by Mark Evans
CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH
Of meetings of life-changing import
Aaarrggh, was my first thought; my second and third thoughts were of a similar ilk, as were my fourth, fifth and sixth. It was not until my seventh thought that I concocted a more rational mental response, and even that was ‘I’m terrified.’
‘Hold your noise,’ hissed the dread figure, from its twisted, broken-toothed mouth, ‘or I’ll cut you from gizzard to guzzard.’1
This prospect did not seem a pleasant one so I held my noise, cupping one hand over my mouth to do so quite literally, whimpering scared sounds into it like the frightened child I was.
Satisfied by my silence, the figure now released me and stepped back, and I got my first unstartled look at him – for I now saw that it was a him. His face was fierce and covered with the nicks and scratches of a man who has fought nettles and briars and brambles, or is just not very good at shaving; he was shoeless, and limped awkwardly on hurty feet that were bruised and stone-bashed and flint-cut; his ankles were shackled by a leg-iron-anchored chain; and he was wearing a pristine white wedding dress.
This last, it must be said, surprised me.
‘Release your noise and tell me your name, boy.’
I removed my hand from my mouth and whispered nervously, ‘Pip, sir.’
‘Whassat? Speak up, young cully.’
‘Pip, sir,’ I repeated, more strongly this time. ‘Pip Bin.’
‘How do, Pip Bin?’ he now said, in a considerably friendlier tone than that in which all the gizzard-cutting threats had been delivered.
Emboldened by this tonal turn, I asked, ‘Do you have a name, sir?’
‘Aye. It’s Havertwitch, Bakewell Havertwitch.’
At this I could not help my instinctive response: ‘And do you, as your name might suggest, have a twitch?’
‘No,’ he said, a brief spasm running down the left-hand side of his face and giving the lie to his answer. ‘But I do bake well. Eccles cake?’
From a muddy sack beside him he proffered a curranty treat. Not wanting to risk a gizzard cutting, I accepted it and took a great bite.
It was disgusting, thereby also giving the lie to the other half of his name claim. Not that I mentioned that because I was still pretty scared, though I did make a mental note that his name actually should have been Bakesbadly Really-Does-Have-A-Twitch.
‘Mmm, delicious,’ I lied. Hoping to distract him and so be able to dispose of the repellent cake, I asked, ‘Are you an escaped criminal, sir?’ For surely a man in such a place and state could only be that.
‘Escaped criminal? No! By heaven, no!’ He seemed most offended. ‘I’m an absconded wrongdoer, a fleeing malefactor, a running-away dodgy geezer or a broken-out incarcerated person of somewhat lax moral probity.’ I looked at the synonymizing wastrel, and he seemed to give in. ‘Yes, I am basically an escaped prisoner.’
‘From the hulks, sir?’ One of these vile prison ships was moored on the nearby estuary, indeed the largest one yet commissioned, a former navy frigate called HMS Banner, now painted bright green and known popularly as the Incredible Hulk.
‘Aye. But I shouldn’t have been there! I didn’t do nothing wrong!’
This last phrase seemed to indicate he had done something wrong, though allowance for bad grammar could lend a more favourable meaning to his denial.
‘What didn’t you do wrong, sir?’
‘They said I stole a loaf of bread. But I never!’ He looked wistfully away, and I took the chance to flip the gruesome Eccles cake into a nearby patch of nettles. It struck one of the rabbits hopping there and killed it stone dead. ‘I actually stole some flour, water, salt and yeast. But then the Bow Street Runners got after me so I stuffed everything down my trousers and ran. Well, it wor a long chase and a hot day, and when they caught me, all that running and heat had mixed the stuff together and cooked it up into a trouser loaf . . .’
He trailed off sadly, and I thought perhaps he was not such a bad man as he had first appeared. Though he was still as bad a baker as he had first appeared, for the nasty taste of burned currants and over-larded pastry persisted in my mouth.
‘And why do you wear a wedding dress, sir?’ This incongruity had begged an answer since I had first seen it, and now it got one.
‘I found it in the vestry of this ’ere church and I put it on because, first, it really suits me and, second, it’s a good disguise. Who’s going to stop a happy bride and haul her off to prison, eh? Now, if only I had some way of breaking these shackles.’ He indicated the leg-irons round his ankles.
