Yo-yo's Weekend

by David Brining

e p

  e i

  w n

  s g

  over browny-green rivers

  Memorial plaques

  Adverts for Ghost Walks

  Sandstone 'Hic Jacets' set into walls

  Colourful flowers in reds, pinks and yellows

  Passenger boats tied up at the staithe

  People sitting in warm mid-May sunshine

  Welcome to

  EORFORWIC

  EBORACUM

  EORWIC

  JORVIK

  YORK

  Yo-yo is sandwiched between Lily Gusset and Aunty Latch. They are aboard a tourist bus. It is red with blue and green globes painted on the side and white lines radiating from said globes in the manner of a child's drawing of the sun.

  They have seen The Minster (ancient, huge, impressive), the City Walls (ancient, huge, impressive), Clifford's Tower (ancient, huge, impressive) and are now grid-locked outside York City Library. The St Leonard's Place lights are out of action and the traffic has ground to a halt in a medley of beeping horns and fraying tempers. The commentary has stopped (unless you include the 'sodding traffic's and 'bloody lights') and Minster FM (104.7) is playing KT Tunstall's ''On the Other Side of the World'', their record of the week. Yo-yo likes this song, although radios are banned in Gillworthy.

  ''Zis iss terrible,'' says a large lederhosen-busting German. ''Ve haffn't moofed for tventy minutes.''

  ''Ah waaant ma money back, Hank,'' drawls a small, twittery American woman with bird's-nest hair. ''These folks got us here on false pre-tences.''

  ''Sho right there, hone'-chile,'' says her husband, adjusting his Stetson and slapping his chaps. ''Y'all said we'd see York. All we seen so far is traffic. Ain't like this where we come from.''

  ''Unt ver iss zat?'' asks the fat German's even fatter wife.

  ''Thicktwistle, Alabamy,'' says the cowboy. You?''

  ''Grosser Wurststadt, Bayern. You haff no traffik in Alabama?''

  ''Sho we got traffic, boy,'' says the American, ''But we just shood id owdda da way. Welcome to the free world, boy. Burn, Chevy, burn.''

  A bunch of young Japanese girls put their camera phones down. There is a limit to the number of pictures even they can take of each other stuck on a Sightseeing Bus - it's about 400. Yo-yo thinks they are quite pretty and decides to chat them up. Before he can do so, (104.7) Minster FM slides from KT Tunstall to U2. The song is ''Stuck in a moment you can't get out of''.

  ''Ho bloody ho,'' says Yo-yo. ''Let's get off.''

  Yo-yo, Lily and Aunty Latch walk back down the road to the gardens of the Yorkshire Museum and settle near the ruins of St Mary's Abbey, which is believed to have been founded in 1089 by a monk from Whitby named Stephen. It is said that King William II (known in superficial, simplistic children's histories as Rufus the Red-Headed King) laid the foundation stone of the church himself. It was dissolved in 1539 on the orders of King Henry VIII (known in superficial, simplistic children's histories as the Grossly Fat Wife-Killing King). They wander through a rockery which has been constructed around four stone coffins, pass through the huge, stark skeleton of a Norman arch and settle near nine more coffins arranged in two parallel lines. At the end of one is a very small sandstone coffin. Presumably it once belonged to a child. A couple of curious squirrels chatter as they chase each other through the coffins.

  ''Time for tea.'' Aunty Latch opens her picnic basket and spreads a tartan blanket on the grass. She hands out three paper plates whilst Yo-yo sits down cross-legged and Lily struggles to retain her dignity in her short, plastic, pink skirt before opening her basket to the world.

  First out are

  several large, thick, pork sausages

  followed by

  some rather small, crinkly pickled onions

  and

  some smooth, rubbery, hard-boiled eggs

  and

  some ripe, firm tomatoes

  and

  some even firmer, thicker, creamier bananas.

  When her basket is empty, Aunty Latch produces a large Thermos flask of frothy warm milk. Yo-yo helps himself to some tomatoes and, digging in his pocket, some ham and some pork pies he procured from what used to be Scott's of Petergate. He spreads a liberal knife-load of mustard on the ham, rolls it into a cigar and chomps happily. They won't allow him mustard at Gillworthy. They say it excites his imagination. All he knows is it clears his nose. He feeds some to a wandering peacock. It sneezes and ruffles its tail, glaring angrily.

