Buying Llamas Off the Internet

by Ian Edwards

  Frances gave her a warm smile. ‘Well I’m glad you felt you could confide in me. It’s been a few years, but I’m still your friend.’

  Amy smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry. I always meant to come down and see you, but you know, things got in the way. Time just gets in the way.’’

  ‘I imagine James would have been one of the things that got in the way..?’ Frances said playfully.

  Amy nodded. ‘You never really got on did you?’

  ‘Well you can’t get on with everyone, now can you? Anyway you’ve had the common sense to leave him now.’

  ‘What? No, I haven’t left him, I just need time away. To think things through.’

  ‘No matter what the reason, it’ll do you good to be away from him for a while. I suggest that you stay here at the Sanctuary for at least the week. Give things a chance to blow over,’ she paused. ‘As my guest.’

  *

  Amy finished her breakfast, had a shower in the luxurious en suite shower room and was knocking on Frances’s office door forty minutes later. Frances opened the door with a huge smile.

  ‘Morning, sweetie, I thought I would give you a tour of the sanctuary this morning, show you where everything is, maybe tell you a bit about the place,’ Frances said.

  Amy smiled. ‘Thanks, that’ll be great.’

  Frances handed Amy a glossy brochure. ‘Have a look through this. I just need a couple of minutes to finish what I’m doing and we can get going.’

  Amy flicked through the brochure without taking in any of the details. She knew the history behind the glossy sales pitch. Frances Shilling, her former university lecturer had married the owner of a large country house after a whirlwind romance. Full of plans to convert his magnificent estate into a spa retreat, he enticed his new wife away from the university and set her up as the business manager. Unfortunately he passed away after just five years, leaving Frances to run the whole operation.

  ‘Ready?’

  Amy looked up from the brochure. Frances was standing alongside her.

  ‘Whenever you are,’ Amy replied, standing up.

  ‘OK, follow me,’ Frances told her, and strode out of the room with Amy following close behind.

  Frances showed Amy the swimming pool, the gym, the sauna, the jacuzzi, the beauty salons and the therapy rooms. Leading her through one set of double doors she pointed to another, identical set.

  ‘That’s where we do the colonic irrigation. It’s proved very popular with our residents.’

  Amy grinned. ‘Sounds like a shit job, though.’

  Frances sighed. ‘You’ve been married to that man for far too long. That’s exactly the type of cheap attempt at humour I would expect from him.’

  Amy laughed. ‘God you’re right. About the joke, that is. I guess you do pick up someone’s little foibles the longer you spend with them.’

  ‘Well, you’ve seen the light now, and you’ve got away from him,’ Frances said, setting off down the corridor.

  ‘You know it isn’t like that,’ Amy whined, walking behind Frances as she climbed a flight of stairs.

  ‘Whatever the reason, the result will be the same. You can start to be the person you should have been. The person I know you can be.’

  Amy opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. She didn’t want to appear ungrateful. After all, Frances was helping her escape for a while.

  Stopping beside a set of doors, Frances said. ‘This is where we do our famous Cucumber Wraps.’

  ‘They’re supposed to be very good for the skin,’ Amy said.

  Frances gave her a strange look. ‘I’ve no idea really. It’s the kitchen, that’s where they’re preparing lunch.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ Amy said awkwardly. ‘Maybe I should try one for my lunch.’

  ‘All in good time, sweetie,’ Frances said. ‘Now let me show you the grounds.’

  Amy was led back through the house, across the reception area and out through the main doors.

  ‘All the land you see here belongs to the house. And round here,’ Frances walked around the side of the house, giving Amy a view of more fields, ‘you’ll be able to see farmland. All the farms are run by tenant farmers, the land owned by the house.’

  ‘You really are the Squire aren’t you?’ Amy said.

  Frances laughed. ‘Well, my husband certainly was, but the villagers haven’t exactly accepted me with open arms.’

  Amy wandered away from the house and looked around taking in the countryside. ‘It really is impressive, almost idyllic.’

  ‘Let me just show you this,’ Frances gestured for Amy to follow her.

  Following Frances round to the back of the house and down several stone steps, tucked away out of sight of the house were several white wooden huts.

  ‘What are these?’ Amy asked.

