Read Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom Online
Authors: S.B. Davies
Tags: #humour science fantasy
Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (30 page)
‘Ernie
Farthing, bachelor, a supporter of the allotments for over 80
years, gave his life willingly in ensuring the final success of the
battle. He will be remembered for his devotion to visitors of all
persuasions and his diligence in maintaining his plot.’
‘Alfred Mince,
husband to Millicent, father to Harry and John, known to all as
Butcher, died protecting the wounded on this very field. He fought
with unswerving courage, never once retreating in the face of
overwhelming odds. He fell with cleaver in hand, repelling the last
wave, keeping the helpless safe. All mourn the loss of his pork
pies and his sausages live on in memory.’
With slow
progress, the crowd moved towards the pyre. Painter intoned the
list of the dead and their achievements, his voice small in the
vast amphitheatre of the vale of the Alf. With the roll called, the
crowd formed a huge half circle around the pyre. Painter raised his
arms for silence and started the Eulogy.
‘In my heart I
find it hard to believe Dave Trellis is dead. In my head I know I
must accept. As an epitaph to the great man who kept us all safe
for so many years I’d like to read a poem penned by the probably
late Dave Trellis himself. He never thought it appropriate for his
masterpiece ‘One Life, One Woman, One Shed’, perhaps he felt it bad
luck to publicise something suitable for his own funeral; hubris
Dave would have called it and remind us of the inevitability of
nemesis.’ Then squaring his shoulder and lifting his head Painter
recited:
Knight
No bird seen nor dog
heard, the day they laid him to rest.
No wind to cool the
strident heat that baked the black clothed, waiting.
They carried him a
mile upon their shoulders, those proud, chosen few.
From allotment to
cemetery and never a word spoken.
Yet none of the
faithful there, called to another way.
The women of the town
stood by,
Tears and tissues, in
their best black hats.
And the shedless too,
regretting they would never know.
From the South they
came, the grand and the great.
A traffic jam of
Bentleys in Greenhead road they say.
From the North they
came, the clever and the gifted.
Huddersfield of all
places, ran out of the Financial Times.
From the West they
came, the affluent and influential.
Volvo’s a go-go in
Sainsbury’s car park.
From the East came
none, for it is beyond the pale.
The worst journey is
to Hull and back, they say.
The silent bells of
All Saints rang out, unleashed for this one day.
Hats doffed and heads
bent, along the quietened streets.
A host of dull, dark
figures, nor a patch of grass to flop.
The coffin, of best
marine ply, lowered with ease into the beneath.
A strong voice
reciting, and the mournful sound of the Last Post calling.
As the final kazoo
faded, a soft thud resounded,
As he met his resting
place twelve feet below.
A soft breeze, they
say, played through the trees.
Before a howling
tempest ripped, throwing hats and skirts akimbo.
Sending dignity
scuttling for the vestry
And brolly laden
chauffeurs running from the road.
An ant’s nest of
finest Alpaca amongst the lighting.
That more were not
struck is a blessing.
A traffic jam of
Bentleys at Accident and Emergency they say.
But not for the
faithful this public display
And not for storm
warning issued that day
For they were called
to a different way.
Shed-best, shop coat
clean, cardy darned and wellies bashed.
Each man an
archipelago in his own abode
Pork pie and brown ale
waiting.
And as the bells rang
out, no man shed a tear
And no man bowed his
head.
Through thick-throat
the pie consumed.
And helped by ale, a
steely will arose.
Straight backed, cloth
cap set upon the head
From shed and shanty,
lean-to and greenhouse
The faithful met the
call.
The pubs were silent
that night they say.
As they drank
Huddersfield dry.
Not a word was said as
Woodbine, rollie and briar glowed.
You couldn’t cross the
bar, you couldn’t breathe the air
And you didn’t say a
word.
At closing time, no
pub shut and the policemen joined the wake.
As twelve approached a
change began, the crowds began to shift.
Street lights
extinguished in due respect
Through darkened roads
they walked.
With cap and pipe, hat
and cig, a firefly column wandered.
A coiling nest of
tobacco-glow snakes,
Down to the cabbage
patch allotments
And the church clock
chimed slow to twelve.
At the last bell’s
sound, a huge cry rang out.
From allotment, waste
ground, back garden, siding.
From Huddersfield,
Cheltenham, Chester, Stroud
From Liverpool,
Leicester, Loughborough and Penge they roared:
‘
One
Life, One Woman, One Shed’
placed the padlock hasp.
All watched as they
finally closed his shed door.
The crowd was
silent except for a few sobs and a sniff or two. Painter
continued.
