The Curious Case of Mr. Septimus Scribble and the Sentient Scone — a short story for English reading and speaking

Mr Septimus Scribble was a man of meticulous habits and a profound love of afternoon tea.

Every day, precisely at four o’clock, he settled into his favourite armchair by the window with a freshly baked scone, a dollop of strawberry jam and a generous spoonful of clotted cream.

There were two armchairs by the window, although only one was ever used.

Mr Scribble had lived alone for many years and had become quite accustomed to it.

At least, that was what he told himself.

He had his books, his crossword puzzles and the view of the village green.

A man could ask for very little more.

His scones came from Mrs Higgins’ Heavenly Humbles, a bakery renowned throughout the village for producing exceptionally light and fluffy creations.

Mrs Higgins herself was considerably less light and fluffy.

She was a formidable woman with powerful arms, a booming voice and the suspicious nature of a customs officer.

“You do like your scones, Mr Scribble,” she remarked one Tuesday morning as she placed one into a paper bag.

“I have always believed in maintaining standards,” said Mr Scribble.

Mrs Higgins narrowed her eyes.

“You buy one every day.”

“Consistency, Mrs Higgins, is the foundation of all civilisation.”

He tucked the bag under his arm and left.

That afternoon, something peculiar happened.

As Mr Scribble reached for the jam pot, the scone moved.

Not much.

Just a tiny wobble.

Mr Scribble stopped.

He peered at it.

The scone remained perfectly still.

Mr Scribble was a retired lexicographer, a profession which had left him with two permanent characteristics: a distrust of imprecise language and an equally profound distrust of his own imagination.

“Movement,” he said aloud, “is the act of changing position.”

The scone did not respond.

“Perhaps I was mistaken.”

He reached for the jam again.

The scone wobbled.

Mr Scribble slowly withdrew his hand.

Then he leaned closer.

The scone appeared to be breathing.

Very faintly, almost imperceptibly, but breathing nonetheless.

Mr Scribble sat back.

“Good Lord.”

For several minutes, neither man nor scone moved.

Mr Scribble eventually decided that the sherry in his lunchtime trifle had perhaps been more generous than usual.

The following afternoon, however, it happened again.

When he tried to butter the scone, he felt a slight resistance, as though it were tensing itself.

Mr Scribble put down his knife.

“This is most irregular.”

He decided to conduct an experiment.

The next day, instead of strawberry jam, he placed a small piece of Stilton beside the scone.

The scone recoiled.

Mr Scribble stared.

He replaced the Stilton with a sliver of smoked salmon.

The scone gave a tiny quiver.

“Interesting.”

He tried a pickled onion.

Nothing.

Finally, he fetched a garden slug he had discovered near the back door.

The scone shuddered violently.

“My apologies,” said Mr Scribble, returning the slug to the garden.

That evening, he visited his neighbour, Mrs Periwinkle.

Mrs Periwinkle was a cheerful widow whose imagination grew as wildly as the prize-winning roses in her front garden.

“My scone appears to be alive,” Mr Scribble told her.

Mrs Periwinkle considered this.

“How lovely.”

Mr Scribble frowned.

“I don’t think ‘lovely’ is quite the appropriate word.”

“Have you spoken to it?”

“Certainly not.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a scone.”

“So?”

Mr Scribble discovered that he had no satisfactory answer to this.

The following afternoon, he sat down for tea and looked at the scone.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

Nothing happened.

He felt ridiculous.

He opened The Times and attempted the crossword.

Seven across proved particularly irritating.

After several minutes, he threw down his pencil.

“Absurd.

Nine letters.

‘A person who interferes unnecessarily.’

They appear to think ‘busybody’ has nine letters.”

The scone tilted very slightly towards him.

Mr Scribble froze.

Then he smiled.

It was the first time he had smiled at four o’clock in a very long while.

After that, conversation became part of afternoon tea.

Mr Scribble talked about the weather, the village and the decline in standards at the Post Office.

He complained about his knees.

He discussed words he believed were being misused by television presenters.

The scone never spoke, of course.

But it listened.

When Mr Scribble became excited, it seemed to grow plumper.

