Directory of Humor Blogs
The Quest for The Memorial Goat’s Cheese or The Confusion of Mrs. DaFarge
Mrs. DaFarge was annoyed. It was, as to be expected, a recurring theme in her life to dwell in a moderate state of respectable dudgeon. After all, she occupied a certain stratum, much loftier than the realm in which other, less elevated organisms went about their ordinary, fairly useless, humdrum lives, and in the battle to maintain the highest of standards she felt the onerous weight of the world upon her shoulders. “If I am not willing to fly the flag of social perfection, then I have let the side down,” she would say, and for much of her long life she had but rarely stumbled.
It was not uncommon for Mrs. DaFarge to articulate extreme chagrin and exasperation, but only when addressing her reflection in her dressing room mirror (a mannerism picked up and used to a less gentile effect by her underling, the spiteful Ms. Delilah Zonker). To erupt in unmannerly and vulgar harangues in front of mere mortals was unthinkable; her reflection was as well bred as she and, therefore, impervious to insults. Besides, it rarely if ever gossiped.
But in spite of the trials and tribulation she was forced on a daily and hourly basis to endure, Mrs. DaFarge was hardly if ever annoyed. “To spend one minute in a state of annoyance when one is gifted with a life such as mine, is to slap the face of God!”
Be that as it may, on this particular afternoon, Mrs. DaFarge was annoyed.
Her 11.20 appointment with The Marriage Bureau for Respectable Gentlefolk’s managing director, Mrs. Begonia Throttle, had not gone as planned. “What is this?” she’d trumpeted when Mrs. Throttle’s personal assistant of the day, Miss Mimsy Flotsum, produced a leading candidate in the marriage stakes. “Why, it is nothing but a stinkbug!”
“But,” responded Mrs. Throttle, with the utmost respect, “he is the most immaculate and refined gentleman we have on our books. Not only is he a professional of independent means, but I am told he sings tenor in the village choir.”
“I,” roared Mrs. DaFarge, “sing lead alto, and I assure you we has never once darkened the stairs of Reverend Spinckter’s choir loft!”
“I am told on good authority he is very retiring,” replied Mrs. Throttle, trying to retain her composure.
“Well,” said the noble lady, after a moment’s reflection, “bring him out again (and be quick about it, I haven’t got all day) and parade him ‘round the room, first one way, then the t’other. If he equips himself satisfactory and has about him no odour of the nineteenth arrondissement (as she referred to the most lurid of the south bog neighbourhoods), I shall require him to speak. Perhaps he might compose a sonnet or two to my grandeur, perhaps not. In any event, he must be acquainted with the spoken word, as nurtured by The Bard and dear Mr. Wordsworth. I will consider (but only just) a certain, barbaric regionalism to his tonality, but be warned, Mrs. Throttle, I shall withdraw my patronage of this establishment should he be endowed with the three word vocabulary as enjoyed by the current batch of children’s television presenters!”
Mrs. Begonia Throttle blushed deepest crimson and removed her spectacles, wiping them with a corner of her faux-damask tablecloth and humming a few bars of her beloved Schoenberg, before glancing sweetly at her most important client.
“Might I suggest a discreet corner table for two at darling Chef Blatard de Flumpe’s Café aux Quinze Oublis. His terrarium de amour in the maze is divinely exquisite this time of the year and he is, as you know, discretion itself.”
In spite of herself, Mrs. DaFarge shuddered outwardly. “And to think I was once susceptible to the hypnotic charms of his mousse au chocolat avec sauce haut-le-cœur supreme,” she said. “It was my undoing, but, of course, you recall the unfortunate ‘affaire delicate’ involving Dr. Polymorphibubble Stickleback (possibly Prof. Doktor Polymporphius Stickleback, perhaps not)) and his boat…” she filled the rancid air of Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s tiny office with her silence, and Mrs. Throttle, to her credit, had the good grace to blush once again and lower her eyes.
“That was indeed unfortunate,” she said.
“Indeed it was!” replied Mrs. DaFarge. “And I have not forgotten he came, shall we say, highly recommended. Now what was it you said? Oh yes, ‘My dear Mrs. DaFarge,’ you said, ‘I am told on the highest authority that Professor Doctor Stickleback is a most distinguished professional of independent means and sings counter tenor in the village choir.”
“Alas, I fear you have remembered correctly,” lamented Mrs. Begonia Throttle, “if only I hadn’t been swept away by the sweet music of the castrati! In my childhood, during the long summer evenings in Naples, the piazzas and loggias would melt with their song! Honestly, Mrs. DaFarge, it wasn’t my fault! It was my childhood and my mother’s incessant beatings and the gelati di marsala…I was in a trance.”
“Harrumph!” commented Mrs. DaFarge, and once again, “Harrumph!”
And so it was that, exactly forty-three minutes later, Mrs. DaFarge emerged from The Marriage Bureau for Respectable Gentlefolk (Mrs. Begonia Throttle, proprietoress) with reservations for two at Chef Blatard de Flumpe’s Café aux Quinze Oublis and a certificate of marriage signed by Miss Mimsy Flotsum (who, in addition to being Mrs. Throttle’s Personal Assistant was also a fully ordained Minister of the Church of The Seven Hidden Penchants [of Las Vegas, Nevada], as well as a Justice of the Peace). Precisely ten seconds before The Great Librarian’s exit from Mrs. Throttle’s office, sanity had returned to her, full force, courtesy of an incident involving her new groom’s burkha. Immediately upon Miss Flotsum proclaiming “I pronounce you man and wife that’ll be thirty shillings,” the mysterious and exotic foreign beggar and distinguished professional (and new husband) leaned over to kiss his blushing bride, accidentally tripping over his garment, and revealing himself to be none other than the hideous Ms. Delilah Zonker, arch-nemesis as well as Assistant Librarian and recently engaged Second Assistant Librarian. It was then that Mrs. DaFarge’s head cleared and annoyance set it. “I am extremely annoyed, Mrs. Begonia Throttle! You have betrayed me once again!” Thereupon she ate the bemused café owner and leading entrepreneur and squashed the stinkbug like, well, a bug. “You are fired, Ms. Delilah Zonker and whatever your other name is! And don’t bother coming in to pick up your cards. I shall throw them into the gutter. You may find them there, amongst the pig leavings.”
