Prior Engagement, or Plagued to Death!

by Allan Frost

‘Lady Cynthia? Yes, Sarah Eason here. I wond— . . . yes, we’ll definitely be coming to the launch. Looking forward to it. I wondered if you could help us out of a tight spot. I’m trying to arrange our dinner party but Bert Nibbull’s short of staff that night. Could Hives and Crimp give him a hand . . . serving drinks and the food, that sort of thing? They won’t mind taking orders from him, will they? No? Good. That’s very kind of you. Yes, I’ll let you know nearer the time. Thanks a lot. Yes, see you next week.’

  She rang Bert to give him the news, then called Marquees de Sadie ‘We’ll have your event covered’ for a brochure to be sent via email. Sadie’s had a wide range of tents and gazebos for hire, so Sarah would need to discuss the choice with Tim.

  The last vital call, after consulting Yellow Pages, was to Seymour Krapps Hire-a-Loo ‘On demand chain reactions’.

  Seymour himself took her call and spent the first ten minutes explaining that his parents were refugees from Germany during the Second World War and their real name was Krupps but the civil servant who filled out their entry permits had a jocular sense of humour and purposely altered it to Krapps which, as it turned out in his chosen profession, was rather convenient. It was more information than she needed. However, their conversation became even more interesting.

  ‘We have a variety of portable privies for you to choose from,’ he said. ‘It all depends on what you want or your visitors will put up with.’

  ‘Could you explain?’

  ‘Well, to start with, for mass events like sports matches we have the Raw Deal portaloo. Bog Standard, I’m afraid. It’s just a drum with chemicals. To be honest, it can smell awful so I wouldn’t recommend it if you don’t want to offend your friends. People can be very picky.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘The Joker. That’s supplied with an overhead cistern designed to run out of water after five uses. Relies on having a supply nearby to top up the tank. Surprising how many folk can’t be bothered to replenish it. Again, it all depends on how much you like your guests.’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘The Running Flush. This model has a much larger cistern and comes with another large tank which we fill with water. It works off a generator which pumps clean water into the cistern to maintain a supply. Foul water is carried to a portable cesspit; we usually try to hide it a few metres away. Nothing worse than eating a meal while in full view of the pipe. Imagination runs riot! Oh, and it comes with a small hand basin.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Ah! Top of the range,’ Seymour’s voice softened in awe and admiration: this was his pride and joy. ‘The Royal Flush.’

  Sarah wondered if he was a gambling man.

  ‘It has everything. Comes in an impressive structure. Inside, it looks like a proper toilet, such as you’d have at home. Ceramic, with matching cloakroom basin with hot and cold water. The basin, that is; the WC only uses cold. I’m afraid that’s quite normal, Mrs Eason. Runs off a small petrol-driven generator, very quiet and discreet.’

  ‘Does it have a tank and decent waste disposal unit?’

  ‘The best, Mrs Eason. The very best! Everything’s self-contained and, short of a multitude suffering the trots all at once, will cater very well. Oh, and it comes with an electric fan, air freshener and even a box of botty wipes. It really is a remarkable facility. Of course,’ he added apologetically. ‘It is our most expensive.’

  ‘And you’d deliver it, make sure everything works and take it all away afterwards?’

  ‘Of course. Will you be needing just the one? We happen to have a special BOGOF promotion at the moment.’

  ‘BOGOF?’ she hardly dare ask.

  ‘Borrow One, Get One Free,’ he explained with a smile in his voice.

  ‘That would be ideal,’ said Sarah. ‘We could use one for the gents and another for the ladies.’

  ‘In that case, Mrs Eason, if you don’t mind paying a little extra, we can fit illuminated signs on the outside of the doors. One’s a Queen of Hearts, the other’s a King of Clubs. They light up when no one’s inside.’

  Curiosity got the better of her.

  ‘Why do you use playing cards?’

  ‘Goes back to our first customer. We had to develop a new line for him. He ran an open air casino event and wanted the loos to have names. One even had a double seat so that hardened gamblers didn’t have to interrupt their game. We called it the Double or Raise but the police objected; said something very queer was likely to happen. But we run a respectable business, Mrs Eason and, if I might say so, do it very well.’

