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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Hopeless Christmas Carol

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By Martin Pearson

Despite the frost, fog, and general abject misery, the island of Hopeless, Maine was beginning to embrace an unmistakable atmosphere that was definitely leaning towards the festive. This was due, in no small part, to the efforts of Philomena Bucket and the Middlestreets, Bartholomew and Ariadne, who had decided that Christmas should be celebrated in style this year. They had festooned The Squid and Teapot with an assortment of decorations and had contrived a special seasonal menu, which featured their own version of plum-pudding. Each evening, in the bar, one could hear rousing renditions of half-remembered carols, executed by various patrons of the inn and performed in an interesting variety of keys and tempos, often at the same time. Even The Squid’s resident ghosts, Lady Margaret D’Avening and Father Ignatius Stamage, lent their voices from the seclusion of the indoor flushing privy, where they were wont to haunt, giving any visiting clients something of a shock.

Most islanders seemed to enjoy the efforts being made, but as in every well-meaning endeavour, there was the inevitable handful of naysayers. Not least among these, and possibly the most vocal, was Doc Willoughby, who found the whole Christmas experience to be tiresome, to say the least, with its forced jollity and unfounded optimism interfering with the serious business of drinking.

“Blasted carol singers,” he moaned to no one in particular. “Why does Christmas have to come round so often? Oh, how I hate it. Humbug!” (This last ejaculation was in response to the Doc having spotted, and indeed heard, a humbug. This is a rare flying beetle uniquely native to Hopeless Maine. Although quite small and nondescript to behold, the humbug can be readily identified by its tendency to loudly hum the melody of any tune it hears, and, as it appears only during the month of December, that tune is invariably a Christmas carol).

“He gets more and more curmudgeonly every year,” complained Philomena Bucket to Miss Calder, the spectral administrator of the Pallid Rock Orphanage. “I don’t mind that he dislikes Christmas, but he doesn’t have to spoil it for everyone else.”

“No, indeed,” sympathised Miss Calder. “I wonder if he has always been like that? Something awful must have happened to make him such a misery.”

“I can’t see any of us changing him now,” said Philomena, philosophically. “It would take a miracle.”

“Hmmm, maybe,” replied Miss Calder thoughtfully, then her face turned briefly skeletal as an idea formed in her ghostly head.

It was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except for an opportunistic young spoonwalker, quietly rifling through Doc Willoughby’s cutlery drawer. Meanwhile, up in his bedroom, the Doc was nestled snugly in bed, while alcohol-fuelled visions danced alarmingly in his head. The clock was just striking twelve when he was suddenly and rudely wrested from the arms of Morpheus – who, quite frankly, was glad to be rid of him –  by an unearthly glow that appeared to emanate from the far side of the room.

“What the… who’s there?” he demanded irritably.

“Doc Willoughby… Doc Willoughby…” said a distinctly familiar voice from somewhere within The Unearthly Glow, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

“No you’re not,” said the Doc. “You’re Miss Calder.”

“No, really, I definitely am the ghost of Christmas Past,” insisted The Unearthly Glow, though a trifle uncertainly.

“Miss Calder, I may be half-asleep and slightly drunk, but I would recognise your sepulchral – though not unpleasant – tones anywhere.”

Abashed, Miss Calder stopped being an Unearthly Glow and returned to her more familiar form.

(Unlike the other ghosts of the island, Miss Calder has always been able to wander wherever she chooses, and not doomed to haunt a single given area or object. This latest feat, however, of changing her outward appearance, is one that I had not been previously aware of. It just goes to show that you can learn something new every day.)

“Very well, I give in, Doc. You’re right… but I’ve come to say that you really need to change your ways. You must have enjoyed Christmas as a youngster, surely? It should be a time of joy and giving, not grumpiness,” she said, as little by little, she faded through the wall

“Humbug!” said the Doc, as a small flying creature zipped past his ear, melodically crooning ‘In Dulci Jubilo’ in the key of F major.

That might have been the end of the tale, but as the Doc lay in his bed, he could not help but reflect on Miss Calder’s words. Had he enjoyed Christmas as a child? For the life of him, he could not remember. In fact, he could not even recall ever being a child. Surely he had not been middle-aged for all of his days? That was preposterous, even on Hopeless. He would check with Reverend Davies in the morning to see if he had any memory of them being children together.

It was barely daylight when the Doc was woken again, this time by the off-key, slightly nasal whine of a thin, adolescent voice.

Hobbling drowsily to the window, he opened it, and put out his head, to be assailed by drizzly rain, wispy mist and a dismally cold breeze.

“What’s today?” cried the Doc, calling downward to the owner of the voice, who was dressed in what passed as his Sunday best.

“Today? Why it’s Christmas Day.”

“Christmas Day?” said Doc. “Then you should have more respect, trying to sing and disturbing decent people at this hour.”

In a fit of pique, he threw a boot, which narrowly missed the youth and bounced harmlessly into the gutter.

“Now go away.”

This last sentence, you will appreciate, was not the Doc’s actual terminology, but I have no doubt that from it you will grasp the gist of his sentiments.

Doc slammed the window shut and returned to bed, only to be disturbed seconds later by a diminutive winged beetle cheerily flitting around the room and humming the ever popular seasonal ditty “We wish you a merry Christmas.”  

“Humbug!” growled the Doc.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Fraser Fir

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“That’s the one!” said Bartholomew Middlestreet, pointing to a particularly handsome fir tree, standing in a clearing in the wood.  “I’ll come and get it tomorrow.”

Philomena Bucket was not so impressed.

“Do you really have to cut it down?” she asked. “It is such a beautiful tree, and there isn’t much else with natural beauty growing on this island. It seems a shame to kill it, just for the sake of a couple of weeks of lack-lustre festivity.”

She could have sworn that the branches shuddered a little as she said this, but supposed it was just her imagination.

“Oh, come on, Philomena,” said Bartholomew enthusiastically. “Think how lovely it will look in The Squid and Teapot, all decorated up for Christmas.”

Philomena did not reply. Her animistic soul had never seen the sense in cutting down a perfectly good tree in order for it to do little else than stand in the corner of room, quietly and sadly dropping pine needles and turning brown.

It is fair to say that her assessment of the tree had been absolutely correct; it was indeed beautiful. Standing at just over seven feet tall, with a fine pyramidal shape and glossy green-blue needles, it exuded a delicate citrus scent that spoke of the high elevations of the Appalachian Mountains. Unsurprisingly, neither Philomena nor Bartholomew had any idea of whatever message it was that the scent might be trying to convey. Neither did they know, or care, that this particular specimen was a Fraser Fir, or Abies Fraseri, named for the Scots botanist, John Fraser, and, traditionally, the Christmas tree often favoured by the incumbent of The White House.

Bartholomew wandered back to The Squid, happily visualising the spectacle of the decorated tree standing resplendent in the corner of the bar, and the grateful, awe-struck faces of his customers as they beheld its beauty. Not that any of them would do any such thing, of course, but he could dream.

Philomena stayed behind in the wood and stared at the Fraser Fir, breathing in its delicious scent.

