Miss Brambley and the Cash Machine

Chantal Schaul, 2005

Polenta was doing her usual round. Her favourite bit was the last stretch up the hill. The road narrowed into a paved path, with walls on either side. The houses, mostly cottages, lay behind these walls. You had to open a creaky little gate to get to each one of them. Especially in the summer, this hill became her refuge from the noisy town. It was overshadowed by huge trees, whose branches drooped down to the level of her head, so that she had to duck sometimes to get past them.

Strangely enough, none of the other postmen fought her for this district. They thought the hill was far too steep and exhausting. They found it too much work to open all those gates and close them again. And they didn’t like to lug all those parcels up the hill.

One old lady, Miss Brambley, who lived in the very last house on the hill just next to an old overgrown graveyard, ordered a lot of things through the post. Polenta didn’t know what was in the parcels she delivered to her almost every day. But she knew that most of them came from Amazon. Miss Brambley did most of her shopping over the Internet.

Only one other cottage on the hill received a significant amount of parcels, although not comparable by far to the number addressed to the old lady. Polenta knew that the inhabitant of this other cottage was a young man called Mr E. Zeldin, but she had never caught a glimpse of him. He usually just shouted from inside: “Just leave the parcel by the door, thanks.” The voice in which he said these words was like music to Polenta’s ears. She thought it was the most beautiful male voice in the world. It sounded so promising and alluring to her that there was nothing she wished more than to lay eyes on this mysterious man.

Even though Polenta had to carry countless parcels up her favourite hill, she did not resent it. The loveliness of the hill and the trees and the cottages, the alluringness of Mr Zeldin’s voice, as well as her reward at the end of the round, made up for her efforts. Miss Brambley would invite Polenta into her cottage without failing, and offer her a nice cup of tea and scones. This by now ritualistic invitation had started only a few weeks after Polenta had taken over the round.

“Goodness gracious,” Miss Brambley exclaimed when Polenta delivered her first parcel about a year ago, “a postwoman! You must come in for tea some time!” And so she did. Miss Brambley was very excited. “Take a seat on the sofa. I’ve made fresh scones with cream tea, and a nice Victoria sponge.” The cakes looked delicious, and the teapot was covered with a handmade tea cosy, something which Polenta hadn’t seen in years.

“You look starved, my dear. Isn’t the work too hard for a woman?” Polenta reassured her that she loved her job. She had always wanted to be a postwoman. Walking was her favourite pastime. Looking in through people’s front doors and getting a tiny glimpse of their universe. Accidentally overhearing shreds of conversation and imagining their life stories, although she would never interfere, of course. But Polenta kept this to herself. She didn’t want to scare the old lady.

Polenta was looking forward to her visits to Miss Brambley. She was usually exhausted by the end of her round, and a nice cup of tea was just the right thing for her then. Miss Brambley even trusted her to sort out her computer problems. All Miss Brambley needed the computer for was to shop online. She bought all sorts of things. Books, stationery (Miss Brambley still wrote old-fashioned letters, even though she could have used email), household items like toasters, kettles, irons or King Edward potato bakers, shoes and clothes, tights and underwear, cutlery and crockery, lace, wool, yarn, and, of course, groceries. She’d even ordered a Sky Digibox and various viewing cards, although she didn’t have a satellite dish yet. She had a collection of DVDs, but was still unsure about which DVD player to order.

Polenta liked Miss Brambley, although she thought of her as slightly dotty. Polenta had confided in her about her loneliness living in a flat on her own. She’d told her about the tragic death of both her parents following a harsh incident of dual food poisoning in the Bahamas. And the recent death of her little poodle called Polly. Miss Brambley took Polenta in her arms and consoled her. She fed her more scones and brewed more tea. She seemed to care.

One day, Polenta had a particularly heavy parcel to deliver to Mr Zeldin. It was clinking when you shook it, and said ‘fragile.’ As always, Polenta rang his doorbell with a fluttering heart. She would hear his wonderful voice again. How utterly flabbergast was she, when, instead, the door opened up and the most handsome young man she had ever seen in her entire life came to a halt just handbreadths before her own physical entity.

