The
Way The Cookie Crumbles
by Boudicca (Queen)
Visitors
to the Fantasy Archers topic of The Archers message
board are familiar with Boudicca's version of Ambridge, which reads
as if scripted by David Cronenberg and directed by David Lynch. Here's
Her Majesty's latest offering:
Walking
across the yard, on his way to the kitchen at Lower Loxley for his morning
tea-break, Titcombe could see Mrs Pugsley sitting by the open back door.
Her wizened face, above the subfusc pinny she invariably wore, was grim
and she resembled more than ever an ancient tortoise with an excess of
spleen. She was filling a small clay pipe. As Titcombe drew closer, he
called out.
"Morning Mrs P! Arthritis playing up again, is it?"
"Something fierce!"
"I聮ll put the kettle on and make us some tea shall I, Mrs P?"
"You do that Henry, and fetch us both a slice of that cake."
While Titcombe pottered around the kitchen making the tea and fetching
cups and plates and cake, Mrs Pugsley sat smoking her pipe, silent except
for the occasional heartfelt sigh.
****
Over
the years, Henry Titcombe had grown fond of Mrs Pugsley. He knew perfectly
well that she was a malicious old crone, with a taste for schadenfreude
and doom-mongering, but she had never asked him any questions about the
scandal that had wrecked his chances of a career in medical research (and
which had brought him to Lower Loxley) or had any problems accepting his
sexuality. If fact, he had been touched to hear from his lover, Jean-Paul,
that when they had first started seeing each other Mrs Pugsley had taken
Jean-Paul to one side and told him menacingly, "You treat Henry right,
or you聮ll have me to answer to."
"Tea聮s
ready Mrs P, feeling any better?"
"Yes, thank you Henry. This herbal mix of yours does wonders. Much
better than that old **** the doctor used to give me."
"I聮m glad it helps. I聮ve got something new for you to try
聳 some people find the mix works better for them if they cook with
it instead of smoking it. Jean-Paul聮s been helping me with some recipes
and I was hoping you聮d give me your opinion of some biscuits he聮s
made."
"I聮d be happy to. That man of yours has a nice, light hand with
pastry, so I聮m sure his biscuits will be good."
Unable
to pursue the glittering scientific career that he had dreamed of as a
provincial grammar school boy, Titcombe had for some years been experimenting
with cannabis cultivation, trying to find the best strain to provide relief
to sufferers of multiple sclerosis and arthritis. He discreetly supplied
the Borchester MS support group and the Ambridge over 60聮s club with
his scientifically grown weed and in return they filled in his questionnaires
and enabled him to evaluate each new crop.
It had taken five years to produce a plant that really did the business.
It had many of the attributes of skunk , but lacked the pungent cat聮s-pee-and-stale-lager
smell that made it so unpopular with so many of the volunteers in Titcombe聮s
research programme. And now his lover was helping him solve the final
problem.
Many
of the volunteers were non-smokers and wanted a different way to take
the cannabis. An Internet search had brought up the Alice B. Toklas recipe
for "Haschish Brownies" and so he had asked Jean-Paul聮s
advice, the previous Christmas, while they were staying with his lover聮s
mother in France.
Titcombe had brought with him a small bag of his latest crop (his interest
in cannabis was primarily scientific, but he enjoyed a spliff occasionally)
and so Jean-Paul聮s mother had been the first guinea-pig. The perfectionist
chef had immediately rejected the Alice B. Toklas recipe (a sticky sweetmeat
made by pounding nuts, dates and spices to a paste) and chosen to adapt
another recipe that Titcombe had found on the web for "Scooby Snacks".
That first batch of biscuits had been far from satisfactory as far as
Jean-Paul was concerned, but the change in his beloved mother after she
had eaten them had been such a joy that he at once began to plan new ways
of using this remarkable plant. With scientific, culinary and romantic
interests united, Titcombe and Jean-Paul were the happiest couple in Borsetshire.