When he was gloomy, it sagged slightly.

And whenever he raised his voice, it tilted towards him with what Mr Scribble came to regard as concern.

He named it Sidney.

He also stopped eating scones.

This did not escape the attention of Mrs Higgins.

Every morning, Mr Scribble entered Heavenly Humbles and bought another scone.

Every afternoon, however, Sidney remained uneaten.

By the end of the week, Mr Scribble had seven scones in his kitchen and was beginning to encounter serious storage difficulties.

“You’re looking thinner,” Mrs Higgins observed suspiciously one morning.

“Am I?”

“Yet you’re buying more scones than ever.”

“I fail to see the connection.”

Mrs Higgins leaned across the counter.

“What are you doing with them?”

Mr Scribble adjusted his spectacles.

“That, Mrs Higgins, is a private matter.”

Her eyes narrowed.

The following Sunday, there was a thunderous knock at his door.

Mrs Higgins stood outside.

“Mr Scribble,” she boomed, “I understand you have been fraternising with my baked goods.”

Mr Scribble nearly dropped his teacup.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs Periwinkle told me everything.”

“Ah.”

Mrs Higgins marched into the sitting room.

Sidney was resting peacefully on a plate beside the window.

Mrs Higgins stared at him.

Mr Scribble explained the wobbling, the breathing, the Stilton, the smoked salmon and Sidney’s remarkable ability to listen.

Mrs Higgins’s expression did not change.

“Nonsense.”

“I assure you-” “Scones are for eating, not conversing with.”

She reached for Sidney.

Sidney recoiled.

Mrs Higgins stopped.

For the briefest moment, uncertainty crossed her face.

“You saw that,” whispered Mr Scribble.

“I saw nothing.”

“You most certainly did.”

Mrs Higgins snatched Sidney from the plate.

“I shall take this scone back to the bakery for quality control.”

“Put him down!”

Mrs Higgins turned.

Him.

The word seemed to hang in the room.

Mr Scribble looked at Sidney in her enormous hand.

“Please,” he said quietly.

Mrs Higgins hesitated.

Then her expression hardened.

“It’s a scone, Mr Scribble.”

She marched out.

The following afternoon, Mr Scribble went to Heavenly Humbles.

Mrs Higgins stood behind the counter, polishing a tray with unusual vigour.

“Where is Sidney?”

“Who?”

“My scone.”

“Oh.

That.”

She put down the cloth.

“I conducted a thorough quality inspection.”

Mr Scribble waited.

“Perfectly ordinary,” she said.

“I ate it myself with a cup of Earl Grey.”

Mr Scribble said nothing.

For several seconds, he simply stood there.

Then he nodded.

“I see.”

Perhaps he had imagined everything.

The breathing.

The wobbling.

The listening.

Perhaps a lonely man could persuade himself of almost anything if he wanted company badly enough.

“I’ll have a plain biscuit,” he said.

Mrs Higgins reached for the biscuit tin.

Mr Scribble noticed something on the counter.

A crumb.

Golden brown.

Exceptionally light and fluffy.

As he watched, it moved.

Just a tiny tremor.

Mr Scribble stared at it.

Behind the counter, Mrs Higgins sighed.

“Are you quite all right?”

he asked.

She looked at him.

“Perfectly.”

Mr Scribble glanced at the crumb again.

It was still.

“I’ve been rather lonely myself lately,” Mrs Higgins said.

Mr Scribble looked up.

The formidable baker seemed surprised by her own words.

Then Mr Scribble noticed something else.

As he spoke, Mrs Higgins tilted her head very slightly towards him.

Exactly as Sidney used to do.

Mr Scribble raised a quizzical eyebrow.

Mrs Higgins frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A smile appeared at the corner of Mr Scribble’s mouth.

“Nothing at all.”

He picked up his biscuit.

“Four o’clock tomorrow, Mrs Higgins?”

She stared at him.

“For what?”

“Tea.”

Mrs Higgins hesitated.

Then, very faintly, she smiled.

“Four o’clock.”

On the counter between them, the little golden-brown crumb gave one final, contented wobble.