Elizabeth Tattler, Bronkel, Finnley, Godfrey and others…
So the Story goes...
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Aunt Idle:
My hands were shaking so much I could hardly light a cigarette after reading the note. I got it lit and sucked in a lungful, exhaled right into the shaft of sunlight and froze. And I don’t mean cold, it’s hotter than hell, I mean I quit shaking and couldn’t move because that smoke was doing some very peculiar things in that sunbeam. Looked like Penmanship with a capitol curly P, written in smoke by an invisible hand, loop the loop of joined up writing and I could see the words, but damn, two seconds later I couldn’t tell you what I just read and by then the first part had wafted apart. So I sat there reading the smoke until the last of it dispersed, and without thinking took another drag of the cigarette. I’ll be honest, I wondered whether to blow the smoke over my shoulder instead, but curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned forward a bit and screwed my eyes up ready to focus and started exhaling slowly into the sun. Not a damn thing this time, nor the next, and I almost lit another cigarette right off the butt of that one. Just to delay looking at that note again I suppose, but I didn’t, I stubbed it out and picked up the note. The smoke distraction did me good, I was over the shock of it and now I was curious.
The note was written in letters cut out of a map, by the look of it. Or maps, hard to say at this stage. The letters were pasted onto a yellowing sheet of stationary paper with a heading embossed on the top: Tattler, Trout and Trueman. Nothing else, just that, no address or phone number, or indication of who they were. There was a brown ring stain, which might be a clue, and a short message. Made me jump when I saw the name at the bottom, because the H was so tiny compared to the ILDE it caught my eye as Idle, which is what the twins call me, and the D I D letters were much bigger than the I E R, making me think it was Dido, which is what the others call me. It’s Delilah but nobody’s ever called me that, although Prune called me Dildo once and got a clip round the back of the head for it. So the note came from Hilde Didier, and I’m ferreting away in my mind and I can’t think of anyone of that name, but it might come to me later.
“Mater’s acting strange, Aunt Idle,” Corrie burst into the room giving me the most unpleasant jolt it made me think I was having a heart attack until I remembered the note in my hand.
“Coriander, darling!” I gushed, admittedly uncharacteristically but I didn’t have time to think, swiveling round to her while slipping the note out of sight. I stood up and hugged her, deftly spinning her around while scanning over her shoulder to make sure the note was hidden from view.
“Bloody hell, not you as well!”
That Liz had started to become a few sandwiches short of a picnic when she’d hit her 57th birthday was an open secret.
Her editor had to personally recruit frequent replacements for her dame de compagnie, whom, no matter how different they looked, she would invariably call ‘cleaning lady Finnley’, stuck with her remembrance of a certain period of her life.Godfrey often had wondered… were he to resign, and be replaced like so many Finnleys before this one, would she also call his replacement “Godfrey”? The though made him titter, as he put the kettle on the stove.
At times he wanted to scream that he wasn’t her bloody man-servant, but her personal doctor had made a point to explain to him that Elizabeth’s frail grasp on reality would only be strengthened if everyone continued to play the charade of her life.Truth was, she really did seem to grow younger as the years passed, and as she was bossing around everyone with great enjoyment, Godfrey had often wondered if she wasn’t in cahoots with her physician to have everyone believe she was truly losing it.
He had to admit, she was doing a terrific job at it.Funny thing was, none of this would be possible, if not for Liz’ impeccable release of new literary works. Despite her feigned struggles, she managed to release them like clockwork.
Prolific line-pissing writers like King had nothing to envy to her. She would document and expound on nearly every bit of news passing. As a matter of fact, most of her morning rituals were to document the press review, and make clippings out of the most absurd or mundane events, and somehow, weave enthralling tales with it.The last past years had been the most flourishing ones, mostly focused on tales of social responsibility in magical gardens, civil disobedience in cetacean societies, and financial collapse of ayahuasca economy based Amazonian tribes.
Well, to be honest, the magic had to be left to the Finnleys. It was nor the endless cleaning nor the unnerving bluster that had them resign. It was mostly that they were literary agents in cover aspiring to more than a life of cleaning. For what Elizabeth had as gift of prolixity, all the Finnleys were hired to put it all together, while sworn to secrecy.
Of course, with each best-sellers, they had to find a new one most of the time.Despite the occasional ill-temper, all of it seemed now like a well-oiled machine.
However, Godfrey was growing concerned about the last one of the Finnleys. Very concerned.Aunt Idle:
Tattler, Trout and Trueman. Where had I seen that before? I squinted at what was left of the business card that Flora had been ripping up to use as roaches last night. I could make out tel: 88 , but the rest of the number was missing. There wasn’t much left of the card, no other writing left to see. But where had I seen that name before?
I shivered; there was a rising mist and it was damp and chilly on the veranda, gloomy as the sun hadn’t quite risen yet. I like it first thing, before anyone else is up. Bert’s usually up, but I never see him, he goes off out the back somewhere. I stood there for awhile watching the mist rise and wondered whether to go and fetch the camera.
