Grimm and Grimmer: Volume One

by William Meikle

  Clovis nodded without looking round. Discarded sheets lay in a heap by his left elbow, a box of charcoal and pastels by his right, as he scribbled lines and colour onto yet another version of the scene before them.

  Adras couldn’t mind the wait after he had suggested Clovis came along, but he wanted to get a shot or two in before dark. To his mind, Clovis had so many sketches by now he didn't actually 'need' the birds to paint them.

  The footman crouched close by, cleared his throat and pointed across the marsh at two figures struggling toward them. Female and rather shapely ones at that. Adras raised himself up for a better look.

  'Hellooooow!' The short, well-rounded red-head waved not just her raised arm, but her entire body, with her bellowed greeting.

  The water erupted in a flurry of sound as birds fled, fearing for their lives, and Adras could only stare after them. He raised the gun half-heartedly, but they were already vanished. ‘Damn. If I'd been looking at them when that darned woman screeched I might have potted a few.’

  'Hellooooow!' the red-head howled yet again. Closer now he could see her cheery face and voluptuous chest bobbing toward them through the long grass. Birds forgotten, his only audible reaction was a ghostly exclamation of, ‘Gosh’.

  Clovis was less inhibited. His normal reticence scattered along with the ducks. ‘Who are you, and what the hell do you want? Clear orf, dammit.’

  The red-head ploughed forward, undeterred. Adras noted how, despite the flounces and lace of her dress, her sensible boots allowed relatively unhindered progress through grass and mud. Her blonde companion tottered at an ever-increasing distance behind her; finally halting when her skimpy ‘heels’ were sucked from her feet by the glutinous earth.

  ‘We’re lost,’ the red-head hollered, though she was close enough not to. ‘Party trip, don’t you know. Seeing Her Majesty's Secretary and all that.’

  Clovis groaned quietly and turned his back on them. Adras could hardly blame him. Both knew what that meant. A fresh hoard of potential brides to be vetted by the family firm.

  Adras had fewer problems than his brother, the heir apparent. He bowed graciously and motioned the footman forward to assist the ladies onto firmer ground. The red-head plunged forward unaided, but the other hesitated, simpering as the flunky delicately lifted her free of the mud and ferried her onto firmer ground. Adras grimaced as the servant returned to grope in the slurry for the shoes that had fallen free of her shapely feet, and nodded approval when the offending footwear was found.

  ‘Good man,’ he called loudly. ‘Jolly good show.’ He beamed as if he personally had been their rescuer and then knelt to assist with the shoe’s fitting.

  ‘Thanks most awfully your Highness,’ the blonde whispered to him. ‘So terribly kind of one.’

  ‘No trouble,’ His attention was taken by the red head, who had retrieved his gun, and was shouldering it with great confidence as a lone Eider fluttered onto the pond’s rippled surface. She pulled both barrels in rapid succession, bagging not only the first bird, but a second that he had not even seen just flitting into range on the farther side. Both birds splashed into the water.

  Adras instinctively waved at the dogs to ‘fetch’. ‘Jolly good,’ he breathed, awe struck. ‘Good shooting old girl.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She laughed loudly. A deep braying that made Clovis shake his head in disbelief.

  Adras, however, was entranced. ‘Jolly good.’ He repeated. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘Steady on,’ Clovis muttered. He turned to the blonde and offered her one of his paint cloths to wipe her mud covered feet.

  ‘So kind,’ she simpered. ‘Sorry to be a frightful nuisance, but you couldn’t show us back to the castle could you? A path that isn’t so terribly mucky?’

  ‘Oh… yes… of course.’ He waved his footman forward. ‘George, help the young lady to the path will you?’

  ‘Highness.’ The footman moved in, waiting her nod of acceptance before lifting her through the reeds to firmer ground.

  Clovis followed with his easel and papers. ‘All right?’ he asked her.

  She nodded.

  ‘Jolly good. George, bring the rest will you? There’s a good chap.’ He inclined his head to the blonde. ‘Clovis,’ he said. ‘And you are…?’

  ‘Dorcas.’ She curtsied low, her head bowed. ‘I am so sorry your highness, we had no idea—’

  ‘No,’ he smiled, twitching his fingers to indicate she should rise. ‘Well, let’s get back and get you cleaned up. Can’t have you meeting Mother in that state, can we?’ He looked back suddenly. ‘Will your friend be okay? Does she need help?’

