Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Nestled above
Nocturna‘s grand mahogany staircase,
Beyond an unassuming velvet curtain,
Lay rooms
Known only to a handful
Of trusted members.
A gentleman’s smoking room
With a wrought-iron balcony,Quiet reading chambers,
Guest apartments,
And, at its heart,
A private dining room,
Reserved each month
For the Curio Club….
Gideon Rook carried
An aged bottle of rum
And two crystal glasses
Towards Booth Six.
Before he reached the velvet curtain,
A booming laugh rolled across Nocturna,
Followed by the unmistakable voice
Of Captain Abercrombie Marlowe….
Time,
And the restless city,
Forgot old Selwyn Lane.
Its weathered buildings,
Once alive with commerce,
Slowly emptied.
Doors closed.
Windows gathered dust.
One by one,
Their occupants
Simply went elsewhere.
Although some remain empty
To this day,
All quietly found
New custodians.
Purchased,
Not by developers,
Nor speculators,
But by club members
Of Nocturna.
Many gifted their buildings
To the club itself,
Allowing the sanctuary
To grow
Patiently,
Silently,
One adjoining wall at a time.
Behind ancient brickwork,
Doorways became archways.
Storerooms became libraries.
Warehouses became museums.
Forgotten offices
Became quiet reading rooms,
Cabinets of curiosities,
Map vaults,
Conservatories,
Trade halls,
And discreet apartments
Reserved for distinguished guests.
To the city,
The block still appeared
Forgotten.
Weathered.
Half abandoned.
But appearances
Have always been deceiving
When it comes to Nocturna.
Within those old walls,
Life quietly flourished.
Books found readers.
Collectors found discoveries.
Artists found inspiration.
Friends found one another.
And every twelfth night,
of the month,
The sanctuary grew
A little richer.
Nocturna is no longer
Merely a private club.
For many,
It has become
A way of life.
An entire city block,
Quietly devoted to curiosity,
Craftsmanship,
Scholarship,
Wonder,
And the preservation
Of beautiful impossibilities.
Three times yearly,
When the moon reaches an agreeable position,
The members gathered
Before the great carved oak doors
That separated
The warmth of Nocturna
From its hidden courtyard.
The lanterns burned softly.
Perfume drifted beneath the ancient arches.
Someone coughed politely.
Someone else
Had already begun drinking…
The little ornate black box
was carried into the Nocturna Club,
By a little person.
Her name was Latty Flouse,
Or at least that’s the name
She chose to use here.
How old she was,
Nobody knew,
Her hair was perfectly white,
And stuck out
from beneath her black bonnet,
The train of her dark floral dress
dragged behind her,
Her tiny gloved hands,
Grasped her prize tightly.
As she greeted attendant Gideon Rook,
Who promptly
Showed her to a private booth,
Where he extended a small set of
Mahogany steps concealed within
the ornate booth bench.
Without a word Latty
Stepped up into the booth
And slid the box onto the table.
Mr Rook then departed
to collect her tea.
Raspberry was her tea of choice.
“Good evening, Mr Bloom”
She announced.
To the smartly dressed
and equally diminutive gentleman,
seated opposite her.
“My dear Latty,
is that what I think it is?”
He replied excitedly.
“Oh it is, please,
Be my guest”
Oleg Bloom,
Was a peculiar little man,
Always dressed in a dark pinstripe suit
with deep purple waistcoat,
And matching purple velvet slippers
that were currently
Tucked up onto the large bench seat.
Above his long white beard,
Stared two inquisitive blue eyes.
Oleg and Latty were Mycologists
And had spent their entire lives,
As global mushroom hunters.
Individually they have travelled the world,
in search of the rarest specimens.
Together they have single handedly populated
The Nocturna garden beds with
The most beautifully coloured fungi.
“I say Latty, this is remarkable”
Smiled Mr Bloom,
As he removed the lid from the box.
Gideon Rook soon returned,
Placing a small silver tea set on the table.
Out of professional courtesy,
He did not comment,
But was quite surprised by the
Bright glowing mushroom in the box,
it’s blue phosphorescent glow
Filled the booth,
Illuminating its smiling inhabitants.