Daniel
Hebden-Lloyd was silent as his mother drove him home from school. He had
carefully analysed the reasons why his most recent attempt to kill his
step-father had failed and was now considering his next move. Until
her remarriage, Daniel had been the centre of his mother聮s universe.
He had been cosseted and pandered to, just as one might expect such a
wanted, precious child to be, and his real father聮s early death had
made Shula over protective of her son to an obsessive degree. The result
was, that when Daniel first decided to kill his step-father he was entirely
convinced that his own needs were far more important than Alistair聮s
life and that it would be a simple matter to dispose of him. His failed
attempts on Alistair聮s life had disabused him of the belief that
murder would be a simple business, but Daniel remained utterly convinced
that there was no greater moral authority than his own desires.
Daniel
had decided to approach the problem from an entirely new angle. The first
question to ask, he decided, was 聭how do people usually die?聮.
Old age. Disease. Accidents. Although from Daniel聮s point of view
Alistair seemed pretty ancient, he knew plenty of grown-ups who were miles
older, so he couldn聮t rely on his step-father just to keel over.
Disease was a better bet; animals could get some pretty nasty things wrong
with them, maybe Alistair would catch some lurgy that would bring him
out in huge boils before he died squealing horribly. Daniel giggled. It
was a nice daydream, but again it wasn聮t something he could rely
on. That left accidents. Lots of people have car accidents. When Uncle
Nigel got in trouble for drinking and driving, Mummy had said that he
could have killed someone and that he deserved to be punished for doing
something so dangerous. Daniel聮s real father (who he knew would have
been a billion times better than stinky Alistair) had died in a car crash
too.
Suddenly
Daniel was struck by the absolute rightness that Alistair should die in
a road accident. All he had to do was sabotage Alistair聮s car and
then everything would go back to the way it was meant to be. What he needed
to do now was find out a bit about the brakes and steering聟
It
was a couple of days before Jean-Paul had the chance to bake some more
biscuits for Titcombe, so it was Wednesday lunch time when Titcombe went
to take them to Mrs Pugsley. Wednesday was Mrs P.聮s half day and
she never stayed later than 12.30, but it was only quarter past so Titcombe
expected to find her in the kitchen, stowing mysterious packages in her
capacious handbag and knotting her sludge-green head scarf under her cascading
chins. Unfortunately Titcombe was out of luck.
Mrs
P had left on the dot of 12 to go to Felpersham. There, in the Felpersham
Roxy (a dingy flea-pit behind the university that called itself a 聭cinema
club聮 and specialised in obscure art-house films and anything with
subtitles) she would indulge her secret passion for gangsters and hardmen
with a Jean Gabin double bill. It didn聮t matter to Mrs Pugsley that
she couldn聮t always keep up with the subtitles, she was perfectly
happy just watching Jean Gabin looking menacing.
The
kitchen was deserted. Knowing that in the absence of Mrs Pugsley, the
Pargetters would be using the kitchen (Mrs P.聮s first job every Thursday
morning was to clear up the mess they聮d left behind them) Titcombe
decided not to leave the biscuit tin on the kitchen table. He placed it
carefully, at the back of the cupboard, behind the cake tin and the hideous
teak and brass biscuit barrel that some misguided Pargetter younger son
had brought back from his colonial service. The family wouldn聮t notice
it there, but Titcombe knew that Mrs P would spot it at once.
"God,
Nigel you聮re such an idiot!"
Elizabeth was spitting even more bile than usual today.
"But Lizzie, if David says they need the money to reduce the farm聮s
overdraft聟"
"He聮s just being selfish and trying to cheat me. Either that
or he聮s as much of a moron as you are!"
Nigel bit his bottom lip and told himself that she didn聮t really
mean it.
" Oh Nigel, don聮t stand there looking like you聮re about
to blub, go and do something useful! Go and make sure that Reg isn聮t
doing anything nasty with the rare breeds while that party of school kids
is here."
As Nigel slunk away he heard her murmur contemptuously,
"Pathetic little worm"
