Despite her maintained silence, the expression of taut composure that had gradually subsumed Constance’s -until now- buoyant features, spoke volumes. Her initial bewilderment, had likewise given way to a profound comprehension. Unlike Norbury’s, however, her insights were of a more personal nature.
This was more than profound; it was kismet. Yes, Norbury had deceived her time and time again, firstly, with his undisclosed wife, then with his furtive infatuation with fishing. Now it seemed, he had in all likelihood, managed to make a duplicate of Arse Birds behind her back. Who knew to what ends! But yes, she still loved him. For all the wrong reasons, she would always love him; unruly whiskers, staggeringly gymnastic flatulence (not to mention flatulent gymnastics), Machiavellian morals and all.
Saturday 6 August 2011
PART VIII Once Again In Love With Norbury
Norbury, in a mood to wax lyrical, was relentlessly pacing back and forth, orating an unnecessary tirade of conjecture in the general direction of Constance, who took great pains to stifle any errant yawns. Touching on subjects as disparate as the unseasonably balmy weather they had been experiencing of late and the migratory restlessness of the starlings, to the punishing schedule for his forthcoming book launch; once the flood gates had been opened on public speaking, for Norbury there was no turning back.
'I've already got requests coming in from the publishers for a sequel!... I think I'll call it 'Wet As An Otter's Pocket- Fieldnotes Of 'The Nautilus' announced Norbury with an expectant flourish. When no response was forthcoming, he took his betrothed’s silence as a sign, if not of outright disapproval, then of indifference at the bare minimum. Taking a slightly different tack, he resumed.
'…After a spell of idleness of course. I wouldn't allow it to impinge on, well, us...' he intoned with gentlemen’s relish, enjoying the use of the word and imbuing it with lavish suggestive implication.
Well schooled in the art of dissimulation, Constance, however, was otherwise mentally engaged. Lost in thought, her mind had whisked her back to the beginning of the year, where she was busy reminiscing on how happy she'd been; flexing her artistic muscles, capturing those striking images with her box camera. Little snippets of Norbury's usual blinkered views kept intruding on her reverie, allowing her to glean the gist of his ramblings. An adrenalin-charged spike of jealousy left her scowling in its metallic aftermath, as she bitterly mused on how Norbury's little 'display' had filled the Fish Mists wing; the very wing that had perhaps come so close to being 'hers'. She felt she had been skirting on the very brink of brilliance when fate had so cruelly hobbled her, in the torching of no less than five of her finest, irreplaceable pieces. The irony had not gone unnoticed.
'And I had no idea you even liked fish!' blurted Constance, wildly. Even when her replies were slightly off-kilter, Norbury seemed oblivious. Their concurrent conversations thus ran on parallel if never quite convergent courses, as they idled away the day in one of the house's vast conservatories, almost enjoying each other’s company.
The unfortunate downfall of Paunchbulb, and his insidious approach to medicine had left numerous striking and unanswerable facts, which had been the hot topic of debate in the village for several weeks now. Norbury scurrilously yet confidently held forth with a rehashed mishmash of other people's opinions and snippets of overheard conversations, some quite blatantly quoted verbatim. Often -their true meanings obscure to him- the Colonel was compelled to ambiguity, and thus his musings lacked all their former pertinence, as he drifted muzzily from one subject to another, often overemphasising that which he did not understand.
'...apparently they found gallons of embalming fluid! And in the middle of a worldwide pea soup shortage, too!... and just where the Spaghetti Hoop had he managed to procure those remarkable and exotic ingredients from? That’s what I’d like to know, what with the empire-wide embargo on the avian extracts trade still being strictly enforced! The man must have had a great deal of influence…what was the name he gave that obnoxious concoction of his again? All-purpose Restorative Serous Elixir?? Pppprrrch! That phenomenal onanist has done untold, irreparable damage with that nostrum of his, and with no antidote in sight. If there were mitigating circumstances, I for one would be very interested to hear what they were!… '
Constance, although rattled, rather prudently chose not to mention the innumerable times she had called at Paunchbulb's for her little pick-me-up. As far as she was concerned, his elixir was a complete godsend, nostrum or no.
'…Not to mention that retched and insipid Bean Weevil!' He continued. ‘That evasive manner of his always left me cold...to think of the disgraceful show he made of himself at our gala! A full eight stone of crazy, that one! Out of his depth and out of his mind, he was! I wouldn't be surprised to find out that they were in cahoots!' Stressed Norbury, asserting an astoundingly tenuous accusation. 'If you ask me, those two are touching the same cloth!'
'I think you mean cut from the same cloth, darling!' corrected Constance politely.
Their noses wrinkling in aggrieved unison, both parties turned towards the source of an uncommonly noisome reek. Wiffett, the undeniable author of innumerable ripe air-biscuits and indeed many a rusty dog-egg found about the house of late, could not be blamed this time. His uncouth behaviour, a continual source of friction, meant he had rather abruptly found himself out of favour. His indiscriminate pepperings had put him, quite literally, in the doghouse. Colonel Thrust-Munch had finally made good on what, until yesterday at least, the beleaguered hound had assumed was but an idle threat. Now he was at the mercy of Mrs. Paps Shatcress, the shrewd yet spry owner of Manifold and district’s most desirable canine kennels.
At that moment, little Flid padded in, followed closely by the slightly larger Spaz. Constance sat up and patted them simultaneously but gently on the tops of their hot bony heads, receiving in response a generous barrage of warm breathy licks.
'What have my boys brought me, then!?' she pampered indulgently. From their matted and beshitten fur, she could tell that both had been foraging where they shouldn't; both had brought their mistress a brown gift, which they dropped at her feet in turn. Spaz had clearly been out foraging in the woods, and returned with a dismembered and stinking, maggot-riddled owl wing, still in full and articulated working order. Flid, however, had an altogether more cobwebbed, unkempt look to him, as that of one who has been investigating long forgotten crannies. He had found a familiar looking sheet of sepia celluloid, its edges curling slightly.
'Well spank my thrusting buttocks! Flid! Where did you find this!!' It was a Collodion negative, it’s surface slightly obscured by dust and slobber, but the image it contained remianed instantly recognizable: the skies over Slag-Grope Lake. Seeing it now in a reversal of tones, the pallid, avian letters a, r, s and e, were more strikingly apparent than ever, in stark contrast with their sootier surroundings. Inexplicably yet undeniably, it was none other than that which she had previously thought irreparably lost. Arse Birds. Had someone made an illicit duplicate?, she mused.
'Look, Norbury, come and see what my clever little Flid has found! Constance proclaimed, on the brink of confused tears, choosing to ignore the ill-concealed nostril-flare of distain, which her lover was directing towards her mollycoddled hounds
A telling flush of blood blushed across Norbury's already rosy cheeks. What plausible explanation could he give for this most inconvenient disclosure? A delicate situation such as this would need handling with the utmost care; this was not the time for his usual asymmetric parlor games. Distracting him from the scheming up of fresh excuses, a gradual revelation came to him. There was an extended pause as his limited intellect grappled for purchase with a subject too sublimely massive for his immediate comprehension. This was no mere bagatelle! For the one and only time in his life, Thrust-Munch was on the brink of an epiphany…
Paunchbulb's All-purpose Restorative Serous Elixir... Starling Albumen Distillate...Constance's Arse Birds...but what could it all mean...?! Could this be the very definition of synchronicity itself? Or just a sheer pig-headed fluke?!
'Well, bless my crippled jazz gland!' Norbury finally spluttered. 'Do you think they were trying to tell us something?!!'
'I've already got requests coming in from the publishers for a sequel!... I think I'll call it 'Wet As An Otter's Pocket- Fieldnotes Of 'The Nautilus' announced Norbury with an expectant flourish. When no response was forthcoming, he took his betrothed’s silence as a sign, if not of outright disapproval, then of indifference at the bare minimum. Taking a slightly different tack, he resumed.
'…After a spell of idleness of course. I wouldn't allow it to impinge on, well, us...' he intoned with gentlemen’s relish, enjoying the use of the word and imbuing it with lavish suggestive implication.
Well schooled in the art of dissimulation, Constance, however, was otherwise mentally engaged. Lost in thought, her mind had whisked her back to the beginning of the year, where she was busy reminiscing on how happy she'd been; flexing her artistic muscles, capturing those striking images with her box camera. Little snippets of Norbury's usual blinkered views kept intruding on her reverie, allowing her to glean the gist of his ramblings. An adrenalin-charged spike of jealousy left her scowling in its metallic aftermath, as she bitterly mused on how Norbury's little 'display' had filled the Fish Mists wing; the very wing that had perhaps come so close to being 'hers'. She felt she had been skirting on the very brink of brilliance when fate had so cruelly hobbled her, in the torching of no less than five of her finest, irreplaceable pieces. The irony had not gone unnoticed.
'And I had no idea you even liked fish!' blurted Constance, wildly. Even when her replies were slightly off-kilter, Norbury seemed oblivious. Their concurrent conversations thus ran on parallel if never quite convergent courses, as they idled away the day in one of the house's vast conservatories, almost enjoying each other’s company.
The unfortunate downfall of Paunchbulb, and his insidious approach to medicine had left numerous striking and unanswerable facts, which had been the hot topic of debate in the village for several weeks now. Norbury scurrilously yet confidently held forth with a rehashed mishmash of other people's opinions and snippets of overheard conversations, some quite blatantly quoted verbatim. Often -their true meanings obscure to him- the Colonel was compelled to ambiguity, and thus his musings lacked all their former pertinence, as he drifted muzzily from one subject to another, often overemphasising that which he did not understand.
'...apparently they found gallons of embalming fluid! And in the middle of a worldwide pea soup shortage, too!... and just where the Spaghetti Hoop had he managed to procure those remarkable and exotic ingredients from? That’s what I’d like to know, what with the empire-wide embargo on the avian extracts trade still being strictly enforced! The man must have had a great deal of influence…what was the name he gave that obnoxious concoction of his again? All-purpose Restorative Serous Elixir?? Pppprrrch! That phenomenal onanist has done untold, irreparable damage with that nostrum of his, and with no antidote in sight. If there were mitigating circumstances, I for one would be very interested to hear what they were!… '
Constance, although rattled, rather prudently chose not to mention the innumerable times she had called at Paunchbulb's for her little pick-me-up. As far as she was concerned, his elixir was a complete godsend, nostrum or no.
'…Not to mention that retched and insipid Bean Weevil!' He continued. ‘That evasive manner of his always left me cold...to think of the disgraceful show he made of himself at our gala! A full eight stone of crazy, that one! Out of his depth and out of his mind, he was! I wouldn't be surprised to find out that they were in cahoots!' Stressed Norbury, asserting an astoundingly tenuous accusation. 'If you ask me, those two are touching the same cloth!'
'I think you mean cut from the same cloth, darling!' corrected Constance politely.
