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03 April 2008
42. That Bitch Ormsley
When I think of Mrs Ormsley, this is what I think of: her stomach nice and full with lots of food and fluid in it, and her stomach muscles all relaxed and comfortable, not in the least bit tense. And that’s when I imagine punching her right in the gut!
And now, here I was actually seeking out her company. What a fool!
It took me for ever to decide what to wear, although I concluded that it didn’t really matter what I wore. If I dressed-down then that bitch Ormsley would just pity me, visibly concluding that I was disgusting (left brow) - but also concluding that what else other than down-right disgusting could she expect from someone downtrodden and generally dispossessed (right brow)! But if I dressed-up, she would look at me suspiciously: she would conclude that my cleanliness would be down to a swift half-hour using the mirror and wash-basin in a public lavatory, before the janitor decided to move me on after I’d declined his gracious offer of a couple of lost property hair-grips in exchange for a BJ; my neat and tidy attire would be at the expense of some poor cow who would be currently sitting in the back of a police car in a lay-by, her nakedness now concealed by a blanket, and with a compress held against the nasty gash at the back of her head, explaining that she didn’t see her assailant as she had been too busy inspecting the dead sheep that was mysteriously blocking the road. No, whatever I wore I would be the loser. But if I was going to lose then I thought I should lose in style. So I opted to wear a long dark green evening dress, high heels, plenty of make-up, a smart black handbag, long dangly ear-rings, and lots more jewellery for full dramatic effect. I didn’t really care that it was one o’clock in the afternoon. At best I would confuse her by my appearance. Confusion, rather than judgement, I concluded to be a better desired response.
As I walked out the door, Kidman wished me luck. “And remember,” she said. “If she gets snooty or nippy just ask her why she has a dog’s testicle on her face.”
“It’s a goitre.”
“Who cares what it is. Ask her anyway.”
Kidman didn’t mention anything to me about ENP. There was no need. I was a convert. If in trouble, ENP would get me out of it, and I aimed to use it as much as I needed to.
Another thing that I found myself to be doing was not thinking about something that I’d made my mind up to do. Ordinarily I’d let me mind twist in all manner of ways until I was exhausted and perplexed – yet, for all the deliberation, the outcome would be the same. So, today, as I drove towards the neighbouring town, I let my made-up mind get on with what it had, well, made-up. It seemed almost as if listening to Kidman, rather than fighting against her, had allowed purpose to take the lead when dancing with trepidation, and it allowed uncertainty to sit it out, realising that it had had its spell in the sun and that it should now just let others take over.
Of course, this became harder as I walked up the steps to the library where Mrs Ormsley worked. Much, much harder! It was not that I was having second thoughts about going through with it, it was that I was still unsure about smacking her if she said anything that I objected to! A hard dig in her (hopefully) relaxed, (hopefully) full stomach was still enormously tempting!
When she turned round and saw me, she suddenly had a look as if she’s just banged her face against an invisible wall. Damn those invisible walls! They get everywhere!
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Not time already for the Down-and-Outs Secret Ball, is it?”
The compulsion rose like indigestion. I felt a tingling in my fingers and my tongue cleaved to the top of my mouth. I poked her eyes with a sharp look, but I didn’t see them flinch or water.
Composure, composure, I told myself. I breathed deeply, aligned my nose like a tiny dagger, arched my brows and pushed my breasts up and out like a tray of cakes.
“No,” I uttered without the smallest trace of emotion. “I’m actually looking for some information and I thought you might be able to help.”
I could see it coming. The bombardment of subtle put-downs delivered in a gentle and frivolous manner, like smelling a rose as the thorn cuts.
But then – hold on a sec – now wait a min – what was she doing? It was hard to believe it - and hard to digest even once I’d started to believe - but Mrs Ormsley appeared to be looking at my cleavage. Looking? No, too feint a word. Staring, like some right dirty minx! Yes, that sentence gets it just right.
“Uh, information. Yes, information. Well, you came to the right place for that,” she said in a weak, slightly staccato fashion. Her eyes glancing at mine but then dropping stone-like back to my generous, tail-wagging, sprightly little pups. What was going on?
