The Q Files: The Luddite Legacy
Scrabbletales is a new game invented by Mogmother and Optimist on the Run on 19/11/2017. It works like this...
Play a game of Scrabble (proper rules or not...) Record all the words used. Use all the words in a short story.
Mogmother then wondered what to do with her stories once she’d got them... Puzzle caches, of course!
Having created the Boy Named Q series in Shropshire and the first Q Files series in Staffordshire, Mogmother then went on to write another series.
The cache is not at the given co-ordinates, though the Black Country Museum does have the old Elephant and Castle pub from Wolverhampton in its collection of rescued buildings. (It is not on display yet, however: keep an eye on their website for news if you are interested.) There is parking fairly near the GZ, though at various times of year the area may be very busy and you may have to pay or park further away.
(score for word for nil + word for disgusting, word for puzzle+1, word for impudent girl +1; word for father divided by 2, word for canine animal x5; word meaning refuse to or dig your heels in + word for type of bean +1, word for 'one of those things that isn't a butterfly' x2+3, word for hawthorn berries + word for frozen water; ...)
[where ‘word’ is mentioned, this refers to words from the original Scrabble game, not extra ones added to make up the story. However, some of the names were too useful to leave out...! Ignore the possibility of Double Word Scores and Triple Letter Scores etcetera: just add up the letters.]
words: mirth fired dream zero fated haws ahoy axed ox yet fates doric tip rid to dog vile mung me quiz won mealy unbar tot goo quean fans panel an pa yo oval gentler ice ark jib is vie seer in (i)
FTF Dobunnis FTF
Chapter 14
He sat at the top of Primrose Hill and looked at the next badge. Rather a good elephant, presumably African because of its large ears… and he’d already been to the zoo, so that meant Elephant and Castle, wherever that was. Ignoring a small yappy dog, he checked his phone and found that if he got back onto the Bakerloo line, it would take him to the relevant tube station. (There was also a message from Hammurabi which read “Crystal cobra cages? Cat by grass coracle?”.)
He went back to Regents Park station, past some blackbirds gobbling haws from a thorntree, and waited for a train.
So what was Hammurabi working on? He’d forgotten to ask if Ms Moneypenny had appreciated the herb tea, and whether she or any of James Bond’s other fans had known what he was doing… Had Q not found out yet, or had he forgotten because the fates had brought him something more interesting to think about?
Mac had his own dream of doing something more interesting, but as he had no idea what that might be, and as he was singularly bad at getting on with things, he seemed fated to teach games till he was fired…
The train roared and swayed through the tunnels to the terminus. Mac got out, found his way up to the surface and wondered which of the local elephants was the relevant one. There were more than in Noah’s ark: the tube station, the railway station, the pub the area was named after… or the Michael Faraday monument, which was where the pub used to be. As this was closest, he started there, walking slowly round the electricity substation till he found the plaque explaining its purpose. It was encased in metal, each panel concave so that the whole thing looked sculptural…
‘Ahoy!’ someone called.
Mac was startled enough to turn round.
‘Mackenzie? -Yo, I’ve been waiting to get rid of this-‘ The man shoved a small plastic bag into his hand and hurried away.
Mac found a seat and unfolded the bag. Where next? He was rather hoping it would be the Oval, which was not far off… The bag had been intended for £20 in pound coins, but now contained a badge even bigger than the elephant: a red cross surmounted by a crown, with the letters VAD underneath. The same three letters were repeated on the back. Well, that was something to do with the War, and there’d been signs in the station about the Imperial War Museum… He felt quite smug at having identified it, even when he realised he’d leaned against some sort of vile goo and had to spend a while scraping it off his coat.
It was only a short distance to the Museum, a huge building with a dome and doric columns… No, Ionic: they had rams’ horns at the top. Mac found a seat (checking first this time!) and ate his lunch: a mealy bread roll with cod’s roe and lettuce, and an apple.
Three small boys and their mother were coming towards him. He stared, as stunned as a pole axed ox -It couldn’t be. Surely not… but it was half term, and everyone had to be somewhere.
‘Well, when do they unbar it, then? When the Queen wants to get in?’ the eldest was demanding.
‘Mom! Can we ring Pa and say I won the quiz?’
‘I want to be a horse!’ the tot insisted. ‘Why can’t I be a horse?’
Mac applied himself busily to his apple as they passed. Small children permanently vie for attention: they’re the nearest I’ve ever met to perpetual motion. How ever does their mother cope, with three of them? – and, while he was asking himself rhetorical questions, why were there three beansprouts on the floor by the bench? Beansprouts were what you were supposed to get if you grew mung beans. He’d tried it once…
He put the apple core into a bin and went towards the building.
After living through the centenaries of various episodes of the Great War and reading the commentaries in the staffroom newspapers, Mac was not interested in studying all the displays in detail. He found one on the work of the Voluntary Aid Detachment and produced his badge to compare with that in the photograph.
‘Mr. Mackenzie?’ a female voice said, behind him.
‘Are you looking for me?’ he asked, turning, and his heart sank. The overall impression was of tight jeans, padded jacket, long dyed-blonde hair and glittery stuff at the tip of each bright pink fingernail.
‘Yeah, if you’re Mac Mackenzie.’ She hesitated, then demanded abruptly, ‘D’you wanna hang around in here, or can we go?’
Mac followed the quean outside, but decided to jib at being led into a secluded corner.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’ he snapped. ‘What’s all this about?’
She shrugged. ‘I dunno, do I? How do I know you’re Mac?’
He produced his driving licence, and the badge. ‘Zero trust on both sides.’ He commented, in a gentler voice. ‘How did you know who to look for?’
The girl shrugged again. ‘She showed me a photo an’ said pick up this bloke, give ‘im the envelope. I been in there all day, drawin’ stuff. It’s doin’ my ‘ead in: them poor blokes on the Arctic convoys, in the ice…’
‘Sorry I took so long.’ Mac grimaced. ‘Who is she, the woman who sent you?’
‘Marge, worked at the lib’ry. So what is it, then? You ain’t the type for drugs-‘
A seer as well as an artist, Mac thought sourly, taking the envelope and ripping it in two.
‘There you are: a badge.’ He pulled off the bubble-wrap and held it out. ‘A grand piano-‘
‘There’s two-‘ She grovelled for the one which had fallen. ‘A red butterfly-‘
‘Cinnabar moth.’ He reached out, but she held onto it… and an elderly couple had stopped to look at them. Help: how could he make her laugh, so it didn’t look as though he was threatening her? ‘Eet ees a mirth, Ma’mzelle.’
‘What?’ She stared, but his accent had amused her.
‘A mirth… one of those things that isn’t a butterfly! Well, that’s the next stage in the puzzle. I’m testing it for a friend: each badge leads to the place where I get the next one, but I’m not sure about the piano. The Albert Hall, maybe? And why the moth?’
‘Oh, that’ll be the Moth Club.’ She said, to his surprise. ‘It’s in ‘Ackney. Memorable Order of Tin ‘Ats: it was, but it’s a proper nightclub now. Well, ‘ave fun!’
Mac called ‘Thanks!’ after her as she hurried away. He hoped she was wrong…