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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Meanwhile, in Mortlake…

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The story so far… Reggie Upton, having endured the perpetual fog of Hopeless, Maine, for over a year, one day decided that he desperately needed to see some sunshine.  With the aid of a surprisingly accommodating Durosimi O’Stoat, he and Philomena Bucket ventured through the Underland to Doctor John Dee’s study in Mortlake, then out into the heart of Elizabethan London. To their dismay, the skies over the smoky city were little clearer than those of Hopeless. Adding to their discomfort, the air was foul and the gutters ran with filth.

Before the two were able to make their way back to the Underland, Reggie was mistaken for a distant ancestor, Sir Walter Upton. It appeared that Sir Walter was a notorious heretic, wanted by the authorities for sheltering priests, a crime punishable by an unpleasantly fiery death. While it had been fortunate that the person accosting Reggie was one of Sir Walter’s fellow conspirators, in the haste to get him off the street, he and Philomena had become separated.

If Philomena was surprised to see the ghost of Granny Bucket flickering in the shadows, she didn’t allow herself to show it.

“I don’t suppose you have any idea what I’m supposed to do now, by any chance?” asked Philomena.

“You know me,” said Granny, breezily. “I’m full of good ideas. Here’s one; why don’t you just go back the way you came?”

“Back to Mortlake, and leave Reggie to his fate? I’m not going to do that!”

“Well, if you insist on making your life difficult, be my guest,” sighed Granny, then paused. “Oh, I suppose that you had better come with me,” she added, huffily.

Philomena smiled inwardly. This was typical of one of Granny’s games. She had obviously followed them, and was quite aware that her granddaughter would never leave her friend high and dry.

Without another word the ghost weaved her way through the crowd, passing through people and obstacles as if they did not exist, but always staying within Philomena’s line of vision. Only two citizens in that heaving throng appeared to even notice that Granny was there.

“They must have ‘the sight’,“ thought Philomena. “That’s a dangerous gift to possess in these times.”

A dangerous gift indeed, but had she known it, at that moment Philomena was being led into the very core of danger.

While Philomena was busily pursuing the ghost of Granny Bucket through a maze of city streets, Reggie Upton’s would-be rescuer had garnered the aid of two accomplices. Protesting to deaf ears, Reggie found himself being roughly bundled into a mule-cart and covered with a pile of empty sacks which, in the very recent past, had been used for the transportation of some anonymous, but less than fragrant cargo.

“Don’t you worry, Sir Walter,” said the somewhat less-than-confident voice of someone obviously crossing their fingers. “We’ll get you out of here soon enough.”

Reggie found little comfort in this. The only place where he wanted to be at that moment was back in the safety of The Squid and Teapot.

Philomena had walked for miles and was not at all happy that Granny Bucket had decided to disappear without a word of explanation. Looking about her, the awful realisation dawned that she was back in Mortlake, not far from Doctor Dee’s house. For the first time in her life she felt betrayed by her grandmother. Her dear friend Reggie was stranded somewhere in Elizabethan London, and Granny had deserted him totally. Philomena felt wretched.

She was suddenly startled by the sound of heavy bolts being drawn back. It was only upon turning to discover the source of the noise that she realised that she was standing in front of the grandest house in Mortlake –  at least, it had been grand at one time; now she sensed sad neglect oozing out of every brick. A door opened in what might once have been the porter’s lodge, revealing the slender form of a girl, barely into her teens.

“Are you Mistress Bucket?”

Philomena swallowed hard. This was bizarre.

“I suppose I am,” she said warily. “Who is asking?”

The girl said nothing, but beckoned her to follow.

The two made their way through a gateway that showed all the signs of having once sported a portcullis, then through an open courtyard and into the body of the house. Philomena did not know whether to feel comforted or threatened that there seemed to be no one in this huge, decaying building but her and the girl.

They climbed a flight of stairs which brought them to a gallery. Half way along its length the girl stopped, wordlessly pushed open a heavy door, and ushered Philomena into a room where every wall, from floor to ceiling, was lined with books.

“Welcome to my library, Mistress Bucket.”

Philomena turned abruptly at the sound of the man’s voice.

He was a finely dressed, typical Elizabethan gentleman, casually sitting in the corner and eating an apple, which he sliced with a silver knife.

“You must be Mistress Bucket, I assume?”

Philomena looked nervously at the knife, and nodded.

As if on a predetermined cue the girl quietly left the room, closing the library door behind her.

“Excellent,” said the stranger, laying the apple – but not the knife – upon a small side-table.

“Welcome to Mortlake Manor – or what is left of it.”

Then, to Philomena’s surprise, he began to pull the books from one the shelves, until the whole of the panelled wall behind it was exposed.

“You realise that you have now gone beyond the point of no return?” he said, fingering the blade, which suddenly looked worryingly lethal.

Philomena had no idea what he meant by this, but nodded in agreement. She had no wish to upset her host.

It was then that the strangest thing happened. One of the wall panels flipped up, and the familiar face of Reggie Upton poked through the gap.

“My dear Philomena,“ he beamed, “what an absolute pleasure to see you at last. You have met Father Anthony, I see.”

“Father Anthony?” she said, regarding the knife-wielding dandy standing in front of her.

“I can hardly wear my priestly garments, can I?” explained Father Anthony. “Any hint of popery is a death-warrant these days.”

He paused, then added, “And yes, I would have killed you if necessary. Mortlake Manor is too valuable a resource to lose to betrayal.”

“How did you know I would be there?” asked Philomena, as she and Reggie made their way along the road to Doctor Dee’s study and the Underland.

“It was Granny Bucket. ” said Reggie. “She followed the mule-cart which took me to Mortlake Manor. That priests-hole in which they hid me was cramped, I can tell you!”

