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.
IV.ii An Unwise Triple Boscoe
Prunce Nipples was found when just a few hours old, swaddled in filthsome sackcloth, on the doorstep of The Velvet Pouch, an establishment of dubious repute nestled firmly in the 'Entertainment Quarter' of Saintless Niche On Manifold. No one seemed to know where she had come from, but it was plain to see why she had been left there. Apparently first in the queue when God was handing out malady and misfortune, it was this very unjust myriad of birth defects that, ironically, may well have saved little Prunce's life. The austere guardian of the Velvet Pouch, Mistress Prudence Melamine-Fourchette, took an atypical pity on her and instead of bundling her off to Royal Farcy as she had with past runty finds, took her in and brought her up to be a virtuous and learned debutant.
Mistress Melamine-Fourchette took the malformed foundling to see a young Doctor Aubrey Paunchbulb, who likewise, took an instant liking to little 'Prunce' as he named her. Indeed, expecting her to live but a few days, he immediately offered to be ordained her Godfather. Amongst her numerous ailments, Prunce was born without nostrils, and as such was subject to an experimental and groundbreaking new operation, in an attempt to allow her to 'earbreathe'. Unfortunately, the less than competent Doctor Paunchbulb, whose innovation this was, in his zealosity, damaged her glands of balance. By going far beyond the necessary eardrum, into the labyrinthine structure, Prunce was left in a semi-permanent state of vertigo with associated disequilibria.
Prunce proved disconcertingly popular with the gentlemen visitors of The Velvet Pouch, much to the satisfaction of Mistress Melamine-Fourchette and the consternation of the other in-house performers. Despite this, her forthright yet ever polite manner usually won them round. Above all else, Prunce loved to dance, earning her the nickname ‘Twisty’, and others loved to watch her moves. Everything, from shucking the Succotash Shuffle to twisting the Maroon Shoe Shoe. She could pronk, splice and fronkle as good as the next girl, but when it came to scrumping on her fulcrum, she often lost her balance and would find herself in the corner, in an unceremonious imbroglio of chair legs, gramophone horn and dust bunnies.
Indeed, it was during one of her more elaborate frugs that she unwisely attempted the Triple Boscoe, ambitiously juxtaposed with a Slippery Gunt, with excruciating and calamitous results. Having landed this badly, Prunce had shimmied her last.
She was to spend the rest of her life in dual leg calipers. She also sustained a jarring neck injury, which led to the fusing of her already fabric spine at a spurious angle, just below the jaw line, for ever-more tilting her head with a left-handed prejudice, which lent her a perpetually perplexed look.
Prunce's dancing days prematurely over, she turned her attention to children. Other people's children, to be precise. For, as undeniable as the temptations are, of a earbreather, to the many young men of the district, she never came close to receiving a proposition of marriage. No, nannying and tutoring would soon become her only pastime, to which she became entirely devoted. Mistress Melamine-Fourchette graciously encouraged her to move on, writing her an extended letter of recommendation whilst secretly mourning the loss of everyone's favourite girl and uncannily predicting the swift demise of 'The Velvet Pouch'. This letter, along with Prunce's outwardly severe demeanor went a long way towards securing her position as governess to both the Thropquilliam fold and the young Monkeyspanners.
An unusually stern governess of the tongue, 'Nanny Nipples' as she became known, gave instruction almost exclusively on the five fundamentals of applied conversation; elocution, vocalisation, pronunciation, articulation and sycophancy. Her love of what she termed the 'Vocal forest' stemmed mainly from her similarly strict upbringing at the mercy of Mistress Prudence’s hot tongue.
Mistress Melamine-Fourchette took the malformed foundling to see a young Doctor Aubrey Paunchbulb, who likewise, took an instant liking to little 'Prunce' as he named her. Indeed, expecting her to live but a few days, he immediately offered to be ordained her Godfather. Amongst her numerous ailments, Prunce was born without nostrils, and as such was subject to an experimental and groundbreaking new operation, in an attempt to allow her to 'earbreathe'. Unfortunately, the less than competent Doctor Paunchbulb, whose innovation this was, in his zealosity, damaged her glands of balance. By going far beyond the necessary eardrum, into the labyrinthine structure, Prunce was left in a semi-permanent state of vertigo with associated disequilibria.
Prunce proved disconcertingly popular with the gentlemen visitors of The Velvet Pouch, much to the satisfaction of Mistress Melamine-Fourchette and the consternation of the other in-house performers. Despite this, her forthright yet ever polite manner usually won them round. Above all else, Prunce loved to dance, earning her the nickname ‘Twisty’, and others loved to watch her moves. Everything, from shucking the Succotash Shuffle to twisting the Maroon Shoe Shoe. She could pronk, splice and fronkle as good as the next girl, but when it came to scrumping on her fulcrum, she often lost her balance and would find herself in the corner, in an unceremonious imbroglio of chair legs, gramophone horn and dust bunnies.
Indeed, it was during one of her more elaborate frugs that she unwisely attempted the Triple Boscoe, ambitiously juxtaposed with a Slippery Gunt, with excruciating and calamitous results. Having landed this badly, Prunce had shimmied her last.
She was to spend the rest of her life in dual leg calipers. She also sustained a jarring neck injury, which led to the fusing of her already fabric spine at a spurious angle, just below the jaw line, for ever-more tilting her head with a left-handed prejudice, which lent her a perpetually perplexed look.
Prunce's dancing days prematurely over, she turned her attention to children. Other people's children, to be precise. For, as undeniable as the temptations are, of a earbreather, to the many young men of the district, she never came close to receiving a proposition of marriage. No, nannying and tutoring would soon become her only pastime, to which she became entirely devoted. Mistress Melamine-Fourchette graciously encouraged her to move on, writing her an extended letter of recommendation whilst secretly mourning the loss of everyone's favourite girl and uncannily predicting the swift demise of 'The Velvet Pouch'. This letter, along with Prunce's outwardly severe demeanor went a long way towards securing her position as governess to both the Thropquilliam fold and the young Monkeyspanners.
An unusually stern governess of the tongue, 'Nanny Nipples' as she became known, gave instruction almost exclusively on the five fundamentals of applied conversation; elocution, vocalisation, pronunciation, articulation and sycophancy. Her love of what she termed the 'Vocal forest' stemmed mainly from her similarly strict upbringing at the mercy of Mistress Prudence’s hot tongue.
PART IV Introducing Doctor Aubrey Paunchbulb
Lacking the requisite constitution for his chosen vocation, Doctor Aubrey Paunchbulb had fared rather worse than his professional brethren. His inherent unsuitability for the task in hand had not been immediately apparent; indeed, he had excelled in his original stationing, as Saintless Niche on Manifold’s resident bonesetter. He had also received several accolades for his enthusiastic zeal in amateur gynaecology. Unfortunately, for the last two years he had barely endured a posting at the Royal Farcy Foundling Hospital, seven miles south south west of Manifold, which had been utterly overwhelmed by the unexpected ravages of disease. In the good doctor's opinion, cleanliness had been wanting for quite some time at Farcy, with not one of the little wretches being in true full health.
For as long as he could remember, the ulcerated legions of Farcy had formed an unending queue at his door. Some able to stand, supported by a Good Samaritan, others laid prostrate on stretchers; they were there from the first light of dawn, right through until the Vesper bell rang out at dusk. Its steady knell resonating across the muster quadrangle of the hospital, came to mean only one thing to the overwhelmed Paunchbulb: the end of surgery for the day and the blessed relief this brought, upon which he would take a light supper of dry biscuits and water, which, squeamish and queasy, was all his stomach could bear, then take to his bed.
The dictum- ‘Where there is pus- let it out!’ rang through his dreams accompanied by a sickening torrent of vile images; gelatinous wound secretions, inflammatory exudate, devitalised tags of skin, malignant pustules, sodden, proud flesh, soft and boggy to the touch. And the smells.... smells which would defy the descriptions of the most ardent raconteur. Until this time, he would not have believed that one dreamt with all five of one's senses. Suffice to say, the peculiar mawkish odour of pus and the rapid, heavy breath of his little patients combined to create an intolerable stench, of which it seemed impossible to rid himself.
And so it was with a sense of impending, suffocating nausea that he awoke each morning, his senses reeling. Somehow the repugnant odours from his night terrors seemed to follow him, seeping out into what should have been the fresh reality of morning. Ablutions would be followed by cup after cup of sweet, strong black tea, after which he would unlock his door once more, propping it open widely, sacrificing his patients' privacy in lieu of the occasional welcome waft of uncontaminated air.
Thus he spent his every waking hour and so too his resting interludes, ceaslessly applying caustic potash, poultices and dusting powders, ointments and other greasy dressings, without respite, leaving him mentally and emotionally bankrupt.
Once, he had taken pride in his highly tuned sense of smell, now he longed for anosmia. This, coupled with a fertile imagination, was perhaps where the seed of mental instability first took root. Night after endless night a nocturnal hysteria seemed to grip him. Often, the children, themselves dwelling miserably in the blank limbo of shallow sleep endemic to those in constant pain, would hear him cry out in delirious terror, and pity him.
This exhaustion of the vital powers led to him being found from time to time, sitting, staring, with a peculiar placid expression of the countenance, as that of a clock, which has forgotten to be wound. As the doctor's robustitude lessened, he became a distinct and constant menace, until finally, he was removed to the Whipple Van Buren Asylum for the Blatantly Deranged, where, under the jaundiced eye of Nurse Abalone, he made a painfully slow and ultimately incomplete recovery.
Partially due to a recent rise in the number of the insane, he was released, only to take on his own medical practice in town, where he could once again make himself useful to the more debilitated inhabitants of the district. Perhaps unwisely, he chose to return to general practice, although he would always regret not keeping a finger in, in gynaecology. He specialised in chiropody, spending his days maintaining the toes and feet of old people, handling their dry, horny, shrivelled and semi-transparent appendages with dexterous care.