The real Mr Zeldin dwarfed all of Polenta’s expectations. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a shock of voluminous chocolate-coloured hair, tousled in a cute way. His skin was pale, but had an unmatched innocence and freshness about it. He had the bluest of eyes, almost see-through, shining at her as if lit from the back of his head. The nose was straight and of a reasonable size; the lips were full, as if stung by bees. His eyebrows were straight and had something vulnerable about them – they reminded her of her poodle Polly’s eyebrows whenever she’d patted her on the head.

What Polenta didn’t know was that Mr E. Zeldin (the E. stood for Eugene) was equally struck by her appearance. He had not seen many young ladies in his life as a recluse, but this was the first one who had an impact on him. She had gracious limbs and delicate hands (he analysed those as she passed the fragile package to him), and he felt strangely magnetised by her whole figure. He was enchanted by her flaxen hair, tied up in a knot behind her head with a few rebellious strands sticking out to the sides.

Mr Zeldin took the parcel from her and said in his charismatic voice: “Thank you.” He withdrew and closed the door in front of Polenta. She couldn’t move for a few seconds, but managed to grab command of her body again. Like in a trance she proceeded up the hill, delivering letters here and there, brushing against the tree branches she usually avoided. A few cobwebs were stuck to her hair when she arrived at Miss Brambley’s cottage.

“Come in, dear, come in. Are you not feeling well today? Sit down. Here, have a cup of tea, that’ll do you good.” Polenta followed the old lady’s orders and collapsed on the embroidered settee. “I saw him,” she whispered. Miss Brambley was confused. This was the first she heard of Polenta’s infatuation. “He’s so handsome and overwhelmingly beautiful,” sighed Polenta. It took a while until Miss Brambley had figured out who she was talking about. “You mean the young man at number 53?” She pondered on this new information for a while, while brewing some more tea.

“Here you are dear, you need a double portion today, I think. Now, why don’t you send that young man a few gifts? You could send him a Valentine’s card, too.” Polenta considered this idea and liked it. Valentine’s day was only in half a year, though. “I think it’s too long. But I will send him something.” – “Make it anonymous,” Miss Brambley said. “You don’t want to scare him off, do you? Young men are always so touchy when women swoon over them.” – “Do you know him?” Polenta asked. “Have you seen him? Do you know what he does? Do you know anything at all about him?” Miss Brambley trod carefully. “No, dear, I hardly ever see him. But then I don’t go out much, do I?”

From then on, Polenta packed gifts for Mr Zeldin every day. She thought he would feel pestered though, if he received one every day, so she backlogged them, and posted only one a week. She wrapped things like chocolates, biscuits, more chocolates and biscuits, and then ran out of ideas. She didn’t have a clue what he liked. And how could she possibly find out? Her message to him was always the same: ‘Much love from an anonymous admirer.’ She wanted to put ‘boundless love’, but thought it was too over the top.

When she delivered her first parcel that had gone through the regular postal service, she was shaking when she rang his doorbell. Would he open the door again? Would he remember her? To her disappointment, his voice came from the inside of the house: “Just leave the parcel by the door, thanks.” She nearly started to cry as she put down the parcel and left.

For weeks and weeks, she didn’t see him. She delivered her parcels regularly, in addition to the occasional rattling fragile package. One day, she couldn’t contain herself anymore and peeked into the front room. It was dark. There was no one inside. Not even a piece of furniture. She let her eyes linger in the dark until they adjusted. Slowly, slowly, she took in the contours of what looked like a cash machine. Yes, it was a cash machine, built into the wall of the front room, where the fireplace should be. She couldn’t distinguish which bank it belonged to, there didn’t seem to be any stickers on it. “Strange,” she thought. “Very strange. He likes strange interior decorations.”

Polenta told Miss Brambley about her discovery. To her surprise, Miss Brambley belittled her. “No, child, I’m sure you saw wrong. No one would have a cash machine in their front room. Don’t be silly.” And that was that. She didn’t mention it any more to Miss Brambley. Miss Brambley seemed awkward after that incident. She was a tad less warm towards her, a tad less welcoming. But Polenta would have felt rude to stop her visits. She just didn’t talk about things that mattered any more. They chatted about kittens and parasols and lavender from now on.

