by Ishbelle Bee
I smell a serial killer. What is that he’s scribbling? A wicked journal of his atrocities, no doubt.
I lose my footing and fall into the shrubbery below. Whoops! I may have buggered my ankle up.
Leaping out of the bushes I sneak round the garden, observing a very questionable looking potato plant, which I prod with my foot. It explodes in black pus. I need no further proof that he is insane, and cursed with a black finger when it comes to horticulture.
Aha! I find an open window on the ground floor and slip, unnoticed, into his pantry. Mmmmmm is that a pumpkin pie? I am so very fond of pumpkins, they are such an amusing shape.
The pie is excellent. I put my feet up on his kitchen table, eat another slice and contemplate my options.
I wiggle my ankle. Think about stuffing a sock in his mouth and beating him with his sinister potato plant. Make a mash of him
yawn
I fall asleep, zzzzz Just a little doze. Wake up with a beetroot-faced woman staring at me.
“What the bleedin’ hell are you doing in my kitchen?” she yells, her face a bloated thing.
Oops! It’s morning.
“Madam,” I say, “There’s no need to be alarmed, I was just sampling your delicious pumpkin pie.”
“Sling yer hook!” and she thwacks me with a tea towel. “GO ON, BUGGER OFF!” and beats me on the bottom with it.
I dart out of the window, shouting, “Farewell, good lady,” followed by, “I believe your potato plant may be dead.”
She throws a pot at me, which narrowly misses my head and thuds against a tree.
Dinner with the Grubweeds
The dining table sags under the weight of a roast turkey and two roast geese, an enormous mound of roast potatoes, buttered carrots and a pot of steaming gravy. My uncle, Philip Grubweed, sits at the head of the table. He is a retired undertaker who had made a small fortune after a freak outbreak of cholera and with his savings had bought this run -down manor house. He is hugely fat and has several chins which bob up and down, great hairy pink hands and moist piggy little eyes.
“Welcome to your new home, Pedrock and Boo Boo,” he says, stuffing a goose leg into his mouth and sucking up the skin.
My Aunt Josephine sits opposite him with a lacy cap perched on her head. She looks half-dead. Skin stretched over her face, gums drawn back, eyes glassy and dull. I think she’s hardly aware that we’re here. I pass the carrots to her. She ignores me and gazes at the wall.
They have three children sitting round the table. Two girls, Prunella and Estelle, both podgy and blonde, with pink ribbons in their hair, and both aged ten. And a son, who’s the eldest at sixteen, called Cornelius. He is stabbing his turkey leg repeatedly with his fork so hard the table shakes.
“Stop that, you little shit!” cries Uncle Grubweed, and belches.
Cornelius mutters something dark under his tongue and puts his fork down begrudgingly.
“We met a most unusual character in the woods today,” intervenes Reverend Plum.
“Who?” says Uncle.
“Well, he was dressed most strangely in purple with love hearts, and he was carrying what appeared to be a human head.” He laughs nervously.
“That’s one of our neighbours. Mr Loveheart. He’s as rich as a prince and as mad as a badger. I was at his birthday party earlier this afternoon. Bizarre affair. Strange puddings!”
“Is he dangerous?” Reverend Plum gulps.
“Well, let’s just examine your last statement where you observed he was carrying a human head. I think you’ve already answered your own question there, reverend,” and my Uncle laughs out loud.
“Would it be possible to have an escort to the station tomorrow morning, just in case he reappears?”
“Cornelius will walk you, won’t you son?”
Cornelius is playing with a vein in the turkey leg.
“Excellent. I feel safer already. Do you have any other interesting neighbours, Mr Grubweed?”
Uncle puts his fork down, having skewered a roast potato the size of a fist. “Our nearest is Lady Ursula Beetle and her son, Horatio, who is the same age as Cornelius. He’s a handsome devil. Their house overlooks the lake. Deeper in the woods is the home of the retired Professor. He used to teach anthropology or some other nonsense at a university in London. He’s an eccentric recluse. And just round the corner in the yellow cottage is the retired actress Mrs Charm. She makes rather nice chutneys.”