‘I have an anvil, sir.’ For I did. I pointed to where it had lain nearby since I had dropped it on first being surprised by him.
‘That is mighty convenient.’
It was. With two mighty strikes of one of his rock-hard Eccles cakes, the chain and shackles were shattered and he was free.
‘Thank ’ee, young cully.’
With that he was away, leaping over the crumbling churchyard wall and running off through the marshy surroundings, the train of his wedding dress trailing behind him. ‘I’ll not forget you!’ he yelled back, as he ran. ‘One day I shall repay your help and kindness, Mick Grin!’
‘That’s Pip Bin,’ I corrected.
‘Of course. Slip Tin, I shall remember that name!’
‘No, Pip Bin,’ I once more corrected.
‘Got it, Drip Flim.’
‘No, it’s—’ But it was too late: he was out of earshot and word-range, now just a speck of white on the horizon.
Then, behind me, I heard the snorts of panting horses and the crunch of carriage wheels approaching and, turning, I saw that Mr Benevolent had arrived, which meant that so had my mother-rescuing time of destiny.
1 ‘Guzzard’ was an alternative spelling of ‘gizzard’ so the threat is tautological. Unless it is a misprint for ‘gazzard’, a now disused word for the loose bit of skin on the elbow, though this would have required a level of skill with a blade more akin to that of a surgeon than an escaped criminal. Oh, hang on, just realized: the revelation that this is an escaped criminal hasn’t happened yet. Oops, sorry, slight story-ruining, something I promised I wouldn’t do. Don’t worry, I’m certainly not going to ruin it any more by saying that this character goes on to— Ah, no, caught myself in time.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH
Stop that wedding!
The carriage came to a halt and, peering out from behind a wedding-rock, I watched as the door opened and Mr Benevolent emerged and raged, ‘Damnable storm! It must have taken us an hour to replace those drowned horses.’
The storm must also have turned the local roads to quagmires, for the carriage was clotted with mud even up to the sill of the door, and how glad I was of that meteorological event and its cunctatory effects!
Now my mother descended from the carriage, singing to herself:
‘I’m a little tablecloth clean and neat,
Aren’t I pretty, aren’t I sweet?
I’m not a bath towel or a sheet,
I go on the table and get covered with meat.’
Alas, poor Mother, still doolally and bonkers-chops! ‘Come on, you mentalist, let’s get you inside and into your wedding dress.’ Mr Benevolent dragged her towards the church door and then in, the driver stomping behind them, a mute slab of grumpy-looking man-muscle – not just a coachman but evidently henchman also.
I stepped out from behind the wedding-rock ready to follow them, but a shout stopped me.
‘Pip Bin!’
Why, it was Harry, come to aid me! As he entered the churchyard I clasped him in a strong, male embrace with no hint of forbidden love or anything other than strong, non-beastly companionship. ‘Are the others with you?’
‘We are!’ came a chorus of presence-stating from Pippa, Poppy and Aunt Lily, who now also arrived in the churchyard.
‘The storm took us many miles from our path,’ said Aunt Lily, ‘but then fortunately we stumbled into a field of Gloucestershi
re racing sheep,1 the fastest creatures on six legs.’ She pointed to a patch of nearby grass where the woolly beasts now grazed at high speed, their sextuple legs a blur of ovine greed.
‘Plus they trampled a highwayman on the way and I got this off him.’ She pulled out a flintlock pistol, which looked handy indeed. ‘Now, we need a plan.’
‘Ooh, I’ve got an idea!’ exclaimed Harry, instantly. My heart sank like a cement-filled coffin in thin water, familiar as I was with the awfulness of his plans. ‘How about we chop down some trees, use the timber to form a rudimentary trebuchet and then hurl heavy objects at the church until Mr Benevolent surrenders and we can all have cake?’
We all just stared at him. He stared back, a delighted grin on his face. I thought I might punch him again, but fortunately Aunt Lily intervened: ‘Yes, great plan, Harry. Why don’t you stay here and work on that while the rest of us just go in and stop the wedding?’
