What fun. What fun!
Mr Loveheart sneaks into Professor Hummingbird’s Gardens
It’s a lovely night for a spot of mischief. The cosmos above the little world of Darkwound is soapy; bubbles of star-froth white. Galaxies wink underwater.
The woods around the Professor’s moated castle are very thorny. I have already tripped over a warty root and I have had words with it. Given it a good talking to.
His gardens need tending, always a sign of a demented mind. His violets are shrivelled (a sure sign of his unhinged brain) and his water lilies look depressed. Poor things.
I scale the side of his castle, climb up the ivy. Launch myself onto his rooftops and look over his domain. Yes, I think to myself. He’s clearly a villain, for I spy weeds sprouting out of his chimney pot. Mmmmm. I stroll across the roof and find a window open and hang down and peer in. And there he is in his study,
MY GOD!
The wallpaper is hideous. Some sort of floral obscenity!
And his butterflies, hundreds of them framed in glass. Pierced through their hearts.
I smell a serial killer. What is that he’s scribbling? A wicked journal of his atrocities, no doubt.
I lose my footing and fall into the shrubbery below. Whoops! I may have buggered my ankle up.
Leaping out of the bushes I sneak round the garden, observing a very questionable looking potato plant, which I prod with my foot. It explodes in black pus. I need no further proof that he is insane, and cursed with a black finger when it comes to horticulture.
Aha! I find an open window on the ground floor and slip, unnoticed, into his pantry. Mmmmmm is that a pumpkin pie? I am so very fond of pumpkins, they are such an amusing shape.
The pie is excellent. I put my feet up on his kitchen table, eat another slice and contemplate my options.
I wiggle my ankle. Think about stuffing a sock in his mouth and beating him with his sinister potato plant. Make a mash of him
yawn
I fall asleep, zzzzz Just a little doze. Wake up with a beetroot-faced woman staring at me.
“What the bleedin’ hell are you doing in my kitchen?” she yells, her face a bloated thing.
Oops! It’s morning.
“Madam,” I say, “There’s no need to be alarmed, I was just sampling your delicious pumpkin pie.”
“Sling yer hook!” and she thwacks me with a tea towel. “GO ON, BUGGER OFF!” and beats me on the bottom with it.
I dart out of the window, shouting, “Farewell, good lady,” followed by, “I believe your potato plant may be dead.”
She throws a pot at me, which narrowly misses my head and thuds against a tree.
Dinner with the Grubweeds
The dining table sags under the weight of a roast turkey and two roast geese, an enormous mound of roast potatoes, buttered carrots and a pot of steaming gravy. My uncle, Philip Grubweed, sits at the head of the table. He is a retired undertaker who had made a small fortune after a freak outbreak of cholera and with his savings had bought this run -down manor house. He is hugely fat and has several chins which bob up and down, great hairy pink hands and moist piggy little eyes.
“Welcome to your new home, Pedrock and Boo Boo,” he says, stuffing a goose leg into his mouth and sucking up the skin.
My Aunt Josephine sits opposite him with a lacy cap perched on her head. She looks half—dead. Skin stretched over her face, gums drawn back, eyes glassy and dull. I think she’s hardly aware that we’re here. I pass the carrots to her. She ignores me and gazes at the wall.
They have three children sitting round the table. Two girls, Prunella and Estelle, both podgy and blonde, with pink ribbons in their hair, and both aged ten. And a son, who’s the eldest at sixteen, called Cornelius. He is stabbing his turkey leg repeatedly with his fork so hard the table shakes.
“Stop that, you little shit!” cries Uncle Grubweed, and belches.
Cornelius mutters something dark under his tongue and puts his fork down begrudgingly.
“We met a most unusual character in the woods today,” intervenes Reverend Plum.
“Who?” says Uncle.
“Well, he was dressed most strangely in purple with love hearts, and he was carrying what appeared to be a human head.” He laughs nervously.
“That’s one of our neighbours. Mr Loveheart. He’s as rich as a prince and as mad as a badger. I was at his birthday party earlier this afternoon. Bizarre affair. Strange puddings!”
“Is he dangerous?” Reverend Plum gulps.
“Well, let’s just examine your last statement where you observed he was carrying a human head. I think you’ve already answered your own question there, reverend,” and my Uncle laughs out loud.
“Would it be possible to have an escort to the station tomorrow morning, just in case he reappears?”
“Cornelius will walk you, won’t you son?”
Cornelius is playing with a vein in the turkey leg.