“Oh, that woman!” fumed Philomena. “Why couldn’t she just have told me where you were?”

“That’s ancestors for you,” said Reggie. “Mine are as bad. If it hadn’t been for dear old Sir Walter Upton, that might have been a fairly tolerable excursion.”

“We’ll give Tudor England a wide berth in future,” said Philomena. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Reggie. “I can’t wait to get back to The Squid and have a stiff drink.”

Author”s note:

Mortlake Manor started life as one of the palaces of the Archbishops of Canterbury, pre-dating the Norman Conquest of 1066, and was visited over the following five hundred years by a multitude of English kings. In 1536 Henry V111  gifted the manor to his first minister, Sir Thomas Cromwell, who had been newly elevated to the peerage as 1st Baron Cromwell of Wimbledon, as a reward for his part in the downfall of Anne Boleyn. Cromwell wasted no time in subjecting the manor to an enormous building programme. By 1540, however, he had fallen out of favour and had his come-uppance when Henry had him executed for treason.

At the time of our tale, Mortlake Manor was in a dismal state of disrepair, with bits of it being spirited away to build and furnish other residences. By the early years of the eighteenth century the building had been pulled down completely.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Heretic!

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Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, or simply Reggie Upton, as he prefers to be known, was desperate to once more see some sunshine. He had lived for more than a year on the island of Hopeless, Maine, and during that period had cheerfully endured almost all of its various privations. The only proverbial fly in his equally proverbial ointment  was the eternal fog that envelops the island, a fog that sullenly insists on veiling any hint of sunlight that dares to struggle through the clouds. Having spent much of his military career soldiering in Africa and India, locations not generally known for permanently overcast skies, a desire for an occasional glimpse of the Eye of Heaven, as the bard had so ably expressed it, is not wholly unreasonable.

As you may have discerned from earlier tales, not far beneath the old warrior’s tweedy exterior surged the spirit of derring-do that had seen him through a multitude of conflicts, each apparently vital to the continuation of the British Empire. While this might be viewed as an admirable trait, it worried his friend, Philomena Bucket, the landlady of The Squid and Teapot. She was aware that Reggie was more than likely to attempt an escape from the island, an attempt which would almost certainly prove to be fatal. Philomena decided that rather than risk him dashing off on some madcap adventure, if he wanted another look at pure, unsullied sunlight, she would arrange it for him,

This is how, with the unlikely assistance of Durosimi O’Stoat, the pair found themselves standing in Doctor John Dee’s study, sometime in the mid fifteen-eighties, when the old alchemist was safely away in Poland. Reggie was adorned in the finery of an Elizabethan gentleman, while Philomena, posing as his servant, found that her daily work-wear was unremarkable enough to raise no Tudor eyebrows.

 John Dee’s home was in Mortlake, a village some seven miles from the centre of London.

If Reggie or Philomena had entertained a vision of the idyllic ‘Merrie England’ of times past, this was soon dispelled as soon as they stepped into the street.

“They really need a Night-Soil Man around here,” said Philomena.

“No m’dear,” said Reggie, “they need a battalion of them.  I had no idea London was quite so unhygenic in Tudor times.”

“Oh, it gets a lot worse than this,” said Philomena, lifting the hem of her long skirt to avoid it trailing in the filth that littered the cobbled streets. “But at least you can see the sun.”

“By Jove, so I can,” said Reggie. “It’s a good job that we’re this far away from the city, though. From here the dashed place looks as bad as Hopeless.”

A smoky pall hung over the huddle of buildings in the distance.

“So that is Tudor London,” he added. “Fascinating. Despite all, it would be a pity not to take a look while we’re here.”

 The carrier looked askance at the fine gentleman and his pallid, pretty, servant, uncomprehending why they should want to ride on his humble cart into the heart of London. However, whatever they were up to, a groat was a groat; it was none of his business.

 If the streets of Mortlake were dirty, they were nothing compared to the squalor of the city centre. Livestock of all varieties were being herded along the streets, leaving a trail of filth behind them, while the gutters ran with the detritus issuing from the huddle of shops and homes. The stench was atrocious.

“I think I’ve seen – and smelt – more than enough,” said Reggie. “In fact I…”

He was cut short when a heavy hand grasped his shoulder and spun him unceremoniously around.

“Upton! I thought it was you. By God’s teeth, you have some nerve coming into London.”

The speaker was a thick-set, bearded man with glittering eyes.

“But I… “ began Reggie, but before he could say any more, the newcomer grabbed his arm and bundled him roughly through a doorway. Things were happening very suddenly and Philomena could barely keep up.

The door closed behind them and the bearded man’s eyes flashed in the gloom.

“Whatever possessed you to come into the city?” he rasped. “You have put us all into danger. I’ll try to get you to safety, or we’ll be feeding the flames before tomorrow dawns.”

For possibly the first time in his life, Reggie was rendered speechless. This chap seemed to know his name. It was then that he recalled his first encounter with the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening. At the time he had been relieving himself in the flushing privy of The Squid and Teapot.

“What are you doing here, Uncle Henry?” she had asked.

It turned out that Reggie was a dead-ringer for one of Lady Margaret’s beloved relatives, a cavalier who had perished in the English Civil War. It seemed obvious that the Upton side of the family had managed to stamp an identical face upon various, selected, sons throughout the ages .

“Blasted ancestors,” Reggie thought to himself.

Taking his silence to be obstinacy, the stranger shook him by the shoulders.

“God’s teeth, Sir Walter, you know what fate befalls a heretic, especially one who has sheltered a priest.”

Although the stranger seemed to be more than a little obsessed with the deity’s dentistry, his use of the word ‘heretic’ struck home like a thunderbolt.

