Hobbes’s reappearance drove out such thoughts, replacing them with horror and a large dollop of amusement. Dregs, growling, retreated under the table, barking at Hobbes’s hairy feet, which were enclosed in an ancient pair of leather sandals. I averted my eyes.
‘It’s time to load the car,’ said Hobbes. ‘Would you give me a hand?’
‘Umm … yes.’ I said, controlling myself, following him to the sitting room, wondering where the hell he’d found his clothes. Though I’d have been the first to admit my ignorance of things sartorial, even I knew the summer of love had run its course in 1967. I’d heard rumours of maroon velvet, flared trousers, but had never truly believed such things existed. He was also wearing what might have been an orange kaftan; if so, it was one for a much shorter person, barely covering his belly, the sleeves cut off at the elbow. His rectangular, blue-tinted sunglasses might have looked cool were they not beneath a stained, broad-brimmed, brown-suede hat, and I was sure his psychedelic glass beads would have been a bad idea at any point in history.
Even so, his clothes weren’t the worst of it; even more alarming were the long, black, snaggly wig and the immense, droopy moustache. He was going to be as inconspicuous as a bull in a boudoir, though, in fairness, I doubted anyone seeing him would immediately think police officer.
I wondered why there was a pile of poles and tattered khaki rags on the floor.
‘Right,’ said Hobbes, ‘let’s pack the tents first.’
By the looks of them, he’d got them from Army Surplus at some point between the wars.
‘I’ll carry this lot if you open the boot. Take these.’ Tossing me the keys, stooping, he scooped the whole lot into his massive arms.
Within a few minutes, we’d packed the car, all four of us squeezing into whatever space remained. I ended up with Dregs sitting on my lap, since he’d also been relegated to the back seat to make way for Mrs Goodfellow. Only when we were hurtling towards the festival site did I remember the front wheel, guessing Billy had fixed it overnight. I hoped he’d not been too drunk and, since we made it without any problems, I guessed he hadn’t been.
As we arrived at Loop’s Farm, Bashem and Bullimore, leaning on the gate in the same pose as when I’d last seen them, directed us towards a large, flat, grassy field where we parked in the farthest corner, beside a crumbling stone wall. The next field along, glinting green in the morning sun, sloped gently down towards a pair of stages between towering cliffs of speakers, awaiting the crowds. I had to admit it, everything looked surprisingly professional.
I got out of the car, clutching myself and groaning, for Dregs was never careful where he put his great paws when excited, and he was very excited. Racing across the field, he bounced around the farmers, as if they were old friends.
As Mrs G went to liaise with them, Hobbes and I carried the tents to a suitable spot. Truthfully, I only carried a tent peg that he dropped but I think my moral support was invaluable. His method for pitching tents involved a great deal of grunting and reminded me of Jonah being swallowed by the whale. I helped where I could, running round, lifting and pushing wherever it looked useful. Hobbes appeared to have gone down for the third time, when, emerging briefly, he handed me two lengths of twine.
‘Hold tight and don’t let go,’ he said.
Only when both structures were up and he was battering the last pegs in with his fist did I realise I was holding both ends of a length of baler twine, with no connection with camping whatsoever.
‘Well done, Andy, thanks,’ he said, grinning through his new-fangled moustache, and pointing. ‘This one’s ours and that’s for the lass and Dregs. Now, let’s get the bedding inside.’
Whereas I’d hoped for camp beds and sleeping bags, we had a pile of rugs and blankets. The ground looked hard and lumpy.
We’d just finished when I was delighted to see the security crew turn up, which meant Mrs Goodfellow could dole out the bacon butties. She had, of course, prepared plenty for everyone, and there was enough left over to feed the pack of young Bashems who’d emerged from the farmhouse in great excitement.
After a couple of sandwiches, Hobbes, taking Dregs, vanished in the direction of Loop Woods, leaving the security crew to stand around trying to look important, giving the impression of being nervous. They weren’t the big, rough lads I’d been expecting, apart from one hulking yet wobbly youth called Arnold, who was there with his dad, a slight, balding man with a paunch exaggerated by a knitted blue cardigan. The rest of them weren’t much to look at either, being, for the most part, friendly, middle-aged blokes. One was actually wearing a red bow tie. Yet, the old girl, as she issued orders, exuded an air of quiet confidence that almost reassured me. Trucks and vans started arriving from nine o’clock, carrying caterers and stallholders onto the site.
