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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

The Night Before Christmas

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For more than a century, The Squid and Teapot has been a small oasis of cheer, brightening the gloom and aura of desolation that pervades much of the small island of Hopeless, Maine. 

Following several  years of disrepair and bad management, in nineteen-ten the inn found itself in the stewardship of the Lypiatt family. It was, long-time readers may remember, Sebastian Lypiatt who built the ever-popular flushing privy, an annexe painstakingly constructed from the salvaged stones of Oxlynch Hall, an English manor house that had been deconstructed and shipped to Connecticut (it was with these stones, of course, that the ghost of Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, arrived on Hopeless). 

After several generations of Lypiatts, The Squid passed into the hands of their close relatives, Bartholomew and Ariadne Middlestreet, a couple who worked hard to maintain the reputation of hospitality and friendliness. When the Middlestreets retired, just over a year ago, they relinquished care of the inn to newlyweds Rhys Cranham and Philomena Bucket, and this is where we are today. 

“Giving the Tomte a home has had its advantages,” declared Philomena, more to herself than anyone else. “The inn looks better this Christmas Eve than it ever has, and he has really gone overboard with the decorations.”

It was true. The little man had worked tirelessly, mingling elbow-grease with a little bit of enchantment, to make The Squid and Teapot look especially festive. 

“And all for a corner of one of the attics, a small bowl of porridge and a drop of beer,” said Rhys. “That’s a good bargain, by anyone’s standards.”

“He keeps saying how much he loves to have a knob of butter with his porridge on Christmas Eve,” said Philomena, worriedly. “I fear that he’s going to be disappointed tonight – I doubt that there’s an ounce of butter on the island.”

“Well he must have gone without when he was with Mr Blomqvist,” said Rhys. “I can’t imagine that the old man had a secret hoard of the stuff stashed away somewhere.”

Philomena pondered this, and then said, 

“The Tomte came to Hopeless with Mr Blomqvist, and stayed out of loyalty. He hasn’t got that sort of bond with us. I just hope he isn’t going to be too upset, and decide to leave.”

Despite their young age and limited English, Caitlin and Oswald went to bed that night bursting with excitement. Philomena, remembering the holly-crowned gift bringer of her childhood, had told them all about Father Christmas, in his long green cloak, and the presents that he would bring. Unlike the Tomte, at least the children would not be disappointed, as Reggie Upton, Philomena and Rhys had spent the last few weeks making toys and clothes for them.

It was almost midnight when the doors of The Squid and Teapot finally closed and the day’s work was at last completed. Drury, the skeletal hound, snored contentedly before the roaring log fire, and Philomena, Rhys and  Reggie prepared to welcome in Christmas Day with a tankard of Old Colonel. Tenzin, the Buddhist monk who had recently moved into the inn, was not a drinker, but sat in happy puzzlement observing his friends celebrating this strange festival, which was completely new to him.

“Do you always have bells at Christmas?” he asked.

“Yes, they’ll ring the church bells at twelve o’clock,” said Rhys.

“No, I mean sleigh bells,” said Tenzin. “Can’t you hear them.”

Yes, they could, now he had mentioned it. They were certainly sleigh bells, and seemed to be right outside. Then Drury began barking, and wagging his bony old tail. Suddenly someone banged on the front door, hard enough to shake the glass in the windows.

“Who the devil…” began Reggie, wishing that his swordstick was to hand. 

Gingerly Rhys opened the door a fraction, then stepped back in surprise at the huge, dark shape standing in the courtyard.

He was even more surprised when Drury, yapping with delight, threw himself at the stranger.

“Mr Squash!” Rhys exclaimed. “What a lovely surprise. Come on in”

The Sasquatch bundled into the bar room, a bulging sack slung over his shoulder.

“A Merry Christmas,” he boomed. “I come bearing gifts. By the way, did you like the sleigh bells? I thought that they provided a nice, seasonal touch.”

