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Peveral Murkin and Ermentrude Pinkley and Daff Maud Bunkum and the Dreadfulness of Assistant Librarians
“Look here!” shrieked Peveral Murkin, suddenly and without warning. “Look what it says in this book,” an outburst which prompted Ms. Delilah Zonker, The Assistant Librarian (and widowed Lithuanian sister-in-law and permanent paying guest of Mrs. Begonia Throttle) to retort with one of her marvellous “SHHHHHs”, a retort she managed to punctuate with a look guaranteed to curdle the best clotted cream and wilt a dozen red roses, expressing (as it did) a combination of the very deepest disappointment, personal horror and High Dudgeon, all at the same time. “What a good thing it is,” she thought to herself, “that dear Mrs. DaFarge is not here to witness this abomination. It most certainly would have given her the vapours, if not a terrible apoplexy. I must make every effort to suppress this outrage so that news of it never comes to her ears.”
The Assistant Librarian then returned to the project at hand, which was to plot the overthrow of the current regime and her superior’s possibly fatal demise. She thought (not for the first time) what a good thing it was that she had, that very morning, laid out her new “Head Librarian” ensemble, for one never knew when inevitable promotion would fall upon one, forcing one (against one’s will, of course) to take up the breach. Noticing Ms. Delilah Zonker’s inattention to duty, Peveral Murkin, Ermentrude Pinkley and daff Maud Bunkum (still flushed the colour of beetroot from their scolding) quickly gathered up the pile of assorted books and scholarly publications and newspapers (including the one which Peveral Murkin had been reading at the time of his outburst) and scuttled into an adjourning room, shutting the door behind them.
“We should be safe in here, at least until the silly old cow discovers we’ve closed the door”, whispered Peveral Murkin in a hoarse whisper. When the others did not respond, he pointed to a sign on the door which bore the legend “DOOR TO REMAIN OPEN AT ALL TIMES, SIGNED, THE LIBRARIAN, MRS. DAFARGE.” “However, THIS,” he said, waving the newspaper, “might be very important and we can’t take the risk of being overheard by the wrong pair of ears.”
There was an awkward pause, during which all three of them tried to imagine Ms. Delilah Zonker’s ears stuck to the door. Peveral Murkin then blew his nose and Ermentrude Pinkley spied a tiny purple mite making a home in her shoelace. Not wishing to share her shoelace with anyone not specifically invited, the mite was instantly removed to Ermentrude Pinkley’s mouth, and from there to her stomach. “Bloody cheek,” grumbled Ermentrude Pinkley under her breath. Meanwhile, Peveral Murkin, quite forgetting himself, examined the contents of his handkerchief (second best muslin, stained orange from being washed in pumpkin soup) before cleaning it with his tongue. He then cleared his throat, quite oblivious to any embarrassing social solecism he may or may not have committed, and continued. “It says here on page fourteen, under ‘Strange Local Events of the Past’, that the vile and non-biodegradable Welliffomething-ffomething sisters were sold to a silent order of nuns (The Dreaded Sisters of The Order of St. Mingus The Tongue Yanker) by a person or persons unknown, shortly after the great storm of 1838 and have not been heard from since. At the time, suspicion lay heavily upon the head of General Lord Havering’s youngest sister, the demented Doña Maria Consuela de la Oblongata, but nothing was ever proven.”
Daff Maud Bunkum shook her head violently, dislodging her left ear and causing it to be flung across the room, where it came to rest on volume three of ‘The Collected Works of The Earthworms of Ghent’. “They cannot have been St. Mingus Nunnies,” she exclaimed. “None of them have working tongues, and we hear the sister’s voices coming over the wall every time it rains, complaining and moaning and carrying on. It makes my blood run cold every single time I hear them. I will swear on my mother’s grave that it is them!”
“THEY,” corrected Peveral Murkin. “You will swear on your mother’s grave that it is THEY. Your grammar really is appalling. Have you been watching television again?”
“Never you mind about that,” Ermentrude Pinkley said crossly. “It is neither here nor there and has no place in this conversation. Now, think carefully, my dear Maud. Perhaps you were mistaken.”
