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Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Surprise for Septimus

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By Martin Pearson

“I have some news.”

Septimus Washwell had been practising a few dance steps when his fiancée, Mirielle D’Illay, made this announcement.

Without looking up, his attention totally focussed on attempting to smoothly shift from a jazz-inspired ball-change to a conventional chassé, he said,

“Oh yes, and what might that be?”

“I have… how do you say? I have something in the oven.” Mirielle’s Gallic accent seemed, suddenly, even more pronounced than usual.  

“Oh, that’s good,” replied Septimus. “I’m starving. Learning these new steps makes me really hungry, for some reason.”

“No, you imbecile,” snapped Mirielle, scathingly. “Mon Dieu, don’t you even know your own idiots?”

“I think you mean idioms…”

“Idiots, idioms, I don’t care, what does it matter? I am trying to tell you that we are going to have a baby.”

Septimus froze in mid-step.

“Did you say…?”

“Oui. You are going to be someone’s papa.”

Septimus flopped down into the nearest available chair.

“That’s wonderful… I think,” he said, more than a little bewildered.

“You think???”

“Yes, yes, wonderful news,” said Septimus hurriedly, mopping his brow.

Mirielle fixed him with a steely look.

“And you realise, mon amour, that you are going to have to marry me now.”

“Marry?”

“Why not? It is the right thing to do.”

“But it isn’t really necessary on Hopeless…” began Septimus, but could see by the look on Mirielle’s face that this issue was non-negotiable.

“My mother would expect nothing less,” she said. “If I did not marry the father of my child she would turn over in her grave.”

“Your mother is dead?” said Septimus. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes. My father strangled her,” replied Mirielle.

“Really?” said Septimus, not a little surprised. “I thought you told me that your parents had a fairy-tale marriage?”

“They did,” said Mirielle. “It was grim!”

When news of the forthcoming birth leaked out, it was greeted by general rejoicing by all who heard it.

“Well, I didn’t expect my youngest son to be the first to give us a grandchild,” said Mabel Washwell, casting a disapproving look over her six remaining offspring.

“No indeed,” said Seth, her husband. “And as Septimus is a seventh son, perhaps he and Mirielle could produce a few more kids. There’s a chance we might yet get to see a seventh son of a seventh son.”

“I wouldn’t be in a hurry to suggest it to her,” said Septimus, uneasily. “I don’t feel that she would think much of that as an idea.”

“That’s a shame,” said Seth. “Still, you never know…”

“Yes I do,” thought Septimus to himself.

In The Squid and Teapot Bartholomew Middlestreet proclaimed that the news merited ‘Drinks on the House’. As the only people present were Septimus, Philomena Bucket, Reggie Upton and Bartholomew himself, the innkeeper’s generous gesture did not diminish the alcohol supplies of The Squid too drastically.

“What is going to happen to the Demoiselles?” asked Philomena, gratefully sipping her glass of Old Colonel. “I wouldn’t think that Mirielle will be doing much dancing for a while.”

She was referring, of course, to the shipwrecked dance troupe, Les Demoiselles de Moulin Rouge.  Mirielle was the leader of the four young ladies who regularly performed an energetic Can-Can for the delight of the islanders.

“They’ll be fine,” assured Septimus. “There has been a lot of interest from some of the girls who live on the island. They will be queuing up to stand-in for her.”

“Jolly good,” said Reggie. “The show must go on, and all that.”

“Oh, Reggie,” said Septimus, “that reminds me. Mirielle would like you to give her away when we get married.”

“I would be most honoured,” said Reggie. “It is only a pity that her real father won’t be here to do it.”

“It is,” agreed Septimus, “but it seems that he was guillotined after strangling her mother.”

“Well, that’s a conversation stopper, if ever I heard one,” observed Philomena.

“We were talking in The Squid about the wedding,” said Septimus, when he arrived back home. “I think Reggie is quite looking forward to giving you away.”

“That is good,” said Mirielle. “Despite the fact that he is English, and therefore quite mad, he is a good man, I think. Besides, he dresses better than anyone else on the island.”

Septimus grinned, thinking how Reggie seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of bespoke suits in his travelling trunk.

“I’d better get hold of Reverend Davies,” he said, “and see if he’s happy to marry us.”

“Oh no you don’t,” said Mirielle. “I was raised a Catholic. I need a proper Catholic wedding.”

“That is impossible. As far as I know, Reverend Davies is the only ordained priest on the island,” said Septimus. “And some people have even got their doubts about that.”

“You are wrong,” said Mirielle. “There is another.”

“No there isn’t…”  began Septimus, then said, “Oh, surely you don’t mean…”

“Yes I do. Father Stamage might be a ghost but he is still a priest. He has the proper hat to prove it.”

Septimus took a deep breath.

Today was getting weirder by the minute.    

“Well, it is most irregular,” said Father Stamage, materialising from his hat, which was hanging in the privy of The Squid and Teapot.

You may recall that while haunting his hat – his Capello Romano –  the ghost of Father Stamage is able to wander the hallowed corridors of his old alma mater, the Jesuit College, Campion Hall, which is part of the University of Oxford.

