MELVIN’S ARM -CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, Laura was sitting outside Beelzebub Cottage, absent-mindedly pulling up blades of grass and whispering softly to herself, ‘He loves me, he loves me not. He loves me, he loves me n … ! Oh, what’s the use!’ she cried, throwing a handful of grass to the ground. She stared guiltily at the huge patch of bare earth that had been her parents’ beautiful grass tennis court not two hours earlier. It had just occured to her how very disappointed they’d be next time they wanted to play tennis. They’d be looking forlorn for the rest of the summer. And it would be her fault! Things were not going well for Laura that morning.

She had woken with a plan to get Kent back. She had been going to write him a love poem but couldn’t think of a word which would rhyme with Broadacre. The only thing she could come up with was Ford-maker but, as everyone knew, Kent worked for General Motors.

‘Life is so unfair,’ groaned Laura.

Now noticing the happy garden birds which flitted and twittered around her, she thought, Well, at least I have Nature to comfort me. Nature is so reassuring and dependable in times of trouble.

Her attention was attracted by a particularly pretty thrush which was struggling with a snail. 

I can learn from Nature, thought Laura. Not only is it cute, but it’s also kind of symbolic. For instance, I am that thrush and Tamsin Tempest is the snail which will soon be vanquished by the brave and noble bird. 

After another minute or two’s struggling, the snail dragged the thrush into the bushes and began to eat it.

Or perhaps, reflected Laura, I am the snail and Tamsin is the thrush. 

It was rather a large snail … and very aggressive too! Laura was puzzled as to where such a fearsome creature  might have come from. Then she remembered that Richie had been practising genetic engineering on Alfredo, his Giant African Land Snail. The snail had obviously broken out of its terrarium and was now crawling amok in the garden!

A disgusting crunching sound came from the bushes, accompanied by heart-rending tweets and flurries of feathers. After a few more minutes, Alfredo let out a long noisy belch then began to snore contentedly.

How absolutely horrid! thought Laura. She moved to another part of the garden and tried to finish her love poem. 

The garden of Beelzebub Cottage was enormous and most of it was overgrown. Laura’s parents called it their ‘wildlife sanctuary’, for the conservation of rare and unusual species. By this they meant all the bewitched people who ran around in it, cackling madly and smearing each other with taramasalata during their ‘Why-not-get away-from-it-all-and-be-de-bedevilled?’ weekend breaks.

Laura was now in her favourite part of the garden. It was a lovely sun-dappled hollow known as Lonesome Dell. It was the perfect place for a girl with a broken heart to sit and write love poems while she plucked wild flowers, or her guitar … or her eyebrows. It was an idyllic haven of peace and tranquility which Professor Lynette had named after her favourite country and western singer, ‘Lonesome Dell’ Rogers.

Laura had tearfully told Candy that she wouldn’t be coming to her swim ’n’ snog party on account of Kent having gone off with Tamsin As she recalled that painful telephone conversation, the sound of Candy’s shrieks of sympathetic laughter echoed in her head. Laura’s heart began to ache again. She was sure that Kent still loved her. If only something almost terrible nearly happened to her. It didn’t have to be something really terrible like having to drive a dirty car or having the shower suddenly go luke-warm on her. It could be something more ordinary or everyday. For instance, a bewitched person might pop out from behind a bush and persuade Laura to join an obscure sect of devil worshippers. Kent would be really sorry then when he picked up the National Enquirer and read how she’d become a slave of Santa.

Ten minutes later, Lonesome Dell began to work its magic on Laura. She was ready to finish her poem! The words suddenly began to gush from her pencil. She scribbled furiously.

Lament for Kent (the boy, not the English shire)

There is a young maiden called Laura 

Whose boyfriend does want to ignore her

His first name is Kent

And he’s not a gent

Cos he just upped and went

Out with Tamsin Tempest

Laura wasn’t even thinking now. Verbs, nouns and apostrophes were just tumbling into her lap!

His name is Broadacre

He is a heartbreaker

Though Laura is pure

He is quite immature

So he’s gone off with Tammy

Whose skin is real ….

Real what? she thought. She wanted to write spotty but that didn’t rhyme with Tammy. She could only think of clammy. But what did clammy mean. Was it like the slimy, slipppery, slithery damp sensation she could feel all over her spine right now?

Was it like the sucking, slurping feeling that was running up and down her back at that moment?

Come to think of it, and more to the point! … What was this creepy sensation?

She’d been so busy writing that she hadn’t noticed it at first. Now it was impossible to ignore. Something was wrong. Very wrong! The awful truth suddenly dawned on Laura. While she’d been completely absorbed in her writing, something had taken the opportunity to sneak up on her, and (whatever it was) was now greedily … sucking her flesh!