Category Archives: Hopeless Tales

story, poetry, rumour and gossip

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Pro Quid Quo

Leave a comment

While haunting the attics of The Squid and Teapot, the ghost of Granny Bucket had discovered the vertical passageway leading to The Underland, and the nebulous dangers of the Crystal Cave. Her granddaughter, Philomena, had previously sealed the way, however, following the disappearance of young Marigold Burleigh. While mere mortals seemingly had no access to the cavern, this proved no barrier to Granny’s wraith, who was determined to contact her old friend, the Elizabethan alchemist, Doctor John Dee. To Granny’s surprise, when she reached Dee’s study it was not the learned doctor whom she encountered; instead she found herself staring into the eyes of Durosimi O’Stoat.

“Is your granddaughter so arrogant,” drawled Durosimi, “that she believes herself to know the only way into the Crystal Cave?”

Granny ignored the question.

“The last that I heard,” she said, “was that you were enslaving young men in an attempt to clear the passageway. The Lost Boys, we called them, and to my knowledge, they all escaped.”

“Enslaving?” Durosimi raised a single eyebrow. “A foul calumny, I assure you. I simply engaged a few youngsters to do a job of work for me… besides, there are plenty of others who were willing to help after that first unfortunate mutiny.”

‘So you found a way to get here. Congratulations,” said Granny, unenthusiastically, then added, “and what have you done with John Dee?”

“Done with him? Why, nothing.” said Durosimi. “It appears that we have arrived here in the year 1583, and, if my research into Dee’s life is correct, he is currently in Poland with his friend, the charlatan, Edward Kelley.”

“Typical!” exclaimed Granny. “So what are you doing still hanging around?”

“I have other business here,” said Durosimi.

He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Did you know that Dee was aware of the existence of The Underland long before that Buck… before your granddaughter came here?”

Granny didn’t know that, but she kept quiet. Durosimi seemed to want to share, and she had no intention of stopping him.

“Through his knowledge of The Underland, Dee often travels to… who knows where?. These journals of his are not only full of his adventures, but give detailed information of how he achieves this.”

“And you intend to learn how to do the same,” said Granny.

Durosimi nodded. “At the moment I have to satisfy myself with being able to wander through Tudor London… which is something of a mixed blessing. Sometimes I wonder how anyone ever survived the squalor, filth and barbarity of the age. However, it has a few advantages.”

“Such as?”

“As an Elizabethan gentleman I have access to books of learning, not to mention a reasonable diet, passably good wine, excellent brandy…”

Durosimi strutted from behind the desk, displaying  the somewhat flamboyant attire of a well-heeled Elizabethan-about-town.

“Nice codpiece,” observed Granny.

Durosimi ignored the remark, instead saying,

 “I know that you and I have had a few differences of opinion in the past…”

“Differences of opinion!” spluttered Granny.”That’s an understatement.”

“But that aside, I think, deep down, we respect each other’s abilities.”

“So what are you getting at? No, don’t tell me. You want me to keep quiet about your little escapades in Merrie England.”

“I would be grateful.”

“And if I don’t?” said Granny, defiantly. “After all, you can hardly kill me.”

Durosimi was silent for a moment, then said,

“I was wondering if we could have some sort of quid pro quo arrangement. It means…”

“I know exactly what it means,” broke in Granny. “I’ll scratch yours if you scratch mine.”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” replied Durosimi. “But yes, in essence that is correct.”

“You might not have noticed,” said Granny, “but I have nothing to scratch. I am pure ectoplasm.”

“But your silence could ensure my bringing back from Merrie England, as you so inaccurately call it, the occasional luxury for your granddaughter.”

“She’s not one for luxuries,” replied Granny.

“Very well. How about better food for that inn? Something that doesn’t involve fish heads and bits of dead cephalopods.”

“What could you get?”

“Oh… cheese, butter, decent flour, spices, sweetmeats… I could arrange for something to be found at Scilly Point, or some other agreed location, now and then, as though it was no more than a random bit of

flotsam and jetsam thrown up by the sea. Philomena need never know the truth.”

“You want me to lie to my granddaughter?” Granny sounded offended.

“That’s about the size of it,” said Durosimi, casually.

Granny looked pensive for a moment, then said,

“Quid pro quo it is then.”

Hopeless Tales

Notes of Philander Jones on ‘The Book’

Leave a comment

Story by Mark Hayes

The book came into my procession three weeks ago, after a great storm washed another wreck upon to the beaches west of the lighthouse. The book was old, bound in tattered leather and damaged by the salt of the sea. I have every reason to believe the latter was true even before the wreck.

I did not discover the book, that was my second cousin Incongruity Jones, but he passed the book on to me, as I am of the scholarly type, And also the from of the book was embronzed by the words ‘Fungus Fatisque Vocantia Te*’. Incongruity recognised the Latin word for Mushroom, so thought the contents of the book might be of interest to my main field of study.

*the spore of the mushroom beckons you

Most of the pages of ‘The book’ were damaged beyond repair. Some clearly had detailed lithographs of various fungi, and long descriptions which would have been of great interest, yet most were now indecipherable. But at the back of the book, spread across some thirty pages was the modern translation of a medieval ballad, which seemed somewhat incongruous to the other contents of ‘the book’. This too was damaged so that only fragments could be read. Fragments that meant little but hinted at much.