“She is set on it, Father,” said Septimus, the slight wobble in his voice betraying the fact that he was not totally comfortable conversing with ghosts.

“She is a spirited young lady, that’s for sure,” agreed the priest, tactfully. “On reflection, I cannot see the harm. Once a priest, always a priest is what I have always been told. I will do it.”

“Thank you,” said Septimus.

“And I would like to come too. I haven’t been to a wedding for centuries.”

Septimus was aghast to see Lady Margaret D’Avening walking through the wall towards him, her severed head tucked neatly, but bloodily, underneath her arm.

“I am sure that will be fine,” said Septimus, the wobble in his voice going a full octave higher.

“You’re not going to leave me out.”

The ghost of Granny Bucket suddenly appeared from nowhere.

“That was a bit of luck,” she said. “I was just dropping in on Philomena when I overheard your conversation. I love a good wedding.”

Drury wandered in and wagged a bony tail, as if to say “And me!”

Septimus crossed his fingers that Mirielle would approve of so many ghosts being there.

If spirits kept appearing at this rate, there would be more dead people than live ones at their wedding.

Hopeless Tales, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

Wedding Plans

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The news that Rhys Cranham, the Night-Soil Man, had proposed marriage to Philomena Bucket, spread across the island with the well-documented rapidity of wildfire. On reflection, this is probably not the best image to employ, as wildfire has no chance of surviving the damp misery of Hopeless, Maine. However, as similes go, it somehow conveys a better sense of urgency than the ominous progress of the more appropriate and all-encompassing sea-fog.

It is fair to say that the fact of the popular barmaid of The Squid and Teapot conquering the heart of Rhys had caused no little amount of excitement.  In itself, this was not particularly remarkable, with Philomena being regarded as something of a beauty, despite – or possibly because of – her excessively pale, almost albino, features. The main aspect of the romance, which concentrated the minds and caught the attention of the islanders, was the break in tradition. As you will appreciate, the role of the Night-Soil Man has always been regarded as quasi-monastic, with the bearer of the lidded-bucket nobly standing apart from his fellow man, forever separated by dreadfully unsociable hours and an excessively unpleasant smell. Only once before in the history of the island had such a thing happened. Then, as now, most folk wished the happy couple well, but as might be expected, there were the inevitable naysayers, those who shook their heads and swore that no good would come of such disdain for the status-quo.

“No good will come of such disdain for the status-quo,” intoned Reverend Davies, idly swatting at something very small and tentacled that had unwisely settled on his trousers.

“I take it that you won’t be blessing the marriage, then?” enquired Doc Willoughby.

“I doubt they’ll even ask me,” said the Reverend. “The Bucket woman and I have little time for each other.”

Doc Willoughby leaned forward and said, in a lowered voice, “Durosimi O’Stoat maintains that she is a witch.”

“Well, he’s a fine one to talk,” said Davies. “The O’Stoats have always been card-carrying heathens. But the Bucket woman has been a disruptive influence from the day she first set foot on this island, and by bewitching the Night-Soil Man – for mark my words, if what you say is correct, that is exactly what she has done – she has shattered one of the great traditions upon which our society is based.”

“That’s a bit strong,” said the Doc, “after all, it isn’t the first time it has happened. Wasn’t it Bartholomew’s grandfather, Randall Middlestreet, who gave up his calling in order to become a family-man?”

Doc Willoughby had no great affection for Philomena, but had even less for the concept of traditional values.

“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” snapped Reverend Davies irritably. “Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about any of this rubbish. My haemorrhoids have been playing up. I need you to take a look…”

In the attics of The Squid and Teapot, Ariadne Middlestreet and Philomena were ransacking boxes and chests, looking for some suitable wedding-apparel.

“I am far more romantic than Bartholomew,” said Ariadne, wistfully. “I waited so long for him to pop the question, in the end I had to do the proposing myself. Would you believe it? Oh, how I wanted to have the perfect wedding, but he wasn’t bothered. Do you know what he said when I told him I wanted to be married in something long and flowing?”

Philomena shook her head.

“He said, ‘Oh, that’s fine. We can stand in the river. It shouldn’t be too high at this time of year’. That man cannot take anything seriously.”

Philomena laughed.

“I don’t think I’ll have that trouble with Rhys,” she said. “He’s finally come to realise that he doesn’t have to be a Night-Soil Man for all of his life.”

“And he does scrub-up well,” said Ariadne with a grin.

To all intents and purposes, Durosimi O’Stoat had little interest in the mundane goings-on of Hopeless, and usually chose to stand aloof from the other islanders. This changed when Doc Willoughby mentioned, during the course of conversation, that the Night-Soil Man intended marrying Philomena Bucket. Durosimi’s interest was immediately whetted. He had long been plotting to dispose of the barmaid, whom he believed to be a powerful witch and an enemy. Having witnessed her abilities first-hand, however, he accepted that he had no chance of defeating her… but the Night-Soil Man could yet prove to be her Achilles Heel. 

