by Paul Magrs
They hold me pinioned between them. A bear, a fox and an evil-looking hare with yellow buck teeth. They keep a tight grip on my chunky arms and my legs are pedalling madly high above the town. I am screaming and screaming for them to let go.
Then the Toymaker, Mr Grenoble, is with me, and so is that bearded brute, Barry Lurcher. They are both holding me tight and when I stare it seems that they are puppets, too, with painted faces and stringy hair. Now they’re growing long furry ears and their eyes are like marbles stuck in their heads.
‘Give in to it, Brenda! It’s the most marvellous feeling. Giving up all volition and will. All these years of making your own way in the world. Decisions and choices and responsibilities. And all that time, all those years of dragging that gross carcass with you. All that mending and patching your unnatural body…!’
‘Thanks a bunch, Barry! And there was I, thinking you fancied me!’
‘Feel how light you are, Brenda. Feel how you can transcend all the rubbish and dross! Give up your will and your moribund flesh! You can dance forever with us on the very brink of being and non-being…!’
‘You’re talking a load of old rubbish! You’re completely daft if you think I’d go anywhere with you, you creepy bugger!’
‘But you’re already here, Brenda! You’re a part of the Wild Puppet Hunt this Beltane Night. You’re here forever now. We will dance with you into the inferno…’
‘What about your poor blummin’ wife, eh? What about Abigail? You’ve led her a merry dance as well, haven’t you?’
‘She no longer matters. All that matters is you – and dragging you into hell with me! They are very keen, down in Hades, to get their hands on you – Brenda Frankenstein…!’
‘Don’t call me that name! I am not that name!’
‘Oh, oh, but you are…! I know who you are. How have you managed it, you fleshy marionette? How have you kept yourself alive for all this time?’
‘Shut up! Stop it!’
‘How have you kept that spark of life force glowing within you? ‘
‘Enough, you cheeky devil! As if I’d ever deliver up my secrets to the likes of you!’
‘We will hear it all… when we get into Puppet Hell..!’
‘Nooooo!’
I fight like a mad thing this night and screech like a banshee. Not for a long time have I been quite so scared. I don’t doubt for one minute that this hairy occultist will do exactly what he threatens to. I know where this horrible flying circus is bound for…!
So I clobber him. I wrestle myself free, out of his grip, and that of the wretched old Toyshop owner. Up in the howling air I struggle out of their grip, and I clobber the bugger. Yes, he might be strong, and possessed of unholy determination. But I am stronger because I’m even more determined. I want to live and carry on living, exactly as I choose. I want this with every fibre of my being.
I think my inner goddess has been woken by the almighty shock of these unfolding events. Barry knowing my true name – my father’s name – was the biggest shock of all. He flung that filthy epithet at me from out of the blue. The true horror of my heritage fell full force upon me all over again.
Cursed to be a member of the Frankensteins!
But if I am a monster then I am possessed of a monster’s vim and vigour. And so I batter Barry Lurcher. I punch his blummin’ lights out. As we fly through the skies across Whitby I give his fat arse a bloody good kicking. And all the puppets laugh maniacally at the way we’re carrying on.
Then, just as I am starting to wonder how I’ll ever get out of this predicament, we are joined by a horrible, fanged and flapping creature who brings with him a whiff of brimstone and death.
He comes sneaking up from the rooftops. I can hear the bruised and bleeding Barry call out to him.
‘To me, Tolstoy! To me! Save me from this dreadful woman!’
And, true enough, it is Tolstoy the Long-Eared Bat, swishing those satiny wings and hurrying to keep up with us all. With all of his ghastly teeth on show he screeches some choice names at me, but I am in no mood to argue with a glove puppet. I seize him by the throat. Weirdly, he’s jangling. He’s wearing some kind of necklace that he didn’t have on before. But there’s no time to be thinking about what this might signify.
‘Aaagghh! Get off me, foul harridan! Barry! She’s got me, Barry! She’s got me by the throat!’
‘I’ll rip his bloody head off! I swear it!’
‘I think she means it, Barry.’
All the puppets are squealing with laughter.
