[Brenda & Effie 05] - Bride That Time Forgot

by Paul Magrs

  She’s looking at me quizzically. I’m running away from her questions just now. I hold up both hands. ‘I’ll explain all later, I hope. My memories are surfacing. I have to be very careful that I don’t try too hard to recapture them and ruin everything. I’m going to take a walk in the snow along the sea front and have a bit of a cogitate. I’ll see you later. All right?’

  Penny nods readily. ‘Yes, of course. And Robert and I are both free tonight.’

  ‘Very good. Seven o’clock. I think I’ll give Effie a ring. This could be big. I’ve a funny feeling that this could be very big indeed. She won’t want leaving out.’

  Something warming, I think. That’s what we need. I chop onions, carrots, celery in a blur of frantic activity. I get the huge oven in my attic kitchen fired up and set the oil fizzing in the heavybottomed casserole dish to brown and seal the meat. When I’ve put that aside, I stir all the vegetables in with stock and herbs and a large pinch of flour for thickening, and give the concoction a good braising, then the whole lot goes in the dish. Then I realise I need to pop down to Leena and Raf’s shop for some Guinness.

  Luckily, my downstairs neighbours are open for long hours, even on Sunday night. Once I’m down there, I notice a dozen other things I’m needing: spicy tea bags, an Arctic Roll from their ancient freezer, custard powder, etc., etc. All the while I know that Leena is watching me like a hawk. She’s got one eye on the black and white telly on the counter, and the other moving from the local paper’s Sunday supplement (‘The Flesh is Weak’) to me, going up and down her aisles.

  When I’m close by, she pipes up, ‘So what’s the story with Effie and this fancy man of hers?’

  I shrug, like I don’t know very much about it. That’s the best way with Leena. Show any sign of weakness, and she’ll have the whole story out of you.

  ‘I hear she’s thinking of moving away,’ she adds, as she starts ringing my purchases through. ‘That’s what someone was saying. I can’t imagine this place without Effie! Someone mentioned that her family has been here for loads of generations, all living in that same house. That’s what someone was telling me. It’d be a real shame to see her go. Anyway, I caught a glimpse of her bloke the other night. He came in by himself, very late on. He was buying vodka and some funny kind of cheese that’s been here ages, one we thought we’d never shift. And some dental floss. Handsome kind of a chap, I thought. I can see what she sees in him.’

  ‘Hm,’ I say, tightly. Sometimes Leena winds me right up. Then she claps eyes on the novel in my shopping basket as I pack my stuff away. I’ve just hoiked it out of the wheelie bin as I came down the side passage and yes, it’s a little the worse for wear, with a bit of nasty bean juice and fried egg slime on the cover. When she sees it, Leena gives a strangled cry.

  ‘Oh, I’m reading that as well! Are you going to The Spooky Finger, Brenda? Have you joined the club too?’

  I scowl. I might have known Leena would be straight in there. She’s so susceptible to anything new and novel in town. If I remember rightly, it was her who let me know all about that awful phone-in talk show The Night Owls, when it was all the rage.

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll be going,’ I lie. ‘The book’s not really my kind of thing. And that woman in the bookshop – I went by there today - Marjorie Staynes, I’m not sure about her at all.’

  ‘Oh? That’ll be nineteen seventy-four, by the way.’ She eyes the four-pack of Guinness cans as I bag them up, and it’s as if she’s thinking I’m going to sit slurping them alone all evening. Them and the two bottles of Merlot I’m putting in my bag after them. She says, ‘I think she’s really amazing, myself. I love being in the book group, even though we’ve only had a couple of meetings. Marjorie Staynes says such interesting stuff.’

  ‘Really?’ I think about that old woman with her knitting and can’t imagine it. To me she just seemed a bit rude and presumptuous.

  ‘And I love this week’s book.’ Leena laughs. ‘I love the very idea of Qab! A world where the women rule! And everyone obeys the Warrior Queen! And all the silly men are just slaves! Fantastic! How brilliant is that?’

