The Lone Dining Society
A novel set in an alternative universe (work in progress)
This is a story that I have in my head, that every now and then I find time to work on, but it's slow, because I generally put most of my efforts into the real band, and developing myself as a musician, composer and all round gambling blaggard - and this takes a lot of work, time, dedication and for the gambling, if I can play it well, other people's money. Perhaps if I gave up my Casino evening and instead used the time to write, there would be more progress... but the champagne and high and lowlife beckon every week....
Chapter One - Restraint & Persecution
We always used to joke about how certain dishes were highly undesirable or foolish to attempt eating during a first date. Spaghetti, well for non-Italians, for example. Clumsy attempts at trying to place mouthfuls of devilishly ill behaved strings of pasta into the mouth without the stray strands slapping against the cheeks leaving behind unnoticed red sauce stains for the potential future mate to try to avoid staring at during the meal.
Mexican Fajitas, hand assembled with its runny sauces that tend to ooze out and coat both fingers and face in equal measure. Döner Kebabs also producing a similar result - although it has to be said that if this was the choice of meal for a first romantic date then perhaps a prediction of a very short love story played out inside the Grand Internal Imaginatory Cinema could be easily foreseen.
The jokes we made now a distant memory in the story of our relationship echoing fondly into the present, but at times, mostly in the aftermath of the oft repeated and tiresome repeating sketch that we played out like an uninspiring annual and obligatory junior school festivity play somehow seemed to mock me gently for being some sort of fool for allowing something of a lost opportunity at the very budding of our longstanding relationship.
Don’t get me wrong, I love Marjorie. Well, most of the time. What can I say? She’s my lifelong companion. Always there, always Marjorie, familiar, comfortable, sometimes a little haranguing in her well meaning but slightly irritating way. I’m happy, I am. It’s just, well, sometimes, and I hate myself for physically mouthing the words, but sometimes I just wish we’d had Mexican Fajitas on our first date.
So what is this repeating sketch, (apparently called a callback in sitcoms) you may well ask? This situation that has obviously made enough of a lasting mark, building up through the years like some persistant patina in a well looked after frying pan, to give rise to a smouldering resentment or possibly musings on the practical use of a heavy hammer and a shovel, yet not drastic enough to have halted our partnership dead in its tracks years earlier.
Imagine observing a couple sitting in a restaurant enjoying an evening meal out together. Relaxed and in pleasant spirits they order drinks, a starter and main course. The conversation flows naturally as they wait, a little laughter or privately shared smiles punctuating their discourse here and there. The drinks arrive, everything seems perfectly normal - nothing out of place and everything as you would expect. Then the starter is set down before them, two bowls of soup.
If you weren’t actively observing the pair with such a focused intensity you would probably not pick up on the very slight change of atmosphere, or at least the change in the male at the table. It’s so subtle you’re not sure if you imagined it, but somehow it seems something about the man has changed. He still smiles and partakes of their conversation, but somehow he seems a little stiffer, just very slightly apprehensive. You wonder what it is, glancing around the restaurant to see if anything out of the ordinary has appeared, but everything seems to be in order. Your attention returns to the observed pair. Is it the soup? It seems like a very ordinary sort of soup, there are no lobster heads or fingers bobbing around on the surface.
The man reaches for his napkin and carefully places it in his lap. His partner, without touching her napkin, elegantly begins the evacuation of soup from bowl, spoon expertly, yet not too hurriedly, traversing the distance to the mouth and back, a civilised pause before repeating the procedure.
The man momentarily pauses before reaching for the spoon, again it’s almost imperceptible, but it’s almost as if he, in the briefest of moments, takes stock and prepares himself. For what though you wonder? For eating soup?
The couple continue with their starters, the conversation slowed, yet not stunted by the added task of consumption. Still however, the man seems very slightly tensed, not completely relaxed. It’s almost as if he bears an additional task, something unseen, something going on under the hood. It’s like he’s concentrating on something else.
Then it happens. A minute drizzle of soup drops from the man’s spoon as it almost reaches its destination and falls to land on his shirt, leaving a faint discolouration. He throws a worried glance towards his partner to see if she has noticed. To his relief her gaze at this precise moment was focused upon her soup bowl. This seems a little strange. The couple seem too relaxed to be on a first or indeed second date. They are obviously relaxed in each others’ company - albeit one member ever so slightly less relaxed than the other. Why would the man be so concerned about a little stain of soup?
The starters are soon finished, the spoons laid to rest in the bowls.
The woman says something to the man that sparks a reaction difficult to judge. Is it embarrassment, annoyance, confusion? Or perhaps a mixture of these? The woman leans forward with her unused napkin now in hand and proceeds to wipe at the right hand side of the man’s mouth whilst the man glances around furtively to check if anyone is following this performance. He doesn’t notice you of course, because this is just an imaginary situation. You are a fly on the restaurant wall.
Finally the main course arrives and the couple proceed, the man displaying a similar behaviour as with the starters. As the meal continues it starts to become clear that there are little indiscretions being made by the man that dog the whole affair. Indiscretions in the realm of perfect table etiquette. A splash of gravy here, the dropping of a morsel there and the application of various sauces, condiments and dish constituents to a wide spectrum of areas - namely skin, clothing and his immediate surroundings (tablecloth, wine glass, floor). And throughout this farce his partner reacts on various levels, pointing, rebuking, leaning across and wiping, rolling her eyes and making suggestions of improvement.
Suddenly it all makes sense. The man is a messy eater and is doing his best to disguise this gastronomic disability and straitjacket, or corset himself into an acceptable character more able to toe the lines dictated by the impeccably high standards of this distinguished culinary establishment.
You may have guessed that the man is myself and the woman, my partner, Marjorie. This scenario happened every time we went out for dinner. It also happened at home, whether just the two of us or when entertaining guests. What may also surprise you is that we are both food critics, each with a regular column in the ‘Guarded Bubble’, which as any refined Bubbler will know is one of the better Broadsheets available across the Great Bubble. So we are both something of celebrities ourselves. It’s just that nobody knows what we look like. Which of course is convenient when visiting restaurants to make a review. And this repeating table play seems to be the secret ingredient to the long running success of our undercover critique gastronomique. No one would ever guess that this slightly socially awkward dining pair could possibly be a team working for big papers and magazines. Of course gone are the days of print on paper, everything now being read upon a screen. At least in the Bubble anyway. And reviewing establishments that don’t realise what you’re up to makes it a more pleasurable and relaxed experience and of course gives us a more authentic impression. Being treated like any other punter rather than being fawned over like some rock star food critic deities is the order of the day. And we like it like that.
Well at least I do.
Sometimes I do wonder whether Marjorie would prefer to blow cover in a bid to perhaps attract the attention of the celebrity chefs that she reviews, for if I’m honest, her column tends to focus more on the beautiful hair, or elegant cut of the kitchen apron of the said celebrity chef rather than anything they present to us on the plate.
And regarding the plate I’m generally always enthusiastic about what arrives on it. I like to eat, you can probably see the evidence in my body shape. Not overly overweight, but certainly not trim. I appear a slightly swollen and aged version of the lanky slim awkward teen that I used to be. Eating is for me an experience. The mixture of flavours, textures and aromas all playing their role in my own personal gastronomical theatre. Perhaps this is a reason why I am a naturally messy eater. I get wrapped up in the ecstasy, the sublime flavours that lead one into sometimes complex yet irresistible lines of intrigue and suspense for the taste buds. I forget myself, and with that, my table manners.
Or perhaps I am just a messy eater.
It was not so long ago, one stormy night following an evening with Marjorie where we were reviewing a new restaurant that had opened near the West Bubble edge in Hillingdon that I found myself alone on the reflective wet pavements, umbrella clutched in my hand, aimlessly walking nowhere in particular.
