by Peter Bently
“Well, we might as well go and find a spot to have a practice anyway,” said Patchcoat. “Maybe we’ll come up with a plan on the way.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Don’t you need to have your turn telling jokes first?”
“Er, no,” said Patchcoat. “I’ve already been.”
“Oh right,” I said. “How did it go?”
“Not too bad, actually,” Patchcoat smiled, brushing a bit of turnip peeling off his tunic. “Some of the stuff they chucked was actually fresh.”
We found a patch of open ground between the poultry enclosure and the Baking Tent, and not far from the Mad Maze, a huge wooden circular enclosure with sides that towered high above my head and only one very narrow entrance. (Patchcoat wasn’t exaggerating when he said it was tricky. I could see quite a few people going in, but no one coming out.)
As we passed the Baking Tent Margaret came out, fanning her red sweaty face with a wooden spoon. “Phew!” she said. “Just popped out for a breath of fresh air. It’s like an oven in there!”
“Maybe something to do with all the – ovens?” said Patchcoat.
Margaret pursed her lips. “Very funny, Master Patchcoat,” she said. “You won’t be laughin’ when you see my Showstopper cake. It’ll blow your mind!”
“Not to mention my guts,” muttered Patchcoat. He dodged behind me to avoid a swipe of the wooden spoon.
“Sorry, Margaret,” I said. “But we need to start practising. The thing is, we’re in a bit of a pickle.” I explained about the match.
Margaret frowned. “Three more players? Well, I’d ’elp if I could, Master Cedric, but I need to be here for the judging of the Bake Off,” she said. “’Course, if Sir Roland wins ’e’s sure to keep me on at the castle. But I’d ’ate to see you two out on the street.”
Patchcoat raised an eyebrow.
“’Ere, I know!” she said suddenly. “I’ll ask me brother Ham!”
“Brother?” I said.
“Aye,” said Margaret. “Bumped into him just after I left you. He’s over there with me two nephews.”
We followed Margaret’s gaze to see a muscular shepherd chatting to two younger lads. Each was carrying a shaggy sheep around his shoulders.
“There you go, Ced,” said Patchcoat. “With blokes like that on our side we might even stand a chance!”
We went after Margaret as she waddled toward the strapping shepherds – and walked straight past them to a skinny peasant sitting on a haybale, slurping out of a flagon. Next to him sat two spotty youths, who were only a couple of years older than me. One was busy picking things out of his hair and examining them closely. The other (who was a lot plumper and bore a striking resemblance to his aunt) was scoffing an enormous pork pie.
“Orright, brother Ham? Orright, Botolph and Godwit?” said Margaret.
“Orright, Auntie Maggie!” said the youths together.
“Orright, sis,” beamed her brother. “We just sold the last of our ducks. Fancy a drop o’ mead to celebrate?”
“No thank, ’ee, brother,” said Margaret. “But I’m glad you sold yer ducks because Sir Percy needs you lot in his football team. Ain’t that right, Master Cedric?”
“Football, sis?” said Ham uncertainly. “I ain’t so sure about that. It’s a long while since I last played…”
The two nephews looked at him in surprise.
Something tiny and black that Botolph was holding between his thumb and forefinger took the chance to leap back on to his head. “What, Pa? Did ’ee play football?” he said.
“’Ee never told us that!” said Godwit, spraying pie down his chin.
“Your pa don’t like to talk about it,” said Margaret. “But he captained the Great Blustering Duck Breeders’ Apprentices. Won the May Fair Trophy three times. Ain’t that right, brother?”
“Arrh,” said Ham. “We was unstoppable. Till that incident with the slurry pit.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“The course was a bit different then,” said Ham. “Me and the lads went chargin’ off, wondering why the other team were bein’ so slow. Soon found out. Part of the course involved runnin’ over a slurry pit across some planks. Turns out someone had sawn through ’em. All five of us fell in.”
I couldn’t help myself from gasping. “Ew!”
“Course, we lost,” said Ham. “Took us an hour to get out, and nobody would come near any of us for a month. Couldn’t bring meself to play after that.”