I was free to mooch around, the only drone among the workers, a most pleasant sensation. The sun was warm, the scent of cut grass soothing, my belly full, as I stretched out in a patch of tiny, aromatic yellow flowers, watching the swifts and swallows swooping and soaring in the forget-me-not blue sky. Yawning, I shut my eyes, awaking to the strumming of an imperfectly tuned guitar.
I sat up, bleary, heavy-limbed, blinking in the bright summer sunshine, to see a line of cars and vans blocking the lane onto the farm, along with a mass of pedestrians. Mrs Goodfellow and Arnold’s dad were at the gate, collecting tickets, letting the punters in and, since hundreds of tents had already sprouted like toadstools across the field, it took me a few moments to work out where ours were.
People were everywhere, talking, eating, strumming guitars and dancing. A spotty-faced troubadour, leaning against the wall, his hair like a failed experiment by a drunken basket-weaver, was twanging his instrument and chanting in a nasal monotone. Though a great believer in self-expression, I couldn’t help thinking there should be limits.
I went towards the gates, looking for Mrs Goodfellow, hoping for food, finding only Arnold’s dad addressing a group of hard-faced, shaven-headed, tattooed, young men.
‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid you can’t come in without a ticket, but I believe Mr Bullimore still has a few left, if you wish to purchase them.’
‘We’re not,’ said a nightmare figure with a spider’s web tattooed across his face, ‘going to buy any tickets. Now, it’s bloody obvious there’s no way a fat, old git like you is gonna stop us getting in, so step aside and no one gets hurt. Right?’
‘Sorry, my friends. No tickets, no entry.’
The men muttered and swore, bunching together, leaning over Arnold’s dad.
‘I’m not getting through to you, am I?’ said the man with the facial tattoo, shoving Arnold’s dad in the chest before dropping to his knees, moaning. ‘Ooh, that hurt … that really hurt. What did you do that for?’
‘I’m sorry to inconvenience you, sir, but I was merely ensuring my message got through to you and your friends. We have a rule: no tickets, no entry. I didn’t make it, but I will enforce it.’
The group helped their sobbing friend back to his feet and led him away. He was walking slowly, with extreme concentration, and none of the rest seemed inclined to argue. Arnold’s dad, smiling, continued to collect tickets, chatting to people as if nothing had happened.
As I wandered around, I caught up with Hobbes, sitting cross-legged on the grass, pounding a bodhran amidst an impromptu bunch of drummers before a crowd of admirers. That the crowd was mostly young and female both surprised and irritated me, though I had to admit he had a mean sense of rhythm.
‘The big guy can’t ’alf play,’ said a skinny girl with too much eye make-up.
‘Ah, but you should hear him sing,’ I replied, which was nasty.
‘Give us a song,’ she cried, and the chorus joined in.
‘Right on,’ said Hobbes, screwing up his face, closing his eyes and bursting into a rendition of ‘Puff, the Magic Dragon’.
Those nearby clamped hands to ears and fled, even his fellow drummers. Those further af
ield stopped whatever they were doing and looked stricken. It wasn’t that he sang out of tune, which he didn’t, or that he mangled the lyrics, which he did, it was the sheer, gut-tearing volume. Finishing, he opened his eyes, looking up as if anticipating applause and I think I detected a hint of surprise, or maybe disappointment, that I was the only one left.
He grinned. ‘Hi, man, where’ve you been?’
‘Sleeping in the sun, but I guess it must be lunchtime now. Do you fancy getting a bite?’
‘Why not? There’s a stall selling hot roast pork or beef rolls, how about one of them?’
‘That sounds perfect.’
‘Come on then.’
We strolled to the food zone, from where the most delicious smells arose, and bought a couple of enormous pork rolls with apple sauce.
‘Thanks,’ I said, taking mine. ‘Umm … I didn’t know you could drum?’