What is most strange, and thus worthy of note, are the passages that refer to our own island and events upon it. This being a medieval ballad, originally written in Middle English, then translated, and published according to the notes in the front in London in 1886. Yet it speaks of Hopeless, which implies someone from here took the tale out to the world centuries ago, or else some in the world had a way of knowing of events on the island centuries back….     

The title of the poem was also Latin ‘Domino Galoglass layci et grail’ which translates roughly as ‘The lays of Sir Gallowglass and the Holy Grail’ possibly. My Latin is less than perfect. The poem, what fragments remain’ however is in English.

Additionally, poetry is not my string point. I study fungi as a rule, but the latest research orphan is a bit of a moody sod given to reading the kind of poetry than depresses the spirit while wearing black. He writes a little as well and says the structure of the poem is, to quote him, ‘garbage, it’s like it’s just made up by someone.’

I pointed out ‘all poetry is ‘just made up by someone’. And gave him a clip round the ear.

He said ‘a two line rhyme followed by a discontented line and a hook is a bloody odd way to structure poetry’.

I threatened to dig out the birch switch if he didn’t bugger off and leave me to it.

He left. I don’t think he will last long, too gobby for one thing. I think we will have to do another study of the effects of Deaths Nightcap in tea before long. He may as well prove useful…  

In any regard, after some rather lurid passages about Sir Gallowglass, a maiden in a tower, unrequited longings and his death at the hands of a dragon or some other mythical creature, its hard to be sure as most of these sections are lost to us we arrive at a passage where the knight, apparently dead and a ghost, but not letting that keep him down, arrived at a strange shore…   

Sir Gallowglass to isle most Hopeless came

Through mist and fog and sleet and rain

When gibbous moon rises high

Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup

Mort brings no rest in hallowed halls

He seeks he cure to the woes of all

The ghost of that the lamb’s lips touched

Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup

The grail, the grail, he seeks it still

Death brings not rest beneath honours hill

Whence luna’s light doth shine

Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup

There are then several passages that follow along the same lines, something about frogs ‘In thine wisdom listen to them not’ Several obscured fragmented pages. None of which would seem to speak about Hopeless, but then a passage relates to things indigenous to the island more directly.  

Lick not the cat of dust beseech

Nor in the night potato patch reach

Whence night is dark stay home, stay home

Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup

One day the sun will shine again

And Sir Gallowglass know tis not in vain

If he but lay his hand upon the chalice, and so.

Then haunt doth seek the haunts cup

This section seems to speak of future events, of a redemption of some kind. Of a sunlit island which seems impossible to me. Then of course most of the work is obscured and illegible thanks to the salt water, there is a passage that I think reads ‘beware the trousers of ill content’ and another that has something to do with ducks, there is only one complete stanza left which is the one below.       

By pond of frogs in multitude

And towers of toads that shall not be stewed

Hide from the knight who seeks the grail

The haunt doth seek the haunts cup

It’s all a bit bizarre and I would dismiss it entirely, old though the book is some of it seems handwritten rather than printed. Transcribed carefully to look like print. It crossed my mind this may be a prank being played upon me by one of the research orphans. But this seems as inconceivable, as it is far too complex to be such a thing. But if it is genuine then some story of the island has clearly made it off the island centuries ago and then come back to us. The implications are worrying…

Also, there is a pond, well known for its frogs, in the middle of the island in some woods that according to local legend the ghost of a knight hunts there under a full moon seeking something long lost to man. Which sounds very strange so is probably true. I find myself wondering what the hell any of this has to do with mushrooms however.   

(Note from Nimue – this was written after it was pointed out to Mark that he seemed to have visited the same Frog Chapel as Dr Abbey – posted in in this tale long before Mark got involved. I’m pretty sure Mark doesn’t know about trousers of ill content but that’s trouser magic for you.)

Tales from the Squid and Teapot

What a difference a month makes…

Leave a comment

To recap… For some years Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, and Philomena Bucket, the barmaid at The Squid and Teapot, had conducted a loving, but necessarily platonic, relationship from a certain distance.

Anyone, with only a passing knowledge of the private life of a Night-Soil Man, will be aware that the malodorous nature of his work causes all living things (and, indeed, some non-living things also) to keep well away from him. This is a definite advantage when moving about the island of Hopeless, Maine, at night, but does not commend itself greatly to romance. Driven by love, almost uniquely Rhys resigned from his calling and married his beloved Philomena at Christmas. The ceremonial bucket and shovel was passed on to young Winston Oldspot, the burly sixteen year old who had served as Rhys’ apprentice for the past two years.

Although young for a fully-trained Night-Soil Man, Winston was by no means the youngest to heft the lidded bucket on to juvenile shoulders. That accolade goes to Randall Middlestreet, a century earlier, who took up the job at the age of fourteen, after only two months apprenticeship, when his master was unfortunately torn limb from limb and eaten by a monster that paid no heed to his smell (Randall – when still an orphan at Pallid Rock – first appeared in ‘The Vendetta’ in the tale ‘Cricket’, and was, many years later, the only other Night-Soil Man to resign his post).

