Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (14 page)

‘That’s alright
Dave. I’ve enjoyed having my eyes opened. Mind you, it’s not that
surprising. My uncle Bran was always telling me stuff like this,
though I only half believed it at the time. Anyway, how do we know
it’s all true?’

‘Such cynicism
in one so young. We know it is true, because they hide it from us.
Now let’s get on.’

They met the
Dog at the top of the stairs leading to the main entrance. It
growled something.

‘Alright, keep
your hair on,’ said Dave and led the way downstairs. Dave strode
past the counter with a suspicious nonchalance.

‘Ahem. What do
you think you’re doing Mr Trellis?’ said the librarian.

‘Walking in a
straight line toward a well-deserved beer. Why the curiosity
Librarian? Intending to join us?’ replied Dave.

‘No Mr Trellis,
the book.’

‘What this,’
said Dave and held the book up.

‘Indeed Mr
Trellis. I didn’t think I need remind you of the rules.’

‘This here is
not a library book, Librarian. It is by way of a gift from a
stalwart of this very establishment. While it has pages and words,
it does not come under the remit of your authority.’

‘Information Mr
Trellis, information, that is my remit. That book contains
information from the Library and so does indeed fall within the
boundaries of my authority.’

‘The boundaries
of your authority are looking a little stretched Librarian. This
here is a thoughtful gift to the Planetary Plenipotentiary and
Steward of the allotments from a grateful community. So unless you
have some serious machinery with which to pry it from my grasp, I
suggest you go and find something to file. I’d start with the
‘A’s.’

‘I think not.
Ushers if you please.’

Two large,
well-formed men, dressed in tails appeared in the archway. They
gave the impression of little humour and even less patience.

Dave sized them
up.

‘Have either of
you gentlemen heard of the Way of the Whippet?’

One of them
nodded.

‘I happen to be
a Shedi Master,’ said Dave.

One of them
took a small step backwards.

‘Good day
Librarian. I must be going,’ said Dave and walked toward the
door.

One of the
Ushers stepped forward; the other grabbed his arm and gave a small
shake of the head.

‘This is
outrageous, give that book here. Right now,’ said Librarian and
stepped out from behind the desk.

Dave
sighed.

‘I like you
Librarian and we’ve known each for a long time. So in deference to
past assistance, I’ll resolve this situation. Here Fergus.’ called
Dave and tossed the book to Fergus.

‘Take this book
out will you lad.’

Fergus caught
the book and smiled at Librarian.

‘That’s two
books on my ticket then.’

‘Indeed Mr
Loaf, two books. I hope you enjoy them for the allotted period of
the loan.’ Librarian’s demeanour verged on the impolite.

Dave strode out
of the Library followed by Fergus and a grinning dog.

Dave rubbed his
hands together.

‘Well that
turned out grand. Come on, I’ve booked us into Claridge’s as by way
of a treat. They allow dogs, which saves the mutt spending all
night in Battersea Dogs Home. I’d pay good money to see that, but
it’s not worth the sulk on the way home.

By the way
Fergus, what’s all this about two books?’

Dave
Trellis

One
Life, One Woman, One Shed

Fergus woke on
a camp bed in the middle of a large, white, empty room with a
wooden floor. He didn’t know where he was and his headache was so
intense it deserved a new classification. It was epic.

He remembered
some things; drinking beer in a brass and bullshit London pub; Dave
standing on a table and pointing his finger at a group of enraged
women. There was almost certainly a fight. Fergus recalled a ballet
of violence for one man and his dog performed to ‘Sally
Maclennane’. There were blue lights and blue serge somewhere in the
mix. Perhaps that explained the handcuff on each wrist like
street-bling bracelets

There was more,
a pair of bolt-cutters, the splendour of a full suite at a posh
hotel, a dog floating on its back in a huge bath with a grin on its
face. A polite Manager and a calm retreat via the goods lift to a
chauffeur driven Bentley that sailed past badly parked police cars,
arrayed with self-important indignation, in front of Claridge’s
hotel.

There were
hazier memories of cigars and Irish whiskey on a hillside
overlooking the twinkling lights of Brentford and a mad, weaving
cycle ride, with whooping and barking, as he tried to choose
between the many wavering roads ahead of him.