“Well, I’m sure Pedrock and Boo Boo are going to have lots of fun with all these interesting people,” says Reverend Plum, stuffing a buttered carrot into his mouth.
“So, Pedrock,” says Mr Grubweed, “do you and your sister have any hobbies?”
“I like sailing, sir.”
“Sailing, eh? Well I know Grandpa upstairs has an old boat he might let you use on the lake.
And what about you, Boo Boo?”
Boo Boo replies, the frog sock puppet mouthing the answer, “I am a dinosaur. I like to eat people.”
“She’s a funny little girl. Certainly more lively than my three.”
“What about schooling for them?” inquires Reverend Plum.
“Let’s not worry about that over dinner. Mrs Charm does some occasional tutoring, I am sure that will suffice. And of course there’s Sunday school. The vicar, Mr Wormhole, provides a stimulating environment for young minds.”
“It all sounds very encouraging.”
The conversation for the rest of the main course comprises of Mr Grubweed going into some length about how you drain a corpse of all its bodily fluids and the price of coffins these days. The pudding is finally brought out: three piping hot apple and blackberry pies with a bowl of hot custard.
I am handed a huge slice, which I drown in custard.
“Who does the big black dog belong to, Mr Grubweed?” I ask.
“He’s Grandpa’s. His name is Guardian. Tore a man’s leg off once, bugger was trying to break into the house.”
“How charming. Do you have a local constabulary?” coughs Reverend Plum.
“No. When there’s trouble, which there has been, a fella from Scotland Yard pops up and investigates.”
“What sort of trouble have you had?”
“Well, apart from the odd thieving and poaching, quite a few people have gone missing over the last few years.”
“Missing?”
“Just disappeared. Body parts were found in the woods.”
“Good heavens. Has anything happened recently?” asks Reverend Plum.
“Last month, the butcher’s wife, Mrs Crumble. They found her foot hanging off a tree on the Beetle estate.”
“How did they know the foot was hers?” I ask.
“Clever boy. Well, apparently she only had four toes on one foot. It’s probably gypsies, or might be Mr Loveheart having a laugh.”
Reverend Plum has gone a peculiar shade of green. “I don’t feel very well,” he says, putting down his dessert spoon.
“I don’t think we can afford to overreact,” sighs Mr Grubweed. “There are certain compromises one makes when moving to the countryside.”
“Compromises?” cries a flabbergasted reverend.
“There are a lot of weirdoes out here. I’m a man of the world. My own father, who was a bricklayer, used to occasionally dress up in a ball gown and tiara and hang out at the Docks. Body parts in the woods; it’s all part of life. I’ve seen corpses explode before.”
“I need to lie down,” says Reverend Plum, rising from his chair. “I have a weak heart.”
“Josephine will take you to your room.” His wife, who hasn’t moved all evening, stands very slowly and, lurching like a recently dug up corpse, escorts Reverend Plum into the hallway. I finish my apple pie and have a second helping. It is delicious.
After dinner, Boo Boo and I are taken upstairs to our bedrooms, which are situated in the attic. Boo Boo’s is a tiny little room with a small window. I kiss her goodnight and she is tucked in with her frog puppet. Guardian the dog amb
les up the stairs and slumps himself outside Boo Boo’s bedroom, keeping one eye open.
My own room is larger, with a view overlooking the herb garden and the woods. I stand on tiptoe and, peering out, can see through the mass of trees a turret peeking through. This, I think, must be the home of the mysterious Professor.
That night I dream the world is made of water. I am on a boat which floats softly on an ocean landscape as blue as angel eyes. A mirror world. I can see fat fish and suffocating vegetation deep underwater, tendrils of black seaweed and mutations of jellyfish. Odd glimpses of scissor-like creatures, horror-white, glistening under the looking-glass ripples.
Bloated egg-laying machines, with rainbow fins, drift lazily by my little boat, which drifts deeper into the water-world. Loosing itself in liquid.
Standing next to me is a man dressed as a police officer, and he puts his hands on my shoulders and whispers in my ear, “They bite.”
I wake with a jolt, nearly falling out of bed. I can hear muffled voices from Boo Boo’s room.
