James Field's Blog, page 15

Part 14: Applause for Olive…

Applause for OliveOne time, Olive recalled, a well-rehearsed play suddenly encountered a problem. She was both the star and the stage manager. Someone wanted her advice about the colour of a curtain in a stage window. Someone else fussed about a spotlight that was out of order. Others worried about an actor’s role of only two lines, played by a silly young girl who couldn’t remember her words properly. And a violent squabble between two members of the play-reading committee erupted.

Olive calmed them, sorted out the other problems, and called for a last rehearsal. She wore hot pants and a skin-tight blouse; but she was not Olive; she was the Madam Dupong, a scornful, refined, gorgeous old woman in her twenties, easy of gesture, calm of voice, evil of intent.

“I wish I had a few more actors like you!” said the professional coach.
​
The Community Theatre play premiered on the following Wednesday. Applause for Olive: the audience gave her a standing ovation. Later, at a party at the Chipwick Country Club, she danced with the most handsome boys in town. She spoke little, concentrated on the rhythm, and bathed in a halo of artistic success that glowed around her.

No wonder she’d made such a profitable career as a con woman!
 
To be continued… 

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Part 13: Olive, a natural actress…

Olive, a natural actressAt sixteen minutes after nine, Penelope gave a sigh of relief. She was back in her stark bedroom and let her shoulders sink. As she stripped off her brown wig and funereal clothes, she applauded herself on another successful evening. Twelve minutes later, Penelope again became Olive, the sexy and capable bookkeeper and cashier at The Stables.

She left the light burning, rushed downstairs, fastened windows and doors, and raced back to her own neighbouring house at number two. All had gone well, and she made herself a warm cup of milky cocoa and sat in her comfy armchair nibbling chocolate-coated biscuits.

Her thoughts strayed to the past and her extraordinary talent. Of all those who shared her interest, she was the best. At the age of fourteen, she joined the Chipwick Community Theatre Association. Despite her low breeding and that nobody knew much about her except her popularity with the boys, they welcomed her.

She’d always been a natural actress. She was the finest amateur artist Chipwick had ever known. Even in those early days her animated face could beam like a dynamo of emotion. It would tighten with tragic passion or puff out with joyous comedy. She didn’t act—she became the subject itself. With ease, she forgot Olive and turned into a tramp or a princess, a devoted daughter or a heartless mother, a drug addict or a nun—the perfect arty-craftiness that had launched her into her early career as a con artist.
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
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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 .
-Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Part 13: Penelope, a natural actress…

At sixteen minutes after nine, Penelope gave a sigh of relief. She was back in her stark bedroom and let her shoulders sink. As she stripped off her brown wig and funereal clothes, she applauded herself on another successful evening. Twelve minutes later, Penelope again became Olive, the sexy and capable bookkeeper and cashier at The Stables.

She left the light burning, rushed downstairs, fastened windows and doors, and raced back to her own neighbouring house at number two. All had gone well, and she made herself a warm cup of milky cocoa and sat in her comfy armchair nibbling chocolate-coated biscuits.

Her thoughts strayed to the past and her extraordinary talent. Of all those who shared her interest, she was the best. At the age of fourteen, she joined the Chipwick Community Theatre Association. Despite her low breeding and that nobody knew much about her except her popularity with the boys, they welcomed her.

She’d always been a natural actress. She was the finest amateur artist Chipwick had ever known. Even in those early days her animated face could beam like a dynamo of emotion. It would tighten with tragic passion or puff out with joyous comedy. She didn’t act—she became the subject itself. With ease, she forgot Olive and turned into a tramp or a princess, a devoted daughter or a heartless mother, a drug addict or a nun—the perfect arty-craftiness that had launched her into her early career as a con artist.
 
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 Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Part 12: Penelope did missionary work…

Penelope did missionary workExcited about Olive’s book, Vicar Bitter often begged her to recite it to them. So far she’d read only a few pages, consisting mostly of quotations from ancient treatises on the prophecies. Sunday and Wednesday evenings, she appeared at the church. She lectured from the pulpit in a halting, scholarly way, on the worldly evils.

