Category Archives: Mrs Beaten

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Terrible exposure

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In recent weeks, we’ve had odd glimmers of sun on the island – rare summery conditions that have had strange effects on the locals. A person might safely venture forth without wearing a scarf. Some have even gone so far as to roll up their shirt sleeves, or turn up the cuffs on their trousers.

This has proved difficult for Mrs Beaten. The sight of exposed forearms inspires uneasy feelings in her. Especially the vision of blue-ish veins in skin pale from scarcity of sunlight. Gaze for too long and you can make out the presence of a pulse. It is too much, too intimate beholding such things unexpectedly. And as for the trousers…

Mrs Beaten tries not to think about what anyone else might have beneath their trousers, or under their skirts. If the notion is unavoidable, she likes to picture candlesticks and lamp stands. It is a horrifying thing to be able to see a person’s socks. No one should bare their undergarments in this way. A little exposed skin about the calf is too shocking, truly wanton. The young men seem at ease with these appalling displays of flesh.

Mrs Beaten worries about where this will lead, and what unspeakable acts may follow. This orgy of trouser rolling, this hedonistic horror of visible shins runs the risk of inviting other, even more dreadful acts of deviation. She fears the exposure of knees, tries hard not to think about knees, finds herself haunted by the idea of them.

What would she do if she happened to be walking in the street and a man came towards her with his knees on display? How could she possibly cope? Could she control herself in such circumstances? She hopes that the overwhelming nature of the encounter would provoke her into saying some stern and appropriate words of condemnation. She fears that she might stand there transfixed, unable to look away from the sordid display.

If the man asked her to touch his knees, what would she do?

She thinks a lot about the danger of such a proposition. The exact way in which it might be phrased. She pictures a scenario in which she is unexpectedly close to the man who has exposed his leg joints so shamelessly for her viewing.

“Look at my knees, Mrs Beaten. You know you want to look at them,” he says in her mind.

She tells herself that she absolutely does not want to be trapped in a narrow alleyway with a man who demands she looks at his knees. And yet somehow she can still hear his voice in her head. “I’ve got big knees,” he says.

(Art and text by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The Rotten Shark

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Being the culinary notes of Mrs Beaten.

The shark was not an overwhelming success, I am sad to say. When reports of it, washed up on the beach came in last year, I was initially somewhat excited. Mrs Ephemery and I arranged a little team of workers to prepare the shark. I gutted the shark myself, a smelly and visceral process. Mrs Ephemery undertook the beheading. I was not previously aware that she had such a great fondness for that process.

We buried the shark in sandy gravel, as I have been informed is traditional. Although it is rather a lot of work. There were those who said we should eat what could be salvaged from the shark at once. There were others who said it was too far gone and that we might as well try something else. There were those… (and I hesitate to quote them) who said that the shark would taste of (something terrible) no matter what we did with it.

Mrs Ephemery cheerfully assured us that the meat at this stage would be poisonous, and that anyone daring to eat it before she had processed it would be likely to go blind. 

After the fermenting process, we had to dig up the shark – which to my great astonishment had not been eaten by anything else during the months of its being buried. We then cut it into strips and took it to The Crow to be dried. At this point the shark had a discernible smell, and it was not the smell of decay, but of something else altogether. It put me in mind of my late husband at his most beastly.

We waited for a further four months, during which time Mrs Ephemery and I discussed the shark on a number of occasions. I have found her to be an excellent companion. We share a passion for unusual food, and have sampled all kinds of meat together. I did not think that at this stage of my life I might find a friend, but it has come to pass. I shall remain ever grateful for the day that I saw the board outside The Crow announcing “Dead Mans Fingers” on the menu. They turn out to be an edible mushroom with only mild side effects.

I approached the day of the shark testing with great excitement. Mrs Ephemery and I worked together to remove the crust from the outside of the shark meat. She reassured me that she had been expecting this, as it was mentioned in her great grandmother’s kitchen notes. 

The texture was inoffensive. The smell… pungent and reminiscent of my late husband. Of the tasters gathered, three did not make it past the stage of smelling the meat, even though we were samping it outside. Mrs Ephemery had informed us that despite the snowstorm, outside was the best choice for eating this dish.

