Old Boar

 

Crowds are beginning to flock to Much Malarkey Manor. Of course they are. We can’t have a half-hearted dribble of public interest at this stage of the game, can we? Not when the Writer has only 24 days to cram loads of ideas into a relatively short story, and she is beginning to realise she hasn’t paced herself very well this year. (She did think about extending the life of the story another week, to New Year’s Eve, but decided against it for two reasons: 1) it would set a precedent and next year she might not be so abundant with the creative flow and b) she wouldn’t want to inflict upon the delicate sensibilities of the Dear Reader(s) the, quite frankly, riotous nature of a Much Malarkey Manor New Year’s Eve Party. So, full steam ahead with pace and content. The Writer is sure she’ll find an equation to make it all work for a Christmas Eve conclusion.)

Mrs Poo, resplendent in a high-vis jacket and waving luminous green air-traffic control paddles in the air is directing the stream of cars into neat lines in the field just beyond the front lawns of the Manor. The front lawns themselves have been taken over by a festive market – there is row upon row of little wooden chalets, each hosting a variety of crafts, foods, drinks and other Yuletime delights. It is beginning to smell a lot like Christmas.

Mrs Miggins is standing on the front steps of the Manor with Jack Green at her side, surveying the scene with wonder. ‘I never thought we’d be able to pull together an event like this at such short notice,’ she whispers. ‘Look at all the people coming! Mrs Poo says the event is sold out for all three days.’

Jack pats her wing. ‘It’s the magic,’ he says. ‘And I love what Mrs Pumphrey has done with the ballroom. It’s the perfect setting for my evening storytelling event.’

Mrs Miggins consults her clipboard. ‘So,’ she says, ‘today is the Festival of the Yule Bore…’

Jack looks over her shoulder at her notes. ‘That’s ‘boar’ with an ‘a’, not an ‘e’,’ he says. ‘Trust me, it will make all the difference.’

Mrs Miggins amends her paperwork. ‘Thank goodness for that,’ she says. ‘I was thinking what an odd way to get the festival off to a flying start.’ She lifts her beak and sniffs the air. ‘Hence all the sausage and pulled pork vendors, eh?’

She continues. ‘And tomorrow is the Festival of the Christmas Goat,’ she says. ‘And the final day, the Grand Finale, is the Winter Solstice – Odin and the Wild Hunt!’

‘Wild?’ says Jack. ‘He is absolutely LIVID!’ And both he and Mrs Miggins fall about laughing.

(N.B Readers of a certain vintage will be reminded at this point of a sketch from an episode of ‘Not The Nine O’clock News’ aired on 28^th April, 1980 starring Rowan Atkinson, Mel Smith and Pamela Stephenson about a gorilla called Gerald. And that it’s been making the Writer laugh ever since, every time someone mentions something being ‘wild’. Nuff said. It’s probably on the YouTube if you are at all curious.)  

‘Someone’s happy,’ says a voice, in a tone that immediately puts a dampener on Jack’s and Mrs Miggins’ guffawing.

Mrs Miggins wipes her eyes, bringing her vision back into focus. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes,’ says Kenneth the Phantomime. ‘I thought the £1 entrance fee might be worth coming to see what all the fuss is about at the Manor this year. Nice little event you’ve organized here.’ He pauses and looks around. ‘Of course, you won’t make much money from it. I’d be surprised if you break even. People don’t have cash to splash this year. They’re all too worried about paying their fuel bills and putting food on the table, if the media is to be believed.’

Mrs Miggins closes her notebook and glares at Kenneth. ‘If you’ve come here to gloat,’ she says, ‘I’ll refund your £1 and you can shove off.’

The Phantomime raises his hands in submission. ‘No need to take that attitude,’ he says. ‘I know things are tough at the Manor this year, and I am only too pleased I was able to ease some of the money worries by buying up your old tat. Call it my contribution towards helping keep the wolf from the door…’

Mrs Miggins steps forwards until she is eyeball to eyeball with the Phantomime. ‘Don’t you DARE refer to our belongings as old tat,’ she says, through a gritted beak/bill/birdy lip appendage. ‘That ‘old tat’ as you call it represented a lot of memories and I am VERY proud of my friends for giving up their possessions so that we can find new ways to move forward with our lives and stay here at the Manor – our HOME!’

‘Are you really proud of us?’ says Mrs Slocombe, who has emerged from the front door with a tray of ‘Slocombe’s Number 1 Cup’ which would knock ‘Pimm’s Number 1 Cup’ into the woods for strength and eye-watering capabilities.

‘Yes,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is with her and wearing her best Miss Piggy costume, what with it being the Festival of the Yule Boar day. ‘Are you really?’

Mrs Miggins nods. ‘I am,’ she says. ‘I’ve done a lot of thinking and I realise I was dismissive of your attachments to your old belongings. It was a huge sacrifice you all made and I have been ungrateful. And for that, I am very sorry.’

Jack smiles and the hens pile together in a huge, warm hug. And beneath his feet he can feel the Land breathing deeply and sighing, and stretching its molecules in preparation for restorative sleep and the growth of new energies.