by Heide Goody
The music was switched off by hands unseen, and Clovenhoof turned towards the top table.
"Who turned that off?" he queried. "I think it's a little unfair to put a stop to the lovely couple's first dance. They seem quite keen to show off their moves."
The charmless best man approached Clovenhoof.
"Give me that microphone!" he said. "I think your performance is over."
"It went down better than your speech," said Clovenhoof. "Let's hear it for the happy couple's break dancing routine, everyone!"
To Ben's amazement, there was a brief smattering of applause for the sorry couple who had just managed to regain their balance.
The best man snatched the microphone from Clovenhoof and walked forward, while addressing the crowd.
"I think it's time to get things back on track ladies and gentlemen. First of all. let's get everyone's glasses topped up, and then I think I can rescue the show with some show tunes, if you're all up for that? Waddaya say?"
Nobody showed any real enthusiasm for show tunes, but the best man pressed on and grabbed a bottle of champagne that he whisked back to the top table.
He started to croon Well Hello Dolly as he went.
"Quickly!" said Nerys. "Grab the others. I'll start the van!"
"What's the hurry?" asked Ben. "They all seem fine to me."
"They won't be in a minute," said Nerys. "That bottle is the one that Clovenhoof filled up."
Clovenhoof’s Shed
“It says ‘Closed for Refurbishment’,” Clovenhoof said, peering at the sign on the door of the Boldmere Oak.
“I think Lennox the barman mentioned something last week…” said Ben.
“But we can go in though?” said Clovenhoof, a whining tone entering his voice. “Can’t we?”
“Course we can’t go in,” said Nerys. “That’s what closed means.”
“But we’re regulars! What is this ‘refurbishment’ thing anyway?”
“You know, new carpet, new chairs, a lick of paint.”
They jostled each other at the door for a few minutes, trying to peer inside to see what was going on. There were vague shapes moving beyond the frosted glass.
“But why would they want to refurbish it?” said Clovenhoof. “What’s wrong with the old furbs?”
“Apart from the old fashioned décor and the funny stains and the feeling that anything could be living under those dusty benches you mean?” Nerys said.
“Yeah, exactly my point,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s perfect as it is. I liked those stains. I drew a moustache on one and called it Filmore and talked to it when there was no one else around.”
“Bet he never got a round in,” said Ben.
“No, he didn’t,” said Clovenhoof and shook a sudden fist at the closed pub door. “Screw you, Filmore! I hope you rot in hell!”
“Come on, you loonies,” said Nerys, dragging them gently away from their cherished local.
“But where am I going to get a drink?” Clovenhoof grumbled as they walked towards the Chester Road.
Ben smirked at Nerys.
“What?” said Clovenhoof.
“Don’t forget that we were with you last week when you bought that jacket just because the pocket was big enough to carry a bottle of Lambrini,” said Nerys.
“It was a nice coat.”
“It was a ladies coat.”
“With deep pockets.”
“Let’s face facts,” she said. “You drink at home. You drink in the street. It’s only a matter of time before that nice lady in the library works out that you aren’t all that interested in mediaeval maps, but you just send her off on errands so you can sup booze.”
“It’s important for a man,” Clovenhoof announced loudly, cutting her off, “to have a place where he can forget his domestic burdens. Where he can relax away from the pressures and duties that crowd his life.”
Nerys snorted.
“It’s true,” said Ben. “Men need that space. It’s vital for any relationship to include room for each person to be themselves.”
Nerys turned a wagging finger towards Ben.
“You’ve been reading my Marie-Claire again!”
“Have not,” said Ben, blushing deeply.
“Anyway, I don’t know what the two of you are talking about, neither of you even has a woman.”
She thought for a moment.
“Although I did see you borrowing a footpump from next door the other day.”
“That was for the wheelbarrow,” said Clovenhoof.
“Maybe it was,” said Nerys, eyeing him sideways, “but if you were trying to get away from women then you both overlooked something important.”
“What?” said Ben.
“You always go to the pub with me.”
“And?” said Clovenhoof.
“And I am a woman.”
Clovenhoof and Ben stopped and looked at each other.
“Nah!” they chorused and then carried on.
“What?” said Nerys, fixed to the spot.
The men walked on, oblivious to the fact that they had left her behind.
“Oi!” Nerys shouted, balling her fists.
They stopped and turned back to her.
“I am a woman!” she yelled.
“Obviously you’re a woman,” Clovenhoof said, rolling his eyes. “But not in the ways that matter. You’re one of us.”
Ben nodded sagely.
“One of us.”
“An honorary bloke,” said Clovenhoof, striding up to Nerys, slapping her on the back and grinning widely.
This blokey generosity washed over her and left her unimpressed.
“I am a woman.”
“Sure, I mean you’ve got boobs and stuff, obviously, but let’s look at the facts. You’re loud.”
“And aggressive,” added Ben.
“And you definitely don’t understand women. That makes you more blokey than Ben.”
“Also,” added Ben, “you do tend to make decisions with your, er, you know.”
He waved vaguely at the area below Nerys’s waist.
