By Dawn Knox
a mug of cocoa
With the palm of her left hand
placed against her cheek, Betty Bentwhistle wiggled her ring-finger, trying to
draw her aunt’s attention to the new engagement ring. Aunt Edie, however, was
oblivious to the sparkling chip. But then her spectacles were remarkably smeary.
Not surprising really, since she cleaned them with anything that came to hand.
“’Ere, cut that out, Betty
my girl!” Len Malone rose gingerly from his armchair on the other side of the
common room and hobbled towards them, “You’re dazzling me with that flashy
diamond!” He grinned, displaying a brilliant white set of dentures.
“Congratulations are in order then?” he asked, taking her
hand to inspect the ring.
“Congratulations? What for?” Aunt Edie asked.
“Looks like your niece has caught herself a fella,” said Len,
“If I’d been forty years younger, I’d have popped the question meself!”
“Engaged?” asked Aunt Edie, “Since when? And to whom?”
“Yes,” said Betty proudly holding out her hand to display the
ring, “Since yesterday and to Sidney Jugg.”
“Jugg!” said Aunt Edie with distaste, “what kind of
name is Jugg?”
“Don’t take no notice, love,” said Len, “she’s a bit crabby
because the elections for Leisure Organiser are coming up and she’s worried she
won’t get in again.”
“So, are you going to tell us where you met this young man?”
asked Aunt Edie.
Betty told them how she’d met Sydney at Muscle Bounders Gym
and how she’d been told by a clairvoyant that she would shortly be marrying the
man of her dreams.
“A clairvoyant?” Aunt Edie asked, “You don’t believe in all
that nonsense, do you?”
“But Ichabod’s readings always come true,” Betty said, “and
he’s got lovely eyes.”
“Ichabod? What kind of name is Ichabod?”
“Not Ichabod Bunch?” Myrtle Mayer, the elderly lady next to
Aunt Edie said, leaning over to join the conversation, “I saw him at Basilwade
Community Centre last month. Oooh, those eyes!”
“I know,” said Betty, “they’re mesmerising, aren’t
they?”
Aunt Edie glared at Myrtle, “No one asked you!” She turned
back to Betty, “So far, I know more about Ichabod Bunch than I do about Sydney
Mugg.”
“Jugg, Auntie, his name is
Jugg.”
“Mugg! Jugg!” said Aunt Edie crossly, then shaking her head,
she added slowly, savouring the words, “Mrs Betty Jugg… Oh dear.”
“Well, I think you’ll make a lovely mug, love,” said Myrtle,
adjusting her hearing aid.
“Nobody asked you,” said Aunt Edie.
“Who cares,” replied Myrtle, “everyone knows you’re a
crosspatch. And don’t think you’re going to get my vote for Leisure
Organiser!”
“What? I’ll have you know my Beetle Drive was the most
popular event this year.”
“Who told you that?”
“Vernon Pollard.”
“Well, there you are then. How can you trust a man who pours
custard on his salad?”
“It was a mistake! He thought it was
mayonnaise.”
“But he ate it.”
“Well…”
Betty crept out of the Willows Retirement Home wondering if
she could avoid sending Aunt Edie a wedding invitation.
Edie Bentwhistle needed to arrange a
memorable event before her term as Leisure Organiser concluded, or she’d never
get voted back in. But what could she do? She’d run bingo, beetle drives and
whist evenings. However, they were becoming dull and predictable. She’d tried
poker but Matron banned it after Vernon Pollard ran out of matchsticks and
started peeling clothes off instead. And the talent show had been too stressful.
Some of Len Malone’s jokes had been a bit racy, and he’d ignored Matron’s orders
to come off stage. He later said he was pumping with adrenaline and hadn’t heard
her which may have been true as whatever had been coursing through his veins had
been sufficient to allow him to forget his arthritic knees as he ran round the
room chased by Matron. And as for the incident with Dora and Rex in the broom
cupboard, the less said about that, the better.
