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.