A Challenging Game of Crumble Read online

  A challenging Game of “Crumble”.

  "You can't trump the milkmaid with the farmer!" Sighed Old Mother Alice as Mister Crisp placed his “Farmer” card down face up on the fallen over gravestone with a thump.

  "Can." said Mister Crisp sulkily as he adjusted his slightly battered top hat back onto his head. As he shuffled his legs on the gravestone upon which he was sitting the wind caught his long black coat, trailing it out behind him in a dramatic manner. Mister Crisp paid it no heed, which was no surprise as the coat appeared to be quite badly burnt, as in fact did Mister Crisp.

  Given the wind was high and blew loudly about the night shrouded graveyard, it was little surprise to any of the five gathered about the upturned tombstone they were using as a table, that Mister Crisp’s coat was prone to fluttering about his somewhat blackened form in even the slightest breeze. It would be a reasonable conclusion to deduce that upon this cold and windy All Hallow's Eve it had no chance of staying buttoned whatsoever.

  Old Mother Alice squinted at Mister Crisp, her mouth moving wordlessly as if she was chewing something. Her witch’s hat and tattered long black cape in contrast did not move in the wind at all. They wouldn’t dare.

  “If you are going to cheat I am calling it a night dear.” she sniffed and the tall skeleton sitting opposite her turned to face its bare skull directly at Mister Crisp. There was a distinct feeling that there was an eyebrow being raised somewhere on the skeleton’s face but of course as per usual the skeleton’s face was completely blank.

  “Oh alright then.” sighed Mister Crisp, picking the card up from the table and replacing it with another.

  “Crumble!” shouted Old Mother Alice loudly, banging a new card down onto the gravestone table, making Mister Crisp, the skeleton, an ostentatiously dressed tall man in what appeared to be a cloak more likely to be worn when attending the theatre or an opera, and the small pale man gathered about the makeshift table jump in the air almost simultaneously.

  “Woo… woo… woo…” said the thin pale man and as he settled back onto the gravestone he may or may not have been sitting on. The moonlight shone through him, the pale light seeming to catch his face. He looked indistinct; ethereal; out of focus almost.

  “Don’t start!” said Mister Crisp, addressing the indistinct figure directly. “Talk properly or don’t talk at all.” The ghostly figure ceased waving its sleeves about almost instantly and the cards laid out in front of him floated down to the horizontal gravestone, revealing his hand.

  “Pity that.” said a reedy voice from the shadowy figure. “I nearly had a full hand of blacksmith’s there.” There could then be heard a sigh that echoed into the night a little more eerily than was perhaps necessary and the fifth figure at the gravestone shuffled on his makeshift seat and threw his cards down on the table too.

  Dressed in a long black cloak that had a collar that covered the back of his head completely he seemed to be immaculately dressed, a stiff white tuxedo shining in the moonlight, long tapered dark trousers and expensive shoes finishing his outfit. He had a slightly aristocratic bearing, as if he were finding the very air he breathed distasteful to his liking. Accordingly whenever he raised his face he also gave the distinct impression that he was looking down his nose at the same time.

  “I ‘ave ‘ad yet another ‘and not to my liking” he said sharply. “Von milk maid, a train driver and an endless succession of chimney sweeps.” He paused for a second as if lost in thought. “Perhaps ve should raise the stakes?” He shivered involuntarily at the use of the word but Old Mother Alice was shaking her head.

  “No, Count.” she said. “It’s a fenic a hand or nothing. I am not losing my petticoats because you can’t find a hand of milkmaids and that’s the end of it.”

  “Iv only…” murmured the Count, apparently relishing the idea and the skeleton turned to face him for a second and then also placed his cards on the fallen gravestone in what may or may not have been a desultory manner. It was quite difficult to tell really.

  “Another hand?” asked Old Mother Alice as she gathered the cards from the gravestone that was doubling up as a table. All present looked to be in agreement, the Count nodding agreeably, the skeleton nodding, Mister Crisp murmuring a word of acknowledgement, and the ghost gave a small excited “oooo”.

