Puddlebrain

Chapter Seventeen

Brimley Baltimore was the richest man in Little Whimsy. By comparison to the rest of the town, he was wealthy beyond their dreams. He had money coming out of his ears, some claimed. If he coughed, he'd choke on a coin. If he farted, it smelled of gold. Now Brimley didn't know exactly what gold smelled of, as he'd never actually had any close enough to his nose to get a whiff, but he did admit to being quite well off. Being wealthy beyond the dreams of the Whimsy folk didn't really amount to much as their inbred lethargy meant they didn't usually have much to dream about, but that was ok. Brimley more than made up for them.

The Baltimore residence, as Brimley called his house, was spacious and proud. It lay just down the street from the Manor House, home to the current Mayor of Little Whimsy. The two houses were similar in size, but the Baltimore residence (house was far too common a term for such a grand monument to architectural engineering – or some such nonsense) was by far the most impressive. The Manor House had been left to the pleasures of the wind and the rain over the years, mainly due to it remaining empty for around twelve or so years until the mayor decided it was more suited to his haughty position than the little two-up, three-down he'd lived in previously.

In Brimley's case, he'd started with his own simple two-up, three-down that was dwarfed by the Manor, and extended and built and designed and patched until it was a real home to be reckoned with – a habitat with attitude. Seven bedrooms were more than ample for Brimley and his fairly small family, but so what? Four living rooms, three dining rooms and a pantry in a plum tree, the size of Windermere's back garden, might be a little excessive, but what did it matter? If you've got it, flaunt it, that was Brimley Baltimore's philosophy and he lived it to the full.

A glorious fountain in the shape of a hawk diving for a doomed rodent, the water spraying from the back-swept wings to give the illusion of great speed, occupied the front garden. It was ornately surrounded by various brightly coloured plants that blazed in the sunlight, the names of which Brimley couldn't remember and never intended to find out. All the windows of the house were frosted with images of animals and birds many of which no one this side of the Aren Rush's sister river, the Swell, had even heard of. The inspiration for the images came from the journals of Hector Ramsdale, the renowned explorer and shoemaker who had travelled from one end of the world to the other and back again, just to try out the luxuriously comfortable new shoes he'd created.

Doors two men high and at least four wide provided entry into the lavish hall which was dominated by a winding staircase leading into the extensive depths of the upper floor. Every room was of equal splendour - a palace that was as out of place in Little Whimsy as Gemini would be in the top form of Quentin Bopsidy's school.

Brimley wasn't a king, nor was he an earl or even a mayor. He was simply an ordinary Joe who'd chanced upon a little luck. He'd tell you it hadn't changed him. He'd say he was the same man who used to sing in the Town Square for loose change on a Sunday afternoon. He'd assure you he would, if he ever had the time, continue to entertain the children with his puppet shows after school on Wednesdays, just as he did when he was an ordinary Joe, which, of course, he still was. He wasn't conceited, Mr. Brimley Baltimore, he was merely a little misguided. Perhaps, though he'd be loath to admit it, his 'little luck' had gone to his head, just a teensy bit.

Opposite the doorway to the third living room (or the second if you were counting from the other way) was a small, non-descript door. It was the sort of thing you'd walk past without seeing, like a painting that had hung on the wall above the fire for so long, it was part of the background. A memory that you never remembered. It had a round handle, tarnished brass that had the grime and sweat of years worn into it. The door and its handle were about the only remnants of the house that had existed pre-little-luck. A stairway led down on the other side. It spiralled vertically in a tight coil into the darkness below.