  ''Sorry,'' says Yo-yo. Meanwhile a nosy squirrel has got his beady little eye on an apple. ''Don't even think about it,'' warns Yo-yo, but it is too late. The bushy-tailed rodent has scampered over the grass, seized the fruit in both grubby paws and is making off with it towards an old oak tree before you can say ''Greedy, thieving squirrel-rat''. Yo-yo excuses himself and chases the squirrel to the foot of the tree.

  ''Give us that apple!'' Yo-yo demands.

  ''Sod off, it's mine,'' says the squirrel, scampering up the trunk and pausing only to chuck acorns over his shoulder.

  ''Ouch!'' cries Yo-yo as the acorns bounce off his bonce. ''I'm gonna use your tail as a dish-mop,'' he threatens, ''With you still attached….Ouch!''

  ''He he,'' laughs the squirrel, climbing higher.

  ''Good afternoon, my dear macaroon.''

  ''EEEK!'' goes the squirrel.

  ''EEEK!'' goes Yo-yo.

  Mister Vanilla is concealed in the tree.

  ''Give me your ring,'' he says, popping a sugared cornflower into his mouth. ''Sell it me.''

  Because Mister Vanilla is unfeasibly large and the old oak tree unimaginably old, several of the branches that are supporting his weight are creaking and moaning so loudly the squirrel drops his ill-gotten apple to cover his tufty little ears with his paws.

  ''No way,'' says Yo-yo. ''Why don't you leave me alone?''

  ''You know very well, my dear chicklet,'' says Mister Vanilla. The half-dozen branches supporting his backside groan as he shifts his bulk. ''Your mother said…''

  ''You leave my mother out of this!'' yells Yo-yo. ''She's dead, you unfeeling bastard.''

  Suddenly the branches give way with an almighty crack and Mister Vanilla tumbles down to the grass. The squirrel squeaks as he's squished.

  ''Serves you right,'' Yo-yo remarks to the flattened fur-cake as he runs back across the grass towards the grand, multi-columned entrance to the Yorkshire Museum, the home of the Yorkshire Philosophical Society and founded in 1830 to house the fossils found in Kirkdale Cave nine years earlier. Once inside he may be able to hide or, better still, find something with which to fight the fat man. He bursts past the cash desk and is confronted by a sandstone statue of the War-God Mars dressed in traditional Roman military uniform, plumed helmet, armoured breastplate, leather-strapped skirt, shield and all. The only things missing are his feet which, Yo-yo suspects, might be something of a handicap in a real battle.

  ''Halt, who goes there?'' the statue demands.

  ''Yo-yo the Brilliant,'' Yo-yo replies.

  ''Those who Wish this World to See Must Answer Me these Questions Three.''

  ''What?'' Yo-yo glances back over his shoulder. Mister Vanilla is brushing squirrel splat-cake from the seat of his pants.

  ''Those who Wish this World to See Must Answer Me these Questions Three,'' Mars repeats huffily. '' It's a password thing. Just shut up and co-operate.'' Yo-yo shrugs. ''Question One,'' says the War-God self-importantly. ''What is your name?''

  ''I already told you,'' says Yo-yo. Mister Vanilla is lumbering up the slope.

  ''Unless You answer Questions of Mine, Entry to Grottos will never be Thine.''

  ''God,'' says Yo-yo, ''Sorry, Mars, that's a terrible rhyme. Whoever wrote it committed a crime.''

  ''I didn't write it,'' moans the statue, ''I just have to say it. Question Two. What is my name?''

  ''Cloth-ear for dia
logue, that David Brining,'' says Yo-yo. Mister Vanilla is stepping through the columns. ''Just let me in, okay?''

  ''Nokay,'' says Mars. ''My job it is to guard the tomb. Without my sword, we'll come to doom.''

  ''Shut up,'' snaps Yo-yo, looking round desperately. In the corner is a sandstone block with a woman carved into it. She is playing with a snake.

  ''Use the animals,'' hisses the snake.

  ''Yo-yo, my little firkin,'' coos Mister Vanilla, ''I'm coming to get you.'' The scent of sugared poppies wafts through the door.

  ''Bollocks,'' says Yo-yo, diving past the War-God's shield.

  ''Hey, come back!'' shouts Mars. ''Question Three ….''

  ''Chase me, why don't you?'' cries Yo-yo, ''You no-footed War-God-Statue- Thing.'' He skids on his stomach across a large, multicoloured map of the Roman Empire, sliding from pink Asia Minor through blue Greece and purple Italy, yellow France, red Britain, and green Spain through the door to the left and a challenge from the enormous marble head of the York-born Emperor Constantine who scowls from the shadows and mutters something about ''Slave boys today getting uppity and refusing to answer perfectly reasonable questions from gods.''

