by Brian Hughes
To confuse matters further, the arrival of Nancy and Spike wasn’t only happening at Allotment Street. It was also happening in a waterlogged ditch behind Nine Acres’ Farm. Here the Greyminster Rose was wedged at an angle of forty five degrees in Greyminster’s official dyke. The solar panels were dented and hanging from their brass rod. The caravan door had been tied round the handle with a piece of rope to prevent it from swinging open.
Nancy and Spike stood on the embankment, Spike removing a cow pat from his boot on the grass.
“You can’t blame me for what ’appened this time, Missus.” He checked his sole and tried again. “That was your fault. Hittin’ the damn controls too ’ard!”
“Listen, Gypsy. This bloody machine’s old and knackered. Not even the Wright Brothers could’ve avoided crashin’ it!” She stamped her holographic boot down hard and snarled. “Anyhow, you’re home now! And in a few hours time, all being well, you’ll most likely be dead! So sod off and let me get back to me project in peace!”
With which statement she clambered back over the dyke, struggled up the steps and wrenched the rope from the handle. Moments later the door slammed shut.
There was a splutter as the engine started. A wheezing grumble that rose from the caravan’s pipe-riddled innards. Then a smoky explosion shook the ground beneath Spike’s feet.
“Rubber band snapped?” An arrogant smirk upturned the corners of his mouth as a black-faced Nancy struggled back through the door. Another slam, a knotting of string so rapid it was blurred, and the animal noises dispersed as hastily as morning fog.
“Don’t patronise me, Gypsy! I’ve changed me mind, that’s all!” A coil of soot tumbled from Nancy’s nose, her exploded hairdo resembling a frantic daisy. “Besides which, I ’aven’t got Goliath back yet.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. And ’ow are you gonna do that? Got a big net or somethin’?”
“No, I’ve got this!”
Nancy held a small box in front of Spike’s flinching eyes. He backed away.
“And if y’ don’t shut your gob, Gypsy, I might be forced to use it on you!”
October the Third, 1999. Six minutes past five in the afternoon. The approaching storm unfolded itself across the orange roof of the Barley farm.
A crowd had gathered at the fairground. A concourse so dense that it overspilled the farmyard wall. Now zombified townsfolk ambled aimlessly about the archaic machines.
Anne Barley, as canny an old goose as her husband concerning financial matters, had seized the opportunity with both ruddy hands. She’d made a makeshift sign from a Safeway’s box with the words: ‘Toffy Aples’ scrawled across it.
The putrid reek of manure was having a profound effect on all the wearied toddlers. On entering the yard their bewildered heads transformed into screaming radishes. Family days out seldom went according to plan, especially those as spontaneous as this had been. Whatever the sepia coating on the mangy crab-apples was, it worked well as a bribe and made Anne Barley £3.49 per capita, to boot.
Giles Barley was also negotiating a settlement. The proceedings were not exactly going well. Diplomacy had given up the ghost and left with the white flag of truce knotted tightly round its throat. The opposing proprietors leant into each other with large amounts of shouting but little meaningful dialogue. Pablo stood behind his ‘Poppa’ removing the dirt from beneath his fingernails with a flick-knife.
Giles had brought his doltish son, Seymour, along for protection. A huge corn doll of a man with thickset limbs and bulbous lips and the sort of string vest that housewives keep onions in. He brandished a fence post.
“See ’ere, Luigi, you great steamin’ mound of daigo bolognaise! I didn’t know you were intendin t’ do awl this when Oi hired moi field art to y’!”
“Bugger you, y’ scruffy dogsa deek! We ’adda contact, anna contract issa contract, so ‘Up your filthy leetle arse!’”
“’Scuse me, gentlemen?” Another voice joined the argument. A more refined diction, albeit rich in Lancashire dialect. “Which one of you is responsible for this land?”
“Oim the owner!” Giles rallied on this newcomer to discover that instead of one possessor the voice had several. A collection of officious bodies had gathered about them in a frowning crescent.
“Issa a lie!” shouted Mario, raising his sledgehammer fist to Barley’s chin. “I’m de current owner of dis estate.”
