Wee Hamish

       

    Just inside the gate there were Hoop-La stalls and coconut shies and Hook-a-Duck, all the fun of the fair for thruppence a go. Beyond these they approached an inflatable paddling pool and soggy cleric beneath a sign proclaiming Dunk the Vicar.   A target was contrived, by utilising a cunning arrangement of levers and gears, that when hit it would trip a precarious chair, tipping its occupant into the water below. The local boys were very good at throwing. Flo had travelled down with Boz and Co on the Æthelflæda, trusting the public bar at the Den into the care of one of the more reliable regulars, a trustworthy, conscientious and only slightly undead connoisseur of the golden nectar. She took one look at the forlorn and bedraggled priest, strode over and stepped into the pool. 

            “Go and get yourself a cup of tea, Pops,” she said swinging herself up into the chair and smiling sweetly at the queue of teenagers. “Come on, brats, I don’t mind a little water.” Somehow, under Flo’s withering gaze they found themselves utterly unable to hit the mark, several broke down before they got to their turn and one optimistic urchin, having thrown up on the grass, tried unsuccessfully to demand a refund.

            Boz smiled, “Best crack on, she’ll be there for a while.”

            The irresistible scent of chips frying wafted on the air.

            “Is it lunchtime yet?” asked Phoebles.

            They were passing side isles cluttered with jostling fast food stalls, Egyptian Koshari, Vietnamese Pho, Bakewell puddings, Welsh cawl, Hairy Tatties from Strathbogie and, of course Harry Ramsden’s Guisely fish and chips.

            "Hokey pokey penny a lump. Have a lick make you jump." An Italian hokey-pokey man had parked his ice cream trike close by the Kittens’ Vicecream van and was attracting a queue. Within the forbidding gothic interior of the Vicecream van a plot was being hatched to remove the unwanted competition, whilst one of the less scary Kittens leaned out of the serving hatch and beamed a smile at the unwitting Latin.

            Overhead the Kronstadt Fleet Air Arm were giving a heart stopping aerobatic display in their little Ratas.   As the gang looked up Polly broke away from her squadron to skywrite Hello Boz within a heart across the clear blue.   At a lower altitude, Beryl & Ferdy were taking kids on flights round the town in the Dragon Rapide.

            The boys had not gone much further when they heard the soulful strains of Scottish bagpipes.

            “Come on.   Sounds like we’re missing something good.”

            They emerged onto a grassed plaza where, in front of the Ranters’ Mead Hall steps and shadowed beneath the looming presence of Tamworth Castle, erstwhile seat of Æthelflæda Myrcna hlæfdige, the piper, kilted and clad in Darth Vader helmet, droned out Motörhead’s March Ör Die, blasting flames from the chanters and swirling tight circles on his unicycle.   A small torti-shell was hurrying towards Boz and his pals.

            “We made it. Anna’s just over there with the ambulance.”    Anna Pyromatrix travelled with Bui her cat in and old ambulance converted to a mobile home.   It was more cramped than a Winnebago, but cunningly kitted out to provide all their basic needs. “This,” Bui pointed at the piper, “is Wee Hamish.   He came down with us.”
            As Hamish segued seamlessly into We Are Sailing, Bui grabbed Phoebles’ paw and dragged him towards a cluster of ghers, tipis and festival tents.   Boz and Ferdy hurried along behind.
            Near the centre of the encampment they found the ambulance. Close by a small group of pirate captains, Reivers, Moss Troopers and clan chiefs lounged around a roaring campfire. A black iron kettle hung precariously above the flames and a slight, wild haired blond crouched where a tablecloth had been spread out on the ground with a chipped teapot and collection of miss matched mugs.   Anna stood up when she saw them approach.
            “Mr Boz, Ferdy …and Phoebles!   We’re off to find Rotskagg in a wee while, but there’ll be time for a brew first.   You’ll be setting yoursels doon?”

