Looking for Mrs Dextrose Read online

  Legend Press Ltd, 2 London Wall Buildings,

  London EC2M 5UU

  [email protected]

  www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Nick Griffiths 2010

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  ISBN 978-1-9077564-9-8

  eISBN 978-1-9082483-1-2

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  Set in Times

  Printed by CPI Books, UK.

  Cover designed by Gudrun Jobst

  www.yotedesign.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  ‘IF you like Alice in Wonderland or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas then you will love Looking for Mrs Dextrose. Nick Griffiths latest novel combines the fantasy of Carroll with the grime of Thompson to make something special, if slightly nauseating.’

  Julie Shennan, Strathclyde Telegraph

  ‘By the end of the book I had laughed, had a little lip quiver, checked under the bed for errant puppets and been put off my food twice – a feat very few novels can achieve… For pure escapism, for belly laughs, for twists and turns, Looking for Mrs Dextrose is the ideal read.’

  Caroline Tecks, The Cambridge Student

  ‘Charming and witty, packed with sharp observations and banter… like a literary version of The Mighty Boosh.’

  Tom Fordy, St Mary’s University

  ‘I found myself snorting with laughter…clever, slick and enticing.’

  Iyanu Onalaja, Spaghetti Junction, Birmingham City University

  ‘Amazingly well-written dialogue… every page reeks of invention.’

  Libby Holderness, Reading University

  ‘Looking for Mrs Dextrose us puerile, at times revolting, and utterly unmissable… The book’s spectacular energy speaks for itself and your life won’t feel complete without it.’

  Carol Williamson, Fuse magazine, Sheffield University

  ‘For the first time in my life, I found myself wanting to punch a book. I then proceeded to punch the book…’

  Paul Dunn, Le Nurb, Brunel University

  ‘Fluidly written, filled with un-literary references and cheap gags… It ends up being a comedy in spite of itself.’

  Alistair Todd, The Courier, Aberdeen University

  ‘Griffiths is true to form… A masterpiece of bizarre, expect-the-unexpected type writing which has been compared to Douglas Adams and maybe hints of Ben Elton. I can’t wait for the third instalment of the Dextrose saga,’

  Rob McDade, Borders Australia

  ‘I don’t think anyone would take Nick Griffiths for forty-five. I am sure that most people would take him for at least seven or eight years younger…I found him rather dishy.’

  C. Richardson

  ‘If you like the absurd and the unpredictable, you'll like this book. I read this book whilst commuting and… was pretty horrified when a snort escaped from my face whilst reading Nick Griffiths’ work of comic genius.’

  Charlotte Chase, charlottepaperchase.blogspot.com

  ‘Funny, hilarious even… Can't wait for the sequel.’

  Matthew Reid, goodreads

  ‘Highly imaginative, entertaining and addictive.’

  Jo Burn, Facebook

  “If Michael Palin had an insane lovechild…”

  Magda McHugh, Facebook

  ‘Minking fantastic! I won't beat about the bush – you need to buy this book. Think of a tryst between Terry Pratchett, Bill Bryson and The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy…’

  Martyn Goodman, Facebook

  ‘For a rather irreverent, but silly, banal outing, this might just be a work of genius. Oh and it is HIGHLY comic – his use of language and weird descriptions reminded me of Tibor Fischer. Couldn't recommend it more.’

  Andy Walker, Facebook

  ‘Wow – this is the kind of book I'd love to be able to write. Surreal crazy characters, odd events and make-believe but somehow familiar places! The interludes from the Dextrose text are about as snigger-inducingly funny as a deep rolling fart in church!’

  Graham Sedge, Facebook

  ‘Can I please spend all my holidays in High Yawl!’

  Debbie McGlashan, Facebook

  ‘I was hooked from the start. Beware reading this in public if you are of a sensitive disposition - you will laugh out loud. A lot.”’

  Laura Gahan, Amazon

  ‘Comfortably one of the most poorly written books I've ever read.’

  Dick Dashwood, Amazon

  ‘In the Footsteps of…. is one of the most entertaining and funny books I've read since finishing my last Douglas Adams.’

