Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (29 page)

‘I choose not
to accept it.’

‘What makes you
think you have a choice sweetie?’

The taxi
stopped outside of the Dark Library, Fergus leapt out and with a
shout of ‘Wait here I won’t be long’ he ran into the building.

‘I’m glad I
caught you Librarian, I thought I was going to miss closing
time.’

‘Mr Loaf, as
ever a pleasure; I expect that you would want to miss closing time,
as that is the time that we close,’ said Librarian.

‘Err… Yes, ok.
Look I need your help. I need two books and need them right now.
It’s an emergency.’

‘Oh I doubt
that Mr Loaf. People are so excitable; rarely does a genuine
emergency occur. More often it is exaggeration and lack of
phlegm.’

‘Seriously
Librarian, Dave is in trouble.’

‘A constant
state of affairs for Mr Trellis, don’t you find?’

‘Are you going
to help, or shall I charge about the library, causing untold
disharmony in my desperate search.’

The Librarian
sighed, ‘Perhaps our express service may be suitable.’ and waved a
hand in the air. A small blue rectangle appeared. ‘What do you
need?’

‘A book called
‘Ancient Dreamtime Tales’ and detailed map of the Causeways local
to Earth.’

‘And perhaps a
generous index-linked pension?’

‘Pardon?’ said
Fergus.

‘My little
joke,’ said Librarian, as his fingers danced around the blue square
and then deliberately pressed one corner. The Librarian tilted his
head. ‘There it is done. It is fortunate that you hold a full
library card. The express service is rather exclusive.’

‘How long does
it take?’ asked Fergus.

‘I have no
idea.’

‘Depends on the
location of the books I suppose?’

‘I have no
idea, Mr Loaf, as I have never been persuaded to use it before.
Once again you are honoured more than you realise.’

‘Um… Thank you
Librarian, both Dave and I appreciate it.’

Fergus stood in
front of the desk feeling awkward as they waited.

‘Nice weather
of late,’ said Fergus.

‘Ah, small
talk; as I rule I don’t indulge. Why don’t you sit down Mr Loaf?
Perhaps read a book or twiddle you thumbs. I am sure you can get
the hang of it.’

Fergus sat and
waited.

What looked
like a small haystack appeared to run out of the wall adjacent to
the Librarian’s desk and skidded to a halt. In one huge hand it
held a book. The Librarian raised an eyebrow, bent over his desk
and stared.

The Noggin
spoke quickly in a high-pitched voice. Fergus didn’t understand a
word, but the Librarian sighed once more and looked at Fergus.

‘Wonders never
cease Mr Loaf. In the absence of a suitable reference work on the
Causeways local to Earth, the Noggins have sent a guide. Apparently
the Dog Atlas of the Earth is deficient in this requirement, which
is a surprise. If it were within my remit I would stop this. I
caution you that should this person be identified as an off-world
visitor, it will go badly for you.’

Fergus stared
at the short creature, which gave a small bow and shook its head.
Bemused, Fergus put out his hand. Instead of shaking it, the Noggin
held it and moved next Fergus, as would a small child. The Noggin’s
hand felt hot and dry.

The Librarian
grinned. ‘Good luck Mr Loaf, and give my regards to Mr Trellis; I
have every confidence in your ability to rescue him.’

A bell chimed
in the distance; it had the resonance of Big Ben.

‘But what do I
do with this chap?’ said Fergus nodding downwards.

‘The Library is
now closed. You have your book and you have your Noggin. Please
leave quietly.’

The taxis
driver never said a word on the return trip, not even after Fergus
gave him a large tip. He drove off the moment the money was in his
hand.

When they
reached the portal, Abbey was waiting, her horse cropping grass in
the calm twilight.

Fergus expected
grief for arriving with an unwelcome companion, but Abbey jumped
up, bent over the Noggin, and took a deep ceremonial sniff. The
Noggin seemed pleased and squeaked something.

‘Amazing
creatures, they pretty much run the Library and they’re all
polylinguistic,’ said Abbey.

‘That’s not
even a real word.’

‘They can read
and write almost any known language, what would you call it?’

‘A smart arse.
Where is everyone anyway?’