“I won’t let him do it,” she whispered into its branches.

If she had been able, she would have given the tree a reassuring hug, but the dense foliage allowed no more than the caress of her fingers.

“Trust me,” she said, but had no idea what she would do.

The night was beginning to draw in when Philomena made to leave, and with it came a cold easterly wind that shook the trees and chilled the bones. Philomena drew her coat tightly to her body, and bent her head in the direction of home, completely failing to notice the shadowy figure loitering fifty feet away, in the westernmost end of the woods.

Next morning dawned, and Bartholomew Middlestreet was to be seen scratching his head in bafflement, wondering where his saw had gone. His axe was also missing. In fact, every cutting implement bigger than a bread knife seemed to have mysteriously vanished overnight. He could not even blame spoonwalkers, on this occasion, unless they had suddenly become much larger.  

Meanwhile, up in the safety of her room, Philomena peered anxiously under her bed, feeling only the smallest twinge of guilt at having purloined the assortment of tools stowed there. She was painfully aware that the Fraser fir’s reprieve might yet be only temporary, though, as Bartholomew would, doubtless, be knocking on other doors in his quest for a saw.

“Maybe my magic might kick in,” she hoped. Philomena had learned some time ago that the blood of many generations of powerful witches flowed through her veins. Magic had come to her aid more than once, but only when she was in great peril. Whether it would turn up in order to save a tree, even a particularly beautiful one, was not guaranteed. 

“I must have faith,” she thought to herself, with little conviction.

Bartholomew stormed into the kitchen of The Squid and Teapot, later that afternoon, with a face like thunder. Ariadne, his wife, had rarely seen him in such a foul mood.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, warily.

“What’s the matter? Every saw and every axe in the area seems to have disappeared, that’s what’s the matter. I’ve asked a dozen people, including Seth Washpool at the sawmills, and they all seem to have lost anything which could be big enough, and sharp enough, to cut down a fir tree. Seth’s got his circular saw, of course, but that’s no good to me. I just don’t understand it. First of all, I suspected that Philomena was behind it; she wasn’t too keen on me having that tree, but now I know that it can’t be her. There’s no way she could have removed so many tools – why, she hasn’t even left the inn since yesterday.”

“Then perhaps you should take it as a sign that you’re not meant to have that tree at all,” said Ariadne philosophically. “After all, this island is a funny place. It seems to have its own ideas about some things. Cutting down that tree could bring you nothing but bad luck.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Bartholomew. “It does feel like some sort of warning, I guess. And bad luck is something I could do without.”

Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, fastened the padlock on his outhouse door. It was unlikely that anyone would come snooping, but there was no reason to invite trouble. Besides, he would return the tools to their rightful owners eventually, but not just yet. If they wanted firewood they could always scavenge, or get offcuts from the sawmill. Rhys grinned to himself when he reflected how he had been standing unseen in the shadows, well downwind of Philomena, when she promised to protect that fir tree. While he was by no means sentimental about the flora and fauna of the island, he had no wish to see his favourite barmaid upset for no good reason. The collection of the saws, axes, billhooks, adzes and even the odd halberd, had taken the greater part of the previous night to collect, but it had been worth it, if it made Philomena happy.

Drury ambled up to the Night-Soil Man’s side, wagging his bony tail.

“You’re right,” said Rhys, strapping on his bucket. “We should be on the move. Come on, old friend, there’s twice as much work for us to do tonight, thanks to that fir tree. The things I do for love!”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Stirring Tale

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“Stir-up Sunday was over a fortnight ago!”

Philomena Bucket sat bolt upright in her bed, still half-asleep and not a little confused at the unwarranted intrusion into, what had been, a very pleasant dream.

“Well? Don’t tell me that you forgot, girl!”

The ghost of Granny Bucket was sitting shimmering on the end of the bed, and shaking her head in disbelief at Philomena’s apparent negligence.

“Hello Granny. It’s good to see you too. Where have you been these last few weeks? I thought you’d gone forever.”

The apparition held no terrors for Philomena. Granny had been haunting her, on and off, for years.

“Time means nothing where I am, as you should well know. And don’t dodge the question. Did you forget?”

Philomena’s mind began to clear a little, and the mention of Stir-up Sunday brought everything back into focus. It had always been important for the matriarch of the Bucket family to make the Christmas pudding on Stir-up Sunday. Granny’s ghostly heart still dwelt in that time long ago, back in The Old Country.  For Philomena, however, such a cosy memory was very much a thing of the past, but she could clearly recall sitting in church and listening to priest reading from the collect, saying, “Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people…”

It was a safe bet that many of those faithful people in the congregation, not to mention the distinctly unfaithful ones, were thinking that they should be at home, making a start on their Christmas puddings. Not only tradition, but pudding maturation requirements, demanded as much.  The biblical call to stir-up has long been one of those happy coincidences that works as an aide-memoire for those whose interests reside more in the kitchen than in the church.

“Granny, this is Hopeless, Maine. Remember? The chances of getting all of the ingredients necessary for a perfect Christmas pudding are next to non-existent.”

“I never said it had to be perfect,” snapped Granny, “but it wouldn’t hurt you to get up off your backside and pay some respects to an ancient tradition occasionally.”

By now Philomena was fully awake and quietly fuming.

“Just because some hard-up hack, with a quill-pen and a frock-coat, decided to scribble whatever came into his head to pay his debts, it hardly makes it an ancient Christmas tradition,” she said angrily. “Wassailing is an ancient Christmas tradition; burning a yule log is an ancient Christmas tradition; going out and getting well and truly rat-arsed is an ancient Christmas tradition. They all go back centuries. Stir-up Sunday is Early-Victorian, at best.”

“So is most of Christmas,” retorted Granny. “And, when you’re living in a place like this, you’ve got to hang on to whatever you can, or what’s the point in carrying on? Now, are you going to make this blasted pudding or no?”

“Granny, it’s two in the morning…”

“I don’t mean at this very minute.”

“I’ll need to sleep on it,” said Philomena, and pulled the blankets up around her.

“Fine, but I’m not going anywhere,” said Granny, defiantly.

Sure enough, when Philomena awoke some hours later, her ghostly ancestor was still patiently perched on the end of the bed.

“Why is this so important to you?” Philomena asked. “And don’t say tradition; I’m not buying it.”

“Well, it really is about tradition,” said Granny, then added, a little reluctantly, “and it’s about you, too. I don’t want you to be a spinster all of your days.”

“Whatever has that got to do with Christmas pudding?” asked Philomena, perplexed.

“It is well known that if you don’t stir the Christmas pudding, you’ll stay single for the next twelve months, and it would make me no end happy to see you settled down with a nice young man.”

“I haven’t heard that one before,” said Philomena. “Anyway, I’ve stirred enough puddings in my time, and I’m still single.”

“But it’s about intent, girl. You’ve got to make that wish as you stir.”

“And what makes you think that not being married makes me unhappy?” asked Philomena.

