Aunt Martha sat tapping the edge of a beer mat on the wrought iron table, until finally she put it down and took a sip at her lemonade. She tutted for the tenth time and I looked across with a raised eyebrow.
"I realise he's an independent man Peter, but I really do think you should go and look for him you know. He's been gone for nearly an hour now."
I nodded in agreement. Uncle Hobart had gone off some time ago to throw some loose change into the pub's wishing-well and even allowing a detour for a quick pint on the way he should have been back long ago.
"Okay," I said, pushing back my chair, "let's go and see if we can find him."
Following the signs we walked along the path, then up a hill to the wishing-well. The sky was clear, the clouds almost invisible on the horizon. It was a hot, sultry day. We trailed along behind a young couple making their way up the winding gravel path but when we finally arrived at the top there was no sign of Uncle Hobart and Aunt Martha became even more agitated.
"Well he's obviously not here, is he?" she said. "Where on earth do you suppose he could have got to?" She fretted, picking at the material on her sleeve in agitation. "Oh I do hope nothing's happened to him."
As her proud nose jerked this way and that, searching for some sign of Uncle Hobart's whereabouts, I sat on the curved wall of the wishing-well to light a cigarette. My nerves needed calming because I was beginning to get that familiar fluttering in my stomach. Puffing absentmindedly on the tube of tobacco, I contemplated what I would do to Uncle Hobart when he finally showed up. As I finished my cigarette, a small girl ran up and dropped some loose change into the wishing-well. I flicked the cigarette butt in after it.
"Oy, watch out yer bleedin' stupid bugger!" There was no mistaking the voice issuing from the dark shadowy opening.
The girl burst into tears and ran away, a look of terror on her small face. I shook my head, wondering what nightmares Uncle Hobart had inflicted on her impressionable young mind.
"Aunt Martha," I beckoned, "over here." Pointing into the well, I smiled. "Make a wish," I instructed.
"Really Peter, I don't think this is the time to be playing games. Not with your uncle missing," she chastised me.
Holding a finger in the air, I leant over the well. "You in there Uncle Hobart?" I called out.
"Yes yer cretin. 'course I'm bleedin' in 'ere! What took yer so long? Don't just stand there mucking about, get me out!"
I shrugged at Aunt Martha's raised eyebrows. "Beats me," I said. "Look, I'll stay here while you go back to the pub and fetch some help."
She snorted as Uncle Hobart's voice rose up out of the well once more. "And fetch us a pint while yer at it girl, I got a thirst on me like a Meer Cat's arse!"
*
I was sitting quietly drinking my coffee when Aunt Martha came bustling into the kitchen. "Good morning Peter," she greeted me. "Have you finished the milking yet?"
"Yeah," I answered wearily. I was still not used to getting up at what should have been the middle of the night.
Sitting down, Aunt Martha poured herself a cup of tea. "I'll get on with feeding the sheep when I've had this," she told me, dribbling milk into her teacup. Looking around the kitchen, she asked, "Where's Hobart?"
I lowered the newspaper I was reading, "Still in bed, last time I saw him," I answered over the top.
She shook her head. "No, the door to his room's wide open. He's not in there."
Folding the paper, I rubbed the back of my neck. "You know, he's been acting really strange since he fell down that well. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was going a bit..." I tapped my temple.
Aunt Martha nodded. "Yes, I know what you mean." She tutted, shaking her head. "I found him with my eye liner the other day," she confided suddenly.
"Did you?" I smiled at the image that brought to mind.
"He was drawing all over his face with it," she told me, warming to the subject.
My eyebrows rose even further. "Drawing?" I asked. "Drawing what?"
"Well, lines. It looked as though he was trying to draw a spider's web on his face. And another thing," she added, "he does nothing but watch those silly children's cartoons on the television all day." Slamming down my cup, I shot out of my seat. "What on earth's the matter?" Aunt Martha called after my disappearing back.
I headed for Uncle Hobart's room at a run and was soon back with a magazine clutched in my hand. Dropping it onto the table, I watched for Aunt Martha's reaction as she examined it. The breath whistled across her teeth. "Yes," she said in a whisper. "I think I see what you're getting at, Peter."
Sitting down, Aunt Martha poured herself another cup of tea. I got a can of beer from the fridge, hissing it open as I joined her at the kitchen table. Turning the magazine around, I studied the cover.
'SPIDERMAN AND THE TRIP OF DEATH', it declared, in lurid green letters.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I asked sotto voce.
*
"Well why are you bothering me, laddie? You should be talking to the desk-sergeant." Detective Inspector Hives scratched at a yellow pimple on his nose, pulling a face.
