As soon as the car stopped, Aunt Martha hopped out to inspect the flowerbeds bordering the police station car park. I unwound myself from the car, pulled my coat collar tighter against the raw wind and joined her.
"Camellias," she told me as I stopped beside her, "I've always loved camellias."
"Oh, right," I answered, my breath punctuated by bursts of grey mist condensing on the cold winter air.
"Christmas roses," she mused, more to herself than me. "Aren't they beautiful?"
"Well, being as it's Christmas, perhaps I'd better pick you some?" I suggested.
Leaning over the low hedge I started picking blooms for her but as I did so, a window shot open with a clatter that made us both jump.
A hard-edged voice boomed out across the car park at us. "Touch those plants again and you'll be eating your Christmas turkey in the ruddy police cells!" Detective Inspector Grunt shouted. "Now sod off, before I set the police dogs on you."
I sheepishly withdrew my hand, raising my eyebrows at Aunt Martha.
"Come on Peter," she said, pulling at my elbow. "I really don't know what the world's coming to when decent people can't admire a few beautiful flowers without being shouted at. It's no wonder that young people have no respect for the forces of law-and-order, if that's how they behave."
The window slammed shut again and we slid ourselves into the car. I winked at Aunt Martha, placing four white blooms on the dashboard. She tutted, shaking her head at me, but smiled happily as she picked them up, holding them to her prodigious nose.
"Happy Christmas from Detective Inspector Grunt," I said with a wide grin.
*
"For goodness sake, Uncle Hobart, don't talk such rubbish!" I said.
"It's true," he snapped back, "I read it in the National Geographic when I were at the dentist t'other day. People are paying good money for unusual pets. And there's nowt more unusual than a skunk, is there? They de-scent 'em somehow first, o' course. They're a status symbols, ain't they? Anyway, the magazine reckoned as there's lots o' money being paid for 'em."
We were stuck at the back of the pub, pushed up against an arch that led out to the toilets and every time someone wanted to use the loo, I was forced to take part in a shuffling dance with them. Whilst this was quite enjoyable when it was a young girl, cuddling up to some sweaty farm labourer who hadn't washed for a couple of days, wasn't my idea of fun; especially as some of them worked at the local pig-farm.
I leant over Uncle Hobart, shouting in his ear above the noise of the latest Spice Girls hit blasting from a set of speakers six inches above our heads. "Come on," I pleaded, "let's go somewhere else, I can't hear myself think in here."
He nodded at the toilet, indicating he wanted to pay a visit first and I pushed through the crowd after him. The toilet was an oasis of silence and I sighed heartily, unzipping my trousers, standing at the urinal playing chase the butt-end along the gutter. "This skunk thing," I said, "do you really think we could make money at it?"
"Sure," he replied, "there's loads o' money ter be made out o' skunk."
Someone coughed quietly in one of the stalls, rustling some toilet paper.
"But we don't know anything about it," I protested.
Uncle Hobart considered my objection for a few moments, then clicked his dentures at me. "Reckon yer just grow 'em and sell 'em," he said finally. "What's ter know?" He shrugged. "Tell yer what, I've a mate name o' Doby who could set us up like. 'E went off ter America ter get married years ago, I bet 'e'd send us some over ter give us a start if I asked 'im." Uncle Hobart zipped up and clicked his dentures again. "Then all we'd 'ave ter do is sell the skunk and make ourselves some easy money."
"Skunk eh?" I contemplated. "Well, I'll think about it, okay?"
*
I was clearing snow from the back path when I heard an indistinct shout. I’d been humming to myself, so wasn’t sure if I’d actually heard anything or not. Hearing nothing more, I carried on pushing the big red plastic scoop. It was three days before Christmas and I was looking forward to the festivities. Christmas had never held much joy for me in the past. Both my parents died in a car crash when I was just a kid and I’d never forgotten that miserable Christmas day all those years ago. What six year old would, coming down to open his presents to be told both his parents were dead?
