[Brenda & Effie 00] - A Treasury of Brenda and Effie

by ed. Paul Magrs

  By this point, all the residents of Moorland Energy Solutions were flat out on the floor. The Little People who had raided Beck Hole to liberate it for Hob were, as the name suggests, all pretty small, save for the odd giant outside. On their own a Boggart or an Elf couldn’t hope to shift Stahlman’s dead weight. But one by one, they crept out from under the bed and behind the skirting board. They took a toe or a knee-cap or a nipple, each grabbing a thimble-full of flesh, and between them they hoiked Stahlman over their collective shoulders. The same was done with his security and like ants carrying a picnic the occupiers of Beck Hole were trundled along and out and up the hill past us.

  As the cold air hit them, they came to and started shouting. “Help!”

  “Get off us!”

  “Y’little bugger!!”

  But all to no avail, as the gang of Faes trooped off into the night. We watched as their yells faded on the air and their shapes became smaller and less distinct, until eventually all that could be seen were pin-pricks of High Vis occasionally picked out by the headlights of a passing car.

  That was the last we saw of Eddie Stahlman and it was the last time anyone tried to frack along our way too. Effie knew what she was doing provoking Hob: when they stand together, there’s nothing those Little People can’t do. It was the last time we saw Hob an’ all, although I’m told he’s still happily pottering away back in his old homestead. I can sympathise; there’s nothing like having your own space, making it nice and just right.

  Effie’s big gold cup for Shop of the Season still has pride of place alongside the creaky old grocers’ till on her front counter. But it didn’t take long for chaos to creep back into the place, and the cup looks more like an admin error every time I visit.

  She hasn’t forgotten Hob, and she doesn’t believe he’s forgotten her.

  “I was just trying to get him riled up,” she told me. “I’m open to Alternative Lifestyles. Got no problem with nudity. But try telling him that!” Apparently, every night when she gets up to check on a bang or has to take a midnight trip to the little girl’s room, our Effie stubs her big toe without fail. And this isn’t because she’s never heard of housework. Oh, no! It’s cause a wronged Hob has cursed her clutter, and she won’t have it any other way.

  Everything’s Coming Up Roses

  Jay Eales

  Bialystock’s Blooms had been in Whitby forever. Ask anyone.

  A crooked little dogleg alley led up to a cul-de-sac of shops in a mostly forgotten part of town. You’d struggle to get a mobility scooter up Rotten Row, and if you had a double-barrel pushchair, forget it. Makeshift Court was not for you. Buried away in the backstreets, the shopkeepers of Makeshift Court were a tight-knit community, all for one and one for all. An unsuspecting tourist might stumble into the Court in search of a reasonably priced pair of Whitby Jet earrings, only to find themselves sat for a cuppa outside Tea/Cake having somehow acquired a Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds boxset, a stuffed golly and a chinchilla. Makeshift Court’s very own game of pass the parcel. Pass the punter.

  “The Magnificent Seven, that’s us!” said Debs, owner of Tea/Cake as she set out a tray of tea accoutrements before Brenda and Effie, deep in conversation about the lineage of Bialystock’s Blooms. They were sat at one of the outside tables, even though the climate was just slightly nippier than they would have preferred. Debs’ flattened vowels betrayed her antipodean origins, with ‘seven’ coming out as ‘sivven’.

  “Beg pardon?” Brenda said, wiping her nose discreetly with a tissue.

  “Oh, I was just having a giggle to myself over that fella going up the road,” Debs said, “He just wanted a jam scone, and there he goes with a sugar skull moneybox, a Yucca plant and a dazed expression. If one of us doesn’t get you, the others will!”

  “Seven?” Brenda asked, clearly mulling it over.

  “Which of you’s Yul Brynner?” said Effie.

  “That’d be Curly,” Debs pointed across the yard towards the barbershop, Curly Do’s. Through the glass, you could just make out the shiny pate of the hairdresser as he swept shorn hair across the tiles in tight little circles, as though raking a Zen garden.

  “Of course!”

  “Seven?” Brenda repeated.

  “Right enough. There’s the Forty-Six Pee Continuum, The Jet Shop… Bialystock’s… Vinnie’s Vinyl, PaddyWhack, me, Curly Do’s and Critters. The Magnificent Seven! I rolled right up when Erzulie came up with that!”

