Welcome, Autumn

A few days ago I was reflecting on the differing seasons in Sylvania. This chain of thought followed from a comment Chris Snow-Warren made when he was leaving after one of our work sessions. We were ambling through the garden, enjoying the late sun, when Chris nodded to a yellowed vine in the border.

"The leaves are turning, Jack. We should enjoy their colour while we can; they'll soon be dropping," he said. "Autumn has sneaked up on us this year. Haven't you noticed how the wind has changed? It is decidedly nippy."

I had to agree. Out of the sunshine it was definitely colder than of late; we had been spoiled with a spate of warm weather, so the change did seem abrupt. As I waved Chris goodbye, I thought how lucky Mellowdene was to have the protection of the mountains to the north. Other parts of the country would have moved into autumn a few weeks back. More weirdly, according to Rowan, there were some regions where the seasons were completely reversed - although I'm never quite sure how much of what he tells me is in jest... No matter. I'd never be an expert on geographical variations when it came to the climate of our country. Some places are uncomfortably hot, some unpleasantly cold, but we are nicely in the middle. The fact was - Chris had it right; we should welcome autumn, the reds, golds and russets in the trees, and be glad to be alive.

Back in the house, Brendan ran up to me, his eyes bright, a smile splitting his face so much I wondered if he'd dislocate his jaw.

"Gopher's alive!" he yelled, then he ran off again. I would later find out that he had just returned from an early Telly Party at Lucky's house, that he had gone because a new autumn television schedule heralded a new season of Flash Gopher shows - this one called Flash Gopher and the Gonks of the Emerald Planet - and the hero had survived whatever had saddened Brendan earlier in the year.

There was an appetising fruity odour from the kitchen - damsons, I thought. Cecile was singing whilst jam making. That in itself was a reason to welcome autumn.

I smiled. A productive day songwriting. A deliriously happy son. Damson jam. Time for a doze.

o 0 O 0 o

I opened my eyes to see we had visitors.

Captain Horatio Seadog was standing there, a grin on his face. He was accompanied by his crewman - young Oscar Marmalade - and another small figure wrapped up in a pale brown hooded coat. Cecile called belatedly from outside the room. "Visitors, Jack."

I swung my legs down from the sofa. "So I see. Hello, Horatio. What's new?"

"Disturbing you, eh, Jacky boy?" he smiled.

He always called me that as if he was a generation older than me. He wasn't. I knew his words were always good-natured so I treated his question as rhetorical. I gave him a smile and turned to his companions.

"Hello, Oscar. How's your family?"

"Good, thank you, Mr Butterglove."

I looked at the third visitor, barely visible beneath his hood. "And who's our friend, here?"

"That's why we're here, Jacky boy. He was a surprise passenger on the Marita May."

"I found him," said Oscar.

"That's right," said Horatio. "In the forward hold. He weresn't there when we last looked. That was somewhere between Possum Creek and the river mouth. We made a few short stops along the way so he must've come aboard at one o' them."

"Okay," I said, knowing that our grizzled captain would come to the point when he was ready.

"Well, I asked who he was, but he weresn't saying much. Once ashore we took him to the dock snack bar, gave him a drink and a bowl of soup, but he barely said a word. He said he wouldn't take off his coat but that was about it."

"Shy?"

"Maybe. Or maybe he's used to warmer climes."

"But he wouldn't tell you his name. Curious."

Oscar spoke up. "I asked who he was when I found him in the hold. He said 'Autumn', Mr Butterglove."

"Not likely to be his name, Oscar lad," said Horatio.

"We have to call him something. It will do until we know any different," I said, smiling at the hooded figure that was turning slowly to look about the room.

"Fair point," said Horatio.

"So why bring him here, Horatio?"

"Oh yeah." He rummaged in his pocket and brought out a piece of folded paper. "He showed us this when he'd finished his soup."

Unfolding it, Horatio handed it to me. It was an article torn out of a music magazine. There was mention of "the song-writing partnership of Butterglove & Snow-Warren, based in Mellowdene." My name was circled.

"You think he came to visit me?" I asked, and when Horatio shrugged, I moved to look into the depths of the hood.

"Welcome, Autumn. I'm the Butterglove in this article."

Nothing was said for a few moments, then the figure reached up and pulled back its hood. It was a young rabbit.

