***
The steam wagon raced around the bend of the road. Above and to the west a large passenger Zeppelin floated dreamily in a bright blue sky. Romney saw cattle and sheep in the fields, rough country smells colouring their journey from time to time. The collective noun game had petered out some time ago but they were nearing their destination now. Romney consulted his internal gyroscope, studying the route.
The steam wagon moved along the road, negotiating the curve of the lane easily, then they dipped down into a small dell and began to climb up again, the air cold and damp now they were hidden away from the sun. Then they reached the top of the hill and left the dip behind them. Ahead they saw a small river off to the side of the road and in the centre of the road was a small boat, a tall man standing in it holding what appeared to be a sack of grain and a chicken. Romney was so interested in this that he did not see the small group of animals by the side of the road until they were upon them, and as he skidded to try and avoid them he saw that they were a somewhat curious group of animals. There was a fox, a chicken and a goat.
Romney threw the steam wagon to the other side of the road but the car clipped the goat, sending it flying into the air. In the confusion the fox fell upon the chicken, and began to eat it. Slowly the steam wagon skidded to a halt just as the goat came back down to earth with a bump and landed in the soft grass by the side of the road.
“I told you to slow down!” said Fanelda but Romney just held up a hand for her to stop.
“Wait here.” he said, “I will check the goat.” By now the chicken was gone and the fox sat watching him as the man in the middle of the stream began shouting. Romney however paid him no heed for behind the car the goat was looking decidedly unimpressed.
“There fellah.” said Romney. “No harm meant.”
The goat however he noted now seemed to be pawing at the ground in irritation. Romney gulped and quickly climbed up back into the car.
“Everything’s fine.” he said and roared away, leaving the goat looking up the road after the steam wagon.
“Grain. Chicken. Fox. Boat. River.” said the goat, “Everyone always forgets about me.”
The goat made a sound that could only be interpreted as a sound of irritation and began to chase after the steam wagon.
“I’m coming too!” said the fox, and jumping on the goat’s back they began to race along the country road, the car now far ahead of them. In the boat the man threw the grain into the river, sat down in the boat and began to cry.
“Ponty Bodkin is the next village about ten miles away.” said Romney, quickly forgetting about the goat judging by the speed he was driving at, “Then Ponty Pushkin after that, two miles further. Perhaps we could stop off at Ponty Bodkin for some lunch.” To his surprise Fanelda began to giggle. It was a giggle that turned very quickly into peals of laughter that increased until hysterics seemed to be a real possibility. “What did I say?” he asked and she fanned her hand in front of her reddened face, trying to get her breath back.
“Do you remember once reading a story when you were young about a village where only the dimmest people lived? They had a house with no windows and opened sacks outside to fill them with sunlight and wondered why when they took the now sealed sacks inside and opened them they didn’t fill the room with light?” Romney laughed.
“Vaguely yes. Though not when I was younger. Technically speaking demons are never younger.” he paused for a moment, rubbing his chin, taking one hand off the steering wheel to do so. “Or older.” he concluded.
“Well never mind.” said Fanelda, “But you see Ponty Bodkin is like that village. But without the sacks. Or the house come to think of it.”
“I am sure they have houses.” smiled Romney.
“Oh they do.” said Fanelda, a slight edge of frustration edging into her voice, “It’s just not that the people that live there are backward, because they are, so you see. But it’s by choice.”
“They are deliberately backward?”
“Perhaps deliberately doesn’t quite explain it. Let us just say that they are very resilient to change.”
“Ah.” said Romney.
“Yes. The very thought of a cafe or restaurant, or even a food shop come to think of it in Ponty Bodkin is not only an impossibility but an eternal impossibility. Nothing changes there. Not ever. Nothing.”
“I see.” he said. “No lunch then. How about Ponty Pushkin?”
“Oh we will be much luckier there I would say. No messing about there. They even have a post box.”
“Very Cosmopolitan.” said Romney. “But that’s good. It’s been a while since I had something to eat. I knew we should have brought a picnic.”
“It’s been a while for me too.” she said. “I wonder if there are any strawberries about anywhere?”
“Oh I would have thought so.” he said, “And you never know. You might be lucky. One of those farmers may just have a jug of cream going spare too.”
Fanelda smiled, clapping her hands together as Romney increased their speed just a little. Not far to go now, he thought. Ponty Bodkin could not be more than twenty minute’s drive away.
***
Alice shook her broom out and placing her hat upon her head made her way around the side of the house and out into the garden. In the grass she had made her gardener mow a large X into the grass. She suspected that she was definitely struggling with her eyesight these days and the mark on the lawn definitely helped her find her way home. The other month she had rather humiliatingly landed in the garden of the local monastery, and she had had a very difficult time of talking her way out of that one.
She placed the broom in front of her and sat astride it. Ponty Bodkin was, she knew, not far away at all but speed was of the essence and that meant she must hurry. It was nearly midday already.
