James Field's Blog, page 11

Part 02: Potions for just about everything…

Bottles and containers of all shapes and colours, each neatly labelled, filled shelves on every wall.-

A fly must have flown into Sibyl’s mouth because her breath caught in her throat and she sneezed. If it had been a fly, Morris could picture it now splattered beneath the ceiling of their four-poster bed. She smacked her lips, turned her head, and muttered dreamily. “What’s the matter, Morris? Can’t sleep?”

“Not a blink.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Yes. That gardening competition.”

They both worked and lived at the Cloud Mansion. Sibyl was the housekeeper, and Morris was the gardener. He took pride in his work; the lawns were always neatly trimmed; rosebushes and border plants glowed with health; fruit trees and bushes provided succulent treats; and the kitchen garden where Sibyl’s many strange herbs grew swelled with vitality. But his greatest joy was his vegetable garden. Year after year, he’d won competitions for the largest variety of one sort or another.

Sibyl turned on her side and raised herself on an elbow, bedsprings groaning under the shift of weight. “I have a sleeping potion if you like, in the kitchen.”

“I thought you might,” said Morris. His wife considered herself a white witch and had potions for just about everything. The funny thing was, they seemed to work. “Yes please. I’ll go crazy if I don’t get some sleep.”

“Third shelf from the top, on the wall above where the iron frying pans hang. Take one teaspoon and hurry back to bed.” Sibyl yawned, closed her watery eyes, whumped out a fart, and turned on her back. “Happy nightmares,” she mumbled and drifted back to her snoring.

Morris climbed out of bed and padded across the carpet in his bare feet. He was short of stature, but large of confidence—a born leader with strong opinions and intrepid boldness. Many sought his advice on almost any subject.

To reach the kitchen, he had to traverse a dark hall. Despite his self-assurance, nervous about what he might see, he kept his eyes closed and fumbled for the light switch. When he found it, the light blinded him. With his eyes squinting, he tiptoed to the kitchen and turned on that light, too. The ice-cold stone floor sent shivers up through his ankles, and the cavernous room echoed his every breath. As always, when he was alone in the dead of night, he avoided looking into corners and shadows.

Bottles and containers of all shapes and colours, each neatly labelled, filled shelves on every wall. Crammed between similar-sized brown bottles: one marked ‘For restless legs’, the other marked ‘For restless hands’, Morris found the sleeping potion.

He hurried because he had the uneasy feeling that someone or something stared at his back. He pulled the cork and drank straight from the bottle. It tasted like syrupy garlic and lemon. Not too bad if he pinched his nose. How much was one teaspoon? Or had Sibyl said serving spoon? To make sure he had enough, he swallowed several mouthfuls. And just to ensure it worked on somebody as impossibly woken as he, he drained the contents down his throat.
 
To be continued 

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Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
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Part 01: Ghosts roam the mansion…

The mansion moaned with its usual creepy whisperings.-

Morris tossed and turned on his side of the wide four-poster bed. The springy mattress squeaked and creaked beneath him, and the starched sheets and blankets constricted him like a straitjacket. He had already experimented with meditation and various breathing techniques, but lying in one position for more than ten minutes caused pain in his back, and it also irritated his throat. With a huff, he threw off the bed sheets and sat up straight to listen. There were no unusual sounds to disturb him; the mansion moaned with its usual creepy whisperings, but that was it.

By his side, Sibyl also made her usual racket. She slept on her back with her mouth open and snored loud enough to wake the dead; there were already more than enough ghosts roaming the dark halls and gloomy chambers of the mansion. He wondered if there was something wrong with her throat, because she snorted on the in breath through her nose, and brayed on the out breath through her mouth, lips flapping. There wasn't any point trying to wake her, because if she turned on her side she'd start gorilla farting; no, best to let her be. Anyway, why should he spoil her sleep just because his own was so beyond reach?
 
To be continued 

The real world:
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Reinhold Silbermann from Pixabay

Part 53: Yes, please, I'd love a cup of tea…

"And yes, please," said Olive, "I’d love a cup of tea."-

Penelope rested her palm on the door handle but waited until she had counted to three before opening it. Again, she must have left it unlocked. Rather than plunge straight into the lounge, she took root on the doorstep and gaped inside.

She blinked, and then rubbed her eyes, and blinked again. Three men occupied her lounge. Chief Inspector Dobbs, in his brilliant yellow pullover, sat in one of the two armchairs. Mr Styles, walking cane across his bony knees, sat in the other. Bert stood by the fireplace, poker and firewood in hand.

They had been drinking tea and nibbling biscuits, the teapot in its cosy on a small side table.

“Come in and close the door behind you,” said Chief Inspector Dobbs.

