Lavender and Haddock

Lavender and Haddock (Introduction)

Text and cover illustrations copyright 2014 Mike Williams

'The Trouble with Wyrms' was hardly the most riveting title for an evening's entertainment at the church hall, but it was better than most. There had been 'Lavender and Haddock', a collection of beauty tips for the over-seventies that had sent the over sixties bachelors fleeing to the pub. 'Memoires of a Fox Hunting Lady' had to be cancelled because she'd forgotten, whilst the only charitable thing to say about 'Cocksfoot and Timothy' was that it was short, full of botanical insight and had attracted the wrong sort of audience altogether.

But the ladies of the town were a forgiving bunch. What else was there to do of an evening with the old man in the pub and the supper pots washed? Why, you might as well wrap up warm, reach for the umbrella and brave the damp, dirty air for the excitement of the hall and the promise of tea and cakes. Besides, tonight there was a hint of mystery, an outside speaker, a certain Professor Arbutus Broadbent, MSc, Ph.D. and Friend of the Fyshes, whatever that meant. Whatever indeed, for some of the audience the explanation was obvious. But these were strangers to the town and seated at the front; forty freshly-scrubbed women dressed in tweeds and sensible shoes and looking exactly the same, if not decidedly out of place.

There was a hush in the hall as a rather white-faced, perspiring gentleman dressed in linen and leather patches stood up to the podium. The poor man fumbled with his papers and taking a fountain pen from his top pocket, pretended to make various important changes to various important points in his talk, while all the time ticking off names. They were all here he noted, thank the heavens, but others too, an extra audience he hadn't counted on. If anything he had tried his damnedest to put them off. The Trouble with Wyrms, he thought as he had penned the notice for the Derbyshire Clarion, Manchester Evening News and other worthy papers. What a perfect title, what a guaranteed, sleep-inducing, stay-away-in-droves, have-better-things-to-do-than-listen-to-this-sort-of-rubbish, banner of a headline. Except it had proven the opposite and here was the problem, and it made him uneasy. He poured himself a glass of water from a chipped enamel jug but thought better of taking a sip. The words 'Co-op Dairies-TB or not TB, We Know the Answer,' were printed on the side and there was a scum of insect remains floating on the surface, with whatever had eaten the most of them swimming on the bottom.

'He's a fussy one,' whispered a local woman to her neighbour at the back of the hall. 'I only changed the water last month, fresh it was too, straight from the font.'

'Stands to reason,' whispered her neighbour. 'Our Moira had her youngest christened last week and she piddled a river!' The two ladies burst into laughter.

The professor, for he was the unfortunate gentleman, did his best to ignore the giggles. He adjusted his shirt cuffs as though it was a stage direction in bold type. A dramatic gesture with arms held aloft, the glint of silver cufflinks, the wave of a spotted silk handkerchief and he was about to begin. 'My dear friends,' he cried with much affection and wiping of the eyes. 'Welcome to England!'

There were wild cheers of approval, the sound of forty pairs of feet stamping in delight. 'Bravo, Professor! Bravo!' shouted the formidable women, with one or two throwing their hats into the air. 'Three cheers for Arbutus Broadbent! Hip, hip, hooray!' It was all rather confusing.

'They're a lively lot at the front,' whispered one late arrival, 'and what's all this stuff about England?'

The lady who had changed the water in the jug hadn't a clue. 'Don't ask me,' she said. 'I thought it was going to be your Elsie talking about rhubarb jam, not this old chap.'

'Didn't you read the poster? It's some professor from across the moors. He's here to tell us about worms.'

'Worms? Who wants to hear about worms?' dismissed the woman craning her neck like a submarine's periscope and scanning the room. 'And that lively lot at the front', she said in a voice too loud for polite enquiry. 'Not from around here are they?'

They were certainly not. The ladies in tweed were strangers to the village, each having arrived from somewhere a little to the left and slightly to the south of the buckle on Orion's belt. They turned as one and stared at the people at the back, making them feel as though they were naughty little children at least. There was an air of authority in the strangers' dress and in the peculiar way they seemed to look all the same. If the local women only knew what they were up against they would have fled the hall, dragged their husbands out of the pub and caught the next available boat train to France. Take the unfortunate shepherd now half man, half scarecrow left dangling on the moor, his arms stretched out and with crows pecking at his ears. All he was doing was minding his own business, leaning on his crook and smoking his pipe, when a hole had ripped open in the sky and a column of substantial women had marched forth. 'Blimey,' he had said with a dirty leer on his face. 'There's more shags 'ere than the cliffs of Dover.' It was a pity he'd been overheard, and by a witch with a phrasebook.

'Sisters, my dear Sisters' continued the professor feeling more confident by the minute. 'What a glorious day it is to see you all here safe! Welcome to your new home!'

'What did he say?' asked the ever inquisitive woman at the back, nudging her neighbour yet again. 'He's getting a bit fresh with them at the front isn't he?'

'He's offered them his home. He thinks he's a bleedin' maharajah!' And the two ladies laughed even more.

The professor seemed agitated. He looked at the many faces in the Church Hall and frowned. 'There are strangers here; we must be careful,' he said lowering his voice and leaning further over the podium until it seemed he would tumble forward into the front row. 'Sisters we must be cautious. There are spies everywhere, and if the Big Secret is to remain a big secret then...'

'Sssshhhh!' hissed forty pairs of lips with forty fingers placed in front, and the professor stepped back in surprise. 'Oh!' he said realising his mistake. 'Of course, how stupid of me. I forgot. One must never mention the...'

'Sssshhhh!'

'Absolutely, I shall...'

'Ssssshhhh!'

'Enough!' implored the professor. 'Please, enough with the shushing.' He was wiping his face with his handkerchief. 'My dear Sisters, you have made your point, there's no need for this...this moisture! May I suggest one small thing, in the interest of getting the meeting off to a start?' He made a circular motion with his finger as though he was stirring a large cup of tea. 'A little of the old magic don't you think?'

The ladies tapped their noses and winked at the professor. Forty cheroots appeared from forty purses and with a click of forty pairs of fingers, sprung to light.

'You'd think they'd offer them around', sighed the woman at the back. 'I could kill for a Woodbine.' But before she could continue with her carping and complaining, she found herself waking up in an empty church hall with a monstrous headache and the faintest wisp of purple smoke curling upwards to the ceiling.

And that is how this tale began...or was it? What a pity no one had asked the caveman. 'Ugg!' he had shouted as he danced frantically around the cavewoman, and her with a baby on each breast and his mother chewing leather by the fire. 'Ouch!' he had cried as the rock she threw hit him squarely on the head. The poor man, he was waving his arms and pointing to the valley below, but his vocabulary was all winter solstice, and if his poor wife had had enough of one thing, it was winter solstice. She'd two twins and another on the way from all that nonsense.

'Ugg!' he said and dodged a second rock. It was a question of vocabulary. What he was trying to say was 'Grab the kids and let's get out of here!' Unfortunately, so many 'Uggs' and a few cartwheels around the fire could also mean 'Brace yourself hot lips, I feel a Neanderthal coming on,' and trust a woman to think the worst. Only when he had sulked off to the back of the cave and had daubed paint on the walls were the archaeologists to catch on. So much for the giant meteor, the lizards were back. There was a wormhole in space leaking dragons into his valley.