"It's not 'Autumn'. It's Orton. Orton Butterglove."

o 0 O 0 o

I was conscious of the silence that followed but wasn't sure what I wanted to say. This young rabbit had been - it appeared - searching for me because we shared a family name. However, he still appeared a touch uncertain and I didn't want to scare him by saying something inappropriate. It was Horatio who broke the silence.

"Well, I'll be a blue-spotted haddock. You're a Butterglove like dear Jackson here! You won't want me and young Oscar hanging about when you've got private things to talk about. We'll be on our way if that's okay with you, young Orton. Ha! Autumn, Orton." He lowered his voice to ask me a question. "Do you want me to find Cecile?"

I nodded. "Kitchen."

Orton watched as Captain SeaDog and Oscar Marmalade left the room and then he turned to me.

He chewed his lip, and I had the impression he was deciding what to say - after all, he'd traveled an unknown distance to find me. I didn't have too long to wait.

"My dadda's granddad came from Mellowdene. He was called Hubert."

I had vague memories of being told about a great-uncle who left the village before I was born. I was fairly sure he was called Hubert. "So, we're related?"

"Don't know. Think so."

"Come on, take off your coat..." I began, immediately sensing that he wasn't yet ready to do that, "...or at least remove your hood so that we can talk properly."

He appeared to debate this before unbuttoning his hood, laying it carefully on the floor. He backed up to the sofa and perched on the edge.

"Where are your parents, Orton?" I ventured.

His eyes started to well up with tears, which he tried to wipe away with the back of his sleeve. He sniffed.

"My dadda and mamma are explorers. We travel about and look for special animals. Last time I had a cold so they made me stay behind for the day. But they didn't come back." His voice dwindled to nothing and his chin dropped to his chest.

Cecile entered, drying her hands on a towel.

I briefly explained the situation whilst Orton continued to sniff.

"Okay," she said in a business-like voice, giving me the towel. "Go and see Merlin and ask him to delay the meal. Explain what has happened and have him look after the children. Then bring Eliza back here."

She turned to Orton and held out her arms. "I'm your Auntie Cecile. Come here, dear."

o 0 O 0 o

It emerged that Orton's parents were scientists, documenting rare animals around Sylvania. On their expeditions they took Orton with them, home-schooling him rather than being separated from him for long periods. Three weeks ago, like Orton had said, he had been suffering from a cold and his parents had decided that he shouldn't accompany them on their brief sea journey. This was so they could check a reported sighting of some obscure reef-dwelling creature. They had prevailed upon the boarding house to keep an eye on Orton for the afternoon, but their boat never returned.

Searches were made, but these proved fruitless. There was concern for the boy's welfare, not knowing whether to make long or short term provision, as there was no record of any other family to take care of him. This resulted in a decision to have him stay at a local orphanage - which did not go down well with Orton. He didn't socialise with other residents and felt they'd given up on his parents. By chance he found an article in a magazine Sylvanian Arts and Music, and this led to his decision to seek out his relations until his mamma and dadda returned.

When Cecile told us all this, I was amazed that she had managed to extract all this information in such a short time, but the boy was still understandably sad and withdrawn. That was until Eliza left us and then re-entered with Snorker on her heels.

Orton's eyes became as round as the Marita May's portholes when he saw Eliza's adored pet.

"It's a Snodgrass-Hepple Hog!" he declared, the excitement undisguised. "Isn't he great?"

Eliza ushered Snorker towards him, and the mountain hog issued friendly kissing noises as per usual. "He's lovely isn't he?" said Eliza,  "He's called Snorker."

"Can I stroke him? Will he mind?"

"If you're gentle he will love it."

Orton fell to his knees, stroking Snorker with exaggerated care. Snorker responded happily.

Cecile picked up the hood and sniffed it. Looking at me she mouthed, "Needs a clean." To Orton she remarked, "You know - Snorker would love a cuddle, but your coat may get in the way. That's right, isn't it, Auntie Eliza?"

"It is," said Eliza, chuckling.

Coat discarded, Orton and Snorker cuddled whilst Eliza continued to smile, watching them. She inclined her head toward Cecile. "We can hope his parents are found, but in the meantime he'll need lots of support. Snorker will help,"

"We all will, Eliza."

"And we've got that spare room, you know."

"I know, Eliza."

o 0 O 0 o

And that's how our family gained another member. For how long, we wouldn't know. All we could do was welcome Orton into our hearts and, like autumn, enjoy the colour he would bring into our lives.