I put my ear to the wall but I can’t make any words out. I get out of bed and step onto the landing where Guardian is sleeping peacefully. I open the door to Boo Boo’s room and she is sitting upright in bed. But there is no one else there.
“Are you alright, Boo Boo? I heard voices.”
She looks at me curiously. “I had bad dream.” She pulls the covers over her head. The frog puppet is sitting on her pillow staring at me.
Mr Loveheart dreams
I lay in a star shape on my giant red four-poster bed, dotted with hearts and big squidgy heart-shaped cushions. I have decided I will get up at lunch time and eat some jam sandwiches.
I snooze, roll over and blot out the slither of sunlight that sizzles through the curtains.
Close my eyes, squeeze them shut. Imagine spaces within spaces. Labyrinths within labyrinths. You go mad inside them. Retrace old footsteps, walk backwards, become part of the hedge. Part of the pattern.
I wink an eye open. See a fat fairy with black wings zoom across the room, hover over my head. She has razor teeth and wings of ebony glitter.
“Oh, hello,” I say into the pillow.
She zooms up to my ear, whispers into it. “I have come to inform you of your Gifts as Lord of the Underworld.”
“Excellent, shall we have some jam first.”
She slaps me across my cheek and squeaks, “NO, you shall listen to me.” Oh, she is rather strict.
She hovers close to my earhole, “Whoever you kiss will live forever and if you kiss the dead they will come back to life.”
“Now that is curious.”
She continues, this time whispering very low, “You have the gift of madness. You can turn others insane; make their mind turn upside down. The Underworld is also now at your command, my lord.”
“That is rather splendid.”
Squeak!
Meeting Grandpa Grubweed
Breakfast is enormous, consisting of bacon, eggs, crumpets and honey. It is eight o’clock and I sit in the kitchen with the Reverend Plum, as no one else is out of bed yet. Mrs Treacle, the Cook, pours the tea. She has a kind moon face and gives me a wink.
“Thank you for finding my sister and me a home,” I say to Reverend Plum.
“You are very welcome, Pedrock.” He butters a crumpet. “I shall be visiting every few weeks to see how you’re both doing.”
“Are you feeling better this morning?” I enquire.
“Yes, the sleep did me good, although I had the most curious dream.”
“Please tell me what it was.”
“It was about your sister. She was digging up dead bodies in the garden. Dreams are, of course, caused from lapses of ill health. I believe my intestines have a fungal infection causing me to hallucinate.”
Mrs Treacle leans over. “Mr Grubweed wants you to pop upstairs after breakfast and see Grandpa,” and she gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m making rabbit pie for dinner tonight, and trifle for pudding. Don’t worry, Reverend, I’ve a lunch packed for you for the train. Plenty of ham and cheese sandwiches, and a slab of leftover apple pie.”
“Thank you, Mrs Treacle. I look forward to eating them.”
After eating far too many crumpets and saying farewell to Reverend Plum, I ascend the staircase and enter Grandpa’s room. I find him sitting in an armchair with Boo Boo and Guardian at his feet. He is blind, his eyes white as eggs. He wears a strange Indian green dressing gown and is bald, with a wispy white beard.
“You must be Pedrock.” His voice is cool and soothing.
“Yes, sir.” I sit by his feet with my sister.
“I was just telling your sister that she’s got a friend for life in Guardian. He’s an old soppy bugger of a dog and very picky about whom he chooses.”
Boo Boo tickles Guardian’s nose.
“Now children. You have an adventure ahead of you today. I want you to visit all your neighbours – Mrs Charm, Lady Beetle, the Vicar Mr Wormhole, Mr Loveheart and the Professor. You are to introduce yourselves. And then you can tell me what you think of them,” he chuckles. “And tonight my son-in-law informs me that we have a special guest coming for dinner. His name is Icarus Hookeye, he’s a friend of the Professor. Isn’t that exciting! Now, off you go and have some fun. And Pedrock…”
“Yes, sir?’’
“I shall arrange for you to take my boat out. Would you like that?”
“Yes, sir, very much, thank you.”