Durosimi reflected on this as he stared through the windows of his cheerless living-room, watching ribbons of grey mist swirl through the dark, stunted trees. He had yet to decide how he would destroy the Night-Soil Man, along with Philomena’s happiness. What he must not do is give her any indication of his responsibility for her lover’s demise, for if she was as powerful as he suspected, then he could expect no mercy. He would have to protect himself, and only when grief and anger had reduced her to her lowest ebb, would he feel safe enough to show his hand and strike. In the meantime, blame for the Night-Soil Man’s death must be fixed squarely upon another’s shoulders; some unsuspecting fool who would be unaware of what was happening, and unable to avoid her wrath.

A sudden thought slipped into Durosimi’s head, and an unpleasant, thin smile creased his face. Oh, it was so delicious. This would really hurt the witch, and the spell would not be too difficult to achieve. He could destroy, with just one stroke, both her lover and her best friend.

“Now, what is the name of that infernal hound?“ he thought. “Ah, yes… DRURY!”

Births, Deaths, Marriages, Tales from the Squid and Teapot

A Marriage on the Rocks

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I owe my readers something of an apology. Without any explanation, I have, in recent tales, referred to Joseph Dreaming-By-The-River-Where-The-Shining-Salmon-Springs as being the husband of Betty Butterow, the barmaid of The Squid and Teapot.

“When did that happen?” you might well ask. Regular visitors will know that a great affection grew between the two and romance blossomed. My grandmother might have said that they were ‘courting’, however, given the intensity of their relationship, she would more likely have tutted and said that they were ‘carrying-on.’ I remember ‘carrying on’ as being a disapproving and euphemistic verdict passed on those conducting any liaison not compatible with her own rigid moral compass. In granny’s view Joseph and Betty’s moral compass would have been spinning around madly with no hope of ever finding north, either true or magnetic. Happily unaware of this, the couple joyously carried on ‘carrying-on’ with great gusto and enthusiasm at every opportunity until, at last, the day dawned when they both decided that it seemed only sensible to make their carrying-on respectable and official with the exchange of marriage vows.

The word ‘wedding’ conjures up visions of flouncy dresses that resemble fluffy white confections; blizzards of confetti and lucky horseshoes made of cardboard; giggling bridesmaids and awkward pageboys; a best man delivering an embarrassing speech and the wrong person catching a tossed bouquet.

Well, you can forget all of that. This is Hopeless, Maine and none of these things have any place in this tale. Remember also, Betty was a Selkie, a seal-woman and Selkies have their own ways of getting wed.

Every wedding needs a celebrant. This one was no exception. Neither Betty nor Joseph would have tolerated having their vows sanctified by a beaming minister or one of the stern, hard-faced Jesuits that Joseph had encountered in his youth. Instead, both decided that the one person who would understand them best (and not bat an eyelid at Betty’s shape-shifting predilection) would be a shaman from Joseph’s tribe, the Passamaquoddy. And so it was that the two lovers found themselves crossing the choppy channel to the mainland (he paddled, she swam) to exchange their vows on a windy outcrop overlooking the ocean on the rocky coast of Maine. The shaman had made it clear to Joseph that he was disinclined to travel. Perilous expeditions into the spirit world were one thing; going to Hopeless was a completely different teapot of squid that the elderly medicine-man had absolutely no intention of experiencing.

There are many legends surrounding selkies. Some say that the man who steals her skin possesses her. I have no idea if this is true. Even if it were, Joseph had no wish to possess Betty and, frankly, I would be amazed if any man ever could. Having said this, when a Selkie woman chooses to marry a landsman, it is customary for her to entrust her husband with her sealskin. This, you must understand, is purely symbolic, for without her skin she is unable to become a seal, something neither of them would have wished. So, having ceremoniously handed the still wet pelt to Joseph, Betty immediately took it back. After all, she needed to return home that evening and swimming was vastly more exhilarating and comfortable than riding in a cramped canoe that was loaded down with Passamaquoddy wedding gifts.

Joseph had regarded himself to be part of the Hopeless community for some time and the island was the only home Betty had ever known, so there was never any question that they might live anywhere else. They set up house in a cabin in Creepy Hollow, just a short distance and generally upwind of the Night-Soil Man’s cottage. It was a place close to Joseph’s heart, for it was there, some fifteen years earlier, that he and the apprentice, Randall Middlestreet, had disposed of the Wendigo, the creature that had killed Josephs’s mother and also his first wife. Randall not only took on the mantle of the Night-Soil Man that day but also became Joseph’s blood-brother.

Beneath the bar in The Squid and Teapot sits a battered leather journal. Within its covers are the histories and genealogies of many of the island’s dwellers. It is also the book in which many of these tales are recorded. If you could only look through its yellowing pages you would see that the story of Betty and Joseph is far from over.

Art by Tom Brown
Births, Deaths, Marriages

No Marriages

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There was a peculiar scene at the Church last Wednesday when Balthazar Lemon appeared with a very large and dead cod that he demanded to be formally married to. The union did not take place, Reverend Davies having carefully explained that the sacrament of marriage involves one man and one woman, not one man and one expired fish. Mister Lemon’s longstanding and well known fish obsession has caused some speculation as to whether he is the one using them as a writing medium.