Poppycock Takes a Trip

“Oh, that’s just it!” Emily shouted, throwing a suspiciously stained manuscript to the floor. “I need a vacation!”

Molly looked up from a scarf she’d just begun, and Maude from the Murakami draft she was going over for spelling errors. They were both startled, as Emily never raised her sweet voice, and she certainly never threw books on the floor.

“What’s that you, erm, were working on?” Molly swept Agatha up from her perch on Emily’s desk and draped her around Emily’s shoulders. Maude was ready with the wine.

“I just don’t think it’s right that, now that Mr. Thompson is dead, now they decide that maybe “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” isn’t so fun after all. Not that they’re wrong, it’s absolute twaddle, but I don’t see how we can go changing it round now after the poor man’s been shot up into space! Oh, do let’s take a trip, girls.”

Molly smiled and gave Maude a nod, and Maude nipped through to the house. Molly tossed Emily’s lap blanket to where she was nearly prostrate on her fainting couch, and then tucked herself neatly into her own. “I’m so glad you’ve come round, Emily, we’ve been waiting absolutely ages for you to suggest it.”

Maude wobbled back in on bare feet (she never could get used to the idea of wearing shoes, no matter how many colds she got or socks Molly knitted), her arms laden with a tower of books. She deposited half with Professor De Busque, and half with Professor P’ohlig. She then alit on her stool by the fire, pen poised over notebook.

Emily smiled and snuggled her face into Agatha’s pristine white fur, all memories of Mr. Thompson and his loathing forgotten. “Capital! Wherever shall we go?”

“Well, let’s have a look.”

The waning afternoon passed in a most pleasant fashion, the three girls poring over the tomes that Molly and Maude had been stashing in the linen closet for just such an occasion. They looked first at writers who consistently wrote about one place – Paul Auster could be nice, but Emily and Molly had done New York to death. There were always the Brontës, but the girls were hoping to go a little farther afield than Haworth. Emily immediately voted for the ‘moveable feast’ of Paris, but Molly curtailed that by reminding her that she’d already been, and that Hemingway generally wasn’t all that keen on adjectives. And Emily was quite fond of adjectives. Maude drew out an old paperback Steinbeck, assuring them that Agatha could take the place of the poodle in “Travels with Charley”, but, once again, Emily and Molly had ‘done’ America. Molly piped up in a small wistful voice that Evelyn Waugh wrote several nice bits about Venice, but that was two strikes for Molly – one, she’d been twice already, and two, it was well-known in the Poppycock offices that a certain financial adviser was going to be attending a conference in Venice shortly, on money and its discontents. The idea was put down quickly.

Italy came up quite frequently, though, from DH Lawrence’s “Sea and Sardinia” (everyone was a bit worried it would turn out like most of Lawrence’s writing, and the trip would be quite depressing) to Hilaire Belloc’s “The Path to Rome”. Although the girls were amused by a blurb they read – “A ramble by foot from central France to Rome” – it was generally agreed that they wanted a trip with altogether less walking involved.

The girls hemmed and hawed, reading their way from one continent to another and back again. They read EB White in New York and James Joyce in Italy, Alain de Botton all over, and Italo Calvino invisible 13th century cities. They were quite close to chucking the whole idea after happening upon Xavier de Maistre’s “Journey around My Room”, as it would save a lot of money and hassle. But they all needed a break from the three, sometimes four hours they spent in Poppycock up to five times a week. Their nerves were quite raw from the two calls Maude took a day before unplugging the damned thing. They required rest and rejuvenation, a journey of adventure and romance that wouldn’t always necessitate the perfect adjective, a time wherein no one would ask if the murdered should end up being the obvious serial killer or his mousy librarian sister.

They had retreated to the house for the evening, feeling a bit defeated. Every time they thought they had a destination pinned down, someone pointed out that they were thinking of what the place had been like in the 1930s, and it was now an undeniable tourist trap. Or sometimes they realized that the place had never existed at all. Maude was in the process of making her famous rejuvenating stew, and everyone felt their spirits lift a bit as the aromas wafted about the house. The doorbell rang.

“My good ladies, I’ve brought the late post,” Mr. Periwinkle called from the foyer. He was apt to let himself in with his key from now and then. They had given it to him some time previously; you could never be sure the girls weren’t having a nap, and they did so hate to miss a fresh manuscript.

“Oh, Mr. Periwinkle, we are utterly undone,” Emily sighed wearily. “We do fear that our days will go on in this pattern of drudgery, and searching out the sunshine has proved fruitless. Is there anything in that bundle of envelopes that might save us, or are our days to continue in this endless tedium?”

“Why, professor,” Mr. Periwinkle looked on her in amazement. “I’ve never known you to be so down. Let’s just have a look, shall we? I’m sure something will turn up to ease your troubles.”

Well, the first envelope was not encouraging. It was a ridiculously heavy envelope from Nicholas Sparks. They didn’t even deign to open it, having been suckered into that before – he generally tried to entice them with a couple of Thomas Kinkade drawings, thinking that would somehow convince them to liven up one of his saccharine romance novels. The last time he’d sent one, Maude actually fainted in embarrassment. No. They would not be opening this envelope. Mr. Periwinkle fetched the fire tongs, and Molly disposed of it appropriately, and it ended up making quite a companionable little blaze.

The evening post seemed to go from bad to worse, with miserable contributions from Dan Brown, Janet Evanovich, and Danielle Steele. These missives all remained unopened, and the Poppycock kitchens were toasty warm by the time they reached the last letter. The girls looked at each other gravely as Molly held the last unopened envelope, which had a curious postmark and no return address. Mr. Periwinkle solemnly unsheathed the letter opener given to him by Umberto Eco in thanks for carrying to and fro those weighty scribblings of his. The letter opener originally belonged to Patrick Henry, who had pretended to stab himself with it after his famous speech. Signor Eco knew that Mr. Periwinkle was something of a history buff in his spare time. The venerable postman handed it to Molly with a flourish.

She carefully slit the top open and pulled out a single piece of parchment. Perching a pair of glasses (previous owner: Sylvia Plath) atop her button nose, she read aloud: “To the Honorable Professors De Busque and P’ohlig, and the Esteemed Maude Mukopadhyay.”

There was a strangled noise from Mr. Periwinkle, who never failed to giggle when he heard Maude’s last name. Molly continued.

“Thought you could use a bit of a getaway. If you overtire yourselves, who will be left to write the great literature that this world has come accustomed to expect from you? You leave tomorrow for three weeks on the Orient Express. Don’t bother packing, all will be provided. Anything you want, you must simply ask. Please enjoy yourselves, you certainly deserve it. Signed, a Friend.”

The girls, and indeed Mr. Periwinkle, were flabbergasted. Who was this mysterious Friend? Could it be Ralph Fiennes, whom they’d recently helped with his memoirs, putting a most romantic spin on the Quantas incident? Or Ian McEwan, who, with their aid, had won the Booker Prize this year for two books, in an unprecedented tie with himself? The four puzzled over this conundrum for quite some time, passing round great bowls of stew before the cheerful hearth. They eventually retired in delirious anticipation of the next day’s journey, still confounded as to who would have given them such a glorious gift.