He could settle for that. No problem.
57 A PRETTY LITTLE PROBLEM
Meanwhile up north, life was not being any kinder to the fox-wolf Hans “Hammerhead” Horn. While his debts were no smaller, at least he could say they hadn’t grown bigger. But that was only because he was working Blowback, Skinner and himself seemingly round the clock. He felt if he didn’t win his magic ticket soon, he never would. And then, he had this other problem, the picture in his head of the beautiful vixen. It would not go away – he couldn’t let it go - not if there was value in it for the taking. Surely there had to be big value there, somehow.
Technically, this meant he had two problems. He had his unbelievable financial hole to dig out of - going hand in hand with his tantalizing dream of wealth and leisure - and this beautiful girl in his brain that looked like she was surely worth at least the same amount of fortune but he didn’t know how.
And no, he was not going to run off into the sunset with her. He knew that would only mean her spending his hard-won wealth. No thank you, all of that would be for him. If he could ever get it. But having been so savagely burnt before, the awful thing about this particular problem with her, was Horn had a growing, niggling fear that somehow this girl was going to be just another cost of getting out. Sure she was hot, but it wasn’t as if he was playing with fire! Or was it? He just couldn’t get a grip on the problem, and rather like his other problems, it certainly had a good grip on him.
58 A KNOTTY PROBLEM
Montague Stump was also mulling over problems. He now had a wonderful shady patio, but the thing was, there were strings and ropes everywhere. He hadn’t seen that kind of spoiler coming. What on earth could be done about it? He couldn’t get up to the board, but a squirrel could get there and chew through the string, so that could come down. But the rope?
They couldn’t chew through that - nobody could. Surely, not even with a saw, even if they could get up to the ironing board.
He did not know what to do. He’d created some sort of permanent looking construction site. Then, of all things, he suddenly he saw the poor remains of the original owner at his feet. He’d forgotten all about that unfortunate fact. The bones appeared flattened into the earth. Had he been stepping on...?
He promised he would go and borrow things from the farmer’s shed that same night and find somewhere for the remains to rest - out of the way but still close to the home familiar to the original owner. True to his word, overnight he made his peace with his predecessor. Then early next morning, he wandered out again to see what could be done, wondering if he had merely created a nightmare. He came face to face with Stint and Stert.
“Ah.” He said, remembering how hard they had worked and then gone off in a huff. Thinking fast, he said, “I’ve got, um, apples for you.” Try and get on their good side. “Wait there.” He hurried indoors, rummaged in his larder and came out with two apples.
“Take them. Take them.”
One each, they struggled away, basically rolling them towards their tree. Giving them hand-outs maybe isn’t quite the right... um...
“I’ll show you where they come from.” Then he added hopefully, “Tonight?” He got no answer, but the rest of the squirrels soon came down to join the feast.
Stump spent the day stewing on the problem of the ropes. There was the huge unsightly coil cluttering up his front veranda. That was bad enough, but he couldn’t move it because from there it rose all the way up to the tree branch. Halfway up it was the squirrel knot with its string trailing off into a bush. Then from the branch the rope came down to his own clever knot securing the turns round the ironing board, all of which was now up there completely out of reach.
And more string. He had this wretched string dangling at him. Where was that from? That came from his own knot at the end of the rope now buried in his rope-knot securing the ironing board. Why the devil hadn’t he taken that off before tying up the board? He couldn’t remember, but it seemed yet another unnecessary mistake too late to correct.
This is pathetic! I Can’t even reach the squirrel knot. What a mess! I’m not getting anywhere with this. Solve one problem and I’ve created two more! Then he thought, The string problem could certainly be solved, I suppose - with the help of the squirrels – and so long as the squirrels were happy to stay, of course. That would be a bit better.
But he decided to put off any ideas of asking for more help from the squirrels for a long time. He worked out that if all the rope went, the string would go with it anyway. The real, big problem was all that wretched rope everywhere.
59 A TICKET TO FREEDOM
Horn was now trying to resign himself to the idea that the girl thing was “just an inflation” on his part, or whatever. He needed to stick to his core business. The rest – which was his hope of a better life - must also be shelved. Either stolen goods, or about to be stolen goods. Only. Nothing else. But, she continued to haunt him.
Or... For instance I mean, how would you advertise, let alone market, a pretty girl? For a start, you’d have to rule out the home market. She’d be too hot for that. She’d be hot, and that’s for sure. Yes, yes, yes. Been there, done that. So, what if...
He sat down as, finally, a new idea had popped into his mind. What if I took her north? He saw himself... Yeah! Leading this hot chick and parading her in front of a frothing babble of crims all bidding against each other for her... Now that’s what I call a daydream! Cor, Mate!
Daydream or not, once the picture was there, he couldn’t get rid of it. The image took on a life of its own and drove him. Here could be the answer to his problems! This girl wasn’t the cost of a ticket out of his second-rate rubbishy life? She was his ticket!