Their noses wrinkling in aggrieved unison, both parties turned towards the source of an uncommonly noisome reek. Wiffett, the undeniable author of innumerable ripe air-biscuits and indeed many a rusty dog-egg found about the house of late, could not be blamed this time. His uncouth behaviour, a continual source of friction, meant he had rather abruptly found himself out of favour. His indiscriminate pepperings had put him, quite literally, in the doghouse. Colonel Thrust-Munch had finally made good on what, until yesterday at least, the beleaguered hound had assumed was but an idle threat. Now he was at the mercy of Mrs. Paps Shatcress, the shrewd yet spry owner of Manifold and district’s most desirable canine kennels.
At that moment, little Flid padded in, followed closely by the slightly larger Spaz. Constance sat up and patted them simultaneously but gently on the tops of their hot bony heads, receiving in response a generous barrage of warm breathy licks.
'What have my boys brought me, then!?' she pampered indulgently. From their matted and beshitten fur, she could tell that both had been foraging where they shouldn't; both had brought their mistress a brown gift, which they dropped at her feet in turn. Spaz had clearly been out foraging in the woods, and returned with a dismembered and stinking, maggot-riddled owl wing, still in full and articulated working order. Flid, however, had an altogether more cobwebbed, unkempt look to him, as that of one who has been investigating long forgotten crannies. He had found a familiar looking sheet of sepia celluloid, its edges curling slightly.
'Well spank my thrusting buttocks! Flid! Where did you find this!!' It was a Collodion negative, it’s surface slightly obscured by dust and slobber, but the image it contained remianed instantly recognizable: the skies over Slag-Grope Lake. Seeing it now in a reversal of tones, the pallid, avian letters a, r, s and e, were more strikingly apparent than ever, in stark contrast with their sootier surroundings. Inexplicably yet undeniably, it was none other than that which she had previously thought irreparably lost. Arse Birds. Had someone made an illicit duplicate?, she mused.
'Look, Norbury, come and see what my clever little Flid has found! Constance proclaimed, on the brink of confused tears, choosing to ignore the ill-concealed nostril-flare of distain, which her lover was directing towards her mollycoddled hounds
A telling flush of blood blushed across Norbury's already rosy cheeks. What plausible explanation could he give for this most inconvenient disclosure? A delicate situation such as this would need handling with the utmost care; this was not the time for his usual asymmetric parlor games. Distracting him from the scheming up of fresh excuses, a gradual revelation came to him. There was an extended pause as his limited intellect grappled for purchase with a subject too sublimely massive for his immediate comprehension. This was no mere bagatelle! For the one and only time in his life, Thrust-Munch was on the brink of an epiphany…
Paunchbulb's All-purpose Restorative Serous Elixir... Starling Albumen Distillate...Constance's Arse Birds...but what could it all mean...?! Could this be the very definition of synchronicity itself? Or just a sheer pig-headed fluke?!
'Well, bless my crippled jazz gland!' Norbury finally spluttered. 'Do you think they were trying to tell us something?!!'
PART VII The Whipple Van Buren Asylum for the Blatantly Deranged
And so, with Paunchbulb returned to the Whipple Van Buren Asylum for the Blatantly Deranged, he was placed once again in the doting care of Nurse Abalone and her ample, nay cavernous cleavage. Rarely perceived as approachable, that which his devoted nurse lacked in maternal instinct, she made up for in her vigilance; ever watchful, forever judging.
'I had no idea this level of derangement was capable of lying latent for so long!’ proclaimed Nurse Abalone, on his arrival, clearly impressed.
'With an apoplectic propensity such as this, a full, bounding pulse should be expected, yet I still have vexing concerns over his vermilion complexion...' articulated Dr Prout with impressively well seasoned word salad.
'His vital mettle was whittled to an almost imperceptible nub during those desolate years that he squandered at Farcy' countered Mr. Children, locked, as ever, in a competitive struggle to maintain the intellectual 'upper hand' when in front of the laity.
The other free-ranging inmates were all quick to welcome Paunchbulb, particularly Elizah Squint Grimace whose melancholia waxed and waned with the phases of the moon. Fortunately for Paunchbulb, Squint Grimace proved quite amicable, despite the new inmate’s role in the lunatic’s original asylum committal. The doctor remained largely unmolested and unrecognised, although this may have had more to do with the repugnant and retarded claptrap cascading wholesale from his woefully corrupted brain, than it did with the influence of the moonstruck Squint Grimace
Less convivial was the now permanently shackled Guthrie Belper, whose rampant libido and incessant gnawing made him a liability and a constant threat to all, with the singular exception of Josephine Straddlecock, a woman who bore a face not even a mother could love, and in whom he had absolutely no interest whatsoever.
A familiar face in and around the wards was Madam Anna Palindrome, who had for a short while become an observant volunteer, seeking to gain an authentic insight into institutional life, for a forthcoming play she was writing. To coerce potential subjects, and as a conversational carrot, she would bring with her what she coined her 'reward drawer,' which would variously contain tasty and tempting edibles; cinnabar biscuits, raspberry-powdered rings and iced fingers aplenty, which could coax even the most obstinate kooks out of the woodwork. A hankering for Madam Palindrome's homemade rock cakes, with their spongy crust and firm brawny center, could bring many an inmate to tears.
Another regular fixture was Dr Tumblety, a transient American Doctor, who could justly be described as convivial, if a little unorthodox. Tumblety put his every faith in ‘colour therapy’, whereby the inmates were at liberty to sample the liquid delights of the medication trolley at whim. Thus, they could choose between assorted, unlabelled miniature cups, some whose contents was a delicate, provocative shade of pink, some a startling tint of spirit-level yellow, others, a hectic green. It was his sincere belief that in some sentient way they would be able to self-medicate.
Despite showing a few improvements of the mind, the project was swiftly brought to a halt, after a year. Side effects ranging from post emasculation suicidal tendencies, involuntary sphinctal blink and an affliction resembling delirium tremens became apparent in more than half of those under Tumblety’s care.
Unhappily for Paunchbulb, there was scant practical help available for a man in his unenviable situation, even with the relatively new twin sciences of phrenology and physiognomy at their disposal. Although he made confident strides over the ensuing years, his irrepressible, impudent urges ensured that he would never again be a liberated man, although his age and authoritative manner meant he was allowed perhaps a little too much freedom, especially at night.
In latter years he became a minor celebrity of sorts. Allowed to free roam after lights-out, he would often walk distances of up to nine miles whilst still apparently asleep. Known to many as the district somnambulist, he was a source of some amusement to the children of Stilton Milk Hill, who would poke him with sticks when he ambled lethargically past, his slack face muttering ceaselessly of ‘an extra, extra clever mongoose in the form of a weasel', apropos nothing. His expletive outbursts, however, grew ever more obscene, ever more obtuse, which of course did nothing to dispel the hungry crowds who gathered nightly, eager to hear the latest licentiously abhorrent spewings produced by the misplaced logic of his irreparably misshapen perspective.
And, as surely as irony dooms a man, Paunchbulb's elliptical fate seemed almost sealed from the start, as he suffered the ultimate exquisite irony of having his own questionable elixir prescribed to him. For, despite his flagrant flouting of the rules, he had inadvertently bestowed the medical community with a sensational, if entirely empirical, corrective procedure. Of its true benefits, only time would tell, when the full rigours of medical research and the contentious 'invasive probe' could be freely employed.
'I had no idea this level of derangement was capable of lying latent for so long!’ proclaimed Nurse Abalone, on his arrival, clearly impressed.
'With an apoplectic propensity such as this, a full, bounding pulse should be expected, yet I still have vexing concerns over his vermilion complexion...' articulated Dr Prout with impressively well seasoned word salad.
'His vital mettle was whittled to an almost imperceptible nub during those desolate years that he squandered at Farcy' countered Mr. Children, locked, as ever, in a competitive struggle to maintain the intellectual 'upper hand' when in front of the laity.
The other free-ranging inmates were all quick to welcome Paunchbulb, particularly Elizah Squint Grimace whose melancholia waxed and waned with the phases of the moon. Fortunately for Paunchbulb, Squint Grimace proved quite amicable, despite the new inmate’s role in the lunatic’s original asylum committal. The doctor remained largely unmolested and unrecognised, although this may have had more to do with the repugnant and retarded claptrap cascading wholesale from his woefully corrupted brain, than it did with the influence of the moonstruck Squint Grimace
Less convivial was the now permanently shackled Guthrie Belper, whose rampant libido and incessant gnawing made him a liability and a constant threat to all, with the singular exception of Josephine Straddlecock, a woman who bore a face not even a mother could love, and in whom he had absolutely no interest whatsoever.
A familiar face in and around the wards was Madam Anna Palindrome, who had for a short while become an observant volunteer, seeking to gain an authentic insight into institutional life, for a forthcoming play she was writing. To coerce potential subjects, and as a conversational carrot, she would bring with her what she coined her 'reward drawer,' which would variously contain tasty and tempting edibles; cinnabar biscuits, raspberry-powdered rings and iced fingers aplenty, which could coax even the most obstinate kooks out of the woodwork. A hankering for Madam Palindrome's homemade rock cakes, with their spongy crust and firm brawny center, could bring many an inmate to tears.
Another regular fixture was Dr Tumblety, a transient American Doctor, who could justly be described as convivial, if a little unorthodox. Tumblety put his every faith in ‘colour therapy’, whereby the inmates were at liberty to sample the liquid delights of the medication trolley at whim. Thus, they could choose between assorted, unlabelled miniature cups, some whose contents was a delicate, provocative shade of pink, some a startling tint of spirit-level yellow, others, a hectic green. It was his sincere belief that in some sentient way they would be able to self-medicate.
Despite showing a few improvements of the mind, the project was swiftly brought to a halt, after a year. Side effects ranging from post emasculation suicidal tendencies, involuntary sphinctal blink and an affliction resembling delirium tremens became apparent in more than half of those under Tumblety’s care.
Unhappily for Paunchbulb, there was scant practical help available for a man in his unenviable situation, even with the relatively new twin sciences of phrenology and physiognomy at their disposal. Although he made confident strides over the ensuing years, his irrepressible, impudent urges ensured that he would never again be a liberated man, although his age and authoritative manner meant he was allowed perhaps a little too much freedom, especially at night.
In latter years he became a minor celebrity of sorts. Allowed to free roam after lights-out, he would often walk distances of up to nine miles whilst still apparently asleep. Known to many as the district somnambulist, he was a source of some amusement to the children of Stilton Milk Hill, who would poke him with sticks when he ambled lethargically past, his slack face muttering ceaselessly of ‘an extra, extra clever mongoose in the form of a weasel', apropos nothing. His expletive outbursts, however, grew ever more obscene, ever more obtuse, which of course did nothing to dispel the hungry crowds who gathered nightly, eager to hear the latest licentiously abhorrent spewings produced by the misplaced logic of his irreparably misshapen perspective.
And, as surely as irony dooms a man, Paunchbulb's elliptical fate seemed almost sealed from the start, as he suffered the ultimate exquisite irony of having his own questionable elixir prescribed to him. For, despite his flagrant flouting of the rules, he had inadvertently bestowed the medical community with a sensational, if entirely empirical, corrective procedure. Of its true benefits, only time would tell, when the full rigours of medical research and the contentious 'invasive probe' could be freely employed.
