Extract : Chapter 52 of Mike Miller, Son of Pendragon -

52

A Team Building Event

PROFESSOR WINCH was once again alone in his office, and was once more in deep thought mode. He was a very, very, worried man indeed. He had just had the worst row ever with two of his fellow members of the WFW Council, Septimus Twigg and Engelbert Osbaldeston. On this occasion they did not back down through finally seeing the greater wisdom of their leader.

Firstly, they had been infuriated by yet more disturbances in the levels of magic energy emanating from Krickenstaltz. These were due to highly irregular transmutations concerning the seemingly extravagant team building event planned by Josh. However, on its own this would have simply meant hastily stroked beards and Septimus banging his coffee cup hard down on the table – and then a smile.

But this time it was worse, much worse. It had previously been agreed that the Time Crystals of Glastonbury would be utilised for the urgent re-instigation of the Magic Army, but Professor Winch was pressing for a change in tactics and to use them instead, to take the infamous evil wizard Merlin back in time to undo at least some of his treachery. He naively thought that his two old friends would realise the need for this change, and agree to it, but they most certainly did not.

Upon eventually being ‘told’, rather than ‘asked’, Septimus and Engelbert retaliated by threatening to convene an extra-ordinary meeting of the WFW Council, with a view to censuring Professor Winch, and maybe even removing him from office. Professor Winch had also put Professor Ren Stannich in rather a tight spot. He was the one who had made the adjustments upon tiring of the repeated pleas by Josh to do just that, after he was given the initial go ahead from Professor Winch.

But that was not all: he then brought to a halt Ren’s task of retraining the Magic Army. He had not yet heard from Ren Stannich concerning this, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

What made matters worse was that whatever slim chance there was of doing both had been reduced to no chance at all. Instead of just himself and Mike going back in time, a veritable throng was going instead. In terms of magic energy levels, this represented a huge increase in requirements for the trip, thus totally negating any possibility of use in the retraining of the Magic Army. It was this impasse which had caused such a heated disagreement between himself and two of his fellow Council Members.

Although finding it difficult to do so, Professor Winch tried to concentrate on the matters to hand and deal with any political problems later. Firstly, he needed to find Merlin, but who was going to help him? Most of the Irregulars he usually had available had been whisked away by Josh, and he now had grave doubts as to the wisdom of letting him do this. He sighed at the thought of them all running around a farmer’s field with paint guns, while a very real war was beginning to rage. He really should have said no as he needed to look for Merlin sooner rather than later, and preferably with Mike at his side.

Then there was the problem of the warlocks, who were holding and maybe torturing his good friend, Aloysius, perhaps in reprisal for their defeats in Blackpool and Thornton – or maybe just for fun – or perhaps both. Professor Winch consoled himself with the thought that his ally, Vlad the Impala, would redouble his efforts to liberate Professor Pendragon.

Finally, his old adversary Zenith, forced to return to a country that did not want him, and with his forces having recently taken several severe beatings. But Professor Winch was not complacent over this. He knew that Zenith and his evil brethren would regroup and probe for weaknesses in the magic community’s armour, as well as trying to unite the three deadly elements of chaos.

As Professor Winch pondered over these many problems, a furrowed brow and a worried countenance slowly gave way to hope. He began to smile, gave a little laugh, and poured himself a brandy, a large one. He spoke down the Telemagickeraph.

“Anthony, I’m so sorry to disturb your fishing, but I need to see you.”

A few moments later… .

“Sorry to disturb your well earned leisure time, my friend, but I need to ask you something.”

Anthony Ffyfe-Tremayne, sporting a heavy raincoat, a big floppy hat and a pair of waders, gave a wry smile. He thought that like Estella he had finally ‘come in from the cold’, but he suspected that things were going to get very frosty again. But like Josh, Ezekiel, and yes – even Professor Cornstone, most of the time – his sense of duty embiggened his mind and his spirit to bow to the greater wisdom of his leader.

“Ask away, Headmaster, ask away.”

“A bit boring this fishing lark, isn’t it?”

Anthony smiled. He was well used to Professor Winch’s crafty preludes. “What do I have to do then, Headmaster?”

“Well, Anthony, or rather, Anton… ?”

“I thought so. Back in disguise, eh? When, where, and why, Headmaster?”

“Tonight – Romania. I need to find Merlin, and if time allows, locate Grezjgenschtad and assist in rescuing Professor Pendragon, and seeing as Mike will be living it up in Thornton, Aloysius will have to set the magic seal instead.”

“I thought you were a bit lenient myself there, Professor; Josh can be rather cavalier at times, can’t he? And Merlin, you say? That old fraud? I thought he’d gone to his maker years ago.”

“You could actually be right there, Anthony, he is, or was, very ill, but I am hoping he is still with us. If he is and he agrees to help, then I may have a pleasant surprise for him.” Professor Winch stood, walked over to a cupboard, opened it and pulled out two items, one of which was shielded from Anthony’s view. “Ah, ginger snaps, will you join me?” said Professor Winch, retaking his place behind his desk.

“Have I missed something, Headmaster? Why do you need to find him at all?”