Once outside, she took a deep breath and examined both the very large and ostentatious fake diamond ring on her finger and the marriage certificate. The former was, quite naturally, vulgar to the extreme and so she felt no compunction in hurling it into the nearest pigsty (where it was eaten immediately by one of the [late] Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s prize boars). The certificate of marriage she folded carefully and inserted into the safe located in the bottom of her Louis Vuitton handbag (a present from her beloved, departed Clarence). “The first thing I shall do,” she trumpeted to herself (to ensure she was listening properly) “is have this beastly marriage annulled! The second thing is to proceed without delay to Chef Blatard de Flumpe’s Café aux Quinze Oublis and avail myself of a double portion of mousse au chocolat avec sauce haut-le-cœur supreme. My mouth is salty from eating that common Throttle woman, and I require great beauty of palate… of…”
“I KNOW,” she boomed. “I shall submit myself to three hours or so of Rafael la Louche’s pummelling ministrations at Day Spa Delicioso. I demand to be a new woman immediately! J’arrive Rafael! J’arrive.”
***
Forty-seven minutes later, following her three hours of aggressive and therapeutic ministrations by the sinewy, Italianesque Rafael (perfect in every way except he was ginger), Mrs. DaFarge was settled comfortably on the black leather Chesterfield in the chambers of Chief Justice Sir Humbart Pincer-Pettigrew (father-in-law of Dorothina Flumpe, the erstwhile wife of Chef Blatard) and becoming reacquainted with his finest single malt. “A gift from the General, may he rest in peace, his most exquisitely perfect distillation of Auld Ram’s Fundament. The cask was exactly one hundred years old even then, and that was over ninety years ago,” said His Lordship, to which Mrs. DaFarge replied, somewhat uncertainly, “and how very delightful it is, Your Lordship,” to which he cleared his throat and shouted, “Here, Here!” and bade his clerk recharge their glasses.
The reason for Mrs. DaFarge’s delay in arriving at His Lordship’s chambers, quite aside from her session with the succulent and muscular Rafael, was directly related to the unfortunate events in The Marriage Bureau. “I have come, my dear cousin Humbart, for your advice. My life, for whatever reason, it unravelling in a most unsettling and common fashion, and I wish it to be rectified before the afternoon is out. I must chair a meeting of the Women’s Institute’s Select Committee on the Abolition of Unfortunate Childhoods at half past two and I cannot be seen to be less than bountiful,” whereupon he replied, “I quite understand, my dear, and I shall give you all the assistance I can. Pray, continue.”
Thus encouraged, Mrs. DaFarge launched into a precise though (for her) somewhat incoherent account of the events of the day, culminating in her unaccountable behaviour following the splendid Rafael’s therapeutic manipulations (of which the judge requested a written account). “For the life of me, I cannot understand why I am suddenly given to ungovernably ‘tradesmanlike’ impulses,” she said, lowering her voice at the mere mention of her plight and throwing up her hands (and in so doing, spilling the dregs of the precious Fundament on to her left brogue). “I do apologise,” she cried absentmindedly, before plunging on.
The tale she related was fulsome and piteous, and one which left the Lord Chief Justice quaking in his silks. It left not one detail of that morning’s horrors to the imagination, and included such background information as she could remember, as well as much that she could not (omitting only certain details relating to the ravishing Rafael’s impeccable technique). After nearly six and three-quarter hours, during which the judge’s clerk served them (first) a traditionally unsatisfactory dinner of Brown Windsor Soup, Fried Scampi and Baked Beans, Steak and Kidney Pudding, Plum Duff and Stilton, and (to follow) an intellectually stimulating supper of cuisses de grenouille meunière, perdrix aux truffes and les fraises de bois à la crème, Mrs. DaFarge, at long last, achieved the climax suprème of her story.
“It was, my dear cousin Humbart, upon departing partially invigorated from the physiotherapist’s surgery that a strange and urgent compunction came over me. I was, you see, compelled to convey myself forthwith to The Tea Cosy, that abysmal establishment so favoured by the lower orders and up until a few short hours ago owned by the loathsome Mrs. Begonia Throttle, fortuitously défunte. Once there I proceeded to bake a large variety of exquisite patisseries and upbraid the meagre staff (as you are no doubt aware, they include Miss Frou Frou de Potsy, the manageress, Dorcas O’Leary, the subterranean waitress, Borgo Hankshaft, the baker, about whom the less is said the better, Bert Tiffle, the cook, and [when he puts in an appearance] Lairy Billy Bogbug, the plonge) for their accursed slovenliness. All of this was done without either my consent or knowing. I was is a state of trance, my dear Humbart, performing tasks essential to the furtherance of an establishment that heretofore I have neither entered nor considered anything but onerous. It was as though I felt a sudden and urgent responsibility towards the vile place. I swear, my stately cousin, I had suddenly become HER (that despicable THING, Mrs. Begonia Throttle) in body and mind. I am possessed! And that, my dear cousin, is why I have come to you. I throw myself at your mercy, Your Lordship, you are the only one I trust to rid me of this meddlesome priest.”
