Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ I said. ‘In fact, I watched it on television. An all-time classic. You...’

  ‘I stood on a knife-edge, Mr Oakley, I stood and pondered and then plunged into darkness.’

  ‘I don’t recollect that bit actually.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ replied Tug, his first concession to me. ‘But you can’t have forgotten the situation. Mine was the “unbeaten captaincy”, as you said. We had to win that match to win the Five Nations championship, but we hadn’t beaten Wales at home since Adam was a lad. The press had been at fever-pitch all week and the crowd were likewise. Picture it, if you can: injury time like I said, everyone was all played out, the Welsh fans were singing “Land of my fathers” and whistling. Then we got a penalty.’

  ‘A possible three points, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan unnecessarily.

  ‘But we were a hundred yards—ninety-odd metres, from their line,’ continued Tug with mounting passion. ‘An impossible distance to kick for goal. But there again, there wasn’t time to run the ball. What was I to do? It was the worst moment of my life—up to then. I remember looking to the sky and asking for help.’

  ‘There are more tears over answered prayers,’ said the Reverend Jagger, looking up from a disapproving flick through one of the prayer books, ‘than unanswered ones.’

  ‘Amen,’ agreed Tug, beating his chest as, appropriately enough, tears streamed down his drawn face. ‘I asked and I received.’

  ‘A reference to Luke 11:9’ advised Mr Disvan, as if it mattered.

  ‘And time stopped,’ said Tug dramatically. ‘Except for me, that is. The mighty Arms Park was still. Save for my heart thumping and the sound of my breath, there was silence. All the players were frozen where they stood, so were the crowd—and I saw a plane overhead, just hanging there in the sky. I knew I could move if I wanted to—but I didn’t want to. There was something watching me, I was sure of it. Something observing me from those stock-still terraces and I didn’t wish to attract its attention.’

  The Reverend Jagger spoilt the rapt moment by snapping a book shut, producing an explosion of dust. I must have glared at him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Do carry on.’

  Tug hadn’t heard the interruption. He was deep in an alternative reality, reliving a past moment as though it were now. His glassy eyes no longer beheld us.

  ‘And then I saw him—only it was a her. She was just a dot to start with, a figure up in the stands edging its way past all the frozen people. I just stood there watching, mesmerised like a rabbit caught in headlights. She was in no hurry, just strolled gracefully down the terraces and out onto the pitch. She knew where I was all right—spotted me cowering behind the ref’s back and gave me a cheerful wave.’

  ‘Tell Mr Oakley about her looks,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘He likes that sort of thing.’

  ‘Beautiful!’ said Tug, suddenly in rhapsodies. ‘Painfully voluptuous—but hard with it. Chew you up and spit you out sort of female. You know, the kind they put in the front window of estate agents to get daft punters in. Very much the business girl, all power-dressing and blonde hair just so. All eyes and legs and facts and figures.’

  I nodded, painful memories rising of an unhappy house purchase I’d once made in similar circumstances.

  ‘Well,’ said Tug, ‘came right up to me she did, bold and normal as you’d like, and said, “Hello, Oscar”. None of my pinching myself and so on had worked, I had to admit it was all real and make some sort of response. Anyway, I wasn’t captain of England for nothing, you know, I could put a brave face even on that sort of thing. So back I says, “Hi there, Hotlegs!”’

  Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Mr Disvan cringe. What was wrong with that, I wondered?

  ‘So,’ continued Tug, oblivious to Disvan’s reaction, ‘she smiled back at me but seemed a bit troubled. “A miscalculation, I think,” she said, more or less to herself, “sexual stereotyping appertaining to the rugby football cultural sub-set may skew the judgement, invalidate negotiations...” “Do what, love?” I said but she’d already waved her hand and... changed. Right in front of my eyes she just shimmered and became something else.’

  ‘What?’ I asked avidly.

  ‘A yuppie, male, about twenty, sharp suit and hair gel. Typical estate agent. Need I say more?’

  I indicated no, there wasn’t the same appeal. The Reverend Jagger, who disapproved of ‘sexism’ more than anything else he’d heard so far, tutted loudly. However, deaf to comment, Tug carried on.

