Story by Martin Pearson, festive tentacles by Nimue.

In these grey days, around the time of the winter solstice, it is no exaggeration to describe The Squid and Teapot as being a small oasis of hope in a grim and foggy landscape.  The inn invariably acts as a beacon to the good folk (and, it must be said, to some of the not-so-good folk) of Hopeless, Maine, and within its stout walls the troubled islanders can almost imagine themselves as being in a normal, albeit Dickensian, environment.

On the evening of our tale, business was brisk. Flickering candles, and lanterns exuding a gentle, amber light, glowed on every table, while a roaring log fire danced and crackled in the hearth. The bar and tiny snuggery of The Squid, packed with patrons, were bathed in a welcoming wash of gold that belied the horrors that lurked in every mist-strewn shadow beyond the walls. Safe within the inn, the air was filled with snatches of half-remembered songs and the hubbub of companionable conversation. Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord, made sure that the evening was fuelled with generous plates of Starry-Grabby Pie, washed down with copious amounts of Gannicox Spirit, foaming tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ ale and, not least, Reggie Upton’s home-made absinthe. One could almost be forgiven for thinking that nothing on earth could easily stop the flow of conversation and general bonhomie of this winter’s night – but one would have been wrong.

In the best tradition of well-worn clichés, the great oak door of The Squid and Teapot swung open dramatically, allowing a blast of cold air to send a flurry of snowflakes over the threshold, where they dissolved instantly. A sudden silence descended upon the revellers; heads turned, and every eye fell upon the dark shape silhouetted in the doorway. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop.

It was Reggie who broke the spell.

“My dear chap, I thought you were never going to get here.”

The newcomer stepped into the bar, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Rhys…?” It was Philomena Bucket’s turn to speak, apparently frozen to the spot with a tray of drinks expertly balanced on one hand.

A ripple of excitement swept through the room. It was Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man.

By necessity, Night-Soil Men have always been shadowy figures, rarely seen in the light, and then only from a distance. As is well known, the Night-Soil Man’s all-pervading reek routinely prevents people getting too close. There are exceptions of course; Reggie Upton suffers from anosmia – a total lack of any sense of smell – and had befriended Rhys, often accompanying him on his rounds. Philomena Bucket had been similarly afflicted when she came to the island, and Rhys had saved her from a gruesome end, wrapped in the deadly tentacles of some nameless creature. Philomena instantly fell in love with her rescuer, but their relationship was thwarted when an unexpected salt-water nasal douche, administered when she fell into the sea, loosened the deposits of grain in Philomena’s nose, instantly returning her olfactory senses to their original and efficient selves. On two previous occasions Rhys had attempted to give up his job, and both times things had gone horribly wrong, preventing the two from marrying. The likelihood of them setting up home together seemed ever more remote. Now, however, things had changed and Rhys had at last retired from his night-soil duties. He had subjected himself to a succession of baths, arranged for Reggie to secretly find him some clean clothes from the attics of The Squid, and summoned up his courage to re-join the daily life of the island.  

The former Night-Soil Man made his way through the back-slapping throng to where the love of his life stood, still poised, holding a drinks-tray aloft. More than one pair of ears strained to hear what endearments might pass between the two.

“You might have let me know,” said Philomena, testily. There was anger in her voice.

Rhys was taken aback.

“Let you know what?”

“That you had been feeding that elf fella; that Tomte, or whatever his name is.”

“The Tomte at old Blomqvist’s place? Yes, I’ve been looking after him, but what has he got to do with anything?”

“He’s cleaning our house,” said Philomena, exasperated.

“Our house? I had no idea,” said Rhys. “But if he’s cleaning it, isn’t that a good thing?”

“No it isn’t,” said Philomena. “I wanted it to be just for us, not some museum piece, looking just as the previous owner had left it, years ago.”

“But I couldn’t let him starve,” said Rhys. “Besides, a Tomte can get pretty nasty if they’re neglected. But I honestly had no idea…”

“Of course you didn’t,” snapped Philomena. “It was to be my surprise. A place of our own that I brought back to life myself. Now it’s ruined.”

Rhys looked crestfallen. This was not the welcome that he had expected.

“I am truly sorry,” he said, “but this need not stop us from moving in.”

“Not with him there,” said Philomena. “And I get the idea that his sort doesn’t take kindly to being shifted.”

“No…” conceded Rhys.

Philomena looked close to tears.

“There will be other houses,” said Rhys, “but at least we still have each other.”

With that he dropped to one knee and produced a small gold ring. It carried a crest which depicted a square and compass, and looked suspiciously like the signet ring that Reggie Upton had worn upon his little finger until very recently.

“Philomena Bucket…”

Before Rhys could utter the question, Philomena blurted,

“Of course I will, you dam’ fool!”

A rousing cheer rattled the windows of The Squid and Teapot. A pile of bones, seemingly discarded in the corner, shook themselves into the shape of Drury, who barked approvingly and wagged a bony tail.

“So when?” asked Rhys, happy at last.

“Next week. A Christmas wedding,” replied Philomena, who was even happier.