‘Other side of
the portal; less conspicuous. Come on, they should have a fire
going by now. Mind you it’s going to be a tight squeeze on the
horse with three of us.’

‘That’s ok,’
said Fergus, ‘I can run through.’

‘Ah yes, the
amazing Palaver re-build. Boadicea mentioned that, and didn’t you
do well.’

Fergus blushed
and hid embarrassment by running through the portal. Abbey didn’t
have the heart to tell him he missed it by about ten feet. It would
come to him soon enough.

Some minutes
later Fergus joined the others round a large bonfire. Someone had
shopped; the smell of roast meat mingled with wood smoke and he had
a large glass of red wine passed to him as he sat down.

‘Sláinte Rugby
Boy.’ yelled a Tuatha De Daanan Fergus didn’t recognise, ‘You bring
good fortune. The Noggin is a fine omen.’

Fergus lifted
his glass in acknowledgement and decided that, as he was going to
feel dreadful after a sleeping in the open, he may as well get
drunk.

The valley of
the river Alf was flood lit by banks of generator powered lamps.
The night air was cool, not that anyone noticed as they busied then
selves with preparations. There were troops everywhere moving with
quiet competence. Two Marquees stood in the centre of the river
plain in front of the steep path down from the road above. A
platoon of sweating infantry carried Portaloos. They gave way to
the chosen few, whose duty to carry the barrels of Timothy Taylor’s
finest was done with extraordinary care.

Further up the
valley, the wide expanse in front of the allotments was dark, yet
full of activity. A Chinook helicopter had delivered many tonnes of
wood and the Palaver built the pyre with the determination of
grief. A silent cordon of Dogs watched in reverence.

Two curious
soldiers crawled along the riverbank to take a closer look.

‘I tell you
that’s a dog.’ whispered one soldier.

‘Bollocks, it’s
the size of a carthorse.’ replied the other.

‘This is
Huddersfield mate, strange thing happen. Don’t ask, don’t tell and
don’t mess with the dogs.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what my
mum always said.’

‘You are so
full of sh-’ A low growl came right by his ear. The soldier turned
his head slowly to see a grinning dog lying next to him. It barked
and the two soldiers jumped up. They were surrounded by a full pack
of dogs all lying down in the thick grass.

‘Sorry didn’t
mean no disrespect. We’ll just be going,’ said the first soldier
and stepped back.

‘Whaza matter.
They’re just mutts,’ said the other.

The whole pack
stood as one and formed a single line; every eye staring straight
at the soldiers.

‘You know what
your mum said; I reckon she was right.’ Both soldier stepped back
slowly, then turned and ran. The dogs followed at a slow trot, then
reaching the edge of the lit area, they turned back and disappeared
into the darkness.

Painter stood
watching Brass Neck, Yorkshire’s famed heavy rock brass band, setup
on stage.

‘Hey up.’

‘Hey up, what
can I do for you?’ said the leader of the band.

‘Got a
request.’

‘Oh aye. I’ll
see what I can do, but no Stairway.’

‘He who pays
the piper mate,’ said Painter and cocked his head to one side.

‘True and we
are still not playing Stairway to Heaven.’

‘Nah just
messing with you. We have a hoard of light opera fans, so I wonder
if you could do some Gilbert and Sullivan.’

‘Delighted to,
us lads prefer your usual brass band music, but you have to move
with the times.’

‘And a special
request from me, could you do Wand’rin’ Star from Paint Your
Wagon?’

‘I didn’t think
you were the show tunes type, mind you takes all sorts. Yeah, we
can do that.’

‘Cheers. Who
you got singing tonight?’ asked Painter,

The bandleader
stared. ‘You do know we’re in Huddersfield? Home of the best choir
in the country. Take a wild guess.’

‘Ah. You gonna
do ‘Layla’?’

‘Of course,
it’s our signature tune.’

‘Well good luck
and don’t forget to grab a few beers along the way.’

Painter walked
off to find the Brigadier, hoping to commandeer a Chinook for a
huge delivery of Yorkstone.

