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"The Flatpack Observer - (a tale)"
Fiction by Roger Kent
Chapter 1
5.30
AM
With a blizzard of blossom, an abundance of bulging buds, bluebells,
bounteous butterbumbles and birdsong, spring made an early and
spectacular arrival in the heavy-eyed village of Flatpack on the
water. Wild and vivacious colours burst from the fingers of gargoyles,
cold barbed tangles gave way to lush pulsating veins, brave young
faces peeked from derelict hedgerows and squeezed from ill-fitting
cuffs. Flatpack stretched sinuously, yawned cavernously, blinked
stickily, scanned the soft yellow-green reborn world, and kicked the
cat off the duvet. Ever-eager to boast of its nocturnal travels, the
sun strained on pointed toes to peer over the
watery horizon and on
seeing the village, it beamed. Overnight, winter had released its
boney grip on this friendly huddle of homes, schools and shops, and
the village sighed with relief. Not that this surge of opulence was
witnessed by the residents of Flatpack, even on a day of such local
import as March 10th, no curtain twitched, no jogger jogged, no dog
walked, no coffee ground at such an early hour.
But wait...a momentary shard of golden light ...a careful closure
click...then the tap-tap-tapping of heels departing....
6.00
In the doorway of Annie Gibbets's Pie Shop, wrapped in a cocoon of
lovingly crotched blankets, Mad Uncle Jack, the Village's resident
vagrant snored contentedly beneath the words "Flatpack Pies - the pies
that pack a punch!" A group of seagulls waited patiently at his feet
for their morning rinds. The sun positioned itself above the little
church of St Dullard and smiled down the gentle decline of Applecourt
Road, Flatpack's main thoroughfare. All was peace and mist.
There was a rusty clatter as an aging bicycle slipped its prop and
fell to the pavement...the seagulls took to the air as one. Jack
raised a heavy eyelid to confirm the source of the sound, and was
struck by the glorious morning that greeted him. Sheilding his eyes
from the sun's brilliance, he stretched and admired his adoptive home;
the simple shuttered shops, the sagging rooftops, the lethally uneven
pavements, the quaint little church which, despite the sun's best
efforts, was still hiding its charms under a veil of silver-blue. At
this time of year, Jack normally spent his nights in the overgrown
churchyard amid the leaning, lichen-clad slabs. He liked to wake
surrounded by kneeling cherrubs and "in loving memory's", and see new
life squeezing from every chink and flaw, watch the urgency of spiders
on beaded webs slung between fronds of maidenhair spleenwort and Ivy
leafed Toadflax... however, not wishing to miss a moment of the
festivities, he had changed his sleeping arrangements for the big day.
A large banner with the words "135th Annual Carnival, Saturday March
10th, - it's going to be quite good!" hung across Applecourt Road
between Bailey's Butchers, (recently renamed by owner Tom Bailey
following complaints that a shop called "Your Dead Meat" was out of
character with Flatpack's polite rural image), and the post office.
Jack smiled as he recalled the late-night committee meetings and the
heated exchanges over the wording of the Carnival slogan.
"So the big day is finally here" he thought, and promptly went back to
sleep.
8.00
The Clock on the green struck seven. The Villagers began to break the
surface, each in their own distinctive way...
At no.8 Tantamount Street, Donald Bevis opened his eyes and looked up
at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling, after a moment he remembered who
he was and scratched his head - it felt sore. Gradually he recalled
his previous night's overindulgence at the carnival queen crowning
ceremony. Through the wall he could hear the Anderson girls dancing
exitedly around their bedroom. He groaned and pulled the quilt up
over his head.
Three doors away, the unlikely aromatic combination of fairy cakes and
white spirit drifted lazily from the kitchen window of no.5.
Paintbrush in hand, Joy Splinter-Doggeral stepped back from her
homemade cake/splat the rat stall and ran a critical eye over her last
minute touch-up job.
"Grand" she thought
"Looks like we've got a nice day for it!" she called out to her
Neighbour, retired Schoolmaster and keen Naturist Bedford Trite, who
sat in a deckchair enjoying a relaxing meerschaum of Captain Ginger's
wild-cut whiting shag, a recent copy of the Flatpack Observer
protecting his modesty from falling sparks.
...
