Hooflandia

by Heide Goody

  Freddy delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wallet.

  “We don’t need your money,” said Joan. “That’s too kind.”

  “I was actually going to give you this,” said Freddy, finger walking through the wallet until he pulled out a dog-eared card. “They’re all reasonable rates. I stayed with a couple when I first arrived.

  “Christian guest houses,” said Rutspud, reading the card.

  “Somewhere to stay if you need it.” He twitched as he closed his wallet and then reopened and passed Joan a five pound note. “A bus fare to where you’re going and a Greggs pasty. Well, probably one or the other at today’s prices.”

  “Thank you, Freddy,” she said.

  “Think nothing of it,” he said. “And tell no one. Freddy gets into enough trouble as it is.”

  Rutspud rustled a bag at him.

  “Jelly baby?”

  “Why thank you,” said Freddy with disproportionate enthusiasm.

  He picked one out of the bag, dusted it down with his fingertips and regarded.

  “Do you ever wonder if they’re little boy babies or little girl babies?” he asked.

  Joan resisted the automatic urge to give them an anatomical once over. “Does it matter?”

  “Not at all,” said Freddy. “Maybe they’re neither one thing nor the other. Lucky things.”

  He popped the sweet in his mouth.

  Rutspud and Joan stepped outside.

  “What now?” said Joan.

  “We track him down another way. Turn around.”

  Joan obediently rotated. Rutspud unzipped her backpack and furtled around inside. “Here.”

  He passed her the currency printer and held the absolution detector in his other hand. He waved it about speculatively.

  “Shouldn’t that thing be clicking?” said Joan. The device was producing no clicks, only a continuous high-pitched whine.

  Rutspud smacked it a couple of times but that made no difference.

  “Maybe the tall buildings are causing interference,” he said but didn’t sound particularly sure. “Let’s explore and try to get some readings.”

  “You acclimatised to the sky now, yes?”

  “Hell, no.” He put his fingers in his mouth and produced a piercing whistle. “Taxi!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Clovenhoof sat down in the armchair. It was a squashy thing, the springs gone completely in the middle of the seat.

  “Right, Alice,” he said, consulting his notes. “I’m here for two hours of paper reading, farting, general muttering and not offering any interesting conversation.”

  “Exactly,” said the spritely senior. “Except my Bill wouldn’t call it farting. He never swore. In fact, he’d be horrified if I pointed it out to him. If anything, he’d say ‘pass wind.’”

  “Gotcha,” said Clovenhoof. “Bill Calhoun doesn’t swear. And ‘fart’ is swearing, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shit?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Crap?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Crap is a swear word? Bugger?”

  “Just about.”

  “Bloody.”

  Alice gave a wistful look. “Mmmm. Pretty much. Unless there’s an American politician on the news or I put Strictly on the telly. Speaking of which…”

  She picked up the remote control and switched the TV to the BBC dancing show.

  “Bloody hell, woman, not this tripe,” said Clovenhoof and rustled his Daily Express irritably.

  “Spot on,” she said and smiled. She had a surprisingly sexy smile for a septuagenarian. “Dinner’s in fifteen minutes.”

  Alice went into the kitchen and Clovenhoof settled back and gufted merrily.

  The smell of steak and kidney pie wafted from the kitchen. Clovenhoof sent farty harmonies into the air to compete and complement it.

  “How was your day?” called Alice from the kitchen.

  “I sold over two thousand pounds in sponsorship shares in St Philip’s Cathedral,” said Clovenhoof. “I don’t know if any of them realised they don’t actually own a share in it but simply get a bit of pretty paper to say that if I ever came to own the cathedral – which I won’t – that they get a say in how it’s run.”

  Alice was at his shoulder. “No, Bill wouldn’t say that.”

  “Sorry, of course. What did Bill do for a living?”

  “He was a manager at the Post Office sorting office.”

  “Ah. I should just chat some guff about letters and… a really big parcel or something?”