I’d passed through a succession of homes and hostels, which made me a bit of a loner, so while everyone else was busy celebrating the birth of Christianity, I usually shut myself away in my room, reading a book. This year though, it was going to be different. This year, for the first time, I was going to celebrate Christmas with people that I could really call family. I was looking forward to it, and had planned some special surprises for Uncle Hobart and Aunt Martha. I could picture their broad smiles as they opened my gifts to them.
There it was again, a shout. Leaning on my shovel, I listened intently and yes, I had been right, someone was shouting for help. My stomach flipped, it sounded very much like Uncle Hobart. Dropping the shovel. I ran around the side of the house, wondering what the silly old sod had done this time. It took a long search but I eventually found him crouching on the roof of the garden shed.
"What're you doing up there?" I shouted up to him.
"I'm stuck," he called back. "I can't get back down. Don't just stand there yer cretin, give us a bleedin' n 'and." He was hanging on precariously to the apex of the frost-covered roof, shivering with the cold.
"What the hell did you climb up there for?" I asked, not really certain that I wanted to know the answer.
Uncle Hobart slid a couple of inches and clutched at the ridge in fright. There was a definite note of panic in his voice as he lambasted me for not moving quickly enough. "Will yer 'urry it up?" he demanded. "I'm freezing me bleedin' goolies off up 'ere."
Climbing onto the fence that ran along the back lane, I put a knee on top of the open shed door and levered myself onto the roof. The snow and ice made the climb slippery and I heaved a sigh of relief as I finally managed to haul myself astride the ridge. I began inching my way towards him. "Hang on," I called, "I'm almost there."
Uncle Hobart turned his head to look at me and I could tell from the expression on his face, I was going to be far too late. Giving a short cry, Uncle Hobart lost his grip and began sliding down the roof, gathering speed as he went. I instinctively made a grab for him, which was a big mistake because I overbalanced, fell forwards onto my face and began a slippery decent after him. I somehow managed to get my feet under me, spending the next few heart-stopping moments running on the spot as my feet slipped on the icy asphalt. The unequal struggle didn’t last long before my feet finally shot out from under me and I crashed down onto the roof again.
A sharp crack followed my landing as the roof collapsed, pitching me down into the interior of the shed. I landed on my back across the lawn mower, in the 'V' shape where the handles join the cylinder sides. My head was resting on the cylinder and my legs were draped over the bar that supported the rubber-covered handles. I groaned softly, vaguely aware that Uncle Hobart was standing over me, three blurry figures, slowly swimming in and out of focus.
Struggling upright, I made a grab for one of the rubber grips, hearing Uncle Hobart shout a warning. My hand hit the starter button, spluttering the mower into life. Frantically trying to dismount the trembling machine, I swung my legs sideways, catching my trouser cuff on the clutch lever, which engaged the drive. The mower shuddered twice, blasted hot exhaust gasses into my left ear, then took off like a pip squeezed between thumb and forefinger. As the mower propelled me along the shed floor at an ever-increasing speed, I was vaguely aware of strange, violet coloured lights flashing passed overhead, and when it mounted a line of grow-bags, the blades clattered into life, cropping neat strips from my hair, until I ended up looking like some seventies punk star.
Hitting the end of the shed at full tilt, the mower crashed through the wall, splintering the weatherboards outwards in a shower of matchwood. As I shot into the garden, more of my hair disappeared and I was now practically bald. The mower continued racing around the front garden like some demented piece of machinery from Terminator II, until a snowdrift finally put paid to its attempts at escape. By the time Uncle Hobart dug me out, I was shivering uncontrollably and turning a very worrying shade of blue.
*
I nailed the last of the weatherboards over the hole in the shed wall and sat down in the old armchair that Uncle Hobart kept there. He was sitting on his workbench, drinking from a can of beer and tossed me one as I sat down, hissing open another for himself. Cocking an eyebrow at me he frowned. "Well," he said, "I suppose I owe yer an explanation, don't I?"
