Letter to Crispin

Gonzo Goldfish's Book of Books 

My dear brother,

That was my dear little Abbie with whom I was speaking just then. She is on my lap.

Ah, but I don't need to tell you that wherever I am, so too there must be an Abbie, do I? Crispin, I am devoted to my babies still as ever I was.

***

It's morning here, Crispin, and I am having a tranquil moment in my sunroom between breakfast and morning tea. And just now I had a thought that I must have you join us, in one way or another.

And yes, of course I know that I am so far away from you now. And that the servants are wishing me into a nursing home as they eavesdrop as I dictate my letters and twitter amongst themselves that I am going mad.

But Crispin, you know me. Have you ever known such trifling matters as foolish servants, a missing leg and eternity to keep me from spending time with my loved ones? No!

So let's spend a morning together, my brother. And I will tell you all about the lovely little life my little Abbie and I have carved out here in Essendon. Which yes, is oceans away from our beautiful Capetown, but which for me is home, now.

But wait. I must hush. It will have to be later. Abbie is stirring.

Morning at Mrs. Reynolds'

Gonzo Goldfish's Book of Books 

Scene. The sunroom at the rear of Mrs. Reynolds' house in Woodlands Street. It is summer and the room, north-facing and looking out on a nice garden on three sides as it is, is bathed in sunlight. The breakfast trays have been ordered back to the kitchen and Mrs. Reynolds has had her chair turned in order for the sun to face her. Abbie, her pug, sits on her lap. Abbie is a cranky little piece of work and is a good match, say the staff, for her mistress. But where the staff at worst might mutter that Mrs. Reynolds is too alert to the goings on in the house, new employees are flatly warned that if they know what's good for them, they will give her dog whatever space it thinks it needs.

The sun made Abbie drowsy, and after a few minutes of snorting and snuffling, she dropped into a snore.

Mrs. Reynolds quietly scratched the spot where the back of fat little Abbie's neck should be and began to survey her world. As always, she started with the interior of her sunroom. Then, that ticked off, she moved outside into the garden and then onto the sun, the weather and the state of the nation.

Finally, she was satisfied. In fact, she thought, from where she sat everything was very pleasant indeed. So, she declared herself ready move onto the day's next order of business, which was to write her morning letter

As was her habit, Mrs. Reynolds now sat in silence for a minute, considering her options.

"Crispin!" she announced, suddenly. "I am going to write to my brother." Abbie, startled, tore off a short, sharp, trumpetlike fart and then wriggled around a bit so that she could give the old woman a bit of a glare.

"Don't look at me like that," scolded Mrs. Reynolds. "I don't care if he's dead. If I want to write a letter to my brother, I will."

The pug watched the old woman's face for a few seconds more wondering whether or not the hole in it was finished making noises. It seemed that it had, so she grunted and let a longer, more luxurious one go as she settled back into the woman's lap to resume her nap.

The lady of the house waited for Abbie's snoring to resume. Then, she waited a little while till she was sure Abbie was in her deep, as she called it, and carefully lifted the corner of the little one's doggie blanket over her back end. And then she turned her attention to the electronics she had had embedded within the ether that ran through her house. "OK, Google," she said in a calm, even tone. "Take a letter."

Prologue

Gonzo Goldfish's Book of Books 

Author's note. Below is a character sketch for this book. With it, I think I'm playing fashion designer, not that I know all that much about fashion. But as I guess at it, the fashion designer creates something outrageous in the hope or expectation of clothes-makers then using those ideas to make more practical clothes? Either way, the characters in this book only slightly resemble the characters in this sketch. The lady of the house in particular turns out to be much nicer. But I didn't want to throw this sketch away. Because it was fun to write.

It is a truth well known that pugs are territorial. It is, however, less well known that they are also tribal. And in my house, that will not do. Tribalism has no place in a civilised house and on this point I am quite severe.

You see, I am very devoted to my dear ones. To a fault. No one is more attentive to what's best for them. So it should come as no surprise to you that I have been tireless in the task of breeding this unfortunate trait out of my girls.

But alas, the instinct is stubborn. And of all my Abbies, none has been more impossible than this one. Save, of course, my dear Twelve, may Jesus hold her in his arms and may Doctor Johnson sit forever on a hot poker in hell for failing to save my baby.

But this I do not have to tell you! Because as you have seen, Abbie is Hawthorn and will not budge. My goodness if she had a nose I would squeeze it quite hard and make her eat a teaspoon of something wholesome, red and black.

Oh but even as I say that my heart melts for you, doesn't it Abbie! It is such a pity we have to quarrel so. But then, I could wish you weren't Dutch, too, couldn't I.

But look, here comes Mary. Brunch already! And I have a very special treat for you today, Abbie. No, not Woodlands Park Duck. Swan! Mary is just back from Queen's Park, so she will still be warm for you. And you like that, don't you.

Pardon? Mary? No, you scallywag! Not Mary. The swan! Oh you make me laugh. But hush now.

***

Thank you Mary. Abbie will have hers in her high chair and I will have my morning port now. And please, turn me to face the sun? After that you can amuse yourself as you please until lunch, but please do not leave the house.

Foreword

Gonzo Goldfish's Book of Books 

"Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put."

―Winston Churchill

Actually, I wanted an excuse to write like that. Once you get going with that sort of over-the-top grammar, it starts to sound great. Well, to me it does, anyway. (Tony reckons there are reasons for that.)

But at the same time, of course, I'm not about to stop making pop-off jokes. So, I sat here and thought about all that until bingo, I had it. A wealthy, octogenarian, conservative-despising liberal living in a nice house here in my suburb just after the gold rush. And she has a rude little pug on her lap.

I think I'm falling in love with that pug already.

Just kidding. I think I can find a way to like her mistress too, hard as I find it as a socialist to warm to a liberal. We shall see. And oh, one more thing. The lady follows Essendon. Obviously.

Nina