Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Bagpipes

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By Martin Pearson

‘Bagpipes’ by Matilda Patterpaw

“From henceforth,” declared Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, “I wish to be known simply as Reggie Upton. The double-barrel business is totally inappropriate on this island; besides, the Hawkesbury branch of the family were bounders to a man. I’ll be happy to be shot of the lot of them.”

If it suited the old soldier to slough off his former appellation, no one was going to argue with him. The fact of his full name had never been an issue to others on Hopeless; most had only ever known him as ‘Reggie’.

“I’m off now for a spot of flâneuring,” he announced.

“Well, be careful” warned Philomena Bucket. “You know what happened the last time you went flannelling.”

Reggie brandished his silver-topped cane.

“Fear not, dear lady. I am always well prepared. Anyway, I thought that Drury might like to come with me.”

Flâneuring, you will recall (or possibly indulge in, upon occasion) is the pastime of sauntering aimlessly, and taking in the ambience of a place. On his previous excursion Reggie had been accosted by young Roscoe Chevin, who villainously demanded his watch and cane. Reggie had responded by demonstrating that the cane was, in reality, a sword stick. With a deft swish of his blade he severed Roscoe’s belt, causing the youth’s trousers to fall down, at the same time greatly amusing a group of orphanage girls, who happened to be passing.

Drury did not need telling twice. He clattered to his feet, shook himself noisily, and followed Reggie through the large oak door of The Squid and Teapot, and out into the vibrant, pulsating street-life of Hopeless, Maine. At least, it might have been vibrant and pulsating but, as usual, there was no one around. When the weather was inclement, or threatened to be less than clement, people tended to stay in. Today it was unusually clement, save for the swirling mist, but nobody thought it wise to venture abroad, on the basis that one can never be too careful in matters of climatic clemency. And so it was that Reggie and Drury wandered about in amiable silence, Drury sniffing the air, and Reggie showing off yet another bespoke suit (purchased from Huntsman & Co. of Saville Row, est. 1849), which he had plucked from his seemingly bottomless travelling trunk.

After half-an-hour or so of uneventful strolling, the pair found themselves by the rocks at the water’s edge. Reggie, ever mindful of his appearance, made certain not to get seawater anywhere near his expensive leather shoes. Drury had no such qualms and leapt into the shallows, hoping for the opportunity to terrorise an unsuspecting cephalopod or two. Instead he was surprised to find what appeared to be a five-legged creature with a strange, plaid-patterned body, floating on the surface of the water. It looked very dead and gave no resistance when Drury, who was an inquisitive hound, proceeded to pull its corpse ashore, where he proudly presented it to Reggie.

“Well I’m jiggered!” exclaimed Reggie. “Dashed if you haven’t found a set of bagpipes. I wonder if they still work?”

Despite his curiosity, he was not inclined to blow into any of the tubes to find out, but instead encouraged Drury to bear the dripping bagpipes back to The Squid and Teapot in his bony mouth, for later inspection.

“I’ve no idea what it is,” said Seth Washwell, studying the thing on the table, “but I reckon it’s dead.”

“Not dead, old chap,” said Reggie, clapping him on the shoulder. “It is a musical instrument, and just a little bit water-logged. It needs somewhere warm to dry out.”

“I’ve never seen an instrument that looked like that,” mused Seth.

“I was wondering,” said Reggie, tentatively, “if there might be a little corner of the foundry in which it could recover, as it were. It wouldn’t take up much room.”

Seth rubbed his jaw ruminatively.

“Can’t see why not,” he said, after a few moments. “I’ll even carry it there for you. It would be a pity to get your nice suit mucked-up.”

The bagpipes took more than a week to dry out. Even then they did not play immediately. It was only after some subtle prodding with a wire coat-hanger, and the removal of several yards of seaweed, that they were capable of emitting a noise, of sorts. Reggie beamed with pleasure.

“Are you really sure it’s an instrument?” asked Seth dubiously. “When you blew into it, it sounded as though it was in pain.”  

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” said Reggie, “this will be the beginning of a whole new pastime for me. Why, I imagine I’ll be playing these bagpipes properly in no time at all. When is the next musical event on the island happening?”