‘Ooh, nice, two-pronged attack. I shall commence the trebuchet construction!’ Harry marched purposefully off to work, and I heard him say to himself, ‘Now, what exactly is a trebuchet?’
We left Harry to his ill-informed device building and headed towards the side door of the church, sneaking quickly and quietly inside. We slipped into a concealing pew, but not before glimpsing Mr Benevolent at the altar where he was talking to the vicar.
‘Is everything ready, Reverend?’
‘It is, Mr Benevolent.’
‘Excellent. My plan is nearly complete. Nothing can stop me now. Probably.’ He then let fly with one of his lacerating laughs. ‘Ha, ha, ha!’
But something could stop him: us. For our small Pip, Pippa, Poppy and Aunt Lily-shaped army was now creeping forwards between the pews.
‘What do you think about marrying me, Agnes?’ My malicious guardian addressed my mother, who stood meekly but madly nearby.
‘I think if you’re going to put a hot dish on me you’ll need a trivet or I’ll scorch and won’t do for best any more!’ she madly replied.
‘Oh, bless the linen-based insanity of the woman. Now to wed, perchance to scheme.’
We were nearly close enough to make our move but, alas, at that moment I knocked into a pile of prayer-books, which had been stacked into the ecclesiastically mandated shape of Canterbury Cathedral. They fell with a series of booky thuds, in turn disturbing a nest of church mice within, which instantly scurried off squeaking loudly – I’m pretty sure I heard them saying, ‘We’re so poor.’ They startled me so much that I immediately sat down upon the keyboard of the church organ and, though my buttocks had by chance settled in such a manner as to play the pleasant first chords of the hymn ‘He Who Would Valiant Be’, it was nonetheless what I believe is known as ‘a bit of a giveaway’.
Mr Benevolent turned instantly. ‘Is somebody there?’
Curse his acute hearing!
I made an instant decision, stood and walked boldly towards him: if I gave myself up, perhaps it might distract him and allow the others to have more success on the thwarting front.
‘Pip Bin? Good grief, boy, can’t you take a hint and die?’
‘No, Mr Benevolent. For I am your ward and I am here to tell you that I think you are not conducting your duties as guardian with the propriety you ought.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Aunt Lily creeping forward, gesturing to me to keep going. ‘You’re a bad guardian! I don’t think you care at all what happens to me or to my sisters!’
‘Oh, in that you’re wrong, young Pip. I care very much what happens to you.’ This surprised me: his behaviour thus far had seemed to indicate the exact opposite. ‘Because I want to ensure that only very, very bad things happen to you.’ Yes, that made more sense. ‘But don’t worry, those very, very bad things won’t last long. Because, with a bit of luck, they’ll kill you. Now, have you met my eponymous henchman, Mr Henchman?’ From the shadows stepped the mutely muscled carriage-driver. ‘He is a very strong, very obedient man.’
Mr Benevolent had not told false, for he now said, ‘Seize him,’ and burly arms strongly and obediently enveloped me like a meaty vice.
But it did not matter. For I had provided distraction enough, and Aunt Lily sprang up, pistol in hand. ‘Step away from the bride-to-be, Benevolent!’ She held the pistol in front of her, and snicked its action back ready to fire.
‘Ooh, a pistol, scary.’ Mr Benevolent merely smiled at this firearm threat.
‘Oh, no ordinary pistol. This is the forty-four flintlock, the most powerful handgun in the world, and at this range it could blow your head clean off. I know what you’re thinking: did I fire one shot, or was it only none? In all this excitement I lost count, so you’ve got to ask yourself one question: do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?’
Aunt Lily’s speech sent tingles down my spine, even if during it she had seemed weirdly to sort of turn a bit American.
‘Actually, Lily, I feel incredibly lucky.’
With that, he lunged for the pistol. Aunt Lily immediately pulled the trigger, but there was no bullety response, and her weapon was then easily taken from her as Mr Benevolent had that most modern of disarming tools, a pair of pistol pliers.
‘You lucky sod!’ she said. ‘I could’ve sworn I hadn’t fired it.’
‘Ah, but there was all that rain, wasn’t there? Should have kept your powder dry, shouldn’t you?2 Henchman, kindly seize her as well.’
The burly bully changed his grip so that he held me with just one arm and now seized Aunt Lily with the other.