VI.III Skimming The Entries At Random
August 29th –69.
Today, I treated Elizah Squint Grimace. He has now lapsed into a melancholic reverie… I fear he is beyond my help… Further applications of Elixir have proved futile.
September 5th –69.
I have been dealt a guttural blow today… as I suspected, his was a contrived vexation… malingerers and hysterical subjects are an acute burden on me time after time…. I shall have no more dealings with Jasper Trounce; he is little more than mere vermin. Daubed him with Condy's Deodorant Fluid and Caustic vinegar and showed him the door.
April 8th --71. Bob Twaddle, a member of the tramp class, ill fed and generally debilitated. He will surely benefit from a poultice of goat-chode and rhubarb, followed by three weeks of regular wet cupping to the groin. Two doses of Elixir administered.
April 9th --71.
…but whence came this vulgar discharge!?
April 14th --71.
The Elixir was clearly not at fault… his ailments were far more multitudinous than even a robust subject such as he could outlive. Prognosis, therefore, was grave in the extreme.
August 15th --72.
Dr Prout and Mr. Children called again… those Jizz Weasels! Will they never understand? Yes, it is an as yet imperfectly understood mechanism, but so far, my results have been gratifying in the extreme. They will have to try harder than that if their lackluster attempts to ruin me are to come to fruition! One day they will understand.
Vesper supplemental-
Left request for collection of the physical remains with Bribe, Bribe and Frisk's Undertaker Services.
August 19th --72.
B, B & Frisk's came for the bodies… a relief indeed; the odour was becoming quite overwhelming. Winnit burgers! Heavy sweats and dry heaves for upwards of two hours.
September 20th --74.
Tristan Sandal. Diagnosis: an unmistakable forage merchant and flouncing dandy! Elixir swiftly prescribed, Sandal sent packing.
Vesper supplemental-
Washed and darned socks and unmentionables. Sorely overdue. Must attend to intimates more regularly. Especially the nails.
October 1st --74.
Felicity Splince, a girl of delicate constitution, attended my surgery with numerous cosmetic and trifling complaints. Gave her the full scalp and orbit treatment, with extensive use of the dental mechanic. Anointed with Elixir.
October 2nd --74.
I allow myself that I am a most competent observer. My zeal in the study of morbid anatomy is unrivalled, yet still unrecognised. With a prudent use of fermented liquors, the Elixir, I’m sure, is now perfected!
October 5th --74.
Tomorrow at one, the bandages are to be removed, and I shall present my perfectly redesigned and reborn Felicity Splince to the world!
Vesper supplemental-
Celebratory mood: indulged in the pleasures of the table at The Box Of Frogs. Feasted enough for two on the landlady’s beef.
October 6th --74.
Alas, the human face, once divine, is now a foul and misshapen mass. Anointed generously with Elixir, wounds redressed. An unmitigated disaster. Breathing difficult.
Vesper supplemental-
Purchased a fine elephant foot umbrella stand from the ‘Horn Of Plenty’, to spruce up the surgery.
October 7th --74.
Cost three times more to get B, B & Frisk's to collect past midnight! Outrageous, but at least I shall worry no more for Miss Splince. The air was positively clamorous with that dubious odour, so unpleasant and so readily recognisable once it has been perceived for what it is: Tuppet Spice. Satan's Funbags! I cannot begin to describe this deplorable situation in which I find myself...
October 19th --74.
My confidence has been sorely compromised. I am unsure whether I will be able to continue my good work in the foreseeable future.
September 1st --76.
Caught sight of my own sorry reflection in the lake today- my decreptitude has got out of hand. As for a mental, moral and spiritual remedy, there is little that a trip to the barbers cannot cure. Frittered a few coins away on the high street- new nail shears and two pairs of silk socks.
January 26th --77.
Mrs Dilligence Dalliance, a seemingly barren lady has sought my assistance, of which I am only too happy to avail her. Besmeared my hand with a twenty per cent elixir and linseed oil blend and massaged at length into the pelvic brim.
November 1st --79.
Autumn issue of the unrivalled pharmaceutical periodical ‘Essays On Lubrication, Leeches and Lunacy' has finally been delivered- with all the latest; the current spate of feral children; treating uncomplicated influenza; anointing the false membrane; and 'Brampton Eye', a newly discovered and little understood disease from the continent.
December 25th –79.
Our Saviour's Day, and Sir Reginald came good for me once again: an almighty jeroboam of embalming fluid and a contrastingly minuscule mummified hand, no more than 7/16ths across, possibly human. From Nurse Abalone: a fine new set of crystal pipettes and a brace of plucked pheasants. And, rather unexpectedly, one of dear Prunce's most able sketches- a landscape. The Heights of Abraham, if I am not mistaken.
February 21st --80.
This 'Brampton Eye' may well have finally reared its ugly head here in Manifold.... called to the Brownnose Institute to attend a suspected case of lingering gingivitus, only to find the wizened and shriveled remains of Professor Cecil Béchamel Peas, a man who evidently showed little enthusiasm for washing and brushing. Quite a job for B, B & Frisk’s, the corpse's desiccation being to such an extreme extent that his limbs disintegrated on touch, to the untold distress of all onlookers, especially his young fiancé, the hapless Hillary Arbuthnot Kimblegun.
Vesper supplemental-
In thanks, Miss Kimblegun made a most generous gift of a waxed truckle of Wazzock's Twice-matured Ale Cheese, which I married with a decent knuckle of pork to make an unrivalled supper.
March 7th --80.
Made house-call to Bombardier Humphrey Capillary Bracegirdle- an admirable friend of mine, suffering from a debilitating yet interesting case of acute Hobo's Elbow, albeit a case with all the associated trimmings of this 'Brampton Eye' I have read so much about. With its accompanying gland desiccation and fresh crops of nodules on all susceptible flesh, I fear this Asian contagion could have far-reaching and dire consequences if left unchecked.
Extensive wet cupping administered, followed by small regular doses of Elixir.
March 25th --80.
An Eventful Maundy. Mrs Theodora Thrust-Munch's unnecessarily harsh, self imposed Lent fasts may well have played a critical role in her succumbing to the fatal embrace of a galloping case of Brampton Eye. In all likelihood contracted from Scrunts whose feet she had been judiciously washing just that morning. When I arrived, she was but a husk, her ponderously oversize tongue protruding between her lips, dry and brown.
March 30th --80.
B, B & Frisk's will no longer have anything to do with these woefully desiccated, tainted corpses, so the final task has fallen to me. With Mrs. T-M's orifices of evacuation plugged, her mortal remains will be laid in state at St. Murgatroyd-in-the-ditch Church, Lower Snatch Snot, for four weeks, as I believe is customary in these parts.
Vesper supplemental-
Excellent news- I have managed to procure a promise of ownership of the cadaver, towards the furtherment of my medical research. The deceased's widower, the Colonel T-M alluded that it was what she would have wanted. Possibly.
April 4th --80.
Working on the Elixir again. To put pen to paper and ascertain that I am confident this time, would be hazarding more than a prudent regard for truth would justify.
April 9th --80.
Miss Constance Bintwrangler. An hysterical subject, fallen prey to what I like to call 'the Human Condition': loneliness and desperation. Suffering from little more than the aftermath of the night before, alas there is scant help I can prescribe. The elixir seems to soothe her, when administered via a drop or two of good brandy.
April 11th --80.
Guthrie Belper presented himself at my door this morning, unmistakably showing the Seven Shades of Lunacy: Indiscriminate deviant sexuality and its associated lusty ailments; superabundant pocket clutter; convulsions; prolonged profanic tirades; delusions and strangery; buttery breath; and, of course, gnawing. Elixir prescribed. I fear his brain to be infected in it's arachnoid coat
October 21st --80.
Tomorrow, Miss Hortence Palmipede is due in for exploratory surgery on her right heel. I have prepared the sharp spoon and a small bottle of the elixir. I must confess to my being nervous. This will be the first time it has passed into another's hands. My hand is forced to permit it to be self administered by the patient, for, alas; I fear her ailment colossally vexes my oversensitive olfactories.
Vesper supplemental-
Little Prunce has telegraphed me. She wishes to take tea with me tomorrow afternoon. I look forward to it with enormous relish. Must be on best behaviour.
Constance listened earnestly, finding the doctor's words compelling, yet perhaps a little too revealing. Fascinating as it was to be informed of the specifics of the fortuitous passing of her beloved Norbury's haranguing wife, she had hardly been prepared to have her own dirty laundry aired quite so openly in public. Colouring noticeably, she fanned herself vigorously with a stray pamphlet on ‘Unnecessary Autopsies’, which she had found on the doctor's preparations counter.
In her enthusiasm, Dilligence had begun pacing to and fro as she read. Absorbed in the diary’s revelations, her booted foot accidentally brushed a hulking black shape, previously concealed by the shadows in the corner of the room. From within, the gentle snick and clink of glass on glass could be heard. On closer inspection, the esteemed doctor's constant companion- his age-worn Gladstone bag- evidently contained a great many enigmatic vessels. Constance laboriously fumbled to scoop one out with her long fingers. The tiny bottle bore a neatly handwritten label, proclaiming its contents: Paunchbulb’s All-purpose Restorative Serous Elixir. Below this, a protracted list of contents, which to the untrained eye seemed, in places, both eclectically unorthodox and rather extravagant. It read-
Liquor Epispasticus; Arsenical Preparations; Formaldehyde; Grummous Water; Starling Albumen Distillate; Balsam of Peru; Poppy’s Tears; Butter of Slippery Elm; Oil of Turpentine; Twice-Fragrant Tuppet Spice; Spirit of Vitriol; Extract of Carbuncle; Chloroform; Crust of Ammonia; Gentian Root; Musk Ambergris; Strychnine; Tincture of Long Pepper; Perpendicular Spoonmeat Infusion; Ointment of Scarlet Red; Figment of Enigma; Squirrel Bile Essence; Concentrated Hallucinogenic Treacle; Aniline Purple.
On the obverse, Paunchbulb’s dubious cure-all boasted an improbably ambitious array of preposterous, spurious and possibly libelous claims-
An unrivalled treatment for.... Crippled fecundity; Exhaustion of the vital powers; Partial or semi-partial fabric spine; Irregular habits; Loose and flaccid cloaca; Acrimonious discharge; Hobo’s elbow; Persistent androgyny; The loud trouser; Metronomic beetling; Unsuitable flaps; Marital discontent; Mildewed and malodorous frog; Rigor mortis; Membranous and gelatinous envelope; Abrasive beigeness; Mental duality; Aggravated tuppence; Worms in the eye; Dangling Plumbago; The waning of sexual life; Unsightly lobes; Carolgees disease; Unexpected ravages; Whispering parasites; Spontaneous human combustion; Blebs. May also be used as an antidote to atheism.
Today, I treated Elizah Squint Grimace. He has now lapsed into a melancholic reverie… I fear he is beyond my help… Further applications of Elixir have proved futile.