We live more centrally in the Great Bubble and don’t often venture to the edges. Marjory has always avoided these areas. She’s never really articulated exactly what it is, but I can relate to it on some level. Like all Bubblers, I have a great mistrust for the Outlands and prefer to live happily somewhere I feel at home. Somewhere I know.
She’s never even been to an Oblivion Eve celebration, only ever watched the Bubble Edge parties on tubevision, the revellers counting down the minutes until it all ends for the Outlands.
Thousands upon thousands of rockets reigning jubilant terror down on the Outland border that is known as the Ghost Ring.
Well, it’s tradition, a bit of fun. At least for those of us safe in the Bubble. This year it will be a really big event, they say the Oblivion will really happen this year for sure.
But it’s not for Marjorie. Her idea of a proper evening out is indulging her passion for good food, so she says. Or perhaps it’s the celebrity chefs.
We’d been to many celebrity chef owned restaurants all over the Bubble and as soon as she got wind of a new restaurant opening belonging to Kaur Ahmid, star of ‘Jumping Jappatis’ a popular cooking Programme, it only took her a mere thirty-four days and six and a half hours to pull herself together and book a table online in order for us to write our articles.
A case of a desire for great food, overcoming ‘Edge-fear’. Or perhaps a desire to see in the flesh, that charming smile of Mr. Ahmid’s to be seen beaming off every cover of all four of his best selling cookery books and his surprisingly large tome “Me, my Chapati and I - memoirs of Kaur Ahmid” that Marjorie keeps on her “Celebrity Chef” bookshelf is what actually gave her the courage and motivation. All of the books incidentally, set on the shelf displaying the front covers, as if we have our very own mini Celebrity Chef cookbook shop at home. One may also note that it is a strictly male dominated section.
And regarding my suspicions on her desires on the owner of such a smile I know what’s good for me on the subject. I keep my mouth shut.
The food had been sensational (of course, as always I had gone with the unofficial but rather pricy ‘under-the-counter’ menu, invoking the predictable tuts and disapproving looks from my better half) but the experience was marred once again by the almost constant corrective behaviour and rebuking aura of my long time partner. It was an even more than usually irritative aura, enhanced no doubt by the news given by the waiter the moment he approached our table and was asked by my other half, that Kaur Ahmid himself was not on the premises this particular evening, he was at GBB (Great Bubble Broadcasting) House filming for his new series coming later in the year.
After paying a hefty, but well deserved bill we left, both of us in a foul mood. And it wasn’t due to the large amount we’d just left at Bubble & Shriek
As we made our way to the underground we started to row about something. I can’t really recall what it was, something silly and petty no doubt and in a huff Marjory left me standing scowling after her as she hurried off alone to catch the tube home.
It wasn’t like me to leave Marjorie running off to travel home alone, especially at night, but something in me wanted desperately at that moment to be alone and with my thoughts. I was angry and I needed time to calm down.
As if the Great Bubble God thought a soaking would snap me out of my sour state, She obligingly opened the heavens and down came a torrent of rain. Luckily, as always, I had my umbrella with me. Another point that Marjorie often remarked upon in an irritated sort of way. ‘Why do you always have to carry that thing around. It’s so Outlandish.’ she might say.
But who was laughing now? Well actually not me, despite my own forethought for being prepared. My scowl was still in place as I unfurled my trusty anti-rain device and set off in a random direction towards the centre.
I don’t know how long I walked for and mostly I stared at my rain soaked shoes treading on slabs tinged with reflections of the colourful and varied high street lights and neon displays.
I don’t know what made me look up, but suddenly I found myself standing in front of the large glass window of a posh looking restaurant. My gaze wandered through into the lavish interior where couples or groups sat in the warm, comfortable and dry. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Fully enjoying themselves, without fetter or handicap. I made a half smile, half up in solidarity at their pleasure and half down out of a resigned longing to be able to dine with such abandon without fear of peers making judgements on any lack of polite table repose.
But then I noticed a man sitting a little removed from the other guests at a table where it seemed he was completely alone. At first I thought his companion must have popped to the toilet, or for a vape, or perhaps was delayed. But there were no vapers out on the street, he was already eating and as I waited for some time it became apparent that he was indeed alone at dinner.
He looked completely at ease enjoying his meal and drink without any sign of feeling uncomfortable or feeling out of place in such a social environment.
Alone. Eating alone. Without any running commentary on how well he was performing the task of dining in a public place.
Suddenly I saw myself in his place, sitting completely solitary and enjoying my meal in total blissful undisturbed peace. No rebukes, no wiping of the jowls. I could finally really let my hair down at table. Oblivit! I could even let the whole dish down my front if I wanted to. At least I could if I was situated in a secluded corner out of view of the other diners.
Lost in my imaginary and happy meanderings, as I stared into nothing whilst the rain danced its hypnotic rhythm on my brolly I almost didn’t notice the sound of the restaurant door opening and closing and the sound of footsteps, the rustle and spring of an umbrella being opened.
Suddenly I was transported back to reality by a voice to my right.
‘Strange isn’t it.’ the voice said. It wasn’t really a question
I started and glanced across to see a man dressed in what looked like an expensive designer suit, but the style and cut of the suit certainly didn’t seem to conform to regular Bubbler fashion, if indeed there was anything you could call Bubbler fashion. Bubblers were such a vibrant mish mash of people wearing all manner of styles of clothing that it was difficult to describe any overarching characteristic.
But there was something about this man’s clothes that was out of place, even as elegant as he looked in this obviously well tailored attire. And it wasn’t just that. It was a small difference, but if you were used to seeing it all the time, when it wasn’t there it sort of jumped out at you.
I was brought up well enough to know that staring was rude, and perhaps I must have been staring without realising as my train of thought was in a nervous loop with, ‘His skin, his skin is..’
‘Oh I do beg your pardon.’ the man said, snapping me out of a more internal awareness once more into reality. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s my skin isn’t it?’ his hand brushed across his cheek and he smiled warmly. ‘No glow.’
I suddenly felt very embarrassed that I’d, unspokenly, drawn attention to the obvious fact that his skin didn’t have the Bubble glow that all Bubblers had. A sort of pale, insipid, healthy looking glow that was ever present.
My next rapidly rising emotion was one of, not fear, but discomfort and slight anxiety.
Only Outlanders didn’t have the Bubble glow. Even though this man’s face had a radiance of its own, it wasn’t the same. To my eyes it seemed positively unnatural and I was sure it wasn’t a sign of good health.
The man turned to look into the window of the restaurant before he spoke again. ‘You were watching that gentleman dining alone.’ He paused to glance over at me, easing my anxiety almost magically with a very honest, friendly and broad white smile, ‘At least… that was my impression.’
On my current child-friendly rollercoaster ride of tepid emotions I now experienced the sensation of a little nakedness, like the feeling of being intruded upon by a stranger that was somehow able to read my inner thoughts.
‘I… er I..’ I began, lost for words.
‘You looked happy.’ The man stated kindly.
I looked again through the window towards the solitary diner. Some of my anxiety was eased by this quite obviously charismatic man that seemed to have an ability to put people at ease, even if he was an Outlander.
‘Yes,’ I replied, submitting to letting my guard down a little in front of this unusual Outlander. ‘I was..’ I paused to find the right way of expressing it. ‘..in a happy place.’ was the best I could do.
The man made a single truncated laugh-like sound of approval. ‘Yes, you certainly looked it.’
‘You said it was strange?’ I hesitantly queried, turning back to him, recalling the opening thrust of our conversation.
‘Well, perhaps I should have said that it’s unusual that this gentleman is dining alone. Everyone else in the restaurant is in company.’
Turning once more to observe the scene I pondered upon this before replying, ‘Well, I have seen people eating alone from time to time.’
