by S.B. Davies
Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom
With more bravado than sense, Dave clambered onto the edge of the platform and swung himself down onto a thick banyan vine that descended straight down into the green mist. He wrapped his legs and arms around the vine, then eased his grip till he started to slide.
‘See you at the bottom gentlemen,’ shouted Dave and loosed his grip some more. The acceleration took Dave by surprise and he shot down the vine at commando speed, disappearing into mist with an uncertain ‘Geronimoooooo’.
The vine diminished in diameter and it occurred to Dave that this vine did not necessarily meet another further down. What’s more as it got thinner, Dave’s grip got weaker, that combined with the moisture from the mist and the poor coefficient of friction associated with Harris Tweed meant Dave accelerated beyond what the SAS consider courageous and into the range of foolhardy. Dave sought to bring his brogues into play, but the slimy mud from the jungle floor reduced their effectiveness below expectations. The vine was now the diameter of thick rope and the wind rushing past threatened to lift the flat cap off his head. Dave didn’t dare spare a hand to grab it as he clung on grimly. The heat of friction became uncomfortable and Dave was sure he could smell burning wool.
Up above the Australians were impressed.
‘Give the Pom credit; he’s game,’ said Toomey, ‘Down that vine, flat out like a lizard drinking.’
‘Mind you,’ said Trev, ‘He’s obviously never gone down a cliff by vine before. What d’you reckon his chances of finding another vine before that one runs out?’
‘Slim to none.’
‘Nice bloke all the same. Still at least we won’t have to listen to all that whining.’
Books by Stuart Stanton-Davies
Ghost Dancer
Shock Treatment
Seven Sisters
Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom
Children`s books
Elise and the Gold Gloop
Elise and the Dragon
Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom
Stuart Stanton-Davies
Copyright ©2013 Stuart Stanton-Davies
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Stuart Stanton-Davies
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Stuart Stanton-Davies
First Printing: August 2014
For Catherine with a ‘c’; I call her Kate.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to all those who read through the various versions and drafts of this novel and put up with me banging on about all my ideas. A tip of the hat to Robert Rankin, who made Brentford noteworthy. A nod in the general direction of Clifford D. Simak for his novel WayStation with its nonchalant acceptance of visiting aliens. A reverent bow to the fabulous Julie T Wallace, a partial inspiration for Mrs Yorkshire, and sad wave goodbye to Robin Bailey, who’s voice speaks to me as Dave Trellis.
I would be churlish not to offer a pat on the head, or maybe a belly rub to Black Labradors everywhere for their rugged indifference to human directives that derive the curmudgeonly Dogs.
I have not neglected Mortimer the Great- ‘Blessed be the sofa’ – but a small mention of Jon is appropriate; he surfaced just fine.
Lastly thanks to Kate, Elise, Sandra, Buzz, Tally and all the other varied members of the household who put up with my inspiration and bad jokes. And of course thanks to you, this person of impeccable taste; may the Garden Gnome of Happiness guard your allotment for evermore. One Life! One Woman! One Shed! Grand…
Chapter One
Don’t moan; nobody cares.
Dave Trellis
One Life, One Woman, One Shed
The early morning sun shone on St Catherine's allotments, turning the sandstone walls gold and lifting the dew in a fluffy blanket of mist. Two stone-faced terraces curved inside the huge, circular walls, their symmetry broken by the barbican on one side and a dark tunnel entrance on the other. Each terrace divided into individual plots surrounding a courtyard. A large wooden pavilion set back on a wide lawn covered a quarter of the top terrace. It was painted dark olive green with white window frames and door; a wide veranda ranged along the front with ornamental pillars and polished wooden rails.
Dave Trellis watched the allotments come to life as he sipped tea on the veranda. His short, dark hair shot with white, giving the impression of a slightly annoyed badger. He was still handsome, imposing, and strong, despite the obvious signs of age. The bushy eyebrows rose and the wide mouth folded into a resigned smile as he gazed over his domain.
How many years had he managed this place now? How many friends had come and gone? It all blurred a bit these days, but he knew when the joy disappeared; seven years ago tomorrow.
Something crashed in the undergrowth on the first terrace below upsetting Dave’s peaceful reverie. He eyed the bushes for a moment before dismissing it as one of the dogs.
Boadicea, an allotment holder, walked across the lawn. Her dark brown hair, pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, emphasized her face with green eyes and cheeky grin. She wore scruffy dungarees and wellies; over her shoulder was a huge leather bag.
Dave watched her approach and felt a sudden sadness; she reminded him of his daughter. Dave squared his shoulders and forced a broad smile.
‘Lovely morning Dave,’ said Boadicea.
‘Aye it is that lass. What can I do for you?’
Boadicea dropped the bag on the veranda; it clanged.
‘The little buggers refused to repair my armour, said they were on strike until you delivered certain outstanding supplies.’
‘Oh they did, did they? You leave it with me lass and I'll have a word. Mind you, if you used wooden practise swords, it wouldn't need repairing so often.’
‘It's just not the same, as well you know.’
‘Hmm, perhaps. Fancy a cuppa?’
‘Thanks Dave, but I need to get back to St Cats. Mrs Yorkshire gets really polite if I miss breakfast.’