“But if ’ee don’t play, brother, Sir Roland will get Castle Bombast,” said Margaret.
“Sir Roland?” said Ham. “Why didn’t ’ee say so, sis! That’s different, that is.”
“Why’s that, Pa?” said Godwit.
“The team that beat us in the slurry game was a bunch of young squires. Captained by a certain Roland de Blackstone.”
“Sir Roland!” Patchcoat and I exclaimed together.
“The very same!” said Ham. “Well, maybe it’s finally time to brush up me dribbling skills. I’m a bit rusty, mind.”
“Nice one, brother,” said Margaret. “Right, I’m off back to the Baking Tent to get me cake out of the oven. See you later, and good luck!”
Ham turned to his two sons. “Right, boys, you up fer it?” he said.
“Erm, you only have to play if you want to, of course,” I chipped in.
“You bet, Master Cedric!” said the pie-scoffing youth. “’Ow about you, Botty?”
“Oh arrh!” said Botolph. “Us has always wanted to play football.”
“Um – you have actually played before, haven’t you?” I asked.
“’Course,” said Godwit, displaying a mouthful of half-chewed pie. “It’s that game where you wallops a ball over a net.”
“That ain’t football, Goddo, you numbskull!” said Botolph, plucking something from his scalp and popping it into his mouth. “That’s hockey. Football’s the one where you rolls a ball to knock over some sticks.”
“Um – I think we might need to put in a tiny bit of practice,” I said.
“There’s something else we need first, Ced,” said Patchcoat. “A football.”
“I saw some for sale in that tent over there,” said Ham. “I reckon they might lend us one for a quick kickabout.”
“Thanks, Ham!” I said.
I dashed off through the crowds to a big tent that said “Foreign Goods”. Just by the entrance was what looked like a whole stall of footballs. The stallholder – a large woman in a brightly checked dress and a matching cap with a bobble on top – was busy serving a customer and had her back to me. While I was waiting, I picked up a ball to try it for bounce. It felt a bit heavy, but I tossed it on to my foot and gave it a hefty kick.
SPLURGH!
To my horror, the ball burst all over my foot in a squishy brownish mass of mush. It looked a bit like porridge. Porridge mixed with chopped giblets.
The stallholder spun round. “Hey! What d’ye think yer up to, laddie? That was one o’ ma finest haggises!”
“Um – sorry, missus,” I said, still staring at my besplattered foot.
“Missus? How dare ye!”
I looked up. Whoops. Now he’d turned round I could see that the stallholder was most definitely a bloke. It was the flaming red beard that clinched it.
“S-sorry, sir,” I said. “You see, I saw your dress, and I thought—”
“Dress?” he boomed. “It’s a kilt, ye cheeky wee beggar! And that’ll be a ha’penny fer the haggis.”
I reluctantly handed over my last penny, pocketed the ha’penny change and beat a hasty retreat. My birthday cash had almost gone and I still hadn’t found a football.
“Oi! Mind out!” A peasant pushing a large barrow pulled up short just in time to avoid squishing me.
“Eek!” I said. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
I stood aside as the barrow boy shook his head and carried on his way.
And then I noticed what the barrow was laden with. They were round, just the right siz
e and unlikely to explode when kicked…
“Excuse me!” I said, running after the barrow. “How much are your cabbages?”
Armed with a pair of cabbages, the five of us made for the clearest part of the patch of open ground, close to the poultry enclosure. Three tumblers were performing some impressive acrobatics nearby, but there was still plenty of room for a kickabout.
“All we need now is a goal,” I said, after I’d scraped the haggis off my foot. I spotted a pile of empty sacks near a long table outside the Baking Tent. “Ah! We can use a couple of those.”
“I wonder what was in them?” said Patchcoat, picking one up.
“Well,” I said. “They’re next to the Baking Tent so I’d guess they’re—”
Before I could finish, Patchcoat gave the sack a good shake. I was instantly engulfed in a great white cloud.
