Just outside of Hulke is a large sweeping typically West Country hill. It is a vast curved c-moon shape, smothered in lumps and bumps from various periods of man’s history, and is crowned with a large old Iron Age hill fort, complete with massive ramparts and an elaborate entrance system. This is Silston Hill and it dominates the horizon around it. On the right day, at the right time, when the sun just catches all the ancient ripples on its surface, it seems to come alive, shimmer and appear like some sort of horrendously expensive CGI effect from the latest American blockbuster. But it is real and was one of the major selling points of Hulke to Drood when he first started house hunting down here. It just had a certain vibe about it – it feels right. Drood and Bryan were heading for the quaint little village of Fetchborough and any drive to Fetchborough necessitated a partial drive over Silston Hill. Why the journey to Fetchborough? A hunch of Bryan’s…
“Now this mysterious bird of yours, she don’t say much. But what she does say… ha-hah!” Bryan thumped the steering wheel of his aged Saab as it trundled up the lower slopes of Silston Hill. Drood shook his head.
“I don’t get it, Bryan.” Bryan put a hand to his head, as though exasperated at trying to explain the finer workings of a rack and pinion steering system to a cave dwelling Neanderthal.
“What was the last thing she said to you?” He asked Drood, imploringly.
“She went pop, I keep telling you..!” Bryan sighed dramatically.
“SAID. What she SAID! Before the pop!”
“Er…” Drood wracked his brain again. “The meeting place. Doesn’t make sense now and certainly didn’t make sense then.” Bryan cackled triumphantly to himself and slid a cassette into the elderly stereo in the car dashboard. Peter Gabriel started shouting about being “On the Air” rather enthusiastically, and the crowd in the room with him seemed to enjoy joining in.
“The Meeting Place.” Bryan emphasised each and every syllable. “A pub in Fetchborough.” He looked at Drood with a massive smile on his crazed face; as though this was the obvious answer to everything.
“OK, so some amazing lady from who knows where is going to leave a trail of half clues for me across most of Hulke on a bizarre morning, and then will know about a pub in Fetchborough…” Drood looked deeply at Bryan, who was still smiling and waggling his eyebrows excitedly at his “Eureka” moment. “You are mad. You’re barking. Worse than that, you’re beyond barking. You’re Dagenham Heathway mate!” Bryan let out an even louder cackle and started drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music.
“Of course, a luddite like you is missing another important clue that has led me to my desire to get to ‘The Meeting Place’ in Fetchborough…” Bryan turned slowly towards Drood, seeing if his brain had caught up with Bryan’s. Drood just shrugged pathetically.
“OK smart arse. Spill the beans.”
“That lady you met was like a ghost, yes?” Said Bryan. Drood had to agree that there was something of the afterlife about her. Bryan continued. “Then we take ourselves to Fetchborough, as all linguistic experts will know the meaning of the place name…” Drood turned slowly back to face Bryan again.
“Linguistic expert? You?”
“I know the meaning of old English place names. And I know what Fetchborough means.” Bryan’s feathers had been ruffled. He descended into a slightly moody silence.
“Oh Christ! Go on then, AJP Taylor, enlighten me!” The manic smile and waggling eyebrows immediately leapt back into place on Bryan’s face.
“Fetchborough! Borough of course derived from the Anglo-Saxon burgh which means a fortified place or enclosure, and Fetch which is old English for…” here he paused for dramatic effect, “…a haunted place or the place of the ghosts…” Peter Gabriel stopped singing and the elderly tape machine spat the cassette out rather contemptuously. Silence descended on the car again.
“Are you pulling my leg?” Asked Drood, eventually. Bryan slowly shook his head and Drood felt a distinct chill run down his spine, despite the heat of the day.
Bryan’s Saab rounded another bend in the road and there was the sign for the village of Fetchborough, bidding welcome to all visitors and announcing that the village was twinned with Hanteville on the Breton coast in North West France. The main road through Fetchborough meandered slowly past a small village green with a war memorial on it and on down to the crossroads where “The Meeting Place” stood on one corner and diagonally opposite was the village shop, complete with a large fluffy cat asleep in its front window. Bryan swung the car round to the back of the pub and a large gravelled car park. Running alongside this was a big beer garden, partially full of families, bikers and smokers, all liberally dotted around a variety of wooden bench like tables. They walked inside the old ivy covered building and up to the bar where Bryan ordered two pints of Wadworth 6X from the barman. Two foaming pints of Wiltshire’s finest ale were soon in their hands and they wandered back out into the summer heat of the garden. Drood settled himself at one of the benches and Bryan sat down and immediately produced his tin from his leather jacket, and set to work on rolling himself a fag, an intense look of concentration on his face.