September 5th –69.
I have been dealt a guttural blow today… as I suspected, his was a contrived vexation… malingerers and hysterical subjects are an acute burden on me time after time…. I shall have no more dealings with Jasper Trounce; he is little more than mere vermin. Daubed him with Condy's Deodorant Fluid and Caustic vinegar and showed him the door.
April 8th --71. Bob Twaddle, a member of the tramp class, ill fed and generally debilitated. He will surely benefit from a poultice of goat-chode and rhubarb, followed by three weeks of regular wet cupping to the groin. Two doses of Elixir administered.
April 9th --71.
…but whence came this vulgar discharge!?
April 14th --71.
The Elixir was clearly not at fault… his ailments were far more multitudinous than even a robust subject such as he could outlive. Prognosis, therefore, was grave in the extreme.
August 15th --72.
Dr Prout and Mr. Children called again… those Jizz Weasels! Will they never understand? Yes, it is an as yet imperfectly understood mechanism, but so far, my results have been gratifying in the extreme. They will have to try harder than that if their lackluster attempts to ruin me are to come to fruition! One day they will understand.
Vesper supplemental-
Left request for collection of the physical remains with Bribe, Bribe and Frisk's Undertaker Services.
August 19th --72.
B, B & Frisk's came for the bodies… a relief indeed; the odour was becoming quite overwhelming. Winnit burgers! Heavy sweats and dry heaves for upwards of two hours.
September 20th --74.
Tristan Sandal. Diagnosis: an unmistakable forage merchant and flouncing dandy! Elixir swiftly prescribed, Sandal sent packing.
Vesper supplemental-
Washed and darned socks and unmentionables. Sorely overdue. Must attend to intimates more regularly. Especially the nails.
October 1st --74.
Felicity Splince, a girl of delicate constitution, attended my surgery with numerous cosmetic and trifling complaints. Gave her the full scalp and orbit treatment, with extensive use of the dental mechanic. Anointed with Elixir.
October 2nd --74.
I allow myself that I am a most competent observer. My zeal in the study of morbid anatomy is unrivalled, yet still unrecognised. With a prudent use of fermented liquors, the Elixir, I’m sure, is now perfected!
October 5th --74.
Tomorrow at one, the bandages are to be removed, and I shall present my perfectly redesigned and reborn Felicity Splince to the world!
Vesper supplemental-
Celebratory mood: indulged in the pleasures of the table at The Box Of Frogs. Feasted enough for two on the landlady’s beef.
October 6th --74.
Alas, the human face, once divine, is now a foul and misshapen mass. Anointed generously with Elixir, wounds redressed. An unmitigated disaster. Breathing difficult.
Vesper supplemental-
Purchased a fine elephant foot umbrella stand from the ‘Horn Of Plenty’, to spruce up the surgery.
October 7th --74.
Cost three times more to get B, B & Frisk's to collect past midnight! Outrageous, but at least I shall worry no more for Miss Splince. The air was positively clamorous with that dubious odour, so unpleasant and so readily recognisable once it has been perceived for what it is: Tuppet Spice. Satan's Funbags! I cannot begin to describe this deplorable situation in which I find myself...
October 19th --74.
My confidence has been sorely compromised. I am unsure whether I will be able to continue my good work in the foreseeable future.
September 1st --76.
Caught sight of my own sorry reflection in the lake today- my decreptitude has got out of hand. As for a mental, moral and spiritual remedy, there is little that a trip to the barbers cannot cure. Frittered a few coins away on the high street- new nail shears and two pairs of silk socks.
January 26th --77.
Mrs Dilligence Dalliance, a seemingly barren lady has sought my assistance, of which I am only too happy to avail her. Besmeared my hand with a twenty per cent elixir and linseed oil blend and massaged at length into the pelvic brim.
November 1st --79.
Autumn issue of the unrivalled pharmaceutical periodical ‘Essays On Lubrication, Leeches and Lunacy' has finally been delivered- with all the latest; the current spate of feral children; treating uncomplicated influenza; anointing the false membrane; and 'Brampton Eye', a newly discovered and little understood disease from the continent.
December 25th –79.
Our Saviour's Day, and Sir Reginald came good for me once again: an almighty jeroboam of embalming fluid and a contrastingly minuscule mummified hand, no more than 7/16ths across, possibly human. From Nurse Abalone: a fine new set of crystal pipettes and a brace of plucked pheasants. And, rather unexpectedly, one of dear Prunce's most able sketches- a landscape. The Heights of Abraham, if I am not mistaken.
February 21st --80.
This 'Brampton Eye' may well have finally reared its ugly head here in Manifold.... called to the Brownnose Institute to attend a suspected case of lingering gingivitus, only to find the wizened and shriveled remains of Professor Cecil Béchamel Peas, a man who evidently showed little enthusiasm for washing and brushing. Quite a job for B, B & Frisk’s, the corpse's desiccation being to such an extreme extent that his limbs disintegrated on touch, to the untold distress of all onlookers, especially his young fiancé, the hapless Hillary Arbuthnot Kimblegun.
Vesper supplemental-
In thanks, Miss Kimblegun made a most generous gift of a waxed truckle of Wazzock's Twice-matured Ale Cheese, which I married with a decent knuckle of pork to make an unrivalled supper.
March 7th --80.
Made house-call to Bombardier Humphrey Capillary Bracegirdle- an admirable friend of mine, suffering from a debilitating yet interesting case of acute Hobo's Elbow, albeit a case with all the associated trimmings of this 'Brampton Eye' I have read so much about. With its accompanying gland desiccation and fresh crops of nodules on all susceptible flesh, I fear this Asian contagion could have far-reaching and dire consequences if left unchecked.
Extensive wet cupping administered, followed by small regular doses of Elixir.
March 25th --80.
An Eventful Maundy. Mrs Theodora Thrust-Munch's unnecessarily harsh, self imposed Lent fasts may well have played a critical role in her succumbing to the fatal embrace of a galloping case of Brampton Eye. In all likelihood contracted from Scrunts whose feet she had been judiciously washing just that morning. When I arrived, she was but a husk, her ponderously oversize tongue protruding between her lips, dry and brown.
March 30th --80.
B, B & Frisk's will no longer have anything to do with these woefully desiccated, tainted corpses, so the final task has fallen to me. With Mrs. T-M's orifices of evacuation plugged, her mortal remains will be laid in state at St. Murgatroyd-in-the-ditch Church, Lower Snatch Snot, for four weeks, as I believe is customary in these parts.
Vesper supplemental-
Excellent news- I have managed to procure a promise of ownership of the cadaver, towards the furtherment of my medical research. The deceased's widower, the Colonel T-M alluded that it was what she would have wanted. Possibly.
April 4th --80.
Working on the Elixir again. To put pen to paper and ascertain that I am confident this time, would be hazarding more than a prudent regard for truth would justify.
April 9th --80.
Miss Constance Bintwrangler. An hysterical subject, fallen prey to what I like to call 'the Human Condition': loneliness and desperation. Suffering from little more than the aftermath of the night before, alas there is scant help I can prescribe. The elixir seems to soothe her, when administered via a drop or two of good brandy.
April 11th --80.
Guthrie Belper presented himself at my door this morning, unmistakably showing the Seven Shades of Lunacy: Indiscriminate deviant sexuality and its associated lusty ailments; superabundant pocket clutter; convulsions; prolonged profanic tirades; delusions and strangery; buttery breath; and, of course, gnawing. Elixir prescribed. I fear his brain to be infected in it's arachnoid coat
October 21st --80.
Tomorrow, Miss Hortence Palmipede is due in for exploratory surgery on her right heel. I have prepared the sharp spoon and a small bottle of the elixir. I must confess to my being nervous. This will be the first time it has passed into another's hands. My hand is forced to permit it to be self administered by the patient, for, alas; I fear her ailment colossally vexes my oversensitive olfactories.
Vesper supplemental-
Little Prunce has telegraphed me. She wishes to take tea with me tomorrow afternoon. I look forward to it with enormous relish. Must be on best behaviour.
Constance listened earnestly, finding the doctor's words compelling, yet perhaps a little too revealing. Fascinating as it was to be informed of the specifics of the fortuitous passing of her beloved Norbury's haranguing wife, she had hardly been prepared to have her own dirty laundry aired quite so openly in public. Colouring noticeably, she fanned herself vigorously with a stray pamphlet on ‘Unnecessary Autopsies’, which she had found on the doctor's preparations counter.
In her enthusiasm, Dilligence had begun pacing to and fro as she read. Absorbed in the diary’s revelations, her booted foot accidentally brushed a hulking black shape, previously concealed by the shadows in the corner of the room. From within, the gentle snick and clink of glass on glass could be heard. On closer inspection, the esteemed doctor's constant companion- his age-worn Gladstone bag- evidently contained a great many enigmatic vessels. Constance laboriously fumbled to scoop one out with her long fingers. The tiny bottle bore a neatly handwritten label, proclaiming its contents: Paunchbulb’s All-purpose Restorative Serous Elixir. Below this, a protracted list of contents, which to the untrained eye seemed, in places, both eclectically unorthodox and rather extravagant. It read-
Liquor Epispasticus; Arsenical Preparations; Formaldehyde; Grummous Water; Starling Albumen Distillate; Balsam of Peru; Poppy’s Tears; Butter of Slippery Elm; Oil of Turpentine; Twice-Fragrant Tuppet Spice; Spirit of Vitriol; Extract of Carbuncle; Chloroform; Crust of Ammonia; Gentian Root; Musk Ambergris; Strychnine; Tincture of Long Pepper; Perpendicular Spoonmeat Infusion; Ointment of Scarlet Red; Figment of Enigma; Squirrel Bile Essence; Concentrated Hallucinogenic Treacle; Aniline Purple.
On the obverse, Paunchbulb’s dubious cure-all boasted an improbably ambitious array of preposterous, spurious and possibly libelous claims-
An unrivalled treatment for.... Crippled fecundity; Exhaustion of the vital powers; Partial or semi-partial fabric spine; Irregular habits; Loose and flaccid cloaca; Acrimonious discharge; Hobo’s elbow; Persistent androgyny; The loud trouser; Metronomic beetling; Unsuitable flaps; Marital discontent; Mildewed and malodorous frog; Rigor mortis; Membranous and gelatinous envelope; Abrasive beigeness; Mental duality; Aggravated tuppence; Worms in the eye; Dangling Plumbago; The waning of sexual life; Unsightly lobes; Carolgees disease; Unexpected ravages; Whispering parasites; Spontaneous human combustion; Blebs. May also be used as an antidote to atheism.
VI.ii Triple Unhinged
During the half-mile carriage ride back to Manifold, Prunce had succeeded in falling into a surprisingly deep slumber, from which Dilligence and Constance found it difficult to rouse her. The beleaguered nanny found even short walks immensely tiring, and the afternoon's rambling jaunt down to Slag-Grope Lake had tested her tenacity to near breaking point. Impeded by not only dual leg callipers, a faltering balance and occasional debilitating spinal spasms, she also had to focus on her earbreathing. After almost seventeen years, she felt it may never come as second nature to her. The ensuing discomfort; a symptom seldom absent but now greatly augmented, left her longing bitterly to be back in the classroom; instructing, reprimanding and domineering over those undeservedly privileged offspring, some of which she had begrudgingly grown quite fond.