Polenta’s presents to Mr Zeldin changed. She bought little gadgets for him because she assumed that someone with a taste for cash machines would appreciate miniature robots, pocket computer games, model cars, and so on. When she had given up all hope of ever laying eyes on him again, he appeared on his doorstep once more.

He looked worn out and sad. She gave him what was one of her presents. It contained an old-fashioned cash counting device. He took it, and when he looked at her, she read hopelessness in his eyes. Her innermost instincts told her that he needed help. She would visit him again, later, and ask him what ailed him. And then she would rescue him.

After her usual cup of tea at Miss Brambley’s and some superficial chit-chat about curtain embroidery, Polenta strode back down the hill and stopped at Mr Zeldin’s house. She checked that no one was looking and quickly slipped into his walkway and knocked at the door. No response. She waited for a few moments, knocked again. Still nothing. Then she heard footsteps, and through the trees she saw in little flashes how Miss Brambley was scampering down the hill, approaching her. Impulsively, Polenta pushed the door handle down, and when she found no resistance, she let herself into the house.

“Hello?” she whispered. No one answered. She observed Miss Brambley through the window, and, to her dismay, the old lady was coming along the footpath to Mr Zeldin’s house. She dashed up the stairs and hid in the doorway to the bedroom. Meanwhile, Miss Brambley let herself in, as if it was her own home. “Eugene, how many times do I need to tell you that you should lock the door? Anyone could come in, and you wouldn’t even be able to defend yourself. Now, how much shall I get out today? Let’s see, I ordered that new bedspread, and a pair of boots, and some more DVDs. I should get that satellite dish installed, and the roof needs fixing. I also want the gardener to come round. And I need a new freezer. Perhaps a new kitchen at the end of the year. It all adds up. A few thousand, I guess. Oh dear, I’ve reached the daily withdrawal limit. I’ll have to come back again tomorrow.” She pushed a few buttons and Polenta heard the money being ejected. After that, Miss Brambley left again.

Polenta was dumbfounded. She went downstairs again and looked more closely at the cash machine. Nothing unusual about it. It had gone back to sleeping mode, and now, instead of the bank logo, the word ‘Eugene’ appeared on the screen. And then, only seconds later, the screen displayed “Please help me.” Polenta took a step back. “If you want to communicate with me, just talk. I can hear you.” – “Who are you?” Polenta asked. “Mr Eugene Zeldin,” the machine read. “Why are you a cash machine?” Polenta asked. And Eugene rattled off the whole tale on his screen, running it down like credits after a film.

“Both my parents died when I was only seven years old. I was a bright boy with a penchant towards sciences. But when my grandmother took me on, she wasn’t interested in my education. She was only interested in shopping. She neglected me and announced that I was a no-good. I should be working to support her and increase her pension, instead of lazing around. One of her friends, Charlotte, who has since died, had magic skills. My grandmother asked her to transform me into a cash machine, so she could withdraw money daily and go shopping. From that day on, I am mostly a cash machine. Only for one hour at midnight, I take on my normal shape.

Throughout the years, I have used this one hour per day to read up on how to brew chemical potions that could help me become myself again. I came upon a formula a few months ago that seemed promising. But somehow, my grandmother got wind of it and stormed in here to destroy all my chemical ingredients. I managed to order replacements in since, but my progress is slow, because I have to hide them by digging them into the ground in the back garden before I retransform into a cash machine.”

Polenta felt a terrible premonition. “Was this your grandmother just now?” she asked. “Yes,” the cash machine wrote. So it was her fault that Miss Brambley had found out about Eugene’s efforts to break the spell. How could she make up for her fatal mistake, and get Eugene out of this rot? The machine continued to write: “I must tell you now that I have always liked you. I always wanted to come out when you delivered a parcel, but my hands were bound.” Polenta sighed deeply and almost fainted. When she regained her senses, she whispered: “I am your anonymous admirer.” – “I’m glad,” he wrote. Had he not been a cash machine, they would have wordlessly fallen into each other’s arms and exchanged a thousand kisses.