‘Yes, but it’s certainly not “the norm”.’ the man reposted.
It was at this point that I noticed one lady sitting at a table with a friend glance repeatedly across at the lone diner before leaning in to apparently say something in hushed tones to the friend sitting opposite, who in response turned briefly to glance over her shoulder at the man.
This well spoken man, this umbrella comrade sharing the restaurant scene with me in the pouring rain, had a point. I thought of Marjorie and something she might remark upon this ‘unusual’ dining customer. ‘Probably a weirdo.’ she might say. Or, ‘He’s bound to be a loser.’ if she was feeling particularly ungenerous.
‘Well to the Outlands with whatever Marjorie thinks!’ I thought to myself. I at once felt a strangely close bond to this unknown lone diner, purely on the basis of the rebellious nature of going against convention and daring to dine alone in public. A rebel with or without a main course.
For the third time in the presence of this charismatic stranger, I forgot myself through my sudden welling up of emotion and passion and before I could stop it the sentence ‘Well I think it’s wonderful.’ came forth, in so unprepared a form for reality that it was almost an incomprehensible mumble. My own understated outburst startled even myself.
My eyes darted towards the stranger in shame at such a gush and I felt my cheeks start to redden.
The stranger looked at me with eyes that seemed to hold and support me in my moment of weakness. A look that silently said ‘It’s ok, I understand.’ before he spoke the words with an almost disguised passion, ‘I agree.’ He smiled again, although I couldn’t help feeling there was also something of sadness mixed into his charming smile this time, something flickering just at the corners.
The stranger in a flash switched back to his bright charismatic self and extended a hand in my direction, ‘Charles.’ he said simply.
Before I had time to overthink, my hand was shaking his. The hand of an Outlander. It was a firm and brisk shake that reminded me of an almost forgotten time, a bonding action between two men showing mutual respect for one another. I gave my name in return, ‘Arthur Schwarzkoenig’ not knowing why I had given my first and last name.
‘Ah, the Black King!’ laughed Charles.
I laughed a little also, more ice had been chipped away between us and was melting rapidly, ‘Yes, that’s right. It’s German, my Great Grandfather came over from Bavaria before the Great War.’
‘For love?’
‘No. For food. Well you might say for the love of food.’
Charles’ face froze mid emotion for a second before he replied, ‘He must have been an interesting character. I’d like to have met him.’
‘Yes. So would I.’ I said
‘And Bavaria is such a lovely part of the world.’
‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been.’ It was true, any family connections to my Great Grandfather’s ancestral home had been severed.
‘You should visit sometime, I would recommend it.’ Charles said and reaching into his inside jacket pocket he pulled out a small card and extended it to me. ‘And while I’m on the subject of recommendations, at the risk of seeming immodest, perhaps I can suggest this establishment? You seem to me just the right sort of gentleman that would feel at home.’ I took the card as Charles continued, ‘Yes, I think you would fit right in.’
The card, obviously of high print quality with raised lettering simply read:
The Lone Dining Society
We reserve the right to dine alone.
‘You’d be most welcome Arthur. Alone of course.’ Charles said with a slight wink. He extended his hand once more, a farewell handshake which I took. A welcome ritual of a bygone age that could have almost brought a tear of something lost to my eye.
Then he was gone.
I stood there, umbrella in one hand, his card in the other as the rain continued its not altogether unpleasant concerto.
‘The Lone Dining Society.’ I mouthed the words and without my conscious permission a smile crept upon my face.
Chapter Two - The Child Catcher
Charles always started his day in what he thought to be the most civilised and genteel fashion.
One shouldn’t rush into a new day, one should ease oneself in gently, as one lets the body adjust to cool water before taking the plunge when bathing in the wild. Of course there are always those that would advocate diving straight in and foregoing any beating about the bush, or pussy footing. These may also be the same people that don’t know how to eat chocolate, simply putting it into the mouth and chewing, rather than the correct and more refined technique of laying a little on the tongue and letting it melt, suffusing the taste buds with its intoxicating flavour and substances.
No, a cup of tea taken in bed is the correct way to start the day perhaps with a little light reading. And if one was not in a hurry then perhaps a second cup of tea accompanied by a little breakfast. All taken in bed of course.
Charles, propped up comfortably on exquisite satin cushions, book open in his lap, waited for his tea to arrive.
His bedroom, one of many in the house, was of a generous size, a large mirror hung above an ornate, yet not overly gaudish morning table where a jug and large bowl sat in waiting for its first morning wash duty. The walls were liberally adorned with tastefully framed artworks of a remarkably diverse nature from a variety of periods and styles, classical, baroque, rococo, expressionist, avant garde through to modern contemporary offerings.
Charles' eyes flicked from his book to one of the paintings next to the door, a Kaufmann Hugo in oil depicting a serving girl bringing refreshments to a table of rustic workers or hunters taking a well earned break at their local tavern, before moving across to watch the door as the muffled sound of footsteps gently crescendoed.
The door opened and a large man in immaculate dark suit and white bow tie, his well trained muscular form discernible even beneath his formal and well fitting dress, entered the room bearing a small tray. He crossed the room, maintaining his neutral expression and laid the tray, supported by small legs onto the awaiting silken bed sheet covered lap of Charles.
Charles touched the expensive envelope of a single letter, complete with red wax seal, that lay on the tray next to his bone china cup and saucer of steaming tea.
“Just one this morning James?” he asked studying the elegant envelope and running his finger gently across the embossed surface of the seal.
“I believe there is another unenclosed correspondence hiding beneath Sir,” James replied. “Will Sir be requiring a second cup and a little light breakfast?”
“Really?” Charles' interest was piqued and he turned over the weighty envelope to reveal a small dirty torn piece of paper folded in two. It looked like it had already spent a few days residing in a public bin. He picked it up and brought it to his nose at the same time becoming aware that James was still standing over him awaiting an answer. “Oh, no, thank you James, I have a lot to do today, I’ll grab something on the fly.”
“Very good sir,” James replied and left the room discreetly.
Charles sniffed the paper, oh yes, he could smell the decomposed sweet overtones of typical public refuse container that he recognised and knew only too well from practised experience.
He unfolded it. It looked like very untidy children’s writing in pencil. It read:
‘Dear Charly me an me sister want to’ and then a g crossed out and followed by ‘be part of the klub we promis not to sit togever’ and then underneath squeezed in and added as if an afterthought ‘we sleep by klub orl - Seph’ All the S’s were inverted.
Charles sat pondering for a moment and took a sip of his tea. He silently mouthed the last two words ‘klub orl’ a few times before with a jolt into excited realisation he said aloud with a broad white smile, “Of course! Club Hall!”
He quickly put the tray aside and sprang out of bed and to the door almost in one movement. He stood naked in the doorway and shouted, “James?!”
A face appeared from out of a doorway further down the long passageway. “Yes sir?”
“I’ll be needing my comfies.”
Minutes later Charles was out on the street and in a hurry. His brisk pace of urgency conflicted with the appearance of his attire. He wore clothing that looked like it had once belonged to someone of wealth, top hat, shirt, waistcoat, checked wool trousers, long elegant jacket and leather boots, albeit each article not really matching with the next. It was all faded, stained and tattered giving the impression of someone who had long ago fallen far from the ladder of privilege or, and deducibly more likely due to the patchwork mismatch of the styling, someone down on luck in life who had made several lucky finds, their attire slowly developing like some fashion art sculpture over the years, each garment trophy adding to the work alongside it’s distant aged cousins.