Whom Rook now observed,
Were holding hands
Either side of the box.
Staring deeply at one another,
Not noticing,
That tea had been served.
Without looking away from Bloom
Latty asked Mr Rook to send for
Club manager Mr Carreau.
A request he promptly obeyed,
With a small bow.
Marcel Carreau was already on his way,
The astute Frenchman
Catching Rooks eye immediately.
He warmly greeted the pair.
“Bonsoir, Madame et Monsieur,
And what do we have here?”
Latty looked up at Carreau smiling,
“The Somnolucis Caerulea…
It’s the Dreamfire Lantern.”
“From the Vale of Sleeping Stars”
Added an exuberant Mr Bloom
“Oh you don’t say”
Replied Carreau.
Latty continued,
“According to legend,
the fungi grows where fragments
of fallen stars become buried
beneath ancient woodlands.”
Excitedly Mr Bloom adding,
“Its radiant blue glow never fades
and is said to brighten whenever
two soulmates meet.”
The pair returned their gaze
to each other.
“We’d like to add it to the
Nocturna collection.”
Latty continued,
Without looking away.
Marcel Carreau smiled warmly.
“It would be Nocturna’s honour
To become its custodian.”
Latty finally looked away
From Mr Bloom.
“It belongs here.”
“So do we.”
Mr Bloom smiled.
“I couldn’t have said it better.”
Carreau inclined his head.
“Then allow the club
To thank you.”
His eyes drifted briefly
Towards the bar.
Edgar Brillows
Already understood.
Moments later,
Gideon Rook arrived
With a polished silver tray.
Upon it rested
Two elegant crystal glasses,
Each filled
With a luminous sapphire cocktail,
Its pale mist
Drifting gently
Across the tabletop,
Reflecting the mushroom’s
Unearthly glow.
Carreau smiled.
“A small toast,
To remarkable discoveries.”
He quietly withdrew,
Drawing the velvet curtain
Behind him.
The conversations of Nocturna
Returned once more
To a distant murmur.
Inside the little booth,
Neither tea
Nor cocktails
Were touched.
Latty Flouse
And Oleg Bloom
Simply sat together,
Hands entwined,
Watching the soft blue radiance
Of the Dreamfire Lantern.
Until it became impossible
To tell
Whether the mushroom,
Or the two smiling mycologists
Were glowing
Most brightly.
Edgar Brillows is a craftsman,
Not of wood or stone,
But of cocktails.
A creator of merriment,
His crystal creations
Smoked,
Sparkled,
Changed colour,
Or bloomed
Like flowers
Within the glass.
A slight man with greying blonde wavy hair,
Brillows maintains
Impeccable grooming
And immaculate attire.
Wearing a short Van Dyke beard
And neatly trimmed moustache,
An ivory waistcoat
Embroidered with silver thread,
A polished silver pocket watch,
A tailored black suit,
And a crisp white apron.
Attire aside, it is his professional skills
That really set him apart from others,
Personally memorising countless exotic recipes,
Discovered from all over the world.
He has many admirers,
Most of all club regular Frau Knochen.
Nocturna Manager Marcel Carreau
is always amazed,
At Brillow’s incredible talent,
His skill commands
The respect it receives.
This evening,
Leaning flirtatiously with one arm
On the bar is Lenore Morrow,
Twin sister of Leon Morrow.
The siblings are this month’s entertainment,
A musical double act known as Leon & Lenore.
It seems Lenore has taken
quite a liking to Brillows.
Carreau watches from his booth,
Smiles and shakes his head.
“Remarkable…
He has no idea.
Poor Monsieur Brillows.”
The Frenchman chuckles to himself.
“He should be thankful Monsieur Carter-Smythe
Isn’t attending this evening
With Frau Knochen”
Leon Morrow
is young, handsome,
and brash,
As is his twin.
Both siblings have very long straight hair
As black as night.
Both are porcelain skinned,
and dressed in exquisite black attire.
Leon’s tailored suit is an exotic three piece,
Lenore’s gown is flowing and glistens
with a hint of tiny gemstones.