“Wait fo' me woam, i be comin' wit' yo'” Shouted the small ginger cat that ran up the path and jumped onto the back of the broom, claws digging into the wood as it sat itself down. “I wouldn't miss dis fo' anything!” said Cat and Alice muttered under her breath and the broom shot into the air, veering away from the low stone granite wall at the bottom of her garden and then rising rapidly over the woods beyond before levelling out and streaking towards the village of Ponty Bodkin as fast as it could.
***
Viktor closed the door on the second candidate and removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow feverishly. He was about to call for tea when he realised that it was technically speaking him who made the tea and so he turned around and headed for the kitchen.
Several minutes later he sat down in Victoria’s chair (as he thought of it) and poured himself some tea from the pot on the tray he had just placed upon the table.
“Stupid man.” He said as he took a sip of the hot tea and out the cup back on the table, picking up his clipboard as he did so. There had been five names on a piece of paper carefully written out by him but already there was a line through the first name. Picking up his pen from the table he proceeded to cross out the second name too.
“I mean.” he continued, talking to himself, “Simpkins. Bryony Simpkins. Vot kind of name is that?” Simpkins had been his last candidate, though Mister Horace, his first candidate, had been a complete waste of time. He had stuttered from start to finish, and was generally a bag of nerves. For some reason Horace seemed to spend most of the interview looking at Viktor’s teeth and trembling. Not quite manservant material, thought Viktor and so he had been crossed rather firmly off the list.
Viktor considered the role of manservant to be an extremely important one. Well, important to a butler anyway. It was, he thought, absolutely crucial that every butler had his own manservant to beat. The second candidate, poor old Mister Simpkins would definitely have fitted the bill he considered. The poor man looked as if he was going to burst into tears at any moment.
“Vot are your most outstanding qualities?” He had asked and Simpkins had sat simpering for a little while until Vikt
or thought perhaps the man had not heard him and was about to repeat the question when the man suddenly spoke.
“I once managed to eat twenty-three eggs in one go without vomiting.” he said finally, with what may have been a small grin appearing on his face. There was a long pause as Viktor looked along his nose at him, one Germanic eyebrow rising so high on his forehead that if he had been wearing a hat it would probably have tipped it off.
“I can see how that may be useful in certain circumstances.” he said finally, Simpkins nodding as he did so. Viktor had stood up and shortly after Simpkins was making his way back down the path with the door slammed after him. Just before closing the door Viktor had seen the man stopping to admire the daisies on the lawn.
“Oh my.” he had whispered and soon the next candidate, Mister Fingers was in front of him.
“Name?” asked Viktor. He had learned before many years ago that it was very important to ensure that the person in front of you is definitely the person you should be speaking to, and not, as he recalled, the time in his previous employment when he had accidentally interviewed the milkman for the role of head bodyguard (day shift only). There had been many quips about the importance of “gold top” from his employers at the time and he had never forgotten this important lesson.
“Rufus Fingers.” said the small, weasley looking man who seemed to be looking about the room more than was absolutely necessary. He had so far managed to take in every valuable, window and door but had yet to look at Viktor. He snapped his fingers in front of the man's face and he nearly leapt out of the chair.
“Sorry.” said the man. “Interviews make me nervous. Always have done.”
“Mister Fingers.” said Viktor dryly, and the man nodded once. Viktor scanned the man’s Curriculum Vitae that he had insisted everyone bring with them. This one seemed to be a new form of handwriting he had never seen before. In fact, the man seemed to have drawn a lot of pictures. “There seem to be a lot of gaps in your employment history.” He said. Mister Fingers wriggled a little in the chair.
“Such as?” he said, whilst apparently at the same time try to look up the chimney. Which was unfortunate, for it was on the other side of the room.
“Well after six months’ work as footman at Lord Amersham home in Eglinton there is a gap of just over five years until your next place of work.”
“Ah.” said Fingers.
Viktor raised an eyebrow, waiting for Mister Fingers to add anything else but it didn’t look as if he was going to. Viktor glanced at the table, subconsciously counting the teaspoons.
“Well. Lord Amersham was very difficult man.” said Fingers at last. “Insisted on pressing all charges would you believe it Even the chandeliers.” Fingers looked shiftily around the room again and then seemed to remember something. “It was never me what touched the chandeliers, though. Oh no. Don’t do light fittings as a rule.”
“Vell I think I av heard enough.” said Viktor, standing up. Once again the man was soon scuttling down the path, though Viktor could not help but notice that he did seem to pay an awful lot of attention to the upstairs windows of the house as he went down the path. Cursing, Viktor slammed the door and went to recount the tea spoons just in case.
***
Clwyd Evans stood in his suit of holy armour sweating profusely, Wheelbarrow Jones stood nearby, poised ready to catch him if the heat got the better of him. Evans however was not overly concerned about the heat. They were in Wales, after all and the swaying was deliberate, for he found that by doing it he could generate a slight breeze which was definitely helping. Summer he could cope with. Winter was the worst. He once spent an unhappy February afternoon being de-iced by the local blacksmith.
By now a small crowd had gathered as it did do every day to see the lunchtime shrivening of demons and exorcising of the dead and lost. “Peanut” Williams, who many in the village of Ponty Bodkin thought had never fitted in to village life as his ancestors had only moved into the village five hundred years ago, was making his usual half-hearted attempt to provide refreshments.
