In the Bingo Hall

Uncle Bernard is looking rather pale and wan; he's got some forms in hand and a rather sickly look on his face, something something something Werthers Original, something something something Travel rug, something something triplicated, please.

Needlepoint, Crochet, and Embroidery Studio

Uncle Bernard is kicking things around in his mind, when he stumbles into the needlepoint room. He has the good grace to look horrified; he'd never, not in a million years, have thought he'd have been seen dead in here, in a wimmin's room.

Uncle Bernard is, however, alive. Only just.

Arthur Masefield, turning to the door, sees a gentleman he remembers. “Sir!” he says, “How do you do?”

Uncle Bernard blinks himself around, “Hullo Arthur, hullo Marlybean. Have you seen these?” he flutters his registration forms weakly in their general direction, “I don't know what this is all about.”

Wild Thing Marly leaves Arthur to look at Bernard's papers. “Did Johnson give you those?”

Arthur Masefield raises his eyebrows. “Paperwork, sir? Can I help at all?” Perhaps the old boy's eyesight isn't what it used to be. Or the handwriting.

Uncle Bernard nods, there's moisture in his eyes; gratefully, he hands the forms to Mr Masefield.

Uncle Bernard turns to Marly, “Is she well in the head? I knew the role was cursed, I said it was. You look at all the fine people it's consumed over the years. Will we ever be rid of this troublesome paperwork?!”

Wild Thing Marly leans against her Uncle, arm around his shoulder. “I got that stuff, too. It clears up after a few days.”

Uncle Bernard's eyes open wide and then, flutter a little; he's obviously misheard Marly, how on earth can paperwork clear up after a few days? She must be mixing it up with chlamydia.

Arthur Masefield turns 'em over. And over. Pages and pages of them. He frowns, half reaching for his fountain pen, then pausing. “There's an awful lot here,” he murmurs.

Uncle Bernard nods, “Where am I going to find the time to bloody fill that lot in?! She's giving me conniptions. I bloody employed her to get rid of all the bloody forms and such like and she's gone bloody feral. Can we medicate the bugger?!”

Arthur Masefield says, “I say, steady on. Who is feral?”

Wild Thing Marly offers, smiling sweetly, “I can do it for you.”

Uncle Bernard melts slightly, “Would you?” this to Marly, then to Arthur, “That certifiable nutcase, Johnson. Should never have trusted a GERM to do anything normal.”

Uncle Bernard looks around conspiratorially, “She's not about, is she?”

Wild Thing Marly shakes her head. “Nah, she's not, or I'd be careful of my kneecaps.”

Arthur Masefield says,“Johnson, Johnson, now where've I…ah, the lemon.” He hands the forms to Marly, almost hesitating for a moment. Just what is behind the sweetness of that smile? “You're sure, you'd rather I didn't try.?” But he lets the papers go.

Uncle Bernard makes a funny shocked face, “Aye, what's with that?” he's a bit worried about his own kneecaps. He likes them.

Arthur Masefield looks concerned. “Kneecaps are in danger?”

Wild Thing Marly takes them very firmly. The papers, not her kneecaps. “I think she wanted to take something loved but not vital. Maybe,” she goes misty-eyed at the thought, “she'll hold them for ransom once she has them. Or pickle them.”

Uncle Bernard grips Arthur by his shoulder, “Oh yes, she's a bloody harridan with her wet towel and her single-minded-hatred-for-ball-and-socket-join ts-at-the-end-of-the-shin-bone.”

Uncle Bernard continues, “When she gets that look in her eyes; it's like looking at a rabid stoat. It's stoatally disgraceful, otterly disgusting and weaselly the worst thing I've ever experienced.”

Arthur Masefield murmurs “hinge” softly. And louder, “What can I do to help? I do believe that kneecapping is quite unpleasant for most people.”

Uncle Bernard is an engineer, not a doctor.

Uncle Bernard is a lover, not a fighter.

Arthur Masefield says, “do steady on, sir, you'll give yourself a fit. Here, take seat.” To Marly, “Do you have any of that medicinal spirit you mentioned? I think now might be the time.”

Wild Thing Marly suggests to Arthur, “Start a bonfire?”

Wild Thing Marly pats her sides. “No, no flask. Yet.” To Uncle, “Hot Toddy?”

Uncle Bernard thought they'd never ask; he nods gratefully, “I thought you'd never ask. I'd be most grateful. Did you see me nodding my assent?”he was just checking understanding, “I'm just checking you're on the same wavelength.”

Uncle Bernard is suffering from the vapours. It's quite apparent.

Wild Thing Marly laughs and pats him on the shoulder. “Be right back. Mr. Masefield, do you want one?”

Uncle Bernard will have Arthur's if he doesn't. Shame to see a hot toddy go to waste.

Arthur Masefield really rather would. “Thank you kindly. I'll stay here, keep an eye on the old boy, meanwhile.” Can't have him popping his clogs.

Uncle Bernard wonders where all the comfortable chairs are. “Where are all the comfortable chairs?”

Wild Thing Marly disappears.

Arthur Masefield apologises, pulling up another seat, much like the wooden one Bernard is occupying. “I suppose, in a work-room such as this it's considered frivolous. Would you rather relocate?”

Uncle Bernard perks up a bit, “Well, I'm not sure where we could go. But I'd love to snuggle down in a cosy old armchair; how about you?”

Wild Thing Marly comes back with the toddies. “And I didn't even spill half of it, coming back!” She offers them to the gentlemen.

Uncle Bernard realises he's basically just propositioned Arthur Masefield, and clams up, embarrassed.

Arthur Masefield thanks Marly, and takes a sip of his ye gods it's strong! He coughs a little, and blinks away a tear, eyeing Bernard to see if he'll survive it.

Uncle Bernard more than survives it; it acts as a pick-me-up, “That's better Marlybean, phew, it puts hairs on yer chest.” he narrows an eye, “You've not been drinking it have you?”

Arthur Masefield is flattered. But on balance, he'd prefer his own armchair.

Uncle Bernard is, unfortunately, rendered rather exhausted by the whole process. The very idea of sharing a chair, well. It wouldn't have happened in his day.

Wild Thing Marly grins and cradles her own. “Only on the hour as needed. For my health.”

Arthur Masefield says, “Mister Bernard, sir, you look beat, to me. Should you rest up a bit?”

Uncle Bernard asks, mainly as he's suffering grave borborygmus, “Did someone mention dinner? I can't find Bruce anywhere, and I'm bloody Hank Marvin.”

Arthur Masefield looks to Marly. “Dinner, then?”

Wild Thing Marly nods. Dinner is important and she is hungry. “Uncle, dinner?” [11/13 02:52(:01)pm] <GERM>Uncle Bernard looks relieved, “To dinner! Be still my growling belly! Rest easy my rumbling colon! Get ready for a good workout my twitching aesophagus!”

Uncle Bernard doesn't mention his pinching sphincter. He thinks that's not on in such polite company. Besides, they'll find out soon enough.

Arthur Masefield offers the old gent his arm. In a purely filial sort of way. He'd offer Marly his other, but he needs it for his walking-stick. But perhaps Marly can take Bernard's other side, prop him up a little.

Wild Thing Marly sips her toddy and links arms with her Uncle, possibly the only other person on the Island who enjoys a meal as much as she does.

Uncle Bernard's sphincter really does appreciate the help, and decides to show it in the only way it knows how. PAAAAAARP.

Arthur Masefield is far too polite to mention it. But he does rather pick the pace up, as they leave the room together.

Wild Thing Marly buries her nose in her glass as they leave.

<note>Part the Eigth

The Index</note>