Beesley : Amberley Danna
Amberley Danna, Mayor of Beesley
The Simnation Federated Grocer, a respected trade magazine with low circulation numbers and a strong tendency towards avoiding conflict had this to say about Norman Randolph Small.
Former Librarian, age 68.
Owner of the Small Shop range of convenience stores.
His business practices have met with a mixed reaction among some customers.
‘Mixed reaction,’ Myrtle blurted out in frustration, ‘have you seen his prices?’
We found ourselves in the outskirts of Beesley, with just about enough in our flask to last out the day, but we had decided not to risk it and top up our supplies in case of ‘emergencies’.
I generally avoided Small Shops, not least because of the array of placard shaking fanatics that were attracted by Norman Small’s belligerent attitude towards any group who were foolhardy enough to engage with him.
The Feminine League for Uplifting Homecrafts (FemLegUH!) had once dared to question the freshness of his sultanas, and the consequent tit for tat escalation had evolved into an ongoing war.
FemLegUH! believed that Norman Small needed to be stopped. They weren’t as clear about what precisely needed to stop, and in fact skirmishes often broke out between the members about this very topic during their twenty-four hour protest vigils outside the contentious retail outlets.
The view of the calmer kind of Ballina resident was that Mr N.R. Small enjoyed nothing more than winding people up, and the best thing to do was ignore him.
Luckily for us, the agitators were spread more thinly than usual, due to a FemLegUH! organised coach trip to Magnasanti. The militant crafters planned to embroider tapestry cushion-covers in the main arena of the Interregional Women’s Weightlifting Quarter Finals. I had no idea why.
‘The Ballina team don’t stand a chance of course,’ commented Myrtle, as she bent over to deface an unguarded placard with her large tipped bingo pen, ‘Those Magnasanti women are enormous.’
I’ve learned, over time, that there was no safe answer to that kind of remark, so I remained silent.
On entering, the layout of the unfamiliar grocery outlet felt extremely confusing. More than once we found ourselves completely lost, and ended up staring at the same pile of children’s Xylophones and Zebra patterned rugs by the exit several times.
A team discussion produced a new strategy. Rather than randomly wandering, we elected to leave the shop entirely, and start again at the entrance, carefully avoiding the lone protester who had returned to her post while we were absent.
In fact, the fervent activist was so offended by Myrtle’s amendment to her placard that she hadn’t yet gathered the energy to yell at the customers properly before we slipped back inside.
Apples, Bananas, there was some sort of pattern here but I couldn’t quite work it out. Then I saw a familiar jar on the next shelf.
‘I’m not drinking that, Chocolate Ovaltine is an abomination’, Myrtle folded her arms to emphasise the point.
‘No wait, I think I’ve got it now, we need to head this way.’ I led my friend down an empty aisle, but just as I was about to turn the corner she grabbed my sweater.
‘I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but does that person sound familiar?, inquired my friend.
‘Tuna Kittie Bites, is that what he likes?’, the chief government advisor’s voice sounded strangely desperate.
‘Why is Fairbanks so tiny now?,’ Myrtle asked bewildered, after peeping around a display of Quesadillas.
I recognised the familiar face behind the Mexican snacks, but his jacket? Even Fairbank’s worst enemy, and there was fierce competition for that post, would say that the civil servant always turned out well dressed.
A certain amount of manoeuvring allowed us to see the family group more clearly.
Shrunken Fairbanks was leaning on a baby buggy which, to our surprise, carried only a selection of well used gardening equipment. He was addressing a pair of twin girls, who were grasping a silver furred tom cat between them.
Head-end was nodding at the tuna flavoured tin, but tail-end shook her head, and the feline himself refused to share an opinion.
This deadlock appeared to agitate our mini clone into a spate of wild muttering.
‘Hold it together Roy.’ seemed to be his main theme.
‘How odd’, remarked Myrtle, though she didn’t hold that thought long, after finally spotting her regular Ovaltine, nestled between a pile of notebooks and some tins of pork luncheon meat.
Shopping completed, we reached Danna’s Mayoral home in good time. The politician answered the door and waved us into a family style lounge, then continued shouting into her phone in the hallway.
