Table of Contents
Title Page
The Notorious Horkum Asylum
Conga of the Living Dead
Everything’s Coming Up Roses
Brenda and Effie: Many Happy Returns
The Scottish Flap
The Ragged School
The Sons of Kalevala
Crystal Balls and Clackers
Brenda's Bad Day
Eff the Unknown
A TREASURY OF
BRENDA AND EFFIE
Edited by Paul Magrs
Published in 2017 by Obverse Books
Cover Design © Matthew Bright & Cody Schell
All stories © their authors
This anthology © Obverse Books
Brenda and Effie © Paul Magrs
The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.
All characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is wholly co-incidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding, cover or e-book other than which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.
CONTENTS
The Notorious Horkum Asylum..................................................... 4
Paul Magrs
Conga of the Living Dead................................................................. 12
Greg Maughan
Everything’s Coming Up Roses................................................... 36
Jay Eales
Brenda and Effie: Many Happy Returns........................... 66
Tony Jones
The Scottish Flap..................................................................................... 86
Andrew Lawston
The Ragged School............................................................................. 106
Matthew Bright
The Sons of Kalevala........................................................................ 137
Morgan Melhuish
Crystal Balls and Clackers............................................................ 157
Neil O’Brien
Brenda's Bad Day................................................................................ 187
Selina Lock
Eff the Unknown.................................................................................. 213
Nick Campbell
The Notorious Horkum Asylum
Paul Magrs
Hello there.
My name is Brenda.
I’m reasonably certain that’s true.
What I mean is, I’m reasonably certain that my name is still Brenda.
There isn’t much I can feel certain about these days. I cling to the knowledge of my own name with every fibre of my being.
Everything else has gone, you see.
Who I was, who I belonged to, where I lived. All of it. Every single thing has gone.
And, really, I only know my name because of the strange woman who comes to visit me. She visits every other day, regular as clockwork. She wears fussy suits and blouses with ruffled collars. She sports a kind of turban effect hat and a long black cloak. I would put her somewhere shy of seventy. She’s got a bit of a sour expression, as if life has been rather unfair to her. She hardly ever cracks a smile and she doesn’t really say much either. She says it’s four miles out of town, this place. She complains of having a somewhat arduous journey, jumping on the little train and then having to walk up the steep hill and through the dark and frightening woods.
She reckons she has to set off early in order to make it here in time for visiting hours and she’s rarely home before darkness falls.
I feel like asking her, well why do you bother, then? Why put yourself to so much trouble on my account? I don’t even know who you are and neither of us seem to enjoy your visits.
There she sits, in the wooden chair next to my bed. Look on her face like she’s been sucking a lemon.
“What a nasty, chilly, awful place this is,” she sighs. “What a dreadful place you’ve ended up in, ducky.”
I bite my tongue. I don’t say anything much to her. I don’t really know if she’s friend or foe.
This woman knows more about me than I know myself. This thought chills me to the bone. Even the doctors and nurses who tend to me, and pull me about and peer at all my bits and examine me almost every single day don’t know as much about me as this mysterious visitor of mine.
She must think something of me, to come out here, to this horrible place up on the moors, as often as she does.
There must a bond of affection or obligation between us.
I can’t afford to tell her that her visits are boring or that I find her presence here in my cell disturbing.
Really, I just want everyone to leave me alone.
But still she comes to my narrow, brick-walled room every other day and calls me ‘Brenda.’
The name seems right to me. It falls upon my ears satisfyingly and I know it’s right.
Today there’s thunder battering the moors. The sea winds come chasing doleful black clouds and the towers and turrets of this dreadful place are swamped in murky darkness. The electricity falters and all the lights flicker. The lightning crashes and smashes through the violent skies and it feels like the end of the world.
All of us in-mates in our individual cells hide under our blankets in terror. I can hear some of them moaning and shrieking. I keep myself from crying out, but even so, Horkum Asylum is noisy all afternoon as the storms rage. I shouldn’t wonder if they can’t hear the loonies raving as far away as Whitby.
It’s a nasty day for visiting such a horrible place. But all of a sudden, she’s being let into my cell as usual and standing by my bed. I emerge from the blankets and that woman in the fur-lined cape and turban is grimacing at me.
“I think it’s about time we got you out of here, ducky.”
I grip the bedclothes tighter around me. “I don’t even know who you are.”
She smiles stiffly. “Don’t worry, I’m a friend. In fact, I’m your best friend. I’m the only one you’ve got in this world. My name is Effie.”
She refers to this place as ‘the notorious’ Horkum Asylum, as if that is its full name. The whole time she is here, she is on edge. She’s just waiting for one of the crazed in-mates to dash out of the shadows and do something unspeakable to her.
So I suppose I should be glad that she comes all this way to see me.
We take walks in the snowy grounds, which are quite pretty. There are statues of fabulous creatures, but it’s impossible to tell what they are under the crust of everlasting snow. We totter down the frozen paths and through the terraced gardens and walk the perimeter of the barbed wire fences.
