All stories

My time at the WI ended with a slammed door and the threat of a restraining order.

That was Jane being dramatic really, but the gesture was not without its flair, I’ll give her that. I had been pushing my luck rather hard towards the end.

I’ve always hated these narrow, ridiculous little groups. No vision. No desire for anything outside of Jam and Jerusalem, the next cosy jumper pattern and what Margo said to Hillary at the bloody village fair.

It always starts off so nicely. A cup of tea, a slightly stale digestive biscuit. What brings you to Little Bumblefuckington? Are you a knitter, or a crocheter? Hard rain on rattling, single-glazed windows, polished parquet flooring, plastic chairs and fold out tables.

And the next thing you know it’s all sirens and flashing lights and ‘don’t come near our pets ever again or we’ll call the police’.

It’s the hysteria I can’t stand. Undignified.

This time was just the same. I met all the Susans and Janes. Had them all eating out of my hand when I told them I’d made the (clearly Marks and Spencer’s) jumper I was wearing and had signed myself up to next week’s talk from PC Jones on not answering the door to strangers.

This is always my favourite bit, the bit when you get them to like you. It’s so easy. They’re so pathetically transparent it doesn’t take much to slip into their comfortable little cliques and once you’re there, well, that’s when the real fun can start.

You can begin by letting slip something Susan said about Jane’s fairy cakes. Sometimes it’s as simple as that, and you can just watch it all unravel from the sidelines.

Sometimes you need a little more poking.

I like to take my time. Really get them on side before upsetting the apple cart.

Admittedly, this time they were better friends than I had anticipated. I’m usually long gone by the time it gets boring, by the time they’ve all fallen out and there’s no more fun to be had. They never usually realise that they all thought one another perfectly lovely before yours truly entered, because they don’t tend to speak to each other at all by that point.

I didn’t bank on sneaky little Susan to have such a close eye on me. The woman kept notes for god’s sake. Screenshots. I mean really. It got quite nasty in the end – even I couldn’t talk my way out of the ugly little scene. They had evidence. They had spoken to each other. Really, it was almost an ambush – I felt quite set upon.

I left with quiet dignity. I wasn’t about to sink to their level. Name calling. Open accusations. There’s really no call to lose one’s head. Needless to say, I won’t be managing a stall at next month’s bake sale, so that’s my calendar freed right up.

I wonder if the Tai Chi class is looking for new members…

Bad Blood

Professor Diana Bronte (yes, really, how many more times?!) stared out of her rainy college window and sighed very deeply. In many ways it was a comfortable life: freedom to write and research almost anything that she decided; a flat inside the walls of Somerville and the comforting cliché of a bicycle with a large front basket to get further afield. By most standards she was living the academic dream.

Her chosen field, the female gothic, was popular, bordering on the fashionable, and yet this irked her in a way. Far better to inhabit a subject area tucked away in the long grass and establish yourself as the world authority on an intriguing though neglected field of study. Decades ago, when Diana had been an undergraduate, Old Norse had occupied this territory.

It became her little private joke to think of herself as ‘vampiric’, trading on the appetites of thousands of young women for feminist readings of obscure gothic stories. The titles of her numerous books were catnip to undergraduates across the English-speaking world: The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination’ (2008) was her first great hit, but The Contested Castle: Gothic Novels and the Subversion of Domestic Ideology (2020) had sold more and secured her Chair.

Since then though she had longed for something a bit more, well, practical, within her chosen field. Some actual gothic feminist action as it were. Some guerilla warfare with a lurid twist perhaps.

She got to her feet and discarded the bag, lapsang souchong today, and took her cup back to her desk along with a couple of digestive biscuits, their plainness a welcome antidote to the fevered workings of her specialist subject. Like a comfortable jumper, something she would never wear. It was nearly time to press send.