  ‘They’re beehives. This is an apiary.’

  ‘So you make your own honey too?’

  ‘The apiary was my idea. I set it up after my husband died. We produce enough honey to use here and to sell in the village shop.’

  ‘Is this where you get the name from?’ Amy asked. ‘Sanctuary of the Bee?’

  Frances nodded. ‘Now, let’s get some lunch. You can try one of those cucumber wraps, providing you promise not to put it on your face,’ she looked at Amy, grinning.

  *

  ‘I have an idea,’ Frances said as they both finished their lunch.

  Amy looked at her.

  ‘It’s clear from what you’ve told me that you’re struggling to keep a lid on things.’

  Amy said nothing, but began to twist a napkin round her fingers.

  ‘We have a first rate counsellor who comes in every day to work with our guests. Why don’t you spend some time with him?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Amy paused, ‘do you think it would help?’

  ‘Absolutely. He’s had some fantastic results.’

  ‘OK,’ Amy said reluctantly and put the knotted napkin down. ‘I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose.’

  Frances smiled. ‘Excellent. That’s the spirit. Leave it with me,’ she stood up. ‘Why don’t you spend the afternoon using the facilities? You’re here now, so you might as well use them.’

  Amy looked up at Frances and smiled. She felt calmer and more relaxed than she had in ages. The emotion of the last few weeks suddenly boiled over and she blinked back a tear. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  *

  Rosie was looking forward to a relatively quiet Sunday morning. Quiet that is, except for the noise escaping from her bathroom, where Alan seemed intent upon murdering one of her favourite Bruce Springsteen songs. Ordinarily she wouldn’t mind, but she knew Alan had never set foot on American soil, let alone been born there. However, this simple fact didn’t seem to stop him from his incessant caterwauling. She sighed and wandered into the living room whilst waiting for the kettle to boil.

  Rosie sat on her sofa and picked up a magazine. She had barely opened the pages when Alan’s phone began to ring, the opening bars of the Doctor Who theme almost as grating as Alan’s X Factor impersonation in the shower. She thought about ignoring it, but she knew Alan was due to meet Sarah later that morning to discuss writing for some of the awful comedians Sarah had on her books.

  Rosie picked up the still ringing phone. The screen told her it was James, not Sarah. Feeling oddly relieved, Rosie touched the green logo. ‘Hi James, Alan’s in the shower right now. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Rosie, Hi,’ James replied on the other end of the line. ‘I was just wondering if Alan fancied coming along to my meeting with the Private Investigator later.’

  ‘Sorry James, Alan is supposed to be meeting up with that Sarah woman later. Anyway, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m told Puddiphat is a bit eccentric. He has some kind of bizarre phobia. I don’t want to two of you messing about and setting him off.’

  ‘Why would we set him off? We’re going there to get his help, not scare him with pictures of kittens,’ James replied.
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br />   ‘He’s not afraid of kittens. It’s weirder than that…’

  ‘What can be weirder than being frightened of kittens? Is he frightened of puppies? Everyone loves puppies.’

  ‘It’s not puppies. Look, James, I just don’t think you and Alan together will help, that’s all.’

  ‘But I don’t want to go on my own. What happens if he can’t help?’

  ‘James, listen to me, you’ll be fine.’

  ‘But you said he’s eccentric. What if he’s wearing a tin foil hat?’

  ‘James…James, calm down. Look…’ Rosie sighed, accepting the inevitable, ‘I’ll go with you. OK?’

  ‘Go where?’ Alan asked, entering the living room, only a towel round his waist protecting his modesty.

  Rosie looked up at her boyfriend, his slightly damp torso beginning to sag around the edges. She covered her phone with her hand. ‘It’s James, he wants you to go with him to meet Mr Puddiphat later. I said you’re busy working.’

  ‘I can go. I’ll call Sarah and tell her something’s come up.’

  Shaking her head, Rosie told James she would pick him up in an hour and put the phone down.

  ‘You didn’t tell him I was free. I’m coming too. You said this PI bloke is weird. Maybe I should be there for protection.’

  Rosie grinned despite herself. ‘Protection? You?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at, I saved you from that rabid dog once.’