‘This is your revenge, isn’t it? For the rough ride we’ve given you?’
‘She’s squeezing harder, Barry! I can hardly breathe!’
‘My life for his, Barry. You can have your rotten bat back, but only if you set me free.’
‘Aaaagghh! She’s choking me…! I’ve gone all limp!’
‘Do it, Barry! Set me free!’
‘All right! Just don’t hurt him! Tolstoy is all I’ve got!’
Barry is as good as his word. I stop throttling Tolstoy. I hand him over like the hostage he is. Then Barry hugs the bat to his chest and, in that moment, relinquishes the magical power he holds over me. For a second he looks stricken with defeat as I fall away. I am free of the Wild Puppet Hunt!
I feel exultantly free as his will flows out of me. I see that parade of puppets streak off across the sky without me. Through a bright breach in the midnight clouds they go.
I hear their manic, chattering, hullaballoo, and the voice of their leader crying out his eternal mantra:
‘That’s the way to do it! That’s the way to do it! That’s the way to do it!’
Somehow – in the very nick of time – I have avoided being sucked into hell.
All these thoughts flash through my mind in an instant. Then – as if gravity is the least of my worries – I start falling. Falling fast, arse over tip. Down through dark fathoms of air. I start off higher than the Christmas Hotel and higher, even, than the very top of the abbey.
I have such a long way to fall, and it’s over extremely quickly.
I land very loudly in the black water of the harbour with one hell of a splash.
At first I think I’m a goner, but of course that isn’t so. As Barry Lurcher kindly reminded me, I’ve survived all kinds of awful to-dos. I’ve hauled this old carcass through two hundred tumultuous years.
A drop in the briny isn’t going to stop me now. I hold my breath and belly-flop and because it’s Beltane there are still folk up and about. A gaggle of startled Goths ends up with the job of fishing me out. Working in gloomy unison they have a struggle to get me ashore onto dry land. But they make it! And I am saved!
I thank them and make up an excuse about being out on a bender. I’ve been a little drunk and disorientated and I’ve fallen off the pier. A touch too much of spirits this Beltane. I’m awfully ashamed. The Goths seem to believe me, though they look perturbed at having to dredge old ladies out of the harbour.
I hurry on home, avoiding further questions. Hoping that no one happened to notice me streaking through the sky tonight, in the grip of those horrid creatures. What an evening I’ve had!
I’m sopping wet. I’m like an old dishrag. I’m holding my wig on with both hands, but I’m jubilant. I’ve fought my nemesis to the bitter end and I’ve won!
When I traipse up Harbour Street I see lights on in Effie’s junk shop windows so I bang heavily at her door.
She quails at the terrible sight of me.
‘Whatever’s happened to you, ducky?’
‘If you let me in I’ll tell you all about it.’
In her sitting room I survey the wreckage. The protective pentagram she drew in salt with Abigail has been scuffed over. The black candles have been snuffed out and there’s a big scorch mark on the net curtains. One of the windows has been smashed.
‘We tried to contain him as long as we could,’ Effie says. ‘He had all this daemonic power inside of him. He was thrashing about, shouting that he co
uldn’t let the Wild Hunt go without him.’
I nod grimly. ‘I had to fight him off… That creature was terrifically strong.’
Effie’s eyes are bright. ‘Remember when I told you about jet? About the vapours it’s reputed to give off? And how they combat the forces of evil?’
‘Why, yes,’ I say.
‘I dug out my favourite antique necklace that used to belong to my Aunt Maud. This was very quick thinking of me. While Tolstoy was imprisoned here, Abigail and I held him down and wrapped the beads all round his wings. He was tangled up and furious. He couldn’t get rid of it before he raced of into the night.’
I stare at Effie. ‘You clever old thing! You weakened him! That’s why I was able to defeat him – even as I was being dragged through the skies in that terrible throng…!’ ‘Oh, Brenda, you must have been through a right ordeal,’ Effie says. ‘Are you saying they flew you up into the skies over the town..?’
I nod. ‘And I fell into the harbour, too.’
‘Let me get you some towels and a dressing gown.’
Abigail fishes around for a hanky.