Of course, yes they were a little distended, as is nearly always the case with a well-executed ENP. They were, to a certain extent, curved out by the curved in condition of my back - thrust forward, jutting into view, rammed forth, overhanging and protruding. Presented, even. Yes, presented! My dilated lovelies were like a couple of full bowls handed over to young hungry orphans, like two long-awaited invitations on a butler’s silver salver, like wriggly bait on a fisherman’s hook. Like a couple of tempting water coolers, complete with cups, on a scorching hot day. Like a couple of fifty pound notes up for grabs in a run-down, inner city area. Like a couple of free footballs on Have Yourself A Free Football Day. Please tell me if a vivid picture of the scene is still alluding you!
Could this be the effect of the Eyebrows plus Nose plus Puppies equation? If so, then what were so many mathematicians doing wasting their time on lengthy formulas with brackets, and little numbers sitting on the shoulders of big numbers, when a simple ENP obviously unlocked so many secrets to the universe! Eureka, I exclaimed within. Voila! Ole! Take that, testicle-head!
“Come and sit down,” she said. “Tell me what it is you’re after.”
Come and sit down? Tell me what it is you’re after? Flummoxed, I agreed to both. I explained to her that I wanted to know more about Mordan House, about its history. In a sense, it was the wrong question, as it gave me nothing that appeared pertinent to my problem. Of course, I didn’t tell her about what was happening at the house – about the astronaut and all of that malarkey! - I just kept it all nice and simple, as if I was merely curious.
She explained that the house had been a mill in the 19th century. That explained its general boxiness on the outside. Back then it was called Mordan Mill. It was given a mild conversion sometime after that which generated lots of individual rooms, and was supposed to have had a full conversion into a house, but a couple of stray bombs damaged the roof badly and a lot of the structure, and the plans were put on hold. A rough repair job was undertaken, but not enough to tempt any buyers. After that, it changed hands a number of times but with no real result that gave it purpose or changed its fate. The refuge was just another in a long line of temporary uses for the place. It had, in fact, been used for a couple of illegal raves over the years too! The current owner was just another in a long line – and it looked as if he would not be the one to realise the long-held dream of it becoming a family residence. Mordan House, she explained, was not its real name, but more of a joke name for the place. Plans had existed for nearly a hundred years to make it into a house, but they had never been realised. It was like calling a place a Folly – it was a House, but not a house at all!
“So why did the owners of the refuge leave? Were they forced out?” I asked.
She looked at me quizzically, as if I was asking a really daft question.
“Catherine! Catherine!” An old woman’s voice came booming out of the library’s silence. Mrs Ormsley looked up and said “Oh, dear!”
“Is that you?” I asked. “Are you Catherine?”
“Catherine Cookson! Where the hell are the Catherine Cookson books in this place?” the woman shouted.
Then I saw the old woman who had been with Mrs Ormsley that day when I’d waited for James in the café. She was wandering about, frustrated, and trying desperately to find the books of her favourite author.
Mrs Ormsley got up from her chair to go to the old woman. She still pondered me curiously though. “Well, because of little Josh, of course. He worked there, don’t you know. Well, you must know that!”
And then she was gone, before I had a chance to ask more. Josh? Who was Josh?
As I left the library, a middle-aged man with a hold-all and wearing a duffle coat passed me. “Nothing yet,” he said and he winked. It dawned on me that he was winking because of my evening dress and the revelation of flesh at my cleavage and shoulders. Another dirty minx!
“No, not yet,” I mumbled, my head full of questions vying with irritation.
I stepped outside and into a flurry of snow. Snow! Where did that come from? As I traipsed along the main street of the town back towards my car, lots of faces squinted at me and another man winked as he passed me. I grunted, looked down, layers of snow building up on my head, and frowned at the world in a violent, deeply grieved manner.
When I told Kidman how nice to me Mrs Ormsley had been, all she had to say was: “Nice to you? How dare she! Testicle-faced whore!”
“Yes, I said, “you’re right! The dangleberry-faced bitch!”
And we both laughed. Yes, reader, I said ‘laughed’! Later on, we sat and had a bottle of wine together and we discussed what I’d discovered that day long into the night. And this gave Kidman the opportunity to tell me the next part of her plan.
Want to read more? Read the whole story by clicking on the first blog called Prelude and start clicking forwards using the tabs above the title.
12:00 Posted in Part Two: Getting Some Answers | Permalink | Comments (0) | Email this | Tags: haunted house, ghost story, horror story, astronaut, space, nicole kidman, journal