  ‘It was a Yorkshire Terrier. And it wanted me to play with it.’

  ‘It looked rabid to me.’

  ‘It was called Cuddles.’

  ‘That doesn’t stop it being rabid. It was frothing at the mouth.’

  ‘Yes, because you kept teasing it with a chicken drumstick. Anyway, I don’t think it’s wise you meet Mr Puddiphat.’

  ‘Why not? I’ll be sensible, I promise,’ Alan whined.

  ‘I don’t think you know how to be sensible. And that’s the problem.’

  ‘Rosie look, James is worried sick, I won’t get in the way. I want to be there for moral support.’

  Rosie sighed. Eventually she said; ‘Alan. Here’s the thing. Cornelius Puddiphat is a little…well…different.’

  ‘In what way?’ Alan interjected.

  ‘He has a slight affliction. Well, a phobia really. Only it’s pretty rare, so I’m told he has to be very careful.’

  ‘Is it like peanuts? That’s it, isn’t it? I had peanut butter last night and the fumes will make his head balloon to the size of a beach ball.’

  Rosie sighed again. ‘OK. I haven’t mentioned it to James yet, but I can tell you, because I’m not letting you near him. Cornelius Puddiphat suffers from Geliophobia.’

  Alan frowned. ‘Geliophobia. What’s a Gelio? Are they dangerous?’

  ‘Geliophobia,’ Rosie explained, ‘is a fear of laughter…’

  Alan laughed.

  ‘Exactly my point,’ Rosie said. ‘You pair of idiots will freak him out. If James wants to find Amy, he can’t afford to have Mr Puddiphat falling down every time you make a joke.’

  ‘Ha, so you admit I’m funny then?’ Alan said.

  ‘No, but James is,’ Rosie replied, smiling.

  ‘Not funny, not funny at all,’ Alan said as he wandered into the bedroom to get dressed.

  *

  After Rosie had left to meet up with James, Alan sat down at Rosie’s kitchen table and set to drafting up some new jokes he had written for a couple of Sarah’s struggling acts. They weren’t his best work, but he had no intention of giving someone else his best lines. In any case, some of Sarah’s acts were so bad they would gladly pay for substandard material. Not that Alan would ever mention this to Sarah. She seemed to Alan to have an almost motherly approach to being an agent, signing acts purely because she felt sorry for them. The only real talent was Harry Hodges, and even he needed some coaxing to turn his act around. In fact, Harry’s act was now going down a storm with audiences. Alan was genuinely pleased for him, and the extra money certainly came in handy. Alan smiled to himself as he recalled Harry’s ventriloquist act, which he and Frankie were turning into an homage of the late, great Sandy Powell.

  Alan smiled to himself about Harry’s eagerness to adapt his routine for more laughs. He stopped for a moment, opened his web browser and typed in a word. He clicked on the first page. There it was. Geliophobia: a fear of laughter. Rosie wasn’t making it up after all. How could anyone be afraid of laughter? Alan was reminded of the children’s joke about a man laughing his head off. He wondered how Cornelius Puddiphat got through a day. Did he only watch documentaries? Read gritty crime dramas? Watch Giles Monroe videos? Alan grinned and filed that away for further use.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat made Alan turn around. Frankie stood nervously behind him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the ghost asked. ‘Do I have to close my eyes again?’

  ‘What? No, for God’s sake…’ Alan blushed. ‘If you must know I was looking up Geliophobia.’

  ‘Is that one of your new-fangled modern sex things?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘What’s the matter with you? No, Geliophobia is the fear of laughter,’ Alan explained.

  ‘You’re joking,’ Frankie replied, grinning.

  ‘Very good. No, it’s a real thing. A fear of laughter. Those afflicted suffer from severe anxiety, shortness of breath and excessive sweating.’

  ‘Sounds like my ex…’ Frankie said. ‘Why do you want to know about this Gelio-thingy? Are you worried your audiences are suffering from it?’ Frankie winked at him.

  ‘I’d already thought of that gag, thank you,’ Alan snipped in response. ‘It’s what this private investigator, Cornelius Puddiphat suffers from.’

  Frankie laughed out loud. ‘There’s a bloke called Cornelius Puddiphat, and he gets anxious about laughter? What were his parents thinking?’

