The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

a mystery that would even keep Prada debating for millennium), all formed part of her orgasmic spring collection.
    But the sight which had most amazed, and at the same time, horrified Meli,
    had been the first time she saw Elsa driving her ancient Transit Van. At first Meli had thought the vehicle was driverless, propelled by some invisible demonic force as it lurched towards her in the wrong gear, the engine revving and squealing like a tortured sow, but as it neared she had just been able to make out a pair of instantly recognisable staring chocolate eyes level with the steering wheel. She later learned, by peering into the empty vehicle when she happened to walk past it on some trumped up ruse (staring over her shoulder anxiously to check that she wasn’t being watched), that there were at least three cushions stacked on the driving seat. Now, whilst this explained how Elsa could just about see above the steering wheel, Meli couldn’t for the life of her fathom how the stunted legs of the woman managed to reach the peddles from their elevated position. She was sure that the whole thing had to be highly illegal, but had come to the conclusion that the local police let her be, knowing that she only used the vehicle on the farm and in the village, and as she and her Transit were so highly visible, the large rust spots standing out like flashing hazard lights against the mushroomy-white paintwork, that other drivers had every opportunity to give them a wide berth.
    The farm itself was aptly fitting as the residence for such a fine specimen of abnormality. The barns and yards were derelict; graveyards for the petrified remains of corroding cobweb coated carcasses of long forgotten machinery and equipment and a couple of pre war, moulding haystacks; a place where even the sun was reluctant to venture, only tip-toeing hurriedly through the deformed shadows at the end of each day before its light died away across the eastern cliffs.
    Meli found her speed increasing as the lane suddenly dived from a gentle incline to a formidable drop. The first couple of times she had made this walk to the Post Office, it had seemed like miles. Now, it seemed no distance at all; at least on the way down, coming back up was another matter altogether as her legs, which were more than capable of expertly playing the peddles of the car like a concert pianist for hours on end, faced the ferocious challenge of the near vertical slope, leaving her chest tight, her lungs gagging for oxygen by the time she reached the brow of the hill.
    She was forced to press herself against the hedge where the lane narrowed as two cars negotiated to squeeze past each other, with seemingly little regard for her safety as the nearest one almost flattened her entire foot. Leaning down, she tried to catch the driver’s eye through the side window, intent on hurling some visual abuse at him, but he kept his gaze fixed firmly forward, and then seconds later, he was gone, his exhaust spitting a cloud of fumes into her face. Tourists!
    Her entrance into the Post Office was heralded by the thunderous clanging of the brass bell over the door, the sound almost rupturing her delicate eardrums as it cannoned against them fast and furious like golf balls on a driving range. With her ears ringing with the resonance, she quickly distanced herself, hurrying up the aisle, her nostrils dilating, intoxicated by the sweet yeasty aroma that drew her gaze to the counter and the plastic trays, where freshly baked cakes and rolls sat like jewels on a platter, just screaming at her ‘buy me, buy me, I’m sweet and yummy and I’ll make you feel great if you eat me.’ She could almost taste the donuts, washed down with a sugary cup of coffee.
    Instantly Mrs. Barber, who ran the Post Office appeared. Peering over the top of the confectionary counter she made her way to the till and squeezed herself into the narrow serving station set between seductive tiers of sumptuous chocolate goodies on one side, and the magnetic tray of sticky cakes on the other. At least five foot ten and in her mid fifties, Meli guessed, Mrs. Barber was a mountain of a woman with a broad head shaped like a turnip, the expansive gleaming forehead broken by a single fuzzy eyebrow that would have looked more at home dripping from a Mexican’s upper lip. With lank, dull brown hair, snipped in a pudding bowl style, she was without doubt a very butch woman.
    “ Morning Mrs. Noble,” Mrs. Barber announced in her