By Dawn Knox
Brandy
Sundays are busy days for vicars.
And the Sunday following the Mothers’ Union outing to Bognor was particularly
demanding. After morning service, everyone who’d been on the trip wanted to give
Reverend Wilbur Forbes-Snell their personal report on the day. Everyone, except
Wilbur’s sister, Hettie, who’d been remarkably quiet on the subject. It wasn’t
until tea time that Wilbur noticed he hadn’t seen Hettie all day. And the more
he thought about it, the more he realised he hadn’t seen her since she’d left
with the MU ladies the previous morning.
With any luck, she was in the kitchen making sandwiches for
tea although Mrs McSquirtle had obviously been baking as he could smell
shortbread cooking and his mouth watered. He’d go and see if tea was ready. And
he must remember to remind Hettie to put out some pickled onions – something
that however many times he reminded her, she always seemed to forget. There
wasn’t a meal he could think of that wasn’t improved by the addition of a
pickled onion – or two.
Mrs McSquirtle was sitting at the kitchen table, her head
resting on her arms and a glass of brandy by her elbow.
“Mrs McSquirtle! I’ve asked you not to start on the brandy
until five o’clock. It’s not seemly.” He tapped his watch, “It’s only four
o’clock.”
“Whssshht!” she said, her voice slurred, “I didn’t open thish
until after five o’clock yesterday.” She indicated the empty brandy bottle, “and
remember, it’sh for medicinal purposes.”
Wilbur sniffed.
“I believe your shortbread is beginning to burn, Mrs
McSquirtle. Where’s Hettie?”
“Hettie who?”
“My sister, Hettie!”
“How should I know?”
“Really, Mrs McSquirtle! Such rudeness! I’m going to have to
rethink the brandy arrangements if I don’t have some cooperation from
you.”
Mrs McSquirtle sat up, snatched the bottle and held it to her
chest, then blinked rapidly as she tried to focus on the vicar, “You have my
full corrororpation… corropercation…coorrorpation—”
“Where’s Hettie?” Wilbur cut in.
“Dunno.”
“When did you last see her?”
Mrs McSquirtle’s left eye looked up at the fluorescent
fitting on the ceiling. Her right eye swivelled in its socket and then gazed
longingly at the cupboard beneath the sink where she’d hidden several bottles of
brandy.
“Um…”
“Did you see her this morning before service?” Wilbur
asked.
“Oh yesh,” she said with as much certainty as she could
muster. She couldn’t remember anything that had happened earlier that day but it
was fairly safe to assume that Hettie had been at morning service. Where else
would she be?
“Was she at lunch?”
Mrs McSquirtle couldn’t remember having had
lunch.
“Ummm…”
“Come, come, Mrs McSquirtle, you must remember if Hettie was
here at lunch time.”
The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed, “Beggin’ yer pardon,
Reverend, but don’t you remember seeing her at lunch?”
“I would have remembered if I’d been home but as I told you
this morning, I was invited to lunch with Mrs Myers. Now, did you or didn’t you
see Hettie?”
“No,” said Mrs McSquirtle. She was on safe ground now. The
vicar hadn’t been here, so he couldn’t say what she might or might not have
seen.
“I suggest you get the shortbread out of the oven before it
burns,” Wilbur said as he swept out of the kitchen.
“Yesh,” she said, laying her head back on her
arms.
***
On Monday, Wilbur called the police,
and Constable John arrived several hours later. A brief search of Hettie’s
bedroom revealed a letter on her bedside table which clearly showed that she had
left of her own free will.
Dear Wilbur,
I’m leaving.
Regards,
Hettie
There was some doubt about the date of her departure because
the coach driver said that Hettie had not boarded the coach back to Basilwade on
Saturday afternoon and several of the MU ladies had corroborated that. So far,
the only person to claim to have seen Hettie on Sunday, had been Mrs McSquirtle
but the constable was disinclined to believe her since during her interview, she
claimed to have seen bright lights in the garden and small people wearing silver
space suits who had led Hettie away. The housekeeper had then fallen asleep and
he’d been unable to rouse her sufficiently to check any more facts.