His evenings were his own, however, and these he spent in his private rooms, to the rear of the surgery, tinkering with innumerable tinctures and decoctions, spirits and distillations, apothecarical spices, extracts and other, ill-advised and questionable ingredients. It was his firm belief that with just the right balance of ingredients to his concoction, he would one day have the ability to cure every malady that had the misfortune to stray into his path; from pottymouth to poultice, from blebs to bulbiform nipples; all with just one sip of his singular olio.
Only under times of extreme duress was there any inkling of his former turmoil, when he was known to bark out sinister and graphically disturbing expletives.
One poor lady who bore witness to one of his more extreme tirades, was a Miss Hortence Palmipede, a committed nonagenarian spinster, whose malodorous feet brought on one such hysterical attack. Four deep and ghastly fissures with attending extensive ramifications in the sole of her right foot had given rise to an intolerable stench, which had become a source of annoyance and discomfort to all others who had the misfortune to find themselves within a few yards of the afflicted woman. On her right heel, Paunchbulb had discovered a sac containing a semi-fluid substance resembling custard, but no sooner had he noted this in his journal, than the familiar pangs of gastric uneasiness overtook him. Gallantly ignoring the deplorable sensation, he swiftly made good with a generous use of the sharp-spoon. But alas, it proved too much.
'Jack hammering dildos!' he gagged into his kerchief. 'Miss Palmipede, I must congratulate you on your outstandingly rank trotters!' No sooner had this admittedly only partially unwarranted exclamation escaped his lips, than he took a despondent, sharp, shuddering breath, and slumped back in his chair, eyes glazing over, becoming torpid and dull. His mind had retreated in on itself; all sight and thought were now beyond him, except for the ethereal tinitus of the vesper bells of Farcy, resonating in his ears.
A minuscule phial of viscous fluid, of unknown decoction, slipped from Paunchbulb's clammy paw, now lying limbre as a rag on his slack thighs, only to shatter on the wood block floor. A fuming liquid of a bluish hue seeped into the tessellations of the parquet, leaving an indelible indigo stain.
In her haste to leave, Miss Palmipede painfully slammed one of her own somewhat pendulous mammae in the door. From this perturbing ordeal, she would suffer extensive bruising, but would never again permit herself to be seen by any doctor, despite the astonishing spectrum of colours presented by her injury, and its severely swollen margin.
For as long as he could remember, the ulcerated legions of Farcy had formed an unending queue at his door. Some able to stand, supported by a Good Samaritan, others laid prostrate on stretchers; they were there from the first light of dawn, right through until the Vesper bell rang out at dusk. Its steady knell resonating across the muster quadrangle of the hospital, came to mean only one thing to the overwhelmed Paunchbulb: the end of surgery for the day and the blessed relief this brought, upon which he would take a light supper of dry biscuits and water, which, squeamish and queasy, was all his stomach could bear, then take to his bed.
The dictum- ‘Where there is pus- let it out!’ rang through his dreams accompanied by a sickening torrent of vile images; gelatinous wound secretions, inflammatory exudate, devitalised tags of skin, malignant pustules, sodden, proud flesh, soft and boggy to the touch. And the smells.... smells which would defy the descriptions of the most ardent raconteur. Until this time, he would not have believed that one dreamt with all five of one's senses. Suffice to say, the peculiar mawkish odour of pus and the rapid, heavy breath of his little patients combined to create an intolerable stench, of which it seemed impossible to rid himself.
And so it was with a sense of impending, suffocating nausea that he awoke each morning, his senses reeling. Somehow the repugnant odours from his night terrors seemed to follow him, seeping out into what should have been the fresh reality of morning. Ablutions would be followed by cup after cup of sweet, strong black tea, after which he would unlock his door once more, propping it open widely, sacrificing his patients' privacy in lieu of the occasional welcome waft of uncontaminated air.
Thus he spent his every waking hour and so too his resting interludes, ceaslessly applying caustic potash, poultices and dusting powders, ointments and other greasy dressings, without respite, leaving him mentally and emotionally bankrupt.
Once, he had taken pride in his highly tuned sense of smell, now he longed for anosmia. This, coupled with a fertile imagination, was perhaps where the seed of mental instability first took root. Night after endless night a nocturnal hysteria seemed to grip him. Often, the children, themselves dwelling miserably in the blank limbo of shallow sleep endemic to those in constant pain, would hear him cry out in delirious terror, and pity him.
This exhaustion of the vital powers led to him being found from time to time, sitting, staring, with a peculiar placid expression of the countenance, as that of a clock, which has forgotten to be wound. As the doctor's robustitude lessened, he became a distinct and constant menace, until finally, he was removed to the Whipple Van Buren Asylum for the Blatantly Deranged, where, under the jaundiced eye of Nurse Abalone, he made a painfully slow and ultimately incomplete recovery.
Partially due to a recent rise in the number of the insane, he was released, only to take on his own medical practice in town, where he could once again make himself useful to the more debilitated inhabitants of the district. Perhaps unwisely, he chose to return to general practice, although he would always regret not keeping a finger in, in gynaecology. He specialised in chiropody, spending his days maintaining the toes and feet of old people, handling their dry, horny, shrivelled and semi-transparent appendages with dexterous care.
His evenings were his own, however, and these he spent in his private rooms, to the rear of the surgery, tinkering with innumerable tinctures and decoctions, spirits and distillations, apothecarical spices, extracts and other, ill-advised and questionable ingredients. It was his firm belief that with just the right balance of ingredients to his concoction, he would one day have the ability to cure every malady that had the misfortune to stray into his path; from pottymouth to poultice, from blebs to bulbiform nipples; all with just one sip of his singular olio.
Only under times of extreme duress was there any inkling of his former turmoil, when he was known to bark out sinister and graphically disturbing expletives.
One poor lady who bore witness to one of his more extreme tirades, was a Miss Hortence Palmipede, a committed nonagenarian spinster, whose malodorous feet brought on one such hysterical attack. Four deep and ghastly fissures with attending extensive ramifications in the sole of her right foot had given rise to an intolerable stench, which had become a source of annoyance and discomfort to all others who had the misfortune to find themselves within a few yards of the afflicted woman. On her right heel, Paunchbulb had discovered a sac containing a semi-fluid substance resembling custard, but no sooner had he noted this in his journal, than the familiar pangs of gastric uneasiness overtook him. Gallantly ignoring the deplorable sensation, he swiftly made good with a generous use of the sharp-spoon. But alas, it proved too much.
'Jack hammering dildos!' he gagged into his kerchief. 'Miss Palmipede, I must congratulate you on your outstandingly rank trotters!' No sooner had this admittedly only partially unwarranted exclamation escaped his lips, than he took a despondent, sharp, shuddering breath, and slumped back in his chair, eyes glazing over, becoming torpid and dull. His mind had retreated in on itself; all sight and thought were now beyond him, except for the ethereal tinitus of the vesper bells of Farcy, resonating in his ears.
A minuscule phial of viscous fluid, of unknown decoction, slipped from Paunchbulb's clammy paw, now lying limbre as a rag on his slack thighs, only to shatter on the wood block floor. A fuming liquid of a bluish hue seeped into the tessellations of the parquet, leaving an indelible indigo stain.
In her haste to leave, Miss Palmipede painfully slammed one of her own somewhat pendulous mammae in the door. From this perturbing ordeal, she would suffer extensive bruising, but would never again permit herself to be seen by any doctor, despite the astonishing spectrum of colours presented by her injury, and its severely swollen margin.
PART III Constance, Constance, Constance
During the monotonously stagnant weeks succeeding the all too public debacle that was Norbury’s so-called ‘gala’, Constance had chosen to shun all possible human contact beyond her immediate family members and the obligatory domestics, becoming somewhat of a recluse. She was utterly unable to face the people of the village, let alone the hoi polloi of The Box Of Frogs, and felt painfully disinclined to buy into Mrs Feltch's caustic tittle-tattle in the aftermath of what she now thought of as ‘The Happening’. When necessity forced her into town, she was acutely aware of the locals' curious, prying eyes crawling over her skin, as they peered at her from around the edges of their gormless and preposterous faces, as if they could read her thoughts. She knew, that however little contact she was obliged to make, as soon as their business was over, they would run beetling back to The Box Of Frogs, supplementing the bare facts of her innocent dealings with their endless opinionated and insinuating innuendo.
And as for Norbury; she could hardly even think of her once beloved Colonel without her breath catching in a rapidly constricting throat. To think that she had almost fallen for his roguish charms. In truth, she felt bereft of the ability to not think of Norbury, and without at least a trilogy of strong drinks supporting her of a morning, her restless mind would positively teem with an endless tumult of memories of his wooings; the delicate brush of his luxuriant eyebrows on her cheeks, his intrepidly roaming fingers and ever roving eye, his indescribable breath. Feeling quite stricken, she had taken to carrying a small reviving pouch of smelling salts in her voluminous purse at all times. Sitting with a distinct list, third cocktail of the day in hand, lost in one such fanciful reverie, Constance was busy whiling away a little more of her over-abundant leisure time. Time she would previously have spent engaged in somewhat healthier pursuits, such as walking, red squirrel shooting, goose taxidermy and of course photography.
A dull slap echoed from the hallway, distracting her from her idle ruminations, as the latest offering from The Manifold Spectator- the local bi-weekly scandal sheet and tabloid society rag- finally slid from it's precarious position midway through the letterbox, where it had hung in limbo, imperfectly balanced since the five a.m. post run.
Thrusting her Gremlin's Furball- green liquorice liqueur, a healthy slug of sloe gin, a dash of vermouth and an olive- down on the occasional table, she tottered slightly unsteadily to the drawing room door, peering cautiously round the door jam. In the eternal gloom of the oppressively dingy corridor, she spied the delinquent literature and adeptly hooked it up from the mat using only her buttocks; a neat little trick she had had scant opportunity to put to use since she had learned it at preparatory school.
Returning, paper now in hand, Constance plomped unceremoniously back into her favourite leather armchair, dexterously retrieving her glass with the other. The ensuing gush of fusty air hastily escaping from the tan seat cushions erupted in an uncannily flatulent manner, intruding inappropriately on the former tranquillity and gravity of the east retiring rooms, causing Constance to erupt with uncontrollable bouts of giggling for several minutes. Gradually, her near hysterical laughter turned to sobs, wild and dejected, as her subconscious mind brought her full circle, associating the innocent episode with the seemingly ubiquitous Norbury.