And we leave him dozing off in his chair and begin the lakeside trudge into the village. Mrs Treacle has made Boo Boo a bacon sandwich and one for Guardian, the smell enchanting the air like a wicked spell.
The path to the village trickles round the edge of the lake which is flat and calm with mottled feathered ducks floating aimlessly on its surface. Butterflies with fairy-glamour wings of cotton white and fizzy pink hang in the air, skimming over the toady water-reeds and lumpish rocks.
The village itself is very small and consists of a pub called The Highwayman, a butcher’s, apothecary, bakery and church. We agree our first call should be to see Mr Wormhole, the vicar.
The church is small and medieval with a tiny graveyard filled with dandelions. We find Mr Wormhole kicking a crumbling gravestone with his foot, shouting, “Bloody thing!”
“Hello,” I say.
“Oh, I do apologise.” He looks up at us. “I keep tripping over this thing. I nearly twisted my ankle.”
“We are living with our Uncle Grubweed. My name is Pedrock and this is my sister Boo Boo.”
He casts a beady eye over us. “I hope I shall be seeing you both every Sunday. We could do with some new blood in this community. People keep going missing,” and he looked suspiciously over his shoulder. He has the most shocking messy red hair and great bushy red eyebrows.
“We were previously staying in a convent near Charing Cross.”
“An excellent beginning to life.” He waggles a finger at the dandelions. “I, too, was raised by nuns. My mother left me in a bucket outside St Ursula’s Convent.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“Oh no, young Pedrock. It was a gift. I was educated, well fed and loved. Nothing more a child requires.” He walked with us down the path towards the church. “If it had not been for those nuns, I would not have found the joy of God.” He slips on a ropey-looking weed and falls face forward into an open grave. After helping pulling him out, we say our farewells.
Our next stop is Mrs Charm’s cottage, which is on the edge of the village, near the bakery. The cottage is lemon yellow and her garden is covered in lavender. I knock furtively on the door and a very short lady with a mane of grey curly hair which falls down to her waist greets us. She has lavender entwined in her braids and her eyes are sparkling, grey and mischievous.
“Good morning,” she says.
I introduce us.
“Ahhhh... three scallywags. Do come in. I have a pot of tea and some fruitcake.”
The cottage has
very low ceilings and is stuffed full of herbs, with little pots filled with jam and pickles. On her stove a large pot is bubbling, a sweet smelling concoction. We sit round the table, Guardian slumping on the rug by Boo Boo’s feet.
“My Uncle says you are a retired actress.”
“That’s correct, dear. Now I focus my attentions on writing novels,” and she generously cuts the fruit cake into great slabs and puts them on plates in front of us.
“What sort of novels?” I ask.
“Horror, mainly,” and she smiles. “I am currently writing a medieval saga set in a haunted monastery. My hero, a young monk named Maximilian, is subjected to the most vivid nightmares, and then, becoming possessed by a demonic force, murders everyone in a five mile radius.”
“It sounds very interesting. Have you ever read A Dangerous Romance on the Moors? Our acquaintance, the Reverend Plum, was very taken with it.”
“I can’t say that I’ve heard of it,” she says, thinking to herself. She throws a piece of cake to the dog, who sniffs it, and then devours it avidly. “This is actually my first Medieval Horror Saga novel. I hope to complete a series of them.” Her eyes wander to her shelf of colourful preserves. “You must take some of my new batch of nettle and tomato chutney. It has hints of rosemary in it for protection against malicious gossip.” She rises from her chair and starts to pour some of the gloopy constituents into a couple of jam jars, and then, twining a green ribbon into a bow round each of them, hands them to me.
“There you go, Pedrock.”
“Thank you, Mrs Charm. We are to visit Lady Beetle, Mr Loveheart and the Professor.”
“Mr Loveheart often drops in for a literary discussion. He is very fond of books and of my raspberry jam. Lovely man, with a theatrical dress sense. I am very fond of him. As for Mrs Beetle and her son Horatio, I’ve only met them a couple of times. Not chutney lovers. But polite enough. The Professor I have only heard of by reputation; he’s said to have a brilliant mind and has become a recluse. He’s obsessed with the Aztecs, you know.”