From the other side of the pier waft the hot greasy scents of fish and chips, and my stomach rumbles. It's evening, and I had no midday meal. I want to snatch one of the winkles from my pan and suck its hot juicy flesh from the shell, but we must sell them, and if we don't sell enough before winter comes, I won't have any shoes and we won't have enough coal for the winter stove.
If some winkles are left over at the end of the day, we have them for tea with bread, but if any are left over, it's because I haven't sold many, and that means we have no money for food.
The afternoon started good while many people waited for the delayed airship, but now it's quiet. Not many clients for Mama, either.
Far beneath my feet, waves whoosh and slash. Above, lines chink against flagpoles and seagulls screech.
But here's a couple coming. He carries a suitcase with a clockwork front and wears a bowler hat, like important men do.
“Here she is,” the wife trills. “The little gypsy fortune teller selling whelks and winkles. I want to know that all goes well with your trip.” She beams at her husband. “I swear I'm dying with anxiety each time you travel by airship. Pay her.”
I rub my cold hands on my apron. “Mama says I mustn't...” I try.
The man takes my hand and presses the coins into it.
At his touch, my vision blurs and reshapes. Through the dizziness, knowledge surges, and my mouth utters the words. “The pretty lady in France is very happy to see you. She is kissing you...”
“What the deuce...!” The man is red in the face, and the woman is white.
Then they look at each other, and their colours change. Now he gets white and she gets red.
She jerks him by the arm. “You're not going to France! Not with this airship, anyway!”
A portly man comes running, clanking with mechanics. I know him. He's Mr. Pollertow, and he's important. He has all the keys for all the pavilions and he empties the money containers of the turnstiles and collects the fees. He wears a very high hat with control dials and a jacket with many clockworks and stripes. He ticks and tocks and rattles.
“What's the trouble, sir?” he addresses the angry man. “How may I be of assistance?”
“This... this... charlatan!” the man points at me. “She pretends to tell fortunes and is most offensive! She has upset my dear wife!”
“I apologise for your distress, ma'am.” Mr Pollertow bows. Then he turns to me, arms locked before his chest, and scowls. “Your concession is as a seller of whelks and winkles. How dare you transgress!”
Mother comes rushing, her steps clacking on the wooden boards. “What has Dora done?”
“She had the impertinence,” Mr Pollertow barks, “to offend a customer with fake predictions.”
“Oh, Dora,” Mama scolds. “I told you to keep quiet.”
“I tried, I really did,” I sob. “But I see things when I touch people.”
“You have no business touching people.” His voice rises to a whine. “This is a respectable pier, and you're not fit to work here, neither of you.”
Mama wrings her hands. “Please, Mr Pollertow, give us one more chance.” The black paint runs from her eyes in sooty streaks. “We depend on this work. It's the only way I can put food on the table for my children.”
Her tears seem to make him uncomfortable, or maybe it's the gathering crowd witnessing the spectacle. He clears his throat.
Mama clutches his hands. “I promise Dora will not say another word out of turn. She is a good girl, very obedient, she really is.”
He clears his throat again, and puffs out his chest. “Very well. I will be watching closely. At the first sign of anything untoward from the girl's mouth, I'll send you both packing, and I don't care if you starve or drown.” Then he walks off with a huff and a chink of brass.
Mama strokes my curls. “Dora, promise me. Whatever you see, keep your lips sealed. I know it's difficult sometimes, but it's important. However hard it is, you must fight the urge. Please promise to be good.”
“I promise, Mama. I'll be good.”
*
Darkness comes down like a hood.
The chill from the sea creeps through the gaps between the boards. It numbs my toes, and crawls up my legs into every fibre of my body. The relentless night wind gnaws through the layers of my cape and dress.
Mama is still behind her window, still ready to tell the filtered fortunes rich people want to hear.
The lamplighter strides the length of the pier, sparking the gas lanterns on the pavilion walls. Soon the flames behind the red, green and blue glass shine like a necklace of coloured beads.
