Scooters Yard

by Clive Mullis

  His opponent screwed up his face, cast his eyes down at his cards and then looked back up, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. ‘Now, that’s a good card, a very good card, but alas not quite good enough, sonny boy.’ He detached a card from his hand and placed it slowly and deliberately down on top of Mr Porky’s postman. ‘The Milkmaid,’ he announced triumphantly.

  The loser sighed, and then flung the rest of his cards down on the table petulantly. The winner grinned, and then greedily gathered up the counters.

  ‘I thought you had the Farmer’s Daughter,’ said the sandy haired one, who had lost and went by the name of Mags, short for shit-magnet, as he always seemed to attract the worst jobs.

  ‘I had that as well,’ replied the winner with a grin; he went under the name of Hobs, on account of the nails in his boots, which he took great delight in showing anyone who he felt wasted his time. He turned his head to the room next door. ‘You got that bloody kettle on yet?’ he yelled to the two feelers.

  ‘Just doing it now,’ answered Cecil Toopins, also known as Dewdrop, due to the near permanent droplet of snot which seemed to hang from his nose. He was thinner than a pipe cleaner, though not quite as good looking. ‘Looking for some clean mugs.’

  A clatter reverberated as someone dumped the kettle onto the stove and then the two feelers walked back in.

  ‘Don’t you lot ever wash yer mugs?’ asked Constable Beryl, the older of the two, and generally considered to be the laziest feeler ever to have been taken on by the force; the pair were always put together on a patrol as nobody else wanted to work with Beryl, and with Dewdrop being the youngest at the watch-house, he really didn’t have a choice.

  ‘Nah. Gotta get the stain really thick so you can get some flavour. Washing spoils the taste,’ replied Hobs, with a wistful look.

  A regular haunt for the feelers of Gornstock, the ambulance depot had become a little oasis where they could sneak away for a little bit of peace and quiet, away from all the trouble that a big city brings. Outside in the shed, the wagon, with the big red cross painted on the side, waited to be hitched up to the horse, which presently munched on some straw in the stable. When they got a shout, it only took them about ten minutes to get on the road — quick by any standards.

  Most of the calls come via pigeons sent from the hospital. When they come through into the coop they trigger a bell in the crew-room which galvanises the crew into instant action: which normally meant a sigh, a yawn, and a slow folding of the paper or of playing out the last hand of cards. They never got excited, as more haste meant less speed — or so they told themselves. If someone banged on the door then they would send a pigeon to the hospital with a message, informing the staff as to the situation. The system generally worked — unless a hawk ate the pigeon.

  The feelers flung off their cloaks, unbuttoned their duck-arse jackets, and took off their stovepipe hats and sat down heavily with a thumph, sending a little cloud of dust billowing into the air. They both put their feet up on the table at the same time and pulled out their tins to roll a ciggie. Hobs reached over and flicked their legs off the table.

  ‘You should be making the bastard tea,’ he growled.

  Dewdrop had his tin open and it jumped in his hand as his feet hit the floor, sending little flakes of tobacco cascading down onto the carpet. Immediately, he scrambled down and tried to scrape it all back together, but once he’d finished, it seemed as if he had more than when he started. He looked confused for a moment, and then a grimace of distaste spread across his face. ‘When did you last sweep this carpet?’ he asked, a little hesitantly.

  ‘Sweep? Don’t do no sweeping here. Got a cleaner comes in once every few months fer that,’ answered Mags, scuffing up the carpet with his boot, which produced a little round ball of gunk.

  ‘Oh.’ Dewdrop looked forlornly down into his tin.

  ‘Wouldn’t worry about it; it’ll put hairs on yer chest, will that,’ grinned Hobs.

  The kettle started whistling and Dewdrop and Beryl, knowing their duty, uncurled themselves from their chairs and went to the kitchen, returning a short while later with the required refreshment sitting on an old tin tray.

  ‘What do you call that?’ asked Hobs, looking at four steaming mugs of piss-poor tea: slightly discoloured washing-up water would have been a better description of the attempt to produce proper ambulance tea. ‘How the hell do you expect me t’drink that?’