“Ah, yes, you missed the fun, didn’t you? While you were out trying to catch Jaws Five, I made several changes to my plans, and managed to cause a serious row with the Council… .”

Professor Winch went on to explain everything that Anthony had missed since going off fishing.

Although different in many ways, Anthony was very like Josh when it came to a sense of duty. Like Josh (most of the time), he hardly ever doubted his leader, and even when he did he still gave him respectful latitude. He took everything on board calmly and smiled every so often, especially at the thought of his ‘assistant’, Big Bill Dooley going with the gang to Thornton.

As Professor Winch summed up, Anthony nodded to both acknowledge and agree to the changes proposed.

“Vlad’s gaff, eh? I have not seen the old deer in a while. My pleasure, Boss, but there is one thing you have forgotten. What is the point of my becoming Lieberman again? The warlocks blew my cover and you can bet your life Zenith knows. As it happens, he was beginning to suspect me, those blue needle mists were getting worse.”

“Yes, yes, I did realise that, but I am very relieved to say that my alter ego, Ronaldo Blipp, is still held in the highest esteem by Mr Z. Even more so when I bring back a prisoner – and traitor to the cause, one Anton Lieberman… ? You may be compromised in one sense, but I don’t think they know the real Anthony.”

“But take a prisoner to where, Headmaster? Zenith is surely back in Britain by now, why would you take me to Romania?”

“Because Ronaldo Blipp doesn’t know about recent events, does he? I will present myself with you in tow, at the warlocks’ camp. The trouble here is, Kerantzky knew of Blipp but I’m not sure if this new fella does. It’s a gamble, it always is, but I think it’s worth a try.”

“Very vell, zen, Provezzer, I veel go andz getten zee ready, yez?”

“That’s the ticket!” said Professor Winch.

*

The team builders found themselves in the meeting room of their magical army barracks. Josh looked uneasily at Professor Cornstone. This wasn’t a military operation and Professor Cornstone had not been asked along to lead them all, only to join in.

“Don’t worry, Beecham, I know the score. After today, I just need to relax, read a bit, and get my head round everything.”

The remainder, without a real task in hand, stood around awkwardly not knowing what the next move should be. It is at times like this that the homeliness of Big Bill Dooley was an undoubted asset.

“Come on, folks! We’s on our ‘olidays, or sorta! Come on, let’s get some char and biccy’s and have a good ole’ chinwag around the table.”

This stirred everyone into action. The ladies, this time ably assisted by Mike and the Morse boys, soon put together some tea, chocolate cake and biscuits, and very soon all were gathered around the big oak table.

“So if we are in Thornton again, does this mean we are somewhere near the Steed and Vine? I did ask Barry Wimpole the other day and he said it was in Cornwall, but it didn’t seem that far away,” asked Gregor.

Those who knew of Barry’s impish sense of humour smiled at Gregor’s gullibility, but Big Bill came to the rescue.

“Not far at all, me ole’ pal. It’s just up the top o’ this road, turn left, along the lane past the cemetery, and bingo, there it is. But you’s best askin’ this young lady ‘ere, I fink she’s from round ‘ere, if memory serves.”

“That’s a coincidence, isn’t it? Maybe you can show us around the place then, Estella?” asked Gregor.

“I’d love to, if that’s ok with Josh, but we may not be allowed to go far from here.”

“Officially, no, but I’ve done a little tinkering. We should be ok anywhere within Thornton, and maybe a bit beyond – Sefton, perhaps,” said Josh.

“I would avoid Septimus Twigg for a while, Josh, he’s upset enough,” said Estella, half joking, half serious. “But ok, I’ll show you around later; I suppose it’s safe enough to call in on my old house as well.”

“Goodo!” said a jaunty Ernst.

“Smashin!” said Gregor.

“You cheeky so and so!” said Big Bill in top gear for joshing and back slapping.

“Ow!” said Gregor.

Mike sat and smiled. It felt great to be in such good company. He wasn’t saying much but was happy to be listening in on such inane but delightful nonsense. Even Professor Cornstone just sat and listened to the tall stories emanating from Big Bill, about life in the East End of London.

“ … so I sez, yeah?! Wharra are you gonna do about it?! ‘N’ the geezer sez, ‘nuffin’, so I sez ‘fair enuff’. Any’ow, I shud a listened; nex’ fing is, me ‘ed smashes in to the cross section of a bridge and then I cudn’t ger art o’ the stupid fing! That’s the las’ time I ever go on the toytown train ride wiv me nefew. The embarrasin’ fing is I ad to walk all the way to ozzy wiv the carriage stuck to me backside. Flippin’ terrible!”

There were the loudest guffaws Mike had ever heard, not just from Bill laughing at his own yarn, but from all of our happy team builders. The repartee went on for a good hour, and even Mike felt confident enough to give them all a laugh at his ignominious impersonation of a snowman on that January day in his local park.

Professor Cornstone’s eyes lit up at hearing this. “You must be a spy after all, Miller. Didn’t you say you ‘came in from the cold’… ?”