‘Aye and you don't want to get on the wrong side of her.’
‘Is there a right side?’
‘I feel more comfortable with a receding rear view. Any road, it’s Friday and Butcher always delivers early on Friday. You can cadge a lift back into town. There’s plenty of time for a brew. I’m trying out this new blend, it’s rather good.’
‘Thanks Dave, that would be lovely,’ said Boadicea, she smiled and sat opposite Dave.
‘So, you all ready for the party tomorrow?’ asked Dave.
‘I'm getting ready for the guests,’ said Boadicea and nodded towards the leather bag.
‘You reckon you can stand up to Enoch this time?’
‘Easy.’
‘In your dreams girl. You helping with show this year?’
‘I offered to do sound and was stuck with make-up. Which is daft, what do I know about make-up.’
‘What do you know about sound engineering?’
‘More than that bunch of divas.’
There was barking below and a small van drove into the courtyard. Dave and Boadicea sipped tea and watched the dogs harass Butcher as he delivered a small mountain of meat and bones.
‘I best be going Dave. Th
anks for the tea.’
‘You’re welcome as always lass. See you tomorrow; come early and show me how your veg are coming along.’
Boadicea skipped down the steps to the lower terrace. Dave watched her go and felt gloomy. He squared his shoulders once more and prepared to face the day. There was much to do for tomorrow’s festivities.
Fergus Loaf trudged up a street lined with cherry trees, their blossom falling like pink snow. It was pretty, suburban and steep; a place for solicitors and senior executives, not scruffy teenagers. He sweated in the afternoon sun, his faded t-shirt damp and his leather jacket slung over a shoulder. He regretted wearing combat trousers and boots, but no one would think him an allotment candidate in flip-flops and baggy shorts. The outfit and his lean muscular frame gave the impression of a young man in the military or possibly just released from prison. Net curtains twitched as he walked by.
Broke and homeless, his overdraft used up and the goodwill of friends with spare beds similarly depleted; Fergus needed money. He needed a direction in life too, but that could wait. The essential ingredient to plan B was an allotment. Once cultivation started he was sure of steady income and a shed would provide accommodation. Then he was free to start his new life and the hopeful search for the perfect woman.
The initial hunt for an allotment was a complete failure. The waiting list on council allotments stretched to years and private establishments were similarly over-subscribed. He found St Catherine’s allotment in the Land Registry. It wasn’t on the local council list and not on the map either. He only had a grid reference and that, by Fergus’s reckoning, was just up ahead.
He looked over the low stone wall at the end of the street. Heavy eyebrows and over-inflated lips exploded in a jackpot smile that softened his brooding face.
Before him a deep valley spread out for a mile or so, like a vast slice cut out of Huddersfield, with wooded cliffs along each side. The valley floor was pasture with spreading trees and massive boulders dotted here and there. A dark river ran straight through the centre, passed a huge, round stone building, and ended in a waterfall. The far end of the valley was thick woods of hazel and willow. Fergus recognised a classic collapsed cavern with step sides, flat bottom, and vast chunks of cavern roof strewn about.
‘Wow,’ said Fergus.
‘Wow, indeed young fellah,’ said a voice nearby.
Fergus looked round, surprised he missed the old man leaning on the wall just a few feet away.
‘Hidden jewel of Huddersfield that is,’ said the man, ‘Over a mile of landscaped parkland with the river Alf embellishing the pastoral loveliness. They say Queen Victoria used to visit regular before Albert passed away, but that’s bollocks.
Then there’s St Catherine’s allotments, a more lovely urban agricultural development you could not wish to find. They say that Queen Victoria used to have a patch there, but again that’s bollocks. Old Vicky didn’t know a trowel from a trivet.
I used to walk down there every day, give the dogs a few treats, and walk back. Can’t now, the knee’s not up to it.’
The man stuck out his hand. ‘Ernie, Ernie Farthing, how do you do?’
Fergus shook the man’s hand.
‘Fergus Loaf, please to meet you.’
‘Any road, you going down there?’ asked Ernie.
‘Definitely,’ said Fergus, ‘I want an allotment.’
‘You’ll be lucky. Dave Trellis don’t hand out allotments willy-nilly, any road do us a favour, give these to the dogs.’
He handed a brown paper bag to Fergus; it reeked of curry and something long dead. Fergus held the bag as if it contained a fresh turd.
‘I know lad, ‘Heckmondwike Curry Pastilles’, bloody disgusting, but the dogs love ‘em. Don’t let ‘em have more than two mind, it gives ‘em wind. Give my regards to Dave, Mr Trellis as you best call him. Tell him he needs some young blood around. You tell him that.’
‘Ok, I will. Thanks,’ said Fergus and walked down the cobbled path that descended in steep zigzags to the valley below.
Ernie called out after Fergus.
‘Don’t pat ‘em, the dogs that is. They don’t like it. And don’t call them ‘puppy’, or ‘good dog’ or any of that crap; it right gets up their noses. Treat them like little furry humans.’
‘Sure, no patronising the mutts, I get it,’ said Fergus.
