by Heide Goody
Strawb spread his hands wide. “There might be some settling up to do at the end of the month, but…”
“It’ll work,” said Polly. “Will we get into trouble?”
“Does that bother you?”
Polly shook her head serenely and found herself touched by memories. “I was always the naughty one. Out of Lucy and me. That’s my sister. I was the eldest. I was always pushing the boundaries. Drawing on my mum’s curtains, getting into fights at school, staying out late with boys.”
“Oh, this one was a wild child,” Strawb grinned.
“And when we got into trouble together—” she frowned in thought “—playing a game of ‘pigs’, I think we called it. Rolling in mud in the school playground. I’d get the blame because I was the oldest. Eventually, even when my sister did things just by herself. I remember her trying to kill a wasp with a ladle and breaking a window. I happily took the blame because it—” Polly shook her head. “I guess we had found our roles in life.”
“Well, I’m happy to take the blame for you in this case,” said Alison.
24
Delia’s shop, Back to Life, stood on the corner of Scarborough Avenue, on the opposite side of the road to Skegness pier. Opening the door set off a clanking sound from a new set of do-it-yourself chimes. Sam looked up and saw it was made from old cutlery suspended from a lampshade frame. Delia’s efforts at upcycling and selling the unsellable knew no bounds.
“Morning!” Delia shouted. “I’m in the workshop if you need anything.”
“It’s me, Sam.”
“Putting the kettle on!”
Delia came through a moment later.
“Oh, have you had highlights put in your hair?” asked Sam.
Delia brushed a hand through her fringe. “Er, no. I’ve just been using the gold spray paint to make some Christmas decorations. I might have got caught in the drift.”
“Cool. What kind of decorations?” Sam asked.
“Angel tree toppers mostly,” said Delia. “Although frankly, I’m spraying anything that I think might shift more easily in the festive period.”
Sam wandered over to look at the tree toppers. “Ah, I recognise those dolls!”
“Yes, the good old Capitalist Whores.”
Delia had collected many hundreds of washed-up dolls from the beach throughout the year. This was clearly her latest attempt at making them into something people might want to buy.
“Listen, I know you must be really busy in the run-up to Christmas…” said Sam.
“Rushed off my feet,” said Delia solemnly, indicating the empty shop.
Sam grinned. “Would you be interested in a paid commission for some costume making?”
“Paid work? As in actual money? Bring it on!”
“You haven’t heard what it is yet.”
“Why? Is it horrifically dull? Do you need two thousand Santa hats? Who am I kidding, I’ll still do it.”
“No. No, it’s definitely not dull,” said Sam. “Quite the opposite in fact. I will attempt to explain. Have you ever heard of Doggerland?”
Delia went over to the kettle and clattered around making them a drink. “Doggerland, Doggerland. Is that in Norway somewhere?”
“No. Turns out it’s not very far from here. In the old days, like the really old days, it’s what you would have walked across to get to Europe. It’s under the sea now.”
“Oh. I see. Carry on.”
“Well, this is the mad part. No, actually it’s the first mad part. Rich has a project in mind where he wants to reclaim some or all of Doggerland.”
“Won’t the sea get in the way?” Delia asked.
“Yes, but he’s got engineers looking into it. We don’t need to worry about that part. Anyway, once he’s got it reclaimed, he plans to build a theme park on it, with real creatures from the Ice Age.”
“Righto,” said Delia.
She was taking this very much in her stride. Why wasn’t she querying the insanity of it? Sam concluded that Delia’s appetite for insanity exceeded her own. Which was probably good.
“So, Rich needs to do a risk assessment. He needs DefCon4 to carry out an escape drill for the theme park. I need to hire some people to dress up as the animals, hire some others to be the zookeepers. Then we practise what would happen if the animals escaped.”
“Like the Japanese zoos?”
“Like the Japanese zoos.” Sam wasn’t surprised that Delia had heard of them.
“That sounds brilliant,” said Delia. “So the costumes you want … what are they?”
“I have a list,” said Sam. She consulted the app. “Here we are. Apparently, it’s not everything that will be in the park, just the riskier ones. We need a woolly mammoth, a sabre-toothed tiger, a bison, a grey wolf, and a caribou.”
“A caribou is the, er,” Delia made antlers with her fingers.
“Like a reindeer? Yeah, I think so. What do you reckon?”
Delia grinned and jumped up and down on the spot. “It sounds like the best job ever! Seriously I would do that for no money.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t necessarily repeat that in front of anybody else. You need to invoice for your time and Rich will pay.”
“I’ll start now. Christmas can wait,” Delia rushed around, plucking things off shelves.
“I’m not sure Christmas is necessarily going to wait,” said Sam, “but I admire your enthusiasm. What are you doing with that banana stand?”
Delia stopped and turned. “It’s a banana stand? Get out of here!” She held up the metal shape, and peered critically at it. “You’re so right. If I hang some bananas off it, it’ll sell in a jiffy! I was just assessing its potential for keeping a tail erect, but I can solve that problem in a different way. Bananas! Who knew?”
“Well, let me see about some of the other logistics and I’ll get back to you with a date when I’ll need the costumes,” said Sam.