Mr Squash delved into his sack and pulled out a wheel of cheese, several bottles of French Brandy, chocolate, coffee, fresh fruit, sweet biscuits, jars of honey, white flour, two christmas puddings… and butter; lots and lots of rich, golden butter. 

Tactfully, no one asked how the Sasquatch had come by all of this bounty. Wordlessly, they accepted that this was a Christmas miracle, and nobody should ask how miracles happen. 

“Thank you, Mr Squash,” said Philomena, blinking back her tears. “And a very merry Christmas to you, too. Now, if you’ll  excuse me, I’ve got some porridge to make.”

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Deep Roots

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With a theatrical flourish, Philomena Bucket sprinkled the final few grains of salt onto the bedroom floor.

“You’re stuck in there now,” she said. “And don’t give me any of that ‘me no speak the English’ rubbish; I know that you can.”

“Fair enough,” said the Tomte, in a heavy, but perfectly intelligible, Swedish accent. Then, stepping out of the salt circle, he added, “and as you may have noticed, sprinkling salt about has absolutely no effect on us Tomtar.” 

“Tomtar?” Philomena looked puzzled.

“It’s the correct plural,” said the Tomte smugly. “Now if you’ll just let me get by…”

You will recall that the Tomte, who apparently held some strongly nationalistic views, had attached himself to young Oswald, whom he knew to be of Scandinavian origin. The little man would creep into the bedroom that Oswald shared with his adopted sister, Caitlin, and carefully fold the boy’s clothes and pick up his muddles, whilst leaving Caitlin’s things untouched. While Philomena was always happy to receive some extra help around The Squid and Teapot, she felt that the Tomte could be a little more forthcoming with his generosity, especially upon learning that it was beholden upon the household blessed with his presence to feed him, or things could get ugly.

“Not so fast,” said Philomena, blocking the doorway. “We need to talk. I thought that back in the old country you Tomtar, or whatever it is you call yourselves, looked after whole farmsteads, tending domestic animals, keeping the place generally spick and span, and asking for nothing more than bowl of porridge and a lump of butter every Christmas Eve.”

“You’ve been doing your homework,” said the Tomte. 

“I have,” replied Philomena, “and it makes no sense to me that you come to us, and all you do is fold some clothes and pick up a few toys.”

“No one else in the inn is Scandinavian,” reasoned the Tomte. “But Oswald is.”

Philomena put on her cross face.

“Then you might as well leave now,” she said. “Oswald is my son. We don’t need you. Clear off.”

The Tomte looked crestfallen.

“Then I would have no purpose,” he said,  sorrowfully. “The instant that the Blomqvist house was no longer in Swedish hands, my usefulness was over. Then Oswald arrived on the island, and I rejoiced – at last, I would again have a link connecting  me to my homeland.”

“Not my problem,” said Philomena, crossing her arms.

“But I will fade away to nothing, and not even be a memory…” 

Philomena felt herself soften inside.

“This island,” she began, “was once colonised by Vikings. Some of their descendants are still here, and the foundations of many of these buildings were laid by their hands, a thousand years ago. It is plain that Scandinavia has deep roots in Hopeless. There is no reason for you to be so limited with what you do, don’t you see?”

The Tomte chewed the end of his beard thoughtfully.

“You’ve convinced me,” he said at last. “But I have conditions…”

“Go on,” said Philomena, warily.

“If I’m to look after the inn, I will need somewhere to live, and regular meals…”

“We can do that, although I can’t promise porridge with butter,” said Philomena.

“… and I will only stay for as long as Oswald is here.”  

Philomena extended her forefinger, which the Tomte grasped, shaking it to seal the deal.

“Of course,” said Reggie Upton, “according to island lore the Vikings who landed here were from Denmark, rather than Sweden, which is where the Tomte comes from. We don’t want to upset the applecart, so it would be best to keep that to ourselves,eh?”

“It won’t be a problem; I did a bit of digging in the encyclopaedias, up in the attics,” Philomena announced, with a self-satisfied grin. “It seems that, at one time – a thousand years or so ago – most of what we now think of as Scandinavia was pretty much one country. As far as the Tomte is concerned, that has never changed, and home for him, these days, is anywhere that a Viking once chose to hang his helmet.”