Reggie’s forebears had been devout Catholics, doggedly sticking to their faith throughout the turbulent years of persecution. This chap, Sir Walter Upton, with whom Reggie was being  mistaken, was obviously into the thing up to his eyeballs. All in all, this suggested that now would be an excellent time to get back to Hopeless.

Reggie turned to look at Philomena. She would know what to do, but Philomena was nowhere to be seen.

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Waiting on a Sunny Day

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“I cannot believe,” declared Reggie Upton, “that I have been living on this island for over a year, and we haven’t had a single day without being blanketed in fog of some description.”

“If it’s any consolation,” replied Philomena Bucket, “I’ve been here for five years, and it’s been wall-to-wall fog for me, as well.”

“Well, it just isn’t good enough,” spluttered Reggie. “We’re almost into July, dammit, and there is still no sign of the sun.”

Philomena gave him a meaningful look, and asked, “So, what do you propose we do about it?”

“Do?” said Reggie. “There is nothing we jolly well can do, is there? I’m sure, if there was, Durosimi O’Stoat would have waved his wand, or whatever it is that he does, and sorted something out by now.”

It was unlike Reggie to be so tetchy, but Philomena was aware that he had spent his military career in some of the hottest places on the planet. Since coming to Hopeless, sixteen months earlier, he had not seen the sun, except opaquely through a veil of mist. For Reggie that must have been verging on the intolerable.

“Besides,” he went on, “I am an animal lover; most of all, I like horses. There are none, apparently, on the island. In fact, the only creatures wandering about are aberrations that belong in a freak show or a bad dream.”

The pile of bones that had been snoring quietly in the corner of the room stirred, and a canine skull eased itself out of the osseous heap to glare at the speaker.

“Present company excepted, of course,” added Reggie, hurriedly.

Philomena sighed.

“What you are really saying,” she said, “is that you’re getting fed-up with Hopeless, and pining after civilization.”

“I suppose that you’re right,” admitted Reggie. “It’s not that I dislike living on the island, but there are so many things that I miss – especially sunshine.”

“At least you don’t mind living here,” said Philomena. “That’s more than most can say, even the ones who have been here for all of their lives.”

“If I’m honest, it’s since that Bencombe fellow was swallowed up in that time-vortex shenanigans. It made me acutely aware of what’s happening to all of us; Time is the old enemy, m’dear. It gobbles us up and spits us out.”

“Hmmm… you’ve given me an idea,” said Philomena. “Time might be on our side, after all.”

*

“You want me to do what?” asked Durosimi, incredulity in his voice.

“I want you to take Reggie Upton to Tudor England,” said Philomena. “I know that you have found another path to the Underland… and that you always find yourself ending up in Doctor John Dee’s study.”

Durosimi sighed.

“There is no reason to deny it,” he said. “It is frustrating that on every visit I find myself in the same time-loop. It is always the same few days in the mid fifteen-eighties, when Dee was safely away in Poland, or some such place, with his associate, Edward Kelley.”

There had been a noticeable thawing of relations with Durosimi since he and Philomena had collaborated to rid Hopeless of the time-vortex that had claimed the life of Benjamin Bencombe. Whether Durosimi considered that this was sufficient excuse for him to be asked to take Reggie Upton to the London of Good Queen Bess, however, was another matter.

“So, will you do it?” asked Philomena.

Durosimi fell silent as he considered her request, then he said,

“I don’t think so. If any accident should befall Upton while we’re away, you would lay the blame on me.”

“Then tell me where your path to the Underland is, and I’ll do it myself,” said Philomena. There was noticeable anger in her voice.

“Such a shame you chose to destroy your own pathway there,” smirked Durosimi. “However, I am not a vindictive person. I will show you how to get there; better than that I’ll find some suitable clothing. Upton would stick out like a sore thumb in his tweeds.”

“What am I supposed to wear?” asked Philomena.

“Madam,” replied Durosimi, coldly, “unless you wish to resemble anything other than the peasant you most obviously are, your wardrobe will be more than sufficient.”

“Being a peasant is fine by me,” said Philomena defiantly.

*

 “I know I said that I wanted to see the sun,” said Reggie, “but I had no idea at what cost.” He looked down miserably at his trunk hose, the puffed out short satin breeches beloved by Elizabethan gentlemen.

“These are bad enough, but the pink tights are really too much,” he complained.

“You look splendid,” said Philomena, stifling a grin. “You are a nobleman and I am your servant – we look the part, and that is all that matters.”

And strangely, they did.

“Come on, Reggie, chin up,” she said, as they entered the cave leading to the Underland. “You’re going on holiday. Just be careful that you don’t snag your tights.”

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Don’t Bite Durosimi

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The story so far… While rummaging in the attics of The Squid and Teapot, Benjamin Bencome had been swallowed up in a mysterious vortex, in which time was accelerated. Unfortunately, for Benjamin, his remaining years of life were discharged in a matter of minutes and, as Philomena, Rhys and Reggie looked on, the last vestiges of his earthly remnants disappeared to dust before their very eyes.

It seemed obvious to all that, with the vortex appearing to grow, all of the island of Hopeless, Maine, could soon be devoured; that was when someone had the bright idea of enlisting the unlikely assistance of Durosimi O’Stoat. It was correctly assumed that Durosimi would doubtless be as reluctant as anyone to see his future evaporate away in a few seconds, and therefore be happy to try and rectify matters.

After consulting various grimoires, therimoires, diabologues, necronomicons, and a yellowing edition of ‘Old Moore’s Almanack’, Durosimi discovered that a lodestone placed into the centre of the vortex, and in a north-south alignment, would banish it completely. Unfortunately this would entail the person volunteering for the role of lodestone-depositor to age alarmingly before such times as they could leave the vortex. And so, it came to pass that with a generous measure of glory in his eye, and an upper lip stiffer than a rifle barrel, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton boldly bade his friends farewell, and, lodestone in hand, prepared to enter the vortex and meet certain death.

