"No!" I was brooking no arguments. And when I said no, that's exactly what I meant.
Uncle Hobart took another deep draught from his tankard, burped and stared at me, accusation hardening his eyes. "Why not?" he demanded. "It'll save us a load o' money on transport. And besides, I've already got them reporters interested. Yer know, the ones that gave us the money for the crop circles. Listen Peter boy, it ain't been done in generations and yer can be first ter start it up again. Think 'ow famous yer'd be. Come on, where's yer sense o' adventure?"
I leant over the kitchen table, glaring down at him. "Now look Uncle Hobart," he looked up at me and I could see the moisture glistening on the tangled hairs protruding from his nose, "I am not, under any circumstances, herding those bloody geese all the way to Ealford. Have you got that?" Taking a deep breath to steady my trembling voice, I continued my tirade. "I was stupid enough to let you talk me into rearing the bloody things in the first place. I am not, repeat not, getting involved in a crazy stunt like this. I'm sick to death of those bloody geese and I've no intention of spending any more time with them than I have to. Is that quite clear?"
Uncle Hobart's eyes widened and I could see the fine, red veins radiating out from the corners. "But yer agreed it were a good idea ter buy 'em, so why're yer complaining now?"
"No, Uncle Hobart," I corrected him, "I did not agree that it was a good idea to buy them. I did as I always do and gave in to your wheedling ways for the sake of a quiet life. But this time it's going to be different and that means no herding geese because as soon as they're ready, and that won't be soon enough for me, I'm ringing Inisham Transport and booking a lorry to take them to Ealford. I've no intention of getting involved in any bloody goose herding, and that's final."
"But think o' the expense o' transporting 'em in a lorry," Uncle Hobart protested.
"I DON'T BLOODY CARE ABOUT THE EXPENSE!" I exploded.
He gave in quietly. At least that's what I thought at the time.
*
" ... and let's have a tin of peas please, Mrs Tumbutt."
"Here you are, my dear. And will there anything else?" she asked.
Shaking my head, I watched in fascination as she added up the long list of figures. She did this without the aid of an electronic cash register or a calculator and I knew from experience that there would be no mistake. No matter how long the list, Mrs Tumbutt always arrived at the right answer. She must have been a teacher's dream when she was at school.
"That'll be thirty six pound, twenty three, please," she said with a smile. I winced and handed over four ten-pound notes. The cost of living was getting steeper by the day. "Here you are then," she said, handing me my change, along with a large brown envelope.
I turned it over in my hands, a puzzled frown on my face. "What's this then?" I asked.
"It's for your uncle, my dear. He ordered it last week." I started to open the envelope but Mrs Tumbutt put a hand on my arm and stopped me. "Not in the shop, my dear. We don't want Miss Pinchard seeing it now, do we?" Mrs Tumbutt nodded towards the window and I saw a tall, thin, serious looking woman striding across the street towards the shop. She was dressed in a dull tweed suit, with matching hat. I looked at Mrs Tumbutt, raising my eyebrows. She leant forward and whispered at me. "It's an artistic magazine you see."
The bell over the shop doorway tinkled and a shadow fell across the counter as a demanding voice bellowed in my ear, "You, young man. Yes you. I want you to sign this petition for me. Disgusting I call it."
I looked into a humourless face, framed by grey hair that was pulled back tightly into a bun. Raising my eyebrows, I nodded at the sheet of paper that Miss Pinchard had clutched in her hand. "Why on earth would I want to sign a disgusting petition?" I asked innocently.
"No, you stupid little man. It isn't the petition that's disgusting, it's the reason the petition is needed that's disgusting!" Tossing her head in agitation, she tapped the paper with a lacquered fingernail. "It's that new massage parlour that's just been opened in the village. I want it closed down immediately. What's it called again? Oh yes, 'Hardons', that's it. Why the name alone should be grounds enough to get the place burnt to the ground."
I winked at Mrs Tumbutt. "But a nice massage can be very relaxing," I said, taking a step closer and wriggling my fingers in the air. "Look, I'll show you if you like."
