‘Fascinating indeed,’ sighs a weary Mrs Miggins. Everyone is
gathered in the Orangery, mostly because it has an easy-to-clean floor, and
there are ducklings here, there and everywhere, making a high and mighty racket
and pooping for England.
‘How many are there now?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is cuddling a clutch of half-a-dozen to her voluminous bosom.
‘Forty-one,’ says Mrs Poo, who has been keeping a tally on
her clipboard.
‘Forty-two,’ says Mrs Hare, holding out another egg in her
paws, still warm from her, well, you-know-what-doo-da. The egg is already beginning to
hatch.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could stop doing
that?’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘I don’t think so,’ says Mrs Hare. ‘This will go on until
the morning of Easter Sunday. It’s tradition.’
‘But that’s another four days away, including today,’ says
Mrs Miggins. ‘If you continue at your current rate, by then we’ll have in
excess of…’
‘Ninety-eight ducklings!’ says Mrs Poo, who’s been doing all
the maths on her scientific calculator. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if we could top
one hundred, though?’
‘No, it would NOT!’ says Miggins. ‘Seriously, Mrs Hare,
can’t you clench your undercarriage, or cross your legs or something?’
Mrs Hare arches an eyebrow at Mrs Miggins. ‘Seriously?’ she
says.
Suddenly, the front door bell chimes ring out.
‘And that’s another thing that causes me stress,’ says Mrs
Miggins. ‘That flippin’ musical door-bell chime. Who’s idea was it to have THAT
installed? What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned knocker, that’s what I want
to know?’
Mrs Pumphrey looks immediately offended. ‘I think it’s
lovely,’ she says. ‘Far more cheerful and you never know what tune you’re going
to get, either. Just listen to that! Doesn’t it make you want to get up and
dance?’
The tune heralding the arrival of whomever is currently
standing on the front steps of Much Malarkey Manor is ‘Dancing in the
Moonlight’ which, incidentally, is the tune the Lady Author has requested for
her funeral as she is lowered into the ground and has a tree plopped on top.
It’s a catchy little number.
‘Well?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Is anyone going to answer the
door or are we going to suffer another press on the doorbell and risk it going
into gangster rap mode?’
Mrs Slocombe is already leaving the Orangery, a collection
of a dozen or so ducklings in her wake. ‘I’ll get a fresh bucket of soapy water
whilst I’m gone,’ she shouts over her shoulder, as Mrs Poo goes ‘Ooops!’ and
comb over tail feather on another little dollop of duckling doings.
She returns shortly with bucket and mop, and a stranger in
tow.
‘This is Mr Carriot,’ she announces, introducing a gentleman
of average stature but with the look of a Victorian melodrama villain about him.
‘He has just moved into the village and is doing the rounds and introducing
himself to all the neighbours. He brought us this…’ and she holds up a large
bottle of prosecco.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ says Mr Carriot, raising his hat and
making a slight bow. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you all. And can I just say what
a fine home you have here? I heard about the sad plight of the old Much
Malarkey Manor from Mr Kenneth Phantomime.’
‘Mr Carriot has taken over the premises from where the
Phantomime ran his antique emporium,’ explains Mrs Slocombe. ‘He’s setting up a
new business.’
‘Oh yes?’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘How thrilling! What sort of
business, Mr Carriot?’
‘A fine dining establishment, dear lady,’ says Mr Carriot.
‘Here, my card…’
Mrs Pumphrey simpers and takes the offered card. ‘The Good
Fridinner’ she reads. ‘Top class fried dining on your doorstep.’ She looks at
Mr Carriot. ‘It’s certainly an unusual name for a restaurant. Some might say a
tad contrived.’
(The Lady Author chooses to ignore the slight aimed at her
by Mrs Pumphrey because the Lady Author is in charge of the keyboard and these
are desperate times.)
Mr Carriot seems unperturbed. ‘It’s Good because what I do
is good and it’s Fri because I am a master in the art of fried foods, and it’s
dinner because it serves dinner,’ he explains, patiently. ‘Therefore: Good
Fridinner.’
‘It’s a fish and chip shop, isn’t it?’ sighs Mrs Miggins,
thinking she can’t be the only one who has noticed the aroma of frying fat
emanating from Mr Carriot’s overcoat. What's more, it smells of beef dripping. He hasn't thought about his vegetarian clientele, think Mrs Miggins.
‘AH!’ says Mrs Carriot. ‘Not just fish and chips, madam. I
can fry anything to go with chips. Sausages, Mars bars, parsnips, halloumi,
snails, squid, badger…ducks…’ and he casts an eye over the many, many ducklings
in the Orangery.
Mrs Miggins stands up. Something is making the feathers on
the back of her neck stand on end in a way that hasn’t happened since Tony
Blair became Prime Minister.
‘Well, thank you for the bottle of fizz,’ she says. 'It was
very kind of you to drop by and I am sure we’ll be down to buy some of your
lovely, er, squid ‘n’ chips at some point, but as you can see, we are rather
busy at the moment…’ And she waves her wing around the Orangery-come-duckling
nursery.
‘Yes, of course,’ says Mr Carriot, continuing to study the ducklings
closely. ‘I shall leave you in peace. 10% off your first order if you drop by
within the next two weeks,’ he finishes, as Mrs Slocombe escorts him to the
front door.
‘Did you see that?’ says Mrs Hare, pointing an accusatory furry paw after Mr Carriot. ‘He licked his lips at my ducklings! Odious man.’
Mrs Miggins stands and watches the retreating figure of Mr
Carriot from the Orangery window as he walks across the back lawns of the
Manor, taking a shortcut to the village. ‘Don’t you fret, Mrs Hare,’ she says.
‘He won’t be welcomed back here any time soon.’
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