“Cup of tea?” said Mr Styles.

When Penelope remained frozen to the spot, Bert trundled across the worn carpet, took both her hands in one of his, and tugged her gently inside the threshold. “It’s over, Olive,” he said. “Time to stop fooling around.” He sat her on the sofa along the back wall and dropped beside her, making her bounce.

“What…” Olive gasped for air like a dying fish. “What is this?”

Chief Inspector Dobbs cleared his throat and spoke with authority. “If I had my way I’d toss you in the grimiest dungeon I could find and throw away the—“

Mr Styles broke him off. “I haven’t pressed charges, inspector, and I haven’t lost any money, so cool it.”

“Chief Inspector, if you please. I should lock the lot of you behind bars.”

Olive clasped her hands under her chin, as if in prayer, and she licked her lips with cautious hope. No money lost? No criminal charges?

“We spotted what you was doing right from the start,” said Bert. He slid an arm around Olive’s shoulder and stroked her forearm gently. “It was me who broke in and stole the money. We knew where it was all along. I gave it back to Mr Styles.”

“That’s right,” said Mr Styles. He slapped his knees, drummed his feet on the floor, and burst into cackling laughter. “That’s the best turn of affairs I’ve ever experienced.” His laughter broke into a fit of coughing. When he had it under control, he said: “I want you back at work tomorrow. Think you’re up to it?”

“You mean…” Olive glanced at Bert, and he nodded with a huge grin on his face. Chief Inspector Dobbs, however, had folded his arms and sulked. “You mean I’m forgiven and can come back to work? You aren’t angry with me?”

“I'm fuming,” said Chief Inspector Dobbs. “One day I’ll have you locked up. All of you.”
“I reckon you’ve learned your lesson,” said Mr Styles. “I'm angry, yes, but gosh what a show you put on. I’ll write a press statement saying it’s all been a silly mix-up. Tell the insurance company that somebody stole your car. They’ll never find it and you’ll soon have a new one.”

“That’s another crime,” said Chief Inspector Dobbs. “You’re all a bunch of criminals.”

“Takes one to know one,” said Mr Styles. “That’s why Olive couldn’t pull the wool over our eyes. Now go home, Olive, and clean yourself up. Bert, take her home.”

Olive felt faint, and foolish, as if her body had collapsed in on itself. “Hold me, Bert.” His enormous arms engulfed her, and for the first time in months, she felt safe and desired. She wallowed there, breathing in his musk and letting the relief sink in. “I love you, Bert. I love all of you. And yes, please, I’d love a cup of tea.”
 
THE END 

The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

Part 52: Are ghosts real?

Ghosts watched to welcome Penelope to the afterlife. Are ghosts real?-

Olive’s darkest hour came at this point in her life. She was still Penelope, and she had no choice but to return to her rented house at Flintstone Terrace, number three. She had no car, no food, and no income. If she couldn't pay her rent, she would soon be homeless.

While plodding home, her head and shoulders slumped, she did something completely out of character, both as Olive and as Penelope. She cried. Huge sobs racked her body, and she felt so tired that she considered jumping into the ditch to sleep forever and forget her sorrows.

But her feet dragged along, and before she knew it, she was home. There was only one solution to her deep depression: a cocktail of pills and a large glass of whisky. It sounded like paradise.

She stopped and stared at her house. There were lights in her bedroom and lounge. As crazy as she was, she couldn’t remember leaving them on. But then again, hadn’t she left her front door open and allowed a thief easy entry?

There was more. She could see through the lounge window that a fire blazed in its hearth, and a shadowy figure leant an elbow against the mantelpiece. It occurred to her then that she was dead. On her way home, she really had fallen into a ditch and probably drowned. Now ghosts watched to welcome her to the afterlife. Are ghosts real? She asked herself.

Abruptly, she realised she wasn’t ready to die. Yet the warmth and light in her house called to her. What did she have to live for? Nothing. Her long deceased relatives waited for her, waited to engulf her in their love.

She hesitated, uncertain whether she should enter. Life or death, which should she choose? She bit the inside of her cheek, and it hurt, which confirmed she was still alive. She shuffled towards the door, her mind made up. As soon as she crossed the threshold, she knew she would die. So be it.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-Image by Syaibatul Hamdi from Pixabay

Part 51: Penelope has to muck out the horses…

They always need people over at The Stables to muck out the horses-

“My parents are dead," said Penelope, "and I’ve lost track of their family—I was born in Chipwick—father died when I was six. There might be some cousins or some former neighbours, but I don’t know. Probably impossible to find out.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to let it go, old girl.” Styles pressed the buzzer for his secretary and when she arrived bid her gently: “Show Penelope out, please.”