"You'll do no such thing, you depraved monster!" she shrieked, bringing her umbrella sharply up between my legs. Then she rounded on Mrs Tumbutt. "You see the kind of thing that happens when the village is invaded by such perverted establishments? Why none of us will be safe in our beds at night."
Ignoring my strangled squawks and purple face, as I desperately clutched at my bruised testicles, they continued their conversation. "Why Miss Pinchard, my dear. What on earth could be wrong with a massage parlour?"
Miss Pinchard stretched herself to her fullest height and looked down her nose at Mrs Tumbutt. "Well really, Mrs Tumbutt. I didn't know you could be so naive. These places are establishments for fornication, not massage. They're used for," she dropped her voice to a dramatic whisper and looked pointedly at me, "...sex!"
I was too busy nursing my bruised nuts to worry about what Miss Pinchard thought of me, or the massage parlour for that matter.
Sniffing haughtily, she leant across the counter. "And those planning people are no better, you know. The minute I saw the planning application in the newspaper, I put in an objection. But they completely ignored it. Not even a letter of acknowledgement. I tell you Mrs Tumbutt, if that's the type of people we've got running the country today, it's no wonder we poor women are frightened to walk the streets at night. I ask you, is it any wonder that our villages are full of drug barons and other such riffraff?" She snorted angrily. "If I had my way, I'd castrate the lot of them."
Mrs Tumbutt stood silently, nodding her head, a glazed look in her eyes. I hurriedly removed my hand from between my legs in case Miss Pinchard got the wrong idea and decided to put her threat of castration into practice.
It was not until I’d sidled out of the shop that I realised I’d left my shopping on the counter. I was on my way back across the street when Miss Pinchard strode out of the shop and stood on the pavement looking up and down, obviously searching for more victims to sign her petition. Amongst the sheaves of paper in her hand was the brown envelope that Mrs Tumbutt had given me. Miss Pinchard spotted it, pulled it out of the pile and studied it for a moment. Shaking her head in agitation, she turned back to the shop, then changing her mind she began pulling at the flap of the envelope. At that point, I decided it might be more prudent to collect my shopping some other time.
*
"Away ter me," Uncle Hobart called and I watched in admiration as Midge, his sheep dog, ran to a new position. He made it look so easy. "See, Peter boy," he said. "'Away Ter Me', means go ter the right and, 'Come By', means go ter the left." I nodded, straining to hear what he was saying above the noise of two hundred honking geese. "'Ere girl. Come 'ere." Uncle Hobart slapped his thigh and his dog trotted back to him and sat at his feet, nose expectantly raised. Pointing at the geese, he nodded at me. "Now yer 'ave a try."
"Away ter me," I called, watching in horror as Midge ran straight through the middle of the gaggle, scattering them in all directions.
Uncle Hobart shook his head, slowly pursing his lips. "Put more feeling into it, Peter boy. Yer talking ter a dog, not yer bleedin' girlfriend."
I called Midge back and tried again, and this time I managed to get her herding some geese in the general direction I wanted them to go. I smiled in triumph but could see this wasn’t going to be easy.
"That's better," Uncle Hobart praised me, taking off his cloth-cap and scratching his head. "Now try sending 'er round t'other way."
We spent the rest of the afternoon practising with the dog and by the time evening had rolled around, I was beginning to get the hang of it.
*
I studied Uncle Hobart as he stuffed his supper into his mouth, breadcrumbs from the roughly cut cheese sandwich scattering down the front of his jumper; the collar of his faded frayed shirt showing a thin strip of white material from beneath; his grubby trousers tied up with a piece of bailer twine. And as I watched this strange old man, I wondered for the thousandth time what power he held over me.
He burped, frowning. "Don't yer worry none, Peter boy. It'll go like clockwork, yer'll see. Yer can trust me. She's a good dog."
"It isn't the dog that I don't trust," I mumbled under my breath, polishing off the last of my cheese and onion toastie. Closing my eyes, I tried to pinpoint the exact moment I’d capitulated this time, but for the life of me I couldn’t.