I shifted in my seat, beginning to wonder if coming here had been such a good idea after all. Aunt Martha leant forward, pointing her formidable nose at him. Hives shrank back a little. Her nose always had that effect on people.
"Inspector," she said primly, "we came here to talk to you because we want this matter dealt with discreetly. We don't want the fact that poor Hobart is running around Ealford dressed up as Spider Man being spread all over the village."
"Yes, I can understand that," Hives smirked.
"Hobart Tuttershed is a caring, sensitive man and he deserves to be dealt with in a caring, sensitive way."
The incredulity on Hives' face was plain to see. Jumping up he leant across the table. "Sensitive!" he exploded. "Sensitive? Let me tell you madam, I've never met a less sensitive person in all my life." He seemed to struggle for his next words. "Never... not once... in twenty years on the force... not once..." Spluttering to a stop, he pulled at his ear lobe. Then he continued in a rush, "I was deaf for three weeks. Do you know that? Three weeks, with nothing but a constant ringing in my ears!"
Aunt Martha gathered herself together. It was like watching the gathering of a storm. "Really Inspector," she said, the scorn dripping from her voice, "I expected better than this from a public servant."
The pulse on Hives' temple began to pound and I decided that I’d better step in before things really got out of hand. "Look Inspector," I reasoned, "the shotgun going off like that was an accident. Surely you don’t still blame him for that."
"I'm not talking about the ruddy gun, laddie," Hives shouted. "I was referring to the fact that your idiot uncle threw that stun grenade back out the window before it went off." Taking a deep breath he stood at his full height. "Right into the back of my ruddy car!" Hives’ face turned ashen at the memory. "And don't tell me that he didn't know I was sitting in it at the time."
I shrugged helplessly. "So you're not going to help us then?" I guessed.
Hives resumed his seat as he calmed down, fussing about with a file on his desk, turning the bottom corner of the brown cover back on itself, then flattening it out again, a far-away look in his eyes. Suddenly, he seemed to make up his mind and turned to Aunt Martha. "I'll tell the local bobbies to keep an eye open for him," he told her, "but that's as far as I'm willing to go. Now get out of here before I arrest the both of you for causing a nuisance."
"What an obnoxious little man," Aunt Martha commented as we left the police station. "I've a good mind to take this matter further."
Pointing at Cindy's Tea Rooms I took her arm. "Come on," I said, "why don't I buy you a nice cup of tea and a muffin?"
*
I sipped my second cup of tea and smiled at Aunt Martha, who was looking a bit downhearted. I’d not realised until now just how fond she'd grown of the old rascal.
Sighing heavily, she placed her cup in its saucer with the muted chink. "He still hasn't told me how he managed to fall into that well you know," she said softly.
Shrugging my shoulders, I smiled encouragingly at her. "Well, you know what he's like. He thought it'd be a good idea to nick some money out of the well to buy himself a pint. If people where idiotic enough to throw their change away, he didn't see any reason why he shouldn't make some use of it."
"But that money hadn't been thrown away," objected Aunt Martha.
"We know that Aunt Martha but Uncle Hobart's got his own way of looking at life, hasn't he?" I laughed quietly to myself. "He thought it was one of those fake wishing-well, you see. You know, one of those shallow, imitation things. Got a right surprise when he found out it wasn't. God I'd have loved to have seen his face when he fell in."
"Really Peter, it isn't funny. He could have been seriously hurt, you know." Aunt Martha carefully poured herself another cup of tea then looked over at me. "I've spoken to the doctor and she says that the knock Hobart got on his head is the reason he's gone a bit ... well strange. The quicker we find him and get him admitted to the hospital, the better."
"Yes, well I know where I'd like to admit him and it ain't no bloody hospital," I retorted.
Aunt Martha paid the bill and we left for home, both of us in thoughtful mood.
*
It was later that afternoon when Aunt Martha beat me to the telephone by a short head and I had to make do with listening to a one-sided conversation.
"Speaking. Yes, I see. Really? Well that's quite incredible. Are you sure? Hm... yes... quite. Straight away? Yes, we'll be there at once. Thank you. Goodbye." Aunt Martha replaced the receiver, giving me a strained look. "That was the police, they've found Hobart."
"Thank God," I sighed. "Is he alright?"
Shaking her head, Aunt Martha twirled her earring, a sure sign of agitation. "I'm not sure, I couldn't make a lot of sense out of what the policewoman was saying. It was a bit confusing. Something about Hobart and a bank robbery."
Leaning my head back I closed my eyes. "Oh God, spare us that," I mouthed at the ceiling, my stomach working overtime.