Tonight she spoke briefly, using long, complicated words, about the apostle Barnabas and the Judaizers. As the congregation grew drowsy, Penelope glided into a sad earnest speech about her corrupt sister, Olive, and told them of her fears with Olive’s itch for money.

“I worked in Africa doing missionary work, when word came to me of Olive’s fall from moral values. I heard of her loose behaviour with men, her disgraceful style of dress, and her obsession with money. Her mania with money bothered me especially. I dread she will commit a crime. Without delay, I returned and hired the house next to hers. Olive almost swooned when I showed up. She slammed the door in my face and refuses to see me.”

Gasps spread through the flock.

Penelope squeezed a tear from the corner of her eye and spoke with a shaky voice, “Olive is my entire family. I love her and urge you to pray for her.”

All fell to their knees and asked God for aid and mercy.
​
The service ended at nine. Penelope sighed and shook hands with the vicar and congregation. “Fine meeting tonight, wasn’t it? Such a free outpouring of the Spirit!” Carrying her groceries and the bottle of ink, she made her way home at seven minutes after nine.
 
To be continued… 
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Part 11: Penelope goes to church…

Penelope goes to church. The village centre clustered around a large green, formed in the shape of a triangle. In the centre mushroomed a large oak tree, its canopy almost as broad as the green. A stone-built church, the vicarage, and its graveyard dominated one side of the green. A Smithy, a convenience store, and Ye Olde inn with its stables ranged along a second side of the triangle. Mr Styles, the owner of The Stables, lived in a stately town house that shared the third length with administration buildings.

Penelope passed Ye Olde Inn. She advanced slowly; her features smooth and expressionless, headed for the church.

The church was small and practical. Above the entrance porch, painted in large flowery text, was the church’s name: All Saints. It contained a railed off sanctuary at the head with stained-glass windows. Within was the altar, tabernacle, raised pulpit, and a chair for the vicar. Maggot-eaten oak pews filled the church’s body with room for three hundred people. Organ and choir occupied a small loft at the back. The church smelled of candle wax and incense.

A group of devout members gathered for the evening service, and when the steeple clock chimed eight, the meeting began. Theirs was a tiny, tight-minded group. They asserted they alone obeyed the scriptural doctrines full out. On the day of judgement, God would save them alone. All other denominations, part-time worshippers, unbelievers, and those who practised homosexual behaviour or sex out of marriage would rot in hell.

Vicar Bitter conducted the service, a bulbous man who loved to preach doom and gloom. He was a tall, heavy-boned man, with a vacant look on his leathery face.
​
One after another, the members rose to receive the body and blood of Jesus at the Holy Communion. They were a gaunt and plainly dressed lot, rather elderly and complacent. The most honoured among them was Penelope.
 
 To be continued…
 
The real world:
 
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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 10: Penelope at the convenience store…

[image error]Penelope at the convenience store.The village green embraced a large convenience store on one of its three sides. The shop nestled between Ye Olde Inn and a Smithy. Closing time neared, and there were no customers inside the store. A newly employed assistant restocked shelves with medical items, personal items, horse items, canned goods, snacks, and beer. When finished, he’d sweep the tiled floor and clean the soft ice machine.

The door clicked open and the bell above jangled on its spring. The assistant stopped his work, raised the counter flap, and passed through to the business side.

A woman clad in black from head to toe stepped inside. She carried with her a musty smell, as if the fresh air outside had no power to freshen her. The temperature in the shop dropped a few degrees, and a deathly silence fell, broken only by the slush machine whirring and ice-cold drink bottles clinking in the refrigerated case.

“You can have the pleasure of serving this lady,” said the shop owner, who emerged from a private back room. Like the assistant, he wore light-beige coveralls that swept around his portly waist. As always, wrinkles of a smile stretched about his eyes and cheeks.

“Yes, Ma’am,” said the assistant. “What can I help you with?”

“You can put those disgusting pornographies out of sight.” She pointed to a rack of magazines without gazing that way.

