A Blink of the Screen (6 page)

A handpicked party of intrepid mountaineering gnomes found out where the lorry keys were kept (high up on a hook in a little office). Rincemangle, meanwhile, studied road maps and wondered what the Highway Code was.

At last the day came for moving.

‘We’ve got to work fast,’ said Rincemangle, when they heard the last assistant leave the building. ‘Come on – now!’

While the gnomes lowered their possessions through the garage roof on to the back of the lorry, Rincemangle and an advance party of young gnomes squeezed into the cab through a hole by the brake pedal.

Inside it was – to them – like being in a big empty hall. The steering wheel seemed very big and far too high up.

The gnomes formed themselves into a human pyramid and by standing on the topmost gnome’s back Rincemangle managed to throw a line over the steering wheel. Soon they had several rope ladders rigged up and could set to work.

They planned to steer by two ropes tied to the wheel, with fifty
gnomes
hanging on to each one. While this was being sorted out other gnomes built a sort of wooden platform up against the windscreen, just big enough for Rincemangle to stand and give orders through a megaphone.

Other gnomes came in and were sent to their positions by Featherhead. Before long the cab was festooned with rope ladders, pulleys and fragile wooden platforms, and these in turn were covered with gnomes hanging on to levers and lengths of thread.

The big moment came when the ignition key was hauled up and shoved into its keyhole by two muscular gnomes. They gave a twist and some lights came on.

‘Right,’ said Rincemangle, looking down at the waiting crowds. ‘Well, this is going to be a tricky business, so let’s get started right away.’ Featherhead joined him on the platform and hauled up the
Teach Yourself to Drive
book and a street map of Blackbury.

‘On the word Go, the Starter Button party will give it a good press and – er – the Accelerator Pedal squad will press the pedal briefly,’ Rincemangle said uncertainly. ‘The gnomes working the clutch and gear lever will stand by. Go!’

Of course, it didn’t work as simply as that. It took quite some time before the gnomes found out how to start up properly. But at last the engine was going, making the cab boom like a gong.

‘Headlights on! Clutch down! First gear! …’ Rincemangle shouted above the din. There were several ghastly crashes and the great lorry rolled forward.

‘Here, what about the garage doors?’ shouted Featherhead.

The lorry rolled onwards. There was a loud bang and it was out in the street.

‘Turn left!’ shouted Rincemangle hoarsely. ‘Now straighten up!’

For several minutes the cab was full of shouts and bangs as the
gnomes
pushed and pulled on the controls. The lorry wove from side to side and went up on the pavement several times, but at least it kept going. Rincemangle even felt bold enough to order a gear change.

Through the dark streets of Blackbury the lorry swayed and rumbled, occasionally bouncing off lampposts. Every now and again there was a horrible clonk as it changed gear.

Steering was the big difficulty. By the time the gnomes down below had heard Rincemangle’s order it was usually too late. It was a good job there were no other vehicles on the road at that time of night, or there would have been a very nasty accident.

They blundered through the traffic lights and into Blackbury High Street, knocking a piece off a pillar box. Featherhead was staring into the great big mirror, high above them, that showed what traffic was behind.

‘There’s a car behind with a big blue flashing light on it,’ he said conversationally. ‘Listen! It’s making a siren noise.’

‘Very decorative, I’m sure,’ said Rincemangle, who wasn’t really listening. ‘Look lively down below! It’s a straight road out of town now, so change into top gear.’

There was a thud and a crash, but the gnomes were getting experienced now and the lorry whizzed away, still weaving from side to side.

‘The car with the flashing lights keeps trying to overtake us,’ said Featherhead. ‘Gosh! We nearly hit it that time!’

He craned up and had another look. ‘There’s two Human Beings in peaked caps inside it,’ he added. ‘Gosh! They look furious!’

‘I expect someone has got a little angry because of all those lampposts we knocked down. I don’t think we were supposed to,’ said Rincemangle. Unfortunately, while he said this, he didn’t look where they were going.

*

The lorry rumbled off the road and straight through a hedge. The field behind it was ploughed, and the gnomes had to hang on tightly as they were jolted around in the cab.

The police car screeched to a halt and the two policemen started running across the field after them, shouting.

The lorry went through another hedge and frightened a herd of cows.

Rincemangle peered through the window. There was a wood ahead, and behind that the heather-clad slopes of Even Moor started climbing up towards the sky.

‘Prepare to abandon lorry!’ he shouted. They plunged into a wood and the lorry stopped dead in the middle of a bramble thicket. It was suddenly very quiet.

Then there was a very busy five minutes as the gnomes unloaded their possessions from the back of the lorry. By the time the policemen arrived there was not a gnome to be seen. Rincemangle and Featherhead were sitting high up on a bramble branch and watched as the men wandered round the abandoned lorry, scratching their heads. After poking around inside the cab and finding the little ropes and ladders they wandered away, arguing.