Unbeknownst to Constance, her despised Aunt Monika had been stood, observing yet unobserved, for quite some time behind the open door. The Marquise felt an incongruous empathy with Constance's plight. After all, she had suffered similarly in her youth, at the hands of her former beau brigadier Leslie Ampersand Bunt-Bunting, a horrendous mendacitor who shared more than a few of the less than desirable personality traits of Colonel Thrust-Munch.
Enough was enough, though. Marquise Nomenclature stepped swiftly from her concealment, only to loom in an intimidating manner over Bintwrangler, whose eyes bulged alarmingly with surprise and naked trepidation.
The Marquise, in her own inimitable way, attempted to explain that it was high time Constance took matters firmly by the horns, put the cocktails aside, and got herself out of the house and back in the saddle.
'Satan’s fun bags, Constance! The Good Lord knows, I myself have staged many a dirty protest in my time, but never did it come to this’! Exploded the Marquise.
‘Don't you remember that feckless frequenter of the bear-garden, Sir Reginald Aftermath? The one who ran the taxidermist on the high street? Going about in broad daylight with that slack-faced losack Octavia Thrapple-Splayed from the Temperance Bar next door?! They were never even married!!!’ she ranted on, her voice growing hoarse with mounting disgust.
'Or how about large Larry Anne? Remember her? Insisted on pissing her life away in the Haughty Crab, after that no good fiancé of hers Benedict Taint proved himself a complete twollock, eloping off with that untempered hussy Flounce Quango and her questionable talents? Found quite dead, she was! Face down in an extra large jug of Wazzock's Extra Mature Stout, she was. Pickled! You should have seen the look on her father's face! Mortified, he was! Didn't even dare show his face at the funeral!!'
Constance did indeed remember attending large Larry Anne's funeral. Bribe, Bribe and Frisk's had worked wonders with her sorry remains, but her irreparably pruney face had the unsettling look of an unwrapped mummy. Quite why they chose an open casket was anyone's guess; the eternally puckered, tawny skin was still visible under its heavily pancaked layer of rose foundation powder.
This was an epoch closing moment for Constance; Nomenclature's words had acted like a rejuvenating tonic, and the accompanying sharp slap to her slack, damp cheek, palpably augmented the Marquise's admonishment. In an attempt to pull herself together, Constance voided her nose most unprettily on her handkerchief, daubing at errant tears with one lacy corner.
And so, as her Aunt left her to her thoughts and her tears finally dried up, Constance retrieved the neglected Manifold Spectator, and, sitting a little more carefully this time, began to thumb through it's gossipy pages. The seed of a deplorable hangover had already begun pulsing wickedly in her left temple. Perhaps she would call in at Doctor Paunchbulb's surgery and have him administer a little of that excellent remedial cure-all he was so fond of prescribing. She didn't know what was in it, but it certainly was potent, especially where her 'Gremlin’s Laments' were concerned.
A brief scan through the birth, marriage and death notices revealed a few intersting snippets. Mr and Mrs Alabaster Scringe were proud to announce the safe delivery of a healthy baby boy, whom they had seen fit to name Jonty. A certain Lady Anne Hoarder was to marry Wellington Minge III, a ripe banana and no mistake, at Vexing-on-the-Glands near Farcy. But, of utmost interest to Constance, was the sad demise and subsequent burial of Mrs Theodora Thrust-Munch, cause of death as yet undisclosed. Funeral service to be held at St. Murgatroyd-in-the-ditch Church, Lower Snatch Snot, donations gratefully received.
'Perhaps I have been a little hasty, what with my wholesale dismissal of Norbury, after all.' thought Constance out loud.
Turning the page thoughtfully, as she warily eyed the entertainments section, her attention was caught by a posting from the Apuskidu Squid & Fish Museum. A full page advertisement boasted their latest endeavor; a book launch spectacular;
‘Living The Bream Dream’ she read out loud. 'A book like no other, this is an exhaustive study of one man's passion for fish. Delving intimately into the author's personal experiences, this exposition encompasses a three-fold presentation: -
The Fecundity Of The Sea: An Appreciation
An extensive and exhaustive display of all things aquatic and piscary, to be followed by…
Krill Crayolas
A profusion of wax pastels bearing the author's unmistakably rude artistic talents, and culminating with…
Bream and Beyond
An invigorating talk and chance to meet the author, who refers to himself modestly yet mysteriously as 'The Nautilus'.’
This was just the opportunity she needed to make a triumphant return to the public eye.
And as for Norbury; she could hardly even think of her once beloved Colonel without her breath catching in a rapidly constricting throat. To think that she had almost fallen for his roguish charms. In truth, she felt bereft of the ability to not think of Norbury, and without at least a trilogy of strong drinks supporting her of a morning, her restless mind would positively teem with an endless tumult of memories of his wooings; the delicate brush of his luxuriant eyebrows on her cheeks, his intrepidly roaming fingers and ever roving eye, his indescribable breath. Feeling quite stricken, she had taken to carrying a small reviving pouch of smelling salts in her voluminous purse at all times. Sitting with a distinct list, third cocktail of the day in hand, lost in one such fanciful reverie, Constance was busy whiling away a little more of her over-abundant leisure time. Time she would previously have spent engaged in somewhat healthier pursuits, such as walking, red squirrel shooting, goose taxidermy and of course photography.
A dull slap echoed from the hallway, distracting her from her idle ruminations, as the latest offering from The Manifold Spectator- the local bi-weekly scandal sheet and tabloid society rag- finally slid from it's precarious position midway through the letterbox, where it had hung in limbo, imperfectly balanced since the five a.m. post run.
Thrusting her Gremlin's Furball- green liquorice liqueur, a healthy slug of sloe gin, a dash of vermouth and an olive- down on the occasional table, she tottered slightly unsteadily to the drawing room door, peering cautiously round the door jam. In the eternal gloom of the oppressively dingy corridor, she spied the delinquent literature and adeptly hooked it up from the mat using only her buttocks; a neat little trick she had had scant opportunity to put to use since she had learned it at preparatory school.
Returning, paper now in hand, Constance plomped unceremoniously back into her favourite leather armchair, dexterously retrieving her glass with the other. The ensuing gush of fusty air hastily escaping from the tan seat cushions erupted in an uncannily flatulent manner, intruding inappropriately on the former tranquillity and gravity of the east retiring rooms, causing Constance to erupt with uncontrollable bouts of giggling for several minutes. Gradually, her near hysterical laughter turned to sobs, wild and dejected, as her subconscious mind brought her full circle, associating the innocent episode with the seemingly ubiquitous Norbury.
Unbeknownst to Constance, her despised Aunt Monika had been stood, observing yet unobserved, for quite some time behind the open door. The Marquise felt an incongruous empathy with Constance's plight. After all, she had suffered similarly in her youth, at the hands of her former beau brigadier Leslie Ampersand Bunt-Bunting, a horrendous mendacitor who shared more than a few of the less than desirable personality traits of Colonel Thrust-Munch.
Enough was enough, though. Marquise Nomenclature stepped swiftly from her concealment, only to loom in an intimidating manner over Bintwrangler, whose eyes bulged alarmingly with surprise and naked trepidation.
The Marquise, in her own inimitable way, attempted to explain that it was high time Constance took matters firmly by the horns, put the cocktails aside, and got herself out of the house and back in the saddle.
'Satan’s fun bags, Constance! The Good Lord knows, I myself have staged many a dirty protest in my time, but never did it come to this’! Exploded the Marquise.
‘Don't you remember that feckless frequenter of the bear-garden, Sir Reginald Aftermath? The one who ran the taxidermist on the high street? Going about in broad daylight with that slack-faced losack Octavia Thrapple-Splayed from the Temperance Bar next door?! They were never even married!!!’ she ranted on, her voice growing hoarse with mounting disgust.
'Or how about large Larry Anne? Remember her? Insisted on pissing her life away in the Haughty Crab, after that no good fiancé of hers Benedict Taint proved himself a complete twollock, eloping off with that untempered hussy Flounce Quango and her questionable talents? Found quite dead, she was! Face down in an extra large jug of Wazzock's Extra Mature Stout, she was. Pickled! You should have seen the look on her father's face! Mortified, he was! Didn't even dare show his face at the funeral!!'
Constance did indeed remember attending large Larry Anne's funeral. Bribe, Bribe and Frisk's had worked wonders with her sorry remains, but her irreparably pruney face had the unsettling look of an unwrapped mummy. Quite why they chose an open casket was anyone's guess; the eternally puckered, tawny skin was still visible under its heavily pancaked layer of rose foundation powder.
This was an epoch closing moment for Constance; Nomenclature's words had acted like a rejuvenating tonic, and the accompanying sharp slap to her slack, damp cheek, palpably augmented the Marquise's admonishment. In an attempt to pull herself together, Constance voided her nose most unprettily on her handkerchief, daubing at errant tears with one lacy corner.
And so, as her Aunt left her to her thoughts and her tears finally dried up, Constance retrieved the neglected Manifold Spectator, and, sitting a little more carefully this time, began to thumb through it's gossipy pages. The seed of a deplorable hangover had already begun pulsing wickedly in her left temple. Perhaps she would call in at Doctor Paunchbulb's surgery and have him administer a little of that excellent remedial cure-all he was so fond of prescribing. She didn't know what was in it, but it certainly was potent, especially where her 'Gremlin’s Laments' were concerned.
A brief scan through the birth, marriage and death notices revealed a few intersting snippets. Mr and Mrs Alabaster Scringe were proud to announce the safe delivery of a healthy baby boy, whom they had seen fit to name Jonty. A certain Lady Anne Hoarder was to marry Wellington Minge III, a ripe banana and no mistake, at Vexing-on-the-Glands near Farcy. But, of utmost interest to Constance, was the sad demise and subsequent burial of Mrs Theodora Thrust-Munch, cause of death as yet undisclosed. Funeral service to be held at St. Murgatroyd-in-the-ditch Church, Lower Snatch Snot, donations gratefully received.
