A Perfectly Normal Childhood...

In which Captain Kurdle reveals something of his childhood and Miss Ghasm delights in speaking of her Diorrhiah and Gnorriah her twins and their expensive education - and a little of brother Stidgeon.

A Perfectly Normal Childhood…

Over dinner, Miss Ghasm inquires of Captain Kurdle's childhood. "You must have been a lively child," she observes. Her pale fingers tap against her wine glass as she studies his decrepit form with predatory interest.

"Ah yes, indeed. I was a young gripper-snapper of a boy, back in the day. My sainted Ma doted on me," said Kurdle, wheezing through yellowed teeth, his rheumy eyes growing distant with remembrance. "Always out adventuring from as soon as I could toddle. But then I suppose I was lucky, just a perfectly normal childhood.

He paused wandering through the rotting remnants and rags of memory buried in his ancient and ailing brain. Sighed wistfully at a happy memory.

"I had fleas, of course."

"You poor thing, Captain! Fleas!" Miss Ghasm's thin lips curved into what might have been sympathy, though her black eyes glittered with something else entirely. "Were they just too terribly itchy?"

"Itchy? Of course not! Once I had them trained up they were remarkably companionable, highly entertaining of course too," Kurdle declared, straightening his twisted spine with pride. "They were my very first friends! And such shocking show-offs! I built a little miniature flea circus for them to perform in, a thin little thread of copper wire bent delicately into a harness for them and then they were off! The flying trapeze, pulling little wagons, so fun to see. Friends we were, loyal too. Even when they were at their most peckish, not a nibble on me did I ever receive."

His voice dropped to a conspiratorial wheeze as he leaned forward, spraying spittle with each emphatic word. "But my enemies—well, with a little encouragement they would troupe off on tiptoe, quite unseen, and make their way to the warmer nethers and feast away ‘til they were just full to bursting. Quite a joy, a goodly wheeze to see how my foes started to shift uncomfortably, scratch at their whatnots and wheretofores, but never quite getting to the source of the elusive itch—such clever little charmers they were. Then once agreeably full, wend their tiny ways back to me and take a little snooze in my pocket."

Miss Ghasm’s charmed response was swift, her skeletal fingers caressing the rim of her glass. "Oh, Captain," she purred, her voice a low rasp, "you are quite the raconteur. What delightful memories you have. Such ingenuity in one so young—no wonder you’ve built such an... impressive legacy."

Kurdle's eyes gleamed with self-satisfaction. "Ah, yes. My genius has always been... misunderstood by lesser minds."

At that moment, Ida lurched clumsily into the Moon Garden, her heavy boots thudding against the marble tiles. "Wadda want? Ida get... Ida bring..." she mumbled, her large hands gripping a tarnished silver tray piled high with mushrooms from the mines.

"Ida!" Miss Ghasm snapped, though not unkindly. "Serve the Captain first."

Ida blinked, momentarily confused. "Captain first," she repeated, lumbering over to Kurdle and nearly knocking over a delicate urn in the process. She plopped a heaping pile of mushrooms onto Kurdle’s plate with a loud thunk.

Kurdle glanced at the mushrooms with a mixture of delight and amusement. "Ah, the bounty of my beauteous mines," he muttered, prodding one with his fork. "A taste one never quite gets accustomed to."

Miss Ghasm watched as Ida served her next, placing the fungi before her with the same thuggish finality. "Thank you, Ida," she said, eyeing the mushrooms warily before returning her gaze to Kurdle.

The captain leaned back in his chair, wheezing slightly as he spoke. "You see, Miss Ghasm, these mushrooms are quite special. They grow faster than we can harvest them—an endless supply. Remind me to show you the mushroom mine soon, Miss Ghasm. It really is exceptional."

Miss Ghasm picked up her fork delicately and speared a mushroom. She brought it to her lips and paused. "Fascinating," she said softly before taking a small bite.

Kurdle watched her intently as she chewed. "Yes," he continued, his voice dripping with mock grandeur, "they sustain my... endeavours here on the Isle of Fogges."

Ida stood awkwardly by the table, rocking back and forth on her heels. A flight of swarming gnatterflies swept down through the air and circled the table.

