by Heide Goody
"Ooh. That’s nice."
"I’m currently cycling up Mount Kilimanjaro."
"Are you?"
Michael looked at the man’s screen and the cartoon representation of a mountain bike riding up a dirt trail.
"I thought about getting a bicycle once," said Michael. "I mean, a real one. For the exercise. Good for the environment and all that too."
"But you didn’t?"
"They’re just so… messy looking."
"And dangerous," the young man chipped in. "Don’t forget dangerous."
"But this, this is the perfect solution. It’s like real cycling only more organised."
"And safer."
"Safer, indeed."
The young man stopped pedalling and mopped his brow with a small towel.
"Have you got to the top already?" asked Michael.
The young man jumped down. He was more than a few inches shorter than Michael. A little squat, compact. A gymnast’s build.
"Nah," he said. "Can only do so much cardiovascular. I’m more of an anaerobic man."
Michael looked at the young man’s upper arm muscles, straining at the seams of his lycra top.
"I can see that," said Michael. "Lovely muscle tone."
"Thanks, mate. All compliments gratefully received. You do much weight training?"
Michael looked across at the weights machines.
"I’ve not done that part of the induction."
"You mean you’ve never..?" The short man looked him up and down. "You’ve already got the build for it. It would be criminal to waste that body on just bikes and treadmills. I can give you the guided tour."
Michael let himself be sat down at a leg press machine and the young man stood over him, explaining the principal muscles the machine worked on, the various settings and the method for safe operation. The man’s stomach muscles, a clearly defined six-pack of toned flesh, were right in Michael’s eye line.
If the body was God’s temple then this young specimen was a far holier shrine than Michael’s neglected frame. Michael found himself thinking of a small Corsican chapel he had manifested in back in, oh, it must have been the seventh century if not earlier. Staring at those beautiful, smooth muscles put Michael in mind of the bevelled edges of the chapel altar, the perfect curves with a deliciously heavenly sheen on them.
"I said, ‘What’s yours?’"
Michael tore his gaze from the beautiful torso.
"I’m sorry?"
"I’m Andy," said the man.
"Michael," said Michael. "I just drifted off somewhere for a moment."
"Somewhere nice, I hope," said Andy.
~ooOOOoo~
Nerys smiled as Jayne gave a twirl in a modest dress.
"Do I look demure and apologetic?" she asked Nerys.
"I’m not sure what that would look like," said Nerys.
"Sort of the opposite of ‘Take me now, big boy.’"
"To be honest, I think that ‘Take me now' would be ambitious given that you're going to the museum," said Nerys, "unless you think he’s going to ravish you amongst the Flemish Masters."
Jayne looked at herself critically in the fireplace mirror.
"You look great," Nerys assured her. "Very demure, very apologetic."
"Are you sure?"
"Oh, just go. You’re going to miss your minibus."
As they went downstairs, they found Michael and Clovenhoof on the landing. Clovenhoof was wearing an appalling pair of shorts, while Michael was immaculate in white linen trousers.
"Jeremy, what are those things all over your shorts?" Nerys asked.
"Badges. Proper cub badges," Clovenhoof announced with some pride.
"Did you earn them?" she asked.
"Not in the normal way. I passed a special initiative test to get these," he said.
"He means he stole the key to the badge store," said Michael wearily.
"Still, I'm impressed that you sewed them all on," said Jayne, peering down at them.
"Sewing? Nah. Staplers all the way. Much more practical."
Ben stepped out of his flat. He beamed at them all, and Clovenhoof gave a low whistle.
"A shirt!" exclaimed Clovenhoof. "With buttons and shit."
"You’ve seen me in a shirt before," said Ben. "I own several shirts."
"I think we've seen you naked more times than we've seen you in a shirt," said Nerys.
"You have not!"
Clovenhoof looked up in thought, apparently counting.
"She’s right," he said. "Even counting today. More cocks than collars."