"I'm just going to sing dear!" Norbert Dentresangle announced round
his kitchen door.
"Right-oh dear", responded his wife, applying dark unrestrained
marmalade to toast.
Still in his pyjamas and with woodblocks in hand, Norbert climbed out
of the bathroom window onto the flat roof of his workshop, from which
he had an inspiring view of the harbour, and took a deep lungful of
salty air.
Two doors away, Barbara Knipflit poked her sleeping Husband in the
back,
"He's singing again!"
No response...a further poke
"Norbert's singing The Deadwood Stage again!"
Miles Knipflit rolled onto his back
"I know Barb, what do you want me to do about it?!"
"Well tell him to stop it! I have no desire to hear a selection of
broadway musical numbers at this time in the morning!"
...
Norbert's whip-crack-away woodblock effects could be heard as far away
as the Vicarage, which was located directly behind St Dullards
churchyard. In their manicured garden, the Reverend Nicholas Old and
his wife took tea and maceroons, and quietly contemplated the day
ahead....
9.30
Flatpack basked in the unseasonal heat. The mist had gone, its place
taken by a shimmering haze filled with the buzz and bubble of happy
exited voices. A stage, hastily erected from old banana boxes, tea
chests, bits of driftwood and fence panels supported on milk bottle
crates and beer barrels with a sackcloth covering had appeared
overnight in the carpark of the Flatpack Parakeet, the village's
premier nightspot. Fifteen rows of hard wooden chairs faced the stage,
each of which was occupied by at least one Villager's backside. It was
clear that the numbers wishing to hear the Mayor's opening speech had
been underestimated as many were left standing at the back, whilst the
village children squated and played happily around the edges. A number
had chosen to watch the procedings from the comparative comfort of Two
Oaks Green only yards away. The green boasted one bench, referred to
locally as "the bench", on which 5 members of the knitting circle sat,
needles clicking furiously, and which bore the inscription " In loving
memory of our Doctor, Rufus Stone, who tirelessly devoted his life to
healing the sick of this community " There was a certain irony in the
fact that Dr Stone was not dead, but had himself commissioned the
bench from his "deathbed" during a bout of self-diagnosed Tropical
Rodent Fever, (previously unknown outside the Congo basin), from which
he did not expect to recover. By the time the seat was completed and
installed on the green, Dr Stone had fully recovered from the flu and
had resumed his regular seat in the Anxious Flounder public house.
The carpark of the Parakeet was being used for the occasion due to
the temporary closure of the village hall which, following damage
caused during a rather boisterous gig by touring heavy-metal trio
"Death, Purgatory and Vomit", (who were supported on the night by Reg
Atkins and his semi-accoustic log band), was undergoing repairs.
A bent and bitter figure shuffled forward to the microphone. Charlie
"tragic puns" Chaplinson was a relative newcomer to Flatpack, having
retired to the village the previous autumn, a decision which he
regretted with a bitterness only matched in its intensity by his
dislike of the simple villagers. He surveyed the assembled faces with
contempt,
"what a bunch of losers" he thought, and cleared his throat in a
disgusting manner.
"So....do you fancy a chuckle??!!" he bellowed into the microphone.
Turning, he nodded to Johnny Splif who was seated at the foot of the
stage. Johnny, who had purchased a gerbil the previous day from
"Domesticated Vermin R Us" in Applecourt Road and was busily stuffing
huge pieces of fruitcake into the delighted rodent's mouth, was
distracted by his purchase and missed the signal. Charlie leaned
forward and gave the boy an impatient poke between the shoulderblades.
Jumping to his feet, dropping gerbil and cake as he did so, Johnny
held aloft a large sign bearing the prompt "Give us a chuckle
Chuck!!!"
.....not a sausage...
" Inbred Cretins", Charlie muttered under his breath and, undittered,
launched into a ten -minute barrage of unbelievably dated and
politically shameful one-liners that barely raised a titter, let alone
a chuckle, from the genteel Flatpackians, finally concluding with his
personal favorite - the one about the Air-hostess and the goat.
He took a deep breath and once again scanned the unappreciative faces
like a tank-commander taking aim at an opposing army. A drizzle-laden
cloud of brooding resentment hung over the shocked assemblage.