  Dewdrop’s head hovered over the mugs in disappointment; he sniffed, and then the single lone droplet of snot decided that the time had come. The teardrop began to become elongated, the sinuous connection stretched to its limit as it thinned out to the width of a hair. Then the connection broke, and the little drop plummeted downwards towards a mug, landing with a plop and sending little ripples across the surface.

  ‘That one’s yours,’ sniffed Mags with distaste. ‘Now put the bloody tray down before you make it frothy.’

  Beryl grinned in contempt; he then turned his head towards Mags and pulled a face. Dewdrop took advantage of his lack of concentration and deftly swopped the mugs around, leaving the snot-filled one in front of his colleague. Hobs saw, and he winked at Dewdrop — but didn’t say a word.

  Dewdrop’s shock of black hair and pale pimply features disappeared in a pall of smoke as he lit his ciggie. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and then paused briefly before exhaling luxuriously. He then leant back in the chair and relaxed, watching keenly as Beryl took a swig of his tea.

  ‘You lot don’t know a good brew when it stares you in the face,’ commented Beryl with pride. ‘I made this stuff and a better brew you’ll never find.’

  Hobs raised his mug in salute. ‘I’s expect young Dewdrop here might disagree, considering he’s got a bit extra.’

  ‘So whose fault’s that then, eh?’ answered Beryl. ‘Mind, this does seem to have a bit of salt in it. You used these mugs for anything else?’

  Dewdrop had taken a gulp at just that time and he sort of coughed; a sound like “euigghhhh!” came from his lips as his tea took a short cut and came spluttering out of his nose in a torrent of dull brown spray.

  Beryl looked askance at him. ‘Steady, lad. You want to puke, you go outside.’

  Hobs grinned and then pulled out his comb and dunked it in his tea before running it through his oily hair. ‘Keeps the colour nice and brown,’ he explained, as the two feelers turned to look at him in confusion. ‘But wiv this brew, it’s got its bloody work cut out.’

  Mags picked up the cards and shuffled expertly. He then dealt out four hands and placed the remaining cards on the table. The two feelers leant forward and picked up their hands. They knew the drill: if you wanted tea and a rest, then you had to pay by playing cards.

  Thirty minutes later the feelers were down by three dollars each. Dewdrop had thought he knew how to play, but half an hour with the two ambulance men persuaded him that he was, in reality, just a novice. Playing and winning with his friends didn’t cut the mustard when a really serious game was on the table.

  Hobs grinned at Beryl when the bell sounded. A shout had come in, so Mags laid down his cards with a sigh and sauntered through to the pigeon coop. He stopped at the door and turned slowly, eyeballing the other three. He then returned to the table and swiped up his cards. ‘Ain’t trusting you lot with these,’ he snarled, before retracing his steps.

  Hobs gulped down the rest of his tea and stood up. ‘Sorry, lads, but it looks like the game’s over.’

  Dewdrop wasn’t too disappointed; he couldn’t afford another hand like the last one.

  Hobs took the reins as Mags settled in beside him, the old bare wooden seat well-worn from all the years of sliding bums. Hobs flicked his wrist and the horse immediately obliged, trotting out of the yard and easing into the traffic on the main street. Mags pulled the bit of string attached to the bell and a loud “ting-ting” rang out as a pedestrian lurched into their path before jumping back out of the way in indignation. Mags grinned and Hobs aime
d for the puddle — the resulting stream of water hitting the mark perfectly.

  In the back of the wagon sat the two feelers, cadging a lift in order to save their legs. They were on their way to a fire in Stackhouse Lane, and both the feelers and the ambulance men were desperate to get there before the fire department. The feelers had an added interest in the shout, as their watch-house was also in Stackhouse Lane.

  Beryl and Dewdrop stuck their heads out of the flap and peered between Hobs and Mags as the ambulance screamed down the street.

  “Ding-a-ling! Ding-a-ling!” Mags pulled the bell with real intent, a nice shiny bell, well-polished and without blemish. Over the years, he had developed the technique of pulling the bell through practice and hard work: it had everything to do with the wrist action, keeping the bell nice and warm and bringing it up to a crescendo. He could keep it teetering on the brink for hours as he expertly pulled, just on the edge for maximum output.