Ermentrude Pinkley paused for a moment and examined examining the contents of her handbag (three sausage rolls, a pound of gravel, four spoons and a large yellow budgerigar). Mortified that she may have been guilty as charged, Daff Maud Bunkum grew very red in the face. Seeing this, Ermentrude continued speaking, her voice cautious and full of reason. “It has happened before. Remember when you thought we were about to be invaded by a train and it turned out to be Missus Ridglet-Grassworm having a sneezing fit? In any case, you can’t swear on your mother’s grave. I know for a fact she was eaten by a bat, and everybody knows you cannot swear on one of those, not even if you can find them, which you can’t. Besides which,” she added for good measure, “you mustn’t be disrespectful of the dead or your nose will fall off and be served up with toasted cheese.”
Daff Maud Bunkum took a deep breath and sat up very straight. And when she spoke, her voice trembled with indignation and ire. “Do you honestly think I could forget their voices,” she croaked, “after what they did to us?” She clamped her mouth shut and glared at her friends.
The room fell silent. Then, simultaneously, they all drew breath. Peveral Murkin turned to open the door. The only thing no one can deny is that we shall never accomplish anything by remaining in this room a minute longer. And further more, we can hardly be expected to think clearly on empty stomachs. I, for one, am famished. Faint, even, from starvation. May I propose that we put aside our rancour, which was undoubtedly brought on by a most severe vitamin deficiency, and set sail for gastric salvation? Let us take these books back to The Librarian’s Desk, avoiding, if possible, that dreadful woman (I do so detest mealy bugs), and adjourn to Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s charming Tea Cosy for sustenance?”
“Were you referring to Ms. Delilah Zonker?” asked a bemused and still out-of-sorts daff Maud Bunkum. “Are you sure it is terribly nice calling her ‘that dreadful woman’? She is a most respectable lady and the only reason she has been placed in the back row of the church choir is because of her hideous voice.”
“Not to mention her flatulence,” added Ermentrude Pinkley, somewhat wistfully.
But before either Daff Maud Bunkum or Ermentrude Pinkley could continue with their digression, Peveral Murkin hustled them out the door. He sat them down on a large, embroidered Chesterfield, which just so happened to be napping behind a Doric column, and carried all the books and journals and learned periodicals back to The Librarian’s Desk. Ms. Delilah Zonker, who was busily rearranging her face in the looking glass and practicing her ‘Severe Head Librarian’ turn of phrase, addressed her reflection in the sternest possible terms (as though it were a mere Library Card holder), “Your book is unacceptably late. You must pay the penalty. Forty farthings per day plus a thrupenny bit for breathing. And how dare you think when I am speaking to you.” She was, quite naturally, far too busy to acknowledge Peveral Murkin (who was, after all, a tedious bore who insisted on checking out books every half hour and creating a great deal of work for the already over-burdened Almost Head Librarian In All But Name). She did, however, scribble a somewhat severe note (as befitting her new position, even though it wasn’t yet hers) and shoved it under his nose.
When he returned to his friends he was purple-faced and even more annoyed than usual. “SHE,” he fumed, “ordered me to pay a late fee. Four minutes late, the book was. FOUR MINUTES. And then she had the gall to charge me a ha’penny out-of-town fee for taking the books into the next room, plus,” he thundered (under his breath), “a half crown for closing the door!”
“Never mind, Peveral,” cooed Ermentrude Pinkley, “I’m sure Mrs. DaFarge will straighten in all out when she returns from her tea break. She is quite used to Delilah and what she gets up to the minute her back is turned. You’ll get your money back, you’ll see.”
“It is quite intolerable,” sobbed Peveral Murkin, wiping his nose on the doorknob.
While Daff Maud Bunkum picked him up off the floor and brushed him off, Ermentrude Pinkley gave her oldest friend a reassuring pat on one of his hands and blew in his ear. “All you need is a nice cup of tea. You’ll be right as rain in a minute,” she cooed.