  Two sandstone tablets catch Yo-yo's eye. One depicts a family, a boy standing next to a table, a woman standing behind it, and a bearded man standing next to it. They have remarkably short legs. A fourth figure is seated. The other bears the faceless figure Lucius Duccius Rufinus, the twenty-eight year old from Viennes in France who became standard bearer to Ninth Legion and who saw action in Spain, Africa and Germany before York.

  ''Those who wish the world to see must answer me these questions three.'' He can hear Mars challenging the challenger. ''Question One. What is your name?''

  ''My name is Vanilla, my little godikins''

  ''Question Two.''

  Yo-yo grabs a toga and sandals from a nearby basket and poses against the sandstone frieze showing two adults standing behind two children.

  ''What is my name?''

  Mister Vanilla dabs a handkerchief against his lips. Chasing boys is a most disagreeable pastime, he reflects. It makes one perspire to an unendurable degree. If the reward were not so great, he would abandon the pursuit at the Gates of Rome. Instead he intones ''You are Mars, the God of War.''

  Mars preens himself. ''Indeed I am, the greatest, fiercest, most heroic of all the ancient gods of Rome.''

  ''Quite.'' Mister Vanilla resists the urge to fiddle with his pocket watch and ask why he is named after a chocolate bar.

  ''Leaders and warriors, princes and emperors, all follow at my chariot wheels.''

  ''Indeed they did,'' says Mister Vanilla, conscious that every minute he wastes in chit-chat with the War God is a minute in which Yo-yo can get further away.

  ''States and cities, empires and nations, all fall at my command.''

  ''Very probably,'' says Mister Vanilla. ''Look, do you mind awfully….?''

  ''Those who wish the tombs to see must answer me these questions three!'' booms Mars.

  ''Many apologies,'' says Mister Vanilla, ''But I'm in a hurry.''

  ''Oh, and you think I'm perfectly happy to stand here all day?'' moans Mars, ''That I have nothing better to do than hang around in draughty doorways accosting young men like you. Well, let me tell you something…''

  Although Mister Vanilla might quibble with the use of the word 'young' in this context, he wisely keeps silent and lets the statue rant about the unfairness of life and the hand he's been dealt.

  ''It could be worse,'' says the snake from the sandstone tablet in the corner.

  ''How could it be worse?'' sniffs the War-God.

  ''You could be outside in the wind and the rain. You could be decaying in the garden. At least you're warm and dry in here.''

  ''He's got a point,'' adds the woman. ''It's always warm in here, and they look after you. I get my air-brushed at least once a week. Do you get touched up often?''

  ''Not often enough,'' Mars admits. ''Maybe I should change the entry test. Whoe'er the Inmost Chambers Seek Must First the War-God's Weapon Tweak. Hmmm.'' The plume on his helmet seems to swell. ''Yes. It's a much better test than which three Emperors visited York and where did they come from? Much better. I'll at least get my rocks off.''

  ''Hadrian who was Spanish, Septimus Severus who was Libyan and Constantine Chlorus who was Serbian,'' cries Mister Vanilla, triumphantly ducking past the sandstone statue. ''Ha ha! Your entrance is mine!''

  ''Bah!'' says Mars, ''Well, just make sure you enter gently. I'm still sore from Yo-yo's force.''

  The Roman Room is decked out in reds and golds. Red and black banners hang from the ceilings. The sandstone tablets seem to radiate a golden glow. Mister Vanilla narrows his eyes. The room is empty. He inspects each frieze carefully. The family of the bandy legs stares impassively back. He clicks his tongue, teases the pill-box from his waistcoat pocket. A sugared daisy will help him think. The standard bearer has no face. The adults and children seem too short. In another, the man and woman sit behind a table. The man has his arm round the woman's shoulders. Mister Vanilla attempts to translate the inscriptions on stone from the Serapeum, the Temple of the Serapis. There is no sign of Yo-yo. Mister Vanilla has been warned about his slippery ways so it pays to check everything exceedingly closely. However, maybe the delay at the door has enabled the boy to evade him once more. Mister Vanilla sighs in annoyance and descends the stairs to the Medieval Room. Moments later there is a tiny movement, a shuffling jerk of Lucius Duccius Rufinus' large, sturdy pole and Yo-yo's face peeps round the middle medallion. He grins with satisfaction and steps out of the tablet. He carefully sneaks to the end of the room, creeps across the mosaic floor, peers over the banister to where Mister Vanilla is inspecting ceiling bosses, gargoyles and drainage-ditch-covers then tiptoes down the corridor towards the Natural History Section. He now feels confident he will outwit his pursuer but he has reckoned without the Golden Frog.

