Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series (47 page)

‘On the slope down from Binscombe Ridge?’ I hazarded.

‘Precisely. And, if someone observes it in enough time, we have a little celebratory gathering up there. In fact, it can get quite festive. You’ll enjoy yourself.’

‘So I’m invited, am I?’

‘Certainly. We need your car to ferry food and drink up there, like I’ve said. Then there’s old Mr and Mrs Springer to consider. They’re not too good on their pins nowadays. You must go and give them a lift—we can’t possibly leave them out of it.’

‘Let’s not forget it’s my car we’re talking about,’ I said huffily.

‘I hadn’t forgotten, Mr Oakley,’ he replied, once again entirely unfazed by my ersatz indignation. ‘I’d take my Porsche but your car is—what, two or three years old now. It won’t matter so much if it gets beer and breadcrumbs all over the inside. That’s why I suggested using it.’

Despite these Parthian slings and arrows, I gamely pressed on.

‘But you still haven’t told me what Rollover Night is.’

‘No... well, okay: it’s Rollover
Night
because it usually happens at night when the world is quiet. Though not, it seems, this year. And as for “Rollover”, well...’

The bar door crashed open and Doctor Bani-Sadr entered.

‘I’ve heard it’s Rollover Night,’ he said cheerfully.

Mr Disvan nodded.

Bani-Sadr’s smile widened. ‘That’s fantastic. Couldn’t be better.’

‘I take it you’ll be able to join us then, doctor,’ said Disvan.

‘Certainly. As chance would have it, I’m not on call tonight.’

Since the bar was presently unmanned, the doctor helped himself to a barley wine, leaving the money on the counter, and then came over to join us.

‘Actually,’ he said, ‘this might be even more fortuitous than I first thought. Do you think I might be allowed to bring a stranger along?’

Mr Disvan looked shocked.

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘A patient of mine. A newcomer. He lectures in politics at Goldenford University and he’s suffering from depression.’

‘As well he might,’ said Disvan sympathetically.

‘No, it’s not that,’ the doctor said slowly, considering his words. ‘Well, not entirely anyway. You see, he’s got himself into a lather about nuclear weapons and the prospects of war. All those missiles waiting to go, the bunkers primed and operational, the vast instruments of destruction poised to destroy the planet, the underground silos, the megadeath hypotheses, the nuclear winter, the—’

‘Yes, all right, all right,’ I said testily, now feeling a little depressed myself, ‘we get the picture.’

‘Good. Well, the gist of it all is that he doesn’t actually see the point in life if we could all be nuked to kingdom come any minute. That being so, I think Rollover Night would be a shot in the arm to him.’

‘It’s against all tradition,’ said Mr Disvan, a tentative note of warning in his voice, ‘but I don’t think we can refuse him in all charity. Leave it with me, doctor. I’ll do the necessary to get clearance.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bani-Sadr warmly. ‘I’ll go and phone him now.’

There was a telephone box very near to the Argyll and the doctor went off to use it, leaving Disvan and me alone again. Mr Disvan downed his drink in one and then started to rise from his seat.

‘Well, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘time is of the essence. I reckon we’d better be off.’

‘But you still haven’t answered my question about what Rollover Night is.’

Suddenly it was panto season again.

‘Oh yes, I have.’

‘Oh no, you haven’t.’

‘Oh yes, I have.’

Of the two of us, I had the keenest sense of the ridiculous. That is to say, my nerve broke first.

‘When?’ I asked, departing from the formula.

‘Just now. I do wish you’d listen, Mr Oakley but I’ll say it once more. Concerning Rollover Night, time is of the essence.’

I might have said ‘what?’ or ‘come again?’ had not the landlord’s head emerged up from the cellar trap door.

‘Mr Oakley, I need your advice,’ he shouted. ‘Which do you think I should take more of, light ale or brown ale?’

Despite obvious distractions, I gave the matter serious thought.

‘Light ale, I think.’

‘Right, brown ale it is, then,’ said the landlord confidently, disappearing into the underworld once more.

‘Suddenly, I don’t care what Rollover Night is,’ I said. ‘Let’s just go and see the damn thing.’

Mr Disvan smiled at me, a patient teacher seeing his dull pupil’s first success.

‘That’s the spirit, Mr Oakley,’ he said.

*  *  *

When we finally arrived at the Ridge, my car laden down with beer, sandwiches, and a not particularly grateful Mr and Mrs Springer, the roadside was already chock-a-block with vehicles. More were arriving minute by minute, disgorging whole families as well as the elderly and infirm. Even larger numbers of pedestrians streamed in from all sides. Kevin, the new community policeman, was making himself useful, supervising the parking plan and ushering the cars of puzzled strangers through the congested melee and on their way.

Dusk wasn’t far off, but I could still see up to the top of the hill and the stile where I’d sat only a few hours before. The hillside was already thickly scattered with hundreds of Binscomites. Some had started their picnics and were seated round food-laden white cloths. Other groups and individuals were promenading casually about. The distant sound of chat and laughter filtered down to us at the road and I detected an anticipatory, carnival note in the sound.