"Bloody right!" I agreed with some feeling.
He looked about in an embarrassed silence for a moment, then gave a shrug. Jumping down from the workbench, he dug around underneath, and after a lot of cursing, finally pulled out a bundle of red cloth. Spreading it out on the worktop, he stood back.
"A Father Christmas outfit?" I said, rubbing my fingers along the white trimmings.
"S'right," he agreed sheepishly. "Yer see, I were up on the shed roof 'cos I were practising climbing fer when I deliver the Christmas presies."
My face lit up with a broad smile. "You mean you're going to climb onto the roof and put our presents down the chimney, dressed up as Father Christmas?" When Uncle Hobart nodded, I clapped my hands at the picture that brought to mind. "Just wait 'till I tell Aunt Martha about this," I crowed in delight. "She'll love this one."
Holding up his hand, Uncle Hobart gave me an earnest look, the fine wrinkles lining his weathered face deepening. "Don't tell Martha, Peter boy," he said, "it'll spoil the surprise I've got lined up fer 'er." Then looking around at the wreckage in the shed, he shook his head. "Mind yer, I'm not sure if I can save anything from this lot."
I followed his gaze, taking in the scene. To keep in the heat, Uncle Hobart had lined the inside of the shed with polystyrene and he'd set up an automatic system to keep the twenty or so grow-bags placed along each wall well watered. Violet-blue, quick-grow, tubular lighting was strung over the bags, bathing the mixture of vegetables and plants growing in the rich peat with a soft light, but unfortunately, the escaping mower had destroyed the majority of them.
"Thought it would be nice ter grow some special veggies fer our Christmas dinner, like" Uncle Hobart commented in a subdued voice, looking around at what was left; mostly denuded stalks and some scraggy foliage. "Oh well," he said, sounding a touch more enthusiastic, "perhaps there's still a chance of saving some o' 'em."
*
"Happy Christmas, Uncle Hobart. Happy Christmas, Aunt Martha." My voice sounded over-emotional, but whether from all the excitement or all the alcohol I'd consumed since getting up that morning, was anyone's guess.
It was Christmas Eve and we had decided to give each other our presents early so that we could have a long lay-in on Christmas morning. I watched Uncle Hobart and Aunt Martha open the presents I'd given them, my heart filling with all the Christmases I'd lost as a child. Quickly turning away, I studied the cards lining the mantle, not wanting anyone to spot the tears in my eyes.
As I turned back, Uncle Hobart held up the bright yellow cardigan that Aunt Martha had knitted for him, winking at me. "I'll just go and get your present now," he told Aunt Martha. "Peter here'll keep yer entertained while I'm gone, won't yer?" Flashing me a warning look, he scuttled through the door.
I was pouring Aunt Martha another port when we heard a clatter from outside, followed by a light tapping on the roof. "Santa Clause arriving," I thought to myself, picturing Uncle Hobart tottering across the roof tiles, present in hand.
"What on earth's that?" Aunt Martha asked, glancing up at the ceiling.
"It's ... er ... Its probably..." I faltered to a stop, wondering how I was going to divert her attention away from the racket on the roof until Uncle Hobart finally made his appearance in the fireplace. As it happened, I needn't have worried about diverting Aunt Martha's attention, because the local police did just that for me.
The front door suddenly exploded inwards amid a shower of splintering wood as twenty very large and very aggressive looking policemen tumbled into the hall and before we had a chance to do so much as pull a cracker, Aunt Martha and I were surrounded by armed police in riot gear. We were being handcuffed and read our 'rights' when Detective Inspector Grunt strolled in, a huge grin distorting his usually sullen face.
"Well, Barns," he rumbled, nodding at me, "I've got you bang to rights this time, old son." He tutted, shaking his head and smiling expansively at some private thought. "Getting involved in drug dealing was a very stupid mistake, even for a couple of idiots like you and that no good uncle of yours." Pushing his face close to mine, he glared at me and I caught the faint whiff of whisky on his breath. "Now tell me," he growled menacingly, "where's that seedy little short-arsed uncle of yours got to?"