‘I really mean it; they’ll bite yer balls off, curry pastilles or no.’
Dave Trellis leant on the sandstone parapet, took one last pull on a hand rolled cigarette, and flicked it into the dark water of the river Alf thirty feet below.
‘Bloody Coleridge,’ he said and shook his head gently; ‘I still miss you, you mad bugger.’
He looked across the rolling parkland towards the steep scarp face, where the river emerged and flowed towards the allotments, then swept around and on to a waterfall, finally disappearing into a muddy swamp of willows trees. This pastoral loveliness was broken by a scruffy individual walking towards the allotments.
‘Strangers in the gallery and not a single bark,’ muttered Dave. He drew a deep breath, ready to shout about dogs that couldn’t spot their own nose, when a warbling yowl rose from the barbican.
‘About bloody time,’ said Dave and went back to reminiscing; the dogs could handle one feckless visitor.
Fergus gazed at St Catherine’s allotments. The circular walls were thirty feet high and a stone bridge led to a barbican at the front. The huge wooden gates were open, but the entrance angled away, so Fergus couldn’t see inside. The bridge arched over the river in one large span and two dogs sat on the apex staring at him.
The dogs were a deep iridescent blue and their eyes had bright golden irises. They were too big and too broad in the chest to be Black Labradors. They looked intimidating.
Fergus liked dogs and walked towards them. They stood up; no friendly hello, no grin, tails up, they moved. One blocked his path the other swept past and stood behind him. A short bark from the dog in front told Fergus he wasn’t welcome.
Instead of backing away, Fergus shrugged off his backpack and lifted the flap. A waft of curry pastilles assaulted the nostrils of all around. The change was instant and hostility gave way to friendly interest. The dog in front sat and gave a happy bark. Fergus squatted down and a nose appeared at his side followed by a head that dived straight into the backpack.
‘Oi gerroff,’ said Fergus and pulled the backpack way. ‘Just sit like a goo… Like a polite pu… Like that.’
Fergus pointed to the dog in front and the second dog sat next to it, their attention fixed on the backpack. Fergus pulled out the brown paper bag and offered two of the yellowish brown pastilles to the first dog. They disappeared. Fergus blinked. He didn’t see its head move, yet the pastilles were gone and the dog was chewing and drooling. The other dog barked and Fergus handed it two pastilles. This time Fergus saw the head blur with motion. The dogs still stared, but there was little menace, just curiosity.
Fergus put the curry pastilles back in the rucksack and looked at the dogs sat in front of him. There was intelligence in the eyes and a sense of anticipation in the set of the head. It seemed the dogs were waiting for an explanation.
‘I’m here to see Dave Trellis, can I come in please?’ asked Fergus.
He felt foolish talking to dogs, but was mindful of Ernie’s advice. The first dog tilted its head and gave the same happy bark as before.
‘No. No more, they‘ll give you wind. Now can I see Dave Trellis?’
The two dogs looked at each other, turned round and trotted toward the barbican. Fergus followed them over the bridge. He passed through the barbican and saw the terraced allotments at last.
It was like a Roman amphitheatre, but instead of rows and rows of seats there were two broad terraces separated by a stone-faced step. Each was broken into wedge shaped allotments. Each allotment was different, some with sheds and others with
fences; some well-tended with abundant crops, others over-filled with unusual shrubs growing with vigour and vegetable flamboyance. The high, circular wall at the back had crenulations and a walkway like a castle.
Fergus stood in the central courtyard and looked up at the lower terrace. It stood just above head height and large rectangular blocks of finished sandstone faced the drop to the courtyard. Yorkshire stone paved the courtyard floor with a well to one side. On the other was a large, dark archway that looked just like a railway tunnel. St Catherine’s allotments were a fabulous example of Victorian extravagance, unequalled in the modern world of concrete, town planning, and cost benefit analysis.
While Fergus stared at the surprising interior of the walled allotments, the dogs trotted up steps to the right, leading to the lower terrace. One gave a couple of short barks that sounded disdainful, cheeky even.
Fergus walked over and looked into the well. It was wide, deep, and smelled of damp moss. He stood wondering what to do next. With no better idea, Fergus followed the dogs up the steps. He wandered along a path and tried identifying the vegetables. There were rows of purple bananas growing straight up out of the soil and a cabbage the size of a space hopper. One plot was just a jungle of black cacti; another had flowers with silver blooms that seemed to track him as he walked by.
‘What are you standing around there for?’ said a loud voice with a soft Yorkshire accent.
Fergus turned round and saw a man looking down at him from the top terrace. He wore a white collarless shirt, scruffy dark trousers, and heavy boots. He had short grey hair, bushy eyebrows and a slightly annoyed expression. He looked hard as a dry stone wall.
‘I’m looking for Dave Trellis,’ said Fergus.
‘Oh aye? And what would you want with Mister Trellis?’ asked Dave.
‘I want an allotment,’ said Fergus.
‘Well, while you may be in the right place and Mr Trellis is certainly the man in charge, these here allotments are not allocated to the public, nor are they public property. Not to put too fine a point on it, you’re out of luck and trespassing to boot. The way out is exactly the same as the way you came in.’ He started to turn away.