The Autonomous Peoples' Dirigible 'Airship of State'

 Wow man, like…

            That Larry, he’s the man.   That’s some pad he’s got.   And we talked… and drank… and smoked… and drank… and ate…   Those mooncakes… out of this world.   Some quality catip in the mix.   Bet Barrymore made them.   Not much she can’t get hold of.

            Sky.   I can see the sky.   Sky’s all around?   Wow!

            [Ginsbergbear wakes, or ‘comes down’ as some would say, on the upper observation deck of the Airship of State, beneath a geodetic Plexiglas dome.   We will discover why he is there before too long.]

            Woah!   Sky up ahead.   Sky up above.   And fluffy clouds…   And birds.   I like birds.   But what’s that behind me?   Behind me there’s… funnels.   Big bronze smoking smokestack funnels.   And this is?   A spiral staircase… that goes…               Wayhay!   Down and… down and… down and...

            Round and… round and… round and… round and…

            The rest of the gang were gathered in The Airship of State’s sumptuous lounge.   Boz, Slasher and Phoebles were huddled in a circle of armchairs discussing McGoogs’ plan, Ferdinand was studying the Scotland double page spread in The New Pictorial Atlas of the World, Odhams Press Ltd., 1926 Edition, and Barrymore was doing something mildly erotic with a cocktail shaker whilst chatting to Comrade-Squadron-Commander Polly Karpova.   Polly had been overseeing the tethering of her crimson warbird below the dirigible’s canopy, towards the stern, before coming forward and joining the others.

            “Woah-haaay!”   There was a protracted rumbling bumping sound and a bear rolled out from the bottom of a spiral staircase to halt with a thud against the leg of a coffee table.

            “Mr Bear, how good of you to join us.”   Barrymore and Ms Karpova advanced sinuously upon Ginsbergbear, the contents of their uniforms animating the coarse fabric like eels in a flour-sack.   Barrymore proffered a glass containing raw egg, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, vinegar, and a generous measure of Balkan vodka.   “This will pep you up.”

            Ginsbergbear took the glass and drank the contents without looking.   His eyes opened wide, then opened wider.   “Ay carajo!   That smarts – what is it, distilled aviation fuel?”

            Barrymore smiled and patted his shaggy head.   Polly sashayed over to the others and collapsed into a vacant armchair next to Phoebles.   She swung her army booted feet onto the intricately inlaid rosewood coffee table, flashing bare legs and thighs, smooth as a barrister, taut as banjo strings.   She removed her officer’s cap and dropped it on the deck, copper- red hair cascading about her shoulders.   As she lounged back her jacket fell open to reveal a body hugging, telnyashka-striped, thermal teddy.   Suddenly the temperature in the cabin felt uncomfortably warm and sweat began to form on Bozzy’s brow.

            “So gentlemen,” she purred, “What have you in store for us?”

            Ferdy joined them, still holding on to his atlas; his dodo cool untouched by the provocative antics of the young air ace, “We’re going north from Carlisle, following the A7 deep into Reiver territory.   Larry has lent us the Airship of State in the hope that it will impress the natives.   We are wholly and deliberately unarmed so let’s hope he is right.”

            The SL102 Airship of State was Britain’s most impressive dirigible, 978 feet long, with a polished aluminium skinned canopy embellished with bronze tracery and powered by four 1200 horse power in-line Stanley Steamer aero-engines with a funnel each.

            “Our destination is Gilnockie Tower, ancestral seat of the Gilnockie of Gilnockie.   He is nominally the Reiver Head Honcho and has agreed to meet us to discuss an acceptable way out of the current impasse.   That’s if The Kittens haven’t already set the Lowlands ablaze.”

            Ferdy paused as Polly took a catnip roll-up from the tin that Phoebles was offering round.   She struck a Swan Vesta on the hobnailed sole of her boot and set light to the end of the spliff.

            “And I don’t get to shoot anyone?”

            “Not unless the whole exercise turns to cold custard,” interjected Slasher McGoogs.   “But if we find ourselves up to our bum holes in angry crocodiles you’re the only hope we’ve got.”