  “That’s eight,” Brenda said calmly as she blew on her tea.

  “Yeah… but, no… Forty-Six Pee, Jet Shop… the florist, Vinnie… Wait…” Debs looked extremely confused as she counted off shops on her fingers. From time to time, she looked up to confirm her count. “That’s really weird. I’ve never noticed that before.”

  “Almost as if there’s suddenly one more shop than there used to be,” Brenda said.

  “Oh, Brenda. What are you on about? I only dragged you into town to get you away from all that spring cleaning. How you managed to find any dust in that guest house of yours, the way you look after it, I’ll never know. Have an éclair,” Effie said.

  “You know I don’t like éclairs, Effie. Chocolate covered loo rolls. I know it was your treat, but I wish you’d let me choose the cakes.” Brenda sniffed.

  “Hush,” Effie said and shoved an éclair into Brenda’s mouth before she could protest.

  “Effie!” Brenda spluttered and began to chew involuntarily. Effie watched the expression on Brenda’s face change from indignation to surprise. “That’s… lovely!”

  “I said, but you were banging on about pop-up florists so I couldn’t get a word in.”

  “Even with my bunged up hooter, I can taste… well, everything! How does she do it?”

  Effie leaned in as though sharing a great secret, “Witchcraft.”

  Brenda’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

  “Don’t be daft, ducky.”

  In Makeshift Court, all roads seemed to lead to Bialystock’s Blooms. As though to reinforce that point, the florist doorbell jangled as it admitted another customer. A floral scent wafted out across the courtyard, causing Effie and Debs to both draw in a lungful in unison.

  “Oh, you’re missing a treat here, Brenda,” Effie said as she took another breath.

  Brenda looked doubtful, giving her nose a dismissive blast into her handkerchief instead.

  “Didn’t that used to be a pound shop?” Effie indicated towards the Forty-Six Pee Continuum with an outstretched pastry.

  “Oh, yeah. That was before they got into a ding-dong with 99P Land over on Sandgate. Before you knew it, they rebranded as 95 Pence World. Then things just… escalated. The other side thought they’d cracked it by stepping up to Universe 88, but you know Ron. Never say die, while there’s breath in his body and a thesaurus close at hand. I don’t think he even knows what a continuum is.”

  Brenda paused from polishing off the last of the choux pastries when she saw a young lad walking purposely up the alley. Downcast eyes, glued to his mobile phone. His ears were likewise plugged in, and yet his navigation skills did not appear to be impaired. Perhaps he was using sonar, she thought idly. He slowed as he drew nearer, stopping at the doorway to Bialystock’s before he reluctantly severed his connection to the machine world and looked up.

  Even from the other side of the courtyard, Brenda clearly saw his double-take. He staggered back as though he had bounced off a force field. In bafflement, he looked around the court and back to the florist. Then he spotted Vinnie’s Vinyl, just a few feet further up the row. He looked again at Bialystock’s with suspicion. With a shake of the head, he continued on his way into the record shop.

  Brenda decided it was time to have a gawp at Bialystock’s Blooms for herself. She peered through the window, seeing a tiny narrow shop interior overflowing with plants and flowers of all kinds. It looked like a slice of rainforest carved into the Yorkshire landscape. It also looked old, and well established. She couldn’t see anyone about;
no Karswell the general manager, and certainly no sign of the mysterious Mister Bialystock himself. Just as she reached out for the door handle, she saw the Opening Hours sign on the door flip, now reading ‘Our humblest apologies, but we are CLOSED.’

  Brenda’s eyes met those of the sign flipper, a stocky gentleman of indeterminate age. Salt and pepper hair, a dapper pencil moustache, an immaculately tailored suit. Karswell, Brenda presumed. As he looked up and up into Brenda’s eyes, he smiled mournfully and mouthed the word “sorry” as he drew down the blind. He never once broke eye contact, or paused to blink. Through the blind, Brenda saw him turn on his heel and retreat into the shop. She heard a hiss behind her, and spun back, only to find herself enveloped in a vaporous cloud. She waved her arms wildly until the sticky dust motes dissipated, and found herself the centre of attention from Effie and Debs over at the café. She sneezed thunderously as she attempted to brush the tacky stuff from her coat.