  ‘ “Mr Tug,” he says, grinning like a shark, “have I got a deal for you!” Then he whips out some papers from his document case and sticks them in front of my nose.’

  At that point, Tug was overcome with emotion—or something—and faltered. Mr Disvan, who hated anything less than industrial-strength stiff upper lips, rushed to stand in for him and cover the lapse.

  ‘Apparently the world record for a place kick is a hundred yards, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘back in 1906. South Africa versus Surrey, of all places. And even then South Africa didn’t score off it. Mr Tug was guaranteed better than that: a hundred yard successful kick, consequent victory in the match, and then a year to celebrate.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said, creasing my brow. ‘Who by? And what for? And how could anyone guar—’

  ‘Oh, slow, slow, slow!’ protested Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘Go on, vicar, tell him for God’s sake. It’s your field after all.’

  ‘I’m not so sure it is,’ said Jagger. ‘I don’t believe in the Devil as a physical entity, or even a spiritual one for that matter. One can perhaps just about accept a positive absence of the Godhead as equivalent to...’

  ‘Then how do you account for Tug scoring it?’ asked Disvan, genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Sheer talent,’ replied Jagger, supremely untroubled by thought or doubt.

  ‘And time standing still in Cardiff Arms Park?’

  ‘Hallucination,’ smiled Jagger.

  Mr Disvan looked dangerously peeved. He disapproved of things—man, machine or priest—that wouldn’t operate as per manufacturer’s specifications.

  ‘Just for the record,’ he said in slow and measured tone, ‘I’d be interested to learn how you discount the heat and air pressure round your vestry, or anywhere else Mr Tug happens to be.’

  ‘A theological grey area, Mr Disvan. Who can say?’

  ‘I see. Thank you. Most educational. Well anyway, Mr Oakley, Tug scored; a new world record boot.’

  Tug couldn’t suppress a certain guilty pride.

  ‘My oath, I did!’ he said. ‘You should have heard my lot protest at first. If I hadn’t have been captain, they wouldn’t have let me take the kick. “Too bloody far!” they kept saying, shouting at me even as I started my run-up. The wind was against me, the Welshies were all laughing but... but I knew I couldn’t miss. That was the supreme moment of my life.’

  ‘You signed?’ I gasped. ‘That estate agent was... you know—and you signed? Signed away your...’

  Tug weaved his head from side to side in agitation.

  ‘I know, I know...’ he said. ‘But we won! The ball went over, the whistle went and we’d won! It was the heat of the moment; our only chance to win. I had to sign. Who wouldn’t have?’

  ‘Me, for a start!’ I said. ‘There’s such a thing as patriotism but...’

  ‘And to such a charmless individual!’ piped in Mr Disvan. ‘A diabolic estate agent! I still can’t credit you did it.’

  Criticism in this one narrow field managed to inject some backbone into Oscar Tug and we saw a shadow of his former, formidable self.

  ‘Well, you should understand,’ he growled. ‘When you’re representing your country, personal considerations are secondary.’

  The Reverend Jagger seemed to like the novelty of this line of argument.

  ‘Oscar has a point, you know,’ he said lightly. ‘One can applaud the selfless altruism in even the most heinous deeds.’

  Mr Disvan looked underwhelmed by the notion.<
br />
  ‘And I had a wonderful year afterwards,’ said Tug. ‘TV, papers, the accolades of my peers, a place in the FR annals... They burnt an effigy of me in Swansea, you know!’

  ‘A singularly appropriate act,’ said Disvan dryly.

  Tug considered the comment with minute care as though it were an unexploded bomb. His brief resurgence fled away like storm driven smoke.

  ‘But I can repent,’ he half-said, half-moaned. ‘I can reform. If I accumulate faith and piety and good deeds, maybe the contract will be null and void. I mean, you can’t just sign away your soul’s fate, can you.’

  ‘Don’t know,’ I said, still shocked.

  ‘And neither can... he, you know, him. He hasn’t the power, the authority. It would be a complete negation of the doctrine of free will. It said so in a book that Reverend Jagger lent me. I should be okay.’

  ‘Of course you will,’ said Jagger, agreeing without providing comfort. He probably said the same thing to sick people, mere minutes from a close encounter of the Grim Reaper kind.