“Are you really that keen to die?” asked Durosimi.

“Well, someone has to do it, and I didn’t hear you volunteer,” replied Reggie, indignantly.

“No, you didn’t,” said Durosimi. “And you don’t have to… unless you are looking forward to a glorious martyrdom, of course.”

“So how do you propose we do this?” Philomena Bucket’s voice was brimming with hope. The thought of Reggie walking to his doom was dreadful beyond belief.

“By getting that infernal dog of yours to do it, of course,” snapped Durosimi.

Philomena’s pale skin grew even paler.

“Drury?” said Reggie. “That’s asking a lot of him. Why the devil should he want to sacrifice himself any more than you do?”

“Do I have to spell it out?” said Durosimi, exasperation in his voice. “Drury died years ago, long before any of us currently in this room were born. He could be in and out the vortex in just a few seconds. Another hundred years or so would be nothing to him.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Philomena.

“Of course I am,” lied Durosimi, “but whether he’s intelligent enough to see the task through is another matter.”

“Oh, he’s intelligent enough – more intelligent than a lot of humans I know,” said Philomena. “Let me talk to him.”

Drury had been easy to track down; he was slumbering happily in the snuggery, and snoring loudly, when Philomena found him.

There is a common belief among pet owners that their particular familiar has the ability to understand every word that they say. This may, or may not, be true, but in the case of Philomena – the last of a long line of powerful witches – and Drury, who had been hob-nobbing around humans for a couple of centuries, this was no idle platitude.

Philomena was able to give the osseous hound directions regarding the placing of the lodestone, and, much to the dog’s chagrin, firm instructions not to bite Durosimi.

To everyone’s obvious relief Durosimi’s information appeared to have been correct. Drury slipped into the vortex, placed the lodestone and ambled out again with no apparent ill-effects.

For what seemed like an eternity, nothing significant happened. Then the vortex slowed, and gradually diminished in size, until it resembled nothing more than a small green navel spinning in the corner of the room.

“There, it’s perfectly harmless now,” said Durosimi. “And far too small to do any damage.”

“But it hasn’t gone completely, has it?” said Reggie, concerned that this was not quite the end of the matter.

Suddenly, everyone jumped, and was rendered temporarily deaf, as a loud explosion rent the air and blew the glass out of the small attic windows.

“It has now,” said Philomena, but of course, no one could hear her except Drury, who wagged a bony tail, yawned, and went back down to the snuggery to catch up on his interrupted sleep.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Vortex

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It cannot be denied, the news came as something of a shock to everyone. Benjamin Bencome, botanist and Bachelor of Science, was dead. The presence of death is certainly no novelty on Hopeless, Maine; the Grim Reaper seems to find the island to be something of a home-from-home, considering the amount of time he spends there.

Benjamin’s death, however, was different. When he had ascended the stairs to the attics earlier in the day, he had been his usual self, albeit a little glum. A couple of hours, or so, later, when Reggie Upton decided to look in on him, not only was Benjamin quite dead, but appeared to have been deceased for several months. Even Reggie, a seasoned soldier, was shocked, and so it was with no small amount of trepidation that Philomena Bucket and her husband, Rhys Cranham, went with him back to the attics to view the scene of this most remarkable and tragic phenomenon.

The corpse of Benjamin lay crumpled in a corner of the room.

“That’s strange,” said Reggie. “Something is different… his clothes seem to be suddenly too large for him.”

Rhys stepped closer to the remains. “You said he looked as though he had been dead for months. Well, I would say years, personally. He is nothing but bones.”

The three stood in stunned silence, for even as they watched, Benjamin’s clothing began to disintegrate before their very eyes.

“For decency’s sake, we need to move him,” said Rhys, and stepped towards the corner.

“No!” shouted Reggie, with an urgency that stopped Rhys in his tracks.

“Can’t you see what is happening? You’ll be as dead as he is if you go another step. It is as though time is moving at a different rate in that corner.”

It was true. There was little evidence of Benjamin left by now, and in the spot where he had lain could be seen a swirling green mist.

“There is a sinkhole in the garden of the House at Poo Corner,” said Rhys, referring to the home of generations of Night-Soil Men. “And, at its bottom, hundreds of feet beneath the island, you can just about see a green mist hanging, and it looks not unlike like that stuff.”

“And I think I can guess why it’s here?” said Philomena.

The other two eyed her quizzically.

“That corner is where the vertical ladder to the Underland once stood. It was concealed in, what appeared to be, an old sea-chest. After a dear friend of mine, Marigold Burleigh, took it into her head to venture alone down there, and disappear forever, I sealed the passage and persuaded Bartholomew Middlestreet to remove every trace of the mock sea-chest. I think whatever that green mist does, and whatever it is, it is emanating from the Underland.”

“So what can be done?” asked Reggie.

“I don’t know,” admitted Philomena. “And I can think of only one person who might have some idea…“

“It is a time vortex,” declared Durosimi O’Stoat. “I have seen an example just once before, and believe me, they are unbelievably difficult to dispose of.”

Since returning from the Himalayas, Durosimi appeared to be a changed man, and therefore more approachable than formerly.

“Is it likely to spread?” asked Philomena.

“I imagine so,” replied Durosimi. “Which means that you will have to waste no time in containing it as best you can.”

“I will have to…?” Philomena looked dismayed.

“Of course. I think we both know that you have demonstrated magical abilities far beyond anything that I am capable of. Anyway, you asked for my advice, and that’s it. After all, this is your inn, and, quite frankly, it is not my problem.”

“Oh, but it is,” broke in Reggie, angrily. “If that thing spreads, no one is safe, not even you, O’Stoat.”