“You’re a man through and through,” said Clovenhoof cheerily.
“It’s a blessing,” agreed Ben.
Clovenhoof and Ben walked away, chatting, safe in the knowledge they had put Nerys’s worries to rest. Meanwhile Nerys stood, still rooted to the pavement with her mouth open, aghast at her flat-mates’ revelation.
“Seriously, Ben,” said Clovenhoof, looping an arm over the other man’s shoulder, “I am bloody bereft. The Boldmere was my home from home. My womb.”
“We’ll go to another pub.”
Clovenhoof considered this.
“No. Feels wrong. It’d be like cheating on her.”
“Cheating on your womb?”
“I need my man-space but, another pub…? No.”
“My uncle Peter was a big angler,” said Ben.
“Yeah?”
“Always used to say that fishing was the thing that kept his marriage going. The perfect solitude. Man-space. He’d go down to the canal every weekend and fish. A man at one with nature, his rod in his hand.”
“Did he have a big rod?”
“Are you being rude?”
“No, no,” Clovenhoof assured him. “Fishing. Mmmm. Sounds interesting.”
Ben answered his flat door to find Clovenhoof glowering at him.
“Er, come in,” he said, as Clovenhoof stalked across the carpet, trailing a strange smelling, olive-green weed behind.
“Fishing! What a ridiculous thing,” Clovenhoof said, flicking a water beetle from his ear. “It’s colder than it looks out there when you’re soaking wet.”
“Where’s the rod I lent you?” Ben asked.
“Bottom of the canal. I dropped the Lambrini in the water and a duck came after it.”
“What, so you tried to scare the duck away with the rod and dropped it in?”
“No, I had to go and have words with the duck. The rod fell into the water when I was tr
ying to pull myself back onto the bank. I was going to try and find it, but there was a supermarket trolley in there and I got distracted.”
Ben shrugged.
“No worries. I always hated fishing anyway.”
Clovenhoof turned and scowled at him.
“So you made me go, just to check it’s still crap? I can’t imagine ever wanting to spend time by such slimy, cold water. I had a Lake of Fire once, you know. Amazing place. You could just roast yourself in perfect isolation. I’ve never seen anything so welcoming and pure since I came here.”
Ben nodded.
“Yeah, some people on Jockey Road have got one of those outdoor hot tub things.”
“What?”
“You know, hot bubbly jacuzzi thing.”
Clovenhoof gave him a look he’d copied from Nerys. The one she used on people who sat at their table in the pub. Water continued to drip from his clothes.
“I’m talking about a Lake of Fire, Ben.”
Ben gave him a snooty look back.
“I don’t know what make it was, Jeremy. I think they’re a terrible waste of energy, especially in the winter.”
“I’ve no idea what you’re on about.”
“All I’m saying,” said Ben, “is they’re not very British. Men in this country tend to just make do with a garden shed.”
Clovenhoof frowned.
“A shed?”
“Yeah. You know, a bit of extra storage.”
“Hmm,” mused Clovenhoof. “My skull collection is getting a bit too big for the bathroom.”
“Well perhaps, or a place to get away from the house and relax a bit. My granddad had a folding chair and kettle in his.”
“Liking it. But instead of a kettle, a fridge.”
“Fridge?”
“For the Lambrini.”
“Yes, but it’s got to be a practical space for gardening or woodwork or… we could have a sort of war-gaming area with storage for the miniatures, yeah.”
“But definitely a fridge for the booze, yeah?”
Each was lost for a moment in a private reverie. They drifted towards the window and looked out across the back garden.
“How big is a shed?” asked Clovenhoof.
“About the size of that corner there, I reckon,” said Ben.
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
“Hang on,” said Ben. “You don’t just put up a shed.”
“What do you do?”
“We need to make sure it’s okay with everyone else in the house. How about this, I’ll check downstairs if you go and talk to Nerys.”
“No problem. I’ll talk Nerys round. No-one can resist me at my most charming,” said Clovenhoof, strutting towards the door.
“Well, can I make a suggestion then?” asked Ben.
“Sure.”
“Change your trousers before you go. Duckweed in the groin is definitely not charming.”
Nerys opened the door.
“Come right in, I’m baking biscuits!” she beamed.
Clovenhoof followed her in.
“What are you wearing?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t normally wear things with flowers on, or long skirts, and…what is that thing?” he flicked a finger at the ruffles of an elaborate apron.
Nerys gave him a coquettish spin.
“It’s the sort of thing that a modest and feminine woman wears when she’s baking biscuits,” said Nerys, teeth slightly gritted, “which, as you know, is a traditional, feminine pastime.”
She pulled a tray out of the oven, along with a lot of thick smoke. Small, pitted black mounds were fastened intractably to the baking trays.
“And they’re biscuits, are they?” said Clovenhoof, inhaling the acrid smoke with pleasure.
Nerys tried to prise them off with a spatula. One pinged off and put a dent in the ceiling but the others wouldn’t budge. She then turned the tray upside down and tried hitting it to release the biscuits. They stuck resolutely in place. She swore in a traditional and rather unfeminine manner and then bit her tongue.