Seth confessed that he had no idea, but made a mental note to avoid it at all costs, if the agonised groans that the pipes had made earlier were anything to go by.

True to his word, Reggie practiced on the pipes every day. He would take himself to a quiet spot and give it his best shot. His best shot, however, fell far short of anything resembling a melody. And so it was, after a month of fruitless effort, he lay the bagpipes down, half-hidden beneath a settle in the snug of The Squid and Teapot, and admitted defeat. No one else had any interest in the instrument, and there they would be still, had it not been for Drury.

The osseous hound had never been convinced that the bagpipes were not alive. It occurred to him that all they required to be happy, and not make that dreadful sound, was to have a little fun now and then, and who better to provide fun than Drury himself?

For the next few days the bony old dog could be seen running around the island with the bagpipes firmly gripped between his jaws. To his great surprise they did not appear to respond to his attentions, and, in true Drury-style, he lost interest, abandoning them outside the Night-Soil Man’s front door. He was sure that Rhys would know what to do.

Rhys Cranham had never seen a set of bagpipes before. In common with most other folks, he imagined that they were a dead creature of some description or, at least, the remnants of one. He had seen some odd things on Hopeless, and the insect-like shape of the bagpipes was no weirder than many other sights he had witnessed.

Gingerly, he lifted the limp instrument with a long pole, and carried it to the sinkhole at the edge of his property. Rhys gazed down into its bottomless depths, and wondered, as he had always wondered, what the meaning was of the swirling green mist, hundreds of feet below.

“Goodbye then, whatever you were,” he said to the bagpipes, and pitched them unceremoniously into the sinkhole.

It was the night of the full moon, almost a week later. Rhys was on his rounds, servicing the privies on the far side of the island. There was no one to see the strange, spidery creature that heaved its bloated, tartan body out of the dark hole at the end of the garden. After a plaintive howl, which sounded uncannily like the first few bars of ‘Flowers of the Forest’, it stretched its thin, disparately-sized legs, and scuttled awkwardly away into the misty shadows. 

Hopeless Maine Artifacts

Hopeless Fabric

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Erek Vaehne has been exploring the textile options for islanders. Clearly, salvaging fabric from shipwrecks was never going to provide enough material to keep everyone comfortable and decent. So, where does cloth come from on the island?

Erek suggests stinging nettles (which are native to Maine) as a possibility.

“

STINGING NETTLES:  The stinging nettle is a plant that most children avoid at all costs because brushing up against the underside of the leaves causes a nasty rash. However, the fabric made from stinging nettles is perfectly safe to wear and has similar advantages to hemp without hemp’s associated legal issues. Despite its protective armored exterior, the fibers inside a stinging nettle plant are surprisingly ideal for textile production. The fibers are pliable and a good length to be spun into yarn. The final woven fabric is similar to linen but much stronger. Its strength even increases when wet, making it ideal for more structured garments. It blends nicely with other fibers, which can help to add softness and increase longevity when needed. Kenya-based Green Nettle Textiles was a winner of the 2019 Global Change Award sponsored by the H&M Foundation. Stinging nettles are easy to grow and conserve biodiversity, maintain mountain slopes and provide habitat for insects and animals. Green Nettle’s product range supports plans to offer work for more than 200,000 small farmers across Kenya.”

Nettle textiles were primarily the work of orphanage children back when Reverend Witherspoon was in charge. He firmly believed that the soul benefited when the flesh suffered, so sending small, unhappy children out to pick nettles suited his purposes well. 

However, over the years it became apparent that members of the Chevin family often develop immunity to nettles over time. This has led to the Chevins taking on the fabrication of nettle fabric. So far, the Hopeless, Maine Scientific Society has come to no definite conclusion about what else Chevins may be naturally immune to. While not considered to be the wisest of families, there have been no volunteers for poison testing at this time.

Hopeless Tales, Mrs Beaten

The Bauched Manifesto

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Next to Die

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When Philomena Bucket first came to Hopeless, and found a home and place of work in The Squid and Teapot, it had not taken long for her to become familiar with most of the islanders. She found it easy to remember the names of almost all of her customers. There were just two people, however, who caused her confusion, often to the extent that she would address them by the wrong name. Although they always dismissed the error with a laugh, it was something that annoyed her intensely. After all, these were men who bore no resemblance to each other, and whose lives could not have been more different.

