Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks (34 page)

Edward the Smart snapped shut his book.

‘Yes, I know what you're going to say,' he said, ‘but if it
does
turn out to be underpriced and we get a few nibbles, we can always withdraw it, bung it in at auction, and crank it up a bit on the day, could go as high as a tenner. I take it you have a false beard and something to wave?'

And with that, he was gone.

Slowly, the manager pulled himself together and hobbled to the window.

‘Tell you a funny thing,' he said, ‘his legs haven't gone little. What do you suppose that means?'

The assistant thought for a while.

‘That he's Old Nick?' he said.

‘E.g.,' replied the manager.

49
Red Sales in the Sunset

Sun Guiying, a middle-aged woman chicken farmer, was
given the full propaganda treatment in China's Press
yesterday as a heroine of the new peasant elite. This year
she has sold more than 492,800 eggs.

Her family's profit was said to be £12,486 sterling
and so she was entitled to the ultimate accolade – she
was given permission to become Peking's first peasant to
own a car.

Daily Telegraph

A
saffron hangnail of moon rose gently over Dao Deng Hua, tinting the corrugated roofs of its serried coops. Inside, ten thousand chickens, ranked like feathered kebabs upon their alloy perches, let out one last staccato choral cluck, and settled, knackered, for the night.

In the village Hall Of Egg Norm Victory And Reciprocal Criticism, five hundred peasants packed the wooden benches no less formally, but far more excitedly: five hundred eager faces shone above the collars of their dropping-spattered smocks, a thousand rapt and gleaming eyes targeted in on the little raised platform, a thousand hands ignored the decadent speculation as to the sound of one of them clapping and set up a keen and rhythmic beat, as the dais party filed up the steps, and took their seats.

Sun Guiying was, naturally, the last. She did not sit. The applause rose to an echoing crescendo, bringing flakes of cheap eau-de-nil distemper fluttering down from the trembling ceiling so that, for a brief time-warped moment, she became a demure virgin in an old T'ang frieze, teased by encircling butterflies.

‘We welcome,' said the Chairman, as the cheering at last died down, ‘egg heroine Sun Guiying, who—'

‘So sorry to be 47.9 seconds late,' interrupted the heroine, bowing slightly, first to the Chairman, then to the audience, ‘but these Toyotas are buggers when it comes to cold starting. If throttle-pedal over-depressed, automatic choke flood carburettor. Soon I chop it in, get Merc 450 SEL, gimme that Stuttgart fuel injection every time!'

Below her, jaws dropped open, the bright eyes glazed. What hens were these, of which the heroine spake? What was the black smear on her nose? Why, above all, was she wearing string-backed gloves? Faster egg-handling? Antibeak protection? In the depths of the hall, a small man stood up, shyly, and took off his cap.

‘Egg heroine Sun Guiying,' he said, ‘we, the comrade-soldier-villagers of Dao Deng Hua, congratulate you on the triumphant sale of 492,800 eggs! What is your expert advice to all those who aspire, humbly, to achieve such figures? Is it a question of enriched grit, or perhaps—'

‘Get them to throw in loose covers,' replied Sun Guiying briskly. ‘That is my advice. Do not let them fob you off with standard PVC upholstery, you would not believe how your bum slides about when drifting through the Nu Hau Heng roundabout, I bloody nearly wrote her off, there was this yo-yo in a clapped-out Su Shiu 205 tractor, fortunately I was able to take him on the inside, these people should not be allowed on road, also, since you raise question, do not take delivery before they have modified suspension, this is a factory job, the Toyota has tendency to rear-end lightness, at present I have compensated for this by sticking two hundredweight millet-sacks in boot, but this is only stop-gap measure since what you are doing is forcing weight down onto aft wishbone, this has knock-on drag effect on rear differential, plus sump banging on road, hence oil on nose, I have very likely shredded a gasket, the stuff is seeping from the bell-housing like loose bowel motion from broody pullet, next question?'

There was a long pause, punctuated by sporadic snores and the odd whimper. Several members of the audience had begun reading
Gizzard Parasite Leaflet Number 86
. In one of the darker corners, two elderly pluckers were huddled over a Mah Jong board, normally a hanging offence. At last, the Chairman himself said:

‘Glorious poultry exemplar Sun Guiying, your dazzling achievement shames us all. I should like to begin tonight's dialectical proceedings by pointing the finger at myself. What have I been doing wrong?

