It had sounded like a good idea at the time. "Diversify," he'd said. "Do up the old barn and raise pigs," he'd said. "Bound to make a bleedin' fortune," he'd said. Later it had been different. "Well how was I supposed ter know it would 'appen?" he complained six months later, when the bottom had dropped out of the pig-market. But then I suppose I only had myself to blame. I should have known better than to go along with one of his crazy moneymaking schemes in the first place.
And now here he was, at it again, shoving some article under my nose. "What's this?" I asked, sighing heavily. I was trying to catch up with the cricket scores.
Uncle Hobart clicked his dentures, rustling the farming magazine at me again. "Osytridges, ain't it?"
"What the hell are you on about now?" I asked, giving up on the television.
"Osytridges," he repeated."
"Oh, ostriches." I suddenly realised what he was saying.
"Aye, that's right. Them bleedin' great bird things what can't fly. Says 'ere that it's the latest thing and yer can make a load o' money out o' 'em. Feathers, meat, skin, yer can use every little bit o' 'em."
"And where have I heard that before, I wonder?" I queried, studying the ceiling as though deep in thought.
"What yer mean?" he replied with a frown.
I stared him straight in the eye. "That's the thing about pigs," I quoted in a bad imitation of his voice. "Yer can use every bit o' them, everything but the squeal." I raised my eyebrows at him. "That sound familiar by any chance?"
"Aye, well," he mumbled, hiding behind the magazine.
Snatching it from him, I scanned the article impatiently, then against every instinct read it again at a more leisurely pace. It was an interesting read and I was soon lost in the intricacies of ostrich rearing. When I'd finished, I reached out for my beer but my now empty can lay crumpled beside Uncle Hobart's chair; he'd nicked it while I'd been busy reading. He gave a long burp, studying me quizzically.
"It's no use," I said, tossing the magazine back at him.
"What yer mean, it's no use?" he objected "'Ave yer read what the meat fetches?"
I hissed open another can, determined that this time I'd get to finish it. "Yes but its not that simple, is it?" I counted off the points on my fingers. "Firstly, we'd need six foot high fencing. Secondly, we'd have to fix up some sort of shelter. And thirdly, they cost a bloody fortune and we can't afford it."
Uncle Hobart sat forward, clicking his dentures excitedly. "Well that's just where yer wrong, ain't it?" "Listen," he continued, holding up a hand to forestall my objections. "Firstly, old Junket's selling off a load o' deer fencing, and 'e's a good mate o' mine, so I bet we'd get it dirt cheap. Secondly, we can make do with some old packing cases covered with a tarpaulin fer a shelter. And thirdly, we only need ter get the one, so long as it's been mated like and can lay a fertile egg." He sat back triumphantly, as though he had just won some debating point. Sensing my weakening resistance, he carried on. "And we got enough money ter buy just the one, ain't we?"
I hummed and hawed as he jiggled about in his chair, waiting for my agreement. Then he played his ace card. "Besides," he said in a small, hurt voice. "Yer owe me fer letting that geezer nick me jag, don't yer?"
*
"You sure this fencing's up to it?" I asked dubiously.
Uncle Hobart looked at me sideways. "Course it is, yer silly bugger. What's up with yer? It were strong enough ter stop deer, weren't it?" I broke off a particularly rusty piece of the netting, holding it out for him to see. "'Ere, don't do that," he grumbled, tying the edges of the hole together with a piece of bailer twin. "Anyway, what yer expect fer the money we paid?" Pulling at the temporary repair, he nodded in satisfaction. "It's only rusted 'ere and there, ain't it? It'll be fine, yer'll see."
I sat down, opened a can of beer and took a hefty swig. Uncle Hobart squatted beside me, wiping his mud-splattered face with his mud-splattered hanky. "Look, I know I made a mistake with the pigs," he admitted, "but don't yer worry none, I guarantee it'll work this time. Yer'll see."
I gave a half-hearted smile and leant nearer. "It had better work this time, Uncle Hobart," I whispered throatily into his waxy ear. "Because if it doesn't, I'll personally nail your arse to the side of the bloody barn!" He sat silently for a few moments, drinking from his can, looking hurt. "Oh come on," I said, "let's get the rest of this bloody fence up before it gets too dark to see what we're doing."
*
" ... obstructing progress on the main Cumly to Barton Road. All vehicles are advised to use other approaches to these villages until further notice."