Merlin, Eliza and Snorker welcome Orton
as Beverley, Jackson, Russell, Cecile and Brendan watch

The Sylvanian Bake Offence

The Sylvanian Bake Off competition has become very popular over the last few years. The organisers have overcome many of the problems that countrywide events face in Sylvania by basing the first stage of the competition in the contestants' home village. This lessens the problems of travelling and the inconvenience of being away from home for extended periods. Expert judges travel to each village to assess the standard of baking, and if any pass muster they reach the next stage.

Since few villages have facilities to house multiple ovens and other kitchen hardware in one room, contestants are allowed to create their "showstoppers" in their own home. A judge will telephone a contestant at a pre-arranged time, the purpose being to notify them of the baking category. There would be two days to practise and create their baking masterpiece in readiness for the judges' arrival.

Cecile had entered last year. After one of the judges - Rudolf Patissier - had phoned her, I remember her replacing the receiver, looking at me with an expression combining confusion and amusement.

"My showstopper has to include a shoe!"

We had laughed, but Cecile devised a plan. A simple vanilla sponge, subtle cream fondant icing, with an elegant lady's shoe atop crafted in sugar work. She said that it had to look classy. I saw some of her preparatory work and I was proud of her.

Sadly, my pride was tempered with disappointment - I couldn't be there to support her as Chris Snow-Warren and I had a pre-arranged meeting out of the village. Lionel Grande was recording one of our songs and he wanted to include us in a discussion about its arrangement.

When we returned, the Bake Off heat was over. Cecile didn't have much to say beyond the fact that nobody from Mellowdene was successful. I had the impression something had gone wrong but - unusually - no-one seemed prepared to supply an explanation. I didn't pursue the matter aggressively, prepared to leave Cecile with her secrets in the knowledge that she would tell me when she was ready. That was nearly a year ago.

o 0 O 0 o

When I discovered a  Mellowdene Examiner article promoting this year's forthcoming Sylvanian Bake Off competition, I glanced at Cecile, busy peeling potatoes. She had made no mention of her experience last year, but the article had once again piqued my interest. Perhaps if I tried to be subtle? I cleared my throat to speak. Beverley looked up from her Bunny Craft magazine.

"I see they're gearing up for this year's Bake Off," I said, winking at my daughter. "Do you think you might enter again, sweetness?"

Cecile slowly raised her gaze to look at me. "No." She returned to her task.

"Oh, that's a shame. You are a good baker, you know."

"Thank you. But no."

"Oh, okay. I suppose after last year that's understandable." I turned back to my newspaper and waited.

There was a definite silence. From the corner of my eye, I could see Beverley alternately looking at Cecile and at me, a smile on her face. The tension grew until Cecile quietly spoke, enunciating each word.

"What do you know, Jackson?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing." I thought I may have overdone the dismissive tone, but no.

"Oh, you know, don't you?"

"I try not to pay attention to rumours, Cecile. I'd rather wait and hear the truth from your own lips."

Beverley giggled, then covered her mouth.

Cecile looked at her. "I think your aunt Eliza might like some help, dear. Go and check, will you?"

Beverley put down her magazine with a deliberation that spoke volumes. "Yes, mother."

Once our daughter had left the room, Cecile put down her peeling knife and regarded me sadly. "I'm sorry Jack. I haven't said anything because I didn't want you to think any less of me."

I smiled. "I love you, sweet wrinkle. Nothing you could do would change that."

"That's lovely," said Cecile, returning my smile. "First of all, I want you to  know that no one was physically hurt, despite what you may have heard."

I tried not to show any surprise at her words. "Of course not. Go on, my love."

With a deep breath, she prepared to tell her tale.

o 0 O 0 o

The judging took place in the village hall. All the contestants had taken their showstoppers there to await the judges' comments and decisions. Everyone was delighted when one of the judges turned out to be Mary Bear. The other judge was Rudolf Patissier, the one who had telephoned me to define my showstopper. A famous pastry chef with a questionable attitude, the dog was a new Bake Off judge, and it emerged that Mellowdene was the first time he had been given the role as senior judge. Mary Bear was there primarily for his support.

There were some lovely entries in the hall, and the contestants were admiring each other's work. However it soon became clear that not everyone thought that way.

