Search Results for 'bert'

“Forget about that!” cried out Roberto who was still looking out the window. “Who is this strange man wearing a hat lurking in the garden?!”

“So many questions and so few answers,” smirked Finnley.

“Why don’t you get on with telling us your dream and then we can all bugger off,” prompted Finnley.

“It was a big rambling house, much more to it than we expected. The kind of house with lots and lots of little rooms and different areas, and two or three people here or there, doing whatever they were doing. Sort of odd people, but not madly strange. A lovely feeling of curiosity and interest, and a marveling at how much more there was than we had anticipated. It was the kind of place,” Liz said, “That I could have moved into and not changed a thing.”

Roberto and Finnley started to fidget noisily while Liz was lost in the remembrance of wandering around the labyrinthine dream house.

“Did you move into it?” asked Godfrey.

“Well that is the funny thing, old bean. I said to Dan, in the dream, when I noticed the place was on the top of some very steep close together craggy mountain peaks with narrow bridges between them, I said “ Dan, I’ll never be able to drive all the way home in the dark after classes” and he said with a chuckle, “That’s what I was thinking.” It seems as if I had been contemplating taking a course at this place. But you know what I think?”

Liz paused to make sure everyone was paying attention.

“I don’t think you need to drive a car to get to that place.”

“I recalled a dream last night. One thing led to another, maybe I’ll tell you about that later, but it is connected, so remind me later. Then I was reminded of a story. Then I had a message from someone about a dream about a writer with a maid called Agnes, and she had recalled another story about Brooklyn. And of course, that got me thinking about stories. And story characters! And us!”

At this point in Liz’s monologue she paused and looked meaningfully at Godfrey, Finnley and Roberto. She repressed an urge to slap Roberto, who was gazing out of the window (thinking about mountain tajines no doubt), to get his attention for the meaningful look that she wanted to give him, and cleared her throat loudly instead.

Not a moment later she had to control the urge to slap Finnley, who was just about to make another remark about the length of her sentences.

“I didn’t say a word!” Finnley exclaimed with righteous indignation. “I only thought about it!”

“And I didn’t slap you, did I. I only thought about it too!” retorted Liz.

“Ah, but you’re the one who wrote it down. You’ve gone and done it once you write it down.”

“Don’t be daft,” replied Liz. But she wondered, what if?

“I’m not falling for that, Finnley. And I was being sarcastic, not humble. As if!” Liz snorted. “You silly goose. Now then, where is Godfrey and that scrumtious gardener, what’s his name? I’m reminded of a story.”

“Roberto? Didn’t you send him to another thread? Or turn him into a dastardly escaped criminal, or psychic double agent or something?” asked Finnley, who had come to her senses and removed the strange grimace masquerading as a smile from her otherwise rather sweet and curious face.

“That’s much too long, Liz,” she added. “A “strange grimace masquerading as a smile from her otherwise rather sweet and curious face”? Bit wordy, isn’t it?”

“Finnley, please!” Liz was aghast. “You know you’re not supposed to do that!”

“What do we do with this ?” asked Roberto.
Felicity removed her sunglasses and looked at the gardener appreciatively. He was wearing his usual dungarees, with no shirt. She then looked at the mannequin covered in maps he was holding in his arms.

“Put it back in the attic”, said Liz.

“Don’t tell me you still do collage”, said her Mother. “I could understand, barely, when you were ten years old, but now… Put it in the trash”, she looked at the gardener longer than necessary, “whoever you are.” She turned to her daughter still spread in the sofa. “What’s his name? Are you two… ?”

“I’m sure Leon and his twin are enough, don’t you think ?” said Liz bitterly. She felt possessive about Roberto, she knew it was silly but she had to get hold on to something before her mother could strip her of her life. An idea began to emerge in her feverish mind. There had been recent articles about a new game attracting swarms of players, she would ask Godfrey to make signs indicating there was a nest of those Pookemoon in her garden, and maybe in the house. People should certainly be more easy to get rid off than rats and roaches…

Corrie’s findings from elsewhere:

“It was no coincidence that “Elikozoe”, his nom de plume (he was born Albert (Al) Yokoso, from a father of Japanese descent and a mother of Cajun descent) had been sent to the Pickled Pea Inn (formerly known as the Flying Fish Inn).”

I thought about leaving that one out, as it seemed so nonsensical, this place has never been called the pickled pea, but I’m leaving it in for now. Might make some kind of sense somewhere down the line.

“This morning was quiet, but his mind was not.
There were always the nagging thoughts that something ought to be done, the restless fear of forgetting something of importance.
But this morning was quiet.
A bit too quiet in fact.
No raucous cackling to stir the soft velvety dust from the wooden floorboard.

