Aunty Stella’s Tale

“That was a fine haggis supper, Catriona, you excelled yourself.   Are we all here, has anyone seen Slasher McGoogs?”

            “He took off after Black Douglass, through the rhododendrons.”

            “OK.   So, where shall I begin?   Googleberry had been away visiting rich relatives in Derbyshire, again.   He’d been gone a few days when I received a text from him:

OMG A STLLA ∑:>{+’ LDY C’S FNCY DRSS BBQ WSHD OUT COS GUSTING WND SWPT FOUNTAIN OVER PATIO! SOCIAL BUMMER = LHK 4EAE  GOOGLEBERRY XX = PS LDY C SEZ 2 TELL U LES YT CTS MOBILIZING = LLAP ∑:o3 LOL WUSS *

…closely followed by this Basildon Bond gilt edged letter, delivered to my door by a uniformed dispatch rider on a Brough Superior:

…Obviously urgent and not much leeway for discussion.   I only hoped someone along the way would have the where-and-when missing from Larry’s redacted letter.    I scrawled a quick note to the family, Lasagna in the fridge, PE kit in airing cupboard, that sort of thing, and left it on the kitchen table.   Then Strawberry and I chucked our tooth brushes, clean knickers and a spare pullover each into overnight bags, fired up the Blue Chevy and hit the high road bound for the Dales.

            That Chevy needs some work on it.   The engine’s clapped out, the seats are incredibly uncomfortable and it is a long haul from home into the upper reaches of Derbyshire.   By the time we made the A6 I had progressed from aching all over to being numb from the neck down.   Strawberry announced that he was getting rather stiff too.   So we parked up in Cromford and visited the local bookshop for soup and builders’ tea.   It has a world renowned Vegan café on the top floor.   Vegan soup is not generally regarded as palatable since the flora and fauna on Vega is invariably slimy and tentacly.   This facsimile vegan soup, however, was made with nettles and mushrooms and things picked from local hedgerows and was barely slimy at all, with virtually no tentacles.   It was delicious.

            ‘That girl behind the counter, the one with the rasta hair and sandals that gave us the long stare; she got on the phone to someone soon as she’d served us,’ observed Strawberry.

            ‘I’ve had a tingly feeling for a while, like we’re being watched,’ I replied, ‘Drink up and we’ll crack on.’

            Halfway down the stairs we met a middle-aged lady coming up.   We stepped back into a room, labelled SATIRE & SURREALIST FICTION, to allow her to pass and were immediately grabbed from behind.   Sacks were pulled over our heads; we were bundled out into the street and into the back of some sort of van.  

            When the sacks were removed I found that I was sitting on a hard wooden chair, nose to nose with an inquisitive lurcher.  

            ‘Let them be, Spike, they may be friendlies.’

            We were in a dimly lit barroom surrounded by ruffians in ski masks.   One of them rose after sstudying my face and took off her balaclava.  

            ‘It’s OK, it really is them.   I’ve met them before,’ said Snowdrop.   ‘Sorry about the rough treatment, Les Chats are watching the roads north of Matlock and we had to grab you quick.   It’s important no-one knows you’re here.’

            ‘They may know already,’ said Strawberry, ‘the girl in the café rang someone.’

            ‘She’s one of ours.   That was our signal to move in.’

            The door burst open and in walked a chattering group of hikers.

            ‘No coach parties,’ snapped the tall, dishevelled landlord, from behind his row of beer engines.

            ‘But…’

            ‘We’re closed.   What do you think this is, a pub?’               The hikers left, disappointed.

            ‘Isn’t it a pub?’ I asked.

            ‘Yes,’ replied Snowdrop, ‘but not always welcoming to strangers.   Makes for a perfect hide-out.’

            ‘So, what now,’ said Strawberry.

            ‘Manchester, but first we need a willing volunteer to wear the Subcomandante Everyman costume,’ she was talking to Strawberry, but looking at me, ‘and you, Strawberry, are a bit on the short side.   Come on Aunty Stella, it’s not as if you’d really be in charge or anything.’

I didn’t exactly feel inconspicuous travelling through Manchester astride the tallest grey I’d ever seen, its bells and harness jangling loudly.   I was disguised behind a black knitted balaclava and kitted out in white jodhpurs, four ply woollen submariner’s telnyashka, a silver-grey hussar’s jacket trimmed in reddish brown fur and an excess of gold frogging, black patent leather boots to above the knee and topping the ensemble, a tall, French Marines’ shako, with a Burgundy plume.   All around me were the Zapatista cavalry.   There was a bronze painted 1952 Ford F1 van support vehicle, Strawberry driving the blue Chevy with red and black flags all over it, and Snowdrop’s tachanka bringing up the rear.   My standard bearer trotted up alongside me, the black banner with its skull and cross bones fluttering in the bighting, early morning wind.   Her eyes smiled through the slits in her ski mask.

            ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

            ‘Eunice Aphroditois, after the Mongolian Death Worm.   Neat innit?   Take the next left; we’ll enter Piccadilly Station through the goods yards.   No point attracting too much attention.’

            When we reached the railway and eventually found our remote and rarely used platform, Larry had done us proud.   There stood a majestic, streamlined Mallard locomotive with a string of horse-box cars, one still had BERTRAM MILLS’ CIRCUS painted on its doors, a flat bed for the vehicles, two LC&DR third class carriages with varnished coachwork, a Pullman ‘Kitchen Parlour’ Car and a pillbox break van.   Strawberry demanded to ride in the break van and no one was going to dissuade me from travelling at least some of the journey on the engine’s footplate.

            Enticing the horses into the boxcars and loading the flat bed took some time but eventually we were ready for the off.

            ‘You’ll not be about to shovel coal in that outfit,’ said the engine driver as I clambered into the cab and eagerly eyed the array of pipes, valves and levers, ‘best sit back and enjoy the ride.   We’ll be shifting at a rate of knots once she gets the bit between her teeth.’

            Two hours later we parked up in the sidings in Carlisle and Strawberry and I left Snowdrop to supervise the unloading whilst two Zapatistas guided us down Lowther Street to our rendezvous at the Howard Arms.   The lounge was packed.   Wildcat Moss Trooper Commanders had stacked their tin hats by the door and lodged weaponry behind the bar, a gathering of minor clan chiefs was clustered around a cast iron radiator and representatives from several Border Reiver families sat around a table already cluttered with half downed sleevers of 70/-.             ‘Ahaah!’   We were greeted warmly on our arrival.   ‘Sit yer sells down and we’ll get to talking.   Pints of heavy all round.’

            We sat, and a huddle formed around the table.

            ‘Ye have here the cream of the faithful and we’ll pick up a few more before this evening.   We’ve lost a few families to the dark side, but not so many.   Have another pint.   We’ll be away north of the wall soon as your gang is ready.   May even liberate a few coos on the trip to Gilnockie Tower.’   And so we did.

            The rest of the story you know, we apparently arrived in the nick of time.   Shame about the airship.   Has anyone put the kettle on?”

* Translation for those unfamiliar with Googleberry’s version of text speak:

‘Oh My God, Aunty Stella, catastrophe, Lady C’s fancy dress barbecue washed out because gusting winds swept fountain over patio!   Social bummer.   Love, Hugs and Kisses for Ever and Ever, Googleberry, Kiss, Kiss.   P.S. Lady C says to tell you Les White Cats mobilising.   Live Long And Prosper.   Smiley face.   Laughs Out Loud With Unintentional Snort Sound.’