In the ensuing month since Rhys’ and Philomena’s wedding, the island has witnessed several changes. Bartholomew Middlestreet (grandson of the aforementioned Randall) and his wife Ariadne gave up managing The Squid and Teapot, and moved into a cottage previously occupied by one Mr Blomqvist. While Mr Blomqvist has long departed the property, its helpful guardian, the gnome-like Swedish tomte, chose to remain, for which the Middlestreets, so far, seem grateful. The occupancy of the inn, and everything in it (including the resident flaneur, Reggie Upton), was bequeathed to Rhys and Philomena. News of this soon reached the spectral ears of Philomena’s long-dead grandmother, who immediately invited herself to stay and ‘help out’.

While very fond of Granny, Philomena was less than thrilled with her taking an extended residency, as were the ghosts who haunted the flushing privy, Father Ignatius Stamage and Lady Margaret D’Avening (also known as The Headless White Lady). Father Stamage incurred Philomena’s displeasure by having a mild hissy-fit and demanding that the notoriously witchy Granny Bucket keep well away from both him and Lady Margaret, and not practise her particular brand of ‘Old Time Religion’ anywhere near the privy… … and now you are up to date.

No one had seen Father Stamage or Lady Margaret for a week, or more. This was unsurprising as the phantom priest had gone into a sulk and disappeared into his hat, as he often did when out of sorts. As I have mentioned before, this is no exile into a dark, felt hole reeking of old incense and cheap brilliantine. The hat takes him back to wander the venerable corridors of his old alma mater, the Jesuit college Campion Hall, in Oxford. Lady Margaret, on the other hand, now bereft of her father confessor, quietly disappeared into the stones of the privy, which once formed part of her bed-chamber in Oxlynch Hall, the scene of her final adulterous affair and subsequent beheading at the hands of the Reverend Obadiah Hyde, who, coincidentally, also ended up as a ghost on Hopeless, and is known these days as The Mad Parson of Chapel Rock.

To the surprise of everyone, Granny had not been seen all week either. There was no great mystery here, however. Granny had made claim to one of the attics, and was exploring her new haunt with interest. Readers may recall that Philomena had once found a secret passage, up in the attics. Cleverly disguised as a heavy travelling trunk, the passage descended vertically through the walls of the inn, eventually taking the unwary explorer deep beneath the island, and on to the pathways which led to the mysterious Underland, where, quite frankly anything could, and did, happen. It was following the alarming disappearance of Marigold Burleigh, as described in the series of tales culminating in ‘The Halloween Party’, that a grief-stricken Philomena sealed the pathways in order that no one else be drawn into the glamour of the Underland.

It will come as no great revelation that Granny quickly found the faux travelling trunk and wasted no time in making her way down to the pathways. Hundreds of tons of fallen rock was nothing to Granny, whose spectral form could slip through any obstacle. She was very soon making her way to the crystal cave, which lay at its end. For any unsuspecting mortal wandering in, the cave liked to display its capricious nature, sending them anywhere through time and space that it chose. For Granny, however, mortality was a distant memory. She was putting up with none of those shenanigans, thank you very much!

“John Dee, are you still there?” she called. The crystals flickered with a cold, pale blue luminescence, then with a sigh and a shudder, the scene changed to a dark, chilly room filled with an assortment of strange instruments and specimens covering every available surface. Granny recognised an astrolabe and sextant, an alchemical chart and what appeared to be a glass jar containing a badly deformed foetus, but much of the other paraphernalia was unfamiliar.

A figure sat hunched over a writing desk on the far side of the room. Granny drifted silently across, thinking to give her old friend a small, but good-natured fright. Suddenly the figure looked up. It was definitely not Doctor Dee.

“Why, if it isn’t dear old Granny Bucket,” said a familiar voice. “What the devil are you doing here?”

If Granny was surprised, she did not show it. “I could ask you the same question, Durosimi O’Stoat,” she said.

Hopeless Tales

Field Journal Notes of Philander Jones

Leave a comment

By Mark Hayes

Field Journal Notes of Philander Jones

Lead research botanist and chemist of the Hopeless Horticultural Society

Notes on The Triple Ribbed Red Bloomers.

This fungi is most notable for its long thick stalk, its protruding, slightly bulbous, rounded tip and ovoid root stems than generally grow in pairs. Generally known to grow swiftly predawn and has been known to frighten both maidens and older women, when they come across one unexpectedly on as morning. There are rumours that adventurous young ladies have been known to seek out these woody tubers, but we of the society dismiss such suggestions as there seems to be no scientific reason for doing so.

The current research orphan, replacing the previous one who died some days ago of experimental pharmacology (see notes on toad licking below) is a feisty young lad. When we handed him a freshly gathered triple ribbed red bloomer however he became inordinately shy, bright red, and refused to talk about it. An effect that has been noted with adventurous young ladies as well.

It was posited this was all to doing with handling the thick stalk, we suspected a mild mood altering pharmacological agent that enters the body via the dermis but no one else but the young orphan seemed to be affected, though Mrs Krumpet, the house keeper, did burst out laughing when she saw him holding the fungi, somehow the sound of her laughter caused the effects of holding the parturient fungi to amplify.

