Going Organic

Cindy and Mike loved the room instantly. It was formed from two attics, knocked through and lit by generous skylights. From their new home at the top of the house they could see clear across the city and the rent was ridiculously reasonable. To top it all, Mrs White – ‘Call me Martha, dearie.’ – Was a plum-shaped dream grandma as well as landlady. The house constantly smelt of baking, or soups and stews; food which was practically on a conveyer belt, on offer to both tenants and a couple of local cafes. Martha said she didn’t like to brag but she made a pretty penny from her dishes.

Cindy’s only real complaint, and a petty one at that, was the décor. The room came furnished and it had more than a hint of twee old lady, replete with doilies, china ornaments and underlying whiffs of Lily of the Valley. Still, dusting the silly clowns and fairy gardens built in cups wasn’t the worst price to pay for such a sweet set of lodgings.

The pair had been living at number 13 for a month when Mike started to complain of a cough. It nagged, scratched his throat and soon affected Cindy. They took to bed for a week, thinking the flu had them. Martha was wonderful, visiting them every day, always laden with soups and cold cures ‘my old gran swore by’. Neither tenant felt an appreciable difference but the effort was generous and warmly received.

A week in, Mike sat up in bed, started hacking and couldn’t stop. His breath came in wheezing gasps, whistling through a throat which seemed ever narrower. Cindy hammered his back, rubbed, cried, coughed in sympathy and begged Martha to send for an ambulance. Martha returned half an hour later, glum, reporting there was a two hour wait. It was already too late; Mike was gone.

Cindy couldn’t have been more grateful to the little woman who insisted on seeing to all the arrangements – ‘You being so sick yourself, dearie.’ The girl signed things, nodded and tried desperately to clear her cough, Martha plying her with – ‘Meaty broths to boost your health, dearie.’ – but wasn’t even able to attend the funeral. Martha went, brought back reports of – ‘A lovely turn out, and so many generous donations in lieu of flowers.’

A fortnight later Cindy passed. Martha called in Gus, her elder brother, instructed him on removing the body – in his capacity as local undertaker – whilst she caressed a pretty fairy garden in a china cup. She ran a finger over the ‘Happy Place’ sign and chuckled softly.

“A full tummy makes for a happy place, Gus.”

Gus grunted, nodded and carted Cindy off to the walk-in freezer behind the façade of his coffin making workshop. Martha wiped her fingers carefully on an antiseptic tissue.

“Meat needs to hang, but her Mike should be ready.”

She smiled, gently filling the gills of the mushrooms with fresh poison spores; another gift from her grandma, founder of the business. She stepped lightly on a floorboard, saw the gills close in response to the hidden pressure pad and left, satisfied the happy place was ready for its next victim – ‘Excuse me, I mean tenant.’ she giggled. Her head spun with ideas for the fresh meat Gus would bring over later ready to make a killing in the organic café tomorrow.