Seth Washwell was very much a family man, with seven sons and a loving wife. His stocky frame and salt-and pepper beard gave him the look of a traditional blacksmith, which, indeed, he was, this being a natural offshoot of the iron foundry, which he ran with the help of his sons. Seth Washpool, on the other hand, was slightly built, clean shaven and, being unmarried, the last of his line. He was a quiet man who preferred his own company.

“It’s easy to tell us apart,” proclaimed Seth Washwell. “Just remember that wells are deep and pools tend to be shallow.”

Philomena thought that this was unfair, and secretly suspected that the insular Mr Washpool was anything but shallow.

“If this was a story,” she thought to herself, “such confusion would never happen. Any author with the slightest degree of common sense would make sure that each of his creations had distinct names that no one could mix up.”

None of this mattered anymore, however. Such thoughts were now irrelevant. Seth Washpool was dead.

It was Rhys Cranham who had found him. The Night-Soil Man was making his weekly trip to service the Washpool privy when he spotted Seth’s body lying by the back door. He had not been dead for very long, Rhys decided. There were too many things lurking about by night, and looking for an easy meal, to leave a corpse unmolested for any length of time.

“Poor old Seth grew up in the orphanage,” said Norbert Gannicox. “Washpool wasn’t even his real surname. Nobody knew who his parents were, so for some reason they decided to name him after the guy who put the funfair on the Common, all those years ago. Cosimo Washpool, I think he was called.”

“It’s a pity they hadn’t gone the whole hog and named him Cosimo, as well,” grumbled Philomena. “It would have saved me some embarrassment.”

Realising that it was not really the best time to be bemoaning her own troubles, she decided to change the subject.

“Does anyone know when the funeral takes place?”

“Reverend Davies said that it will be at the weekend,” said Norbert. “Nothing grand. Just a few words and a burial.”

“A simple funeral is all very well,” said Reggie Hawkesbury-Upton, “but don’t you think we should celebrate his life in some way? Dash it all, I barely knew the chap, but as he had no family – no one close, left behind to mourn – surely we can’t allow his passing to go completely unmarked.”

There were general nods of agreement at this. The citizens of Hopeless are never slow to latch on to the opportunity of a celebration, and so a wake was planned. This was to be nothing too elaborate, and very respectful. While the Edison-Bell phonograph might be trotted out, it was not deemed seemly to involve the services of Les Demoiselles de Hopeless, Maine to perform the Can-Can, as was usual at any event on the island these days. Reggie, who was yet to see them perform, allowed the prospect of a few tankards of ‘Old Colonel’ to ease his disappointment.  

Reverend Davies conducted a funeral service that was mercifully brief and, in the misty drizzle of a Saturday afternoon, Seth Washpool was duly deposited in the dark and stony earth of the churchyard. This came as a relief to Philomena, whose childhood memories of wakes recalled that the recently departed would be put on display in a corner of the room, presumably in order that they did not miss out on the ensuing festivities.

The bar of The Squid and Teapot was packed to overflowing. It provided a welcome contrast to the damp gloom of the churchyard. Liquor flowed, tales were told and songs were sung. Inevitably, the phonograph played ‘Molly Malone’, a long-time favourite on the island, although the chorus of ‘Alive, alive-o’ seemed singularly inappropriate, given the circumstances. Just as things seemed to be reaching a conclusion, Reggie rose unsteadily to his feet, his face a little flushed, and he announced that he wished to sing an old army song.

Philomena exchanged uncomfortable glances with Ariadne Middlestreet. She had heard a few ‘Old Army Songs’ before, and they did not always commend themselves to polite company.

“This is a song,” said Reggie, slightly slurring his words, “first heard, I believe, during the Indian Mutiny. That was a little bit before my time.”

He chuckled at this. No one else did, as it meant nothing to them.

Reggie drew up to his full height, raised his glass, and sang in a surprisingly pleasant baritone.

“We meet ‘neath the sounding rafters,

And the walls all around are bare.

As they echo to our laughter,

T’wouldn’t seem that the dead were there.

 Who dreads to the dead returning?

Who shrinks from that sable shore?