“Well, ’ooever’s responsible that construction’ll have to come down.” The mayor of Greyminster tugged his badge of office. “You ’aven’t had planning permission, see? And y’r in contradiction of the guidelines laid down by the ’Ealth Authority. Of course, we might be able to reach some sort of compromise…”
“Eet belongsa to ’im.” Mario had a sudden change of heart.
Giles frowned and sensed another impending fine.
“Oim not responsible for thart bloomin’ thing! King Kong ’ere put it up. On moi land too.”
Sensing that all was not well in the Wilberforce kingdom, Pablo moved on the council members. His blade glinted sharply in the vanishing sunlight.
A stocky arm barricaded his progress. Pablo took the measure of his father’s countenance. To murder a farmer would be doing the community a favour. But to pick off a member of the elected senate would bring down the whole establishment on their heads. So Pablo Wilberforce took it upon himself to end this discussion by other means. He sprinted across to the Wilberforce P.A. Vehicle. An unkempt Volkswagen with all its windows smashed and tyres punctured. It was in such a state of abandon that for removal purposes it was generally towed from one destination to the next.
Pablo tore open the dented door and forced himself inside. Moments later the static of an ancient record player vibrated the bolts loose in the roof. With a grind, three bars of ‘I Was Born Under A Wandering Star,’ and plenty of feedback, the speaker blew, smoke splicing through the mesh in cubes. Even the shire horse turned its weary old head at the explosion. A zeppelin of sound expanded above the throng.
Then a hush descended. A hush as heavy as midwinter snow. With a creak the patchwork blanket in front of Goliath’s cage lurched.
Then a snap ricocheted round the fairground.
The tarpaulin tumbled. Everyone watched in horror. Right down to the newt that had been paddling in a puddle of soapy water in front of Maria’s caravan window. All expectant. All terrified. All wondering what monstrosity the cage contained.
From the rear of the now taciturn crowd an almost inaudible sobbing spiralled up to greet the sagging tempest. A frightened child who’d dropped his toffee apple and hadn’t understood why the world had suddenly gone silent.
Moments later everyone was screaming at the towering leviathan, lungs fit to burst and features drained of natural colour.
Here is a humid realm of leafy mountainsides. Somewhere deep in the Amazon Rain Forests, at the same moment that Goliath was being uncovered. Life is more laid back here. Mosquitoes chase midges around the ferns, their scales glinting in the sunlight. Curling mist teases the vegetation with sensual lethargy, probing round the shimmering trunks. The verdant canopy suspended above us creaks and groans, a cloud of noisy, frightened insects swarming down.
A figure descends from the treetops, clinging to a rope. A youth wearing a protective asbestos suit. The rope stops short fifty feet above the forest floor, the young man struggling to gain a purchase on the bark of a tree. He reaches out and grabs a frowning frog by its leg.
“Don’t be startled, mate! I’m doin’ this for your own good!” A sticking plaster is drawn from one pocket, difficult to remove because the gloves are so cumbersome. The hand attempts to place it over the frog’s mouth. “Don’t struggle y’ little bugger! Can’t you see ’ow important this is?”
Just a cursory glance around the branches. Look at the number of muffled frogs here, all temporarily silenced by bandages. All wearing baffled expressions.
“Just a bit more, Pal. ’Old your blasted gob shut! It’s gettin’ wrin
kled!”
A weird noise starts to rumble from the frog’s throat. An eerie warble that’s determined to escape at any cost. The asbestos hand closes tighter around the amphibian’s larynx, squeezing a rasp from its venomous tongue.
“Don’t you dare!”
Then the song erupts into the umbrella of the petiolar world. An indistinct melody that seems to waft on the panting zephyrs. Suddenly the figure is tugging at the rope, the tree frog bounding off across the branch with the plaster hanging from its tuneful maw. The visor in the asbestos helmet is steaming up.
“Pull me up! It’s too late! We’ve buggered up good an’ proper this time.”
Chapter Thirteen: Time for a Coffee Break
Beneath a pyramid of herbal tea-bags in the darkest corner of our trunk, there lies a diary. The private journal of Sarah Kingdom, Conservationist and Eco-Warrior:
Press Release to the Greyminster Chronicle.