“You don’t belong in a place like this,” says my mysterious friend, Effie, almost each time she comes to visit. “It’s obvious that you aren’t crackers and that you’re in possession of all your marbles.”
“Is it?” I smile at her, glad to hear it.
“Oh yes,” she nods, peering up into my face earnestly. “You’re still the same Brenda. I’d stake my life on it.” She sighs heavily, letting out a great plume of icy breath. “Though we have both changed a great deal. How could we not be changed by everything we’ve experienced?” She falls silent for a bit and we trudge through the snow in companionable quiet. I love the crisp sound of our feet in t
he snow. “In my case, of course, all the changes were for the better,” Effie says, a little simperingly. “I marvel that you haven’t commented on the fact of my changes, Brenda. Aren’t you amazed?”
I play along. “Oh yes, yes indeed. Very amazed.” I smiled blandly and a look of crossness shoots across her thin face.
“Look at me!” she whispers. “Don’t you think it odd? I’ve… somehow gone and… rejuvenated myself. I must have dropped about thirty years. And all just by jumping into this world. Just by hopping through that portal. Why, if word got out about the strange properties of the portals then everyone would start jumping through, I’m sure of it. All those old women we know at home. They’d be going mad. You’d never be able to stop them jumping through.”
Now she’s rambling on, and I’ve no idea what she means. She looks about seventy to me, so what on earth did she look like before? She seems very pleased with herself.
I ask her, “And what about me? Am I younger, too?”
She purses her lips, and lines show on her face. “Well, erm, not quite. Though recent experiences have changed you a little bit. It’s hard to put my finger on it, exactly, Brenda. But… if I’m honest… you seem even taller. Even broader in the beam. You’re twice the size of me now.”
Oh. So I’m bigger than I was before. I must take her word for it. This woman seems to know all about who I was before, and what I was like. I admit that I do like the sound of being big and strong and tall. It makes me feel braver, and that’s something I believe I am going to have to be.
We sit on a stone bench, once Effie has cleared it of snow. She huddles in her furry cape and we both stare at the view of the tall fences, the woods and the moors beyond.
“I’m just glad we’re still alive,” Effie says. “After everything we’ve been through. All the changes might be for the better, or they might have been a heck of a lot worse, but I’m just glad that we’re all in one piece.” She turns to me with a determined expression. “And I’m going to get you out of here, ducky. Don’t you ever doubt that. You’re coming home, to Whitby. With me.”
That night I dream about Whitby.
That’s what I assume it is, anyway. The place that Effie says I belong to. I get a strange, confusing blur of images and impressions rushing through my head. I’m sitting in a cosy room, with a small window overlooking a storm-lashed town. I can hear the sea, somewhere not too far away. An endlessly restless noise. The fire crackles in the grate and I’m sipping a very sweet and delicious drink from a tiny glass. The woman called Effie is sitting across the room from me, but goodness – she looks ancient. She’s like a wizened old hag sitting there.
She’s talking about something or other. Cryptic stuff. But I’m used to not being able to follow her these days. It sounds like a lot of nonsense to me. Something about a woman called Sheila and a malign deity known as… Goomba. Effie is talking in between sips of sherry… (yes! That’s what the drink is called!) and she’s making plans. Plans of action, of attack. We’re involved in a kind of… yes, adventure. That’s the word. The two of us are talking like the whole world is depending on our working together to foil some evil kind of menace.
I have these dreams several nights on the trot. They are populated by terrifying beings. Dark-eyed blood-suckers and the spirits of flesh-eating sirens. They’re all crowding in for my attention, along with other, friendlier faces. Concerned faces. Calling my name, peering into my eyes.
I wake up in cold sweats. Calling out, some nights. My bellowing hullaballoos echo down the stone corridors of Horkum Asylum. I could almost feel ashamed of waking everyone up in the dead of night and bringing the guards running. They unlock my door and come dashing in. They slap me awake. They inject me with something to bring my heart rate down and the visions in my head go still.
Mostly, they go still. Some are still frozen on my mind’s eye.
I do see some terrible things when they leave me lying here on my own.
Some nights they’ve even strapped me to my cot so I don’t thrash about so much. I think they’re scared that, possessed by my nocturnal visions, I’ll go rampant and break down the door. Sometimes I feel strong enough to do that. I could run amok in this place. Go on a rampage in my starched nightgown. I could crack skulls together and kick down the doors that keep me trapped in this place. Sometimes the blood courses so thickly through my veins and it fizzes in my temples with diabolical urgency and I feel like I could do anything.
I really need to calm down.
It’s no good for me to get too worked up.
I might do myself a proper mischief. Getting all in a tizz like that, I could burst my heart. I could pop all the blood vessels that supply my brain. I could drop dead in an instant.
I must be more careful and not lose my rag. I must try not to let my dreams send me doo-lally. It’s all for my own good.
That’s what my personal physician says, anyhow.
