Poppycock Goes Clubbing

Pete Postelthwaite was dead, to begin with. And that, of course, put the ladies of Poppycock into a dreadful funk.

"Well, I'm completely at a loss as to how to improve our spirits, girls," Mr. Periwinkle sighed and took a rather indelicate gulp of sherry.

Maude, drooping sadly by the television set, couldn't even muster up any words, but sadly pointed at poor Mr. Postlethwaite as he appeared onscreen in Martin Chuzzlewit, which was being screened in the Poppycock home office for the third time that day.

Professor De Busque lay her head down on a battered Complete Works of Shakespeare and said disconsolately, "Maybe we could switch to "Last of the Mohicans"? Or "In the Name of the -" no, certainly not, too violent for Maudie."

Maude sat up indignantly. "I was the only one who would work on that new edition of "A Clockwork Orange"!"

"Yes, yes, I know, dear, but as Mrs. P'ohlig says, it's much different on screen," Emily made a little fussing sound and ruffled Maude's hair, which made her feel a little better, but not very much. Professor P'ohlig's mother always had very good advice, even if it didn't improve one's mood at the time.

"I've got an idea," Professor P'ohlig said, making everyone jump. She'd only gone down for her nap a little while ago, saying she had a lot of work to do on the next Jonathan Franzen, if anyone was going to give two figs about it.

"Well, what is it? Out with it, girl!" Mr. Periwinkle said, with a little more exasperation than usual. Martin Chuzzlewit always made him a bit peevish. He always fancied himself as a bit of a Tom Pinch, and was always hurt when everyone failed to comment on the resemblance.

Molly drew herself up slowly, as if mustering a great deal of courage. "I think we can all say that we've realized today that...well, life may take us at any time. So, perhaps we should do more of the things that we...want to do, but are a bit...em...frightened of, shall we say." She looked about the room nervously.

"Yes?" Maude and Emily said simultaneously, like a tiny duet of baby birds.

Molly screwed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. "We should go clubbing."

***

Four hours later, the four principle members of Poppycock were nervously standing on a dank London sidewalk, eyeing an imperious looking velvet rope which was inconveniently stretched across the doorway they had been hoping to enter. Not to mention the large black-clad gentlemen who stood next to it, arms folded, expression grim. Poppycock took a huddle.

"Maude, you go," Emily whispered. "You look very sweet in that pink dress and I'm sure he'll like you enough to let us all in."

"But I'm underage!" Maude squeaked.

"No you're not," Molly said, fumbling in her imitation Alexander McQueen skull clutch for a small card. "Here. I took the liberty of having this made for the occasion."

The other members of Poppycock leaned in closer. "Molly," Emily said with just a touch of exasperation, "Why have you made her thirty-two? She hardly looks thirteen!"

"Because," Molly said a bit too loudly, resulting in a great deal of shushing, "Because, that's an age no one would lie about. No one pretends they're thirty-two. Who would make up such an awful thing?"

Mr. Periwinkle nervously tapped his hip flask, and then the flask in his breast pocket, and clanked his ankles together so you could hear that flask too. "Let's get a move on, ladies. We need to be back home in time for the premiere of "Downton Abbey"."

That sparked the troops into action, and Maude was shoved towards the menacing bouncer. She looked up at him and smoothed down the flounce in her tea length dress. She handed him the id. He looked at it, looked at her, looked at Molly, Emily, and Mr. Periwinkle biting their lips a few steps away, and jerked his head towards the door. Everyone tried to keep calm and nonchalant as they shuffled in, although Emily nearly got them kicked right out again by saying, "Thank you, sir."

***

To say it was an unfamiliar world would be an understatement. The club was crowded, and very dim, except for random flashing lights that Mr. Periwinkle muttered were sure to exacerbate his glaucoma. Not that he had glaucoma.

Emily spied a corner table tucked away from the dance floor, which was just where they wanted to be. They had been seated only a moment, looking about, wondering what to do next, when that problem was solved. A girl in a tiny cocktail dress came up and handed them drinks menus.

"Oh, just tea for Maude, please, she's only thirteen," Emily explained. The waitress gave her a funny look and Molly dropped her head into her hands. "I mean, well, goodness, I mean that when she's drinking alcohol she sort of acts like she's thirteen, so she...won't....be drinking...you see?"