Notes on Lesser Hollow Toad licking

There is a verity of Toad on the island that we believe is unique to lesser Hollow, a small wooded area with a deep blow of earth that has a pond at the bottom.

Some believe Lesser Hollow was formed by the toads themselves which live and breed vociferously around the pond but nowhere else on the island. The Lesser Hollow toads never sit on toad stools or go anywhere near a toad table. Instead, they frequently sit on each other. Mid breeding season (between March and October most years) the toads breed so quickly that they develop toad towers that sometimes reach up to the lip of the hollow, the highest recorded to our knowledge is a thirty-seven toad tower.

It was posited by Young Mr Candlewick of our sister organisation ‘The Hopeless Zoological Society’ that the reason the toads manage to make such high towers was that they excreted a stickly glue-like substance through their epidermis. In the spirit of cross society cooperation, we lent the HZS a research orphan, whom they encouraged to lick one of the toads to determine possible psychotropic properties of the dermis excretions. As they had read toad licking could be ‘quite fun’ in some odd journal that washed up after the shipwreck last month.  

Sadly, they were unable to determine if any psychotropic properties were present as the glue-like nature of the toads skin slime caused the research orphan to get his tongue stuck to the toad. Attempts to remove the toad stripped away several layers of skin from the orphans face and then Mr Candlewick had to remove the lingua with a pair of sheers.  

The orphan sadly expired due to blood loss, or possibly blood retention in his lungs, we are not sure which. His tongue, however. is still stuck to the back of the toad in question, and is now part of one of the largest toad towers ever seen on the island.

So, some success there.

We look forward to more cross experimentation with the zoological society  in coming weeks when we intend to feed a night potatoes to dust-cats to see what will happen  

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Seizing the Afternoon

Leave a comment

“I had no idea,” said Rhys Cranham, easing himself on to a barstool, “that managing an inn could be quite such hard work.”

It had been only a week since he and his new wife, Philomena, had taken over the running of The Squid and Teapot. Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet had opted to take a well-deserved retirement, bequeathing the inn, and everything in it, to Rhys and Philomena.

“It is certainly a world away from being a Night-Soil Man,” said Reggie Upton, the ageing ex-army officer, who had, apparently, been included as part of the fixtures and fittings.

Rhys smiled ruefully. When he had – almost uniquely – resigned from his former employment, in order to marry the barmaid, Philomena Bucket, he had little idea that within a month he would be plunged into the role of innkeeper. While Philomena and Reggie were happy with the social and domestic nature of the work, Rhys was less comfortable with taking on the mantle of ‘mine host’. He had left the Pallid Rock Orphanage at the age of fourteen to become the apprentice of Shenandoah Nailsworthy, the Night-Soil Man, but ever since Shenandoah’s death, some five years later, he had toiled alone and nocturnal. Well, maybe not totally alone; Rhys had long been very conscious that the life expectancy of a Night-Soil Man rarely stretched beyond the age of thirty-five. With this in mind, he set out to recruit his own apprentice, an orphan to carry on the unbroken tradition that had begun with Killigrew O’Stoat, a young man who had arrived with the Founding Families.

Unfortunately, Rhys’ first apprentice had been killed, and the next one turned out to be a Selkie, one of the seal-people, a lad who found the lure of the sea to be, unsurprisingly, more appealing than the prospect of spending his short life emptying privies and servicing cess-pools. Rhys felt cursed, and began to wonder if he would go down in history as Hopeless, Maine’s very last Night-Soil Man. It was only with the arrival of Winston Oldspot, the most recent apprentice, that things began to change. And now Rhys was happily married to the girl of his dreams, living an ordinary life – and feeling totally out of his depth in company. After years of living in gloom, stench and near-isolation, he now found himself thrust into the very centre of island society.

“Why don’t you and Philomena take some time off?” said Reggie. “I can do whatever needs to be done until opening time. Carpe diem, and all that, what?”

“Carpet what?” asked Rhys, confused.

“Carpe diem, old chap. Seize the day. It’s Latin.”

“Ah, Latin,” said Rhys. “I must have been off school on the morning that they taught that. Besides, the day is half-over already.”

“Well, jolly well seize the afternoon, then,” said Reggie, adding, somewhat unhelpfully, “That would be carpe post meridiem, I suppose.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Philomena, appearing as if from nowhere and carrying a crate of empty bottles, which she handed to an unsuspecting Rhys. “We need to get this lot back to Norbert Gannicox,” she said. “Afterwards, perhaps, we can wander along to see how the Middlestreets are getting on in their new home.”

Before Rhys could say another word Philomena had shepherded him off in the direction of the Gannicox Distillery. As she passed Reggie she flashed him a beaming smile and silently mouthed the words ‘Thank You.’

Reggie had been correct. Getting away from the Squid for a few hours, and visiting Bartholomew and Ariadne, helped to brighten Rhys’ mood. The Middlestreets seemed enviably happy in their new abode, and by keeping the tomte (that is, the gnome-like guardian of their home, inherited from the previous occupant, Mr Blomqvist) well supplied with nightly slices of starry-grabby pie, the cottage was always maintained in immaculate condition.

Rhys and Philomena walked back across the island hand-in-hand, promising each other that they would make time to steal an occasional afternoon to visit other friends on the island. On returning to The Squid and Teapot they found that Reggie had spent his time preparing the inn in readiness for the evening trade.