Charles’ confident and natural charming glow conflicted with his attire, his presentational ‘wrapping’, and the ‘wrapping’ still obviously spoke first as a young couple coming up the street deliberately crossed to the other side as he came down it. He smiled across at them as he passed, raising his tatty looking umbrella and greeting them with a bright, ‘Mornin!’ They looked uncomfortable and nervous, avoiding eye contact, saying nothing in reply, the young man protectively urging his lady friend on into an extra spurt in their flight along the opposite pavement.
It was a beautiful day, clear blue sky with only the giant form of the bubble obscuring it, rising up impossibly high, a half globe of transluscent grey - like a dome, that covered the entirety of the old City that nowadays was referred to as ‘The Great Bubble’
It took about half an hour to reach the Ghost Ring, the environment becoming ever more bleaker, deserted and apocalyptic looking as Charles approached it. The Ghost ring was something of a no man’s land that ran the entirety of the the bubbles circumference. It was a buffer zone. An area to keep the two worlds apart. The Bubble and the Outlands and people of sound mind on both sides avoided it.
Presently Charles stood inside a large deserted and derelict factory. It was a beautiful red brick building from the early twentieth century, the high arched roof now open to the elements in places here and there. A black Rook, perched on one of the mammoth iron girder trusses high up in the open expanse, watched Charles with tepid interest.
In the centre of the factory floor stood a large long wooden table decked with a hessian cloth, it was discoloured and stained all over and a broken wine glass stood alone on the bleak pale tabletop landscape, punctured by a tinge of blood red remaining at the bottom of the glass. It brought visions of Vampire films and stories momentarily to Charles’ internal cinema screen.
He walked over and picked up the glass, the broken piece lying inside the bowl shifted and tinkled, deafening in contrast to the still silence permeating the factory ruin. The Rook shifted along the girder to gain a better perspective. Charles stood still for a moment, mouth slightly open, listening and glancing around the hall. Then he walked to the far right end, depositing the glass into a metal barrel and disappearing through a doorless opening that lead to a narrow passage or alleyway running left and right. He followed it to the left, turned the corner that lead to something of an uneven courtyard, a large puddle at one side giving the old decomposing and forgotten architecture a means to observe it’s slow decay. A cruel jest lain by fate.
Charles looked up to a window at the highest point of a building on the other side of the yard, it’s panes either broken or missing entirely and he could just make out a shape that looked like it could be a face and shoulders. It was too far away to see clearly, but it seemed as if the face was watching him, frozen like stone, as Charles was, as he calculated the best course of action.
‘Charles the child catcher.’ he thought with an ironic smile. Images of a stringy, spiky, dark lank haired, pale faced, long hook-nosed man all in black (replete with top hat) with a large black net on a long pole flickered on his inner screen.
He started to move towards the building, at which point the face suddenly disappeared into the darkness of the interior. He broke into a sudden dash and ran around the building to the left until he was on the opposite side where he quickly hid behind an old burnt out van standing nearby. He was breathing heavily from the exertion but willed his body to discipline itself to assume a measured control of predatory silence worthy of a seasoned hunter.
He waited patiently, wondering if he had guessed correctly, turning over in his mind the other possibilities and trying to gauge the time and therefore the distance possibly covered and in which direction his quarry might flee. He couldn’t wait too long if he had misjudged their move as he might lose them altogether.
Then to his relief and in response allowing himself a smidgeon of an indulgent smug smile, verging on a crocodile grin, the door slowly opened and a face peered around nervously looking to see if the coast was clear. The face disappeared. There was a brief pause and then the door flew open and out shot two small children, a boy and a girl, running and keeping to the rear edge of the building.
Charles stepped out from behind the van and projected loudly but in as friendly a manner as possible, “Good morning!”
The children froze and spun around, the girl sheltering behind the boy, whose face was white, obviously from shock.
“It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you.” Charles assured, quickly holding up his hands in open placation.
The children neither moved nor spoke a word. They just watched him, both with very pale white faces.
“You want to join the club.” he continued and adding as an afterthought, “So I heard.”
Still no reaction.
“I”m Charlie. I got your message.”
At this the boy seemed to thaw a little from his frozen state.
“You’re Charlie?” the boy asked disbelievingly.
The girl cowering behind him whispered something and shook her head violently.
“My sister says you ain’t Charlie.” the boy said stonily, “You don”t look like a Charlie.”
Charles made a short chuckle but suppressed it almost immediately, although he maintained his warm smile. “Well what does a Charlie look like?”
The boy appeared to think on this for a moment, turned to his sister, who whispered something else before turning his head back to voice his reply, “Not like you. You look more like a child catcher!”
Charles could tell that the boy had immediately regretted saying this out loud, as if it was something he realised only after he had mouthed the words, was something a little too rude to say to an adult. At least to their face.
“Oh, “ Charles fingered the rim of his top hat, “It’s the hat, isn’t it. The child catcher - from Chitty Bang Chitty Bang.”
Suddenly the girl seemed to forget her fright and smiled excitedly, “Yes, the child catcher from Chitch...chish..ch,” she broke off, giving up on the pronunciation and proceeding to the, “Bang.” she studied Charles for a moment before adding, “but you look fatter than the one in the film.”
“Mary!” the boy intoned with an expression of embarrassment on behalf of his sister and an apologetic look that perhaps was an attempt to make up for any rudeness earlier.
“Chitty Bang Chitty Bang, that’s quite an old film isn’t it?” Charles remarked, finding the whole conversation rather charming, these children were quite cute. “I’m surprised you young whippersnappers know it.”
“Oh, our parents are really old.” the boy said matter of factly.
It was Mary’s turn to be indignant, “Joseph!” copying the tone used earlier by her brother although half in playful mockery.
“Well, they are!” Joseph retorted before turning back to Charles, “Although I think Dad is the oldest. He’s almost as old as you!”.
Charles laughed out loud, “Thanks!”. The children didn’t seem to get the joke and just watched him.
‘At least now they don’t seem to be ready to bolt.’ thought Charles.
“I promise, I am Charlie. Founder of the Lone Dining Society. I got your note this morning and came straight down. How would I know all this if I weren’t Charlie?”
The two children took some time to digest this and let it filter through their developing truth engine, although they were at the age balancing on the cusp between believing everything an adult said and questioning and experimenting with suspicion.
After a little while they appeared ready to answer.
‘What’s a founder?’ asked Thomas.
‘It means I found it.’ replied Charles.
The children thought about this and smiling because Mary suspected he was teasing, asked, ‘You found it?’
‘Yes. Somebody had thrown it in a skip and I just happened to be passing and spotted it. And you know what they say.’ Charles paused for dramatic effect, both children were mesmerised by the story, truth or no. ‘Finders keepers!’ He straightened up fully at this with hands clutching both lapels of his jacket in his ‘proud of meself’ stance, grinning from ear to ear.
Mary giggled, ‘Not really?!’
Charles let out a chortle, ‘No, not really, I’m pulling your leg. I didn’t really find it. I started the whole thing. It was my idea. That’s what being a Founder is, when you start something.’
“So you’re really Charlie then?” Mary queried in a tone that betrayed that she almost believed it already.
“Cross my heart, hope to die. And if you’ve watched Chitty Bang Chitty Bang I know you’ll understand that I don’t really hope to die. Or maybe it was Mary Popkins...” Charles fell to a subdued remembering, tapping his lip.
“Mary Popkins is my heroine!” exclaimed Mary, almost unnoticed.
Joseph had been won over, “So can we come part of the club then?”
Mary added enthusiastically, “Can we join the lowdown-sigh-ity?”
Charles threw both hands up in a theatrical welcome, “You're already both distinguished members!”
Both children smiled and then started to giggle a little in relief and they jumped up and down clutching each other like a pair of excited Marmosets.
Charles smiled. His mission this morning was complete.
He watched them for a few seconds before Mary stopped mid jiggle-jump and asked in a very serious tone of voice, “Does that mean we can join then?”