Durosimi raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“He’s right,” said Rhys, “And if that happens, it could devour the island.”

Durosimi sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I will consult my books. There must be something in one of them that will shed some light on this.”

“Well, for goodness sake hurry up,” said Reggie.

Two anxious hours passed by before Durosimi returned.

“There is a solution, but it has one or two drawbacks,” he said.

A few seconds passed, which felt like an eternity.

“Well go on,” said Reggie. “Tell us.”

“It seems that a lodestone, placed in the centre of the vortex, upon a north-south alignment, will diffuse it.” said Durosimi.

“Do we have such a thing?” asked Philomena.

Durosimi smiled thinly and produced, from one of his voluminous pockets, a rough looking rock, almost as long as a man’s hand.

“That looks like a piece of fossilised night-soil,” observed Rhys, doubtfully. “But if that is all that there is to do, then it sounds easy enough,”

“True,” replied Durosimi, “but unfortunately, the person who places the lodestone in there will undoubtedly die. Remember, time is travelling at an accelerated rate within the vortex, and it seems to be speeding up – It’s now about ten years with every second that passes, I would guess.”

There was another brief pause, then Reggie said, “I’ll do it.”

“No you will not,” said Philomena. “I won’t let you.”

“You must,” said Reggie. “Look, I have led a full and exciting life. I

have no regrets. You young people have everything in front of you.

Come on, O’Stoat, hand me the lodestone and work out which direction

is north, then we can get this business over and done with.”

“Please Reggie, there’s got to be another way.” Philomena was on the edge of tears.

Reggie shook his head sadly, then kissed her hand.

“Be sure to take good care of The Squid, m’dear,” he smiled sadly, and took the lodestone from Durosimi.

To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

An Englishman in the Dark

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 Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton had always prided himself on being fazed by nothing. Even finding that he had been deposited upon the island of Hopeless, Maine, when his intention had been to board the RMS Titanic, was something that he had taken in his stride. So ready was he to embrace his new life that he had insisted on being known simply as Reggie Upton, and had thrown himself completely into what passed as Hopeless society. One or two of his friends noticed, however, that, in recent weeks, his stoic approach seemed to have been somewhat bruised.

You may remember that he had discovered that the well-known song, ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’, popular during the Boer War, had been parodied on the island by a former colleague and fellow comrade-in-arms, Colonel ‘Mad Jack’ Ruscombe-Green. It had shocked Reggie to learn that the colonel’s brief venture into the world of songsmithing had, apparently, occurred more than a century earlier. This was all very perplexing. As far as Reggie was concerned, Ruscombe-Green, who had been considerably younger than he was, and at the time a lieutenant, was last seen, no more than a dozen years earlier, causing mayhem in South Africa. To add to his confusion, this revelation had come not long after the young, and palely beautiful, Philomena Bucket had informed him that she had been born in the same year as his grandmother.

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” advised Rhys Cranham. “There is little rhyme or reason to anything that happens on Hopeless.”

“But I can’t help but worry,” confided Reggie, “take that new chap on the island, what’s his name? Bencombe…”

“Benny?” said Rhys. “He’s alright.”

“Don’t let him hear you calling him Benny,” broke in Philomena. “It’s Benjamin or nothing, as far as he’s concerned,”

“Well, as I was about to say,” said Reggie, slightly annoyed at the interruption, “he reckons that a few weeks before he found himself here, Britain had crowned a new queen. Another Elizabeth, apparently.”

“Is that bad?” asked Rhys.

“My point is,” said Reggie, “how far in the future does this happen? When I left England, the royal male line looked fairly solid. There was no sign of any woman called Elizabeth, or anything else for that matter, who might be likely to ascend to the throne.”

“Good luck to her, I say,” declared Philomena. “You lot might not be so warlike with a woman in charge.”

“Don’t be too sure,” said Reggie. “Queen Victoria built an empire. The Empire upon which the sun never sets.”

“That’s because you can’t trust an Englishman in the dark,” muttered Philomena.

 Reggie was not the only person fretting about the island’s eccentric attitude towards time, and just about everything else, It had taken Benjamin Bencombe several weeks to come to terms with the strange fauna and flora, including that skeletal dog that seemed to get everywhere. He hated the eternal fog, and the total lack of any sort of modern amenity. Then there were all of the ghosts, even in the pub. No one batted an eyelid when that Jesuit priest drifted through the wall of the bar, or when Philomena’s grandmother manifested in the snuggery. And as for the headless woman haunting the toilet, how the devil did she get there? Then to cap it all, that massive yeti fellow turned up, speaking perfect English and treated by all and sundry as though his presence on the island was the most natural thing in the world.

 “I don’t know if I will be able to survive this place for very much longer,” he confided miserably to Philomena.

“Of course you will,” she reassured him, “everyone says that when they first come to the island.”

‘And the majority of them don’t last a fortnight,’ she thought to herself.

‘But I am a man of science, a botanist,” he insisted. “Without my books I am lost.”

“There are plenty of books up in the attics,” said Philomena. “There must be something up there that you’ll find useful.”

“I will look,” Benjamin sighed, ‘but I don’t hold out much hope.”

 It was some hours later when Philomena realised that Benjamin had not returned from the attics.

“Maybe he’s dropped off to sleep,” she said to Reggie. “I’ll send Rhys up to check on him.”

“No need, I’ll go up,” offered Reggie, who never minded a browse around the attics, himself.

Five minutes later he was back in the kitchen, his face deathly pale.

“Is everything alright?” asked Philomena. “Where is Benjamin?”

“He’s… he’s dead…” Reggie stammered.

Philomena was surprised at Reggie’s reaction; after all, he must have seen a lot of death during his time in the army.

“… And he looks as though he has been dead for several months,” he added, grimly.