I dropped my spoon into the bowl, ignoring the Cornflakes that splattered over my shirt. "Did he say ostrich?" I checked with Aunt Martha. She looked over at me blankly and nodded slowly. "Loose on the Barton road?" I persisted. She nodded again and I'd gone before my chair hit the stone-flagged floor. "Uncle Hobart, where the hell are you! " I shouted at the top of my voice, skidding to a halt in the empty farmyard. "Hobart!"
I jumped when a bony finger prodded me in the back. "What's all the bleedin' shouting about?" he asked from behind me.
"Have you seen our ostrich this morning?" I demanded.
"Not yet, I were just on me way ter feed it. Why, what's up?"
"There's one loose on the Barton Road."
"Well it ain't ours, is it? It must belong ter someone else."
Following his scurrying figure down to the ostrich paddock, I stood listening as Uncle Hobart called repeatedly into the shelter. "'Ere then osytridge. 'Ere girl, grub's up. Come on, come and get it." He banged the pail, calling again but the ostrich was conspicuous by its absence. I caught his arm, pointing at a large hole in the corner of the fence. Wriggling with embarrassment, he smiled sheepishly. "Reckon it's ours then?" he asked. "'Onest, Peter boy, I..."
Holding up a hand, I stopped him dead. "Just don't say anything," I said, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. "Not one God-damned word. Just go indoors and get me a sock. I'll wait for you in the pick-up."
*
My heart sank as we pulled up behind the traffic jam blocking the Barton Road, spotting Sergeant Shooter and Detective Inspector Grunt talking animatedly beside an overturned mini-bus at the head of the queue.
Raising a threatening finger at Uncle Hobart, I warned him to stay put in the pick-up. "Stay here and don't move. I'm going to see if I can find out what's going on and I want to find you here when I get back."
I left him supping a can of beer and made my way stealthily through the gathering crowd towards the two policemen.
" ... what the Mother Superior's going to say," Sergeant Shooter was telling Detective Inspector Grunt as I got within earshot.
"Many hurt?" Grunt asked.
Shooter shook his head. "Mostly bumps and bruises really." Indicating the overturned mini-bus with a nod of his head, he continued, "That's probably a write off though."
"Where were they going?" Grunt wanted to know.
Shooter pointed at a rise in the landscape. "Over to Tigg Meadow for a picnic."
Grunt rubbed his hand over his head, dislodging copious amounts of flaky skin. "Never knew nuns went on picnics," he commented with a frown.
"Me neither," Shooter agreed, then barked a short laugh. "Or that they knew such language. It fair made my hair curl, I can tell you."
"Right. You'd better get on and catch that damned bird before it causes any more trouble," Grunt instructed Shooter.
Shooter's head snapped round as he looked at his superior with incredulity. "And just how the hell am I supposed to do that, do you suggest? Chase the stupid thing with a bucketful of sand and hope it'll stick its frigging head in?"
Grunt looked about with gathering frustration, swearing quietly to himself. Finally he kicked at a stone. It was plain to see that he had no more idea about how to catch an escapee ostrich than Shooter. "Just wait until I find out who that bird belongs to," he threatened. "I'll give them sodding ostriches."
I'd heard enough and was preparing to make my way back to the pick-up when a familiar voice floated to me from the back of the crowd: "Found out what's up yet, Peter boy?"
The hairs on the back of Grunt's neck stood erect and a red flush ascended its muscular column. "I know that voice," he uttered, spinning around, catching me before I'd the chance to disappear back into the crowd.
Grunt's face twisted into a mask of hate. "That bird belongs to you, doesn't it?" he demanded.
I shrugged nonchalantly. "Might do," I agreed.
He leant over me and for the first time I realised just how big he was. "Do you realise that bird of yours has filled the local hospital with twenty-five nuns?" he rumbled. "To say nothing of the Vicar of Cumly."
I swallowed noisily, taking a step backwards. Grunt kept pace with me, thrusting his face into mine. My eyes crossed as I studied a nasty looking pimple on the end of his nose.
"Well, what're you going to do about it!" he demanded. I pulled a sock from my pocket and shook it in his face. "What's that?" he growled, squinting at the tartan patterned object.
"A sock," I informed him, none too impressed by his powers of observation, considering he was a policeman.
"I want the ruddy thing caught, not dressed up for dinner, you ruddy idiot."