“Sweet Leek sticks, cup ‘o’ milk!” he called across the village green, and as usual everyone ignored him and the small wooden tray he had hanging around his neck. “Get them while they are fresh!” he finished in vain.
Clwyd stood unmoving, the necklace hanging about his neck, the armour ready. He bore no weapons of course, and never had done so. He was a holy warrior after all, and the laying on of hands was all he needed. That and a good kick in the knackers if he was really struggling or in trouble.
“Not long now.” he thought. “Not long.”
***
Romney pushed the brake on the steam wagon as hard as he could and the vehicle slewed along the country lane, the back end of it skidding sideways as Romney fought to regain control of the wagon. The small line of ducklings following one large duck across the road continued to waddle across the lane as if nothing was happening, the large open topped wagon screaming towards them, the wide eyed, pony-tailed face of Romney frozen in horror, Fanelda beside him, her mouth a perfectly round, “O”. They finally skidded to a halt mere inches from the ducks and ducklings that continued to cross the road.
“Quack.” said the mother duck, turning her beak towards them in a genuine look of disgust as she reached the other side of the lane.
As they screamed to a halt however one of the seat cushions in the back of the car came loose and went flying through the air, hitting one of the branches in a large tree that stood at the side of the lane in the fields. It stayed stuck there, the ducks finally disappearing into the field on the other side of the road.
“Oh my.” said Fanelda, ‘Well done Romney! I thought those ducks were for it!” To his great surprise she leaned forward and kissed him on his cheek. Once again he found himself blushing furiously.
“It is nothing.” he said, tapping the wheel with his hand, “I was in complete control all of the time.”
“I am glad to hear it.” She said, looking up at the cushion stuck up in the tree. It wasn’t too far up, but high enough to require a spot of tree climbing to reach. “What about the cushion though?”
“Oh forget about that.” smiled Romney, “It’s not important.”
“Won't Miss Neaves be cross if we leave it there though?” she asked and Romney had a sudden vision of trying to explain to Victoria why her steam wagon was a cushion down.
“We could try and knock it down with sticks or stones.” he said and she giggled.
Let’s!” she said and he got out of the wagon and crossing around to her side helped her down onto the road. There was a small gap in the stone wall and so they walked into the field, staring up at the cushion wedged in the branches above.
Romney looked around the field. It disappeared off down into the valley to the west, the road curving around it as it did so. There were sheep a little distance away but he ignored them, the sun beating down on his neck, a droning sound in the air, a slight breeze disguising the effect of the sun on his pale white skin. He picked up several small twigs and a few stones and passed a few to Fanelda.
“You go first.” he said, and she threw a twig up into the branches but did not quite manage to hit the cushion. “My turn.” said Romney, throwing a small twig, narrowly missing the cushion.
“Oo. Close.” said Fanelda, “Let me see if I can get it.”
“Move around this side.” said Romney. “You get a better line of sight here.” She followed him as they paced about the trunk of the tree. She threw the stick and she squealed with delight as it sailed through the branches, bouncing off a small yellow cylindrical object and hitting the cushion which swayed slightly before plummeting to the ground.
“Well done!” shouted Romney, hitting her on the back. Above them the droning noise increased. Romney went and picked up the cushion, looking up into the tree as he did so.
“What’s that buzzing noise?” he asked as Fanelda took hold of his arms and began to drag him back towards the steam wago
n.
“It’s a bee hive.” she said quietly before dragging him harder, the droning sound growing increasingly in volume. “Run!”
Up in the hive, the bees were flying around wildly, bumping into each other, the honeycomb they were currently working on inside the nest slightly damaged by the impact of the stick.
“Wot was that?” said danceswithbuttercups, the bee nearest the damaged comb.
“Dunno.” said sniffsatroses, an indignant look upon its face.
“Outside, quick!” said dithersbesidesdandelions and every bee raced outside to see what was going on, all flying about the hive, looking around wildly to locate exactly what the problem was.
“Ere!” said lovesanicepoppy, “What's going on with these two geezers getting in this bloody car then?”
“They’ve only gone and dented the hive, cheeky blighters!” said skidswithdaffodils, and all the other bees came to look too. There is a lot of nonsense spoken about “the hive mind” because strictly speaking it is not entirely what it seems. Not all of the bees there right now for example decided to attack the car. Not all at once, anyway. Some were enraged, others curious, but once one bee decided that whoever was in the car was going to get what for, then pretty much every other bee joined in too. It was not so much a single positive decision, more an agreement of an accord. This doesn’t go much of a way to describe the concept of a hive mind of course, but it certainly does help explain liberalism. Not that any of these particular bees were feeling in any way liberal currently though.
“Let’s go and sting them!” said one bee as they flew across the field towards the steam wagon in which two people could be seen desperately trying to get it moving.
“Yeh! Sting ‘em!” shouted another bee.
“You do it.” said a smaller bee who seemed to be trying to fly as fast as the rest of them but was holding back a little.
“No you!” said another as the steam wagon began slowly to move down the lane.
The Complete Adventures of Victoria Neaves & Romney Page 28