‘You have been cycling in the middle of the road,' replied Sun Guiying, ‘you dozy old sod. What are you?'

‘I am a dozy old sod,' muttered the Chairman.

‘Do you think you own the road?'

‘Yes I think I own the road.'

Sun Guiying turned from the Chairman to the audience.

‘How many other cyclists here think they own the road?'

Gradually, some sixty per cent of the hall rose slowly and sheepishly to its feet.

‘ALL CYCLISTS THINK THEY OWN THE ROAD!' shouted the heroine.

One by one, the rest of the audience stood up.

‘ALL CYCLISTS THINK THEY OWN THE ROAD!' they shouted back, and sat down again.

‘It may interest you to know,' said Sun Guiying, straightening her nylon rally-jacket and sending the highlights skating across her heavy bust, ‘that it can take up to one hundred metres to stop car travelling at 100 kph
in normal conditions
, let alone eggs all over road, bloody chickens running off pavement without warning, droppings everywhere, it is like a skating rink, does anyone have any idea what I am driving on?'

An elderly lady, nudged to her feet by her front-row neighbours, stood up, hung her head, wept, banged her frail breast.

‘No one has any idea what you are driving on, triumphant egg champion hero,' she sobbed. ‘Forgive us.'

‘Mixed radials and cross-ply is what I am driving on!' shrieked Sun Guiying. ‘Also two with canvas showing, one with pork-pellet plug, due to no bloody stocks up distributor, car is damned death-trap, got no toe-in, got no down-line tracking, and suddenly road full of cycling nerds wandering all over shop, have you ever costed out wing-dent repair, beat out, rub down, apply four coats metallic to match in, replace chrome trim, mastic metal-to-metal edge, re-underseal wheel-arch, make good?'

‘No!' cried the old lady, and ran from the hall, scattering feathers, to hurl herself into a freezing slipper-bath, shave her head, and begin her fast.

The Chairman watched her go.

‘Are we to get rid of the bicycles, incredible egg-producing paragon?' he murmured.

‘And the eggs,' said Sun Guiying.

‘AND THE
EGGS?
' howled the audience.

‘No question,' replied Sun Guiying.

The Chairman bit his knuckle. One did not incautiously oppose a Heroine Of The Peasant Elite, an Idol Of The Glorious Press, a Mega-Egg Producer upon whom the great sun of the Central Committee had specifically directed a major beam. He cleared his throat.

‘And what, then, shall we produce?' he murmured.

‘Droppings,' answered Sun Guiying.

‘Chicken droppings?' croaked the Chairman.

‘Are there any other kind?' said Sun Guiying. ‘We shall sterilise the chickens and put them on a laxative diet, and from the droppings we shall manufacture methane, and on the methane we shall run the car. That is the way of the future! That is what progress is all about!'

The Chairman sank to his chair again, and dropped his head in his hands.

‘You cannot have poached droppings on toast,' he muttered.

Sun Guiying looked at him and the audience looked at her; the dialectic had reached, surely, an insuperable crux? The heroine, however, merely smiled, strangely; and when she spoke, her voice was throaty, quivering, full of dreams.

‘True,' she said. ‘But then again, you cannot go round Silverstone on an egg.'

50
Cave Canem

Dog left to live alone in council house
By James O'Brien

Mick, a 15-year-old Labrador, has been sole occupant of
a three-bedroom council house for three years. The house,
described as ‘the most luxurious dog kennel in Britain,'
has recently been modernised by the council at a cost of
£6,500.

The dog has had the run of the house since his master,
George Chapman, 65, went to live with his daughter
to recover from injuries received in a road accident.

Neighbours let Mick out for a run each day and take
his two meals a day into the house in Langton Place,
Hilston, Wolverhampton.

Daily Telegraph

I
knocked on the tastefully pastelled door in Langton Place, and, after some scuffling, it opened.

‘Good morning,' I said.

