by S. B. Davies
The Librarian grinned. ‘Good luck Mr Loaf, and give my regards to Mr Trellis; I have every confidence in your ability to rescue him.’
A bell chimed in the distance; it had the resonance of Big Ben.
‘But what do I do with this chap?’ said Fergus nodding downwards.
‘The Library is now closed. You have your book and you have your Noggin. Please leave quietly.’
The taxis driver never said a word on the return trip, not even after Fergus gave him a large tip. He drove off the moment the money was in his hand.
When they reached the portal, Abbey was waiting, her horse cropping grass in the calm twilight.
Fergus expected grief for arriving with an unwelcome companion, but Abbey jumped up, bent over the Noggin, and took a deep ceremonial sniff. The Noggin seemed pleased and squeaked something.
‘Amazing creatures, they pretty much run the Library and they’re all polylinguistic,’ said Abbey.
‘That’s not even a real word.’
‘They can read and write almost any known language, what would you call it?’
‘A smart arse. Where is everyone anyway?’
‘Other side of the portal; less conspicuous. Come on, they should have a fire going by now. Mind you it’s going to be a tight squeeze on the horse with three of us.’
‘That’s ok,’ said Fergus, ‘I can run through.’
‘Ah yes, the amazing Palaver re-build. Boadicea mentioned that, and didn’t you do well.’
Fergus blushed and hid embarrassment by running through the portal. Abbey didn’t have the heart to tell him he missed it by about ten feet. It would come to him soon enough.
Some minutes later Fergus joined the others round a large bonfire. Someone had shopped; the smell of roast meat mingled with wood smoke and he had a large glass of red wine passed to him as he sat down.
‘Sláinte Rugby Boy.’ yelled a Tuatha De Daanan Fergus didn’t recognise, ‘You bring good fortune. The Noggin is a fine omen.’
Fergus lifted his glass in acknowledgement and decided that, as he was going to feel dreadful after a sleeping in the open, he may as well get drunk.
The valley of the river Alf was flood lit by banks of generator powered lamps. The night air was cool, not that anyone noticed as they busied then selves with preparations. There were troops everywhere moving with quiet competence. Two Marquees stood in the centre of the river plain in front of the steep path down from the road above. A platoon of sweating infantry carried Portaloos. They gave way to the chosen few, whose duty to carry the barrels of Timothy Taylor’s finest was done with extraordinary care.
Further up the valley, the wide expanse in front of the allotments was dark, yet full of activity. A Chinook helicopter had delivered many tonnes of wood and the Palaver built the pyre with the determination of grief. A silent cordon of Dogs watched in reverence.
Two curious soldiers crawled along the riverbank to take a closer look.
‘I tell you that’s a dog.’ whispered one soldier.
‘Bollocks, it’s the size of a carthorse.’ replied the other.
‘This is Huddersfield mate, strange thing happen. Don’t ask, don’t tell and don’t mess with the dogs.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what my mum always said.’
‘You are so full of sh-’ A low growl came right by his ear. The soldier turned his head slowly to see a grinning dog lying next to him. It barked and the two soldiers jumped up. They were surrounded by a full pack of dogs all lying down in the thick grass.
‘Sorry didn’t mean no disrespect. We’ll just be going,’ said the first soldier and stepped back.
‘Whaza matter. They’re just mutts,’ said the other.
The whole pack stood as one and formed a single line; every eye staring straight at the soldiers.
‘You know what your mum said; I reckon she was right.’ Both soldier stepped back slowly, then turned and ran. The dogs followed at a slow trot, then reaching the edge of the lit area, they turned back and disappeared into the darkness.
Painter stood watching Brass Neck, Yorkshire’s famed heavy rock brass band, setup on stage.
‘Hey up.’
‘Hey up, what can I do for you?’ said the leader of the band.
‘Got a request.’
‘Oh aye. I’ll see what I can do, but no Stairway.’
‘He who pays the piper mate,’ said Painter and cocked his head to one side.
‘True and we are still not playing Stairway to Heaven.’
‘Nah just messing with you. We have a hoard of light opera fans, so I wonder if you could do some Gilbert and Sullivan.’
‘Delighted to, us lads prefer your usual brass band music, but you have to move with the times.’
‘And a special request from me, could you do Wand’rin’ Star from Paint Your Wagon?’
‘I didn’t think you were the show tunes type, mind you takes all sorts. Yeah, we can do that.’
‘Cheers. Who you got singing tonight?’ asked Painter,
The bandleader stared. ‘You do know we’re in Huddersfield? Home of the best choir in the country. Take a wild guess.’
‘Ah. You gonna do ‘Layla’?’
‘Of course, it’s our signature tune.’
‘Well good luck and don’t forget to grab a few beers along the way.’
Painter walked off to find the Brigadier, hoping to commandeer a Chinook for a huge delivery of Yorkstone.