"Gnatterflies bobbering you?" Asked Ida and snatched one out of midair - pulled its wings off and snapped the body in half with a wrench and dropped it onto the floor where she stamped on it squishing it to smithereens and ochre coloured goo. " Look, Ida fix it - no bobber now…’Better now - it dead now, dead, dead, dead, dead - her brainbox skipping upon a loose screw. Abruptly she banged the side of her head jolting the screw into place, regained some semblance of thought, then turning she lumbered of. "Ida fix it" she mumbled.

Miss Ghasm averted her eyes from its remains, swallowed and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “A unique flavour,” she commented diplomatically.

Kurdle chuckled darkly. “Yes,” he agreed. “Unique indeed.”

He sipped from his goblet and returned it to the table—his large Adam's apple bobbing lively and lasciviously beneath the thin skin of his neck. "Ah, yes. Back to my happy childhood days! Such memories you have caused me to bring back, my Deah. Where was I?"

"Well, later, when I was a little older, naturally I had flies. For some reason, I was simply unfathomably attractive to them—like moths afluttering to a flame—hordes of shiny, gleaming bluebottles."

"How marvellous" gushed Miss Ghasm, "that they should crave your company so."

Captain Kurdle shook his head. "Actually, and of course I've nothing whatsoever to say against flies, but rather disappointing as pets. Not overtly affectionate, or even just a little companionable in nature. Short-lived too. Just when you'd got to know them and christened them with sincere and sober names, they'd drop. Drop like flies. A change in the weather, a dip in the temperature, and well—done for. And in those days, Miss Ghasm, as you'll recall, there were nights so cold as to freeze the fuzz of a fairy. So bitter as to cause the fleas to have fled and when even my flies had all flown to meet their maker."

He sighed reflectively.

"But now—wasps. Big black and yellow beasties, packing a nasty little sting in the tail. Wasps, they were quite another matter. Dear Igbert. Beloved Fruppence. Boon companions, both, for a boy like me. Simple to tame too! A little swatting tap with a rolled-up newspaper to put 'em to doze, then a little silk thread set into a dab of warm horse-glue on the top of their midderns, and once they came round from their slumbers—up they goes, tethered close by."

"Took 'em for walks when I was on the lonely side. There they'd be, zipping and zithering around excitedly, tugging on their little strings, which I secured safe to my lapel button."

Miss Ghasm looked over her goblet, one brow arched, a flicker of reluctant admiration in her eyes.

Kurdle pressed on.

"How I adored Fruppence! A wily we beastie and what a scorching stinger - deployed by dive bombing. For a while I had to put him on a lead—a fiddly business I can attest—mainly to curtail his nocturnal activities, Miss Ghasm, the like of which I should not bear to trouble you with. The string, sad to say, upon which Little Fruppence quite depended—snapped. I never knew what became of my little friend."

"Yes," said Kurdle, misty-eyed. "Little Fruppence was a fine figure of a wasp—a cut above your average kind of custard, indeed. Came to a sticky end, I should imagine. He could hover like a fly, could sting like a bee—the best of both worlds, I should think."

“Fruppence—why, right fierce he was. He would buzz and zing and zap away at anything that bothered him. A nasty near miss with an electrical whisk one time."

There was a pause.

"But never did I ever find a truly friendly fly, Miss Ghasm," said Captain Kurdle dreamily in remembrance. "Prone to be swallowed by old ladies too."

He leaned back with a nostalgic wheeze. “I don’t know why, Miss Ghasm, but for some reason I was attractive to flies.”

"I've always had a special way with creatures - now take Danderpuff for example - there's those who cast their ghastly aspersions, and are dubious of his parentage. Some have claimed he's a parramelion - but I have it on the very best of authority that he's certainly a parraguana. I've never once seem his plumage change colour in the least - though he's often green with jealousy and extremely protective towards me…. It will be a delightful pleasure when you finally meet him no doubt" concluded Captain Kurdle, a secretive little smirk of a smile sitting snidely at each side of his lips.

=

The Twins…

Miss Ghasm smiled thinly, swirling the last dregs of her wine. Her eyes glittered—ice-cold, proud.

“Well, Captain… as you have shared so sincerely and kindly, I should do likewise.

She tapped the base of her goblet with one skeletal fingernail. “My girls. My twins. Diorriah and Gnorriah.”

Kurdle blinked slowly. “Ah yes. Your offspring - twins you say?”

She sat straighter, chin lifting like a blade. “They are quite... exceptional. So very gifted. So very spirited. And exquisitely difficult.” She paused. “But then, one expects nothing less from blood such as mine. And so perfectly similar in each and every respect that it's impossible to tell which one is actually the identical one."