  I daren’t say that I found the whole thing vulgar and unbelievable. Because Leena looks so excited about it. There’s a funny look in her eye as she talks about this made-up place.

  Then Raf, her burly Glaswegian husband, comes out of the back, rubbing storeroom dust off his white coat. ‘Oh, hey, doll, are you on about that book again?’ He smiles ruefully and nods a greeting at me. ‘It’s all I’ve heard about this week. The world where the women are in charge, and no mercy gets shown to the men. I feel like telling the old woman at that bookshop: you’re having a funny effect on my wife.’

  ‘Whissht,’ smiles Leena, waving him away. ‘Just because I’ve a new interest you can’t understand.’ She shrugs at me. ‘I’ve never seen this one sit down with a book, the whole time we’ve been together. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have something, just a small object like that, tucked away in your handbag. Something that means you can just hide yourself away in another world at any given time in the day . . .’

  She’s off on a reverie and her husband is looking apologetic as he starts filling up the sweetie trays on the front counter. Leena gives me my change and fixes me with a significant look, ‘So I’ll be seeing you on Wednesday, then, in our little group? At The Spooky Finger?’

  I nod quickly, alarmed by her fervour.

  Outside, skidding a little on the now thick-lying snow, I bump - almost literally – into Effie. She’s in a snood, of all things.

  ‘I’m making beef in Guinness,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve got to come round. Robert and Penny are coming at seven. And we’re talking about . . . important stuff.’

  Her lips twitch in a moue of pleasure. She can’t help herself. ‘Just me? Not Kristoff?’

  I shake my head. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  Effie shrugs lightly. ‘I think he’s off to Scarborough tonight anyway. Some kind of business to attend to.’ She glances up at the snow-packed sky, which seems very low over the town. ‘I hope he remembered to wrap up.’

  Why does she persist in pretending like he’s just any old man? When she knows he’s probably turned himself into a bat or a wolf or a trail of evil-looking mist for the evening? She’s fretting that he’s forgotten his mittens and his vest.

  I manage to suppress a barbed comment and say something nice about how becoming her snood is on her. Then I add: ‘I’ll see you in an hour or so, Effie. There’s a lot for us to talk about.’

  Penny comes in with a large folder, crammed with pages she’s printed off the computer at the Miramar. She’s back in Goth mode, which is a shame, I think. That sixties style must just have been for work, but it suited her, I think.

  She seems startled to see Effie standing there in the corner of my living room with a sweet sherry. Effie narrows her eyes briefly at the girl, as if thinking she has more right to be here than Penny, Effie being my oldest friend in Whitby.

  Robert grins at her. ‘Well, it’s almost like business as usual, isn’t it?’ He’s in an open-necked shirt – looking cooler and less bundled up than the two women. That’s him all over, really – less guarded, less complicated. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I like him so much. There are fewer layers to our Robert; fewer self-protective wrappings than there are to most people.

  But as I get on with the finishing touches to dinner, I detect a slight atmosphere. I know that Robert is keen to talk about the ongoing case of the Limbosine. And there’s the little matter of the vampire infestation too. I shoot a warning glance or two his way as he helps me carry through my serving dishes. I get him to push my hostess trolley and have a word sotto voce. No going on about vampires with Effie sitting there. She might take it the wrong way.

  Also – and it pains me to say this – it isn’t a good idea to disclose too much about it all in front of her. What with her going home to Alucard this very evening. We don’t want him to know we’re potentially on his cas
e.

  I try to push all of these things out of my mind and concentrate on the fluffiness of my creamed potatoes, the heady aroma of my thick beef stew. Perfect for the inclement weather. The wind is skirling round the frozen rooftops tonight. It makes me feel shivery and complacent inside. Cosy in my attic rooms.

  ‘Oh, I do like these little shallots in the gravy, Brenda,’ says Robert.

  Penny keeps trying to go on about her research. She dips into the pages she’s printed off for me. She has the file on her knee as she eats.

  While it’s fascinating, I’m not sure it fits the bill as general suppertime chit-chat.