  ‘Flushed with pride, so to speak,’ observed Sarah, struggling to stifle a chuckle.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Mrs Eason, yes indeed! Could I use that in our advertising? I won’t mention who said it,’ he added hastily.

  ‘Of course you can,’ she said.

  ‘Flushed with pride,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I like that. Tell you what, you can have the Queen of Hearts sign on the house, no charge. Is that settled, then? Two Royal Flushes. Now, if I could take all the details . . .’

  Undaunted by minor setbacks, Bud Blossom’s ingenuity had solved the problem of forgetting to take thick leather gloves on his training sessions at the Watch Oak. Unable to find a length of garter elastic long enough, he settled on a metre-long piece of strong twine.

  With the help of a bodger used to thread laces into an ancient leather football (which was so heavy, especially when wet, he’d frequently been taken to the hospital casualty department as a child with a sore neck, sprained ankle or broken toes), he forced the point through the glove cuffs and, on one occasion, into the middle of his left hand. It made him think along religious lines for a few moments and gave him a perverse and misplaced sense of pride that he, too, made sacrifices in his constant struggle against evil.

  The twine, he had to admit, wasn’t really long enough but it would have to do for the time being. Now that he had almost recovered from the last accident, which left a long weeping gash across his right hand, he was anxious to resume training.

  The fact that when wearing the gloves with the twine around his neck he bore more than a passing resemblance to, at best, a rabbit holding a carrot to his mouth or, at worst, someone demented, didn’t deter him. However, he did have to place them in the basket with the shakram before peddling off to the sacred tree: it was impossible to cycle while wearing them.

  Today, he decided, the tree would represent one of the giants in the ridiculous Hercules film he watched last night. That was the trouble with Hollywood; cracking stories, fantastic action but no regard for historical accuracy.

  Mick Sturbs felt his heart sink when he saw the gate into the field left open again.

  Must be the catch, he thought. Wesley hasn’t used this field for months, so it can’t be him. Really must have a word with him. Now, where’s Bambi?

  He peered into the shadows beneath the trees at the southern end of the field. She was nowhere to be seen!

  ‘Oh, God, where are you?’ he asked himself, desperately scanning the area.

  ‘Bambi! Bambi! Where are you, girl? Come to Mick!’ he called with mounting anxiety. She was nowhere to be seen! Perhaps she’d been kidnapped! Was that why venison was on last night’s menu at the Just One More Tavern? Thieves! Bastards!

  Something nudged into his back.

  ‘Bambi! What are you doing out here? You’re a naughty girl!’ he admonished, hugging her around the neck. ‘It’s not safe on the road! How many times have I told you to stay in the field?’

  He saw the rope around her neck had snapped again. He also saw Constable Blossom’s bike pass over the crossroads into the lane to Home Farm.

  ‘Oh, no! Not again!’

  Hiding behind a hedge was getting to be a habit. How long would Blossom be prancing around this time?

  He held Bambi’s tether tightly and sat down.

  Fortunately for Mike and unfortunately for Bud, shakram practice was destined to be another short affair.

  It started off well. On the
first throw, the shakram glided through the air like a flying saucer before skidding across the ground and coming to rest a few metres away.

  The second wobbled a little in flight but managed to bounce off the tree.

  The third flew beautifully, a good ninety degrees away from the target.

  The fourth bounced off the oak and shot straight into the basket on his bike. He couldn’t have done better if he’d tried.

  The fifth shot sent the shakram high into the sky. It hovered tantalisingly for a moment before plummeting to the ground, narrowly missing Bud’s head.

  Encouraged by such progress, PC Blossom concentrated hard and put all his strength behind the sixth throw.

  Success!

  The shakram shot from his hand like a bullet, straight into the tree and stuck into the trunk about a metre above the ground.

  Immensely proud of himself, our intrepid hero strode over to his bike, slipped on the gloves and looped the twine over his head. He wasn’t going to cut himself this time, oh, no! He could almost hear the crowd cheering around him.

  He crouched down and began to tease the shakram out of the wood. It wasn’t easy, partly because it was so well embedded but mainly because the twine wasn’t long enough to allow both hands to move freely.

