Death peered over my shoulder, “I would like some more cake please.”
“Of course, dear friend, let us go back to the party and cut a hefty slab for you. Oh, and I must tell you before I forget, I met someone rather nasty recently,” I say, touching the crown, feeling the zap and tingle.
“Really?” he looks curious.
“Yes, the prime minister.”
“VERY careful, Loveheart,” said Death, “He’s dangerous.”
“He rather upset me and I have a mind to have him stuffed and put in the hall.”
“Before you strategize your revenge why not enjoy your special day?” He patted me on the back and lead me gently outside the grounds of Loveheart Manor. The sun is sizzling, the fairies are sitting in the trees, laughing, drunk on the trifle. One falls off the branch head first into a rosebush. Splat!
All the roses in my kingdom are red. There’s no need for paint.
The crown on my head glints wickedly. Its weight seems impossible. Death follows me out, under the shadows, and starts chatting to Mr Hazard.
“Have we met?” says Rufus.
“Not yet.” His smile is concealed.
I wander deeper into my gardens. These lands stretch on for miles, deep in woods and fields. Cherry and apple trees dangle with fruits. Squashy orbs. See them wibble-wobble and hit the earth. I touch the crown; it zaps my finger. I never saw Mr Fingers wear it. Perhaps he kept it for special occasions. Kept under the sink with the pots of chutney. Well today is special. It is my birthday and I am no longer a mad prince. I am a mad king. But I have no queen to share my kingdom with. No queen
but
so
many
hearts.
Who should I pick? The answer is simple:
SOMEONE
JUST
LIKE
ME
I sit under the cherry tree with my wicked crown. Perhaps I should advertise in the Times?
King of the Underworld seeks Queen.
Good sense of humour. Fond of cakes.
Mad as a kilt.
I eat a cherry, ponder the significance of them as a fruit. Happy Birthday to me. Happy Birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me!
I fall asleep; dream of dark spaces. Untangle myself from a net of the god of sleep. Little fish, little fish. I am in my underworld; the clocks now all move backwards.
I wander inside the dining room of this dark palace; see a coil of intestinal sausage lying on a platter amongst a selection of cut meats. I know I’m dreaming: these are all rooms within my head. This is my kingdom, this is my kingdom. Underneath the world. Underneath the layers; under skin and bone. Curious thing, this crown. It’s itching my head. I scratch and look about me at this dream; my underworld. My horror world. Tastes like golden syrup; surprisingly sweet.
I am shaken awake.
“Mr Loveheart?” Mr Hazard grins, big teeth revealed through a fuzz of orange. “Wakey, wakey birthday boy. We’re all waiting for the party games.”
“Oh how fun!” and I leap to my feet and adjust my crown.
I walk with Rufus back across the garden lawn. The balloons are souls on a string. Someone let go.
I ring a little silver bell, ding-a-ling. The eyes of my guest are upon me. “Thank you everyone for coming to my birthday party. It is lovely to finally meet you all. And now I think we shall play a little game of pass the parcel. There’s a surprise for whoever wins.”
“Mamma,” squeals Horatio, “I want the surprise!”
“And if you’re lucky,” I say darkly, “you shall get it.”
(Five minutes later) Observation by Mungo, the Groundsman of Beetle Manor
I’m leaning on a shovel, observing a suspicious chrysanthemum.
Suddenly I hear an explosion followed by a scream and see young Master Horatio Beetle flying through the air and into the pond. Well, bugger me if I don’t race down there as fast as I can and fish the little nipper out.
He’s not happy. He tells me to Sod Off. I’m tempted to hit him over the head with my shovel but my grandmother taught me good manners, so I help the spoilt rascal back to his mother, who’s waiting for him by an overgrown rhododendron bush, holding a heart—shaped balloon.
The Black Dog
It’s a mile walk along a woodland path to our Uncle’s house. The Reverend Plum whistles as he walks, gripping Boo Boo’s little hand. Her other hand is within the frog puppet, who looks about, googly-eyed in wonder at his surroundings.
“It’s simply a glorious day in God’s garden,” sighs Reverend Plum.
There’s a rummaging in the bushes and out steps a young gentleman wearing a purple waistcoat and jacket covered in red hearts. His hair is the colour of angels: a dazzling yellow. In his hands he carries a severed head, whose mutilated stump drips onto the path. He looks at us with his ink black eyes and smiles mischievously. “Good afternoon. I’m afraid if you’ve come for the party you’ve missed all the cake!”