I was the first to meet the judges. Mary Bear was pleasant, remarking on my shoe cake in glowing terms. On the other hand, Rudy bent forward, poked the cake with his paw and curled his lip at me. "Disqualified."

Mary Bear frowned. "Disqualified? Why?"

"She has ignored the only requirement. There's no choux pastry included."

He was about to walk away but I spoke up. "Wait a minute. When you phoned me, you didn't  mention pastry. You just said 'shoe'."

"Choux, you stupid rabbit. Maybe you haven't heard of eclairs, profiteroles, croquembouche. Choux." He extended the word. "You must lack basic intelligence to get that wrong."

"Rudy, " said Mary Bear, "it sounds a simple misunderstanding. Mrs Butterglove shouldn't be excluded because of ambiguity..."

"No." He was adamant. "Disqualified. I don't need idiots." He walked away.

I couldn't believe what had happened. Mary Bear shrugged, mouthing "sorry" before following her fellow judge to the next contestant, Flo VanDyke.

Her showstopper was an impressive fruit flan, with with twisted strands of pastry atop all interwoven into a trellis cage. She stood to its side, her smile uncertain after seeing the judge's treatment of me.

Rudy gave her work little more than a glance, concentrating more on Flo. "Oh, an otter. I'm surprised you've not foisted a fish flan on us. It will have a soggy bottom, I expect." He lifted the edge of the flan and poked a claw into the base. Tasting it, he scrunched his nose. "Soggy, sour and unworthy. Typical otter work." He dropped the flan. "Next."

Flo stared at him. "We are not here to be insulted, Mister Patissier."

He sniffed. "You know where the door is."

"Totally unacceptable behaviour," said Flo, and lifting her skirt she left the village hall.

Each contestant Rudy visited received derogatory remarks about their baking but also personal jibes.

Willow Thistlethorn was speechless.

Katherine Periwinkle was near to tears when he upended her impressive sculpture of cheese straws, constructed using a variety of cheeses and building techniques.

When Rudy had completed his insults of Emma Furbanks' competency, she turned her back on him.

His rudeness reached new heights when he attacked all aspects of Mona Hazelnut's showstopper.

He remarked how she should have her children taken away rather than have them eat her cooking. She burst into tears. Not long ago she had had a difficult birth with her baby, little Joe. He had needed extra care for those first ten months, and it was only a few weeks ago that she had felt able to leave him in others' care. 

Leaving her crying, he moved onto Beatrix Spotter.

"So you're the last one. And already I can see that your efforts are overcooked, so it's not worth my attention. I don't think I've seen any worse baking in this competition than I have here in this village. Unappetising, squelchy, brittle or tooth-breaking, these amateur efforts have made this journey a complete waste of time. Do you agree, Mary?"

Mary Bear was standing back, her head having been in her hands. Rudy laughed humourlessly. "You see? The famous Mary Bear has already given up on you all. I'll make it official, although you probably have guessed. None of you will go through to the next stage."

Mona's sobs became more audible. 

Rudy Patissier sighed irritably. "Oh, will someone stop that annoying mouse wailing? I'm here to see your miserable attempts at pastry work, not to suffer your emotional baggage. You understand? Pastry work. And one of you can't even manage that."

Mary Bear came forward and took hold of his arm, but he shrugged it off. He appeared to be out of control. He bent to glare at poor Mona. "And you're giving me a headache!"

I didn't really plan what I did next; I just knew I couldn't let this continue. I picked up my cake, moved to Rudy's side and rammed it down on top of his head. The sponge compressed, buttercream spurted out, and the fondant icing resembled a cross between a hat and a toupee, all with the shoe teetering on the crown.

Rudy was shocked into silence. In fact the entire room went quiet. Buttercream dripped on his nose.

A deep voice boomed, "Enough!"

Everyone turned to see Bisto Wildwood framed in the doorway. The Sheriff of Mellowdene is an imposing figure at any time, but when he deviates from his customary "strong and silent" persona, everyone listens.

He entered the village hall, Flo VanDyke slipping in behind, and he strode towards Rudy and fixed him with a stare. "What's happened to you?" he said, sounding most official.

Rudy wiped some buttercream away from his nose, raised his arm and pointed at me. "That stupid bunny assaulted me with her cake! What are you going to do about it?"

Voices began to grumble and get louder. With a single arm movement Bisto indicated they should be silent and then turned his attention to me. "This could constitute un-Sylvanian behaviour, Cecile. Is there any truth in this?"