“Yup. Have you or your dad got any old newspapers?”
“Maybe,” Sam said. “Shall I drop some off?”
“Papier-mâché heads are probably the way to go,” Delia said with a nod. Sam got the feeling she was talking to herself, as much as anyone else. “Oh, a thought. Some of those animals are probably quite big. I’ll look it up, but do you want the bigger costumes to have two people inside? Like a pantomime horse?”
Sam gave it some thought. She tried to picture what a pantomime sabre-toothed tiger would look like, but was unable to conjure a sensible image. “No, let’s assume each animal must be able to react to the rules of engagement, whatever they are. A one-person costume will give the actor more freedom to behave like the real deal.”
The FitMeUp exercise tracker on Sam’s wrist buzzed.
“Done your ten thousand steps already?” said Delia.
“It’s telling me I shouldn’t stop moving.” Sam shook her head. “Between sorting out this ridiculous drill and tracking down which of my community service offenders hasn’t turned in their forms yet, I’ve now got to deliver training on these trackers tomorrow.”
“Oh? Popular.”
“I need to train a bunch of people down at Otterside.”
“Residents or staff?”
“Residents.”
“Do old people need to track their fitness?”
“I’ve no idea.”
The tracker buzzed again.
“Gotta do what the spooky watch tells you,” said Delia.
25
“Morning Polly,” said Strawb, waving her over. “Margaret and Jacob are just setting up.”
The two other members of the social committee were bent over an old music centre. “This time, we’re going to officially test out the facilities.” He gave an exaggerated wink.
Polly wasn’t sure how the music centre related to a game of crazy golf. It had been a while since she’d seen one. She didn’t really listen to music any more. Why was that? At some point before the move she’d been persuaded to get rid of her little music system, on the basis
that most music was streamed now. She didn’t have the first idea about streaming, and the digital radio she’d been encouraged to buy had far too many stations for her to comprehend. Her small music collection of light classical and easy listening had been reduced to a mish-mash of everything and nothing.
She stepped forward and gazed in admiration at the array of controls on the music centre.
“I used to think such things look futuristic,” said Strawb. “Back in the eighties. But now…”
“It looks clunky and outdated,” said Polly. “A bit like me.”
Strawb gave her a saucy bump, hip to hip. “Don’t believe a word of it. Choose your weapon.” He gestured to the rack of putting clubs.
“So, what are we supposed to do with this?” Margaret asked of the music centre.
“Play the record,” said Jacob. He pressed the power button and pulled a spring-loaded switch. The needle arm swung across the turntable.
Jacob turned to face Polly. She gave him a brief, nervous smile. Then the music blasted out from the speakers. “Wow, I haven’t heard this for a long time!” she grinned.
Jacob frowned.
“Spanish Flea,” she said.
“Watch out, it’s doing something,” said Strawb, pointing.
There was a belt looped around the turntable and it turned a spiked wheel mounted on a table behind. The wheel rotated a mechanism attached to a small toy garage.
“Lift’s going up,” said Polly. It was quite charming. When it reached the top, something tilted within it and a golf ball rolled neatly out, went down the road that looped around the garage, before disappearing into a large ribbed hose. They heard it clattering along, and moments later it appeared near to their feet.
“Total distance travelled: six feet,” said Jacob.
“But it did it with charm and style,” said Margaret.
The ball was marked with coloured paint, so its player would be able to recognise it.
“Well, I guess the game is underway.” said Strawb. “I’ll take this one. It’s lining up the next already.”
Sure enough, there was another ball making the same journey. Strawb took aim at the first obstacle: a Tom and Jerry style mousehole in the skirting board.
“Is this normal for crazy golf?” said Polly. “I thought they were mostly just obstacles with ornaments on top.
“That’s why this is Crazy, Crazy Golf,” said Strawb.
“I don’t know if it’s appropriate to call things crazy these days,” said Margaret. “Not the done thing.”
“Mentally ill golf perhaps,” said Jacob.
Strawb tutted. “It’s madness gone politically correct.”
Polly was last to tee off. She took a club and gave it a tentative swing. She’d always found it pleasing that a golf club had that unexpected weight, given its skinny appearance. Her first shot was too weak and it dribbled partway towards the hole.
“Does it feel silly playing without children?” she said.
“Ignore that feeling,” said Strawb. “It’ll pass.”
“We’re beyond the age of being embarrassed by what society expects of us,” said Margaret.
“Do you have children?” asked Jacob. “Grandchildren?”
“No,” said Polly. She did not elaborate. Why would she? She could speak of her pride in her great nephew and niece, but she would almost certainly betray the pain that she felt at how rarely she saw them.
“I’ve seen that woman visit you?” Jacob asked. “Your niece.”
“Erin,” said Polly. The way he’d asked, it was like he already knew. Jacob with his pressed shirt and buttons done up to the top. A perfectly tidy exterior. She could imagine he had an interior to match, a mind like a library file card system.
“It’s your go again,” said Margaret.
She looked for her ball. “Are we keeping score? How does scoring even work?”
“We’re merely testing it today, so there’s no scoring,” said Margaret.
