Isabel Todd, Mayor of Douglas


Sleeping in the portacabin was not easy. Our used tyre dealing neighbour, Clinton, had translated his newly refound enthusiasm into buying up the expired leases from the abandoned plots around our small industrial estate. From six in the morning until past ten at night, I could hear endless activity. Great pyramids of quality used radials and cross-plies surrounded the office on all sides. Still it was better than the war of nerves trying to avoid being found out for squatting in the sheltered housing complex.

I was still muttering about the noise and trying to deflate my air mattress when Myrtle arrived.
‘Reverend Cotterall said he’ll let you use his address for your personal post,’.
This news was a relief as I didn’t want to get caught violating the non residential rental contract for our office, but my face did not project gratitude.
Grumpiness would be a closer match.

Myrtle made a big show of flashing her left hand around, while handing me a mug of Ovaltine. Something seemed different but I couldn’t quite pin it down.
Having tried the subtle approach my friend then switched up a gear, and pushed her paw under my nose.
‘Do you like my ring?’
A flashy sparkle caught my eye.
 

‘That’s nice, where did you find it?’ I asked, though by her expression it was obviously the wrong question.

My friend was unusually quiet as we walked towards the church hall. I had previously agreed to help out at the upcoming jumble sale, a fundraiser to replace the bent hinges on the main hall doors. I really had thought that being suddenly homeless was enough to get me out of the commitment, apparently not.

Mayor Todd nodded a greeting as she turned the corner, her arms were occupied carrying a tray of jam jars, each one with a handwritten label ‘Homemade Medlar Jelly’.
I stared at the gloop, trying to work out what a medlar might be. Whatever it was, I didn’t fancy it.
 

Myrtle waved her hand significantly.
‘Ooh, who’s the lucky man?’ the politician asked, while struggling to balance the heavy load and open the church hall door with a large set of keys.
By my friend’s smile I assumed that this was exactly the response she’d been hoping for.

After an unsuccessful fight with the lock, the portal opened by itself, and revealed Les, wearing a bow tie, and sitting in a very swanky sports model wheelchair.

‘The bodywork is manufactured from graphene,’ the ex solicitor stroked the material reverently, ‘super light and would have cost a fortune. We claimed it at the lost property office in the bus station, didn’t we, my sweet’?

A certain amount of embarrassing affection followed, and I realised at once who the mystery fiance was.

The Mayor threw down her donation to the jumble sale, on a table which was already piled up with incomplete tea-sets, twenty year old obscure board games and some indecent jig-saw puzzles.



I had trouble knowing what to do with myself. Les and Myrtle’s unexpected loving couple routine made me feel excess to requirements, so I slid into the kitchen to see if I could contribute there.
 

A group of Church ladies were attempting to lever open a cupboard using a plastic fork.
I stood and watched for a while then retreated to poke through a pile of used clothing on a nearby table. Seven days wearing the same badly fitting dress was enough for anyone.
‘Strictly no browsing before opening time,’ a curly haired woman snapped at me, after emerging from rummaging through a bin bag full of grubby looking soft toys.
 

A loud argument had broken out in the kitchen. Mayor Todd leaned through the hatch and offered up her bunch of keys, but none would fit the mug cupboard.
To deflect the talk of crowbars and blunt screwdrivers the Mayor suggested she pop round to see if the Reverend might have the correct key, or failing that, some spare cups and plates. I offered to walk with her, having nothing better to do, and I could take the chance to thank Cotterall for agreeing to take in my mail.

We squeezed through the unruly mob that had gathered outside the church hall. With ten minutes to opening time there were already disputes breaking out, as eager bargain hunters jostled for prime position.

I had become used to Myrtle leaping in and keeping conversations going, so it felt awkward trotting along attempting to appear sociable with someone I hardly knew.
It was almost a relief to reach the smouldering wreck of my old apartment block, as this introduced a potential new topic to discuss.
However, just as I had formulated an appropriate remark to share, my walking companion seemed to startle, then made a show of looking at her watch, and declared she had forgotten a meeting with the Cheerleaders’ Pompom renewal fundraising committee at the sports stadium. She was sure I could carry on and fetch a few tea-cups by myself. I was so busy watching her scurry off that I almost walked right into Neil Fairbanks and his mini self, who were standing surveying the muddy crater which was once my home.

I pretended to saunter off, then crouched behind a roadside flowerbed, to see if I could hear what the Fairbanks duo were discussing. The wind direction kept shifting, but I picked up some of the conversation. 

From my notes;
 

NeilF: …It’s a miracle there were no serious injuries here Roy
RoyF: …don’t know how I got on the directors list Neil...
NeilF: Did you have to bring that thing with you?

(pointing to a canvas bag that Roy seemed to be struggling with)

RoyF: …the babysitter wouldn’t put up with it and the wife is away this week..

(loud road traffic for a while so I couldn't hear)

NeilF: You are a complete and utter (list of rude words I won’t repeat) Roy.

