I am fairly confident that Winston Oldspot (Hopeless, Maine’s latest Night-Soil Man) is not at all familiar with the adjective ‘miffed’. There is  really no reason why he should be, having been raised in an orphanage where miffiness was definitely not tolerated. So, when he perched on a kitchen chair and dragged his boots on in sullen silence, he had no notion that the reason for the dark swampy gloop which had consumed his usually sunny disposition could be expressed very succinctly; he was miffed.

Winston did not dislike children; after all, he had been one himself not so long ago. However, the infant who had so recently arrived at The Squid and Teapot – what was her name? Catbrain? – seemed to have caused nothing less than a bout of insanity. In fairness he could understand Philomena and Rhys being quite fond of their adopted daughter, but Reggie? Really? And that’s even before you mention Drury! What had gotten into them? It was all beyond Winston’s understanding.

A little probing might reveal that the general climate of unconditional love for Caitlin (who most definitely has never been known as Catbrain) was not the real cause of Winston’s current feeling of discontent. It was purely the fact that her self-appointed fan-club of Grandpa Reggie and Uncle Drury seemed to have suddenly forgotten that Winston had ever existed. Ever since Rhys Cranham made the decision to retire from his post, and ceremoniously pass on the lidded-bucket and long-handled shovel to his apprentice, the two had made a point of accompanying Winston on his nightly rounds. Tonight, for the first time ever, neither of them had turned up. Even Mr Squash seemed to have forsaken him, although Winston could not imagine the great hairy bulk of the sasquatch simpering over some toddler.

Winston looked out into the misty, moonless night and hoisted the lidded-bucket on to his shoulders. A Night-Soil Man has to do what a Night-Soil Man has to do, and the cess-pools, midden-closets and privies of Hopeless would not empty themselves.

 The self-styled hermit, Neville Moore, has always made a practice of lighting several lanterns around his property whenever he knows that the Night-Soil Man is due to arrive. This is a wise decision, given that the somewhat odd and ancient building in Ghastly Green, which more resembles a mausoleum than a house, has more than its fair share of obstacles to negotiate. Not least of these is Neville’s decrepit pet raven, Lenore, who always appears seemingly out of nowhere to warn the hermit of the presence of intruders; this she does by calling his name. Many a visitor has been shaken to the core by this sudden black apparition, terrifyingly bursting from the night’s Plutonian shore and loudly cawing, “Neville Moore”.

 “Good evening Winston,” called Neville from his doorway, several yards safely upwind of the Night-Soil Man.

Winston, drenched in the light of the lanterns, waved feebly at the hermit.

“Hello Mr Moore,” he said, gloomily.

“Are you alright, my friend?” asked Neville, concernedly. “You sound a trifle miffed.”

Winston didn’t like ro admit that he had no idea what that meant, so he changed the subject.

“What are you up to at this time of night, Mr Moore? It must be nearly midnight.”

“Oh, not much,” said Neville. “I’ve been pondering over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore that Philomena found in the attics of The Squid. Reggie dropped it off this afternoon. Only that, and nothing more.”

Winston nodded, and wandered off to the end of the garden, where Neville’s ornate privy awaited his attention.

 “So Reggie can drag himself away from that brat long enough to run errands for Philomena, but isn’t able to come out with me,” thought Winston, bitterly.

Of course, had the Night-Soil Man been thinking straight, it might have occurred to him that Reggie and Drury, devoted as they were to little Caitlin, would  be unlikely to be cooing and fussing over the girl in the middle of the night.

Drury was not cooing, fussing or indeed moving much at all. Instead he was sound asleep at the foot of Caitlin’s bed, having tired both of them out by playing with her all day.

Reggie was happy to let his friend sleep. He pulled on a stout pair of boots before setting off alone from The Squid and Teapot, having allowed himself plenty of time to get to The House at Poo Corner before Winston would be ready to start his shift. You may recall that the old soldier had lost his sense of smell many years previously while serving in the British army. Almost uniquely, on Hopeless, this gave him the ability to tolerate the company of the Night-Soil Man without gagging or passing out.

 It was rare to meet anyone walking on the island after dark, so Reggie was surprised when a figure, carrying a small candle lantern, emerged from the shadows.

“Upton? Is that you?”

Reggie recognised the voice of Doc Willoughby. He did not trust the Doc, but the man was no physical threat, Nevertheless it was as well to be on his guard. He felt the reassuring weight of his trusty sword-stick in his hand, and said,

“Ah, Willoughby. Good evening.”

The Doc drew nearer, and the look on his face, illuminated by the amber light of the candle-lantern, told Reggie that all was not well.

“Upton… Reginald… I need your help,” he said, with a tremor in his voice.

“Whatever is the matter, old chap?”

“I think I’m dying,” said the Doc, and promptly fell face-first onto the muddy ground.

 To be continued…