“So, what do we do now?” Enquired Drood after a while. Bryan looked up and slowly round the pleasant beer garden.
“We wait.”
“Is that it?” As plans went you couldn’t fault its simplicity Drood pondered. “What exactly is it we’re waiting for?” Bryan stuck the rolled cigarette between his lips and lit it. He blew the smoke high above the table.
“Something amazing…” he breathed and raised his beer glass in a salute to Drood. “Cheers!”
It wasn’t just a long wait; it was a very long wait. In fact it was seven pints of 6X, two plates of scampi and chips, several packets of pork scratchings, frequent visits to the toilets and two large whiskies waits. It was also now dark and Drood and Bryan were the last two people in the beer garden. They were both extremely drunk as well.
“You know what…” began Drood, trying to roll himself a cigarette from Bryan’s tin and spilling a lot of the tobacco, “I don’t think anything is going to happen.” He hiccupped loudly at the end of this sentence which caused him to drop the cigarette paper on the floor. He bent over to pick it up.
“Patience is a virtue…” Breathed Bryan softly and sipped his whisky. A thought suddenly presented itself to Drood’s drink befuddled mind.
“Bryan, how the hell are we getting home?” Bryan giggled softly to himself.
“I’ll press the pedals in the car and you turn the wheel. We should end up somewhere…”
“Yeah, a hedge probably. Or a starring role with Alistair-bloody-Stewart on ‘Police, Camera, Action’.” Drood finally got the cigarette rolled and now began the task of locating the lighter. “Bryan, you and I are both completely pissed. You are not driving me home. We’ll get a taxi…” A taxi from here back to Hulke on a Saturday and at this time of night would normally have been too prohibitively expensive for Drood to even begin considering it, but he still had the majority of his £250 from the cash point in his wallet and was sure he could cover the cost. From inside the pub came the distant clang of a bell and the voice of the barman informing everyone it was last orders. Bryan immediately began struggling to stand up.
“What you want?” he slurred as he nearly toppled backwards into the darkness. “Pint? Whisky?” Drood shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal. “Both it is then!” Said Bryan forcefully, and swayed off in the direction of the bar again. Drood sat in silence in the garden and listened to that wonderful breathless hush of a summer evening in the countryside. And then there was that sound again. The crackling electronic radio tuning noise he’d heard at the Priory earlier. Only this time it was much stronger and focussed. There at the end of the beer garden, not more than ten feet from where Drood sat, the air began to shimmer again, only this time it seemed more organised and less random. Then with a distinct backwards pop of a sound the lady from the Priory stepped out of the shimmering shape. Now if Drood had just been his usual, relatively sober self on a Saturday night, and nothing of this complete weirdness had happened that day, he probably would have screamed and ran for his life. But as the lady smiled and began walking towards him, he simply smiled drunkenly and waved at her.
“Drood…” she whispered his name, almost in awe. “This is such an honour for me, Sir. I am a big fan of yours…” Drood was puzzled, he took the rolled cigarette from his lips and went to say something, but instead he just burped loudly.
“Sorry…” he gulped. He swung his legs round in an attempt to get out from the bench seat, but somehow overshot his bearings and slumped heavily to the grass on his shoulders.
“Professor Hinchcliffe!” She squealed. “Are you alright?” He was laughing uncontrollably by now and was having great difficulty in getting to his feet. The lady came to his aid and pulled him upright – she was stronger than she looked.
“Professor?” He slurred, breathing beer and whisky fumes in her direction. She waved her hand in front of her face.
“You’re drunk!” She said. “Here…” she reached into her coat pocket and produced something that looked like a torch. She pressed the end against Drood’s forehead and pushed a button on the side. There was a bright spangly noise, Drood felt like someone had just hit him over the head with a jewel encrusted rubber chicken and everything immediately snapped into focus. He was sober!