“No,” agreed Jacob in the manner of someone who was definitely keeping a mental score.
“There should be extra points for flamboyant play,” said Strawb.
“Flamboyant?”
“Yeah. A bit of oomph. Some zhuzh. A spot of razzamatazz.”
“I will put a scoring sheet together for later on,” said Jacob.
Polly wondered what flamboyant play might look like. “Am I here as an independent observer again?” she asked.
“An honoured guest,” said Strawb.
She grunted. Polly settled into place and relaxed her stance. The angle looked right. She swung the club and sent the ball straight through the tiny archway.
“Good shot! Are you a golfer?” Jacob asked.
“No,” said Polly.
“Maybe you should be. You’ve still got a lot to offer, whatever Erin says.”
Polly stared at him. “What? Has she been saying something?”
Jacob shook his head. “Not to me no, but I’d guess from your body language after her visits that they don’t cheer you up.”
“Bit nosy there, Jacob,” said Margaret.
Polly shrugged.
“Listen to me, I’m prying,” said Jacob, “when we came out to have fun. I’ll stop it immediately. Sorry to go on.”
Jacob got his ball through the archway and, with them all done, Strawb practically sprinted through the door to the next section. “We can move on now, gang. Let’s see what’s next!”
Speakers on the ceiling carried the music through from the other room, Herb Alpert replaced by Holst’s The Planets. The rest of the room was very dark, just illuminated by glowing orbs floating up high. It was like a planetarium. The music made sense now. Polly hummed under her breath to the rousing Mars, The Bringer of War.
“Only one place to hit the ball,” said Strawb. He pointed.
There was a small hole up a ramp. It did not look spectacular. Strawb hit his ball and it went in on the first try. He crowed with delight, but went quiet as something unsighted whirred into life. There was a flash across the wall: Strawb’s golf ball rushing through an illuminated tube. It dashed across the skyscape, looking like a comet, fell to earth and disappeared from sight.
“Bloody hell,” said Strawb approvingly, moments before the ball appeared again in another comet arc, over on the other side of the wall. It dropped down out of sight, but moments later appeared at the far end of the room, near to another of the little mouseholes. Strawb went over and tapped it on its way.
“Well that’s rather spectacular!” he said. “You know what? We can get Ragnar to decorate this one for Christmas as well. It just needs Santa and his reindeer up in the sky there. Good job.”
“I wonder how it works?” Polly said as she watched her own ball shoot off on its stellar journey.
“Ragnar’s a bit of a genius at stuff like this,” said Strawb. “As long as NASA don’t get hold of him and whisk him off to design spaceships or something, he’s the best guy for maintenance we could wish for.”
Margaret made a doubtful noise. “Although the man is a little…”
“Weird?” suggested Jacob. “Disgusting?”
“Light-fingered,” said Margaret judiciously.
“He steals things?” said Polly.
“It’s not that straightforward,” said Margaret. “It’s more like he’s a collector or something. If there’s something he likes the look of, like a door or a sink unit, he’ll swap it for a different one.”
“What? Why would he do that?” Polly asked, confused.
“Never asked. No idea. It’s harmless, unless there’s someone in residence. It gets a bit awkward when you need to explain why their kitchen’s been re-configured. Mostly it’s older pieces that go, so it looks like an upgrade.”
“That’s still criminal behaviour, isn’t it?”
Margaret looked at her with a curious expression. “Do we need to worry about what’s technically criminal or not? Can’t we just judge things on their moral worth?”
“For other people. I was given the wrong change at the supermarket the other day. Too much change. Given their prices, I didn’t feel inclined to tell them. Was I wrong?”
Polly considered it.
“I used to get all my stationery from work,” said Strawb. “Never bought a pen between nineteen sixty-three and ninety ninety-eight.”
“That’s a given,” said Polly. “I think most people do that.”
“I always used to save up my poos for work,” said Jacob. They others turned to look at him.
“Better toilets on the third floor,” he said. “Company time, company toilet paper. I worked it out once. I was being paid two pound seventeen every day to evacuate my bowels.”
“Delightful,” said Margaret.
Polly couldn’t quite imagine a man like Jacob having a poo. In her mind’s eye, his waste would appear in pre-wrapped cuboid packages.
“I had a friend who was gluten-intolerant,” said Polly, hearing the words before she even thought about them.
“Yes?” said Strawb.
“Whenever she came round for tea and asked me if this cake or that biscuit was gluten-free, I’d just lie and say yes.”
Margaret held back a smile.
“And when you say you had a friend…?” said Jacob.
“I didn’t murder her with gluten, if that’s what you mean,” said Polly.
“Is gluten even a thing?” said Strawb. “We didn’t have it in our day.”
“Of course it’s a real thing,” said Margaret. “Although people believe in a lot of nonsense nowadays. You heard there are people who think the world is flat again.”
“It was never flat,” said Jacob.
“You know what I mean.”
“We should send them to Australia,” said Polly.
“To prove it to them?”
“No. To just get rid of them.”
“Who would you get rid of?” said Strawb.
“Hmmm?”
Strawb gave her an honest look. “If you could…” He clicked his fingers. “Just like that. Who would you get rid of?”