Just two months ago she had barely heard of Substack, let alone discovered how to manipulate its workings in order to create a fake account, traceable to an IP address belonging to her esteemed colleague. How lucky to have a computer scientist as a daughter. As culture wars ruined careers in public Geoffrey Philipsson CBE was smart enough to keep his head down, but in private was able to wage war on anybody he suspected of pro-trans activism. He was also not averse to damaging the careers of intersectional feminists that raised their heads above the parapet.

So far the attributed Substack posts had been mild enough – gentle diatribes about how inclusion policies in Universities had gone too far and so on. They had attracted mild criticism but had also smoked out some who had expressed support. The esteemed Geoffrey had simply blustered a little about fake news, seemingly unaware of the wider resonance of such a phrase.

Now though it was time to up the ante. A perfectly curated account, complete with lavish illustrations, of gothic inspired pornography, complete with pseudo-academic justification for the writer’s interest in such things. It even alleged that it was all in keeping with feminist reclaiming of things such as burlesque.

It wouldn’t destroy him, but the great human impulse to decide that there was never smoke without fire would be enough to jolt such a man’s imperial procession through a late Oxford career. Vampiric indeed.

"I am what I am!" shouted the obvious Vampire as the door opened as, yet again, Jehovah's Witnesses had shown up to preach at him.

"Look, I am nothing if not polite. Do come in, tea?" Two old ladies sat down an overstuffed chaiselong, which Amelia, the elder, thought was older than her gran.

The vampired disappeared and the other lady whispered "Why did you bring me here? I'm not a believer like you."

Amelia bristled. "I didn't bring you, you tagged along, now shush you..."

The Vampire, Brian, came back with a plate of digestive biscuits and two cups of Earl Grey. With lemon, like civilised people.

"How may I help you, ladies?" Brian's lisp made a raspberry noise.

Agatha just sat there, staring at his sweater, feeling confused. Brian noticed and looked down.

"Oh, you like this one? It's my favourite, my mother knitted it, bless her soul. It's the most comfortable jumper in my collection."

"Collection?" The preaching thing forgotten, Amelia's curiosity got the better of her. This was not how it was supposed to go.

"Yes, let me show you." He stood, sweater billowing around him like, more cloaklike than knitwear, and walked to a large wardrobe. It popped opened by itself, revealing neat rows of knitted sweaters, cardigans, and all manner of woolen socks. There was also a coffin in the back, but Brian made no mention of it. He removed two and presented them.

"Ladies, I know we just met, but..." he handed one to each "... I think you would love these. Transilvanian wool. Very durable. You can get blood out without soap."

Agatha wasn't good with bodily fluids. "Blood?"

"Well, accidents happened." Realising what he said, he added "Rules of hospitality dictate that we do not eat our guests." He paused and winked at Agatha, who swallowed. "Unless very naughty."

She smiled, unconvincingly. The stake in her purse felt out of place, she looked around and thought what a lovely home.

She hadn't noticed when she entered, but it was comfortable. A rainy window sat framed by Victorian drapes, dark warm furniture dotted about, and a rug plush enough to obscure her feet.

Amelie could feel the tension in the air, something Brian was oblivious to.

"Would you care for..." Agatha cut him off. The time was nigh.

"Did you know my daughter?"

Amelia blinked. "Daughter?"

She ignored her. "Yes, her name was Alice. Lovely girl, drained by one of you. Did you know her?"

Brian looked confused, embarrassed maybe, Amelia couldn't tell, but she clutched her purse closer.

"Madam," Brian ventured, "I have not had a human for decades. The reformation movement is strong, but if you need to, I am willing to take the hit for our kind."

Without warning, the stake slammed into his chest making a sound somewhere between a wet balloon deflating and getting cornobbled by a trout. Amelia fled in a shower of Watchtowers.

Brian sighed. "Better?"

Agatha grinned. "Much..."

"Same time next week?"

"Absolutely. The knitting club will love this."

"Oh good, Mother." He gave her a peck, returned the stake, and refilled her tea.