The room went silent. Next thing is to very loud jeers from Big Bill and even Jez who was settling into the routine nicely, Professor Cornstone was bombarded with ginger snaps, some soggy from being dunked. “Ow! Ow! Ow! said Professor Cornstone, as those that weren’t hit him in the face. “I’m going to finish my newspaper!” and off he went again to the sitting area.

“Right!” said Ted. “What next?”Gregor and Ernst were about to remind Estella that they wanted to see Thornton, but Mike suddenly shouted, “I know! Let’s go in the tunnel!”

“Yer what, Mike? Yer gone nuts or summat?” asked a mystified Big Bill.

“No no, listen. When I was taken by the warlocks to the Steed and Vine, we went by a secret tunnel underneath the house. We came out about a mile or so away from the pub, but I believe it goes on to Sefton. Why don’t we all do that together?”

“Sorry, Mike, you’ve forgotten one thing. This is a brand new house, the old one’s gone. We won’t be able to find the tunnel,” said Franky.

“That’s what I thought at first,” said Mike, “but the new fireplace is in exactly the same position as the old one. The entrance should still be there.”

“How big is the tunnel, Mike?” asked Franky. “Can we walk along it easily? The reason I ask is because most tunnels underneath old houses were built rather hastily, and the person using it, usually an escaping priest, would have to crawl along. I don’t think we would fancy that.”

“Oh yeah,” said Mike, suddenly remembering. “Kerantzky performed a spell to make us all smaller, that’s why we could all walk along. Oh well, forget that then.”

“Maybee I canz elpz you zer, Mike. Deed zee zpell oz Keranzkyz? Deed ee zay Zazzenfavver, or zumzing like eet?” said Marina.

“Yes! Yes, he did! Why, do you know it?!”

“No,” said Marina, and took another biscuit, and started talking about lace curtains to Estella.

“Don’t be mean! Put him out of his misery!” said Estella.

“Oz courz I knowz eet! Eez you vish to go in zee tunnel, I veel elp.”

Mike lowered his head, put on a pathetic face and looked appealingly round the room.

“Sorry, youngun, I’se just promised this beer barrel ‘ere a game o’ darts in the Dog ‘n‘ Cockroach,” said Big Bill, to which Jez Gildebrand pulled a face, feigning insult.

“Don’t you mean the Dog and Duck?” asked Professor Cornstone, looking up from his newspaper.

“Yoo’s never been the East End, I takes it?” replied Big Bill.

“Sorry, Mike, the rest of us want to go for a walk around the place,” said Estella, but on hearing this, Gregor looked a little awkward.

“Er – this sounds like fun, you don’t mind, do you?”

“Not at all. I’ll have Marina to chinwag with,” replied Estella.

“I eez zorry, Ezzie, but I likez ze idea oz ze toonel az vell.”

“And – er – so do we!” said Franky, speaking for himself and his brother.

Professor Cornstone still sat reading his paper, but buried his head even deeper, muttering, “Decisions, decisions, couldn’t organise a booze up in a brewery.”

“I fort the sayin was a pi—“

“Bill!” said Estella.

“Sorry, darlin,” said Big Bill.

Professor Cornstone ruffled his newspaper and tutted. “Whatever and wherever you lot are doing and going, go! Then maybe then I can finish my crossword!”

One person had not shown any allegiance to any of the three excursions currently on offer. First of all, Jez and Big Bill Dooley left for the pub, then Estella and Ernst departed on their sightseeing tour. This left the amateur tunnellers, who waited impatiently on Marina to sort out her version of the spell, which would allow them all to walk along the tunnel rather than crawl.

“See you later!” said Josh, feigning breeziness, but didn’t quite manage it. All but Mike were too busy telling Marina to hurry it along to notice, but Mike knew something was not quite right. He waited for Marina to finish explaining some particularly boring aspect of the spell.

“Won’t be a minute, I need to see Josh about something.”

Mike dashed out the door, thinking Josh would be quite a way away, but there he was, leaning on the fence, looking dolefully down the row of houses along Walkers Road.

“Josh, is there something wrong?”

Josh turned to look at Mike, and there was a tear in his eye. “No, Mike, I’m all right,” he said, rather pathetically. But Mike was not fooled.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what is wrong.”

“I just feel a bit daft, Mike, that’s all. I never mentioned this earlier, but like Estella, I’m from Thornton as well, originally. I spent many happy years here when I was younger, so I guess I’m just sad that those days have gone. See these houses? I had many friends who lived here. We played football every night, mostly ordinary folks, you see. And we messed about in this very field, especially at harvest time. And the daftest thing me and my mate Timothy ever did… .”

Josh went on to explain all about an episode from when he and his friend Timothy Irons were eight years old. They had decided to walk along a dark country lane, late on a January afternoon to go brass rubbing in Sefton Church graveyard. This was about two miles from their homes. The trouble with January afternoons is, they quickly become cold, dark, January evenings. In a matter of minutes, the pale sun which kept them feeling safe, had disappeared. Josh and Timothy found themselves in a pitch black, freezing cold graveyard, with a scary walk back along an unlit country lane as their only means of getting home.