Where the high and haughty yearning

Of the souls will be no more.

So stand to your glasses steady.

Tis all we have left to prize.

Quaff a cup to the dead already.

And one to the next who dies.

Time was when we frowned on others,

We thought we were wiser then;

But now let us all be brothers,

For we never may meet again.

But a truce to this mournful story,

For death is a distant friend.

So here’s to a life of glory,

And a laurel to crown each end.

So stand to your glasses steady.

Tis all we have left to prize.

Quaff a cup to the dead already.

And one to the next who dies.”


With tears rolling down his cheeks, Reggie repeated the chorus and, as one, every single person in the bar arose and raised their glasses to the memory of Seth Washpool – and to the next who dies.  

Author’s note. Reggie’s song was, indeed, a version of a ballad first heard during the time of the Indian Mutiny. It was based upon a much longer poem by W.F. Thompson, initially titled ‘Indian Revelry.’ Some sources have attributed the verses to the American-Irish journalist, Bartholomew Dowling. His authorship is most unlikely, however, as he would have been no older than twelve when the poem first appeared.

I am not able to provide you with Reggie singing the song himself, but here is a fine rendition by Mr Martin Wyndham-Read instead:

Art of the island

From the Gallery

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We recently took Hopeless, Maine to Lansdown Gallery in Stroud – it’s our local, and this was our third time showing there. We had art from the final book.

Last time we were in Lansdown, it was obvious when we would be back in the gallery and what we’d be showing. Having shown material from the final graphic novel, it isn’t so clear what we might have in the next Stroud show, or when that might happen. (We will probably be showing much of the same material in Gloucester in the autumn).

My hope is that by the next show, we’ll have an extra visual artist in the mix, new illustrated books and something that is unimaginable at the time of writing this post.

Here’s a little video we made to give you a flavour of this year’s show

Hopeless Tales

The inglorious hand

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“We need to talk about the Hand of Glory.” The shadows in Idris Po’s eyes are deep and menacing but his face overall is merely sad.

He sits you down and explains in hushed and urgent tones that the Hand of Glory is not right. He does not explain why you need to know this, or for that matter how he knows that you have seen one.

“The proper folklore has them taken from a hanged man, a criminal, you see. Not to say that there are no hanged men here, only that there will have been no justice in it.”

His own hands are shaking as he pulls a bottle from his pocket and takes a hasty swig.

“And the hand itself, it was only ever meant as a tool for breaking and entering. Justice and injustice you see, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. But not this hand, do you hear me?”

You confirm that you can indeed hear, even though you have no real sense what he means. Not yet.

“These hands are weapons,” he says and you are fairly sure he is talking about his own hands now. “Weapons against the most unspeakable things.”

You nod. He’s just another madman, and who can say whether he speaks a truth won at an awful price, or if he has paid an awful price to know only nonsense. 

He drinks from the bottle again. “They hang me, and they take my hands,” he explains. “I keep trying to tell them that’s not how the folklore works, it’s not right. It’s not authentic. I don’t think they even care.”

You try to murmur something comforting. 

“Only one hand, once a year. You don’t want to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs.” He laughs bitterly. “But it still isn’t proper folk tradition. I can’t tell you how much that offends me.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Flâneur

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It takes a lot to surprise a ghost, even one as young (at the time of her death) and impressionable as Lady Margaret D’Avening. The sight, however, of Hopeless, Maine’s most recent visitor, Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton, standing in the privy of The Squid and Teapot, almost caused her to drop her head.

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

The brigadier, who preferred to be called simply Reggie, had always prided himself upon his good manners and nonchalance in every situation, and he was determined that this encounter would be no exception.

“My dear lady,” he said, with a slight bow of his head, “I am jolly delighted to make your acquaintance, but can promise you that I am definitely not your Uncle Henry.”

“Are you sure?” demanded Lady Margaret, imperiously. “You certainly look like Sir Henry Upton.”

“Ah… that would maybe explain things,” said Reggie. “I have Uptons lurking in my family tree, as it were. I can only imagine that you and I share a common ancestor.”

“How dare you?” screeched Lady Margaret. “I have never been so insulted. None of my ancestors were common.”

It was some home hours later, at breakfast on the following morning, that Reggie found himself relating the exchange to Philomena Bucket.

