The Factual Fuddle

Short Story:

By Alma Gross

“HAYMOND had enticed Gertrude into MX the garden where the moon was so bright that it penetrated both their skulls, removing the last threads of reason .. .”

Here Maud’s story was again inter rupted, this time by Kaki, the cook, who announced the visit of a village boy, with oranessee for sale.

“All right. Give him one pannikin rice, one pannikin sugar. And vamoose.

And don’t interrupt me again.”

Maud settled back to her story with grim determination. She would write the darn thing, no matter what. She had a talent, and it was not to be buried.

Kaki reappeared and murmured gently about something being “b. u. finished.”

“Then throw him along sea,” snapped Maud. “What? Oh, the clock belong kitchen! ’E stop, bye-and-bye master fix him. And now, VAMOOSE!” Maud raised her voice, threatening the cook with awful consequences if he inter rupted her again.

The writer settled back to her desk, and Raymond and Gertrude, still under the awful influence of a tropical moon, had clutched each other in a fond em brace, when Raymond’s wife turned up.

There began a tumultuous session.

Maud was getting this stormy scene down on paper. Words seemed to float to her from the air. She wrote like a stenog rapher recording the phrases which hit her ears.

“Back, back you brute! Call off this beast!” The voices grew louder —no, not three voices—now just one voice, and a very irate one. With a cry of alarm, Maud dropped her pen.

This was no fable: someone outside the bungalow was calling for help. At the wire-gauzed door Maud paused—.

FIFTY yards up the plantation her Alsatian dog had a white man half way up a coconut tree. The man was not used to shinning up trees, and he hadn’t the figure for it.

If he had been just any white man Maud could have laughed; but this was

the General Manager, the Company's Big Gun, who had come up from Sydney, and to whqm everyone showed marked polite ness in the hope of getting a better job, should anyone die, or be sacked.

Well, it looked as if someone would be sacked. Hadn’t Jim told her to tie up the Alsatian: ‘‘The Big Shot hates dogs —so don’t forget to tie Major as soon as he has had a run.’’

Major had certainly had a run now.

Wflth his teeth bared and his bristles standing, he looked like a fearsome wolf.

Another roar from the GM, and Maud turned out the cooks who were lurking behind one of the potted palms doubled up with mirth.

“Which way you ...” Maud began, and in a flash their laughter had gone, and they were away after the Alsatian.

With many shouts and much fuss they dragged the dog to the house, pretending to be very cross with him; but actually patting him on the back for giving them such a pleasant diversion from house work.

The GM came gingerly down the tree, wiped the perspiration from a wet brow, and strode off muttering abuse of people who could not keep their animals in order.

Maud slumped in her chair. She would soon hear about it from Jim. The GM no doubt had gone straight to the office, and perhaps by now they were no longer employees of the Murchison Co.

The telephone rang, and there was Jim’s voice as loud and angry as the GM’s had been.

“I forgot to tie him up,” Maud pleaded.

“I was writing a factual story. What’s that? What is a factual story? A cousin to a white lie, I think. You’ve asked the GM to dinner? He accepted? But darl ing, I could never face him! Oh, I’m sorry, dear. Yes, i’ll endeavour to undo my misdoings. Yes, I’ll do him proud.

We’re not yet sacked? You think it all might depend on a factual dinner? Well, I’m in a bit of a fuddle, but I’ll flurry well do my factual best!”