Although absolutely terrified, they set about their nightmare return. Each flutter of wings of an unseen bird, the sound of the electric pylons in the rain, the splashes from the frogs in the ditches, each made the boys jump out of their skin, or it felt like it. Eventually, both sets of parents were calling their names as they neared home. A little later, both sets of parents were calling them markedly different names.

“That was one scary experience, I can tell you, Mike. Mike?”

“Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz wha-what were you saying?”

“You, my lad, are getting cheekier by the day! I should have left you with Kerantzky!”

“You’ve already said that.”

“Have I? Must be losing the old repartee; getting older, Mike, it’ll happen to you one day.”

“So, you lived here, eh? Where was your house then?”

“Oh, a little further over into the estate, Burnt Cottage Road it was, number thirty. I might bimble along there in a mo, fancy it?”

Mike was in two minds. He really did want to walk along the tunnel, especially as it would be with friends this time around, but he also wanted to be with Josh and see his old haunts.

But putting Marina to so much trouble swayed his mind. “I think I’d better go, it was my idea after all. Why don’t you come with us, and then tomorrow we can have a look around the place?”

Josh thought for a moment, sighed, and then said, “No, you go on Mike, I really want to have a look around now. I’ll be all right.”

“If you’re sure, then. Bye, see you later.”

“Yeah, bye, Mike, don’t get lost now!”

Mike turned, smiled, and then went back in to a variety of complaints about being kept waiting.

A few minutes later, Josh looked over and smiled, as he saw the whole barrack house light up, followed by cheers from Marina’s highly impressed audience. Josh leapt over the fence and walked down Walkers Road. As he reached number seven, Estella’s old house, he stopped, put his hands on the brick wall at the front of the garden, sighed, and then went to walk on, but then he stopped again and put his hands to his ears.

“Josh Beecham! Do not renege on our friendship now! We all have regrets and we just have to live with them. Come on in, the kettles on, and Ernst is waiting to hear about you and Timothy!” It was of course, Estella. Josh stood there for a moment in thought, and then gave a finalistic sigh as if he had finally come to terms with the past.

Josh jumped over the little wall, knocked on the door, and within a couple of minutes had Ernst and Estella laughing about cold January nights and warm September days covered in hay and with the archetypal red faced farmer swearing at them. He even owned up to Estella that he was the one who had booed the whole way through the production of the Mikado at their local primary school which Estella had appeared in, but then found himself on detention as a stage hand for the rest of its run.

After the fun had died down, both Josh and Ernst noticed that Estella was a little upset. On this occasion Josh deliberately did not offer a consoling hug, instead letting Ernst be the first to ask what the matter was. Estella wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry, you two, I just couldn’t help it. With all this reminiscing I remembered that I used to help out with the horses at Nellis’s Farm. Not content with murdering Hillary, that pig Lieberman killed the kindest, sweetest old couple you could ever wish to meet.”

Josh smiled, but he knew he would have to quickly explain why. “Er – Estella, you know Lieberman… .”

“Oh dear, and I smacked him in the face about ten times! I shall have to apologise. And the police cars and the sirens? All a set up? But what about those two guarding the farm? They must have been real?”

“It all had to look realistic. The two were real policemen and they really had thought there had been a murder. It made it easier all round.”

“And the Nellis’s are alive and well?”

“Yep. They were given a bundle of money and sent on holiday until things are straightened out.”

Estella, who had fallen asleep on the caravan and thus missed the amazing revelation concerning both Lieberman and Dooley, was able to smile again. She dragged an old record player out from behind the TV, rummaged in a box and found an old LP of Fifties rock’n’roll music. “Let’s listen to some old stuff – eh – roll back the years?”

As the three friends strolled down memory lane, jukebox jiving away, Mike and the others were some way in to their adventure in the tunnel.

“Where do you say it went to, Mike?” asked Ted.

“We climbed out after about a mile or so in, but it still went on after that.”

“Let’s just carry on and see where it comes out, what do you all reckon?” asked Ted.

There was general agreement to this, and so with wands lighting their way they made there way on to Sefton Church, although none yet knew that this was their destination.

*

The Local History class from a nearby night school had kindly been given permission by the Reverend Waldrom to do some brass rubbing in Sefton Church.

A little old thin man by the name of Bert Harrop took the evening’s class.

“Ok everyone, there are plenty of tombs inside to choose from, so take your wax and begin. I’ll come around later to see how you are doing. I’m just going for a quick glass – er – Theology class with the Reverend.”

The class split up and each chose a different tomb from which they would create their brass rubbings. Elsie Milchester, a dotty spinster, was busy rubbing away with her wax on the tomb of Sir Edgar Harkins, Magistrate of Lunt and Sefton in the late seventeen-hundreds. The piece of wax she was using was too large for her maiden’s hands and she decided to break some off.

Our merry tunnellers had reached a crossroads. There were different tunnels to the left and right, but they noticed that each side tunnel had wooden slats, metal plates and grills overhead. Wherever they were, it was definitely a maze of entrances and exits built to confuse the King’s men and maximise the chances of escape for the terrified clergy during the purges of the Reformation.

