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

by ed. Paul Magrs

  “Oh, it’s not good.” He held out the slim device to her.

  When Brenda was finished she just flung the phone across the table and looked more depressed than ever. Effie held the mobile at arm’s length, tilting it and squinting as she read. “Oh Brenda, how dare they? It’s just not on.”

  “They’re right though.”

  “It’s not your fault you’re putting up Uncle Tom Cobley and all the waifs and strays of the Maw.”

  “Lucky old squid face was there... what was his name?” Robert asked.

  “Cthulhu, dear.” Effie patted his arm.

  “Well two can play at that game,” Robert announced, taking the phone and typing furiously. “See, Charlie Cthulhu really enjoyed his stay. And there was that lady with the talking tattoos all over her body, wasn’t there? And the Green family... and all the others. They all loved your B&B Brenda.”

  “But you’re just putting up false reviews.” Brenda sounded shocked and ever so slightly affronted.

  “They would have said those things. Besides, people do it all the time. Why do you think I have so many accounts? Sheila’s always telling me to do it at The Miramar.” He grinned at her triumphantly. Brenda was uneasy, she preferred to do things honestly, but Robert was partly right, most people went away completely satisfied by her B&B. Yes there might be the occasional krispy cat fight on the roof, or bump in the night, but by and large she did a bloody good job.

  “What we need to do is get you set up on the world wide web. Now let’s make a move, I’m dying for a ciggie.”

  Robert was as good as his word. It was a filthy night, about a fortnight later, when www.brendasbnb.co.uk was ready to go live. It was fairly basic, Robert apologised, but to Brenda and Effie it looked rather whizzy! They oohed and ahhed over it in Brenda’s attic sitting room, agreeing that Robert’s talents really were wasted at The Miramar.

  It had been relatively easy to sort, and Robert enjoyed the project. There were some lovely photos of the rooms and arty soft focus ones of breakfast. He’d touched up pictures of Whitby, using the whalebone arch as a frame and a sepia filter at the abbey for that gothic touch! It looked nice on the apricot background with maroon text, telling guests her rates and contact details.

  They’d agreed on no photos of her, she didn’t want to put people off. Her imposing figure would make anyone think twice. And of course, no online payments or email contact. Having arrived in this world fully formed, Brenda was not blessed with many things others took for granted, like a bank account or social security.

  “And, I added a little online guest book for you. So visitors can comment on their stay. You just give them one of these when they’re leaving...” Robert produced a wad of little business cards he’d had made, apricot like the website.

  Brenda glowed with appreciation as she passed him a celebratory sherry. “I think you’ve earned that dear. Thank you. Cheers!” She clinked glasses with them all and they settled into a night of gossip and Nina Simone as rain lashed the skylight above.

  The website might have seemed like a gimmick at first, but she was certainly getting business from it. Some of the comments on that online guest book were smashing too. Robert sometimes phoned down during quiet moments at the hotel to update her. Brenda glowed with pleasure at the compliments, knowing that she had, in whatever small way, enriched these folk’s holiday experience.

  The internet was essential to today’s people, Brenda knew. She couldn’t imagine following Rosie Twist at The Willing Spirit on Twitter for interesting titbits, or hitting ‘like’ for the Walrus and the Carpenter Facebook page to get online offers - she’d nearly fallen over when they offered her a loyalty card. What was the point Googling vampires and zombies when you could just get stuck in head first? No. Not her.

  And yet, it made Brenda a little sad. Watching the young ones plugged in, screens on, illuminated faces, eyes wide. All that connection. All that information and what did you do with it? There was too much of it. No one could hold all that in their head, which is why they held it in their laptops and mobiles. Brenda knew the problem: her memories were a little like that, too many of them to fit. She could dredge them up if she really tried, but it was all a little hazy and corrupted.

  Or maybe she was just jealous, another part of the world she didn’t understand and had no desire to be part of. When she had been made she came with no sell-by date, her parts had - by and large - stayed fresh and her ‘soul’ (whatever that was!) showed no sign of letting up. In all that time she had seen so much progress: steam engines and fridges, hot air balloons and traffic lights, microwaves and canned food. And now this. Thankfully, before she got too maudlin, the telephone demanded her attention with its curt ring.

