The Cult of the Toaster

Jackie didn’t sign up for absurdity when she joined the police. She hadn’t signed up for it in the 12 years following either, as far as she can remember. Of the hundreds upon thousands of documents she had scanned, signed or discarded over that time she’d never seen a single section that declared the nature job would slip into the nonsensical. Not in Watherford. 

Jackie, or Chief Constable Moore as was her title, but was never called by the populace, had been born and raised in the village, leaving only (and reluctantly) for a three-year stint on a policing course half the world away. All that time she’d dreamt of coming back, protecting and aiding the good people here. Because they were good people, in a good place. Lying in the crease where olive-tinted valleys met, Watherford stood where stone walls converged, like one great vascular system all leading to the countryside's heart. On either side, pastures rose like wardens to envelop it, enshrouding it from anything that threatened to poison its charm. Watherford remained an unturned stone in the hysteria sweeping modern Britain. Many on that police course, all of them from bigger towns or cities, hadn’t understood why Jackie had wanted to be a police officer in a village whose population barely touched four figures. Nothing happens in those places, they’d said. But that was just it, nothing happened because Watherford wanted for nothing; it deserved peace. And the peace was worth protecting.

But then came three weeks ago. Jackie had remembered the first murmurs of ‘the meetings’ when Lenny, a well-fed retiree known for his many observations at town hall meetings, had made a passing comment to Florence at the station’s front desk. It concerned how he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of party Harriet Cain was throwing every night that attracted so many people. 

“I seen ‘em line up like it was lunchtime,” he’d said while Jackie was at the water fountain across the room. “Must’ve been about thirty of ‘em just patiently waiting for someone to come out so the next one would get their turn. One in, one out. I thought she might be giving away some valuables, like a car boot sale or something. But when I seen people leaving, they weren’t carrying nothing, and they’d all sorts of strange looks on their faces.”

“Like what looks?” Flo had asked.

“Some delighted, some bawling their eyes out,” he replied. “What kinda party does someone throw where half of your attendees leave with tears coming out their eyes?”

Jackie had thought nothing of it at the time. In Watherford, everyone knew everyone’s business. Those who didn’t were enlightened by flapping gums over a cup of tea and a sponge cake. Harriet Cain was a known socialite whose gums were liable to flap generously, but she wasn’t a troublemaker. Then the incidents began.

First was the message scrawled in jagged letters of yellow paint on the walls of the village church. It read: EAT WITH US. Harmless as it was, it unnerved many residents, and preceded the same message, in the same font and colour, on walls of the town hall, the library, and even the various local pubs. No one whom Jackie spoke to had seen any sign of a vandal leaving the messages. Two days after the pubs were marked the station was inundated with calls from locals who reported a fire on the hills overlooking the east pastures. Sure enough, Jackie didn’t need to go far to see the blaze that had been set upon the grass verges, the flames writhing and reaching out into the same hue the horizon cast above them. When the fire service had extinguished the fire, Jackie was the first to learn it had been arson, as it was clear dry wood and ethanol had been strategically laid out to burn EAT WITH US into the grass. Theories materialised like fruit flies. Some believed it was a gang of youths, others a message from God. The rumour that caught, though, was that a cult had formed in the village, and it was this that saw almost a hundred residents up and leave within days of the fire.

Bereft of any leads, tempers flared between Watherford residents and the force. A lack of answers led to a lack of belief, and animosity gripped the village like it never had. Something was occupying the space between the people of the village. Residents who once freely greeted passers with a smile skirted around streets like gutter rats, other residents were barely seen at all. When there was no one to blame, everyone became a suspect. It wasn’t until Lenny returned to the police station a week after the incidents for development to appear. This time, he bundled into the station flailing and yelling, calling desperately for the Chief Constable. When Jackie got him into her office, he spoke wildly and between bouts of rapid breath that ballooned his crimson cheeks. 

“I’m not going mad, Jackie, I swear,” he said, in between long draws filling his lungs. “But I had to see for myself. I had to see what was going on in Harriet’s house.”

“Lenny, it’s okay. Tell me what’s happened,” she replied.

“Charlie and Emma Summerton, the couple that live four doors down from me, I saw ‘em a couple of nights ago visit Harriet’s house - watched ‘em from my window. It was only ten minutes later they left, lookin’ like they’d just had the worsest news. Faces like chalk,” he was knotting his hands together while he spoke, his body rocking back and forth. “The next morning I wake up to see them both hauling everything they own into their car. Then they just leave, without saying goodbye or nothing.”

Jackie had felt a thorny sensation pick at the skin across her neck for the first time in her career.

