Boris and Penelope

Boris and Penelope 

Jade Jaspers 

Penelope of the Lochlan's

Many a folk have wrote the words of many a distant land
but non no fairer nor as true as our dearly beloved Lochlan

It wasn't nearly sunrise yet when my eyes opened.  A soft breeze through the window had ruffled the curtain enough to brush my forehead waking me after a warm evening of not much sleep.  Humid night air has always had a way of keeping me sleepless; not like the person sleeping next to me.  It always seemed to be that Isabella  could sleep through anything.  All that was needed was a soft pillow and time to still herself.  The soft, gentle sound of  her breath rising and falling was sometimes the only peaceful sounds I could relax to in the evening when the weather was hot.  But not enough to keep me asleep once the sky had started to lighten.  Which was the same this morning.  The sky was a young gray indigo and a few stars were still slightly visible through quick moving clouds. 
I moved as gently off the bed as possible and made my way to the bathroom.  Once there I found a towel and a pitcher of water to pour in the wash bowl on the counter. I splashed a couple of hand cups full of water on my face to rinse the sleep from my eyes and give my skin a fresh cleansing from the dried sweat that covered my face.  A small mirror hung on the wall in front of me allowing my eyes their first glimpse of my hair.  I took a few more handfuls of water and applied it to the top of my head to sooth out the mussed pillow hair I had woke with.  After a few minutes of examining my reflection I made my way out of the bathroom and through the living room to the small kitchen.  Boris, one of my dogs, was still curled up on his quilt in the corner sound asleep.  I was the only one awake at the moment or so it seemed.  The coffee kettle still sat cold and empty next to the sink.  I went about to start the coffee to make, then sat down at the table.  The curtains that hung in the window beyond the sink waved straight in with a strong gust of wind and the smell of rain caught my attention. 
It had been a long dry summer.  The ground outside had gone to all but dust in some places covering our small plot of land.  A few trees further out away from our housing and wood shed had gave enough shade to save some of the grass and small garden that had grown.  The idea of a rainy day was a welcomed thought.
As I waited for the coffee to finish I eased back into the bedroom in search of clothing.  Isabella was still very asleep on the bed and the wind through the window blew small strands of her hair as it entered.  Doing my best to let her rest I made my way to the old trunk in the corner stacked with my every day clothes.  The floor under my feet squeaked slightly as the weight of my steps moved from one side of the room to the other.  Once I reached the trunk I quickly removed the clothing I had available to wear for the day.  Making my way back to the bathroom I felt the winds from the windows pushing through the house with a much stronger push.  No need to hurry to dress I thought.  The rain was on it's way.  I put my clothes over the chair at the kitchen table and went through the rest of rooms easing the windows down slightly to keep any rain out that would possibly be blown in.  I thought of the bedroom I had just came from and eased my way back through the door to close the windows there.  She had turned over slightly on her side and I paused briefly to see if she had woke.  When there was no response I walked to her side of the bed and moved the window down as quiet as possible until it closed.  A small glance behind me saw her still resting, eyes closed.  Once back to my side of the bed I closed the window, all but an inch worth, and then made my way back to the kitchen.  Boris, was now awake and stretching out his dark brown self from sleep.  "Looks like rain today," I greeted him with a low voice.  Dogs being dogs he looked at me and followed me into the kitchen his toe nails tapping the floor as he walked.  I sat down at the table where my clothes still hung on a chair and he found his way to the water bowl that sat next to the back door.  After a couple of lapse of water from his bowl he pawed at the door.  I rose to let him out to the yard then reached for my coffee cup in the cupboard. 
With my back still facing the living room behind me I heard the creaking of a door.  I turned to see if Isabella was awake in search of her morning coffee.  She wasn't, but another was.  Looking more awake than myself Matilda sat down at the table and began to talk immediately,  "I wasn't asleep an hour and those smelly old dogs of yours started barking outside my window.  Hand me a glass will you?  And the juice from the cold box."  She went on to say, "I  thought to start the coffee earlier but when I heard you roaming around in here I figured you had already started it."  I went to the cupboard, removed a glass then sat it on the table in front of her.  She smiled politely and said, "thank you."   I went to the small cold box in the corner next to the onion and potato bins.  "You're right about that" I said without as much as a thought.  "Besides, I like liquid coffee not chewable coffee."
"Oh please," she laughed out loud to say, "don't tell me you're still on about that." 
"It was the first time in my life that I have ever saw a coffee pot clog up," I returned with good cheer.  She took the pitcher of juice from my hand and began to pour it's contents into her glass.  "Chewable coffee; I prefer to call it full bodied." she defended herself with her  own polite humor.  I followed her conversation with, "if I remember correctly Isabella graciously named it the drip and clump brew, and then asked you to never make coffee in this house again."  Her head was tilted slightly as she listened to what I said.  Her natural blond hair had already been neatly combed into style and her sea green eyes gave every indication that she was wide awake.  "Yes," she sipped her juice again then quickly took the glass away and wiped her chin from the slight dribble of liquid she must of felt.  "The drip and clump; absolutely the worst coffee in the history of coffee making.  But I had never used a coffee pot like yours before.  The ones that I'm use to using plug into an outlet on the wall.  They don't sit on the stove burner.  If you two only drank tea then I would have served a perfect breakfast.  Remember the eggs? Were they not the best eggs you have ever ate?"
"Scrambled eggs, yes they were fine.  Not the best no, but they were good enough to eat.  However the biscuits you made were as dry as the sand and harder than a rock."
