Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Two

  Grumpiness and Gelignite

  A more agreeable, though no less complex organism of the parish is the author and part time children’s entertainer, Reginald Frimpton: the unanimous declaration on hearing that particular piece of startling information undoubtedly being, ‘Who?’

  ‘Scoff at your peril’ would be my stinging retort to that dismissive, for it may surprise you to learn that Reginald Frimpton, a man you wouldn’t know from Adam if he juggled boiled eggs in your garden, (I suppose he may well have done but that’s not the point), is none other than the revered crime writer, Felicity Grayling, whose adaptations for television are too numerous to mention. I suppose the three that instantly spring to mind are the seventies classics ‘Behind you, Bob,’ ‘Gelignite Girls’ and, of course, the cult mini-series ‘The Psychotic Dumplings,’ which won Grayling an award for the year’s most unlikely newcomer. The show was translated into twelve languages, screened in over thirty five countries, and not a single individual confessed to understanding a word of it. Reginald admitted in an interview several years later, that the idea came to him when his absentminded father, Lionel, unwittingly locked him in the coalhouse of their dilapidated Hunslet prefab before departing on a ten day sabbatical to the seaside resort of Bridlington. With only 2 cwt of nutty slack for company, the seven-year-old Frimpton experienced horrific hallucinations and, upon release, ran straight to his bedroom to scrawl down the germinations that would later appear in a cliffhanging episode about a homicidal pensioner addicted to suet.

  That Reginald Frimpton elected to opt for Felicity Grayling as his preferred nom de plume is, to my mind, neither here nor there. It was Reginald’s choice and I respect that; a little disturbing but there we are. Each to his own and what have you. If he can live with the fact that every so often his publisher is going to forward fan mail to his home for the attention of a woman called Felicity, then so be it; none of my business. What I find a little more difficult to comprehend, is why a man by no means short of a bob or two, feels the urge to dress up as a clown or conjuror at weekends and pull rabbits from a top hat and so forth, in order to amuse a gaggle of screaming kids with lime jelly oozing from every orifice. Frimpton maintains that it gets him out of himself, and I don’t doubt for a moment that it does; though why anyone in their right mind would relish being bombarded with half-sucked confectionary before being subjected to an invasion of dwarfs, whose idea of fun is pulling off your toupee and ramming a sticky finger up one’s nose is, I’m afraid, quite beyond me...

  The vibrant and acute amongst you will no doubt have deduced that the village of Blinkington-on-the-Treacle lies ever so slightly off the beaten track. Indeed, the old adage ‘you would have to be lost to find it’ succinctly sums up the picture I’m painting. Throbbing society, it is not. Many of its younger inhabitants are given to commuting to various places of employment during the day, while the more senior of its natives gently shuffle on with their various routines and peculiarities. It is something of a surprise then, to find myself reporting on this glorious morning that the doors of The Field of Corncrakes public house are already open with the church tower’s clock hands barely having groaned round to 11.00 a.m. Take my word for it; this sort of behaviour constitutes history, for no thirst was ever slaked at this hostelry before late afternoon in bygone days. The gregarious constitution of Arnold Matson, however, sees little mileage in keeping the doors of his watering hole bolted during the daytime if he is to establish a rapport with the local populace. It was with this vim and pep nailed to the mast of his general demeanour that Arnold had greeted the morning as he unveiled his premises for the first time. An ancient battle-scarred Jack Russell dutifully reciprocated by relieving itself against the car park wall before limping away manfully in search of canine trouble. It was still early…

  Seeping pride and gushing modesty accompanied Arnold Matson as he welcomed and served his first customers. The majesty with which he had drawn two pints of best bitter was the balletic dray horse equivalent of Swan Lake, if you follow me loosely; and having introduced themselves to mien host, Philip and Charlotte Drysdale, a pair of besotted hikers from a village containing too many vowels somewhere in the south east, clumsily removed their backpacks and matching bobble hats and made themselves comfy in the bay window. The brace affectionately touched tankards in celebration of nothing in particular, before rubbing noses Eskimo-fashion by way of further flirtation. Gooey-eyed and at one with malt and barley, Arnold leans on one elbow, devours the image, and places it in a cosy mental picture frame overflowing with memories. Suggestive giggles continue to snuggle and rebound, and Arnold leaves the young couple to swoon and tickle it out amongst themselves…

  The wasp, as wasps do, appeared from nowhere…

  Bearing witness to the little irritants heading for my glass of refreshing ale at various cricket fixtures over the years, I have long since reached the conclusion that this is the prime reason they can never fly in a straight line; they must be permanently sozzled to their very antennae. This black and yellow burglar was no exception, and the froth on top of Charlotte Drysdale’s shimmering pint guided the pest in as smoothly as lights on an airport runway. Having successfully docked to the rim of the mother-ship, the creature nonchalantly cleaned its back legs and proceeded to tuck in. The startled couple temporarily ceased their canoodeling, gawped at the pocket-sized intruder, and watched its staggered flight take it only as far as the sun-kissed window behind which they were seated. To my mind, that should have been an end to the matter. Not so, Philip Drysdale…

  Stealth aptly describes the mannerism by which Drysdale removed the rolled-up broadsheet from the top of his rucksack, powerfully tightened the pages of truth and fabrication until totally satisfied he held a club of destruction in his print-stained palms, and signalled his fiancée to step aside. It was painfully clear that the gauzy boozy blighter who had momentarily delved into his sweetheart’s libation, was now about to pay for his audacity. ‘Philip!’ squawked Charlotte. ‘It’s alright, darling…he won’t feel a thing; not in his condition.’ Drysdale fixed his stare before taking an exaggerated backswing.

  The velocity and venom he intended to generate here would be more in keeping with felling a rampant wildebeest, and should he miss his proposed buzzing target, the likelihood was he would bring down an entire curtain rail with all the trimmings. He was never afforded the opportunity. Arnold Matson seized Drysdale’s wrist before it detonated. ‘Now, why would you want to do that, Son?’ purred the landlord. Drysdale spun round, transfixed. Matson loosened his grip, tossed the weapon aside and gestured to the lad to take his seat. ‘Let me tell you a little something about insects,’ proffered Arnold. The strangers were all ears…

  If I were to inform you that Philip and Charlotte Drysdale did not get, nor particularly desire, the gateway to leave the company of Arnold Matson until some five hours had elapsed, that should give you ample indication of Arnold in full stride on his beloved subject. In-between serving refreshments to the odd customer, Matson would immediately return to regale and bewilder the young couple with non-fictional anecdotes of wasp stings, Queen bees, termites, cannibalism, hybrids, spiders nerve impulses and even, at one point in mid-afternoon, while simultaneously dissecting a pork pie and enthusiastically inviting Philip and Charlotte to sample some homemade chutney, serenading them with an absolute belter of a tale about Warblers and evolutionary suicide.