“It is an absolute pig-sty in here, girls,” Mr. Periwinkle said imperiously. The Poppycock postman was taking a late morning sherry (as opposed to his early afternoon sherry) in the cozy firelit office where he spent much of his time. Professors P’ohlig and DeBusque both opened their mouths as if to protest, but meekly shut them again, for two reasons. The first was that Mr. Periwinkle was probably the tidiest person in Great Britain. He may have been overfond of sherry (and gin, and elderflower wine, and various nasty raspberry liqueurs), but his house was never darkened by even the merest speck of dust. The second reason the girls kept their mouths shut was that he was absolutely right. It was a pig-sty. A well-appointed, highly cultured pig-sty, but a pig-sty nonetheless.
Maude sniffled, as she was largely in charge of any ‘cleaning’ that happened to occur. “I’ve gotten a little…behind, I suppose, Mr. Periwinkle.”
“It’s just we’ve all been rushed off our feet lately!” proclaimed Emily as she and Molly bustled about a now dejected Maude, blowing her nose and fluffing her hair. They both shot stern looks at Mr. Periwinkle as Emily continued. “Why, Maude’s doing edits on her first book, I’ve got Alice Munro calling me every fifteen minutes needing more help, and Molly’s simply swamped with Mr. Denning’s financial memoir.”
Molly blushed furiously, as Emily knew full well that not a bit of business had occurred at yesterday’s very long lunch out with Mr. Denning, and that Molly had returned considerably more rumpled and cheerful than when she had left. She gave Emily’s hand a grateful squeeze, and resolved not to throw any blame on her friend, who had come back similarly rumpled and cheerful last week, from a Bible study meeting, of all things.
“Whatever should we do, Mr. Periwinkle?” Molly harrumphed as she flopped down in her chaise lounge. “We shall never be able to clean to your standards unless we hire a full-time housekeeper. We’d hire you to do it, but then who would bring the mail? And anyways, we’re squeezed to death as it is with the four of us.”
“So what you need is someone….small, and unobtrusive?” Mr. Periwinkle cocked his head thoughtfully.
“And with reasonable prices,” Maude chipped in, and got three head tousles for it. Maude was the only voice of reason apart from Mr. Denning, gently admonishing the Professors whenever they came home from another spree laden with books and wispy party dresses.
Mr. Periwinkle leapt up with only a slight sherry-induced wobble. “I know just the thing! Tonight, when you go to bed, leave out a piping hot bowl of porridge and honey.”
Maude wrinkled her nose. “But…that will only make things…piggier.”
Mr. Periwinkle pinched Maude’s cheek and grinned a mysterious grin. “Just trust me on this one, ladies. And since it’s been such a productive morning, well, I believe I shall take the afternoon off. I’ll be back tomorrow for another inspection!” And he sailed out of the Poppycock offices.
Emily, Molly, and Maude sat in silence, rather unsure if this was just another of the famous Periwinkle pranks, like the time that he tried to pass off some atrocious poetry he’d written as the lost works of D.H. Lawrence, or the time he threw the office into a veritable storm of makeup, perfume, and feminine hysteria after forging a letter from Johnny Depp which indicated he was in urgent need of wordsmithery. Molly, being the laziest, was the first to go for it. “Look, if nothing happens, we’ll just get up early and call a maid service.” It was agreed to be a capital idea, and it was good they thought of it so quickly, for in ten minutes there was to be a viewing of “Cranford” in the Poppycock screening room which was scheduled to take up the rest of the day.
* * *
Morning came early to Poppycock Manor, everyone was up before ten, not quite believing, but still hoping, that somehow a bowl of hot porridge and honey would have been able to clean the place while they slept. At approximately 9:47 three shrieks occurred in chorus, and three doors simultaneously swung open.
“Maude, is your room—“Emily managed to get out, dainty Victorian nightgown swirling about her bare feet, a gift from a fawning group of Dickens scholars.
“My room! It is!” Maude shouted, skidding a little bit in footy pajamas from Quentin Blake. She slid over to the staircase and looked up to where Molly was running down the steps from the garret, wearing a too-big kimono (given to her by Haruki Murakami) which slowed the process considerably.
“Why girls, it’s sparkling! Quick! Downstairs!” Our trio bounded down the stairs, giggling and tripping and pointing out how clean things were (“I can see myself in the mirror!” “I thought I’d lost that hat, whatever is it doing on that hat rack?” “I’ve never even seen that before!”)
Maude led the pack as they reached the French doors to the kitchen, threw them open, and stopped far too abruptly for the galloping hordes behind her to follow suit. The inhabitants of Poppycock Manor tumbled into a bruised and breathless heap on the floor.
“Maudie, whyever did you—“
“Shhh!”
Emily and Molly followed Maudie’s widened eyes. There, sitting at the antique Italian kitchen table, was a most curious creature. It looked like a very small child, but with very long legs, a roundish belly, and little tufts of blonde hair. Since the tumble of girls on the floor didn’t seem inclined to speak, the creature began, in a thin, high voice not unlike a flute.
“I’m Fwendy. I am a brownie, or you could call me a piskie, but really I just prefer Fwendy,” the small creature said. “Thank you for the porridge and honey. I do so like it.”
Emily, Maude, and Molly just sat in stunned silence.
“If you’d like me to do a little clean now and then, just leave a bowl of porridge and honey. Or ice cream. I’m fond of ice cream. Actually, you could add a bit more cream to the porridge next time. Really, anything with cream would be most appreciated.” Fwendy got a faraway look in her eye momentarily, but gave her little head a little shake and jumped off her seat. (She had to jump quite a ways, as her legs didn’t reach the ground.)
“How did you…how will you know when we want you?” Emily said from the ground, which put her on eye level with the brownie.
“Oh, I’ll live here from now on,” said Fwendy in a jolly way. “But don’t worry, I won’t be in your way. You’ll never see me, unless you want to of course. Just remember,” she said, pulling a sparkling blue bonnet from a hidden pocket, “Anything with cream!” And she laughed a little tinkly laugh, popped the bonnet on her head, and, quite simply, disappeared.
It was a good ten minutes before Mr. Periwinkle arrived with the mail, and when he did, he had to tip the Trollope and come into the house, as there was no one in the office. He found three bewildered girls still in their nightclothes, in a jumble on the kitchen floor.
“Ever such a lot of mail today, sleepyheads, best to get to it soon. How about I fix us all a little something first, though, hm?” Mr. Periwinkle set about putting the kettle on as the girls slowly rose and began to make breakfast. The postman smiled to himself and put the sherry on the tray, the taste of porridge and honey with not quite enough cream still in his mouth, and a tiny blue sparkle falling from his postman’s cap.
