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…?”