Sleepy Hamlet has been in my mind and on the computer in one shape or form for quite a few years. It even used to have its own weekly short story blog and was published in Hertfordshire Life, but I guess the belief in it as a viable publishing option came when I sent the first two chapters of a previous Sleepy Hamlet tale to an agent and they showed immediate interest. That story failed to be completed as it was too complicated, but at least it gave me the confidence to write more.
So simply put Sleepy Hamlet is a fictitious village set somewhere in the English countryside. It is populated by a collection of the worlds oddest, eccentric, gossipy and hard-core fruit-cakes you will ever find. I have often said that there is no village like Sleepy Hamlet but everyone will recognise the characters within it as villagers.
These village idiots bumble, fumble and gossip their way through day to day life, oblivious to the outside world. They are insular, independent, fiercely proud of their community and consider anyone outside of their boundaries to be
foreigners; with the possible exception of the nearby Village of Little Underwood; they consider them to be deep enemies and the cause of everything that has ever gone wrong in the whole wide world.
But for the first story I've decided to hit on their village idiotry as it main theme and take a few perfectly normal situations and show how quickly these little eccentrics get into a complete pickle of their own making.
Synopsis for the Night of the Village Idiots
How could the removal of a family painting, a childhood fear of thunder and lightning and the pub landlord's flu cause so much trouble?
Simple, add a dotty half wit Lord of the manor, place him next to his short fused and volcanic wife, refer to the butler, who is the very model of decorum and upholder the old ways, as the family pet, ignite the head cooks flatulent backside with a lightning bolt, have Mrs Heppleheimer: a crazy octogenarian Bavarian barm pot run the village pub and bring her own brain battering, soul sapping brew of the Norse Gods, get the villagers to try and get her drunk in an ill fated drinking competition which will eventually end up with the mass hypnotism of the village quoits team, while all the time have the incumbents of Hamlet Hall running around a darkened stately home that's been blacked out by the worst storms in living memory; have an old suit of armour nearly decapitate her Ladyship while she attempts to head her portly husband off in his search for a stepladder and something to remove a picture with, then add to the mix a nervous maid with a curtsying fixation and a concussed and amnesic head cook who's wondering around the house covered in fruit preserves and compotes, and you have the ingredients for a stormy night with a village full of idiots.
So sit back, choose a beverage of your choice and enjoy the first part of
the Night of the Village Idiots. If you like it, keep coming back as I announce the release date and where and when you can purchase the whole story for yourself.
The night of the Village Idiots
I
The
storms crashed and battered the bewildered village of Sleepy Hamlet. Winds
howled off the hillside, dragging torrents of rain like curtains across the
rooftops and waterlogged streets below. The village lights twinkled off and on
as the power failed then regained its control.
The
villagers stayed inside, placing candles at the ready for the inevitable
blackout. Children looked from their bedroom windows in awe and scrambled and
squealed to their beds as lightening turned the whole night a deathly white
with its raw energy, and the rain beat mercilessly upon the window panes.
Villagers
stared out onto the streets as the rain bounced off the pavements before
joining the overflowing drains as streams of water coursed their way to the
outlets and tributaries that fed the mighty River Brimsmal beyond. No one dared
venture out on a night like tonight. All windows were locked; coal cellar doors
battened down and gates shut tight. The village of Sleepy Hamlet was closed and
curtained against the Blitz Krieg of a ferocious un-spring like storm.
Hamlet
Hall had been without power ever since a giant Douglas Fir--- that had
succumbed to both weak roots and a relentless battering from the elements---
had brought down the power-lines that fed this majestic country house.
Jennings, the stately homes’ faithful butler, had managed to furnish all major
parts of the house with candles while the maid had stocked the fires up so high
that they roared light into the darkening rooms.
But
no amount of candles or log fuelled fires could sprinkle light into the dark,
brooding temperaments of Lord and Lady Hamlet.
Lord
Hamlet was staring at his detested wife and Lady Hamlet was throwing back
glances of the same ferocity. Neither, it would be fair to say, would care one
bit if the other stated their urge to go outside and play in the lightening.