Holding up a hand to forestall any further objections, I tried to explain. "No, you don't understand," I said. "Look, you put the sock over the ostrich's head, see? And it thinks it's night-time and goes to sleep."
Grunt glanced over at Shooter, then back at me. "You taking the piss?" he rumbled. "Because if you are..."
"Honest," I assured him, looking hurt.
Shooter took the sock, studying it. "Well it might work, I suppose."
"Come on then," Grunt ordered, "let's get on with it."
The crowd murmured softly, shifting about, straining for a better view as Sergeant Shooter manoeuvred his upper body through the window of the police car, while Grunt sat inside, holding onto Shooter's legs.
"What's 'appening?" Uncle Hobart demanded from behind me.
"They're going to try and catch the ostrich by chasing it with the police car," an old lady informed him. "It's outrageous. That poor bird, it's bound to be frightened and probably hurt. They should be horsewhipped, the pair of them. How would they like being chased all over the place like that?"
"Especially if at the end of it they had one of Uncle Hobart's smelly socks forced over their heads," I mumbled under my breath.
The crowd watched in excited fascination as the chase began. The police car took off after the ostrich at high speed and at first it looked as though the show would be over pretty quickly because the police car soon caught up with the ostrich, but as the car drew level with the fleeing bird and Shooter leant over to do his deed with the sock, what happened was reminiscent of the Keystone Cops. The ostrich plucked the sock from Shooter's hand, deftly flicking the offending object over the roof of the car. Then it caught the end of Shooter's nose in its large beak, twisting it back-and-forth savagely. After listening to Shooter's screams for a few moments, it then decided enough was enough and cranked up its speed.
Now I knew that ostriches could run fast but this one surprised us all as it took off like a bat out of hell. The police driver had trouble keeping up with the darting bird as it weaved its way in and out of the stalled traffic, jumping from car bonnet to car bonnet. Shooter made lunge after lunge for the bird's long neck but kept missing and at each time the crowd went hysterical, jumping up and down in excitement, shouting, "Ole".
This battle of wits may well have gone on all afternoon had the ostrich not stumbled, which allowed Shooter to grab it by the neck. From the resolute glint in Shooter's eye, it was obvious to everyone that nothing on this earth was going to make him let go, which was a bit unfortunate because the bird put on an extra burst of speed, dragging poor Shooter straight out of the police car. As Shooter shot through the open window, Grunt, still clinging tenaciously to his legs, went with him. The ostrich squawked indignantly and in an effort to dislodge the two policemen, ran headlong through a nearby hedge. As the triumphant bird made off through a flock of grazing sheep, it left behind two pairs of weakly waving legs stuck high in the prickly embrace of a hawthorn hedge. The ostrich stopped at the far edge of the field, looking back at the chaos it had caused and for one moment, I could have sworn it was smiling.
"Silly buggers," muttered Uncle Hobart. "That's no way ter catch a bleedin' osytridge."
"Round one to 'Big Bird'!" shouted the old lady excitedly, and the crowd joined in, roaring its approval.
*
"Get in," Grunt ordered for the second time. Uncle Hobart shook his head again and the big policeman grabbed the front of his shirt, lifting him onto his toes. I decided not to interfere after Grunt shot me a warning look. Well, he was an extremely big man! "Listen to me, you horrible little man," Grunt shouted into Uncle Hobart's face. "You and your gormless nephew here, have caused me enough grief for one day. So either you get in there now or you're going to spend the next fortnight behind bars. Got it?" As he pushed Uncle Hobart towards the helicopter, I followed meekly along behind. I could see that Grunt was not in the best of moods and knew from bitter experience that the local constabulary tended to be a touch vindictive when they were upset by the residents of Nettle Farm.
We sat quietly while the engine warmed up and I swallowed noisily as the rotors suddenly bore us aloft with a jerk. Straining my ears above the din of the engine and the wind-whipped noise coming through the large doorless opening in the side of the helicopter, I tried to listen in on the conversation going on between the winch-man and Detective Inspector Grunt.
Uncle Hobart tapped me on the knee. "What's this?" he asked.
Flapping a dismissive hand at him, I concentrated my efforts on the two men talking by the helicopter doorway. "I'll lower you down in the harness," the winch-man was telling Grunt. "We can keep in touch over the headsets. When you're close enough to the bird, drop this sack over its head, that should do the trick."