"Well..." Charlie sighed and, with the realisation that the ordeal
was nearly over, the cloud began to move away in the direction of Gus
Gazzlers Auto-hypermart.
".....you've been a wonderful audience...." he lied through gritted
dentures....
" I'm now going to pass you over to a man who needs no
introduction...which is lucky because I've completely forgotten his
name!!!"
Pause for laughter...not a jot
An angry wave of deep purple was creeping steadily up Charlie's neck.
He crushed his notes in a fist, gave the crowd one last withering
glare and stormed to the back of the stage muttering profanities and
references to blood and stones. Having kicked over his chair, he
jumped down from the stage with surprising athletisism and was gone.
An uncomfortable pause followed, then Mayor Hedley Gerald-Headley
stepped forward....
"Well thankyou Charlie, it's always good to start the day with a
chuckle, (he read verbatim from his notes). So... welcome
everyone.......
______________
Meanwhile, at no. 47 Plague Bungalows, Sidney Mackerson sat on his bed
firing toenails at Mrs Mackerson. He glanced at his watch....
"Hedley will have just started his speech...."
"Oh well.." snorted his wife, rising from the bed "...I might as well
take a leisurely bath then, he'll be at it for hours, stupid man !!",
and stomped into the bathroom
Sidney paused from his clipping and looked up, somewhat surprised at
this outburst
"He is our Mayor Dorothy, and...."
"Yes, heaven help us! and he's about the dullest man ever to set foot
in the village! Why on earth the committee ask him to speak every year
is completely beyond me."
"I think you're a bit hard on Hedley, he's lived in the village all
his..."
"A bit hard! A bit hard!! You do remember the fiasco last year, don't
you!?...well don't you?... well of course you do... that
interminable anecdote about the day he bumped into some Cricketer that
no-one else had ever heard of ...I thought it was never going to end!
..and then he started going on about his allotment of all things!..
Doesn't he realise that some of us would actually like to see the
procession and the costumes, hear the bands, not listen to him droning
on and on about that blessed award-winning parsnip of his!! My heart
went out to those poor brownies, all dressed up in paper flowers ready
to lead the parade...two hours he kept them waiting! Two hours! Some
of them started crying you know...... Oh! and those awful gushing
complements he pays his poor wife, how on earth does Veronica put up
with him, that poor long-suffering woman should be given a medal for
staying with that pompous fool for all these years...."
Sidney paused and pictured Veronica Gerald-Headley, a rare smile
formed on his lips.
"...and another thing..." continued the voice from the bathroom
The smile was hastily erased. Sidney returned the clippers to their
drawer and produced a large file. Within moments, a white cloud of
dead skin filled the room. From the bathroom, there was the sound of a
large female descending into hot water.
"...why doesn't the committee invest in some descent chairs, I'd lost
all circulation in my legs by the time old Fathead finally finished!
Oh, and while we're on the subject of last year, don't think I didn't
notice you flirting with that Mortimer girl from the bakery, I heard
you - telling her about your rowing achievements, (as if she'd be
interested), and topping up her elderflower punch - you should be
ashamed of yourself!"
"What.... Nancy? ...but she's young enough to be my d.....
"Yes, we definitely made the right decision to stay at home this year,
we can listen to the highlights on the wireless and you can watch the
floats go by from the front door....at a safe distance mind!"
"We?!" thought Sidney but decided to hold his tongue. He gave a deep
sigh of resignation and proceded to lance his underarm bubos.
________________________
The Mayor continued
"....I'm honoured to say that this is the eighth successive year that
I have been asked to speak to you on the morning of our annual
carnival, and what a glorious morning we have been gifted this year.
Now, I know a lot of you will be wondering why the committee ask old
Hedley to make a speech every year..."
Ripple of embarrassed laughter
"... well, don't worry, I shall be brief," (a large, well-thumbed pile
of papers suggested otherwise).
"A couple of mornings ago, I was sitting in our kitchen tucking into
a splendid plateful of scrambled eggs that my lovely Wife had
prepared......"