“I saw the way you looked at that Night-Soil Man,” said Granny. “And you came so close to tying the knot…”

“Things didn’t work out for us,” said Philomena, her pale face reddening a little. “It was nobody’s fault.”

“It might have gone better if you’d stirred the pudding last year,” said Granny, triumphantly.

Philomena looked downcast.

“Think on what I said, Philomena,” said Granny, beginning to fade. “You won’t be young forever. Give fate a hand and get that pudding done.”

“I’m really not that young anymore,” Philomena reflected sadly, but kept the thought to herself as she watched her grandmother disappear into the ether.

To say that Ariadne Middlestreet was surprised, when Philomena expressed a wish to make a Christmas pudding, would be an understatement.

“That’s something we’ve never done at The Squid,” she said. “There are a lot of ingredients needed, as far as I know.”

“We could compromise, here and there,” said Philomena hopefully. “I’ll dig out a recipe and we’ll see what’s possible.”

Following the aforementioned excavation, an exercise which involved a certain amount of foraging through the books in the attics of the inn, the task seemed to be less daunting.

“It seems to be mainly made of dried fruit, which we have,” said Ariadne.  “It won’t be much of a variety of fruit, though.  The ship that floundered on the rocks last year was only carrying raisins, but once the pudding is cooked that won’t matter. I’m sure that I’ve got an ancient pot of mixed-spices somewhere in the larder, and there are a few sour old apples still in the store cupboard. They’re too bitter for most things, but they could go into the mixture. Do you know, this just might work!”

Philomena could sense that her friend was becoming enthused with the possibility of creating a new festive dish for the somewhat sparse bill of fare at The Squid and Teapot.

“We need not worry about the bits we don’t have,” said Philomena, “and maybe, if the brewery can supply some malted barley to sweeten it, and the distillery some neat spirit…”

“That won’t be a problem,” said Ariadne, who had interests in both concerns. “I’m really quite excited at the prospect of doing this…”

Suddenly she stopped, and looked at Philomena

“Oh, I’m sorry. This was all your idea. Don’t let me spoil it for you…”

“I’m not a bit bothered,” said Philomena, airily. “Just as long as I get to stir the pudding mix…”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Brief History of ‘The Old Colonel’

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mortal remains





In December 1907 a 475 foot, seven-masted steel-hulled schooner, The Thomas W Lawson, went aground off Annett, an uninhabited island a few miles from the Cornish coast, with the loss of seventeen lives. On board were Fifty-eight thousand barrels of paraffin. Yes, honestly. Fifty-eight thousand! If you don't believe me, look it up.
 "What," you may justifiably ask, "has any of this to do with Hopeless, Maine? "
In all honesty, the simple answer is, not a lot. However, by coincidence, some years later, an almost identical tragedy occurred when a similarly large vessel, the 'Stanley Downton', came to grief on the rocks around Hopeless, carrying a far more agreeable cargo. On that day over fifty-thousand barrels of malted barley were delivered to the grateful inhabitants of the island, and, luckily, one visionary knew exactly what to do with every last drop.

Those who have followed these tales from their earliest days may recall that Colonel 'Mad Jack' Ruscombe-Green, and his faithful batman, Private Bill Ebley, gallant survivors of the Great War, had set off to cross the Atlantic in an open boat. They were hoping to emulate a feat, completed some years earlier (but from west to east) by two American-Norwegians, Frank Samuelsen and George Hasbo (related in the tale 'Jolly Boating Weather'). Fate, it would appear, had other ideas for Ruscombe-Green and Ebley; rather than making a triumphant arrival in New York harbour, as planned, the pair fetched up on the unforgiving shores of the island of Hopeless, Maine.
It was a full year or so later that Ruscombe-Green, 
almost uniquely, escaped the island, aided by the Passaquamoddy trader, Joseph Dreaming-By-The-River-Where-The-Shining-Salmon-Springs. Bill Ebley by this time had developed a fondness for a certain Constanza Gannicox and elected to stay on Hopeless, where he not only raised a family, but - more importantly, some might argue - founded the much revered Ebley Brewery. 

Prior to Bill's contribution to the quality and quantity of alcohol available, the art of brewing on the island had been, to say the least, somewhat hit and miss. Both The Squid and Teapot and The Crow had enjoyed mixed success with their home-brewed ales, having depended greatly upon whatever raw materials the tide brought in. With the arrival of Bill, who hailed from several generations of British brewers, closely followed by rather a lot of malted barley, things changed considerably. By my calculations, if the barrels had been mere little firkins (which is unlikely) the haul would have been about five hundred thousand gallons. If, on the other hand, they had been full sized barrels there would be somewhere in the region of two million gallons of malted barley at Bill's disposal. As I said, rather a lot. The future of brewing on the island looked decidedly good. 

It would be wrong to trace the fortunes of the Ebley Brewery without making some reference to the Gannicox Distillery. It was Constanza's brother, Ebeneezer, who originally founded the distillery. At first it relied upon the brewery for most of its barrels but as the years passed the roles reversed. An appreciative clientele were not slow to point out that beer which had matured in casks previously used for spirits acquired greater depth and flavour. So enamoured was Bill with the enhanced quality of the brew that he called it 'Old Colonel', in honour of his erstwhile commandant. 

 "That takes some believing," said Seth Washwell, when he heard the story. "Fifty thousand barrels? How did they get that lot ashore?"
 "Maybe they didn't need to," said Philomena Bucket, who had never questioned the veracity of the account. "After all, it was a big ship that ran aground. It didn't necessarily sink."
 Seth thought about this, then said, triumphantly, "Ah, but what about the crew? If the ship didn't sink they probably survived and would have stopped any looting."
 "Better not to ask," said Philomena, mysteriously. "It all happened a long time ago."
 Seth was not satisfied. 
 "And you're telling me that Old Colonel is still being produced from the malted barley that turned up all those years ago?"
 " Why ever not? " said Philomena, sharply. She was tiring of the conversation, and had work to do. 
 "If you don't believe me, ask Mrs Middlestreet. After all, Ariadne is the owner of the Ebley Brewery."
 She saw genuine surprise on Seth's face.
 "Didn't you know? Her grandmother was Mildred Ebley, Bill's only child. Mildred married Isaac Lypiatt, whose family had run The Squid for years. Ariadne is, or was, the last of the Lypiatts."
 "So that makes Constanza Gannicox her great grandmother... and Mrs Middlestreet has connections with the brewery and distillery. Norbert must be her cousin. Why didn't I know that?" said Seth, shaking his head.
 "Because you're too busy mooning around that French girlfriend of yours," grinned Philomena.
 Seth reddened.
 "That still doesn't explain," he said sulkily, "how they got fifty thousand barrels ashore, and where they put them."

Drury had been lying quietly in the corner, listening intently to their conversation. He wagged his bony tail. He had been there when it had happened, and had seen it all. Unfortunately for Seth, he wasn't telling. 








	

	
	




	
	

				

			Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot
		

			
La Danse Apache

		

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“A young man like you ought to have better things to do than sitting in here and drowning his sorrows.”