“Ah, so you found a loophole,” said Reggie. “Jolly good show. Well played m’dear.”

Philomena beamed happily. Reggie was usually the knowledgeable one; it was good to have learned something that he didn’t know. 

By the following evening Rhys had made a small, but comfortable home for the Tomte in the corner of one of the attics. Some porridge (sadly without butter), along with a thimbleful of ‘Old Colonel’, was left at his door. 

The regular patrons of The Squid and Teapot know nothing of the diminutive guardian who watches over the children each night, and does the occasional odd-job around the inn. He is a well-kept secret, although one or two have commented that, lately, The Squid seems to be even more cosy and welcoming than ever. They reason that this must be due to the recently hung Christmas decorations – the holly boughs, the garlands of ivy and the festive wreath adorning the inn’s stout oak door, and of course, best of all, there is the beautiful tree occupying pride of place in a corner of the public bar. Everyone who sees the it will go home each night with a lightness in their step, smiling as they recall the way in which the lights, twinkling like stars, are reflected in the glittering ornaments, hanging like exotic fruit from its rich, green boughs. 

“Philomena and Rhys have managed to decorate the inn really beautifully this Christmas,” they say to each other. “And that tree! It really is wonderful to see…”

They would be surprised to know that Rhys and Philomena have played no part in any of this flurry of festive activity. They would be equally surprised by the knowledge that the tree has no lights or fancy ornaments. Those few who can see through the enchantment all agree that, despite this, the humble little fir sitting in its pot looks quite perfect, festooned as it is in a simple string of berries, and a few pine cones carefully attached to its branches. 

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Christmas to remember

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you were definitely a brigadier?”

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

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

Reggie looked nonplussed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before Reggie could utter another word, Ariadne said,

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

“I will?” said Reggie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you say twins?”

Septimus looked pale

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

“And everything… everyone is alright?”

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

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

Bartholomew handed Septimus a drink.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fat chance of that,” said Septimus.

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

Hopeless Music

We three things

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We three things of Hopeless note,

Bearing stuff we found in a boat,

Field and graveyard

Frozen mud is hard,

Following yonder goat.

(Chorus)

O goat of malice, goat of fright,

Goat with glowing eyes so bright,

Might need feeding

So misleading

Will we live to see daylight.

Born a thing, a terrible bane

Golden scales coat him again,

King in yellow

Sinister fellow

Over us all to reign.

Tentacles to offer have I,

Baked in pastry  just like a pie

After braising

Hunger erasing

Served with a mournful sigh,

Oil is mine; it stinks out the room

Weird and fishy, do not consume

Pistons smearing

Engineering

Make something that goes boom,

Eldritch horrors soon will arise,

Will you be their sacrifice

Everyone screams that they will kill you

Let’s kill you the goat replies.

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

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…”

Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Another Hopeless Christmas

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It has, in recent years, become traditional for a few of the residents of Hopeless to come together in order to arrange some manner of Christmas entertainment, basking in the vague hope of igniting a small spark of festive joy in the hearts of their fellow islanders. The crucial words here are, of course, ‘to arrange’; on Hopeless it is seldom that an arrangement of any description pans out as planned. This said, however, the dubiously named ‘Christmas Extravaganza Committee’ gathered in a small back-room of The Squid and Teapot and allowed hope to prevail over experience.

“We could do a Nativity play”, suggested Philomena Bucket.
Doc Willoughby, who was only there on sufferance and the off-chance that there might be a free drink or three coming his way, raised an eyebrow.

“Not on Hopeless,” he said. “You’d be lucky to find three wise men and a virgin around here.”

This was the Doc’s annual joke – possibly the only one he knew – which he trotted out every Christmas with regularity. The others around the table laughed dutifully, probably in relief that the old chestnut had been aired and safely put to bed again until next year.
Bartholomew Middlestreet, the landlord of the inn, looked thoughtful.