“Priest, you say?” muttered the ancient judge into his glass. “How extraordinary!”
“Precisely,” trumpeted Mrs. DaFarge.
“Hmmm,” hummed The Lord Chief Justice, and then again, “Hmmm…”
Mrs. DaFarge perked up, suddenly hopeful. “Yes, my dear Humbart?”
“It is, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria, a simple case of possession by the consumed. Am I right in supposing that you ate the vile creature in one gulp, without, as they say, masticating unnecessarily?”
“Why yes,” responded Mrs. DaFarge enthusiastically.
“Then, my dear, you are very fortunately indeed,” said the judge in a grave manner, as if about to pronounce sentence. “If you had masticated unnecessarily and unduly, and, by so doing, had shredded her into unrecognisable pulpy fragments, doom would have been upon you for all time and even more. As it is, however, all is not lost,” he added quickly before she could interrupt or sob on his shoulder, “and if you are willing to undertake a pilgrimage to The Shrine of The Memorial Goat’s Cheese on the Tower of the Dead Termagant and offer three black pearls to the sacred eternal vessel, the consumed woman… what was her name?… Mrs. Prattle…”
“Mrs. Throttle,” said Mrs. DaFarge, interrupting him. “Mrs. Begonia Throttle. She is (or was) the proprietress of The Tea Cosy and most of the…”
“Yes,” said The Lord Chief Justice, cutting her off as quickly as possible, “quite so… As I was saying, upon offering the three black pearls to the sacred vessel (which you shall find quite easily, there being adequate signage) the vulgar person shall be obliged to move out of your mind and body (into which it had so precipitously entered, it being a presumptuous and foul social climber and from a bad family). Mrs. Frattle…”
“Throttle,” interjected Mrs. DaFarge as quickly as possibly.
“Exactly,” continued The Lord Chief Justice testily. “As I was saying, this Mrs. Spittle will then be in your power forever, at your beckoned call at all times and in your debt until the end of time.”
“Couldn’t we simply send her to one of those places dead creatures go and forget about her?” inquired Mrs. DaFarge, quickly adding, “after a suitable memorial service, of course. I understand the vicar offers a most pleasing and discreet service. His charges for an internment are quite reasonable, or so I am led to believe, providing one requires only the minimum.”
“You forget, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria,” chimed in The Judge, “there is no corpus delecti. Without one of those there may well be an enquiry. Such things are, as you may or may not be aware, extremely awkward, and as you are her heir under the law of sole eater, you might well find yourself in for a rough ride.”
“But, my dear cousin Humbart, the income from her various enterprises would be so terribly pleasing to me. I was hoping to landscape the gardens, you see, and the orangery wants replanting…”
“Orangery, my dear Mrs. DaFarge?” he enquired with raised eyebrows, “I was not aware you were in possession of such an asset.”
“Precisely, my dear Lord Chief Justice,” she replied. “Impeccable social standards do not an orangery provide. For that one requires money and a great deal of it. I am a Head Librarian, as well as President of the Women’s Institute and Chairwoman of the Council. The latter two positions pay not at all and the former provides me with a pittance. Why, only last week, the bank (Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Throttle Bank, if you please) informed me that they were disinclined to honour my overdraft. After all these years, a pillar of the community, and I am destitute!”
“My dear, dear cousin Mrs. DaFarge,” murmured The Aged Judge, patting her reassuringly on the left hand, “I simply had no idea.”
“Precisely,” she said, “no one had.”
“This changes everything,” whispered The Lord Chief Justice, nodding his head sagely. He fell silent for a moment, distracted by a very small caterpillar crawling up his leg. He stabbed it with his right forefinger and popped it absentmindedly into is mouth.
“There is, of course,” he said to Mrs. DaFarge between chews, “the question of your husband, the exotic beggar.”
“Are you referring to Mr. Hui Ya Fing?”
“The very same,” replied Chief Justice Sir Humbart Pincer-Pettigrew (father-in-law of Dorothina Flumpe [erstwhile wife of Chef Blatard]), trimming his pre-prandial cigar with a pair of silver garden secateurs.
“B…b… but,” she studdered, “I smashed him into bits. He is dead, my dear Humbart.”
“Not nearly so dead as you might wish,” The Judge replied, “I am informed Mr. Hui Ya Fing has, this very afternoon while we were partaking of the Golden Amontillado, moved his possessions (twenty boxes in all) into your best bedroom.”
Mrs. DaFarge coughed, disgorging a small trickle of Crème de Menthe, which fell in droplets down her décolletage. “Oh,” she sobbed, “What am I to do?”
“My dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria,” replied The Judge in his most eloquent tone of voice, “I fear that unless you are prepared to act as I advised, you will have no choice but to face a life of ruin, as well as a doubtful husband who is also (or so I am advised) your bitterest enemy.”
“What on earth are you talking about,” she demanded.
“Has your short-term memory deserted you completely, Mrs. DaFarge? You yourself admitted that Mr. Hui Ya Fing is none other that the vile Lithuanian Assistant Librarian, Mrs. Delilah Zonker,” adding for effect, “and whichever way you put it, they are both your lawfully wedded spouse, as well as your lord and master.”
Whereupon Mrs. DaFarge fainted dead away.