Chapter Three - A game of two balls
“How did you find us Charlie?” Joseph asked as they all three sat in the back of a black taxi making it’s way across Thames Bridge towards Charles’ estate. Charles had thought it prudent to call a cab rather than risk anyone going missing before he had the children safely in his cage. Neither had been surprised as the Taxi arrived for them and had climbed in as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world for a man looking like a tramp to be able to afford a Taxi.
“Well,” explained Charles whilst pulling a small white paper bag of sour boiled sweets, from his dusty coat pocket and offering it to the children. Mary, without hesitation and in one movement fished a sweet from the bag and straight into her mouth. Joseph gave her a look of disapproval.
Charles paused to question Thomas, “What’s the matter? They’re not poisonous. Just a little sour. Go on, just one.” He continued holding the small white bag in offering to Joseph who looked at the bag a little suspiciously.
“Mother says we shouldn’t....” he started,
“..accept sweets from strangers, I know, but..” Charles interrupted.
“No,” Thomas countered, “It’s not that. She says it’s bad for our teeth.”
“An’ too many ee-nummers.” Mary managed through her squinted sour face as she sucked on the sweet.
“Oh.” Charles seemed momentarily disarmed.
Joseph looked up at Charles, shrugged and dived in to take a sweet, “But if Mary has one, then I’m having one too!”
Charles smiled and took a sweet for himself, putting the bag back into his pocket and sitting back in satisfied relaxation as he let the sourness embrace his mouth, his right eye giving a slight flicker in reaction to the effect. All three sat in silence for a few moments as the cab turned into a cobbled side street flanked by ancient trees on either side before Charles continued his answer. “I found you because in your note you said you were sleeping near Club Hall. And being the fou….” Charles adjusted his vocabulary for his young audience, “boss, so to say, of The Lone Dining Society, I of course know Club Hall very well. And all the surrounding area. I guessed where it was you might be sleeping. It wasn’t so hard. Somewhere high up with a good view of the yard and also a couple of ways to exit down to the back door. Also most other places are often taken by the regulars,” he looked over at Mary, “of Club Hall. They don’t like to climb too many stairs after they’ve had a hard day.”
Mary blinked at Charles before saying, “They’re a bit scary.”
Charles nodded. “Of course. They can be. They’re a mixed bunch and I can’t honestly say they’re all sweetness and roses. But everyone has their problems. Some more than others obviously. But wiser to keep your distance, I would agree.”
The cab was now well along the main tree lined avenue that lead to Charles’ mansion that stood impressively ahead. They all took in the view of trees flitting by and the landscaped gardens that could be seen through them on both sides before Charles spoke up again.
“So tell me, how did you hear about the Society?”
“The Low-down Sciety?” Mary checked.
Joseph turned to his sister, “It’s The Lone Dining Society Mary.”
“Oh!” came the reply. She giggled a little.
Joseph explained that someone at school had passed him a battered card and had spoken fantasies of this mystical organisation, building in this young boy’s mind as Charles began to interpret, some sort of alternative world, away from what Charles himself thought of as the oppressive worldview of the Bubble. At least oppressive to those who weren’t correctly aligned..
“Mouldy Marm gave Seph the card. And the map. He’s a bit strange, but he’s O.K.” said Mary.
“Marmaduke. Mouldy Marm is what the other kids call him.” Joseph clarified.
“So the other kids don’t like him?” Charles surmised.
Thomas’s face gave the answer before his words, “They give him a hard time.”
Mary interjected, “He’s a weirdo. That’s what they say. Say we shouldn’t hang out with him.”
Charles smiled, “A weirdo ay? Some people say that about me.”
Charles words seemed to give Joseph a tinge of camaraderie, “They call us Weirdos too.”
“But we’re not weird like Marm, Seph.” said Mary.
“He’s alright. The other kids, they don’t really like us.” Joseph paused throwing a protective yet saddened look across his sister, “But Marmaduke gets it worse.”
Charles expressed a moment of empathy before diverting,”You must have been very clever to get your letter to me without even an addressed envelope, not to mention a stamp. And how you found the Club itself all on your own is another mystery.”
———————cab arrives at Mansion——-
“It was the White Witch that told us.” Mary answered, “She’s got white hair and looks like a witch.”
“She does you know.” Thomas added. He thought for a moment, “We found the Club ‘all by axidence. We saw they was eatin’ and drinkin’. We was hungry, but too scared to go in. They did seem scary, like Mary said. She caught us watchin’ them from outside. She grabbed me arm and said ‘Yous ‘ungry me poor dongs’ “
“Not poor dongs Thomas!” Mary jumped in, “She said Darlings!’ then she repeated the word ‘Dongs!” comically and giggled.
Thomas continued, “An’ she said if we was hungry we should ask to join the low dyin’ Sigh-ety. She said ask for Charlie.”
“So we wrote a letter to you.” Mary said, “She said we could give it to her.”
Thomas chimed in, “She said she would make sure you got it.”
“And I did.” Charles gave a silent blessing to the White Witch, Margaret for aiding his capture of the children.
——————
———————-
The cab halted and Charles reached across Joseph to open the door before doing the same on the other side for Mary. The children climbed out.
The Taxi driver turned to Charles, “Ok Charlie?”
“Thanks Bill, take care and see you soon ay?” Charles reached through the opening to pat Bill on the shoulder and climbed out of the cab, “Send the bill to the Society as usual. And send my regards to your wonderful good lady”
“Will do Charlie, thanks. Bye now. And give ‘em strip of things something decent to eat, they look ‘alf starved to death.”
Charles smiled and nodded, pushing the door to, and jogging round to the other side to repeat the procedure, giving the side of the cab a friendly tap as Bill pulled away.
Both Joseph and Mary stood in front of the mansion looking up at it’s impressive grandness.
“You live ‘ere?” Joseph asked.
“Yes.” Charles replied.
Mary turned smiling to Charles, “It’s bloomin’ nice.”
Charles laughed, “Bloomin’ nice? High praise indeed”, he gestured towards the main double doors, “Shall we?”
In the reception hall, a couple of classical white busks stood on the periphery of the substantial chamber, a large chandelier dominated the central space of the high ceiling and various paintings, again from various eras and styles hung around the walls, a couple of more vivid modern works somehow clashing with the otherwise antique old world impression of the decor and building.
The sound of footsteps announced the appearance of James. As he approached Charles noted the slightly alarmed expressions of the children, the slight moving backwards and coiled readiness to spring into flight.
“It’s OK Joseph, Mary.” Charles nodded to James as he came to a halt, towering unsmiling over the children. “He’s a friend of mine. Aren’t you James?”
“If Sir says so.” James replied, throwing a glance to Charles with a sparkle in his eye, unnoticed by the children.
Charles smiled in response, “James, I think, Joseph, and Mary,” he said gesturing at each of them in turn, “need a good feed.”
“Very good sir.” he turned to look down at the children in very formal mode. “Would you care to peruse the mid week Menu? I can recommend the Lamb shank Tagine, Beef Tartar or the Roast pheasant with Potatoes au Gratin.”
The children just stared at James.
Charles broke the silence with a slight chuckle, “James! Come on, look at them. They’re not like our distinguished regulars.”
“But you said we were ‘stinguished!” Joseph protested, although really not understanding the situation or conversation.
“Of course you’re distinguished members. So, what would you like? Pizza, chips, fish fingers?”
Mary and Joseph shouted almost immediately in unison
“Pizza!” shouted Thomas.
“Fish fingers!” shouted Mary.
James rolled his eyes and looked over at Charles, “Perhaps a little antipasta as a side with the Pizza and seasonal roast veg to accompany the ……fish fingers.” James said the last two words as if it physically repulsed him.