It
has been said on many occasions, both between the present incumbents of Hamlet
Hall and the village at large, that Lord and Lady Hamlet’s marriage was one of
convenience that had turned rapidly into one of inconvenience. They had had
their marriage forced upon them by ambitious parents who saw a match of land
and position rather than love and affection and so the luckless, loveless
miss-matched pair had been forced to tie the knot, when in reality they would rather
have tied a noose. And from that day to this they had argued, bickered and
generally made each other’s life a mire of misery.
By
nature Lady Hermione Hamlet was a bossy, ambitious woman who wanted power and
prestige but got a simplistic, lacklustre and vacillating husband, where as
Lord Basil Hamlet was a wholly minded, eccentric who just wanted to be left to
his country pursuits of drinkin’, horsin’, huntin’ and generally pottering
around and not amounting to anything much; but he’d landed himself a bossy,
over bearing harridan who wouldn’t stop meddling in his life. None, it was fair
to say, had got what they had wished for in life. And as the tempest raged
outside, storm clouds were developing over the heads of the love-lost couple on
the inside.
Lady
Hamlet sighed heavily in her husband’s direction, Lord Hamlet ignored her. She
sighed again, this time with more gusto, but Lord Hamlet made a point of not
rising to her argumentative bait. Then Lady Hamlet sucked in most of the air
from her quadrant of the library and vented a sigh so loud and with such
ferocity that it nearly blew the fire out; Lord Hamlet was forced to acquiesce and
enquire as to what his wife wanted. He rolled his eyes heavenwards and asked
“What
appears to be the matter, M’Dear?”
“THIS
STORM!!” she roared as Lord Hamlet corrected himself on his chair, the sudden
shock and force of her words almost upending him. He turned to the widow and
looked out into the inky blackness beyond. He wasn’t sure exactly what she
expected him to say, but he had a sneaky suspicion the rain storms that had
ravaged the entire country over the past few days, were somehow going to be his
fault.
“What
about them, they’re not my fault, y’know?” he replied, airing his view on the
whole blame culture that permeated throughout their marriage. Lady Hermione
snorted a snort of derision and the flames flinched slightly.
“Don’t
be stupid, Basil. Even you can’t be blamed for the weather. I’m annoyed because
I can’t make it to the Local Landowners meeting over in Little Underwood”
Lord
Hamlet took his turn to snort--- contempt leaving one nostril and derision the
other.
There
had, since time immemorial, existed a state of war between the villages of
Sleepy Hamlet and Little Underwood. Every generation of Sleepy Hamleters had
pinned the blame for every misfortune that had befallen them onto the
villagers’ of Little Underwood; and it is fair to say that the venom and spite
was no less reciprocal from the Little Underwooders towards the inhabitants of
Sleepy Hamlet, and Lady Hermione knew this and used it as often as she could to
wind her husband up.
“Why
the deuce do you have to consort with those... those... those damned
Roundheads?” seethed Lord Hamlet.
Lady
Hamlet tutted in irritation, “Why do you insist on always referring to them as
‘Roundheads’ Basil, it is a perfectly
silly epithet”
“Simple,
We call them ‘Roundheads’ because they took the side of Cromwell in the civil
war--- just because we were on the side of the King, AND,” he accentuated
“because it seems to annoy them” said Lord Hamlet with a leering smile which
irked Lady Hermione.
“I
honestly have no idea why you and your silly ‘village idiot’ friends have such
issues with the inhabitants of Little Underwood; they’ve always been very
courteous to me and show a level of civility that I have yet to see bettered in
this, my own village” She rested back and smiled through closed eyes, satisfied
at her exercise in button pushing.