  ‘No your Highness.’ She giggled suddenly, hiding her mouth behind her slender fingers. ‘Samira’s used to all the outdoor stuff. Her daddy’s a cavalry officer.’

  ‘Oh?’ He looked back at Samira.

  Snatches of her chatter came drifting to him over the reed beds. ‘What fun… can’t always get decent dogs though… bagged ten brace that afternoon...’

  He shrugged at Dorcas and grinned. ‘You two are friends?’ he murmured.

  ‘Oh yes. We finished together. Very good academy. Terribly select.’

  He nodded gravely. From old families, then, who taught their daughters to be ladies above all else. ‘I say, ‘he said. ‘If you don’t do the huntin’n’shootin’ thing— do you play croquet?’

  ‘Rather.’ She smiled and after a suitably coy and meaningful hesitation, as befitted a lady took his proffered hand so that he might help her along the rough path toward the Royal abode. ‘Yes, indeed. I’ve always preferred ball games.’

  * * *

  ‘She’s not royal my dear, that is why.’ The Queen snapped the book shut and glared at her eldest son, daring him to argue.

  ‘By whose measure?’ he demanded. ‘Just because some damned book says so?’ He stared out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. The gardens were in full evening shadow, and he could only just make out the white hoops of metal and cane on the croquet lawns. But looking out at a darkening garden was better than trying to face down Mother when she was determined to be right.

  ‘Debrights are always correct in these things,’ she said. ‘Don’t contradict me, boy.’

  ‘Dorcas is in Succession.’ Clovis muttered.

  ‘Just. By a hound’s whisker,’ she waved a handful of small portraits under his nose.

  ‘So if they’re so bloody unsuitable why invite them in the first place?’

  ‘Oh don’t be so bloody naive, boy. Red top scrolls are demanding we give the lower levels a sniff of the prize at the very least. But these?’ She waved at the portraits once more. ‘These are Princesses born and bred, and not a scandal within twenty miles of them.’

  ‘I could say the same about my horse,’ he snapped. ‘In fact,’ he swivelled the pictures around to scrutinise them carefully. ‘I think they might be related, they’ve got the same teeth.’

  ‘Don’t be rude about your cousins, dear.’ The Queen held each picture up to the lamplight and examined them minutely. ‘We shall see who’s right in the morning.’

  ‘Oh God, not that stupid test,’ he groaned.

  ‘It’s traditional. Tradition is what keeps us what we are.’ She replied carefully. ‘If you change them for the sake of your own whim they cease to be heritage. It will come back on you in the end.’

  ‘Rubbish Mother. It’s superstitious garbage. And hardly a tradition if it hasn’t been done for the past six generations. Why start again now?’

  ‘It has not been required for the past six generations. Your forebears have all had more dammed sense. But no matter. We shall see if this is all nonsense in the morning. Now I am tired.’ She tilted her head to proffer her cheek toward her sons.

  ‘Good night mother,’ Clovis leant over to kiss her dutifully. ‘Goodnight Clovis. Sleep well. Goodnight Adras.’ Her second son also kissed her lightly on the cheek before both withdrew from her presence.

  ‘What now?’ Adras groaned. ‘The
y won’t get through tomorrow.’

  Clovis drifted back to the window, silent for a few moments as he stared across the crochet lawns once more; and a slow smile spread across his face. ‘Won’t they?’ He turned to slap his brother’s shoulder. ‘I think they might.’ He clapped his brother on the back again, harder this time. ‘Breeding will out, and all that.’

  * * *

  The Queen sat at the end of the vast throne room. The Chancellor stood just behind her holding a lengthy scroll of names. To her right sat the Princes Clovis and on the left was Adras. None were in good humour. The Queen, because neither son had shown any interest in her choices, and the sons for exactly the opposite reason.

  The Chancellor had the unenviable task of choosing the candidates with the view to pleasing both sides and decided that no one could meet the needs of this family. He had interviewed the Queen’s choices, and had them dismissed by her sons, though at least half had met with requirements

  The royal personages did not argue. That was bad form in front of the subjects. They just choose not to agree. And as their irritation grew, so their conversations grew shorter. So short, that waiting girls were barely setting foot on the Throne Room’s marble floor before being dismissed.