“James, just the pizza, and perhaps a little baked beans and mash with the fish fingers?”
“Very good sir.” James replied and turned to leave.
“Oh and bring a bottle of Ketchup too please James.” Charles added to the retreating James, whose shoulders rose with a shiver as he disappeared through the door. ‘You’ll be wanting some I expect?’ he said turning his head with a wink to Mary who nodded enthusiastically.
Twenty minutes later about a quarter of a ravaged stone baked pizza lay across a plate before Joseph, it looked thoroughly mauled. Expensive cutlery were clutched and vertical on the table in both his hands as he took some restoratory breaths, his shoulders peaked as he leaned on his eating implements. His mouth was smeared around with red sauce.
As his body began to relax and the hunger that he hadn’t acknowledged was so great until he had started to wolf down his meal started to diminish he started to become more aware of his surroundings. He looked down the long wooden table that was set against the wall. The table extended for a few feet, hugging the wall and then followed a corner at 90 degrees to the right, around which the other half of the L shaped room he was in was hidden from view.
“Mary?” Joseph said raising his voice.
A voice from around the corner replied, “Yes Joseph?”
“Just checking.”
“Just checking what?”
“Just checking you were still there. ‘ow’s your fish fingers?”
“Nice. How’s your Pizza?”
“Nice.” Thomas then began to resume his devouring of said Pizza.
Mary brought another fish finger up to her mouth and took a bite. Chewing slowly she looked along the long narrow table she was sitting at, staring at the part where the table followed the corner round to the left and disappeared from view.
“Funny table isn’t it?” Mary commented, pausing mid chew.
Joseph made a reply that sounded like it might have been a ‘Yes’ but it was obscured by a mouth stuffed with Pizza.
The door in the opposite corner opened and in came Charles. He’d showered and shaved and was now wearing clean, expensive and elegantly matching clothes, flannel trousers, shirt and waistcoat, from which in a small front pocket a gold chain was visible. The top hat was gone.
Both children, although they couldn’t see each other, could see Charles.
He held up 2 metallic spheres about the size of Tennis balls.
“I forgot these!” he proclaimed to the children as he waved the 2 silver objects in the air. “Salt,” he said lifting the left ball, “and pepper!” lifting the right.
“I’m alright thanks.” Mary replied, but she kept her eyes on the strange metallic balls. They looked strange and interesting.
Charles held the balls towards Joseph, “Salt and pepper Joseph?”
“No thanks.” he replied, his Pizza was almost all gone anyway. He took a sip of water from his glass. He was also intrigued by the balls and his gaze was caught upon them as he chewed autonomously after the fashion of a common cow.
“Come on Joseph. A little seasoning surely?” Charles cajoled, bounding over to the boy wearing a huge grin. Mary leaned up out of her chair to try and see what was going on, it not occurring to her to get up out of her seat and walk around the corner.
“Sneeze-nin?” Joseph tried to repeat the strange word.
Charles giggled, “Well, you might if you sniff the pepper.”
“Ay?” Joseph managed.
Charles set both spheres in front of Joseph and stood back a little. Joseph just looked at them suspiciously for a moment. Closer up he could see the details. They were fashioned from some silver polished metal and there was what looked like possibly a sliding section or a hatch and there were lots of small indentations in both of the curious ball-like objects, as if they’d been clumsily dropped many times.
“These are salt and pepper?” Joseph asked in disbelievement, not taking his eyes off the spheres.
“No. These are salt and pepper cellars. The salt and pepper is inside them.” Charles replied somewhat sardonically.
Mary’s excited voice emanated from around the corner, “What is it Seph?! What’s it doing?!”
Charles looked down at Joseph with feigned disapproval, “What? No seasoning for your last mouthful of pizza?”
Joseph was utterly confused and was beginning to wonder if he did understand this world that up until this point he’d thought he was starting to get to grips with. He always thought grown-ups were a little strange. They did some strange inexplainable things and much of what they said to each other in adult-speak went right over his head. He’d met a few peculiar adults in his short time, but this Charlie, he was a right one.
“Perhaps Mary requires seasoning?” Charles raised his voice in an indication of the question being for Mary’s benefit.
“No thank you.” Mary’s voice answered simply. “No sneeze-nin for me!” Mary was beginning to sense there was some sort of game unfolding and was getting excited. What for though she had absolutely no idea - but that was at least three-quarters of the excitement. She strained in vain to try and stretch her head in order to peer around the corner. Of course an impossible task. But she scored a fat ten out of ten for the try. She wriggled excitedly in anticipation.
“Or perhaps some seasoning for your fish fingers then.” Charles was definitely feeling in a progressively increasing mood of silliness and he was noticeably excited about something and hopped around a little in the style of one particular incredibly talented but sometimes aggressive celebrity Chef. And Charles was ready for a large portion of silliness to go!
In three loud giggled spurts of syllable came Mary’s reply dancing on the air around the corner, “No - Sneeze - ‘Nin!”
“Come on Mary,” Charles lowered his voice to build some tension in the game that he was enjoying enormously, “You’d like some seasoning wouldn’t you?” It was more of a demand, or instruction than a question. Mary couldn’t see Charles from her viewpoint, but she could hear the wink in the tone of his voice.
“Would I?” she played along.
“Yes. You definitely would!”
“OK I effin-ettly would.” with Mary’s reply the game proper had begun. “Joseph?”
“Yes Mary?”
“Can you please pass the salt and pepper.” and then just for good polite measure she added another, “Please?”
Thomas made to get up out of his seat but Charles held up a hand. “No. no. No need to get up Joseph.”
“But how can I pass the salt and pepper to Mary. She’s sitting round the corner?” Thomas hadn’t quite latched on to the game yet.
“Hmmm. That’s a good point Joseph. How can you possibly pass the salt and pepper to Mary from your position? Let’s see.” Charles leaned with both hands on the table and came a little closer to Joseph, “You’re both sitting at the same table, yet you cannot see each other.”
For Mary the tension and drawing out of the process was almost uncontainable, “PASS THE SALT PLEASE JOSEPH!” she almost shrieked in utter glee.
Thomas became a little angry, “I CAN’T PASS THE SALT AND PEPPER MARY. I CAN’T SEE YOU!”
“It’s OK Joseph, calm down.” Charles placated, laying a Fatherly hand on Thomas’ shoulder, “ Perhaps you’ll be needing…” Charles moved over to the corner opposite end of the table, giving Mary a wink and a warm smile as she came into view before leaning under the table and giving a lever, or pulley a swift yank, “this!” there was a clunk, tap and what sounded like a whizz of cogged machinery and two sort of wooden board sidings slid up to clonk together to form an ingenious corner addition to the table, they were about a foot high and extended in the directions of both children but only for about five or six feet before in hand crafted elegance petering out to leave the rest of the eight or nine feet of table open at the side. The other side of course walled off.
By the wall.
Mary clapped her hands with delightment.
Thomas stared in frowned concentration and bewilderment at the strange corner addition to the table. They were beautifully carved pieces, and he could even see from his seat at the other end of the table, the scuff marks and battered surface of each of the two pieces that sat so snugly together it seemed as if they’d been there all the time.
Slowly the cogs of his little grey machine ticked around as a dawning understanding of the game formed in his mind. His mouth started to stretch into a cheeky smile and he glanced down at the two strange silver spheres and then up at the almost madly grinning and nodding Charles.
“Yes, yes.” was all Charles managed through his excitement.
Thomas smiled back at Charles, his momentary anger at his confusion lost to the unmemorable mists of time. He looked back down at the two strange silver spheres sitting patiently before him. Now not such a mystery. They were salt and pepper, ‘…something’s’. He couldn’t quite remember the word. But they had now transformed, and much more interestingly, into two pieces of a game.
