AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For full Chapters 1-2a see my blog or attachment; for an explanation of this dreadful story, see my first Blog Posting : The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.
In the last episode: Fog. Welsh-Bangladeshi Elvis impersonator impersonator Ddwwchllyff and his chum Wolfcastle hear a buzzing noise...

Chapter 2a

"What is it?" Wolfcastle asked quizzically. Dddwwchllyff didn’t answer. Instead he deliberately placed his glass of Hamilton’s® gin and tonic on the SteinercroftTM grand piano, sighed and walked towards the hallway and the source of the disturbance.

"A visitor?" Dddwwchllyff said as he left the room.

Wolfcastle seized the moment and leapt over to Ddwwchyllff’s large Brandenshot desk. A replica of course, ‘even Ddwwchyllff’s furniture was fake’ Wolfcastle thought to himself. Quickly he rifled through the assorted paperwork. The desk was a wash with unpaid bills, final demands, final final demands, hand written notes and neatly typed to-do lists outlining strings of tasks that were as yet still undone. Unopened envelopes lay strewn across one corner of the desk and a postcard from "Sunny Quito" had been given pride of place in the middle, underneath six months worth of shoe invoices (Italian leather, Red, size 9).

"I am so sorry Miss Cassleberry, I had completely forgotten of our…umm…appointment" said Ddwwchyllff at a volume just slightly too loud to make it seem natural. Wolfcastle abandoned his inspection and darted back to his previous position by the window just in time. Entering the room once more Dddwwchllyff announced his new companion.

"This is Miss Cassleberry. She’s the my new umm…chiropodist…yes, chiropodist." He smiled to himself, pleased with his quick thinking. Wolfcastle feigned distraction as he turned around.

"Still foggy out" he offered nonchalantly. "Pleased to meet you" he added, smiling at the young lady standing in the doorway.

‘Chiropodist indeed’ thought Wolfcastle. He hadn’t been born the previous day – he knew a call girl when he saw one. Something was afoot.

"Hello" chirped she, eventually. A broad, sympathetic smile spread across her cherry red lips. "Would you like a one?" she continued holding out a small paper bag full of cherries. As the two men politely declined Miss Cassleberry withdrew her offer and her hand. Unnoticed by the others, her golden green eyes flitted around the vast room with hawk like accuracy, instantly noting all the items of value. In her line of business it paid to pay attention. You never know when what you knew might prove worth knowing.

"My, this is a most luxurious house you have Mr Dddwchwllyff, deceptively luxurious" complimented Miss Cassleberry with another broad smile. She also knew that it paid to pay compliments to the client.

"Err, that’s Ddwwchyllff but thank you, yes. I only bought it eight years ago you know." Ddwwchyllff’s attention suddenly drifted to former memories of the past.

"Eight years…" he said, almost to himself. Almost, but not quite.

Eight years. How fast those years had passed. Dddwwchllyff had never mentioned the lottery win that had allowed him to purchase the house. One day he’d been a struggling escapologist and failing Elvis impersonator impersonator, desperately trying to make a living and the next he’d scooped €1,635,178 in the weekly Euro Lotto draw. With his newly gained windfall he had quit the European Semi-pro magician circuit, quit his job as a freelance translator for the European Commission, quit smoking and quit Belgium. He always knew it was a dirty habit that’d probably kill him one day, but some days, especially first thing in the morning. he missed it. But then Brussels hadn’t appreciated his talents anyway and it would be their loss as far as Dddwwchllyff was concerned.

Belgium might not be better off without him but he was better off now and it was time to move on. And when it came to where to move to there was only one choice – it had to be Cymru. Back to Cymru.

Following the move Dddwwchllyff had passed off his apparent affluence locally by telling how he was a well known rock star in Asia. "I’m very big in Chittagong" he’d often be heard declaring to anyone who’d listen, meaning anyone in earshot, down at his local pub, the Dog and Sledgehammer. The locals would nod and pretend to feign disinterest so as not to encourage the fellow. It was an odd exchange - played out all too often.

‘Eight years’ he continued to reminisce, lengthening the chapter…

(to be continued)