Whimsy and Woe

by Rebecca McRitchie

  Standing, she put on her worn apron as Woe shrugged on his tattered tailcoat.

  He couldn’t see it, but Woe looked a lot like their father. The smattering of freckles across his cheeks, the angular face. Whimsy, on the other hand, had her mother’s soft features and restless mahogany hair.

  Dressed for the day’s work, they descended the spiral staircase together and headed in the direction of the first annoyed bell-ringer, Mrs Solt.

  Mrs Inclementia Solt lived in Room Seven. A large, rotund woman who was incredibly lazy, Mrs Solt was the guest the siblings dreaded attending to the most because she was the only resident of the Idle Slug who was also their aunt’s friend. As her name suggested, Mrs Solt was married, an achievement she felt the need to remind people of constantly.

  ‘I am married, you know. I understand how smoked salmon works!’ she would yell at Cook during dinner. ‘When you are married, dear, you will understand what hard work truly is,’ she would say to Woe as he cleaned each and every window. But who Mrs Solt was, in fact, married to, was a mystery. Whimsy liked to think he was either a famous explorer or a kindly maths teacher because he was never around and would need to have a lot of patience to be married to someone like Mrs Solt.

  ‘I wonder why he has never visited,’ she would wonder aloud to Woe sometimes. She pictured a maths teacher exploring the jungle, calculator in hand.

  ‘Perhaps he is smart,’ was all her brother would say.

  All the siblings knew was that he didn’t live at the Idle Slug and he had never visited — that is, until today.

  When the siblings reached Room Seven, the door swung open to reveal a thoroughly dishevelled woman. Mrs Solt’s short red hair had successfully wrestled its way free from the goop she used to tame it. She had on her favourite green travelling cloak, incorrectly buttoned, of course, and her left foot was missing a shoe. Mrs Solt had clearly dressed herself this morning.

  ‘Inside,’ she snapped at them.

  Stepping into the room, Whimsy and Woe found it in complete disarray with dresser drawers pulled out and emptied. After Apoline’s bedchamber, Room Seven was the largest in the Idle Slug, and, like their aunt’s, the opposite window reached from floor to ceiling, overlooking the poisonous plant garden.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Start cleaning!’ Mrs Solt cried, exasperated. ‘This place is a mess! I can’t find anything. Whomsy! Where is my other shoe?’

  Mrs Solt — Room 7

  ‘It will be wherever you threw it last, Mrs Solt,’ Whimsy proposed, ignoring the mispronunciation of her name and picking up items from the floor. Mrs Solt turned around on the spot and re-enacted tossing a shoe over her shoulder. Then she moved to a pile of clothes and retrieved the matching black shoe hidden beneath. Woe began straightening the bedsheets as Whimsy placed folded clothes back into the empty drawers. Mrs Solt tottered over to the floor-length mirror opposite them and let out a horrified gasp. Whimsy thought at first that she had finally realised she had been tottering about with an incorrectly buttoned cloak all this time — an understandably embarrassing faux pas that would make anyone gasp in horror. However, what Mrs Solt said next was worse than any cloak-related fashion mistake. Much worse.

  ‘My brooch!’ she shrieked. ‘It’s gone!’

  4

  In which a cross Mrs Solt crosses the line

  Out of all of her possessions, Mrs Solt prized two things: her vile pet cat and her gold hummingbird brooch. Both were gifts from her husband and both were therefore treasured above all else. As caretakers at the Idle Slug, Whimsy and Woe were held personally responsible when items or people went missing. So much so that once when the loosely wrapped scarf of Mrs Feathersby decided to unravel itself in the wind, fly haphazardly through the air and never return, their aunt made the siblings knit her another. It took them weeks to make a new scarf and when they presented it to Mrs Feathersby with tired eyes and aching fingers, she had forgotten that she had even lost a scarf in the first place.

  ‘I am sure it’s not far,’ Whimsy said reassuringly. She quickly unpacked the drawer she had just packed and searched the clothing hastily. Woe hurriedly threw off the bedsheets he had just expertly straightened before moving to examine the bedside table. Mrs Solt looked as though she might faint. Minutes passed and there was still no sign of the brooch. If the brooch really was lost, Woe had no idea how he and his sister would go about making another one. It wasn’t long until Mrs Solt’s shock turned into anger.