  In a gallery near the exit, a small TV screen set in a wall plays a short extract from the BBC programme Life in Cold Blood showing the mating ritual of a tiny black and orange frog. Sir David Attenborough's hushed commentary describes the action thusly-

  David Attenboroughs:His rival is not deterred.

  The frog freezes and stares at Yo-yo.

  David Attenboroughs:Another arrives. Perhaps at last this is a female.

  ''This is not a dress,'' Yo-yo says crossly, ''It's a toga. It's Roman, you cheeky Attenboroughs.''

  David Attenboroughs:And here one comes.

  ''What do you mean by 'one'? One what?'

  '

  David Attenboroughs:Just in case his call is inaudible, he makes his message clear with a wave.

  The frog raises a foot and waggles it.

  ''Hey,'' says Yo-yo, ''Don't think you're gonna mate with me, you goggle-eyed toad.''

  ''I''m not a toad,'' squeaks the angered amphibian puffing up his chest, ''I'M…''

  ''Ssshhh,'' hisses Yo-yo, ''Ssssh.''

  ''…A…''

  ''Shut up, for God's sake,'' says Yo-yo. ''You'll give me away. I'm sorry… we can mate if you like…..'' But it's far too late. He cringes and covers his ears.

  ''FROOOOOOG!''

  It is like a fog-horn echoing round the Humber Bridge.

  ''Ha!'' cries Mister Vanilla, pounding down the passageway. ''Got you!''

  But no. The Golden Frog's yawp has shattered some cases and the Yorkshire Museum's display of the taxidermist's art (or craft) is coming alive. Stuffed penguins waddle round the Natural History room vying for dominion with otters, badgers, foxes, owls, a duck-billed platypus, beavers, bustards, capercaillies and grouse (grouses or grice?) Mister Vanilla tries to fight his way through the menagerie. Yo-yo claps his hands and a flock of seagulls wheels overhead, dive-bombing the villain with eggs and poo.

  ''Not fair!'' cries Mister Vanilla, as a yellowy-white streak of bird-lime splatters down his lilac waistcoat. ''Not fair!'' He turns towards Mars and shouts ''Romulus''. A
stuffed wolf bursts through the glass and scatters the rest. From the Medieval cellar, the statues of Moses, St John and two fiercely-bearded Old Testament prophets lurch past the dinosaurs. ''Grab him, Hezekiah!''

  Yo-yo wraps his toga round him and jumps aside. The prophet trips over a puffin and crashes into the Moa's skeleton which springs into action with a clatter of bones. The animals are beginning to turn on each other, wolf against wildcat, fish against fowl. In a flash, Mister Vanilla and his statuesque allies will be upon him. There is no longer a choice. Yo-yo cries out ''ICHTHYOSAUR!'' and the most terrifying creature in the Yorkshire Museum stirs in its case.

  Temnodontosaurus crassimanus is 180 million years old. It comes from the Jurassic period when dinosaurs walked the earth or, in his case, swam the seas. This one was found at Whitby in the 1850s and is eight metres long. Its skeleton consists of fifty pieces and it has the most enormous head and jaw with massive bone-grinding molars which will crunch even through stone as Moses and Saint John seem to sense.

  ''Bollocks to the jewel,'' mutters Moses. ''I'm not tangling with that thing.''

  ''You're on your own, mate,'' adds Saint John. ''You get your nuts ripped off if you like, Mister Vanilla, but count me out.''

  Like some monstrous crocodile, the ichthyosaur slithers out of its diorama, snaps open its jaw and roars. The blast makes Yo-yo's hair stand on end and sets Mister Vanilla's chins a-shaking. The empty eye-sockets swivel.

  ''Yo-yo….'' says Mister Vanilla, ''You fool……''

  ''RUN!'' shouts Mars, and every living thing in the museum, both stuffed and statue, crowds and crushes its way to the door. Mister Vanilla is swept away on a fur- and-feather taxidermized tide. His feet kick and his podgy fists wave as the otters, badgers, beavers and bustards spill over the steps and into the garden. The wolf, the wildcat, the Moa, the bear and all the animals yip and yowl, hoot and twitter, cluck and bark in a raucous, celebratory cacophony of liberation. Out of the toga, Yo-yo stands by the turnstile and watches the wildlife disperse in the park. The ichthyosaur snaps as he slithers sinisterly down to the river, Mister Vanilla borne on his back. He smashes the fence and slides into the Ouse. Mister Vanilla's cries are smothered in mud. Yo-yo rubs his hands and returns to the rug.