 To be continued…

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Behold the Jewel in the Skunk Cabbage

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 “Far be it from me to gossip, but he definitely isn’t the same these days,” said Doc Willoughby.

Reverend Davies sniffed. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” he muttered.

Doc had imparted the news that a complete change of character had come over Durosimi O’Stoat, following his recent stay in a Tibetan monastery.

“You will believe it, I promise you,” replied Doc. “He is wandering around like a man in a trance, gabbling something incomprehensible, and beaming at everyone.”

“Beaming, you say? That is odd. Maybe the experience of being dragged through that Squash fellow’s portal twice has finally sent him over the edge,” mused the Reverend. “I always said that these occult things that he seems to be obsessed with would be his downfall one day.”

Doc Willoughby was not the only person who had registered a change in Durosimi’s behaviour; he had become the talk of The Squid and Teapot.

 “It sounds as though he’s gone quite insane,” said Philomena Bucket.

“Not at all,” replied Reggie Upton. “I would guess that a couple of weeks in a Buddhist monastery up in the Himalayas has revealed more to him than just yak-butter tea and chilblains.”

“Such as?” asked Philomena, who found the prospect of Durosimi’s conversion to Buddhism hard to swallow.

“He has doubtless seen what those monks can achieve through harsh discipline and untold hours of meditation,” said Reggie. “I have never been to Tibet, but I know what those yogi chaps in India can do.”

Reggie paused, and stared into his drink.

“And I also know what I achieved myself, with the help of my dear friend, Annie,” he added.

Benjamin Bencombe opened his mouth to ask what that might be, but a glare from Philomena changed his mind. She knew that Reggie, and the love of his life, Annie Besant, had lost contact since he left India for Africa, and the Boer War. She also knew that Annie, a Theosophist, had taught him how to make a thought-form, a tulpa, in her likeness. More than thirty years had passed since then, and the tulpa – who would always be a young version of Annie – still haunted him.

“So what is that gibberish I’ve heard him spouting?” grinned Septimus Washwell. “Sounds like Oh Mammy something something…”

“That would be Sanskrit, not gibberish,” corrected Reggie. He had not liked the way in which Septimus was making light of this, and there was disapproval in his voice. “And it is a well-known mantra, Om Mani Padme Hum.”

Philomena raised an eyebrow.  “And I bet that you’re now going to tell us what that means.”

“Of course,” agreed Reggie. “It translates as something like Behold the Jewel in the Lotus.”

“Speaking as a botanist,” piped up Benjamin Bencombe, at last allowed to speak, “I find it most unlikely that this Durosimi fellow is going to have much luck beholding lotuses on Hopeless, bejewelled or no.”

“There are no lotus flowers to speak of,” laughed Philomena, “but we do have plenty of skunk cabbage.”

“Ah, Symlocarpus foetidus, if I’m not mistaken,” said Benjamin, then added in a low voice, “and I rarely am.”

 The speculation regarding Durosimi and his apparent transformation was not completely unfounded, but a changed character he definitely was not – at least, not on the inside. He had seen enough during his sojourn in Tibet to convince him that his own form of sorcery was crude compared with the natural magic of the monks, the result of very many years of discipline and study. Although keen to replicate their feats, Durosimi had no intention of investing any more time into the venture than was strictly necessary. He knew his own strengths, and was convinced that he could master, in just a few weeks, powers that some lamas claimed to have devoted several lifetimes to achieve. Besides, Durosimi was not at all sure that he had several lifetimes at his disposal.

 Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, was all too aware of the most recent topic of conversation on the island, and was not happy. He had known Durosimi since the sorcerer was in diapers, and he had never trusted the man. He could only imagine what might happen if Durosimi became proficient in Buddhist magic, which Mr Squash had witnessed with his own eyes, and some of it had terrified even him. He felt responsible, and believed that it was up to him to put things right. He would have to take Durosimi through a portal again, somewhere far away, where he could do no harm… and make sure that the sorcerer never came back.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Goodbye, Dolly

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Reggie Upton was out flanneuring (or flanneling, as Philomena Bucket referred to it). Or, at least, he would have been, had he not decided to pay a call on the Middlestreets, for in order to flaneur properly there should be no definite destination in mind. Since leaving The Squid and Teapot, Bartholomew and Ariadne had moved into the old Blomqvist house, a residence that came complete with its own guardian, a Tomte, who attended to all of the mundane, daily jobs that any self-respecting tenant would eschew – or at least, that was the idea. It seems that the Tomte had taken exception to the fact that neither Bartholomew, nor his wife, had a drop of Swedish blood in their veins, and had decided to go into retirement, in protest. That was why, when reaching the front door, Reggie found Bartholomew busily painting both it, and himself, in the process. He didn’t seemed too bothered, however, as he splashed the paint about liberally, singing to himself as he did so.

 “Goodbye Hopeless I must leave you,

For it’s time for me to go. I won’t miss your dismal sea-views,  And the cold Atlantic blow.

No more trudging over headland In the fog and driving rain.

So farewell, Hopeless I must leave you,

Goodbye Hopeless, Maine.”

 “Why, that tune takes me back,” said Reggie, waving his sword stick like a conductor’s baton.  “I haven’t heard it sung for years, though the words have changed.”  

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” said Bartholomew. “That song was composed here on Hopeless by one of the few people to escape from the island. My grandfather taught it to me and he learned it from the man who wrote it – a fellow called Colonel Ruscombe-Green.”  

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Reggie. “Not Mad Jack Ruscombe-Green? I knew the chap in Africa, during the Boer War. He was a lowly lieutenant in those days… he made colonel, eh? How the devil did he get here?”

“Well, it might not be the same man – although it’s not a common name, so you might be right. But I can promise you that he definitely wrote the song,” insisted Bartholomew.  