“Flour sacks,” I said, coughing. “Cheers, Patchcoat!”
“What’s up, Ced?” he giggled. “You’ve gone as white as a sheet.”
“Very funny,” I said, shaking flour out of my hair. I brushed myself down and grabbed a couple of sacks to use as goal markers.
“Hold on, Ced, I’ve just had an idea,” said Patchcoat. He held one of the sacks up against himself. “Hmm. Perfect length. Just need to make three holes…” He tore apart a bit of the seams on three sides of the sack, then pulled the whole thing over his head. “Ta-da! That’s our kit sorted. What d’you reckon?”
“Er, not exactly professional,” I laughed. “But I suppose it’s better than nothing.”
Once Patchcoat had kitted us all out, we started to give Botolph and Godwit some footballing tips.
“I gather the May Fair tournament isn’t what you’d call a normal game of football,” I said. “But the basic idea is the same, right, Ham?”
“That’s right, young master,” said Ham. “In this match we have to chase the ball on a course around the whole fair, starting and finishing at the church. The church porch is the goal. First team to get the ball into the porch wins.”
“So let’s practise getting the ball into the goal,” I said, placing a cabbage on the ground. “You can move the ball forward in any way you like. Obviously it goes further if you kick it. But you can head it or throw it, too. Is that clear?”
“I reckon so, Master Cedric,” said Botolph, scratching his head.
“Easy peasy, Master Cedric!” said Godwit, munching one last bit of pie crust.
“Right, I’ll go first, and you try and stop me getting it in goal,” I said.
I gave the cabbage a kick towards the goal. As it rose into the air, Godwit waddled backwards to try and catch it, but didn’t look where he was going and crashed into Botolph. As they fell in a heap, the cabbage sailed over the goal – and landed slap-bang in the middle of one of the goose pens.
“I’ll get it,” I sighed.
The gooseherd we’d met on our way to the fair was leaning on the fence.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do your geese bite?”
“No, young master,” said the gooseherd.
Relieved, I clambered over the fence and carefully stepped among the honking horde. I bent down to pick up the cabbage – and heard a loud HISS! right behind me.
“Watch out, Ced!” Patchcoat yelled.
But it was too late.
SNAP!
“Yow!”
I leaped in the air as one of the geese bit me right on the bottom.
HISS!
“Yikes!” I ran for the fence and scrambled over just in time to avoid another painful jab in the jacksie.
I glowered at the gooseherd. “I thought you said your geese didn’t bite?”
“They don’t, young master,” chuckled the gooseherd. “But those ain’t my geese.”
We were about to start again when the flap to the Baking Tent opened and a dozen contestants came out one by one, each with a tall and very elaborate cake. They placed their cakes on a long table draped in a white tablecloth then disappeared back into the tent. The last contestant to appear was Margaret, carrying a huge charred and lopsided lump with a single cherry on top.
“Hello there again, Master Cedric!” she said, plonking the blackened, smoking object on the table. “What d’you think of me Showstopper?”
“Er, the cherry’s a nice touch,” I said.
“And it definitely hasn’t got a soggy bottom, Maggie,” said Ham, who was doing some impressive keepy-uppys with the spare cabbage.
“Showstopper?” whispered Patchcoat. “More like a doorstopper if you ask me!”
Margaret glared at him. “I ’eard that, Master Patchcoat!” she snorted. “If the judges wasn’t coming any minute now, I’d wallop you.” With that she turned and stomped back into the tent.
“Er, I think we’d better get on with our practice,” I said.
I tapped the cabbage to Patchcoat, who swung at it with his foot and missed by a mile. Ham instantly let the spare cabbage drop, intercepted my shot with his left foot and neatly flicked it back to me. The spare cabbage rolled away under the table with all the cakes on it.
“Nice one!” I said. My spirits were rising. Godwit and Botolph were a bit hopeless, but at least they were keen. And their dad definitely still had star quality.