"Technically that's a polo shirt," said Nerys, "not a proper shirt, but you look very nice, Ben. Demure almost."
She nudged Jayne in the ribs and watched her cheeks redden.
Nerys walked with them up to St Michael's church, where the minibus was already filled with cubs, its windows smeared with the spray of fizzy drinks and unidentifiable flotsam. The only clean parts of the windows were the penis drawings that were being busily applied from inside and which Clovenhoof was enthusiastically appraising, giving a special thumbs up to any that had been given the extra detail of hair or dotted wee lines.
The St Michael’s vicar, Zack, was there to see them off. Michael brandished a clipboard and, peering into the chaos within the minibus, ticked off the names.
Nerys whispered into Jayne's ear.
"Well, I don't think you need to worry about snogging Ben during any unguarded moments. You'll do well to make it back alive by the looks of this lot."
"I'm sure it's going to be loads of fun," said Jayne stiffly, and climbed aboard the minibus, followed by Ben, Michael and Clovenhoof.
The doors slammed shut, and everyone took their seats.
Nerys waved at the departing minibus.
"When are you expecting the regular cub leader to return?" she asked Reverend Zack.
"We're not at all sure," he replied, stroking his chin. "Angela’s run into a spot of bother on her holiday."
"Oh. Lost her luggage?"
"Kidnapped by rebels, I believe. It can happen in some countries."
"It’s been known to happen to day trippers to Wales," she replied as her phone began to ring.
"I’m sure it will sort itself out," said Reverend Zack with brittle hopefulness.
"Excuse me," she said as she answered the phone. "It’s the solicitor. I’m expecting some good news."
The minibus reached the city centre without running a single light, forcing another vehicle off the road, engaging in a high speed pursuit with the police or stopping to pick up a single prostitute. All this, despite Clovenhoof offering to ‘pop a cop in the ass’ and pointing out several women who he suspected might be hookers.
Much to Michael’s relief, Darren pulled up in Edmund Street behind the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery safely and in one piece.
"We'll unload here and you can go and find somewhere to park," Michael told Darren.
Michael hopped out onto the pavement, clipboard at the ready.
"Cubs will form an orderly line, so that we don't get lost or separated. I will be at the head of the line and Kaa will be at the rear."
"Never a pitchfork to hand when you want one," said Clovenhoof, ambling into position.
The cubs poured off the minibus, excited to be somewhere new, but were eventually persuaded to form a line by Michael's refusal to move on until they did.
"Baghera Ben, will you give each of the cubs a worksheet please?" asked Michael. "These worksheets have a list of questions that you need to answer to get your hobbies badge, so make sure you read through them carefully before you get inside."
"What did you do for your hobbies badge, Kaa?" asked PJ, looking at Clovenhoof's shorts.
"He's too old to get cubs badges," said Spartacus. "He just gets to take them because he's a grown-up and they can break rules whenever they want.
"That's a vicious accusation and I resent it," said Clovenhoof. "I break rules because I'm good at it. Most grown-ups have
no idea. If you do as I say, I might give you a few tips."
They walked across a large square, Michael glancing backwards to be sure that everyone kept in line.
"Nuddy woman, nuddy woman!" yelled Kenzie, pointing at the giant statue of a woman reclining in water.
Michael held up the line so that he could address the group.
"It's a work called 'The River'. It represents the life force, apparently. I'm not sure it isn't a little bit pagan."
"It's not called that!" Spartacus scoffed. "Everyone knows it's called 'The Floozie in the Jacuzzi'."
"It’s not the official name of the -" Michael began, but Spartacus had the attention of the other cubs.
"She’s not as big as Akela’s mom though. His mom’s so big that when the doctors diagnosed she had a flesh-wasting disease, she was given twenty years to live."
The cubs all laughed. Michael pursed his lips and walked on.
