*
"You sure you're up to this?" I asked Uncle Hobart, worried that, as it had only been a short time since Aunt Martha's funeral, helping to organise the fete for the vicar might prove a bit too much
"I'll be alright," he said. "Anyway, it's some'at ter do, ain't it?" Uncle Hobart sounded tired and despondent.
I held out a can of beer but he shook his head dismissively. That really worried me. Refusing a drink was something Uncle Hobart seldom did. Sitting down at the kitchen table, I opened the can. "Oh Christ!" I exclaimed.
"What's the matter?" he asked softly.
I pointed at the table. "Look, the bloody cat's crapped on the table-cloth." Wrinkling my nose in disgust, I got up to fetch some kitchen towel. "The dirty little bastard." I complained. "What's it go and do that for?"
Uncle Hobart leant forward, clicking his dentures at the offending object. "It sure looks like cat's crap," he commented, poking the mess with his finger. Then sticking the liberally encrusted digit under his nose, he sniffed vigorously, nodding. "And it sure smells like cat's crap." I watched in fascinated horror as he proceeded to stick his finger in his mouth, sucking it noisily, smacking his lips in obvious pleasure. "Aye, that's cat's crap alright," he confirmed with a broad grin.
I felt my stomach do a flip. "You really are the most... horrid... disgusting... perverted..." I faltered to a stop as he barked a short laugh.
"Got yer going there, didn't I?" he said, shaking his head in amusement. Picking up the cat crap, he proceeded to lick it, a huge grin plastered across his face. "Don't worry, Peter boy, it's just one o' them tricks ones." Chortling to himself, Uncle Hobart continued licking. "Good ain't it? I covered it in chocolate, so's it'd look more real." His rumbling laughter filled the kitchen again. "God, yer should 'ave seen the look on yer face."
*
"Absolutely nothing?" I asked in disbelief.
Uncle Hobart shook his head. "Nah. I used ter rely on Martha fer things like that, yer see."
"But how can we have run out of everything all at the same time?" I persisted. "Haven't you done any shopping at all this week?"
Studying the floor, Uncle Hobart made small circles with the toe of his shoe, sighing heavily. "Didn't really feel up to it, did I? It were ... Well, yer know ... Shopping reminds me o' the times when me and Martha used ter do it tergether, like."
I put a hand on his shoulder, feeling like a right bastard. "Oh, Uncle Hobart, I'm sorry," I apologised. "I really am. I wasn't thinking. Look, I'll do the shopping myself today, okay?"
"Chippy's still open," he muttered quietly.
"Okay, you sit there and I'll go and get us some chips. Would you like that?"
"And a bit o' fish?"
"And a bit of fish," I agreed.
"And some cans o' beer?"
My smile faltered. "And some cans of beer."
"And while yer at it, yer'll need ter get some petrol, the car's empty. Oh and when yer in the garage getting the petrol, see if they got any o' that chocolate I like, and some..." Snatching up the car keys, I headed for the door before the list got any longer. "'Ere, yer'll need this," Uncle Hobart called after me, tossing his credit card in my direction.
I flicked the card over, frowning. "You're not supposed to write your number on the back like that, you bloody idiot. Suppose someone nicks it, they could clear your account out?"
"'Ow the 'ell else am I supposed ter remember me number?" he complained. "I ain't Bamber bleedin' Gascoine yer know." Sighing, I headed out the door. "And don't be long," he shouted after me, "I'm bleedin' starving!"
*
It bleeped once then sat silently, winking at me with a dull green glow. I tried again and got the same result.
"Hell! I must have punched the wrong number in," I muttered to myself, balancing my chips on the edge of the cash dispenser. "Now where the hell did I put that bloody number?" I was searching my pockets when it dawned on me. "Oh hell! It's written on the back of the card, and that's stuck in the bloody machine."
In a temper, I thumped the keypad, snatching my hand away as the clear plastic cover snapped closed. I could hardly believe my eyes. The bloody thing had stolen my fish suppers! There they were, two portions of cod and chips, gently steaming away inside the cash dispenser. Suddenly all the years of frustration and anger coalesced, and I totally lost my head.
"Right you... you... bastard!" I screamed at the top of my voice, my shouts rebounding from the bank's impressive façade, echoing up and down the deserted street. "You've gone too bloody far this time." Running to the car, I yanked open the door, grunting in satisfaction when I found the crowbar was still under the front seat where I’d left it. "Right, let's see how much you like this, you dumb, chip grabbing, bloody machine." Swinging the crowbar around my head, I charged the cash dispenser at full tilt. "Nick my bloody supper would you? We'll soon see about that." Smashing at the plastic cover had little effect - apart from creating a couple of small cracks and a few extra scratches - so I pushed the end of the crowbar between the cover and the chrome-plated metal frame. Standing on my toes, I leant into the crowbar, determined that an inanimate object wasn’t getting away with nicking my supper.
I was so intent on what I was doing that I was totally unaware somebody was standing behind me. Not until I heard a discrete cough that is. Ignoring it, I continued with my struggles, shrugging my shoulder in irritation when someone tapped it. "Sod off," I growled, "unless you want me to bend this crowbar over your head, that is."
The reply was calm but firm. "I really don't think that would be a very good idea, sir." Looking over my shoulder, I came nose to nose with a serious looking face, topped by a policeman's pointed helmet. He smiled patiently at me. "Trying to rob the cash-point machine then, are we sir?"