When they had gone the gnomes crept out of their hiding places and gathered round Rincemangle.

‘Even Moor is only a few hundred yards away,’ he said. ‘Let’s spend the day hidden here and we can be up there tonight!’

The gnomes lit fires and settled down to cook breakfast. Many of them were wondering what it would be like to live in the country again after so long in the town. A lot of the little ones of course – I mean, even littler than the average gnome – were rather looking forward to it. But they all knew that there was going to be a lot of hard work before them.

Early next morning a poacher, coming home for breakfast, told his wife he’d seen a lot of little lights climbing up the slopes of the Moor. She didn’t believe him, but perhaps you will.

KINDLY BREATHE IN SHORT, THICK PANTS

B
ATH AND
W
EST
E
VENING
C
HRONICLE
,
9
O
CTOBER 1976

The passage of time has blurred what possibly motivated me to write this, but it was probably after hearing one too many half-baked ideas from one too many half-baked politicians, who are always at their worst when trying to be mater, while always subtly getting it wrong. They’re still doing it
.

A message from the Rt Hon Duncan Disorderly, MP, the new Fresh Air Supremo

Good evening. [
takes deep breath
.]

As you will no doubt be aware, Britain is facing an air crisis of alarming proportions. In some places supplies of fresh air are reaching alarming prop— no, I’ve already said that … crisis levels. Why is this, you ask? [
Goes to chart behind chair
.]

For years we have been assured of regular supplies of fresh air
blown
in from the Atlantic. Unfortunately the demand is exceeding supply. More people [
Pokes small black figures on chart
] insist on breathing, which means less air for everyone else.

[
Taps chart firmly with stick
.]

Your Government has been well aware of the problem since about lunchtime, as a result of which I am talking as new Fresh Air Minister now instead of chairing the House of Commons tea trolley sub-committee. Even we politicians have to breathe, you know – ha ha – though of course some of us breathe slower while others breathe faster.

While it is true to say that people in South Wales and the industrial Midlands are being allowed to breathe for only eight hours a day, while Scotland and the South have ample supplies of fresh air, a redistribution would be prohibitively expensive.

A working party is, however, and in strict accordance with Government policy, considering legislation to compel those in Fresh Air Surplus areas into wearing gas masks connected to bottles of potted smog. This is democracy.

Meteorologists tell us that the wind must blow at a hundred miles an hour for the next three months to top up our fresh air levels. In the meantime, what can you do?

Here is how you can help:

If we all follow these simple rules we will be able to stick our chests in with pride and say that British suck and ingenuity has won the day again. Thank you. [
Breathes out slowly
.]

THE GLASTONBURY TALES

B
ATH AND
W
EST
E
VENING
C
HRONICLE
,
16
J
UNE 1977

Actually, I’m rather proud of this one, which has some truth in it. I distinctly remember picking up the first of the hitchhikers when going home from Bath one sunny evening. And there were a lot more hitchhikers heading to Glastonbury. Indeed, as I look back nearly all of it has some basis in reality, but as Mark Twain used to put it, I might have here and there put a little shine on things. Only he said it in American. I certainly do remember the smoke coming from the back of my van, and hastily winding down my window while at the same time keeping an eye out for Mister Plod. As it was, when we arrived at Glastonbury and I opened the back there was a kind of pleasant fog but I don’t think anyone noticed very much. They were better and somewhat nicer days. And if there is anyone out there who can prove that they were one of those in my van, I would be very pleased to hear from them – but I suppose by now they’re prime ministers and so forth
.

A van driver there was, let’s call him me.

A nine-to-fiver, going home to tea.

Just outside Bath, observant as they come

He spied a hippie – travelling by thumb.

Beside the sunny road the lad stood baking

His hair was dripping sweat, his feet were aching.

Not cool was he, so broiling was the day

The poor man’s grass was turning fast to hay.

‘Glastonbury’s where I’m bound.’ ‘Hop in,’

I said. He gave a weary grin

‘Right on,’ he said, ‘this hitching is a drag.’

And then he rolled himself a sort of fag

And told me all about how the next day

Would be specially good vibrations all the way.

‘A Festival of Sevens’, and the Tor

A sort of dustbin full of cosmic lore.

Some miles further on we stopped again

To pick up four more lurking in a lane,

A woeful band, a travel-weary tribe

Without the breath to raise a single vibe

Between them. In the back they went

With two guitars, three rucksacks and a tent.

One believed in UFOs, one said ley

Lines were mystic traffic signs and they

All met at Glastonbury; also she

Was really deep into astrology.

‘You’re Libra.’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Oh, Aries?’ ‘No.’

‘I’m never wrong,’ she said. ‘You must be Virgo.’

‘No,’ I said; she thought a bit, then – ‘Leo?

Oh dear, I’m never wrong. Um, Scorpio?