'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?!!'
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