Philomena Bucket cast a not unkindly gaze over the dishevelled figure of Septimus Washwell. He had been in The Squid and Teapot, moodily brooding over a tankard of Old Colonel, for much of the day. He was not being a nuisance or taking up precious space; the inn was virtually deserted. It just irked the vivacious barmaid to see one so young seemingly give up on life so completely.





“Well, what can I do?” lamented Septimus. “I’m no scholar and dad won’t let me anywhere near the sawmills. He reckons I’d be short of an arm before the day was through… and he’s probably right.”





Septimus’ father, Seth Washwell, had been proprietor of the Washwell Sawmills and Joinery ever since a slightly rusty, and worryingly large, circular saw blade had washed up on the island of Hopeless, Maine. With a little ingenuity that married the salvaged drive belt from a capsized steamer with half a bicycle, a contraption was constructed, as outlandish as any devised by William Heath-Robinson. With relatively few mishaps and positively no fatalities, Seth soon had the blade spinning in the most alarming fashion. Being a pragmatic man, he figured that it was fine for those who chose to work for him to risk life and limb, especially limb, but not one of his own flesh and blood. He had fathered seven sons and had no wish to reduce that figure to six-and-a-half.





“You must be able to do something,” insisted Philomena. “Everybody has a skill of some sort. You might just have to search about to find what yours is.”





Septimus jerked his head and pointed to the bruise on his cheek and a purpling eye.





“I guess that this is what I’m good at!” he said, angrily. “I can brawl with the best of them. And for every black eye I’ve ever received, one of the Chevins has two.”





“Ah, you’ve been fighting with them Chevin lads again,” said Philomena. “So this is where your doldrums are coming from. What was it this time?”





“Caspar Chevin was badmouthing Mirielle…” he replied, a slight flush reddening his face.





“Badmouthing Mirielle? One of Les Demoiselles? And why would that be your problem?” Philomena allowed herself a brief pause, during which one could almost hear cogs whirring and pennies dropping into place.





“Oh, I get it,” she said at last, a grin on her face. “You have a crush on Mirielle. Does she know?”





“Of course not,” said Septimus. “How could she? I can’t even speak French to tell her. Besides… “





“Besides nothing!” interrupted Philomena, “Her English is as good a yours, so that’s no excuse. There’s always a way, if you’re keen enough. Les Demoiselles have been giving dancing lessons to some of the girls at the orphanage. There’s no reason why Mirielle shouldn’t teach you a few steps.”





“I can’t dance,” protested Septimus. “And… the Can-Can? Really?”





“If you can fight you can dance,” exclaimed Philomena. “What have you got to lose?”





Ever since the dance troupe, Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge, had found their tour of North America permanently terminated by a shipwreck off the coast of Maine, they had practised their art to the bemused residents of Hopeless at every opportunity. The five young ladies had at first shocked, then delighted the islanders with their saucy, high-kicking routine, performed to the strains of Offenbach’s ‘Infernal Galop’ (or the Can-Can, to most of us) played on the beloved and venerable Edison-Bell phonograph. Les Demoiselles were always happy to share their skills with any who wished to learn.





It was a thoughtful Septimus who made his way unsteadily from The Squid that evening. Dancing was one thing… but the Can-can?





A week or more passed before Philomena saw Septimus again. He had gone to The Squid to see if he could raid the attics for some unwanted clothing. She had to admit to herself that he looked much happier than he had previously. Maybe he had really taken up dancing, or dating, or even both. Time would tell.





“GRAND THANKSGIVING CONCERT – ALL WELCOME” read the poster. This was unusual. The islanders of Hopeless rarely celebrated Thanksgiving, mainly because no one had much reason to be thankful for anything. However, a celebration of any description was always welcome, especially if the Edison-Bell phonograph was to be involved; its wax-cylinders were treated with all the regard usually reserved for holy relics. Even Drury, the skeletal hound, became excited when he heard the strains of ‘Molly Malone’, and, since the arrival of Les Demoiselles, the ‘Infernal Galop’.





As expected, the Town Hall was packed to bursting. The audience had a good idea what the night was likely to provide, but it didn’t matter. There was free Starry-Grabby pie available, a generous amount of Old Colonel flowing and enough yellow light from the candle lanterns to lend the proceedings enough good cheer to warm the heart-cockles of the melancholiest spectator.   





Most evenings of this sort would end with a rousing rendition of ‘Molly Malone’. By now the song was so well-known and loved that there was hardly any reason to play the wax-cylinder anymore; the strangulated tones of the Irish Tenor being completely drowned by a great wave of voices that displayed more enthusiasm than musical ability.  And so, after the final strains of the Infernal Galop had died away, and Les Demoiselles scurried off, with much squealing and swirling of satin, and enthusiastic applause, an expectant hush fell.  This, traditionally was when ‘Molly Malone’ would be played; the wax-cylinder changed, and with it the mood of the evening. The audience cleared their collective throats, bracing themselves for a few sentimental ‘Alive-alive-ohs’. Instead, to everyone’s consternation, a different tune emanated from the great brass horn of the phonograph – Valse des Rayons, again by Offenbach – as one of Les Demoiselles placed a placard against the wall, bearing the legend ‘APACHE’. As most islanders had been stranded on Hopeless for all of their days, the word meant nothing, but Philomena, a little more worldly than most, began to wonder if arrows would be flying through the air at any moment.





“They’ve got it wrong,” she thought to herself. “I think it’s more likely to be Passamaquoddy around here.”





To everyone’s surprise, Septimus Washwell swaggered on to the stage, resplendent in baggy trousers, flat cap, red neckerchief and a collarless shirt. From the other side swept in Mirielle in a short skirt, slit to the thigh. She stamped her feet in mock anger, and they met in the centre of the stage. There was an audible gasp (mainly from Septimus’ mother) as he pulled his moody partner roughly to him and gave her a hearty kiss, full on the lips. This was unexpected, but when he thrust her away at arms-length, and appeared to hit her, sending her skidding across the floor, howls of rage issued from the auditorium. Even Drury growled. It took a reassuring wave from Mirielle to let the audience know that this was all part of the act. Happy that all was well, they settled down to watch a dazzling display of mock-violence, energetic dancing and nothing short of gymnastic dexterity, as Septimus swung Mirielle between his legs, over his head, and spun her about like a rag doll, then tossed her to the floor. There he callously lifted her elegant leg and mimed striking a match on the sole of her shoe, to light a non-existent Gauloise (this gesture would have been so much more effective had he actually possessed a real match and cigarette, but this was Hopeless, so they had to make do).  To the satisfaction of the audience, Mirielle quickly regained her feet, hit Septimus around a bit and left him lying on the ground, where she made a point of stepping on him as she left the stage.





The applause was rapturous. People stamped their feet and clapped until their hands were sore. Septimus and Mirielle were called back for four curtain calls. Much to the delight of Les Demoiselles, this looked as though as it might become part of their routine, as it had in Paris. It had certainly been worth hanging on to the Valse des Rayons wax cylinder.