  “Oh, no. I would ask Bill how his day was and he’d shut the conversation down in less than five words.”

  “Fine. Fine, I can do that.”

  “And, also, if you don’t mind critical notes, your farts are too much like rotten eggs.”

  “Yes?”

  “Bill’s had more of a sprouty richness to them. Less sulphur, more decayed vegetation.”

  “Good. Critical notes are fine. There is only so much I can do right now without a change in diet but I’ll do what I can.”

  “That’s all I ask.”

  “Take two,” said Alice and nipped back into the kitchen before calling out, “How was your day, love?”

  “Same as always,” said Clovenhoof gruffly.

  “Perfect,” said Alice softly.

  A quarter of an hour later, Alice came through with two plates. “Dinner’s on the table.”

  “Right,” said Clovenhoof, noisily folding his paper to get up.

  “Oh, Bill would refuse to come to the table. He’d want it on his knee in front of the telly.”

  “Even though it’s Strictly on TV?”

  “Yes. Bill would moan about Strictly but I always suspected he had a thing for Claudia Winkleman.”

  “She’s the one with eye make-up like a panda.”

  “He used to say that too,” smiled Alice. “I think to throw me off the scent.”

  “I’ll have it here then,” declared Clovenhoof.

  Alice dug out a cushioned tray and presented Clovenhoof with a plate piled high with pie and mash and gravy.

  “What did Bill die of in the end?” asked Clovenhoof.

  “Heart attack. Salt?” said Alice with an encouraging gesture.

  “Course I want salt, woman,” said Clovenhoof, feeling his way into the character. He was tempted to try an accent but feared whatever he went for it would soon descend into grumpy Yorkshireman. He took the salt from her without thanks and sprinkled it liberally all over his dinner.

  Clovenhoof attacked the deliciously fatty dinner with gusto. Alice took her smaller plate to the nearby table to eat. Clovenhoof made a special effort to confine his conversation to grunts and mutters and the occasional and random announcement that the dancers were rubbish and he had no idea who any of the so-called celebrities were.

  Meanwhile Alice kept up a one-side conversation about her day and the doings of her family. She had two adult children and a significant gaggle of grandchildren and two sisters, the late Cynthia and another sister in Leamington Spa who she didn’t talk to on account of an argument over offered lifts and missed texts that resulted in one of them being stuck in Coventry for far longer than was humanly acceptable. Clovenhoof made a special effort to ignore all of this because he knew it was what Alice wanted. However, during a long and convoluted monologue about her grandchildren’s school woes, Clovenhoof felt the need to break character and interrupt.

  “Some people do what?”

  “Move house to get into the right school.”

  “There are right schools and wrong schools?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Alice. “That’s what Victoria says.”

  “So, Victoria’s eldest, Alfie…?”

  “Archie. He’s in year six and he’s going to secondary next year and Victoria wants to get him into St Michael’s Secondary School on account of it being the best school for miles around. Church schools often are, don’t you think?” />
  Clovenhoof didn’t think but kept his thought to himself on that score.

  “And some people will even temporarily rent a second house or flat near to the school they want their child to get into so they fall inside the catchment area or whatever formula the council use these days,” said Alice.

  “And they pay money for this?”

  “Houses near good schools cost a lot whether you’re renting or buying. People are willing to fork out a lot for –” She stopped. “Bill would have had words to say on this. Not many and not helpful.”

  Clovenhoof nodded, understanding. “It’s ridiculous!” he hmphed. “In my day, everyone went to their local school. None of this choice malarkey. Ridiculous.”

  He stuffed a forkful of mash into his gob and mumbled something about the lacklustre pasa doble a former boyband member was attempting to perform on the television. As he did so, he silently tried to calculate how far his own house was from St Michael’s Secondary. It wasn’t far, not far at all.

  Rutspud flung his arm out in a general north-westerly direction. “That way.”

  “That’s back to Wylde Green,” said the taxi driver. “Are you sure?”