There was another tap on my knee and Uncle Hobart stuck a defibrillating paddle under my nose. "What's this?" he demanded again.
I sighed impatiently, turning my attention away from Grunt and the winch-man. At that moment I could have cheerfully strangled my aggravating uncle. "It's one of those machines for reviving people when they've had a heart attack," I explained patiently. "Now put the bloody thing back before you break it."
Uncle Hobart's eyes lit up. "Yer mean like in ER, on the telly?"
"Yes, like in ER, on the telly. Now put it down," I repeated.
But as was his want, Uncle Hobart ignored me, picking up the other paddle instead. Rubbing them together, he called, "Clear," in a deep, authoritative voice. Then, clicking his dentures, he pressed the red button on the back of one of the paddles.
I dug him in the ribs with a bony elbow. "Will you put that thing down?" I shouted above the din of the engine.
Poking Uncle Hobart was not a good idea as it knocked one of the paddles out of his hand. Leaping from his seat Uncle Hobart made a grab for it, accidentally ramming the other paddle against the front of Grunt's trousers. Grunt took a step backwards onto the paddle that had fallen behind him and what happened next changed both Grunt's love life and his future attitude towards my wily old uncle for the rest of his life.
The current generated by the defibrillator melted the metal zip of Grunt's trousers into a red-hot lump and his high-pitched screams filled the cabin as he jerked about like a manic dancer on ecstasy. The front of his trousers began to smoke and an appalling smell, reminiscent of barbecued sausages filled the air.
Grunt must have fainted because he collapsed backwards into the winch-man and the electrical current grounded through both of them. The winch-man's eyes shot open to their fullest extent as his contracting muscles locked his arms about Grunt's waist and they both began an oscillating dance that jerked them ever closer to the open doorway.
Suddenly the cabin was filled by a heavy silence.
"Oh, shit," was all I could think of to say as I sat frozen to my seat, staring uncomprehendingly at the empty space that up until a few seconds ago had been filled by the ample proportions of Detective Inspector Grunt. "Oh, shit!" I repeated softly after a few seconds.
Jumping from his seat, Uncle Hobart leant out of the doorway, the wind whipping what remained of his silver hair in all directions. "It's alright," he called over his shoulder. "The winch-man's landed in a reservoir. 'E's swimming for the shore."
"Thank God for that," I shouted back. "What about Grunt?"
Uncle Hobart barked a short laugh. "'E's 'anging off a weather vane. 'E's bent it all ter buggery though. I reckon the vicar'll be really pissed-off with 'im when they finally get 'im down." I headed for the front of the helicopter. "Whe're yer going?" Uncle Hobart shouted at me.
Hanging onto the vibrating helicopter frame I indicated the cockpit with my chin. "I'm going to tell the pilot what's happened."
Uncle Hobart shook his head. "No, don't do that, Peter boy," he said, pointing out of the doorway. "Look, there's the osytridge." And sure enough there it was, our ostrich, doing about forty along the white line of the carriageway below. Uncle Hobart clapped me on the shoulder, giving me an encouraging smile and all at once my stomach began to flip. "We can do it ourselves, Peter boy," he finished.
"Not bloody likely," I answered, shaking my head vigorously. Taking a peek over the edge of the sill, I could see it was a very long way down. "Anyway," I reasoned, "we don't know how to work the winch?"
"That's no trouble," Uncle Hobart assured me. "I'll soon figure it out. Just give us a sec."
"You mean ... You want me to..." I pointed at the ostrich.
He nodded enthusiastically, clicking his dentures. "Just think o' the headlines, Peter boy. 'Local Farmer Rescues Osytridge'. We'll make a bleedin' fortune with all them interviews and things on TV."
"It's no good," I responded. "When Grunt fell out of the helicopter he took the harness with him." I was beginning to sweat profusely.
"We don't need no 'arness," Uncle Hobart replied with a broad smile. "I'll just tie this 'ere rope ter yer ankles, see? That'll leave yer 'ands free, won't it?" Handing me a battered tin hat, he continued, "'Ere, put this on. I know it ain't much but it's all I could find and it's better than nowt, ain't it?"
To this day I still don't understand why I strapped that tin hat on my head, tied the rope around my ankles and let myself be lowered from that helicopter, but that’s exactly I did.