“What the hell was that?” He asked, rubbing his now non-swimming head.
“It’s a mark three Hinchcliffe-Camfield Alcohol Neuro-Tazer.” She explained. “But most people call it the paralytic converter.” She tossed it from one hand to the other. “Another one of your little inventions Professor!” She said and smiled dazzlingly.
“Now this mysterious bird of yours, she don’t say much. But what she does say… ha-hah!” Bryan thumped the steering wheel of his aged Saab as it trundled up the lower slopes of Silston Hill. Drood shook his head.
“I don’t get it, Bryan.” Bryan put a hand to his head, as though exasperated at trying to explain the finer workings of a rack and pinion steering system to a cave dwelling Neanderthal.
“What was the last thing she said to you?” He asked Drood, imploringly.
“She went pop, I keep telling you..!” Bryan sighed dramatically.
“SAID. What she SAID! Before the pop!”
“Er…” Drood wracked his brain again. “The meeting place. Doesn’t make sense now and certainly didn’t make sense then.” Bryan cackled triumphantly to himself and slid a cassette into the elderly stereo in the car dashboard. Peter Gabriel started shouting about being “On the Air” rather enthusiastically, and the crowd in the room with him seemed to enjoy joining in.
“The Meeting Place.” Bryan emphasised each and every syllable. “A pub in Fetchborough.” He looked at Drood with a massive smile on his crazed face; as though this was the obvious answer to everything.
“OK, so some amazing lady from who knows where is going to leave a trail of half clues for me across most of Hulke on a bizarre morning, and then will know about a pub in Fetchborough…” Drood looked deeply at Bryan, who was still smiling and waggling his eyebrows excitedly at his “Eureka” moment. “You are mad. You’re barking. Worse than that, you’re beyond barking. You’re Dagenham Heathway mate!” Bryan let out an even louder cackle and started drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time to the music.
“Of course, a luddite like you is missing another important clue that has led me to my desire to get to ‘The Meeting Place’ in Fetchborough…” Bryan turned slowly towards Drood, seeing if his brain had caught up with Bryan’s. Drood just shrugged pathetically.
“OK smart arse. Spill the beans.”
“That lady you met was like a ghost, yes?” Said Bryan. Drood had to agree that there was something of the afterlife about her. Bryan continued. “Then we take ourselves to Fetchborough, as all linguistic experts will know the meaning of the place name…” Drood turned slowly back to face Bryan again.
“Linguistic expert? You?”
“I know the meaning of old English place names. And I know what Fetchborough means.” Bryan’s feathers had been ruffled. He descended into a slightly moody silence.
“Oh Christ! Go on then, AJP Taylor, enlighten me!” The manic smile and waggling eyebrows immediately leapt back into place on Bryan’s face.
“Fetchborough! Borough of course derived from the Anglo-Saxon burgh which means a fortified place or enclosure, and Fetch which is old English for…” here he paused for dramatic effect, “…a haunted place or the place of the ghosts…” Peter Gabriel stopped singing and the elderly tape machine spat the cassette out rather contemptuously. Silence descended on the car again.
“Are you pulling my leg?” Asked Drood, eventually. Bryan slowly shook his head and Drood felt a distinct chill run down his spine, despite the heat of the day.
Bryan’s Saab rounded another bend in the road and there was the sign for the village of Fetchborough, bidding welcome to all visitors and announcing that the village was twinned with Hanteville on the Breton coast in North West France. The main road through Fetchborough meandered slowly past a small village green with a war memorial on it and on down to the crossroads where “The Meeting Place” stood on one corner and diagonally opposite was the village shop, complete with a large fluffy cat asleep in its front window. Bryan swung the car round to the back of the pub and a large gravelled car park. Running alongside this was a big beer garden, partially full of families, bikers and smokers, all liberally dotted around a variety of wooden bench like tables. They walked inside the old ivy covered building and up to the bar where Bryan ordered two pints of Wadworth 6X from the barman. Two foaming pints of Wiltshire’s finest ale were soon in their hands and they wandered back out into the summer heat of the garden. Drood settled himself at one of the benches and Bryan sat down and immediately produced his tin from his leather jacket, and set to work on rolling himself a fag, an intense look of concentration on his face.