“That must have been tricky,” Philomena commiserated. “She can be a haughty one, and no mistake.”

“I made my peace with her, eventually,” chuckled Reggie. “I just turned on the old Hawkesbury-Upton charm; it seemed to do the trick.”

“Thank goodness for that,” said Philomena. “Oh, here comes Drury. I don’t believe that you’ve met him…”

The aforementioned nonchalance that Reggie had always prided himself on slipped visibly when Drury came bounding in.

“What the deuce…?” he exclaimed, getting to his feet in alarm.

Drury wagged a bony tail and rattled down onto the floor, next to Philomena. Realising that this skeletal creature was just another facet of the island’s oddness, Reggie regained his composure and settled back down into his seat.

“There’s a good dog,” he said to a somewhat puzzled Drury. If it really was the case that he was thought to be a good dog, that was something that needed to be rectified at the earliest opportunity.

“So, have you any plans today?” asked Philomena, conversationally.

“I thought to wander about a bit and take in the sights. I’ve always been something of a flâneur.”

“A flannel?” Philomena was confused.

“A flâneur,” corrected Reggie. “Someone who just saunters, observing society generally. Since leaving the army I have flâneured in London, Paris, Berlin and Vienna. I fully intended taking my flâneuring to New York, but alas, it was not to be.”

“Well, just be careful, when you go flannelling around out there,” warned Philomena. “And is it wise wearing that lovely suit?” she added, eyeing his Harris Tweed three-piece. “Things tend to get a bit messy on the island.”

“My dear Philomena,” replied the brigadier, “part of the pleasure of being a flâneur is to dress in one’s finest clothes when exploring the world. I would not be seen dead going out and about in anything else.”

Philomena reflected that Reggie may not have picked the best choice of words, given the hazards of Hopeless, but said nothing.

It was late afternoon, and more than one islander marvelled at the spectacle of the dapper military man with the bristling moustache, who wandered, seemingly aimlessly, around the island. He wore his hat at a jaunty angle and swung his cane with all the carefree panache of one strolling down the Strand, on the way to his club.

Hopeless is not known for having any great degree of criminal activity, as no one on the island has anything much worth stealing. In any society, however, there is always an element who will take advantage of those whom they perceive as being weak.

Certainly, the dandy standing on the street corner looked like an easy target. He was in late middle-age and, with his watch-chain and silver-tipped cane, seemed to be begging to be robbed. At least, that was young Roscoe’s opinion, and he decided that it would be a pity to let such an opportunity pass by. After all, if he didn’t relieve the old fool of his valuables, someone else would.

“Hello, mister. Can you tell me what the time is, please?”

Roscoe added the ‘please’ to put the dandy at his ease. It was not a word that he was accustomed to using very often.

The brigadier pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and reported that it was precisely four twenty-three.

“Four twenty-three is it?” said Roscoe. “Then it must be time for you to hand over that watch and silver-topped cane. Come on now, or you’ll be sorry.”

Reggie smiled disarmingly at him, and said, “I don’t think so young man. The watch belonged to my father and I have owned this cane for over forty years. I am extremely attached to both.”

Roscoe raised a meaty fist and lunged towards the older man, who sidestepped neatly out of the way. Within an instant the innocuous looking walking cane had shed its sheath and become a swordstick.

“My turn, I believe,” said Reggie, and, for an instant, the swordstick seemed to flicker in his hand.

Roscoe looked down aghast, in the general direction of his stomach.

“Oh no,” he said, horrified. “Now look at what you’ve done…”

“I almost felt sorry for him,” Reggie said with a grin, holding court that evening in the snug of The Squid and Teapot.

“You see, after I cut through his belt, his trousers fell down. What made things worse for him was the appearance of a party of young ladies from the orphanage. Oh, how they laughed.”

“I’ll bet they did,” said Norbert Gannicox. “D’you have any idea who he was?”

“No, never set eyes on the chap before, though I seem to remember that one of the girls called him Roscoe.”

“Roscoe?” said Norbert, suddenly alarmed. “I reckon that was Roscoe Chevin. He’s trouble, that’s for sure. You’ve made a bad enemy there.”