Leon is a skilled pianist,
Lenore, an accomplished vocalist.
They take the stage and thank the audience,
As Leon prepares himself at his glossy black piano,
The lovely Lenore blows a kiss
to a somewhat embarrassed Mr Brillows,
Who respectfully bows in return.
For precisely
Thirty minutes,
The duo performed.
And bow to the stage as the curtains draw.
They appear amongst the crowd soon after,
Carreau shaking hands and pecking cheeks.
Before the crowd gathers around them,
Mr Brillows appears with a silver tray,
Containing two tall crystal glasses
Filled with a mysterious purple elixir,
which releases a white fog
As though dry ice
Had been added.
With a bow he returns to the bar,
Under the watchful eye and smiling face
Of a delighted Ms Morrow.
The evening slowly settled
Into its familiar rhythm.
Laughter drifted.
Secrets were whispered.
Old friends embraced.
New acquaintances were made.
Books changed hands.
Artefacts found new custodians.
Glasses were emptied,
Then quietly refilled.
From his place behind the bar,
Edgar Brillows saw everything.
Who sat with whom.
Who arrived together
Who left alone.
Who laughed the loudest.
Who cried the hardest.
Who argued.
Who quietly purchased impossible curiosities,
Before disappearing into the mist.
Who lingered
Long after everyone else.
Who quietly said goodbye.
Who never returned.
Yet never once
Did he repeat a single word.
Stepping behind the bar beside Brillows,
Marcel Carreau smiled knowingly.
“You know everything,
Don’t you, Monsieur Brillows?”
The barman paused,
Polishing the rim of a crystal glass.
A faint smile touched his face.
“No, Monsieur.
I know only
What people choose to leave behind
In empty glasses.”
Carreau laughed softly
and returned to his position.
“The glass always remembers.”
He whispered to himself.
The music resumed.
Conversation drifted once more
Through velvet booths
And candlelight.
Outside,
Rain washed
The cobblestones
Of Selwyn Lane.
Inside,
Edgar Brillows
Quietly polished another crystal glass,
As though
Nothing remarkable
Had happened at all.
For that was the peculiar burden
Of a good barman.
He remembered everything.
And repeated
Nothing.
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The courtyard garden
Of Nocturna
Lies hidden
At the heart of the club.
It is no ordinary courtyard.
There is no open sky.
Instead,
An immense glass ceiling
Spans the space above,
Filtering the moonlight
Into a soft
Silvery glow.
The night sky
Feels close enough
To touch,
Yet remains
Beyond the glass.
Ancient stone paths
Wind quietly
Between raised beds
Filled with rare herbs,
Curious flowers,
And exotic plants
Collected by club members
from distant lands.
Some bloom only
By moonlight.
Others perfume the air
With fragrances
Unknown beyond these walls.
Members wander slowly,
Teacup,
Book,
Or notebook in hand,
Finding quiet corners
In which to think,
Read,
Or simply listen
To the gentle movement
Of leaves
Beneath the moonlit glass.
It is said
That no plant
Within Nocturna’s garden
Has ever truly died.
Only waited patiently
For the right season
To bloom again.
Whenever the engine
Of Denham Carter-Smythe’s impossible motorcar
Echoed along Selwyn Lane,
Nocturna barman Edgar Brillows instinctively
Straightened his waistcoat.
Not because of Denham.
Because of his nurse.
Denham Carter-Smythe
A keen cartophilist,
Visits the club once a month,
Ready to trade and purchase antique maps,
Of unusual or exotic places.
Denham himself is quite the antique now,
Following a very long life of adventure,
He is now wheelchair bound.
This old wooden Victorian chair
is pushed into the club by is private nurse.
He spends his evening trading maps,
Secrets,
and leatherbound volumes.
Denham is a small ancient grey haired man,
Dressed in a long burgundy house coat,
with a matching fez perched upon his head,
Small round small spectacles balance
on the end of his nose,
and his legs are covered in a dark wool blanket.
He is wheeled into his booth,
To conduct the evenings business.