“I have had a visitor while you were out,” he told them.

“Anyone we know?” asked Philomena.

“You do, indeed,” said Reggie.

“It was none other than your ghostly Grandmother.”

“Granny Bucket?” Philomena felt a twinge of apprehension. “What did she want?”

“Oh, it was just a social call,” said Reggie. “I told her that you two had been working hard ever since you took over the place, and had gone out visiting for a couple of hours, as you both needed a break.”

“Yes he did,” said Granny Bucket, drifting through the wall and giving everyone a start. “So, I am here to help. I’ll be staying for a while.”

“Oh, thank you, but that won’t be necessary…” began Philomena, giving Reggie a decidedly less-than-grateful glare.

“Ah, sure, it’s no trouble,” insisted Granny. “I can see that you need me, and there’s plenty of room for one more ghost around the place. I can haunt up in one of the attics.” With that, she floated up through the ceiling to inspect her new quarters.

Philomena sighed and looked at Rhys. She opened her mouth to speak, but before a word came out, Father Ignatius Stamage, the phantom Jesuit, pushed his head through the wall of the bar. “It would be appreciated,” he said, somewhat tersely, “if you kept your witch of a grandmother well away from Lady Margaret D’Avening and me. Her presence here is most disconcerting.”

“Granny is unlikely to come into the privy, so if you both stay in the part of the inn that you are supposed to be haunting, that will be fine.” said Philomena. She paused for a moment, then added, “and if we’re talking of things being disconcerting, I would prefer it if you refrained from suddenly thrusting your head through the wall and startling everyone. It upsets the customers, and more to the point, it upsets me.”

Father Stamage made a harrumphing noise and disappeared back into the wall.

“He’s gone off to sulk in his hat, now, I suppose,” said Philomena.

“Well done for telling him, though” said Rhys. “You’ve really got into the role of landlady.”

“I refuse to be bullied, especially by a ghost,” said Philomena.

“Not even by the ghost of Granny Bucket?” asked Rhys. Philomena hoped that Granny was not going to be a problem, or a permanent presence in The Squid and Teapot.

“I really hope not,” she said, weakly, “but you know what she’s like.”

“I do indeed,” said Rhys, recalling his past encounters with the formidable old ghost. “I do indeed!”

Hopeless Tales

The Spinning Wheel

1 Comment

Story by Potia Pitchford, photo by Neil Pitchford

I could hear the soft moaning as I approached the spinning room, it wasn’t that unusual for me to hear their voices but this morning there was a new voice. I had a feeling that there might be one less in the group of girls coming from the orphanage to their spinning tasks this morning.

I knocked before entering the room, I always do even though no one else can hear them. The girls think I’m mad, the mad weaver they call me behind my back, not that I care. Sure enough, the spinning wheels have moved again. There’s a cluster in the middle of the room round the newest of the wheels. They’ve nearly all gone silent now except for the mournful whimpering coming from the young wheel.

“Excuse me ladies” I say as I gently move the other wheels back to their places.

Then I stop by the youngest, the newest. Her hair is still tangled on the spindle, scraps of material on the floor, threads spun on the bobbin. I rest my hand gently on her wheel. “Shh, shh. It’s alright now Mavis, I know it’s not what you wanted but I did warn you. I can see the ladies have been teaching you and you’ve made good progress. I’m sure you’ll be one of the best before long.”

You see every so often there’s a girl that doesn’t listen to my warnings about the importance of respecting the wheels and other tools in this room. Girls who blame the tools for their mistakes. I’m always clear about that. A worker should never blame their tools. And Mavis was furious yesterday when she got her hair caught in the spindle. She’d been grumbling about the work for a while, insulting the wheel when the thread broke, things like that. Yesterday she went too far though, she kicked the wheel. I had known there would be a price to pay for that, I had felt their disapproval.

I get the broom and sweep the remaining bits of her dress into the pile for carding being sure to mix it through the rest of the scraps, luckily there’s nothing easily recognisable in the scraps. I then gently untangle the rest of Mavis’s hair from the spindle, she had lovely long hair. I think I’ll weave that into something myself, I’ll keep it safe until I know what to weave with it. The wheels will tell me. Perhaps Mavis will want something special made when she gets used to her new existence.

I turn at the sound of footsteps hurrying through the front door and along the hall.

“Ah. There you are girls. Assume your seats please, there’s plenty of work to be done. What’s that Jane? Mavis has disappeared. Oh dear! I do hope she didn’t run off after being so cross yesterday. Now remember…”

They chorus back…

“A good worker never blames their tools.”


Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Calling Time at the Squid and Teapot

Leave a comment

“Non! Non! Definitely non!”

When Mirielle was in this mood there was no arguing with her. Despite this, however, her husband, Septimus, attempted to do just that. “Well, I didn’t think…” he began.

“You never do,” broke in Mirielle. ” Whatever gave you the idea that I would be happy to bring my children up in a house with some mad old Swedish goblin skulking about at all hours?”

“He’s not a goblin, he’s a tomte, and he doesn’t skulk.”