  Perhaps it’d be better if he used just one hand.

  He let go with his left and tugged hard on the shakram with his right.

  It sprang out.

  At this point, Bud lost his presence of mind.

  His right hand shot to one side, pulling hard on the twine. His left hand smacked him in the eye.

  Reeling from the shock, he jerked it away, yanking the cord in the opposite direction.

  The shakram sliced into his cheek. Blood spurted from the wound. He let out a loud wail.

  Mick leapt to his feet wondering what the noise was all about.

  He saw PC Blossom riding his bike towards Hemlock, steering with one hand. The other held a dripping white, rapidly-turning red, handkerchief to his face.

  He smiled. Serve him right!

  A terrifying thought struck while he led Bambi across the grass . . . was he destined to spend eternity avoiding Blossom?

  XI

  Taxi after taxi drew up outside the prestigious Methuselah Retirement Resort at Wellingley. Ackney Cabs was having the busiest time of its life, solely because very few of Lady Cynthia’s distinguished guests wished to run the risk of their own cars being recognised on the forecourt.

  It was one of those warm, balmy evenings in early August. Tim and Sarah’s taxi got caught up in a traffic jam on the outskirts of the town when a police car, lights flashing and siren wailing, passed them on the wrong side of the road before careering out of sight.

  George and Hilda were in the back of the police car. They hadn’t been able to book a taxi so George asked one of his drivers to take them to the venue. Hilda was fuming . . . the last thing she wanted was her visit to the unveiling of a tawdry clothing collection to become public knowledge; she might just as well have arrived amid a fanfare of trumpets and grand display of fireworks.

  Neither she nor George had any great desire to accept the invitation but, as George had rightly said, best not offend such pillars of the community, especially since he owed his promotion to Sir Cedric. And, in view of recent events, Hilda had promised to stay off alcohol for the night.

  They were greeted in the entrance hall by Lady Cynthia herself.

  ‘Ah! Hilda and George, so glad you could make it. May I introduce you to Alexander Rodd, the proprietor?’

  ‘Just call me Sandy,’ said a well dressed man in his mid-fifties, almost caressing Hilda's hand as he shook it. ‘I do hope you enjoy your visit.’

  Hilda went quite weak at the knees, suddenly rekindling a long-forgotten feeling of girlishness. Sandy Rodd. Strange name, but what a looker!

  ‘And this is Persephone Chinn-Dribbling, Mayoress of Wellingley and president of the Women's Institute.’

  George shook her hand while Persephone and Hilda imperceptivity exchanged restrained nods.

  ‘Yes, we have met,’ said Persephone, making a great show of adjusting the mayoral chain while peering down her stuck-up nose in Hilda’s direction.

  ‘If you’d like to go into the main dining room and take a drink, Sandy will show you the way. Have to keep the entrance clear, you know!’

  Hilda fluttered her eyelashes when Sandy put his arm through hers; he smiled two rows of polished piano keys. Shame about the odd black note.

  Sandy Rodd, thought George. Bloody good name for a lounge lizard. Couldn’t advertise the fact any better if he wore a flashing neon sign.

  The dining room was packed with an amazing variety of people from all walks of life who would, in other circumstances, never associate with one other. Well, perhaps only in private. Town councillors, solicitors, accountants, shopkeepers, supermarket checkout assistants, factory workers and several street walkers.

  Surely they couldn’t all be Cynthia’s clients? No wonder SAFE was doing so well! And was that the Police Commissioner discreetly slipping a business card to a scantily dressed floozy with more material in her feather boa than her see-through dress? Well, well! Should be an interesting evening!

  Tim and Sarah arrived.

  ‘Quite a turnout,’ observed Tim, taking a glass of punch from a woman holding a tray of drinks. She was one of the residents, eighty if a day and dressed up as a French maid, complete with black frilly suspender belt, fishnet stockings and garter.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Sandy. ‘We have so much to thank Lady Cynthia for.’

  I bet you do, mused George. Must think you’re in God’s pocket with so many women here.

  Cedric came over to join them. Persephone Chinn-Dribbling clung to his arm like a barnacle. Tim couldn’t help notice her beam was even wider than Hilda’s, which was saying something.