‘I’m free of Barry at last! He got to ride with the Wild Puppet Hunt after all. That’s all he ever wanted. It was all he’d wanted to do ever since he was a little boy and he first fell in love with Tolstoy. And now he’s gone and buggered off to hell. I’m footloose and fancy free, aren’t I? Free of this marriage, which has been the bane of my life.’
Effie comes back dragging towels, blankets and an old hot water bottle, catching the end of this. She stares at Abigail.
‘Couldn’t you have just gone in for a trial separation?’
‘He was an obsessive control freak.’ cries Abigail. ‘He had to be in complete possession and command of everything!’
Now I’m thinking about that malign presence in my head, that night on the pier. I knew he would stop at nothing. My heart goes out to this limp, dowdy woman on the settee. Goodness knows what she’s had to put up with.
Effie dumps the towels on me.
‘Eeh, can’t men be weird? It’s all power games and domination with them.’
I start towelling my wig and suddenly I’m shivering. I’m sitting in Effie’s front room, stinking of the sea. ‘I’d better get these sopping things off.’ Before I head off to Effie’s spartan bathroom I ask Abigail, ‘So what will you do now?’
The Puppet Master’s wife shrugs happily. ‘Oh, well. There are still seven nights booked and paid for at the Christmas Hotel. Seven nights of cabaret to put on. Barry would never listen to me, but I’ve got the most amazing voice. So what I thought I’d do is hook myself up to the karaoke machine and put on a wonderful show for everyone!’
Effie punches the air. ‘We’ll be there, won’t we, Brenda? We’ll be in the audience, cheering you on!’
It’s only later, as I’m pulling on Effie’s too-small spare fluffy dressing gown that I wonder. Do I really want to applaud the warblings of the woman whose husband sought to deliver me to Hades?
Then I think, oh never mind. We can’t be held responsible for the doings of dodgy partners, can we?
That night I have the most lurid nightmares. I’m in a kaleidoscopic whirl of bodies. Feathers and claws and horrible appendages. I’m back with the empty-eyed puppets and we’re soaring over the clouds.
I wake with a shout.
I make myself spicy tea and sit up in my attic, reassuring myself with familiar surroundings. You got away in time. You haven’t been sent to hell just yet. You’ve snatched yourself a bit longer on earth…
I’m glad because I’ve decided I like it here, after all. Twenty decades in, and I’m enjoying my life at last.
I’ve got new guests arriving today, so I’d better pull my socks up.
At eight pm Effie comes calling. We’re both glammed up, ready for Abigail’s debut at the Christmas Hotel. The spring evening is all golden light. It’s May Day and there’s a lovely, rinsing breeze, washing all of the cobwebs away.
I haven’t told Effie half of what went on last night. I’m relieved she wasn’t there to hear my darkest secrets divulged by Barry Lurcher. And she never heard him accuse me of having no soul.
What a terrible thing. I’ve wondered for two hundred years whether this was true. What do I really have inside me? Why am I even alive? What’s to do, if there isn’t a divine spark inside this old body?
But all that is just philosophical folderol, isn’t it? It doesn’t really impinge on my day-to-day life, or my nights on the town. Who really knows anything about our souls?
Effie and I link arms all the way up the winding road to the West Cliff and the Christmas Hotel. Where the pensioners are excited, wearing their party hats again and Mrs Claus is booming at her willing elves and she’s bedecked in fairy lights. And all the fluorescent posters of Barry and Tolstoy have been replaced by pictures of the brand new singing sensation – Abigail Lurcher. She’s going to sing us all our very favourite hits in the grand ballroom.
Effie and I grab ourselves a vodka and orange and hurry to a nice table. We settle down to be entertained.
The lights go down. Her spotlight awaits. And out comes Abigail, singing ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings.’
About half way through the first song Effie nudges me with her bony old elbow. ‘Eeh, that’s a bloody awful voice she’s got. I’ve never heard nowt like it, have you, ducky?’
I know by now that you can’t shush Effie.