And then Edie had it. She would get the clairvoyant and
medium with the strange name that Betty and Myrtle had been raving about
although she’d have to be circumspect when she told Matron who was rather prim
and proper about such things.
By the time she had the opportunity to ask Matron, she’d
forgotten the name of the medium.
“Icarus Punch,” she said uncertainly, “he’s a sort of
spiritual… um person.”
Matron looked doubtful, “I’m not sure I hold with anything
like that.”
“Actually, he’s a magician,” said Edie, pleased at her flash
of inspiration, “you know, pulling rabbits out of hats, that sort of
thing.”
“Oh, I see, well, that’s different. Yes, of course you can
hire him. What a good idea! Is there any chance you could book him yourself,
please Edith? There’s going to be an inspection of the home next week and I’m
rather snowed under.”
“Leave it to me,” said Edie.
She suspected she hadn’t remembered the name correctly but
dared not ask Myrtle. The fewer people who knew, the better, in case her idea
was stolen by someone else. She telephoned Betty.
“Ichabod Bunch,” said Betty, “why d’you want to know?”
“Oh, I just wondered.”
By the time Matron discovered there were no hats or rabbits,
it would be too late and it might even finish the evening with a swing if Matron
chased Ichabod round the room. He would probably be faster than Len and such a
finale would round things off nicely. Yes, she would surely be voted in as
Leisure Organiser once more.
Betty had been correct. Ichabod’s
eyes were indeed mesmerising, Edie decided as she led him to the linen storage
room to change. She wondered how much power they could exert on Matron, if she
were to leave the reports she was completing in her office and come to find out
how the ‘magic show’ was going. And there was always the possibility that one of
her staff members would alert her to the real identity of Ichabod Bunch – but
hopefully not until the evening was over.
“Well, if you’ll allow me ten minutes to dress and prepare
myself, dear lady…”
“Oooh, yes,” said Edie, gazing at Ichabod
adoringly.
“So, if you’d just go outside while I change…”
“Oooh, yes,” she said and slowly backed out of the room,
unwilling to break eye-contact, “I’ll be right here waiting,” she called through
the door that Ichabod hastily closed.
Arm chairs had been cleared from one end of the sitting room
and arranged in rows.
“What’s the idea of this? I can’t see the telly,” complained
Vernon.
“Shh! He’s coming!” said Edie who was at the door watching
for Ichabod to emerge from his changing room.
“Now!” she said, waving both hands at Len who was manning the
CD player.
“It’s not working,” said Len frenziedly twiddling knobs and
stabbing buttons.
Suddenly a few notes of music drifted out of the CD player
and cut through the expectant hush.
“Oh, my favourite,” said Dora, “Ol’ Man
River.”
“Oops, sorry, that’s the radio,” said Len.
“Do something!” squeaked Edie.
Len rose and began to hum the Last Post.
Vernon staggered to his feet and standing as upright as he
could, he saluted.
Rex stood up, “Just off to the gents.” He winked at Dora,
held his hand up with five fingers splayed, tapped his watch and jerked his head
in the direction of the broom cupboard.
“He wants to meet you in the broom cupboard in five minutes,”
said Myrtle to a blushing Dora.
“Shut up!” said Edie, hopping from foot to foot, “He’s
here!”
And just as Ichabod swept through the door in his voluminous
cloak, Len – still humming – found the correct button on the CD player and fell
silent as esoteric music wafted round the expectant crowd.
“Oooh! Look at those eyes!” said Myrtle.
Ichabod
raised one arm, his fingers outstretched as if reaching for something. Suddenly,
the audience gasped when his eyes flew open and he allowed his gaze to sweep
across the eager faces as if searching for someone special.
“Oooh!” said
Dora.
“I’m being
given a message about something blue,” Ichabod intoned, “does that mean anything
to anyone?”
“Len’s jokes
are blue,” said Vernon.
“My husband
once had a blue tie,” said Myrtle, “he hated it. It was a Christmas
present.”
“I’ve got a
blue rinse,” said Dora, fluffing up her hair coquettishly.
