2 July 2012

Ok folks, here's the whole version of yesterday's Opuss 'A New Venture'. Enjoy :)

Milton was always a small town. The kind of place one could drive through and miss in the blink of an eye. The kind of place that had a village clock which always struck eleven at exactly that time. The kind of place with a booming main street where proper trade occurred, with butchers and bakers. But no candlestick makers, they only caused trouble. The whole of Milton knew that.

The kind of place with a small church and churchyard and a manse kept carefully alongside, where attendance was always kept. Where The Women’s' Auxiliary met in the village hall, where a farmer’s market boomed. Where the children still learnt in a small school house. The kind of place where time stood still, where leaves always fell in the Fall, where it seemed Fall never left. Yet, like the fall, to Milton, neither did Summer nor Winter nor Spring leave. It was as if some crack in time allowed the four to commune simultaneously, harmoniously, to stay but always sneak off in the dead of the night only to return again next morning. Thus Milton stood.

Ophelia had lived in Milton all her life. Well, what she could remember. She lived above her parent’s' flower shop. She attended the village school. She left and began to work in the shop. She was expected to marry the butcher boy. She preferred dogs to cats. Black and white, plain as day. Straightforward, if you will. But Ophelia was in no way imaginable, straightforward. For Ophelia was constantly badgered.

~

It had begun at the age of eight, whilst baking a cake for her mother. She used exactly five ounces of flour. And five of sugar. She weighed it out on her mother’s measuring scales. She sifted. She mixed. She pondered about life. And she began folding in the eggs. That’s when she struck.

'You aren’'t folding right.’'

Our young Ophelia gasped, dropping the wooden spoon in a cakey mess on the floor. She looked to her right, where the voice had come from. It would be a bad trick if Mother came home to find her baking the very cake which was supposed to be a surprise for her. But no, the voice was not from her mother. It came from someone very like her mother, perched at the kitchen table, teacup in hand, watching. Watching for a wrong move with those beady blue eyes her mother wore. It was quite a testament to the eight year old that she had managed to bake a cake so far under such scrutiny without putting a foot or rather spoon out of place. However, obviously, she had done something to make the prim old lady at her kitchen table speak up.

‘'I’'m sorry?’' She asked, collecting her spoon off the floor and rinsing it.

'‘And you shouldn't have done that either. It'll alter the mix.’' The lady offered, sipping from her cup.

‘'Well, I wouldn’t have had to do it if you hadn’t have interrupted me.'’

The lady snorted in her tea, looking up and glaring at Ophelia. ‘'Do not sass your grandma, young lady.'’

‘'You can’'t be my grandma.’' Ophelia countered, washing the spoon regardless of what the lady said. In her mind, unwelcome advice was to be taken, not heeded. And no, they were two very different things. One can take without heeding but cannot heed without taking. ‘'You can'’t be my grandma because my grandma is dead.’

'Precisely.’' The woman replied, taking a sip then deciding otherwise. '‘And I can be whatever I want to be, little madam. I am your grandma. The world spins around the sun. That is a fact. Likewise I am your grandma. You can argue and cry and pout all you want, but by God’s own design, by the very fibres of life He wove together with His own almighty hands, I am your grandma.’'

‘'But how can you be? You’'re dead. We visit your grave once a year.’'

'Ah yes, my loving family. Only time enough for one annual visit. Listen to me and you listen good, Ophelia. Folks will love you when your around, but when you’re not there they will sweep you under the mat before you’re even cold.’' She nodded meaningfully before finally drinking from the teacup.

'Isn’t your tea cold by now?’'

'‘I’m used to it dear. I’'ve been drinking it for almost twenty years. Cold tea is much better. It doesn't’ burn your tongue. Like kind words. Kind words never burn your tongue but evil ones do. Do you always say kind words?’' She inquired, icy eyes all-seeing over ghostly bone china.

'‘I try.’' Ophelia offered, once again seeing to the task of folding the eggs into the cake mix.

‘'Hmm. I suppose that'’ll have to do. Now, what did I tell you? You’re folding it wrong! Honestly, Ophelia, you’re just like your mother. Always listens, never hears. And they are two very different things dear, you mind that. It’s a very important variance to discern in this life.’'

'‘Well, how am I supposed to do it then? This is how Mother taught me and surely she learnt from you.’'

Her grandmother ground her ethereal teeth. '‘No. My mother taught her. She wouldn’t listen to anyone else on the matter.'’

'Didn't your mother teach you?’'

‘'No. My mother ran away with the candlestick maker and I had to learn from my aunt. Candlestick makers are nothing but trouble, Ophelia. You mind and stay away from them, you hear?’'