  ‘Princess Evelyn and Princess Armina,’ the Queen had said.

  ‘No,’ Clovis grunted.

  ‘Or me,’ Adras added.

  The Chancellor sent a footman to intercept the two Princesses progress before they too were humiliated by the slow progress toward the throne and even slower reversing to the anti-room where ten or more previously rejected blue-bloods were shedding tears and curses in equal quantity.

  The Chancellor cleared his throat impatiently and looked to her majesty to admit the remaining two candidates. She sighed heavily and shrugged, flicking the fingers of her right hand without lifting her wrist from the Throne’s great wooden arms rests; a tired, wordless, yes.

  ‘The Duchess Dorcas of Kinley and the Honourable Miss Samira Wentworth-Piers,’ the Chancellor bellowed. The doors parted and the two girls entered. They paused to curtsy to the floor before advancing at the required slow-step across the patterned marble.

  ‘Not royal,’ the Queen said abruptly. ‘Unacceptable.’

  ‘She’s a Duchess,’ said Clovis. ‘I told you that.’

  ‘A long way down the list,’ she replied tartly. ‘So far down it would take several plagues, and an earthquake to get her name onto the bottom of the third scroll.’

  ‘Not the point,’ Clovis replied. ‘If she passes the test you can’t say another thing. It was your idea after all.’

  ‘I say,’ Adras hissed. ‘Keep it down. They’re getting a bit close.’

  ‘Agreed, Mother?’ Clovis laid a hand on the armrest and looked her in the eyes. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Agreed,’ she sighed.

  The girls had come to a halt before the dais and dropped into deepest of curtseys with heads bowed.

  ‘Rise,’ the Queen called. ‘I will ask you questions, and you will answer truthfully. No matter what. Do you understand?’

  Obediently the girls rose and looked straight at her. They nodded, like a pair of slack stringed marionettes.

  ‘Right, so first question, did you sleep well?’ the Queen enquired.

  ‘Your Highness?’ Dorcas said.

  ‘I asked if you slept well,’ the Queen said, sharper this time. Instinct, she thought. These two will never do. ‘Well? Did you?’ she asked a third time.

  ‘Well actually Your Highness… it wasn’t that comfy. I mean, the bed was so high up I needed a step-ladder. And… it was terribly lumpy.’

  ‘Lumpy?’ the Queen demanded.

  ‘Er… well…’ Dorcas flushed red. ‘Well. Your highness… that is… well I expect its just being in a strange bed… I mean…’

  ‘Never mind child.’ The Queen snarled. ‘And you… Saminta.’

  ‘Samira your Highness,’ Samira bowed her head and curtsied briefly. ‘I slept well enough your Highness.’

  Clovis took in a breath sharply and shook his head very slightly. Samira looked from mother to son, her lower jaw working up and down soundlessly as she fought to find an answer that would appease both of them.

  Her friend saved her the bother. ‘What utter rot Sammi,’ Dorcas chimed in. ‘you were up and down all night. I heard you.’ She blushed.

  ‘It was fine,’ Samira said. ‘Once I’d swapped beds with my maid.’

  ‘And?’ the Queen snapped. ‘Obviously there is more. Tell the truth, child. I will not be lied to.’

  Dorcas drew a breath, her focus flickering toward Samira for a briefest moment. Then she leaned toward the throne to add, ‘I’ve some terrible bruises, begging your pardon your Majesty,’ She dropped a deep curtsy. ‘Well you did say the truth, no matter what.’

  ‘I did.’ The Queen gestured toward the exit and looked over the girl’s heads; her face was strained and taught so that her lips barely moved. ‘You may leave.’

  Samira and Dorcas hesitated for a merest second before rising to back away from the Throne.

  The royal trio said nothing until they had gone.

  ‘Well Clovis,’ the Queen said finally. ‘You appear to have won your argument. If you will excuse me?’ She rose and swept from the room in a flurry of high dudgeon and watered silk.

  ‘Gosh,’ Adras breathed. ‘Mother’s not happy.’