‘Did you come to try to stop me marrying your sister, Lily? Was it because you were jealous?’
‘I’d never be jealous of you, Benevolent.’
‘Still aggrieved that I never turned up at the altar all those years ago?’
What? Aunt Lily had been due to marry Mr Benevolent? This was news.
‘Not marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to me,’ my aunt said.
‘Really? Are there no tender feelings any more?’ He actually sounded slightly hurt.
‘None.’
Mr Benevolent approached her, trapped in the henchman’s grasp. He leaned towards her, smiling sharkishly. ‘Really really? No feelings at all?’
‘Well . . . perhaps there are some feelings,’ she said.
‘I knew it! Because I am irresistible.’ Now he leaned in closer, as if he was about to kiss her.
‘Yes, Gently, yes . . .’ Aunt Lily said and, seemingly encouraged by her words, Mr Benevolent moved in closer still, lips pursing in osculatory readiness. ‘I have feelings of hate, loathing and then some more hate.’ Then without warning she whipped her head forward, driving it hard into his evil but fragile nose. ‘Oh dear, how unladylike of me.’
‘You’ll pay for that!’ He clutched his now bloodied nose and hopped round the church like an angry frog.
‘At a guinea a go I’d pay to do that all night.’
I had to face it: Aunt Lily was cool.
‘Grrrraaarrrgh!!!’ Mr Benevolent emitted a vituperative roar of rage, kicked out in furious frustration at a nearby pew, promptly hurt his foot and fell into a choleric pile of painful-toed ire. He panted hard for a few seconds, then suddenly leaped up, seemingly in control of his emotions once more. ‘Right, let’s get this wedding done.’
As he stomped towards my mother, I saw something unusual for a wedding. For in front of the altar stood a coffin.
‘Why do you have a coffin at a wedding?’ I enquired.
‘That is your mother’s going-away outfit.’
‘But that means . . .’ The implications of his statement were great and, in so many ways, grave.
‘The reverend here has kindly agreed to conduct two services today: one wedding and one funeral, all for the same price.’
‘Yes,’ added the vicar. ‘It’s what I call a buy-one-get-one-free promotion.’
‘And what an excellent idea it is too,’ Mr Benevolent said.
‘Thank you. In fact, I’m thinking of resigning from the Church and taking
it into other areas.’
‘Silence, Reverend Supermarket. We have a wedding to perform. And then a bridal burial.’
‘Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!’ I shouted, for about eight, maybe nine seconds, like a character in some grotesque melodrama.
There was a long pause. Then: ‘Yes.’ This from Mr Benevolent. ‘And you cannot stop it. Now, let us get this bride into her dress. Reverend?’
‘I’ll just fetch it.’ The vicar went into the vestry, but quickly returned, his face pale, his voice shaking, as if his head was a talking blancmange. ‘The dress, it is gone!’
Ha! Henchman-trapped though we were, we had triumphed, and I could not resist crowing, jackdawing and generally corvidae-ing about it.
‘You lose, Mr Benevolent,’ I triumphantalized loudly.
‘Um, how so?’ he asked.
‘No woman may legally marry without a wedding dress!’
There was a brief silence as everyone turned to look at me: Mr Benevolent, the Reverend Supermarket, Aunt Lily – even Pippa and Poppy briefly popped their heads up from the pew where they were hiding.
‘Yes, she can. There is no such law.’
‘Oh. But I thought—’
Now everyone shook their heads sadly at me, and I might as well have had a sign above my head saying ‘Fool’, ‘Dunce’ or ‘Twitiot’.
‘Right. Bother. Then . . . you may have triumphed.’
‘There is no “may” about it. Now, Reverend, matrimonialize us.’
‘Of course.’ The vicar picked up his prayer-book and marriage prodder3 and began. ‘Will you Mr Gently Lovely Kissy Kiss Benevolent’ – I only realized at this instant quite how ironic his name was – ‘take this woman—’
‘Yes, I will,’ interjected the evil bridegroom. ‘Blah dee blah dee yes. Get on with it.’
‘Very well. Will you, Agnes Pedal Bin, take this man—’
‘Yup, she will.’ Again Mr Benevolent interrupted.