  The cards were gathered and Old Mother Alice shuffled them quickly and carefully. It was an expert shuffle, perfected with much experience, and it was no surprise to any of them gathered there that of the piles of fenics gathered on the gravestone before each one of them, Old Mother Alice’s was the largest.

  “Nice night for it.” murmured the ghost as the cards were shuffled. The wind seemed to gather strength as he spoke, blowing cold wet brown leaves about where they were seated. The darkness here was complete, the only light being from the bright full moon that shone down eerily upon them.

  “Yes.” replied the Count. “Nice and cold and windy. Very atmospheric. An excellent night for ze All Hallow’s Eve I find.” The skeleton nodded eagerly at this and Old Mother Alice gave a loud sniff which the Count took as some sign of agreement.

  The graveyard in which they were seated was old and sprawled down the hill, gravestones and monuments rising from the mist shrouded ground at strange angles, jutting from the fog covered hill at unusual angles, like teeth that had grown wild; misshapen and rotten. There was an air of neglect about the place. There were no fresh flowers laid at the gravestones here, nor tributes of wreaths or posies. No signs of remembrance of any kind at all. A silence almost like that of a lament filed the air; a melancholy refrain washed by moonlight and old cold stone.

  “I see Mister Figgins’ crypt has had a cave in.” said Old Mother Alice, who strictly speaking was the only non-resident present at the game of Crumble. She liked to “keep her hand in” as she would say though, and was well versed in all of the local happenings, such as they were. “Poor man’s stone angel is all over what’s left of the path.”

  “Awful.” whispered the ghost. “You would think somebody would tidy up. It is almost as if the whole place is forgotten about.” The skeleton nodded in a presumably glum fashion.

  “Not entirely forgotten.” snarled the Count. “Those accursed grave rubbers are everywhere these days. Rub, rub rub. Makes my teeth itch, it does.”

  “Hard to see what they get out of it really.” said Mister Crisp, “Have you ever noticed they always have a tartan flask with them?”

  “Yes.” responded the Count. “There vas one just the other day. I had barely settled down to sleep and, “rub rub rub”. Kept me up half of the day it did.”

  “No consideration.” sighed Mother Alice. “I’d shove the tartan flask where the sun doesn’t shine if I was you, and that’s the plain truth.”

  “Rub rub rub!” laughed the ghost loudly and the skeleton shook too, as if joining in the laughter silently. The Count merely frowned, tapping one long thin hand on the gravestone, his long thin nails clicking eerily on the stone.

  Old Mother Alice dealt the cards out quickly, two for each player, face down. Each person collected their cards, apart from the ghost whose cards rose silently to its face as if lifted on the wind. Several fenics were slid silently into a pile in the centre of the gravestone. Alice watched the skeleton to her left who looked at his cards and raised one finger. She slid one card face down across the headstone and the skeleton carefully and slowly picked it up. He shook his head and Alice gazed at the Count.

  “Von more.” he said. Alice slid the card across the now nearly smooth writing carved on the headstone and the Count picked it up and snarled, slamming all his cards down on the table.

  “I ave no crumble.” he snarled in a fashion of a person who
was guilty of taking a card game rather more seriously than perhaps he should. “Von shop owner, a milkmaid and the five of clowns. Tut.” Alice raised an eyebrow but said nothing and so the game continued.

  So on the night went with several games taking place as midnight on All Hallow’s Eve grew tantalisingly nearer. The pile of fenics in the centre of the table moved backwards and forwards, yet Old Mother Alice always seemed to retain the majority of coins. Eventually one of the games ended and they all sat back to enjoy a break as the witch drew the cards towards her again and made to shuffle them.

  “How is your cat?” asked the ghost and Alice subconsciously looked over her shoulder to where her broom was stood upright against a wild hawthorn bush. The entire area seemed to be entirely catless.

  “Most irregular cat is my Dave.” Sighed Old Mother Alice, turning to face the makeshift table again.

  “I thought his name was Oliver?” asked the ghost wistfully.

  “It is.” said Old Mother Alice, her jaw chewing again. “Everyone calls him Dave though.”

