by Robin Jarvis
Chapter 12 The Squander Bug
By half-past six, fourteen women of widely differing ages had gathered in the church hall, laden with copious bags of clothes that were either too small or too worn to wear, together with assorted scraps of wool left over from scarves and balaclavas and old jumpers waiting to be unpicked. A strident, staccato percussion struck up briefly as tobacco tins filled with odd buttons were dumped upon the trestle tables followed by the clatter of cotton reels pulled from sewing baskets.
During working hours, the venue had been taken over as an administration centre, catering for those bombed out of their homes and needing emergency blankets and clothes. Where religious tracts and coloured prints of biblical scenes were once pinned to the wall, they had been either replaced or covered over by charts and government posters advocating everything from Digging For Victory to trapping sneezed germs in handkerchieves.
Two rails of donated garments were pushed into one poorly-lit corner, behind a large blackboard covered in a list of names and the rota of the local WVS. Next to this, was a schoolmaster's desk, positioned opposite the two rows of trestle tables where the attendees of the Make-do-and-Mend class were already heaving out their latest projects.
Leaving Daniel—who was feeling grouchy because his mother had gone out with Kathleen Hewett once more and had taken that nice teddy from him—behind the blackboard, Mrs Stokes rifled quizzically through the articles dangling from one of the clothing rails and grimaced scornfully before marching to her usual place amongst the assorted wives and mothers.
She detested these weekly meetings, and had only joined in the hope that she could sabotage Doris Meacham. As yet, however, her neighbour had proved to be a competent instructress, albeit a haughty one, and the old woman had found it impossible to fault any of the articles and ideas she had come up with.
‘I think we'll be on our own tonight,’ Mrs Stokes informed the others, her face contorted by a sickly grin. ‘Doris had a nasty shock this morning, doubt if she'll be well enough.’
A greasy-haired woman, wearing a peculiar blouse made from an old tablecloth that was stained with beetroot juice around the back, looked up from a pair of her husband's trousers she was repairing and nodded vigorously. ‘Ooh,’ she said, eager for the gory, gossipy details, ‘I heard a bit about that, what happened exactly?’
Florrie Jenkins, Mrs Stokes's plump bunk mate in the underground station, was sucking her one tooth and listening keenly. ‘Stoned to death!’ she interrupted. The poor lamb, I was there, I saw it. That Hewett girl, you know—that one, she put it out of its misery. I gave them Fletchers and that Gimble a real talkin’ to when I saw them after. Little devils, they are—what could have got into ‘em?’
‘I don't like dogs, anyway,’ the greasy-haired woman replied, ‘they only make a mess on your lino ‘an get into your bins.’
Peeved at being thwarted in spreading the news, Mrs Stokes rummaged inside her bag and pulled out the skirt she had been working on that day.
‘Oh, Irene!’ Florrie exclaimed. That will be nice, such a useful brown, won't show the dirt—did your Jean help you with the pattern?’
‘I wouldn't ask her,’ the old woman retorted huffily, ‘it's all me own work.’
“Well, it's lovely, if you carry on like this you'll be the one taking these...’
Everyone's face turned towards the door and Florrie Jenkins was stunned into silence. Beside her, Mrs Stokes let the skirt drop on the floor and her beak-like nose twitched with supreme annoyance and loathing.
Walking unsteadily towards the blackboard with puffy, raw-looking eyes and dabbing away her sniffles, came Doris Meacham.
The recently-bereaved woman looked grey and drained, but she held her head erect and placed a large shopping bag on the desk before her. She may have been a snob, she may have been irritatingly condescending, but Mrs Meacham was religiously patriotic and though her heart was still bleeding in her breast and her life was empty without her yapping companion, she knew where her duty lay.
‘Ahem,’ she began, needlessly giving the desk a tap with a piece of chalk as she already had their undivided attention, ‘good evening, ladies.’
Everyone responded, except for Mrs Stokes, who glowered through her spectacles and ground her teeth together.
‘I must apologise for my tardiness,’ Mrs Meacham continued in her nasal whine, ‘I’m afraid that I have suffered a very sad loss today and, if at any time during the course of this evening I should be a trifle distant or indeed tearful, yes, ladies—tearful, I trust you will understand.’
