THE ORPHAN SCRIVENER - ISSUE # ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO - 15 DECEMBER 2021

Since last we showed up in subscribers' in-boxes life's travails have resembled, in Mr Maywrite's immortal phrase, a Victorian three-decker hand-wringer. However, even in the middle of dealing with assorted aggravations, not to mention our first meteorological interferences this winter meaning the buggy being unable to leave home, Orphan Scrivener continues to lurch along. Join us in our journey and read on...

---

MARY'S BIT or NAKED CAME THE TREACLE PUDDING

This is the time of year when assorted versions of Dickens' seasonal masterpiece A Christmas Carol vie for space on TV and streaming services. I am reading the novel again and recently reached the description of the Cratchit family's Christmas pudding singing in the wash-house copper as it cooked. And when it emerged from that unusual vessel, what a pudding it was! A positive prince of puddings!

Dickens describes the scene: "A great deal of steam! The pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastry cook’s next door to each other, with a laundress’s next door to that! That was the pudding!...a speckled cannon-ball, so hard and firm, blazing in half of half-a-quartern of ignited brandy, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into the top."

While at one time the Reed family lived in a Victorian era flat still retaining its wash copper in a corner of the scullery, we did not cook our Christmas puddings in the same fashion. No, they were steamed in a basin wrapped in a tea towel set in a large pan, so we were familiar with the steamy smell invoked by the extract above. On the other hand, the Cratchit's pudding most likely did not conceal a lucky coin as ours always did, perhaps a sixpenny piece or if not a pre-decimal penny wrapped in greaseproof paper. We kids understood this precaution was intended to avoid poisoning someone at the festive table, because whereas sixpences were made of silver, the old penny was manufactured from a baser metal and so considered dangerous to everyone's health.

Mind you, while you had to be careful of your teeth, the lucky diner whose pudding portion turned out to contain the coin was guaranteed good luck in the coming year. Round our way, it was rumoured those who did not possess a big enough pan in which to boil their puddings would employ a bucket. Which reminds me that some years ago we sampled a cylindrical because tinned Christmas pudding. In flavour it wasn't too bad, in appearance it just wasn't quite right somehow.

On the other hand, lack of a coin in the pudding would not be surprising given Bob Cratchit took home, as Dickens puts it, fifteen copies of his Christian name a week, and he with a wife and several children to support. However, we are perhaps safe in visualising the Cratchit children giving the pudding mixture a good stir apiece while making a wish in the good old traditional way.

Our Christmas pudding arrived at the table sans holly and brandy, as did other familiar steamed puddings such as spotted dick or those featuring a treacle, syrup, or jam base. Covered in piping hot custard, all were common fare for working folks' "afters" and even occasionally made an appearance in school dinners. Treacle pudding was my favourite anywhere I went, although until writing this I had not found reason to reflect on the number of pans the school's kitchen staff must have employed to supply enough puddings for all their young diners. Alas, no custard was served with them, so it was always a case of naked came the treacle pudding.

Returning to Dickens, despite supernatural intervention, the sea change Scrooge underwent is all the more remarkable given early in the novel he emphatically states if he could work his will "every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”

As for interpretations of Scrooge, my vote goes to Alistair Sim. Subscribers may prefer other performances but let us at least be civil in our disagreements. Therefore there is to be no sharpening of holly branches if you please.

---

NECESSARY EVIL or THE BSP TICKER

...still, alas, silent...it appears the ticker has come out on strike in sympathy with the misbehaving household machinery...

---

ERIC'S BIT or A HOME WITH A HOOK

When I was small my grandmother read me the story of Scuppers the Sailor Dog. The Little Golden book, written by Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Garth Williams, tells the story of a dog who wants to be in his boat on the sea. That’s the only place he feels at home. I still remember the book fondly. I suppose it appealed to an instinctual urge to have the sort of shelter we need, to be just where we want to be.