Concerning The Erection Of Kingdom Camp In Protest Of The Greyminster Ring-road At Bog-Dyke View:
(There are several photographs stapled to the corner. Photographs, mainly, of Sarah’s naked feet and one out-of-focus thumb.)
Despite claims to the contrary by the council, Bog-Dyke View has an abundance of wildlife. During our protest here I, Sarah Hyacinth Kingdom, have come across numerous endangered species. Trapped inside our dugout, during ‘Slopping Duties,’ I uncovered an exceptional mouse. It was at least eight inches in length.
(A thick black pen has crossed this sentence out at a later date. The words, ‘Actually, I think it might have been a rat!’ have been added above it in different handwriting. Such alterations crop up from time to time, so I have acknowledged them in slightly bolder print.)
Black hawks continually circle the mounds of tarmac. (Could we possibly be talking about crows?) Monopedic gulls abound in proliferation, (I think you’ll find they just tuck one leg beneath their wings) and kestrels with multicoloured plumes hover noisily above the shopping trolleys. (A couple of escaped peacocks have accidentally wandered in.)
It is unthinkable that this haven for unresearched plants, (Chickweed, Nettles and Dandelions) exotic wildlife, (Stray cats, an inquisitive tortoise called Rupert and a swarm of bluebottles) and natural beauty could be demolished. (Sorry, Sarah, but the whole dissertation has gone too far. You might as well tell the readers that this was once the site of an Aboriginal Burial Ground.)
Signed Cedric Ramsbotham (Environmental Editor of The Greyminster Chronicle)
There follow more photographs suggesting that life in the ‘Eco-warrior’s Commune’ was an arduous affair. One final image consists of Sarah’s bare bottom perched precariously over the ‘Dug-Out.’
Sarah Kingdom’s Personal Journal.
Keep Out!
Have been thinking about what’s ‘Right’ and ‘Wrong.’ Having reached some objective conclusions, have decided to write them down for future generations to take careful note of.
Homosexuals are incapable of malice. As are Lesbians.
Heterosexual men are bigots, play football, drive too fast, think about sex once every eight seconds, drink too much and are insensitive to women’s needs. Apart from those with pony tails. However they should be tolerated, as it would be inconsiderate not to do so.
Pornography is responsible for every rape ever committed. Except, of course, erotica of a homosexual nature. Why don’t disabled people have their own pornography? Society must really learn not to patronise such people.
Men who go to Strip Joints are perverts.
Women who go to Strip Joints are just expressing their sexual freedom. This is called ‘Girl Power’ as opposed to loutish behaviour
One must remember to remove all placards, bivouacs, campfires, squashed hedgehogs & reefer butts from Nuclear Dumpsites. And to fill in abandoned tunnels after the protest. A repetition of what happened to the Greyminster Glee Club on Last Year’s Annual Picnic isn’t something I’d like to see again.
It might be best if we put this journal back into the trunk for now. Time to continue with our tangled tale once more.
Chapter Fourteen: Suffer the Little Children
Politicians have long recognised the connection between poverty and crime. A large number of theories have been put forward as to why this should be the case. Some members of Parliament blame it on pornography, believing that censorship would prove beneficial. Other ministers blame it on the benefits system, contesting that its removal would effectively remove the problem. None of these people, however, have spent more than twenty minutes in a terraced slum.
If the truth be known, the lower orders have been abandoned by the rest of society, so why should they bother with its more refined graces? The underclass can’t be expected to behave with decorum when even the simplest provisions have been denied them for the sake of a penny in the pound. Aestheticism is not something you worry about when you live in a concrete box. Eating manners have little meaning when you’re eating your dinner off a stone floor.
Pensioners, who would refute this line of argument, often say, “If we could live like civilised ’umans during the war then why can’t they do it nowadays?” Of course, back in those times, everybody was in the same boat, all united against the common foe.
Times of conflict make strange bedfellows of us all.
Night drew its mantle across Britain’s once green and pleasant land. Below the shattered dome of Greyminster library, Grandma Jo was trying to re-establish a sense of community amongst those who had survived the recent holocaust.