  Rutspud listened to the absolution detector intently. For the last two hours it had continued to produce a high frequency whine. Rutspud suspected – feared – that the whine did not alter meaningfully in whichever direction he swung it but Rutspud’s ears were supernaturally sharp and he hazarded he could detect mild fluctuations as it moved.

  “I think so,” he said.

  The taxi driver made a disagreeable noise. “You need to decide where you’re going, mate. It’s getting dark and I’ve got a fish supper waiting.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Rutspud. He looked across at Joan, sat in the opposite corner of the passenger cab. “Any joy?”

  She gave him a stern look. “Not since the last time you asked.”

  Joan had the currency printer in her hands. The five pound note the receptionist had given them was half-out of the feed slot and seemingly jammed. Each time she had pressed the button, the device had whirred, juddered and gone silent.

  “I think Belphegor created it to process paper notes,” said Rutspud. “These new plastic ones…”

  “You said!” she said in a firm but controlled voice. “You’ve said that a dozen times now.”

  “Where to now?” said the driver as they reached another junction.

  Rutspud waved the detector about but he could make no sense of its imperceptibly shifting warbles.

  “Have you tried hitting it?” he said to Joan.

  “I don’t want to break it,” she said.

  “It’s already broken, isn’t it?”

  “Where to?” said the driver, louder. There was a beep from a vehicle behind. The taxi driver made an expressive hand gesture.

  “Give me a minute,” said Rutspud.

  Joan gave the box an angry thump with her gauntleted fist. It shrieked, juddered and then sucked in the five pound note and spat out a copy. It immediately followed this with a second and a third and did not seem inclined to stop any time soon.

  “How many times did you press the button?” asked Rutspud.

  There were car horn beeps from the rear, several of them now.

  “I can’t sit here!” moaned the driver and pulled round the corner and to the side of the road.

  A small pile of five pound notes was accumulating on the floor. Rutspud gathered some of them up. Physically, they felt as authentic as the original but there was a crinkle in the copy image, a copy error from where the note had got jammed.

  “Right!” huffed the driver. “Either you two give me a proper final destination or you get out here.”

  Joan was trying to catch the fivers as the machine spewed them out. Rutspud threw his bag at her and she dumped machine and notes into it, the machine still merrily printing away. Rutspud looked at the fare on the electronic meter above the windscreen. Well, at least they had enough money to cover that now.

  Joan gave Rutspud a panicked look and held the neck of the bag tight.

  “Fine,” he said, defeated. He located the card of guest houses the receptionist at the church office had given him and passed it through the payment hatch. “Take us to the nearest place on that card.”

  The driver leaned back and peered long-sightedly at the card.

  “That I can do,” he said.

  Within two minutes, the taxi had pulled up outside a tall house on a residential road. He put his handbrake on with a bad-tempered finality.

  “Two hundred and eighteen pound sixty.”

  Joan counted out a bundle of bank notes from the maelstrom of money in the bag and passed them through to the driver. He gathered and sorted them and then inspected the top one.

  “The queen on these,” he said. “She looks kinda funny.”

  “Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?” said Rutspud innocently.

  The driver scratched at the note as though there was a crease that needed flattening out. “Kinda squinty, like she knows something we don’t, like she’s up to something.”

  “That’s royalty for you,” said Rutspud and followed Joan quickly out of the car.

  The sky above was cloudy and the evening getting darker by the minute. With a little effort, Rutspud could pretend that above him was a really high and poorly lit ceiling. He still didn’t like it though. Joan went up the path at the front of the house. A brass plate next to the frosted glass door read:

  THE MISSION SOCIETY OF THE THROWN VOICE

  SHELTER, SANCTUARY AND QUALITY BED & BREAKFAST

  Joan rang the doorbell and reasserted her grip on the neck of the money-filled bag. Soon enough, a light came on. A woman in a lemon cardigan and a white clerical collar opened the door. There was a figure propped up in her arms. Rutspud did not consider himself an expert of humans. He understood human behaviour, but the rude mechanics and surface details were a bit of blur. He was prepared to believe that the thing in the woman’s arms was a human child but sneakily suspected it wasn’t. Its shiny face, massive swivelling eyes and shock of artificial hair were subtle clues. Also, there was the fact that the woman appeared to have her hand shoved up its bum.