  ‘May I get you a drink, Persephone?’ asked Hilda with a forced smile.

  ‘Oh, yes, how kind. Just a fruit juice, if you don’t mind. Don’t want to make a fool of myself in public. Must consider my high public position!’

  Hilda returned a few moments later with a tumbler full of orange juice. Persephone drank the whole glass in one go.

  ‘Very warm tonight, don’t you think? Hot bodies . . .’ her mind drifted away for a moment. ‘Would you fetch me another glass, Hilda dear? It’s very cooling.’

  ‘All a bit embarrassing, this,’ said Cedric. ‘Still, where would we be if it weren’t for nooky?’

  ‘Probably extinct,’ said Tim without thinking. ‘I’m so sorry, Sir Cedric, I didn’t think . . .’

  ‘That’s all right, my boy,’ Cedric said with an apologetic smile. ‘I may be the last of the Foot-Warts but I’ll make the most of it. Cynthia’s promised a private showing back home later on,’ he added with a wink.

  Sarah took his arm.

  ‘I do hope we’re like you and Lady Cynthia when we get to your age,’ she said. ‘Full of life and wisdom.’

  ‘Have you done anything yet about raising a family?’ Cedric asked pointedly. ‘Nothing more depressing than not having someone to carry on after you’ve gone.’

  Tim felt his face turning crimson. It wasn’t the heat.

  ‘Oh, we’re getting plenty of practice, Sir Cedric,’ said Sarah. ‘Who knows, after tonight . . .’ She gave Tim a lingering look. And the show hadn’t even started yet!

  ‘Have you heard from the Society of Heralds yet, Tim? About the title.’

  ‘I had a letter yesterday morning,’ Tim replied. Yes, change the subject. ‘With a long questionnaire. They want me to supply as much evidence as I can gather. Perhaps you could give me a statement summarising the court case.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly.’

  ‘Do I understand you may receive a title?’ asked Persephone, never one to miss an opportunity to further her circle of influential acquaintances.

  ‘Seems that way,’ smiled Sarah.

  ‘Aren’t you the . . . lady . . . from t
he Priorton Arms?’ the overgrown nose sniffed.

  ‘Yes. Mr Eason is my husband. We own Priorton Hall.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ said the nose, taken aback. ‘And does Priorton Hall have much land?’

  ‘Only about two thousand acres,’ said Sarah, enjoying the look of envy on Persephone’s triple-chinned face. ‘And where do you live? Is there a Mr Chinn-Dribbling?’

  ‘Parker’s Grove. Never found a man good enough.’

  ‘One of the first council estates in Wellingley,’ offered Cedric helpfully. ‘Often meet the residents in court.’

  Persephone was mortified. Trying to salvage the situation, she said, ‘Of course, I bought mine several years ago.’

  Hilda seized the opportunity to twist the knife. ‘Oh, yes, the Right To Buy Scheme. You must have got a good discount,’ she said smiling, handing over another tumbler.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Sandy Rodd’s smooth voice boomed over the Tannoy before Persephone could think of a barbed reply. ‘May I have your attention? I’m sure you can’t wait to see the latest additions to the Lady Cynthia Collection so, without any more ado, I’ll hand you over to her. Lady Cynthia Foot-Wart!’

  Cynthia stood on the low stage, took the microphone and waited for the applause to die down.

  ‘What a wonderful turnout,’ she began, her chin trembling a little. ‘Oh, I’m not very good at public speaking, I’m sorry. Cedric’s much better at this than me.’

  ‘Leave me out of this!’ came a voice from the back. Everyone laughed politely.

  ‘I have to say,’ said Cynthia, gaining confidence. ‘I have been astounded by the success of our little shop. Obviously, we’re doing something right. But I couldn’t have done it on my own. Let me introduce you to Arthur, my partner.’

  Nodding nervously, Arthur Thyme stood briefly to acknowledge his bout of politely understated claps.

  ‘As you know, we’ve built our reputation on discretion combined with openness. Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, whatever your age, social standing or proclivities. We cater for them all. But if the human race is to continue, it’s important that we prolong our desires and ability, sorry, capability for as long as possible.’