Belt and braces
was Dave’s philosophy and today it was his salvation. He was still
attached to the end of the vine by the rope tied round his waist.
As he fell the trailing end of the vine tangled with other vines
and stuck fast. Dave swung like a high-speed pendulum towards the
wall of the vast hole. He crashed feet first into vines and
creepers. With a deft slash of his pruning knife Dave was free of
the swinging vine and safe clinging to another vine that brushed
against the cliff. He slithered down and jumped off at the next
level, which was an empty concrete plain. Dave lay down for a rest
and mourned the loss of a perfectly good flat cap.

Soon the heat
and shock reaction lulled Dave into a peaceful snooze. His
low-pitched, gurgling snores drew the attention of Hungry Joe, as
the Australians cautiously picked their way down the cliff.

‘It’s either a
giant koala or a bear, either way one of us gonna eat,’ said Hungry
Joe.

‘You daft
Galah, that’s a human snore,’ said Trev.

‘You reckon
it’s the Sheila?’ asked Toomey.

‘Either that or
the Pom is the tinniest bastard this side of Sydney.’

They climbed
down to the next level and found Dave snoozing with his hands
behind his head.

‘You reckon
he’s got food stashed?’ asked Hungry Joe and crept closer. He got
to within five feet before Dave spoke.

‘I’m usually
easy-going, but become tetchy when faced with a dearth of suitable
comestibles. In short I need a cup of tea, so don’t bugger around.’
He never opened his eyes.

‘Don’t whinge,
we are all on a Dingo's breakfast,’ said Trev.

‘Pardon?’ said
Dave sitting up.

‘A yawn, a leak
and a good look round.’

‘Ah. Perhaps we
should get going then.’

‘Nah, we’re all
stuffed, reckon you got it right. Some sleep would do us all good,’
said Trev.

The Australians
pulled sleeping mats out of their rucksack and laid them in a rough
circle.

‘So Dave
Trellis, you seem to know a bit about what goes on around here,
mind telling me about it?’ asked Trev.

Dave
Trellis

One
Life, One Woman, One Shed

Painter fired
the green flare high into the night sky. It was the third and last
agreed signal to the people of Huddersfield. Half an hour until the
ceremony started. Mrs Yorkshire was on the door, ensuring that the
underserving or merely curious where given a flea in the ear, and a
boot up the arse if Painter had his way. The Allotment League of
Friends had arrived in strength, as well as friends and relatives
of the fallen. Palaver in dress uniform, sombre blue with dress
medals mingled. They carried ceremonial swords; lots of them. Even
the dogs looked formal, their deep blue fur brushed to a metallic
shine and with black chest plates studded with battle honours.

The ceremony
would start at 11:30 with a eulogy, before the pyre was lit at
midnight. In the dark it was just possible to see the sad sight of
human and dog bodies laid out on the huge wooden platform. The
Palaver dead were vertical, supported by posts. The Palaver never
lay down, even in death. In the centre, the huge furry mound of a
Dog of War, arranged as if sleeping, it head on its giant paws.

The crowd
formed clots of sympathy, sniffing and wiping eyes with hasty
tissues. Murmurs of respectful commiseration interspersed with
sobs, punctuated by desperate hugs and forlorn pats on the back and
in the face of so much loss, so little to offer other than the
worth of the endeavour for which they sacrificed their lives.

Painter moved
through the crowd offering solace with a bright, forced smile,
hoping that he did not forget or mistake a name. He felt an
unworthy replacement for Dave, who managed such situations with
aplomb and quiet dignity. As time grew close, he made his apologies
and moved to the front. He felt awkward as he stepped out of the
crowd and waited, with speech notes in hand, for everyone to
settle.

‘Ladies and
Gentlemen, thank you all for coming on this sad occasion. There are
many different people who we mourn today, with separate lives and
loves, but they all shared a passion for life and a fondness for
the allotments and its grand endeavours. To this end, I hope today
we celebrate their lives, rather than despair at their passing. And
we do this the old way, the warrior’s way. No casket or prayer, no
cold earth pit. We consume with fire and spread the mingled ashes
on the Sunless Sea; those that fell together remain together. For
those of you that seek a different way; be content that in their
lives they chose this path.

Please follow,
as you may, to the pyre.’

Floodlights lit
a bright path across the dark vale. Painter walked slowly and
shuffled through his notes. In a loud voice he started reading a
roll of the fallen, as the crowd formed a procession behind
him.