“Perhaps I should bake fairy cakes instead,” she said and gave a dainty laugh that held more than a hint of madness.
“Anyway,” said Clovenhoof pointedly, “I came to see you because Ben and I want to build a shed in the garden.
“A shed?”
“Wooden building thing. Apparently, it’s more British than a hot tub.”
“How interesting,” said Nerys. “What do you want a shed for?”
“Oh, you know. To have some chairs, sit outside, that sort of thing.”
“A summerhouse, you mean!”
“Do I?”
“Absolutely. How lovely,” said Nerys. “You’ll need some help picking out something suitable and making it homely, of course. A woman’s touch.”
“Cool, well if you want to help then why don’t you and Ben come round to mine for dinner tonight and we can talk about it? I went fishing, so I’ve got something in.”
“Sounds great – what are we having?”
“Duck.”
Nerys pulled up in her car the following day as Ben and Clovenhoof waited on the pavement.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to take Twinkle to the vet.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Ben asked.
“Oh, nothing much,” said Nerys. “He broke a tooth on one of my biscuits and had a bit of a choking fit. He’s all fine now.”
She carried Twinkle inside and joined them back at the car.
“Look at that, someone’s left that filthy supermarket trolley on our path,” said Nerys, indicating a hulk of slimy green rust with flies buzzing enthusiastically round it. “I’ll ring the council later and get them to take it away.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” said Clovenhoof, sniffing the delicate scent of rotting pondweed with relish.
They pulled up a few minutes later in a car park.
“I hope their sheds look better than their building,” said Clovenhoof. “It’s a giant tin box. Why would we believe that they have Everything for the Home and Garden when they can’t even be bothered to put up a proper building?”
Once inside, they walked along the aisles, checking out the hanging signs.
“Ooh, soft furnishings,” said Nerys.
“Since when have you been into soft furnishings?” said Ben.
“Oh, I forgot to mention,” said Clovenhoof. “Nerys OD’d on Barbie pills and has gone all girly.”
“Pay no attention to Mr Grumpy,” said Nerys, wrinkling her nose. “I’m going to take a look at throws and scatter cushions. I’ll see you boys in a moment.”
She sashayed down the aisle, humming a tune from The Sound Of Music as she went.
“Righto,” said Clovenhoof, clapping his hands together. “A call of nature and then sheds.”
“Okay,” said Ben disinterestedly, whose attention had suddenly been caught by a tiny hobby drill with interchangeable attachments on a nearby shelf. It was on special offer.
“I’ve always wanted one of those,” said Ben but Clovenhoof had already gone.
He picked the drill up and turned it over in his hands.
“Handy for buffing my miniature soldiers with the polishing wheel,” he continued to himself.
He’d need different grades of buffer for his scale model militaria, something for lighter general work but also some precision accessories. There was no information on the box so he looked round for an assistant.
Nerys had found the perfect curtains. They were, she told herself, feminine, floaty and just perfect for a summerhouse. They were also bright pink and she was convinced that if she was to pass herself off as a real woman – a lady even – then pink was the only colour for her. Tucking them under her arm, she sped through to shop to find the lads, so that she could show off her find.
She found Clovenhoof in an aisle marked ‘Bathrooms’
“Jeremy, look what I found!”
She thrust the curtains towards him, but then pulled up short.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked.
“What does it look like?” asked Clovenhoof, who was sitting on a display toilet with his trousers around his ankles.
“But, you can’t do that,” she shrieked. “This is not here for you to…use.”
“That is clearly the case,” said Clovenhoof, looking round. “The facilities are a bit lacking in the essentials. But I see you thought of that. Well done.”
He took the curtains from her and raised a butt cheek with a satisfied sigh.
Nerys squealed and fled.
She found Ben talking to an ungainly youth.
“Can you tell me what accessories are available for this please?” Ben asked, holding out the hobby drill.
“‘s there on the shelf,” mumbled the youth.
Ben smiled politely.
“No, I can see what’s there on the shelf, but there must be other things.”
The youth gave him a perplexed look.
“Like spare buffers,” said Ben.
The youth shook his head.
“Shelf,” he grunted, motioning towards the shelf and backing away.
“No, it doesn’t matter about the shelf,” said Ben, stepping in front of him to block his path. “The manufacturers must have other things. I bet you have a catalogue that you order things from, don’t you? Can we look at that?”
The youth eyed him with panic.
“Can you find someone else?” Ben tried. “A supervisor, perhaps?”
The youth nodded nervously and bolted around the corner.
Moments later he came back with an older man, who didn’t have a smart uniform like the youth, who at least had a warm and avuncular smile for Ben and Nerys.
“I’m Sidney,” he said as the youth sloped off. “Can I be of assistance?”
“Er, yes,” said Ben. “I want to know if there are accessories available for this hobby drill.”
Sidney pursed his lips and gave Ben a look.
“Well there are no accessories sold in this store, and the company’s policy does not allow for one-off ordering.”
“Oh.”
“However, I can jot down the website of the manufacturer, which is excellent. There’s also a small shop in Erdington that stocks the full range of accessories.”