Ted scrambled up the side of one tunnel and shouted for Franky in another to help him, just as Elsie tried to break her slab of wax in half on the iron tomb.

Thud, thud, thud went Elsie with the wax.

“All right! I can hear you! I’ll be up to join you in a minute,” said Ted to Franky, directly below Elsie, although he did not know this.

Elsie froze, and then screamed. “AAAARRRGGHH! Mr Harrop! Mr Harrop! A ghost! Help! A ghost! And he said he’s coming up in a minute!”

Bert rushed through from the Presbytery to see what the fuss was about.

“Elsie, how many times must we go through this? The doctor said you must face your fears, that is why you joined our little society, remember? The acoustics in this place create all sorts of strange sounds. It was probably the cleaner talking to the verger and it’s echoed in here.”

“Yes, yes, you are quite right, Mr Harrop, how silly of me.” Elsie went back to the task in hand. She placed the paper sheet over the metal face of Sir Edgar and began applying pressure with the wax. The nose was rather difficult to get right, and the paper kept slipping, so she sprinkled talc over it to increase adhesion.

“Don’t do that! You’ll make me sneeze!” said Gregor to Marina, who had sprayed au de cologne to try and disguise the rather sewery smell in the tunnel beneath the Church. Thirty minutes later, Elsie was at home, waiting for her doctor, and vowing never to go to Sefton Church, ever again.

“Silly woman,” muttered Bert Harrop, who then walked around the church to check on the progress of the rest of his class.

“Here, Mr Harrop, how do I get a complete brass rubbing, you know, the sides as well?” asked Nancy Green.

“With great difficulty, my dear, it’s not normally done. But I suppose you could secure the paper on the top, let it fall and then carefully do the sides in small sections.”

“Great. Ta, Mr Harrop, I’ll try that,” and so she did. She found some hymn books and secured the paper on top, let it drop, and started on a small section along the bottom of the tomb of Squire Nicholas Blundell.

“You touch my arse again with that thing and you’re for it,” said Franky, trying to see if a metal grill overhead could be moved, only to be accidentally prodded in the rear by a wand, courtesy of Ted who was right behind him.

“Oh dear,” said Bert Harrop, as the paramedics tried to revive Nancy, “at this rate I won’t have any class left to teach.” But Bert soldiered on, believing it an impossibility to have three hyper-neurotic women in one class. “And what about you, young lady? I’m very glad to see the youth of today taking such an interest. How are you getting on?”

It was young Heather Watson, wearing what looked like a tea cosy on her head, a jumper that looked as if she’d stolen it from DJ Noel Edmonds in his hey day, a skirt that would have been rejected by Kylie Mynogue for being too short, and a pair of wooly tights, nine sizes too big.

“Er – well – Mr ‘Arrop, not too good I don’t fink. Nuffink’s ‘appenin.”

“Maybe it’s the wax you are using, let me see, if I may… ?”

“What wax is that then, Mr ‘Arrop? I’se got this piece of brass ‘ere, iv that’s what yer means?”

“Heather, dear, brass rubbing is just a term to mean – er – er… .”

Bert looked at Heather, just chewing away on her gum, blowing bubbles and not having a clue as to what she was supposed to be doing or what he was trying to say. “Keep trying, my dear, I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

Bert walked on to see what old Fred Stubbs was up to, and Heather suddenly noticed the name on the tomb upon which she had been using a piece of brass to do her brass rubbing.

 

‘MADAM LEONARA ZARAGUZTA.
ROMANIAN MYSTIC. DIED 1721. AGED 87’

 

“I wonder if she knew when she was going to die?” said Heather to herself.

“Vy duz ezzery von keepz asking zat?” said Marina to Gregor, who had been joshing her about the long awaited proposal from Laszlo.

But Heather was unlike both Elsie and Nancy, and grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“I knew it! I knew this place was ’aunted!” She looked around. Old Bert was now busy helping Tom ‘Tubby’ Wadlow, a particularly fat farmer’s boy, with his efforts.

“… If you didn’t permanently have a Mars Bar in your mouth, you wouldn’t have ate your wax, would you?” said an exasperated Bert to an easily disoriented Tubby.

The others were all busy doing their own thing, which Heather was glad about.

“They’s ain’t gettin’ in on this,” she whispered to herself.

“Vot makez you zink I vont to?” said Marina.

“Oh no, not you Leon – er – Madam, the others up ‘ere.”

“Oh – vell zen, you’d best crack on and getz zeez openzed upz. Iz I az to ztay down ‘ere anuzzer zecond, I veel go madz.”

“Really?! Cool! What do I do, then?”

“Look, zer eez a zuvvel. Just uze zat and bangz like eckz unteel you vorze your vay zrough.”

Heather looked around at exactly the same time as the gardener came in for his break and conveniently left his spade against the font. “Brill! You really are psychic, aren’t you? Here goes.” Her eyes were a demented sparkly red as she lifted the spade, ready to set about the tomb of Madam Leonara Zaraguzta, when – next thing… .

”Heather! Whatever do you think you are doing, young lady?!”

“It’s Madam Leonara! She’s coming back from the dead! She wants me to let her out!”