"Yer quiet," Uncle Hobart observed after a while. "What's up?"
I smiled at him tiredly and dropped the crust of my toastie under the table for the dog. "Oh nothing really, just thinking," I replied.
"Not trying ter back out on me are yer?" he checked with a frown. "Yer 'ave made a promise yer know."
I raised my eyebrows. "No, not really." In a strange kind of way, I had starting to look forward to herding the geese to Ealford.
"'Ave yer seen this?" he asked, holding up a small yellow poster. "It's an advert for that new brothel in the village."
I nodded. "It's a massage parlour, not a brothel," I corrected him.
"Massage me arse."
"No thanks," I answered. "That's the last thing in the world I'd want to massage, thank you very much."
Screwing the poster into a small ball, Uncle Hobart tossed it into the kitchen sink. "I 'eard there's going ter be a protest march ter get it closed."
"Yeah, that's right." I stood up and stretched. "Well, I think I'll be off to bed now. I've a lot to do tomorrow." I shot him a meaningful look. "Thanks to some moron, who's sitting not too far away."
He smiled, saluting me with his tankard.
*
"Ere, put this on," Uncle Hobart instructed, holding out a bright yellow jerkin.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Advertising, ain't it?" he replied, opening it out so I could read the message printed across the back.
'LET HARDON HANDS REACH THE PARTS
THAT OTHERS CAN'T.'
I frowned at him. "You're bloody joking! You don't really expect me to wear this, do you?" But before I had the chance to protest further, he had nipped around behind me and pulled the jerkin up my arms.
"Now don't yer worry none, Peter boy, it looks just great. And they’re paying us good money fer yer ter wear it. Think o' what we'll be able ter do with all that extra cash."
I groaned, shaking my head in disbelief. Once again I was being conned into doing something that was sure to prove disastrous. "Okay then," I agreed begrudgingly, "but if I'm going to wear this, then I want the money, understand?"
Ignoring me, Uncle Hobart held open the field gate, waving me through. Then off we set for Ealford Village; Midge, two hundred boisterous geese, and me.
*
We’d just turned into the High Street when I spotted the first signs of trouble. Marching towards us was a group of fifty or so angry looking women, carrying placards and shouting slogans. At their head strode the indubitable, Miss Pinchard. We met in the middle of the long winding high street, bang outside Hardons Massage Parlour and pretty quickly there was one big milling crowd; a mixture of screaming women, honking geese, and a barking dog trying to round up everything in sight.
Miss Pinchard's voice rose above the general melee. "What don't we want?" she demanded from her followers.
"We don't want Hardons!" they roared back.
"When don't we want it?" Miss Pinchard shouted.
"Now! Now! Now!" came the reply.
Before I knew what was happening, everybody had joined in the chant, shouting, "We don't want Hardons! We don't want Hardons!" The noise began to attract the attention of passers by and doors flew open as people came out of their houses to swell the growing throng. All the extra people milling about caused the geese to take fright and they scattered in panic.
I sent Midge out to gather them together again. "Midge, come by," I ordered and off she went, circling the frightened birds.
I heard Miss Pinchard's voice shouting from behind me. "Look there ladies, over there. What a nerve. That pervert is actually advertising the place on the back of his coat."
I felt a hundred pairs of eyes bore into my back and turning around, came face to face with the leader of the protest. "You're making a mistake," I tried to reason with her, "I'm no pervert, I'm just doing someone a favour, that's all. Now for Christ's sake will you go away and let me get on with my job."
Turning back to her supporters, Miss Pinchard flapped her placard in the air. "Not only does he fornicate ladies, he also takes the Lord's name in vain."
The crowd drew nearer. "I'm not a fornicator," I shouted desperately, "I'm just doing my job."
Miss Pinchard waved a brown envelope over my head. "Do you deny leaving this in poor Mrs Tumbutt's shop yesterday morning?" she shouted at me, her eyes wide with delight at my discomfort.
"Well no, but..."