Philomena smiled to herself. Septimus had at last found his true calling and, bizarrely, had become an honorary Demoiselle de Hopeless Maine.





Authors note: La Danse Apache (pronounced, in the French way, Ah-pash) evolved in the early part of the twentieth century in the bars frequented by the young members of the Parisian street gangs. These gangs were named after the North American Apache Indians, because of the savagery shown to their enemies. 






	

	
	




	
	

				

			Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot
		

			
A Hopeless Cynic

		

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Septimus Washwell gazed miserably into his beer. Things had not been going too well for him lately, and it felt that just about everyone on the island was against him.





“People make me sick!” he declared. “There is not a soul in the world who will do anything to help someone else.”





Philomena Bucket stopped clearing the table and stared at the young man with raised eyebrows.





“Why, that’s a terrible thing to say,” she admonished. “There are plenty of people on Hopeless only too willing to lend a helping hand. Take Mr Middlestreet, for instance…” Philomena waved a hand in the general direction of the bar, where Bartholomew Middlestreet was pouring a draught of Old Colonel into a tankard.





“That man is generosity itself,” she said. “He’ll help any waif and stray who turns up on his doorstep, and they can take anything they need from the attics, just for the asking.”





“He’ll have some ulterior motive,” growled Septimus. “Look at you… sure, he’s given you a roof over your head, but I bet that in return he expects you to be working all hours of the day and night to keep this place going.”  





An angry flush came to Philomena’s normally pale cheeks. She was fond of Bartholomew and his wife, Ariadne, and would not hear a bad word said about either of them.





“You are such a cynic, Septimus Washwell,” she muttered through clenched teeth, then strode away before she could say or do something that they both might regret.





Seth watched her leave, and turned her words over in his head.





Cynic? He had no idea what that was. As words go, it didn’t sound like too much of an insult, but he felt that he ought to find out. After all, it might allude to something really bad, in which case it would be a useful word to throw at someone the next time he was having an argument.





But how was he to learn what it meant? Septimus knew all about dictionaries, but he could not recollect having ever seen one, much less looking inside. He also knew that there were books stored in the attics of The Squid and Teapot. Books that no one wanted. As far as Septimus was concerned, no one was likely to want a dictionary, and what was it that Philomena had said? People could take whatever they needed, just for the asking. Well, if Bartholomew Middlestreet was as big-hearted as Philomena reckoned, then this was his opportunity to prove it.





“Find a dictionary? Of course you can,” beamed Bartholomew, when Septimus asked to look at the books in the attics. “It’s good to see you’re out to improve yourself. Your dad would be proud of you.”





It was true. Seth Washwell, founder of the Washwell Sawmills and Joinery, was an extremely practical man, but totally illiterate. It would have pleased him greatly to learn that his seventh son was inspired to look within the covers of a book.





Cynic. Septimus traced his index finger under the definition in the dictionary, mouthing the words as he read..





‘A person who believes that people are moti… moti… (whatever that word is) by self-interest’.





“Of course I’m interested in myself. Why wouldn’t I be? I can’t see that’s what she meant.” he pondered. “It’s hardly an insult.”





Further down the page was a second definition, which simply said.





‘A member of a school of ancient Greek philosophers.’





“That must be what Philomena was talking about when she called me a cynic” he decided. “It might actually have been a compliment. I wonder what they did?”





He made his way from The Squid deep in thought. Who, on the island, might be learned enough to tell him how he could be like the Cynics? Durosimi O’Stoat, maybe.  He would certainly know, but Seth Washwell had always warned his children to keep well away from Durosimi. People who had got too close had been known to disappear.





It was just at that moment that he spotted Philomena, her usual wan pallor restored. Not being the world’s most sensitive soul, Septimus had no idea that he had upset her earlier.





“What did you mean when you called me a cynic, Philomena?” he asked.





“That’s for you to find out,” she snapped, and continued walking, still not having quite forgiven him for annoying her earlier.





“That’s what I was trying to do,” he muttered, stepping into the street.





“Watch where you’re going, young man!”





Reverend Davies glared at him angrily and gestured towards the pile of books scattered on the ground.





“If you must daydream, do it where you can’t blunder into people. Now help me pick these books up.”





“Sorry Reverend,” said Septimus, “but I wasn’t daydreaming. I was thinking how I could find something out about Greek philosophy.”





“Really?” exclaimed the Reverend, in surprise, then added, “maybe I could help.”





Reverend Davies had never been renowned for his altruism, but was always keen to expound on anything which might impress his listener. The fact that his knowledge of the classical world could be comfortably inscribed on one side of a bookmark (and, indeed, was) would not prevent him, however, from holding forth.





“I wanted to know about the Cynics,” said Septimus, hardly believing his luck.





“Ah yes, the Cynics… the Cynics…” said the Reverend, frantically dredging his mind for whatever scraps of information might be lurking in its depths.





“They were most interesting… most interesting…” Reverend Davies always repeated himself when he was stalling for time.





“As I recall, they were led by a fellow named Diogenes, who, interestingly, chose to live in a barrel. And the Cynics eschewed luxuries,” he said finally, totally exhausting his store of knowledge on the subject.





Septimus opened his mouth to say something else, but the Reverend said, hurriedly,





“Well, I must go. I can’t stand here all day gossiping. Things to do. And watch where you’re going in future.”





With that, the Reverend bustled away with his books, before the young man could ask any more questions.





 “What I need is a barrel,” Septimus thought to himself.





“What sort of barrel are you after?” asked Norbert Gannicox. “I’ve got firkins, hogsheads, tuns, puncheons, kegs and butts. They’re all past their best, mind. No good for storing liquor anymore.”





The old barrels were stacked at the back of the Gannicox Distillery. Most of them were a century old, or more, and all had seen good service over the years.





“I don’t want to store liquor,” replied Septimus. “I just need something big enough for me to live in.”





“You can’t live in a barrel,” said Norbert.





“Dodgy Knees did. Reverend Davies said so. And he chewed luxuries.”





Norbert shook his head in disbelief.





“Okay. You can have a barrel, by all means,” he said, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.  The biggest I’ve got is a tun. That holds about two hundred and forty gallons.”





“Will that be large enough?” queried Septimus.





“Should be,” said Norbert. “My old dad drowned in one of those. In his own booze, too.”





“And do you have any luxuries for me to chew, like Dodgy Knees did?”





Norbert gave him a withering look, which needed no explanation.





I have no idea for how long Diogenes lived in a barrel, but Septimus lasted exactly eight days. This is unsurprising, as the climate on the island of Hopeless, Maine is far less agreeable than that enjoyed by the people of Greece, ancient or modern. A miserable mixture of rain and fog, coupled with thirst and hunger, conspired to end his Cynical aspirations forever. Ironically, it was Bartholomew Middlestreet who found him, and rolled the barrel, with Septimus inside, back to The Squid and Teapot, where he was put in a guest bed until he recovered.





“That would be the same Bartholomew Middlestreet who you accused of having an ulterior motive for helping people,” pointed out Philomena Bucket.





