by Heide Goody
And now, here, it was mixed with Ben’s own, less offensive, but nonetheless unwarranted man smells. The mildew of his socks, the accumulated dustiness of the T-shirts that he’d seemed to have owned since the age of twelve and which still fitted him, the glues and thinners of his weird hobbies and—
Nerys sniffed. “What is that?”
There was a fresh and definitely earthy smell. She stepped closer to Ben’s flat door and sniffed again. “Ben,” she called down the stairs, “why does your flat smell like a farmyard?”
“Well,” he puffed as he lugged up the cases, “that might be because Bucephalus, Marengo, Palomo and Mrs Clucking— Damn it! And Copenhagen, are having to stay in my flat because I had to buy you two plane tickets.”
“Bucephalus?” said Clovenhoof. “As in Alexander the Great’s horse?”
“Indeed,” said Ben.
“Why is Alexander the Great’s horse in your flat?” asked Nerys.
“It’s not a horse. It’s a chicken,” said Ben.
“That makes no sense.”
“Don’t care,” said Ben, close to collapse under the weight of luggage. “Tell me where to put these. My arms have gone to sleep.”
Several cases went in Clovenhoof’s flat. The rest had to be carted up a final flight of stairs to Nerys’s.
“Careful,” said Nerys as Ben thoughtlessly dropped cases onto the sofa. “There’s breakables in there. Presents.”
“Anything for me?” asked Ben.
Nerys looked to Clovenhoof. “Some people are so greedy. Me, me, me…”
“I just spent several thousand pounds buying you emergency plane tickets.”
“And you don’t stop reminding us,” commented Clovenhoof.
“Here,” said Nerys, unzipping a suitcase. She pulled out a pair of high-heeled leather shoes.
“Are they for me?” said Ben.
“Of course not. They’re for me,” she said. She removed clothes and belts and two handbags. “Laura Biagiotti, Gianfranco Ferré. Mine, mine, mine. Ah. Here’s the presents.” She pulled out a somewhat gaudy picture of Jesus Christ in a gaudier gold frame.
“A picture of Jesus. For me.” She could hear Ben pretending to be grateful.
“No, silly. That’s for Reverend Zack. I spent hours debating which one to get.”
“Literally,” agreed Clovenhoof.
“But I think that one’s got a smouldering look in his eyes,” nodded Nerys. “Like he’s in a boy band. You know?”
“Hot and smouldering Jesus,” said Ben. “I’m sure Reverend Zack will be delighted.”
She plucked out a long bottle of violently yellow liquid.
“Limoncello,” said Ben, reaching for it. “I always thought it tasted like washing up liquid, but I suppose it’s alcohol.”
“Yoinks! That’s mine,” said Clovenhoof, snatching it. “Part of my research into making lemon-flavoured Lambrini.”
Out came three more bottles in quick succession. “Truffle oil. Truffle oil. Wine, obviously.” None were for Ben. Nerys dug deeper and pulled out a large salami sausage, half of which had been savagely crushed and burned.
“What happened to that?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Clovenhoof muttered as an aside to Ben.
Nerys took out a fancy-dress centurion’s outfit, complete with sword.
“For me?” hazarded Ben.
“No,” she said and coughed. “That’s for … personal, recreational use. I know a local fireman who would look good in it. Ah-ha! Venetian masquerade masks!” She took out a crinkly carrier bag and from it a tiny pink and silver mask.
“Bit small for me,” said Ben.
“Silly! That’s for Twinkle. He’s going to love wearing at our next party. This is for you.”
She presented him with a long, slim package, and he received it with gratitude. The gratitude faded somewhat as he unwrapped the mask within. It had a long tapering beak and inset eyepieces of dark glass. Ben stared at it a long while.
“It’s a plague doctor’s mask,” he said eventually.
“An authentic plague doctor’s mask,” beamed Nerys.
Ben turned it over. “Authentic? I mean it can’t be. It would have to be hundreds of years old.”