“Yes, Ma’am. Anything else?”

“I’d like a bottle of ink, two pounds of potatoes, two pounds of flour, a pound of carrots, a half-pound of butter, six eggs, and a tincan of condensed milk.”

The assistant darted around the shop, fetching and weighing, and placed the items in front of her. Not once did she smile, but stood erect with her hands clasped and breathing piously through her pinched nose.

“Shall we deliver them?” asked the assistant.

The woman regarded him, her mouth turned down at the edges. “No, I always carry my parcels. I am writing a book and nobody must disturb me.” She paid for the supplies with cash. The cash register chimed as the tray slid open and the assistant handed the woman her change. Without comment, she gathered the bundle of food and stepped out of the store.

“That lady’s a nut, isn’t she?” asked the assistant.

“Yep,” said the shop owner. “Her name is Penelope, twin sister of Olive. You’ve met her. She’s the one who flirts with you every time she comes in.”

A tint of red surged across the assistant’s face. “She’s old enough to be my mother.”
​
“Yes, well, this Penelope never buys meat. She’s a vegetarian. And they say she burns all her garbage—has nothing in the dustbin except ashes. If you knock at her door, she never answers it. Like she said, she’s writing a book; spends all her time at it. Religious crank, I presume. Has a little income though—I guess her folks were rich. Comes out sometimes in the evening and pokes round the village green here. We laughed about her at first, but we’re used to her now.”
*
 
To be continued… 
The real world:
 
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Part 09: Penelope and the Book of Revelations…

Penelope and the Book of Revelations.            Chapter Two

Penelope gave a thought for her twin sister Olive, The Stables bookkeeper and cashier, a wicked soul beyond redemption. She crossed herself and whispered a prayer, "Please, God, have mercy on her."

Then she rubbed her eyes as though she’d spent hours absorbed in study, and plodded through the living room to the front door. She opened it, plucked up a couple of circulars the postman had dropped through the letter slot in the door, went out and locked the door behind her. A narrow front garden faced her, neater than the garden at the back, on a pebbly lane that led to the village green.

A streetlight lit the house and showed a card thumb-nailed on the door. Penelope flicked the card with a short-clipped fingernail. A tack in each corner held it securely. In that light she couldn't read it, but she knew what it said in her small, finicky writing: “Agents kindly do not disturb. I will not answer the bell. Occupant of house engaged in literary work.”

Penelope stood on the doorstep and sighted her neighbour at number one—a large stolid brute of a man, who shambled before his house with two enormous Alsatians at his heels. He was Olive’s fiancé, Bert. Penelope stuck her nose in the air and ignored the swine. Still he called over, “Hi there, Penny. Horrible weather.”

“Not at all. It seems pleasant.” Penelope’s voice was like Olive’s; but it was more guttural, more refined, and her speech carried greater assurance.

“How’s the book coming on?”

“It is-it is challenging. I find it hard to grasp all the inner meanings of the prophecies.”

Bert’s face lit up. “Wanna hear my favourite prophecy? It goes something like this: the one with the power to vanish the Dark Lord is coming. And the Dark Lord is going to put a mark on his bonce. But he’s got power the Dark Lord doesn’t know nothing about...“

“You fool,” said Penelope, stroking her throat and grimacing. “You talk of Harry Potter, while I speak of the holy Book of Revelations.”

“Oh, sorry, I ain’t read that book yet. Did D. J. Rolling write that too?”

Penelope clicked her tongue and turned to leave. “Well, I must hasten to the church. I trust we shall see you there some Wednesday or Sunday evening. I bid you goodnight, Sir.”
 
To be continued… 

The real world:
 
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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.
-Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay

Part 08: Penelope, religious fanatic…

Enter Penelope, hermit and religious fanatic. Olive re-locked the bookcase and ambled upstairs. In the small bedroom at the front of the upper hall, she’d left an electric light burning. Smart thinking: a prowler in the night might have judged from this ever-glowing light that someone was home. The bedroom was Spartan: an iron bed, one straight chair, a washstand where she scrubbed her face clean from makeup, and a heavy oak chest of drawers.