From the door, Penelope desperately tried to add: “You will find my car sunk—“

The door had closed behind her. Styles had not listened. He gave orders that never, for any reason, were they to admit Penelope to his office again. He telephoned Chief Inspector Dobbs and informed him that Penelope had now gone crazy and that he would save trouble by refusing to receive her.

Penelope did not try to see them. Instead, she went directly to the county jail, where she entered the main office and said quietly to a stout warden there: “I have stolen a load of money, but I can’t prove it. Will you please lock me up?”

The warden glared at her and shouted cruelly: “Get out of here! You tramps always find some foolish excuse when you want a good warm lodging for the winter! Why don’t you get some honest work, like the rest of us?”

“Where? Who would employ a sinner such as me?”

“They always need people over at The Stables to muck out the horses. Now get out of my sight and take that stink with you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Penelope, backing slowly towards the door, her head sunk. “Thank you.”
 
To be continued… 

The real world:
 Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

Part 50: Penelope scribbled on thousands of pages…

Penelope had scribbled on thousands of pages with Penelope’s small, finicky hand.-

“There isn’t any Penelope!” Her foot stomped on the floor, highlighting her frustration. “There isn’t! There isn’t!”

“I’d believe it more easily if I hadn’t met you before Olive vanished.”

“Give me a piece of paper. You know my writing—“

Penelope seized a sheet of stationery with her claws and tried to write in Olive’s round script. During the last half-year, she had scribbled on thousands of pages with Penelope’s small, finicky hand. After she traced two or three words in large but shaky letters, despite her efforts, the writing became smaller, pinched, and less legible.

Even while Penelope wrote, Styles looked at her struggles and said easily: “Afraid it’s no use. That isn’t Olive’s hand. Listen to me; I want you to get away from The Stables. Take a holiday, go to France, stop this fuming and fussing, get some fresh air in your lungs and sunshine on your face.” Styles rose and purred: “Now, I’m afraid I have some work to do.” He paused, waiting for Penelope to go.

Penelope crumpled the sheet and hurled it into a corner of the room. Tears were in her weary eyes. She wailed: “Is there nothing I can do to prove I am Olive?”

“Yes, of course! You can return what’s left of the one hundred and eighty-seven thousand pounds!”

Penelope reached into her ragged handbag and produced a five-dollar bill and some change. “Here’s all there is. Someone stole the rest from my house last night.”
​
Sorry though he was for the madwoman, Styles could not help laughing. Then he tried to look sympathetic, and he comforted her. “Well, that’s hard luck, old girl. Uh, what else? You could bring some parents, relatives, or an official to prove that Olive never had a twin sister.”
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-
Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

Part 49: Penelope snatched her wig off…

Penelope snatched the brown thatch off and stood expectantly.-

While Penelope leaned over the desk, her two hands on it, smiling wistfully, Mr Styles shook his head and mollified: “No, I’m afraid I don’t. Sounds like good old religious Penelope to me! Olive was a cheerful, flirtatious sort of girl. Why, her laugh—“

“But I can laugh!” The dreadful croak that Penelope uttered was like the wail of an evil vulture perched on a rotting carcass. Mr Styles shuddered. Under the edge of the desk his fingers inched towards the buzzer by which he summoned his secretary.

They took an elbow each and guided Penelope to the door. Penelope threw them off and urged: “Look—this wig—it’s a wig. See, I am Olive!”

She snatched the brown thatch off and stood expectantly, a look of fright on her face.
Her ghastly appearance startled Mr Styles, but he shook his head and sighed. “You poor devil! Yes, it’s a wig, all right. But I wouldn’t say that hair was much like Olive’s!” He motioned towards a mirror in the room's corner.

Penelope wavered to it. And she saw that, day by slow day, her hair had turned from Olive’s thin silky blackness to a straggle of damp grey locks writhing over a yellow skull.
She begged pitifully: “Oh, can’t you see I am Olive? I stole one hundred and eighty-seven thousand pounds from you. Punish me! I will do anything to prove… Why, I’ve been at your house. Your wife’s name is Evelyn. My salary here was—.“

“My dear woman, don’t you suppose that Olive might have told you these interesting facts? They are no secret. I’m afraid the worry of this has—pardon me if I’m frank—but I’m afraid it’s turned your head a little, Penelope.”
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

Part 48: A half-dead cat dragged from the ditch…

Penelope sauntered in, looking like a half-dead cat dragged from the ditch-

Mr Styles grumbled when he learned that Penelope was waiting for him outside his office. It must be half a year since she was last here. “Lord, I’d forgotten that troublesome woman,” he said to his secretary. “Oh, let her… No, hanged if I will! Tell her I’m too busy to see her. That is, unless she’s got some news about Olive. Ask her and find out.”