  “Hello?” said the puppet (although the woman’s lips did move the slightest bit).

  “Hello, is this the…?” Joan pointed stupidly at the sign.

  The puppet’s giant head rotated to look at the plaque.

  “Yes, indeedy!” it said. “Looking for a place to stay? Come in! Come in!”

  The woman backed down the hallway.

  “Give your feet a good wipe and come sign in here!” instructed the puppet. “My name is Tommy Chuckles and this is Sister Anne. Say hello to Sister Anne!”

  “Hello,” said Joan. Rutspud gave her a wave and felt stupid for doing so.

  Sister Anne gave them a shy smile and a nod.

  “Now have you stayed with us before?” asked Tommy Chuckles.

  “No,” said Rutspud. “A man gave us a card and said we should come here.”

  “Word of mouth is the best recommendation. Now, we have dormitory beds for ten pounds a night or we have rooms from twenty-five pounds. You’re not a couple, are you?”

  “A couple of what?” asked Rutspud.

  “No,” said Joan firmly. “We’re not. Separate room.”

  “Super-duper,” said Tommy Chuckles. “And will you be paying with cash or card?”

  “Cash. Definitely cash,” said Joan.

  “Very good.”

  Sister Anne took payment and went off to search for room keys. Tommy Chuckles went with her, naturally.

  “This,” said Rutspud, suspecting he didn’t need to explain what ‘this’ he was referring to. “This isn’t normal, is it?”

  “I think holy houses and religious orders can often be places of refuge for people with social… idiosyncrasies,” said Joan kindly.

  “You mean nutters.”

  It made a certain sense. He was very familiar with t
he monks of Bardsey Island and they were, by turns, eccentric, reclusive, socially awkward and downright strange.

  “This place will cater for all sorts,” said Joan. “Whereas this perfectly delightful Sister Anne has a penchant for a ventriloquist’s dummy maybe another member of this house has –”

  “A dinosaur puppet,” said Rutspud, deadpan.

  A younger woman came down the hallway. The pink dinosaur on her arm waggled its cloth mouth.

  “Hi, I’m Yazoo,” it said in a sleepy melodic voice. “Tommy Chuckles says you might need a hand with your bags.”

  The demon and saint were momentarily dumbfounded.

  “Er, no. We’re fine, Yazoo,” said Rutspud.

  Sister Anne re-emerged from a side room with two keys, each on a heavy plastic fob.

  “We saw you were both into your…” Joan mimed a little hand puppet. “Quite a coincidence to find two people with the same hobby.”

  “I thought you knew,” said Tommy Chuckles as Sister Anne beckoned them on to the stairs. “All the sisters here have companions. It’s a rule of our order.”

  “Is it?” said Rutspud, following.

  Joan was confused. “Do we… In that, are guests required to have a puppet too?”

  “No, silly,” said Yazoo in his sing-song voice. “Only the sisters need companions to speak for them.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  Tommy Chuckles head turned a hundred and eight degrees to he could look back over Sister Anne’s shoulder.

  “Isn’t it obvious? They’ve taken a vow of silence.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The doorbell rang. Clovenhoof skipped out of his flat to go answer it and bumped into Ben, locking up his own flat and heading out to work for the morning.

  “And how are you this morning?” said Clovenhoof, with some very expressive brow-waggling.

  “Er, yeah, fine,” said Ben. “Apart from all the tossing and turning.”

  “I bet you were. Tossing and turning all night, the pair of you.”

  “The pair of us?” Ben frowned. “I spent the night with burning crotch rash from that barbaric waxing you inflicted on me.”

  “Didn’t Narinda anoint it with soothing oils? I thought things were going well with you and Narinda.”