'Perhaps I have been a little hasty, what with my wholesale dismissal of Norbury, after all.' thought Constance out loud.
Turning the page thoughtfully, as she warily eyed the entertainments section, her attention was caught by a posting from the Apuskidu Squid & Fish Museum. A full page advertisement boasted their latest endeavor; a book launch spectacular;
‘Living The Bream Dream’ she read out loud. 'A book like no other, this is an exhaustive study of one man's passion for fish. Delving intimately into the author's personal experiences, this exposition encompasses a three-fold presentation: -
The Fecundity Of The Sea: An Appreciation
An extensive and exhaustive display of all things aquatic and piscary, to be followed by…
Krill Crayolas
A profusion of wax pastels bearing the author's unmistakably rude artistic talents, and culminating with…
Bream and Beyond
An invigorating talk and chance to meet the author, who refers to himself modestly yet mysteriously as 'The Nautilus'.’
This was just the opportunity she needed to make a triumphant return to the public eye.
II.v A Well Aimed Blow
The rigours of time had not been kind to Theodora Thrust-Munch. Even in her salad days, her bland, vaguely porcine features, petulant glibbery and drab opinions had caused her to be swiftly overlooked by many potential suitors. Nevertheless, the onetime heiress to the Brownnose Fortune had caught the roving eye of our young Colonel. Swiftly married, they had tolerated each other’s company for a brief period, both all too oblivious to the true extent of her meagre inheritance. Alas, Norbury's reckless Shove Ha'penny addiction had striped the coffers bare within a few years. Destitution did not come easily to the heiress. The Brownnose Estate fell into a grievous state of disrepair and they had been forced to move into the gatehouse, where living costs could be sustained more readily. Clench was kept on of course; one couldn't be expected to do without life's essentials. This had cemented Clench's devotion to his master; he certainly didn't want to go the way of his father, the universally shunned Arthur Thrope.
Although the smaller quarters and hard times had brought them much closer together, Theodora had always harboured suspicions, especially after she had innocently happened upon Norbury's diaries, which alluded to numerous furtive rendezvous with 'Plethora and Scrunts', fantasies involving 'Jazz Apples' and more recently 'Constance'. She didn't know who or what these first referred to, but she certainly knew of a 'Constance'.
'Norbury, you duplicitous charlatan!' she screamed, marching up the drive, incandescent with rage.
'You...gibbering...flaccid...malevolent...shrivelous... animal!' she continued, her furious strides bringing her ever closer to the distraught pair.
'You worm-riddled greasy skinned noxious funkmonger, I've had enough of your extra-curricular infidelities!' she cried, delivering a well-aimed blow to the Colonel's tender cods with the heel of one fervently buffed riding boot. Norbury scrabbled blindly away, mewling insensibly, nursing his bruised nethers with trembling, cupped hands. A lone tear escaped from the corner of his eye.
'Of all the...' Temporarily at least, he had been reduced to silence.
By this time the majority of the invited had politely made themselves scarce, hastily exiting in shared carriages, maintaining a studied silence on pertinent matters until a comfortable distance had been placed behind them.
Mrs Feltch was an exception. She felt it duty bound to witness first hand any juicy controversy. Takings had been dwindling at The Box Of Frogs of late and this was just what was needed to get customers back through her doors and those coffee pots bubbling again. She couldn't wait to get back to town to begin her whispering campaign, but she dallied a while longer, ears pricked and eagle eyed, drinking in the climax of this turgid scoop. Mrs Feltch was one of the privy few with prior knowledge of Mrs Thrust-Munch; indeed as it was in her very establishment that Miss Bintwrangler had happened to bump into the Colonel for the first auspicious time, so she naturally felt she deserved some kind of reward after her weeks of close observation.
Spittle flying from Theodora's raving lips, a tiny gopet of saliva sailed through the air and landed in Constance's eye leaving her blinking uncontrollably, and now almost apoplectic with rage herself.
'And you!' intoned the intruder, her voice sliding an octave lower as she rounded on Constance, glowering from beneath hooded eyelids heavily caked in eyeshadow. Her penetrating azure eyes, which had been known to have brought many a man to his knees, were now trained accusingly on Miss Bintwrangler.
‘You!’ she repeated ominously.
'No, you!' retorted Miss Bintwrangler, drawing herself up to her full imposing height. 'I don't know who you are; I don't care who you think you are, or who you know. All I do know is that you certainly were not invited. Now get out.'
'And that goes for you too, Colonel.'
With dignity and poise, she carefully took up her skirts and purposefully ascended the stone steps two by two. Once inside, the cool respite of the entrance hall and an acerbic look from Marquise Nomenclature brought her to her senses. She turned abruptly and grasped the door handles in one fluid motion. Head held high, it was all she could do to look the Colonel in the eye as she poignantly closed the double doors and Norbury out of her life.
Although the smaller quarters and hard times had brought them much closer together, Theodora had always harboured suspicions, especially after she had innocently happened upon Norbury's diaries, which alluded to numerous furtive rendezvous with 'Plethora and Scrunts', fantasies involving 'Jazz Apples' and more recently 'Constance'. She didn't know who or what these first referred to, but she certainly knew of a 'Constance'.
'Norbury, you duplicitous charlatan!' she screamed, marching up the drive, incandescent with rage.
'You...gibbering...flaccid...malevolent...shrivelous... animal!' she continued, her furious strides bringing her ever closer to the distraught pair.
'You worm-riddled greasy skinned noxious funkmonger, I've had enough of your extra-curricular infidelities!' she cried, delivering a well-aimed blow to the Colonel's tender cods with the heel of one fervently buffed riding boot. Norbury scrabbled blindly away, mewling insensibly, nursing his bruised nethers with trembling, cupped hands. A lone tear escaped from the corner of his eye.
'Of all the...' Temporarily at least, he had been reduced to silence.
By this time the majority of the invited had politely made themselves scarce, hastily exiting in shared carriages, maintaining a studied silence on pertinent matters until a comfortable distance had been placed behind them.
Mrs Feltch was an exception. She felt it duty bound to witness first hand any juicy controversy. Takings had been dwindling at The Box Of Frogs of late and this was just what was needed to get customers back through her doors and those coffee pots bubbling again. She couldn't wait to get back to town to begin her whispering campaign, but she dallied a while longer, ears pricked and eagle eyed, drinking in the climax of this turgid scoop. Mrs Feltch was one of the privy few with prior knowledge of Mrs Thrust-Munch; indeed as it was in her very establishment that Miss Bintwrangler had happened to bump into the Colonel for the first auspicious time, so she naturally felt she deserved some kind of reward after her weeks of close observation.
Spittle flying from Theodora's raving lips, a tiny gopet of saliva sailed through the air and landed in Constance's eye leaving her blinking uncontrollably, and now almost apoplectic with rage herself.
'And you!' intoned the intruder, her voice sliding an octave lower as she rounded on Constance, glowering from beneath hooded eyelids heavily caked in eyeshadow. Her penetrating azure eyes, which had been known to have brought many a man to his knees, were now trained accusingly on Miss Bintwrangler.
‘You!’ she repeated ominously.
'No, you!' retorted Miss Bintwrangler, drawing herself up to her full imposing height. 'I don't know who you are; I don't care who you think you are, or who you know. All I do know is that you certainly were not invited. Now get out.'
'And that goes for you too, Colonel.'
With dignity and poise, she carefully took up her skirts and purposefully ascended the stone steps two by two. Once inside, the cool respite of the entrance hall and an acerbic look from Marquise Nomenclature brought her to her senses. She turned abruptly and grasped the door handles in one fluid motion. Head held high, it was all she could do to look the Colonel in the eye as she poignantly closed the double doors and Norbury out of her life.
II.iv Clench! The Gazebo!
A few large drops of rain, mistakenly presupposed as another irksome barrage from the starlings’ tail ends, heralded the beginning of the end of the evening. What began as a light shower gradually turned to heavier rain causing the crowd to reluctantly disperse, the majority heading back towards the shelter of the house. All except Rotunda Asquith, who managed to stave off most of the downpour by sheltering under one of the stately monkeypuzzles alongside the gazebo. Alone, lost in quiet contemplation of 'Arse Birds', Rotunda found herself slowly sinking heels first into the rain-moistened lawns, her loose dentures clacking against the best crystal with each additional sip of scotch. Spying something moving stealthily in her direction some way off, she crouched, squinting. As it scampered closer, too late she saw it for what it was- that abhorrence ‘Marzipan’. Unable to escape the clutches of the sucking turf, she swayed, goggling, as it raced towards her at what seemed an almost supernatural speed. For want of a better weapon, she did what came naturally; panicked, thrusting the remains of her wine in its face. Spurned, it leaped away into the trees, its overlong tail spinning one of the engraved gilt candelabras, which teetered on the brink of disaster for what seemed like an eternity, before finally tumbling into the bandstand’s sumptuous velveteen drapes.
Delicate licks of fire began to curl greedily up and around the entranceway, swiftly putting paid to any vain ideas of rescuing the extraordinary picturegraph. As everyone knew, Constance had had the foresight to destroy the original copy of the print along with its negative, thus making this one truly unique and so much more valuable.
‘Clench! The gazebo!’ brayed Thrust-Munch, gesticulating wildly as he emerged from the house. This he followed with further incoherent bellowings.
It was too late. The fine dry wood of the magnificent teak gazebo, sheltered from the worst of the storm by the surrounding monkeypuzzles, went up like a tinderbox, and in no time at all the blaze had consumed it entirely, leaving little but smoke and smouldering ashes. Within a little under seventeen minutes, all was lost.
Weeping bitterly and uncontrollably, Miss Bintwrangler collapsed in a sodden heap, a toe-curling wail of anguish wrenched from her very soul echoing across the grounds. Norbury helped her to her feet and they made their unsteady way back towards the house, the Colonel taking the opportunity to rest his plump, meaty hand reassuringly on her ample behind.
Bean Weevil, having drunk himself into a stupor, was now lying prostrate on the gravel driveway and had missed the entire debacle. Stirring, he rose to his feet, staggered slightly, and carefully drew himself to his full height, only to find himself face to face with the chinless wonder that was Mrs Theodora Flumpet Thrust-Munch, the Colonel's clandestine wife. The one he had nefariously omitted to mention to Constance.