  They could detect a definite whiff of burning as they hurtled around the next corner into Stackhouse Lane, bell clanging, horse snorting and steaming. As they screeched to a halt, Hobs yanked on the handbrake. Mags jumped off and tied the string of the bell to the nag’s tail so that it would clang as it swished. He grabbed the nosebag and shoved it over the horse’s nose, which immediately began chomping away. They then hurried forward to the conflagration with a medical kit hanging off each of their shoulders. Dewdrop and Beryl climbed out of the back of the wagon and froze.

  The fire had already taken a good hold of the building: smoke seeped out from between the roof tiles and little blossoms of flame flickered behind the window glass. They heard a crack, and a pane of glass shattered, and then a furious lick of fire tasted the red brick facade of the Stackhouse Lane Watch-House.

  Dewdrop stared in shock. Inside was everything he held dear in his life: his civilian clothes, the cuddly bear he’d had since a babe in arms, his lucky dice, all the naughty drawings he’d secretly amassed, his little black book that he’d kept hidden in case his mother found out. All of it put away in his locker — which, at that moment, was being incinerated.

  Hobs and Mags wandered up with their hands in their pockets, casting an expert eye over proceedings. People packed the Lane, all jostling each other to get the best view. Luckily, the fire department had yet to arrive, as that promised an entertainment of the first order.

  Mags spied a slightly singed feeler and elbowed his way through. ‘Everyone out?’ he asked conversationally.

  The dishevelled feeler turned to look at him. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mags. Yes, all out. It were just me and the Sarge in the office going through the rotas. We didn’t even ‘ave a fire going. Only the Gods know how it all started.’

  Another crack rent the air and then a bang as the glass from another window shattered. Everyone stepped back a pace. In the distance, they heard the sound of another bell getting gradually louder as it came closer.

  ‘Someone burnt the toast?’ asked Hobs, grinning as he came up to stand with Mags.

  The feeler looked at him, but couldn’t trust himself to reply.

  ‘Oh bollocks!’ exclaimed Mags, as the roof suddenly imploded.

  The big red fire-wagon lumbered around the corner, the four horses pulling the thing lathered in sweat. Sparks flew up from the brakes as the driver and his mate wrestled with the lever as they fought to bring the heavy wagon to a halt. Water filled most of the wagon, the tank taking up two thirds of the space. Strapped to the sides were loose ladders of varying sizes, and it had a specially designed turntable ladder bolted to the rear. Different sized hoses slotted into compartments all along the base.

  There were seven in all on the fire-tender: four men, two orangutans and one gorilla. Hobs and Mags looked on with a certain degree of expectation. They weren’t to be disappointed.

  The man in charge, called the Fire Occifer, due to a half-deaf, barely literate minion in the ministry who scribbled down what he thought he heard, jumped down and began issuing orders. The horses were unhitched and led away. A couple of men pushed the wagon towards the fire, and then they pulled out the hoses as the gorilla cranked up the turntable ladder. All of the crew were wearing thick black coats with a wide belt, each had an axe threaded through the belt and all wore bright yellow tin hats.

  One of the men connected a hose and an orangutan jumped on the bottom rung of the turntable, grabbed the other end, and then sped up the ladder. The gorilla then gripped the pump-handle and began to pump, hard and fast.

  The water began as a trickle, but soon, as the gorilla got into the rhythm, it became a spurt, and water poured onto the roof.

  A man attached another hose, which halved the pressure, making the gorilla pump even harder to keep up the flow. The occifer issued an order, and the second orangutan joined the gorilla on the pump — the gorilla’s downward push making the orangutan take flight, legs flailing in the air until the upward push made him find solid ground once more.

  Mags elbowed Hobs who then elbowed the feeler. The fun had begun.

  A fireman aimed the second hose into the ground floor window and smoke and steam billowed up. The occifer yelled and gesticulated at his crew, directing the attempt to put out the fire. He played up to the crowd, strutting around with an air of superiority as he directed the action.

  Oooh’s and ah’s were coming from the onlookers as the brave crew of the fire department got on with their work.

  The fire retreated from the window, allowing one of the men to whip out his axe and run towards the door, bringing it crashing down in a splintering kind of way. A few blows later, the door gave way, and he kicked it fully open with his boot.

