Jinglewood Junction

With a final pat of the shovel, Grace stood back and admired her handiwork. 

15 rows of cabbages, neatly lined up in the field, all watered and ready to grow into a bumper crop in the next few days. Her neighbour, an elephant named Cyril, wandered past.

“Hooty toot!” exclaimed Cyril, twanging his suspenders. “Looks like someone is going to be enjoying some delicious cabbages!” 

Grace replied with a happy twirl and gave Cyril eight pairs of colourful leggings, which he accepted gratefully. The leggings had cost Grace quite a lot of money, but that was what credit cards were for. Besides, the look on Cyril’s face made it all worthwhile. 

She assumed. It was hard to read elephant expressions.

It was, all told, a perfect morning, and would have continued to be so had Grace not glanced across from the television to the clock above the lounge doorway, which told her that she should have left for work five minutes ago.

Grumbling, Grace gestured goodbye to Cyril, saved her game and then turned off the computer. 

--

Work had lasted, Grace estimated, 14,000 hours.

She’d spilled coffee on her keyboard. She’d forgotten it was Ellis’s birthday, and hadn’t got a cake. To cap it all off, the company had instituted a new IT system that made everything take four times longer than it did before, and her managers were now all congratulating each other in a series of emails that barged their way into her inbox every three minutes.

She’d agreed to meet her grandmother for lunch as it had been a while since she’d seen her, but she found it hard to concentrate as her mind raced through checklists of the time sensitive Jinglewood chores she’d have to do this evening.

“Are you alright, sweet pea?” her grandmother asked. “You seem distracted.”

Grace told her that she was fine, she was just busy at work. 

“You work so hard,” her grandmother beamed, leaning forward and brushing a lock of curly hair out of Grace’s eyes. “But I do worry about you, sweet pea. Work’s important, but you’ve got to make time for yourself outside of it, too.”

Grace promised her that she’d try and take better care of herself. 

--

A steaming cup of tea sat on the low, flat coffee table as Grace turned the computer on and the familiar title theme came tumbling out of the speakers. “Jinglewood Junction!” proclaimed the title screen. “v. 1.2!”

This was new to Grace. There’d never been a version number on the title screen before. The game must have updated automatically while she was at work. 

Curious, Grace clicked on the popup titled “What’s New?” to see what exactly had changed.

“Jinglewood Junction is constantly changing and adapting to meet our users’ needs.” proclaimed the text on screen. Grace recognised the handwriting as belonging to Bearman Jones, the mayor of Jinglewood Junction, who was a bear. A lilting folk guitar song played softly in the background. 

“We’ve taken on board feedback from all parts of our community in putting together this new update.” the message went on. “You’ve spoken, we’ve listened, and the number one request we had from people was for alternative ways to earn Jangles, our premium in-game currency, without having to pay real world money.”

Grace nodded in agreement. It was getting ridiculous. She was nudging her overdraft as it was, and she hadn’t even started shopping for holiday gifts for the other Junctioneers. 

The note continued.

“Therefore, we’ve instituted a new system that we think is a lot fairer and should help empower everyone along the next stage of their Jinglewood journey. See you in the town square!”

The note ended with Bearman Jones’ signature, complete with paw print, so Grace knew it was legit. Curious, she closed the text popup and loaded into her game. 

Ignoring her usual routine, she followed the winding cobbled path straight to the town square where the game’s shop, a pleasantly tumbledown, half-timbered building called The Jinglewood Emporium was located. A cheerful tinkle of bells announced Grace’s entry and she cast her eyes around, trying to determine what had changed.

Most of the store was exactly as it was before: a rustic, yet exceptionally tasteful trading post selling a variety of covetable homewares which changed daily. Some of them could only be purchased using Jangles, the currency that had been hammering Grace’s credit card of late.  Automatically, Grace did a mental inventory of the day’s offering: a sleek, modern refrigerator. A potted aspidistra. A framed photograph of a duck. Grace already had all three. 

The shopkeeper, Jeremy Jangles, who was a capybara in overalls, was going about his usual duties, sweeping the floor, chatting about the weather, and charging an extortionate amount for furniture. 