  ‘And I’m studying contract law,’ Tug added tamely, patting several fat volumes beside him on the vestry table. ‘I’m sure there’s a loophole in the agreement somewhere.’

  ‘But you’ve not found it yet?’ queried Doctor Bani-Sadr, with, I think, genuine interest.

  ‘No,’ answered Tug in a faint voice.

  ‘It can’t help not having a copy of the contract, can it?’ said Jagger, trying to mitigate the failure.

  ‘No,’ said Tug again.

  ‘As even you may have guessed by now, Mr Oakley,’ interposed Disvan, ‘young Oscar here, sought to escape the consequences of his action. Just before his contractual “wonderful year” was up, he fled here and took sanctuary. Now, not unnaturally, a certain personage...’

  ‘Or essence thereof,’ suggested Jagger.

  ‘…has turned up to collect his debt. In fact, he’s putting the pressure on.’

  ‘And getting a bit heated,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr.

  ‘Hence the temperature and oppressiveness binding itself to Mr Tug’s locality.’ Mr Disvan waved his arm to indicate the zone of Tug’s portable Sahara.

  ‘Let’s not be totally negative, though,’ chirped Jagger. ‘It does dry out the structure of the church marvellously. By dint of Mr Tug agreeing to move around the building periodically, we’ve totally cleared up the damp rot and saved thousands of pounds. Also, the material evidence of the supernatural it provides cured my last curate but one of his agnosticism. We have to look for silver linings and small mercies.’

  ‘I think Mr Tug’s thinking in terms of a very very big mercy,’ said Mr Disvan. Tug whimpered horribly.

  ‘And why not?’ said Jagger, his bounciness unabated. ‘Perhaps even the Prince of Darkness, however you conceive him, is not beyond redemption. He might just relent, you know.’

  Once again I’d been ignored for a while. If anyone had been paying attention, they would have seen me, open mouthed, track Mr Disvan’s arm as it delineated the area of Tug’s visitation. I’d found that there were no defences against the vile notion that weren’t immediately swept aside (and then maliciously trampled) by it. And, if it were true, then I was standing...

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ I said slowly, still staring at the ceiling (and what lay beyond), bringing all conversation to a halt.

  ‘No, Mr Oakley,’ Disvan patiently corrected me. ‘Precisely the opposite.’

  * * *

  ‘Have another brandy’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr solicitously. ‘Your face is as white as your socks!’

  I felt it had every right to be so. Even back in the safety of the Argyll, the memory of my shock was still exquisitely fresh.

  ‘We were all very impressed,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘I had no idea you could put on such a burst of speed. Oscar Tug said turning ability and acceleration of that quality belongs in a top class rugby side—and who better to judge!’

  ‘Here,’ said the landlord, refilling my glass, ‘this one’s on the house.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I muttered and knocked it back.

  ‘And to think,’ he continued, in his ‘ just musing to myself’ voice, ‘that you refused to turn out for the Binscombe-Goldenford match. There’ll be no excuses next year!’

  ‘What?’ I protested.

  ‘Ah, that put some life back in you,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘Really, Mr Oakley, you are a dark horse.’

  ‘I ran fast,’ I said firmly, emboldened by liquor, ‘because I was in the grip of powerful emotions.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Disvan, ‘we observed that but didn’t understand why. The contract doesn’t involve you.’

  ‘But the idea alone, man!’ I shouted.

  ‘What of it?’ asked Doctor Bani-Sadr, his face a model of honest enquiry. ‘The contract was freely entered into, it’s a simple supply and demand thing. There are millions of such deals every day.’

  ‘What? Like that?’ I trilled.

  ‘Possibly, Mr Oakley,’ replied the doctor, ‘it makes you wonder when you hear about all these amazing sporting feats. But no, I was referring to ordinary business contracts made amongst mere mortals. When you think about it, there’s no difference in substance between them and Oscar Tug’s arrangement, is there?’

  ‘Give or take the extra metaphysical element,’ agreed Disvan.

  I looked again at my freshly strange friends.

  ‘But... aren’t you sorry for him?’

  Disvan, Bani-Sadr and the landlord looked from one to the other in puzzlement.

  ‘No, not particularly,’ said Mr Disvan, acting as spokesman.