Instead, Polenta merely said: “Please let me know what I can do to help you.” – “Could you dig out my chemicals from the back garden and mix them according to my instructions?” he wrote. Polenta did as he asked, and sat in front of the screen mixing the fluids as she was told. The result was a glass of lurid green liquid, which he bid her to pour over his screen. She followed the orders and, only instants later, beheld the outlines of her beloved Eugene right in front of her. He was still stuck inside the hole in the wall, but quickly crawled out and swept her off her feet. They consummated their love there and then.

Afterwards, he explained to her that he could only break the spell three hours at a time with his chemical potion. A lot more work was needed on the formula, and a lot more chemicals needed to be ordered. Polenta vowed to become his secret assistant in this mammoth task and to act ignorant in front of Miss Brambley. And so it happened.

Polenta continued to sip Miss Brambley’s tea and chat to her about Mr Kipling’s pastries and mothballs. But in the afternoons, she would shop for chemicals and brew secret potions together with Eugene. They got very close to a breakthrough once, but their beverage had the side-effect of giving Eugene cat’s paws instead of hands, and sadly had to be discarded.

Polenta became increasingly tired from working without a break, sometimes into the early hours of the morning. This proved to be fatal, when, one morning, she mixed up Eugene’s and Miss Brambley’s parcels. Eugene received her box of fine lavender-scented soap, and Miss Brambley opened his clinking parcel of chemicals. The cat was out of the bag.

Miss Brambley said nothing to Polenta about the mix-up, but Polenta realised her mistake when, later that day, she untied Eugene’s parcel and found the lavender soap. It was too late. Miss Brambley had already sneaked into her grandson’s house, hiding a sharp kitchen knife in her apron. She was ready to kill Polenta and bury her in the garden. How dare she intrude into her life like this? How dare she undo her life’s work, her comfort in old age, the source of her luscious pension?

Eugene saw his grandmother come in the door and sensed the danger. Yet he could do nothing. His only available words were contained in the recorded message that he had always played when the post arrived. He played those words now, over and over again, in the hope that Polenta, who was washing up test tubes in the kitchen, would realise that something was amiss. “Just leave the parcel by the door, thanks. Just leave the parcel by the door, thanks. Just leave the parcel by the door, thanks.” And so on.

Polenta had got the message, but too late. Already Miss Brambley was hurling herself towards her, knife high up in the air, ready to thrust. Polenta grabbed a pan to defend herself. Thankfully, she’d always been good at tennis, and now aimed the bottom of the pan in the right direction to divert the knife from her heart. She thrust Miss Brambley to the side and made for the front room. But the knife came flying towards her before she could flee, and got stuck in the back of her leg. Polenta fell on the floor.

Miss Brambley was triumphant. “Girls shouldn’t mess with ATMs,” she exclaimed. No sooner had she spoken those words than a minor explosion followed by big puffs of smoke filled the front room. Unwittingly, Miss Brambley had stumbled across the magical words that broke her friend Charlotte’s spell. She was coughing heavily as Eugene emerged from the cloud of smoke, erect and walking, heading straight towards his grandmother. He clasped her throat with his big hands and throttled her.

Polenta, although she understood the extent of Eugene’s resentfulness, didn’t think it was a good idea to kill her here and now. That deed would only be followed by an extended prison sentence. “Eugene,” she said, “let’s just leave. She can’t do you any harm now.” She had to repeat her words twice for them to fully sink into Eugene’s conscious mind. He then released his grandmother, letting her fall to the floor, coughing violently. The happy couple left the house.

Polenta and Eugene moved to a new town, because the proximity to his grandmother was too painful for him to bear, and Polenta was reluctant to do her old round ever again. Polenta continued to be a postwoman, however, and enjoyed it to the end of her days. As to Eugene, his huge amount of knowledge allowed him to breeze through A-levels and enrol for a university chemistry degree in no time. He became a doctor in only two years, because he was so exceedingly intelligent. All of Polenta and Eugene’s many children inherited their father’s chemistry skills and their mother’s distributing skills. And with those attributes they were never lost in the world.