“In conclusion, Reverend,” said Constable John, tucking his
notebook back in his pocket, “Miss Forbes-Snell appears to have left of her own
free will, so I’m afraid this isn’t a matter for the police.”
By the following Saturday, Wilbur was in a very dark mood. So
was Mrs McSquirtle who was about to hand in her notice when she realised her
brandy supply would almost certainly dry up – and another employer, assuming she
could find one – would probably not be as lenient as the vicar. No, she was
duty-bound to stay and look after him. Even if he had turned into a bad-tempered
and unreasonable man. She silently cursed Hettie. There had been no word from
her other than one postcard from Paris saying she was fine. Well, good for
Hettie, Mrs McSquirtle thought crossly because she certainly wasn’t
fine. The Reverend had become more demanding since his sister had gone,
expecting breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner at regular intervals and to make
matters worse, he’d found her hidden supply of brandy and was rationing her.
She’d explained that the brandy was medicinal but it had fallen on deaf ears.
Wilbur had offered to pray for her medical condition but had not been any more
generous with his brandy allowance. And to make matters worse, the Bishop and
two churchwardens were coming for dinner on Saturday. A dinner she was expected
to cook.
And Wilbur was unusually agitated. Actually, snappy,
might be a better description.
“Dinner,” he said, “has to be perfect. Nothing less will
do.”
She’d pointed out that the stress was upsetting her medical
condition and that a large brandy would ensure the success of the dinner on
Saturday. Wilbur had been rather harsh, quoting chunks of the Bible which
featured fire and brimstone. And now Mrs McSquirtle was angry – stressed
and angry. And an angry, stressed Mrs McSquirtle was not a rational being. Her
integrity and her fitness as a housekeeper had been called into question.
It was too much.
It was war.
And Mrs McSquirtle had no intention of losing.
On Saturday evening, Wilbur hovered by the front door ready
to receive the Bishop and churchwardens while Mrs McSquirtle finished the
preparations for the dinner she had dubbed her ‘Religious Experience’.
Wilbur had been too flustered to question the housekeeper
more closely and moaned yet again that Hettie was being selfish and ought to
come home.
In the kitchen, Mrs McSquirtle placed two pickled onions in
each bowl and covered them with tinned tomato soup. Reverend always said that
there wasn’t a meal that couldn’t be improved by adding pickled onions, so
let’s see how he likes this, she thought.
“Samson Soup,” she announced proudly, as she placed bowls in
front of Wilbur, the Bishop, Mrs Myers and Mr Chubb.
“Samson Soup?” asked the Bishop.
“It’s very biblical,” said Mrs McSquirtle, “my inspiration is
from the Book of Judges,”
“Ah, Samson – the man who was tricked into cutting his hair
by Delilah.”
Mrs McSquirtle nodded.
“Well, I hope the soup doesn’t have hair in it,” the Bishop
said and laughed heartily at his own joke.
“Oh, ho, ho! Very good my lord,” said Mrs Myers.
The Bishop beamed at Wilbur. Wilbur looked uncertainly at the
housekeeper.
“I’ve done my best to re-create the part where the
Philistines gouged out Samson’s eyeballs,” Mrs McSquirtle said.
Mrs Myers had been scrutinising the pickled onion she’d
fished out of the soup when she heard the word “eyeballs”. She screamed and
dropped the spoon and onion back into the soup bowl with a splash. The Bishop,
who’d already swallowed some of the soup, gagged, and Mr Chubb who was
well-known for laughing at inappropriate times, giggled hysterically. Wilbur
looked as though he’d sat on a pole. His eyes bulged and he emitted a
high-pitched squeak.
“Not to everyone’s taste, then,” Mrs McSquirtle said,
gathering up the bowls and placing them on her tray, “never mind. I’ll bring in
the next course.”
“Wh…what is the next course?” asked the Bishop gripping his
serviette nervously.
“Salome’s Surprise,” said Mrs McSquirtle over her shoulder as
she left the dining room. She reappeared several minutes later with a large
silver platter, on which was a domed cover.
The Bishop gasped, “When you said Salome, did you mean
the Salome who demanded the head of John the Baptist on a
platter?”