“There’s no point in cryin’ Bobby.” Despite her insistence the child with the broken glasses was having a good bawl anyhow. He’d fancied himself as one of the main characters from Lord of The Flies. The interfering old battle-axe had brought a stop to that.
“’Ere, have a good blow on this.” She offered him a handkerchief with a barley sugar stuck to it. “Whatever you were before all this ’appened, you’ll have to forget it now. Your middle-class sensibilities won’t do you no good ’ere.” Grandma Jo took back the handkerchief, studied the freshly acquired stalactite and decided against putting it back in her pocket. “You’re workin’ class now, Bobby. Sommet to be proud of that.”
“’Sommet t’ be proud of?’” Bobby mimicked the old woman condescendingly. “Eating black puddings and being thrashed by your father’s belt?”
“Y’ve got a funny notion of the workin’ classes, Bobby Beaumont, that’s for certain.”
With a flicker the library’s computer monitor jumped into life. Grandma Jo deposited her rump on the chair and gave an experimental jab at the keys. “There’s no more room for orderin’ Sarah about as though you’re the leader now.”
Grandma Jo didn’t like what she’d seen in the tunnels. Grown women weren’t meant to kow-tow to arrogant toddlers, no matter how spoilt the little bastards were. Even grown women as wet and useless as Sarah Kingdom.
“Somebody’s got to!” Bobby snapped, screwing his grubby fists up. “She’s the best hope we’ve got, and she’d be no bloody use on her own.”
“Aye, you could be right there.” Some of the smaller children shuffled round as the monitor crackled optimistically. A beacon of hope that seemed to attract them like moths to a flame. “So long as Sarah’s got a couple of wilted daisies for ’er hair and some romantic notion of gettin’ through all this in one piece, she’ll be alright. But I’ll take charge of this rag-tail brigade for the time being, if y’ don’t mind.”
One or two faces around her knees were staring at the on-screen maintenance texts. Single-eared teddy bears and rag dolls with their heads missing were lifted up for a better view. There was a fascination about the screen. The sort of seductiveness that a roaring log fire has on those who’ve never seen one before.
“You might ’ave been good at gettin’ your own way with your parents, Bobby. But just ’cos you come from the painted end of the street don’t mean y’ can lord it over me. Now, let’s see if we can log onto the music library. We c
an all ’ave a singsong. Watcha reckon?”
“I reckon the monsters will hear an’ come an’ get us, Grandma Jo,” said a tiny voice from somewhere around the ladder in her stocking.
It’s gonna be a long night. Under normal circumstances Grandma Jo would have told them monsters didn’t exist and given them a clip round the ear. But she’d heard the monsters moving for herself. Great lumbering giants above the sewers, chewing up the streets and bulldozing buildings. Grandma Jo would never have forgiven herself if she’d have lied to the kiddies.
“Gamma Jo? My Gamma Mullins used ’oo know ’oo, she did. Said ’oo were a…” The tiny tot with the knitted soup-dragon thought very carefully. “’Oo was an ‘insensitive, mavrick ole bussard!”
The geriatric raised one eyebrow. “Wouldn’t surprise me, dear. I remember Mrs Mullins. Stubborn old goose, she was. It’s hard to believe she’s de…” She stopped herself on the brink of disaster, realising the child was too young. Softening slightly she wrinkled her nose. “Well, I’ve always bin a bit of a maverick, Dorothy.”
“Judy…” The little girl hoisted her moth-eaten toy up to the screen. Apparently it wasn’t impressed with the diagram of a turtle’s reproductive organs. Its head flopped listlessly onto one side, an oesophagus of cotton wool bursting sadly from its neck.
“And I have to admit, I might ’ave been a bit insensitive to other people at times.” Grandma Jo appeared to deflate like a haemorrhoid cushion. “I remember the day of Princess Diana’s funeral. When the procession was takin’ place I was busy prunin’ me hedges. Your grandma came into ’er garden and started hollerin’ at me. Said I had no bloomin’ respect for the thoughts of others.”
There was a moment of silence whilst the children studied their own thoughts.
“Mind you, I was chuckin’ me dead branches in ’er back yard.”