Doing my best to hide the crowbar behind my back, I shrugged nonchalantly. "Well not really, officer. You see the damned thing's stolen my supper. I was just trying to get it back."
The policeman’s eyebrows rose and he peered over my shoulder. I moved my body, trying to hide the crowbar and we began to weave back and forth, almost dancing. Finally he nodded at the cash machine. "So it's stolen your supper has it, sir? Pinched it from you when you weren't looking no doubt." He raised his eyebrows even further and, for a moment, I thought they were about to disappear under his helmet.
I nodded desperately. "Yes, that's right. Look." I pointed at the scratched and cracked plastic cover.
The policeman leant over, carefully examining the machine. Then he glanced up at me, back at the machine and slowly straightened, with a look that said he might well be dealing with the local nutter; another casualty of Care in the Community. "I'm afraid that I can't see a thing in there, sir. The cover appears to be all steamed up. Perhaps it's waiting for you to give it a second helping?"
"Of course it's all steamed up, you bloody moron! That's the whole point. It's got my bloody chips in there." I stamped my foot in frustration. "What are you, thick or something?"
The officer glared down at me for a moment and I saw the recognition suddenly flicker into his eyes. "Wait a minute," he said, "you're Barns, aren't you?" I nodded, breathing hard. "Yes I thought so," he continued. "We've had instructions to keep an eye out for you." My stomach shrivelled up. "From Detective Inspector Grunt, it was." Tilting his head to one side, he thought hard for a moment. "Something about locking you up at the first opportunity, I think it was." He nodded slowly. "And I got the distinct impression that he wasn't too fussy about how we managed it either." Placing his hands behind his back, he rose up onto his toes, a wide grin plastered across his face. "He's going to be very interested when I tell him how I found you trying to rob the bank, isn't he?"
I began to squirm, turning on my best smile. "Now look officer, surely there's no need..."
The policeman reached around behind my back, pulling the crowbar from my hand. "I think I'll just take that, if you don't mind, sir. Now if I were you, I'd toddle off home before I got myself into any more trouble. And I'd thank my lucky stars that the officer who found me attacking the cash machine was going home at the time and didn't want the fuss of typing up triplicate forms before he got there."
I nodded eagerly. "Right officer. Yes of course. Thank you very much." Jumping into my car, I shot off before he had the chance to change his mind, or notice that my tax disc was four months out of date.
Fifty minutes later found me tramping up the lane leading to our farm, contemplating ways in which I could slowly torture Uncle Hobart to death. The car was abandoned a mile back, with the petrol gauge stuck on empty. In my hurry to get away from the policeman, I’d forgotten to stop at the garage to fill up with petrol.
*
Opening the hall door, I shouted up the stairs. "Did you remember to ring the Water Board and tell them to turn on the water supply in the back field?"
Uncle Hobart's muffled voice floated back down to me. "Course I did. Stop yer bleedin' worrying, will yer."
Sitting down at the kitchen table, I cracked open a can of cold beer. It was no surprise to me that Uncle Hobart walked in a few seconds later. He could hear a beer can opening at five hundred yards.
"Got all them stalls organised, then?" he asked as he sat down.
I nodded glumly. "Yeah, but something's bound to go wrong. It always does."
"Everything'll be fine, yer'll see." He opened his can and took a deep pull. "What time's the vicar coming round then?"
"About three, I think." I leant forward, massaging the back of my neck. I’d been hard at it since six that morning, setting up tables and stalls for the fete. The strain was beginning to tell.
"Told yer it'd be easy, didn't I?" Uncle Hobart commented, raising his can in a salute. I gave him a smouldering look. He just winked at me. "Why don't yer get yer 'ead down fer a bit and I'll call yer when the vicar shows up?" he said.
Standing up, I stretched until my fingertips brushed the low ceiling. "You know, that's a bloody good idea. I think I'll do just that."
*
It must have been the shouting that woke me, and I sat up, confused for a moment. It came again. "Roll up, roll up. Who’s going ter be next ter try their luck, then?" The voice sounded familiar.
Glancing at the clock, I swore. It was five thirty, the Fete had been going for a couple of hours already and Uncle Hobart had not called me. I looked out of the bedroom window. Not a person in sight. Where was everybody? Hurrying downstairs, I ran out of the back door and into the field.
I heard the same voice shouting again. "'Ere yer go then. Only one pound a throw. Don't push, there's plenty o' balls fer everyone."
"What's he bloody up to now?" I muttered, hurrying across the field.
I eventually came to a crowd gathered around a huge jet of water pumping from a hole in the ground and looking up towards the top of this impromptu fountain, I could not believe my eyes. There, bouncing about on the very apex of the jet, like some huge ball in a bingo machine, was Aunt Martha!
Open-mouthed, I read the sign that Uncle Hobart had hastily erected.
KNOCK THE LADY OFF THE SPOUT.
ONLY ONE POUND A THROW.
TOP CASH PRIZES.
"Must 'ave bust the water mains when we dug Martha's grave," Uncle Hobart whispered in my ear as I stood by his side, mouth agape. "When the Water Board turned on the supply for the fete, this 'appened." He clicked his teeth, tutting, shaking his head sadly. "Still, yer 'ave ter make the best o' a bad situation, don't yer."