“Listen here, Miss, I agreed to let you join out of deference to your dear mother, who has been out of her wits because of your behaviour. How is she, by the way?”

“She don’ as to ‘ave the shock treatment no more, might be out next week.”

“Good, good. But I must insist that you leave this honourable society and this church – right now! Your lucky his Reverence didn’t see you and get straight on to the police! So please, get your thi—”

“VEN I GHETZ OUT OZ ‘ERE, YOU LOT ARE VOR EET! ZTANDINGZ ROUND TALKINGZ, VILE IMZ ZTUCK ON ZE UZZER ZIDE! JUSZT YOU VAIT!” shouted Marina, very loudly at the others.

*

The Reverend Waldrom came into the church with a tray of tea and some chocolate cake.

“I just thought you would all like a little somethi— Bert? Mrs Golightly? Agnes? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, whatever have I done to upset them?” The guilt ridden Reverend, surveyed the pieces of wax and sheets of paper strewn all over the floor and then went back in a daze to the Presbytery.

Finally, Franky and Ted pushed away a little hatch to the side of the church, thought for centuries to be simply an air vent. They climbed up and found themselves in Sefton Church. Next, from the other side, came Mike and Gregor, but they stooped back down and dragged Marina up, who had been stuck in the tiny space leading up to the opening. When they had all surfaced and dusted themselves down, they looked around and were in awe at such a beautiful church, created by the finest mediaeval craftsmen. It didn’t have the finer regal splendour of later eras, but even in its simplicity it looked awesome.

“I know quite a bit about churches such as these. Before the Reformation this was no doubt the Catholic Church of Saint Helen,” said Gregor.

“How do you know that?” asked a puzzled Mike, who wasn’t well up on such things, and wondered how Gregor could possibly know such a fact.

“It says so, right there on that placard. ‘Before the Reformation this was the Catholic Church of Saint Helen!’”

Mike and the others smiled at such silliness, apart from Franky, who gave a sigh and shook his head.

“Idiots! All such churches were Catholic up until the Reformation! That was the whole point!” said Franky, but with a smile. “Beautiful place, this,” he continued, “if only our own community had been more understood. Still, were all batting for the same side, even if not everyone realises it.”

“You Engleez, vee are in churchz and you zteel talk about ze cricket,” said Marina.

Franky diplomatically did not reply to this, and just smiled. Ted had a thought. He realised that it might look odd if someone from the church came through and saw them, especially as they were all still only three feet in height or thereabouts.

“Great church this, isn’t it? But it’s best we crack on. Back in the tunnel, is it?” suggested Franky.

Everyone smiled and nodded, except Marina. “No vay. I deednt zeenk eet vudz be zo ztinky.”

“Who knows the way back by road, then?” asked Mike.

They all shrugged their shoulders but smiled, as they didn’t actually care. As Big Bill Dooley had said, ‘they’s on their ‘olidays!” Mike suddenly realised something. “If were walking back, hadn’t we best get back to normal size?”

“Yez, you eez qvite rightz. But vee cantz zcare zee localz, zo makez zure zer eez novon aroundz, and I veel do ze reverz zpell,” said Marina.

Mike duly went outside and came back in and gave the all clear. A minute or so later there was a flash of bright light, and with the heightened acoustics of the old church, a veritable – BOOM!

As our day trippers left to return to barracks, the Reverend rushed back into his church, expecting it to be reduced to rubble. He scratched his head, frowned and said, “I need a holiday.”

“Ven veel I get zum peeze vrom zeez nozey brazz rubberz!” said the real Madam Leonara Zaraguzta.

They didn’t quite set off straightaway. They noticed that right next door was a quaint village pub, called the Punch Bowl. They called in for a quick one, went to sit in the corner – only to find Estella, Ernst, and Josh grinning inanely at them. They had followed on a short while earlier. Mike, thinking he was in for his next illicit pint of lager, was a little disappointed when Josh’s order for him was changed by Estella to cola, but he didn’t really mind.

“Where you lot from, then?” said one of the locals, noticing their strange garb. As they had not previously discussed such a scenario they had not worked on a unified answer for such occasions.

“Magic show.” “Pageant.” “College rag week.” “Fancy dress party.” all came out in one big garbled mess.

“Nutters, more like,” muttered the local to himself, returning to his pie and pint.

“Ever heard of the Grand National, you lot?” asked Josh.

There was a unanimous but puzzled yes to this, as they wondered why Josh would ask such a thing. Everyone knew about the Grand National, the most famous and most dangerous Steeplechase in the world.

“If you look out that window and towards the field at the back of the church, that was part of the original Grand National course. So sad just to see it now, just a muddy piece of wasteground… .”

“ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!” came their response.

“Philistines!” retorted Josh. “Come on, we had better go.”

The intrepid explorers wound their way back down eight country lanes, five wrong turns and nearly fell in the ditch, at exactly the same spot as the warlocks had done so very recently.

At the same time, the two big fellas decided to roll back to camp from the hastily reopened Steed and Vine, courtesy of Big Bill. His recent experience of serving gallons of free booze to both The League of Mordred and their allies, the Warlocks of Bucharest, came in very handy indeed, although he had also been a barman in his younger East End days.