Veronica Gerald-Headley, who was sitting in the second row, cringed at
the description "lovely". It was the generally-held view of the
Villagers... well, certainly of the menfolk, that their Mayoress was
"a magnificent woman" and, with a face and figure that forcefully
contradicted any suggestion that she had passed her 50th year, (which
indeed she had, seven years before), it was hard to argue with this
view. Whether attending formal civic engagements, on her Husband's arm
at social functions, talking to the village children in School
assembly, or merely buying cotton buds in Atticus Malleable's general
store, Veronica was always immaculate, classical, sickeningly elegant.
On the whole, the Villagers held their Mayor in equally high esteem,
although nobody ever refered to him as "magnificent". A man of
infinate chins, Hedley was essentially a plain, simple and
uncompromisingly dreary man who had been elevated way beyond his
limited abilites. The election of Churchwarden Gerald-Headley to the
post of Mayor came as a big surprise to many, not least the man
himself. He had a uniquely square head, jowells that wobbled as he
walked, fat fingers and hairy ears. He wore rhobust tweeds, heavy
brown shoes and an ever-present vest. Predictable in every respect, he
drank stout from a pewter tankard (in moderation of course), was
proud, puffed and above all unexiting. A more unlikely couple than the
Gerald-Headleys could not be imagined.
10.15
...and continued
"....and, before I continue, perhaps I should qualify my next
statement by saying that I understand the strongly-held opinions of
those who would argue to the contrary and indeed be perfectly entitled
to take an opposing view to that of myself and, with regard to any
misinterpretations I may have made in my appraisal of this and other
subjects which may or may not arise in the future and
incidentally...."
__________________
Up in the fields overlooking the village, Farmer Josh Pigs sat on a
bale surrounded by his herd, cows and farmer chewing the cud
pensively. At his side, loyal one-eared companion Rex, a fearless
Clump-Knotted Terrier of great age, dozed.
Josh was listening to the procedings on Wonderful Radio Flatpack,
"where crop-rotation comes first". Having suffered an unfortunate
accident with a harvesting machine in his mid 30's, which resulted in
a small but significant piece of agricultural equipment being lodged
in his cranium, Josh had no need of a radio. Soon after the accident
he discovered that, merely by raising his right index finger and
facing South East, he could pick up the local radio station with
remarkable clarity. Josh would spend many happy evenings amongst the
waving wheat, finger raised, listening to his particular favorites; "A
rant at bedtime" and "Friday night is chutney night". A minor
anti-clockwise adjustment however, and the refined tones of village
gossip would be blotted out by the raucous noise that was Elevator
Gold! (lift music from the 70,s, 80's and 90's) . This was not to
Josh's taste at all.
"Well Rex lad..." he sighed heavily, lowering his finger," ...that's
enough sittin' around, you and me have a busy day ahead of us. Them
folks down there 'spects a big finale and we mustnt dissapoint them".
He drained the last few drops of coffee from a tin cup and, with his
companion bouncing at his feet, strolled into the barn, stopping
briefly in the doorway to admire his handiwork. Stacked up at the far
end were several hundred handmade fertilizer fireworks, each
colourfully painted and named after a prominent Villager; Bob
Topping's creepy banshee, Will Meagre's whistling moon traveller, Old
Mrs Campbell's crackling fountain, Jacob Dreary's chrysanthemum burst,
Veronica's big bang, and so on...names that gave no hint at the
awesome ferocity of Josh's creations. Admittedly, nobody had ever been
hurt during one of his lengthy choreographed displays, however
eyebrows were raised when a falling "Mrs Yawn from the Chemist's
Spangly Shower" caused considerable damage to the jam factory, two
years earlier.
Having clumsily stacked all 427 of his deadly weapons into the chicken
trailer and tied them in place with a wholly inadequate length of
frayed string, Josh and Rex climbed aboard the tractor and set off for
Market Square.
_________________________________
10.40
"....and the funny thing is that, despite giving him my full postal
address and phone number, I never heard from him again! Ah well,
that's Cricketers for you.
Anyway, I digress, I was about to tell you of the time my beautiful
Wife and I were invited to cut the ribbon for the opening of the
mackeral-smoking hut...."
Veronica's flesh visibly crept in response to this latest complement,
she pulled her Enrico Gabrielli hat over her eyes and shuffled down in
the chair behind the large and malodourous figure of Mad Uncle Jack
who was, as usual, dozing, in the front row. Perhaps I should point
out at this juncture that Jack was not mad nor, to the best of my
knowledge, was he anyones Uncle...and his name certainly wasn't Jack.