Laboriously, Prunce stepped down from the carriage, her sleep sensitive eyes pinking and winking in the weak autumn sunlight, turned, and lowered the steps for her lambastic employers.
On their arrival at Doctor Paunchbulb’s premises, the ladies found the front door swinging wide on its hinges and a merry dance of autumnal leafy debris swirling in the entrance hall. Brave as all three considered themselves to be, none were keen on being the first to step into his eerily quiet surgery. Something inside was emitting a low, pitiful mewling, interspersed with urgent humming. Something was wrong. It was Dilligence who plucked up the courage to rap firmly at the inner door. When no reply was forthcoming, pushing the door further ajar, she stepped gingerly into Paunchbulb's rooms, her darting eyes bulging as she tried to take in all that her senses were being simultaneously assaulted with.
There on the polished wood floor, gibbering in a pool of discoloured saliva, lay Paunchbulb, curled into a grotesque parody of the foetal position, gently fondling himself. The poor man had clearly become at least double, if not triple unhinged, acquiescing to his most base desires, the applied light friction causing quite a stir, from which the ladies could hardly advert their eyes. At first, they suspected extreme inebriation, but there was something almost feral in his drawn, goggling mask of a face that instantly convinced them that it was not simply a lack of sobriety.
The air was positively ringing with… a most offensive fume, something that they could not quite put their finger on, yet one with which none were entirely unfamiliar. Old fish, dusty books, spent ginger nut and protracted convalescence were all vying for their attention.
'Is it, perhaps, buttered sarsaparilla?' offered Prunce innocently, covering her nose with a delicate sleeve, eyes smarting.
'No, no, I would liken it to the fumes from a cake of ripening cheese!' stated Dilligence with a ring of certainty.
'Well, it reminds me of last summer, when we discovered a clutch of diseased relatives living quite illegally in the summerhouse!’ chatted Constance. ‘They had to be forcibly removed by Constable Coldmeece, and even then we had to get Enoch Blebs of Blebs, Blebs and Bitelbrouwed Solicitors to have them legally renounced, to stop them getting back in! We had to deploy the stench-muffler round the clock for over a week!' No stranger to the fetors of the tainted library, Constance amicably associated this questionable aroma with the numerous emanations from her Aunt Monika and of course Norbury.
For Prunce, waves of repulsion and confusion jostled for position with sickened compassion, driving her to kneel down on the floor beside her Godfather, who was singularly unable to refrain from jiggling. She made a vain attempt to haul the inert Doctor out from beneath his double fronted desk, but succeeded only in dragging him into an errant puddle of tacky blue residue. There was little she could do but sit cradling his feverish head and administer frequent tepid sponging.
Dilligence, ever the amateur detective, occupied herself in rifling through the surgery’s numerous capacious cupboards, peering into disused pigeon holes and sorting through the Doctor’s personal effects and general ephemera.
Constance, judging herself quite dispensable, tottered outside, calling back that she would 'Summon Coldmeece'. She was still sitting on the retractable carriage steps 'catching her breath' over forty five minutes later, when the Constable finally arrived with a purposeful and self-important stride, still mopping the last frothy scrims of Wazzock's Piddle from his impressive moustache.
Coldmeece summoned the Whipple Van Buren Institute which, in turn, detailed its lunacy commissioners; Doctor Prout and Mr. Children, who beyond a shadow of a doubt, saw fit to return Paunchbulb forthwith to their infamous sanatorium.
A sizable crowd of professionals gathered, assessed what needed to be assessed, and made their various exits. First to depart was Constable Coldmeece, then Doctor Prout and finally Mr Children, taking with them the unfortunate Doctor Paunchbulb and his doting Goddaughter Prunce. The furore gradually subsided. Then, and only then, did Constance feel safe enough to step hesitantly back inside. She had only yesterday been reading in the papers about a dreaded new disease known as 'Brampton Eye', which could manifest itself in untold ways. It had proved itself to be a mortal and loathsome malady and one never could be too cautious; he had certainly looked like he carried a contagion.
Dilligence had volunteered both herself and Constance to stay behind at the surgery, to restore order to the rooms and ensure all was ship shape for morning surgery. This may well have been Dilligence's genuine original intention, but now, with her intrigue intensified, her primary objective was to probe a little deeper into Paunchbulb's back office. For her part, Constance was more than happy to nose through the patients’ privy notes, but aside from her own idle interest she could see little that could be gleaned from their medical dossiers.
'What are we looking for, exactly? Constance queried, flicking idly through some loose papers on Paunchbulb’s desk, in a pragmatic if flimsy attempt to appear benignly practical.
'I don't know exactly, but I'm certain that Paunchbulb knows something he's not letting on.... Perhaps it was the cumulative effect of myriad sub toxic doses.....' Mused Dilligence, giving each closet and drawer that came within reach a brief exploratory rummage.
Constance, who usually found herself of scant help in matters of 'the sciences', occupied herself by attempting to pronounce the elaborately handwritten labels detailing the unpronounceable contents of rack upon rack of sealed glass flasks.
'.....Individually wrapped Sanity Pads.....Eclectic Syllabub.....Tuppet Spice.....Embalming Fluid.....Buttered Sarsaparilla; oh! Prunce was right! Altered Blood.....Mermaid Foetus in Brine…..Figment of Enigma.....Avian Extracts- Starling Cloacal Secretions.....Lotion of Mucopus.....Holy foreskin…..Oil of Turpentine.....And a tiny, tiny hand in amber liquid, which he's neglected to label! I can't say I blame him. I mean! Really, who has the time?!'
She paused, aware that Dilligence had abruptly ceased her search. There, in a drawer, amongst grubby, long liberated cotton-balls, singed splints, a few saucy penny dreadfuls and other more dubious miscellanies, was an old and worn leather journal, held shut with a tightly wound grease-darkened leather thong.
Alas, Paunchbulb's journals revealed at even the briefest of browses, clear evidence of a seriously deluded and warped mind come far, far adrift. Thumbing haphazardly through the numerous skeins of parchment, it fell swiftly to Dilligence's mind that his derangements had been building to an alarmingly formidable head for over a decade. Over the years, his erratic handwriting changed dramatically in style from one disparate entry to the next; some days it soared with a distinct artistic flourish, others, all was in block capitals, firmly grounded, restrained even; some entries were forged in a strong black ink, many in pencil, a few in an unusual indigo blue. There was even one, which in Dilligence's educated opinion, appeared to be in blood. Skimming the entries at random, she read a few out loud.
Laboriously, Prunce stepped down from the carriage, her sleep sensitive eyes pinking and winking in the weak autumn sunlight, turned, and lowered the steps for her lambastic employers.
On their arrival at Doctor Paunchbulb’s premises, the ladies found the front door swinging wide on its hinges and a merry dance of autumnal leafy debris swirling in the entrance hall. Brave as all three considered themselves to be, none were keen on being the first to step into his eerily quiet surgery. Something inside was emitting a low, pitiful mewling, interspersed with urgent humming. Something was wrong. It was Dilligence who plucked up the courage to rap firmly at the inner door. When no reply was forthcoming, pushing the door further ajar, she stepped gingerly into Paunchbulb's rooms, her darting eyes bulging as she tried to take in all that her senses were being simultaneously assaulted with.
There on the polished wood floor, gibbering in a pool of discoloured saliva, lay Paunchbulb, curled into a grotesque parody of the foetal position, gently fondling himself. The poor man had clearly become at least double, if not triple unhinged, acquiescing to his most base desires, the applied light friction causing quite a stir, from which the ladies could hardly advert their eyes. At first, they suspected extreme inebriation, but there was something almost feral in his drawn, goggling mask of a face that instantly convinced them that it was not simply a lack of sobriety.
The air was positively ringing with… a most offensive fume, something that they could not quite put their finger on, yet one with which none were entirely unfamiliar. Old fish, dusty books, spent ginger nut and protracted convalescence were all vying for their attention.
'Is it, perhaps, buttered sarsaparilla?' offered Prunce innocently, covering her nose with a delicate sleeve, eyes smarting.
'No, no, I would liken it to the fumes from a cake of ripening cheese!' stated Dilligence with a ring of certainty.
'Well, it reminds me of last summer, when we discovered a clutch of diseased relatives living quite illegally in the summerhouse!’ chatted Constance. ‘They had to be forcibly removed by Constable Coldmeece, and even then we had to get Enoch Blebs of Blebs, Blebs and Bitelbrouwed Solicitors to have them legally renounced, to stop them getting back in! We had to deploy the stench-muffler round the clock for over a week!' No stranger to the fetors of the tainted library, Constance amicably associated this questionable aroma with the numerous emanations from her Aunt Monika and of course Norbury.
For Prunce, waves of repulsion and confusion jostled for position with sickened compassion, driving her to kneel down on the floor beside her Godfather, who was singularly unable to refrain from jiggling. She made a vain attempt to haul the inert Doctor out from beneath his double fronted desk, but succeeded only in dragging him into an errant puddle of tacky blue residue. There was little she could do but sit cradling his feverish head and administer frequent tepid sponging.
Dilligence, ever the amateur detective, occupied herself in rifling through the surgery’s numerous capacious cupboards, peering into disused pigeon holes and sorting through the Doctor’s personal effects and general ephemera.
Constance, judging herself quite dispensable, tottered outside, calling back that she would 'Summon Coldmeece'. She was still sitting on the retractable carriage steps 'catching her breath' over forty five minutes later, when the Constable finally arrived with a purposeful and self-important stride, still mopping the last frothy scrims of Wazzock's Piddle from his impressive moustache.
Coldmeece summoned the Whipple Van Buren Institute which, in turn, detailed its lunacy commissioners; Doctor Prout and Mr. Children, who beyond a shadow of a doubt, saw fit to return Paunchbulb forthwith to their infamous sanatorium.
A sizable crowd of professionals gathered, assessed what needed to be assessed, and made their various exits. First to depart was Constable Coldmeece, then Doctor Prout and finally Mr Children, taking with them the unfortunate Doctor Paunchbulb and his doting Goddaughter Prunce. The furore gradually subsided. Then, and only then, did Constance feel safe enough to step hesitantly back inside. She had only yesterday been reading in the papers about a dreaded new disease known as 'Brampton Eye', which could manifest itself in untold ways. It had proved itself to be a mortal and loathsome malady and one never could be too cautious; he had certainly looked like he carried a contagion.
Dilligence had volunteered both herself and Constance to stay behind at the surgery, to restore order to the rooms and ensure all was ship shape for morning surgery. This may well have been Dilligence's genuine original intention, but now, with her intrigue intensified, her primary objective was to probe a little deeper into Paunchbulb's back office. For her part, Constance was more than happy to nose through the patients’ privy notes, but aside from her own idle interest she could see little that could be gleaned from their medical dossiers.