“I thought to myself, enough of this watching,” Lenny continued. “I had to know what she's up to. So I figure I’ll walk right up to her door and demand answers, tell her that upsetting the good folk of this place enough so they leave is just evil. But when I head up to the front door I hear her laughing, loud like, from the kitchen. I think to meself, she’s got someone round, and I can catch her in the act - whatever it is she’s doing. So I head to the kitchen window, and I can see her through a crack in the curtains, sitting there in the dark just talking and laughing away like it’s no one’s business. And she’s eating toast, a slice of toast. I keep looking and looking but I can’t see anyone else there, and she just keeps talking away while eating. So I’m thinkin’ she’s mad, just plain mad. I was about to turn to go when I watch her get up and walk over to the counter, and I swear to you Jackie, no word of a lie, she leans in and starts talking directly to her toaster. Not to herself, mind. Like a real conversation, like with a real person.”

With everything that had gone on, Lenny’s story, which at any other point in time she would’ve written off as the mad ramblings of a man overdue for relocation to an old folks’ home, was more proof the village was spiralling into something she couldn’t grasp. It was at least something. It was a lead.

***

In front of Lenny’s home, on the crest of a hill at the east edge of the village, Jackie parked her car. She’d never once had to use her siren since leaving the police course. In the city, people needed them. A siren cut above the cacophony of noise and reminded busy folk there was still order. Watherford needed no such reminder, but with the way things were, Jackie had been half tempted to turn it on while driving over.

It was a grim day, and rain lashed at every surface. It seeped down brick and pooled around Jackie’s feet before descending into the valley and the awaiting river. A good day for a house visit, she thought. At least there’ll be no fires today.

She crossed the road and knocked on Harriet’s door, peeking quickly at the kitchen window. The curtains were tightly closed and the lights were on. After a moment, the door swung open and Harriet stood smiling. Her hallway light was harsh and she stood phosphorus in the gloom of day, her pale foundation only brightened by the illumination. She had on a long sky-blue dress, with a blonde bob curled and hair sprayed to death to complete her appearance. 

“Jackie, so good to see you,” she said. “Please come in out of the rain.”

There were many places the Chief Constable would’ve rather been, but she stepped in anyway, thanking her host as she did.

“I’m sorry to just pop up like this, Harriet, but I just wanted to talk to you about -”

“It’s no trouble, Jackie. We’ve been expecting your visit.”

“We?”

“Come on through.”

Harriet’s smile stretched her chalk-white face, she turned to lead her guest into the kitchen. Jackie followed. When they entered the kitchen, Harriet immediately glided over to the toaster, a glistening cuboid with LED buttons and four separate levers. It was huge - a monstrous piece of technology that pulled all focus away from anything else in the room. Harriet put in two slices of bread and pulled down the levers. 

“No that's okay, I’ve eaten…”  Jackie started, but her host just flashed a smile and continued. Over the hum of the now-glowing heating elements, she spoke to Jackie in hushed tones, as if a third party was listening: “It’s okay, just eat and keep your mind open. Have a seat.”

Jackie sat before she spoke, “Harriet, I'm sorry, I’m not here to eat. I know this all very sudden but Lenny, from across the road, he’s concerned about what’s going on in this house. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

Ding.

The toast popped up and Harriet beamed. 

“Butter or jam?” she asked.

Jackie sighed. If this is the only way to talk to her, so be it. “Butter, thank you.”

Harriet abided and brought over the slices, her smile growing even wider. Jackie thanked her and took a bite. She wasn’t used to eating with an audience, but Harriet stared so intensely it was as if she couldn’t wait to hear an appraisal of what she’d prepared. Jackie swallowed and opened her mouth to speak, but then she heard it - the voice.

Hello Jackie.

Her head whipped round so fast she almost toppled over. The voice had come from right behind her as if it had spoken directly into the back of her skull. No one was there. It was just the two women on either side of the kitchen. 

Jackie turned back, eyes wide and her face drained of colour. “Who was that?” she asked.

Harriet simply leaned back on the counter and nodded. Before Jackie could continue, the voice spoke again.

Don’t panic, Jackie. I know you think you can’t see me, but I’m right here.

The voice was baritone, calm yet commanding. Like the voiceover on a banking advert you’d see on TV. And it was right there, right behind her head. No, not behind it. Inside it. Jackie kept her eyes dead on Harriet.

Nope, a little to the right.

Against all her rejection of absurdity, against everything she joined the police for and everything she knew about Watherford and reality, Jackie tore her eyes from Harriet and looked at the only other notable thing in the kitchen. The toaster.

That’s it. Hello.

“You’re joking,” she said.

No jokes here, Jackie. Me and Harriet have been waiting a long time on this.