‘I’m not sitting down,’ whispered Myrtle, pointing to a series of mystery brown stains which were distributed around all the upholstered furniture in the room. My feet were aching so I decided to take a chance, and as I changed my line of sight was immediately confronted by the spectacle of a green watered fish tank, populated only by floating plastic construction bricks.
Then the large hairy rug, which Myrtle had backed into, surprised us by rising to its feet, and ambling towards a small child, who had appeared out of a part-demolished play-house, carrying a bowl of spaghetti bolognaise.
Some of the meal went on the floor, a few spoonfuls went in the right direction, but most of the remainder was swallowed up by the hound.
‘Don’t feed Bernie honey-bun, remember his cholesterol’, the Mayor imparted through the door before returning to her phone call.
I tried not to look at the dog, who was busy cleaning up any remaining sauce from the child’s face, so my eyes focused instead on a long wobbly dresser, which was festooned with chaotically placed, framed photos. I was feverishly wondering if the combined weight of all those pictures relatives had affected the stability of the furniture, when I noticed a pair of whiskers appear over the top of a trio of well rounded individuals receiving some sort of academic awards.
I have heard of certain eastern mystics who can, by will alone, step outside the flow of normal time. I must admit to having been skeptical up until this point, but experiencing the following sequence of events caused me to re-evaluate the phenomenon.
I expect the rat, the owner of the whiskers, knocked down the photograph and caused a domino effect, which resulted in the happy snap of siblings at a funfair being knocked into the fish tank. The image which burned itself into my memory is of five identical smiles sinking helplessly into the murky depths.
Another development which haunts me still, is the smell and feel of my hand, coated in streaks of bolognaise and drying saliva, as if I were an extra in a zombie apocalypse movie. The dog must surely have had something to do with that.
A final sensation which I find impossible to shake, is of being rooted to the spot in horror as a python dropped down heavily into my lap, then slithered away over my feet. An actual python, which must have been wrapped around the light fitting, and I had been sitting right underneath it completely unknowingly all along. I was so paralysed with fear and shock that I couldn’t even scream.
The animal then accelerated towards the small child, whose back was turned as she attempted to push her pet rat into a small cage. I will never forget the swish of damp training pants as she turned at the last moment, and the sound of the crunching thwack as she hit the reptile on the head with the hefty volume entitled ‘A Youngster’s Guide To Tropical Spiders’.
‘Tyson!!!!!, Mr Snake is out of his vivarium again, what have I told you about…’
Their Mother’s shout seemed to break the spell. I leapt to my feet as a young boy ran into the room, who then began alternately screaming at his sister, and giving mouth to mouth resuscitation to his beloved reptile.
Still in a complete daze, I spotted Myrtle. To my surprise, she was now standing in the garden, outside the window. I walked dreamily towards her and found myself being forcefully squeezed through a smallish gap between the shutters.
As soon as the fresh air hit my face I threw up in a hydrangea bush, then passed out for a moment, upside down behind a pile of compost.
‘You wouldn’t move, it was like you were frozen,’ my friend quailed, slapping me repeatedly with a damp gardening glove that she had retrieved from behind a disintegrating box of weed killer.
There’s a baby in this wheelbarrow I said, looking at the peacefully sleeping infant, nestled amongst the gathered leaves.
‘You must be delirious,’ fretted Myrtle, grabbing under my arms and dragging me towards the passenger seat of our car.
Retrieving her little used driving spectacles from the overstuffed glove box, Myrtle took the wheel, and the car bunny-hopped slowly away with Mayor Danna, now alert to our potential escape, running behind us brandishing a folder stuffed with rapidly escaping papers.
‘Don’t you want to know about my award winning education policy?,’ she screeched as we attempted to outrun her at 5mph.
Thankfully the politician was distracted by our Fairbanks look-alike, with his pushchair full of garden ephemera plus cat carrying twins, wandering into the driveway.
The last thing I heard as we turned into the road was Amberley Danna’s voice, at high volume, demanding to know what Roy had done with the baby.
The rest of the day was a meandering blur, consisting mostly of car horns complaining about our slow rate of progress. This noise however, became increasingly clouded out by the effects of the extra strong migraine tablets that I slurped down with the final dregs of our flask.
‘Do you think Fairbanks has a brother?,’ I remember asking, but didn’t hear Myrtle’s reply, I must have fallen fast asleep.
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