He definitely
recalled the goods entrance. It was hard to forget a door the size
of a football pitch opening from nowhere. Then he must have fallen
asleep in front of the fire, as Dave told tales of Coleridge’s
expeditions to the deep catacombs.

Fergus
struggled to his feet and waited till his head stopped pounding.
With small, slow steps he made it through the door and into the
next room. It was larger with a modern fitted kitchen at one end.
Fergus decided that he must be in one of the guest apartments. With
more hope than expectation, he opened the fridge. It was completely
empty, except for a single can of Irn-Bru. Fergus rubbed the cold
can against his forehead, opened it and took a swig. The cold fizzy
drink took away the awful taste in his mouth, and the bubbles hurt
his nose.

Behind another
door Fergus found the bathroom, complete with shower and bidet.
After a quick splash and one much longer one, he decided to make
his way to Dave’s for tea and painkillers.

The corridor
outside the apartment had carpets and tasteful pictures on the
wall. Only the lack of windows stopped it looking like a modern
hotel. After opening a few doors, Fergus found a lift. It was the
same scruffy goods lift as before. There were six unmarked buttons.
The top two and the bottom one showed obvious signs of wear. Fergus
pressed the top button.

Fergus stood in
Dave’s kitchen, worse for wear, lacking social skills and trousers.
He saw a woman in an apron. She was that age when Yorkshire women
having seen everything, become an institution; a bit like the Queen
Mother. They could do no wrong. Her eyes were bright and she
smiled.

‘Eee you look
like you could do with a brew, I just made a pot. You must be
Fergus, Mr Dave said you’d be staying; I’m Sandra, I fettle a bit
for Mr Dave.’

‘Sorry, I
didn’t expect anyone to be here,’ said Fergus ‘but tea would be
lovely.’

‘Sit down chook
and have a cuppa, you look all in,’ said Sandra and plonked a mug
of tea on the table.

There was
yowling and two dogs raced into the kitchen and bounced up to
Sandra.

‘Hello my
little thrustlers,’ she said and ruggled the first dog on the head.
‘Who’s a good doggy?’

Fergus watch in
amazement as the dogs fawned and lay on their backs to have their
tummies rubbed.

‘Don’t worry
chook, I have special dispensation,’ said Sandra and laughed, ‘So
you’ll be living in with Mr Dave then?’ asked Sandra and sat down
opposite Fergus.

‘Sort of, I
have one of the other apartments, but there’s no furniture
yet.’

‘Eee I think
that’s grand. This place been empty since Miss Maeve went. It’s not
good to be alone, especially when you have so much on your mind,
like Mr Dave. Have you met all the visitors yet?’

‘Dave gave me a
short tour. So you know all about the allotments?’

‘O’course, I’ve
fettled for Mr Dave for over fifteen years, seen the comings and
goings. Ere, you reckon that Enoch is in proportion?’

Fergus blushed.
Sandra reached over and touched his shoulder.

‘Only joking
lad, he’s more Boadicea’s type. Likes a bit of warrior, does that
lass.’

‘So you know
her?’

‘Only to chat
to, Mrs Yorkshire knows her better.’

‘Mrs Yorkshire?
The housekeeper over at St Cats?’

‘Aye, like a
mother hen to those lasses she is, and right strict with it. You
don’t want to be caught trying to sneak in there of a Saturday
night. Can see in the dark can Mrs Yorkshire. Huddersfield Royal
Infirmary has a special category for recording injuries. As in
“both collar bones broken, two cracked ribs, self-inflicted injury
with assistance from Mrs Yorkshire’’’

‘Is she… Is she
a visitor?’

‘Don’t rightly
know, she’s been here a long time. She was Abbey’s nanny so it’s a
possibility.’

‘Nanny?’

‘Aye, but nanny
is a bit more like a bodyguard that changes nappies with that
lot.’

‘Which lot is
that?’ asked Fergus.

‘Mr Dave
doesn’t like anyone to talk about them, what with the past and all.
Let’s just say that you wouldn’t be the first one sweet on a lass
from that neck of the woods.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Boadicea,
she’s a visitor, you do know?’

‘Yes, Dave told
me. Just my luck to find the woman of dreams and her to be an
extra-terrestrial war junkie. I am a lover not a fighter.’