"A very....dry....sherry!!" Mr. Periwinkle shouted as loudly as possible, then settled back contented into his seat.

"And I shall have...." Molly was making a big show of perusing the menu as she always did, although she generally already knew what she wanted before she opened the menu. "...Perhaps I shall try a....Long Island Iced Tea?"

Mr. Periwinkle opened his mouth and was about to say something, but Molly shot him one of her looks. Then she looked at Emily. "It's a kind of festive tea, I believe."

Emily looked like she didn't quite believe her, but went ahead and ordered a small creme de menthe, "emphasis on the small", she told the waitress.

And so they were left to wait for their beverages. Except for Mr. Periwinkle, of course, who had had a sip from every flask and headed out to the dance floor. He looked around with a pining expression for a few moments (he'd been so disappointed that their gardener Alexx has recently moved away, and had walked about in quite a state for a few days), but soon he was dancing away in a group of pudgy Australian girls who seemed to all be possessed of extraordinarily high self-esteem.

The drinks were delivered. Molly kept hers just out of view for some reason, and Emily and Maude sipped theirs daintily. The three sat in awkward silence, ears battered by the loud thumping music. They were all too well-bred to engage in the kind of shouting you had to do in those places. Luckily, some sort of ballad came on, which was a bit quieter. Emily leaned over to Molly and said, "Um...what do you think of him?"

Molly looked first at Emily, whose face had turned a fetching pink. Then she looked where Emily was looking, at a young man leaning against a column with dashing insouciance. "Emily," Molly breathed, "He looks a bit like Tadzio, doesn't he?"

Emily frowned. The two professors agreed about many things, but Death in Venice was not one of them. Molly made haste. "What I mean is, that he's lovely. And not a clerical collar in sight!" Emily nodded and smiled. She'd had quite enough of the clergy, for the time being.

Maude leaned in. "Why don't you...you know?"

Emily went pink again. "Should I really?"

"Oh, what harm could it do? Anyways, we're being brave, remember?" Molly gave the bashful professor a little nudge and fixed a curl attractively behind her ear.

"I suppose it's now or never, isn't it?" And with a very brave deep breath, Emily sauntered over to the young man as casually as a girl madly in love could be expected to. Maude and Molly watched, on the edge of their seats, Molly now quite gulping from her delicate concoction of vodka, gin, tequila, and rum. Emily leaned against the other side of the column. Nothing. She edged around a bit, but the young man was still staring dreamily into space. It was then she pulled out the big guns. She dropped her lace handkerchief on his foot. Molly and Maude gasped, the young man turned to Emily with a look of wonder, and then things really got exciting. Mr. Periwinkle had jumped on top of the bar and was doing a vigorous yet surprisingly skillful tap dance on the marble countertop. The girls were all set to burst into applause, but unfortunately there were still quite a few glasses on the bar, glasses which began splintering and flying around the club, looking, Maude was heard to remark later, like a lovely storm of flying crystals. Sadly, that was not the view of the group of chubby Australian girls, who, enraptured by Mr. Periwinkle's obvious charms, had made their way right to the front of the bar, where the glass flew about their faces and gave them some not-insubstantial scratches. A ruckus began, and sirens were heard, and Poppycock just didn't know where to turn to get out of this kerfuffle.

Luckily, they didn't have to. The insouciant young man turned out to be the owner's son, and so dazzled was he by Emily's beauty that he escorted them all out the back entrance as the police came in: Emily, thirteen year old Maude, tipsy swaying Molly, and mad Mr. Periwinkle. As Poppycock made a mad dash for the nearest black cab, the owner's son slipped a business card into Emily's hand, and they were gone.

***

"Most successful, I think," Emily remarked the next morning at breakfast, plopping matching ice packs on Molly and Mr. Periwinkle's heads.

"So do I," Maude said, "I think I should be allowed to do more grownup things all the time."

"NO", said the other three in unison.

"Well, Emily, you at least had a very nice time." Molly said in a voice quite enough not to disturb her headache. "By the way, what is that young man's name?"

Emily pulled the business card slyly out her kimono pocket. She looked at the front, and then turn again that lovely shade of pink. "Tadzio."

As Poppycock dissolved into gales of laughter, they decided that they would celebrate Pete Postlethwaite day every year, do something that made them nervous, and hope to always have such a lovely time.