Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
As the evening rain settles in,
Inside the Nocturna Club,
It was warm and dry.
Open fires roar,
And lamps illuminate both
Members and ornaments alike,
With a golden glow.
Marcel Carreau loves such evenings,
When he can look out
Across the club knowing,
That everything as it should,
And all are content.
It was at this moment
That his meditation
was interrupted,
By the soft voice
of the Still-Room Attendant,
Mabel Cobble.
The elaborate golden calligraphy
Upon the glossy black business card
Read,
Horace Ashcombe
Apothecary and Collector
of Forgotten Remedies.
“Do you find it satisfactory?”
Malcolm Coldbottom
Enquired.
Horace smiled,
Turning the card
Slowly between his fingers,
Allowing the warm Nocturna lamplight
To dance
Across the embossed
Gold lettering.
“Magnificent, Malcolm.
Quite magnificent.”
At midnight,
Upon the twelfth night
Of December,
The old oak doors
Of Nocturna
Opened quietly,
And Belladonna Moreau
Stepped inside.
Few members
Ever addressed her
By her given name.
To everyone
She was simply,
“Ding Dong.”
There are those
Who visit Nocturna
For the rarest spirits,
The whispered stories,
Or the peculiar company
One finds nowhere else.
Yet the regulars,
Those who have lingered
Long enough
To call the place home,
Will tell you
That the evening
Never truly begins
Until Mr Gideon Rook
Offers a gentle nod
And quietly says,
“This way,
If you please.”
When the final guest
Has gathered their coat,
When the last teacup
Has been cleared away,
When laughter
Has dwindled
To memory,
And Marcel Carreau
Locks the great oak doors
For another evening,
Nocturna belongs
To Neko.
Louis de Villepin
Was a perfectionist.
As flamboyant
As he was talented,
His remarkable nose
Could distinguish
Hundreds of fragrances,
Even after
they had long vanished
From the air.
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….
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.
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.
“Your tea, sir.”
The waiter announced quietly,
Setting a polished silver tray
Upon the table
Between the two elderly patrons.
Black porcelain teacups
Rested neatly upon matching saucers,
Accompanied by an ornate teapot,
A delicate milk jug,
And a silver sugar bowl.
“Ah…
Good man.
Very good man.”
The elderly gentleman smiled warmly.
“Thank you, Mr Rook,”
His companion added.
Gideon Rook
Was one of Nocturna’s most beloved attendants.
His calm manner,
Impeccable memory,
And quiet professionalism
Had earned the affection
Of generations of members.
Nocturna was especially busy
This evening.
Every booth was occupied.
Soft whispers drifted
Between velvet curtains.
Ancient books changed hands.
Curious artefacts
Passed discreetly
From one collector to another.
Secrets were exchanged
As freely as tea and wine.
In Booth Three,
Silas Pembroke
And his younger sister Iris
Had become almost as permanent
As the wallpaper itself.
For countless years
They had occupied
The same secluded booth.
Always tea.
Occasionally wine.
Often guests.
Always conversation.
Silas possessed
A narrow scholarly face,
Wire spectacles,
And a once elegant black suit,
Now softened
By many decades of careful wear.
Iris resembled her brother,
As though time itself
Had carved them
From the same memory.
Her long dark gown,
Once the height
Of Victorian elegance,
Fell gracefully
Beneath a dark fur shawl.
Black lace gloves
Covered delicate hands,
While a matching headscarf
Framed her silvering hair.
Together,
They poured their tea,
Content simply to wait.
This evening’s entertainment
Had been eagerly anticipated.
For tonight,
Nocturna welcomed
The Pike Sisters.
Euphemia Pike,
Mistress of the cello.
And her younger sister,
Minerva Pike,
Virtuoso of the violin.
The sisters stepped quietly
Onto the small stage.
Neither spoke.
Instead,
They acknowledged the room
With a slow graceful nod
Of their heads.
Euphemia settled herself
Upon a simple wooden stool.
Between her knees rested
An ornate black cello,
Its polished body
Absorbing the lamplight.
Her bare feet disappeared
Beneath folds
Of a pale ivory gown,
While her untamed
White-blonde hair
Curled wildly
About her shoulders,
As though stirred
By unseen currents.
She drew the bow
Across the strings.
Slowly.
The first note
Rose from the instrument
Like the distant lament.
Long.
Low.
And haunting.
Minerva stood beside her,
Tall,
Motionless,
Her raven-black hair and gown
Flowing almost seamlessly
Into the darkness
Behind the stage.
Her violin entered
With quiet precision,
Its mournful melody
Threading itself
Around the cello’s smooth deep voice,
For thirty unbroken minutes,
The room scarcely breathed.
Tea cooled untouched.
Books remained closed.
Even whispered conversations
Fell respectfully silent.
When the final note
Slowly dissolved
Into the velvet darkness,
The sisters bowed together.
As the stage curtains
Were quietly drawn.
Only then
Did the applause begin.
Gentle.
Measured.
and sincere.
With the performance concluded,
The Pembrokes
Finished the last of their tea.
Silas carefully adjusted
His spectacles.
Iris gathered
Her shawl about her shoulders.
Then,
Arm in arm,
They made their way
Toward the entrance,
Where Hargraves already waited,
His immense frame
Holding the heavy black door open.
The siblings offered
A courteous nod.
Hargraves returned it.
Without a word.
Together,
They stepped into
The cool night air,
Disappearing slowly
Into the drifting mist
Of Selwyn Lane.