Let me explain:
One sunny morning during the previous summer, Edward St Claire, 4th
Viscount Salmouth, walked out of his vast Elizabethan stately home in
the neighbouring county, he walked out on his painfully materialistic
Wife and three ghastly children, he walked out on a life of privelage,
comfort beyond words, wealth beyond reason, and influence beyond
justification, he left behind the shooting parties, racehorses,
tapestries, wine cellar, the cars and the fawning underlings. As he
crunched down his gravel drive, he waved cheerily to Reynolds, the
Head Gardener.
He walked for days.... directionless....he grew a beard, ate berries,
found a hat, ran his fingers over craggy bark, listened to sparrows,
stroked a furry nettle... hunted for docks, tried to recall all the
characters who went to Widdecombe Fair, hummed "waltzing matilda",
made a daisy chain, watched rabbits do what rabbits do and tore his
suit. By day he rested in soft meadows finding faces in the clouds, by
night he lay in roofless barns counting the stars. After five days on
the road, he was struck by the delightful realisation that the chronic
shoulder pain that had plagued him for many years had melted away.
One pleasant balmy evening, Edward scaled a particularly steep hill
and was rewarded for his efforts by a magnificent view over many miles
of countryside, he rested on a patch of soft moss to admire the
scenary. In the distance he could just make out some antiquated farm
machine moving slowly and silently across a field, the driver appeared
to have one finger in the air.
"Honest labour" he thought, and reflected that this was the first
human activity he had witnessed for several days. His thoughts were
interrupted by exited voices behind.
He turned and he found himself facing a group of boys in school
uniform with bat and ball, all instantly froze. Their game forgotten,
they stared at the stranger, spellbound,....what a sight!... Who could
he be, and where had he come from? They eyed him up and down with a
mix of fascination and curiosity. These were intelligent boys and they
knew an ordinary tramp when they saw one, and they didn't have to look
too closely to see beyond the veneer of abject filth to the silken,
personalised, hand-made trappings of wealth that lay beneath. Plus,
this man didn't hold himself with the cringing stoop of a vagrant,
rather he had the bearing of...well...almost of an Aristocrat. What a
peculiar contradiction, (but compulsive viewing!).
Edward began to feel uncomfortable, and blurted out....
"Hello boys...what are you playing?"
A stupid question of course and it failed to produce a response. The
awkward silence continued and was only broken when the tallest of the
group located sufficient courage to announce in a loud voice...
"You look like my mad Uncle Jack!"
Hysterical laughter, completely disproportionate with the humour in
the comment, followed and the boys legged it in the direction from
whence they had come, whooping and chanting "Mad Uncle Ja-ack !".
Much relieved, Edward watched the boys disappear into the distance,
"Mad Uncle Jack", he smiled ".... I could live with that".
Returning his gaze to the horizon, he noticed that the Farmer had gone
and a milky sickle of moon had appeared in the sky. Instinctively he
glanced at his wrist where, until a week before a £4000 Julius Pinelli
watch had resided. He chuckled as he recalled the insane but joyous
act of hurling this symbol of his hated former life into the depths of
a lake.
"Better keep moving" he thought
He had only taken a few steps when his eyes were drawn to a white
object in the ditch. Intrigued, he paused and, with some difficulty,
clawed back the possessive vegetation to reveal a crudely constructed
sign. Prone, damaged and neglected it read, "Flatpack on the Water
welcomes careful dr". The name meant nothing to Edward, well....almost
nothing, he did experience a very slight sense of déjà vu on reading
these words. This he quickly dismissed and forgot, but the seed of
curiosity had been planted.....
It didn't take "Jack" long to charm his way into the Villagers'
affections and he was soon accepted as one of their own. Never short
of a meal or warmth, the only offers he did decline were those of
money and a bed.
Now, I know what you're wondering - a prominent Aristocrat vanishes
without trace... surely there would have been a major enquiry, a
nationwide search, appeals in the media, an incident room, tabloid
muck-raking, door to door enquiries..... and yes, there were all of
these things; Edwards disappearance made headline news for two weeks,
the enquiries were enthusiastic for maybe three weeks...., but let's
just say that Edward,Viscount Salmouth had not been well liked and
was not greatly missed...and of course nobody thought to ask the
residents of Flatpack
_______________________________________
11.00
"... and I think that's when I first developed my passion for root
vegetables....."