  ‘Would you be?’ Clovis leapt to his feet and beckoned Adras to follow. ‘I say we should check those mattresses before the maids unmake the beds.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Beds, Adras,’ Clovis said patiently. ‘The beds… a little matter of peas?’

  ‘Oh… yes…. Odd that. I thought they’d fall down on that one. Proper Princesses and all that.’

  ‘So did I,’ Clovis agreed. ‘So we need to deal with the PEAS. You know? The special peas?’

  ‘Oh?’ Adras said, confused by his brother’s suddenly furtive manner. ‘You think they didn’t have any peas after all?’

  ‘Yes Adras. Of course they had peas.’ Clovis looked sidelong at his brother and winked. ‘What did you think I’d use? Croquet balls?’

  The End

  Theresa Derwin

  Well, you've already heard about enough about me in my bio as Editor. So, what inspired my story? I was in the car late one night travelling to a meeting with Fringework's Adrian Middleton, when we were talking about the concept for Grimm and Grimmer. We were keen to produce a series of anthologies, which we would later combine into one large, hardback volume, based on fairy tales with a twist. As we chatted, it being quite a dark night, the film 'Cabin in the Woods' popped into my head and I decided I wanted to do something with that film, or at least with a scene from that film. Following on from this, I decided I wanted to retell 'Goldilocks and the hree Bears', but I had it in my head that I wanted a role reversal, with there being three blondes and one bear. Between us we created a plot that night, decided the blondes absolutely had to be Chavs, and went from there. The rest, as they say, is history.

  A Taste of Honey

  by Theresa Derwin

  'Champers,' Charmaine whined, 'the Sat Nav's not working.'

  'Well, shake it then,' muttered Champagne sagely from the safety of the back seat.

  'Ooh, I know,' Chantelle said with a smile, 'this one time, when my rampant rabbit stopped working, I changed the batteries.'

  The three girls dissolved into fits of laughter, Chantelle telling Champers to tweet it,until Charmaine spotted something up ahead.

  'Ooh, look,' she squealed, excited, 'an old petrol station, just there, pull in!'

  'It looks abandoned,' Chantelle remarked, but pulled the car in anyway.

  The car stopped with a judder and the three blondes hopped out of the car, Chantelle leading the way, all three tottering on absurdly colourful, high heels. Chantelle stopped outside the building, which looked a little like an out of use wooden shack, despite old posters advertising cold bottles of coke and the tatty petrol pu
mps in the courtyard. Gas pumps, she thought, got to get it right now we're in the USA on our jollies!

  'Helllooo!' she called, peering through the grubby glass, 'anyone in there?'

  Charmaine and Champagne hovered close behind her as she strained to see through the gloom.

  All three girls jumped when a voice interrupted them from behind, and they all spun around awkwardly on their heels, yet somehow, visually, it struck the stranger as organised; something like one of those new-fangled girl groups he'd seen on his TV.

  'Wotcha want?' he grumbled, vaguely amused at the ripple of fear he felt coming from the first girl.

  'Er,' Chantelle stammered nervously, 'we're like, lost. Can you help?' 'Mebbe I can, mebbe I can't. What you afta?'

  'Well you see, we're after this cabin in the woods somewhere near here, belongs to my cousin Drew,' Charmaine piped up, wobbling a little bit closer to the man. She grimaced as she smelled the man. Phew, did he ever reek? He needed a make over something serious, with his raggedy grey hair, skinny limbs, stubble, and eau de piss.

  'Well,' he mused, 'there's the old Summers' place, just yonder, up the road, but ya don't wanna go there missy.'

  'Why not?' Chantelle asked.

  'Dangerous round here, bears and . . . other things. Not too safe for three spring chickens like you gals.'

  'We'll be fine thank you sir,' Chantelle replied, glancing back reassuringly at her two friends, 'I know Pilates!'

  'Well, not sure that'll help much,' the man muttered, 'but if ya sure you wanna go there, it's just two more miles up that road, straight ahead, then a left turn up a gravel drive inta the clearing. Easy as pie.'

  'Thank you,' the three girls chanted in unison, stumbling back to the car.

  The man grimaced, baring a set of rotten teeth as the car departed.

  ***

  'Oh wow, it's like, so pretty!' Champagne breathed as the car ground its way down the gravel driveway then through to the clearing in the trees, 'a real American wood like out of a film or something'.