  “We saw your website,” the caller said in a husky guttural tone. “We’d love to stay.” It sounded like he had a cold. “The sooner the better.” Or maybe he was just foreign, she couldn’t really tell. Brenda neatly jotted down their details and booked them in.... the Kalevalas.

  It’s funny how you conjure up a picture of someone just based on their voice. Maybe they’d done the same with her. But when she opened the door and ushered the three bulky brothers into her home, something nagged at Brenda. But in an instant the worry was gone, it didn’t matter. It was time to break into her usual patter: here’s the room, breakfast times, keys and the like.

  When they didn’t arrive for breakfast the following morning she was slightly concerned. She’d bounded down the stairs after her exercises, full of energy, a smile plastered on her face! Brenda was ready to cook and cheer, to clean and chatter. She’d give them some time before making up the rooms and then busy herself in town, gadding about with Effie no doubt.

  At half ten she went to knock at their doors and was met with the sounds of grunting snores. Bless them, she thought, travelling can be so tiring. She slid a note under the door and - the wind rather knocked out of her sails - popped into Whitby.

  It was later than she’d planned. They’d got embroiled in rescuing kelpies off the coast - as you do. Brenda was drenched through and cold to the marrow. All she wanted was a little R&R with a nice bubbly bath and a pot of spicy tea, perhaps light a scented candle.

  “BAH. BAH. BANG. KABAM. RUMBLE. ROAR. KABAM. KABOOM.”

  The sounds of warfare seemed to be emanating from her guest lounge.

  “Cooee,” Brenda trilled, a little apprehensive. She was relieved to see that it was just the boys. Well, they were men really. A mass of wires snaking from her TV to black consoles and the sound on full, pixelated avatars committing hara-kiri and other unspeakable acts. The brothers barely reacted to her presence. There was a strong family resemblance, it had to be said: lank and greasy black hair, acne ridden faces with a pus-like waxy tinge, bulbous noses, each in Death Metal t-shirts with ripped jeans.

  What she took for the eldest brother, the leader with the phlegmatic voice and a nose piercing eventually looked up and gave her a sheepish smile.

  “Well you did say we could make ourselves at home.”

  “Of course, of course. Had a good day?”

  “Alright, I s’pose.” He sniffed and wiped a pale arm across his huge nostrils.

  The doorbell went and Brenda looked alert. “Oh, that’ll be the pizza. You don’t mind do you?”

  “No, no. I’m just headed up.” But of course, as she heard the lads shuffling around for change and tearing into dripping slices of cheesy dough, she realised she had yet to make up their rooms. Sighing, exhausted, she hung up her coat and made her way upstairs.

  The stench and scene that met Brenda on entering the first bedroom made her catch her breath. It was like walking into a teenager’s bedroom mixed with the stink of rotting offal and a whiff of the sty thrown in. Towels were strewn around, duvet and sheets swept up and twisted like tundra. The room felt clammy and discarded underpants and socks were crusty and sweaty, discarded on the floor. As Brenda set about fighting the chaos she realised everything had a slimy, slightly sticky, tacky feel to
it. Her glorious B&B was the perfect romantic weekend getaway, she was used to unsightly stains and patches, but the volume! Gritting her teeth and trying not to think about it, Brenda went to work.

  By the time she had finished the third room, all alike in their depravity, Brenda could no longer feel content with maintaining her high standards. She didn’t feel the usual joy in having banished slovenliness and giving her guests a lovely environment to retire to. Instead she was pooped. Well and truly done in, she made her way up to her attic apartment, unsure whether the creaking sounds were her limbs or the stairs.

  Brenda woke with a start. She squinted at the light, still on, an empty mug of spicy tea resting on her bosom and her laid out on the sofa. Then she registered the sounds coming from downstairs. Was that what had woken her? A sort of snuffly grunting. Snorting. Then the background bleeping and zooming of what, she supposed, was another video game. Deep throated chuckles and spluttering. At least she hadn’t any other guests they were disturbing.