__________________
An apologetic bell tinkled apologetically and a hand-written sign
offering "special discounts to the under 12's", fluttered groundwards
as Charlie stormed through the front door of Al's Offy. Without
ceremony, he reached for the first bottle of copper-coloured liquid
and, thumping it down on the counter, looked up expecting to see the
reassuringly puffed and ruddy features of Al Turd, proprietor,
complete with soggy roll-up and underarm stains. He was therefore
rather taken aback to have his eyes met by a fresh faced nervy-looking
youth with an earring.
"A bottle of Old and Blended is it sir, a fine choice. I believe
that's Mr Turd's preferred tipple"
Charlie ignored this feeble attempt at pleasant conversation and
produced a grimy note from his back pocket which he slapped on the
counter next to the bottle and turned to make his exit.
"Have a nice day Sir!!" called out the over-eager lad and immediately
wished he hadnt. Charlie paused...turned...and looked manacingly into
the boy's eyes.
"If I do..." he smouldered.... "You'll be the first to know."
The apologetic bell made one last apologetic tinkle as the door
slammed and then joined the hand-written note on the shop floor.
_______________________
11.37
"...well, I can tell you, that was the last time I wore braces to a
funeral!
Anyway, I think I've taken up enough of this lovely day, time to send
our customary signal to the meadow where the floats will be gathering
eager to depart, I believe it's Tom Bailey who will be leading the
parade this year in his mobile abbortoir. Before I do, however, I must
just tell you a short story about an incident that happened to me a
few years ago......"
From the second row, Veronica caught her Husband's eye and gave him
one of her "wind it up or I'll kill you" looks
"...errr, but maybe I'll save that for another day", Hedley wisely
deviated from his notes for the first time.
"..oh, I was handed a couple of scraps of paper before I came on,
(fumbles in pocket),...ah yes, ...a reminder that the first prize in
today's raffle is a 8lb tenderloin shank kindly donated by Mr Pigs,
and..... Mrs Rifkin-Plaster will be exhibiting her remarkable
collection of wooden sandwiches at no.14 Subsidence street. One not
to be missed, I think you'll agree".
' Right, here we go....'
The mayor walked to the side of the stage and was handed a huge pair
of theatrical scissors which he used to snip a taught length of
string. A large fishing net zipped back and twenty-seven balloons,
each with a brightly coloured sock attached, rose impressively into
the blue, accompanied by a huge cheer.
'So...' ( he struggled to be heard), '... have a nice day!' (Appalling
American accent)
Thunderous Applause
11.42
'I don't like the look of those clouds', announced Hettie Dalliard as
she carefully formed a perfect pyramid of sugar lumps on a silver
tray.
Twin Sister Lettie looked up from her given task of filling four huge
brown teapots, and scanned the magnificent, uniformly azure canvas
above their heads.
'I think you may be mistaken dear'
Hettie sighed, 'Look again little sister'
Lettie, who had earned the soubriquet 'little' by virtue of being born
a mere seventeen minutes after Hettie, craned her neck, turned a full
360°, and was about to repeat her previous statement when she spotted
a small feathery blemish floating harmlessly above the spot where
Scurvy the Pirate, (Confectioner Milton Geoffrey), was nailing the
Slogan 'Yo ho ho and premature tetracycline stains' above his Brightly
Coloured Sweetie stall.
Lettie chuckled, 'Oh really Sister, that little chap wont give us any
trouble'
'That 'little chap', Hettie explained patiently, 'is a cirrus, and you
should never trust a cirrus - they are the deceptively meek offspring
of the cumulonimbus. If you see one out on its own, you can be pretty
sure that its not-so-meek parents will soon come looking for it, and
before you know it the whole extended family has arrived!'
'An extended family of clouds?!' Lettie laughed, 'that's fanciful even
for you Henrietta!'
'Oh! I'm being fanciful am I? Well, Little Sister, maybe you will be
less likely to scoff after you hear what happened to me last night...
I was just getting ready for bed when there was an urgent rapping on
the front door.