She scrambled to unlock the lowest drawer, tugged it open, and gathered a wrinkled, shiny dress of black. Then she found a pair of thick black stockings and black shoes. To cover her head, she chose a modest black bonnet. Finally, she singled out a demure and baggy cardigan, a black lacy shawl, and a cheap and pitiable wig with unkempt hair of a withered brown.

She stripped off her fashionable slacks and blouse and changed into those gloomy garments. As she donned the wig, the corners of her mouth drooped. Leaving the light on and her own clothes dumped on the bed, she descended the stairs. She was not the same woman who’d climbed them. Her features were like Olive, but distinctly less healthy, attractive, and agreeable, and she radiated the sorrow and deep thoughts of a God-fearing dreamer. Now she was not Olive, but Olive’s twin sister, Penelope, hermit and religious fanatic.
 
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 .
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Part 07: The Apostle Barnabas…

Part 07: The Apostle Barnabas- a good name to spring on people…Old upholstery and leather books made the room smell musty. She hadn’t dusted it in all the months she’d hired it. Dust and cobwebs sheeted the springy brown chairs, the bone-hard settee, the sooty black fireplace, and the vast glass-fronted bookcase that furnished one wall.

The stagnant atmosphere was unnatural to Olive, but she didn’t let it discourage her. However, she peered around uneasily. The more time she spent here, the cleaner she’d have to make it. Even religious freaks, with their bad breath and stale body odour, needed to clean their house occasionally.

She crossed to the bookcase, unlocked one section, and placed the last two encyclopedias next to the other twenty-four in full view.

Cheap romance novels occupied the shelf above. She’d read all of them. The contents of the remaining shelves comprised black-covered, speckle-leaved, dismal books of history, theology, philosophy, and biography. Of these, she’d read none. Olive pored over the books for a moment, trying to memorise their titles.

She selected “A discourse of the Apostles“, randomly opened a page, and read aloud: “According to Acts 4:36, Barnabas was a Cypriot Jew. Named an apostle in Acts 14:14, he and Paul the Apostle undertook missionary journeys together and defended Gentile converts against the Judaizers.”
​
Olive slammed the book shut, and an impish smile made her mouth twitch, “That’ll do. The Apostle Barnabas-a good name to spring on people.”
  
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 lbrownstone from Pixabay

Part 06: The fountain of dreams…

The fountain of dreams.Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay-
When certain nobody else was about, Olive clutched her books and dashed across to the alley that stretched behind the group of three terrace houses where she lived. It was a pleasant alley, bumpy in its unevenness, with carved wooden benches arranged along it. At Bert’s end, it swelled to an open space with a rock garden, a fountain and a stone bench.

Olive spent many a happy hour here in the warm summer months, dipping her fingers in the cool fountain water. It was the fountain of dreams, of poets and film stars. Lately, her dreams were of mingling with the jet set: a wealthy woman of elegance and charm. Cor blimey, she'd show them.

Despite being so late in the year, the rock garden blazed with colour. Plants sprawled over the sharp stones. Workers had recently painted the fountain, leaving its iron cupids and naiads gleaming. Lichens and moss smeared the bricks of the end wall, many of them broken. Deep piles of dry leaves filled every nook and cranny.

A damp, foreboding chill rose from plants and bricks, making Olive shiver. But she ignored the dampness, ignored Bert’s house at number one, ignored her own house at number two, and hastened along the walkway to the house at the end, number three.
Earlier, when Olive, heavily disguised, had hired number three, she'd fitted an expensive modern lock. Now she opened the heavy door and stepped across the threshold. The door clicked and locked behind her, barring the outside world from her sanctum. She was in a crude kitchen; the blinds drawn.

As though used to them, she dodged chairs and tables in the darkness and passed through the kitchen and dining room into the front living room. Before she turned the light on, she went to the window and made sure the shades were down. As the glow from a single lamp swept over the drab walls, Olive bobbed her head with satisfaction. All was undisturbed since her last visit.
  
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.
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