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The Doom Of The Hollow - Extra content


The Jumble - Thursday 5th November, 13 Days Before Doomsday cont.

Mason was outnumbered. He had asked for volunteers from his Sunday congregations, and, subsequently, his parish, after there were not enough volunteers (volunteers being zero in this case.) to come from the advert he had put in the parish newsletter, to organise a jumble sale in aid of the church roof. In the end, Betty Snodbury, Freda Bowman and Jean Grabble, put their names forward. They always put their names forward. Mason had not been Vicar at St James Church for very long but he had quickly realised that these three women, all over the age of eighty, although, their exact ages he did not know, volunteered for everything. The three stooges was his nickname for them. A mantle that, as a vicar, he thought was harsh and not normally like him, but, after they had gossiped and chewed both his ears off, he didn’t think this nickname was totally unjustified.

Jean Grabble snatched a cake from the plate Mason was offering around the room. She ate with her mouth open and spoke through the moist crumbs, “I remember asking our, Ern, to fill the milk jug, but he heard me wrong and thought I said mug, so he comes back into the living room with the wrong vessel. I told him to leave it as it will spill and it did spill because it didn’t have a spout on it. But it was nice to have something different than a bottle even if the mug did say, ‘Lumberjacks are good with their choppers.”

“My Harold was always quite good like that,” said Freda Bowman in between blows on her steaming tea. “Every birthday and even Christmas he’d use a milk jug or the gravy boat if the milk jug needed washing up.”

“He’s sounds quite considerate,” said Betty.

“He was good to me. Did you know, we used to have our coal shed at the bottom of the yard and I used to carry the sacks of coal to the house in all weathers? Even When I was pregnant with our Lizzie I used to carry that coal from the bottom of the yard. That was until I pulled that muscle in my back, don’t you remember, Betty?”

“I do love.”

“Well, you know what my Harold did, bless his heart?”

“No, Freda.”

“He moved the coal shed to nearer the back door.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Freda,” said Jean. “Heart of gold your Harold.”

“I know.”

“Ladies, please.” Mason tried to steer the conversation towards the jumble sale. “Let’s discuss the…”

“Eh, I hear Irene Bredbury died last week,” said Freda, “she had a heart attack in a lift. I tell you, I’m glad I never have to go into a building with a lift.”

“What about the market? It has two levels,” said Betty.

“I shan’t be going there again. Gave me bloody vertigo anyway.”

“If we could just get back to the subject of the jumble sale.” All Mason needed was a ‘who was doing what’ schedule so he could kick the old biddies out of the house, or at least steer them out of the front door when the opportunity arose. “Actually, should we be calling it a jumble sale? It’s a bit old fashioned don’t you think?”

The room fell silent. Betty, Freda and Jean all stopped. Their chewing and drinking ceased and they stared at him as if frozen in time.

“It’s always been a jumble sale, vicar,” said Betty, her utterance being the green flag for the other two women to start eating once more.

“It’s not a white elephant stall, or a sale of work,” added Freda.

“I just thought about modernising it.” Mason’s voice started to become weaker and less assured, “I would have thought an indoor car boot sale would be more appealing. No?”


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