'Funny', I thought, so I opened it very cautiously, and who should I
find on the step looking as white as a sheet?...Maisie Wittering!
'Good Heavens Maisie..' I said, '..Whatever's the matter?'
'Oh Hettie, I have some dreadful news, simply dreadful...', she
spluttered
'You'd better come in dear' I led her to the best chair and put on a
strong pot of the Afghan Bracer.
'There you are Maisie...', I said, easing the saucer between her
trembling fingers, '...now why don't you tell me all about it'
She took a sip and composed herself a little, 'I...I don't know how to
tell you this Henrietta, it's the bladderwrack, it's...moist!!'
'Oh is that all dear?', I said, 'From the way you were talking I
thought someone had d...'
'No no no! You don't understand Hettie, it should always be dry and
brittle at this time of year, even crispy, but never...moist! Don't
you see what this means?
'No dear..' I said '..do tell me'
'The carnival's going to be a wash-out! The floats will be ruined, the
stalls will be blown away in the howling gales... there may even be
one of those twister things that I read about in Dr Stone's waiting
room!'
She was getting herself into a right old state, so I poured her a
second cup, stirred in a handful of fungal twigs and tried to make
light of it... 'I'm sure you're mistaken dear, and anyway, we havn't
had a drop of rain on carnival day since 1881', but she wouldn't have
it, just kept wringing her hands and insisting, 'the seaweed never
lies!'
In the end she made me promise to consult my breakfast leaves, that
was what I was doing when you arrived this morning; I had my usual cup
of Robust Roger, swirled the dregs into the saucer, and wouldn't you
know it - the leaves formed into an inverted cluster to the left of
the handle!'
Hettie looked up to gauge her Sister's reaction to this momentous news
and was not impressed by Lettie's empty expression...
'You don't remember what an inverted cluster to the left of the handle
indicates do you? Oh honestly Lettie, have you forgotten everything I
taught you?!' She reached into a string shopping bag and produced a
huge, dark leather-bound copy of "Pinochet's lore of Tassiography",
flicked directly to the desired page and read aloud...
"...an inverted cluster to the left of the handle symbolises a
sustained period of stormy and inclement weather. Alternatively, this
pattern can be interpreted as predicting a dispute with a neighbour
over the ownership of an oat-dibbing stick"
'So there you have it', Hettie closed and tapped the book 'You can't
argue with Pinochet! Oh, and just in case you do not consider an
inverted cluster, the appearance of a cirrus, and some inexplicably
supple seaweed to be sufficient proof of the deluge that we are going
to encounter, then let me remind you that all but one of Mr Pigs'
Shorthorn Devonshires were lying down as we cycled past his big field
this morning!
'Maybe they were just hot', Lettie muttered mischievously into the pot
'I'll pretend I didn't hear that Leticia, but I can see you're in one
of your Contrary-Mary moods so I will say no more on the subject,
except that you will come to regret leaving your vest off this
morning, you know that you should never shed a clout before may is
out!'
'Well if you're right dear..', Lettie adopted a more respectful tone,
'...what shall we do?'
Hettie walked around the front of the stall and began applying sticky
labels to their long-suffering trestle table... 'English Breakfast',
'Assam', 'Darjeeling', and 'Richmond's Punitive Ankle tea', the latter
being one of the Sisters' own blends. For nearly a decade , the two
elderly Spinsters had made a comfortable living from selling their own
range of lovingly manufactured natural remedies, which included
linctuses, infusions, decoctions, lohocs, troches and Poultices, from
the tiny premises of 'Hettie and Lettie's Herbal Heaven' on the
junction of Codling street and Pantile Cottages. Each product was
beautifully presented and had an informative tag listing the amazing
beneficial properties, the manner of usage, but no ingredient list or
suggestion as to the components employed. This omission was the spark
that had, over the years, ignited a number of disgraceful rumours that
some of the substances included in their products were perhaps more
recreational than medicinal. This was, of course, vigorously denied by
Chief-Blender Hettie, and sales rocketed as a result of the adverse
publicity.