Quentin was wondering whether the story makers had lost all interest in moving his story forward. Yet, he was more than willing to move it notwithstanding, his efforts seemed of little consequence however. Some piece was missing, some ever-present grace of illumination shrouded in scripting procrastination.

His discussion with Aunt Idle had been brief. She’d told him with great intensity that she had a weird dream. That she looked into a mirror and saw herself. Or something like that,… she was not a very coherent woman, the ging wasn’t helping.

Maybe his task was done. Time to leave the Pickled Pea Inn.
His friend Eicnarf seemed eager to see him. Or maybe that had been a typo and she really meant to sew him, or saw him,… she could be gory like that…

No matter, a trip out of the brine cloud of this sand coated place would do him good.”

And good riddance, you cheeky bugger, I can’t help thinking.

““Did anybody see our last guest?” Mater couldn’t help but regularly count her herds (so to speak), and although she wasn’t as authoritative with her guests as she was with her family members, she couldn’t help but notice that her last count was one person short —enough to start worrying her.

“Hmm lwwft thws hhmmmng” said Idle, her mouth full with cookies.

Mater shrugged. It was still better than when she used to talk with sauerkraut.”

I had better ask Clove to remind me how to do italics I suppose. This could get confusing.

roberto rubbish tell
beginning package close hotel island
character work wondering answer
start bar
latest business told idle call bossy play

The woman sitting next to me on the plane never stopped talking, she must have told me her whole life story, Aunt Idle wrote in her diary. It was a long flight from Australia to Iceland, I’m not complaining ~ it was quite an entertaining story. She said she came from Blue Lagoon campsite in the Adirondacks originally, although that was many moons ago, as she put it. Then she joined the army, but she didn’t tell me much about that, only that she’d been posted to Kenya and had taken to the place, always meant to go back and never did. She’s been married twice, once to a northerner called Bert Wagstaff, but that didn’t last long ~ nice enough guy, she said, but a bit boring. No kids. Then to Trudell. That was another story she said, but didn’t elaborate.

She said something about investigating fungus but the drinks trolley appeared. She asked for Blue Sapphire gin but they only had Gordon’s, and then she started going on about when she was in India. She had a book in her hands the whole flight, although she didn’t stop talking long enough to read much, it was The Rabbit, by Peter Day, with a picture of an upright man with a rabbit head on the cover, all in white, rather surreal.

“Oh yes, big boots. Very large foot size that Finnley,” murmered Godfrey distractedly.

“Are you listening to me, Godfrey? This is my thread and I demand that you listen to me no matter how much I prattle on incessantly about nothing of any importance. That is precisely what this thread is for.”

But Godfrey did not reply. He sat staring gloomily into the distance. Truth was, he couldn’t get Dido out of his mind; he had wanted to be the one to rescue her from her concrete prison and he would have if it had not been for that damned Roberto. Or was it Roberta?

But once again I fell short, he thought disconsolately.

“HELP ME!” Liz shouted over her shoulder, while simultaneously grabbing the back of the gardeners trousers with one hand, and attempting to floogle the phrase stickum lute putty on her pocket device with the other hand. What in tarnation did it mean? Probably some ancient tribal voodoo Finnley had picked up during her sojourn in the nether regions of the planet.

Roberto struggled to escape the vice like grip on his belt, but Liz’s grip was firm. Godfrey charged across the lawn like like a wild boar to assist with the detention of the errant gardener and gripped Roberto’s shoulder firmly. The sticky shreds of paper in Godfrey’s hand stuck to the gardeners denim shirt like glue. Roberto wrenched himself free, sending Godfrey flying into the herbaceous border, and leaving Liz holding an empty pair of jeans in her hand. Focusing on the information now showing on her pocket information device ~ an aboriginal dreamwalker teleport code ~ it was a moment before Liz realized that she was no longer detaining the gardener but merely holding his trousers. Of Roberto, there was no sign.

Godfrey, sitting in amongst the delphiniums, was looking as pale as Finnley after the cucumber mask. Although Liz had missed the sight of the gardener sans trews, Godfrey had not.

“An imposter!” he cried. “That was no Roberto, that was Roberta Slack! A WOMAN!”

“Don’t push me,” snapped Finnley. “Yes Godfrey, I believe picking up rubbish is in my job description. Your job description … well buggered if I know what you do around here,” she said snarkily, perversely annoyed at being telepathically described as ‘the maid’. “Give me that rubbish immediately and I will deal with it,” she commanded, making a grab for Godfrey’s hand. “You go and help LIz with Roberto. And whatever you do, don’t let the blighter jump 3 times in the air and shout stickum lute putty. ”

“Who are you?” whispered Godfrey, keeping a firm grasp on the scraps of paper, aided perhaps by the fact that the honey was adhering them to his hand. “You are not the Finnley we know and … well, the Finnley we know. Is that cucumber on your face really a disguise? What have you done with Finnley?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Finnley, rolling her eyes.