“I have been surrounded by enemies throughout the whole of my army career. I’m not going to lose sleep over one scallywag who can’t keep his trousers up,” said Reggie.

“But he’s a Chevin,” broke in Seth Washwell.

“I don’t care who he is,” said Reggie. “Why, I pulled the same trick on Jan Smuts back in ninety-nine, and have lived to dine out on the tale on several occasions.”

“Maybe that Smuts guy didn’t have the back-up that Roscoe has,” said Seth.

“Only the entire Boer army,” replied Reggie, carelessly. “Anyway, enough of this fighting talk. Anyone for another drink?”

Despite his airy dismissal of their warnings, Reggie could not help but be a little concerned. He looked down at Drury, snoozing in front of the fire.

“All the same,” he thought to himself. “One doesn’t necessarily have to flâneur alone. Maybe I’ll take the dog with me, next time.”

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Hopeless Tales

Not a cold after all

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By Pauline Pitchford

Yes, they’re real. No, it they aren’t painful although they was when they started. And yes, I know they look odd but I’ve grown used to them now and trying to remove them is incredibly painful.

It started with a sore throat, nothing unusual about that you might think and normally you would be right but this wasn’t normal. I didn’t know that at the time but it wasn’t at all normal. Just a scratchy sore throat that steadily got worse over a couple of days. I decided to try and numb it with a bit of medicinal potato vodka as you do. I wasn’t worried about the possibility of glowing eyes, I figured that wouldn’t last long if I did get them and it would be a small price to pay for the potential result. So I had a medicinal drink or two and went to bed.

The next morning I woke early with a sore head as well as a sore throat and the beginnings of that stuffed up feeling you often get with a head cold. Oh, and my eyes were glowing enough for me to see more clearly in the darkened room than usual.  I didn’t worry about the glowing eyes. Maybe I should have done.

The pain in my head and the stuffed up feeling got worse over the next couple of days. The medicinal evening drinks helped a bit with the sore throat but it didn’t go away and neither did the glowing eyes.

What? No, they don’t glow as much now, hardly noticeable unless I’m in a much darker place.

Anyway, the next thing that started was the coughing. You know the type of thing. Felt like my lungs wanted to jump out my throat sometimes. The medicinal drink helped reduce that a bit.

A week later and I wasn’t any better. I thought about maybe going to see Doc Willoughby but I didn’t want to be told I had something fatal so I didn’t bother.

Then just over a week after the sore throat had begun I felt severe pain in my ears, under my eyes and in my nose. I started coughing really badly. I struggled to breathe I was coughing so hard and that’s when I first felt them. My right ear popped first. I screamed with the pain and started shaking. Then my left ear popped and I felt something dripping out of my nose. Or at least I thought that’s what was happening. I coughed something up but it got stuck and wouldn’t come all the way out.

I know it sounds disgusting! It felt disgusting too!

I think I passed out then.

When I next opened my eyes the room was dark again so I must have been unconscious all day. I felt awful, really stiff and a bit cold but the head ache was finally gone. That sense of pressure in my head was gone too.  In fact as I sat up I realised most of the pain had finally gone. I felt weird though. I could feel something around my nose and mouth and an odd sensation at the back of my throat as if something was stuck there. I reached for the glass and bottle I kept by the bed. That’s when I noticed the glow form my eyes had changed a bit too, it was a bit greener than before. Anyway I poured myself a bit of medicine and knocked it back but the feeling of something stuck in my throat didn’t go away. I also tried wiping my face as I figured it was probably a mixture of snot and drool from being unconscious all day.

That was a mistake I can tell you!

I felt like my face was on fire so I quickly stopped rubbing and began to gently prod at whatever it was. That’s when I realised it wasn’t normal. I felt something tickling beside my ear and went to brush it away. There was something there too, but I didn’t feel any of the excruciating pain I had felt before I passed out so that was an improvement.

I climbed out of bed. I was stiff from lying there so long I guess but other than that everything seemed fine. I went over to the dresser and picked up the hand mirror. I dropped it when I saw what was on my face. It took me a while to get up the courage to look again. One of the tendrils growing out of my ear waved. I carefully put the mirror down and went over to get another dose of medicine. Maybe this batch of vodka was a bit stronger and I was hallucinating. I had another drink. I carefully picked up the mirror again but I looked the same. I put the mirror down and just sat there.