“Does the
letter B or P or D mean anything to you?” he asked Dora, “I have a gentleman
wishing to make contact.”
“Oh, yes, it
could be Brian, Peter or David. Or Bernard, Percy or Des. Or—”
“Quite,”
said Ichabod, “I believe it’s Brian. He wants to say hello—”
“Well,
that’s rich, coming from him! He couldn’t wait to say goodbye!”
“Ah, erm,
perhaps it was Peter. Yes, it’s Peter who wants to send you his
greetings.”
“Well, you
can tell him from me he can keep his greetings! I’ve never been so embarrassed
in all my life! And you can tell him from me…” she tapped her chest and pursed
her lips belligerently, “that silk underwear looked ridiculous! Oooh!” she said
to Ichabod, “You said you could see blue, didn’t you? That underwear was blue…
or was it pink? Well, he looked ridiculous in it anyway!”
“Sadly,
Peter has gone,” said Ichabod, “but I’m getting a message about a special day at
the seaside. Does that mean anything to anyone?”
Every hand
shot up.
“Well, the evening could’ve gone
worse,” remarked Myrtle tipping Cornflakes into a bowl, the following
morning.
“I’m not sure it could’ve,” snapped Edie.
“How were you to know Matron would come by so early in the
evening to see the show?” Vernon asked, “Or that she used to teach Ichabod when
he was a school lad.”
“Small world, eh?” said Len, “That weren’t very professional
of her to call ‘im a fraudster, were it? I thought he were brilliant. I don’t
know how he does it. How could he have known what I did with that ice cream in
Bognor in 1954? I never told anyone. It were quite spooky.”
“I know,” said Myrtle “it was a bit harsh of Matron to say
‘once a fraudster always a fraudster’ though, weren’t it?”
“He had such lovely eyes,” said Dora, “eyes to die for.”
“Rex nearly died for ‘em,” said Len, “He nearly suffocated in
that broom cupboard waiting for you while you were playing fast and loose with
Ichabod and his eyes.”
“Rubbish!” said Dora, “there’s plenty of air in that
cupboard. He just fell asleep. He wasn’t struggling for breath, he was snoring.”
“Who’d have thought Matron used to be a teacher? On second
thoughts, she is a bit school-marmy, isn’t she?” said Myrtle, “And it’s no
wonder Ichabod changed his name. Norman Wormwood isn’t quite as exotic,
is it?”
“I thought Matron were going to grab him by the ear and drag
him off to detention,” said Len, “but he escaped faster than I did at that
talent show.”
Edie cleaned a blob of butter off her spectacles with a jammy
napkin, “There’s no way I’m going to be re-elected Leisure Organiser now,” she
wailed.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Dora.
“Easy for you to say. It gave me something to get up for in
the morning.”
“There’s always a solution,” said Myrtle pulling a flyer out
of her pocket, “Why not go freelance?”
On Saturday evening Matron
telephoned the duty nurse to find out how the Scrabble evening she’d organised
was progressing. She didn’t have enough time to arrange social activities but at
least if she did it herself there would be no more fiascos like the previous
week.
“What do you mean the sitting room is empty?” She asked
horrified.
“There’s a flyer on one of the chairs, I’m not sure if it
might be a clue. It says Ichabod Bunch, appearing at Basilwade Community
Centre on Saturday Evening…”
About the author
Dawn’s third book
‘Extraordinary’ was published by Chapeltown in October 2017. She has stories
published in various anthologies, including horror and speculative fiction, as
well as romances in women's magazines. Dawn has written a play to commemorate
World War One, which has been performed in England, Germany and France. www.dawnknox.com
Links to previous stories
in the series:
1) A Question of Timing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=A+question+of+timing
2) In MaryWorld: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=in+maryworld+
3) Knit and Natter: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.co.uk/search?q=knit+and+natter
5)
Sydney Jugg’s Book of Grievances: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.co.uk/2018/04/sydney-juggs-book-of-grievances.html
6) Is
There Anybody There?: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.co.uk/2018/04/is-there-anybody-there.html
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