***
Twenty minutes later, following a therapeutic session in The Judge’s hot tub and several experiments with his beloved essential oils, Mrs. DaFarge emerge from her cousin Humbart’s chambers with a map, a set of instructions and a look of determination on her face. Given her own druthers she might have preferred not to display her intentions so openly, but The Lord Chief Justice had passed sentence. “You may, of course, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria, carry duplicate instructions in your handbag, but written as they are upon your physiognomy, all may see and admire examples of my calligraphy (for which a full price list – including invitations, decrees, visiting cards and diplomas – have been annotated on your bald spot).” Under any other circumstances, Mrs. DaFarge would have objected most strenuously to being used in such a commercial manner, but if it meant ridding herself of an unwanted husband and a dangerous incubus (or was it succubus) at the same time, then humiliation was a small price to pay.
The Judge had stressed the importance of immediate action. Under no circumstances was she to go through the village (“you would be sorely tempted,” His Lordship had warned, “to follow the possessor’s urgings and visit The Tea Cosy or one of her other business ventures. Once inside, there is no telling what the consumed might get up to, although I am certain it would involve death, at least as far as you are concerned”). Mrs. DaFarge was to follow the instructions (and map) to the letter, walking as briskly as her brogues would allow through the remote eastern marshes to the Stile of The Lost, an archaic pyramid of stone and brick predating the invention of mankind. After she had clambered over to the other side, she should walk four hundred twenty seven substantial paces due east to a primordial oak (‘you can’t miss it,” The Judge had said, “in stands in the centre of the northern parkland and is surrounded only by a sea of grass. You will also be able to identify it by its location half way between The Big House and The Ornamental Inner Gate, and also by the bronze plaque affixed to its mighty trunk”).
“Oh, Humbart, that is so very far away, and I have my committee meetings,” whispered Mrs. DaFarge, desperately.
“My dear Mrs. DaFarge, you will never chair another committee as long as Mrs. Begonia Throttle resides within your stomach.”
“I know, I know,” she groaned. “Well, goodbye, my dearest Lord Chief Justice. Bid me fond farewell. I shall return home immediately and pack for the journey.”
“Au contraire,” interjected The Judge, “There is no time for packing. The three black pearls must be placed within the sacred eternal vessel at exactly sixteen and a half seconds before teatime. One second later and Mrs. Begonia Throttle and her strange characteristics shall become a permanent part of your physiognomy.”
Mrs. DaFarge looked at him petulantly. “I find it irritating that you should even think of me sacrificing pearls of great price, especially the black ones. Black pearls carry with them the memory of dear Prince Albert’s funeral. My great great grandmamma attended (you no doubt recall) in her capacity as close friend of the bereaved. If I am required to cast pearls unto the swine, may I not I substitute a tawdry string of dark greys? They do nothing whatsoever for a lady’s complexion, and besides they look extremely irksome in the light of day? And while I am on the subject, what if I should choose to place my offering in (what was it?) the Sacred Eternal Vessel one second early or one second late?”
“You haven’t been paying attention, have you? One second early or one second late, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria, and Mrs. Begonia Throttle will sing in your bowels forever!”
With that, Mrs. DaFarge arose from her chair, gathered up her handbag and left The Judge’s chambers. She strode down the ancient street like a three-masted schooner in full sail, oblivious to the medieval aspects of the buildings (of which she had always been so devoted), slowing down only when she reached the iron gates to her garden. “How different life was,” she lamented, “before darling mummy died (she had been devoured by a cat – either Marquis or Maribel-Bean, she never knew which, during a midsummer picnic along the lovely eastern bog stream, in 1947). “Without her to keep him on an even keel, poor daddy simply went into a decline. He had lost the manse to Geraldo Throttle in a game of cards before the week was out… oh daddy daddy daddy, I never could forgive you after we moved into the bungalow. I screamed at you, ‘what would mummy have thought, us having to move from a house with a name into a bungalow with a street number’? I forgive you now, for I have allowed myself to become possessed by Geraldo’s daughter, and I must sacrifice The Three Black Pearls to regain my soul…” whereupon she broke down in bitter sobs and was forced to grab hold of the gatepost for support.
A few minutes later, after some heavy breathing and scolding herself for the show of weakness, Mrs. DaFarge emerged from her little bungalow with a silver-mounted black leather overnight case (thereby partially disobeying The Lord Chief Justice’s instructions). She turned left at the gate and proceeded to the common land at the end of the avenue. Two carefully tended paths intersected the green. She chose the more narrow of the two and followed it round the crystalline waters of the eastern bog pool, passing en route the rowing club and equestrian centre, and not pausing until she had reached the noble (though now sadly neglected) stairs referred to as The Stile of the Lost. In a nonce she was on the other side of the monumental wall, and within another she was standing under the primordial oak. “Was that really four hundred, twenty-seven paces?” she asked herself. “I hardly noticed.” Nor did she care. She had no more and no less than fifteen minutes and forty-seven seconds to reach the Shrine of The Memorial Goat’s Cheese on the Tower of the Dead Termagant and exactly one second more to offer three black pearls to the sacred eternal vessel. “I dare not fail,” she said. “I shall not even consider it!”
And with that, she turned to face the formidable pile of bricks and slate known as Havering Hall. Looming over the great hall of the centre wing was the hideous carbuncle, The Tower of The Dead Termagant, home to the Tomb of The General (and of greater concern to Mrs. DaFarge, the Eternal Sacred Vessel of The Memorial Goat’s Cheese. “You shall not defeat me, Mrs. Begonia Throttle. I am a DaFarge. You are (shudder) trade and will rue the day you dared to stand in the way of my mouth!”