*
"For the hundredth time Inspector, they're just bloody vegetables." I insisted wearily.
Grunt was sitting opposite me, across the interview table. Sergeant Shooter sat at his side, taking notes. A young solicitor's clerk was seated off to one side, looking a bit overwhelmed by it all. I knew just how he felt.
Trying to ignore the gentle whirling noises of the recording equipment, I sighed loudly and flopped back into the uncomfortable, red plastic chair. It had been a long night, I was depressed and disillusioned. Being interviewed by Detective Inspector Grunt was not my idea of an ideal way to spend Christmas Day.
"Let's start again, shall we?" Grunt growled. "Where did you get the drugs that you were growing? And who were you selling them to?" He leant forward, fixing me with his dark eyes. "Well?" But before I could protest my innocence again, he held up a hand to forestall my answer. "Don't bother denying it, Barns. You and that no good uncle of yours have been growing marihuana in your shed, I know that. Come on, admit it man. You did, didn't you? I've sent samples to the lab boys, you know. They'll confirm what those plants are. There'll be no denying it then. Come on, there's no point in keeping up this pretence that you're innocence. Your best bet is to confess and make a clean breast of it. It'll go easier for you in the long run if you do."
"Er..." The solicitor's clerk held up a hand but Grunt gave him a withering look and the clerk went back to picking the loose flesh around the quicks of his fingers.
"I know it was your uncle who talked you into this, Peter." Grunt's harsh voice carried across the table to me. He was trying to sound friendly but failing miserably. "He's the one that thought up this scam of growing marihuana, wasn't he?" I looked at Grunt as though he'd gone completely demented, then rolled my eyes towards the ceiling. "I overheard you," he continued, leaning forward on his elbows. "The other night, in the toilet at the Duck and Anvil. I was having a dump and I overheard you and your uncle talking about it."
"Talking about what?" I couldn't make sense of what he was saying.
"Skunk," Grunt persisted, "you were talking about growing skunk."
I looked at him with a blank expression. "Just what the hell's growing skunks got to do with it?"
"Don't try and deny it, Barns," Grunt growled menacingly, reverting to type. "I broke into that shed of yours and saw it with my own eyes." His forehead furrowed. "A classic set-up if ever I saw one. Lights, irrigation, grow-bags, the bloody works. I've seen it all before, a hundred times, so don't try and act the innocent with me."
"But..." I began my protestations again, stopping as a sudden thought pushed it way into my mind. It almost sounded as if Grunt thought that we had been growing ... but I quickly pushed the thought away. It was too ridiculous for words.
"But ... what?" Grunt wanted to know.
"But they're vegetables," I told him again. "Vegetables for our Christmas dinner."
Grunt's expression didn't change straight away, it took a few seconds to build. First a small tick appeared in the corner of his mouth, then his eyes closed tightly, then he threw back his head, filling the room with raucous laughter. "Did you hear that, Shooter?" he spluttered ecstatically. "Vegetables for his Christmas dinner. Now I've heard the bloody lot!"
A soft knock interrupted proceedings and Grunt wiped the tears from his eyes, indicating that Shooter should answer it. I heard the soft murmuring of voices, then Shooter closed the door and came back to the table. Sitting down, he carefully placed a sheath of papers in front of Grunt, smoothing them out gently, a worried expression on his face.
"Ah, the lab reports," Grunt guessed.
Shooter nodded, throwing the solicitor's clerk a concerned look. "I think..." he began, but Grunt cut him short.