Before stepping off into space I tried one last appeal to my uncle's sanity. "I really don't think this is such a good idea, Uncle Hobart."
He gave a firm click of his dentures, a firm nod of his head, a firm push in the small of my back and before I knew what was happening, I found myself swinging upside down, gyrating wildly in all directions.
"Stop screaming like that, yer cretin," Uncle Hobart's voice crackled at me over the headset. "Yer 'urting me bleedin' ears. 'Ang on a mo, I'm going ter let yer down a bitty more."
I felt my stomach lurch as I unexpectedly fell another twenty feet towards the ground, shrieking in panic as everything went black. "I've gone blind! I've gone blind!" I screamed into the headset.
"Don't be such a berk," Uncle Hobart shouted back. "It's just yer bleedin' jumper. It's rolled down over yer 'ead. Pull it back up."
After a brief struggle, I managed to pull the offending garment over my head and watching it flutter towards the ground I prayed that I would not be joining it any time too soon. Looking around, I spotted the ostrich loping along the road at an easy trot. "I can see it!" I called. "Let me down a bit more. Another five feet should do it."
Uncle Hobart's idea of five feet was obviously very different to mine because I suddenly found my head bouncing off the road, the tin hat screeching along the tarmacadam, raising showers of sparks.
"Fer God's sake, will yer stop that bleedin' screaming!" Uncle Hobart ordered. "Yer doing me ear-'oles in." Then he saw what was happening and raised my up again. "There, that better, yer big baby?"
Pulling out the sock, I succeeded in slipping it over the ostrich's head but my shout of triumph was short lived because the sparks raised by my tin hat had set fire to the winch rope. It was now burning away merrily and in less time than it takes to tell, the rope had parted, dropping me squarely across the ostrich's back. Clinging tightly to the frightened bird's neck, I manoeuvred myself into a sitting position. One look told me why the ostrich had not stopped running after I'd dropped the sock over its head. Uncle Hobart had given me one with a bloody great hole in the toe! As we sped towards a row of road cones that marked the beginnings of a road works, the bird's large feet smacked on the surface of the road like a pair of clapping hands. Sweeping passed a red stoplight, we headed into the corridor of cones as though trying to break the land-speed record.
"Oh shit!" I groaned, spotting a large blue lorry bearing down on us.
I watched the smoke pouring from the lorry's tyres in a kind of dread fascination, imagining the look of horror that must be distorting the driver's face as he slammed his foot on the brakes. Time slowed abruptly and I could easily read the sign painted across the top of the cab, 'HM NAVY', it said, in large gold lettering. As the vehicle slammed into us I was thrown forwards and upwards, landing on the lorry's roof with a thump that knocked the breath from my body. Sliding towards the rear of the vehicle, I desperately scrabbled about for a handhold to stop myself careering right off the back. I needn't of worried though because I was saved from this horror when the translucent fibreglass of the lorry's roof gave way, plunging me into the interior.
The lorry was packed full of rubber life rafts, so my plummeting fall was cushioned as I crashed in amongst the soft packages. I bounced around the interior of the lorry, my world spinning in a confusing kaleidoscope of colours. Then I heard a soft hissing, immediately followed by loud whooshing noises, as hundreds of life rafts began inflating all around me. In a fast, explosive, chain-reaction, the lorry was suddenly filled with rapidly expanding rubber and pushed to the limits of its design, the vehicle's bodywork finally blew apart with an ear-shattering explosion that blasted every stitch of clothing from my body, hurling me high into the air.
*
"'Ere, sit yerself down and I'll finish the barbecue," Uncle Hobart ordered, helping me to the garden lounger.
Propping my foot on an upturned flowerpot, he rapped at the plaster-caste covering my broken leg and I wondered why it was that people always did that. Yawning, I picked up the newspaper and shook it out to read the headlines. 'Local Octogenarian Saves Nude Nephew From Onerous Ostrich', one proclaimed in large, bold type. The article went on to explain how, Hobart Tuttershed, risking his life as he leant from a helicopter with a very large net, had miraculously plucked his nephew from the sky, thus saving his life.
No mention of the fact that the hero in the helicopter had caused the nephew's demise in the first place of course. But as I watched my uncle working away at the barbecue, my expression softened a little and I smiled to myself. A short time later he staggered over, carrying two giant drumsticks on a platter.
Oh yes, I was really looking forward to my first taste of osytridge.