  Lee Duddell, Amazon

  ‘One of the most imaginative and original writers I have come across in a long time. Definitely buy this book. You will love it.’

  Nicky Beards, Amazon

  ‘The outward silliness is underpinned with a razor sharp intelligence that raises this novel way above an enjoyable but transient read to an intellectually challenging piece of work. And it's funny! Properly funny, laugh-out-loud-on-a-train funny – people may move away from you on public transport, but you won't care.’

  Mairi-Claire, Amazon

  ‘This book is hilarious – full of grotesque characterizations, surreal situations and lots of hidden references to decipher. It had me laughing out loud, and I cannot wait for the sequel.’

  Vicki, Amazon

  ‘Accessible, clever and downright funny. Immerse yourself in an intelligent and humorous novel and enjoy the ride. Just be Nick Griffiths warned that life may be a little dull afterwards.’

  A Copson, Amazon

  ‘I challenge anyone to read this book and not enjoy it.’

  Daniel Parsons, Amazon

  ‘His whole writing style and voice is brilliant! Witty and entertaining, this unique book will have you laughing out loud. I will be recommending it far and wide.’

  EC Alexander, Amazon

  ‘A really fun, funny book which is both well-written and entertaining (fancy…!).’

  JP Clarkson, Amazon

  ‘The one downside? The twist in the last chapter was cringe-worthy. But the first 23 chapters are lots of fun.’

  R Selby, Amazon

  ‘I smiled all the way through.’

  Colin, Amazon

  Also by Nick Griffiths:

  In the Footsteps of Harrison Dextrose

  (Legend Press)

  Who Goes There (Legend Press)

  Dalek I Loved You (Gollancz)

  www.nickgriffiths.co.uk

  www.twitter.com/mrsdextrose

  For Sinead, a mindful wife

  Contents

  Gossips wine bar, Mlwlw, Saturday, 1.45am:

  Gossips, Saturday, 12.30pm:

  Shaman’s hut, Saturday, 1.10pm:

  Outside the Shaman’s hut, Saturday, 2.20pm:

  Gossips, Saturday, 3.30pm:

  Gossips, Monday, during the ‘wee hours’:

  Gossips guest room, Monday, 10.20am:

  Gossips, Monday, 10.25am:

  En route to the lost tribe, Monday, 2.40pm:

  Village gues
t hut, Monday, 5.45pm:

  Q’tse village, Monday, 5.50pm:

  Q’tse village feast, Monday, 6.25pm:

  Q’tse village feast, Monday, 10pm:

  Q’tse village feast, Monday, 10.45pm:

  Q’tse village guest hut, Sunday, 11.50pm:

  Somewhere outside Q’tse village, Monday, midnight:

  Hell:

  Lucidity:

  Heading for Gossips, Monday, noon:

  Gossips, Monday, 1.40pm:

  Gossips, Monday, 2.55pm:

  Gossips, Monday, 3.55pm:

  Outside Gossips, Monday, 4.30pm:

  On the road from Mlwlw, Monday, 5.30pm:

  Nameless Highway, Monday, 6.40pm:

  Nameless Highway, Monday, 7pm:

  Nameless Highway, Monday, 9.40pm:

  Nameless Highway, 10.40pm:

  Socks ‘N’ Sandals, Monday, 10.55pm:

  Socks ‘N’ Sandals, Tuesday, 12.10am:

  Inside Socks ‘N’ Sandals toilet, Tuesday, 12.45am:

  Disorientation:

  Outside Socks ‘N’ Sandals, Tuesday, 6.45am:

  Nameless Highway, Tuesday, 9am:

  Nameless Highway, Tuesday, 10.25am:

  Nameless Highway, Tuesday 11.33am:

  Nameless Highway, Tuesday, noon:

  Nameless Highway, Tuesday, 1.35pm:

  Nameless Highway, Tuesday, 6.25pm:

  Nameless Highway, Wednesday, 2.13am:

  Nameless Highway, Wednesday, 3.20am:

  Nameless Highway, Wednesday, 3.55am:

  Nameless Highway, Wednesday, 5am:

  Nameless Highway, Wednesday, 6.25am:

  Call-That-A-Hill?, Wednesday, 7.05am:

  Nameless Highway, Wednesday, 7.50am:

  Flattened Hat, Wednesday, 8.45am:

  Desert Rose Guest House, Wednesday, 9.10am:

  Desert Rose Guest House, Wednesday, 7.41pm:

  Flattened Hat Theatre, Wednesday, 7.55pm:

  Desert Rose Guest House, Wednesday, 9.35pm:

  Jimmy’s Topless Bar, Wednesday, 9.50pm:

  Desert Rose Guest House, Wednesday, 11.50pm:

  Desert Rose Guest House, Thursday, 6.25am:

  Nameless Highway, Thursday, 9.55am:

  Pretanike outskirts, Thursday, 11.35am:

  21-27 Shelby Street, Thursday, 12.50pm:

  Security Control, 21-27 Shelby Street, Thursday, 1.30pm:

  Streets of Pretanike, Thursday, 2.05pm:

  Victoria Hotel, Thursday, 2.42pm:

  Streets of Pretanike, Thursday, 2.58pm:

  Pretanike Airport, Thursday, 4.10pm:

  ENGLAND

  So I had been adopted and my real father, the man who had sired me, was Harrison Dextrose. Yet to gaze upon him now… Were there anything active left in those aged walnuts, I imagined a lonely sperm wheezing on a fag, shouting obscenities to itself at some sort of ball-bag bus stop.

  The imagery made me bring up a small amount of sick.

  Still I should have been delighted. My father – a renowned explorer! For 15 years I had lapped up the exploits in his book, The Lost Incompetent: A Bible for the Inept Traveller. Those exploits were the reason I was here, in this tired and tatty bar in a rainforest, many miles from what less adventurous souls might term ‘civilisation’. Dextrose’s seedy, rampant, exotic travels had seemed such an antidote to my suburban lethargy that I had been drawn to follow in his footsteps, only to chance upon the great man himself at my journey’s end.

  I should have been delighted. But I wasn’t.

  The star of The Lost Incompetent slumped before me in Gossips was a mess. Flushed and decaying, beaten by the booze. He had once explored foreign lands and their womenfolk as diligently as my fingers had explored the crevices of crisp packets – but no longer. How could he have fallen so far down? His dark grey hair and beard, silver-streaked, were so much tumbleweed. His vast gut seeped like lava from beneath a khaki shirt, buttons stretched to near pinging point, and hung down over a pair of pink velour tracksuit bottoms. He wore a tweed overcoat – in a jungle – that was torn and interestingly stained.

  And there he existed, barely, making indiscernible noises as his eyelids flickered and froth gathered at the corners of his mouth.

  My so-called father.

  There had to be some mistake.

  The owner of the Mlwlw nightspot was one Livingstone Quench, a friend of Dextrose’s since way back when. I called to him as he mock-beavered behind his bar, my thoughts spinning like smalls in a tumble-dryer.

  “Mr Quench? Could you help me, please?”

  He smiled. “Yes, son?” And came over to our table.

  Quench was not remotely the alcoholic landlord I might have expected. He wore an old dinner suit with bare feet. His skin was absurdly tanned and his face deeply lined, in the manner of one who laughs easily. His long, whitening hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his nose was splattered against his face, as if he had once boxed, or sleep-walked into an elephant. He was burly and toned: a presence, despite his advancing years.

  “’Ow can I ’elp?” he asked, gravel-voiced.

  When he had pulled up a chair, I explained about the photographs.

  Barely 15 minutes ago I had entered Gossips as Alexander Grey, son of the middle-England Greys of Glibley – or so I had believed. The only other customer in the bar had turned out to be, to my amazement, Harrison Dextrose, holed up with his old mucker in the middle of nowhere. Sozzled and morose, he had lurched at me clutching two battered, browning photographs from his wallet: one depicted his wife in a headscarf, gaily clinging to the mast of a yacht; the other, his baby son, bawling, adopted shortly after the shutter had clicked.

  Down to the dust flecks from the lens, the latter picture matched the one I carried around in my own wallet. Dextrose’s adopted son and I were one and the same.

  What was it he had exclaimed?