“I was wrong,” admitted Septimus. “But I’d love to know how Dodgy Knees survived, when I couldn’t.”





“It must have been all of those luxuries that he was chewing,” said Philomena.






	

	
	




	
	

				

			Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot
		

			
November Rain

		

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It has often been noted in these tales, and, indeed, in various other articles appearing in ‘The Vendetta’, that the climate enjoyed by the islanders of Hopeless, Maine, is not particularly agreeable. In fact, the words Awful, Atrocious and Abysmal spring to the tongue unbidden when conversing about the weather. As a rule, there is little to choose between the seasons; habitual fog, steady drizzle and cold winds are standard fare, whatever the time of year. Occasionally, however, these relatively minor inconveniences are totally eclipsed by a weather-front so foul that islanders have little choice other than to hole-up in their respective homes, and pine for those halcyon days of habitual fog, steady drizzle and cold winds.





November must have been in a particularly bad frame of mind when it descended upon the rocky shores of Hopeless. The days of late fall and winter are short enough at the best of times, but the glowering skies, heavy with dark clouds, kept all hope of reasonable daylight firmly at bay, until night fell, starless and bible-black, as Dylan Thomas might have said. And then the deluge came. Rain as heavy and unremitting as any on the island could remember, carried on a bitter wind and thrown down in torrents.





Reverend Davies peered out of his study window and watched the rain bouncing off the roof of the Pallid Rock Orphanage.





“This is divine retribution,” he muttered to himself. “We are being punished, that’s for sure. I should have seen it coming when the blasted Bucket woman brought that heretical alchemist fellow here. No good was ever going to come of that.”





It was true that Philomena Bucket had brought Doctor John Dee to the island some time before, and, for reasons known best to himself, Reverend Davies was never slow to blame ‘the blasted  Bucket Woman’ for any mishap that might occur.





Suddenly a figure flickered past the window. It was the wraith of Miss Calder, impervious to the rain, doing her nightly rounds. The Reverend instinctively jumped as she slid effortlessly through the wall and into the study.





“I do wish that you wouldn’t do that, Miss Calder,” he said, anxiously gripping his chest.





“Sorry Reverend, but you need to know that the rain has flooded the old stone privy and damaged the wall. Luckily none of the children were in there at the time. I’ve made sure that they are alright, but it will need attending to as soon as possible.”





“There’s nothing we can do until this infernal rain eases up,” said the Reverend, gloomily.





“Well, nothing lasts forever,” said Miss Calder, brightly, “and we both know things can change.”





“Maybe someone or other can repair it when the weather brightens up a bit,” said the Reverend. “Although, it has been pitch black out there for days, and it’s hard to hold a candle in the cold November rain.”





“I think you’ll find that if they have a lantern it shouldn’t be an issue,” said Miss Calder.  “I’ll see what can be done in the morning,”





“Thank you,” said the Reverend. “Oh, and Miss Calder…” he added, a little awkwardly.





“Yes?”





“When you go to ask, try not to worry people too much. You know… The Face thing…”





Miss Calder nodded her ghostly head. She was aware that when she became excited or agitated her usually pleasant features dissolved into a grinning skull, which tended to put even her closest friends on edge.





It was almost midnight when Miss Calder set out to visit Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, guessing that the inclement weather would prevent him from going on his rounds. She was by no means certain that Rhys would be able to help, but she never missed the slightest pretext to visit him.





Rhys was standing in his doorway, staring glumly at the rain and worrying about overflowing cess-pits, when the phantom administrator of the orphanage fluttered into view.  A Night-Soil Man’s life can be lonely, so Rhys was more than happy to have some company, as long as she managed not to do The Face thing. Unfortunately, Miss Calder frequently experienced feelings of excitement and agitation in Rhys’ presence, so keeping her features under control required a great effort of will.





“Good evening, Miss Calder,” said Rhys, ever the gentleman. “It’s good to see that someone is able to get out in this lousy weather.”





“Well, I’m not really a someone anymore,” she replied sadly, then added, brightening up, “but being a ghost can have its advantages.”





Rhys knew exactly what she meant. An ordinary mortal would not have been able to stand within yards of him without retching. The smell went with the job.





“So what can I do for you?” he asked.





Miss Calder’s pallid countenance passed from pale-green to a delicate shade of red.





She composed herself and told him about the problem with the privy at the orphanage.





Rhys pondered a while.





“I’m fairly sure that Reverend Davies would not want me there during daylight hours,” he said, “but I’m not going to be able to do any of my own work until the rain has stopped for a couple of days and the water levels go down.”





“It would be wonderful if you could help,” said Miss Calder.





“One snag, though,” said Rhys. “I am going to need some light, and I can’t imagine that anyone is going to be able to get close enough to me to hold up a lantern.”





“I could,” said Miss Calder excitedly, almost forgetting herself and making ‘The Face’. Then she realised that being a ghost, she was no more capable of holding a lantern than she was of hugging the Night-Soil Man.





Dejected, her glimmer became little more than that of a fire-fly.





“Do you always fade when you are sad?” asked Rhys.





“Yes,” her voice was little more than a whisper.





“And glow when you’re happy?”





“Well, yes, I suppose I do.”





“Then maybe I can work by the light of your happiness,” said Rhys.





“So you will mend the privy roof?”





“Only if you are there and feeling happy,” he replied with a smile.





“Oh, I will be happier than you will ever know” thought Miss Calder, and her phantom form shone like a beacon in the darkness.  

	

	
	




	
	

				

			Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot
		

			
The Halloween Party

		

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by Martin Pearson










After braving the vertiginous descent that took her to the tunnels, Marigold found, with no small measure of relief, her journey through the Underland to be uneventful. Philomena had mentioned that no one had walked through the region for some weeks, so she was surprised to find that the rush lights, placed in great iron sconces along the walls, were burning as if they had been lit that very hour.

Marigold felt bad about stealing Philomena's key to the faux-chest in the attic, the secret entrance to the Underland. She felt certain that the barmaid would understand her reasons; surely, if anyone could cure her amnesia, and tell her where her home was to be found, it would be the mysterious Doctor Dee, whom Philomena had first met there. 
As she walked along the fire-lit paths, Marigold pondered the information that Philomena had unwittingly given her, regarding the cave which lay at the very end of the tunnels. Apparently, it had presented itself differently each time she had visited. Well, however the cave chose to appear to her, Marigold decided that her course was set, and there would be no turning back until she had either found Doctor Dee, or solved the mystery of her origins herself.

Marigold's heart missed a beat; the mouth of the cave loomed before her. It was smaller and less imposing than she had expected and pale fingers of mist reached out, as if beckoning her to come in. The heat from the rush-lights had kept the tunnels warm, almost too warm for her to need the blanket that she had thrown over her shoulders when she left The Squid. Now, however, a cold draught made her skin prickle, and she drew it close around her. Then she took a deep breath and stepped into the reaching mist. 