He picked them up one at a time, “Salt.” he said for the one, “And Pepper!” for the other.
“Actually it’s the other way round. But it doesn’t matter.” Charles replied, still waiting in anticipation of the silliness to come.
“Oh. Pepper and Salt.” Joseph corrected himself. “MARY?!” Thomas directed to his sister waiting impatiently in the poshest tone of voice he could muster.
“Yes Joseph?” Mary also inflected her voice to her very best posh imitation.
“Would you like the salt and pepper?”
“Yes please Seph!” Mary exclaimed in a giggle.
“Right then.” Joseph moved one of the spheres backwards and forwards in an action of ‘taking aim’ before, “Here you go!” launching it along the table towards the corner piece. It was a good aim. It hit the left corner piece almost in the middle of it’s length, rebounded beautifully against it’s partner piece and then hurtled along Mary’s half of the table towards her. It came a little too fast for Mary to stop and it whizzed past her to land and roll to the edge of the room. She ran excitedly to retrieve it.
“Wait, wait Seph!” she shrieked, jumping from her chair and running to collect the strange silver ball, walking slowly back to the table as she examined this curious object. “Which one’s this?” she asked looking up at Charles, who was laughing and clapping his hands, tears forming in the corners of his eyes through his bouts of infectious giggling that infected Mary with an equal fit of mirth.
“That’s the…” he tried to control his laughter, “The Salt Cellar.”
“Oh.” giggled Mary, “The Salt Cellar.” she imitated Charles’ voice.
She climbed back into her chair and started to fumble with the object in order to try and work out how to get the salt out of the cellar.
“Ready Mary?!” Joseph shouted impatiently, already taking aim with the Pepper Cellar.
“No, wait, wait, I don’t know how to..” Mary’s frantic attempts to open the salt cellar were cut off as Joseph launched the pepper cellar headlong the table with another well aimed bowl sending the sphere ricocheting off the corner panels and bounding straight towards Mary.
“Look out Mary, grab it!” Charles shouted in his role as sports spectator.
This time Mary’s one time previous experience paid off and she managed to stop the silver ball that was rattling along the wooden surface, mainly because it flew straight into her body, but she expertly grasped the ball in both hands as it struck home.
“I got it! I got it!” Mary exclaimed in joy, and at this point had completely forgotten about the task of extracting either Salt or Pepper from the balls. All she wanted now was to return the Salt and Pepper cellars to her brother.
Her first attempt, the Pepper cellar still clutched in her hands was launched without any preparation and it flew off the table to the side and rolled over to Charles, who scooped it up and threw it back to Mary. She didn’t manage to catch it and had to climb off her chair once more to retrieve it, but she didn’t mind, she was having fun. Her second attempt, with a little more preparation was a success the Pepper cellar sped along the table and with a double thonk, thonk, it rolled and bounced towards Thomas.
What followed was a spectacle to be seen. Both children flinging, bowling and throwing the spherical Salt and Pepper Cellars to each other, via the ingenious corner piece of the table, whilst Charles roared with laughter and slapped his bent legs, as if through his unstoppable laughter he was almost unable to stand up.
It was at this precise moment that the spectacle was indeed seen, as the door flew open and in came running in a sheer panic both of the childrens’ parents. Followed closely but in total contrasting calmness, James.
Two things happened simultaneously:
The mother ran over towards her daughter, tears streaming from her eyes - after an almost comically looking moment as she did a little wobble in her split second decision of which child to rush to first, both children forgetting the strange but hilarious game in a moment, dropping the spheres and running into her arms. There were shouts of joy and tears of relief from all three as their emotions spiralled around uncontrollably in the act of reunion.
The father stopped dead in his tracks, somewhat in shock at the bizarre spectacle that remained for a couple of seconds imprinted on his mind’s eye, Charles spinning around, still laughing but suddenly halted as though he’d been caught with his trousers down. The father stared with open mouth and then looked at Charles, “What the….?” he managed, but then fell to a complete loss of words.
Charles pulled an offertory smile in order to placate the father, raising his shoulders and hands into a shrug and stated in question form, “A little fun. Ay?”
Behind them all, standing absolutely straight and in complete calmness, James merely rolled his eyes.
Chapter Four - Tea for one
The ticking of the clock took centre stage in the small front room illuminated by sunlight squeezing in through the white mesh of decorative lace curtains, the audience of one sitting quietly in her worn and faded armchair not actively listening to the monotonous performance, rather letting the repetitive straightjacketed rhythm wash over her as her mind stared into open nothingness.
Buddhist monks would have been proud of her relatively blank state of mind, the attainment of which she had refined during many hundreds of hours, having years ago being presented with the unwanted gift of unbearably long and undisturbed opportunities for such practise.
Mary found that it gave her some respite, a pause to her monotony, soothing her nerves, a sort of spiritual haven in comparison to the other state of mind she was in for the rest of her waking hours. Even so, as she had not as yet mastered this trance, there was always the hint or tinge of darkness, the foreboding, as she named him ’The Worry Monster’ lurking at the periphery.
She sighed gently and reached across to take her cup and saucer. Taking a sip of her luke warm sweet tea. She broke the void of her inner vacant stillness with the thought, “So, lots to do today.” She was not in the habit of talking to herself, oh no, that, they said was the first sign of madness. She returned to her void for a handful of half blissful moments more before her mind wandered into a feeble thought pondering on who “they” might be and were “they” in any way an authority on the subject of the oncoming of madness?
She finished her tea before returning to the kitchen where she washed and dried the cup, saucer and spoon, returned them to their correct places before wiping over the draining board and tabletop surfaces. She then stood for a moment at the sink before returning to the cups cupboard where she reached up to the recently returned vessel and gently rotated it until the angle of the handle perfectly matched it’s brothers’ and sisters’, standing regimentally and with precision handle measured spacing around it.
Standing back to admire her work, she frowned a little as she noticed something, sending her tutting to a draw to fish out a dusting cloth which she then proceeded to use taking one after another of the sister/brother cups down from the cupboard to wipe, followed up with a wipe of the surface beneath it, before carefully placing and positioning each cup in it’s proper place with it’s handle pointing out at the correct degree. She continued with all the cups she could safely reach in the first row.
A satisfied sigh concluded the closing of the cupboard door, followed immediately by another frown and a wiping of part of the door’s surface. After shaking out the duster and folding and placing it neatly back in the drawer she returned to her living room chair, where the Sun was still fighting it’s way into the room.
Quietly she sat. Tick, tick, tick, the clock’s performance continued delicately, precisely and incessantly. Mary started to slip into her comforting mindlessness, but somehow there was something nagging and tugging at the corners, not allowing her to completely let go. She persisted, focusing on the ticking, closing her eyes to embrace time’s ecstatic dirge. But it was no good, the monkey in her head wouldn’t go to sleep, the niggling grew until she couldn’t sit there any longer.
She hurried back to the Kitchen, took a chair and placed it in front of the cups cupboard, removed her slippers, took out the dusting cloth, climbed the chair, opened the cupboard and proceeded to take out all of the cups out one by one, placing them on the unit surface. Then with a more genuine satisfied nod she dusted the whole surface of the cupboard. Each cup was returned deliberately with care given to it’s position and angle of the handle. She re-adjusted the bone china vessels as she went along to perfect her ‘Regiment of Cups’ until she was satisfied for this inspection.
She returned to her sitting room chair.
She sat.
She listened to another of the Clock’s masterpieces from one of it’s albums. Each masterpiece sounding very much like the other. If not exactly the same.
Tick, tick, tick. She knew this one. A finger began to tap out the main motif on the chair’s armrest.
She sighed, her eyes surveying her familiar and neatly organised front room. She felt a passing satisfaction that if visitors came, everything would be in order. They wouldn’t be thinking she was untidy or unclean. They should be suitably impressed. If they came.