I think I sat there the rest of that night because the next thing I remember is that it was light outside so I got dressed and went downstairs. I had some breakfast, I was very hungry but then it had been at least a day since I last ate anything. Then I very carefully reached up and felt round my face and ears. Yep, they were still there. I had tendrils growing from my nose, ears and out my mouth. I tried pulling on one and soon stopped as that was incredibly painful. So I left them. They didn’t seem to stop me doing anything else that day. The next day they were a bit longer but other than that I was fine.

So here I am. They seem to like a drink as they grow a bit more afterwards. Other than that the only other thing is the glowing eyes when it’s very dark. Oh and last month there was a flower, a pretty thing, it didn’t last long though.

Thanks for the drink.

Hopeless Tales

Looking after the organ

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The Organ

No one alive now remembers how the organ originally looked. It is hard to think about the organ, and better not to dwell on it too much. The congregation have learned that it is better to accept, and say nothing. Reverend Davies certainly won’t pick up the topic in any substantial way. Ask him about the church organ and he will say things like ‘I think it may need dusting’ and ‘this cold, damp weather plays havoc with the leather.’ He absolutely will not talk to you about what happens when the leather rots away and needs replacing.

Older members of the congregation remember when there were fewer pipes. It is said that the original design had only three pipes and that in the beginning, the organ mostly droned, and this was fine because it’s not like anyone sings actual tunes in Reverend Davies’s church. Occasionally some bold soul will venture a melody, but because no one else knows the tune this just makes the whole thing more raucous than usual. In the beginning, the organ provided drones, and the congregation mumbled its way through hymns with as little reference to notes and words as it could manage.

It is generally understood that enthusiasm is not part of the work of a congregation. Getting worked up is Reverend Davies’s job, as it was the job of Reverend Witherspoon before him. No one remembers any further back than that.

Last week, the leather inside the organ clearly wasn’t in good shape, and some of the notes were unavailable. Last week, the congregation drew lots in somber silence, and having picked the shortest stick, Condolences Jones undertook to dust the organ. The notes are working just fine now, and there are three new pipes for high notes. Shiny, bone white pipes that the congregation tries not to think about. They sounded very shrill during the service in memory of Condolences.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Stranger on the Shore

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“I say, Old Boy. I wonder if you might possibly be in a position to give a chap a helping hand with his luggage?”

The voice was as rich and fruity as a particularly rich and fruity fruitcake.

Septimus Washwell, neither old nor, indeed, a boy, turned to see who had spoken. Newcomers to the island were invariably soaked to the skin, woefully bedraggled and often barely alive. The figure on the beach this morning, however, was a dapper-looking gentleman, immaculately dressed in a crisp, white shirt, a Harris Tweed three-piece suit, shiny shoes and a bowler hat, which he wore at a jaunty angle. He sported a bristling handlebar moustache and leaned casually upon a silver-topped cane. The whole ensemble was completed with a regimental tie, flamboyant pocket square and, strung between his waistcoat pockets, a gold watch-chain, from which, presumably, dangled a gold watch.

“Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton,” he said, proffering his well-manicured free hand, “late of the King’s Own Royal Regiment.”

“Septimus Washwell,” said Septimus, accepting the handshake and quietly hoping that his own clammy palm was relatively clean.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said the brigadier, affably, “but I must admit, I am a little disorientated. I have absolutely no idea where the devil I am, or even how I arrived here. Dashed rum, what?”

Septimus, who was partial to a dash of rum occasionally, wondered what that particular spirit had to do with the brigadier’s present predicament.

“You are on the island of Hopeless, Maine,” he offered, helpfully, hoping that this might mean something to the newcomer.

“Never heard of it,” replied the brigadier. “The last thing I remember was standing on the dock in Southampton, waiting for the RMS Titanic. I was supposed to be going to New York. I don’t suppose you’ve seen hide or hair of her?”

“Uuuh… no,” said Septimus, truthfully, then added, “is that your luggage?”

He pointed to the large, leather travelling trunk, squatting on the rocks a few yards away. It bore no signs of water damage. In fact, he could have been forgiven for thinking it to be brand-new.