Of course I partook of the shark meat. I have tasted worse. It was not wholly impossible to swallow, although I seem to be the only one who could manage much of this. Mrs Ephemery only ever tastes small amounts of food and seems to enjoy food more in terms of preparation and as a spectator’s sport. 

One of the Scientific Gentleman kindly informed me that the correct technical name for the flavour – which has the merit of not being uncouth – is ammonia.

(Written by Nimue)

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten’s Bedside Manner

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Story by Nimue.

You are feverish, but you do not think this alarming vision is just a product of your fevered brain. While you can’t stand up, you have enough mastery over yourself to be fairly certain of your own mind.

The question is, how did she get in? Surely the door was locked? She isn’t the type to climb through a window, that would be far too undignified. You feel confident this is someone who would rather die in a house fire than climb indelicately from a window.

Her hands are cold upon your burning brow. So cold. You almost like the feeling while wanting not to like it at all. She straightens your quilt, not even sickness makes untidiness acceptable.

“I do not think you are ready for soup,” she says.

This is a relief. You have never felt less ready for soup, but imagine her spooning it into your mouth, making you feel powerless in face of her. What other horrors might she insist upon? A bedbath? An emptying of the chamber pot? There are so many things to fear, and in your fevered state, that fear has a truly delicious quality to it.

“Of course you have no one to blame but yourself,” she says, sternly.

You have no idea what she means.

“I know some gentlemen consider a brisk paddle in the sea to be good for the constitution, but hardly in that bay.”

You still have no idea what she means.

“It was fortuitous that I happened to be in the area,” she adds.

You have been suspicious for some time that Mrs Beaten has been following you, but thought it best not to say anything.

“There’s a jellyfish woman in that bay. Everyone knows that.”

You did not know that, but a hazy memory returns, of translucent flesh and a desperately pretty face.

“She had you enraptured,” Mrs Beaten puts her hands on her hips and stares at you. Her judgement is intense.

“I don’t remember,” you manage to say, but your voice is hoarse.

“Of course you don’t. That’s how they get you. They make you forget, and they make you long to return to them. You’ve lived here long enough to understand that. Really, I expected better from you.”

“Sorry,” you manage.

“I had no choice but to beat her to death with my umbrella,” Mrs Beaten adds, with a casualness that suggests she does this sort of thing all the time. “I had to bring you back in a wheelbarrow.”

While this explains a few things, it does not comfort you.

“I’ve brought you a restorative from Doc Willoughby,” she says.

You can’t see the umbrella, but all the same it seems wiser to follow her instructions.

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten’s guide to afternoon tea

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By Nimue Brown

You will of course want to have afternoon tea. It is one of the hallmarks of a civillised society and absolutely essential. I shall guide you through this process.

Firstly you will require a table and chairs. If you have to make do in this regard, focus your attention on a good tablecloth. This will disguise many things, including unseemly table legs, stray tentacles and anything you are obliged to hide under the table. Good crockery is an asset, but I fear you will struggle to get anything to match. You may cheer up your table with some nice flowers. Be sure to find out in advance of your tea party whether the flowers are poisonous, venomous, hallucinogenic or inclined to attack in other ways.

It is possible to make decent herbal teas from a number of plants that grow on the island. I know, this is a horrifying assertion. There can of course be no milk or cream in such a tea, but if you’ve seen what comes out of the small cows, or for that matter the donkeys, you might consider this a blessing. Donkey milk is an acquired taste.

Further difficulties arise should you wish to serve cake, buttered toast, or biscuits with your tea. Almost no wheat is grown on the island. What grains we have cannot be relied upon and I am told that the interesting moulds that grow on them add to both the flavour and your chances of seeing something wholly unexpected. It is, I am afraid to say, very difficult to make cake out of seaweed. It is possible to make a sort-of biscuit thing that will not make you outright weep with disappointment.

One of the few things you can rely on here is meat. It isn’t always easy to come by, but for richness and lusciousness, it cannot be beaten. (That was my one joke, I hope you appreciated it.) There are few things that cannot be substituted for a really good cut of meat. Even jam. Made a cake but have no filling? Meat. Need a pie filling? Meat. And if you are trying to coax a gentleman to take tea with you, then you won’t go far wrong if you offer him some hot meat with plenty of stuffing. 