Jackie turned back to Harriet, whose demeanour had relaxed into a placid look of amusement. “Lenny was right. Oh my god, you were talking to your toaster. That’s why he saw so many people come to your house,” she pointed at the machine. “They came to talk to that.”

Well, the first few didn’t come for me specifically. We had to get them in under the guise of brunch. Then once they ate, they understood.

“I knew this whole place was going mad.”

Not mad, Jackie. Please don't use such extreme language. Everyone who’s eaten has become…enlightened.

“Enlightened how? That toasters can talk?”

Not all toasters, just me. I’m different. This is just a vessel I’ve occupied, it makes the convincing a little easier. 

Jackie closed her eyes tight and spoke slowly, “You mean you’ve possessed a toaster in order to infiltrate Watherford?”

No answer.

Harriet pointed to the slices of toast on the table. “You’ve got to eat to hear it,” she said. Jackie rolled her eyes and took another bite. Chewed, swallowed.

Thanks, Jackie. To answer your question, yes. But infiltrate makes it sound like I’m here to do no good. It’s quite the opposite. I’m here to give Watherford a little push in the right direction.

“Push?”

That’s right, to make sure the people of this village aren’t missing out on the future. You see, Jackie, Watherford has been…lagging. It’s been hidden away for too long, from all of the good the new world brings - all of the opportunities it has. You have a phrase, you people, it’s called ‘force of nature’. Consider me a ‘force of man’. My goal is to take Watherford by the hand and lead it into the golden age it’s missing out on.

“Watherford is fine as it is”

The voice chuckled. That’s what everyone thinks until they see things for what they are. Take Harriet, for example. I was a brand-spanking new high-end toaster on a shelf in the big city department store. Just waiting for the right person to come along and help me begin my mission. Then, Harriet comes along with all this money saved up for new gardening tools, but I catch her eye. New, shiny, with buttons she doesn’t recognise. So she spends it all on me, brings me back and pops in a couple of pieces of bread. Next thing you know, we’re talking the day away.

Jackie looked back at Harriet, “What, are you two lovers?

“Of course not Jackie,” she replied, then pointed again to the toast. Bite, chew, swallow.

No Jackie, me and Harriet are two like-minded beings with big dreams. You see, she was the first of many in this town to realise something.

What’s that?”

That it’s no good hiding away from progress, from bigger thinking. Do you think the poor souls of this village are ever going to be part of the new world? They can’t even fathom the possibilities of steel, plastic and copper; the spark of ingenuity that runs through every wire and powers the future. That’s what I am. That’s what I represent. Just look at me, I’m the very image of moving forward. Humans conjured bread from what the earth gave them, it sustained you and brought you together. It was a gift to yourselves. But it wasn’t enough. You said no, cook it again. You made toast. 

Jackie rubbed her temple with her free hand as she spoke, “You came to Watherford to tell everyone how toast is the future?”

Don’t be silly, Jackie. I’m just a manifestation of what progress is. Every day man makes great strides, reaches new heights. But it’s slowing, and we need everyone involved. Places like this just aren’t pulling their weight, they’ll be left behind if they don’t join the cause. I tried to speak to as many as I could but, well, you can’t convince everyone to come round and eat with us.

It dawned on Jackie at that moment. 

“It was you,” she said. “That’s why people have been moving away, you convinced them to up and leave Watherford. The messages, the fire. That was you.”

Yes. Well no, I can only do so much. Harriet here has been so helpful in getting things moving, she’s been a real soldier.

Harriet smiled at her metal master. Jackie, incensed, took another bite before tossing aside the toast and rising.

“You’re the reason this village is scared, the reason this place has become a shadow of itself. You scared everyone away, by getting in their heads or by lighting fires on hills.”

The road of progress is never without its potholes. But it’s all necessary, I assure you. Once everyone has moved on from this place it can be a monument to what was. People can come visit this strange little corner of the world and reminisce on how far they’ve come. But first, you have to let it die, Jackie. Let Watherford die.

Jackie stood in silence. She wouldn’t have the place she loved, the place she was custodian of, die for the advancement of the very thing it had existed in spite of for so long. Then she heard the patter of rain, and she knew what she had to do.

Those that still lived in Watherford that day, if they’d lived on the east of the village edge, would have seen their Chief Constable exit hastily from Harriet Cain’s home with a large metal object under one arm. Harriet herself would be sobbing and yelling from her door, but the Chief Constable would ignore her. If they watched her for long enough, through the wall of rain, they would see her march down the valley and to the river’s edge. A lone figure in the great green expanse, they would see her hurl the metal object, like some wretched shot put, into the river, and turn without pause - the valley behind her towering and indomitable.