  The feeler turned to Hobs. ‘The bloody door wasn’t even locked; he only needed to turn the handle.’

  ‘Aye,’ agreed Hobs. ‘No bugger tends to check first.’

  More feelers began to arrive and they started to push the crowd back; most were reluctant to move as they thought they had a right to stand as close to the action as possible. The occifer looked frustrated as he could see his performance wasn’t going to get the audience he thought he deserved.

  There came another crash from the burning building and flames shot up into the sky; but then the sound of an elongated sigh, and the flames appeared to get sucked back down as the water did its work. Then a creak followed by a clang, as the sign proclaiming Stackhouse Lane Watch-House, buckled and twisted from the heat, fell to the ground.

  Just then, Commander MacGillicudy arrived to survey the damage; behind him traipsed Sergeant Wiggins and several other police officers. Scooters Yard was only a few streets away and it didn’t take long for word to filter down; nobody, it seemed, wanted to miss out on the “occurrence.”

  Hobs and Mags had somehow managed to scrounge some tea from somewhere, and knowing MacGillicudy from old, sauntered up beside him.

  ‘Rum do, Jethro,’ ventured Hobs, taking a swig. ‘Heard you only just reopened the bloody place.’

  MacGillicudy regarded his old friend. ‘You’re not wrong, Hobs. Can’t think how it could have gone up like that.’

  The fire occifer ordered his crew to dampen everything down and then pack up the equipment. He felt pleased with himself, and he knew that tomorrow he would be a front page headline. He’d noticed the reporter and the picture-man, and he imagined the dramatic picture destined to accompany the headline.

  At the back of the crowd, a man grinned inwardly, and then like a shadow melding into the dark, he faded away into the streets. One down, he thought, plenty more to go.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rose awoke early and slipped out from between the sheets, leaving Cornwallis snoring contentedly. She had a busy day ahead of her: today was going to be an historic day for Gornstock — women were to be officially recognised as feelers.

  She dressed quickly and ate a hurried breakfast before picking up her bag and heading off to Pendon, ready for when the new recruits arrived. The sun had yet to tip its nose above the horizon as she strode purposefully acro
ss town; the only people up and about were the market traders who were setting up their stalls, ready to do battle with the good folk of Gornstock in trying to part them from their hard-earned cash.

  The empty streets echoed to her footsteps as she drew ever closer to her destination. She wore a big wide grin on her face as her mind imagined the changes, the ramifications, by something as simple as the Police employing women.

  Already in his office, Sergeant Diffin sat behind the desk as Rose walked in. He smiled at her and then offered her a mug of coffee. She wondered if he had been there all night, the place wasn’t deemed operational as yet.

  ‘Everything ready?’ she asked, sitting down and taking a slurp.

  ‘As much as can be,’ he replied heavily. He still felt unsure about the whole thing and had yet to be convinced.

  ‘It will all work out, you’ll see,’ she replied confidently. ‘In a few weeks’ time you’ll be wondering why nobody had done this before. The girls will add something to the force, something good and wholesome; before you know it, there’ll be loads more walking a beat.’

  Diffin rubbed his hand across his face and sighed. ‘Rose, as much as I’m getting used to the idea, the thought of a women grappling with a felon is something I’m still having trouble getting my head around; perhaps if we just let them do something simple, like making the tea and taking in stray children.’

  ‘Toby,’ said Rose aghast. ‘That’s a horrid thing to say. I grapple with felons and have you ever seen or heard of me having a problem?’

  ‘But you’re different, Rose. You’re, er… well, Rose. Everyone knows that you’re capable. You got instruction.’

  Rose sighed. ‘Exactly, and our girls are going to get instructed too.’ In her youth, a little old priest from way out east taught Rose how to defend herself. He taught her moves and counter-moves with style and artistry, more like an art form than anything else, but she took to it naturally and became adept at the skill. Very few ever got anywhere close to hurting her, and men twice her size were regularly taught that they shouldn’t make assumptions — generally when they were nursing their bruises and coming out of their enforced unconscious state with a pair of handcuffs attached to their wrists. ‘Anyway, you’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes, as I have to get changed.’