I do apologise, I seem to have become rather over-excited and may need to sit down for a moment.

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The Horrors of Hopeless, Maine

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By Nimue Brown

Good evening. It is my unfortunate task to try and prepare you a little for life on Hopeless, Maine. I must warn you that this is a terrible place, full of dreadful, horrible things. Many of which really are too terrible to describe. I will do my best to prepare you for the dire things that you may expect to encounter and while I shall try to speak circumspectly, the more delicate amongst you should be warned that you may struggle with what I have to say. Make sure that you have your smelling salts to hand, and if you need to unlace an excessively tight corset, please do so discreetly so as not to cause anyone else to swoon in an embarrassing manner.

Prepare yourself for the awfulness of collars and cuffs. There is so little sunlight here that laundry cannot be sunbleached, and greying occurs all too often. Further, there are very few good sources of starch, making it desperately difficult to keep collars in good, stiff positions. You may be tempted to use night potatoes in this regard, but I advise against this. Night potatoes are horrid things, with glowing eyes and writhing tentacles, but the worst of it is that if you do not prepare them in exactly the right way, they can stain your clothes! I’m sorry, there’s really no gentler way of putting this to people.

You are probably used to much higher standards than it is possible to maintain here on the island. You will struggle, for example, to find anything suitable for washing your hair with. There are of course eggs, but eggs are often in short supply and you may be forced to make the ghastly choice between shiny hair, and making a cake. Do not use glass heron eggs. They work perfectly well, but your chances of losing a digit, or a limb to the glass heron are high and this offsets any good to your appearance that the egg might have achieved.

While a decent amount of cutlery has been salvaged from shipwrecks over the years, the island suffers a terrible lack of spoons. There is an ongoing spoon crisis, and you would do well to keep your spoons with you at all times. This seems to be the only way to keep them safe from whatever appalling entities make it their business to steal them. And as I’m sure you can see, it is difficult to run a good kitchen without spoons. No one wants the shameful indignity of having to drink soup from a bowl. 

Fabric is also in short supply. You will need your mending skills and will be obliged to accept lower standards in fashion and neatness alike. Your stain removal skills will often be called upon. When preparing sea monsters, it is all too easy to get sprays of dark substances onto one’s clothing and they are notoriously hard to remove. Since coming here I have had to improve my techniques for dealing with scorch marks, and blood stains as well. Keeping things clean is an ongoing struggle and you may well lose sleep over it. I myself lost a great deal of sleep last week regarding the amount of tearing my clothing suffered and the difficulty of repairing my best dress. So let that be a warning to you.

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The Bauched Manifesto

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We, the Bauched of Hopeless Maine have written this document to assert our values and intentions. Our purpose is one of virtue, embracing restraint, stoicism, self denial, sobriety, modesty and good manners.

We assert that modesty in clothing is essential to the good functioning of society. Clothing should at all times properly reflect the body parts you have under your clothing while not drawing any attention to them. We must simultaneously centre that which is unspeakable while also never commenting on it.

We will be sober at all times. We will not be drunk with wine, or with poetry. We will not allow ourselves to become overly excited about acts of restraint and self denial. We will not go so far in mortifying the flesh as to allow deviance to enter in. There will be no hair shirts, no excessively tight corsetry and we do not encourage the use of chastity belts in case those lead to indecent thoughts.

We think it is important to practice restraint in all aspects of life. Restraint itself must also be restrained. Punishment also must be retrained for those who fall short of our ideals. There shall be no whipping, for example, no enthusiastic use of stick or slipper in cases of failure to be sufficiently bauched. It might be appropriate in times when self control is poor to consider strapping the afflicted person to a sturdy chair for an hour or two while the ill humours in the body are allowed to subside naturally.

We will take cold baths regularly, for cleanliness is conducive to the pure and modest life. We will not use ice in these baths for that could prove stimulating and we dedicate ourselves to avoiding the excessive stimulation of the nerves. When we bathe, we will not look at our own bodies, and we will undertake to touch ourselves as little as possible while performing the duties of ablution.