Mrs. DaFarge was annoyed. It was, as to be expected, a recurring theme in her life to dwell in a moderate state of respectable dudgeon. After all, she occupied a certain stratum, much loftier than the realm in which other, less elevated organisms went about their ordinary, fairly useless, humdrum lives, and in the battle to maintain the highest of standards she felt the onerous weight of the world upon her shoulders. “If I am not willing to fly the flag of social perfection, then I have let the side down,” she would say, and for much of her long life she had but rarely stumbled.
It was not uncommon for Mrs. DaFarge to articulate extreme chagrin and exasperation, but only when addressing her reflection in her dressing room mirror (a mannerism picked up and used to a less gentile effect by her underling, the spiteful Ms. Delilah Zonker). To erupt in unmannerly and vulgar harangues in front of mere mortals was unthinkable; her reflection was as well bred as she and, therefore, impervious to insults. Besides, it rarely if ever gossiped.
But in spite of the trials and tribulation she was forced on a daily and hourly basis to endure, Mrs. DaFarge was hardly if ever annoyed. “To spend one minute in a state of annoyance when one is gifted with a life such as mine, is to slap the face of God!”
Be that as it may, on this particular afternoon, Mrs. DaFarge was annoyed.
Her 11.20 appointment with The Marriage Bureau for Respectable Gentlefolk’s managing director, Mrs. Begonia Throttle, had not gone as planned. “What is this?” she’d trumpeted when Mrs. Throttle’s personal assistant of the day, Miss Mimsy Flotsum, produced a leading candidate in the marriage stakes. “Why, it is nothing but a stinkbug!”
“But,” responded Mrs. Throttle, with the utmost respect, “he is the most immaculate and refined gentleman we have on our books. Not only is he a professional of independent means, but I am told he sings tenor in the village choir.”
“I,” roared Mrs. DaFarge, “sing lead alto, and I assure you we has never once darkened the stairs of Reverend Spinckter’s choir loft!”
“I am told on good authority he is very retiring,” replied Mrs. Throttle, trying to retain her composure.
“Well,” said the noble lady, after a moment’s reflection, “bring him out again (and be quick about it, I haven’t got all day) and parade him ‘round the room, first one way, then the t’other. If he equips himself satisfactory and has about him no odour of the nineteenth arrondissement (as she referred to the most lurid of the south bog neighbourhoods), I shall require him to speak. Perhaps he might compose a sonnet or two to my grandeur, perhaps not. In any event, he must be acquainted with the spoken word, as nurtured by The Bard and dear Mr. Wordsworth. I will consider (but only just) a certain, barbaric regionalism to his tonality, but be warned, Mrs. Throttle, I shall withdraw my patronage of this establishment should he be endowed with the three word vocabulary as enjoyed by the current batch of children’s television presenters!”
Mrs. Begonia Throttle blushed deepest crimson and removed her spectacles, wiping them with a corner of her faux-damask tablecloth and humming a few bars of her beloved Schoenberg, before glancing sweetly at her most important client.
“Might I suggest a discreet corner table for two at darling Chef Blatard de Flumpe’s Café aux Quinze Oublis. His terrarium de amour in the maze is divinely exquisite this time of the year and he is, as you know, discretion itself.”
In spite of herself, Mrs. DaFarge shuddered outwardly. “And to think I was once susceptible to the hypnotic charms of his mousse au chocolat avec sauce haut-le-cœur supreme,” she said. “It was my undoing, but, of course, you recall the unfortunate ‘affaire delicate’ involving Dr. Polymorphibubble Stickleback (possibly Prof. Doktor Polymporphius Stickleback, perhaps not)) and his boat…” she filled the rancid air of Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s tiny office with her silence, and Mrs. Throttle, to her credit, had the good grace to blush once again and lower her eyes.
“That was indeed unfortunate,” she said.
“Indeed it was!” replied Mrs. DaFarge. “And I have not forgotten he came, shall we say, highly recommended. Now what was it you said? Oh yes, ‘My dear Mrs. DaFarge,’ you said, ‘I am told on the highest authority that Professor Doctor Stickleback is a most distinguished professional of independent means and sings counter tenor in the village choir.”
“Alas, I fear you have remembered correctly,” lamented Mrs. Begonia Throttle, “if only I hadn’t been swept away by the sweet music of the castrati! In my childhood, during the long summer evenings in Naples, the piazzas and loggias would melt with their song! Honestly, Mrs. DaFarge, it wasn’t my fault! It was my childhood and my mother’s incessant beatings and the gelati di marsala…I was in a trance.”
“Harrumph!” commented Mrs. DaFarge, and once again, “Harrumph!”
And so it was that, exactly forty-three minutes later, Mrs. DaFarge emerged from The Marriage Bureau for Respectable Gentlefolk (Mrs. Begonia Throttle, proprietoress) with reservations for two at Chef Blatard de Flumpe’s Café aux Quinze Oublis and a certificate of marriage signed by Miss Mimsy Flotsum (who, in addition to being Mrs. Throttle’s Personal Assistant was also a fully ordained Minister of the Church of The Seven Hidden Penchants [of Las Vegas, Nevada], as well as a Justice of the Peace). Precisely ten seconds before The Great Librarian’s exit from Mrs. Throttle’s office, sanity had returned to her, full force, courtesy of an incident involving her new groom’s burkha. Immediately upon Miss Flotsum proclaiming “I pronounce you man and wife that’ll be thirty shillings,” the mysterious and exotic foreign beggar and distinguished professional (and new husband) leaned over to kiss his blushing bride, accidentally tripping over his garment, and revealing himself to be none other than the hideous Ms. Delilah Zonker, arch-nemesis as well as Assistant Librarian and recently engaged Second Assistant Librarian. It was then that Mrs. DaFarge’s head cleared and annoyance set it. “I am extremely annoyed, Mrs. Begonia Throttle! You have betrayed me once again!” Thereupon she ate the bemused café owner and leading entrepreneur and squashed the stinkbug like, well, a bug. “You are fired, Ms. Delilah Zonker and whatever your other name is! And don’t bother coming in to pick up your cards. I shall throw them into the gutter. You may find them there, amongst the pig leavings.”