'What are we looking for, exactly? Constance queried, flicking idly through some loose papers on Paunchbulb’s desk, in a pragmatic if flimsy attempt to appear benignly practical.
'I don't know exactly, but I'm certain that Paunchbulb knows something he's not letting on.... Perhaps it was the cumulative effect of myriad sub toxic doses.....' Mused Dilligence, giving each closet and drawer that came within reach a brief exploratory rummage.
Constance, who usually found herself of scant help in matters of 'the sciences', occupied herself by attempting to pronounce the elaborately handwritten labels detailing the unpronounceable contents of rack upon rack of sealed glass flasks.
'.....Individually wrapped Sanity Pads.....Eclectic Syllabub.....Tuppet Spice.....Embalming Fluid.....Buttered Sarsaparilla; oh! Prunce was right! Altered Blood.....Mermaid Foetus in Brine…..Figment of Enigma.....Avian Extracts- Starling Cloacal Secretions.....Lotion of Mucopus.....Holy foreskin…..Oil of Turpentine.....And a tiny, tiny hand in amber liquid, which he's neglected to label! I can't say I blame him. I mean! Really, who has the time?!'
She paused, aware that Dilligence had abruptly ceased her search. There, in a drawer, amongst grubby, long liberated cotton-balls, singed splints, a few saucy penny dreadfuls and other more dubious miscellanies, was an old and worn leather journal, held shut with a tightly wound grease-darkened leather thong.
Alas, Paunchbulb's journals revealed at even the briefest of browses, clear evidence of a seriously deluded and warped mind come far, far adrift. Thumbing haphazardly through the numerous skeins of parchment, it fell swiftly to Dilligence's mind that his derangements had been building to an alarmingly formidable head for over a decade. Over the years, his erratic handwriting changed dramatically in style from one disparate entry to the next; some days it soared with a distinct artistic flourish, others, all was in block capitals, firmly grounded, restrained even; some entries were forged in a strong black ink, many in pencil, a few in an unusual indigo blue. There was even one, which in Dilligence's educated opinion, appeared to be in blood. Skimming the entries at random, she read a few out loud.
PART VI A Most Auspicious Reunion
A forthright and resourceful lady, Dilligence Thropquilliam had excelled herself from the first. At the precocious age of seven, she single-handedly revolutionised the printing world with her widely renowned invention, the unparalleled Thropquilliam™ Printing Press. At the healthy age of eighteen, she married Toby Dalliance, an honest and stable man whose integrity lay in his heart, if not in his name.
After many years of passionate, if fruitless, unrelenting coitus, Dilligence Dalliance took herself to Doctor Paunchbulb to see what he could recommend for her barren dilemma. No one would ever truly know the exact recipe of 'Paunchbulb's Elixir' but within a year Dilligence had given birth to an overwhelming glut of no less than five strapping sons. In truth, they were four boys and a girl, but this small detail was overlooked for the first three years of her little life, mainly due to there simply being no time to notice. A single girl too, would have created numerous distractions, not to mention untold economic inconveniences. Many an initially inquisitive nanny soon followed the unspoken rule that 'Silence is as silence does', and let it go.
Dilligence, though happily married, had no intention of allowing her reputable maiden name to be lost forever. She chose, instead, to breath new life into it, thus ensuring her beloved 'Thropquilliam' did not become obsolete, in what she saw as a typical example of the unfair usurpment of the so called 'weaker' sex. Dilligence's ever-logical mind hit upon the unique twofold solution of christening all five of her quintuplets 'Thropquilliam', which would also, in theory, avoid endless unnecessary confusion. In her innovative heyday she had been quick to trademark her much-plagiarised surname, and so the diminutive ™, took on the role of her progenies' middle names. Initially, she addressed each with a slightly different intonation; an accentuated emphasis on the 'q' for one, an exuberantly rolled 'r' for another, she even spoke one's name an octave higher. This system worked surprisingly well at first.
As time went by, however, they each developed their own personalities, and hence earned themselves idiosyncratic titles, which themselves came to be used as surnames. Thus, it was a common enough occurrence to find Dilligence Dalliance enthusiastically leading a lengthy but orderly crocodile of Thropquilliam™ Stropp, Thropquilliamm™ Solace, Thropquilliam™ Havoc, Thrrrropquilliam™ Brrrowse, and Thropquilliam™ Ffluxbucket with a faltering Nanny Nipples bringing up the rear, along the lanes leading to Slag-Grope Lake. With paper sacks of stale bread in hand, they were all equally eager to catch a glimpse of the innumerable thronging waterfowl, especially the year's maturing cygnets, goslings and ducklings.
It was on one such expedition that Dilligence Dalliance was to have a most auspicious reunion with an old school acquaintance, a certain Constance Bintwrangler.
Constance had instantly recognised her former dormitory partner from afar; her distinctive black hair, which began inordinately low on her brow, unnerving quick eyes, and diminutive height. Dilligence, in turn, was taken aback by how little her former classmate had changed; still the same haughty air to her posture, the same conceited demeanour, infused with vanity and spite. On drawing closer, an uneasy moment passed between them whilst each lady struggled with the sudden unexpected resurfacing of their respective memories, successfully repressed since their time spent together at the Vas Deferens Preparatory School For Girls. So much time had elapsed in the intervening decades since they last spoke, that at first there seemed nothing to say to each other, but gradually, despite their disparate personalities, their friendship was tentatively renewed. Within an hour of warming chat, neither lady could quite put their finger on the exact reason for the demise of their once firm friendship and their ensuing divergent lives. In truth, Dilligence's vigorous ambition had left little room for close companionship, and Constance's self-conscious primping and preening had always rankled the other girls. In Constance's defense, by fourteen, Dilligence had been a seething mess of pent up emotions, having traded her childhood innocence for success so readily, at a time when she was far too young to understand the full extent of her sacrifice.
Besides, they discovered that in Nanny Nipples they even shared a common governess for their appointed charges. As this revelation sunk in, they both paused in their chatter to eye said Nanny, who was busy fussing over the children's rain-mantles and coordinating bonnets.
‘That look of hers certainly is... an acquired taste, shall we say…?’ Began Constance, hesitatingly.
‘She’s quite the enigma, yes! She is very good with the children, though. Fair but firm. Very firm.’ Spurred on by Constance’s ruminations, she continued ‘I suppose, with a forcible stretching of the imagination, Prunce could perhaps be considered 'attractive'. To someone' was the most generous offer Dilligence could summon.
'Oh, kiss my clacking cloaca, Dilligence! 'Unusual,' perhaps, but certainly never 'attractive'!' scoffed Constance, a little less tactfully.
'Careful, she might hear you! Cautioned Dilligence at a whisper, her hand concealing an amused yet rueful smile at her friend's unconscious use of their old school vernacular.
With the breadcrumbs finally exhausted, Prunce was attempting to corral the children back in the general direction of the secretively gossiping mothers. Fortunately for all concerned, their indiscrete and inflammatory comments went unnoticed. With the benefit of hindsight, their words would seem perhaps a little cruel.
Straggling behind her brothers, Thropquilliam™ Ffluxbucket was searching the wet grass in vain for her dropped hat; an accompanying copious flow of unnecessary tears vexing her governess tremendously. As Prunce finally drew close, clutching little Ffluxbucket in her arms, she was distracted with handkerchiefs, great blustering nose blowings and conciliatory cooings. It was quite a departure from her usual austere demeanor, and a rare glimpse of the devoted and sympathetic individual within.
'Oh, good afternoon, Miss Bintwrangler, I had no idea you were in your full health again! It certainly is wonderful to see you looking so ruddy cheeked!' enthused Prunce.
'And a good afternoon to you, Nanny Nipples. Thank you for your concern, but I am well on the road, as they say, to recovery. I had no idea Mrs. Dalliance had bred quite so prolifically, or indeed, that you were also in Mrs. Dalliance's pay.' Constance remarked tersely, eyebrows raised, greatly needled by Prunce’s impertinence.
'Why, yes indeed. And aren't they're little darlings!' Prunce's transparent enthusiasm for the Thropquilliam five only served to exacerbate Constance's distaste for what in her opinion was little more than a trumped-up lackey. She had never shown so much as an ounce of alacrity and tenderness towards the young Monkeyspanners.
Walking on, now accompanied by Constance, the party started back the way they had come, once again following the track away from Slag-Grope Lake towards the village. A vibrant banner had been strung high above the path, festooned with highly coloured streamers of bunting. It advertised a forthcoming performance of 'Teasing Friesians- A Bovine Fable' at the Jacob’s Ladder Finger-Puppet Theatre-in-the-round, in nearby Farcy, named for its vertiginous spiralling stairways leading to innumerable balconies, an upper circle and dizzying gods.
Overhead, dozens upon dozens of starlings were jostling for position along the supporting wires, their dusk-blackened bodies clustered together like greedy ticks feeding on an exposed nipple of flesh. Back from their summer jaunt to the continent in reinforced numbers, they were crowded onto every branch, wing-to-wing, as wave after wave flustered down, squabbling amongst the bushes and trees surrounding the walkers. The combined flapping of feathers and bunting brought back stark, disagreeable images for Constance.
‘They appear to have lost their midseason momentum.’ Stated Thrrrropquilliam TM Brrrowse, a puzzled, far-away expression on his innocent face.
‘Come along now my little Thropquilliams™!’ Trilled Prunce, concerned. ‘This is no time to dawdle! Alas, we must be heading for home!’
‘Besides, children, young Prunce here has an appointment to keep. And no one likes to keep the good doctor waiting!’ added Dilligence, glancing back at Prunce and quickening her step to a determined and purposeful pace. Dutifully, the five younger Thropquilliams ™ fell into line behind their mother with well-rehearsed regimental ease, leaving Constance and the nanny trailing behind.
'I take it she means Doctor Paunchbulb? Why, are you ill?' Constance queried, attempting to keep a smile off her lips, if not the delight out of her voice. Swiftly running the full gamut of her limited range of facial expressions, Prunce chose to ignore the gratification she detected in Miss Bintwrangler's tone.
'Oh, no, no, Aubrey Paunchbulb is my Godfather' explained Prunce, immediately becoming of a great deal more interest to Constance. 'He is a good man, but I fear his integrity has strayed. Of late he has become most distant. Yesterday, I telegraphed that I might join him for afternoon tea. I must confess, though, that as the time comes sooner and sooner upon me, I have become quite nervous of him. I can only say, I shall be glad when this day is behind me.' Was that tears Constance could see welling in the corner of Prunce's partially averted eyes? Sensing that this could become a productive friendship, she chose a diplomatic approach.
'Here's a thought. Why don't we all go? We can take my carriage!' offered Constance in a rare moment of genuine benevolence. By this time their little tête-à-tête had aroused the attentions of an intrigued Dilligence, and at length they agreed on a plan of action.
