By Martin Pearson

“Well, this is a dashed nuisance,” thought Reggie Upton, as he felt himself being dragged, by the leg, into some unseen creature’s lair.

The tentacle wrapped around the hapless limb was hard and suckered. This was too bad. Reggie reflected that he had only worn the worsted-wool suit twice before, and between being pulled over rough ground and the detrimental effect the tentacle was doubtless having on his trouser leg, the whole bally outfit was probably ruined beyond repair.

It was a shame that such a pleasant evening was being spoiled in this way. Norbert Gannicox had been a surprisingly good host, despite the fact that he was a non-drinker (rarely a good sign, in Reggie’s estimation). He had been wandering back to The Squid and Teapot in a fine, if somewhat inebriated, state of mind, having spent a few blissful hours regaling Norbert with his army reminiscences. Being a practical type of chap, Reggie had happily warmed to Norbert’s suggestion that, while there, he should take the opportunity to sample the produce of the distillery. It was shortly afterwards that disaster had struck.  All it had taken was a stumble, and that tentacled beast had got the better of him. Well, the Afghan tribesmen hadn’t managed to see him off, and neither had the Boer guerrillas, so he would be damned if he would allow some glorified land-locked cuttlefish to succeed where they had failed. The only problem was that, for once in his life, he had no idea what to do. He was being drawn inexorably towards the dark fissure which the blasted animal regarded as its home, with no obvious means of escape.

Suddenly, things began to look more hopeful. Drury, the skeletal hound, unexpectedly bounded from the shadows, barking loudly enough to wake the dead (although, in all honesty, on Hopeless that was no great feat).

“Give it a nasty bite, there’s a good chap,” encouraged Reggie, remembering how Drury had saved Philomena Bucket from danger just a few weeks before.

Much to the dismay of both, before Drury could apply his teeth to the tentacle, another similarly suckered arm slithered from the gloom of the lair and swatted the dog off with ease. Reggie winced in sympathy as he heard the clatter of bones noisily hitting the ground, some yards away.

“Are you alright, old fellow? Come on, get back on your feet.”

It was a voice that Reggie did not recognise. Was he talking to him? Old fellow, indeed! He was in the prime of life. Dashed impudence.

A strange figure emerged through the gloom. It was that of a tall, powerfully built man, his features illuminated by the candle-lantern that he held aloft. He carried something on his back; it looked like a large bucket. Drury, who had obviously been the object of the man’s concern, rattled up behind him.

Immediately Reggie felt the vice-like grip on his leg relax, and the tentacle receded back into the hole in the ground, with an angry hiss.

“What on Earth are you doing out at this time of night?” Rhys Cranham demanded. “It’s no place for folks to be wandering, especially a gentleman like yourself.”

Reggie rose painfully to his feet, examining his trouser leg for damage. Satisfied that the trousers would live to fight another day, he faced his rescuer.

“Reggie Upton,” he said. “I am most awfully grateful, young man. I think you have just saved my life, not to mention my suit. But how the devil did you…?”

“It’s the smell,” grinned Rhys. “I’m the Night-Soil Man and, to put it bluntly, I stink! There’s not much on the island that can stand to be around me.”

His voice trailed off and he looked at Reggie with some suspicion.

“Including people,” he added. “So why are you not affected by the smell?”

“A smell?” queried Reggie, “I had no idea, old chap. The old hooter’s not worked for years. Anosmia, I think it’s called.”

Rhys had heard the word before. When Philomena first came to the island she had a similar affliction, until a dunking in the sea had cleared her nasal passages.

“You can’t smell anything?” said Rhys, incredulously.

“Not a whiff, old boy,” replied Reggie. “It happened when I was a young subaltern in India. Due to brain damage, apparently.”

“You were wounded in battle?”

“Good heavens, no,” Reggie chuckled. “I was as drunk as a lord, and fell over in the officer’s mess after a rather good, but ill-advised, beano. I banged the back of my head on the corner of a step and was out cold for ages. When I came to, I couldn’t smell a thing. Been like that now for forty years.” 

“And you’re happy to talk to me?” said Rhys,

“My dear chap, of course I am. Let me shake you by the hand.”

“No… no, don’t touch me,” said Rhys, quickly pulling away from him. “The stench will stick around you, if you do.”

“Well, I am much obliged,” said Reggie. “I’d better toddle off back to The Squid, but if there is anything I can ever do…”

It was late the following morning when Reggie, feeling slightly the worse for wear, wandered into the bar, hoping that the metaphorical hair of the dog might chase away his hangover.

“You were out late last night,” commented Philomena. “I was beginning to worry.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Reggie, “but it was a close run thing. Saved from sudden death by someone who said he was a Night-Soil chap, or somesuch.”

“You met Rhys?” Philomena was suddenly interested.

“Is that his name? Yes, nice fellow, though a bit remote. He seemed surprised that I could bear to be around him.”

Reggie then related to Philomena the events of the night before, and the fact of his inability to detect smells.

 “That’s a pity for you,” commiserated Philomena, “but at least you were able to talk to Rhys face-to-face. No one else can get that close to him.”

 “Poor fellow,” said Reggie, “I assume that he’s not exactly fighting off friends or sweethearts, in that case,”

Philomena shook her head and stifled a sob. Then she poured her heart out, telling of her shattered hopes and the wedding that never was.

Reggie pondered her words, smoothing his moustache as he always did when in deep thought.

“Well, it won’t change your plight, but I’m more than happy to go and chat to him at any time, if you think he can stand the company of an old soldier.”

“Thank you. I am sure that he would love the company of an old soldier,” said Philomena, truthfully.

That night Reggie met Rhys, just as the Night-Soil Man was beginning his rounds.

“Just ask if there’s anything I can bring you from The Squid,” he said. “You know, food, beer, etcetera, etcetera.”   

“No, I’m catered for, thanks,” said Rhys. “Philomena is always leaving bottles of ale and starry-grabby pie on my doorstep.”

“Ah, the Lovely Miss Bucket!” said Reggie, with a grin.

Rhys said nothing. Much as he appreciated having this new-found friend, he would have preferred that the Lovely Miss Bucket was the one with anosmia.