He steered the crocodile into the museum, and ensured that everyone was present when they reached the top of the stairs. He breathed a sigh of relief and addressed the cubs.
"We’ll go at a steady pace as we move through the galleries. You should have plenty of time to look at the paintings and work through your worksheets."
He walked forward, head held high with pride at the beautifully disciplined convoy of boys. He’d been certain that with a firm hand and a carefully structured day, he could turn the rabble into something much easier to handle. The first room they entered was round, high and lined with huge paintings with a domed glass ceiling arching high above a large, striking statue of Lucifer.
Michael closed his eyes and paused for a moment, knowing that Clovenhoof would have something to say about it.
"Well it’s in the right place, of course," said Clovenhoof, appearing at his side and gazing up at the bronze statue critically, "the first thing you see when you come in. It’s all about making an impression."
Michael rolled his eyes.
"The thing is, it just doesn’t really look like me, does it? I mean, I know I have the physique of a racing snake, but look how skinny it is," Clovenhoof walked around the base, looking up, "and what on earth is it doing with its hands? I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be dancing or making bread."
"Lucifer is warding off the fires of perdition," Michael told him.
"Warming his hands, you mean. But it’s a bit girly, isn’t it?"
"Oh for Heavens’ sake! Only you would complain about such a thing," said Michael. "Anyway, you do know Epstein also created that depiction of our final battle that decorates Coventry Cathedral?"
"What, the one that makes you look like a football hooligan mugging an old lady?" Clovenhoof asked, grinning. "Well then, I guess that makes us even. At least I’ve got a decent-sized cock on this one."
Michael looked round to be sure that the cubs hadn’t overheard Clovenhoof’s remark.
"Er, where have the cubs gone?" he asked, swivelling urgently.
"Just there in the corner," said Clovenhoof, absently waving a hand behind him as he gazed up at the statue and thrust forward his own groin to compare.
"This is a round room. There are no corners, you buffoon," said Michael. "They’ve gone. All of them. Come on, quickly, we need to find them, let’s split up."
Jayne gazed up at the copper tresses of another pre-Raphaelite heroine.
"So many beautiful paintings Ben," she said. "I bet there aren’t this many in Paris, even."
"Well, I think there might be-" started Ben.
"This woman’s in loads of them," said Jayne. "She’s even more beautiful than my sister, Catherine."
"Elizabeth Siddal," said Ben.
"Who?"
"She was married to Rossetti, which is why she was painted a lot by him and his friends."
"How lovely that you knew that. He must have really loved her," Jayne said, gazing at the picture with a wistful sigh.
"Oh yes. They all loved her. They had her do things like pose for days on end in a bath of cold water. She died quite young and Rossetti slipped a book of poems into the coffin in his grief. It was only years later that he wished he still had them to sell."
"Oh how sad, and by then it was too late."
"No, not really," said Ben. "He had her exhumed so he could at get them."
"No! You’re pulling my leg, surely?"
"Nope. Gotta watch those romantic types when they run out of money or opium or whatever."
Clovenhoof found an interactive area for children and pocketed a fat felt tip pen. He was pleased that the museum encouraged visitors to display their own creativity and thought he might go back there in a little while with the cubs so that they could share their penis drawings with the world. Some of them were rather good, after all. In the meantime, he ambled through the galleries, looking out for pictures that were violent, obscene, or preferably both.
He found the pre-Raphaelite collection rather boring. Pictures of soppy women who looked faintly miserable, as if they realised they'd run out of crispy pancakes and fancied a snack. Inspired by this thought, he used the felt tip to draw a giant speech bubble onto the wall.
'Bring me a crispy pancake and a glass of Lambrini!'
He stepped back and nodded at his handiwork. Now he'd found a way to improve the museum he felt a new sense of purpose. He looked at another picture, which featured a woman whose eyes were closed in anguish. It was a mystery why she looked like that, as there were no clues, apart from the dense text at the side, but who could be bothered to read that? The seated position indicated one obvious cause, so he stepped forward with his felt tip and made a new speech bubble.