  “Including you apparently.” said the Count, flicking some invisible (to everyone else at least) dust from his shoulder.

  “Saves time.” said the witch. “Dave doesn’t care what he is called anyway.” she explained. “Cat’s don’t generally.”

  “Why irregular?” asked Mister Crisp, raising a blackened eyebrow.

  “Well he is scared of hands to start with.” The skeleton turned to look at Alice as if in surprise, his face still showing a total lack of anything at all of course, mostly because he did not have a face to start with. “Well I think he’s scared of hands. Every time someone puts a hand anywhere near him he tries to bite it.” Old Mother Alice sniffed indignantly. “Only logical conclusion, is that.” She said.

  “How strange.” whispered the ghost. “Yet why Dave?”

  “No idea.” said Old Mother Alice. “It’s strange really. Anyone meeting the cat for the first time always calls him Dave. Seems to get worse as All Hallow’s Eve approaches.” Somewhere in the night an owl hooted loudly. Alice turned her face to the moon as if sniffing the air before continuing. “At this time of year more people seem to call him Dave than any other. As if every year at this time he reaches the zenith of his Dave-dom.” Mister Crisp chuckled, though he was having great difficulty in reconciling the idea of anyone calling Oliver - Dave in the first place, and woe betide anyone who tried to stroke him.

  Mister Crisp had definite difficulty in the very thought of anyone being nice to Old Mother Alice’s cat as his impression of the irritable ball of fluff was that it bore a very close resemblance to that of a fur coat filled with very sharp and very angry razor blades. As if to reinforce this thought there was a sudden very loud squeal of pain from the bushes nearby followed by a low purring sound.

  “Another game?” asked Old Mother Alice and all of those there nodded in their own individual ways and so the cards were dealt.

  The wind was gathering pace even more now; the trees swaying in the night air about them as they played Crumble in the moonlight. There was a low howl to the wind too, making eerie wailing sounds as the air gusted between the cracked and neglected tomb stones. Old Mother Alice thought that it was all very cosy.

  At the very exact moment that she said this there was a loud rustling from the hawthorn bushes behind them and then a sudden silence as the wind dropped to just a murmur as if waiting for something. Then there was a high pitched voice that to all there sounded like a nail being dragged across glass.

  “Oooo….” said the squeaky voice, full of enthusiasm and somehow the colour pink. “Cool costumes, guys.”

  The skeleton turned around slowly and the ghost fluttered slightly in the air to get a better look. Mister Crisp stood up; cards still in hand, and the Count looked over his shoulder almost as if sneering. Mother Alice never moved a muscle. however, and yet the other members of the card game got the most definite idea that she was nevertheless staring at the person who had just emerged from the hawthorn hedge completely unscathed.

  For just behind them stood a young girl, about three and a half foot high, glaring at them through a pair of thick lensed glasses that may once have doubled up as milk bottle bottoms. Her impossibly blonde hair was tied in two pigtails that stuck out at almost forty five degrees from her head. She was dressed in a pink dress and was carrying a small basket from which what appeared to be pink candy canes were sticking out. She had long white socks and small pink laced up shoes on her feet. The laces were pink too. She looked to be about seven or eight years of age.

  There are many types of silence. Most of which aren’t actually silence at all. Usually there is sound coming from somewhere. The wailing of the wind. A tree creaking in the breeze. A slightly embarrassed cough perhaps. This however was total silence. The small girl standing there didn’t seem to notice it at all, however.

  “My friend Cynthia says that Halloween costumes are quite expensive really.” There was a slight pause. “Yours all look very expensive.” she smiled. She took a few small steps forward, approaching them, and as she did so Old Mother Alice turned to face her, and though now the other four members of the card game could not see her they knew her jaw would be moving in a soundless chewing motion.

  “Wow.” said the little girl in an if possible even higher pitched squeaky voice. “Great nose. Warts and everything. That must have cost a lot of money.”

  Alice did not move, but when she spoke her voice was a voice that commanded attention.

