Scotland Yard
By Buddy Fulldae
Copyright 2012 Buddy Fulldae
Thank you for your support.
Scotland Yard
By Buddy Fulldae
Chapter 1
There was a scritching scratching noise coming from the box.
It was a biggish box, the biggest of three, and it was written with instructions in Welsh which, loosely translated, said,
"If no-one home, leave at the front door."
It was just as well that the courier spoke no Welsh, because in fact, the last thing you would want to do is leave these boxes where the contents could possibly escape and run away.
As it was, it was only a matter of fifty two minutes and thirty five seconds before the first cardboard box finally acquiesced, and engorged its contents of white foam peanuts, which rolled out of the pack, stood up, staggered a bit, and finally shook themselves, causing themselves to fly off in all directions revealing a somewhat grumpy looking Welsh Pymke Pixie.
Looking grumpy and feeling grumpy are often two different things, but in this Welsh Pymke Pixie, they were pretty much the same thing.
He stretched his back and surveyed the landscape: a backyard garden lined with trees and bordered by a tall paling fence.
His eyes nestled on the other two as yet silent boxes in pretty much the same way that a sledgehammer rests on an egg.
"Bloody lazy good for nothing lay-abouts" He muttered, though it was a bit hard to understand him because of his garbled accent.
"Get put in a box fresh from the factory, and they think they know it all.” He grumbled.
“Back in my day, we had to stand in rain in Bunnings for a month before a customer even looked at us. Froze our fucking arses off, we did! These days, it’s the conveyor belt, a lick of colour...spray paint, too! .... And into a nice warm soft box and delivery by Internet order on a short supply line. Bahhh!"
He kicked first one box, and then the other, and listened as the first stirrings of activity issued from within.
Chapter 2
Warren, Spanglebean and Puck.
The taller and skinnier of the remaining two parcels shivered from side to side.
There was a stillness, followed by what sounded like shuffling of feet, and then an explosion of energy through the top of the box which left the hat, face and shoulders of a rather energetic looking pixie smiling angelically through a mist of shredded cardboard and packing material.
He stared at the Welsh Pymke Pixie looking at him with a mix of bewilderment and disgust, and said,
"Who are you?"
The pixie didn't answer the question directly, but replied with another question.
"Ever heard of Democracy?"
"No"
"Don't worry. It's over-rated."
"O...Kay..."
There was the sound of ripping cardboard, and a shower of foam peanuts, and a hand was extended.
"Pleased to meet you Over-rated!"
"Let's get this straight, numbskull. I'm in charge. OK? I am the supreme ruler. I am the one who says jump, and you get to say "How High". Get it?”
"How high?"
"Cheeky bugger aren't you. Don't worry, you'll live and learn."
"Or die and learn" he muttered under his breath.
He turned and kicked the other box, just to prove his authority.
There was a brief snoring sound, and the box rolled over. The snoring became stertorous, and then: silence.
Finally, there was some knocking from inside the box, followed by a voice.
"Will someone please help me out of here?
Finally relieved of his encumbrances, the last pixie stood up, stretched and yawned.
"Damn near fell out of bed!" he yawned. He glanced at the sun, which was a quarter of its way across the sky.
"So THIS is what a morning looks like, is it? He exclaimed.
And so, introductions were made.
Warren.
Spanglebean.
Puck.
And thus began their first day in the Scotland family Back Yard.
Chapter 3
The Fence At The End Of The Universe
So Warren, Spanglebean and Puck spent the rest of the day investigating the back yard, which they had, through no fault of their own, found themselves.
There was a high wooden fence all around, with no gaps in the palings.
Nothing could be seen, except the sky above. It seemed the end of the earth.
Warren, of course, knew better. He had been at Bunnings. But whilst Puck seemed happy to accept his word with a certain amount of blind faith at first, Spanglebean was of no such disposition.
"What's a 'Bunnings'?" he asked. "You're just making it up. I know nothing of this 'Bunnings' you speak of...."
He left the rest of the sentence unsaid, and thus Warren found it very difficult to refute. It was impossible to apply logic to the smokescreen of an unfinished sentence.
"Bunnings is a hardware superstore, bigger than this whole backyard..." he started, speaking with the authority of someone who knew what he was talking about.
"What, bigger than the whole entire world?" cried Spanglebean.
Warren sighed a deep sigh. Puck swiveled his head back and forth between both protagonists. Puck was confused.
It wasn't that he didn't know what to believe. The problem was the he believed, in turn, each side.
His head was hurting, and it was about at the point when Warren threatened to throw Spanglebean over the troublesome 'fence that was the end of the world' in order to demonstrate the certainty of his metaphysics that Puck took himself to the dog kennel and after kicking the dog out, sat in its pleasant shade.
Chapter 4
The Big Bunnings Theory
The next morning found the Welsh Pymke Pixies in the dog kennel.
All three of them.
Together.
Desperate situations demand desperate actions.