  ‘There seems to be a thriving Beatrice Mapp fandom out there in cyberspace,’ Penny is saying, heaping her plate with mash. ‘I wouldn’t have thought her readership was so large or widespread, but she seems to strike a chord. With some quite funny people, as it happens. Needy, lonely people, I think. Just looking at some of the discussions and forums out there, people get very het up about the whole Qab thing. Taking it very seriously . . .’

  I glance across the table and realise that Effie looks like she is feeling left out. Her plate is still empty. I ask her to pass it and give her a huge helping of fragrant stew. ‘Do you know about this Qab business, Effie?’

  She frowns and purses her lips. ‘Far too much food for me, ducky. No, I don’t know what any of you are talking about. Would you care to elucidate?’

  And so we do, with Penny doing most of the talking. In the process she gives a pretty good precis of the novel I’ve been trying to read and an account of the details to do with Beatrice Mapp and the book club based at The Spooky Finger. The real-world stuff is much more intriguing than what goes on in the book, I think.

  Effie taps her beaky nose thoughtfully with her fork. ‘Beatrice Mapp . . . that rings a bell, you know. My aunts left me with a wonderful library. All these forgotten treasures. They liked a nice spooky adventure story . . .’

  Penny glances at me. ‘Brenda thinks she remembers something about Beatrice Mapp too. You had a funny turn in the business suite at the Miramar, didn’t you?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Not quite a funny turn, Penny dear. What are you all waiting for? Eat!’

  Robert is giving me a serious look. Concern on his face. ‘Have you got memories surfacing?’

  He knows me pretty well.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I tell him, honestly. ‘But I’ll have a look through the stuff Penny’s brought. If there’s anything pertinent in this addled old noggin of mine, I’m sure it’ll come back . . .’

  We start to eat then, and I realise that I’m suddenly banking on Henry Cleavis. Of course, I’m looking forward to seeing him here as a friend and companion. But he’s also a hypnotist, isn’t he? Once before he proved expert at working with my shattered memories. Maybe this time he might be of use once more.

  The evening passes pleasantly, in a jolly, uncomplicated way, which is a surprise. Effie is back to her old, mildly acerbic self. There are no awkward scenes. No one says a word about her fancy man and she doesn’t go on the turn about anything. We play some records and Robert helps me load up the dishwasher. There’s a reasonably exciting game of Monopoly (the Whitby version, new out this Christmas), and sooner than usual the young people are claiming tiredness and it’s time to go home to their beds. No stamina! Effie and I are just starting on our nightcaps when Robert and Penny decide to leave.

  Soon we two old adventurers are left alone in my attic.

  ‘Top-up?’

  ‘Please.’ She holds out her schooner for more sloe gin. Its mellow tang makes me feel Christmassy, I realise, and I decide to lay in a stock for the season of goodwill.

  ‘Brenda, I’m glad it’s just us,’ Effie says. ‘Those kids are nice, but. . .’

  ‘But you want a quiet word?’

  I’ve never seen her looking so in need of a quiet word. She’s got something on her chest.

  ‘I don’t want to go, Brenda.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I mean, I don’t want to leave Whitby.’

  ‘But you said – you and Kristoff – it was your plan. You wanted to get out into the world . . .’

  ‘He does. Of course he does. He was never very happy here. And he’s not comfortable in my house. How could he be, with the ghosts of my ancestresses loitering about in the ether? Staring down at him from their portraits? They make him feel supremely uncomfortable – on purpose, I believe! Well, they never wanted a man living there, in their house. Men were forbidden. They’re very cross with me, for inviting one over the threshold.’

  ‘I see . . .’

  ‘And it’s even worse because of the kind of man Kristoff is. I lie awake at night and I can hear my Aunt Maud stomping about in the attic, absolutely livid with me and what I’ve done.’

  ‘Oh, Effie,’ I say. ‘I knew something wasn’t right. I knew you weren’t as happy as you were pretending, these past few weeks.’