“An authentic design,” said Nerys, with a withering look for the man’s pedantry. “Look. It’s real leather.”
Ben continued to turn it over, then shrugged. “In these weird times, perhaps it’s apt.”
“Apt,” tutted Nerys. “Apt he says. That’s gratitude for you.”
4
Ben left the bar of the Boldmere Oak with three drinks, having paid for four (Animal Ed had been lying in wait for him, apparently for days). He put a Pinot Grigio in front of Nerys, a Lambrini in front of Clovenhoof and sat down with his own pint of cider and black.
“Don’t you two have any money on you?” he muttered.
“Of course, we do but it’s all euros,” said Clovenhoof. “You know, you’ve changed since we went away. When did you become all about the money?”
“Ever since you caused me to be several hundred quid in the red,” said Ben, moodily.
“I’m sorting that out,” said Nerys, fiddling with her phone. “I’m going to speak to the magazine and get them to refund us.”
Clovenhoof sipped his Lambrini, making disturbingly sexual moans as he relished its flavour. “You know what, they had nothing like this over there,” he said with feeling.
“No, they did not,” said Nerys wincing at the taste of her cheap plonk. “Eating and drinking is actually something to be savoured over there. Three-hour lunches. Long evenings drinking wine whilst overlooking the Med.”
“There was this one place—” began Clovenhoof.
“Are you going to go on about the ice cream shop in Sorrento?” said Nerys.
“—An ice cream shop in Sorrento,” said Clovenhoof. “They had a million and one flavours of ice cream.”
“Did they?” said Ben, uninterested.
“Lemon and mango and apple and rose and chocolate and coffee—”
“So a lot of flavours of ice cream.”
“They had rice flavoured ice cream and black forest gateau flavoured ice cream—”
“Uh-huh.”
“Would you believe me if I told you they had spaghetti flavoured ice cream?”
“Well, since you’ve mentioned it, yes.”
“Yes, but would you normally believe it?”
“Would I normally believe there’s spaghetti ice cream?” said Ben. “Like I’m just walking along the street and thinking to myself ‘I bet there’s such a thing as spaghetti flavoured ice cream’? Of course I wouldn’t. That would be mad.”
“Well, there is!” crowed Clovenhoof and slapped him hard on the back. “It’s opened my mind to the world of culinary possibilities.”
“Foreign travel broadens the mind,” said Ben.
“Broadens the waistline more like,” sniffed Nerys. “Never before have I known a man to treat ‘all you can eat’ as an instruction.”
“Hey, if I didn’t eat it, someone else will,” said Clovenhoof.
“Ah, there’s the British mentality,” said Nerys.
“I heard rumours people are starting to stockpile food in case the virus comes over here,” said Ben.
“I don’t think I’ve worked through all of my Brexit stockpile from last year yet,” said Clovenhoof.
“Year old custard and out of date baked beans?” said Ben.
“There’s a thought,” said Clovenhoof, awestruck. “Custard flavoured Lambrini!”
Nerys pulled a face. “Ugh, God, I don’t know how I put up with you for all that time abroad. Right, I’m giving the magazine a call.” She stood up to take the phone call elsewhere.
“Custard flavoured Lambrini, baked bean flavoured Lambrini. I could cut up the mashed end of that salami and make sausage flavoured Lambrini.”
“What did happen to that?” whispered Ben. “It looked like it had been run over by a lorry.�
�
Clovenhoof looked round cautiously to see if Nerys was within earshot.
“We were away for over two weeks together,” he whispered conspiratorially. “On paper, we’re man and wife. We were booked into double rooms. We had good times, the alcohol flowed and one night in the Hotel Palatino, I thought I’d just snuggle up to her and…” He glanced around again and Ben saw a fearful glint in his eyes. “I mean she’s not exactly my ideal woman – far too high maintenance, and I do prefer my ladies to have a few more miles on the clock – but I’m not a fussy man. And I don’t think she can afford to be fussy either.”
“And?” said Ben, who really didn’t want to know what happened next but really, really did.