Belt and braces was Dave’s philosophy and today it was his salvation. He was still attached to the end of the vine by the rope tied round his waist. As he fell the trailing end of the vine tangled with other vines and stuck fast. Dave swung like a high-speed pendulum towards the wall of the vast hole. He crashed feet first into vines and creepers. With a deft slash of his pruning knife Dave was free of the swinging vine and safe clinging to another vine that brushed against the cliff. He slithered down and jumped off at the next level, which was an empty concrete plain. Dave lay down for a rest and mourned the loss of a perfectly good flat cap.
Soon the heat and shock reaction lulled Dave into a peaceful snooze. His low-pitched, gurgling snores drew the attention of Hungry Joe, as the Australians cautiously picked their way down the cliff.
‘It’s either a giant koala or a bear, either way one of us gonna eat,’ said Hungry Joe.
‘You daft Galah, that’s a human snore,’ said Trev.
‘You reckon it’s the Sheila?’ asked Toomey.
‘Either that or the Pom is the tinniest bastard this side of Sydney.’
They climbed down to the next level and found Dave snoozing with his hands behind his head.
‘You reckon he’s got food stashed?’ asked Hungry Joe and crept closer. He got to within five feet before Dave spoke.
‘I’m usually easy-going, but become tetchy when faced with a dearth of suitable comestibles. In short I need a cup of tea, so don’t bugger around.’ He never opened his eyes.
‘Don’t whinge, we are all on a Dingo’s breakfast,’ said Trev.
‘Pardon?’ said Dave sitting up.
‘A yawn, a leak and a good look round.’
‘Ah. Perhaps we should get going then.’
‘Nah, we’re all stuffed, reckon you got it right. Some sleep would do us all good,’ said Trev.
The Australians pulled sleeping mats out of their rucksack and laid them in a rough circle.
‘So Dave Trellis, you seem to know a bit about what goes on around here, mind telling me about it?’ asked Trev.
Chapter Fifteen
Life is passion or chore; you can choose you know.
Dave Trellis
One Life, One Woman, One Shed
Painter fired the green flare high into the night sky. It was the third and last agreed signal to the people of Huddersfield. Half an hour until the ceremony started. Mrs Yorkshire was on the door, ensuring that the underserving or merely curious where given a flea in the ear, and a boot up the arse if Painter had his way. Th
e Allotment League of Friends had arrived in strength, as well as friends and relatives of the fallen. Palaver in dress uniform, sombre blue with dress medals mingled. They carried ceremonial swords; lots of them. Even the dogs looked formal, their deep blue fur brushed to a metallic shine and with black chest plates studded with battle honours.
The ceremony would start at 11:30 with a eulogy, before the pyre was lit at midnight. In the dark it was just possible to see the sad sight of human and dog bodies laid out on the huge wooden platform. The Palaver dead were vertical, supported by posts. The Palaver never lay down, even in death. In the centre, the huge furry mound of a Dog of War, arranged as if sleeping, it head on its giant paws.
The crowd formed clots of sympathy, sniffing and wiping eyes with hasty tissues. Murmurs of respectful commiseration interspersed with sobs, punctuated by desperate hugs and forlorn pats on the back and in the face of so much loss, so little to offer other than the worth of the endeavour for which they sacrificed their lives.
Painter moved through the crowd offering solace with a bright, forced smile, hoping that he did not forget or mistake a name. He felt an unworthy replacement for Dave, who managed such situations with aplomb and quiet dignity. As time grew close, he made his apologies and moved to the front. He felt awkward as he stepped out of the crowd and waited, with speech notes in hand, for everyone to settle.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming on this sad occasion. There are many different people who we mourn today, with separate lives and loves, but they all shared a passion for life and a fondness for the allotments and its grand endeavours. To this end, I hope today we celebrate their lives, rather than despair at their passing. And we do this the old way, the warrior’s way. No casket or prayer, no cold earth pit. We consume with fire and spread the mingled ashes on the Sunless Sea; those that fell together remain together. For those of you that seek a different way; be content that in their lives they chose this path.
Please follow, as you may, to the pyre.’
Floodlights lit a bright path across the dark vale. Painter walked slowly and shuffled through his notes. In a loud voice he started reading a roll of the fallen, as the crowd formed a procession behind him.
‘Ernie Farthing, bachelor, a supporter of the allotments for over 80 years, gave his life willingly in ensuring the final success of the battle. He will be remembered for his devotion to visitors of all persuasions and his diligence in maintaining his plot.’
‘Alfred Mince, husband to Millicent, father to Harry and John, known to all as Butcher, died protecting the wounded on this very field. He fought with unswerving courage, never once retreating in the face of overwhelming odds. He fell with cleaver in hand, repelling the last wave, keeping the helpless safe. All mourn the loss of his pork pies and his sausages live on in memory.’
With slow progress, the crowd moved towards the pyre. Painter intoned the list of the dead and their achievements, his voice small in the vast amphitheatre of the vale of the Alf. With the roll called, the crowd formed a huge half circle around the pyre. Painter raised his arms for silence and started the Eulogy.