“Indeed,” said Kurdle, his voice rasping with faint amusement. “And are they—still in finishing school?”

“Oh yes,” Miss Ghasm said, with a flick of her fingers. “The very finest finishing school. One must make certain sacrifices to secure their future, of course.”

Kurdle raised an eyebrow. “Sacrifices?”

Miss Ghasm’s lips pursed briefly, then relaxed into a thin smile. “Merely the usual trifles. A few debts here and there—irrelevant, really, in the greater scheme. What price can one put on polish?”

“Quite,” Kurdle murmured, tapping his goblet idly. “And do they write?”

“Write?” She gave a laugh—short, dry. “Not especially. But I receive notices. Reports. Updates from the headmistress. Most informative.”

Kurdle watched her carefully. “And what do the reports say?”

“Oh, the usual. Diorriah is said to have an uncommon aptitude for ‘assertive expression.’ Gnorriah shows promise in ‘strategic emotional withdrawal.’ The staff assure me both are progressing beautifully in deportment, etiquette, and the various defensive applications of hairpins.”

“Remarkable,” said Kurdle. “And expensive, I presume?”

She waved the thought away. “Of course. But you cannot measure brilliance in brass, Captain. Not when one’s legacy is at stake.”

Kurdle gave a slow, sly smile. “And would they visit, someday? Diorriah and Gnorriah?”

Miss Ghasm paused, her gaze drifting toward the mist-swaddled garden. “One hopes,” she said finally. “Though between their studies, fencing, and the occasional disciplinary quarantine, one rarely knows what their term permits.”

Kurdle chuckled, a low rattle in his throat. “Twins, you say. Twice the pride… twice the price.”

Miss Ghasm’s eyes gleamed. “Twice the danger,” she said.

And then she took another bite of mushroom, slowly, deliberately—like a queen tasting war rations with perfect, poisonous grace.

=

There is reference in later chapters of ‘Miss Kermillah Ghasm and the Curse of Captain Kurdle’ to a ‘little light fun with poisons.’ Hence a reintroduction to her brother Stidgeon and his unusual proclivities - this taken from previous posts of the latter part of last year. With ‘the battle of the wills’ well underway, you may wish to refresh your recollection of the significance of ‘a tickle in the toe…’

Captain Kurdle inquires into Miss Ghasm's family past and learns a little of her beloved brother.

"Stidgeon and I," she continued, her voice both fond and yet filled with darkness, "have always been unusually close. Closer than any so-called siblings might claim to be. We understood each other, as only kindred spirits do."

For a moment, a look of fondness ghosted across her face. "He had a gift, my Stidgeon. A nose for it, you might say. And I—well, I had the skilled hands and a mind perfectly suited for... the more practical matters."

She shifted softly in the chair, remembering her brother’s peculiar talent. "Stidgeon’s nose," she said, her eyes gleaming, "was a wonder. An instrument of the finest distinction. He could detect the most delicate of scents, particles so few they’d vanish in an instant, yet he could discern them. Even as a child, he had this gift."

Her gaze softened, recalling simpler days. "At five years old, you’d find him nose-deep in the rose garden, his little face buried in the blooms. He could tell you, without looking, if there was an earwig hidden among the petals. And he could name the age of a rose with nothing but a brief whiff—a talent so refined, it bordered on the supernatural. He claimed, and who was I but to ever doubt, that he could smell the approach of death, the first subtle portents of decay."

"Stidgeon could sense things about the roses no one else could: their health, their life, even the types of creatures that disturbed their roots. He once confided in me—only me—that he could smell the colours of the roses. Not just the fragrance, but the colour itself. No one else believed him, of course. But I, his sister... I knew. I knew it was true."

Miss Ghasm upright in her chair, her posture regal with admiration. "But roses and perfumes were just the beginning. Stidgeon found beauty in all scents, even the ones others found unpleasant. How often was he scolded for lingering too long by a freshly tarred fence, enthralled by the smell of pitch?"

With a cold, sighing mirthless laugh she continued. "But genius, as they say, is rarely appreciated. And when the world rejected his brilliance and scorned him, it opened a door to something darker. He discovered a new calling, a profession suited to his... unique talents."

"His obsession with scent," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "led him down a path far more delightful than I could have imagined, hoped for or dreamt of. Yet," she sighed with a purposeful misdirection and glittering glint in her eyes, "It hasn't always been a bed of roses."