“The very same,” said Mrs McSquirtle with a satisfied smile.
She reached for the handle on top of the cover to raise it.
“Stop!” screeched Wilbur. He leaped up, grabbed her by the
shoulders and propelled her into the kitchen. By the time he got back to the
dining room, the Bishop, Mrs Myers and Mr Chubb had gone, although he could hear
the sound of giggling wafting on the breeze. Wilbur was at a loss. If only
Hettie were here to deal with this. What should he do? Well, obviously the
dratted housekeeper must be fired and he certainly wouldn’t give her a
reference. Yes, he would do it tomorrow.
***
Mrs McSquirtle put the Egyptian
Trifle back in the fridge. It was her tribute to the Ten Plagues of Egypt. She’d
always said the good thing about trifle is that you could make it out of pretty
much anything and to this one, she’d added a few pickled onions just for fun.
The other thing she knew about trifle is that it doesn’t matter how carefully
it’s served, everything gets mixed up and it always looks a mess. She’d planned
to have fun pointing out pieces of kiwi which could easily be mistaken for frogs
– and currants which could pass for flies or lice depending on size. Oh well,
she thought, Wilbur can have the trifle tomorrow. She would still be employed
tomorrow. She knew that. Despite the fact that he was – even now – planning to
fire her.
But he wouldn’t.
She had taken the precaution of hiding his supply of pickled
onions in the cellar along with his stamp collection and the girlie magazines
that he’d hidden in his wardrobe. She’d left one of the magazines, on his bed.
When he returned it to its hiding place, he’d discover the others were missing
and know that she knew about them. The cellar was the one place that Wilbur
feared to tread since he had a phobia about spiders – especially the extremely
long-legged, fat-bodied ones which thrived in the vicarage cellar. Now that
Hettie had gone, who would dare to brave those terrible arachnids? Only trusty,
dependable Mrs McSquirtle. If he sacked her, he’d have to persuade one of his
parishioners to go into the cellar to retrieve his pickled onions and stamps
which were on the bench right next to his girlie magazines.
Mrs McSquirtle climbed the stairs to bed. The washing up
could wait until tomorrow when Wilbur could do it. She had won the war and
things were going to be very different around here from now on. Pouring herself
a double brandy, she placed it on the bedside table and climbed into bed. Just
for devilment, she’d put a dead long-legged, fat-bodied spider in Wilbur’s bed
and he should discover it in about… she checked her watch… five minutes time
when he went to bed. The scream would probably break every window in the
neighbourhood and send the dogs in a five-mile radius into a frenzy. Smiling,
she rammed her ear plugs home, finished the brandy and pulled the bedclothes
over her head.
Links to
previous stories in the series:
1) A Question of Timing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/a-question-of-timing.html
2) In MaryWorld: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/in-maryworld.html
3) Knit and Natter: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/11/knit-and-natter.html
4) Mint Pink: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/03/mint-pink.html
5) Sydney Jugg’s Book of Grievances: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/sydney-juggs-book-of-grievances.html
6) Is there Anybody There?: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/is-there-anybody-there.html
7) Going Freelance: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/05/going-freelance.html
8) So App-ealing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/06/so-app-ealing.html
9) No Saints at All Saints’: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/07/no-saints-at-all-saints.html
1) A Question of Timing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/a-question-of-timing.html
2) In MaryWorld: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/09/in-maryworld.html
3) Knit and Natter: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2017/11/knit-and-natter.html
4) Mint Pink: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/03/mint-pink.html
5) Sydney Jugg’s Book of Grievances: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/sydney-juggs-book-of-grievances.html
6) Is there Anybody There?: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/04/is-there-anybody-there.html
7) Going Freelance: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/05/going-freelance.html
8) So App-ealing: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/06/so-app-ealing.html
9) No Saints at All Saints’: https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2018/07/no-saints-at-all-saints.html
About the autkor
Dawn’s third book ‘Extraordinary’ was
published by Chapeltown in October 2017. She has had three other books published
as well as stories in various anthologies, including horror and speculative
fiction, and 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
***
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