Chapter 1: The Grand Waddle
Where the villagers of Misty Bottom have their feathers rudely PLUCKED!
Lady Mirabelle honked. Her husband Lord Sebastian Swiftwing honked, as did two score and more geese, on their early evening perambulation around the village of Misty Bottom. This was the Grand Waddle, a ritual long established where the residents took the opportunity to engage in conversation and not a little gossip, of which Audrey Flapp, ‘Heaven forbid and peck out my eyes should even a single word be loosened from my beak!’ was by far the biggest consumer. There will be more of Audrey later, because there’s always more of Audrey. The magic of the Grand Waddle lay in the way it forged a sense of community, of belonging. Being good geese, as all were, it meant a moment to check that neighbours and family were in fine health and of sound mind. To offer help or a kind word where necessary. And today would be no different.
Lord and Lady Swiftwing took in the parade, their attention turned by the portly duo of Reggie and Clothilde Reedpaddler the most senior of village seniors, who with surprising speed were arrowing their way towards Muddy Puddles Tea and Cake Emporium. Reggie wore a top hat so ancient it may have witnessed the end of the Cretacious era, while Clothilde’s enormous perilously piled fruit, nut and small rocks confection could have ended the next. Tradition demanded that one wore one’s finest headwear on the Grand Waddle and Reggie and Clothilde could never be accused of not enthusiastically embracing this. Nor the chocolate slices with extra slice, topped with white chocolate sprinkles all served in a lagoon of hot chocolate sauce, presently on special offer at Muddy Puddles.
“Still plenty of honk left in that old boy, don’t you think,” said Lord Swiftwing, as Reggie practically threw himself inside the Emporium.
“Yes,” said Lady Mirabelle. It was the snippy ‘yes’ of someone occupied with other matters.
“Reggie keeps a flask of brandy in his top hat. He had it specially adapted, so where ere he be, so be the brandy. Resourceful chap is Reggie, an old-style gander. Told me there’s room in the hat for a sandwich as well. Isn’t that a thing.”
“How dare they,” said Lady Mirabelle.
“And Clothilde’s a game old bird. She’s a whizz at skittles, I mean she cheats outrageously but it’s all about live and let live. Though she can be quite intimidating when she waves those skittles around...” Lord Swiftwing watched Clothilde Reedpaddler carefully detach her hat of mass destruction in order to follow her husband inside Muddy Puddles. Placed on one of the tables laid outside for customers an ominous creak could be heard as the table adjusted to the weight.
“Tell me something, Sebastian,” said Lady Mirabelle. “How would you describe Misty Bottom. Be completely frank, I demand it.”
“Amazing...”
“Agreed. Anything – “
“The strength she must have in her neck.”
Lady Mirabelle cleared her throat, loudly, always a sign that Lord Sebastian should pay attention.
“Sorry darling. Misty Bottom. I’m to be completely frank, I believe. Well, it’s a marvellous place, wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
“Marvellous. Yes, please go on.”
This had all the makings of sounding like a test, one that Lord Sebastian felt it best to pass.
“The village is incomparable we all know that. It’s simply lovely.” His reward was a peck on the cheek and a dawning realisation of the thing irking Lady Mirabelle.
“Something a tad more poetically inspired would have been appreciated. You’re a sweetheart nevertheless. Unlike some I could mention.”
“Plucked has published its top ten village list, hasn’t it.”
PLUCKED! A weekly magazine stuffed with celebrity news, titillating royalty and aristocratic chit-chat, geese interest stories all rolled together with a healthy dose of beauty, interiors, fashion, horoscopes, and travel. Plucked! had it all and more. And every year the magazine published its much anticipated, and hotly debated, review of the county villages. A review guaranteed to send Lady Mirabelle into a spin of civic indignation. Misty Bottom had no greater champion than her Ladyship, pride burned in her heart and any slight given could expect a declaration of war in return. Somehow, Plucked! managed to consistently ruffle her feathers when it came to the village reviews. A particularly strange situation as the Swiftwings regularly featured in its pages. Columns being devoted to both Lady Mirabelle’s seasonal outfits, and the aerial exploits of Lord Sebastian.
“Where to start?” said Lady Mirabelle. Wisdom dictated a step back, and sympathetic nodding where appropriate.