  Trying to identify the powdery substance, Brenda put a hand up to her nose and gave it an exploratory sniff, but her compromised sinuses gave nothing away. Rubbing the dust between her fingers, she found it tacky to the touch. Pollen? She looked suspiciously towards the florist, and thought she glimpsed movement behind the blinds and eyes upon her.

  “Your tea’s gone cold, Brenda. Shall I get Debs to top it up with more hot water?” Effie said.

  Before Brenda could answer, there was an almighty clatter from one of the shops behind them – Critters, the last one on the row, run by an acquaintance, Erzulie Lopsiday.

  Looking at the exterior of Critters properly for the first time that day, it looked somewhat twisted, not unlike its owner, who the less kind locals had nicknamed Missus Lopsided.

  Subsidence had done its work, leaving the pet shop without a right angle in the place. Brenda remembered it as being just a bit off, but it was much worse now. It was as though the pet shop had borne the brunt of Bialystock’s arrival; shoving the neighbours aside to make room, turning the terrace into a domino alley.

  The clattering noise had come from an overturned cage, which had slipped from its shelf and onto the floor. The alarmed cries of many of the residents, Admiral Spangle the parrot, Captain Pacer the spider monkey and Boatswain Blackjack the guinea pig, whose home had been upended after a slightly too enthusiastic spin around his wheel.

  As Brenda and Effie reached the doorway, Erzulie was standing amidst the devastation, holding back another shelf that was about to go. Her nickname never more appropriate, she performed a one woman game of Twister; a shelf held against her bent over back, fingers scrabbling to hang onto a teetering hamster cage. All while on tiptoes. Effie dashed forward to help with the cage while Brenda got her shoulder against the fittings. Spangle and Pacer fussed about the place, unconstrained by any cage. They were treated more like family than livestock.

  Between the three of them, they were able to shore up the shelving. Erzulie said that she’d get on to the insurance in the morning. She’d been saying as much for as long as they’d known her.

  In the grey thin light of early morning, Brenda and Effie walked purposefully towards the entry into Rotten Row. The first indicator that all was not well was the pair of Whitby Fire Service engines dominating the main street. Entry to Makeshift Court was far too restricted for them to approach any closer. Picking up her pace, with Effie struggling to keep up, Brenda found her way blocked by an impassive fireman. Burly, he was, but Brenda still had a couple of inches on him, even in her flats.

  “No entry, love. There’s been an incident.”

  “An incident? What’s happened?” Brenda craned her neck to see past the fireman. She heard the sound of frantic activity.

  “Sorry. I can’t say… Look, you can’t go up there! It’s not safe.” He held up his palms towards Brenda, as though they would stand a hope of preventing her from barging past if she’d a mind to do so. “One of the buildings came down in the night.”

  That stopped Brenda in her tracks, concern written large on her face.

  “Oh, Erzulie…” Effie said breathlessly.

  Brenda searched the fire officer’s face for signs of hope as she forced out the words, “Was she…?”

  The fireman gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. He swallowed uncomfortably.

  When they were finally allowed to go up into the Court, even before Brenda saw the devastation of Critters, her eyes fell upon Bialystock’s. The florist physically dominated the terrace, bigger than any other shop in the arcade. And definitely bigger than yesterday, whatever Effie might have to say against it. A thorn between roses.

  The leaning tower of Critters leant no more. Where Ms Lopsiday’s shop had stood, now there was devastation. The emergency services had put in place a double row of barriers for public safety. Brenda leaned over the barricade to survey the horrific scene. Effie couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Atop the dusty pile of smashed bricks, Pacer sat, disconsolate. His escape from the collapsing building was nothing short of miraculous. From time to time, he patted a brick away with his scabbed knuckles, as though he could put things back as they were.

  Another miracle, Spangle circled above, searching for a roost that was no longer there. When he grew weary, he settled on the roof of Tea/Cake, the furthest point from Bialystock’s that he could find. With an unblinking eye, the parrot glared across the courtyard.

  “Poor, poor…” Effie began, haltingly.

  “Erzulie,” Brenda finished for her.

  “Yes,” Effie said, “Poor Erzulie.” It had obviously hit her hard, Brenda thought. She seemed distant and barely able to string a sentence together.