II.iii An Extensive Portfolio
The furore over, the afternoon started to drag. The good Reverend's talk had been unnecessarily tedious and tremendously overlong, its tepid reception leading to a surge of heads in the wine tent. The ladies from the Mah Jong Society were growing tipsy and lecherous.
Catching a few choice glances, and twitching like a one-man band, Marquise Nomenclature was once again recumbent and drooling on one of the steamer chairs, legs akimbo, her reinforced support undergarments showing. Her Starling days were long gone.
Either Spaz or Flid could be heard in the distance, down by the lake, repeatedly yapping at a spoonbill, only serving to highlight the protracted lull. Thunderheads had accumulated forebodingly to the West, threatening to curtail the day’s revelries.
After a quick costume change, Miss Bintwrangler rematerialized on the bandstand, her thought provoking outfit an indubitable trespass against good taste. With two sharp claps in quick succession, she took instant command of the attention of her guests, and with a flourish she whipped away a silken cloth that had been concealing the culmination of her life's work. Mounted on an array of easels were numerous enlargements, a sample of the more poignant works from her extensive portfolio. Fascinated, the assembled guests pored over the eclectic array before them; many were disturbingly revealing, both of her subjects, and her errant mind.
In the first, Clench was captured emerging from behind the hothouses, removing his shirt as the sun streamed down behind him. The delicate play of golden beams of afternoon light shining through a breathtaking nebula of chronic scurf and skin flakes was something to behold.
In another she had expertly framed Mrs Feltch's oversize panties disappearing up her hungry bottom as she bent over to tie an errant bootlace whilst wearing a skirt inappropriately short for her age.
Their minds boggled at a cavalcade of eye watering vignettes: an extreme close-up of a ravaged old mans face, with puckered mouth, pockmarked cheeks and sunken eyes peering out from what appeared to be a wimple; The slumped, shadowy figure of Constable Coldmeece with what could only be described as ectoplasm escaping from between his slack rubbery lips, filtering through his yellowed, beeswaxed walrus moustache, coiling lazily around his chinstrap before flowing up to and out of an adjacent window; Scrunts, the town's professional hermit, cavorting with Plethora, the local besom maid, a rusty trombone clasped in the spatulate fingers of his free hand. Disturbing image after disturbing image burnt itself onto the mind’s eye. Many of the onlookers would suffer long, wakeful nights, suffused with troubling animosity-filled dreams for months to come.
‘And, if you will follow me to the gazebo, you will find, my pièce de résistance!' Constance paused for dramatic effect.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you.... 'Arse Birds!'’
Lorgnettes, pince-nez, monocles and even in Professor Dreadnought‘s case a pocket telescope, appeared as a hushed awe fell over the guests, and each stretched their necks forward towards the compelling image, in an attempt to augment their view.
They stood, as one, agape, gasps of astonishment and murmurings of approval, were followed finally by a ripple of applause
‘…. How very striking…. a most powerful image…’ marvelled Lord Winnit IX
‘…Is it trickery?…’ from Ettiley Heath.
‘Well, I for one simply love it! That Lady has a true gift…I get an inkling we might have finally found the requisite missing artist for the South Wall in the ‘Fish Mists’ wing of The Smug Kitchen…’ whispered Horatio Flange to Rotunda Asquith, eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘Remarkable!!’ Philomina Gripewater exclaimed, clearly delighted.
‘The others were exquisite, but this, this is an abomination!!’ Cecilia Sprint-Strudel cried, balking into her handkerchief.
Amid the numerous shots taken that singular evening out at Slag Grope Lake, the one that had been most lovingly enlarged, hand mounted and signed, was of course that which had previously demanded Norbury and Constance's attention so avidly. It had been one of numerous images capturing the starlings’ pre-roost assembly as they waxed and waned in the dying light, but its distinction lay in what was either a miraculous coincidence or a terrifying glimpse into the unknown. At the very instant that Constance had clicked the shutter release on her box camera, the sinister feathered creatures had formed themselves into alphabetic runes, the letters a, r, s and e.
Catching a few choice glances, and twitching like a one-man band, Marquise Nomenclature was once again recumbent and drooling on one of the steamer chairs, legs akimbo, her reinforced support undergarments showing. Her Starling days were long gone.
Either Spaz or Flid could be heard in the distance, down by the lake, repeatedly yapping at a spoonbill, only serving to highlight the protracted lull. Thunderheads had accumulated forebodingly to the West, threatening to curtail the day’s revelries.
After a quick costume change, Miss Bintwrangler rematerialized on the bandstand, her thought provoking outfit an indubitable trespass against good taste. With two sharp claps in quick succession, she took instant command of the attention of her guests, and with a flourish she whipped away a silken cloth that had been concealing the culmination of her life's work. Mounted on an array of easels were numerous enlargements, a sample of the more poignant works from her extensive portfolio. Fascinated, the assembled guests pored over the eclectic array before them; many were disturbingly revealing, both of her subjects, and her errant mind.
In the first, Clench was captured emerging from behind the hothouses, removing his shirt as the sun streamed down behind him. The delicate play of golden beams of afternoon light shining through a breathtaking nebula of chronic scurf and skin flakes was something to behold.
In another she had expertly framed Mrs Feltch's oversize panties disappearing up her hungry bottom as she bent over to tie an errant bootlace whilst wearing a skirt inappropriately short for her age.
Their minds boggled at a cavalcade of eye watering vignettes: an extreme close-up of a ravaged old mans face, with puckered mouth, pockmarked cheeks and sunken eyes peering out from what appeared to be a wimple; The slumped, shadowy figure of Constable Coldmeece with what could only be described as ectoplasm escaping from between his slack rubbery lips, filtering through his yellowed, beeswaxed walrus moustache, coiling lazily around his chinstrap before flowing up to and out of an adjacent window; Scrunts, the town's professional hermit, cavorting with Plethora, the local besom maid, a rusty trombone clasped in the spatulate fingers of his free hand. Disturbing image after disturbing image burnt itself onto the mind’s eye. Many of the onlookers would suffer long, wakeful nights, suffused with troubling animosity-filled dreams for months to come.
‘And, if you will follow me to the gazebo, you will find, my pièce de résistance!' Constance paused for dramatic effect.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you.... 'Arse Birds!'’
Lorgnettes, pince-nez, monocles and even in Professor Dreadnought‘s case a pocket telescope, appeared as a hushed awe fell over the guests, and each stretched their necks forward towards the compelling image, in an attempt to augment their view.
They stood, as one, agape, gasps of astonishment and murmurings of approval, were followed finally by a ripple of applause
‘…. How very striking…. a most powerful image…’ marvelled Lord Winnit IX
‘…Is it trickery?…’ from Ettiley Heath.
‘Well, I for one simply love it! That Lady has a true gift…I get an inkling we might have finally found the requisite missing artist for the South Wall in the ‘Fish Mists’ wing of The Smug Kitchen…’ whispered Horatio Flange to Rotunda Asquith, eyebrows raised questioningly.
‘Remarkable!!’ Philomina Gripewater exclaimed, clearly delighted.
‘The others were exquisite, but this, this is an abomination!!’ Cecilia Sprint-Strudel cried, balking into her handkerchief.
Amid the numerous shots taken that singular evening out at Slag Grope Lake, the one that had been most lovingly enlarged, hand mounted and signed, was of course that which had previously demanded Norbury and Constance's attention so avidly. It had been one of numerous images capturing the starlings’ pre-roost assembly as they waxed and waned in the dying light, but its distinction lay in what was either a miraculous coincidence or a terrifying glimpse into the unknown. At the very instant that Constance had clicked the shutter release on her box camera, the sinister feathered creatures had formed themselves into alphabetic runes, the letters a, r, s and e.
How did this astonishing thought transference work; where had this word come from; and above all what could it mean?
Perhaps the wine had gone to his head, but it was suddenly all too much for Bean Weevil. Time had sat idly back and watched the once youthful Reverend's unquestioning faith as it was quietly eroded, crumbling lamentably from within. He no longer felt he could honestly stand by the convictions and beliefs he had so lovingly preached to his devoted flock for so many years, indeed he had been sorely tested over recent days, and found himself wanting. Arse Birds was the final straw. Never before had it all seemed so futile. Existentially lost, he shambled uncertainly away, requisitioning an unattended decanter of warm amber liquid and a discarded glass as he passed the abandoned tables, clumsily sloshing himself a generous measure. As he walked on, quiet tears blurring his vision, he stumbled, losing a carefully polished shoe, but he continued on heedless. If she had been present to bare witness, one feels certain that Miss Bintwrangler would have captured the desolate tableau with her expert eye and of course her ever-present Wetplate Collodion camera
II.ii Lost Winks And Dropped Draughts
The clear, pleasant skies of the late morning developed into a beautiful temperate afternoon, with listless scuds of cloud moving dreamily across the heavens. By now the slightly lubricated contingent of notables had returned from their great odyssey and proceeded to decimate the buffet, talk loudly over the skiffle stylings of Geraldine Mowbray, and quaff, guzzle and imbibe their way through extravagant quantities of spritzers, ales and liquors. Relaxing in front of the bandstand, a few dozing, some still eating, the ladies chatted amiably.
The gentlemen had congregated towards the back of the natural amphitheatre, where they felt the freedom to talk without being under the ever watchful eye of fiancés, aunts, nieces, wives and whatnot. A heated tournament of table games was underway; Backgammon, Mancala, Shove Ha'penny, Tiddledy winks and Ludo were all taken on. Two elder gentlemen had even locked horns over a impassioned match of Nine Men's Morris; jostling with one another, they had buffeted and impinged on the other athletes until the surrounding grass was littered with lost winks and dropped draughts, halma men, coins and matches.
'I must just catch the tail end of the Reverend's talk. Woe betide I miss it all, you know what he can be like...' slurred Thrust-Munch by way of escape from a voluble group enthusiastically berating one of their party’s asthmatic mathematics.