“Help!” screamed Liz. “He’s trying to jump!”

“Why are you picking rubbish up off the lawn, Godfrey?” Liz had felt a certain furtive energy emanating from the old coot, causing her to glance in his direction, while simultaneously giving Finnley a shove in the direction of the house. “Go and tidy yourself up while I fetch Roberto back,” she said to the distraught maid. “I need a closer look at his bottom, without cucumbers flying all over the place. Really, do I have to do everything myself around here?” It really was exasperating.

Aunt Idle wandered around, wondering where everyone was. Had everyone gone out on a day trip or a holiday? Had she forgotten? She clumped across the yard looking for Bert. If she could find Bert, he would know ~ but where was he? Her feet felt dry and heavy. I really must do something about those dry callouses, she thought ~ perhaps a long hot soak in the bath. But first, I must find the others.

Idle continued her search, but her legs began to feel like lead. Funny how some days gravity seemed so much stronger. It was becoming harder to put one foot in front of the other. What was it that guy on the internet had said about a lightness of energy? The unbearable lightness of being ~ well this was more like the unbearable heaviness of feet.

A pair of butterfly’s scampered through the air, fluttering and darting around Idle’s sticky dreads. Be light like the skipping of a butterfly, that guy had said. Hah! she croaked. Easy to say! Unable to walk any further, Idle grabbed onto a straight little eucalyptus sapling to hold herself up. Her fingers felt stiff and inflexible as she grasped the slender trunk.

It’s just too hard, she thought with a heavy heart. It’s too hard to move.

Suddenly there was a piercing scream.

Finnley’s face had turned white—although later she would claim it was not fear but rather the cucumber mask giving her face a death-like appearance—and she was pointing a shaking finger in the direction of Roberto’s derrière. Or more accurately, towards where Roberto’s derrière had been prior to the scream; like the others, he had jumped up in alarm at the ear splitting noise.

“What the devil is the matter?” gasped LIz. She grasped Finnley’s shoulders firmly and shook her. “Pull yourself together; it’s just a bum crack. I know it is a long time since you will have seen a man’s bum, but really as I keep saying to you, if you will just smarten yourself up and make a bit more effort. I mean, look at you; you’ve got vegetables falling off your face ….” Liz shook her head in confoundment.

“It’s not the bum crack,” snarled Finnley, recovering her usual unflappable composure. “It is the tattoo on his bum. The tattoo of the girl with the glass feet. Do you not know what that means?”

Roberto’s eyes narrowed as he began to back away towards the gate.

In all the excitement, nobody noticed Godfrey picking up the sticky and ripped shreds of paper which Liz had let drop to the ground.

Or did they?

“What happened to you, Finnley ?” asked Liz. The maid, usually neatly permed looked dishevelled and had forgotten to remove her cucumber mask.
“The delivery man”, began Finnley, “He said someone ordered 30.”
“30 what ?”
“30 crates of carrot champagne.”
“Carrot champagne ? I didn’t know they could make alcohol out of carrots,” said Liz. She pouted lasciviously, thinking of what she could do with all that champagne. She had never taken a bath in champagne, that could be a first. She would have to be careful with the carrot tan though.
“They can do alcohol with anything”, added Godfrey.
“Who ordered that ?” asked Liz, “And why 30 crates ?”
“Apparently, it’s your cousin Badul”, said Finnley. A cucumber fall off her face.
Liz’ lips closed tight at the mention of her cousin.
“It’s Badul’s intention to have the wedding at your property.”
Liz dropped her spaghetti hat on the freshly mown grass. Roberto bent over, showing even more of his crack, to pick up the hat before it attracted ants. Liz bit her lips.

That’s funny, Roberto thought, a bunch of nonsense.
“What’s that ?” asked Liz, her curiosity picked by the alluredness of a strand of words.
“It just fall off your hat”, said the gardener. He looked at the woman, thinking about what Godfrey had told him. The sunlight certainly made her look radiant. He noticed that the red of her lips was the same as the red rose bush he was just taking care of.
Liz took the paper.
“Be careful, It’s sticky”, said Roberto.
“Say something I don’t know, dear.” She tried to get rid of the paper, tearing it in several pieces in the process.
“I wonder…” she began, “Finnley”, she called waiting for her help. She would certainly know. She had a habit of sticking her nose everywhere.