  The whole of Makeshift Court was subdued. Ron from the Continuum and the barber, Curly, stood on the cobbles, emotionally drained. Everything was muted. An acceptance that these things happen.

  Brenda chose to lay that at Bialystock’s door too. She dug through the contents of her handbag, retrieving a small ornate snuffbox. Flipping the lid up with her thumb, she took a pinch and lifted it to each of her nostrils in turn. A sharp sniff to each. Not snuff, but common house dust. She could not be sure that it had been responsible for her apparent immunity to the toxic pollen, but did not want to take any chances. If she too succumbed to the mind-numbing fragrance, who would be left to get them out of this pickle?

  The snuffdust caused an immediate response: an explosion of spittle and mucus. She fumbled to retrieve the hankie from her voluminous bag, only to find another proffered from behind her. A gentleman’s handkerchief, though, to her mind, not provided by a gent. Karswell stood in the street as she spun around, his kerchief still on offer. An offer that Brenda had no intention of accepting. For all she knew, he might have impregnated the thing with chloroform!

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” she said, waving him away, and redoubling her efforts within the bag until she unearthed her own.

  “No matter,” Karswell said, refolding the pocket square and putting it back in his breast pocket. His accent was as plummy as his suit suggested. All RP English, formal and stuffy.

  “A terrible business,” Karswell began again. “May I offer my condolences, dear ladies?”

  “Thank you,” Effie said, taking his hand and giving it a squeeze. “It’s been quite a shock.”

  Without warning, Pacer let out a great barking cry, baring his teeth towards Karswell.

  The florist looked surprised by the interjection, but stood firm as the spider monkey darted at him. Forward and back, getting nearer with each movement, as though he wanted to engage, but was also fearful. He clawed the air, catching Karswell off-guard with his phenomenal reach. Karswell ducked back just a little too slowly and the monkey was able to rake across his cheek.

  No blood welled up from the scratch.

  “Oh dear!” Effie cried, releasing her grip on Karswell’s hand and stepping aside. Brenda moved to protect her friend, as a precaution, but Pacer’s attention was solely upon the florist.

  Karswell was ready for him the
next time. As Pacer lunged forward, he thrust out an arm as quick as a whipcrack, and plucked the monkey up by the scruff of his neck. It seemed effortless as he pulled Pacer into an embrace. He maintained a firm grip on the monkey’s scruff, and made soothing noises, while Pacer screamed in alarm, and thrashed ineffectually against the man, obviously stronger than Brenda had given him credit for. Still, he wasn’t the only one.

  “He’s just had a fright. No harm done. Ms Lopsiday and her Critters, they were his troop, and now – bless Erzulie’s soul – he’s in mourning. Don’t we all lash out when we’re hurting?” Karswell looked to Brenda, “We all just need friends.” As he hugged the monkey tightly to his chest, no thought given to his expensively tailored suit, Pacer gradually ceased his struggling.

  “If you lovely ladies have no objections,” Karswell said, “I’d like to take this little boy home with me. Mr Bialystock will enjoy him. He does love a primate.”

  Despite her feelings towards Karswell, Brenda still felt a touch of relief. She had feared that Effie would try to convince her to adopt Pacer without his intervention.

  “After all,” Karswell said as he headed off towards Bialystock’s shopfront, “we have the space to grow…”

  Brenda’s expression darkened, and she moved to pursue Karswell, but Effie’s hand on her arm gave her pause. This was not the time. Soon, perhaps. She patted Effie’s hand in appreciation, and returned her gaze to the pile of rubble. A haze of brick dust still hung around the ruin; the ghost of a shop trying to keep its shape despite the inevitability of change. Such a small pile of bricks to represent a life.

  Over the next few days, Brenda dragged Effie down to Makeshift Court, to sup and to watch the comings and goings at Bialystock’s. More comings than goings. Some days, Debs did not even bother to open up, spending her time and meagre takings on more and more of Bialystock’s wares. Just like every other shop in Makeshift Court. Their windows grew more and more stuffed with foliage, starving off any individuality and leaving them anaemic. Only the cuckoo in their midst, Bialystock’s remained vibrant with life and energy. Positively blooming.