 "Oh, for goodness sake!" Marigold exclaimed crossly.
The view in front of her bore absolutely no resemblance to the inside of a cave, or an Elizabethan alchemist's study, as she had hoped. In fact it bore no resemblance to anything other than the island of Hopeless, Maine. She could see the Gydynap hills outlined in the moonlight.
 "I've taken a wrong turning somewhere," she muttered. That at least explained why the air had grown so much colder. Hopeless was dreary at the best of times. Now, at the end of October, the island was definitely trying on its winter wardrobe.
Marigold looked about her, trying to get some sense of where, exactly, she was. The cave mouth had disappeared and the only landmark was a stone cottage. There was a light in one of the windows. Whoever was inside would hopefully be able to direct her back to The Squid and Teapot.

The young man who answered her knock smiled broadly. A welcoming, golden light flooded through the open doorway.
 "Of course I can tell you how to get to The Squid," he said amiably, " but come in and have a drink and a bite to eat first. We're having a celebration. I suppose you could call it a Halloween party."
 "Halloween? Is it really? Gosh, I've lost all track of time since my... since my recent illness" said Marigold. " Well, just for minute or two wouldn't hurt, I guess. Thank you."

It was obviously a family gathering. The cottage rang with the laughter of three generations, a dozen happy people all clustered around a great oak table that was laden from end to end with the sort of food and drink that the inhabitants of Hopeless can usually only dream of. A blazing log fire roared in the grate, and slender white candles burned with a pure and even luminosity.
Marigold was puzzled by the opulence, but appreciating her good fortune, hung her blanket, to which she had pinned the chest key, on a hook on the wall. Gratefully she took a seat at the table.
 "This is so lovely," she thought, wine glass in hand and reaching for another helping of roast potatoes. "It certainly beats starry-grabby pie." 
She put her head to one side and tried to remember why she didn't like starry-grabby pie. Come to think of it, what was starry-grabby pie anyway? Wherever did she get that silly name from?
 "More corn, Marigold?" said the young man, "Let me top your drink up..." 
 "Thank you," she replied. "This is such a wonderful evening, I wish it could go on forever, but I must leave soon."
 The elderly woman sitting beside her smiled warmly. 
 "Why not stay a while longer? There's no reason for you to leave just yet."
 " No, I've no reason to leave... " said Marigold, dreamily.

Philomena peered down the yawning shaft of the chest that squatted in a corner of the attic. 
 "We're going to have to leave it open," said Bartholomew Middlestreet . "It has only been a few days. You never know, she might come back that way."
 Philomena said nothing. With, or without The Sight, she knew that such a thing would be unlikely. She really wanted to seal the passage up forever, cut the ladder from the wall, lock the chest and throw the key - the key she no longer possessed - far into the ocean. 

It was on the following morning, while walking with Drury,  that she found the blanket. Her blanket. Drury, for reasons best known to himself, had decided to explore a ruined cottage in Creepy Hollow. It had been little more than a couple of walls and a heap of rubble for years. The blanket had been lying on the floor. At least it looked like Philomena's missing blanket, though it was faded now, and thick with dust, as though it had been abandoned there fifty years ago. 
 "Oh Marigold," she thought to herself, "I don't know who or what you found in the cave, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't John Dee."
She picked up the blanket and noticed that an iron key had been pinned to one corner. Philomena recognised it immediately.
" She won't be coming back, " she said quietly to herself. "And this must never - will never - happen again."

Philomena had long doubted that she possessed any magical skills, despite the assurances and protestations to the contrary of both John Dee and the ghost of Granny Bucket. So maybe she thought, as those words left her lips, that the earth tremor was a coincidence. Nothing remarkable; seismic activity was commonplace enough in the state of Maine. 

Bartholomew Middlestreet had to steady himself when the tremor hit. It seemed to come from directly beneath The Squid and Teapot, shaking the building so hard that pictures fell from the walls and crockery smashed. In the shaft that led to the tunnels, the agonized metallic death-rattle of the long iron ladder could be heard as it pulled away from the fabric of the walls, becoming suddenly, and unaccountably brittle, bending and shattering beyond repair.

Far beneath the inn, deep in earth, many hundreds of tons of rock tumbled like skittles, sealing forever all access to the Underland.




















	

	
	




	
	

				

			Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot
		

			
Ladies Who Lunch

		

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The atmosphere in The Squid and Teapot was convivial this lunchtime, in direct contrast to the dismal mist swirling ominously outside the windows of the inn. Marigold pondered for a few moments before helping herself to a small slice of starry-grabby pie. It was a strange dish, to be sure, but was regarded with some fondness by the islanders of Hopeless, Maine. Convinced, as she was, that Hopeless had always been her home, it seemed only common sense that she had been eating this particular delicacy for years. So, why didn’t she consume it with the relish of a true-born islander? Oh, this was the trouble with amnesia, she thought. How on earth could you be expected to know if you liked something, or indeed, someone, prior to losing your memory?





With this thought fresh in her mind, Marigold glanced across the table at Philomena Bucket, whose slender, pale features belied the justice she was doing to the hearty portion of pie on her plate, not to mention the foaming tankard of Old Colonel at her elbow. At this hour of the day Marigold preferred to drink some of the innocuous sarsaparilla that the teetotal distiller, Norbert Gannicox, had gifted her from his private store. A pint of Old Colonel was far more than she could face at midday, but each to their own.





Had they always been friends? Marigold felt awkward about asking Philomena directly. Despite her amiability, there was a certain reticence – even evasiveness – about Philomena that Marigold could not fathom.





“When I told you about my amnesia, and how I wanted to find my family, you said that it’s a pity that someone, who you called Doctor Dee, wasn’t still around, as he would probably have known what to do. Do you remember?” she probed. “He sounds like a fascinating character.”





“Ah, dear old John Dee,” said Philomena, warmly. “You’re not wrong, he was certainly fascinating… maybe a bit too fascinating sometimes. I’m sure you would have liked him, but there were some folk around here who found him to be something of an acquired taste.”





“Not unlike the starry-grabby pie.”





Suddenly mortified, Marigold immediately clapped her hand to her mouth, alarmed that she might have said this aloud, and was relieved to find that she had not. Instead she asked,





“So, where is he these days?”





Philomena had no wish to have to explain about the tunnels to the Underland, the enchanted cavern and Dee disappearing, probably back to Elizabethan England. It would have been too much too soon for Marigold to take on board.





“Oh… back to where he came from, I imagine,” she replied, adding quickly, “well, there is a lot to do now that lunch is over. I must get back to work.”





Marigold watched the barmaid drain the last drops from her tankard, pick up the plates and cutlery, and drift off to the kitchen, returning to her duties.





“What are you not telling me?” she muttered to herself.  





It was some hours later when Marigold wandered over to the Gannicox Distillery, returning the now-empty jug into which Norbert had earlier poured the sarsaparilla. She knew that Norbert and the folk at The Squid and Teapot were close friends and wondered if he might shed some light on the whereabouts of the mysterious Doctor Dee.





“Doctor Dee?” said Norbert. “He was a great fellow. A real gentleman… and a bit of a magician, one way and another, so they say.”





Marigold looked incredulous. A magician? Why hadn’t Philomena told her?





