The Terracotta Taipan (Part One)

© 2012 David Jasmin-Green

The Mahogany Hippopotamus sat in his favourite armchair under the bay window struggling to read the letter that the postman had just pushed through his front door. “Luckily it's written in luminescent orange crayon on the inner surface of a dismantled cornflake box, and even more luckily the writer habitually employs an oversized infantile scrawl,” he said to his hippopotamissus. “Otherwise I wouldn't be able to read it, because I can't find my bloody glasses.”

“I can't help you, love,” Blodwen said as she dusted her cherished collection of disturbingly realistic Franklin Mint porcelain baby Moose dolls. “I can't find mine either, you see, they've been missing for a few days now. Who's the letter from?”

“I, er, I don't think you want to know.....”

“I do want to know, I assure you,” she replied. “I really, really want to know. The Bemused Moose title that God above bestowed upon me is a trifle misleading right now, I'm feeling more curious than bemused.”

“It's from my cousin Tessa - Tessa the Terracotta Taipan, or the Trashy Taipan as she's referred to in many circles. She came to our wedding, remember? She's a low-down, slimy bellied crawler, she's a relentless gossip without a good word to say about anybody, particularly me - bloody poisonous, she is. I haven't seen her since then, and I can't say I'm sorry, because she's not exactly nice to know.”

“Oh, come on, love, she's not that bad. Think of the lovely wedding prezzies she gave us, a custom made extra large Clairol foot spa and a super king-size duck-down duvet which kept us cosy for many a winter. Oh, and that set of antique silver cutlery that we never used, I sold it on Ebay a while back for two hundred and fifty smackers. Tessa also had the decency to put five hundred notes behind the bar at our reception, you were temporarily financially embarrassed because you mislaid your wallet rolling around in a drunken scuffle with your best man and supposed best friend Arnold the Alabaster Armadillo in the shrubbery surrounding the Winking Pig's car park. I can't understand why you think so badly of your cousin – if you had a good word to say about her maybe she's find something half decent to say about you.”

“She wants to come a visiting next weekend, heavens knows why,” Daffyd said, still squinting at the letter. “Tessa's like a vampire, she can't cross the threshold unless you invite her in, and if you're daft enough to do that without decking the place out in garlic and holding her at bay with a crucifix she'll suck you dry. I wouldn't mind, because I know her sort and I'm wise enough to take sensible precautions, but she never comes alone; she invariably brings a whole troop of friends, colleagues, hangers-on and followers. I've heard a rumour that she thinks she's the sodding Messiah..... I'm not having it! The bastards will raid my mini bar and empty the kitchen cupboards of Jaffa Cakes and chocolate digestives. Oh bugger, she wants to know if it's OK to bring along Bernard the Bakelite Baboon.”

“Who the fuck is Bernard the Bakelite Baboon?”

“Bernard the Bakelite Baboon is an obsolete technology freak. He'll bore the udders off you with his encyclopaedic knowledge of the VHS versus Betamax war, my dear, but that's just for starters. He'll delight you with the wonders of cathode ray tubes next, which you won't enjoy one tiny bit, I promise – and by the time he's finished drumming in an endless list of irritatingly accurate details about ferrous oxide audio cassette tape production techniques and the mindbogglingly dull history of the ZX Spectrum, which are almost invariably the highlight of his repertoire, your eyelids will fall off from the stress. I'm not kidding, sweet stuff - he's a simian nightmare.”

“Shit, we don't want that, do we?” Blodwen said, putting down her duster and Mr. Sheen and parking her copious bottom on the sofa. “Why don't you just phone Tessa up, cut to the chase and ask her to come alone? Tell her you're prone to migraines and you can't stand the noise of group chatter, tell her you've inexplicably become crowd phobic, tell her you're suicidal – tell her bloody anything, it doesn't matter as long as it does the trick.”

“Why not ask her not to come at all as politely as possible? Why not twist the truth a little so that we don't upset her? We could tell her that we're visiting every single craft centre in the Hebrides one after another, or attending the finals of the world custard wrestling championship deep in the jungles of Irian Jaya, or maybe surreptitiously hitching a ride on the forthcoming unmanned Welsh space programme mission to Jupiter. Or we could say nothing and hide behind the sofa when she rings the doorbell.....”

“Don't be such a miserable twat, Dafydd, it doesn't become you.”

“Oh all right, I'll get on to it straight away. If I can decode Tessa's phone number, that is – it looks like the trail left behind by a burning squirrel running across a freshly mopped abattoir floor with a loaded paint brush wedged up its jacksie.”

“I suppose you expect me to believe that you've personally witnessed such an improbable event.”

“As a matter of fact I have.....” Blodwen trotted off to the kitchen put the dinner on, shaking her head and smiling at the same time.

*************************

“Hello, is that you, Tessa? Tessa the Trashy – I mean Terracotta Taipan?”