And that’s when I remembered where I’d seen Tattler, Trout and Trueman. It was on that note that I’d hidden inside the camera manual.
Could it be a coincidence? Should I ask Flora where she got the card, whose card it was? Or did Flora have something to do with the note?
My hand flew to my mouth. Automatic reaction so you don’t suck any flies down with the sharp intake of breath.
“Got toothache, Aunt Idle?” asked Prune.
“Jesus Christ, Prune! You made me jump out of my skin! What are you doing up so early?”
“Who is that man your friend brought with her? Is he from the desert?”
“What man? She came on her own.”
“Well who’s that tall man in the blue robes then? He said his name was Sanso.”
“WHO?” I could almost hear myself say that in italics. “Where? Where did you see him?”
What did he say?”I could see Prune was weighing this up, she wasn’t called shrewd prunes for nothing. I wasn’t at all surprised when she said “He told me not to tell you anything,” and ran back inside, slamming the door behind her.
“Where is that darned cuppa you promised me?” grumbled Finnley. “And don’t make me talk. I hate talking.”
“There’s a very fine line, Finnley, between feckless drivel, and fecking snivel, and to not put too fine a point upon it, it’s all fairly pointless anyway,” replied Liz, smiling amiably into the curmudgeonly scowl. “Bert will put the kettle on, I’ll call him over from the thread next door.”
“Typical!” muttered Finnley, “Never a thought about waking the poor bugger up, that it might be night time over there. Bloody inconsiderate, if you ask me.”
Bert really had his hands full at The Flying Fish Inn, fecking freak fest it was turning into, what with the comings and goings in room 8 ~ but what could he do? Refuse, and get written out altogether?
“Ah, there you are Bert!” Liz smiled graciously. “Do sit down, you look harassed and all of a dither. But the kettle on first though, there’s a love.”
Bert glared at Liz resentfully. “I thought I was a bit part, not a jack of all threads.”
“Oh cheer up, Bert! When you’ve made us all a nice cup of tea we’ll all sit down and talk about it, won’t we Finnley?”
“… so leaving the book club just sort of snapped me into just buggering off with a lot of that individualistic stuff that doesnt resonate to the exclusion of other stuff. And then I started another book club which resonated more with my special individuality. I found I enjoyed starting book clubs just for the fun of it—I think I have quite a gift in that direction. After a while, out of curiosity, I went back to the first group. I changed my name and wore a hat and scarf as a disguise so I am pretty sure nobody knew it was me. Finnley, are you listening?”
Finnley looked up guiltily from the Lemololol novel she was surreptitiously reading under the table. In an effort to give the impression she had been listening, Finnley read the first line her eyes fell on.
“You know Elizabeth, I always say you need a good smoking pile of manure to grow bigger cucumbers.”
Elizabeth gasped in admiration. “You are so wise, Finnley. We may have had our differences in the past — I have such strong inner values — and I may call you odd behind your back, but manure and cucumbers, that is just brilliant! That sums it up precisely. Let me make you another cup of tea.”
Bert raised an eyebrow at Elizabeth’s obvious sarcasm, which unfortunately caught her eye and put him in the spotlight of her penetrating gaze.
“How about you Bert? Were you listening?” she asked, raising an eyebrow of her own to match Berts.
Finnly, always on the lookout for an opportunity to out do Liz, raised both of her eyebrows simultaneously; then looked quickly down, pretending to examine her nails.
Bert decided that in this case honestly was the best policy and replied “No. I was wondering if Prune had cleaned up the blood spattered corridor.”
While Liz was momentarily speechless, Finnley quickly interjected another line from the book she had hidden under the table.
“Then why did none of us hear the blood crazed howl?”
“Ah! Aha! I’ll tell you why nobody heard the blood crazed howl!” Elizabeth had become alarmingly animated, leaning forward and rapping sharply on the table with her cigarette lighter. “The walls of isolation that surround you, the windows you keep closed and shuttered for fear of a draft of passion, the fences of barbed trotted out dogma you use as protection ~ but I ask you, protection from what?”
“Buggered if I know, Liz. Can I go now?” said Bert.
“I do think, Elizabeth,” remarked Finnley, somewhat cautiously, “That you rather over~egged the brûlée.”
“Liz’, I’m sorry to interrupt,” remarked Godfrey, somewhat cautiously, “I know you’d rather forget about it, but shall I remind you that we are going to be irrevocably late for our appointment at the court, for the third time.”
“What nonsense is that again? And where did you appear from Godammfrey? I haven’t summoned you!”Godfrey couldn’t help but raise his eyes and start a rolling motion, but insisted.
“The lawsuit, darling. This scandalous libel by that rat of a critic who accused you quite unambiguously of both plagiarism and ghostwriting. You surely do remember that?”“I’m sorry Godfrey, can’t this be dealt with without my being there. I’m not paying you peanuts to just entertain me.”