Now the pier crier comes out, his steps thudding on the boards, the brass buttons on his maroon uniform glinting in the gaslight. He sweeps his arm up and down to shake the big bell.
“Ladies and gentleman. The boarding lounge for HMD Princess Alice is now open. Ticket holders for Dieppe, you may now enter the boarding lounge.”
A family flocks towards the boarding lounge gate, a man, a woman and four children. Even the little girls have fur-trimmed velvet cloaks and shiny boots.
“Let's have some whelks and winkles for the flight.” His voice is booming and jovial. “Good English fare. Who knows what muck we'll get to eat in France.”
“Four portions,” he requests, which will almost deplete my stores. Then he presses a guinea into my palm and closes my fingers over it. “Keep the change.”
I gasp, first at his generosity and then at the heat searing my hand. His smile, his family, the pier, everything vanishes from my sight. Instead I see him, his face all black and blistered, with blood running from his eyes.
I want to cry, but I promised not to speak. He would be unhappy if I said what I saw, so I fight to keep back the words boiling in my throat. With utmost willpower, I control myself, and bite my teeth into my lips until I draw blood.
Then his wife peers at me. “What's the matter, little one?” Her voice is sweet with kindness. “You look like you're about to swoon. Have you worked too long?” She lifts my chin. “Are you hungry? Cold?”
“A little cold...” I say, but already the surge comes, a powerful wave of nausea from my stomach, sweeping away what's before me. Instead I see her, clutching her smallest child... There are flames everywhere... Searing red against the night sky... The lady's hat is on fire, her hair... She screams... And then she falls, falls, falls...
I must not tell. I must not. She would be distressed. I bite my lips to keep them shut, and to make the pain pull me back into reality. I taste blood.
“Give her another coin, please, Arthur. She's suffering.” I hear her say this, at the same time as I hear her scream, and scream, and scream...
The crier's bell tolls. “Passengers for HMD Princess Alice, please proceed to the boarding lounge.”
I blink until the vision clears. Then I watch them walk, the man, the woman, the children, towards the boarding lounge. The wrought-iron entrance gapes like a dark, hungry mouth, and I watch them until they disappear.
My nausea subsides. It was hard, but I have been good. Very good. Mama will be pleased.
“Fresh whelks and winkles, freshly caught, freshly cooked...”
I Smelled Kerosene
by William J. Stevens
I am a spaceman from the future,
And you will never believe what I’ve seen.
I have been around this world at the speed of light,
And then I smelled kerosene.
What happened to me is hard to tell.
I shot up through the atmosphere and released from gravity’s pull,
My space ship rapidly gathered speed as round the earth I went,
Faster and faster my craft did go,
My nerves were getting bent.
At the speed of light I rocketed through space and thought all was going fine,
Then I heard a judder rattle my craft and I began to travel through time.
I know this is true, for what I saw was a spaceship’s bac
kend drawing near,
I looked again and knew that craft,
I was about to collide with my rear.
I veered off into outer space, frightened by what I’d seen.
I saw my rear end drawing near... and I smelled kerosene.
I saw the planets go whizzing by and sent a message to base,
“Hurry and get some help up here, I am so fed up with this place.”
They came back on the radio, “Tell us where you have been?”
I told them, “Up my own arse.”
I heard them gasp.
Why? Because I smelled kerosene.
For a long time I waited in that lonely desolate place,
I felt a proper alien away from the human race.
Then one day I saw a spaceship coming towards me.
“Hey Buddy do you fancy a ride for free?”
I journeyed back through the planets and re-joined the human race,
I could not say what had happened, because I knew that I would lose face.
We had a party on my return and it turned out to be quite a scene,
“Just watch your behind,” I told the crews.
“And run... when you smell kerosene.”
The Devil’s Diet
by Melvyn Grant
Ben, the littlest demon, has been with me for a number of years, so I thought it’s about time I gave him something to do.
At Fairlight Glen, just at the edge of the wood, there’s a large flat block of sandstone jutting out into the sea. This is one of my favourite places and I like to sit quietly on a warm day and watch the world drift by. Today, as always, I have my backpack beside me and now I’m looking forward to a tasty snack as lunchtime comes around.