“Great Doome, picturesque and steeped in historic atmosphere. Puh! A crumbling castle. Duncackling, serenely enchanting. A duller location is hard to believe. Egge On Rye, quirky and delightful, if tacky souvenir shops, geese playing mandolins badly and tombola tickles your tomatoes. And wait for it.”
Lord Sebastian nodded that he was ‘waiting for it’.
“Lower Midden, an idyllic and charming hideaway. Now, I’m sure it has a charm I’ve yet to discover. But honestly Sebastian the truth of the place is in the name. Then...and let me assure you that a snotty letter will be winging its way forthwith to the editor. Seriously snotty, I shall not hold back this time. Then...” Lady Mirabelle’s eyes narrowed. “Misty Bottom, this vibrant, authentic, truly most beautiful of all villages in the county – “
“A rare pearl,” said Lord Sebastian, feeling the need to contribute, hopefully poetically, while still waiting for the ‘it’ of it all.
“Is dismissed as...BUCOLIC!”
The Grand Waddle came to an instant stop. All heads turned towards Lady Mirabelle. “Bucolic! How dare they. How dare they once again belittle the fine name of Misty Bottom.”
“It means – “
“I know what it means. It’s how it sounds, it has connotations that don’t sit well. It’s a bad word, Sebastian, unfit for purpose. ‘Oh, I’m feeling quite bucolic after eating those sprouts.’ ‘My poor old Granddaddy was a raging bucolic and fell down the well.’ Bucolic has no business being applied to Misty Bottom.”
Loud applause broke out.
“Last year they called the village rustic,” piped up Lady Amelia. “Sounds rather like a complaint one’s gardener may suffer from. From all that digging, pruning and whatever else it is they do. Something you’d need one’s servant to rub ointment on.”
The communal sense of affront even extended to Celeste Wildcloud, the village poetess and a goose with her head normally found in the clouds.
“Misty Bottom should be honoured with words beginning with Q, the most magical letter in the alphabet. Quaint, quintessential, queenly, quiescent – “
“Quizzical. The village is definitely quizzical, Lady Mirabelle,” said Edmund Meadowmist. “You should put that in your snotty letter to Plucked. Ain’t none other near close as quizzical as us.” Edmund was not wrong; he and his wife Sally ran the Chatty Goose Inn which held hugely popular quiz nights and where plenty of quality ale was quickly quaffed.
This stirred up another round of applause.
“I shall indeed do that,” assured Lady Mirabelle.
“This issue could be addressed personally,” said Lord Sebastian.
“How?”
“The new gown and cape you ordered from Paris would be required to be worn. To be admired.”
“Admired you say. Tell me more.”
“Plucked wishes to do an at home piece with us. Next week. The subject of the village can then be discussed, and resolved I am sure, in a convivial way. Face to face without having to resort to...a letter.”
Lady Mirabelle considered this. Standards had to be kept as much as people kept on their toes.
“The letter will still be sent. It’s expected of me, and I am one never to let people down. However, I shall attempt to moderate the amount of snottiness. Or not...”
Lord Sebastian smiled. Trying to moderate Mirabelle had as much success as teaching sheep to yodel. Meanwhile, Mirabelle had moved on to other thoughts.
“The new gown, the new velvet brocart cape. An at home piece. How delightful, the day is brightening up.”
“LADY MIRABELLE!!!”
The Swiftwings turned to face Audrey Flapp careering towards them.
“You’re needed your Ladyship,” said Audrey, leaning in dramatically. “A terrible mischief has been visited upon Daisy Feathertip.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Publisher’s Note:
Goosebumps is a collaborative Substack between the crafter of the geese and The Writer in Residence. This collaboration crosses (much like an inebriated person) the boundaries of reality and fiction and was born out of these geese’s unstoppable desire to become fictional characters. Please read the explanatory articles here and here and then please consider subscribing. Our work feels somehow more rewarding if there are people reading this and perhaps even enjoying it. Thank you.
Much more endearing than human beings. Reminds me of the British Cotswolds xx
This is insanely witty and sophisticated. Serious, laugh out loud social satire! Genius characterisation, so vivid it spills over the page. I think using anthropomorphised geese is at once endearing and effective as caricature of human foibles.