While Ham went to retrieve the spare cabbage, I tried again with the first one. This time Patchcoat got his foot to the cabbage and kicked it with all his might. Unfortunately, it shot off in the opposite direction to the goal.
“To you, Godwit!” I cried in alarm, as the ball flew towards the table of cakes.
Godwit didn’t notice. He was busy nibbling a stray cabbage leaf and eyeing all the cakes. “Oochya!” he squawked, as the cabbage glanced off the back of his head.
Phew, at least the cakes are safe, I thought, as the cabbage rebounded high overhead.
A short distance away, the tumblers were forming a human ladder with their backs to us. The crowd cheered as the man at the top stretched out his arms in triumph.
THWOCK!
“AARGH!”
“AAH! OOH!”
The crowd scattered as the cabbage walloped the top tumbler right in the bottom, causing him to lose his balance – and making the whole human ladder collapse in a heap of arms and legs.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the cabbage rebounded again – back in the direction of the cakes!
“I’ll catch it, Master Cedric!” hollered Botolph. He put out his arms, only for the cabbage to sail between his outstretched hands.
“Whoops!” he said.
I watched in horror as the cabbage struck the cake at one end of the table with a sickening SPLAT! The cake – or what was left of it – crumpled on to the cake next to it, which knocked over the one after that… Finally, the second-to-last cake tumbled into the cake at the very end. A large, solid, scorched, misshapen cake with a cherry on top. It teetered and tottered on the edge of the table – and then Ham’s head appeared from the tablecloth, directly underneath it.
“Got it!” he grinned, holding up the stray cabbage.
“Watch out, Pa!” yelled Botolph.
It was too late. Margaret’s cake finally lost its fight to stay upright and dropped off the edge of the table. Right on to Ham’s head.
CLONK!
Ham sprawled senseless on the ground. We all ran to him.
He grunted as we managed to sit him up. Botolph dribbled some mead into his mouth and he began to come round.
Dazed, he stared up at us. “Wha— whazzappened?” he groaned.
“Auntie Maggie’s cake fell on yer bonce, Pa!” said Botolph.
Patchcoat nudged me. “Er, I dunno about you, Ced,” he said, “but I reckon it might just be time we disappeared.”
The trio of tumblers were now getting to their feet and shaking their fists in our direction. They did NOT look pleased.
“Um – I reckon you’re right,” I agreed. “Come on, folks! Practice is over! Godwit, stop scoffing and give us a hand with your pa!”
“Sorry, Master Cedric!” said Godwit, who was busily filling his face with fistfuls of collapsed cake. “Waste not, want not, eh?”
He stuffed several lumps of cake into his pockets and helped us to heave his father to his very wobbly feet. Then, half leading Ham and half carrying him, we made our escape as hastily as we could into the throngs of fairgoers.
“Let’s head for the Refreshments Tent,” I said, once we were safely out of sight. “We can leave Ham there to recover. There’s no way he’s going to be able to play. And I think we’d better warn Sir Percy.”
“Warn him about what, Ced?” asked Patchcoat.
“That he’s going to need to find himself a new castle.”
We pulled off Ham’s sack and lay him on a bench outside the Refreshments Tent. Just then Sir Percy came striding out, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
“Sir Percy!” I called.
He looked up in alarm and instantly switched into a rather unconvincing limp. “Ooh! Ahh! Hello, Cedric,” he groaned. “Bother this knee! It might not clear up for days, weeks, even months. Ooh!”
“Your knee, Sir Percy?” I said. “I thought it was your ankle?”
“Eh? Well – um – er,” he jabbered. “It’s – um – it’s both, dear boy. Yes, that’s it. The sprain has – um – spread to the whole general leg area.” He wafted his hand vaguely up and down his leg. “Anyway, how’s my team coming along?”
Ah. It was my turn to hesitate. How could I break it to him?
“Um – well, the good news is that we do have a full team, Sir Percy,” I said, indicating Patchcoat and the two lads. “Or rather we did—”
“Splendid, splendid!” Sir Percy interrupted. “I must make sure I get a good seat to watch you defeat Sir Roland.”