‘Yeah, man, though I haven’t played much since I left the Army.’
We leaned against a mossy, old stone wall, munching, keeping it all together with difficulty, for the rolls were full to overflowing.
‘Have you seen any signs of the panthers?’
‘No. At least, no new ones. I did find some spoors, but they were at least two days old, which might suggest the cats have moved on. Then again, it might not. Still, I think everyone’s likely to be safe. The sheer number of people here, not to mention the noise, should keep the creatures away.’
‘What about … umm … the werewolf?’
‘If he’s around, he’ll be no trouble, unless something upsets him.’
‘What’s going to upset him?’
Hobbes shrugged, pushing the remains of his roll into his mouth, chewing slowly, observing the crowd. Finishing my last piece of pork, I wiped my mouth with the serviette, which seemed to spread more grease than it absorbed.
‘Right,’ he said, walking away, ‘I’m off to patrol. I’ll see you later.’
I mooched about, listening, watching and absorbing the atmosphere. A couple of hours later, Hobbes reappeared.
‘All seems well,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Hullo, something’s about to happen.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Bernie Bullimore, sporting a sparkling red waistcoat and a battered top hat, his voice booming over the sound system, ‘welcome to the First Annual Grand Sorenchester Music Festival. I’m delighted so many of you are here and hope we’ve got a programme with something for everybody. Though we don’t officially kick-off until five o’clock, we’ve had a young band turn up and they’re desperate to play. I thought we’d given ’em a chance.’
Like many others, Hobbes and I headed towards the stage, passing an oddball bunch of hippie types, among whom even Hobbes would not have stood out too far. They were sitting cross-legged, facing the stage.
‘Oh, no,’ said one as Hobbes stepped round him, ‘it’s the Pigs.’
Bernie’s voice roared out across the fields. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give a massive Sorenchester welcome to the Pigs.’
To give the crowd its due, there was a spatter of cheering and even one or two whoops but, mostly, it clapped politely, as five lads shambled onto stage and picked up their instruments.
A tall, skinny youth grasped the microphone. ‘Good afternoon, we’re the Pigs. One, two, three … er …’
‘Four!’ prompted a loud mouth in the crowd, to much laughter.
The singer counted the band in again, punching the air when he reached ‘four’ and the song would probably have been more impressive had the sound system worked. We could hear the tinny, un-amplified drums and the guitarist’s aggrieved moaning before the crowd’s guffaws drowned it out. The Pigs slouched off stage, returning ten minutes later, when the problems had been rectified. An hour later, I think most agreed their first set had been the better one. Still, the lads had tried and, as they trooped off, fists clenched, they generated a smattering of applause, which, taking as a sign of approval, encouraged them to come back for an encore.
‘Thank you, Sorenchester,’ the singer bellowed and, something striking him on the forehead, collapsed face first onto the stage.
Having seen nothing, I was reluctant to point the finger at Hobbes, who, chuckling, wiped his hands on his velvet trousers as the band trudged off, bearing their stricken leader.
‘Rock and roll,’ said Hobbes. ‘Who’s on next, man?’
‘Umm … It’s the Famous Fenderton Fiddle Fellows at five. What time is it now?’
Hobbes, with a glance at the horizon, answered, ‘Half-past four.’
I wondered how he knew, until I realised he’d been looking in the direction of the church clock, at least four or five miles away. I was impressed, though, for all I knew, he could have been lying. People were still arriving and I’d guess there were several thousand on the site, their tents as many and as close together as zits on a teenager’s chin. Hobbes wandered off to make sure Mrs G was alright, although, with Dregs at her side, I didn’t expect she’d have had much trouble, even if anyone had felt inclined to try anything. Besides, with the exception of the bunch Arnold’s dad had turned away, everyone seemed in a friendly mood, gathering in small groups, chatting, laughing and occasionally singing. Queues snaked across the field towards the catering vans, beer tents and toilets.
I went over to watch a young man in motley garb juggling a handful of assorted cook’s knives before a fascinated audience. We gasped with astonishment when, spinning a cleaver in a high loop, he bounced it off his forehead, carrying on as if it had been part of the act. Only when blood dripped into his eyes did he lose control, receiving several spectacular stab wounds and fainting as the knives responded to gravity. A team of St. John’s Ambulance carried him away, along with the capful of small change he’d earned for his pains.