“Do you remember the actor guy who lived here, the one that some folks reckon was eaten by that sea-serpent, Aboo-dom-k’n?
“Fromebridge somebody-or-other,” offered Norbert Gannicox, the local distiller.

“That’s the one,” said Bartholomew. “Well, he left behind a few bits and pieces, including a book on the history of acting. There was something in there about some ancient Christmas entertainment called… mummifying, I think.”

“Now that does sound entertaining,” observed the Doc, brightening visibly. “I can’t say that is something I’ve ever witnessed.”

“Well, as I recall, these various characters come on stage, they say who they are, then a couple of them have fight and one of them dies…”
“Ah…and then he gets mummified?” asked the Doc.

“Could be,” said Bartholomew. “But somewhere along the line the doctor brings him back to life.”

Doc Willoughby rolled his eyes.
“I think you’d better bring us the book,” he said, uneasily.

After the initial disappointment of discovering that, when mummers go out to mum, they rarely, if ever, have mummification on their minds, Doc Willoughby reluctantly agreed to take part in the entertainment, after making a mental note that the promised drinks tally had just doubled.

“Okay – so who are the characters, the dramatis personae?” he asked, always happy to drop in the odd Latin phrase, in hopes to impress.

“In this version there is Father Christmas, somebody called Room, Robin Hood, Beelzebub, Saint George, Bold Slasher, Mince Pie, a doctor and a Turkish Knight. That’s a lot of people!” replied Norbert, scratching his head.

“We’re going to have to cut a few parts out, as there are only four of us,” he added.

It was decided that Father Christmas, Saint George, the Turkish Knight and the doctor would have to do. Doc Willoughby was adamant that he was the only person qualified to play the doctor. After a certain amount of bickering the other parts were agreed; Bartholomew was to be Father Christmas, Philomena would be St. George and Norbert took on the role of the Turkish Knight.

Over the next week the troupe learned their not-too-demanding lines and Philomena, who doubled up as wardrobe mistress, trawled through the dusty attics of The Squid and Teapot in the hope of finding some vaguely credible costumes. By Christmas Eve the little band of thespians deemed themselves ready to meet their public.

Ariadne Middlestreet, wife of Bartholomew, was run off her feet behind the bar of The Squid and Teapot. The inn was full to bursting with the curious inhabitants of Hopeless (and some were certainly more curious than others). Beyond all hope, it seemed, they had gathered together on this cold Christmas Eve to witness the cultural highlight of the season. That, at least, is what the four actors told themselves. The truth was that most of the island was dying to see Doc Willoughby make a fool of himself.

Bartholomew, resplendent in a cherry-red dressing gown, matching woolly hat and cotton-wool beard, began the proceedings.
“In comes I, old Father Christmas.
Welcome in or welcome not,
I hope old Father Christmas will never be forgot.. “

As the play unfolded the characters introduced themselves. Saint George appeared in a helmet made from a saucepan with a broken handle and grey knitted woollen ‘chain mail’, eliciting cheers and whoops from the audience. As to be expected, the emergence of the Turkish knight, whose turban looked suspiciously as though it was made of pink chiffon, was met with boos and catcalls. These reactions, however, were as nothing compared to the negative reception given to the doctor, an innocuous member of the cast who is usually received on stage with a chorus of polite cheers. It is fair to assume that this display of general antipathy was not so much directed towards the character as at the actor, who had made no effort whatsoever to don any form of fancy dress, loudly opining that he knew better than most what sort of clothes a doctor should wear.

There are many who will tell you that Christmas is a time of miracles and this little entertainment, put on for the people of Hopeless, Maine, is proof positive that this is, indeed, the case, for, miraculously, nothing went wrong. The Turkish knight slew St. George, the doctor brought him back to life again with his bottle of elecampane and, to huge cheers, St George gave the Turkish knight his comeuppance. Nobody fluffed their lines, there were no embarrassing costume catastrophes and, unusually on Hopeless, no one was abducted, eaten, or even seriously injured. The general concensus was that the night had gone swimmingly well.