'...and this brings to a close, the era of the Dog-legged gate.’ finished the Reverend. A smattering of polite and relieved applause accompanied Bean Weevil's departure from the spot lit bandstand. As he wove his way towards the small huddle of men, he caught a few snippets of indiscrete conversation from the gathered crowd.
'... limp and damp, always was, always will be...an unmitigated fool!...'
'A flimsy excuse for a man. I for one wasn't at all surprised to hear about the 'goings on'…’
'I know, but, but why would you? Is anyone interested in what that unctuous bell-end has to say?!'
'...well, they say the cheese slid off his cracker when his wife left him, after she caught him carrying on with that strumpet...'
He strode on, deciding to listen to no more. Besides, he allowed himself, it was hardly as if they would all have been discussing him. Nevertheless, after what he felt had been a triumph of a talk on one of his favourite worthwhile pastimes, he felt a tad deflated.
Mrs Feltch had by this time joined the onlookers. No expense had been spared on her tout ensemble; its finery belied her humble background. Her invite had been astutely issued on the grounds that it never hurt to have a few tongues wagging in the right direction. Indeed the Box Of Frogs was a veritable hotbed of gossip, with Mrs Feltch herself being the queen rumourmonger. Never one to let insubstantiation ruin a good scandal, she had ruthlessly passed on vicious whoppers regarding the Reverend Bean Weevil, his wife, an unnamed effervescent hussy (who may or may not have been called Plethora) and even Crispy McGinty, the gusset chiseller.
'I stopped for a crafty half of Wazzock's down at the Haughty Crab on the way here, and as I left, I passed old Crispy McGinty's place, you know, Glory Hole Cottage. She looked like she had her work cut out for her today; they were queuing round the block!' offered Horatio Flange at her elbow, angling for something a little more.
'No, I've heard she's quite ambidextrous in that matter, enabling her to run off two at a time!' whispered Mrs Feltch, barely missing a beat.
Raised eyebrows all round, revealed that it wasn't just those of the fairer sex who were adept at eavesdropping. Several of the gentlemen in the immediate vicinity took a mental note. A few surreptitious winks and almost imperceptible receptive nods could be spotted here and there.
Professor Dreadnought meanwhile, was creating quite a stir himself. He had seen fit to bring along his unearthly pet Aye Aye. The piercing, beady eyes of this nocturnal primate were far from its most repugnant features. Crepe-thin, black scrotal skin, spoon shaped ears and a demonic maw, coupled with other disturbing elements, such as sparse wiry hairs in all the wrong places and articulated fingers of erratic length and thickness, left one with a crawling, spidery sensation running down one's spine. If licked, one felt sure it would taste of arsenic and liquorice.
The shy creature, in an attempt to take refuge between the ample rolls of flesh and droopy skin folds of Rotunda Asquith's corpulent figure, had scampered down her cleavage, leaving just the bristly brush of its tail advertising its presence.
'Marzipan!! Stop that immediately!' scolded Professor Dreadnought, blushing profusely, as he lifted his beloved pet off Dame Asquith, unhooking its ebony, skeletally clawed fingers from her contrastingly white bosom. Dame Asquith visibly blanched, swaying gently, then collapsed in an unceremonious swooning heap.
Clambering intricately up and around its master's shoulders, the Aye Aye came to a rest with its chin in its paws, elbows cocked, resting atop his balding pate, its bushy tail twining around the professor’s neck.
'Its fingers...so filthy... inky...and, and black!...' breathed Dame Asquith, looking down at herself, half expecting to see its tiny fingerprints branded into her skin. With a hastily garnered lawn chain beneath her and a stiff whisky in hand, she finally began to regain her composure, all the while fanning herself furiously.
'Yes, yes, he's quite something, isn't he? Marzipan here is one of the more interesting specimens from my menagerie. I have an engagingly amorous spectacled bear named Quentin, a rather reticent Hoffman's two-toed sloth named Mogadon, and no less than five pigmy marmosets, Thoby, Codger, Gurn, Spong and Fflaps who I must confess I can hardly tell apart. I also have my aardvark, Jazz Apples, who is of course a constant source of comfort. Indeed, it is her warm breath on my cheek at night that ensures I sleep soundly even through that darned cacophony they call the dawn chorus.' chatted the Professor to anyone in earshot, utterly carried away in his passion.
'But I digress...' he muttered, looking round and finding himself alone.
The gentlemen had congregated towards the back of the natural amphitheatre, where they felt the freedom to talk without being under the ever watchful eye of fiancés, aunts, nieces, wives and whatnot. A heated tournament of table games was underway; Backgammon, Mancala, Shove Ha'penny, Tiddledy winks and Ludo were all taken on. Two elder gentlemen had even locked horns over a impassioned match of Nine Men's Morris; jostling with one another, they had buffeted and impinged on the other athletes until the surrounding grass was littered with lost winks and dropped draughts, halma men, coins and matches.
'I must just catch the tail end of the Reverend's talk. Woe betide I miss it all, you know what he can be like...' slurred Thrust-Munch by way of escape from a voluble group enthusiastically berating one of their party’s asthmatic mathematics.
'...and this brings to a close, the era of the Dog-legged gate.’ finished the Reverend. A smattering of polite and relieved applause accompanied Bean Weevil's departure from the spot lit bandstand. As he wove his way towards the small huddle of men, he caught a few snippets of indiscrete conversation from the gathered crowd.
'... limp and damp, always was, always will be...an unmitigated fool!...'
'A flimsy excuse for a man. I for one wasn't at all surprised to hear about the 'goings on'…’
'I know, but, but why would you? Is anyone interested in what that unctuous bell-end has to say?!'
'...well, they say the cheese slid off his cracker when his wife left him, after she caught him carrying on with that strumpet...'
He strode on, deciding to listen to no more. Besides, he allowed himself, it was hardly as if they would all have been discussing him. Nevertheless, after what he felt had been a triumph of a talk on one of his favourite worthwhile pastimes, he felt a tad deflated.
Mrs Feltch had by this time joined the onlookers. No expense had been spared on her tout ensemble; its finery belied her humble background. Her invite had been astutely issued on the grounds that it never hurt to have a few tongues wagging in the right direction. Indeed the Box Of Frogs was a veritable hotbed of gossip, with Mrs Feltch herself being the queen rumourmonger. Never one to let insubstantiation ruin a good scandal, she had ruthlessly passed on vicious whoppers regarding the Reverend Bean Weevil, his wife, an unnamed effervescent hussy (who may or may not have been called Plethora) and even Crispy McGinty, the gusset chiseller.
'I stopped for a crafty half of Wazzock's down at the Haughty Crab on the way here, and as I left, I passed old Crispy McGinty's place, you know, Glory Hole Cottage. She looked like she had her work cut out for her today; they were queuing round the block!' offered Horatio Flange at her elbow, angling for something a little more.
'No, I've heard she's quite ambidextrous in that matter, enabling her to run off two at a time!' whispered Mrs Feltch, barely missing a beat.
Raised eyebrows all round, revealed that it wasn't just those of the fairer sex who were adept at eavesdropping. Several of the gentlemen in the immediate vicinity took a mental note. A few surreptitious winks and almost imperceptible receptive nods could be spotted here and there.
Professor Dreadnought meanwhile, was creating quite a stir himself. He had seen fit to bring along his unearthly pet Aye Aye. The piercing, beady eyes of this nocturnal primate were far from its most repugnant features. Crepe-thin, black scrotal skin, spoon shaped ears and a demonic maw, coupled with other disturbing elements, such as sparse wiry hairs in all the wrong places and articulated fingers of erratic length and thickness, left one with a crawling, spidery sensation running down one's spine. If licked, one felt sure it would taste of arsenic and liquorice.
The shy creature, in an attempt to take refuge between the ample rolls of flesh and droopy skin folds of Rotunda Asquith's corpulent figure, had scampered down her cleavage, leaving just the bristly brush of its tail advertising its presence.
'Marzipan!! Stop that immediately!' scolded Professor Dreadnought, blushing profusely, as he lifted his beloved pet off Dame Asquith, unhooking its ebony, skeletally clawed fingers from her contrastingly white bosom. Dame Asquith visibly blanched, swaying gently, then collapsed in an unceremonious swooning heap.
Clambering intricately up and around its master's shoulders, the Aye Aye came to a rest with its chin in its paws, elbows cocked, resting atop his balding pate, its bushy tail twining around the professor’s neck.
'Its fingers...so filthy... inky...and, and black!...' breathed Dame Asquith, looking down at herself, half expecting to see its tiny fingerprints branded into her skin. With a hastily garnered lawn chain beneath her and a stiff whisky in hand, she finally began to regain her composure, all the while fanning herself furiously.
'Yes, yes, he's quite something, isn't he? Marzipan here is one of the more interesting specimens from my menagerie. I have an engagingly amorous spectacled bear named Quentin, a rather reticent Hoffman's two-toed sloth named Mogadon, and no less than five pigmy marmosets, Thoby, Codger, Gurn, Spong and Fflaps who I must confess I can hardly tell apart. I also have my aardvark, Jazz Apples, who is of course a constant source of comfort. Indeed, it is her warm breath on my cheek at night that ensures I sleep soundly even through that darned cacophony they call the dawn chorus.' chatted the Professor to anyone in earshot, utterly carried away in his passion.
'But I digress...' he muttered, looking round and finding himself alone.
PART II A Handful Of Distinguished Guests
With a delicate snort, and a snap of the jaw, she was awake. Whether it was the muted conversations between Thrust-Munch and Clench drifting in from the gardens, or the hubbub of the men folk returning from their shoot with the grouse for dinner, Marquise Moniker Nomenclature cared not. All that mattered was that she had been most rudely awakened from her mid-morning snooze. The dampness of the last few months had played havoc with her sinuses, resulting in distressingly phelgmy tubes and an unshakeable lethargy. Habitually, she dabbed at the filmy drool on her chin with a dry and crusty antimacassar, and drew herself more fully together.
The Marquise was a former beauty queen, whose face- her only talent- now bore the scorch marks of a lifetime of lies and malice. A ruinous aspect on life that had left her considerably cankerous, bilious and bloated in her dotage.