  ''Where did you get to?'' asks Aunty Latch.

  ''Popped into the Museum,'' says Yo-yo.

  ''Oh,'' says Aunty Latch. ''Did you have fun?''

  ''It was okay,'' says Yo-yo. He helps himself to a mini-roll.

  ''Come along,'' Aunty Latch says, ''We don't want to be late.''

  ''Late for what?'' asks Yo-yo.

  Aunty Latch makes no reply, just refills her basket.

  They step into Marygate and fetch up outside St Olave's Church. ''Built in 1055, it has both plain and painted glass windows and, of course, a creepy ghost story,'' Yo-yo recalls. ''One afternoon in 1983 a young lady went into the church and saw a woman in black sitting in the back pew. Next to her was a young boy dressed in a Norfolk jacket. He was crying bitterly and occasionally buried his face in her shoulder. When she went over to find out what was wrong, they appeared to vanish. She did some research and learned that a local man had been killed at the Battle of the Somme in World War One leaving behind a wife and a twelve-year-old son. His memorial service was held in St Olave's with the wife and son were present. That was in 1916…. spooky, eh?''

  ''What a lot you know,'' twitters Lily Gusset, eyeing the Bay Horse (Ridings bitter) over the road with some longing.

  ''Oh yes,'' says Yo-yo. ''St Olave's was built by Siward, Earl of Northumbria. He is most famous for his part in moving Birnam Wood to Dunsinane in the battle against Macbeth, King of Scotland. Olaf himself is the Patron Saint of Norway and was their king from 1016 to 1029. He was killed in the Battle of Sticklestad in 1030 and buried in Trondheim, although some say he is buried here. Olaf is famous for a daring attack on London which is the historical event behind the children's rhyme 'London Bridge is falling down' when he burned the bridge.''

  ''Really?'' Lily Gusset glances again at the mighty Bay Horse.

  ''It's referenced in the Heimskringla, with the lines 'London Bridge is broken down, gold is won and great renown'.''

  Inside the church it is cool and gloomy, light penetrating through the rather dusty fifteenth century east window. An invisible organist is playing Vierne's Carillon de Westminster which uses the theme of the Big Ben chimes-

  Bing

  Bingbing

  bong bong bong

  Bong bing

  ''Organ music is always sinister,'' says Yo-yo, but they don't see the ghosts.

  They cut through the Marygate car park where a purple Ford Focus is trying to manoeuvre into the space nearest the Pay-and-Display. A chocolate Labrador peers intently out of the back as if willing the driver to mind the gap. They emerge by the river where they admire the painted narrow boats moored at Lendal Tower, ignore the green, iron footbridge leading to the Royal Mail and the National Railway Museum and pass along a row of terraces called Riverside Walk. Two houses advertise 'Bed and Breakfast' (''Be a good spot for you,'' Lily tells Aunty Latch). Then they pass some rather boring semis (''Be a good spot for you,'' Yo-yo tells Lily) before emerging into the parkland behind St Peter's School, allegedly founded in AD 627 by St Paulinus, Bishop of York, and therefore the third oldest school in the world. On the field stands a huge red- and white-striped marquee.

  ''Oooh, a circus,'' cries Lily. ''I haven't been to a circus since I was a little girl. Shall we go? Shall we?''

  ''I would rather eat my own feet, '' says Yo-yo, ''Than go to a circus.''

  ''Circuses are great,'' says Lily.

  ''Bollocks,'' says Yo-yo. ''Trapeze acts and lion-tamers and bloody clowns. Scary bastards, clowns. Something to do with that made-up, painted mouth.''

  ''But it might be fun,'' says Aunty Latch, plumping her breasts.

  ''Fat chance,'' says Yo-yo. ''It's a circus.''

  ''Well,'' says Aunty Latch, ''It's your weekend. We'll do what you want, eh, Lily?''

  ''Yes,'' says Lily, ''We'll do anything you want. Just wait till after the circus.''

  4.

  The Circus Comes to Town

  'THUNDER and Blazes' a.k.a. 'The Entry of the Gladiators' a.k.a. Billy Smart's Circus, Julius Fucik's march now rendered for clowns.