  ‘Turn out your pockets, both of you! I have heard the stories.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Whimsy asked, pausing in her assault on Mrs Solt’s clothes. Whimsy snuck a worried glance towards the open door. She dreaded to think what would happen if their aunt chose this exact moment to walk past. The current state of Mrs Solt’s room was messier than she had ever seen it. Perhaps she could pretend to faint as a distraction? Or convince her aunt that a tornado had spontaneously occurred in Mrs Solt’s room overnight?

  ‘Apoline told me your mother was a gypsy,’ the large woman continued. She said the word ‘gypsy’ like it burnt her lips as it tumbled out of her lipsticked mouth.

  ‘Mrs Solt —’ Whimsy tried to interject.

  ‘She probably taught you how to steal.’

  ‘Don’t talk about our mother like that,’ Woe said, no longer polite. Usually her brother did well to hide his feelings towards Mrs Solt, but at the mention of their mother, even Whimsy felt her hands clench. Then a small glint on the floor caught her eye.

  Mrs Solt, red-faced, suddenly began to advance her enormous self towards Woe.

  ‘Found it!’ Whimsy said, jumping up from the floor, holding the gold bird up high.

  At the sight of her brooch, Mrs Solt’s attitude immediately changed. ‘Oh, why, it must have fallen from my bedside table,’ she said as she seized it from Whimsy and moved to stand again in front of the mirror. The siblings met each other’s gaze, relief washing over them.

  ‘I suggest the both of you hurry. You’ve made this room an absolute mess and Ignatius will be here in fifteen minutes,’ Mrs Solt said, gazing at her reflection and patting at her hair.

  Woe took out their father’s pocket watch. It read quarter-to eight. There wasn’t enough time to see to the other bell-ringers before they would be expected to greet Ignatius Solt in the foyer. Alarmed, the two turned to Mrs Solt, who was now smiling at them, still unaware that her travelling cloak was incorrectly buttoned.

  ‘We were told to expect him at eleven,’ Whimsy said, trying to make a mental list of all the things they would need to do in just fifteen minutes.

  ‘Didn’t Apoline tell you?’ asked Mrs Solt. She let out a small, choked chuckle. ‘Oh, it must have slipped her mind. She is kept so busy managing this house, the poor dear. Ignatius wrote to say he is catching an earlier train. Something about being the sooner, the better. I do agree with him, you know. Particularly when he uses idioms. When something is sooner, it is always better.’

  At that present moment, Whimsy and Woe couldn’t have disagreed with Mrs Solt more. Arriving sooner than expected at the Idle Slug was most certainly not better. In fact, it was much, much worse.

  Quickly, Whimsy scooped up the rest of the clothes and threw them carelessly into the drawers. Woe hastily finished straightening the bedsheets once more. A bell rang down the hall. Mr Abernathy.

  ‘And Wee,’ Mrs Solt added, pinning the brooch to her still incorrectly buttoned cloak as she made her way towards the door. ‘I want Vulture with me. Or else.’

  5

  In which a dubious soup is brewed

  Woe would sooner have waltzed with the Fumewort Ficus — a particularly deadly plant identifiable by its small, red flowers and its powerful, strangling vines — than try to catch Vulture. Mrs Solt had asked for her cat on two other occasions, and on each of those, Woe had found himself lost, injured and catless. Naturally, each time he returned to the Idle Slug without Vulture, Apoline would think of unpleasant punishments such as taste-testing Cook’s
new recipes, most of which made Woe violently ill, or repainting the Idle Slug with what was certainly toxic paint that bubbled occasionally and burnt Woe’s skin if he wasn’t careful enough with his brushstrokes.

  In the past, Woe had been too eager and clumsy in his attempts to capture Vulture, but as his mother used to say, third time’s a charm. She would often repeat those words when she was auditioning for a role she had already been turned down for. Twice.

  Woe searched the dining room, the parlour and the basement, but there was no sign of Vulture. He entered the kitchen and was immediately pummelled by a smell so pungent he couldn’t help but cough and splutter.

  The smell reminded him of the time his father attempted to make a stew blindfolded. He was researching his role as a blind chef in Eye Can Cook! and wanted to practise cooking without his eyes. It was Woe’s job to make sure he was using all the right ingredients so, of course, Woe handed him all the wrong ones. Instead of mushrooms, Woe handed him garlic, and instead of meat, Woe handed him butter, and so on and so forth until the stew was very, very inedible. His father loved Woe’s trick so much that he used to tell guests the story at dinner parties. Quickly clearing his head of the memory, Woe walked over to the source of the bad smell.