Her opening speech did not elicit a great deal of sympathy from the audience, most of them had endured real grief since the beginning of the war and few had time for the woman's absurd lamentations.
Nevertheless, Doris thanked them for their support in her bleak hour and the Make-do-and-Mend class began in earnest.
‘Remember, ladies,’ she said, ‘We must be as ruthless and disciplined in the home as our gallant menfolk are overseas. Every shirt you patch, every tear you stitch, helps us to win this terrible conflict. Yes, Mrs Sproggit, that old, shabby cardigan you are unravelling could bring the end of the war that tiny bit nearer ... I beg your pardon? You're knitting it—not unpicking? Well, the point is the same. “Raw materials are war materials”. We cannot shrug off this tremendous responsibility. Every day, in every way, we can spare vital supplies needed for the greater purpose.’
Now in her stride, Mrs Meacham bustled over to her favourite poster, the one she pointed out at every meeting. The level of fidgeting rose sharply whilst at the same time her audience's interest waned.
Giving vent to a deliberate yawn, Mrs Stokes stared coldly at the picture that so captivated her annoying neighbour.
Depicted upon the poster was a crudely-drawn cartoon of an outlandish, cockroach-like creature. From a dumpy body that was covered in swastikas waved a devilish, forked tail and upon the imp's ridiculous and jug-eared head, were two pathetic horns. A burlesque caricature of Adolf Hitler, complete with the recognisable sweep of black fringe, formed the insect's face and Mrs Meacham gave the drawing a resounding slap.
*We know who this is, don't we, ladies?’ she preached to the women who were already beginning to talk amongst themselves and admire one another's handiwork.
‘Oh yes,’ Doris intoned, ‘the wasteful squander bug! He's the one who whispers in your ear and tells you to waste your coupons on a new dress when there's a perfectly decent one at home—just waiting to be renovated and given a whole new life. Remember, patches are patriotic! What are we to do with this fiendish monster, ladies? Crush him! That's right, we must all shun his vile temptations. My one aim in this dire time is to be certain the loathsome devil does not succeed, we shall not fritter away our resources as he dictates. That is my mission—don't throw that old pot or kettle away, they can be made into tanks and planes. Save those scraps of paper to make gun cases and don't consign to the rubbish those boiled bones from the humble stew, they too can be turned to good use. Let us stamp out this infernal squander bug completely, ladies—recycle and we shall be victorious!’
‘Bet she didn't put that dog's carcass in the bone bin,’ Mrs Stokes commented to Florrie Jenkins.
With a final, disparaging glance at the poster, Mrs Meacham returned to the desk and opened the bag she had brought along.
‘Here is the item I have been toiling on for the past two weeks,’ she declared with pride, ‘my most ambitious experiment yet!’
Deftly, she trawled out a mass of lemon candlewick and brandished it gloriously in front of their eyes.
‘A winter coat!’ she announced, slipping her arms into the sleeves and twirling brazenly.
The assembled women gasped with envy at her ingenuity and Mrs Stokes seethed with impotent malice.
‘See how an old coverlet can be magically transformed!’ Doris exclaimed as she sauntered amongst them, vaunting her cleverness. Tonight I will show you how this minor miracle can be achieved. Let your needl
es be your weapons, ladies, we must not shirk from this most noble fight.’
Unable to stand any more of this detestable, boastful woman with her lofty, superior ways, Mrs Stokes scowled at the lemon candlewick creation as it pranced by, searching vainly for a stray hanging thread integral to the garment's constitution that she could accidentally tug at. To her dismay, no such ripcord was evident and she decided that she could not trust herself to remain in the same room as Doris.
‘I've had enough,’ she told Florrie Jenkins, ‘something stinks in here.’
‘You going to the shelter?’ the gummy woman asked. ‘Save us me bunk, I'll be along later, I want to know how to make that coat. There's a spare piece of tarpaulin at home coverin’ the holes in the outside lavvy’s roof— I've been savin’ it for something special—ooh, that'll be just the job.’