“She jumped straight out of bed, grabbed the salami, waggled it in my face and then put it in the trouser press by the door. ‘Next time you try that, it will be your salami in the trouser press.’”
“Wow. I mean, ouch,” said Ben.
Clovenhoof scrunched up his eyes as though returning from a fevered hallucination. “I don’t think I’ll be able to smell cooking pork products again without wincing.”
Nerys stormed back to the table. “Can you believe it?” she said.
“Is this about spaghetti flavoured ice cream?” said Ben.
“The wedding magazine says they’re not obligated to give us any kind of refund because we never paid for the holiday in the first place,” she fumed.
“That sort of makes sense,” reasoned Ben. “Even a full refund on a holiday that costs nothing is nothing.”
“This is your money we’re trying to get back,” she said.
“Did you take out travel insurance?” Ben suggested.
Nerys clicked her beringed fingers. “I did! Just to cover loss of any personal items. Tina told me that all Italians are pickpockets so I wasn’t taking any chances.”
“Claim on your travel insurance then. Get me my money back. Otherwise my hens will have absolutely nowhere to live.”
5
“Don’t panic!” said the radio announcer.
Clovenhoof was not really paying attention to the interview on the morning radio while he tinkered in the kitchen, inventing new Lambrini flavours. He’d been tweeting the company with suggestions since his revelation in the pub the previous night and he couldn’t wait for sprout flavoured Lambrini to make its market debut.
The comment made him start listening. The phrase Don’t panic was right up there with Don’t press that button. Some suggestions stimulated an irresistible urge to do the exact opposite of what was intended. It seemed the interviewee was a new recruit to the local council, responding to the news of the spreading virus, which had been in the news for weeks. There had been several vacancies in the council after Tessa Bloom’s sudden departure. This one was clearly wet behind the ears, with no clue how his thoughtless platitudes were likely to be received. They were talking about the availability of goods in the shop. Ben had mentioned the recent rush to stockpile necessities. If this clueless bureaucrat was suggesting that people shouldn’t panic, Clovenhoof knew people all around him were quietly preparing to panic.
He decided to go down to the shops and take a look for himself, and at the same time cast an eye around for more Lambrini flavourings. He caught the bus to the big supermarket, mainly because they didn’t operate the same narrow-minded concept of shadowing his every move with a security guard as the local smaller shops did.
He went to the tills to see what people were buying. He tried to put himself into the position of a normal person who had been told not to panic about supplies. What might he rush out and purchase? His own inclination was of course to buy a huge freezer and fill it up with trashy snacks, and then to lay in multiple crates of delicious Lambrini. But what if he was human? If he genuinely wanted to get the best food value out of a modest stash he would probably rely on the deadly dull lentil, or some such worthy but horrendous staple. Would he find lots of people coming through the tills with dried lentils? He loitered and stared, trying not to make it too obvious he was silently judging people based on what they were buying. It was after all one of his favourite hobbies. There were health food fanatics, with their vegan rissoles and their kale smoothies; there were people with kids who ate different food to the adults. Clovenhoof was confused by the latter. He heartily approved of potato-based products shaped into faces, for example, but he thought they were good for the whole family, not just the kids. Right now, there was one thing in common with a good many of the trolleys that were coming through. They featured a strangely high proportion of toilet paper. For an instant he wondered whether everybody else used it differently to him, and maybe this was normal. But no, it was not normal. They weren’t even buying the little packs, there was one man who was carrying a basket with a pack of spring onions in it who also had a jumbo pack of toilet tucked roll under an arm. Clovenhoof went over to look at the toilet paper aisle and saw it was almost bare. A store employee wheeled a large pallet truck along the aisle, piled high with new stock. People were grabbing the contents before he’d even made it to the shelf.
Clovenhoof pulled out his phone with a frown. He must have missed some of the key symptoms of this virus. A few searches confirmed that explosive diarrhoea was not a well-documented symptom, but perhaps these people had access to some new information. He snapped a picture of the empty shelf. Clovenhoof went back to the tills and found the man with the spring onions.
