A Poppycockian Romance

“Oh dear,” Molly sighed. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with me today, I can’t seem to come up with any of the right words!”

“Is there anything I can get you?” Maudie beetled over to Molly’s chaise and laid a hand on her forehead, checking for signs of fever.

“Oh no, dear, just something that stops me feeling like my brain is falling out!” Molly laughed. “It’s just this Naipaul, I’m sure. One always must worry over him, lest he writes something nasty in his next book. I just can’t seem to get anywhere with it.”

Emily watched this interchange with interest, suddenly jumping up, giving Trollope a pull, and running off down the secret staircase.

“Whatever could it mean?” Maude and Molly looked at each other in surprise, as Emily was usually so good about delineating her purposes. But they didn’t see her again for three quarters of an hour.

* * *

“Here! Try that on for size!” Emily, wisps of hair flying attractively every-which-way, placed a most peculiar object down on top of Molly’s enormous stack of papers. Molly and Maude peered closely at the thing, and Maude prodded it tentatively with a finger.

“What….well, what is it?”

Emily grabbed it and affixed it onto Molly’s head like glasses, with a strap going all the way round her head. “I call them “Anti-ocular-suction Goggular Whatsits! Look, they’ve got windshield wipers for sad books, rear-view mirrors for disgruntled authors sneaking up behind you, insta-tint technology for easy adjustment by the fireplace, night vision in case you can’t be bothered with the lamp, and x-ray vision for….well, for fun.”

“Emily! You’re the cleverest, there’s even glitter on the frames! Let’s try them out, Maudie, fetch me the Naipaul!” Maude duly fetched the manuscript which had cause all the trouble, and she and Emily held their breath as Molly adjusted first one lens and then the other, self-consciously patting the decorative willy-boppers.

Silence. And then….

“A pen, Maudie! A pen! It’s like I can feel the floodgates opening – this sentence is all wrong!” Molly shouted, scribbling away. “Emily, you’re a genius! I mean, I always knew you were, but you’re even more of one that I’d thought! Oh, this must all go, V.S., I’ll have you rewritten if it’s the last thing I do!”

* * *

And of course she did, and of course he won all sorts of prizes, and of course he forgot to thank them at all. But everyone who was anyone knew, so it was all alright. But there was another Great Thing that came out of what would come to be affectionately known as The Naipaul Incident…

* * *


“It’s really quite remarkable, they’re selling like hotcakes,” Maude said into the phone. “No, I’m afraid we only have a few for personal use around here….no, we try to stay away from the warehouse, you know, merchants and all….oh no you don’t want to go to all that trouble, Ms. Lessing, I’m sure we can just send you a pair!....yes, we’ve heard about your creative…difficulties….since the Nobel. Well, I have every confidence that this will clear all of that right up!...I will give them your best, and you look for the Goggular Whatsits to turn up in just a few days!”

“Maudie dear, I do believe that it’s time for tea,” Molly pronounced. As Maude ran off through the passageway, Molly remarked to Emily, “I say, I was just reading an article in the business pages about how much Poppycock has profited from the Goggular Whatsits – we might just close the literary side altogether and live off the effects quite comfortably!”

Molly and Emily smiled at each other, because they would never close the literary side of Poppycock. Just then, the bell rang.

“Odd,” Emily mused, “It’s not time for the post. Do you hear a…buzzing?”

She opened the door and took a quick step back as a motorized wheelchair zipped through neatly, swiveling around to face her as she turned and closed the door.

“I am Stephen Hawking,” a voice intoned, “And I should like to marry you.”

Emily’s eyes widened to such an extent that it looked like she was wearing the Whatsits, with the microscopic function on.

“Your invention has dazzled me. I have created eighty three new theorems since I bought the Whatsit. I cannot live without you. Last night I found a gaseous anomaly in the universe, and I have named it Emily’s Voorwerp. Please come home with me and be my wife.”

Emily and Molly were too stunned to speak for a long moment, but Emily, with her keen awareness of manners, didn’t let the situation progress beyond a mild awkwardness.

“My dear Mr. Hawking,” she said gently, leaning down to his height, “You can’t imagine how honored I am to receive such a proposal from you, one of the great minds of our, or, I believe, any era. But surely you, of all people, will understand when I tell you, and with not a little regret, that I cannot accept. I am simply married to my work, Mr. Hawking, and as it is the esteem of those such as yourself that I strive for, marriage, as such, would simply prove too much of a distraction for my goals.”

“I love you anyway, Emilia DeBusque. Goodbye.” And Emily opened the door, and out he zipped.

There was another protracted silence.

“Molly?”

“Yes, Emily?”

“What is a Voorwerp?”

“I believe that it’s Dutch for ‘object’….may I say that you handled that beautifully?”

“Yes, I thought I did rather well myself.” The girls stretched themselves out on their respective chaises, and looked contemplatively into the fire. Maude burst in with the tea.

“Did I miss anything? I thought I heard the oddest buzzing noise,” Maude shook her head as she poured.

“Oh, nothing of consequence dear, nothing of consequence.” Emily smiled and took her tea cup.

And so passed another afternoon at Poppycock Enterprises, Ltd.