All walked in at the same time to find Professor Cornstone fast asleep, with his face under his newspaper. He was snoring, and with each outgoing snore the paper rose at least an inch from his face.

Estella couldn’t resist it. She got her wand and pointed it at the snoring professor.

 

“EXTERNICUM SLUMBEROSEUM EDWINEROSO!”

Professor Cornstone was now outside in the farmers field, still fast asleep in the armchair and still snoring loudly under his newspaper.

Much guffawing followed, especially from Mike, but eventually Gregor said, “Do you think we should bring him back in now?”

“No!” came the unanimous reply.

“Oh, ok, just a thought,” said Gregor.

“What’s for grub? I’m starving!” said Big Bill.

Both Marina and Estella gave a big sigh. “Huh! Men!” and went to stand up. But Ted and Franky, used to a strict regime at home of shared household chores, gestured for the ladies to sit down again.

It wasn’t long before the customary roast had been cooked, served, and eaten.

Each told the other about their adventures and what they wanted to do the next day, that was until the door opened and was slammed against the wall. It was Professor Cornstone, and he wasn’t happy.

“I suppose you think that’s funny! Was that your idea, Beecham?! You’re nothing but an overgrown schoolboy!”

“Actually, it was me, Edwin. I thought you could take a joke,” lied Estella.

“You, Grant? That figures, knocking about with that hoodlum and then that third-world nincompoop!”

On occasions the gravity of Professor Cornstone’s sneering put downs were somewhat watered down by his choice of descriptive nouns. To call any one of a happy gathering, two of which were very happy, a nincompoop, simply brought more counter-derision. To jeers and cheers the red faced Professor Cornstone once again decided to retire to the sitting area, but not before Jez Gildebrand, showing himself to be as full of fun as his new friend Big Bill, chucked a roast potato at Edwin, hitting him right in the eye.

Mike, actually tiring of such bating of Professor Cornstone, tried to change tack.

“Gregor, I believe you can play guitar? If you’ve brought it with you, then why not play a few songs?”

Gregor looked around at the others. He liked playing the guitar but he didn’t want them just being polite. He needn’t have worried.

“Go on, Gregor, it’ll be great!” said Estella. “Smashin!” said Big Bill Dooley, and so on, until he realised that everyone, bar Professor Cornstone, was in the mood for a sing song.

Gregor was careful not to ruin things before they’d started, so avoided the more morose such as his song about the former glory of Liverpool docks, and such like. He launched into belting singalong stuff like, ‘The Wild Rover’, and, ‘The Leaving of Liverpool’. (Getting booed by Estella and Josh when he changed it to Krickenstaltz.) Then he sang, ‘They died with their cloaks on’, a real rip roarer of a song about American wizards, fighting to the last man, waiting for reinforcements – while they battle with The League of Kreskin, (Professor Zenith’s American associates).

Many more songs followed. Gregor’s voice eventually began to weaken and he said he’d had enough.

Big Bill Dooley rather surprisingly asked if he could sing a song. The others, not caring who sung what, clapped and cheered as Big Bill Dooley rose from his chair.

He unexpectedly waved his wand at Professor Cornstone and created a huge cloud of fog next to him.

“What the devil?!” exclaimed the professor, stunned by the goings on.

Big Bill Dooley then proclaimed:

“Tonight, Edwin, ladies and gents, I’m going to be Mr Music Hall!” He went into the foggy mist but was back a second later wearing a ridiculous ill-fitting check suit, a trilby hat, and sporting a cane.

“Ladies and gentlemen! (Bill gestured for encouragement from the ‘audience’, who duly obliged with cheers, whistles, foot stomping, claps and hoorays.) Tonight, I will sing a little ditty about a poor London gal, what’s trying to make her sick farver better. So, wivart any furver ado – ‘ear all abart – ‘The Doctor and the Match Girl!’ Maestro, if you please!”

Bill started doing a half waddle, half march up and down in front of the amazed audience.

He was like a cross between a cockney spiv and a sergeant major, especially with his huge, muscular barrel of a chest which he stuck out even further. Then he brandished and swung his cane around and then tucked it back under his arm.

Next thing, Professor Cornstone’s eyes went all misty then he jumped up and started conducting an orchestra that wasn’t there.

Big Bill Dooley started singing in a typical music hall style, with exaggerated phrasing, melodramatic delivery and every effort being made to keep the regional accent in rather than filter it out.

 

“Now I’ll tell you all a story

With a twist that’s in its tail;

or maybe with a moral if you will.

For to ignore such sad advice –

of dishonest avarice,

will result in getting dead or very ill.

 

Now each day upon the corner –

stood a girl called Annie Horner,

who would sell her penny matches

all day long.

She never got to wishin’

for to end her disposition,

and she bore it all with fortitude and song.

 

‘Now come and get your matches, Gents!

Come and get your lights!

They only cost a penny,

that ain’t bad!

For I’se only Annie Horner,

and I stands upon this corner,

for to get some coppers for my sick old dad.’