Grumbling under her breath, Ma Stokes rose from the table and crumpled the unfinished and out-shined brown skirt in her hands as if punishing the cloth for its lack of lemon candlewick.
Shuffling to the pram, she roughly pushed the material inside and began wheeling it to the exit.
‘Leaving us so soon, Irene?’ Mrs Meacham cried.
‘But I haven't had a chance to look at your little effort!’
Hurriedly, Mrs Stokes evacuated the church hall before blows were exchanged and she plodded broodingly towards the tube station.
‘Makes her look like a lanky canary, anyway,’ she sourly consoled herself.
When she reached the shelter, the platforms were buzzing with rumour—a dark shape had been glimpsed scuttling through the bomb site and heard snuffling in the ruins. Whatever it was had not been human and the people nervously speculated on what this new addition to the desolate, haunted region might be.
Mrs Stokes scoffed when she heard the worried whispers discussing this nonsense. There was always some sensation to gratify their thirst for excitement, scandal and unfounded hearsay.
‘Perhaps its a Nazzie secret weapon,’ she cackled to frighten them even more.
Resenting her derision of the matter they had been discussing so solemnly, the old woman's fellow shelterers refrained from talking to her. This suited Mrs Stokes perfectly well for, as she lay down on the bunk, a hundred convoluted and dastardly plots involving the downfall and lasting humiliation of the lemon coat's creator unfurled within her embittered brain. With these charming images and designs dancing behind her eyelids, she slipped into a peaceful and contented slumber, blissfully innocent of the actual and ghastly doom that truly awaited her unsuspecting neighbour.
Mrs Meacham lingered in the church hall to fastidiously put the chairs back in their correct places and sweep up fallen threads and specks of frayed cloth.
The meeting was over for another week and she indulged her vanity and conceit by letting her eyes drink in the wonderful sight of her creation which was now hanging from a prominent hook on the wall, revelling once more in the praise and acclaim her ladies had awarded it.
‘Oh, Tommy,’ she murmured mournfully, “you would have been so proud of your mummy.’
Before the magnitude of her dreadful loss overwhelmed her again, she hastened to pull on the delicious candlewick and turned a triumphant face to her favourite poster.
‘We won't listen to your imprudent ways, Mr Squander Bug!’ she grandly declared. ‘I shall foil you at every turn.’
With a swirl of her lemon coat-tails, Doris Meacham turned off the lights and trotted primly from the hall.
In the absolute darkness of the blackout, she rooted in her bag for a small torch and waited until its insipid beam was shining on the ground before setting off.
Through the empty streets she toddled, wretchedly reflecting that no welcoming bark would greet her return and tonight the Anderson would be a cold and lonely place.
Wallowing in this melancholy as she carefully picked her way in the pitch gloom, her coat seemed to shimmer and, for a brief instant, appeared to sparkle with flashes of silver tinsel woven into a field of swirling green.
But Mrs Meacham noticed nothing of this, the night was bitterly cold and she shivered, pulling the collar of her new garment tight about her throat.
Crouching within the invisible dark, something was watching—its foul breath gurgling softly and polluting the night with horror. In mounting anticipation, it waited as the woman crossed the road, waving the pathetic torchlight before her, then gloating hideously, the evil shape stole after.
Unaware of the terror that stalked her, Doris Meacham continued on her way, wrapped in thought and wondering what to do with Tommy's things. Of course, she knew that it would only be right for her to donate them for recycling. But, no matter how fervent her zeal for salvaging all she could to help the war effort, somehow she could not bear to part with these intimate mementos of her beloved pet.
Suddenly, a faint hiss floated through the night towards her and Mrs Meacham turned round quickly.
‘Hello?’ she said. ‘Is there someone there?’
As she shone the torch into the blackness, a hunched, deformed shape scampered deeper into the shadows out of its reach.
Unperturbed, the woman resumed her journey—there were many sounds in the night. When she had first slept in the Anderson she had been alarmed how noisy the garden was under cover of dark. If it had not been for the company of her dachshund she. . .
This time the sound was closer. It was a guttural, burbling grunt and Doris Meacham whisked round a second time.