Suddenly besotted with his new idea, it never occurred to him that the crims who were making his own life as a crim so miserable might not want her - or might just take her from him and leave him with nothing, or might still demand he negotiate for his own life, or for his still existing debts. Also, he had no management plan, no sale plan, auction plan, game plan or insurance. He never thought of protecting his merchandise from the buyer until payment was received. He never thought of a backup plan and certainly not of insurance. Now that he had got the idea, he never thought of anything except the success of his new venture.
What he did spend time on was in devising a way of getting her undetected from where she lived to the point of sale. First, he had to get her to his place. Then, if he could get her that far, he’d advertise her on the black market up north. He reckoned the last part was easy. It was the first part that needed a bit of finesse. He knew there was no way to get her to his home willingly. The question was, how to somehow spirit her to his place by hook or by crook.
60 NO STRINGS ATTACHED
That night, Stump took Stint and Stert up to the farm. They clung to him, perched on his back while he promised only to walk. He pointed out that they could make their own way by exploring the gully up to the trees, and then follow the trees all the way to the lane. Once across the lane, they could reach the farm.
Having said that, he had a sudden vision of them stripping farmer hare’s trees. From where they had been living - existing - there was no such thing as private property. He of course could only take what fell to the ground or was within reach and he did so in moderation. Pointing out that they were free to explore so long as they understood there were rules about taking certain foods that belonged to others, he said he was only giving an advanced tour. Not wanting to lecture them, he left it at that. They, for their part, were already finding good food in the gully and grasses as well as from their enormous oak tree.
He dropped them off where he could see the farmhouse door and watched them darting off. Feeling that he better hang around just in case farmer hare was on the prowl, he saw them periodically as they flitted from one food source to the next. He knew the vegetable garden would be an incredible find for them.
It wasn’t long before the two squirrels were ready for home. Nobody had ment
ioned about returning, and Monty had assumed they would have liked to make their own way back, but the way they came to him with their cheeks bulging like shopping bags made conversation out of the question, but he knew what they expected. Back home, they simply jumped off and raced up the tree. With that little mission accomplished and everyone was safely back, Stump went to bed.
Just before dawn, he had a dream. It involved Stint. Stint was high up on the raised ironing board with the string hanging down. From up there, he had said something, and then just stayed looking down at him. Whatever he had said, he wouldn’t say it again. Stump had the impression it had been just one word, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
Unable to solve the hanging rope and string problem, Stump took to planning what was next for his house. It would be nice to put doors on the place. And furniture. And there was the subject of the bed that he had promised himself. In his mind he began doodling about how he would make it. Thinking about that took him back to the one he had seen at Fairly Fullon’s place at Bortontick and Fullon’s own very large double bed. It was at least a good reference point. And that got him to thinking, why bother to make one? Why not go and get Fullon’s bed?
All the way from Bortontick! And sleep on it in my own room. That would be the right sort of pay-back!
However. Since that was as outlandishly impossible as removing the ropes was impossibly difficult, maybe he could stop daydreaming and get on with everything else he had to do. A familiar sound made him look round. Stint was coming towards him.
“Hullo,” said Monty, “No Stert today?”
“He’s taking everybody to check out the woods.”
“OK, and you?”
Stint didn’t answer. Instead, he made out he was just noticing the set-up ironing board, rope and string. This made Monty realise that not only Stint, but also every squirrel, would have been fully up to date on all developments on the ground. They had probably been following his every move.
“You’ve done well,” said Stint “Finished?”
“Er. Hmm. It would be nice to get rid of the um...” Stump tugged on the string. “That and the rope. Bit of an eyesore. Spoils the whole effect.”
“And?” Suggested Stint.
“And. Well, I never thought about, um, getting them, you know, after.”
Stint looked at the offending dangles, then at Stump, back at them, followed them with his eye all the way up, hopped to the rope and ran up to the branch.
Having examined the branch, he went down the rope to the ironing board and out of sight while he examined the rope knot. Finally he appeared next to the string and looked down at Stump but said nothing.
Monty stared up at him, getting a funny feeling. You’re back to that staring business, aren’t you! What am I supposed to do, read your mind? “What?” he called up. No reaction. He hadn’t said anything! Or had he?
In frustration, Stump grabbed the string and yanked it violently, shouting “Oi!” at the same time. He knew he shouldn’t take his frustration out on the squirrels, but they really were – In the same instant, his pull hand brought a length of string down. His “Oi!” turned to “Oh!”
Stint had vanished and reappeared at the end of the board. “Bring.” He called. Rather dumbly, Monty followed underneath, with the string. Stint moved round more, stopped until Monty got to him again. This went on until they were back at the beginning and the rope end had appeared. Pulling the string had pulled the end of the rope out of the knot.
“Wow!” Cried Monty as Stint started guiding him again. Soon he realised Stint was getting him to reverse all the steps he had taken in tying the original knot.
Coaxing the rope round the board from below was a laborious business, not helped by the fact that it was getting longer. But with Stint at least guiding him in the right direction, he learnt even more tricks. Having tangled so many times in the bushes earlier gave him the idea of getting higher up one side of the gully and taking the end string over a high bush to get more leverage. Seeing the rope pull round, then falling off the board and getting longer, was extremely satisfying. Sooner or later he knew it would be free.