“YOUR VILLAGE” exploded Lord Hamlet “WHEN
WAS THIS EVER YOUR VILLAGE?! IN CASE
YOU HAVEN’T NOTICED IT’S MY FAMILIES
NAME ON THE HOUSE AND IT’S MY
GLORIOUS ANCESTOR THAT HANGS IN PRIDE OF PLACE OVER THE MANTLE PIECE...” Lord Hamlet’s
mouth opened as he looked to where his finger was pointing. His voice croaked
in an attempt to say something but he was without the ability to do so. He
blinked a few more times, hoping, presumably, that the vision before him would
dissipate and the correct one take its place; but the scene did not change.
There before the gawping and gapping peer of the realm, where the portrait of
Lord Cecil Hamlet--- ship owner and gold magnate--- had always taken pride of
place, stood a new portrait; a portrait of Lady Hermione’s detested, oily
father. Time held its breath and the flames readied themselves for what was to
come. Lord Hamlet pulled himself up to his full height (which really wasn’t
much at the best of times), and detonated his emotions; caution leaving him and
hurling itself bodily into the winds.
“AND WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THAT!!?” He raged, but Lady Hermione
remained the very model of serenity.
“What
is the meaning of what, Basil Dear?” she replied, pointedly refusing to follow
his wagging finger in the offending portraits direction.
“THAT!”
He bellowed, once again pointing at the picture, leaping up and down as he did
so. Lady Hamlet turned slowly, opened her eyes to half mast, looked at the
picture then returned to her previous posture of closed eyed nonchalance.
“Oh,
that. That’s a portrait of my Father; quite fetching isn’t it?” Lord Hamlet’s
complexion took on the brilliant shade of a red rose in full bloom; his
temperament, it was only fair to say, did not match the delicacy of the petals
he so perfectly mimicked.
“GOOD?!
GOOD?!! IT’S A DAMNABLE ATROCITY!” he began “AN INSULT TO DECENCY AND THE EYE!
IT’S A CRIME PERPETRATED BY A SEDITIOUS MIND...” Lady Hamlet’s eye brows rose at
this last comment and a smile slightly creased her thin bloodless lips. This
was topping any expectation she could’ve ever hoped for when she first dreamed
up this exercise in annoyance. She settled back to enjoy the rest of her
husband’s blood vessel popping exhibition. “IT’S A CRUDE RENDITION OF A CRUDE
LITTLE MAN AND TO TOP IT ALL IT’S TREASON!!” Lord Hamlet was about to suggest
the removal of his head when Lady Hamlet piped up
“I’d
say that treason was a bit thick,
Basil. It’s hardly a crime against the crown”
Lord
Hamlet glared menacingly into Lady Hermione’s eyes and regulated his breathing.
The heaving of his shoulders slowed a little until finally he was only snorting
gently. He took a deep breath before prodding the air between himself and Lady
Hamlet.
“For
your information, dear, there was serious talk about a link between the young
Queen Bess and Lord Cecil Hamlet.” Lady Hamlet’s eyes widened at this
“Oh
for goodness sake, Basil, not the old illustrious-
family- line chestnut again. How many times have I had to sit through the
flights of fancy that you and your idiotic family trot out every time you
gather for a soiree--- or a drinking binge, as I prefer to call it? You all sit
around the table making spurious claims that have no validity or foundation
other than the fact that it happened so long ago that no one can dispute your
claims...” Lady Hamlet would’ve continued for some time in this vein if Lord
Hamlet hadn’t, quite uncharacteristically for such a spineless mass of cowardly
jelly like himself, cut in.
“There
was talk of a child, a child that was whisked away and brought up by the Hamlet
family. A dark secret of which we have been sworn to secrecy...” Lord Hamlet
punctuated the air with his final point “so that picture is treason simply because it removed the father of the legitimate
heir to the throne from his rightful and regal prominence”
“Utter
balderdash, Basil, you are no more closely linked to royalty that any of your
village idiot friends”
“That
is where you are wrong, if it wasn’t for the Spanish Catholic threat, Good
Queen Bess was set to marry Lord Cecil Hamlet and legitimise their firstborn.”