 

Now one early winter’s morning,

Annie’s dad he had a warning;

‘Get the doctor in - or you will surely croak.’

But poor Annie she was cryin’ –

for her dad who’s in bed dyin’,

for poor Annie – had no money – for the bloke.

 

With her eyes all full of tears –

and despite of all her fears,

she went out to earn herself an honest bob.

Who then came out walking –

with a lady friend a-talking,

but the doctor who wants paying for the job.

 

‘Come and buy my matches, sir! –

Come and buy my lights!

They only cost a penny,

that ain’t bad.

For if you buy my matches, sir, –

for if you buy my lights,

I can pay for you

to cure my sick old dad.’

 

The lady friend did lift her face –

her nose up in the air;

the doctor gave a sickly smile,

to cross her he’ll not dare.

‘I do not need your matches, lass –

no, not a single one;

Now run along back to your home,

your father may be gone.’

 

Her tears fell right down on the ground;

she wondered what life’s for.

She climbed up high onto the bridge –

she couldn’t take no more.

‘Now don’t do that young lady’. –

said a gentle voice it spoke;

‘Now come and tell me of your woes

and wear my nice warm cloak.’

 

Now Annie told the kindly gent

of why such desperation;

but very soon her heart had leapt

in glorious elation.

The kindly gent he bought her wares

and cured her father’s bones.

The man who’d given Annie hope

was kindly Doctor Jones.

 

Now on a stormy evening –

the old doctor he was leaving,

after dining with his lady – Maddy Bright.

In his jacket were no matches –

that were needed for the candles,

for to fill his gloomy house with warmth and light.

 

He went over to the corner –

for to look for Annie Horner;

She was simply not around – no not at all.

He fumbled at the doorway –

and he fiddled for his keys,

and he stumbled on the step into the hall.

 

The house was all in darkness –

as he climbed upon the stairs;

but he fell and broke his neck

and then he groaned.

But then who should come a-running

with a light to see their way;

twas young Annie –

and her husband – Doctor Jones.

 

Young Doctor Jones he scratched his chin,

and to his colleague tended,

but so severe had been the fall,

his useful life now ended.

Annie went and fetched more help

from those with hats and habits,

the ailing bones soon on their way,

to good St. Mary Abbot’s.

 

The old doctor’s in a wheelchair –

as he’s pushed along the road;

and he hears a sad old song down by the docks.

‘Who will buy my matches, sir?! –

Who will buy my lights?!’

 

‘I will lass – please sell me every box.’’’

 

There were looks of amazement from the audience at witnessing Big Bill’s imagination and versatility, as well as appreciating the poignancy of such an otherwise comic song. They shouted, hollered, cheered, and yelled ‘Bravo!, and ‘Encore!’

What was also beyond belief, was that although it was a deliberate part of the spell, Professor Cornstone had not been conducting a tuppence-hapenny theatre orchestra to accompany a big, gruff, Music Hall singer, he had actually gone through Beethoven’s Ninth in its entirety. His hair was all ruffled, his tie was askew and he bobbed his head at differing intervals. He flung his arms out wildly and with a manic look on his face and using his wand as the baton, he brought in the non-existent string and brass sections into the symphony.

But there was more.

Big Bill Dooley had set the spell to carry on after he had finished his song. Bill and the others all sat there nearly wetting themselves with laughter at such a display.

Professor Cornstone finally finished, turned round, smiled, held out his arms to the audience and then, thinking he was holding a bouquet of flowers, bowed repeatedly. And then he calmly went back to his seat. A few seconds later he looked over at the others who were still in a fit of laughter.

“Just you wait! See how you like it stuck in the middle of a field like a cow!”

“Or a pig,” whispered Estella.

“I heard that!” said Professor Cornstone. For reasons he couldn’t quite understand, they were all still bursting their sides, even Mike.

Although Mike had wanted a diversion from the usual scenario of Professor Cornstone bating, he had to admit that Big Bill Dooley had put on a marvellous act, especially turning the Professor into a conductor. He was too young to quite appreciate the poignancy of the song, but he enjoyed it nevertheless, and it reminded him of watching, The Good Old Days, on TV, when round at Sweaty Eric’s grandmother’s house.

“This has been great!” thought Mike to himself, as the laughter faded away, and a much more sedate but contented atmosphere pervaded the scene. But it wasn’t to last.

“Josh, Professor Winch here. I’ve got to break up the party, you’ll all have to come back immediately.”

“Why, Professor, what has happened?”

”Nothing bad, rather the opposite, but to make use of this sudden advantage, I do need you all back here as soon as possible.”

Josh sighed. He could have argued but he didn’t. If it was so important to Professor Winch, then he realised they would all have to go back straightaway.

“Fair enough, Professor, we’ll be there as soon as we can. See you soon.”

“Thank you, Josh. Bye for now,” said a relieved Professor Winch, thinking he would have had a fight on his hands.

Josh, loathe to bring an end to such camaraderie, sighed again, and then did his duty.

“Listen everyone, there’s been a change of plans… .”

****************************

Mike Miller, Son of Pendragon is available from : 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B004KZQMTO

 

Tags: happy, humor, weird,