In the past couple of weeks, a further unwelcome whisper of scandal
had gatecrashed the refined tearooms of Flatpack. Apparently, it was
suggested, certain prominent Committee-members had received free
samples of the ladies' Dwarf Bilberry Spirit-lifter, and this had
explained the sounds of hysterical laughter, communal singing and
party-poppers that came from the town hall on the evening when the
stall-allocation sub-committee sat. It was further intimated that
there was a connection between the party atmosphere of the meeting,
and the allocation of the much-sought-after prime pitch to the Sisters
for an unprecedented 5th year.
'We shall do, little Lettie, what we have done every Carnival day for
the last ten years. We shall serve tea to our friends, and if the good
Lord chooses to refresh us in his special way, we shall be thankful'
11.51
The applause from the Parakeet car-park finally abated. Hettie looked
at her watch,
'A six minute ovation! The Mayor must have really pulled out the stops
this year!'
'Hedley does make a lovely speech' Lettie added
'He's a good speaker, I'll grant you that, there aren't many who could
captivate an audience with a parsnip story'
'Oh yes! The parsnip story - I must have heard it ...ooh... twenty
times, and it still makes me laugh!
Do you think it's true?'
'Of course it's true! Our Mayor is an honest man...honest and
descent...honest, descent and respectable...and sensible - always
wears a vest you know, now you would never catch Hedley shedding a
clout before...'
Hettie was interrupted by the approach of the a tall, dark-clothed
figure, with the physique of a lightning-struck willow and a face that
had no place on such a day. To look upon the features of village
undertaker Renston Ardlish was to step back into the short, bleak days
of winter, to feel the pitiless winds and near-frozen rain violating
every tissue, to cower under a drear blanket and long for fruit and
leaf, for laughter, maypoles and lusty dances. In truth, it was an
unfortunate and ill -deserved appearance, as he was in fact a rather
jolly and popular man, and a great favourite with the village children
at whose Birthday parties he regularly presented his one-man puppet
show - 'Renston 'get gack in the gox' Ardlish and his furry funereal
friends', (performances made all-the-more entertaining by his practice
of speaking entirely in lengthy rhyming ballads).
'What can I get you dear?' Lettie enquired
A thin horizontal crack appeared in the chiselled melancholy face,
from which a contrastingly jaunty voice responded....
'Dear Lady, refreshment is that which I crave,
A cup that revives without intoxication,
Reminding of clippers on towering wave
Calcutta to London, a drink for the nation
'Come to afternoon tea served with crumpet and scone,
Around four of the clock', read the Duchess' invite
'Remember your hat, mustn't lower the tone,
We will sit on the lawn if the weather is bright'
A Victorian Lady with Gentleman friend
'A lump or a slice, prey what do you take?
...and how is your Mother, is she on the mend?'
A pleasant exchange over Battenberg cake
But clink the cup sides, slurp tea from the spoon
Or, (heaven forbid!), pour it into the saucer
Place the spoon on the left, look up as you sip
Point with your utensils, oh what could be coarser?
A crime against England! you would rightly be tried
And sentenced to hanging until nearly dead
Then dragged through the streets, to a cart you'd be tied
Insulted, beheaded and dismember-ed'
'...err, very nice Dear' Lettie was unsure of the appropriate
response, '...did you want a cup of tea?'
'A cuplet of tea? What a splendid idea
On a day such as this one should take it with ice
So much more refreshing than a pintlet of beer
Though a drop of the strong stuff would also be nice
'A cuplet of tea? Oh my dear, you're a Saint!
Delicious and Golden, and certain to quench
A thirst that is making me feel rather faint
So pour forth from the spout, oh benevolent wench'
Lettie was moderately offended at being referred to as a wench, albeit
a benevolent one, but decided not to pursue her displeasure for fear
of inspiring a further half-dozen verses, 'after all...' she
considered as she poured , '...there are a limited number of words
that rhyme with quench'.
'There you are dear, have this one on me'
Renston was overwhelmed....
'My dear I feel thankfulness beyond expression
A tear in my eye is now blurring the view
And do be assured of my utmost discretion....
If they hear there's free tea, you will have such a queue!
I think it was Nelson who uttered the words..
'Qui nullos capiunt, et te ergo....'
Hettie intervened forcefully, 'That's alright Dear, enjoy the
day!...Next!'
END OF CHAPTER
Roger Kent, age 46, contact r.kent@mdx.ac.uk
Copyright 2006 Roger Kent
Reviews and comments requested
Posted
08/03/2006
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