Some girls are content to don their Sunday frocks and sit in low chairs at diminutive tables and serve tepid cups of air-tea from their miniature tea services to their dolls. Zillah was not one of those girls. To be sure Zillah had one of the finest tea services in the county – a sterling silver affair flush with hallmarks and coats of arms that no doubt had been brought back from the Cave of Spleen
. Zillah chose to set her tea parties out Restoration style – bottles of amontillado, port, and, her personal favorite, dry gin. It had the most magnificent burn going down, and, to her mind anyway, it released la fae vert better than absinthe. Her parties with the nymphs, as she called her china dolls, were initially on Sunday afternoons after church. God Himself needed a swig (probably of whiskey) after one of Parson’s patronizingly pedantic homilies.
Soon enough, she expanded to Thursdays for her ‘at home.’ Before you could say “gin fizz” she was a full on courtisane with a saloon, er, salon daily from two to six. The conversations were stimulating: the anthropological merits of noughts and crosses; the spiritual well being of the nursery horse. It was all so fascinating. Then she got word.
James’ best toy soldier friend Lieutenant Brandywine was coming home, unscathed, from the Front. The party was splendid. Everyone who was anyone was there. It must be admitted that Raggedy Anne gate crashed. It was smashing success by all counts. Until it happened anyway. Well into her sixth double martini, Zillah decided she needed a nap. She lay down on the child sized velvet davenport and found the Big Sleep.
As ever with my sincere gratitude to Mr. Gorey.