(Roy’s attention was distracted by trying to hold down his hand luggage, which continued to have a mind of its own.)

NeilF: ..loft insulation made from shredded paper, those yokels in Farnham making some sort of effigy out of valuable government papers, then that jail in Huxley melting in the rain.
RoyF: You told me to use my initiative Neil , recycled vegetable waste is the building material of the future.
NeilF: There's mashed potato blocking the gutters, you should hear the phone calls I get. I'm sick of the Fairbanks name being dragged through the mud yet again!

(At this point, Roy totally lost control of his strangely animated bag, and it leapt out his hands and rolled off towards the side of the road, where the receptacle went oddly flat, as if it had been deflated.)

RoyF: It’s escaped Neil, Amber’s going to go ballistic!!
NeilF: What idiot carries a snake in a bag Roy? I told you after I fixed that salmon farm in the mountains debacle, that was it, you are on your own now. You’re a walking disaster area brother.
RoyF: Mister Snake, come out, here’s a nice treat for you!

(Roy was hanging over a roadside water grid, dangling something I didn’t want to look at.)

NeilF: (striding away from the scene and shouting into a telephone) Let loose a boa constrictor into the drainage system, you heard me right….. I would say shoot first, ask questions later, wouldn’t you? Yes the snake, not my brother, though the thought is tempting enough.

Neil Fairbanks' horrible laugh rang in my ears as he bounced away.
I decided to continue on to the vicarage. My mind was in a whirl, and it felt steadying to focus on my original mission.

The Rev was acting a little strange when he answered the door. The churchman was wearing a black and white checked apron and had his sleeves rolled up.  A foul smell drifted out of the house and my eyes started to water.
‘I’ve come to borrow some tea-cups’, I coughed through my sleeve.
 

Cotterall gave me a harassed look, then pulled me through his hallway and into the small kitchen. I was a little disturbed by a large shoal of unidentifiable fish, bubbling away at a rolling boil in a pan on the hob. Their little eyes seemed to stare at me as they rose up with the heat, before descending back into the murky depths.

Recipe books lay open on all available surfaces, many with sullied cooking utensils holding open the pages.
Several large bulbs of garlic had been ripped apart, and macerated with red peppercorns in an old fashioned press, and a rancid bottle of wine had been half emptied into a bent enamel bowl full of nastily pungent herbs.
I was getting to the limit of holding my breath.

Gasping for air I lunged to open the back door, but the religious gourmand was having none of it.
‘Tea-cups,’ he reminded, and reached into a tall cupboard to drag down a splitting cardboard box full of mice droppings and assorted crockery.

I staggered under the weight, but was so relieved to escape the vicarage, that I took it in my stride when a familiar six foot yellow boa-constrictor slithered out of a road drain and hid itself in the corner of the covered bus-stop just outside the house. Someone else could deal with that.

I had obviously missed rush hour at the jumble sale, most of the punters must have left already. They did warn me that it all happens in the first ten minutes.
The Church Hall looked like a deserted war zone, its battle scarred floor was scattered with torn bin bags and broken toys.
Two committee members were playing push me pull you with Mayor Todd’s medlar jam, arguing vociferously about whose turn it was to find a home for the unwanted produce this time.
Snappy curly haired woman was busy scraping scone crumbs off a table, but she was kind enough to direct me to the unsold clothing pile. It was fair to say that the choice was limited.

Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t wear a zip-up lurex jumpsuit after fifty. If it has been reduced to 15p and you are desperate enough, then anything can be made to work. I changed into my new purchase behind the stage curtains.

The front doors were wide open now, and hanging somewhat wonkily. It seemed that the faulty hinges hadn’t been improved by holding back the weight of expectation created by the assembled discount shoppers of Ballina Central.

Myrtle was bending over the promotional sign-board on the pavement, wiping away ‘tea and scone £1.50’ and replacing it with ‘Hot Ovaltine’.
Her new fiance was sitting alongside in the space age wheelchair, with a half empty bag of polystyrene cups hanging from one handle. His bow-tie was rotated to the vertical, and his eyes held a dazed expression.

‘Les got trampled in the rush for the erotic jigsaws,’ my friend explained, before turning to look at me properly. Then her jaw hung down low in astonishment as she blinked at the full view of my outfit, sparkling in the winter sunlight.

The ex solicitor appreciated my new look. In fact he laughed so much that the brake was thrown off his new ride. Several passing cars honked their horns in appreciation as Myrtle and I bent over to rescue the giggling pint-sized man from the gutter.

Later my friend handed me a steaming mug of our favourite brew.
‘You’ve cheered up our Les no end, ‘ she confided, I don’t think he was really ready for the challenge of a church jumble sale.

I nodded and wiped the foam off my top lip.
'I'm not sure if I'll volunteer next time,' I suggested, but Myrtle didn't hear me, she was too busy sorting through a somewhat rattly large shopping bag.
'Something to do in the evenings,' she muttered, 'so long as there aren't too many missing pieces.'