” Pah! Goblin, tonto, they’re all the same. We will wake up one morning and find our babies have been kidnapped and spirited off to who knows where. That is not going to happen. We will stay living in the dance studio until we can find somewhere that doesn’t have a mad tonto terrorising the neighbourhood.”

Septimus sighed. He knew when he was beaten.

*****

“I’m getting too old for this,” groaned Bartholomew Middlestreet, heaving a barrel across the cellar floor of The Squid and Teapot. “I don’t know how I would have managed to have shifted this lot on my own. I’m really grateful for your help, Rhys.”

Rhys Cranham grinned. He was half of Barthlomew’s age, and these barrels were child’s-play after his years of working as the island’s Night-Soil Man. “It’s little enough to do, after all that you and Ariadne have done for Philomena and me,” he said.

It was true enough. The Middlestreets had given the newlyweds a home after Philomena, like Mirielle, had declined to share a cottage with the tomte.

*****

“I don’t understand it,” said Ariadne Middlestreet, later that evening. “If I had been Philomena or Mirielle, I would have jumped at the chance of moving into the Blomqvist cottage. By all accounts that tomte creature has kept it spotless for all these years, ever since Mr Blomqvist died.”

News travels quickly on the island of Hopeless, Maine.

Bartholomew, nodded. “And for nothing more than a bowl of food every night,” she added. The innkeeper paused and eyed his wife quizzically. “Would you really want to move from The Squid?” he asked, at last.

“It would be strange, after all this time,” she admitted. “But it’s a lot of work, even with Philomena’s help. Why do you ask?”

“Well, we’re not getting any younger,” said Bartholomew. “Maybe it’s time for a change.”

*****

“But there has been a Middlestreet running The Squid and Teapot for the last hundred years,” protested Philomena Bucket, when Ariadne related the conversation to her. It was late, and they were preparing starry-grabby pies for the following day.

“And before that there were the Lypiatts, and before them, more Middlestreets, with a nasty little man called Thrupp in between. Everything changes, eventually, Philomena.”

“But I can’t imagine The Squid without you and Bartholomew. Besides, who would take over?” “We thought that you and Rhys might be keen… ” She let the words hang in the air, and watched the gamut of emotions cross Philomena’s face.

“But..but.. I… we could never…” she spluttered.

“Yes you could,” said Ariadne. “And I’m sure that Reggie Upton would be more than happy to help.”

“I don’t know…” said Philomena, composing herself.

“You’ll be fine – and will be doing Bartholomew and me a good turn, We really need to retire.”

“I’ll need to speak to Rhys…”

“Bartholomew has already done that. Rhys said that the decision would be yours.”

“And Reggie?”

“I’ll leave you to talk to Reggie,” smiled Ariadne. There was the faintest flush to Philomena’s pallid face. “This is all so sudden,” she said.

*****

The following morning Philomena caught up with Reggie outside the dance studio, talking to Septimus and Mirielle.

“You’re just the man I’m after,” said Philomena brightly, ”unless I’m interrupting something.”

“Not at all m’dear,” beamed Reggie. “I’m just off to do a spot of flaneuring.” This was Reggie’s way of saying that he was simply going for a walk.

“Pah! You are no flaneur,” said Mirielle, mischievously. “Charles Baudelaire was a flaneur, and you are certainly no Baudelaire.”

“You are perfectly correct, dear lady,” said Reggie, with a mock bow. “I confess, I have never been a syphilitic opium-addict, so you have me there.” The old soldier winked at Mirielle, then turned his attention to Philomena. “And now, m’dear, what can I do for you…?

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Christmas to remember

Leave a comment

Story by Martin Pearson, festive squids with teapot by Nimue,

“I was so pleased to hear that you and Rhys have decided to live in The Squid and Teapot after you’ve married,” said Reggie Upton. “The old place would not be the same without you here.”

“It’s good of the Middlestreets to let us stay,” replied Philomena, “but that little place of Mr Blomqvist’s would have suited Rhys and me nicely.”

Until recently, Philomena had set her heart on moving into the deserted Blomqvist cottage. In the event, however, she had decided that she had no wish to share it with the Tomte, an elf-like house-guardian, who had kept it in pristine condition since the old man’s death some years earlier.

“Maybe it’s all for the best,” said Reggie, philosophically.

Philomena decided that she wanted to change the subject. Anyway, there was something more important to be discussed than thwarted dreams of home-ownership.

“I have often wondered…” she paused slightly before delivering her question. “In your professional opinion, Reggie, is a brigadier in the British army as high-ranking as a captain in the Royal Navy?”

“Of course!” said Reggie, straightening himself to his full height. “No doubt about it. A bit higher, if anything.”

“And you were definitely a brigadier?”

“I was… and indeed, I still am,” he replied, proudly.

“In which case, there is nothing stopping you marrying us.”

Reggie looked nonplussed.

“I’m sorry… you have quite lost me, m’dear,” he said.

“If the captain of a ship is allowed to conduct a marriage ceremony at sea,” reasoned Philomena, “it seems logical to me that a brigadier can do the same thing on land.”

“Oh!… but I am not… I don’t really think…” stammered Reggie.

“Well, I can’t see why not,” broke in Ariadne Middlestreet, walking into the room and immediately earning herself a dirty look from Reggie. “And after all, this is Hopeless, Maine, and we make up our own rules here.”