Spicy Tea and Sympathy
Hello, there. Well, obviously I’m not where I want to be. I’m afraid I am narrating this from a slab. Or some sort of operating theatre. A flat surface, at any rate, cold and ominously smooth, and I’m blummin’ well strapped to it. Not very comfortable. I’m used to narrating from the comfort of my attic sitting room and after the event, so to speak.
But here I am, entering into what I hope is the climax of our latest adventure. This time I don’t even have the luxury of blaming Effie for dragging me into the fray. This time I’ve no one to blame but myself. I’m in the murky underground base of my enemies and I’m alone … oh, apart from that desiccated old corpse over there. She who’s hooked up to all those tubes. They’re filling her veins with an unholy mixture of my blood and a very special herbal infusion, hoping she’ll return to life. Oh, it’s a filthy tale. And while they’ve left me on my tod I might as well occupy my mind. While I’m lying here, all tied up and with the life force draining out of my vitals, I suppose I could regale you with the details…
It begins… with a new tearoom that’s just opened in Pannet Park, quite close to the creepy old museum. It is a delightfully sunny afternoon and perfect for sitting inside what was once a botanical hothouse. It’s called Tipple now, and it’s still florid with exotic blooms and rubber plants. As we wait by the ‘Please Queue to be Seated’ sign, Effie idly remarks on the Ancient Egyptian theme, fairly evident due to the fact that the waitresses are got up in bandages like mummies. The air is rife with the myriad buttery, crumpety, fruity and spicy, toasty and smoky scents of teatime.
Effie reminds me about a lavish article in our local paper about the man who has started this venture. He was pictured in the colour supplement, sipping a cuppa very elegantly, under the dewy fronds of a tropical bush. Professor Marius Keyes is – Effie and I are in agreement about this – something of a dish. One-time antiquities handler (a phrase which prompts a giggle from Effie) Professor Keyes has now retired to Whitby. He is wealthy, handsome, and lavishly coiffured. Everything about him speaks of quality and polish: from his golden cufflinks to the leathery woodsmoke of his aftershave. According to the write-up in The Whitby Gazette, anyhow.
We are shown to a table in a secluded corner, with a view of the hilly, wooded park and the Japanese pond.
I start examining the menu. It’s quite complicated, with names for the teas that look like anagrams and dollops of over-rich text describing their flavours, origins and properties.
‘His overheads must be atrocious,’ Effie says, glaring abo
ut.
‘It says here the tea will revive our ailing spirits,’ I tell her.
‘They’ll want to, at four pounds ninety-five a pot. At that price it had better knock our socks off.’
We choose. Blue Flower Moonrise for Effie and Mango Whimsy for me. When it comes it’s in glass pots of fearsomely trendy design. Effie looks cross, but is mollified by the quality of the china.
The tea tastes unspeakably awful. I very nearly gag.
‘What’s the matter with your Mango Whimsy?’ Effie looks severe.
Next thing, she’s actually spitting her tea into her saucer. She is mortified. ‘Just goes to show. All this fuss about nowt. I’ve never had such a despicable brew.’
Her tea looks pretty in its glass pot, though, with the blue petals opening out and swirling. The waitress brings our bill, which Effie snatches out of her hand. At the tables around us I notice other tipplers seem to be grimacing and complaining to each other, about the vile tasting speciality beverages. Typically English, no one says a word to the staff. We all assume this is the way it’s supposed to taste. Plus, it’s meant to be doing us some good, and therefore must taste horrible.
We catch a glimpse of Professor Marius Keyes as he weaves about the tables, looking very pleased with himself and more corpulent than he did in the Gazette. Everyone smiles and congratulates him. ‘They’re succumbing to his obvious charm and charisma,’ I observe, peering keenly through the rubber leaves.
‘Hmm,’ growls Effie, and I can sense her bridling. She wants to call him over and give him a few home truths. ‘My Blue Flower Moonrise tasted like piddle.’ I really hope she doesn’t make a scene.
I long to be home and enjoying a pot of my own Spicy Tea. I adore that blend of ginger, pepper, garam masala, cardamom and cloves. It’s like Christmas Eve and the Arabian Nights all in one. Homely and exotic as anything. And far nicer than the fancy nonsense they’re dishing up here.
