoria and her children, so they can see out better.”
But even when Ellen had made two fat braids, one on either side of Lucy’s stomach, and tied them with the ribbons from her own hair, and they had all found somewhere to sleep — Lucy and Grandma in the two double beds, Ambrose on the sofa, Uncle Otto and Clarence on the Persian carpet — there was still the bedtime story.
“Tell about the Man Bat,” begged Ambrose.
“You mean Batman, Ambrose,” said Ellen.
Batman and his faithful friend Robin had not been invented when Lady Agatha came to the valley, and the yetis couldn’t get enough of him. But even when the children had told them no less than three Batman adventures, they weren’t through, because Clarence started yelling, “’Im, ’im,” and the others explained that he was saying “hymn,” because Lady Agatha had taught the yetis always to end the day with a beautiful song to God. So they all got up again and sang “We Plough the Fields and Scatter,” which didn’t fit particularly well but was their favorite.
“Do you know what I thought I heard?” said Ambrose drowsily, when he was back on the sofa. “As we came down the mountain?”
“No,” said Con. “What?”
“Footsteps,” said Ambrose, smiling. He was half-asleep. “Following us.”
“What sort of footsteps, Ambrose?” asked Ellen.
“Lovely … ones,” murmured Ambrose. “Hoof steps … and bleating.”
Con gazed at him in horror. Not Hubert! It couldn’t be! He walked over to the window and drew aside the curtains. In the moonlight, the grass round the hotel was empty, the woods silent and dark.
“There’s nothing there,” said Con, sighing with relief. And then at last the children tiptoed out, locking the door in case Lucy should walk in her sleep, and went to bed, feeling as tired as they’d ever felt in their lives.
The following morning, Ellen brought the yetis their breakfast and they all said grace. While she explained to Lucy that usually one ate just the cornflakes and not the box, and told Uncle Otto about marmalade, which was not mentioned in the Bible, and rubbed toothpaste into his bald patch and tied Ambrose’s bedsock on again, Con was down in the kitchens explaining things to his father.
Mr. Bellamy, the children’s father, was a very great chef. His salmon in aspic had been served at the Lord Mayor’s Banquet, his peaches in marzipan had been photographed for the cover of a glossy magazine, and society ladies fell over each other begging him to bake their daughters’ wedding cakes.
But like so many great artists, Mr. Bellamy was a little bit excitable. When his son (after playing truant) told him that he had hidden five yetis in the bridal suite and was going to go with them to England, Mr. Bellamy reacted rather strongly. But the egg whisk that he threw whizzed past Con’s left ear, the bag of flour exploded in midair, and as for the wooden spoon — well, Con had had so many wooden spoons thrown at him in his short life that it might have been a raindrop for all he noticed it. And when he had got his father to agree that the yetis couldn’t stay in the bridal suite and that they might as well go to England as anywhere else, he went off to the garage to wait for the lorry.
There were one or two very tough characters who brought the lorries, and no wonder. It was a punishing journey, and toward the end the roads were unspeakable. But when the lorry came at last, a gigantic, articulated truck with eighteen wheels, the driver who stepped out, blinking with exhaustion, was one Con had never seen before. A big, burly man with a big ginger beard — the kind you could have stuck a pencil in and it would have stayed there. But what struck Con most was the tattoo on the man’s freckled forearm. Not an anchor or a sailing ship or a heart with “I Love Daisy” in it but … a pig.