Neither of them thought of the fact that the ironing board was about to lose the very rope that was holding it up, but it remained as solid as a rock. Stint finally stopped. Monty was exhausted but the rope was free! As it finally slid off the board to hang down free beside it, Stint leaped onto it, ran up, along the branch, and disappeared up the tree. As he did so, Monty called “Hey!” But Stint was gone.
“Thank you,” said Monty, puzzled, and wondering if he would reappear. When he didn’t, Monty examined the rope overhead. Surely, all he had to do was pull from the side with the coil on the ground and it would come down?
Once he got it started, it became easier until it ran on its own. When it started running up one side and racing towards him down the other, Monty ran for his life. Whipping over the branch, it came flailing down to writhe on the ground like a living thing. Monty came back and stood in awe. There were no rising ropes, no hanging strings. They lay peacefully as if nothing had ever happened. The ironing board stood magnificent, sturdy, free, as if it had always been there.
“Wow!” said Stump. He turned and belted down the gully. At his rubbish tip, he skidded to a halt, “Wow!” He powered back to the pile of rope, “Wow!”. Down to the dump, “Wow Wow!”. Back he charged. Without even slowing he hurled himself into the bushes. ”WOW!” He cried.
As he got up, he found a line of squirrels looking at him. They were obviously back from their excursion to the trees. There was an awkward silence. Then Slip said, “That’s enough, Children. Come.” The two children, now only slightly smaller than the rest, turned and obediently followed her. The others gradually tore themselves away from what they had just witnessed and reluctantly followed the kids up the tree. Nobody said a word.
Next day, Montague Stump spent almost all of it sorting out the rope into its more manageable coil that he dragged indoors and out of the way along with all the string. Then he walked around his property, incredibly proud of his achievements. No, it would never be as grand as his parents’ mansion and grounds. But that wasn’t the point. Theirs had taken generations to achieve and he was only starting.
This made Monty aware of a new thought about himself and his situation. He had no idea how much or how little his father had actually earnt compared to what he had inherited. More importantly, this place was all of his own making, he was master of it all, and hadn’t even touched his own fortune.
What would Dad say to that!
Everything that Monty had found from inside the house he had already carted off to his tip. He would have to think seriously about furniture and fittings. But all in good time. With the ironing board problem solved, he was in a mood to improve the landscape around it. Looking from a distance, he tried to visualise doors at the front. With the view as he came up from his rubbish tip, he pictured grand double doors framed by the majestic rise and overhead canopy of the ironing board.
But that brought up another point. The approach. There was nothing grand about that. In fact, it was rather hideous and not improved by his great pile of rubbish. He had created a massive pile of soil that threatened to block the gully. And that pile was littered throughout with all the ancient furniture and all the brambles and branches he had cut down.
Nuts! He thought. For a start, that’s a dead giveaway. It shows exactly the extent of my excavations, and it’s an unsightly mess anyway.
But the heap got worse before it got better. He cleared and landscaped the approaches to his house. All the vegetation that he removed, he cut, sawed or broke. Some went down again under the remaining greenery as mulch. All the rest was added to his heap. Landscaping done, he finally tackled the vast stack of rubbish.
It took him days and nights of shovelling, sorting and carting. He went through the entire pile, separated all woody bits. He used the nights to cart the soil off to create a massive hump of earth some distance out i
n the open field away from the giant oak. That hump would have to remain until he could level it, spread it, fill up holes in the field, whatever. He simply didn’t have time, now.
All the bigger wood, bramble and branches, he reduced into a much smaller heap and covered it all with the crumbling remains of furniture he had cleared out of the house. The approach to his house was taking shape. It was now smooth and wide and no longer straight. He left some of the undergrowth and bushes to make a bend. The house would now come upon the eye as the corner was turned.
Just add the doors, some nice flower beds... He felt tricks like that would greatly add to the charm of the place.
Having worked almost nonstop for so many days and nights, and with all of the borrowed tools back at least for the moment, he went to bed totally exhausted and slept the clock around.
61 DERRING DO
In the small hours before dawn, Stump woke up realising that he had made a promise that was now due. If he got the string and rope down, then he would go and get the Fairly Fullon bed. Of course, that idea was absurd. It was how many days travel from here to there? Twenty days? Give or take. Twenty, yes, but that was not with a bed. How do you transport a bed? A Double bed at that! Over what sort of countryside? For twenty days! Can’t be done. Simple as that. Stupid idea. Forget it. He went back to sleep.
That didn’t last long. He was up at dawn, kicking leaves. On the other hand, a visit? He mused. ‘Home,’ he thought, Funny saying that, now. Well, it’s not home, is it? Not anymore. This is my home. But I could just... Just drop in? It probably is time that I should at least be thinking about going back, isn’t it? Dad and Mum would be getting on. I should really go and see how they are, before...
A Tour de Fate Page 17