Outside, the rain was pissing down.
Decidedly pissed, though not pissing, was Rex, who found some solace in the fact
That he had found a spot by the hot water system where he was mostly sheltered from the weather except for the odd wind-drift and the splash of the raindrops as their terminal velocity fall was in intercepted by the terminal relative non-velocity of the slab of concrete.
Thus he was as happy as he could be, especially as the thought that crossed his mind was that, so closely confined, there was the possibility that the Welsh Pymke Pixies might kill each other.
On the other side of the house, however unlikely, peace reigned.
Warren was telling stories of Bunnings.
Stories about how the Junior Garden Manager used to turn the hose on the regimented lines of Pixies standing on display, and stories about what they would have done to him had they caught him on a dark night in aisle sixty-seven.
Puck listened in amazement, whilst Spanglebean fidgeted restlessly, staring at the rain, at the impervious and absolutist fence.
A thought was mulling over and over in his youthful and still relatively though reluctantly impressionable mind.
"What if Warren was right?" He thought.
"Warren doesn't appear to have the imagination to make it all up." He thought.
"What if there really was a 'Bunnings' from which everything was created." He thought.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against the kennel wall.
An embryo theology nestled silently in his brain, and he decided to put it aside whilst the idea developed itself, because he knew that trying to work it out from his own standpoint of limited expertise, experience and logic would just give him a headache.
And so the idea of th
e "Big Bunnings Theory" at the beginning of the universe slowly took shape.
The Big Bunnings theory finalised itself within the neurones of Spanglebean's brain to look something like this.
In the beginning, there was nothing.
Then, through a small tear in the fabric of non-existent time and space, a small portal coalesced, upon which was written the single constructual entity
'Bunnings.
With a whoosh, which was the first sound in the infant universe, a barbecue appeared, followed by the smell of sizzling sausages and onion.
Then a doorway opened, and the portal from which emitted every particle of every textile which formed the basic fabric of every natural or artificial construct in the whole back yard issued forth, and thus the backyard was born.
And what if, thought Spanglebean, there was not just one backyard, but dozens of them? Would they all be the same, or given the infinite possibility that became existent at the moment of the creation of Bunnings, would they be different?
Spanglebean looked longingly at the back fence with its impenetrable secrets.
How he longed to know.
Chapter 5
The Garden Tea Party
More pressing matters loomed, however, in the sudden cessation of the rain, the emergence of the sun, and the finishing of school, which brought a convergence of the real entities of Zoe, Sarah and Laura into direct juxtaposition with the real entities of Warren, Puck and Spanglebean.
The girls had already sorted out the social complexities of confirmation bias, having already chosen, quite separately and quite effectively, their favourite Welsh Pymke Pixies.
Zoe had chosen Warren as her favourite, since he was a no-messing-around type of pixie who saw to it that things were done to his specifications.
In other words, she had subconsciously identified with his bossy nature, and championed him for her favours.
Sarah liked Puck for his gentle, easygoing nature, and Laura liked the cheeky good looks and energy of Spanglebean.
And so it was that the dress up box came out, and the Pixies were soon suitably attired and sitting in a circle sipping tea.
Warren looked dominant in a Viking helmet, with a sword strapped to his side.
Puck gave the impression of casuality, with a freshly picked and still fragrant daisy chain around his neck and a straw hat on his head.
Sarah had put some zinc cream on his nose for good effect, and so it seemed that the Welsh Pymke Pixie had emerged, not from the ravages of the North Sea, but from a tropical Hawaiian lagoon to lounge upon the lily-white sand.
Spanglebean was not so fortunate. He had lipstick and rouge, and a frilly skirt, which, had he not been a boy, he would have carried off quite well.
If his head had not been so full of the origins of the universe, he may have realised the dire jeopardy of his masculinity, but then, that's why Laura liked him.
He was a dreamer.
Chapter 6
Hangover
Sunshine topped the fence with a magnificent luminescence on the morning after the party to find three Welsh Pymke Pixies spread over the lawn and inelegantly groaning and reaching for something to cover their eyes.
Warren was the worst affected by the raspberry cordial tea, for he had celebrated the hardest, and Zoe, in her increasingly delirious state, had mixed a stronger and stronger cocktail as the party went on, to the extent that both she and Warren were downing almost neat syrup by the end, in between singing raucous and ribald songs with such alacrity that the tune was still embedded in Spanglebean's elfish brain.
Puck peered out from underneath the rhubarb leaf he had snapped off and was using as a makeshift umbrella.
"Can someone turn that thing down?”
It was more a hope than a question, but the only answer he got was a groan from Warren, and sonorous grunt from Spanglebean.
Warren shuffled towards the kennel and soon Rex emerged, obedient though unbidden.
Shortly after there was a loud crunch as Warren collapsed through the kennel opening onto the shaded wooden floor.