Nor was that all. There was definitely something strange in the air that evening, a certain low voltage tension that plucked at the skin with dainty fingers. If one looked closely, the edges of objects seemed slightly blurred and afterimages prolonged any movement. I mentioned same to Mr Disvan as we unloaded the crates, packages and livestock from my poor car into waiting helpful hands.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Oakley,’ he said, peering at the ‘sell by’ date on a beer bottle, ‘that’s just the backwash from the field.’

I looked at said unoffending field. Apart from the serried ranks of Binscomites at its upper edge, it was entirely empty.

‘That field?’ I asked, pointing. ‘Backwash of what?’

Disvan shook his head.

‘You misunderstand me. I meant the backwash of the field in the field. The Rollover Night field. Do you take my meaning?’

‘Frankly, no.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Come on.’

I accompanied Mr Disvan to the field gate where we found Mr Bretwalda and Mr Limbu (sometime Gurkha sergeant) in charge of security. The Bretwalda sons, Hengist, Horsa and Vladimir (back on vacation from Cambridge), plus a posse of local toughs, were under their industrious direction as stewards. There was a kind of homespun efficiency about the operation that made me think all this had happened many times before.

We were honoured enough for Mr Bretwalda himself to open the gate for us. Mr Limbu broadened the smile he always wore and nodded politely to me.

‘Slight problem, Mr D,’ said Bretwalda. ‘The doctor’s brought a new face along. Says you know about it. Is that right?’

We followed the line of Mr Bretwalda’s sidelong glance and saw, nearby, an over-weight, long-haired man, standing morosely under the restraint of Bridget Maccabi’s appalling gaze. Doctor Bani-Sadr was beside him, trying and failing to lighten the situation with small talk.

‘I do. It is,’ said Mr Disvan concisely. ‘Are you able to call her off, Alfred?’

‘I’ll have a go,’ Bretwalda replied.

It took some negotiation and the personal intervention of Mr Disvan but, eventually, the doctor and his guest were released. The morose man could then be introduced.

‘Mr Disvan, gentlemen, Miss Maccabi,’ said Bani-Sadr graciously, ‘please meet Professor Moorcock.’

We all said hello, it was nice to meet him. Even Miss Maccabi joined in.

As if that was not enough, Disvan was charm itself.

‘Delighted you could make it, professor,’ he said affably. ‘I think that you’ll see something to interest you tonight; leastways, I very much hope so. Come with me and have a glass of something and a bite to eat.’

Professor Moorcock allowed himself to believe that he wasn’t going to be knifed by a beautiful young girl after all and his shoulder blades unclenched.

‘It was good of you to let me sit in on this,’ he said in a soft and hesitant voice. ‘I’ve bought a little contribution to the festivities.’

He held up a supermarket bottle of white wine that he’d been clutching.

This sort of gesture, even such an unsatisfactory one, went down well in Binscombe culture. A certain social unfreezing signified that Moorcock had got his temporary visa.

Since that was now sorted out, Mr Bretwalda felt able to provide Mr Disvan with a situation report. This was progress of a sort even if it still made no sense to me.

‘There was a bit of a show earlier on,’ he said. ‘But nothing clear, and pretty faint.’

‘Definitely post-present, though,’ contributed Mr Limbu.

‘Oh yeah, definitely. Anyway, it’s died right down now but even so, I should keep to the side path.’

Mr Disvan agreed.

‘Sound advice. It’s in the air although it hasn’t come through yet. Even Mr Oakley noticed that.’

A few of the stewards made ‘really? what a clever dog he is’ faces.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ Disvan continued, ‘will you notch the stone, or shall I?’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Mr Bretwalda, ‘but we’re running out of room.’

Mr Disvan looked surprised and concerned.

‘What, on all four sides?’

‘Arr, we’ll need another soon enough.’

‘My,’ said Disvan sadly as he turned to go, ‘how time does fly...’

Doctor Bani-Sadr, Professor Moorcock, Mr Disvan and I made up a little party and joined the ragged line of people trudging up the hill, sticking closely to the field edge.

In the context of a day of alternate pats on, and then blows to, the head, I oughtn’t to have been taken aback to receive applause as I breasted the rise—but I still was. Scattered clapping from those nearest to me turned into a tide of acclamation washing across the hillside. Even the people down by the gate, and those still making their way up, joined in.

It was a nice reception in its way and certainly better than I usually got. However, at the same time, it made me feel rather exposed, as if a giant finger was poised above my head, pointing me out. I would have been happier (if only a little) if I’d known what I’d done right. Fortunately, Mr Disvan was close by and willing, for once, to provide an explanation.

‘You’re guest of honour, Mr Oakley,’ he said, as though I should be ecstatic at the news, ‘since you were the one who first spotted the onset of Rollover Night. Consequently, you get to start the community singing.’

That sounded ominous, and I quickened my pace to take myself into the safe anonymity of the throng. Once there, we found a space and sat down on the cool grass. A few flaming torches had been lit and stuck into the ground, creating flickering islands of half-light. Familiar faces passed in and out of the shadows.