She had dozed off peacefully enough in her comfortably worn leather wingback chair, after breakfasting on a brace of quail’s eggs accompanied by several indulgently buttered crumpets. She enjoyed listening to the warm hoots of the wood pigeons, and the metronome, tok, tok, tokking away the hours, as disturbed motes from the dusty books sifted through the early morning shafts of sun. She liked it in the library. It was most tranquil. The dank odour from the carpets kept others away, but it mattered to her not one jot.
After a few moments, the Marquise laboriously eased herself out of her favourite chair and ambled arduously to the window casement, with the simian gate of one whose legs have yet to fully awaken from slumber. She traced her finger idly along the lead beading of 'The Garden Of Earthly Delights'. It's rendering really was exquisite. She truly felt that her personally commissioned Hieronymus Bosch stained glass picture windows really gave the room a prodigious feel. Peering through a rare empty space in the debauched triptych, she spotted Thrust-Munch as he marched into view, looking for all the world like he owned the place. Swiftly stepping back into the obscurity of the ever-gloomy library, her scowl did little to enhance her repugnant demeanour.
Outside, preparations for the gala were well under way. It had been the Colonel's idea, a foolproof way to show off a choice selection of Miss Bintwrangler's finest works. She really did have a way of capturing the unexpected with that box camera of hers.
Yes, a handful of distinguished guests, an extensive tour of the grounds, taking in the rotating summerhouse, the ornamental pagoda and the Monkeypuzzle Drive, followed by a spot of light lunch by the bandstand, a short lecture from the Reverend, and the grand unveiling, was just what was needed. Maybe even a lawn game or two: quoits, perhaps. All in all, an excellent way to curry favour with those whose opinion mattered most and also an insidious opportunity to further his relations with Constance. He had a feeling his amorous dalliances had not gone unnoticed.
Rounding the windiest of corners, Norbury and his valet Clench strode towards the house, where their noses caught the evocative scent of freshly cut grass, with perhaps, every now and then the unmistakable residual waft of the cesspool effluent and the library it had so rudely intruded upon. Thrust-Munch's nose wrinkled in disgust.
'Clench. Get the Stench-muffler, there's a good man. We can't have this malodorous ronk ruining my meticulously planned day. And get Master Twemlow and Lady Jezebel to give you a hand with the bunting, I'm told the girl’s a dab hand with that sort of thing. By the way, have you seen my delicate little Constance?'
In Clench's opinion, the 'delicate little Constance' in question, was a dried up old sow, but in no way did he let this show on his pallid, pendulous face.
'Miss Bintwrangler's just putting the finishing touches to the arboretum, training and trimming her topiary into those perturbing and suggestive shapes she’s so fond of, down by the old Gastric Mill race. Just follow the stream, you can't miss it' said Clench, pointing vaguely into the middle distance.
The Colonel stalked off in the instructed direction, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, leaving Clench to deal with the fumigator, a treacherous device he'd hooked his gizzards on on more than one occasion. Behind him the archaic machine rumbled into life, billowing great smuts of choking smoke for several minutes before it squalled, crunched, guttered and died.
Spaz and Flid, who had been expertly groomed and fitted with new taffeta ruffs for the occasion, scampered at the Colonel's heels, tripping him repeatedly, and generally making a hindrance of themselves.
'Loathsome, lousy little knob Jockeys! Wiffett would have none of your gibbering foolishness!' he chuntered, making a mental note to accidentally dropkick at least one of the asinine canines into Slag-Grope Lake at the next opportunity. The sooner he got himself and his fine hound ensconced here, the better. He would soon have things shipshape.
For her part, Miss Bintwrangler had hand selected a clutch of the most noteworthy gentlemen and ladies of the picturesque village of Saintless Niche on Manifold and its environs; the significant, the superior, the celebrated, and of course those with far reaching influences. As each arrived, she was there to ensure that either herself or her dearest Norbury was there to greet them personally, ascertaining that neither the malingering and meddlesome Marquise nor that window-licker Clench were anywhere in sight.
Reaching across to whisper seductive, breathy nothings into Norbury's waxen ear, she gave a surreptitious tweak to his proud nipple. As an involuntary mewl escaped him, she popped an industrial strength mint between his lips. God forbid he should inadvertently breathe his toxic miasma into the upturned faces of the guests. She knew only too well how his legendary breath could bring a tear to one's eye. Often, she caught herself ruminating on how he required his own herb-strewer to precede him, although secretly, she had grown to quite savour its ripe charms.
First to arrive was Lord Ambrose Ambrose Winnit IX, a spoonfaced noob if ever there was one. As a competent mutineer and an accomplished virtuoso of the muted trumpet, he had been near the top of Constance's list of invitees.
Following hot on his heels were the esteemed Mr. Foulk Stapleford and his fiancé Miss Ettiley Heath, whose unfortunate face, crumpled as if perpetually riddled with doubt, peered out meekly from beneath a thatch of gossamer-thin titan hair and a precariously balanced hat. Mr Stapleford was first apprentice to Mr Boondock Frisk, of Bribe, Bribe & Frisk's Undertakers, Embalmers & Morticians; a Monumental Mason, and, in Mr Stapleford's opinion, a Monumental Oaf. Mr Frisk's sense of humour was not to everyone's taste. Indeed, his particular style of low buffoonery was usually highly inappropriate in a funereal setting. Thankfully Frisk’s wild notion of a plaque above the door proclaiming ‘We put the FUN back in funeral’ had been shouted down at the last director’s board meet.
Next, to arrive was the aptly named Dame Rotunda Asquith, curator of the Apuskidu Squid and Fish Museum, as remote and aloof as ever, and her good friend Horatio Flange, the self confessed aesthete and devilishly handsome owner of the Smug Kitchen Art Gallery. Tales of his rampant loins preceded him. He took Miss Bintwrangler's far from dainty paw and with a flourish, bowed profoundly, actually succeeding in brushing his moist, succulent lips against her slightly overlong toenails. A blushing circle of ladies both young and mature watched this display from behind their fluttering fans, long evenings of gymnastic depravity on their minds. Indeed, the move even seemed to enthral Lord Winnit IX, under whose scrutiny Mr Flange had been for some time. He simply didn't seem to be able to stop fondling his moustache, twisting and twirling the ends until they were quite corkscrewed, resulting in an utterly preposterous countenance.
Measuring the situation carefully, the often-unperceptive Norbury decided it was high time he stepped in, and under a flimsy guise of civility, he near dragged Constance away from Flange, purposefully thrusting her towards their latest arrivals.
'The celebrated author, Miss Philomina Millicent Gripewater and her identical cousin Miss Cecilia Sprint-Strudel.' introduced the Colonel.
'Charmed' they chimed in unison.
'Extraordinary!' Miss Bintwrangler enunciated enthusiastically.
'Yes, how unusual! Your own mothers must have the very devil's work cut out for them, just telling you apart!' quipped the ever ubiquitous Horatio Flange.
'Indeed they do!! Aside from my love of deserts, which gives me away time and again! I'm a complete sugarwhore!! Cecilia's more of a fillet mignon girl, but give me a crepe suzette any day!' indulged Philomina, flirting outrageously.
As the steady stream of cultured guests arrived, each was duly introduced to the Colonel by Miss Bintwrangler, or vice versa, and then plied with the intoxicant of their choice, be it sparkling, on the rocks or dry with an olive.
'Ah, Lord Winnit, I believe you haven't met The Professor yet! Professor Dreadnought, may I introduce Lord Ambrose Ambrose Winnit IX. Lord Winnit, this is Professor Dulcimer Dreadnought, from the institute.' offered the colonel by way of introduction.
'Yes, yes, but who are you?!' inquired the professor, offering the Lord a dismissive handshake, forgotten almost before it started. He turned to the Colonel questioningly.
'Why, I am Colonel Norbury Liquorice Thrust-Munch, of course, Miss Bintwrangler's beau. I visited you at the university last year..?’
'Ah, yes, yes, quite, quite, you must forgive me, I was unaware of your ... your ascension to this most envious status... Miss Constance and I have not had much call for correspondence recently. Not recently at all, at all...' Thrust-Munch smiled wanly, as the professor’s conversation dwindled into repetitious mumblings, serving as his own echo.
Once all the guests had arrived, and after charging their glasses once more, the party set off on an amusing junket past the hothouse and on through the specimen rose garden, led by the happy couple. The coppered domes of an obsolete observatory tower winked at them through the trees. It had more recently been modified to house an extensive weather station, whose pinwheels, gauges, and suite of clocks and barometers were something to behold. They paused to marvel at the innate beauty in the intricate myriad brass cogs, pendulums, dials, and pulleys. There was even a saucily amusing water-powered automaton of a goatish gentleman with a jaunty topper, who saluted each evening with his own full moon.
'And this, of course, is our astronomical clock' boasted the Colonel, temporarily forgetting exactly what was who's. Taking mental note, Constance acquiesced with nought but a tight smile.
'Yes, these elaborate clocks do set one back rather a pretty penny.... we had one set in the wall of our South turret and it was extortionate!' interjected Cecilia Sprint-Strudel inadvisably.
They sauntered on, exchanging benign banter; the men’s superficial and pompous, the women’s deliciously unclouded by thought.
Having initially tagged along behind, Lady Jezebel and her brother Twemlow stole off towards the bandstand, disinterested in the spurious facts of the Colonel's concocted monologue.
Marquise Nomenclature also took this opportunity to decamp from the house, commanding full attention of the servants. First nibbling a few savouries and a finger sandwich or two at the buffet, then, emboldened, the dowager sampled extensively from the cocktail menu, finally making her way to the spectator’s seats in front of the bandstand where she made herself at home, a small cache of olives and glacier cherries concealed in her lap. Glancing through a programme on her chair, she tutted openly at the idea of 'The Geraldine Mowbray Skiffle Experience' who headed the bill. A barber's shop quartet from the village, known as 'The Mrs M Social Club' were warming up, and she contented herself with that. She had always relished a good a cappella.