  ‘Well, now you know. Alucard wants to leave. He wants us both to up sticks and leave this place for ever. And I . . . I don’t want to, Brenda! I’ve said I do – just to please him! What he wants becomes what I want. Like he’s . . . he’s taking over my volition! But he swears he isn’t using his powers on me. He says he’d never do that to get what he wants. But still I find myself giving in to him . . . and going along with his . . . his desires! But this moving away . . . it isn’t what I want! Not at all! How could it be? I belong here! This is my home!’

  I give her a hug. ‘You’ll have to tell him, lovey. You’ll have to stand up to him.’

  She shudders in my arms. ‘I can’t! I just can’t!’

  I go cold at the sound of her voice. She’s scared of him, isn’t she? Her own boyfriend. Effie’s terrified of him, I realise.

  I sit up that night much later than I’m intending, leafing through the folder Penny left with me. See what I’m like? With the scent of a mystery wafting up my nostrils? Not the most elegant description, I know, but never mind.

  Fandom. Discussion forums. Message boards. All of this stuff is new to me. But Penny seems quite au fait with the things that go on in cyberspace.

  What seems clear – I think, as I polish off the sloe gin, reading at the dining table – is that Qab is a cult. The way people talk and tussle and get hot under the collar, arguing very abstruse points indeed about the books. I can’t quite tell whether they are simply fans getting carried away, or whether they really believe in Qab as a real place with its own culture and landscape and religion.

  I glance through some strange and poorly written reviews and synopses of the Qab books, and some very bizarre examples of what is called fan fiction to do with Qab. I dip in here and there and find that some of them are quite shocking and rude. There are also some sketchy, cribbed details about the life of the ‘divine creator’, as she is sometimes referred to. There is even a faded snapshot of the front of Beatrice Mapp’s one-time home in Tavistock Square, London, W1.

  I stare at this for a few moments. It looks like the photo was taken back in the day, right back a hundred years ago, in Miss Mapp’s own era. There is a carriage of some kind waiting outside, perhaps ready to take the grand authoress somewhere. I study the smudgy upstairs windows. Is that a pale face staring out at the square outside? Staring back at the photographer? The photo is poor quality; it’s hard to tell.

  More reading through screeds of this mad stuff. People on the internet take their passions very seriously, it seems.

  Though thinking about it, perhaps a place like Qab is worth taking seriously.

  A whole new world. Primordial and fresh. Ready to be shaped by the hand of man. Or rather, woman. It’s the world where women rule, isn’t it? Where women get to make the world anew.

  The websites aren’t just the work of female fans, I realise. The message board on the most popular and biggest site devoted to Qab appears to be teeming with the fevered and fannish communications of both women and men. The men are eager to become slaves, it seems, in this new Qa
b world order. They would be happy to be subservient in the women’s reordering of things.

  On this forum – the only interactive one, as opposed to merely informative – there is some kinky stuff about being servants and sex slaves and what-have-you. You know the kind of thing. Silly men. They can get all worked up and excited over just about anything, can’t they?

  I’m a bit embarrassed, really, that Penny has downloaded and printed off all this stuff for me. What must she think I want to be reading?

  Still, it’s fascinating.

  Most fascinating of all is the talk of the meetings and gatherings around the country.

  Qab chapters, it seems, exist in most major towns. Groups meet once a month to discuss and dress up and – seemingly – enact some of the pageantry, rituals and scenes described in the books.

  There are even a couple of blurry snaps of rather ordinary-looking people done up in glittering finery. Helmets, breastplates, swords and – what do you call them? Pelmets? Anyway, they’re trying to look like figures off the cover illustrations of the books, but with very mixed results. Still, whatever turns them on. I’m not judgemental.

  There’s some funny stuff about a certain chapter of Qab in Kendal, in Cumbria. Until March last year there was a lot of talk about the activities of this particular group. They got up to all sorts of interesting stuff. They even had a float in the Kendal Mardi Gras last year, showing their finery off to the natives and the daytrippers.

  Members of the Kendal branch became mini-celebrities on the Qab message board. It’s clear that there was some cachet to the group. They were the most prestigious, the flashiest and – the word is repeated again and again in the archive of discussions – the most ‘advanced’. I wonder in what sense they were ‘advanced’. What could they mean by that?