The Boatman: Part Three of Three

With a full mind to throwing herself body and soul into the river that would be her grave, the young woman flew into a bitter despair and flung her pouch, tearing its strap, at the silt of the shore. It burst open, spilling all that was in it; coins were hurled into the reeds, others hit dry ground and rolled; gems and jewels, gold and silver lay scattered all around. Her poems fluttered in the slightest of breezes and her sketches of Spain grew blotched with the damp. Her attention was nowhere, but Jones looked keenly at this conflagration of beads and personal effects. His gaze was drawn immediately to near the very centre of the spread.

Had she been looking in this instant, she would not perhaps have understood its meaning, but the crisp, clear, solar gleam of the apple could not have escaped her notice. Indeed, when she did turn in the midst of her pain, she froze, despite herself, in a scarcely witting wonder. She had picked that apple, or an apple from the usual tree, and placed it with her bread and cheese as had become habitual; it was lunch. She made no sound nor moved for long enough to find her mind empty of thought when next she knew where she was.

“I believe you asked for passage?” said the boatman.

She said nothing.

“If your hunger can resist that particular portion of your meal,” and there was no need for him to gesture towards the apple, nor did he, “Then I shall allay your… worries, and take you aboard.”

She still said nothing, but turned to look at him, eyes wide and open.

“It won’t be a direct trip,” he warned, “As that payment would be too great for a simple river-crossing. But the return journey will be assured, should you wish for it. And yes, you can reach the other side, though I can’t guarantee a precise timeframe; there’ll be plentiful wine where we’ll be going, and so you shall certainly have the means to pay. It’s a feast, see?” he intoned what was almost a request.

She assented wordlessly, moving towards the boat. She grasped the apple, the light of which made even the copper coins shine in constellations. Everything else she left, without a thought to picking it up.

“And please,” said the boatman, “Call me Jones.”

In Bed With The Man From Marks&Spencer

The following is a cover version of Wolper’s Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory, The Inventing Room scene:

Late in the dark of the night Val lay in bed with Marks who part-invented Marks & Spencer, talking.
“I simply love your apples” she said sincerely. “I wont buy them from any other shop.” Then she paused for a moment to let wonder form, then asked “Why ARE they so special? Is it all down to the soil in the place where they come from? Do they have really caring farmers?”
“Aaaah my friend” said Marks, which Val heard with her face as well as her ear, for her cheek was on his chest. “I have something rather special to tell you. But this is the most secret mechanism in all my enterprise. I can only give it to you if you solemnly swear to keep it to yourself and never show it to another living soul as long as you live. Agreed?”
“Agreed” said Val predictably and happily.
“Good. Because du komme jetzt in den interessantesten und gleichzeite geheisten Raum meine Fabri. Meine Dame: Der Inventing Room.
Now people are very funny about fruit flavours. As long as it’s sweet, you can almost replace their orange-juice with apricot-, so long as they don’t see the label. Asked to articulate, they will often tell you ‘It tastes fruity’. And so it does. But, now, why would you want to replace orange with apricot (except out of mischief)? well now I’ll tell you. The fact is, apricot is simply a special variety of orange. It’s at a different value on the circular Fruity Spectrum; nevertheless, it IS a spectrum, all items are gradual; and the flavour of apricot is extreme orange. So if you give it to someone who thinks they are drinking orange-juice they will taste that it is special extra-tasty orange-juice. The imposter fruit IS registered, but only in as much as yum. It gives it a little kick,”
“I see.”
“Now take this to our apples. We realised that they needed a little more jelly fat to have the edge on other shops. So, one day, way back when, we take a syringe to an apple and extract all the apple-taste. Then. We take a number of strawberries (it depends on how big the skin of the apple is), and repeat the operation with a new syringe, sucking out the strawberry flavour. Then swap the syringes and insert the imposter flavours. A little coloured ink and voila. Testing this sort of experiment on yourself is inpossible so I gave one of each to my stepmother, unsuspiciously. She eats and all is fine – remarking ‘What a nice juicy apple’ or some such. We use this method on every single apple that comes through our stores, every year. Fantastic invention. Revolutionised our industry. People can eat ‘em and eat ‘em until their dying days and never know any wiser. Never realise. Never. Least I don’t think they do. And as a bonus we also get tastier strawberries.”
“Oh wow wow wow.”
“I know. Isnt it scrumptious?”
“It’s marvellous.”
“But now remember: no touching, no tasting, no telling.”
“I swear, Marksy.”
Talking stopped for a while while the pair thought of apples, what had happened to them earlier in the day, and the prospect of sleep. Marks had rolled over and later quietly said “Where is fancy bred? In the heart or in the head?”
Val said “Did you say ‘fancy bread’ or ‘fancy bred’?” This writer does not know the answer.