But no-one ever came.
She sat listening to the ticking and watched as shapes moved outside her front window. It was the neighbours on their way out. She’d said hello to them once or twice, but she didn’t really know them. She couldn’t remember their names, they were strange foreign names, which made it harder.
There was a time when she knew everybody in the street. Times had changed. She’d been left behind and the world had moved on. She didn’t understand the world anymore, or perhaps the world didn’t understand her.
She sighed again. “Another cup of tea.” she thought and returned to the kitchen to retrieve the same cup she had used earlier, taking out a small teapot, a small tin box decorated in an old Chinese illustrated style that contained the tea leaves.
She topped up the small metal kettle with fresh water and put it on the hob.
Three carefully measured spoons of black tea leaves went into the pot. She waited, listening to the sound of the gas burning and the water becoming hotter. As steam started to become visible from the spout of the kettle her mind fell upon, “It’s amazing that just by watching a kettle boil, someone came up with the idea for trains.” She started to try and recall the name of the inventor. “It was a man of course. Eddy something....Eddington Thomas?...” Recollections of herself as a young girl come into sight, standing on a platform as a steam train pulls up, steam billowing out across the platform obscuring the two boys she had been watching. She remembers her hand being held by the big strong hard skinned hand of her Father, comforting and safe. Nothing could hurt her when her Father was by her side. Now they are walking through a field in the warm sunshine, her Father still holding her hand. He is talking, about what she doesn’t know, she just remembers the sound of his voice that calming deep soothing sound. His voice is like an impenetrable fortress that nothing and no-one can get past. Bad people could attack them and his voice would create a shield around her. Nothing could hurt her.
They sit and look out over the beautiful rolling landscape. She feels happy, she feels safe, she feels this will never end. Mary and her Father, her protector, together like this forever. The sky is vivid blue and full of stillness and calm unchanging beauty. A bird flies overhead, but
then suddenly it changes direction and hurtles towards them, screaming or whistling. Mary looks to her Father but he is gone, the bird’s whistling grows louder and increasingly aggressive, it rattles mechanically as it swoops in for the kill.
Suddenly Mary was standing in the kitchen again, the kettle whistling in place of the bird. She shook her head back into full reality and turned off the gas. She studied the kettle absently while she waited for the water to cool a little and tried to return to the place on the hill next to her Father, but she was unable to recall it. So after a few minutes she took an oven glove and poured the hot water into the teapot. A quick stir and then she dressed the pot with an old knitted tea cosy.
While waiting she busied herself around the kitchen tidying and re-organising things that didn’t really need tidying or re-organising until she felt the tea had brewed.
One spoon of sugar went into the cup, then from the fridge a bottle of milk to just cover the sugar with a drop. Then the tea sieve went onto the cup followed by the tea itself poured steaming, turning almost instantly into a pleasing beige colour as it mixed with the milk and sugar. Finally a gentle stirring with the metal spoon clinking satisfactorily with the bone china cup. Three taps on the rim with the spoon to clear the remaining liquid and the spoon then laid onto the saucer on which the cup sat.
Once more into to her private chamber concert with her fresh cup of tea, Mary had barely sat down when she sprang back to her feet upon noticing the time 11:11 and disappeared into the kitchen to return multiple moments later with a small plate bearing two tea biscuits.
Elevensies. Eleven minutes late.
Mary studied her cup and saucer balanced on her knee.
The song ‘Tea for Two’ popped into her head and without any hint of shame or self consciousness she started to sing until reaching the part that describes that the imaginary couple having tea would not let anyone know they owned a telephone.
Mary did have a telephone and like the lyrics from the song nobody knew that she owned one. It never rang. She did occasionally use it just to call the speaking clock, not to find out the time particularly, but just to hear another human voice, one that was familiar, unchanging and comforting.
The concert continued, tick tick tick...
Chapter Five
Charles and the children’s Father sat in two expensive red leather after dinner chairs in the smoking room in front of a large fireplace, the fire flickering and licking around the logs expertly arranged earlier by James.
‘So David, it must have been a bit of a shock for you.’ Charles said crossing his legs casually and brushing the top of his knee.
‘Well, er yes.’ David replied, obviously still feeling uncomfortable in this extensive house that seemed to him rather more like some palace and with this strange apparently wealthy man sitting next to him. Although, David thought, with what he was wearing, this tatty mish mash of old but obviously one time ‘expensive’ set of clothes he looked like he would be more at home sitting round an improvised old oil barrel fire. ‘I mean, er, what was it you were doing? What were those things the kids were throwing around?’
‘Oh! I actually meant it must have been quite a shock to discover your children were missing.’
David’s face took on a look of concern, ‘Oh, yeah, yeah it was. Debs was ‘avin’ kittens. We didn’ know what to do.’
‘Quite.’ Charles studied David for some moments, increasing the feeling of awkwardness until David felt he had to fill the gap.
“Well we found the letter of course..” David continued.
“They wrote you a letter?” Charles interrupted, smiling.
“Yeah, I found it in their bedroom when I’d gone up with their mornin’ cuppa teas.”
“Morning cup of tea, in bed! My, my, what lucky children!” Charles chuckled.
David looked a little abashed, ‘Well, it’s sort of a habit. I have to leave early for work in the mornings so I likes to see the kids before I leave, I did it once and then it sort of carried on, like a sort of tradition you know? I don’t really like to wake them so early so usually I just leave it by their beds.’
“It’s a very nice tradition David. I always have a cup ot tea brought to me in bed. A very civilised start to the day I believe.”
“Really? You’ve got your good lady well trained.” David laughed.
“Oh no, I’m not married.” replied Charles, smiling in communion of David’s jest. There was something of an awkward silence before Charles came to the rescue, “James brings my tea in the morning.”
“Oh.” David shifted uncomfortably in his seat before adding, “Is he that, er, strange looking, I mean, that bloke that… the fella that let us in?”
“Yes, that’s the one, That’s James.”
“Is he your Butler or something?”
Charles moved his head as if he were weighing his answer and working out how to phrase it, “Well, something like that. It’s complicated.
David looked down and almost imperceptibly raised his eyebrows.
Charles broke the pause, “Anyway, this letter, what did it say?”
“Well, it said something about that the kids felt it was time they saw the world and they’d be back when they’d made their fortunes and then they could look after us. Of course Joseph didn’t word it like that, but that was the jist of it.” David’s face narrated his thoughts questioning why his children might want to run away.
“They ran away to see the world and make their fortunes!” Charles laughed out loud, causing David to throw him a questioning look. “Oh, they’re quite a pair, very charming your children and very self confident for their age I must say.”
“But I don’t understand why they’d run away from home. We do feed them you know!” David was becoming defensive as he wasn’t quite sure if there was any hint of blame of bad parenting being insinuated in some way.
“Oh, don’t worry about it David. Have you never had thoughts at one time of running away from home when you were a child? I know I did. I did actually follow it through once and got as far the end of our street.”
David seemed genuinely curious, “Oh? What made you turn back?”
“The rain. I’d forgotten to take my umbrella.” Charles replied, then levelling his eyes in a serious look towards David he added, “On the Island, the umbrella is sacred.” David’s mouth fell open a tick as he stared back at Charles. He couldn’t work out if he was being serious or if it was some sort of joke.
Charles continued, breaking off from his brief residency at Serious Hotel, “Joseph and Mary just happened to be more determined and a little more adventurous than myself and most children of their age, although I suspect it was mostly lead by Joseph, I think Mary just went along with her older brother, she really looks up to him you know.”
“Yeah, she does.” David paused thinking on this before changing tack. “Anyway, I do need to get back to the wife and kids, it’s been a traumatic couple of days..”