  Cook was at the stove stirring the contents of a large pot, which, by the smell alone, Woe hoped would not be their dinner. Of course, he couldn’t ask if it was their dinner because Cook did not speak. He simply cooked. In their time at the Idle Slug, Whimsy and Woe had yet to hear him utter a single sound, even when they had asked him his name three years ago. He only stared blankly before pointing to the breast of his stained chef’s tunic. Where a name should have been, it instead read Cook.

  Sometimes his sister would try to guess the plot of Cook’s life, which Woe thought made the cook sound much more exciting than he actually was.

  ‘Maybe Cook forgot his real name?’ she would ponder excitedly. ‘He woke up one morning with no memory of who he was.’

  ‘Maybe he named himself?’ Woe would counter. ‘After his life’s passion?’

  ‘Maybe he lost his voice?’ Whimsy would continue. Then gripping his arm, eyes wide, ‘Maybe he was cursed like the boy in Curse This Curse.’

  Cook peered at Woe, his drooping eyes and downturned mouth the only expression on his face and his long thin blond hair only inches from the bubbling pot. Looking at him, Woe thought a curse could be likely. He examined the contents of the foul-smelling pot. A thick brown ooze with green foam and floating, grey mushrooms boiled away.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked Cook. Cook turned and pointed at a torn sheet of paper. Scribbled across the top of the page were the words UNCOMFORTABLE SOUP.

  ‘How goes it, Cookie?’ came Apoline’s voice as she entered the kitchen. She, too, coughed and spluttered as the overpowering smell filled her nostrils. She made her way over to the stove, pushing Woe roughly out of the way to gaze into the noxious pot.

  ‘No! Try the next recipe,’ she said to Cook. Then she looked over at Woe with a calculating expression. ‘If things do not go smoothly with our new guest today, this is what you and your sister will be dining on for the next week,’ she threatened with a bare-toothed smile. ‘After all,’ she continued, ‘waste not, want not, right, Cookie?’ And with a cackling laugh, she left the kitchen.

  We can’t possibly eat that for an entire week, Woe thought. He was even more determined to catch Vulture knowing what their dinner menu could be. Leaving the kitchen, he made his way outside. He had walked past the poisonous plant garden when he spotted something up high. There, on the large metal aviary, was Vulture.

  The black cat sat hunched atop the dome, his matted fur sticking up at random, pointed angles and his canine teeth protruding from his mouth, showing off a severe — and what Mrs Solt thought charming — underbite. His luminous yellow eyes darted hungrily after the swirls of colour that flew beneath him.

  Resolute, Woe made his way to the garden shed and retrieved a ladder held unconvincingly together with a knotted assortment of ribbon, twine and glue. Woe had fixed it as best he could after it broke while he was removing the tarantula vines that sprawled themselves all over the Idle Slug. Luckily, he had fallen into the Pepper Bush and his only injury was a persistent sneeze, which had lasted for weeks. Woe placed the hodgepodge ladder gently against the side of the massive metal aviary and climbed. The ladder creaked and groaned with every step.

  On top of the aviary the wind was forceful, but it didn’t seem to bother Vulture. At the clink of Woe’s shoes on the metal cage, the cat tore his eyes away from the exotic birds beneath him and glanced at Woe moving hesitantly towards him. Immediately, Woe stopped moving. He held his breath. If Vulture decided to, he could take this moment to flee by jumping onto the garden shed below. But he didn’t. Instead, Vulture turned away, seemingly more interested in a Golden Pheasant that paraded along a branch below, ruffling its feathers arrogantly.

  Taking a step to the side, Woe slowly moved into a crouched position. He shifted his weight onto his toes to prevent his shoes from clinking again. Quietly, he worked his way around the edge of the dome, his heart beating faster with every step. As he moved, Woe couldn’t help but feel like Bertie Potts, the hero in his favourite musical, Bertie Potts: Spy King. In it, Bertie would go on dangerous missions, like scaling tall buildings to capture a villain or jumping from a train to save someone in distress. Stealthily, like Bertie Potts, Woe crept closer and closer until he was almost within arm’s reach of his villain.