An echoing groan soon dissipated, and the only proof of Warren's continued existence for the next few hours was his conspicuous silence.
Spanglebean was stretched out amongst the strawberries, which still enjoyed the shade of the fence, though they probably didn't enjoy the shade of Spanglebean so much.
Puck remained mostly in the sun, stoically protected by the steadily wilting Rhubarb leaf, and with his feet in Rex's water trough.
Eventually, each Pixie roused from their respective hangovers, and one by one, found themselves sitting under the pergola as a cool gentle breeze played sweet around their toes.
Rex looked over what resembled the casualty ward of a rehab hospital with disdain.
"Pixies who can’t handle their red cordial should stay out of the garden tea party,” he muttered.
Never before had he found himself talking to himself so much.
The only consolation was that at least the other side of the conversation gave him answers worth listening to.
He couldn't believe how well he got on with himself. He was witty, insightful, deep, thoughtful and incredibly wise.
He couldn't believe his luck in having found so delightful a companion.
Now if only those bloody pixies would just piss off and give him back his kennel. Wouldn't life be grand?
In the distance, the school bell rang and by the time the girls got home, all three Pixies had cast off their clothes, and were busy frolicking in the dog's drinking water.
Chapter 7
The Song
The sun was going down over the back fence.
Lower, lower, lower.
Spanglebean watched it from the trampoline as he lay back, gazing at the orange clouds in the paling fence framed sky.
The tune that had been in his head all day somehow found its way out.
Without Spanglebean's complicit permission, it started tapping itself through his foot on the trampoline mat, rocking him with its gentle rhythmic meter.
Then it rose, traveling cephalad until it found his lungs, his nasal sinuses and his hum, and eventually, it bifurcated and spread at once to his voice box and his brain, where upon he began to sing.
It was the song that Warren and Zoe had butchered the night before, but in Spanglebean, it found a far softer and gentler expression.
"She'll be coming round the fountain when she comes.
She'll be coming round the fountain when she comes.
She'll be coming round the fountain, coming round the fountain
She'll be coming round the..."
"Mountain!" interjected Warren. "It’s 'Mountain!!
She'll be coming round the MOUNTAIN!!!"
"Oh." replied Spanglebean simply.
"Sorry."
A few moments went by.
Finally there was a tenuous question that formed itself on Spanglebean's lips.
"What's a mountain?"
Warren was surprised. He'd never really thought about it.
Now that Spanglebean mentioned it, he wasn't really sure what a mountain was.
All he knew was that Zoe had been so sure about the song. She was so sure, in fact, that it had never even occurred to Warren to wonder what the song or the words were about.
"Ummm..." he began.
"Mountains are...." he continued.
"Well, they're like....." he said, buying time.
He knew he couldn't stall forever.
Suddenly a thought flew into his head and he repeated it verbatim, before he even knew what he was saying.
"Mountains are, well, sort of like fountains."
"Oh." said Spanglebean. "Well, that's all right then."
He lay humming for a bit more, as the clouds turned a deeper orange and a darker blue appeared in the east, and at once, again without him being consulted, the song started up again.
"She
'll be driving six white Porsches when she comes.
She'll be driving six white Porsches when she comes.
She'll be driving six white Porsches,
Driving six white Porsches
She'll be..."
"Riding." said Warren.
"Horses." said Warren.
"What's a horse?" snapped Spanglebean.
It wasn't even his song, and he was sick of it getting interrupted in him.
Again, Warren paused. The same argument rose before him, and he snatched at it as though a lifebuoy.
"I guess it's like a Porsche." he said lamely.
"Thank you!" yelled Spanglebean. "You know" he said, "I'm sick and tired of you interrupting and criticising me when I'm getting it nearly right!"
He took a deep breath.
"You know, when I am almost 100 percent correct, and there you go, insisting on me being perfectly, perfectly correct! I'm sick of it!"
He lay back on the trampoline staring pointedly at the sky. and said no more.
Warren found him later, under the light as dusk descended into night.
Spanglebean was staring at something in the grass.
"Do you think it's one of Sarah's chocolates, or do you think it's a dog poo?" asked Spanglebean. He looked hopefully at Warren.
"I think it's a chocolate." said Warren.
"Yep. Looks like a chocolate to me!"
"In that case," replied Spanglebean hurriedly, "I'll invoke the six thousand six hundred and sixty six second rule!"
And with a single motion, he swept up the delicacy and popped it into his mouth.
A second later he was spitting and swearing.
"You utter, utter turd!! You.... You...."
Whilst his mouth had run out of words, his legs had run him to the nearest tap, and he began gargling furiously.
"It was a dog poo!" he yelled when his brain was finally able to articulate the depth of his feelings.
Warren in the meantime had remained still, his face expressionless, his demeanor one of patient curiosity.
"I'm sorry." replied Warren sincerely.
"You can't hold it against me for getting it NEARLY right." he said, slowly and deliberately.
Scotland Yard Page 1