“Ruscombe-Green was a splendid chap, but always a bit of a rogue,” smiled Reggie. “I wouldn’t put it past him to pass that tune off as his own. The words must be his, though. There aren’t too many songs knocking around about Hopeless, Maine.”  

“Then what are the words?” asked Ariadne, walking through the doorway and narrowly avoiding getting paint on her apron.  “Come on, Brigadier, give us a song.”  

Reggie beamed. He had a fine baritone voice, and he knew it. The old soldier never missed a chance to give his tonsils an airing.  “The true title is ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray,” he said, “and there is a short verse that precedes the chorus that Mad Jack so casually borrowed… ” And then he closed his eyes and began to sing.

 “I have come to say goodbye, Dolly Gray.

It’s no use to ask me why, Dolly Gray.

There’s a murmur in the air, you can hear it everywhere,

It’s time to do and dare, Dolly Gray – so

Goodbye Dolly I must leave you,

Though it breaks my heart to go.

Something tells me I am needed At the front to fight the foe.

See, the soldier boys are marching

And I can no longer stay.

Hark, I hear the bugle calling,

Goodbye Dolly Gray.”

The account of Colonel Ruscombe-Green leaving the island is recounted in the tale entitled ‘Goodbye Hopeless‘. Should you wish to hear the full, and original,  version of ‘Goodbye Dolly Gray’, below is a link to a splendid rendition by Mr Edward Woodward.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

BSc

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The number, and variety, of people turning up unannounced, to the island of Hopeless, Maine,  never ceases to amaze me. As I have often mentioned, the relationship that Hopeless enjoys with Time and Space is, to say the very least, complicated. This becomes apparent when you notice that the majority of those deposited by shipwrecks seem to be restricted to arriving from an age when sailing ships breasted the seas, and steam was still something of a novelty.

Others, like Reggie Upton and the late Marjorie Toadsmoor, came to the island in vastly more mysterious circumstances; one minute they were minding their own business, then, with no warning whatsoever, found themselves suddenly gazing out over the foggy Atlantic, thousands of miles away from home. This sort of thing seems to be a fairly recent phenomenon, as I have found no reference to it in early editions of The Vendetta.

You will have noticed that there has been a lot of talk in these pages, lately, about portals, and one can only assume that such accidental visitors to the island must have inadvertently stumbled through one of these mysterious doorways. This theory, however, begs several questions:

(1) Are portals becoming more common?  (2) Are they some sort of terrestrial black hole?     (3) Why do most of them lead to Hopeless? and (4) the most important, and worrying of all: Are any of us safe? Any lapse in concentration could mean that a hundred-yard trip down to the corner shop, for a newspaper and bottle of milk, could, in the blink of an eye, find you wandering around Scilly Point, Ghastly Green, Creepy Hollow or, heaven forbid, 40 Second Street, where the restless ghost of Clarissa Cockadilly dances her victims to death (see the tale ‘Dancing on a Sunday’).

The only reason that I bring this subject up is the recent appearance on the island of one Benjamin Bencombe, an apparently eccentric, middle-aged man who gives the impression of being permanently stooped, like a question mark; this is the unfortunate result of his life-long habit of examining tiny flowers at close-quarters.

It was Philomena Bucket who first came across him, high on the Gydynap Hills. When asked, he politely informed her that he was looking for Early Gentians. Such had been Benjamin’s concentration on the task in hand that he had no idea that he had somehow managed to leave the gentian-friendly and wonderfully chalky Wiltshire Downs, to accidentally stray into the decidedly gentian-unfriendly environment of the Gydynaps.

“Well, good luck with that,” said Philomena hurriedly, “and if I should be spotting one of them early genitals, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Benjamin gave Philomena an odd, somewhat worried smile, doffed his straw hat and handed her a small business card, which she quickly pocketed before leaving him to his search.

It was later that day, when the first of the evening customers were trailing into The Squid and Teapot, that Philomena related to Septimus Washwell and Reggie Upton her strange conversation with the middle-aged man on the Gydynaps.

“He told me that he was searching for early genitals. I was happy to get away from him; I can tell you.”

Reggie raised a quizzical eyebrow at this, but said nothing.

“He sounds like a strange one,” said Septimus. “What was his name?”

“Sorry, I’ve forgotten,” said Philomena, then she suddenly remembered the business card in her pocket.

“Ah… it says here Benjamin Bencombe, BSc, Botanist… I wonder what BSc stands for?”

“Bat-shit crazy?” suggested Septimus, hopefully.

“Hmm, it would fit,” said Philomena, “but I don’t think ‘bat-shit crazy’ is the sort of thing that people tend to advertise on their calling cards.”

“He is a Bachelor of Science,” said Reggie. There was a world-weary tone to his voice. “And I imagine that he was looking for specimens, not of genitals, but of Early Gentians, the Gentianella anglica, if I am not mistaken, which only grows on British chalk downs.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth before a dishevelled, stooped figure rushed into the bar, slamming the door behind him. His straw hat was battered, his shirt was hanging out, and his bow-tie dangled loose.

“Thank goodness,” he gasped. “Civilization at last!”

“By Jove, you must be Bencombe,” said Reggie, proffering a hand. “Sit down old chap. You look as though you need a drink.”

“What are those evil looking things scuttling about out there on cutlery?” asked Benjamin, terror-stricken. The wild look in the newcomer’s eye suggested to Septimus that his own interpretation of BSc might not have been too far off the mark.

“Spoonwalkers,” said Reggie. “Take it from me, they’re absolutely harmless… just as long as you don’t let them corner you or catch you with their gaze, you’ll be fine.”

“They chased me all the way here,” Benjamin wailed. “Oh gosh, I need to get home. Does anyone know what time the next bus to Marlborough arrives? My wife will be worried.”

