"Good morning, Maude!” Professor Emilia DeBusque, ever her cheerful morning self, yawned and stretched as she cranked open the kitchen window. “I trust you slept well?”
There was no response.
“Maudie?”
“Is something missing?”
“Apart from my omelet and cappuccino?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll get to that directly.”
“No bother, my dear. Just as soon – hell-o, I think something IS awry! Whatever could it mean?” Emily scurried over to the corner of the kitchen that Maude was peering at so intently.
“What are we looking at?” Professor Moll E. P’Ohlig tied the sash of her vintage Japanese kimono and stared at the spot which was suddenly the subject of so much interest.
“What used to be here is what I can’t figure out. Do either of you remember?” Emily scuffed a velvet slipper against the large rectangle on the floor which had apparently been covered up until quite recently. “Maudie, you’ll have to be a bit more diligent with the dusting.”
“Might it have been books?” Molly offered helpfully.
“Well, any book that big would have been expensive, and we never use the expensive ones as furniture.” Emily looked at the wall above the rectangle. “Look! You can see there was something here, because you can see the line where the sunlight faded the wallpaper above.”
“I remember!” Molly clapped her hands in excitement. “It was the mimeograph machine that we purchased at that auction in Paris! It used to belong to Anais Nin! We never used it!”
Congratulations were given all round, and morning coffee was especially grand with the addition of Monday morning (noon, actually) mimosas. There was a lull in conversation until Emily said,
“But where do think it’s gone?”
* * *
Near two o’clock, the girls had been in the office for quite some time, but it was agreed between everyone that something felt off. They’d absolutely no idea what had happened to the mimeograph.
“Look, we’ve only just noticed it missing, so it must have occurred quite recently. I know we never took much notice of it before, but I think it must have only just gone.” Emily delicately nibbled at a madeleine cookie she’d dunked into her early afternoon tea.
“What did we do last night…?” Molly pulled an extra knitting needle from her hair and thoughtfully purled three stitches. Emily wrinkled her brow.
“Dinner party?” Maude looked up from “War and Peace”. “Yes, I think so – lots of friends, weren’t there? We even had a theme – ‘I Feel Sad that I haven’t Won the Booker in a While’, you know, drumming up a bit of business.”
“Right as usual, Maude! Now where did I put that guest list…” Emily reached into the impressive sheaf of papers on the incidental table by her chaise, and whisked out a sheet of the heavy parchment she used for lists. Sliding on her elegant spectacles, she read “Michael Ondaatje, A.S. Byatt, Roddy Doyle, Kazuo Ishiguro, Ruth Prawer Jhabvala….that’s funny, isn’t it, Molly?
Molly chewed at a thumbnail. “Huh. Didn’t we set table for SIX guests last night?”
Emily nodded slowly. “Wasn’t there a…Scottish accent at table last night?”
The two looked at each other and then at Maude, who stood up and shouted, “WELSH!”
“No, it was Scottish, I said, Maudie – oh IRVINE Welsh! I don’t remember inviting him…he’s never won the Booker, I’m sure…..” Emily drifted off into a little think, curled up in the chaise.
“Maudie, I think it’s naptime. Would you please ring Mr. Welsh and see if he wouldn’t mind calling later in the evening?” Molly took Emily’s arm, and together they drowsed off back towards the house, each carrying bundles of words to work on as they lounged in their respective boudoirs.
* * *
“Now Mr. Welsh, we very much appreciate your forthright nature in bringing back the mimeograph, but what we’d like to understand is WHY.” Emily was always the one who had to adopt the sterner nature with the authors, Molly was too inclined to let their creative genius wander whither it would. Molly was also the one who had to answer midnight calls from the police and go collect people from the drunk tank. (Martin Amis, you know who we’re talking about.)
Irvine stood silently a moment, and then, steeling his resolve, rolled up his sleeve.
-- Y’see, lassies, I’ve only just stopped the smack. I cannae go back to it, so. But I needed somethin’ for the….interim period, ye ken? As a wee boy, I always loved the mimeo, the way it smelled right after they’d bring it you, ye know?
“Irvine, we can’t have you getting high off of our mimeograph machine! Think of the example it sets for Maude!” Emily was peeved, there was no doubt about it. She stamped her delicate foot prettily in an approximation of rage.
-- I ken that, Professor, I do. But ye see, I’ve no been bloody writin’, no for weeks, since I stopped the smack. And I cannae have that if I’m ever gonna get the prize.
Irvine sank down onto the floor. Molly and Emily gave a knowing look to Maude who ran into the kitchen.
“Irvine dear, I think we’ve got just the thing for you. Is that your manuscript in the bag? You give that to us, and go right up to the guest suite. Maudie will be along in a minute with something I think might help, and there’s plenty of extra notebooks. I think you’ll find your writer’s block unblocking quite soon,” Emily handed Irvine his fisherman’s cap as the two girls shooed him upstairs. They looked at each other, and then raced to the front hallway where Welsh had left his bag. As they reached it at the same time, they decided to each take a half and then switch back round. They crept through the secret passage to the office, lit the fire, and read each other the best bits out loud.
* * *
“ ’SCOTSMAN NABS TOP LITERARY PRIZE: CREDITS WORD GIRLS’. Well, I just knew that he would!” Emily patted the newspaper in front of her. “Congratulations, Molly, he couldn’t have done it without us.”
“Yes, congratulations to you too. And to Maude, I think.” Molly tossed Maude a skein of yarn to wind. Maude blushed. “Oh come now, dear, there’s very little chance I would have been able to coerce him into drinking it. He knows all of my tricks already. By the way, would you like some, Emily?”
“Oh yes please,” Emily held out her glass and Maude filled it and two more to the brim with the delightful new beverage that had gotten Irvine back in top form – Rioja Java - “You only feel like you’re on drugs.”©
“Cheers, ladies, to another one! Long live Poppycock!”
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