I looked around the room and could see everyone watching me. "It is my cake. I did put it on his head. I know it was unforgivable."

Rudy's mouth twisted into a sneer. My fellow contestants were shaking their heads sadly. Bisto stroked his chin, about to make a decision, but before he could speak, Mary Bear pushed forward to stand in front of me.

"I wish to declare that Rudy is the one guilty of un-Sylvanian behaviour, and this is nothing new. He has been rude to all the people here, and you can see some have been crying. This is entirely due to his actions today. He is a bully who insults people and likes to belittle them so that he can feel superior. He is worse than Gordon Ram with a fraction of the skill. I have kept silent too long. It took this lady's bravery to stop his unforgivable bullying. Her actions were justified."

I stared at Mary, warmed by her words, but I knew that I was guilty and was ashamed.

When the shock of Mary's words hit home, Rudy began to waffle but Bisto cut him short then addressed the rest of the room.

"Has this gentleman been bullying any of you?"

Mary Bear muttered, "He's no gentleman," but Bisto ignored her, noting the nods and verbal confirmation by the villagers. He walked around, allowing them to whisper in his ear, learning of Rudy's actions.

He returned to stand in front of me and stroked his chin again. "You all know un-Sylvanian behaviour is not to be tolerated. Assault, even though the reasons may seem justified, isn't something I wish to encourage. That applies to both cake and the insults repeated to me."

Rudy had regained his confidence. "I am Rudolf Patissier ! I'm famous! I don't have to take this..."

"Quiet, you. I've made a decision," said Bisto. "First of all, Cecile. I want your promise that this won't happen again. I know you will keep your word, but to help you with this, Mister Patissier will leave Mellowdene and never return."

I nodded. "Of course, Sheriff. I promise." 

"Hmm. Second, and this applies to all you villagers. I don't want the rest of Mellowdene to hear of this. It could encourage vigilante behaviour. Any suggestions how your silence could be explained?"

"We don't want to lie," came a quiet comment from behind him. It was Katherine Periwinkle.

Emma Furbanks made a suggestion. "We could say that we were disappointed that none of us were considered good enough as bakers and we'd prefer not to talk about it."

Bisto nodded. "Sounds good. Everyone happy with that? Good."

Rudy glared at everyone in a wild manner. "I've got a cake on my head! Surely some punishment is due!"

Mary Bear stepped forward to face her fellow judge. "Some excellent baking was done here but due to your bias, their work will be unjustly passed over. I consider that punishment enough for Mellowdene. As for your punishment, when we get back to head office, I will state that I cannot work with you due to your behaviour and insist that you no longer are part of the programme for Sylvanian Bake Off. Before you speak, consider which of us the management would wish to retain if forced to choose. And take note - how much detail I give them regarding today's events is up to you."

The two judges regarded each other in silence. Bisto Wildwood watched them with a slight smile. "That's settled then. I suggest you leave on your river boat as soon as practicable. You'd better clean up before you go. By the way, is that a shoe?"

o 0 O 0 o

Cecile sniffed. "So that's what happened. I heard Rudolf was sacked. But all those bakers who entered the competition last year won't enter again. And I share the blame. I feel so ashamed."

I moved to hug her. "I'm proud of you. You stood up for our friends. I wouldn't expect anything else. It pains me that you're suffering."

I could see that I needed to lighten the mood. "Look at it this way. You have a good sole..."

"Oh, Jack..." Cecile started to speak but I put my finger on her lips.

"...and he was a heel..."

A smile started to appear on her face.

"...so someone needed to shoo him off."

There it was. She began to laugh quietly and the pent up emotion began to dissipate.

"I've wanted to tell you for so long, Jack. I should have done so, long ago. I hope I'll start to feel easier now." She smiled. "But enough. I need to finish off these potatoes for boiling. Go and get Beverley back."

I realised that the subject was now closed, and left the kitchen. However, I didn't need to search for my daughter as she was there in the passageway.

I lifted her chin to look into her eyes. "You heard?"

"Yes, daddy."

"You realise that this is a secret? That you mustn't tell anyone about this?"

"I know, daddy. I won't."

"Good girl."

We turned back to the kitchen. Before we re-entered, Beverley beckoned me and whispered in my ear.

"Isn't mummy brilliant?"

o 0 O 0 o