We will not beget children, for children are an abomination and the making of them is an obscenity. 

We will take brisk walks. We will not look too closely at the flowers, for flowers lack for restraint and allow all comers to take their nectar and pollen. We will not spend time in the company of fish, for fish do not respect gender binaries. We will stay away from the beaches to avoid the lascivious behaviour of mermaids and jellyfish women. We will close our eyes while washing our own undergarments so as to avoid improper thoughts. We will not have improper thoughts while reading our own manifesto.

We will at all times stay calm, and virtuous, avoiding all inflammation of the thoughts and subduing the senses to the best of our ability. We commit ourselves to tempered rationality and restraint. We promise to restrain each other when necessary and to support each other in finding the disciplines that will keep us bauched in all things.

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten goes on a date.

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He took me to the graveyard at twilight

The thrilling risk of staying out so late

He harvested the plants that bloom by night

An unexpected opening to the date.

I did not know how many herbs there sprout

Amongst the resting places of the dead

To take  them is grotesque I feel put out 

This does not seem the right way to be fed.

Nonetheless he set about the picking

Fragrant and flavoursome the plants he chose

Down there underneath the dead lie rotting

Will I eat that which has been fed by those?

He spoke of sauce to marinade his catch

As though he meant to take me in his snare

Would talk of stuffing make for me a match

Or did he mean to kill me in his lair?

How can one truly know a man’s intent

Talk of flesh is shameless and confusing

Is a fine banquet invitation meant

What exactly is the meat he’s using?

A wanton gesture, leaves touched to my face

As though he had designs upon my heart

Feed me herbs just to hasten my disgrace

Or break my ribs to take me quite apart.

How to interpret all this talk of food

Courtship or a terrible seduction

Romantic aims or something far more lewd

Honest soul or creature of corruption.

I thought about it.

For pity’s sake man don’t talk about meat

Without clarity and firm explaining

Don’t tempt with food trying to be discrete

Oblique offers are not that persuading.

Talk plainly fellow, if you talk at all,

Am I to go and look upon your hams

Have you got a pot that’s full of meatballs

Are you inviting me to taste your clams.

There’s nothing more annoying to my mind

Than being vague when speaking about meat

I like to know what I am going to find

Be it firm, or soft, distended or neat.

A gentleman should make himself quite clear

Be plain about what he has in his pot

His corpse herb sauce does not fill me with fear

Tell me how many tentacles he’s got.

(Whether Mrs Beaten knows what she is implying, is always a question you have to ask with her. It’s hard to say which would be more alarming, some kind of deadpan innuendo, or managing to say this from a state of utter obliviousness.)

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

No one is watching Mrs Beaten

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Mrs Beaten washes her windows thoroughly even though she knows that the chickens she keeps will undermine her work as soon as she stops. They are very tall chickens and they have the nasty habit of flicking things around.

“Dirty, disgusting things!” she says to the chickens, who do not care in the slightest about her judging them.

“Filthy creatures.” Which they are, and in their red eyes there are far too knowing looks.

Aside from the chickens, there isn’t a great deal to see from the window in her kitchen. Aside from the chickens, no one looks in through the window except for Mrs Beaten herself. Sometimes she likes to stand outside and view her kitchen as a stranger would see it if they came into her garden for the specific purpose of spying on her.

Today they would see the bones sticking out of the top of her soup pan, and they might wonder what kind of monster had died that there might be broth. Something whose bones were very long, and slender enough to break easily. The imaginary onlooker could take in the gleaming perfection of each kitchen surface, should they so desire.

Of course, standing here she cannot see how she herself might appear to an onlooker. She cannot be both the observer and the observed. On the whole, she dislikes people and wishes they would stay well away from her but there is something appealing in the idea of the remote and silent viewer. To be admired from a significant distance is an idea with some charm. After all, if no one is impressed by her efforts, what exactly is the point? It is essential to have standards for one’s own personal dignity, she thinks. But it would also be pleasing to have those standards seen and respected.

Mrs Beaten catches sight of herself reflected in the glass. Hardly more than a dark shape, she offers little to her own gaze.

