Tomas Ingleby and the Tale of the Golden Fairy

1. The Nightmare Begins

Tambleton.

In the heart of the Midlands, west of a sprawling city, south of a tiny village, east of a famous river. Not a very large town, that is true, but nicely picturesque. Sleepy, quaint, rustic, no different, one might think passing through on a sunny afternoon in September, to any other quaint, sleepy, rustic old town in this or any other part of the world. Farms, farmland, meadows, coppices--horses clip-clopping up and down the lanes, narrowboats idling dreamily on canals and waterways. Almost--

Almost as if, well, in Tambleton things are always as they seem.

Not quite.

In Tambleton things are never as they seem. Not in this town.

Tambleton-on-Sea.

Not that there is any "sea" for a hundred miles, Tambleton-on-Sea it is and Tambleton-on-Sea it is likely to remain, unless something very extraordinary happens.

The natives prefer simply: Tamble Town.

Of the which you can learn a good deal more about in my next book: The Mystery of Dundaervon Hall, which is all about Uncle Max, and zombies, if there is any such distinction, as some might contend.

For now all I will tell you is this, the Ingleby's live there, and that is peculiarity enough to be going on with, I suggest. Plenty.

Mr and Mrs Duncan and Veronica Ingleby, of number twelve, Cherry Blossom Boulevard, Cuckoo Common, Tambleton-on-Sea.

Eight-thirty in the morning, each and every weekday morning: pecks Mrs Ingleby on the cheek, twitters Humphrey the eccentric budgerigar in his cage, picks up his umbrella, bowler hat, briefcase, tucked under his arm--out marches Mr Ingleby smart and dapper in his pinstriped suit: tall, thin, gangly, round-faced, puffy-cheeked, sweaty armpits (you know the type), sporting a woefully old-fashioned and altogether unsatisfactory toothbrush moustache, reminiscent of a stretched and curiously elongated Oliver Hardy, if you can picture such a thing.

"Good morning," says Mr Ingleby cheerfully to passers-by as he saunters on, a refined, cultured figure, bespeaking an equally refined, cultured voice, tipping his hat, smiling.

Two hours later you might encounter Mr Ingleby on the other side of town, in orange overalls, collecting rubbish for the council, loading wheelie bins into the back of a large truck!

And Mrs Ingleby herself: plump, long-faced, prone to bouts of hysterical laughter and a clownish look--almost an exact copy of a squashed, if slightly less tousled, though significantly more tangerine version of Stan Laurel (subjective opinion), except with a female flavour, if you can picture that.

Just as normal as normal can be.

Just as abnormal as abnormal can be.

Take your pick.

The point being perspective. It's all about perspective.

Which is to say, Tomas. It's all about Tomas.

Tomas William Robert Bartholomew Benjamin Ingleby.

"Bravo Tommy Ingleby!"

Aunt Agnes, in response to the boy's hapless, constant and increasingly comic mishaps, bungles, fumbles, preadolescent peccadillos of the slapstick variety: spillages, overturnings, trips, slips, whoops-a-daisy. In reality rather shy, if you met him, though that is not quite true either, once you got to know him.

Fine crop of short, curly dark hair, dimples in his cheeks, freckles running up and along and round both sides of his otherwise immaculate jaw. Small, dainty ears and an even smaller, daintier nose. Not too fat, not too skinny--not too short or too tall. Just right according to some--Aunt Agnes, for instance, and I am sure Aunt Agnes would know because Aunt Agnes reads minds and knows everything.