  Brenda lay there, too exhausted to move, but knowing she ought to get up, turn off the light. To get into bed. She could see her recumbent form reflected in her skylight above. Turning her head slightly she half moaned, there was cold in her bones. According to the clock on the wall it was early in the morning. She hadn’t made it to the bubbly bath she’d promised herself. She hadn’t even managed supper. Perhaps she was coming down with something?

  With an effort Brenda shifted herself upright. Something told her it was going to be a long night, listening to the screech of simulated tyres mowing down pixelated prostitutes. She had read all about the corrupting influence of these video games. She occasionally got a glimpse of these simulations in the arcades, the constant noise pushing her away. Something else she couldn’t really fathom. Brenda got up and plunged the attic into semi-darkness, changing into her nightie and getting under the covers. With bleary eyes she watched moonlight and streetlight vie for dominance, creating a twilight in her little apartment.

  Brenda woke with a start. She squinted at the light, a furry taste in her mouth and gritty sleepy dust caking her crows’ feet. Her head was all muzzy. So, she had slept after all. One big hand silenced her frantically buzzing alarm. Was that the time? She was late. Very late. The boys, the Kalevalas, might be downstairs this very instant waiting for her. Sod the exercises, she hadn’t even time to do her face; grabbing a dressing gown Brenda stomped hastily downstairs.

  Of course, her guests weren’t there. Brenda wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or annoyed. Putting the kettle on, for her if no one else, it wasn’t hard to see that they had ransacked the place: trails of cereal, dead variety boxes, apple cores, banana skins and jammy handprints. And everywhere the same slimy feel as in the bedrooms.

  There wasn’t much down here, just the breakfast essentials, but they’d certainly had a midnight feast, working their way through cartons of milk and fruit juices - just discarded on her surfaces, white rings marking the spot where bowls and glasses were, like the chalk outlines at a crime scene. Still, no use crying over spilt milk, Brenda sighed and ran a wash cloth over the mess. She really couldn’t be bothered with this today. She vowed to herself to have a stern talking to the brothers. It just wasn’t on.

  Two hours later and Brenda was stewing, like the remaining tea in the pot, like the rain in the foreboding clouds above Whitby - it had been threatening rain all morning. Civilised people just didn’t behave like this. No sign of them. Well, she wasn’t about to make allowances for them - they could stuff their breakfast! And if they thought she was going to turn down their beds they had another think coming. She couldn’t believe people would behave like this, like animals. Brenda huffed upstairs, stopping only to hear the pig-rutting snores emanating from the three bedrooms, snorting in disgust she carried on up.

  Brenda woke with a start. The furry taste thicker in her mouth, clogging her tongue. What was going on? It wasn’t like her to waste a day. She put a hand to her head, no, no temperature. It wasn’t like there was a point, the rain had arrived and drummed on her skylight like a military tattoo. She was better off indoors.

  Whitby could look after itself. Brenda was having a duvet day. It made a change to have a little ‘me time’ rather than at the beck and call of her guests, or embroiled in some sinister scheme. Could she be bothered to get up? She supposed she better find something to eat and nip to the loo. Maybe she’d just get a takeaway, the boys had inspired her. Quick, easy and no washing up! She was tired with being a skivvy. She was mostly just tired. Lethargic. She pitied the delivery boy, she hadn’t done her face and she had no intention of doing so.

  Downstairs she could hear the Kalevala brothers, rustling around. A vague feeling of duty prickled at her, and she had been so het up earlier. Not that it seemed to matter so much now. Still, she’d promised herself a good remonstration with them. She was going to give them a piece of her mind...

  “Just a minute,” she called out, trying to sound cheery. Arriving on the landing all three of the bulky siblings were there, looking curiously at her. Before she launched into her tirade she caught a glimpse of the room behind the eldest. “What the heck is going on in there? It really isn’t on. This is my home. I’ve been nothing but welcoming and you’ve repaid me like this?” She felt quite close to tears. What was the point? “I think you better leave,” Brenda said quietly.