“How did you meet?” she asked, and Norbert, never slow to spin a good yarn, told her all about the way in which he had journeyed through the Underland with Bartholomew Middlestreet and Philomena. He related how they had miraculously found themselves thrown into the study of John Dee, the famous Elizabethan alchemist, before the four of them were unceremoniously dropped through some significant events in history, and returned to the tunnels that stretched beneath the island.





“Of course,” said Norbert, proudly, “we would never have found any of that without the key to the secret passageway, left years ago in the keeping of my grandfather, Solomon Gannicox.”





Norbert was on a roll by now, and it took little persuasion for him to relate the story of how they had discovered the faux sea-chest in the attic which was, in reality, the entrance to the Underland.





“And where is the key now?” Marigold enquired casually.





“Fastened to a piece of string and hanging around Philomena’s neck. She reckons it’s the safest place for it, until we can find a better place to hide it. She says that the cave is becoming ever more dangerous to visit. Something weird happened to her the last time she was there, and she won’t talk about it.” said Norbert.





Marigold walked from the distillery, her head full of the tale that Norbert had related. She felt sure that if she could get to the enchanted cave and meet Doctor Dee, her memory would be restored and she could find her family. But would Philomena take her there? She could at least ask.





“Definitely not!” said Philomena, much later that night, after the inn had closed. “I’ve got no wish to go there again, and I don’t honestly think it was ever meant for the likes of us to find. Norbert should never have told you about it, Marigold. It just gave you hope where none exists, believe me.”





Marigold, sitting in the large armchair that graced the corner of Philomena’s room, looked tired. She smiled and nodded her acquiescence. Philomena breathed a sigh of relief that the younger woman was willing to let the matter rest so easily.





“Your memory will come back in its own good time, don’t fret,” she told her, and the two settled down for a chat and a nightcap of the non-headwear variety.





They had not been talking for long when Philomena realised that Marigold had fallen asleep in the chair. Not wishing to disturb her friend, she gently placed a blanket over her sleeping form, before blowing out the candle and climbing into bed.





It was late, late into the night, and Marigold was sure that Philomena was in a deep sleep. She stole from the chair and, taking out the small scissors which she had brought for that very purpose, snipped the string around Philomena’s neck and pocketed the heavy brass key. Quiet as a mouse she wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, slipped out through the door and, having lit the stub of a candle, crept up the stairs to the attics.





To be continued…

	

	
	




	
	

				

			Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot
		

			
Marigold

		

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Part of an ongoing Tale from The Squid and Teapot by Martin Pearson.










Almost two weeks had passed since Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, had brought Marigold Burleigh to the door of The Squid and Teapot. Rhys had discovered her body upon the Gydynap Hills, cast down like a broken and discarded toy.  Thinking her dead, and therefore unheeding of his noxious odour, he carried her into the town; Rhys had no wish to leave the her as fodder for whatever night-creature might chance by. He knocked on Doc Willoughby’s door but it was apparent that the curmudgeonly physician had no such sensibilities. The Doc had refused to lift a finger to help Rhys, but brusquely told him that the girl was dead and therefore beyond help, before slamming the door in his face. Miss Calder, the ghostly administrator of The Pallid Rock Orphanage, however, disagreed. She assured the Night-Soil Man that there was still a spark of life flickering within Marigold – and who could be a better arbiter of judging the fine line between life and death than one who had passed over it herself? She advised that Rhys should take the young woman immediately to The Squid, where she could be properly cared for.  





Although Marigold had regained consciousness within a few hours, it had taken a week or more for her to be well enough to leave the confines of the inn, and even then all memory of her past life evaded her. When she first appeared on Hopeless she had told islanders that she was a nurse, but in truth, she knew nothing about nursing, for the words had not been hers, but those of the dark entity who had possessed her.





Those who have followed these tales will recall that Trickster had been making trouble on Hopeless for quite some time. Previously, using Linus Pinfarthing as his ‘meat-suit’, he had caused death, misery and mayhem before his downfall had put a stop to things for a while. Later, taking on the form of an innocent-looking white hare, he had been thwarted by the unlikeliest of heroes, a raiding-band of spoonwalkers, who had driven him into the sea. However, Trickster was determined, if nothing else, and this rejection only served to encourage him in his mission to spread as much mischief as possible throughout the island of Hopeless. The unfortunate white hare soon perished in the cold Atlantic but Trickster found other meat-suits, or, more properly, fish-suits and fowl-suits; bodies which lasted long enough to take him to the mainland… and that is where he spied the pretty girl wandering along the seashore.





Marigold Burleigh, if indeed that was ever her name, had little idea that the sudden strange sensations gripping both her mind and body had anything to do with Arctic Tern that had plummeted from the sky, to lie dead at her feet. It took only a matter of seconds for all memory of her old life to slip away forever, and for the creature that was Trickster to become her puppet-master.





I will leave you, the reader, to imagine how Marigold might have persuaded the captain of the scruffy Down Easter to take her aboard. Trickster had no scruples, and whatever indignities his attractive young meat-suit may have suffered in order for him to achieve his aims, were neither here nor there, as far as he was concerned. Similarly, the way in which the captain and crew of the Down Easter perished troubled him not at all. It is sufficient to say that by the time the small craft beached on the shores of Hopeless, having miraculously avoided floundering upon any of its treacherous rocks and hidden reefs, Marigold was the only survivor. All this, of course, was hidden from Marigold, who later assumed that she was suffering from temporary amnesia.  





Ariadne Middlestreet was the first to notice Marigold’s change of character. Before the episode on the Gydynaps she had appeared confident to the point of arrogance, but now she had become withdrawn and given to wandering around the island, as if searching for something. Even those who have lived on Hopeless for all of their lives would be fearful to do this, but Marigold seemed to see no danger. Ariadne tried to alert her to the hazards that lurked around every bend, but to no avail.  





“She’ll be fine,” said Philomena Bucket, reassuringly. “I’m always out and about at all hours of the day and night, and no harm has befallen me.”





“Yet!” said Ariadne, pointedly. “Although, I sometimes think you lead a charmed life, Philomena.”





The barmaid coughed awkwardly. It was unlikely that a truer word had ever been spoken in innocence. Philomena was well aware of the strange abilities she had inherited from her ancestors, but had never shared this secret, not even with her closest friends.





“I’ll ask Rhys to keep an eye on her if he sees her wandering around at night,” she promised, not realising that this is exactly what the Night-Soil Man did whenever he spotted Philomena herself walking the hills after dark.





Over the centuries – millennia, even – few have survived possession by the Trickster. Linus Pinfarthing lasted for a short while, but only by regularly drinking himself into a stupor, a strategy which eventually killed him. Marigold, on the other hand, survived because she had appeared to be physically weaker than she actually was. Now that Trickster had left her, taking with him all recollection of her past life, a gnawing ache was left; an ache to know who she really was, where she had come from and if she had any family. Unaware that Hopeless held no answers for her, Marigold resolved to not rest until the truth was uncovered.





“What can possibly go wrong?” she wondered.





To be continued…