“It certainly is,” confirmed the brigadier, “which brings me to my original request – could you please give me a hand in moving it?  Unfortunately, I tend to over-pack when I travel these days, so it’s fairly heavy. I assume that there is a hotel close by?”

“There’s The Squid and Teapot,” replied Septimus, uncertainly. “I can help you take it there, if you want… although it’s probably a bit more basic than what you’re used to.”

“My dear chap,” said the brigadier with a chuckle, “in my career I have billeted in some of the roughest and most dangerous spots in India, Abyssinia and South Africa, not to mention Aldershot. I am sure that in comparison your hostelry will be absolutely splendid.”

“I hope so, brigadier,” said Septimus.

“Reggie, Old Boy. My friends call me Reggie.”

“Very well brig… Reggie. Let’s get you to The Squid,” said Septimus.

“The weird thing,” said Septimus to his fiancé, Mirielle, that evening, “is that he seemed completely unfazed by finding himself here. He was standing on the docks one minute, and here on Hopeless the next.”

Mirielle gave a typically Gallic shrug.

“Mon Dieu, what do you expect? He is English. They are all mad.”

Septimus took exception to this, but decided not to pursue it. He knew that his ancestors had hailed from England, and he was fairly sure that they hadn’t been mad. Well, not all of them.

“And what was that about the Titanic?” went on Mirielle. “It sank years ago. The man is as mad as an otter, I tell you.”

“Hatter,” corrected Septimus.

“Ah, ta gueule. Otter, ‘atter, what difference does it make?” ranted Mirielle. “If they’re English, they’re all mad.”

Philomena Bucket, who was Irish, had no such views concerning the English. As far as she was concerned people were people, some good and some not so good, and she and the brigadier were getting along famously. It took only minutes before they were on first name terms.

“You’ll need to be a bit careful if you venture out after dark, Reggie,” she advised. “There are some strange creatures lurking on this island.”

“My dear Philomena, I have seen things in my travels in Asia and Africa that are beyond belief. I long ago arrived at the conclusion that there is some pretty rum stuff prowling this Earth, and that there is no point in shying away from them. What is it that the psalms say?

‘Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday’.”

“Oh, I didn’t take you to be a religious man, Reggie” said Philomena, somewhat taken aback.

“Oh, Good Lord, no. Heaven forbid,” replied Reggie, without the slightest hint of irony. “It was one of those passages one was made to learn at school, along with bits of poetry and the like. They tend to stick in the mind.”

Philomena nodded sagely, although this had never been an issue, as far as she was concerned.

“Well, you’ll need to get used to all sorts here,” she said. “We’ve even got a couple of resident ghosts haunting The Squid. Religious ones, too,” she added, thinking of Father Stamage and Lady Margaret D’Avening.

“I’ll be fascinated,” said Reggie, enthusiastically. “D’you know, I’m warming to this island of yours already.”

“Lady Margaret might give you a bit of a shock,” warned Philomena. “She carries her head under her arm and haunts the privy.”

“By Jove, I can’t wait to meet her!”

“You might have to wait a while yet,” said Philomena. “She went into a bit of a sulk the other week and we haven’t seen her since.”

Brigadier Reginald Fitzhugh Hawkesbury-Upton settled surprisingly well into life on the island, easily making friends with all who came into the inn. A few days following his conversation with Philomena, he found himself in the convivial company of Seth Washwell, Norbert Gannicox, not to mention several tankards of ‘Old Colonel’. When midnight struck, Bartholomew Middlestreet called his customary “Time, ladies and gentlemen, please,” and Reggie decided to avail himself of the facilities offered by the indoor flushing privy, before bed.

It was at that moment that Lady Margaret decided to abandon boycotting the privy, and drifted silently through the wall, directly behind where Reggie was standing relieving himself. Although somewhat inebriated, he was aware that the temperature of the room had dropped considerably. Bearing in mind Philomena’s warning, he calmly adjusted his dress and turned, fully prepared to face the apparition with bravery and nonchalance.

Lady Margaret held her head aloft and looked hard at the stranger standing before her.

“Uncle Henry!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

To be continued…  

(And yes, that is Dr Porridge in the illustration, but he does look vaguely military)

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