“Who is that?’ she demanded nervously. ‘Show yourself, what do you want?’
Again, she could see only empty darkness and, walking more briskly, she hastened down the street.
Across the road the unseen shape scampered, its claws scraping over the tarmac in its fiendish hurry to overtake the solitary woman. With its eyes fixed solely upon her and its nostrils thrilling with the scent of her life, it sped onwards, then turned about and waited—its mouth watering in gruesome expectation.
Straining to catch the slightest sound, Doris stumbled fearfully along. Perhaps a wild animal was loose—when the war had started, most of the dangerous creatures in the zoos had either been put down or evacuated, but what if one of them had escaped? A lion or leopard might be prowling after her and she pressed her lips together to stop herself crying-out at this awful prospect.
‘Don't be foolish!’ she tried to tell herself. ‘Be rational, it couldn't have survived this long without someone spotting it. Really, Doris, you're like a child sometimes.’
Then she saw them, two fiery slivers of brilliant red shining malevolently in the darkness before her, and the blood froze in the woman's veins.
A snorting, repulsive laugh issued hungrily from the invisible creature's gullet but that was immediately drowned out by Mrs Meacham's screams.
Screeching in panic, she fled back the way she had come—her sensible shoes pounding over the pavement. The small torch was still gripped firmly in her hand but so desperate was her terror that she plunged through the blackout not heeding where she was going. To get away from those ghastly eyes was her sole intention, and blindly she stumbled, her arms thrashing the night to ward off the evil that menaced her.
Now the rasping gurgle growled to the right of her and Mrs Meacham shrieked all the louder—blundering down a narrow alleyway, calling for someone to save her.
Without warning, a blank wall reared from the darkness in front and she struck her hands upon the coarse brick, scraping the skin from her palms. Flashing the trembling torchlight around, she realised too late that she had taken the wrong turning and staggered into a dead end.
With her heart in her mouth, she whirled around to escape into the main street—but it was too late.
From the entrance, those narrow eyes gleamed at her, burning with unhallowed hatred.
A vile laugh mocked her as the shape advanced and finally the pale beam of her torch fell upon it.
Mrs Meacham's mind recoiled from the repellent sight and the torch dropped from her han
ds. Her jaw lolled open but now she was too petrified to scream.
With its lobster-red hide glistening in the feeble light, the horrendous, malformed creature crawled forward, thrilling to the tantalising fear that flowed from its victim in an endless, overpowering stream.
Six gangly limbs sprouted from the leathery flesh of its repugnant, segmented body—each ending in two barbed claws that scratched and scrabbled over the ground as it dragged itself closer.
Trailing behind its unclean torso, the monster lashed a three-pronged tail that scored fierce scars in the bricks of the enclosing walls and arched high above its head like the sting of a scorpion.
Yet it was the face of this nightmare that was branded upon the brain of Doris Meacham. Though her torch now lay beyond her reach—and even as she stared with wide, paralysed eyes, the creature hauled its sagging belly over the glimmering bulb, obliterating the light and throwing itself into stark silhouette—she could not forget what she had seen.
Mounted above the ugly ridges of the misshapen thorax and crowned by a pair of twisting horns, the face of the apparition was unmistakable. Shielded from behind by a steel-strong shell was a mass of pale, rancid flesh that rippled and bulged to form foul parodies of all-too-familiar features.
A wide gash sliced open to create a grisly mouth, behind whose bloodless lips were row upon row of razor-sharp teeth that chattered and gnashed at the cold air, dribbling a river of saliva down the knobbly chin. Swiftly, a piggish nose pushed itself from the flabby, wrinkled skin above and tufts of coarse, black, bristling hair snaked out below it. With an insidious cackle, the fiery eyes grew round and insane and a clammy forehead quivered into place as more clumps of hair flicked out, forming a sweeping fringe.
The undulating flesh of the hateful face pulsed and throbbed before the stricken woman as it tried to control and retain the ghastly shape it had chosen. Then, as a finishing touch, a bloom of reviled markings abruptly peppered and crept over the crimson hide.
