Ferdinand Desai was having tea with
Strawberry. It was a long
time since he had been home and they were out in the garden, even though it was
turning a little chilly. In
the kitchen they could still hear Aunty Stella preparing cream scones. She seemed to have been at it for
hours despite the best efforts of Mouse to lend assistance. The tubby little cat had been
mixing the ingredients with a relatively clean paw and her tabby coat was
hidden under a fine covering of greyish flour.
The
rest was doing Ferdy good – sure, he still had that distracting tick below his
left eye, and his stubby wing shook when he tried to handle the large stoneware
teapot, but he was a lot better than when he first arrived. For three days all the pent up
tension that he had kept suppressed, nurtured to enhance his combat awareness,
came out and all but paralysed him.
The days had been hell and the nights far worse.
Now
he was on the mend. He had
been recounting some of his reasonably exciting, yet not too lurid Coleywar
adventures and was getting some funny looks from his old friend.
“…and
now Larry seems to think we’re going to sort out this mess in Antarctica. Do you know how far it is to
Antarctica?”
They
agreed that they did not.
“Well
it’s a long way.”
Ginsbergbear joined them on the
patio. He was wearing a
loose fitting and stylishly shabby corduroy suit and was lighting a compact
vulcanised meerschaum Peterson pipe. Aunty Stella and mouse followed him carrying trays
with the first batch of warm scones.
“Are
they going to join us?”
Aunty Stella nodded towards the slumped figures of Boz and Phoebles,
stretched out on recliners by the pool. “Tea’s up, you two.”
There
was a stampede for the food and Phoebles had cream all over his nose before the
others could get the top off the jam pot.
“Save
some for me.” A tall figure
slunk from the shadows by the wheelie-bins, the mole-grey fedora shadowing a
face hidden behind a Lone Ranger mask and the wide striped zoot-suit instantly
recognisable to the assembled company. The yellow MacDuck tartan pashmina scarf was new.
Ginsbergbear
was the first to address him.
“Slasher McGoogs as I live and breathe, and what brings you to leafy
Surrey?”
“You
do, your gang and Larry and this whole bloody mess you’ve got yourselves
into. Stir things up a bit I
says, and you start a war.
“I’ve been up north of the wall, amongst
the Reivers, gathering intel. And nothing I’ve heard so far is good.
“Boz, you’re going to have to get
hold of Larry and dissuade him from all that Antarctic rubbish. We need to defuse this powder keg
in the Autonomous Northern Territories before there’s the biggest bang since
Krakatau. And we may have to
curb the Kittens of Chaos.
They appear to have directed their undoubted if random enthusiasm
towards some freelance offensive of their own devising.”
“Me? Why don’t you go and see him?”
Boz was not in the mood to be taking orders, “I have to admit though, Blackpool
does sound more attractive than some snow swept continent in the middle of the
Southern Ocean.”
“Larry
and I don’t meet. You can’t
exactly be the shadowy antihero one minute and lunch with the Acting Prime
Minister the next. And it’s
not exactly going to be Blackpool, old pal. I want to introduce you to the Gilnockie of
Gilnockie. See if we can’t
get the Reivers back to cattle thieving, rape and vendetta amongst themselves,
on their own patch – and something similar for the Corsairs. There’s a time factor though –
rumour has it Les Chats Souterrains are moving a Vril-1 Jäger
Class Foo Fighter up there and if any one gang gets their hands on that
there’ll be all hell let loose.”
“No
pressure then? As usual.”
chipped in Ferdy, who was developing a disturbing glint to his eyes. "And the
Kittens are raising Cain up there too. Walk in the park.”
“The
Kittens,” said McGoogs ominously, “are laying siege to Berwick-upon-Tweed.”
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