The secretary sweetly whispered to Penelope: “I’m so sorry, but Mr Styles is in conference just now. What was it you wanted to see him about? Is there any news about your missing sister?”

“There is not, miss. I am here to visit Mr Styles on the business of the Lord.”

“Oh! If that’s all, I’m afraid I can’t disturb him.”

“I will wait.” She sat on a hard wooden chair through the morning, the lunch hour, and into the afternoon.

Eventually, Mr Styles could not work with the thought of that scarecrow out there and sent for her. She sauntered in, looking like a half-dead cat dragged from the ditch, gaunt and tired, her clothes a mess, a foul smell accompanying her.

“Well, what is it this time, Penelope? I’m a busy man. Do you have news about Olive?”
“No news, sir, but…” She looked at the floor, then gradually lifted her head and stared at him with watery, marble-like eyes. “I am Olive! Her sin is my sin.”

“Yes, yes, I know all that stuff—twin sisters, twin souls, shared responsibility—“

“You don’t understand. There is no twin sister. I am not Penelope. I am Olive. I invented an imaginary sister and disguised myself…” She leaned forward, resting her hands on his desk, and pushed her face close to his. “Don’t you even recognise my voice?”
 
To be continued… 
​
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth.
-Image by press □ and ⭐ from Pixabay

Part 47: Penelope buys a hip flask of whisky…

Penelope stepped inside the grocer’s store and bought a hip flask of whisky. -
​
Away from the church, Penelope stepped inside the grocer’s store and bought a hip flask of whisky. She took joy from throwing away her abstinence. But when, on the street, she swallowed a large mouthful of the liquid, it made her dizzy and she was afraid she’d fall. She sunk to the curb and sat, her head giddy. People gathered. Maddened, she refused help, staggered to her feet, and swaggered up a road.

For hours she paced, sipping cautiously at her flask, making and discarding the most contradictory plans: to go to Styles and come clean or to spend the money riotously and never confess.

It was midnight when she returned to her house. Stopping before it, she stared with bleary eyes and gasped. The front door was open. In a flash, she remembered that in her haste to leave she had not closed it. She sauntered in, locked the door, and headed for the backyard toilet.

Her foot struck an object the size of a book, and she sprawled to the carpeted floor. She lay a moment, muttering oaths, then turned to see what had tripped her. It was a hollowed-out encyclopaedia, and it was empty. Instantly sober, she listened. There was no sound. She groaned to her feet, crept across the floor, and flipped the light switch.

Now she could see. Someone had wrenched the doors of the bookcase open, pulled out every book, and slung it to the floor. All the encyclopedias that had held a fortune were in a pile, empty. She searched for ten minutes, but the only money she found was one five-pound note, which had fluttered into a corner. In her purse, she had one pound and sixteen pence.

Stunned to a degree where she couldn’t breathe, Penelope realised with stricken horror that she had six pounds and sixteen pence to her name, no job, no friends—and no identity.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Scozzy from Pixabay

Part 46: A glass of cold milk and a cucumber sandwich…

At the bar, Penelope ordered a glass of cold milk and a cucumber sandwich-

Penelope never returned to the All Saints church, and, for a week, she did not leave her house, save for midnight prowls in the alley behind Flintstone Terrace. Suddenly, she became frantic with the silence. She flung herself out of the house, leaving the front door swinging open. She raced up to the village green, no topcoat over her festering garments and her thick brown hair matted and bedraggled. People stared at her, but she continued with a resigned fury.

The glimmer of her old life as Olive drew her into Ye Olde Inn, where she hoped to sit inconspicuously at a table in a secluded corner and listen to normal people talking and laughing. The bartender gaped, and Penelope caught a mutter from a man close by: “There’s that crazy hermit!”

“A glass of cold milk and a cucumber sandwich,” said Penelope to the barman.

The half dozen young men loafing at the bar surveyed her, stunned into amused silence, ear-to-ear grins on their faces. They made her feel so uncomfortable that she couldn’t eat or drink her sandwich and milk. She thrust them away and fled, a woeful failure in her first attempt to eat out in eighteen weeks—failed to revive that Olive whom she had coldly killed.

Previously, Olive would have enticed the young fellows with her smiles and the appeal of her body. They would have returned her stare, wishing they dared to court her. Now, they wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole.
 
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
Rather than miss an instalment, it’s easy to follow my blog on bloglovin ’. They’ll give you a friendly nudge as I release new parts.
 
Like to know more about Alf, Bert and the rest of the gang? You can read their chaotic history in What on Earth .
-Image by Bernadette Wurzinger from Pixabay