Once outside, she took a deep breath and examined both the very large and ostentatious fake diamond ring on her finger and the marriage certificate. The former was, quite naturally, vulgar to the extreme and so she felt no compunction in hurling it into the nearest pigsty (where it was eaten immediately by one of the [late] Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s prize boars). The certificate of marriage she folded carefully and inserted into the safe located in the bottom of her Louis Vuitton handbag (a present from her beloved, departed Clarence). “The first thing I shall do,” she trumpeted to herself (to ensure she was listening properly) “is have this beastly marriage annulled! The second thing is to proceed without delay to Chef Blatard de Flumpe’s Café aux Quinze Oublis and avail myself of a double portion of mousse au chocolat avec sauce haut-le-cœur supreme. My mouth is salty from eating that common Throttle woman, and I require great beauty of palate… of…”
“I KNOW,” she boomed. “I shall submit myself to three hours or so of Rafael la Louche’s pummelling ministrations at Day Spa Delicioso. I demand to be a new woman immediately! J’arrive Rafael! J’arrive.”
***
Forty-seven minutes later, following her three hours of aggressive and therapeutic ministrations by the sinewy, Italianesque Rafael (perfect in every way except he was ginger), Mrs. DaFarge was settled comfortably on the black leather Chesterfield in the chambers of Chief Justice Sir Humbart Pincer-Pettigrew (father-in-law of Dorothina Flumpe, the erstwhile wife of Chef Blatard) and becoming reacquainted with his finest single malt. “A gift from the General, may he rest in peace, his most exquisitely perfect distillation of Auld Ram’s Fundament. The cask was exactly one hundred years old even then, and that was over ninety years ago,” said His Lordship, to which Mrs. DaFarge replied, somewhat uncertainly, “and how very delightful it is, Your Lordship,” to which he cleared his throat and shouted, “Here, Here!” and bade his clerk recharge their glasses.
The reason for Mrs. DaFarge’s delay in arriving at His Lordship’s chambers, quite aside from her session with the succulent and muscular Rafael, was directly related to the unfortunate events in The Marriage Bureau. “I have come, my dear cousin Humbart, for your advice. My life, for whatever reason, it unravelling in a most unsettling and common fashion, and I wish it to be rectified before the afternoon is out. I must chair a meeting of the Women’s Institute’s Select Committee on the Abolition of Unfortunate Childhoods at half past two and I cannot be seen to be less than bountiful,” whereupon he replied, “I quite understand, my dear, and I shall give you all the assistance I can. Pray, continue.”
Thus encouraged, Mrs. DaFarge launched into a precise though (for her) somewhat incoherent account of the events of the day, culminating in her unaccountable behaviour following the splendid Rafael’s therapeutic manipulations (of which the judge requested a written account). “For the life of me, I cannot understand why I am suddenly given to ungovernably ‘tradesmanlike’ impulses,” she said, lowering her voice at the mere mention of her plight and throwing up her hands (and in so doing, spilling the dregs of the precious Fundament on to her left brogue). “I do apologise,” she cried absentmindedly, before plunging on.
The tale she related was fulsome and piteous, and one which left the Lord Chief Justice quaking in his silks. It left not one detail of that morning’s horrors to the imagination, and included such background information as she could remember, as well as much that she could not (omitting only certain details relating to the ravishing Rafael’s impeccable technique). After nearly six and three-quarter hours, during which the judge’s clerk served them (first) a traditionally unsatisfactory dinner of Brown Windsor Soup, Fried Scampi and Baked Beans, Steak and Kidney Pudding, Plum Duff and Stilton, and (to follow) an intellectually stimulating supper of cuisses de grenouille meunière, perdrix aux truffes and les fraises de bois à la crème, Mrs. DaFarge, at long last, achieved the climax suprème of her story.
“It was, my dear cousin Humbart, upon departing partially invigorated from the physiotherapist’s surgery that a strange and urgent compunction came over me. I was, you see, compelled to convey myself forthwith to The Tea Cosy, that abysmal establishment so favoured by the lower orders and up until a few short hours ago owned by the loathsome Mrs. Begonia Throttle, fortuitously défunte. Once there I proceeded to bake a large variety of exquisite patisseries and upbraid the meagre staff (as you are no doubt aware, they include Miss Frou Frou de Potsy, the manageress, Dorcas O’Leary, the subterranean waitress, Borgo Hankshaft, the baker, about whom the less is said the better, Bert Tiffle, the cook, and [when he puts in an appearance] Lairy Billy Bogbug, the plonge) for their accursed slovenliness. All of this was done without either my consent or knowing. I was is a state of trance, my dear Humbart, performing tasks essential to the furtherance of an establishment that heretofore I have neither entered nor considered anything but onerous. It was as though I felt a sudden and urgent responsibility towards the vile place. I swear, my stately cousin, I had suddenly become HER (that despicable THING, Mrs. Begonia Throttle) in body and mind. I am possessed! And that, my dear cousin, is why I have come to you. I throw myself at your mercy, Your Lordship, you are the only one I trust to rid me of this meddlesome priest.”