Two fresh tears appeared in Peveral Murkin’s eyes and his eyes misted over. Nevertheless, he managed a smile.
“Look here!” shrieked Peveral Murkin, suddenly and without warning. “Look what it says in this book,” an outburst which prompted Ms. Delilah Zonker, The Assistant Librarian (and widowed Lithuanian sister-in-law and permanent paying guest of Mrs. Begonia Throttle) to retort with one of her marvellous “SHHHHHs”, a retort she managed to punctuate with a look guaranteed to curdle the best clotted cream and wilt a dozen red roses, expressing (as it did) a combination of the very deepest disappointment, personal horror and High Dudgeon, all at the same time. “What a good thing it is,” she thought to herself, “that dear Mrs. DaFarge is not here to witness this abomination. It most certainly would have given her the vapours, if not a terrible apoplexy. I must make every effort to suppress this outrage so that news of it never comes to her ears.”
The Assistant Librarian then returned to the project at hand, which was to plot the overthrow of the current regime and her superior’s possibly fatal demise. She thought (not for the first time) what a good thing it was that she had, that very morning, laid out her new “Head Librarian” ensemble, for one never knew when inevitable promotion would fall upon one, forcing one (against one’s will, of course) to take up the breach. Noticing Ms. Delilah Zonker’s inattention to duty, Peveral Murkin, Ermentrude Pinkley and daff Maud Bunkum (still flushed the colour of beetroot from their scolding) quickly gathered up the pile of assorted books and scholarly publications and newspapers (including the one which Peveral Murkin had been reading at the time of his outburst) and scuttled into an adjourning room, shutting the door behind them.
“We should be safe in here, at least until the silly old cow discovers we’ve closed the door”, whispered Peveral Murkin in a hoarse whisper. When the others did not respond, he pointed to a sign on the door which bore the legend “DOOR TO REMAIN OPEN AT ALL TIMES, SIGNED, THE LIBRARIAN, MRS. DAFARGE.” “However, THIS,” he said, waving the newspaper, “might be very important and we can’t take the risk of being overheard by the wrong pair of ears.”
There was an awkward pause, during which all three of them tried to imagine Ms. Delilah Zonker’s ears stuck to the door. Peveral Murkin then blew his nose and Ermentrude Pinkley spied a tiny purple mite making a home in her shoelace. Not wishing to share her shoelace with anyone not specifically invited, the mite was instantly removed to Ermentrude Pinkley’s mouth, and from there to her stomach. “Bloody cheek,” grumbled Ermentrude Pinkley under her breath. Meanwhile, Peveral Murkin, quite forgetting himself, examined the contents of his handkerchief (second best muslin, stained orange from being washed in pumpkin soup) before cleaning it with his tongue. He then cleared his throat, quite oblivious to any embarrassing social solecism he may or may not have committed, and continued. “It says here on page fourteen, under ‘Strange Local Events of the Past’, that the vile and non-biodegradable Welliffomething-ffomething sisters were sold to a silent order of nuns (The Dreaded Sisters of The Order of St. Mingus The Tongue Yanker) by a person or persons unknown, shortly after the great storm of 1838 and have not been heard from since. At the time, suspicion lay heavily upon the head of General Lord Havering’s youngest sister, the demented Doña Maria Consuela de la Oblongata, but nothing was ever proven.”
Daff Maud Bunkum shook her head violently, dislodging her left ear and causing it to be flung across the room, where it came to rest on volume three of ‘The Collected Works of The Earthworms of Ghent’. “They cannot have been St. Mingus Nunnies,” she exclaimed. “None of them have working tongues, and we hear the sister’s voices coming over the wall every time it rains, complaining and moaning and carrying on. It makes my blood run cold every single time I hear them. I will swear on my mother’s grave that it is them!”
“THEY,” corrected Peveral Murkin. “You will swear on your mother’s grave that it is THEY. Your grammar really is appalling. Have you been watching television again?”
“Never you mind about that,” Ermentrude Pinkley said crossly. “It is neither here nor there and has no place in this conversation. Now, think carefully, my dear Maud. Perhaps you were mistaken.”