  “What is a little girl doing in a graveyard just before midnight on All Hallow’s Eve, child?” she asked, and the little girl frowned, placing her candy cane festooned basket on the ground before her as if it was too heavy. It was rapidly swallowed by the mist, disappearing from sight altogether. When she spoke her voice seemed even higher pitched than before.

  “Well.” she said earnestly. “I was doing trick and treat with my mum and it was really boring. Some people even swore at us when we knocked on the door.” she said, her eyes going wide and an air of astonishment playing across her healthily scrubbed pale white skin.

  “Did they really?” asked Mister Crisp, who was still stood upright. “Such bad manners. I wonder about people sometimes. I really do.”

  “I am sure you do.” said Old Mother Alice without turning her gaze away from the young girl. “But then they did burn you at the stake, didn’t they?” she said, and Mister Crisp shuffled awkwardly in his blackened shoes. The little girl continued however.

  “So when we went home and did duck apple and everyone went to bed I decided to come out and do trick or treat on my own.”

  The skeleton nodded, as if this made sense, but Old Mother Alice just continued to stare at her.

  “Woooo wooo won’t your parents be worried?” asked the ghost, still floating behind the table. The little girl smiled at him as if trying to work out just how he was managing to float and precisely where the wires were.

  “Oh they won’t mind.” she said simply. “They are all probably asleep now and they won’t miss me.”

  “What’s your name, girl?” said Old Mother Alice and to the witch’s surprise the girl took a step forward and held her hand out as if ready to shake hands. Alice didn’t move however, though this didn’t seem to dim the child’s enthusiasm at all.

  “My name is Philippa.” she said simply, screwing up her face as if the name offended her. “Though I prefer Pippa.” she finished, and her broad smile increased just a little more, though she had dropped her hand to her side, forgetting about the handshake. “My mum says Pippa sounds like an apple though, and Philippa is my real name so I should use it.”

  The count sniffed loudly, seemingly oblivious of Pippa’s arrival as if she was of no consequence to him at all.

  “Shall ve continue with ze game?” he said haughtily. “Finally my luck changes I think.”

  “Ooo... a card game!” said Pippa, running around the gravestones and perching herself on top of one the vacant tombs
tones. “Can I play? I like card games but my dad says I am too young.”

  The Count snorted at this, eying her up and down suspiciously. Old Mother Alice grunted loudly as she noticed him doing this.

  “No need for concern.” said the Count as if in defence, having noticed the look that Alice had given him. “I av had a snack before I left home.”

  “He also says I cheat.” simpered Pippa. The skeleton turned to stare at her and the little girl giggled. “I don’t though. Honest.” Old Mother Alice sniffed again, the cards suspended in her hand as if deciding whether to let the young girl join in the card game.

  “They really are super costumes!” said Pippa, waiting for the cards to be dealt. “How does the skeleton thing work?” The skeleton stared at her, expressionless as usual, though there was a vague unspoken query in the air.

  “Work?” said Mister Crisp innocently.

  “You can see right through the bones and out the other side.” she smiled. “It’s really clever.” She stared at the ghost for a while. “Are your wires attached to the tree above us?” she asked, screwing up her face. The ghost just stared at her as if she wasn’t making any sense at all.

  “The vampire costume is a bit silly though.” she said, and to Alice’s amazement the Count blushed slightly. Pippa turned her attention on the witch.

  “That really is a super nose!” she exclaimed suddenly, smiling so broadly it looked as if she may be in danger of swallowing one of her pigtails. “All those warts and things, and it is so big.” She leaned slightly forward, pigtails brushing against the gravestone table. “Can I try it on?”

  It is a well-known fact of course that little girls can move extremely fast when they need to, and Pippa was no exception. She lunged forward and grabbed Old Mother Alice by the nose and gave it a tug. The witch’s nose did not move at all, however.

  “Wow! It’s glued on real tight!” she sighed and gave another vicious tug at Alice’s nose. The Witch’s eyes crossed, but her face did not show any sign of pain. The look she held there was most definitely not of pain; more like an expectation of pain occurring to somebody else, and soon.