“Priest, you say?” muttered the ancient judge into his glass. “How extraordinary!”
“Precisely,” trumpeted Mrs. DaFarge.
“Hmmm,” hummed The Lord Chief Justice, and then again, “Hmmm…”
Mrs. DaFarge perked up, suddenly hopeful. “Yes, my dear Humbart?”
“It is, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria, a simple case of possession by the consumed. Am I right in supposing that you ate the vile creature in one gulp, without, as they say, masticating unnecessarily?”
“Why yes,” responded Mrs. DaFarge enthusiastically.
“Then, my dear, you are very fortunately indeed,” said the judge in a grave manner, as if about to pronounce sentence. “If you had masticated unnecessarily and unduly, and, by so doing, had shredded her into unrecognisable pulpy fragments, doom would have been upon you for all time and even more. As it is, however, all is not lost,” he added quickly before she could interrupt or sob on his shoulder, “and if you are willing to undertake a pilgrimage to The Shrine of The Memorial Goat’s Cheese on the Tower of the Dead Termagant and offer three black pearls to the sacred eternal vessel, the consumed woman… what was her name?… Mrs. Prattle…”
“Mrs. Throttle,” said Mrs. DaFarge, interrupting him. “Mrs. Begonia Throttle. She is (or was) the proprietress of The Tea Cosy and most of the…”
“Yes,” said The Lord Chief Justice, cutting her off as quickly as possible, “quite so… As I was saying, upon offering the three black pearls to the sacred vessel (which you shall find quite easily, there being adequate signage) the vulgar person shall be obliged to move out of your mind and body (into which it had so precipitously entered, it being a presumptuous and foul social climber and from a bad family). Mrs. Frattle…”
“Throttle,” interjected Mrs. DaFarge as quickly as possibly.
“Exactly,” continued The Lord Chief Justice testily. “As I was saying, this Mrs. Spittle will then be in your power forever, at your beckoned call at all times and in your debt until the end of time.”
“Couldn’t we simply send her to one of those places dead creatures go and forget about her?” inquired Mrs. DaFarge, quickly adding, “after a suitable memorial service, of course. I understand the vicar offers a most pleasing and discreet service. His charges for an internment are quite reasonable, or so I am led to believe, providing one requires only the minimum.”
“You forget, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria,” chimed in The Judge, “there is no corpus delecti. Without one of those there may well be an enquiry. Such things are, as you may or may not be aware, extremely awkward, and as you are her heir under the law of sole eater, you might well find yourself in for a rough ride.”
“But, my dear cousin Humbart, the income from her various enterprises would be so terribly pleasing to me. I was hoping to landscape the gardens, you see, and the orangery wants replanting…”
“Orangery, my dear Mrs. DaFarge?” he enquired with raised eyebrows, “I was not aware you were in possession of such an asset.”
“Precisely, my dear Lord Chief Justice,” she replied. “Impeccable social standards do not an orangery provide. For that one requires money and a great deal of it. I am a Head Librarian, as well as President of the Women’s Institute and Chairwoman of the Council. The latter two positions pay not at all and the former provides me with a pittance. Why, only last week, the bank (Mrs. Begonia Throttle’s Throttle Bank, if you please) informed me that they were disinclined to honour my overdraft. After all these years, a pillar of the community, and I am destitute!”
“My dear, dear cousin Mrs. DaFarge,” murmured The Aged Judge, patting her reassuringly on the left hand, “I simply had no idea.”
“Precisely,” she said, “no one had.”
“This changes everything,” whispered The Lord Chief Justice, nodding his head sagely. He fell silent for a moment, distracted by a very small caterpillar crawling up his leg. He stabbed it with his right forefinger and popped it absentmindedly into is mouth.
“There is, of course,” he said to Mrs. DaFarge between chews, “the question of your husband, the exotic beggar.”
“Are you referring to Mr. Hui Ya Fing?”
“The very same,” replied Chief Justice Sir Humbart Pincer-Pettigrew (father-in-law of Dorothina Flumpe [erstwhile wife of Chef Blatard]), trimming his pre-prandial cigar with a pair of silver garden secateurs.
“B…b… but,” she studdered, “I smashed him into bits. He is dead, my dear Humbart.”
“Not nearly so dead as you might wish,” The Judge replied, “I am informed Mr. Hui Ya Fing has, this very afternoon while we were partaking of the Golden Amontillado, moved his possessions (twenty boxes in all) into your best bedroom.”
Mrs. DaFarge coughed, disgorging a small trickle of Crème de Menthe, which fell in droplets down her décolletage. “Oh,” she sobbed, “What am I to do?”
“My dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria,” replied The Judge in his most eloquent tone of voice, “I fear that unless you are prepared to act as I advised, you will have no choice but to face a life of ruin, as well as a doubtful husband who is also (or so I am advised) your bitterest enemy.”
“What on earth are you talking about,” she demanded.
“Has your short-term memory deserted you completely, Mrs. DaFarge? You yourself admitted that Mr. Hui Ya Fing is none other that the vile Lithuanian Assistant Librarian, Mrs. Delilah Zonker,” adding for effect, “and whichever way you put it, they are both your lawfully wedded spouse, as well as your lord and master.”
Whereupon Mrs. DaFarge fainted dead away.