  “Me son! Pilsbury! I found him!” As if he had put in the legwork.

  Which made me Pilsbury Dextrose, which would take some getting used to, and one third of the Dextrose family, a wandering cock-up. It was all rather much to take in.

  (Concerning the poor woman in the headscarf, Dextrose had mentioned in passing that he’d lost her while exploring and that her whereabouts remained a mystery.)

  Yet at no point during my recounting of the tale did Quench look perplexed.

  “You don’t seem surprised,” I said.

  He shrugged. Big shoulders. “Why would I? The way ’e put it abaht – back in the day when it worked – I’m surprised there ain’t more of you!” Quench winked. “’E’s shown me that photo before, a few times. When ’e gets really drunk and mitherin’. ’Ere, show me yours, son.”

  I pulled out my dog-eared old snap and handed it to him.

  “Yep, one and the same,” he said. “And, y’know,” he went on, peering at me keenly, “I reckon I can see the family resemblance. Same eyes, same nose.”

  I glanced at Dextrose’s nose, pock-marked, crimson and bulbous, the overripe strawberry that everyone leaves in the punnet. As I did so, his right nostril blew a bubble of snot that might fascinate a small child.

  Quench must have caught me grimacing. “Well, maybe not the nose,” he chuckled. “But why not? Every lad’s someone’s son an’ plenty of folks ’ave been adopted. Stranger fings used to ’appen in Dynasty, right?”

  Barroom logic, it made some sort of sense.

  “Did he ever say why his son… why I had been adopted?”

  “Not that I recall.” He pondered for a moment. “Nah, sorry. Anyway, when ’e gets in that sort o’ state ’e generally talks a load o’ shite.”

  “You really think I’m his son, Mr Quench?” Could it really be true?

  He put his hand, twice the size of mine and extensively signet-ringed, on my knee. “Yep. An’ call me Livingstone, son. Reckon it calls for a celebration, don’chew? Beer?”

  “YES! BEER!” barked Dextrose, waking up.

  I considered engaging this new father figure in co
nversation while we sat there, just the two of us, but could not begin to think where to start. He avoided my gaze, possibly on purpose, and I wondered whether he had forgotten who I was.

  It was a relief when the barkeep returned clutching three bottles in one mitt, placing them on the table. Dextrose grabbed the nearest and upended it into his gob, then did the same with mine before I could snatch it away.

  Quench raised an eyebrow and passed me his. “So,” he said. “’Appy families at last!”

  As far as I could tell, he wasn’t being ironic.

  He held up a finger. “Although, I s’pose, you’d really need ’is missus ’ere to be a proper ’appy family.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I replied distractedly, still suffering from the swirling smalls.

  “Yeah, course!” averred Quench, apparently having made up his mind.

  “Well, I have only just found my…” – Dextrose was excavating his nose with a pinky – “father.”

  Quench eyed me less than benevolently. “What, you’re prepared to leave ’er aht there, somewhere? Now you’ve found ’im, you’re not goin’ to find ’er as well?”

  In that moment, with his wonky conk and watery, piercing eyes, he looked like an East End gangster (who are notoriously loyal to their mothers). Indeed, thinking about it, nowhere in The Lost Incompetent had it mentioned what Livingstone Quench did for a living, though he had never seemed short of a bob or two.

  I was torn between fear and indignation; that Mrs Dextrose was missing was hardly my fault. “It’s all a bit sudden…”

  Quench cut me dead and leaned in. “Nah listen ’ere, son. I’ve been tryin’ to get ’Arry ’ere off ’is arse to find the old girl for a while nah. But look at ’im. ’E ain’t up to it! ’E couldn’t find a bird in a… bird zoo. But you. Strapping young lad like you…”

  Quench was staring at me. Even Dextrose was trying similarly to focus his gaze.

  “Well. I…”

  The barkeep slapped my back, causing me to go “Oof”, and announced: “Good! That’s sorted then!”

  Was it? “But…”

  “More beer!” cried Dad.

  Dextrose’s appraisal of his wife’s situation had been succinct: “Minking1 lost her!” That was it. No place names, no directions, not even a description. Hardly food for thought for the budding Holmes.