Lady
Hamlet looked at Basil for a while. She was used to him wandering down daydream
lane and knew it sometimes took herculean attempts to bring him back to
reality; so trenchant were his views and beliefs in the family clap-trap that they passed off as the genuine article,
that common sense seemed harder to grasp at that swirling smoke. But with a
deep breath and a lungful of reason she set about the task of decoding his
wobbly mind anyway:
“I
will concede, Basil, that Queen Elizabeth I did have a secret lover. But that
lover---although supposed to be secret—was well documented to be Lord Robert
Dudley...”
“It
was before him” Lord Hamlet stumped up with belligerence.
“Before
him, how could it be before him, they were childhood sweet hearts, so unless
they met in the womb I fail to see how?”
Lord
Hamlet turned his nose up at this “It was during a summer when she and Dudley
had fallen out. Queen Bess was upset and Lord Cecil Hamlet was there to comfort
her; the comforting turned into friendship and the friendship into a blossoming
relationship, the result of which was a little child.”
Lady
Hamlet tried another tack: “But Queen Elizabeth was famous for her virginity,
Basil”
Lord
Hamlet gave that eye twinkling leer that men have when talking about ‘blokey’ doings, “’Was’ M’Dear, the operative word here is ‘was’”
Lady
Hamlet held his ridiculous smarmy school boy look for as long as she could bear
before shaking her head
“This
is just pointless. Sometimes...No, all of the time, it is just impossible to
talk to you, Basil---Fine, believe whatever you like, revel in your flights of
fancy, I don’t care, have your family stories, go to your silly little grave
believing every word of it--- I really have gone past caring --- but that
picture of my father is staying there and that’s the end of it Basil!” and with
the finality of a jutting jaw and crossed arms she threw herself into her chair
with such force she moved a good four feet further away from her husband and
his sense of impotency.
Lord
Hamlet looked at the painting for a while. He turned his head on one side
before shaking it.
“No,
no, it simply can’t be done; it’ll have to go in the morning”
Lady
Hamlet’s eyes shot open then narrowed “Why, what’s wrong with it---other than
the fact that it’s not Lord Cecil Hamlet?”
“Well”
began Lord Hamlet, “first off, as you quite rightly say, it isn’t Lord Cecil
and that is Lord Cecil’s rightful place for the very historical ‘facts’ that I’ve just explained” Lady
Hermione’s eye’s did a double flip and a triple somersault in unison with her
tut tutting, but Lord Hamlet ignored her, “and anyway, it’s all wrong in the
art”
Lady
Hamlet sat forward “What do you mean, all wrong in the art?”
“Well
it’s not even an oil painting. It’s a water colour, and everyone knows that a
family portrait--- when placed on the walls of a great stately home like Hamlet
Hall--- must be rendered in oils”
“It’s
in water colour because I wanted it in water colour; I happen to prefer water
colour to oil”
“Well
I’m sorry M’Dear, but the idiot who painted it should’ve advised you about
that. The chumps obviously a bally novice”
“For
your information, Basil dear, he did advise me but I said no I wanted it in
water colour”
“Deuce
odd if you ask me: who was this bally idiot artist anyway?”
And
this was the moment Lady Hermione Hamlet had really been waiting for; this was
the moment that she was going to relish above all others, this was the moment
that would tip her husband’s blood levels over the top.
She
leant forward, malevolence swimming across her features before delivering the
death blow, “A very talented artist from Little
Underwood painted it” she said and watched the mixed emotions of shock,
panic, outrage and disbelief ripple across her husband’s face like tidal flows.
Anyone
outside of the palatial residence of Hamlet Hall on that dark and stormy night,
and who happened to be passing at the precise moment that Lady Hamlet dropped
her Little Underwood bombshell, could testify, quite readily, to the fact that
the roof seemed to lift slightly off the main body of the house before settling
once again; not unlike the way that a tanks turret would be lifted by a very
powerful explosion from within.
So there you have it, the beginning of a very silly but never ending tale of eccentricity and tom-foolery in the English countryside. Hope you like it and will support my venture by purchasing a copy when it is released, hopefully by the middle of next month
Also, don't forget to come back tomorrow for the next instalment of the Brabbles & Boggitt saga
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