‘In my heart I find it hard to believe Dave Trellis is dead. In my head I know I must accept. As an epitaph to the great man who kept us all safe for so many years I’d like to read a poem penned by the probably late Dave Trellis himself. He never thought it appropriate for his masterpiece ‘One Life, One Woman, One Shed’, perhaps he felt it bad luck to publicise something suitable for his own funeral; hubris Dave would have called it and remind us of the inevitability of nemesis.’ Then squaring his shoulder and lifting his head Painter recited:
Death of a Sheddi Knight
No bird seen nor dog heard, the day they laid him to rest.
No wind to cool the strident heat that baked the black clothed, waiting.
They carried him a mile upon their shoulders, those proud, chosen few.
From allotment to cemetery and never a word spoken.
Yet none of the faithful there, called to another way.
The women of the town stood by,
Tears and tissues, in their best black hats.
And the shedless too, regretting they would never know.
From the South they came, the grand and the great.
A traffic jam of Bentleys in Greenhead road they say.
From the North they came, the clever and the gifted.
Huddersfield of all places, ran out of the Financial Times.
From the West they came, the affluent and influential.
Volvo’s a go-go in Sainsbury’s car park.
From the East came none, for it is beyond the pale.
The worst journey is to Hull and back, they say.
The silent bells of All Saints rang out, unleashed for this one day.
Hats doffed and heads bent, along the quietened streets.
A host of dull, dark figures, nor a patch of grass to flop.
The coffin, of best marine ply, lowered with ease into the beneath.
A strong voice reciting, and the mournful sound of the Last Post calling.
As the final kazoo faded, a soft thud resounded,
As he met his resting place twelve feet below.
A soft breeze, they say, played through the trees.
Before a howling tempest ripped, throwing hats and skirts akimbo.
Sending dignity scuttling for the vestry
And brolly laden chauffeurs running from the road.
An ant’s nest of finest Alpaca amongst the lighting.
That more were not struck is a blessing.
A traffic jam of Bentleys at Accident and Emergency they say.
But not for the faithful this public display
And not for storm warning issued that day
For they were called to a different way.
Shed-best, shop coat clean, cardy darned and wellies bashed.
Each man an archipelago in his own abode
Pork pie and brown ale waiting.
And as the bells rang out, no man shed a tear
And no man bowed his head.
Through thick-throat the pie consumed.
And helped by ale, a steely will arose.
Straight backed, cloth cap set upon the head
From shed and shanty, lean-to and greenhouse
The faithful met the call.
The pubs were silent that night they say.
As they drank Huddersfield dry.
Not a word was said as Woodbine, rollie and briar glowed.
You couldn’t cross the bar, you couldn’t breathe the air
And you didn’t say a word.
At closing time, no pub shut and the policemen joined the wake.
As twelve approached a change began, the crowds began to shift.
Street lights extinguished in due respect
Through darkened roads they walked.
With cap and pipe, hat and cig, a firefly column wandered.
A coiling nest of tobacco-glow snakes,
Down to the cabbage patch allotments
And the church clock chimed slow to twelve.
At the last bell’s sound, a huge cry rang out.
From allotment, waste ground, back garden, siding.
From Huddersfield, Cheltenham, Chester, Stroud
From Liverpool, Leicester, Loughborough and Penge they roared:
‘One Life, One Woman, One Shed’
A hand reached out and placed the padlock hasp.
All watched as they finally closed his shed door.
The crowd was silent except for a few sobs and a sniff or two. Painter continued.
‘And now the Ode of Remembrance, followed by the last post and if you please, two minutes silence.’
Painter with a strong voice declaimed once more:
They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell wi
th their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
Quiet murmurs of ‘We will remember them’ followed by the Last Post, delivered by the bugle soloist from Brass Neck.
As the two minutes came to a close, a figure in best black top hat and tails blinked into existence next to Painter. There were mutters in the crowd.
‘Please,’ said Engineer, ‘I come to honour those that fell this day. Do not judge me; I was constrained by considerations of great weight. I have words to say about those I knew not and yet came to admire.
I would, in honour of Dave Trellis and those who died, like to read the original version of Xanadu. The Hive Queen wishes to accompany me, singing the Lament of the Lost. I have taken the liberty of converted it into sound so that all may enjoy.’
The ethereal notes of the Lament for the Lost drifted across the field and Engineer’s rich baritone voice pounded out the start of the censored Coleridge original
In Huddersfield did Trellis Dave
A stately allotment decree:
Where Alf, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measured not by man
Down to the Sunless Sea.
So five furlongs of fertile ground
With allotments were girdled round:
And here were gardens complete,
Where blossomed the famed blue sprout,
And here were sheds ancient as peat,
Enfolding sunny quiet redoubt.
The Hive Queen’s voice soared and the backing voices swelled submerging Engineer’s voice. As the glorious lament quietened, Engineer was heard once more
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ‘mid this tumult Trellis heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
Another delightful crescendo submerged the poem and then receded.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
Again the music surged, drowning the prose and finally diminished, leaving Engineer to continue the mundane stanzas.
That with music loud and long