Then something strange happens. An odd little creature walks out of the bushes and sits on the end of the rock and watches me.
I don’t know what he is, but he has a bold attitude and the cheekiness of a monkey. In fact, that’s what I think he is, but somehow he looks different... and I’ve never seen any monkeys hanging around in the woods at Fairlight.
With no fur and a skin of dusty black, I suppose he could be a bald monkey. His large amber eyes peer out from an impish face and his ears stick out like lugs on a nut. In fact, his head reminds me of the wing nut on the front wheel of my childhood bike. He grins a fine set of teeth, pulls round his tail with a devil’s spearhead tip and lays it beside him.
The only thing he’s wearing is a battered old English Tommy helmet. The rest of him is obviously getting a suntan.
With a soft voice that has a wet lisp, he speaks to me. “Allo, ssth, ssth.”
“Hallo,” I reply.
“The nameth Ben. I’m the littleth demon,” and he sticks his chest out proudly.
“Hi Ben. I’m Mel and I’m sitting in the sun. Good to know you. I’ve never met a demon before.”
He looks at the backpack beside me with excitement. “Yeah, nice t’ meet yer too. Isth that yer lunth?”
“Yep.”
“Wochyer got?”
“Buttered bread and cheese,” I reply.
He squints nervously and his eyes take on a peculiar glow. With a very shifty movement he glances around, then he looks at me and his brows rise in a dreamy expression. “Love a duckth, that takesth me back. I ain’t had buttered bread an’ cheesth thinth I wasth a nipper.”
“Would you like some?” I offer.
“Cor! Yeth pleaseth.”
I reach into my backpack and bring out my lunch tin, take off the lid and hold it before him. He quickly wipes his mouth on his forearm and snatches a large piece of buttered bread and a block of cheese.
First he sniffs it appreciatively, then he nibbles it and then he takes large bites and finally stuffs the whole lot in his mouth and chews ecstatically. When he’s swallowed his mouthful, he gives a little burp and looks very happy.
I am about to offer him another round, when there is a bright flash of pink light and a loud ripping sound, like someone tearing stiff canvas lengthways. Leaping backwards, I fall straight into a patch of stinging nettles. Ben disappears. I clamber back on the rock and there in his place is a star-shaped burn on the sandstone and a terrible smell of bad eggs.
“BEN! WHERE ARE YOU?” I yell, scratching nettle stings. “ARE YOU ALL RIGHT? Blasted nettles.”
Around me there is an eerie stillness, no little creature noise, no squawks, not a movement, just that terrible smell of eggs rotting on a hot day. I take a paper towel and hold it against my nose.
Abruptly everything comes alive, like a bubble bursting and there is desperate movement in the bushes. I leap across the rock, not knowing where to go and land in more nettles. Animals run in the distance, a mad scramble to get as far away from the evil smell as possible. And then… everything is gone. The world is still again. The creatures have all disappeared and I’m left standing in a nettle patch. Damn!
Minutes later, I hear splashing. I walk across the rock and gaze down at the sea. A green mermaid with long auburn hair is swimming towards me.
She puts on a burst of speed, submerges and leaps out of the water like a performing dolphin... and lands in an undignified heap on the rock beside me. There she lays gasping and wheezing until with a great effort, she pushes herself up on one elbow.
I bend over. “Holy tart Ben, you make a most unattractive mermaid. What are you doing in this feminine guise anyway?”
Ben sits up and looks embarrassed, then placing his helmet back on his head says, “Ith the guv’nor...”
“Who?”
“Th-the guv’nor... Beethlzebub. Ee ath usth on a diet an if we strayth an eath thuff we shouldnth...” he lifts his hands and sighs. “Thiss is what happenth. He thinkth making me a girl isth a big laughth.”
Beelzebub is right. I laugh my head off. Ben appears more like a large green tadpole with a tin hat and he certainly doesn’t look female.