"Ha, he admits it ladies." Deftly pulling the girlie magazine from the envelope, she held it aloft for everyone to see.
For one brief moment the whole street became silent, then a sharp creak rent the air as the door of Hardons Massage Parlour slowly opened. A short, fat man, in a pin stripped suit, gingerly stepped out. He stared at the crowd. The crowd stared back. He took a stumbling step backwards. The crowd took a shuffling step forwards. Running a finger around the inside of his shirt collar, the man nervously licked his lips, taking a deep breath. The crowd sighed in unison. Suddenly the fat man lost his nerve and went galloping off up the High Street with the baying mob hard on his heels, shouting, "Castrate the pervert, castrate the pervert," at the tops of their voices.
I heaved a sigh of relief at my escape and carried on gathering up the geese. I’d just managed to collect them into a manageable group again when I was hit across the shoulders with a placard.
"Don't think that you've got away with this," Miss Pinchard shouted in my ear, hitting me with her placard again.
"Get off me, you stupid bloody woman!" I protested. "Get off ... get away from me." Midge, taking this as an order, jumped straight into the middle of the geese, scattering them all over the place. "Oh bollocks!" I swore, running after a bunch heading straight through the open door of Hardons Massage Parlour.
The interior of the building was dimly lit, the corridor walls covered in wine-red drapes. Pictures of half-naked women hung everywhere and soft music played in the background. I followed the noise of the honking geese up a narrow staircase, to find myself in a large, well lit room. Stopping on the threshold, my mouth agape, I took in the scene.
Leaning against one wall was a large wagon-wheel, and handcuffed to this by his hands and feet, wearing only a rawhide waistcoat, a pair of cowboy chaps and a ten-gallon hat, was Detective Inspector Grunt. In the middle of the room, a bucking bronco machine was in full motion. Sitting astride the saddle was a young girl dressed in a cowboy hat, thigh length boots and spurs. Every time the machine bucked, she brought her whip down across Grunt's erect and impressive looking manhood, her shouts of, "Yeeha," perfectly timed with Grunt's moans of pleasure.
Overwhelmed by the scene I stumbled backwards, treading on a goose. It honked in indignation, lunging at me. Jumping backwards, I tripped, staggering into in the middle of the room. As I fell, I instinctively threw my arm out for balance, knocking the control lever of the bucking bronco horse to its highest setting. The girl's cries of pleasure abruptly turned to cries of horror as the machine started bouncing and bucking like some demented demon. Smoke issued from deep within the works and, as the bronco reached even higher speeds, the girl became a blur. Through the swirling smoke and ear splitting screams I could hear a shrill hissing and honking, as every goose in the place let rip. The noise was incredible.
Suddenly the bucking bronco locked into immobility, throwing the girl clear. She flew through the air in a tangle of arms and legs, and I watched awe-struck as she pitched into the wagon wheel, knocking it away from the wall. Stepping nimbly aside I held my breath as the wheel, with Grunt still attached, rolled ponderously across the room. Reaching the top of the stairs, it hesitated for a moment then plunged down with a rumble that shook the building. Quickly gathering speed it raced along the hallway, Grunt's terrified screams marking its passage through the plate glass front door.
Hurrying outside I saw Miss Pinchard standing with her mouth agape, watching the wheel wobble its slow way along the pavement towards her. When it finally came to rest opposite to where she stood, Grunt found himself suspended upside down, his large penis, now shrivelled to half its former glory, pointing at her nose. The tableau stayed that way for a few seconds, then slowly, inevitably, the wheel toppled over. Miss Pinchard opened her mouth in preparation for a loud scream but all she managed was a strangled squawk as Grunt's bruised and battered member slide unremittingly into her mouth. Acting instinctively she bit down, hard.
It was sometime later, as I was helping the para-medics load Detective Inspector Grunt and Miss Pinchard into the back of the ambulance, that the driver called me over. "Do us a favour mate," he said, "see if you can find his dick, will you? You never know, the doctors just might be able to sew it back on again for the poor sod."
I began a desperate search amongst two hundred honking geese, not holding out a lot of hope.