I wandered through the crowd seeing other, more successful, if less spectacular, jugglers, along with magicians, buskers and face-painters, narrowly avoiding getting my face painted by a hefty, determined lady in dungarees, escape only becoming possible when she discovered I was broke. I’ve tried to suppress memories of how she found this out, but it involved some pain and a loss of dignity. A number of brawny young blokes, their arms adorned with tangles of fantastic tattoos, laughed at my plight before heading towards the beer tent, which was doing a roaring trade.
To my surprise, when the Famous Fenderton Fiddle Fellows took to the stage, they’d transmuted from the drunken shambles I remembered into a good-time band, quite matching the spirit of the occasion. The crowd danced and sang and even I found my feet tapping. Hobbes was on the far side, apparently attempting to fit waltz steps to a rock beat, alternately smiling at the people around him and apologising when he stepped on them.
Towards the end of the set, a girl with long blonde hair and big hazel eyes, catching hold of my wrist, dragged me, protesting slightly, into a space where we and several others bobbed and gyrated to the music. The way she was smiling at everyone made me suspect the lager I could smell on her breath was not the only substance she’d taken. At the end, hot and sweaty, heart thumping, I dropped to the grass, my new friend, sprawling across me, kissed me hard on the lips.
I responded with a squeeze that made her giggle, until, pushing herself up on her arms she stared into my face with a look of disgust. ‘You’re not Wayne,’ she said, getting to her feet, leaving me.
‘Hello, Andy,’ said a familiar voice, ‘I’m glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.’
Felix King, dressed in an immaculate linen suit, was looking down on me.
I sat up. ‘Umm … Hello … I didn’t know you’d be here.’
‘It’s always good to meet the locals. I’ll see you around.’
He strolled away towards the camping field, a pair of large, intimidating young men in dark suits following and, to my horror, Violet walking in front. She was stunning in a diaphanous pale-green sundress, showing off her slim, tanned shoulders and I realised with dismay that she must have walked past when I’d been rolling in t
he grass with the strange girl. I wanted to run and explain myself, to tell her that what she’d seen wasn’t what it looked like, but Felix, having caught up with her, putting his arm around her, glanced back at me, shaking his head.
My spirits plummeted. I feared I’d blown it and lost her forever. I pounded the turf with my clenched fists.
‘What’s that poor grass ever done to you, mate?’ asked a bloke in a baseball cap, watching me with an infuriating grin. He walked away when I ignored him.
Getting back to my feet, I came to a decision that, whatever the risk, I was going to talk to her and explain. If she then told me to shove off, I was done for, yet there was a chance she’d listen and understand. As for Felix and his heavies, I didn’t care; they could do their worst. Not that they were likely to do much in a packed field.
The crowd was swelling in anticipation of the next act, which I assumed, because of the cries of ‘Come on Tim’, was Tiny Tim Jones, who’d been released on parole. When at last I pushed my way through and out the other side, there was no sign of Violet, or Felix and his merry men. I walked around for a while, disconsolate.
Mrs G and Dregs were still by the gate. She was counting the ticket stubs out onto a table and frowning.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said, as I approached, ‘are you enjoying yourself?’
‘Yeah, I am,’ I said, stroking Dregs’s head. ‘Umm … you look worried. Is something the matter?’
‘Well, dear, the thing is, Mr Bullimore said he’d sold three-thousand tickets, but I’ve got more stubs than that.’
‘Forgeries, maybe? At thirty quid a ticket, someone might have thought it worthwhile.’
‘I fear you may be right, dear, but they all look genuine. I’ll ask the old fellow when he turns up; he’s good at spotting things. Have you seen him?’
‘Yes, he was dancing.’
‘I’m glad. He’s good at it.’
‘Umm … I’m not sure good is the right word, he was treading on people.’
‘I expect it’s because of this modern music and the grass. He can do a wonderful foxtrot on a sprung floor.’
Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) Page 28