'Put the loo roll in the fridge, that curry's a real ring-burner!'
He was on fire. A blind woman with an inquisitive youngster twisting around on her lap got a speech bubble saying 'Mom, I can see the pub from here!'
"Hey, you! You need to stop doing that!"
The voice made him turn around, and he saw a middle-aged woman in a floral dress.
He walked over to her.
"Who put you in charge?" he asked. "I'm just expressing my creativity."
"You're behaving like a common lout. A vandal," she replied. "I'm fetching someone from the staff."
"Hang on," said Clovenhoof. "Before you do, there's something on your face."
She looked momentarily puzzled, and as she paused, Clovenhoof dabbed the felt tip onto the end of her nose, turning it an inky black.
"Well there is now!" he yelled over his shoulder as he ran off, cackling to himself.
Jayne and Ben walked through the modern art display area. A large hall was dominated by a massive metal construction. Jayne wondered what it was supposed to be. It resembled the skeleton of a huge dinosaur rendered in steel. The most notable feature was the swarm of small boys wearing green uniforms climbing all over it. Jeremy Clovenhoof was on the floor, trying to convince them to come down.
"There's a place in here where they want penis drawings," he called up to them. "Who else is going to show these people what real art is? Imagine how cross Akela Michael will be if you make a load of cock pictures and we can say that the museum made you do it!"
Spartacus called out from the highest point.
"If they want a picture of a cock, you could use your smart phone to take a selfie."
The cubs laughed and continued to climb. Clovenhoof shifted in impotent annoyance and, Jayne was certain, had completely failed to notice the large tour group file in behind him. Cameras clicked as the Japanese visitors admired the athletic daring of the boys who were balanced twenty feet above the ground.
Clovenhoof assumed his most assertive scoutmaster’s stance and bellowed at the cubs.
"Get down from there this minute, you little shits!"
He turned and noticed the tourists for the first time. He didn’t miss a beat. He swept a demonstrative arm across the hall.
"…is the name of this installation, which examines the rebellion of youth. Notice the sinuous lines of the str
ucture which is in direct counterpoint to the stumpy ugliness of the little boys who seek to defile it."
Jayne felt a hand on her arm.
"Did I mention that the tea room here is second to none?" whispered Ben.
"Shouldn’t we stay to help Jeremy?"
"They have excellent cake."
"I like cake."
Michael found himself back at a painting that he'd passed several times already. Not only had the cubs lost him but also the geography of this place constantly turned him around, folding in on itself like an Escher picture.
Telling himself that he was simply stopping to gather his wits, Michael sat on a bench, wondering why he found this one canvas very compelling. It showed a vigorous young man, perhaps some Greek hero or god, driving a chariot pulled by lions. The lions looked as though they were protesting at being used in this way, but the man prevailed. His assertive muscular stance and radiant charisma had worked on the lions, but Michael realised that it had captivated him as well. The painting glowed with vitality and energy. Something about the taut muscles reminded Michael of that fellow, Andy, from the gym. He wondered who had scrawled the speech bubble at the side of the painting, and added 'good kitties, if you go faster I'll get you a nice gazelle'. He had a good idea who it might have been.
"Stunning, isn't it?"
Michael turned to the side to see who had spoken.
"Andy!"
"Hi. Michael, isn’t it?"
"How strange to see you here when I was just..." Michael coughed. "…admiring this painting."
"It's one of my favourites," said Andy. "Apollo, the sun god. He glows, don't you think?"
Michael nodded as they both stared in appreciation.
"You haven't seen a group of cubs, have you?" Michael asked.
"Lion cubs? No those are all fully-"
"No, I mean the miniature boy scout kind."
Andy shook his head.
"Are they with you?"
"Yes," said Michael. "I've been helping out with the cubs, but it's not going all that well to be honest."
"In what way?"