The Marquise was a former beauty queen, whose face- her only talent- now bore the scorch marks of a lifetime of lies and malice. A ruinous aspect on life that had left her considerably cankerous, bilious and bloated in her dotage.
She had dozed off peacefully enough in her comfortably worn leather wingback chair, after breakfasting on a brace of quail’s eggs accompanied by several indulgently buttered crumpets. She enjoyed listening to the warm hoots of the wood pigeons, and the metronome, tok, tok, tokking away the hours, as disturbed motes from the dusty books sifted through the early morning shafts of sun. She liked it in the library. It was most tranquil. The dank odour from the carpets kept others away, but it mattered to her not one jot.
After a few moments, the Marquise laboriously eased herself out of her favourite chair and ambled arduously to the window casement, with the simian gate of one whose legs have yet to fully awaken from slumber. She traced her finger idly along the lead beading of 'The Garden Of Earthly Delights'. It's rendering really was exquisite. She truly felt that her personally commissioned Hieronymus Bosch stained glass picture windows really gave the room a prodigious feel. Peering through a rare empty space in the debauched triptych, she spotted Thrust-Munch as he marched into view, looking for all the world like he owned the place. Swiftly stepping back into the obscurity of the ever-gloomy library, her scowl did little to enhance her repugnant demeanour.
Outside, preparations for the gala were well under way. It had been the Colonel's idea, a foolproof way to show off a choice selection of Miss Bintwrangler's finest works. She really did have a way of capturing the unexpected with that box camera of hers.
Yes, a handful of distinguished guests, an extensive tour of the grounds, taking in the rotating summerhouse, the ornamental pagoda and the Monkeypuzzle Drive, followed by a spot of light lunch by the bandstand, a short lecture from the Reverend, and the grand unveiling, was just what was needed. Maybe even a lawn game or two: quoits, perhaps. All in all, an excellent way to curry favour with those whose opinion mattered most and also an insidious opportunity to further his relations with Constance. He had a feeling his amorous dalliances had not gone unnoticed.
Rounding the windiest of corners, Norbury and his valet Clench strode towards the house, where their noses caught the evocative scent of freshly cut grass, with perhaps, every now and then the unmistakable residual waft of the cesspool effluent and the library it had so rudely intruded upon. Thrust-Munch's nose wrinkled in disgust.
'Clench. Get the Stench-muffler, there's a good man. We can't have this malodorous ronk ruining my meticulously planned day. And get Master Twemlow and Lady Jezebel to give you a hand with the bunting, I'm told the girl’s a dab hand with that sort of thing. By the way, have you seen my delicate little Constance?'
In Clench's opinion, the 'delicate little Constance' in question, was a dried up old sow, but in no way did he let this show on his pallid, pendulous face.
'Miss Bintwrangler's just putting the finishing touches to the arboretum, training and trimming her topiary into those perturbing and suggestive shapes she’s so fond of, down by the old Gastric Mill race. Just follow the stream, you can't miss it' said Clench, pointing vaguely into the middle distance.
The Colonel stalked off in the instructed direction, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, leaving Clench to deal with the fumigator, a treacherous device he'd hooked his gizzards on on more than one occasion. Behind him the archaic machine rumbled into life, billowing great smuts of choking smoke for several minutes before it squalled, crunched, guttered and died.
Spaz and Flid, who had been expertly groomed and fitted with new taffeta ruffs for the occasion, scampered at the Colonel's heels, tripping him repeatedly, and generally making a hindrance of themselves.
'Loathsome, lousy little knob Jockeys! Wiffett would have none of your gibbering foolishness!' he chuntered, making a mental note to accidentally dropkick at least one of the asinine canines into Slag-Grope Lake at the next opportunity. The sooner he got himself and his fine hound ensconced here, the better. He would soon have things shipshape.
For her part, Miss Bintwrangler had hand selected a clutch of the most noteworthy gentlemen and ladies of the picturesque village of Saintless Niche on Manifold and its environs; the significant, the superior, the celebrated, and of course those with far reaching influences. As each arrived, she was there to ensure that either herself or her dearest Norbury was there to greet them personally, ascertaining that neither the malingering and meddlesome Marquise nor that window-licker Clench were anywhere in sight.
Reaching across to whisper seductive, breathy nothings into Norbury's waxen ear, she gave a surreptitious tweak to his proud nipple. As an involuntary mewl escaped him, she popped an industrial strength mint between his lips. God forbid he should inadvertently breathe his toxic miasma into the upturned faces of the guests. She knew only too well how his legendary breath could bring a tear to one's eye. Often, she caught herself ruminating on how he required his own herb-strewer to precede him, although secretly, she had grown to quite savour its ripe charms.
First to arrive was Lord Ambrose Ambrose Winnit IX, a spoonfaced noob if ever there was one. As a competent mutineer and an accomplished virtuoso of the muted trumpet, he had been near the top of Constance's list of invitees.
Following hot on his heels were the esteemed Mr. Foulk Stapleford and his fiancé Miss Ettiley Heath, whose unfortunate face, crumpled as if perpetually riddled with doubt, peered out meekly from beneath a thatch of gossamer-thin titan hair and a precariously balanced hat. Mr Stapleford was first apprentice to Mr Boondock Frisk, of Bribe, Bribe & Frisk's Undertakers, Embalmers & Morticians; a Monumental Mason, and, in Mr Stapleford's opinion, a Monumental Oaf. Mr Frisk's sense of humour was not to everyone's taste. Indeed, his particular style of low buffoonery was usually highly inappropriate in a funereal setting. Thankfully Frisk’s wild notion of a plaque above the door proclaiming ‘We put the FUN back in funeral’ had been shouted down at the last director’s board meet.
Next, to arrive was the aptly named Dame Rotunda Asquith, curator of the Apuskidu Squid and Fish Museum, as remote and aloof as ever, and her good friend Horatio Flange, the self confessed aesthete and devilishly handsome owner of the Smug Kitchen Art Gallery. Tales of his rampant loins preceded him. He took Miss Bintwrangler's far from dainty paw and with a flourish, bowed profoundly, actually succeeding in brushing his moist, succulent lips against her slightly overlong toenails. A blushing circle of ladies both young and mature watched this display from behind their fluttering fans, long evenings of gymnastic depravity on their minds. Indeed, the move even seemed to enthral Lord Winnit IX, under whose scrutiny Mr Flange had been for some time. He simply didn't seem to be able to stop fondling his moustache, twisting and twirling the ends until they were quite corkscrewed, resulting in an utterly preposterous countenance.
Measuring the situation carefully, the often-unperceptive Norbury decided it was high time he stepped in, and under a flimsy guise of civility, he near dragged Constance away from Flange, purposefully thrusting her towards their latest arrivals.
'The celebrated author, Miss Philomina Millicent Gripewater and her identical cousin Miss Cecilia Sprint-Strudel.' introduced the Colonel.
'Charmed' they chimed in unison.
'Extraordinary!' Miss Bintwrangler enunciated enthusiastically.
'Yes, how unusual! Your own mothers must have the very devil's work cut out for them, just telling you apart!' quipped the ever ubiquitous Horatio Flange.
'Indeed they do!! Aside from my love of deserts, which gives me away time and again! I'm a complete sugarwhore!! Cecilia's more of a fillet mignon girl, but give me a crepe suzette any day!' indulged Philomina, flirting outrageously.
As the steady stream of cultured guests arrived, each was duly introduced to the Colonel by Miss Bintwrangler, or vice versa, and then plied with the intoxicant of their choice, be it sparkling, on the rocks or dry with an olive.
'Ah, Lord Winnit, I believe you haven't met The Professor yet! Professor Dreadnought, may I introduce Lord Ambrose Ambrose Winnit IX. Lord Winnit, this is Professor Dulcimer Dreadnought, from the institute.' offered the colonel by way of introduction.
'Yes, yes, but who are you?!' inquired the professor, offering the Lord a dismissive handshake, forgotten almost before it started. He turned to the Colonel questioningly.
'Why, I am Colonel Norbury Liquorice Thrust-Munch, of course, Miss Bintwrangler's beau. I visited you at the university last year..?’
'Ah, yes, yes, quite, quite, you must forgive me, I was unaware of your ... your ascension to this most envious status... Miss Constance and I have not had much call for correspondence recently. Not recently at all, at all...' Thrust-Munch smiled wanly, as the professor’s conversation dwindled into repetitious mumblings, serving as his own echo.
Once all the guests had arrived, and after charging their glasses once more, the party set off on an amusing junket past the hothouse and on through the specimen rose garden, led by the happy couple. The coppered domes of an obsolete observatory tower winked at them through the trees. It had more recently been modified to house an extensive weather station, whose pinwheels, gauges, and suite of clocks and barometers were something to behold. They paused to marvel at the innate beauty in the intricate myriad brass cogs, pendulums, dials, and pulleys. There was even a saucily amusing water-powered automaton of a goatish gentleman with a jaunty topper, who saluted each evening with his own full moon.
'And this, of course, is our astronomical clock' boasted the Colonel, temporarily forgetting exactly what was who's. Taking mental note, Constance acquiesced with nought but a tight smile.
'Yes, these elaborate clocks do set one back rather a pretty penny.... we had one set in the wall of our South turret and it was extortionate!' interjected Cecilia Sprint-Strudel inadvisably.
They sauntered on, exchanging benign banter; the men’s superficial and pompous, the women’s deliciously unclouded by thought.
Having initially tagged along behind, Lady Jezebel and her brother Twemlow stole off towards the bandstand, disinterested in the spurious facts of the Colonel's concocted monologue.
Marquise Nomenclature also took this opportunity to decamp from the house, commanding full attention of the servants. First nibbling a few savouries and a finger sandwich or two at the buffet, then, emboldened, the dowager sampled extensively from the cocktail menu, finally making her way to the spectator’s seats in front of the bandstand where she made herself at home, a small cache of olives and glacier cherries concealed in her lap. Glancing through a programme on her chair, she tutted openly at the idea of 'The Geraldine Mowbray Skiffle Experience' who headed the bill. A barber's shop quartet from the village, known as 'The Mrs M Social Club' were warming up, and she contented herself with that. She had always relished a good a cappella.
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