“But what about Reverend Davies doing the business?” asked Reggie, hopefully.

The look on Philomena’s face said everything, without her having to speak a word.

“Father Stamage? Yes, I know that he’s technically dead, but that didn’t stop him from doing a perfectly good job marrying Septimus and Mirielle Washwell.”

“Let’s just say that Father Stamage and I don’t exactly share compatible views when it comes to religious observances,” said Philomena, adding darkly, “and don’t let Mirielle catch you calling her Mrs Washwell. She is, and always will be, Mirielle D’Illay.”

Before Reggie could utter another word, Ariadne said,

“So it’s settled then. I’ll put on the invitations that Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton will be marrying Miss Philomena Bucket to Mr Rhys Cranham in the Town Hall on Christmas morning.”

“I will?” said Reggie.

“I’m glad you agree,” said Ariadne, purposely misunderstanding him.

A handful of invitations were sent out, but everyone knows that the folk of Hopeless pay little heed to such niceties, and would turn up anyway, whether invited or not. Fired with enthusiasm, Ariadne happily took on the role of wedding planner and from then onwards everything suddenly fell seamlessly into place. She press-ganged her husband, Bartholomew, to give Philomena away, volunteered Septimus Washwell to be the best man, and his heavily pregnant wife, Mirielle to take on the mantle of Matron of Honour. Three of the younger girls from the orphanage were recruited as bridesmaids. No one argued about these arrangements, for this was to be a wedding such as the island had not witnessed in a very long time.  

You could be forgiven for expecting everything to end in tears; maybe some cataclysmic event that would prevent the completion of the nuptials. Perhaps you envisage a distraught Philomena being gently led from the Town Hall, and Rhys nowhere to be seen. This is usually the way of these events on Hopeless, but, happily, not on this occasion. Everything went swimmingly well, with Philomena pallid and beautiful in a wedding dress that had been stored in the attics of The Squid and Teapot for generations, as if waiting for her, and Rhys resplendent in one of Reggie’s many bespoke suits, retrieved from a seemingly bottomless travelling trunk. Reggie surprised himself by doing a sterling job as celebrant. No one fluffed their words, or dropped the wedding ring which, until recently, had graced the old soldier’s little finger. For once, Drury, the skeletal hound, behaved himself, as did the ghost of Granny Bucket, who fluttered about the Town Hall with undisguised pride.

After a wedding breakfast supplied by The Squid and Teapot, the festivities began in the earnest. As could be expected, the venerable phonograph, and a selection of wax-cylinders, were brought out of storage and, by popular demand, the song that had become the island’s anthem was played… and played… and played. It was a ditty celebrating the life and death of a purveyor of sea-food, a girl who apparently chose to sell her wares in thoroughfares of varying widths – otherwise known as Molly Malone. Philomena had long ago come to detest the efforts of the Irish tenor, who warbled “Alive, alive-o” in tinny and strangulated tones. It was during a final, rousing chorus, that a distinctly Gallic cry of pain rose above the other voices.

“It’s Mirielle,” cried Septimus, panic-stricken. “The baby is coming! The baby is coming! Is Doc Willoughby in the house?”

“Non, you fool,” scolded his wife. “C’est ridicule! Bordel!  I do not want that old quack. I want Philomena.”

It had long been agreed that Philomena would act as midwife to Mirielle, but it was the last thing the new bride expected to be doing on her wedding day.

Mirielle was hurried to The Squid and Teapot, where the snuggery was swiftly converted into an impromptu maternity ward. Philomena, ever practical, got out of her wedding finery and into something more becoming for a midwife. Ariadne chased everyone away who did not need to be there, including Septimus, who was secretly relieved not to be present.  He sat with those three reasonably wise men, Rhys, Reggie and Bartholomew in the bar, anxiously waiting to learn that he had become a father.

“Did you say twins?”

Septimus looked pale

Philomena nodded. The twin girls had made their appearance during the hour before midnight on Christmas Day.

“And everything… everyone is alright?”

“Of course,” said Philomena. “Come and see them.”

The little group made their way into the snuggery, where an exhausted, but happy, Mirielle proudly nursed two tiny bundles of life.

Bartholomew handed Septimus a drink.

“A drop of the Gannicox distillery’s best,” he explained. “To wet the babies’ heads.”

“You two will have your work cut out now,” said Reggie with a smile.

“We will,” agreed Septimus, worriedly. “And I don’t think we’ll be able to carry on living in our rooms at the dance studio. It’s cramped enough as it is.”

“We will be fine,” protested Mirielle, though clearly not believing what she had said.

“What you need is a place of your own, and someone to help you run it,” said Rhys, giving Philomena a knowing look.

“Fat chance of that,” said Septimus.

“Maybe not,” said Philomena. “Do you know what a Tomte is, by any chance…?”

Hopeless Tales

The Last Outie

Leave a comment

By Steven C Davis

Fingletip Newtdrop was a man unlike any other. He lived in his island home of Hopeless, Maine, and he was an inventor. Even as an orphan he had an insatiable appetite for words, and this hunger for words was most looked down upon. He scavenged the sea shores and often found fragments of books and other oddities and from them he learned many words at too young an age. His favourites, before he fully knew what they meant, were perineum and moist. He liked the taste of ‘moist perineum’ in his voice, filling his throat, and this led him, once he learned what they meant, to a most singular pursuit.