However, at the back of the shop there was a new counter made of dark polished wood above which hung an expensive looking brass sign that read “PREMIUM STORE”. Lounging behind the counter was an octopus wearing a baker boy cap and a sturdy canvas apron. Its tentacles curled out across the counter as it noticed Grace.

“Welcome!” bubbled the octopus. “Feel free to peruse our stock, but don’t dawdle too long! These are limited time offers, Squiddle-dee!” 

Grace hit the button prompt and a new menu opened up. Unusually, there was only one item for sale: a set of four chairs, and they were represented not with an in-game image, but as a lovingly hand drawn sketch in coloured pencils. 

Grace took in the artist’s rendering of the chairs. They were beautiful. Rustic and homely, yet stylish and painted in a soft shade of eggshell that would perfectly match the decór in her virtual kitchen. 

She looked at the price tag and was surprised to see that instead of a price listed in Jangles as would usually be the case, there was a picture of a low, flat coffee table similar to the one Grace had in her living room. 

Grace was puzzled. But the “buy” option was highlighted, not greyed out as it would have been if she couldn’t afford it. 

Speculatively, she hit the button.

“Sold!” shouted the premium shopkeeper. “I’ll have that shipped to you overnight! Have a squiddly-diddly day!”

The rest of Grace’s evening was uneventful. She watered her cabbages. She went to a hamster’s birthday party. She fielded an extremely inconveniently timed real life phone call from her grandmother that she couldn’t wrap up fast enough. She played nine rounds of golf with a dog, and then exhausted, went to bed ready for the morning. 

--

Morning came and Grace clambered out of her sagging bed going through a mental checklist of the tasks that awaited her today. The cabbages would be ready of course, and the dog that sold house plants would be in town as it was the 15th. 

“Also your performance review at work”, a smaller voice in her head reminded her. “And you haven’t changed these sheets in-”

“Cabbages though”, said a larger voice, and Grace bounded downstairs, avoiding the broken step, to turn on the computer. 

Something wasn’t quite right about her lounge, but it failed to register as the familiar music spilled from the television, filling the room with folksy mandolin. Grace fixed herself a coffee, sat down and picked up the controller.

In the game, Jinglewood Grace repeated the steps the real Grace had just gone through, jumping out of her reclaimed antique four poster bed and heading down the curving hardwood staircase before heading into her kitchen. 

There, perfectly arranged around her long oak table were the four chairs from the store yesterday. Grace had been right. They perfectly complemented the kitchen, adding to its rustic charm while giving it an air of understated sophistication. 

Real Grace regarded Jinglewood Grace’s new kitchen with satisfaction, took a sip of her coffee and leaned forward to put it down on her coffee table, realising just in time that it wasn’t there anymore. There was a rectangular depression in the carpet indicating where the table had been, but the table itself was nowhere to be seen.

Grace stared at the space where the table should be. She ran to the front door. It was still locked and dead bolted from the night before. Nothing had been disturbed. Grace turned around and stood with her back pressed against the door looking back along the hallway to the lounge, to the space where her coffee table should have been.

As her heart rate started to return to normal, Grace began to wonder if it was such a bad thing. 

She’d been meaning to get rid of that old table for a while, she told herself. 

Nothing else had been touched, she continued. 

She had the chairs didn’t she, she finished.

It was fine. 

Everything was fine. 

The premium item shop was empty for a few days after that. Clearly, Grace thought, they were assessing the results of their experiment to see how it had gone. It was a full week until she walked into the shop to see that something new had been added to the store, but Grace could already see that whatever it was was a much bigger deal than a set of chairs.

“Squiddle-di-dee!” said the octopus. “I’m so excited for today, GRACE! We have a whole new extension to your house for sale!” Once again, its tentacles snaked out along the countertop, curling hypnotically in Grace’s peripheral vision.

“A beautiful conservatory with attached greenhouse! It’s also the only place in Jinglewood Junction where you can raise tropical fruit and flowers!” the octopus continued, raising what would have been its eyebrows if octopuses had eyebrows.

Grace’s knuckles itched. She’d never wanted anything more in her life. 

“But you’d better act now!” said the octopus. “This offer’s good for today only, squiddle-bop-a-doo-wop!” 

Grace hit the button and looked at the screen. At the top was a stylised pencil drawing of the conservatory. Gorgeous, gleaming, exclusive. 