“So, what do we do now?” Enquired Drood after a while. Bryan looked up and slowly round the pleasant beer garden.
“We wait.”
“Is that it?” As plans went you couldn’t fault its simplicity Drood pondered. “What exactly is it we’re waiting for?” Bryan stuck the rolled cigarette between his lips and lit it. He blew the smoke high above the table.
“Something amazing…” he breathed and raised his beer glass in a salute to Drood. “Cheers!”
It wasn’t just a long wait; it was a very long wait. In fact it was seven pints of 6X, two plates of scampi and chips, several packets of pork scratchings, frequent visits to the toilets and two large whiskies waits. It was also now dark and Drood and Bryan were the last two people in the beer garden. They were both extremely drunk as well.
“You know what…” began Drood, trying to roll himself a cigarette from Bryan’s tin and spilling a lot of the tobacco, “I don’t think anything is going to happen.” He hiccupped loudly at the end of this sentence which caused him to drop the cigarette paper on the floor. He bent over to pick it up.
“Patience is a virtue…” Breathed Bryan softly and sipped his whisky. A thought suddenly presented itself to Drood’s drink befuddled mind.
“Bryan, how the hell are we getting home?” Bryan giggled softly to himself.
“I’ll press the pedals in the car and you turn the wheel. We should end up somewhere…”
“Yeah, a hedge probably. Or a starring role with Alistair-bloody-Stewart on ‘Police, Camera, Action’.” Drood finally got the cigarette rolled and now began the task of locating the lighter. “Bryan, you and I are both completely pissed. You are not driving me home. We’ll get a taxi…” A taxi from here back to Hulke on a Saturday and at this time of night would normally have been too prohibitively expensive for Drood to even begin considering it, but he still had the majority of his £250 from the cash point in his wallet and was sure he could cover the cost. From inside the pub came the distant clang of a bell and the voice of the barman informing everyone it was last orders. Bryan immediately began struggling to stand up.
“What you want?” he slurred as he nearly toppled backwards into the darkness. “Pint? Whisky?” Drood shook his head and waved a hand in dismissal. “Both it is then!” Said Bryan forcefully, and swayed off in the direction of the bar again. Drood sat in silence in the garden and listened to that wonderful breathless hush of a summer evening in the countryside. And then there was that sound again. The crackling electronic radio tuning noise he’d heard at the Priory earlier. Only this time it was much stronger and focussed. There at the end of the beer garden, not more than ten feet from where Drood sat, the air began to shimmer again, only this time it seemed more organised and less random. Then with a distinct backwards pop of a sound the lady from the Priory stepped out of the shimmering shape. Now if Drood had just been his usual, relatively sober self on a Saturday night, and nothing of this complete weirdness had happened that day, he probably would have screamed and ran for his life. But as the lady smiled and began walking towards him, he simply smiled drunkenly and waved at her.
“Drood…” she whispered his name, almost in awe. “This is such an honour for me, Sir. I am a big fan of yours…” Drood was puzzled, he took the rolled cigarette from his lips and went to say something, but instead he just burped loudly.
“Sorry…” he gulped. He swung his legs round in an attempt to get out from the bench seat, but somehow overshot his bearings and slumped heavily to the grass on his shoulders.
“Professor Hinchcliffe!” She squealed. “Are you alright?” He was laughing uncontrollably by now and was having great difficulty in getting to his feet. The lady came to his aid and pulled him upright – she was stronger than she looked.
“Professor?” He slurred, breathing beer and whisky fumes in her direction. She waved her hand in front of her face.
“You’re drunk!” She said. “Here…” she reached into her coat pocket and produced something that looked like a torch. She pressed the end against Drood’s forehead and pushed a button on the side. There was a bright spangly noise, Drood felt like someone had just hit him over the head with a jewel encrusted rubber chicken and everything immediately snapped into focus. He was sober!
“What the hell was that?” He asked, rubbing his now non-swimming head.
“It’s a mark three Hinchcliffe-Camfield Alcohol Neuro-Tazer.” She explained. “But most people call it the paralytic converter.” She tossed it from one hand to the other. “Another one of your little inventions Professor!” She said and smiled dazzlingly.
1 comment:
I soooo want a paralytic converter! That is so cool. Also, to test it, I'd have to get rat-bottomed first, so a win-win situation all round!
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