Godfrey sighed. It was already the second time they missed the appointment, and the judge would certainly no see it in a good light. A little bit of publicity around this affair wasn’t bad of course, especially with such hilarious allegations. Everyone in town knew well enough Elizabeth’s take on both plagiarism (“it’s just slight teafing”) and ghostwriting (“channeling by another name, darling”), so it was very good publicity indeed.
But having sued the critic now, it would be a pity to lose to him. If only for the money. When did she become so careless about it? Having personnel did go a little to her head…“If you’d pardon me” Elizabeth said after a eloquent burp, “all that tea have quite distended my bladder, and I would actually quite enjoy discovering the loo of the courthouse. When shall we go?”
Bugger caution, thought Finnley. “My cousin Finly has a new job,” she said impulsively to Godfrey, while they waited for Elizabeth to return from the loo.
Godfrey jumped.
“Finnley, I didn’t realise you were there. How very interesting. Where is your cousin working?”
Finnley sighed loudly and decided impulsive conversation was overrated. Why do people always want to know more? She had given him the bloody gist of it hadn’t she?
“Don’t make me talk. I hate talking,” she said, rudely rolling her eyes.
“What I really love about this, Godfrey,” Liz said, “Is that it really is complete rubbish. I mean, it’s not cleverly pretending to be rubbish, it really IS rubbish. But I am feeling the energy, and I feel that I enjoy such utter rubbish, and that’s the feeling that counts.”
“Oh shut up Liz, and finish your curry. Wasn’t it your brilliant idea to have Indian food before the court audition?”
Godfrey smiled a painful smile eating with teary eyes a last spoonful of spicy butter chicken, thinking about Liz feeling the energy and enjoyment in the loo the next day.“The law is an ass, Godfrey,” Elizabeth said, extricating a bit of sag paneer from between her teeth that he had drawn her attention to. “I have no intention of wasting my time in court. As a matter of fact, I’ve written the critic out of the story. And the court. Waste of fecking time, fecking gobshites, the fecking lot of them.”
“You seem to be developing an Irish accent, Liz,” he replied, signalling the waiter for the bill.
“What did you do that for? There was no bill to pay until you introduced the fecking waiter into the script!”
“If you don’t pay the bill or turn up in court, the police will come and arrest you, Liz, have you considered that?”
“What fecking police?” she replied.
“Who are you talking to?” asked Finnley. “I wrote Godfrey out of the story this morning.”
“Whatever for?” Liz asked in surprise.
“He kept talking. I hate talking.”
Wisely, Elizabeth said nothing.
Finnley got a book out of her bag and started reading, rather rudely, Elizabeth thought.
Liz leaned over so that she could read over Finnley’s shoulder, in the absence of anyone to talk to as all the characters had been written out of the script.
“…full of misinformation and wrong opinions.” she read.
“Then sir, you may say so. The ruder you are, the more the editors will be delighted.”
(A point worth bearing in mind, Liz thought)
“But it is my own opinions which I wish to make better known, not other people’s.”
“Ah, but, sir, it is precisely by passing judgements upon other people’s work and pointing out their errors that readers can be made to understand your own opinions better. It is the easiest thing in the world to turn a review to one’s own ends. One only need mention the book once or twice and for the rest of the article one may develop one’s theme just as one chuses. It is, I assure you, what every body else does.”
“Hmm, you may be right. But, no. It would seem as if I were lending support to what ought never to have been published in the first place.”
When Elizabeth had had enough of reading, she wrote Godfrey back into the script.
“What ARE you reading, Finnley?”
“Just a book I picked up in Paris,” she replied nonchalantly, hoping that would be enough information to appease Elizabeth’s curiosity. And also, as an added bonus, adding a certain je ne sais quoi to her vibe. Finley knew she could come across as a tad boring, something she was quite proud of. Still, it didn’t hurt to mix things up every now and then.
Elizabeth sighed loudly. “If you can’t think of anything sensible to say then I wish you would just talk nonsense. Or go to another thread” she added as an afterthought, wondering just whose thread this was anyway. Finley was tending to monopolise things lately. Even without saying much.
“At least I am reading a fucking book”, muttered Finnley under her breath.
That being a euphemism for writing a fucking comment of course.
“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth, “A little less fucking reading and a bit more writing would help this story along.”
“Perhaps” replied Finnley sniffily, “You should be the one to start.”
“Finnley, I do hope you realize the extent of my kindness and patience with you. I hope you appreciate it. Not only should you be cleaning, which I have generously turned a blind eye to while you read cheap tuppeny scandals, but you badger me to keep busy while you are relaxing on full pay!”
But Finnley was engrossed in her tawdry novel again, and didn’t hear her.
“By the way, how DO you spell your name? Is it Finnley with one “n” or two?”
“Either way is fine by me”, grunted Finnley, rolling her eyes.
