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Authors: Emerald Fennell
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writing.
Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St Clement’s.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St Martin’s.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP
Behind the sound of the keys was another sound, in the corridor, coming closer and closer to his room. A methodical thud, like an axe through wood.
Richmond’s fear had reached a maniacal pitch. He opened the window, and held the typewriter out of it, but the thudding continued.
DON’T , it typed.
Richmond, panicking now, put it back on his desk and typed madly, his fingers fumbling on the keys.
HOW DO I PAY YOU?
The typewriter answered immediately: YOU.
Richmond began to type. He started with his parents, and his brother who had died at birth; he went on to his school days and the bully who had made his life a misery. Soon he was typing without even thinking; every secret, every petty cruelty he had ever committed, was laid bare on the cold whiteness of Zezia’s paper.
The noise in the corridor had stopped, but Richmond was more concerned about what his hands were doing. They were moving quite independently of his brain, moving through university, through his first love, through the terrible way he treated her, past his first book.
He wanted to stop, but his hands continued, fingers blistering on the mother-of-pearl keys. Richmond began to feel faint, as though he himself were being pulled into the workings of the machine, becoming entangled in its oily cogs.
Was that the dawn he saw in the distance? Or the gleam of Zezia’s silver ribbon spool? He could not tell.
The following morning the groundsman went into the hall to deliver some groceries to Mr Richmond.
He looked everywhere but could not find him; his room was empty, except for a finished manuscript tied with a green, velvet ribbon on the desk.
PAID IN FULL
by Antony Richmond
‘No one ever saw poor Antony again,’ Mrs Todd said sadly. ‘Of course, Paid in Full , his autobiography, was an enormous success. So raw, so truthful. And of course, no one believed the bit at the end about the magic typewriter. Except for me.’
‘Why did you believe it?’ Arthur asked.
‘Because I’ve lived near Shiverton Hall my whole life,’ Mrs Todd replied. ‘And far, far stranger things than that happen there. You’ll see.’
She cocked her head and looked at Arthur. ‘Or perhaps you already have?’ she said quietly.
Arthur looked at the cheru b- encrusted clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Oh! It’s already five,’ he said, jumping up. ‘I’ll miss the bus.’
Mrs Todd got up and showed him to the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s jolly nice to have someone to talk to. My children hardly ever come to see me nowadays. Busy.’ She shrugged.
‘It was nice talking to you too. I’m going to have to bring my friend George one day – he’ll go crazy for that typewriter story.’
‘Oh good! Well, I have plenty more where that came from. One of the benefits of being five hundred years old!’
‘See you next week, Mrs Todd,’ Arthur said as he made his way towards the forest. ‘Thanks for the cake!’
‘See you next week, Albert!’
‘Oh . . .’ Arthur paused. ‘Sorry, Mrs Todd, I should have said earlier. My name’s actually Arthur.’
Mrs Todd clapped her hand over her mouth in horror.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Arthur laughed. ‘You’ll just have to bake an even bigger cake next week to make up for it.’
Mrs Todd shook her head and laughed, then she disappeared into her miniature house, all of the bells and ribbons tinkling in the trees around her.
Chapter Six
Arthur hit the high street just in time to
Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St Clement’s.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St Martin’s.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP CHOP
Behind the sound of the keys was another sound, in the corridor, coming closer and closer to his room. A methodical thud, like an axe through wood.
Richmond’s fear had reached a maniacal pitch. He opened the window, and held the typewriter out of it, but the thudding continued.
DON’T , it typed.
Richmond, panicking now, put it back on his desk and typed madly, his fingers fumbling on the keys.
HOW DO I PAY YOU?
The typewriter answered immediately: YOU.
Richmond began to type. He started with his parents, and his brother who had died at birth; he went on to his school days and the bully who had made his life a misery. Soon he was typing without even thinking; every secret, every petty cruelty he had ever committed, was laid bare on the cold whiteness of Zezia’s paper.
The noise in the corridor had stopped, but Richmond was more concerned about what his hands were doing. They were moving quite independently of his brain, moving through university, through his first love, through the terrible way he treated her, past his first book.
He wanted to stop, but his hands continued, fingers blistering on the mother-of-pearl keys. Richmond began to feel faint, as though he himself were being pulled into the workings of the machine, becoming entangled in its oily cogs.
Was that the dawn he saw in the distance? Or the gleam of Zezia’s silver ribbon spool? He could not tell.
The following morning the groundsman went into the hall to deliver some groceries to Mr Richmond.
He looked everywhere but could not find him; his room was empty, except for a finished manuscript tied with a green, velvet ribbon on the desk.
PAID IN FULL
by Antony Richmond
‘No one ever saw poor Antony again,’ Mrs Todd said sadly. ‘Of course, Paid in Full , his autobiography, was an enormous success. So raw, so truthful. And of course, no one believed the bit at the end about the magic typewriter. Except for me.’
‘Why did you believe it?’ Arthur asked.
‘Because I’ve lived near Shiverton Hall my whole life,’ Mrs Todd replied. ‘And far, far stranger things than that happen there. You’ll see.’
She cocked her head and looked at Arthur. ‘Or perhaps you already have?’ she said quietly.
Arthur looked at the cheru b- encrusted clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Oh! It’s already five,’ he said, jumping up. ‘I’ll miss the bus.’
Mrs Todd got up and showed him to the door.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s jolly nice to have someone to talk to. My children hardly ever come to see me nowadays. Busy.’ She shrugged.
‘It was nice talking to you too. I’m going to have to bring my friend George one day – he’ll go crazy for that typewriter story.’
‘Oh good! Well, I have plenty more where that came from. One of the benefits of being five hundred years old!’
‘See you next week, Mrs Todd,’ Arthur said as he made his way towards the forest. ‘Thanks for the cake!’
‘See you next week, Albert!’
‘Oh . . .’ Arthur paused. ‘Sorry, Mrs Todd, I should have said earlier. My name’s actually Arthur.’
Mrs Todd clapped her hand over her mouth in horror.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Arthur laughed. ‘You’ll just have to bake an even bigger cake next week to make up for it.’
Mrs Todd shook her head and laughed, then she disappeared into her miniature house, all of the bells and ribbons tinkling in the trees around her.
Chapter Six
Arthur hit the high street just in time to
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