Ermentrude Pinkley paused for a moment and examined examining the contents of her handbag (three sausage rolls, a pound of gravel, four spoons and a large yellow budgerigar). Mortified that she may have been guilty as charged, Daff Maud Bunkum grew very red in the face. Seeing this, Ermentrude continued speaking, her voice cautious and full of reason. “It has happened before. Remember when you thought we were about to be invaded by a train and it turned out to be Missus Ridglet-Grassworm having a sneezing fit? In any case, you can’t swear on your mother’s grave. I know for a fact she was eaten by a bat, and everybody knows you cannot swear on one of those, not even if you can find them, which you can’t. Besides which,” she added for good measure, “you mustn’t be disrespectful of the dead or your nose will fall off and be served up with toasted cheese.”
Daff Maud Bunkum took a deep breath and sat up very straight. And when she spoke, her voice trembled with indignation and ire. “Do you honestly think I could forget their voices,” she croaked, “after what they did to us?” She clamped her mouth shut and glared at her friends.
The room fell silent. Then, simultaneously, they all drew breath. Peveral Murkin turned to open the door. The only thing no one can deny is that we shall never accomplish anything by remaining in this room a minute longer. And further more, we can hardly be expected to think clearly on empty stomachs. I, for one, am famished. Faint, even, from starvation. May I propose that we put aside our rancour, which was undoubtedly brought on by a most severe vitamin deficiency, and set sail for gastric salvation? Let us take these books back to The Librarian’s Desk, avoiding, if possible, that dreadful woman (I do so detest mealy bugs), and adjourn to Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s charming Tea Cosy for sustenance?”
“Were you referring to Ms. Delilah Zonker?” asked a bemused and still out-of-sorts daff Maud Bunkum. “Are you sure it is terribly nice calling her ‘that dreadful woman’? She is a most respectable lady and the only reason she has been placed in the back row of the church choir is because of her hideous voice.”
“Not to mention her flatulence,” added Ermentrude Pinkley, somewhat wistfully.
But before either Daff Maud Bunkum or Ermentrude Pinkley could continue with their digression, Peveral Murkin hustled them out the door. He sat them down on a large, embroidered Chesterfield, which just so happened to be napping behind a Doric column, and carried all the books and journals and learned periodicals back to The Librarian’s Desk. Ms. Delilah Zonker, who was busily rearranging her face in the looking glass and practicing her ‘Severe Head Librarian’ turn of phrase, addressed her reflection in the sternest possible terms (as though it were a mere Library Card holder), “Your book is unacceptably late. You must pay the penalty. Forty farthings per day plus a thrupenny bit for breathing. And how dare you think when I am speaking to you.” She was, quite naturally, far too busy to acknowledge Peveral Murkin (who was, after all, a tedious bore who insisted on checking out books every half hour and creating a great deal of work for the already over-burdened Almost Head Librarian In All But Name). She did, however, scribble a somewhat severe note (as befitting her new position, even though it wasn’t yet hers) and shoved it under his nose.
When he returned to his friends he was purple-faced and even more annoyed than usual. “SHE,” he fumed, “ordered me to pay a late fee. Four minutes late, the book was. FOUR MINUTES. And then she had the gall to charge me a ha’penny out-of-town fee for taking the books into the next room, plus,” he thundered (under his breath), “a half crown for closing the door!”
“Never mind, Peveral,” cooed Ermentrude Pinkley, “I’m sure Mrs. DaFarge will straighten in all out when she returns from her tea break. She is quite used to Delilah and what she gets up to the minute her back is turned. You’ll get your money back, you’ll see.”
“It is quite intolerable,” sobbed Peveral Murkin, wiping his nose on the doorknob.
While Daff Maud Bunkum picked him up off the floor and brushed him off, Ermentrude Pinkley gave her oldest friend a reassuring pat on one of his hands and blew in his ear. “All you need is a nice cup of tea. You’ll be right as rain in a minute,” she cooed.
Two fresh tears appeared in Peveral Murkin’s eyes and his eyes misted over. Nevertheless, he managed a smile.
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