“I thought you said that he was a bachelor,” said Philomena to Reggie.

“There might be a slight problem with that, old chap,” said Reggie gently, ignoring Philomena. “Have another drink, my friend, and I will endeavour to explain.”.

Benjamin opened his mouth to say something, but was rendered speechless by the sight of Mr Squash, the Sasquatch, who burst spectacularly through the door and filled up more than his fair-share of the available space.

“Good evening all,” he boomed. “I’ve just brought Durosimi back from the Himalayas. He’s just about survived the journey, but don’t expect to see him around for a week or two, he’s out for the count.”

“Is that..? Is he a..?” Benjamin gulped, unable to finish his sentence.

“I think you will find that he is,” confirmed Reggie.

With a pallor that would not have disgraced a week-old corpse, Benjamin looked at Reggie, and then at Philomena, and said, with a tremor in his voice.

“There won’t be a bus going to Marlborough any time soon, will there?”

It wasn’t really a question.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Spirits of the Glaciers

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You may recall that the sorcerer, Durosimi O’Stoat, had persuaded Mr Squash to take him through a mystic portal to some distant location. As has been described in the previous tale, Mr Squash was less than happy to transport a frail human through a doorway which, in a less adventurous Health and Safety conscious society, would doubtless have carried a notice, proclaiming in large, angry letters:

‘DANGER – NO ADMITTANCE. HUMAN ACCESS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. SASQUATCHES ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.’

Durosimi, being Durosimi, had argued that he was no mere mortal. I suspect that Mr Squash might have secretly thought that a trip through a ‘Sasquatch only’ portal would teach him a lesson. As it was, Durosimi found the whole experience to be extremely unpleasant, but managed to survive. He was unconscious when Mr Squash left him to recuperate in a cave, while the Sasquatch wandered off to visit some cousins. It was only when Durosimi felt strong enough to leave the cave did he realise who these relatives were. Even on the island of Hopeless, Maine, everyone had heard of the fearsome Yeti, who happened to live high in the Himalayan Mountains.

An icy blast chilled Durosimi to the bone. He wrapped his long coat around him and shivered uncontrollably.

“Ah, you’re awake at last!”

He turned as quickly as his ravaged frame would allow. Mr Squash was striding cheerfully through the snow, leaving behind him a trail of impressively big footprints (or should that be Bigfoot prints?)

“Have you found your relatives yet?” asked Durosimi.

“Found them? I’ve been living with them for a week,” laughed Mr Squash. “And now, it’s high time we got back to Hopeless.”

Durosimi reeled. A week? That was impossible. Had he been unconscious for all of that time? Besides, he still felt dreadful. He hurt and ached in bits of his body that he didn’t even know he possessed.

“I can’t go back yet,” he protested. “I honestly think that another trip through your portal, at the moment, would kill me.”

“I hate to say I told you so,” said Mr Squash, “but I did warn you… and I really need to get back today. There’s more to being a Sasquatch than rescuing Night-Soil Men and giving free rides to sorcerers.”

“Then you’ll have to go without me,” said Durosimi. “Would your cousins put me up for a few days until you can come back?”

Mr Squash frowned.

“I’m not sure,” he said at last. “And it might be more than a few days. I usually only come to the Himalayas once every ten years, or so. These high altitudes play havoc with my sinuses.”

“Ten years!” exclaimed Durosimi, aghast.

“I’ll do what I can,” said Mr Squash, “Now let me go and talk to my cousins.”

The two made their way through the snow, Mr Squash striding unconcernedly, Durosimi stumbling.

“It’s here that we part company,” said Mr Squash, when they reached a spot that looked worryingly similar to every other location in that hostile terrain.

At first Durosimi thought that he was being abandoned in the mountains. There was nothing to see but huge rocks and endless snow.

“You need to look properly, and you will see them,” said the Sasquatch, in as low a tone as he could muster.

“I am looking!” said Durosimi crossly. “And there is nothing to… Oh!”

They were indistinct at first, but little by little Durosimi could see them.

“Oh! indeed,” said Mr Squash.

The creatures were suddenly all around them, huge, white and shaggy, dwarfing the Sasquatch.

 “The Tibetan people refer to my cousins as The Spirits of the Glaciers,” he carried on, “and have revered them for thousands of years.”

“I can see why,” replied Durosimi. It was extremely rare for him to feel awe-struck, but awe-struck he was. We can only put it down to his being weakened by the journey through the portal.

“I will arrange for one of them to take you to a nearby monastery. You will find it more comfortable there.”

Durosimi breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t particularly fancy spending any time alone with these massive creatures, however revered they might be.

Much later, when the moon over Hopeless Maine was, as usual, fighting a losing battle with the fog, Mr Squash met up with Reggie Upton and Winston Oldstone, the Night-Soil Man.

“So you’ve left the old rogue up in the Himalayas,” said Reggie. “It must be tempting not to bring him back.”

“No, I wouldn’t do that. After all, I made a promise of sorts,” said Mr Squash. “Besides, the monks wouldn’t thank me if I lumbered them with Durosimi for the rest of his days.”

“So when do you intend to rescue him?” asked Winston, hefting the lidded bucket onto his back.

“I’ll give it a week,” said Mr Squash. “I imagine that after several days on a diet of nothing but tsampa and butter-tea he’ll be more than ready to come home.”

The three ambled off into the foggy night, chatting amiably.

Meanwhile, almost half a world away, Durosimi O’Stoat dozed in the chilly eyrie of a mountain monastery. Despite himself, he felt almost content, listening to the hypnotic chanting of the burgundy-robed monks, while the afternoon sun lit his simple room and gilded the highest peaks and snowfields of the majestic Himalayas.