"Leave the thinking to me, old son," Grunt said, turning to me with a condescending smile. "Well, Barns, let's see what the report says, shall we?" Spreading the papers out in front of him, he began reading aloud, his voice growing more incredulous as he proceeded. "...mostly consisting of vegetables and other common garden plants. Brussel-sprouts, tomatoes, peppers..." his voice faded away as he scanned the rest of the document. Finally, screwing the report into a tight ball, Grunt leapt to his feet with his fists clenched tightly at his sides, breathing noisily through his open mouth, his face dangerously swollen with suffused blood. It looked as though he was about to explode. "You bloody idiot," he screamed at Sergeant Shooter. "Why didn't you take samples of everything growing in the shed, like I told you to?"
Shooter frowned at the verbal assault. "But I did," he protested.
"Well why the hell is there no trace of the skunk then?" Grunt shouted, causing fine particles of dust to drift down from the light fittings. "Where is it? What the hell have those two imbeciles done with it?"
I glanced at the solicitor's clerk, raising my eyebrows.
"Skunk," he responded, happy to be part of the proceedings at last, "is a Class A drug. A very potent form of Marihuana, only recently available in Britain. Very strong and very expensive"
"Skunk's a drug?" I repeated with incredulity as that old familiar feeling started in the pit of my stomach.
"That's right," the clerk confirmed with a nod.
"But we were talking about skunks," I said, turning to Shooter. "You know, skunks. Those black and white stripped things that look like giant squirrels. Big bushy tails and really smelly arses."
A palpable silence descended on the room and we all sat staring at each other. Detective Inspector Grunt was turning an unusual puce colour, while Sergeant Shooter was looking distinctly uncomfortable.
The solicitor's clerk smiled broadly. "Well, in that case," he said getting to his feet, "I think..."
"Shut up and sit down." Grunt barked at him. "If I can't do this little turd on drugs charges, then I'll ruddy well think of something else. Destroying police property for a start. And don't try and wriggle your way out of that one, old son," he warned me, "because I saw you picking those Camellias with my own eyes." Turning to Sergeant Shooter, he stabbed a finger in my direction. "Book him," he ordered. "Then get him the hell out of my sight." At that, Grunt stormed from the room, ranting about Camellias and the unfairness of life.
*
"You light the fire and I'll get the kettle on," Aunt Martha instructed me. "Brrr, it's freezing cold in here." She rubbed her hands together. "I'd have thought the least Hobart could have done was light the fire."
Piling paper and sticks in the grate, I set them alight and when they were well caught, threw some coal on top. "Where is he, anyway?" I shouted through to Aunt Martha, who was in the kitchen filling the kettle. She mumbled something I didn't catch. "What's that? I didn't hear you," I shouted back.
"I said, I'm up 'ere, yer bleedin' cretin. What are yer, deaf or some'at? I've been stuck up here all bleedin' night."
I looked around the room with a frown. Checked behind the sofa, then under the chairs. Nothing, no sign of anyone. Then a thought occurred to me and walked across to the fireplace. "Is that you, Uncle Hobart?" I shouted up the chimney.
"Put that fire out," his voice wailed down to me. "Yer've set me bleedin' boots alight."
"Aunt Martha! Aunt Martha!" I called in a panic. "Uncle Hobart's stuck up the chimney and I've lit the fire. Quick, give me a hand to put it out." A deep, throaty coughing started up in the chimney and the smell of burning leather grew quite overpowering. "Quick, fetch some water!" I screamed, in full panic mode now.
"Oh! ... Oh! ... Oh! ... Me bleedin' feet are bleedin' cooking," Uncle Hobart's voice issued from the fireplace.
Aunt Martha rushed into the room, slopping water from the washing-up bowl she was carrying. "Quick, throw it on the fire," I ordered, regaining some measure of self-control. "I'll go up on the roof and stick the hose down the chimney. That should put him out."
Five minutes later found me standing on the roof, flushing water down the chimney as fast as I could, dodging the steam, soot and odd curses that puffed up out of the chimney-pot. "You alright in there, Uncle Hobart?" I called down. "Have your boots gone out yet?" I was answered by a long, bubbling, cough and suddenly realised I might be drowning the poor old bugger. He'd wedged himself in there so tightly that nothing could get passed and I was filling what little space there was left with icy water.