  The son with the nose piercing nodded. Well that seemed easy. She was expecting more resistance, an ugly scene, but he seemed fairly reasonable nodding away. Brenda let her dander drop. She hadn’t realised how pent up she’d felt.

  The brothers, as one, took a step towards her. Brenda was no small lady, but even she felt a little intimidated with this wall of flesh. Brute force. In unison they hacked and coughed and dredged the recesses of their throats before hawking and spitting phlegm over her. The slime trailed down the back of her neck, across her scarred cheeks...

  In that instant, Brenda gave them a piece of her mind - but not in the way she was expecting.

  There was one gleeful moment when Robert felt like a proper member of the gang. Slamming down a tray of thickly iced carrot cake, a scone with tiny pots of jam and cream and two frothy coffees he sat opposite Effie. This was it. Time to draw up battle plans. But then he remembered why they were there. It was all because of Brenda. This was the kind of stuff they usually did together, and Robert just sort of tagged along. Sometimes his friends got mixed up with intrigue right up to their ears and he might show his face near the denouement. That’s how it felt.

  Not this time. This was an intervention, and Robert felt a little guilty that he was so excited.

  “So Leena said they’d seen her the other day. Buying up supplies like normal. But slow and shuffling. Not like herself at all. A greasy greenish pallor. She barely spoke to them. Then burped in Leena’s face as she gave her the money.” Effie was wasting no time sawing into her scone and fiddling with her knife in the ramekins.

  “I’ve been around,” she cried indignantly. “Morning, noon and night. I know they’re in there. I can hear them sometimes. Why won’t she answer the door?”

  “It’s not just you. She hasn’t even been opening up for guests with bookings. They’ve been raving mad on the website. The first time I saw it I rang her up and nothing. I’ve kept on trying, but zilch. I haven’t managed to knock, Sheila’s had me doing over time, we’ve even mopped up a few of her customers. But it isn’t like her.”

  “Well that’s why I invited you out, Robert.” She slurped her coffee and Robert marvelled at the way she’d gotten out of paying - again! Effie Jacobs was a canny one, that was for sure.

  Robert’s forehead furrowed with concern. “We need to get in there. Anything could be the matter. She could have been taken hostage by disgruntled dwarves or slowly turning into a Triffid... or something!”

  “Well lovey, I’m not sure that’s the case... but I do have this...” she brandished a spare Yale key. “She gave it me - for emergencies.” The twink
le in her eyes was wicked. He had been well and truly had.

  Robert tsked. “All you want is some strong-armed back up while you take a shufty at the place.”

  “Well if you’re offering, duckie,” Effie simpered, taking a big bite into her crumbly scone.

  Never had Brenda’s door seemed quite so imposing. It was no different to all the other times Effie and Robert had popped round, but this time they felt like they were trespassing, transgressing.

  “Should we knock?” Robert wondered.

  “And give them warning? I should coco.” Effie turned the silvery key in the lock and pushed the door open.

  Inside it was as gloomy as the gloaming outside and there was a damp, cloying feeling to the shadows as they entered Brenda’s abode. Effie cocked her head the way a budgie might. Apart from the sound of dripping taps there was silence.

  “Right, let’s split up.”

  That was the problem with Brenda and Effie, thought Robert. They had no idea of popular culture. So when things went a bit Scooby Doo or the Horror cliché counter started to rise they just carried on regardless.

  “OK,” Robert found himself saying. Much against his better judgement. He wasn’t going to be shown up in front of an old aged pensioner.

  “You take the stairs, will you pet? Your legs are younger, and I’ll have a ferret down here.” Robert sighed, he had a feeling she might say that. Kicking various bits of rubbish out of the way, he grabbed hold of the banister and started to haul himself up. A tacky substance grabbed at his palms. Every grumble of the stairs filled him with trepidation - just what was he going to find?

  On the landing there was more mess, fizzy drink cans, takeaway cartons and stripped chicken bones. Robert shook his head in disbelief. The paintwork was smeared at waist height with snot-coloured stains. How had it got to this state? Brenda was so house-proud and attentive. The doors to the guest rooms were firmly shut, but these too, on the door handles and panels were also crusty and grim. Robert gritted his teeth and kept on up.