***
Twenty minutes later, following a therapeutic session in The Judge’s hot tub and several experiments with his beloved essential oils, Mrs. DaFarge emerge from her cousin Humbart’s chambers with a map, a set of instructions and a look of determination on her face. Given her own druthers she might have preferred not to display her intentions so openly, but The Lord Chief Justice had passed sentence. “You may, of course, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria, carry duplicate instructions in your handbag, but written as they are upon your physiognomy, all may see and admire examples of my calligraphy (for which a full price list – including invitations, decrees, visiting cards and diplomas – have been annotated on your bald spot).” Under any other circumstances, Mrs. DaFarge would have objected most strenuously to being used in such a commercial manner, but if it meant ridding herself of an unwanted husband and a dangerous incubus (or was it succubus) at the same time, then humiliation was a small price to pay.
The Judge had stressed the importance of immediate action. Under no circumstances was she to go through the village (“you would be sorely tempted,” His Lordship had warned, “to follow the possessor’s urgings and visit The Tea Cosy or one of her other business ventures. Once inside, there is no telling what the consumed might get up to, although I am certain it would involve death, at least as far as you are concerned”). Mrs. DaFarge was to follow the instructions (and map) to the letter, walking as briskly as her brogues would allow through the remote eastern marshes to the Stile of The Lost, an archaic pyramid of stone and brick predating the invention of mankind. After she had clambered over to the other side, she should walk four hundred twenty seven substantial paces due east to a primordial oak (‘you can’t miss it,” The Judge had said, “in stands in the centre of the northern parkland and is surrounded only by a sea of grass. You will also be able to identify it by its location half way between The Big House and The Ornamental Inner Gate, and also by the bronze plaque affixed to its mighty trunk”).
“Oh, Humbart, that is so very far away, and I have my committee meetings,” whispered Mrs. DaFarge, desperately.
“My dear Mrs. DaFarge, you will never chair another committee as long as Mrs. Begonia Throttle resides within your stomach.”
“I know, I know,” she groaned. “Well, goodbye, my dearest Lord Chief Justice. Bid me fond farewell. I shall return home immediately and pack for the journey.”
“Au contraire,” interjected The Judge, “There is no time for packing. The three black pearls must be placed within the sacred eternal vessel at exactly sixteen and a half seconds before teatime. One second later and Mrs. Begonia Throttle and her strange characteristics shall become a permanent part of your physiognomy.”
Mrs. DaFarge looked at him petulantly. “I find it irritating that you should even think of me sacrificing pearls of great price, especially the black ones. Black pearls carry with them the memory of dear Prince Albert’s funeral. My great great grandmamma attended (you no doubt recall) in her capacity as close friend of the bereaved. If I am required to cast pearls unto the swine, may I not I substitute a tawdry string of dark greys? They do nothing whatsoever for a lady’s complexion, and besides they look extremely irksome in the light of day? And while I am on the subject, what if I should choose to place my offering in (what was it?) the Sacred Eternal Vessel one second early or one second late?”
“You haven’t been paying attention, have you? One second early or one second late, my dear cousin Eulilie-Elizabeth-Mary-Victoria, and Mrs. Begonia Throttle will sing in your bowels forever!”
With that, Mrs. DaFarge arose from her chair, gathered up her handbag and left The Judge’s chambers. She strode down the ancient street like a three-masted schooner in full sail, oblivious to the medieval aspects of the buildings (of which she had always been so devoted), slowing down only when she reached the iron gates to her garden. “How different life was,” she lamented, “before darling mummy died (she had been devoured by a cat – either Marquis or Maribel-Bean, she never knew which, during a midsummer picnic along the lovely eastern bog stream, in 1947). “Without her to keep him on an even keel, poor daddy simply went into a decline. He had lost the manse to Geraldo Throttle in a game of cards before the week was out… oh daddy daddy daddy, I never could forgive you after we moved into the bungalow. I screamed at you, ‘what would mummy have thought, us having to move from a house with a name into a bungalow with a street number’? I forgive you now, for I have allowed myself to become possessed by Geraldo’s daughter, and I must sacrifice The Three Black Pearls to regain my soul…” whereupon she broke down in bitter sobs and was forced to grab hold of the gatepost for support.
A few minutes later, after some heavy breathing and scolding herself for the show of weakness, Mrs. DaFarge emerged from her little bungalow with a silver-mounted black leather overnight case (thereby partially disobeying The Lord Chief Justice’s instructions). She turned left at the gate and proceeded to the common land at the end of the avenue. Two carefully tended paths intersected the green. She chose the more narrow of the two and followed it round the crystalline waters of the eastern bog pool, passing en route the rowing club and equestrian centre, and not pausing until she had reached the noble (though now sadly neglected) stairs referred to as The Stile of the Lost. In a nonce she was on the other side of the monumental wall, and within another she was standing under the primordial oak. “Was that really four hundred, twenty-seven paces?” she asked herself. “I hardly noticed.” Nor did she care. She had no more and no less than fifteen minutes and forty-seven seconds to reach the Shrine of The Memorial Goat’s Cheese on the Tower of the Dead Termagant and exactly one second more to offer three black pearls to the sacred eternal vessel. “I dare not fail,” she said. “I shall not even consider it!”
And with that, she turned to face the formidable pile of bricks and slate known as Havering Hall. Looming over the great hall of the centre wing was the hideous carbuncle, The Tower of The Dead Termagant, home to the Tomb of The General (and of greater concern to Mrs. DaFarge, the Eternal Sacred Vessel of The Memorial Goat’s Cheese. “You shall not defeat me, Mrs. Begonia Throttle. I am a DaFarge. You are (shudder) trade and will rue the day you dared to stand in the way of my mouth!”
Copyright 2007 JA Weeks
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