Quickly looping the hosepipe around the chimneystack, I tied off the end. Then, tearing down the ladder, I ripped the other end of the hosepipe from the tap, tying it to the bumper of the car instead. Praying that I wouldn't be too late, I started the engine, slammed the car in gear and roared off. A loud rumbling noise echoed across the yard behind me as the chimney stack collapsed and I heaved a grateful sigh when I saw Uncle Hobart shoot out of the falling masonry on a wave of black water. Covered from head to foot in soot, he finally came to rest laying on his stomach atop a pile of bricks, his hands clasped in front of his face, looking for all the world like a performing seal in a circus. At any moment I expected him to clap his hands and oink for a fish.
Hurrying to Uncle Hobart's side, I hooked him under his arms, dragging him clear before the whole house crashed down on top of him. A very loud, very ominous crack suddenly rent the air as the gable end of the house disintegrated, causing a large section of the roof to slip forward, where it canted over, then broke away. Crashing to the ground, it flipped over and my eyes grew large when it slithered gently but inexorably towards us across the packed snow. My feet became a blur as I struggled to drag Uncle Hobart out of its path but it ploughed into us and we were swept off our feet, to be thrown onto its rough timber.
The roof, with us on board, tobogganed down the steep slope towards the road, doing at least forty miles an hour by the time we smashed through the front fence. The road was slick with ice and snow, and the wind whipped my hair as we headed for the sharp bend at the foot of the hill. Screaming ineffectually, I held tightly to Uncle Hobart as the roof slued off the road at the bend, hitting a deep snowbank, before taking off like a light aircraft, clipping two feet from the top of Miss Pinchard's ancient hawthorn hedge in the process. As we slammed through the hedge the rough, prickly, branches tore the cloths from our backs, Uncle Hobart squealing loudly when his long johns were ripped from his body, laying bare his thin, scrawny legs
As the roof powered upwards, we clung to each other tightly, until it finally smashed through the upper floor of Miss Pinchard's house, the crash rattling my teeth to the roots. Uncle Hobart was catapulted from my grasp and thrown headfirst into a deep pile of snow and the last I saw of him, was a pair of weakly waving legs.
The roof ripped through the bathroom wall, slithered across the floor and demolished the shower cubicle. Miss Pinchard, in the middle of a shower, was thrown into the air, landing in my arms. Her body, slick with soap, kept slipping from my grasp, but I managed to hang onto her as we smashed our way through the opposite wall, back out onto the main road, where we slithered along to the accompaniment of blaring car horns and amused shouts of passers by.
Topping the pavement at the end of the High Street, we skidded into the police station car park, bounced off a police car and continued on our way. I shouted a warning to Detective Inspector Grunt, who was out tidying up the flowerbeds and seeing us, he jumped clear, laughing loudly when we careened into the old horse-trough, coming to a juddering halt. However, his laughter turned to rage when he looked back at the flowerbeds, seeing the damage we'd done to his beloved camellias.
I tried to clear my head as the dying notes of 'Silent Night' floated across the car park to me, performed by the Salvation Army Band out collecting for charity. Sitting on what was left of the roof, I clutched a very shaken and very naked Miss Pinchard to my chest, conscious of the fact that we were being closely ogled by members of a religious sect, who from the looks on their faces obviously thought I was the devil incarnate. The tambourine player gasped in surprise when a half-crazed Detective Inspector Grunt wrenched the tambourine from his hand, pounded across the snow, and laid into us, shouting some very un-Christian like remarks. Quickly dumping Miss Pinchard, I made off in the opposite direction as fast as my legs would carry me.
Now the thought of being beaten about the buttocks with a tambourine, while rolling about in the snow with a naked lady, might appeal to some hot-blooded males, but such a prospect held no attractions for me. Especially as it was about to be performed by a very large copper bent on revenge.