There are some who, upon learning of his intent, kindly called him a doctor. Some called him a thoughtful and caring man. These people did not really know him. At best, some would call him an inventor. At worst, there are other words for him, which you are too young to learn about in this tale.

Fingletip was most interested in the act of birth. It was something that fascinated him and he should probably have been kept well away from, but midwifery was all but non-existent and he had some thoughts on the matter. He thought the current process – with the poor be-bedded ladies handling it themselves, was both unsanitary and could definitely be improved.

He spent many hours – days – years – in his workshop creating something to aid the process. It was a grand idea – of potential construction – with scythes and saws and blades and rotating things and all kind of things that had no place at such a delicate time. However, Fingletip’s reasoning was that a good fright would often aid the process along.

In such things, Fingletip felt he was on firm ground. He liked giving ladies a good fright – or even a bad fright. Gentlemen, not so much because they could always punch him out, but to frighten a lady – now that really appealed to him. It appealed to him rather too much – well, you know how after his life ended, how those tales of a certain nature stopped.

So he constructed this machine, like a steel octopus that rotated and whirred, but unfortunately, the materials available were far below what he required. A rotating liquid-metal screw, required to give the delicate area a massage, had to be replaced with a stringy, wet, frond. A cutting blade, meant to sever the cord between mother and child, was a glistening of damp bark, torn from a dying tree.

He could see the words, the materials, the ideas, gleaming in his mind, but unfortunately – or, very fortunately – he could not bring them to fruition. However, there were many poor ladies whose time escaped the few who could help, and thus, finally, Fingletip got the opportunity to test out his machine.

The hovel itself was rather damp, having but three walls, and tree branches and mud for a roof. The lady in question seemed to have overlong, sticky, legs, and be of a rather damp persuasion herself, but that was neither here nor there. He set his machine in operation – having to re-attach the wet frond several times first.

When she finally opened her eyes and saw him – and the machine – she did indeed let out a scream and a new life slithered out and raised its head and Fingletip lifted it up, praising his machine, noticing, and commenting, that the machine had caused the last outie – there would henceforth only be belly buttons that went inwards, thanks to his wondrous invention.

Unfortunately for Fingletip, and fortunately for every lady thereafter who has no recourse to a wise woman, witch or lady of the night, the newly born creature took affright at being lifted up, and tore his throat out.

His machine, however, re-purposed, was found to be quite good at salad tossing or, as the locals called it, “throwing grass and weeds into the air and hoping it came down a meal”.

Thus ends the tale of poor Mr Newtdrop, who we probably should have kept safely locked up.

Hopeless Tales

The Hopeless Horticultural Society

Leave a comment

Text and image by Mark Hayes

Field Journal Notes of Philander Jones

Lead research botanist and chemist of the Hopeless Horticultural Society

It has long been established that almost all Toadstools on the island are poisonous to one degree or another. Notably the Death Night Cap, Old Widows Crust, Destroying Archangel, Fools Damp Funeral and Yellow-Strainer should all be carefully avoided.

The recent discovery of the new species Toadtables however we have discovered are perfectly edible. Native to the island they grow wherever you find other toadstools. Generally, in the middle of a patch of the fungi, with toadstools arranged around them in a suitable seating pattern.

Some scientifically uninformed individuals have said a toadtable is formed when several toadstools grow into each other forming a single long flat fungus with four or more stems but we of the Hopeless Horticulture Society refute this, we have determined it is definably a separate species and rigorous testing with our current research orphan has determined they are both nutritious and non-lethal.

The research orphan also reported a slight giddiness, weakness of the legs, feelings of elation, and then spent the better part of an afternoon in a semi-comatose state. Importantly though he did not die, which was a bonus as the next hiring fair is still three months away.

Having rigorously tested the Toadtable’s for basic edibility we progressed to stage two and brewed them into a nice tea which we surprised the research orphan with two days later, under the auspices of blind testing. One notes the research orphan was somewhat reticent to imbibe the tea, on account of a certain unfortunate wariness he has developed of late about things he is encouraged to partake of by members of the society.

Luckily the funnel and hose pipe delivery method worked just fine after we tied him down to the research chair.

It is to be noted that this can bias results due to unnatural stress placed upon the research orphan, and the effect upon his state of mind at been forced to partake.

The transcribed notes of the experiment also reflect this unfortunate methodology. It is difficult to be certain whether he called us all ‘A set of utter bastards’ and entreating us to ‘Go jump in the sea’ due to the tea increasing his innate aggression or just a reaction to being forcing to drink it.  

His refusal to answer any of our questions about his state of mind, the effects of the tea and how he was feeling in general afterwards were frustrating. He has however developed an alarming twitch, bursts out laughing at irregular intervals and tried to run away three times.

This is a shame as we were going to write to Reverend Davis commending the robustness of our latest research orphan. We’ve not had one last this long before, and as you know the improved hardiness of research orphans is important for the advancement of science. 

Further testing will be required, as we suspect will be a new research orphan come the next hiring fair.