After many years of passionate, if fruitless, unrelenting coitus, Dilligence Dalliance took herself to Doctor Paunchbulb to see what he could recommend for her barren dilemma. No one would ever truly know the exact recipe of 'Paunchbulb's Elixir' but within a year Dilligence had given birth to an overwhelming glut of no less than five strapping sons. In truth, they were four boys and a girl, but this small detail was overlooked for the first three years of her little life, mainly due to there simply being no time to notice. A single girl too, would have created numerous distractions, not to mention untold economic inconveniences. Many an initially inquisitive nanny soon followed the unspoken rule that 'Silence is as silence does', and let it go.
Dilligence, though happily married, had no intention of allowing her reputable maiden name to be lost forever. She chose, instead, to breath new life into it, thus ensuring her beloved 'Thropquilliam' did not become obsolete, in what she saw as a typical example of the unfair usurpment of the so called 'weaker' sex. Dilligence's ever-logical mind hit upon the unique twofold solution of christening all five of her quintuplets 'Thropquilliam', which would also, in theory, avoid endless unnecessary confusion. In her innovative heyday she had been quick to trademark her much-plagiarised surname, and so the diminutive ™, took on the role of her progenies' middle names. Initially, she addressed each with a slightly different intonation; an accentuated emphasis on the 'q' for one, an exuberantly rolled 'r' for another, she even spoke one's name an octave higher. This system worked surprisingly well at first.
As time went by, however, they each developed their own personalities, and hence earned themselves idiosyncratic titles, which themselves came to be used as surnames. Thus, it was a common enough occurrence to find Dilligence Dalliance enthusiastically leading a lengthy but orderly crocodile of Thropquilliam™ Stropp, Thropquilliamm™ Solace, Thropquilliam™ Havoc, Thrrrropquilliam™ Brrrowse, and Thropquilliam™ Ffluxbucket with a faltering Nanny Nipples bringing up the rear, along the lanes leading to Slag-Grope Lake. With paper sacks of stale bread in hand, they were all equally eager to catch a glimpse of the innumerable thronging waterfowl, especially the year's maturing cygnets, goslings and ducklings.
It was on one such expedition that Dilligence Dalliance was to have a most auspicious reunion with an old school acquaintance, a certain Constance Bintwrangler.
Constance had instantly recognised her former dormitory partner from afar; her distinctive black hair, which began inordinately low on her brow, unnerving quick eyes, and diminutive height. Dilligence, in turn, was taken aback by how little her former classmate had changed; still the same haughty air to her posture, the same conceited demeanour, infused with vanity and spite. On drawing closer, an uneasy moment passed between them whilst each lady struggled with the sudden unexpected resurfacing of their respective memories, successfully repressed since their time spent together at the Vas Deferens Preparatory School For Girls. So much time had elapsed in the intervening decades since they last spoke, that at first there seemed nothing to say to each other, but gradually, despite their disparate personalities, their friendship was tentatively renewed. Within an hour of warming chat, neither lady could quite put their finger on the exact reason for the demise of their once firm friendship and their ensuing divergent lives. In truth, Dilligence's vigorous ambition had left little room for close companionship, and Constance's self-conscious primping and preening had always rankled the other girls. In Constance's defense, by fourteen, Dilligence had been a seething mess of pent up emotions, having traded her childhood innocence for success so readily, at a time when she was far too young to understand the full extent of her sacrifice.
Besides, they discovered that in Nanny Nipples they even shared a common governess for their appointed charges. As this revelation sunk in, they both paused in their chatter to eye said Nanny, who was busy fussing over the children's rain-mantles and coordinating bonnets.
‘That look of hers certainly is... an acquired taste, shall we say…?’ Began Constance, hesitatingly.
‘She’s quite the enigma, yes! She is very good with the children, though. Fair but firm. Very firm.’ Spurred on by Constance’s ruminations, she continued ‘I suppose, with a forcible stretching of the imagination, Prunce could perhaps be considered 'attractive'. To someone' was the most generous offer Dilligence could summon.
'Oh, kiss my clacking cloaca, Dilligence! 'Unusual,' perhaps, but certainly never 'attractive'!' scoffed Constance, a little less tactfully.
'Careful, she might hear you! Cautioned Dilligence at a whisper, her hand concealing an amused yet rueful smile at her friend's unconscious use of their old school vernacular.
With the breadcrumbs finally exhausted, Prunce was attempting to corral the children back in the general direction of the secretively gossiping mothers. Fortunately for all concerned, their indiscrete and inflammatory comments went unnoticed. With the benefit of hindsight, their words would seem perhaps a little cruel.
Straggling behind her brothers, Thropquilliam™ Ffluxbucket was searching the wet grass in vain for her dropped hat; an accompanying copious flow of unnecessary tears vexing her governess tremendously. As Prunce finally drew close, clutching little Ffluxbucket in her arms, she was distracted with handkerchiefs, great blustering nose blowings and conciliatory cooings. It was quite a departure from her usual austere demeanor, and a rare glimpse of the devoted and sympathetic individual within.
'Oh, good afternoon, Miss Bintwrangler, I had no idea you were in your full health again! It certainly is wonderful to see you looking so ruddy cheeked!' enthused Prunce.
'And a good afternoon to you, Nanny Nipples. Thank you for your concern, but I am well on the road, as they say, to recovery. I had no idea Mrs. Dalliance had bred quite so prolifically, or indeed, that you were also in Mrs. Dalliance's pay.' Constance remarked tersely, eyebrows raised, greatly needled by Prunce’s impertinence.
'Why, yes indeed. And aren't they're little darlings!' Prunce's transparent enthusiasm for the Thropquilliam five only served to exacerbate Constance's distaste for what in her opinion was little more than a trumped-up lackey. She had never shown so much as an ounce of alacrity and tenderness towards the young Monkeyspanners.
Walking on, now accompanied by Constance, the party started back the way they had come, once again following the track away from Slag-Grope Lake towards the village. A vibrant banner had been strung high above the path, festooned with highly coloured streamers of bunting. It advertised a forthcoming performance of 'Teasing Friesians- A Bovine Fable' at the Jacob’s Ladder Finger-Puppet Theatre-in-the-round, in nearby Farcy, named for its vertiginous spiralling stairways leading to innumerable balconies, an upper circle and dizzying gods.
Overhead, dozens upon dozens of starlings were jostling for position along the supporting wires, their dusk-blackened bodies clustered together like greedy ticks feeding on an exposed nipple of flesh. Back from their summer jaunt to the continent in reinforced numbers, they were crowded onto every branch, wing-to-wing, as wave after wave flustered down, squabbling amongst the bushes and trees surrounding the walkers. The combined flapping of feathers and bunting brought back stark, disagreeable images for Constance.
‘They appear to have lost their midseason momentum.’ Stated Thrrrropquilliam TM Brrrowse, a puzzled, far-away expression on his innocent face.
‘Come along now my little Thropquilliams™!’ Trilled Prunce, concerned. ‘This is no time to dawdle! Alas, we must be heading for home!’
‘Besides, children, young Prunce here has an appointment to keep. And no one likes to keep the good doctor waiting!’ added Dilligence, glancing back at Prunce and quickening her step to a determined and purposeful pace. Dutifully, the five younger Thropquilliams ™ fell into line behind their mother with well-rehearsed regimental ease, leaving Constance and the nanny trailing behind.
'I take it she means Doctor Paunchbulb? Why, are you ill?' Constance queried, attempting to keep a smile off her lips, if not the delight out of her voice. Swiftly running the full gamut of her limited range of facial expressions, Prunce chose to ignore the gratification she detected in Miss Bintwrangler's tone.
'Oh, no, no, Aubrey Paunchbulb is my Godfather' explained Prunce, immediately becoming of a great deal more interest to Constance. 'He is a good man, but I fear his integrity has strayed. Of late he has become most distant. Yesterday, I telegraphed that I might join him for afternoon tea. I must confess, though, that as the time comes sooner and sooner upon me, I have become quite nervous of him. I can only say, I shall be glad when this day is behind me.' Was that tears Constance could see welling in the corner of Prunce's partially averted eyes? Sensing that this could become a productive friendship, she chose a diplomatic approach.
'Here's a thought. Why don't we all go? We can take my carriage!' offered Constance in a rare moment of genuine benevolence. By this time their little tête-à-tête had aroused the attentions of an intrigued Dilligence, and at length they agreed on a plan of action.
PART V Living The Bream Dream
As book launches go, the spectacle put on by Horatio Flange and his entourage of parasitic attendants wasn't at all bad. Turning up the charm a notch or two was second nature to the bombastic Flange, so with his usual charged magnetism and a little extra flattery thrown casually in the direction of Dame Rotunda Asquith, he had managed to procure The Apuskidu Squid and Fish Museum's support and full patronage. Both the museum and his Smug Kitchen Gallery were devoting a whole day to 'Living The Bream Dream', to allow them to fully accommodate 'The Nautilus'’ numerous talents. And it had paid off; the doors to the 'Fish Mists' wing of the gallery were thrown open at 3pm sharp, to a sizeable crowd. Throughout the afternoon there was a constant stream of curious visitors, most of course were Manifoldians, but there were also many from as far afield as Farcy, Stilton Milk Hill, Lower Snatch Snot and even Snatch Snot Superior.
One latecomer, who slipped in almost unnoticed, was our very own Constance Bintwrangler.
The unflinchingly opulent daubings of 'Krill Crayolas’ had been relatively diverting, if a little juvenile, and the 'Fecundity Of The Seas' exhibit could be described as genuinely compelling, but after the sycophantic and frankly tedious introduction had waffled on for over twenty three minutes, Constance had had almost all that she could take of this so-called 'Nautilus'. Grimacing inwardly, Constance shifted her weight infinitesimally from one buttock to the other, in a vain attempt to allay the onset of the 'pins and needles' of paraesthesia. The level of comfort provided by the gallery’s austere and unyielding wooden chairs, really was unacceptable. Despite this hardship, within minutes, she could feel her eyes glazing slightly, lids drooping, as her subconscious mind began to wander. Outwardly, she appeared rapt with attention, inwardly; she was already enjoying an after-show social chinwag, and anticipating her first drink of the afternoon. A twinge of panic flashed momentarily across her face at the realisation that there wasn't a bar here in the Smug Kitchen. The pit of her stomach somersaulted lazily; her mouth suddenly felt bone dry. She wanted out.
Her skirts gathered about her, she half stood, half crouched and as inconspicuously as possible, Constance crab-walked along the packed rows. Thus, hat jauntily positioned in an attempt to eclipse her embarrassment, she sidled from the back of the room under the blessed camouflage of a standing ovation for the guest speaker: 'The Nautilus'.
Through the open door, a ripple of indulgent laughter emanating from the Box Of Frogs, just a few establishments down, carried temptingly up the street on a fragrant breeze. Constance was off, guided instinctively towards a more lively crowd, to sample the curious delights of the wrap party.