His nurse then makes her way to the bar,
To a particular swivel stool in a dark corner,
To await the gentle tinkle of Denham’s tiny bell.
Frau Olga Knochen,
A large intimidating Austrian woman,
Standing over six feet tall.
She is as much nurse,
as she is Denham’s protector.
Her dark hair is slicked back into a tight bun.
Rumoured to be a former psychiatric hospital Matron.
She is also an avid amateur chiropractor,
Who delights in the sounds of cracking backs.
She is unnaturally strong,
With powerful hands.
Her dark judgmental eyes,
Constantly survey other patrons,
With a look of displeasure
on her face.
Her deep gravelled voice seems like,
It should belong to an angry longshoreman,
Rather than a personal carer,
She has been known to ask patrons,
“You want crack back?”.
Appearances aside, she is very attentive to,
The collector who she refers to as ‘Mr Denham’.
It is rumoured that she once
Carried her wheelchair-bound employer
Effortlessly up three flights of stairs…
Wheelchair included.
Olga always situates herself,
At the nearby bar,
Close to barman Mr Brillows,
Where she can converse
And closely observe,
For she is quite infatuated with him.
Edgar Brillows always greets her with
“Good evening, Frau Knochen.
Your usual?”
She smiles briefly with a nod,
and the barman slides across
A delicate crystal glass of sour apple schnapps.
After several glasses,
She fondly refers to him as her Mausi or little mouse.
To which he politely remains professional.
It’s that aloof yet engaging professionalism,
That holds Frau Knochen’s utmost attention.
Dressed in an old grey matron’s uniform
With a black knitted shawl cast across her wide shoulders.
This mountain of a woman is formidable.
And would love to nothing more,
Than to squeeze the life out of
the charming Mr Brillows,
With affection.
Some time passes before
the barman can breathe a sigh of relief,
As the tinkle of a tiny crystal bell tolls,
Olga empties the last of her schnapps,
Sliding her small glass onto the bar
Gently towards an uncomfortable,
But still smiling Mr Brillows,
“Danke, meine kleine Maus”
with a smile and a wink.
She reapplies her standard expression,
before turning and crossing the floor
To attend to Carter-Smythe,
Who is madly waving an antique map scroll
In her direction,
As if celebrating some great discovery.
“Mr Denham, we go now?”
As she pushes the wheelchair,
The elderly man regales her
With the evening’s exploits.
As they pass the doorway he is heard,
to say,
“I have a map to a location
Full of Patagonian Maras
How wonderful.”
and
“And this one shows
The Seventh Lighthouse
That only appears
During eclipses.”
The passenger door closes,
The street rumbles,
and the vintage car,
roars to life.
before it slowly putts away
in a cloud of smoke,
Down the dawn lit Selwyn Lane.
On the twelfth night,
When crimson lamplight
Burned quietly
Against the rain,
And Selwyn Lane
Remembered
What daylight always forgot,
A familiar figure
Came stumbling
Out of the mist.
Not quietly.
Never quietly.
His stained safari trench coat
Hung from narrow shoulders
Like a weather-beaten tent.
A battered pith helmet
Sat defiantly
Upon a head
That had spent
Far too many years
Arguing with jungles.
Whether trousers
Lay beneath the coat,
No soul
Could honestly say.
Only long beige socks,
Mud-caked gaiters,
And great brown hiking boots
Introduced themselves
To the cobblestones.
Across his chest
Hung a worn leather satchel,
Heavy with impossible things.
A feathered serpent
No larger than a sparrow.
A taxidermied rodent
Bearing six glass eyes.
A butterfly
With transparent wings
That refused
To collect dust.
His silver hip flask
Appeared
Every few minutes.
Its curious contents
Smelled faintly
Of formaldehyde,
Mentholated spirits,
And regrettable decisions.
He swallowed deeply.
Smiled.
Then announced
To nobody in particular,
“They’re close tonight.”
“WHAT?”
The shout echoed
Along Selwyn Lane,
Disturbing only rainwater.
Daniel Hargraves,
Watching from his velvet alcove,
Did not flinch.