'Oh, everyone in Milton knows that...Grandma.' Ophelia rolled the phrase around on her tongue to get used to it. It felt funny. She’d never known either of her grandmothers; they had both died before they saw their only granddaughter.

'Good girl.’'

'Why did your mother stay for my mother and not you?’'

'She didn’t stay. She came back with that horrid candlestick maker in tow. The maverick. I never thought candle wax was such an effective aphrodisiac. Well, I suppose it’s up to the individual as to what gets their engine...ticking.’'

'What’s an aphrodisiac?’' Grandma looked down in horror, pulled from her reverie. ‘'Never you mind! That’s not a word you should be using, or even thinking of. Such things are not for young ladies to think about. In fact, wash your mouth out with soap for mentioning such a filthy word.’'

'But you said it too.’'

'There’'s no soap in the afterlife.’'

'But don’'t you all get smelly?’'

'No, we’'re dead. We don’t need such earthly things as cleanliness and food and drink and...arousal at the hands of naughty, evil candlestick makers.’'

'Then why do you drink tea?’'

Don’'t talk back. Such a cheeky little madam. You deserve a good seeing to.'’

'They'’re all too busy to see me.’'

Grandma thought to herself quietly. ‘'Hmm. That’'s exactly the problem. Children should be seen and not heard. Now, let me show you how to fold those eggs in.’'

~

It struck once again at the age of sixteen, whilst working in the flower shop. She was neatly arranging the fresh-cut orchids in their pot. They all gazed at her, heads cocked in curiosity, their little sunny faces peering out from their neatly placed bonnets. ‘'Well, what have we here?'’ They seemed to ask, drinking in her blue eyes, freckles and graceful brown curls, bobbing as she reviewed her work.

'Oh for goodness’ sake, don’'t put the orchids near the hellebore!'’ She started then placed a hand on her chest, sighing and turning to meet an elderly, bespectacled man.

'Why ever not? They look lovely together.’'

'Because orchids stand for magnificence, beauty and love. Hellebores stand for scandal. How on earth do you plan on becoming a florist if you don’t know that?’'

'Why on earth should that bother me or affect the logistics of my displays?'’ She inquired, hand on aproned hip.

'Don’t you see, child? The two together? Scandal and love?’' Ophelia looked on, blankly. ‘'Candlestick makers!'’ He roared, flustered, making his way over to her stand, hands waving. He attempted to grasp the orchid stalks thus tearing them away from the hellebore but to no avail. He sighed in frustration, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

'Would you mind telling me who you are, that you think you can barge in here and attempt to rearrange my shop?’'

'The man looked up, his face turning a murky shade of post mortem purple. '‘Your shop? What would cause you to call it your shop? It is my shop, little lady. I am Reginald Parchemus, the founder of this fine floral establishment, and you have no business calling this business your shop.'’ Ophelia sighed, lifting the orchids and placing them in another bucket, away from the dreaded hellebore. '‘I don’'t even see why you’d be stocking hellebore. Bad news, hellebore and candlestick makers. And no, not beside the orange mock either! That'’s deceit.’'

'Grandpa Reg.’' She sighed, under her breath in newfound understanding. ‘'Grandpa Reg, you’'re dead.'

'Well aren'’t you smart, hmm? Regardless of my mortal state this is still my shop.’'

'No, you handed it to my father in your will. And, some day soon, when he retires it shall be my shop.'’

'Well, he’'d better not be planning on retiring in the near future. You'’ve a long way to go yet, missy. Honestly, orchids with hellebore? What were you thinking?’'

'‘I was thinking the two looked marvellous together. And before you go off on one about the dreaded candlestick makers I hardly see why placing the two together would magically conjure such a person on our doorstep.’'

Grandpa Reg scampered over, putting his cool, ghostly lips to her ear. ‘'My brother Percy gave Mrs. Grange an arrangement with orchids and hellebore. In a few months time she’'d run off. Can you guess who with?’'

'A candlestick maker.’ Ophelia muttered.

'Correct.’' He replied. ‘'Now, move those orchids onto the counter in their bucket away from all of this ghastly hellebore and orange mock.’' He busied himself around the small shop front, through the jungle of bay trees, roses, tulips and more, attempting to inspect a bloom or two then realising he couldn’t, wiping his hands down his paranormal waistcoat.

'Must you all bother me so?’' His granddaughter asked, shaking her head as she trimmed some iris stems.

'I’'m bothering you?’' Grandpa Reg replied, looking up from his

DelilahCandlestick Makers • Opuss № I