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.’

Ghost
Dancer

Shock
Treatment

Seven
Sisters

Dave Trellis
and the Allotments of Doom

Elise and the
Gold Gloop

Elise and the
Dragon

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

Smashwords Edition

First Printing: August
2014

For Catherine
with a ‘c’; I call her Kate.

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…

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. Thanks 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.