As kids we were always playing in one sort of shelter or another. There were places that were built for us. Every autumn, my grandfather would construct a hut out of corn shocks in the garden and he and my father put up a fancy tree house with siding and a porch in the big apple tree behind the barn. We spent a lot of time in these shelters but there were others we made for ourselves.

On rainy days my brother and I would push together every table and card table in the house and cover them with sheets to create tent-like mazes. I liked to crayon a control panel onto a cardboard box, take it into my bedroom closet, shut the door and pretend I was in a spaceship. There's an appeal to confined spaces when you're a child. Limited environments are easier to control.

Once my friends and I found three wooden doors discarded in the nettles at the edge of the scrubby patch of woods behind our homes. We cobbled the doors together with throw rugs and corrugated cardboard to make a clubhouse. It was good place to tell ghost stories when we were allowed to stay up late until fireflies flashed in the dark bushes all around. When we weren't in the mood for stories "Joe" would swipe his dad's Aqua Velva and a pack of matches and see how long he could hold a handful of flaming aftershave.

We didn't use the clubhouse for long. The first hard rain found gaps in our workmanship, dissolved the cardboard, and turned the rugs into a sodden slimy mass. It was unsalvageable. Joe suggested we burn the remains down but we decided to leave it too be engulfed by weeds, a monument to past ages when the summer had been young.

The most intriguing place of all was the subterranean cave an older friend made in his backyard, down a hill and behind bushes, out of sight of his house. He dug a hole, laid plywood over the top and covered the plywood with sod. A hinged trapdoor and ladder provided access. The hole seemed about ten feet deep. It probably wasn’t but I could stand up without hitting my head on the ceiling. We’d sit down there in the dirt with a flashlight and pretend we were cave explorers. Sometimes we’d turn the flashlight off and pretend we were cave explorers whose flashlight batteries had died. We’d imagine earthworms emerging from the walls in the darkness. Other times we’d take a snack with us and play at being miners trapped by a cave-in with nothing left to eat but a bag of Cheese Curls.

That wasn’t even the best part. There was also a tunnel which curved around from one wall to the adjacent wall. The passage was barely wide enough to crawl through. Rocks sticking up out of the soil bruised your knees. You could feel the severed ends of roots brushing at you. There weren’t any wood supports. It was an animal’s burrow. If you paused at the u-bend you might as well have been prematurely buried. You could almost feel the weight of the damp earth pressing in all around, squeezing the dark into a viscous blackness that lay right up against your eyes.

It was cozy down in the hole in a horrible sort of way. I imagine it was dangerous. We could have ended up in the local paper, stupid kids smothered under a ton of collapsed dirt, a sad lesson for others.

I suppose I was searching for my own version of Scuppers' boat where, when he retired to his bunk at the end of the day he could place his hat on the hook for his hat, his rope on the hook for his rope, and his spyglass on the hook for his spyglass. Maybe that’s what home is about – a hook for everything we need a hook for.

---

AND FINALLY

Speaking of spyglasses, in a couple of weeks we shall no longer be in need of their assistance to view the imminent arrival of the last day of a year we shall all be glad to see depart. We'll close with a hope 2022 will be a better year than this for our subscribers, along with a reminder the next Orphan Scrivener will arrive at their in-boxes 15th February.

See you then!
Mary R and Eric

who invite you to visit their home page, to be found hanging out on the virtual washing line that is the intertubz at http://reedmayermysteries.000webhostapp.com/ There you'll discover the usual suspects, including more personal essays, a bibliography, and our growing libraries of links to free e-texts of classic and Golden Age mysteries, ghost stories, and tales of the supernatural. It also hosts the Orphan Scrivener archive, so don't say you weren't warned! Our joint blog, largely devoted to reviews of Golden Age of Mystery fiction, lurks about at http://ericreedmysteries.blogspot.com/ Intrepid subscribers may also wish to know our noms des Twitter are @marymaywrite and @groggytales. Drop in some time!