Situated, as it was, amongst some of the filthiest hovels and alleyways of lower Manifold, the whimsically appointed 'Entertainment Quarter' was often acrimoniously pungent. As Constance made her careful way past the now derelict 'Velvet Pouch', she caught a lungful of the particularly virulent putrid tang emanating from what appeared to be a long rotting sheep's maw which lay forgotten in a narrow access passageway. Nauseated and gagging, she staggered onwards. For some reason, a lost cozy afternoon, snuggled up with Norbury came floating back into her mind from nowhere. To catch her breath, Constance rested heavily against the grime encrusted leaded windowpanes of 'The Horn Of Plenty' antique shop. Within, lay a crowded foyer chock-a-block with archaic knick-knacks and obsolete bric-a-brac. A cornucopic accumulation of curios, dusty collectables, and myriad miscellany, all cast their long shadows from a bygone era. Constance shuddered involuntarily. The sooner she was out of this moribund district, the better.
A last hasty dash past The Haughty Crab and finally Constance was able to step into the welcoming pool of light spilling from the coffee shop door. To Constance's relief, Mrs 'Box of Frogs' Feltch herself was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was in the cellars attending to some unknown furtive business. The dubious and eclectic denizens of the Box Of Frogs had this day been thoroughly supplemented with an ostentatious crowd of gesticulating thespians, verbose playwrights, raucous musicians and outspoken iconoclasts.
Just inside the door, she was greeted by the ghastly Virgil Smelter, his hair sleek with odorous oil, whom she privately found simultaneously as abrasive as a hobo's elbow, yet as slippery as diseased saliva. Smelter, as 'The Nautilus’' publisher, took it upon himself to chaperone her around the Nautilus’ artistic entourage. For this at least, she was grateful. As a true lady, she would have died of thirst before procuring herself a drink.
'Here, try this Citrus Pow Wow Punch. Don't look so worried, it's liberally laced with black rum and laudanum!' offered Smelter.
'Why, thank-you, I was as parched as a wombat's gonads!' she gushed coarsely, quite forgetting herself.
For his part, Smelter actually managed to make her feel most welcome, whirling her at a breathless pace from one avant-garde guest to the next as Constance sampled her drink, savouring its retarded lime punch.
'Let me introduce you to just a few of my closest acquaintances from the art world- the Smug Kitchen's 'chefs' if you will...' Smelter simpered, barely concealing the slug of a self-satisfied smirk, which crept conceitedly onto his moist full lips.
First the self-styled PP Mayhem, all trussed up in delicate ruffles, ruby and malachite dyed silks and superfluous scarves, looking every bit the over-embellished Christmas gift. The ambiguously named 'PP' took her dry, cool hand, and clasped it in both of his podgy, clammier ones, holding it tightly for just a second or two too long, leaving her with an urge to purge her hand on her dress, though etiquette of course prevented her from doing so.
Whisked swiftly on, to the elusive Count Debacle: a gaunt, owlish man, overly nasal, with cadaverous, bony eye sockets, who seemed unable or unwilling to look her fully in the face. His bunchy knuckles dug deliberately into her tender flesh as he squeezed her hand, pressing it to his cold, wine-blackened lips.
'Madame, it is a pleasure' he purred, oozing with counterfeit charm.
'Meet... the Svelte-Douglas’s... two of my most cherished benefactors!' nothing more than a bow from one, and a bobbed curtsey and politely raised eyebrow from the other.
Too many introductions, not enough drinking, in Constance's opinion, but nevertheless she soldiered on.
Madam Anna Palindrome, a statuesque and avid diva, flashed a truly striking smile as she warmly took Constance's hand. She held sway over a fawning circle of admirers, arresting their attention with her burlesque witticisms and pseudo-philosophical rhetorical banter.
'Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?' she posed enigmatically.
'You know what they say...'Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard!' she pronounced, with a knowing and questioning smile, to an approving smatter of applause and appreciative murmurings. Her mastery over the room was a testimony to reverential admiration over sincere comprehension.
After a respectful pause, Smelter gently moved Constance on.
'Ah, wonderful, he's just arrived now... of course, the star of tonight's little exposition... The Nautilus!!!' Cried Smelter, clapping with unnecessary enthusiasm, beaming amorously in the direction of the newcomer. Through the doors of 'The Box Of Frogs' stepped none other than the ostracised Colonel Norbury Liquorice Thrust-Munch.
'Well bless my bonsai'd bollocks! Constance!' ejaculated Norbury 'The Nautilus' Thrust-Munch. Pathological blushing ensued, mostly on Constance's behalf, only in part due to her recent imbibing of more than a few of Smelter's Citrus Pow Wows.
Here, we shall take leave of the serendipitous pair, and allow them a little privacy as they reestablish their acquaintance, and to perhaps, cautiously arrange a clandestine rendezvous in more conducive surroundings.
One latecomer, who slipped in almost unnoticed, was our very own Constance Bintwrangler.
The unflinchingly opulent daubings of 'Krill Crayolas’ had been relatively diverting, if a little juvenile, and the 'Fecundity Of The Seas' exhibit could be described as genuinely compelling, but after the sycophantic and frankly tedious introduction had waffled on for over twenty three minutes, Constance had had almost all that she could take of this so-called 'Nautilus'. Grimacing inwardly, Constance shifted her weight infinitesimally from one buttock to the other, in a vain attempt to allay the onset of the 'pins and needles' of paraesthesia. The level of comfort provided by the gallery’s austere and unyielding wooden chairs, really was unacceptable. Despite this hardship, within minutes, she could feel her eyes glazing slightly, lids drooping, as her subconscious mind began to wander. Outwardly, she appeared rapt with attention, inwardly; she was already enjoying an after-show social chinwag, and anticipating her first drink of the afternoon. A twinge of panic flashed momentarily across her face at the realisation that there wasn't a bar here in the Smug Kitchen. The pit of her stomach somersaulted lazily; her mouth suddenly felt bone dry. She wanted out.
Her skirts gathered about her, she half stood, half crouched and as inconspicuously as possible, Constance crab-walked along the packed rows. Thus, hat jauntily positioned in an attempt to eclipse her embarrassment, she sidled from the back of the room under the blessed camouflage of a standing ovation for the guest speaker: 'The Nautilus'.
Through the open door, a ripple of indulgent laughter emanating from the Box Of Frogs, just a few establishments down, carried temptingly up the street on a fragrant breeze. Constance was off, guided instinctively towards a more lively crowd, to sample the curious delights of the wrap party.
Situated, as it was, amongst some of the filthiest hovels and alleyways of lower Manifold, the whimsically appointed 'Entertainment Quarter' was often acrimoniously pungent. As Constance made her careful way past the now derelict 'Velvet Pouch', she caught a lungful of the particularly virulent putrid tang emanating from what appeared to be a long rotting sheep's maw which lay forgotten in a narrow access passageway. Nauseated and gagging, she staggered onwards. For some reason, a lost cozy afternoon, snuggled up with Norbury came floating back into her mind from nowhere. To catch her breath, Constance rested heavily against the grime encrusted leaded windowpanes of 'The Horn Of Plenty' antique shop. Within, lay a crowded foyer chock-a-block with archaic knick-knacks and obsolete bric-a-brac. A cornucopic accumulation of curios, dusty collectables, and myriad miscellany, all cast their long shadows from a bygone era. Constance shuddered involuntarily. The sooner she was out of this moribund district, the better.
A last hasty dash past The Haughty Crab and finally Constance was able to step into the welcoming pool of light spilling from the coffee shop door. To Constance's relief, Mrs 'Box of Frogs' Feltch herself was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was in the cellars attending to some unknown furtive business. The dubious and eclectic denizens of the Box Of Frogs had this day been thoroughly supplemented with an ostentatious crowd of gesticulating thespians, verbose playwrights, raucous musicians and outspoken iconoclasts.
Just inside the door, she was greeted by the ghastly Virgil Smelter, his hair sleek with odorous oil, whom she privately found simultaneously as abrasive as a hobo's elbow, yet as slippery as diseased saliva. Smelter, as 'The Nautilus’' publisher, took it upon himself to chaperone her around the Nautilus’ artistic entourage. For this at least, she was grateful. As a true lady, she would have died of thirst before procuring herself a drink.
'Here, try this Citrus Pow Wow Punch. Don't look so worried, it's liberally laced with black rum and laudanum!' offered Smelter.
'Why, thank-you, I was as parched as a wombat's gonads!' she gushed coarsely, quite forgetting herself.
For his part, Smelter actually managed to make her feel most welcome, whirling her at a breathless pace from one avant-garde guest to the next as Constance sampled her drink, savouring its retarded lime punch.
'Let me introduce you to just a few of my closest acquaintances from the art world- the Smug Kitchen's 'chefs' if you will...' Smelter simpered, barely concealing the slug of a self-satisfied smirk, which crept conceitedly onto his moist full lips.
First the self-styled PP Mayhem, all trussed up in delicate ruffles, ruby and malachite dyed silks and superfluous scarves, looking every bit the over-embellished Christmas gift. The ambiguously named 'PP' took her dry, cool hand, and clasped it in both of his podgy, clammier ones, holding it tightly for just a second or two too long, leaving her with an urge to purge her hand on her dress, though etiquette of course prevented her from doing so.
Whisked swiftly on, to the elusive Count Debacle: a gaunt, owlish man, overly nasal, with cadaverous, bony eye sockets, who seemed unable or unwilling to look her fully in the face. His bunchy knuckles dug deliberately into her tender flesh as he squeezed her hand, pressing it to his cold, wine-blackened lips.
'Madame, it is a pleasure' he purred, oozing with counterfeit charm.
'Meet... the Svelte-Douglas’s... two of my most cherished benefactors!' nothing more than a bow from one, and a bobbed curtsey and politely raised eyebrow from the other.
Too many introductions, not enough drinking, in Constance's opinion, but nevertheless she soldiered on.
Madam Anna Palindrome, a statuesque and avid diva, flashed a truly striking smile as she warmly took Constance's hand. She held sway over a fawning circle of admirers, arresting their attention with her burlesque witticisms and pseudo-philosophical rhetorical banter.
'Are we not drawn onward, we few, drawn onward to new era?' she posed enigmatically.
'You know what they say...'Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard!' she pronounced, with a knowing and questioning smile, to an approving smatter of applause and appreciative murmurings. Her mastery over the room was a testimony to reverential admiration over sincere comprehension.
After a respectful pause, Smelter gently moved Constance on.
'Ah, wonderful, he's just arrived now... of course, the star of tonight's little exposition... The Nautilus!!!' Cried Smelter, clapping with unnecessary enthusiasm, beaming amorously in the direction of the newcomer. Through the doors of 'The Box Of Frogs' stepped none other than the ostracised Colonel Norbury Liquorice Thrust-Munch.
'Well bless my bonsai'd bollocks! Constance!' ejaculated Norbury 'The Nautilus' Thrust-Munch. Pathological blushing ensued, mostly on Constance's behalf, only in part due to her recent imbibing of more than a few of Smelter's Citrus Pow Wows.
Here, we shall take leave of the serendipitous pair, and allow them a little privacy as they reestablish their acquaintance, and to perhaps, cautiously arrange a clandestine rendezvous in more conducive surroundings.
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