Penelope had the milkiest, whitest arms in this whole wide world. Really soft and lovely they were. Cream satin. It seemed impossible to believe that such a broomstick of a girl, with such a coarse complexion and truly horrible manners could possess these lovely arms. God, it would appear, had made a criminal error and I felt bound to put the matter right.
She died very quickly from a stab wound in the back, the knife thrust up and twisted to severely pierce the heart. She was at the time sitting in the dining room of my place in Lavender Hill, enjoying a meal of sweet and sour pork and chow mein which I had bought at Foo Ling’s takeaway Chinese shop just down the road.
Those beautiful arms were very hard to remove. Without damaging them, that is… but I managed quite nicely with a sharpened carving knife and a fine-bladed hacksaw and soon Penelope’s arms were floating in preserving fluid in my old aquarium, next to the hair of Daphne and the eyes of Mildred. Penelope’s ugly remains went into the cupboard under my back stairs.
Well, as the months went by, I searched diligently for my perfect lady, but to no avail. Alice from Camden Town had perfect breasts… and nothing else. Cicely from Swanage had the daintiest feet. Moira from Australia had the sweetest ears and I’ve never seen legs quite so perfect as Joyce’s from Enfield… except maybe Lizzie Spring’s. There I was with all the bits and pieces but no entire, floating forlornly in my well-stocked larder.
Then it happened.
One evening when I was inspecting my handsome collection of perfect parts, a hobby which as you may gather had superseded my old one of stamp collecting, an inspiring idea exploded in my mind. Why I hadn’t thought of it before, I’ll never know, yet I came to realize that the inkling of it had always been tucked away somewhere in my dark subconscious… and this was the reason I had collected all these lovely bits together.
Being as the perfect lady is almost impossible to find, why not, Rupert, I thought, create your own.
Why not be your own God and create your own woman? Eh?
And that was how Winnie came to be created. From a superstructure of wire, plastic, glue and wood, endowed with Mildred’s eyes and special rubber lips, Penelope’s tender arms, hinged and stitched with leather tabs so that they could cuddle me, Moira’s ears to whisper into, Alice’s soft breasts, Joyce’s long legs, Cicely’s neat little feet and Daphne’s soft, golden hair my perfect lady was born.
I called her Winnie after my dear mother. Winnie’s such a homely name. I bought her all the latest clothes from Marks and Sparks and I sent up for lots of daring underwear from mail order houses. Winnie was pleased.
I played Monopoly with her. And Scrabble. And Beat Your Neighbours Out Of Doors. And I tried to teach her Chess… but the dear, sweet girl just couldn’t get the hang of it. I loved my Winnie. Truly loved her. I would kiss her and cuddle her and take her to bed on cold nights and snuggle up to her. I even bought an electric blanket because her arms were so cold at times. Yes, I loved her… and I know she loved me back. I could tell by the look in her big, brown eyes when I used to stroke her hair and fondle her ears.
Winnie enjoyed the good things of life, as indeed I do, but that which she liked best of all was when I used to take her out in grandma’s old wheelchair which had lain in the cellar for thirty years or more.
I used to take her shopping in Clapham junction and lots of people used to stare quite rudely so I bought Winnie a pretty hat with a black veil and I used to wrap her up warmly in a big check blanket and we would go for strolls around Arding and Hobbs looking in the babywear department, the sad thing being that Winnie could never have children and I know it must have hurt her deeply looking at all those nappies and shawls and bouncing baby swings. I should never have taken her really.
Yes Winnie and me were happy, but people are so vindictive. So evil and jealous. People just can’t leave well alone. Some people just don’t like to see other people happy. Just don’t. And it’s people that’s brought us to this present unhappy predicament.
I had a slight accident, you see, just outside my front garden gate. I was pushing Winnie home after an outing to the ponds on the Common where we’d had a lovely afternoon feeding the duckies and enjoying the sunshine, when suddenly, just as I was turning into the garden, the offside wheel of Winnie’s wheelchair caught a large stone. I couldn’t control the chair and it tipped sideways and poor Winnie was hurled to the pavement.
As fate would have it, two old crows, one of whom I recognized as Mrs. Flately, a shrew from further down the road, the other being Mrs. O’Dell, her nosey next door neighbour, came passing by. Well the screams they uttered must have pierced the very roof of Heaven and sent the Devil in Hell scurrying for cover. They dropped their bags of shopping and raced away, arms flailing, feet thudding as I, muttering how sorry I was, picked up the odds and ends which had dropped from my dear Winnie, including an eye which had rolled to the gutter and a leg which was being sniffed at by a mangy dog.
Hastily I bundled Winnie into the chair, not waiting to fix her together properly, and I hurried inside, bolting the door.
There were police in my front garden and people outside my front gate. Ugly people. A mob. Screaming obscenities. Throwing stones and bottles and the so-called guardians of the law hardly deigning to stop them. My God, I don’t know what this country’s coming to. There’s just no freedom or privacy of the individual anymore.
I watched from the attic window, peering down at that screaming mass of boorish louts and uncouth women. They were shouting. Yelling. Filthily swearing.
‘Get the murdering bastard!’ yelled one.
‘String ’im up!’
‘Burn the ghoul!’
Then one of them spotted me. ‘There he is. Get ’im!’ And the police collapsed under the mastodon-like power of the crowd. And they all surged forward smashing at my house with bricks and sticks and lumps of iron. I escaped over the rooftops, hopping like some poor squirrel pursued by wolves. Through a window and down a drainpipe and then I was running towards the tower blocks of the new council estate.
They’ve put Winnie in a black van now and locked the doors. She’ll be frightened in there. It must be dark. I wonder why Lizzie went and left me like she did. Lizzie! LIIII… ZZZZZIIE!
It’s like being a sparrow up here. A warm, plump little sparrow perched on a ledge. Or an eagle.
They’re marching down the street now. Thousands of evil people. They mean me harm. Those Lilliputians.
I don’t know whether to jump.
I don’t know.
THE BUSINESS ABOUT FRED
by Joseph Payne Brennan
AT THE TIME I was a cub reporter on the local Star Daily, a morning paper. Unless something "big" was still breaking, I’d usually leave the editorial rooms shortly before midnight. I drifted into a regular routine; six nights out of seven I’d stop in at Casserman’s Cafe and drink beer until the place closed at one. A few other newspapermen would stop in; we’d talk and unbend for an hour before going home to bed.
Casserman’s was a quiet place. I suppose it was like a thousand other bars. I can’t remember a single outstanding or remarkable thing about it unless it might be the autographed, framed photograph of Jack Dempsey prominently displayed over the cash register. But on second thought I guess at least several hundred other bars had framed autographed photographs of Jack Dempsey.