"Come on, let's go," Aunt Martha said, pulling at my arm. "We've got to get down to Wallop’s Lane straight away."
*
The feeling of deja vu was almost overwhelming as we pulled up at the police-cordon in Wallop’s Lane. So much so in fact that before I realised what I was doing, I'd asked the policeman on duty for Detective Inspector Hives. He looked at me narrowly.
"Detective Inspector Hives is busy, sir. Perhaps Sergeant Shooter will be able to assist you." He pointed his chin in the direction of a short, thickset man, who appeared to be studying the sky.
Walking up behind him, I coughed politely. "Er ... excuse me, officer," I said. "I'm Peter Barns, can you tell me what's happening? I've been told you've found my uncle?"
Sergeant Shooter didn’t answer, pointing instead at the roof of a nearby bank. I followed the direction of his finger and shuddered as I spotted a small black dot perched at the very top of a tall, slender radio mast.
"That's not him. It can't possibly be," I objected without conviction.
"Oh but it is, Mr Barns. Most definitely so." Sergeant Shooter turned to me with a sombre expression. "There's no doubt about it I'm afraid. That little black dot, way up there, is definitely your uncle."
Hearing a gasp from behind me, I turned in time to catch Aunt Martha as she fainted. Sergeant Shooter helped me carry her to an ambulance parked behind the police cordon. After laying her on one of the stretchers, I turned to leave but a familiar voice stopped me.
"Hey you, Barns!"
Jerking my head around I was confronted by Detective Inspector Hives, laying on the second stretcher, a large red blanket pulled up to his chin, his head swathed in bandages.
"Hello Inspector. Had an accident?" I asked sweetly
With an effort, he managed to lift his head and glare at me. "No Barns, I haven't had an accident. I've been attacked by a ruddy maniac!"
That familiar sinking sensation deepened in the pit of my stomach as I ran a shaky hand through my hair. "Oh?" I enquired in a tight voice.
"Attacked by a ruddy maniac dressed as Spider Man!" he spat at me. Sitting down on the stretcher beside Aunt Martha, I studied the floor as Hives carried on relentlessly. "And this bastion of law and order, this ... this ... freaking, ruddy idiot. Do you know what he did, Barns?" Hives sat up in a frenzy, grabbing the lapels of my coat, dragging me nearer until our faces were almost touching. "Have you got any idea what he did?" I shook my head, knowing I was about to find out. "He attacked me, that's what he did, laddie." Hives shook my lapels in time with his words, pushing his face even closer into mine. "He ruddy well attacked me when I was in the middle of arresting a bank robber. That's what he did." I felt his spittle fleck my face. "That's what he did," he finished with a small, tearful, sob.
By now there was no doubt that the, 'freaking ruddy idiot', referred to by Hives was none other than my dear old uncle.
"Well maybe..." my throat constricted and I had to start again. "Maybe he thought you were one of the robbers. I mean, if he did, he'd have been helping you to make an arrest, wouldn't he?" I left a hopeful pause. "And you couldn't really blame him in those circumstances, could you?" Even to me it sounded lame.
Throwing off the red blanket, Hives propped himself up in the corner of the ambulance, glaring at me dolefully. "I don't give a damn what he ruddy thought," he shouted. "All I know is, he hit me over the head with a frozen trout. Which incidentally, he'd liberated from the supermarket in the belief that it'd been kidnapped and was being held prisoner by the manager." Hives shrugged his shoulders as though that particular action was beyond his comprehension, then, collapsing back onto the stretcher again, moaned, "Get me Shooter, I want Shooter, I want to go to hospital." He sounded like a small, frightened child who'd got lost in a crowd.
Shooter and I watched the ambulance make its slow way through the crowded village streets. Then turning to me, he tutted, shaking his head as he wandered off to deal with a television crew that was looking for an interview. I was left contemplating the small black dot perched precariously at to the top of the radio mast.
"Don't suppose you fancy going up there and getting him down?" Shooter asked as he reappeared at my side.
"You're dead right," I responded with feeling. "As far as I'm concerned, he can stay up there from now until dooms day."
"Yeah, I thought you might say that," Shooter answered with a frown. "God knows how we'll get him down. I suppose we'll just have to wait the idiot out."
*
As it turned out, Uncle Hobart came down from the radio mast a lot quicker than any of us might have expected. When the radio station went on air to broadcast the news that an old aged pensioner, dressed as Spiderman, had climbed to the top of their radio mast, the electrical current it generated had the desired effect.
Later at the hospital, the doctors told me it was just as well Uncle Hobart was an old aged pensioner, as cooked testicles are definitely a no-no as far as conception is concerned!