By the time that midnight struck most folks were home and safely in bed. Christmas Eve is, however, the most haunted of nights and the ghosts of the island were wide awake and honouring tradition by manifesting for the occasion.

Down in Creepy Hollow old Lars Pedersen, whom time had rendered so faint as to be almost invisible, tramped through the night, seeking in vain for his precious missing eggs.

In the privy of the Squid and Teapot, Lady Margaret D’Avening, the Headless White Lady, had perched herself daintily on the lavatory seat, while her head, floating next to her, sang Christmas carols.
Some distance away, on the other side of the island, her nemesis, Obadiah Hyde, the Mad Parson of Chapel Rock, was busily venting his joyless and protoplasmic spleen against the iniquities of Papists, adulterers and anyone guilty of enjoying a spot of Christmas debauchery, or indeed, anything at all.

Up on the headland the Little Drummer Boy marched proudly along, leading a rag-tag procession of shipwrecked wraiths inland. As it was Christmas Eve he had abandoned his usual ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ drumbeat for the more seasonal ‘pa rum pum pum-pum’

Meanwhile, high overhead, the phantom maiden-ladies of The Mild Hunt, mounted on flatulent mules, with their highly-strung spaniels forever yapping and getting in the way, had come to grief when they had become entangled with some flying reindeer. The somewhat overweight, white-bearded gentleman who seemed to be in charge, was desperately trying to turn his sleigh the right way up, while at the same time fiercely berating them. His face had become as red as the clothes he wore and, with no little venom, he concluded angrily (and quite correctly, as it happens) that they must be English, driving like that on the wrong side of the sky.

The only islander abroad that night was Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man. Ghosts were familiar to Rhys and little surprised him anymore – but even he couldn’t believe his eyes as a not-particularly gentle rain of candy canes, sugar-mice and assorted toys fell noisily to earth.

Author’s note: The ghosts mentioned in ‘Another Hopeless Christmas’ can be encountered in several other tales, including:
‘The Eggless Norseman of Creepy Hollow’; ‘The Headless Lady’; ‘Chapel Rock’; ‘The Little Drummer Boy’ and ‘Ghost Writers in the Sky’.

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Mark Goodman’s unquiet heart

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By Frampton Jones

Last Christmas, Mark Goodman gave me his heart, still beating, and contained in a beautifully decorated box. I was, as you can imagine, rather troubled by this. The next day, I showed the heart to Doc Willoughby, who said he would take it away and examine it. Mark turned out to be rather upset about this, and later retrieved his heart, making it clear that he intended to give it to someone else.

I saw Mark this morning, looking pale and with distinct bite marks on his throat. He also seemed dazed and at first did not appear to recognise me. I was concerned, but did not initially associate this with the strange business of his heart and what he did with it last Christmas. I tend to forget all about Christmas unless reminded.

When he collapsed in the street, I went to his aid. I was able to get him into the shelter of Jed Grimes’s store, where he raved for some time. I can give you only an approximation of his words.  “I gave it to someone special,” he said. “I thought this was someone I could rely on, but I was wrong. Fooled again. But it’s worse this time.”

I managed to ask if this was about his heart. “Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,” he said, “I thought you were a responsible sort of person.” If only he had explained to me what he wanted me to do with it! I am still mystified. It was hardly a romantic gesture, it was a bleeding organ in a box that had no business still beating whilst being in a box. I was more than a little disconcerted at the time and would have benefited from some guidance.

Whatever happened to Mark’s heart this year proved fatal, this Christmas has killed him. I admit to feeling deeply disturbed by the whole experience, a kind of personal Armageddon, a sense that some heavy, blunt object has been whammed into my own innards.

 

 

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I trust that you all enjoyed a merry Christmas. The midnight mass was especially atmospheric this year, the wind around the church producing a sound uncannily like a child crying. Twenty graves have been dug to see us through the winter – a conservative estimate I fear. For the wellbeing of your community, do not undertake to die before the thaw, if you can possibly help it!