And he’s a very caring, considerate man. He has a lovely, solicitous, considerate, bedside manner. Such a cultivated voice. Almost a purr. He comes to see me most mornings, very early and puts on a gentle tone. He admonishes me softly.
“Ah, Brenda. What have you been dreaming about now? What have you been up to?”
Sometimes there are broken chairs and other bits of rough furniture lying about the cell. Smithereens. Smashed up bits. Everything that came to hand during my night-time tantrum. Sometimes the leather straps from the bed have been snapped straight through.
“You can’t carry on getting yourself all upset like this, my dear.” He sighs heavily and I stare up at him from my bed, where I lie exhausted after all the ructions. I lie there admiring his shiny black hair and his spotless complexion. His immaculate manners. “How are we ever going to calm that savage breast of yours, eh?” And he smiles at me winningly.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I just wish I could be calmer. I wish I could be content. It’s just… the dreams. The dreams get me all stirred up again.”
He glances sharply at his clipboard and makes a swift note with his silver pencil. “Your dreams seem to be at their most potent on nights following visits made by your friend. Effryggia Jacobs. Have you realized this?”
I think for a moment or two. “I suppose… I suppose that’s right…”
He taps his pencil against his perfectly white teeth. “In that case, I think we should think very seriously about whether her visits ought not to be discouraged in future. This person seems to be undermining your recovery, Brenda. She is spoiling your chances of ever being happy.”
My physician stands up to go.
“Do you think so?” I ask him, wishing he could stay longer. But he has his rounds to do. He has all the loonies here to consider. I have already taken up too much of his precious time.
“Oh yes,” he says, frowning. “I think Effie is doing you more harm than good, Brenda.”
Then he’s turning on his heel and waving me goodbye. His attendant nurses go with him. He always has about five with him. They’re different to the regular nursing staff. Queer, short women who don’t speak English.
“T-thank you,” I call after him. “Thank you, Doctor… Danby.”
Conga of the Living Dead
Greg Maughan
We’d had golf-ball hailstones giving seagulls concussions for the past fortnight, so I hadn’t been out much. Hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Effie. So, when the weather finally broke and the sun poked his head out, it was past time for me to put my face on and stretch my legs and get on outside for a constitutional. So that’s what I headed out to do, plopping on a rarely-used sun hat and self-consciously pulling the brim down to hide the scars along the edge of my face, I made a beeline for Effie’s ramshackle old bazaar to invite her out. Only, the sight that greeted me was the last thing I expected.
Gleaming in the mid-morning sunlight, Effie’s little shop had never looked so spick and span. The shop front looked like it was wearing a fresh coat of gloss and the tatty old awning must
have been beaten within an inch of its life to get the decades of dust out of it, then masterfully stitched up (by a finer hand than ever worked on my old body!) so not a tear or nick could be seen. In front of this immaculate site stood Effie, prim and proper with her best get-up on – buckled shoes and silver brooch glinting and a fine lace collar sitting just slightly too high on the neck for my liking. Her head was turned up and she sported a small, tight smile as the woman standing next to her held out a gold-coloured prize cup.
There was no mistaking who the woman with the cup was, nor the gaggle of old biddies standing in a group behind them, each one subtly trying to elbow their way to the front of the line-up. It was the local W.I.
In front of the group was a spidery seven-footer of a man, knees bent and back arched, peering through the viewfinder of an antique camera that looked like it had been fished from the bottom of a trunk in Effie’s shop. If Neville the part-time photographer was here with his Gazette hat on, then something big must have been going down. Effie’s not usually one to miss a chance to blow her own trumpet, but I hadn’t heard a word about this. I’d not been cooped up with that terrible weather for so long as to miss something like this coming up, I remember thinking. As I looked over the scene, Effie darted a furtive glance over in my direction before firmly fixing her proud stare on Neville’s lens.
The W.I. in Whitby is a force to be reckoned with. In a town that had industrialised its efficiency of gossip distribution long before the emergence of electronic communication, the Witches Institute was a vital link in the chain. If word of Julie’s Paul’s gammy foot had made it to the Bay & back before breakfast or if everyone knew about Angie’s caff’s iffy sausage rolls even though she saw they were off before serving them and they definitely all went in the bin, you can guarantee that some broomstick-wielding bint will have been a link in the chain at some point down the line! I know that might sound a bit harsh, but looking the way I do, I’ve been on the wrong end of their gossip-mongering once or twice, let me tell you. Of course, they do good as well. And not just for young couples trying to have a kiddie or older folk having bunion trouble. No, it’s not all Balms and Beltane, as Effie’s found of telling me. They collect for the lifeboats at Regatta and organise a raffle once a year for the hospital and do up food parcels for Christmas. But secretly, there is a little part of me that resents them and thinks they might be doing good deeds as a bit of an excuse, you know? As a reason to busy about and stick their noses in. God, that makes me sound horrible, doesn’t it? Well, anyway, one of the other things the Witches Institute does are the Municipal Awards. And that’s what I was looking at back then, as the lop-sided banner framing the scene proclaimed – Effie had won Shop of the Season.
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