‘It's these door handles,' said the dog. ‘Take all bloody day, round knobs. You wouldn't credit how many times I been up the Public Works Department. All they say is, brassette spheres with satinette finish is standard. I told 'em they ought to come up Langton Place and try opening the bloody door with their teeth, never mind standard.' He sat down suddenly in the hall, and truffled noisily for a flea. ‘What I'm after,' he said, after his muzzle re-emerged from his greying groin, ‘is a straightforward handle – up, down, catch my drift?'

‘I can see your difficulty,' I said.

‘'Course you can, 'course you can,' said the dog. ‘I can tell you're not Council. For one thing, you speak dog.'

‘Just a smattering,' I said. ‘Un petit peu.'

‘Trouble is,' said the dog, ‘they're mostly Pakis up the Council, know what I mean? Come over here, push people around, can't even speak the bloody language. Prob'ly never seen a dog, except on a plate, follow my meaning?'

‘I really don't think they—'

‘Or Irish. I don't know what's worse, sometimes.' He trotted past me, and cocked a leg against the footscraper, decorously. ‘I got this file of bloody letters, all signed by Seamus something-or-other, file this high, about my post-war credits, I can't make head nor tail of 'em.'

‘Post-war credits?' I said. ‘But surely—'

‘Don't stand on the mat,' said the dog. ‘Come in.'

He trotted up the hall. I followed.

‘Excuse the mess,' he said, ‘I got the men in. About blooming time, I don't mind saying, you'd think they could take out a low-flush avocado suite in less than a fortnight, wouldn't you?'

‘You didn't like it?'

‘Like it?
Like
it?
Avocado?
Where are we, 1965? It's desert sand, this year. Or possibly apricot. You wouldn't catch me drinking out of an avocado bog, sunshine, there's such a thing as standards, or am I wrong?' He sat up suddenly on his hind legs. ‘You wouldn't have a Jaffa cake on you?'

I felt in my pockets, for form's sake.

‘Sorry,' I said.

He dropped to all fours again.

‘I get sick of a tinned diet,' he said. ‘Bloody neighbours, PDSA, old ladies, all they can think of is Fidochunks or Choochinosh or whatever it is, them tall wobbly cylinders, could be anything, jellied mule, extruded whale-gland, don't ask me. See this coat?'

‘Very nice,' I said.

‘Not what you'd call glossy, though, is it?' snapped the dog. ‘Not what might be described as shining with inner health? Suffering from a serious lack of fillet steak, is my diagnosis. Advanced case of no bleeding lamb chops since I don't know when. Sometimes I wonder what this country's coming to, know what I mean? I been up the Council three times about my diet, all they offer is supplementary benefits, don't come to more'n couple of kidneys a week, half a pound of mince, it's not fit for a, for a—'

He broke off, wheeled suddenly on his own tail, rooted frenziedly, relaxed.

‘You ought to go up them executive homes past the bus garage,' he growled, ‘I seen poodles up there, chihuahuas, afghans, all kinds of foreign rubbish, you name it, bows in their hair, snouts down in a monogrammed dish of Vesta beef stroganoff, if you don't mind. Sometimes,' he muttered, baring a yellow fang, ‘I wonder who won the war.'

There was the sound of hammering from the back garden. The dog trotted to the kitchen door. He nosed it open, and began barking furiously. The two workmen backed down the muddy lawn, bearing a blush-pink lavatory between them.

‘So I should think,' said the dog, coming back. ‘I never heard such a row. You'd think they could remove a seat without serious inconvenience to the householder. Rubbish, is what they employ up the Council these days. Micks, mainly.'

‘That, I take it, is your new lavatory pan?'

‘Right. But is it apricot? Is it buggery! Autumn rose, that is. They'll palm you off with anything.'

‘Why,' I enquired, perhaps a little faintly, given the circumstances in which the interview now found itself, ‘are they removing the lid?'

The tenant snorted.

‘Easy to see you never been a dog,' he said. ‘Get up in the night, raging thirst, nip out for a bit of a lap, last thing you want is the lid coming down on your head.'

‘The Council,' I murmured, ‘seem to have been fairly accommodating.'

The dog turned a terrible ochre eye on me.

‘I had to bite the Clerk of Works twice before they'd even look at me,' he snarled. ‘I don't call that accommodating. I was stuck in that waiting room a good twenty minutes. Also, they tried to palm me off with a quarter of Good Boy drops. Treat you like dirt,' said the dog, ‘if you're unemployed.'