The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

unpredictable mood swings and at times, thoroughly disagreeable nature. But just at that moment the boys came hurtling down the stairs, their progress sounding like a dozen bowling balls crashing from top to bottom.
    “Do you have to treat this place like a playground?” she shot at them, disappointed when Cal retracted his arms and slid down onto the seat beside her.
    “David wanted to race, and I beat him,” blurted George, before his brother could pass the blame on to him, or claim that he was the victor. Meli didn’t reply, preferring not to be drawn into a debate, at least not this morning, about what constituted suitable behaviour inside the house. There would be other opportunities for this.
    Cal however, had no such qualms. “Behave yourselves,” he warned them, cocking a meaningful eye at them, sensing that they were on the verge of a squabble. Everyone, apart from Cal, knew that his cautionary words carried about as much weight as the breath he’d wasted uttering them. Noticing the time he turned his attention to more important matters, and began shovelling huge, dripping spoonfuls of muesli into his mouth and chomped on them furiously.
    The twins, gathering momentum, jostled with each other as they raced to the larder for their Coco Pops. When David won this leg of the hurdle, George elbowed him in the stomach, as much out of spite as to give him an advantage, so he could get the sugar bowl first. Meli shook her head as she watched the events happening behind their fathers back from the corner of her eye.
    Cassie appeared and actually joined them for breakfast. Meli beamed inwardly as she flicked her eyes between the four faces gathered around the table. This was the first time they had all sat down together for a meal since arriving here. Pride formed a spongy lump in her gullet. Not only did she have a husband and three children, she actually had a family.
    Finishing his porridge and downing the dregs of his cup of tea, Cal left the table, and spending a couple of frantic minutes dashing through every room muttering to himself, eventually found his keys by the telephone, where he always left them.
    “Are you still going into Exmouth?” he asked Meli as she mopped up the Isles of Muesli that were floating on the Sea of Sloshed Milk, where his bowl had been.
    “Sure am. Top of my list today.” Brimming with positive energy she grinned across at him. For weeks now, she had been fighting a debilitating lack of motivation, delaying the inevitable trip into Exmouth to finish stocking up her studio. If she’d been an author it would have been classed as a serious case of writers block. She didn’t know if there was a similar name for mask makers. But today, she was more than ready to face the challenge. She was rewarded by an encouraging smile.
    “I’ll catch up on progress later.” With a parting peck on her cheek, he rushed for the door. He was back within seconds, the skin on his broad forehead rolled up into narrow furrows like a freshly raked vegetable patch.
    “You need to see this,” he announced to Meli, beckoning to her from the far end of the living room. Before his wife could move the twins had bolted past them both, their fathers stressed tones alerting them that something stupendous must have happened.
    “Wow.” Meli clearly heard their astounded exclamations as she followed in their wake. Stepping outside into the early morning sunshine her face went into freefall.
    “What on earth is that doing here?” she demanded, her eyes darting uncertainly to her husband, scrutinising his expression, just in case he had anything to do with it. When he only shrugged innocently, she dropped her gaze back to the source of their consternation. She’d never previously thought that dogs were capable of expression, but the soulful, peat-brown eyes that met hers were definitely topped by an anxious frown. Advancing on the black Labrador cross, tethered to a fence post by a length of string, Meli spied a note tucked into its collar. Pulling it out she unrolled it. Her mouth flopped wide as she deciphered the scribbled writing. With an audible gulp, she held it out to her husband. Taking it from her he squinted at it for a moment.
    “Harpy brildy frun Clse Wtty?” He read out loud. “What does it mean? Is it Welsh?”
    “What are you on?” she proclaimed testily, retrieving the note and glancing at it again. “Happy birthday from Elsa Vitty,” she read it out to him.
    “Are you sure?”