“”No, I'm afraid not,” a frightfully posh woman replied. “This is Tara Embalmer-Tomkinson, former IT girl and reformed junkie, otherwise known as the Tory Totty Titty Taipan. I run a funeral home for the frightfully posh nowadays, isn't that absolutely spiffing? We only deal with the crème de la crème of upper-class society, the very top shelf of the aristocracy. 'If you're poor or embarrassing or both at once you can fuck off to the paupers' cemetery' – that's our company motto.

I was asked to handle the body of Jimmy Savile, can you believe it? 'No thank you,' I replied. 'He tried to handle a friend of mine in his dressing room when she was on Jim'll Fix It, but she soon slapped him up.' Ha! '”

“Aah,” the hippo said.

“I've had calls for this Tessa person in the past,” Tara continued, “our numbers must be similar. Look, why don't you take a look in the phone book? There's a special appendix for us misfits, including a pretty exhaustive Taipan section in the Platinum Edition - I don't know if your post code qualifies you to receive that or you get the peasants' version.”

“Thanks for your help, Tara – cheerio. Blodders, have we got a phone book handy?”

“Yes, it's under the phone table,” the moose called from the kitchen. “You ask the same question nearly every time you use the phone, you complete tool.”

“I see..... The Platinum Edition, thank God for that. H, M, P, Q, T - here we are, the Taipan section. Bloody marvellous! The numbers are fairly legible, but the accompanying names are practically microscopic, I don't know if I can make them out - I wish I could find my specs. Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. There's only a few hundred Taipans listed, I'll just have to strain my eyes and work my way through until I succeed.”

*************************

“Hello, I'm trying to contact Tessa the Tr - Terracotta Taipan.”

“You've got the wrong number, cocka,” a squeaky voice replied. “Or maybe not..... This is Tabitha the Terribly Tanned Taipan of Taipan Tanning Products PLC, an' I've just opened a new salon right in the 'eart of Birmingham. 'We'll bend over backwards to 'elp you' - that's our company motto. Brill, innit?”

“I -” Dafydd began, but the woman wouldn't let him get a word in edgeways.

“What shade of orange are you 'oping to attain? I 'ave to know so that I can set the intensity of the ultraviolet lamps before your arrival. We 'ave several grades, but the result depends entirely on your complexion. If you're lilly white you'll need about six 'alf 'our sessions to achieve a light tangerine hue, if it's a richer tone you 'ave in mind you're talking eight, maybe ten sessions, but if you wanna be a rich cadmium orange that makes you look like a piece of deep fried battered cod and nothin' else will doodle do you'll probably need twelve to fifteen sessions. Shall I book you in? I 'ave a free appointment this afternoon at half past three. I really 'ope you can make it, I'm a lonely 'ousewife 'oo's 'usband works away, you see, and you sound very nice.....”

“No, thank you. Bye now,” Dafydd said, terminating the call and dialling the next number on his list. “Hello? Is that Tessa the Terracotta Taipan?”

“No it isn't. I'm Theresa the Tapioca Taipan, the Managing Director of Taipan Terrific Tapioca Products International. 'We taint our tapioca with countless outlandish flavours and stuff it into a variety of oddly shaped packages to accommodate you.' That's our company motto. Give me your name and address, Sir, then kindly specify the types and quantities of tapioca you require.”

“I don't want any tapioca, I'm just trying to get in touch with my cousin.”

“What flavour are you after – Vanilla Dandruff? Flamboyant Peacock? Strawberry Blancmange and Herring?”

“I said I don't want any fucking tapioca, it's horrible stuff! I'm just trying to -”

“Lion and Tulip? Spicy Dog Shit with a Sprinkling of Toasted Sesame Seeds? The Michael Barrymore Chlorine Special?”

“You're taking the piss!” Dafydd snapped, cutting off lunatic number three and redialling. “Hello there, is that by any chance Tessa the Terracotta Taipan?”

“No it's not, daahling,” a husky voice replied. “This is Telulah Twinkle Tightpussy, the Ten-titted Taipan Tap-dancer. I'm also a part time glamour model and high class escort, if the price is right. 'I'll bend over backwards, forwards, sideways or any other way that pleases you' - that's my motto, you naughty, naughty man. Give me your email address and I'll send you a few pictures – I'm the dog's bollocks, I promise. I have a half price sale on until the weekend, and I'll only charge you a couple of hundred quid for the complete works - considerably less if you happen to ring my bell. Are you up for some fun and games, my lovely?”

“No, I'm bleeding well not,” Dafydd said, cutting off crazy bastard number four. “This is ridiculous, Blodwen. So far I've spoken to a stuck-up mortician, a clinically lonely tanning salon owner, a deranged tapioca saleswoman and a predatory frigging prostitute, any one of which could have been the real Tessa speaking in a funny voice just to piss me off. Taipans are all the bloody same, they're all fruit and nut cases.”

“Fucking hopeless, you are,” Blodwen said, snatching the handset from her husband's clumsy hooves. “How many times do I have to tell you that everyone we know is in the phone's memory? Look, press 'M' for menu, 'T' for Tessa and/or Taipan and then scroll down. There, Tessa the Trashy Taipan – you've done that, haven't you, you wicked bastard? Press the little green phone symbol, you dick!”