  ‘Well, that’s awful,’ I straightaway said.

  The landlord disapproved of my judgement.

  ‘Mr Oakley,’ he rumbled, ‘I, for one, was brought up to believe in paying my debts.’

  ‘Um, yes, but...’

  ‘And you’re a man of commerce,’ said Mr Disvan, rejoining the fray. ‘You must accept that principle. Modern business stands or falls by it.’

  ‘Well yes, but...’

  My three tormentors smiled. This bull fight was a poor show, the animal hardly worth the time spent togging up and sharpening your sword.

  ‘And if that’s so,’ said Disvan, the deputised toreador, ‘I thought you’d go along with the old saying.’

  The trap was out in the open, signposted with giant day-glo arrows, all of them clearly labelled ‘TRAP!’ But I was too weakened and tired, too cornered and undermined to do anything but blunder right in.

  ‘What old saying?’ I asked, calm and resigned at last.

  ‘Apparently, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan, ‘it’s long been held that you should give the Devil his due.’

  IT’LL ALL BE OVER BY CHRISTMAS

  ‘Mercy blow through!’ exclaimed the landlord. ‘That one was close!’

  It was indeed. The noise of the plane passing overhead had rattled the roof and drowned out all conversation in the Argyll. I was no expert but it sounded to me like a few yards lower would have meant no Christmas Day for any of us tomorrow.

  Mr Disvan was the first to recover his composure (I was on one knee composing faithless prayers) and, with a speed belying his age, he rushed for the door.

  ‘It’s coming down,’ he reported back through the doorway. ‘The tail and one wing’s on fire but he’s still got it under control. I think he’s going to miss the estate—going to come down near Senlac Farm.’

  ‘Praise God!’ said Father Wiltshire, with genuine relief.

  We all looked at him in surprise, still preoccupied with our own close shave, and then with some guilt as our concern slowly spread further afield, to the estate’s many thousands: sleeping children, hard-working families etc, etc. Father Wiltshire generally popped in on us before his Christmas Eve mass, to bestow his blessing on the pagans. It always resulted in furtive guilt feelings of one sort or another.

  I joined the growing throng at the door just in time to see a bolt of flame shoot down into the primeval darkness just beyond Binscom
be village. We braced ourselves, breathless, for the ensuing fireball, but none came. After a few implausibly prolonged seconds, there was a communal exhalation of air.

  ‘He’s brought it down,’ said Disvan, appreciatively. ‘Didn’t bale out to save his-self; he guided it down away from harm. Landed out there in the fields somewhere. He should still be alive, with luck.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that!’ I said cheerfully, flushed with the temporary joy of a Grim Reaper near-miss.

  Mr Disvan (and one or two of the others) turned and looked at me disapprovingly.

  ‘We’ll do more than that, Mr Oakley,’ he said. ‘We’ll go and thank him personally.’

  It was a tricky situation. I was keenly aware that ditched planes were volatile things, capable of going off in the faces of good Samaritans an unreasonable time after actually landing.

  ‘But surely,’ I started off, ‘the authorities...’

  ‘...will stop us if we don’t get a move on. Yes,’ said Disvan, completing my plea (or so he thought). ‘We’ll take my car.’

  That was the clincher. All the little disquietners now added up to some proper screaming alarm that I needn’t pretend to ignore. Mr Disvan only offered the use of his Porsche on the rarest occasions. Historically, all of them had been rich and productive nightmare mines for me and my resultant reluctance to revisit the coal-face must have been very apparent.

  ‘Oh come on, Mr Oakley,’ he said, chiding me gently as I was borne along, like a defeated commuter, by the surge of volunteer rescuers. ‘That pilot has given you a Christmas present. The least you can do is go and express your gratitude.’

  ‘Present?’ I said. ‘What present?’ It was a meaningless response, a non-question. I wasn’t interested in its answer, only in something—anything—to slow down the flow of events. However, Mr Disvan was implacable.

  ‘The present of continued existence, Mr Oakley,’ he said patiently, ‘at the risk of his own.’

  ‘A curious analogy to the spirit of the season,’ concurred Father Wiltshire, following up behind us. ‘Christ’s offer of eternal life at the expense of his own—and all that.’