  ‘I’m sure they didn’t know he was a sufferer when he was born.’

  ‘Maybe not, but with a name like that, who’d take the chance?’ Frankie grinned.

  ‘So anyway,’ Alan said, ‘James has hired this PI to look for Amy. Something you’d know if you didn’t keep popping off,’ he glared at Frankie like a father to an errant child.

  ‘Sorry, I got bored. And I had some things to do.’

  ‘What things? In fact, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know. So James and Rosie are meeting the PI now. Rosie thought she should go rather than me, because she didn’t want me to set him off.’

  ‘Fat chance of that, son,’ Frankie grinned.

  ‘If you carry on, I’ll send for an Exorcist.’

  ‘No you won’t, that film terrifies you.’

  Alan admitted Frankie had a point. In any case, he had to work on some new jokes.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Frankie, I’m working on some new jokes.’

  ‘I don’t mind at all, son. Can I help at all?’

  ‘I don’t know, they’re not for me, they’re for some of Sarah’s acts,’ Alan explained.

  ‘So they don’t have to be very good, then,’ Frankie replied.

  ‘Exactly. But I want to get them finished as I’m getting paid for them. The more money I can make from writing jokes, the sooner I can leave my job.’

  ‘Is it that bad, then?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Well, if I were single, I’d leave tomorrow. But Rosie wouldn’t be happy at all.’

  ‘She rarely is, son. Listen,’ Frankie said before Alan could interrupt, ‘you’ve got to do what’s right for you. I know you hate your day job. So give it up. Do what you love doing. And if Rosie really does love you, she’ll understand and support you.’

  ‘You’re right. I know you’re right. But I don’t yet earn enough from stand-up to keep my flat. I’d have to move in with Rosie,’ Alan said. ‘I know she wants us to live together, but she expects me to pay my way. I think she thinks I’m going to suddenly realise a safe, stable, boring office job is for me. It’s never going to happen.’

  ‘S
ounds like you need a heart to heart with young Rosie,’ Frankie said, somewhat obviously.

  ‘Obviously,’ Alan replied. ‘Trouble is, I have a meeting with Graham tomorrow. I think they might be looking to let me go.’

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know what I’ll tell Rosie. I think she’ll kill me.’

  ‘Then all your troubles will be over. And we can spend our days messing with people we don’t like,’ Frankie said, wiggling his hands and making wooing noises.

  ‘Suddenly an office job sounds appealing,’ Alan shook his head, grinning. ‘I think I’ll be offered a redundancy package. If I do, I only hope it’s enough.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry about it now, son,’ Frankie said. ‘Tomorrow will look after itself. Let me have a look at these jokes you’ve written.’ Frankie peered over Alan’s shoulder at the screen.

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ Alan said and clicked on the word document.

  ‘Well son,’ Frankie said after a while, ‘I don’t think the Geliophobics have anything to worry about there…’

  *

  ‘This can’t be the place, can it?’ James said, looking at the shop front.

  ‘This is the address he gave,’ Rosie replied matching James’s gaze.

  The pair stood on the pavement outside a joke shop occupying the corner of a road, a mannequin in full clown regalia holding several balloons peered out at them through the shop window.

  ‘It’s a bit Stephen King, isn’t it?’ James nodded to clown. ‘I bet they don’t get many kids coming in.’

  ‘Sod the kids, I’m not sure I want to go in myself. But I suppose we must. This is the address we’ve been given, after all.’

  ‘I know,’ James replied, ‘but this can’t be right,’ he said pointing to where the words MR GIGGLES were painted in bright red letters above the door.

  Sighing, Rosie opened the door. A tiny bell tinkled to alert the shopkeeper of a customer’s presence. An overweight balding man in a stained white T-shirt briefly looked up at Rosie and James, frowned and returned to his newspaper.

  ‘Hello,’ Rosie said to the man, ‘I’m looking for a Cornelius Puddiphat. I have this as his address…’

  The overweight man slowly raised his head from his paper and stared at Rosie, then James. ‘He’s round the corner. Bloody man is a nuisance,’ the man frowned then continued, ‘should never have leased him the flat. Nothing but trouble. And he frightens the customers.’