‘Don’t put
yourself down. I heard you went a round with Enoch. That takes
guts. Go on, get in their lad, the warrior bit can come later.
Don’t fret, it’ll be right in end. By the way, on instruction from
Mr Dave, I asked Painter to pop round this morning. I expect that’s
to sort your apartment out. Anyways must get going, this place
won’t clean itself.’

Fergus sat
staring into his tea and wondering if Dave had any Ibuprofen. He
heard a knock in the distance and a muffled conversation.

‘Hurry up, Mr
Dave, there’s tea in pot and I need to fettle your sack.’

‘Fine Sandra,
I’ll be out in minute. We don’t have any Aspirin do we?’

‘There’s some
in bathroom. You want me to get you some?’

‘Aye, thanks
Sandra.’

Dave walked
carefully into the kitchen, wearing a towelling dressing gown with
swirls of bright colours all over. The tartan slippers didn’t
match, but brought the overall image back to Yorkshire.

‘You look as
bad as I feel lad,’ said Dave.

‘Overindulged?’

‘Aye, but it’s
mainly the bruises. I feel a little ashamed, yet vindicated. I’m a
man of principle, I defend the truth where I find it, and I was
sorely provoked.’

‘Yeah, it was
unfortunate to run into an Institute of Physics social event,’ said
Fergus.

‘They were
merely misguided.’

‘Oh, so it was
the bunch of lads from the Socialist Workers Party on a stag
night?’

‘Nope.’

‘The Vegan
society football team and all that fuss about non-animal
finings?’

‘A mere
sideshow. No, it was the Women’s Institute hen party that started
it. Have you ever tried to get all the shred in a jar of marmalade
exactly the same length and width? Ridiculous.’

‘So it all
kicked off over an argument about jam?’

‘She threw the
first punch lad; I was the victim in all this. Bloody hurt too,
right in the ear.’

‘Your defence
of traditional jam making techniques is laudable, but why attack
the police?’

‘Well, I am
vexed by their willingness to implement politically motivated laws,
but mainly because they arrested you.’

‘Me? What did I
do?’

‘Nowt lad,
that’s the point. You stayed under the table like I told you,
unlike the bloody mutt; couldn’t resist a having a go at the
Vegans.’

‘What’s it got
against them?’

‘Ever heard of
vegan dog food? Any road, while the Women’s Institute grappled with
the Socialist workers and everyone had a pop at the Vegans, the
lads in blue arrested the only innocent in the pub.’

‘Why has
everyone got it in for the Vegans?’

‘They shouldn’t
be so bloody sanctimonious. In any case, the only lot who didn’t
get thumped were the physicists. They put up a bar stool shield
wall the Romans would’ve been proud of.’

‘So you rescued
me from injustice?’

‘That was the
outcome, aye. But, I sort of let it lie, being that I was engaged
in an endeavour.’

‘I see, an
endeavour,’ said Fergus.

‘Yes, me and
this big-boned lass from the W.I. were trying to break down the
physicist’s wall by throwing Socialist Workers at it. Excellent
grasp of trajectory those lads.

When the Police
dragged you out, the dog gave up on pummelling a Vegan, which is a
major sacrifice you understand, and chased after you. I wouldn’t
have gotten involved at all, if they hadn’t tasered the mutt.’

‘They tasered
the dog?’

‘Aye lad, right
in the gentleman vegetables. By the time I got there it was tearing
the flashing blue lights off the top of the squad car. There were
bits of anti-stab vest and broken truncheon all over the shop. Any
road we beat a hasty retreat before the armed response unit turned
up.’

‘So that’s when
we went to the hotel?’

‘Yes, though
borrowing the squad car was an error. One of the coppers hid in the
boot to get away from the avenging mutt. He must have been whining
on his radio, coz next thing it’s a major terrorist incident.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s all over
Tinterweb.’

‘You mean the
Internet or the World Wide Web.’

‘No, I mean the
Tinterweb. It’s all over your precious Internets too.’

‘So how did we
get away?’

‘By stealth and
cunning. We were home and briskly towelling off in the presidential
suite when they tracked us down. I have no idea how they managed
it, perhaps leaving the squad car in valet parking wasn’t such a
good idea.

Anyways, they
are accustomed to diplomatic incidents at Claridge’s and we
departed in style with suitable provisions for the trip home.’