He glowers at me. “Don’t laughth, it ain’t funny.” He hangs his head and in a mournful voice says, “I’m only spowth to eat brimsthone and wild garlicth. I can eat asth much of that asth I like, but I’m sthow fed up with it.”
“So, how do you get back to your demon self?” I ask, trying to hide my grin.
“Well.” He leans forward conspiratorially, eyes darting from side to side. “I thound a way that ee don’t think I know... I eatsth carroth caketh,” and he looked at the rock with sad eyes. “Otherwiseth ee changeth me back and punisheth me for conthuming illegal foodthuff.”
“Is that all? I can get you some carrot cake.”
Ben looks at me unhappily. “But I hateth carroth caketh. Thath why ee diddit. The BASTHERD!” Momentarily his eyes blaze, then he takes on an expression of fear, slaps a hand over his mouth and glances nervously around. A large toad hops from beneath a bush, eats the wrong insect and explodes. Ben gives a strangled squawk. “Crypth, the Guv’nor!” and jumps back into the sea.
I have to laugh. “Ben, it’s only a toad.” I sit down and enjoy my lunch.
Ben wheezes and gasps as he climbs up the rock. He seems reluctant to try the leaping dolphin trick again. Finally, he pulls himself on, wriggles across the stone and flops down beside me.
“Crikey Ben, is that you breathing?”
“Ith me listhp,” he says. “Ith alwaysth thoundsth like thisth when I exthertsth mythelf.”
“You’d better watch it then, we don’t want you pegging out on us.”
He shoots me a glare. “Lithen Mooth, I may be thmall, but I’m tuff!”
“Yes, I can see you’re as tough as old walking boots... and my name’s Mel not Moosh.”
He sticks his nose in the air. “Thath alright then.”
I watch the cocky little crust for a moment. There is something almost lovable about him, yet he is vulnerable.
I stand up and clip one of his ears. “Well, I gotta go now. I’ll see you in the morning and I’ll bring some carrot cake. You going to be all right here?”
He grabs his ear. “OW! Bastherd. And ra
ises an impudent eyebrow. “Yesth, I’ll be thine, I often sleepsth here,” and he curls up on the stone and I am dismissed.
*
The next morning, I drop by the bakery, buy a large piece of their very best carrot cake and set off for the glen. It’s another beautiful day and when I enter the woods, the scent in the shade is most welcome after the hot sun in the open fields. I love the smell of summer woodland.
I follow the trail beside the stream and soon I can see the sparkle of the sea through the trees and a little green figure. A few minutes later I step onto the rock. “Morning Ben. How are you this fine day?”
He jumps up and heaves a great sigh of relief. “Ah, good to sthee you. I thought youth might hath forgotten.” He looks at me with tired eyes. “Hath you gottit? Hath you gottit?”
I feel like I’m dealing with a drug addict. “Calm down. I’ve got it.”
I take the carrot cake from my backpack and his fingers wriggle in my face. I slap his hands away. He puts them behind his back and regards me intensely.
I hold the cake out to him. He snatches, rams it in his mouth and chews noisily.
“Aargh,” he cries, pulling an ugly face and spits it at me. Again there is that bright pink flash of light and the loud ripping sound. I’m blown over backwards. Ben disappears. For a moment I sit dazed. At least I’m not in the nettles again.
I pick myself up and search around. Ben’s helmet is on the ground, spinning like a top. Once more, that bad egg smell is everywhere and there is another burn mark on the rock. This time, the animals have already gone.
“Ben! Where are you?” I hear a faint sound, but can’t see him. I walk across the rock and call him again. Then I notice a pair of feet sticking out of a bush, they definitely look like Ben’s, but these feet are sky blue and not black. I walk over to the bush. “Ben, is that you?”
“Yeth,” comes the muffled reply. I take hold of the ankles and pull. “Ow-ow-ow. That hurths.” The bush is reluctant to let go, but then with a loud ‘OW,’ he is free. I drag him onto the rock. He sits up and scowls, then rubs his arms and legs. “That hurth.”
“Don’t be such a baby. I thought you were a tough old boot?”
“Shcccrrr…” he hisses at me and makes his fingers like claws.
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