He simply inclined his head.
“Good evening,
Mr Marcus-Walker.”
The old explorer
Studied him suspiciously.
“You’ve not seen
The Moustached Guenons,
Have you?”
A pause.
“They’ve become
Exceptionally organised.”
Another pause.
“They’ve formed committees.”
Hargraves merely opened
The heavy black door.
“Welcome to Nocturna.
May your stay
Be a pleasant one.”
Marcus-Walker
Saluted gravely.
Then leaned close.
“There are alligators
Beneath your floorboards.”
“There are not.”
Hargraves dryly responded
“They’re extraordinarily patient.”
Henley snapped back,
“They are also imaginary.”
The bemused doorman responded
“So are taxes.”
“WHAT?”
He shouted as he wandered inside.
The library welcomed him
As it always had.
Books changed hands.
Secrets travelled softly.
Collectors gathered
Around velvet tables,
Examining impossible curiosities
By candlelight.
Marcus-Walker
Produced his latest treasure.
“A melancholy mongoose
Discovered
Near the upper Congo.
Notice
The expression.”
The assembled members
Examined it
With scholarly seriousness.
One offered
A first edition.
Another,
An ivory sextant.
A third,
A bottle
Containing rainwater
Collected
During an eclipse.
The bargain
Was concluded
With solemn nods.
“WHAT?”
Marcus-Walker shouted suddenly.
Nobody reacted.
Everyone had grown accustomed
To the interruption,
Like an old clock
Striking
At entirely the wrong hour.
From somewhere nearby
Came the unmistakable sound
Of an entirely deliberate
Explosion of flatulence.
Marcus-Walker
Turned furiously
Towards an empty chair.
“There!”
He cried.
“I warned you!
The Guenons
Have followed me again.”
Several members
Looked politely
At the vacant seat.
One even frowned,
As though
The invisible monkeys
Had committed
A genuine breach
Of etiquette.
Edgar Brillows
Placed a fresh glass
Before the old traveller.
“I trust
Your treehouse
Remains secure?”
Marcus-Walker nodded gravely.
“Twenty-six feet above ground.”
“The alligators?”
the barman offered
“Ah ha! powerless.”
Henley replied,
“And the Guenons?”
Brillows continued,
“They’ve mastered the bloody ladders.”
Brillows
Considered this carefully.
“Disturbing.”
“Profoundly.”
Marcus-Walker laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Not a smile.
But a roaring,
Wild,
Untamed eruption
That rolled through Nocturna
Like jungle thunder,
Leaving every candle
Momentarily uncertain
Whether to continue burning.
Hours drifted by.
Stories were traded.
Impossible maps unfolded.
Curious specimens
Changed custodians.
The night,
As always,
Passed unnoticed.
Then,
Without warning,
Marcus-Walker
Spotted
An elegant figure
Crossing the foyer.
Tall.
Broad shouldered.
Impeccably dressed
In black.
“My dear lady!”
He declared,
Removing his pith helmet.
“Might I interest you
In supper
At my treehouse,
Followed by…breakfast?”
The room
Became
Exceptionally quiet.
Daniel Hargraves
Slowly turned.
Marcus-Walker
Peered more closely.
“WHAT?”
A silence.
Then another.
“My profound apologies.”
Hargraves sighed,
The sigh
Of a man
Repeating
A familiar ritual.
Once again,
He escorted
The distinguished explorer
Towards the entrance,
One enormous hand
Resting gently
Upon his shoulder.
Marcus-Walker
Accepted his fate
With surprising dignity.
“Those damn Guenons
Set me up.”
“I’ve no doubt.”
Hargraves smiled
“They’re awfully vindictive creatures.”
Marcus-Walker was
becoming disorientated,
“So I’ve heard sir.”
Hargrave replied politely.
Outside,
The rain
Had begun again.
The crimson lamp
Burned steadily,
Watching the old eccentric
Disappear
Into the sleeping city,
Laughing wildly,
Arguing
With invisible monkeys,
Pausing
Every hundred yards
To shout,
With absolute conviction,
“WHAT?”