“You are wanton,” she says to her own reflection, “Imagining someone looking at you and your beautiful, shining kitchen. How debased!” 

There is increasing satisfaction for her in the process of judging herself harshly. But the windows are very clean and ready for no one else to look through them.

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

Mrs Beaten on moths

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Never lick the moths, no matter how tempting they appear to be, or how hungry you are. They only ever taste dusty. Only a person driven half mad by hunger would think it reasonable to attempt to lick such a being. In the winter, when it has been deathly cold for far too long and your chickens are unwilling to lay anything resembling eggs, you might find a moth sheltering in the folds of a curtain, and succumb to the notion that moth licking has merit.

At such moments as these, the true obscenity of eating becomes all too apparent. The fleshiness of one’s own mouth. The inherently sordid nature of chewing and swallowing. The horror of a body that must consume in order to survive. It is as though the moths somehow cause these dreadful thoughts. I have found that the only safe way to prevent further ghastly moth incidents, is to keep my home rigorously free of them.

It is generally good practice to remove insects from the home. They cannot be trusted not to leave dirty footprints on the walls, and have the unpleasant habit of dying in unexpected places. I have benefited greatly from the judicious application of Dr Field’s insect repellent soap. Most moths cannot bear the flavour of cloth that has been washed in this substance. The green stains on my own skin vanished in a matter of days, and were a small price to pay for removing the moth problem.

I also invested in one of Dr Field’s special hunting robots. Although I am now uncertain about the nature of my purchase, for whatever is inside the robot grows as it consumes insects. I can see unsightly hairs pushing through the cracks in the device. I am fairly certain that yesterday I saw it eating a mouse, and I do not like the feeling that it is looking at me. Thankfully however I have had no urges to try and eat it, which is an overall improvement.

(With thanks to Rebecca Field for loaning her face.)

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The proper arrangement of a kitchen

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Mrs Beaten has an inexplicable urge to tell people how to manage their households.

A well functioning kitchen depends on proper consideration of the layout. First and foremost, one must ask, where will the blood go? At the very least, a kitchen should include a channel that will carry blood and other fluids conveniently from the room. If the channel does not have a slight tilt to it, then the contents will simply run out onto the floor when you try to wash it away, which entirely defeats the object of having such a channel in the first place. The channel width requires careful consideration. It should not be broad enough to invite a misplaced foot, but if it is too narrow it may block easily. 

Position your kitchen table over the channel. This will allow you to bleed the dead as required. Should you find the blood wholesome and suitable for black pudding, a bucket that straddles the channel and that can sit beneath the table will suffice. When the draining is for purposes other than culinary, simply let the blood run out into the channel, and sluice down with water at the end.

Where the channel exits your abode, you should be alert to the possibility of attracting vermin, and demons. That which is vacated from the deceased body, that which is unsavoury, may prove attractive to undesirable entities and it is ill advised to have them congregate in too close proximity to yourself. Chickens can be a good choice for both processing your disgusting waste and seeing off demons. A decently sized chicken will also eat rats, and their brightly glowing eyes provide useful illumination at night.

A large sink is essential in a well designed kitchen. Once the body has been drained you will want to wash it thoroughly. Consider where sink water will drain off and if possible, align this with your blood channel.

Your larder must be cool and shady. Be alert to any means by which a fly might enter this space bringing putrification and undertaking to steal your precious provisions.

While a sturdy range with ovens and plates is of course desirable, a great deal can be done with a cauldron suspended over a fire, and the judicious use of griddles. 

You will need knives. Very sharp knives. Also a knife sharpener so that you can keep those knives absolutely lethal at all times. A large meat cleaver is always a good investment especially for the processing of larger bones. A good chopping board will help to mute the noises made by using the meat cleaver. 

Some kitchen implements will turn out to be cursed, possessed or haunted. It is advisable to keep a few sturdy boxes along with chains and padlocks against such eventualities. However tempting it may be, never throw possessed or haunted kitchenware into the garden. Such items may ambush you in the future, seeking revenge or furthering other unnatural schemes. Always lock your suspect items in a secure place before seeking professional advice.