“Let me guess: there’s a mummy cosplay event?”
“What?”
“It’s a wedding you’re all invited to, with a wind machine and a photographer who wants to add ‘wacky’ to his portfolio?” Clovenhoof mimed the air quotes.
“What are you on ab—”
“I know! I know! You’re training a puppy? I’ve seen it on telly, they have to run away with the end of the roll and you laugh, so they know they’ve been a good dog.”
“Are you after the toilet paper? It’s mine. Back off,” growled the man.
“Why is everyone buying so much?” asked Clovenhoof.
“It’s the virus, isn’t it?” said the man.
“What have you heard?” asked Clovenhoof. “Is it really bad in the, you know, bumhole-leakage department?” He gave a graphic mime, in case there was any doubt what he was asking.
“No idea. We might get shortages though, or have to stay at home.”
“Shortages, huh? I guess we might,” said Clovenhoof, with a nod to the toilet paper frenzy that was kicking off all around them. “So I guess you’ll be all right if you have to stay at home. You’ve got enough toilet paper for a good few weeks, and you’ve got some spring onions as well, in case you get hungry.”
“You taking the piss?” The man scowled at him.
“No not really,” said Clovenhoof. “Well, maybe I am. Have you got loads of food at home then?”
“No, I like to get my things fresh.”
Clovenhoof gestured at the toilet roll. “So this … you’re just … what?”
“Just being careful. See how it’s running out? The smart money’s stocking up.”
Clovenhoof nodded. “Can I get a selfie with the smartest man I’ve seen today?”
“No, weirdo. I need to get home.”
Clovenhoof snapped a quick picture of him anyway and went off to browse for Lambrini additives. He had developed a new technique: stand in front of the spices and spin himself around with his eyes closed, then reach forward to see what he grabbed first. He would do the same with the jam. It was another reason for him travelling further afield, since last week’s jam accident had resulted in (another) ban from his usual supermarket, although he had spent an enjoyable hour afterwards playing “guess the flavour” on the jam splats that covered his body. He felt that he had the last laugh, finding a new and interesting way to shoplift.
6
One by one, crate by crate, Ben carried his chickens downstairs and into the garden at the rear of four-hundred-and-something Chester Road. He might not be ab
le to afford the Premier Hen chicken coop he’d wanted, but there was no way the birds could stay in his flat forever.
“We’ll just have to construct you something temporary until I have the funds for the perfect home for pampered hens,” he told them.
He opened the crates and let the hens have a peck and scratch around the small square lawn. The fences were sturdy, the side walls secure, but even in a secure back garden, chickens needed some shelter from the elements.
In any ordinary garden he might have looked for materials to construct a shelter in the shed, or even considered temporarily housing them in the shed itself. However, every shed that had been erected in the garden over the last seven years had been burned down, often in unusual circumstances. Each set of circumstances was unique, but they all had a common factor: one Mr Jeremy Clovenhoof. Leaf-blowers, scented candles, indoor fireworks (that were definitely not indoor fireworks) had all played a part in the destruction of one shed or another. In fact, if Ben recalled correctly, Clovenhoof had deliberately set the most recent shed ablaze because it was “Acting all high and mighty.”
Bucephalus, Marengo and Palomo scratched and pecked around among the rectangular patches of bare earth that marked the ruins of the most recent shed. Meanwhile Mrs Cluckington sat atop her crate and watched Ben trying to construct a hen home out of not much at all. Despite much searching the only building supplies the garden yielded were a single damp plank of wood and four old breeze blocks. Ben arranged them as best he could.
Clovenhoof leaned out his first-floor kitchen window. “What’s that?”
“It’s my chicken shelter.”
“It’s a bridge,” Clovenhoof pointed out, correctly.
“It’s still a shelter,” Ben argued. “They can stand under it in the event of rain.”
“As long as the rain isn’t blowing in at an angle,” said Clovenhoof.
“Perhaps.”
“And they’d have to agree to stand in a line under it.”
