Gone

 

Ptolemy and Mrs Pumphrey arrive at the bothy chattering away, too awake for sleep and safe from the clutches of Odin.

‘Isn’t is marvellous, how our fortunes are beginning to turn?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. She settles in the chair by the woodburning stove whilst Ptolemy rustles up a couple of mugs of hot chocolate with all the extras – cream, marshmallows, a dusting of cinnamon and a shortbread biscuit.

‘It is,’ says Ptolemy. ‘I’ve really enjoyed the last few days. It feels like we have done something purposeful to help the Manor get through these difficult times. And we’ve helped Jack Green, too. He was in such a pickle when I first met him.’

Mrs Pumphrey agrees. ‘I’m still not sure about Mrs Miggins’ plans to renovate the attics, though. I mean, I enjoy company and all that, but having people living there with us, even if it’s only for holidays? I’m not sure.’

They talk into the hours of early morning, and play a couple of games of Scrabble, both of which Mrs Pumphrey wins because her range of vocabulary is quite enormous. Finally, though, Ptolemy rises to his feet and yawns. ‘Time for some shut eye, Mrs Pumphrey,’ he says, ‘Only a couple of days until Christmas and we’ve lots to organise. Especially now it is going to be better than we anticipated.’ He goes to the window to close the curtains.

‘What’s that?’ he says, squinting through the window. Mrs Pumphrey joins him and stares in the direction of his pointing wing feathers.

‘What?’ she says.

‘There,’ says Ptolemy. ‘At the Manor. That bright orange flickering light…’

‘OH MY DAYS!’ shrieks Mrs Pumphrey in alarm. ‘Much Malarkey Manor is on FIRE!!!’

         *                     *                   *                 *                 *                 *                   *

The sun rises on a very sorry sight. Spirals of smoke and ash twirl lazily into the skies from the blackened, charred remains of the ancient and magnificent building that was once Much Malarkey Manor. Mrs Poo is waving off the fire engines who had responded to the emergency calls to find scenes of blazing devastation only hours before. Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Miggins are standing together in a shocked hug, not quite believing what they are seeing.

Jack is visibly distraught. ‘It’s all my fault,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have left the Yule Log unguarded. But in all the hundreds of years of Yule Log burning, nothing like this has EVER happened before. I’m so sorry. Will you ever forgive me?’

Mrs Pumphrey pats his arm. ‘Don’t you be blaming yourself,’ she says. ‘Accidents happen. And this is what it is – an accident.’

Everyone stares in silence and they are all thinking the same thing. This is the end of an era. Much Malarkey Manor is no more.

Like the blaze that shot through the ancient walls of the Manor, destroying everything in its path, so the news of the fire whips through the village, and it is not long before it reaches the ears of Kenneth the Phantomime. Kenneth is sitting at the small café in the village (where the wi-fi is better than in his home) checking his bank balance on his mobile phone app. He has decided not to open ‘Sell-By-Date’ today. He is starting his Christmas holidays early. Well, there’s no need to be working today, not after the windfall he landed from the auction.

He hears gossip at the counter as Mr Butcher (the baker) drops in for a takeaway latte and chocolate muffin.

‘Terrible…the place is destroyed…what will they do? And only a couple of days before Christmas, too. Such nice folk…a great loss to the village…’

Kenneth doesn’t know why, but he decides to take an amble up the Manor to see the devastation for himself. Not to gloat, mind you. After all, he knows himself what it is like to lose everything. Something inside is causing his empathy to stir.

At the Manor, two men are standing amongst the wreckage. Both have clipboards. Both have the look of ‘prize arse’ about them.

‘You see,’ says the first, pointing at a document. ‘You aren’t covered for fire damage from Yule logs.’

‘But we ARE covered for fire damage,’ says Mrs Miggins, pointing at another part of the document. ‘Look!’

‘Aaaah,’ says the man, whom you no doubt will understand is from the insurance company, ‘yes. But NOT from Yule Logs. There is no ‘Yule Log Burning’ provision in your policy.’

‘Are you JOKING?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Are you seriously telling me that there’s a specific clause in insurance policies for the burning of a Yule Log??’

The man smiles in an obsequious way that makes Mrs Miggins want to punch out his lights. ‘I’m afraid there is,’ he says. ‘It counts as a Specific and Non-Standard Celebratory Event in our terms and conditions. Section 114, sub-section 17 part iii. But we could include it for you for next year. At a premium.’

The expletives that emit forth from Mrs Miggins are not suitable for recording here. But be assured they are the most explicit of all expletives.

‘Now, now madam,’ says the insurance man. ‘We are only here to help. Allow me to introduce my colleague. He works in government building contracts.’

‘I do,’ says the colleague. ‘And I would like to offer to buy your, er, site, from you for the purpose of property development. Agricultural value only, I’m afraid. The government is keen to build more housing over the next few years and this site can provide land for a new development of at least 600 properties if we can get planning permission…’

‘What do you mean, ‘if’?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I bet you’ve already got it. Slipped a brown envelope of cash to the council, have you?’

‘Really, madam!’ says the government man. ‘I don’t know what you are insinuating. All I am trying to do is help you out and…’

‘NO!’ comes a voice, suddenly and from behind. ‘I know a chancer when I see one because I am a seasoned chancer myself. Sling your hooks, you disgraceful excuses for human beings! Go on – get out of here NOW and leave these poor, devastated folk in peace.’

It is Kenneth the Phantomime, dear Reader(s), at his most dramatic and determined best! The insurance man and government rat, I mean, representative, glare at him.

‘Excuse me,’ says the insurance man, ‘but what has this got to do with you? We are trying to help these unfortunate folk, to offer them a way to recoup a portion of their losses.’

Kenneth the Phantomime calls on all his skills as a theatrical performer.

‘I’ll tell you who I am, mate,’ he says, in his best quiet, menacing and Cockney voice. ‘I am a friend of these good ladies and gentlemen. I have strong and happy memories linked to this special place. And I am not going to stand by and see them scammed into making a decision they will probably regret because right now, pal, they are in a state of shock and vulnerability. The ruins of their home are still WARM, you heartless bar stewards. You, pal, are a scumbag and you can clear off. And take your pet weasel with you. Merry Christmas and GOODBYE!’

A quiet voice on Kenneth’s right shoulder whispers, ‘Well done. I knew your heart of gold would see the light eventually.’