Underneath was a drawing of the price: a human finger.

Grace stared. There was no mistaking that it was a finger. It had a nail on the end, knuckles, joints. This was a human digit. It looked, in fact, eerily similar to Grace’s own finger. 

Grace stared at the conservatory for ten long seconds and then hit “buy”.

--

After a fitful night’s sleep Grace awoke the next morning, immediately flung back the covers and looked down at her hands. 

Her stomach flipped. Her left pinky was gone. 

In its place was what looked like an expertly applied dressing, branded with the Jinglewood Junction logo. 

Grace stared for a full minute and then, clutching her hand, she raced downstairs to the computer and turned it on, skipping through the title screen and intro sequence.

“Well that’s just about wrapped up,” announced the construction foreman, who was a cat. “I think this extension has come out purrfectly!” 

Grace looked in wonder at the new wing of her virtual home. It was more beautiful than she could have imagined, with intricate, decorative wrought iron work, a gorgeous inlaid tile floor and a hothouse that was already bursting with rare orchids, succulent pineapples and colourful butterflies.

“Just remember to keep that dressing on for at least three days, meow wow!” said the foreman, as he and his crew departed. Grace ignored the dull ache in her hand, and pressed the button to pluck a pineapple from the tree. Jinglewood Grace held the pineapple in her hand and smiled.

Grace smiled back.

--

The premium item shop stayed closed for a lot longer this time, but Grace didn’t miss it. She was too busy growing tropical fruits and making stunning fruit salads that she gifted to the other residents of Jinglewood Junction. 

They’d thrown a pineapple festival in her honour.

It was wonderful.

Various friends and colleagues had noticed the missing finger, but Grace had passed it off as the result of a bike accident. Her grandmother had been the most upset, and moaned about it being yet another sign that Grace wasn’t taking good enough care of herself, but Grace had told her not to worry. She’d started avoiding her weekly phone calls now. There was just too much to do. 

It was close to two months later when Grace walked into the Jinglewood Emporium to buy some more potting soil and saw that the octopus was back, its tentacles coiling behind the counter, beckoning Grace over to peruse his wares.

Welcome back, GRACE!” said the shopkeeper. “Squiddly,” he added hastily, almost as an afterthought. “We have something very special in store today. It’s time for Jinglewood Junction to get a little bigger! But we can’t do it without your help, GRACE.”

Grace nodded, solemnly. This sounded serious. 

Jinglewood Grace smiled. She always smiled.

“Don’t look so serious, GRACE,” said the octopus. “This is good news! We’re going to open a café! A cosy place for townsfolk to hang out and spend time, listen to live jazz music and poetry recitals and of course, enjoy fresh bread, artisanal pastries and freshly brewed coffee.”

Grace blinked. That sounded wonderful.

The octopus’s expression shifted. “Of course, a project this size comes at a much steeper price, GRACE. If you feel you cannot pay it, we understand. Jinglewood understands. I’m sure the town will still manage to get by… somehow.” The tentacles curled back towards the octopus’s body as the popup menu flashed up the purchase details.

Grace looked at the artist’s rendering of the beautiful café, with its striped awnings, aesthetic décor and mountains of colourful macarons. It was everything she’d ever wanted.

The octopus stared at Grace as her eyes moved to the price. It was a drawing of a person. An old, kindly-looking woman. An old, kindly-looking woman who looked very similar to Grace’s own grandmother.

Grace stared at the button.

--

“Morning, Grace!” said the postman, who was a marmoset, as he exited the café. “Can’t get enough of these beautiful croissants! Thanks again!” 

Grace twirled happily in response and entered the café. It was full of happy customers, who sat in groups of three and four drinking coffee, eating pastries and enjoying themselves. A red panda with a guitar was working its way through an open-mic set of folk classics, and earned an earnest round of applause from a nearby table of waistcoated caribou. It had quickly become Grace’s favourite place to spend time in all of Jinglewood Junction. It was almost perfect.

Grace walked up to place her order, and as she always did, tried not to look at the old woman who worked there. 

But she was impossible to avoid as she stood behind the counter, with her fixed smile and her wide, tearful eyes that seemed to follow Grace wherever she went.

“What’ll it be, sweet pea?” she asked.