  The Golden Pheasant, not the smartest of birds, was yet to notice Vulture’s presence. It continued to parade about on the branch, getting closer and closer to the wicked black cat. Why did Apoline have so many birds? Woe often wondered. And then as if on cue, the oblivious Golden Pheasant stopped directly underneath Vulture to preen its feathers. Slowly, the cat extended a black paw through the bars of the cage.

  Woe realised that this was his chance. He quickly surveyed the distance between him, Vulture and the edge of the cage. He had to be swift, otherwise both of them would find themselves fighting off the poisonous plants below. He eyed the pesky feline. It was now or never. He took a deep breath and then threw himself into the air.

  The vile feline Vulture

  6

  In which the post proves problematic

  After putting the finishing touches to Mrs Solt’s room, Whimsy jogged to Mr Abernathy in Room Four. Mr Abernathy had come to the Idle Slug after he lost his wife, Hortensia. He had lost her while the two were picnicking in the woods. She had been admiring a pretty cluster of bluebells when Mr Abernathy had become distracted by a beautiful bird. When he had returned to the bluebells, Hortensia was gone. For weeks, Mr Abernathy had searched the Wallowing Woods for his beloved Hortensia but he never found her. Whimsy remembered every detail of Mr Abernathy’s story because the Wallowing Woods was just near their family home. And she liked to think of home as often as she could.

  Whimsy knocked on his door, waited for the murmured reply and entered. Mr Abernathy sat in his usual spot in a high-backed chair looking out of the window over the Idle Slug front gates.

  ‘I’ve composed a new ballad,’ he told her mournfully as she moved quickly around the room, making certain everything was in order. She straightened his award for musical excellence on the fireplace and noticed that his bed was still made from the day before. He must have slept in his chair, thought Whimsy. But as she approached him, she tripped on a miniature clarinet. All kinds of musical instruments lay scattered on the floor around Mr Abernathy. He may not have slept at all, Whimsy realised.

  ‘What about something cheerful?’ she suggested. Mr Abernathy used to write the music for many famous Magnus Montgomery musical numbers, but since losing Hortensia, composing sad ballads was his only interest. Whimsy cleared a few of his instruments from the floor and turned to look at Mr Abernathy. He had his hair neatly combed and was wearing his tweed suit and maroon bow tie. Whimsy wanted so badly to talk to Mr Abernathy about his wife, h
is favourite musicals and the thespians he had worked with but he never said more than a handful of words before gazing sadly into the distance.

  ‘My cheer has been taken from me,’ he said, turning towards her. ‘I have no joy.’ Then he did something he had never done before. He fiercely seized Whimsy’s arm. It almost hurt.

  ‘We must find her. You and me,’ he said. The earnestness in his voice and grip shocked her. Mr Abernathy rarely spoke unless to sing his ballads or politely ask for some tea.

  ‘Perhaps after breakfast, Mr Abernathy,’ Whimsy promised, patting his hand. A bell rang nearby. She glanced at the ornate grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It read ten-to eight. Slowly, Mr Abernathy let go of her arm and returned to gazing out of his window. Whimsy placed his instruments back on the shelf where they belonged and left. Quickly, she headed down the hall towards the bell.

  Miss Ballentine, a very frail and nervous woman who was neither married nor unmarried, lived in Room Three. Gently, Whimsy knocked on her door. ‘Miss Ballentine?’

  Miss Ballentine — Room 3

  ‘Hurry,’ was the soft response from the other side. Suddenly, panic gripped Whimsy. Had Miss Ballentine fallen? Was she ill? Was there an intruder in the Idle Slug? Bracing herself for what she might find, Whimsy pushed open the door. In front of her, Miss Ballentine was curled up in the corner of the room, still in her pale nightdress. She had one thin hand clasped tightly around her knees, while the other gripped the dangling bell-pull. Carefully, Whimsy knelt beside her.

  ‘What has happened?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Miss Ballentine whispered. ‘B-but the postman will be here a-any minute!’ She pointed in terror towards the cuckoo clock perched upon the mantel. In her haste, Whimsy had completely forgotten about the postman; more specifically, Miss Ballentine’s paralysing fear of the postman. He arrived by bicycle every morning and it was Woe who usually met him before Miss Ballentine could hear the light pring pring! of his bell.