
“I know that it’s none of my business,” declared Father Ignatius Stamage, the ghostly Jesuit who haunts The Squid and Teapot. “ But Caitlin’s surname should ideally be Bucket-Middlestreet. Middlestreet-Bucket sounds too much like a municipal privy.”
Lady Margaret D’Avening lifted her disembodied head from under her arm and nodded in agreement.
“It makes sense,” she murmured, “but I fear that in common with all of the female line of that particular family, the girl will be known simply as Caitlin Bucket.”
“And will be unbaptised as well,” said Stamage with a shudder.
The subject of their discussion was blissfully unaware of the concerns raised by The Squid’s resident phantoms, and was currently enjoying a game of catch with Drury, the skeletal hound. From an onlookers point of view this was not a particularly successful pastime; on the rare occasions that Caitlin’s aim and Drury’s co-ordination synchronised, the ball would rattle around the dog’s ribcage and drop to the floor. Fortunately this seemed not to matter to either participant, given the fits of giggling and excited barks.
Prior to Caitlin’s arrival, mornings in The Squid and Teapot had traditionally marked a generally peaceful oasis of calm in the busy, and often chaotic, life of the inn. Not that anyone was complaining; Caitlin had won the hearts of all who met her, including the island’s most recent resident, the Buddhist monk, Tenzin, who was quietly sitting cross-legged in a corner of the bar.
“What’s he up to?” enquired Septimus Washwell. Trading on the fact that he had been responsible for bringing Tenzin to The Squid, Septimus felt it to be only right and proper that he should spend every free moment ensuring that his new-found friend was being suitably catered for, in exchange for no more than the occasional tankard of ‘Old Colonel’.
“He’s meditating,” replied Reggie Upton. “I’ve seen holy men in India doing it. Apparently the aim is to become one with the universe.”
“I’m surprised he can hear himself think, with all of the noise that Caitlin and Drury are making,” said Septimus.
“That’s the point,” said Reggie. “He isn’t thinking “
Regular readers will recall that Septimus and his wife, Mirielle (leader of the dance troupe ‘Les Demoiselles de Hopeless Maine’) had twin daughters, Germaine and Pauline, who had been born on the previous Christmas day. Named after two heroines of the French revolution, the girls were the apple of their father’s eye. At the moment, unfortunately, they were both teething, and life in the Washwell – D’Illlay household was currently far from placid. Being able to close his mind to all outside noise sounded idyllic to Septimus. He would have to ask Tenzin to show him how to meditate. How the fiery Mirielle would react to her husband attaining a state of bliss, while she looked after two fractious children, however, was another matter.
Just a mile or so away from The Squid and Teapot, Durosimi O’Stoat was also thinking of Tenzin. It occurred to him that he had been far too hasty in throwing the young man out of his home. Durosimi had done this in a fit of pique, having learned that, without enlisting the help of the Sasquatch, Mr Squash, or one of the Himalayan Yetis, the monk was incapable of getting back to Tibet. It was only now that the realisation dawned upon the sorcerer that the lad had spent the last ten or twelve years being taught by some of the finest practitioners of the occult arts that the world had ever known. Some of what they had told him must have rubbed off, Durosimi reasoned. He decided that he would have to find a way to lure Tenzin back, and out of the clutches of ‘That Bucket Woman’. Maybe he could persuade Doc Willoughby to help. After all, the Doc had been known to frequent The Squid from time to time. Yes, Durosimi was all too aware that he had given the Doc short shrift lately, on those occasions when the old quack had knocked on his door, but that was all in the past, and it was amazing what could be achieved when there was the promise of some well-aged single malt whisky in the offing.