"Dry as the sand?  You said they were good" she said with her eyebrows raised then nodded to finish her sentence. 
"No, what I said was that I thought I had chipped a tooth.  Good and tooth are two different words."
She tried to verbally defend herself.  "You and your muddle!  You said,"   
I interrupted her and went on to talk as it I hadn't heard the first word she said.  "I actually thought they were rocks for a minute; until you told me they were biscuits."
"Rocks?  The nerve of you!  I have you know that I won several baking ribbons while I was in boarding school for my governess training; and I do mean several." 
I wasn't about to yield to her jousting, "God spared the children from your cooking when you were relieved of your position afterwards then didn't he?  It was probably your cooking that got you fired."  That statement got a rouse out of her. "God spare you from your tart tongue" she insisted to taunt me.  "As I remember," she went on as a matter of fact, "Isabella said they were good."  
"They were good.  Good enough to use to prop up that old wobbly chair there up at the end of the table."
I wasn't sure if she was feigning insult or actually insulted when she quickly responded with, "I'll dry your biscuit you old clod stomper; you and your coffee.  You should drink more tea any way and eat less biscuits.  The civilized world eats toast with their eggs and they drink tea.  Which I am excellent at steeping thank you.  Coffee, huh!  I'm much better with tea than coffee."  I couldn't help but to smile.  She seemed to always over exaggerate herself.  Not knowing whether she was actually insulted or not I eased back on playing with her emotions.  "Well I learned that about you rather quickly didn't I," I asked her.
"Yes you did; and I learned that you can be just as arrogant as you are adorable ."  Her words ended with a slight smile on her face and another sip of juice. 
"How's the juice" I asked her.  "Better than my old bitter coffee?"  That question seemed to ease her rile.  She looked at me auspiciously, "delicious, what market do you get it?  I'll send for some later when you go into the city."  
"We made it" I answered her as I finally made my way to the coffee pot which had stopped making gurgling noises on the stove. The look on her face was one of obvious surprise.  "You made this juice?"
"Yes" I answered while attempting to taste my first sip of coffee.   "You're joking" she seemed to think that I was quipping her. 
"No, I'm not joking."  I took my coffee and sat back down at the table across from her.
She questioned me once again looking at the glass in her hand.  "You actually made this juice?"
"Well, Isabella did, I helped.  We got the plums from that old plum tree across the way near the edge of the river.  Every year it's loaded with more plums than we know what to do with so this year, we decided to juice as many as we could gather."  She sipped from her glass again and looked through the juice on the inside. "Have you ever tried juice from the market before" she was always ready with a question. 
"Yes, several."  I raised my coffee to take another sip then continued my answer.  "This is actually the first time I've ever tried making a juice though.  Most of the time we get our juices from the market when we go to town.  But as I said, Isabella had the idea and we learned how to go about it so we gave it a go and there's the results."
"It really is different than the markets.  Much better," she saluted me with her glass.  Both our heads turned when we heard a scratch at the door.  I rose from my seat and went to let the dog back in the house.  As I opened the door I saw the first drops of rain starting to plop into the dust off the back porch in the yard.  I looked to see more drops of water beginning to splatter on the cobblestone walk way that lead to a path through the way to our wood shed.  The doors to the shed were still open exposing the wood we had in the shed to the rain.  Without thinking, I sprinted out the back door, off the porch and moved as quick as possible to the double doors.  It took a few seconds to unlatch them from their open positions. Then I closed them and bolted them shut together.  As I went back towards the house Matilda was standing on the porch shaking her head.  "I was wondering where you took off to so quick" she said.
"I had to close the doors to keep the wood from getting wet."
"Well I figured as much when I saw what you were doing.  Must you let that dog in the house" she asked as I stepped past her on the porch to go back inside.
"It's raining," was my only answer.
"Yes I know but he's in need of a bath.  He smells horrible."
"Good idea; you can give him one today while Isabella and I go to town."
"Me?  You've lost your senses.  Washing a dog, really!"  She continued with her usual savoir faire.  "I think not.  Dishes, yes; laundry, yes; dogs, never a day in my life."
"Well just remember the dog lives here; you don't" I retorted with a grin.
"You would say that," she huffed while reseating herself at the table.  "Is that any way to talk to your house guest?"
"Some guest are easier to accommodate than others.  Take mice for instance."  As I began to speak she gave me a look of resolute stoicism.  I ignored her to say, "mice find their way into your house on their own in search of a warm hearth and a few nibbles. Then off they scamper back to their own.  Not like some people who arrive on your front door with enough trunks and luggage to fill an entire room for an extended number of weeks; wearing a sheepish grin on their face with a letter in their handbag that they meant to post to you weeks ago before they arrived and somehow forgot."  The look on her face was exactly the same as I finished talking as it was when I started.   Then in her own defense she said, "Yes but mice don't clean up after themselves do they?  Nor do they cook or help with the house cleaning do they?  Neither does that smelly old dog.  Why can't he stay outside with the others?"  I simply reminded her, "his name is Boris."  Right as I said his name the dog farted under the table.  Matilda's preconceived stoicism erased from her face.   "Please tell me that was the dog," she said.  I wasn't about to give in to her so I said, "nope, that was me."  Her reaction was more than I expected but all at the same time, made me smile.  She quickly gathered her glass and the juice pitcher from the table and left the room holding her breath as she left.   I picked up my coffee cup from the table and enjoyed a much longer drink from the now cooler cup.  "Good morning Boris," I greeted my dog again.  The sound of the rain increased on the roof and a light thunder tumbled across the morning sky.

An Uninvited Guest