‘And now the
Ode of Remembrance, followed by the last post and if you please,
two minutes silence.’
Painter with a
strong voice declaimed once more:
to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true
of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to
the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their
faces to the foe.
They shall grow not
old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary
them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of
the sun and in the morning,
We will remember
them.
Quiet murmurs
of ‘We will remember them’ followed by the Last Post, delivered by
the bugle soloist from Brass Neck.
As the two
minutes came to a close, a figure in best black top hat and tails
blinked into existence next to Painter. There were mutters in the
crowd.
‘Please,’ said
Engineer, ‘I come to honour those that fell this day. Do not judge
me; I was constrained by considerations of great weight. I have
words to say about those I knew not and yet came to admire.
I would, in
honour of Dave Trellis and those who died, like to read the
original version of Xanadu. The Hive Queen wishes to accompany me,
singing the Lament of the Lost. I have taken the liberty of
converted it into sound so that all may enjoy.’
The ethereal
notes of the Lament for the Lost drifted across the field and
Engineer’s rich baritone voice pounded out the start of the
censored Coleridge original
Trellis Dave
A stately allotment
decree:
Where Alf, the sacred
river, ran
Through caverns
measured not by man
Down to the Sunless
Sea.
So five furlongs of
fertile ground
With allotments were
girdled round:
And here were gardens
complete,
Where blossomed the
famed blue sprout,
And here were sheds
ancient as peat,
Enfolding sunny quiet
redoubt.
The Hive
Queen’s voice soared and the backing voices swelled submerging
Engineer’s voice. As the glorious lament quietened, Engineer was
heard once more
caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to
a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult
Trellis heard from far
Ancestral voices
prophesying war!
Another delightful
crescendo submerged the poem and then receded.
It was a miracle of
rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome
with caves of ice!
Again the music
surged, drowning the prose and finally diminished, leaving Engineer
to continue the mundane stanzas.
and long
I would build that
dome in air,
That sunny dome! Those
caves of ice!
And all who heard
should see them there,
And all should cry,
Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his
floating hair!
Weave a circle round
him thrice,
And close your eyes
with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew
hath fed
And drunk the milk of
Paradise.
The Hive
Queen’s voice carved strange images of sound across the allotments
as Engineer recited the bewildering stanzas of the profane verses,
its dark imagery of violence and glimpses of ancient history that
unknowingly spoke too much truth.
The poem ended,
Engineer stood in silence listening to the closing movement of the
Lament of the Lost. The final notes faded and with a glistening
eye, Engineer spoke.
‘I understand
there is a tradition of awarding small motifs to those engaging in
desperate battle. I honour this.’ He waved his hand and all through
the crowd a small golden medal in the shape of a squid rampant
appeared on chest of the surviving combatants.
‘Even in
sadness, practical matters pertain. I have established funds; The
Trellis Memorial Trust to support dependents of those lost in
defence of the allotments. It is a small thing, yet life goes on.
Goodbye.’ Engineer disappeared.
Surprise,
delight and a certain relief spread through the crowd. Painter
raised his arms to bring quiet.
‘Unexpected and
in ways welcome as it is, this interruption is complete. Let us
return to the ceremony. Would the torch-bearers please come
forward.’
Humans and
Palaver stepped out of the crowd. Each carried a long torch made of
bound hazel twigs dipped in scented oil. Each lit their torch from
a brazier and formed a circle around the giant pyre. The torches
formed a halo of wavering light as the wind pulled the flames into
writhing shapes.
A pounding
noise disturbed the silence, like drums in the deep, and from the
barbican galloped a Dog of War, Azimuth rode carrying a huge torch
that blazed in the night. As the Dog of War approached, it slowed
to a walk and the torch-bearers made a gap in the circle.
Azimuth stood
in his saddle and raised the mighty torch in one hand and with an
unintelligible yell of anguish he threw the torch. It tumbled,
shedding embers, to land high on the pyre. The other torch-bearer
followed and a chandelier of cascading flame descended on the oil
soaked wood. The flames caught and grew, spreading until all burnt
with a fierce yellow light.
Soon the pyre
blazed and the torch-bearers withdrew as the heat grew unbearable.
Only the Dog of War stayed, a dignified statue silhouetted against
the conflagration. Eventually it turned away as its hair started to
singe.
The crowd
watched in silence until the pyre collapsed and even the shape of
the huge Dog of War could no longer be distinguished. In the
marquee away across the field, Brass Neck started playing ‘My Way’
and a singer for the Huddersfield Choir finally put paid to the
nightmare of the Frank Sinatra version by singing it properly.
Painter stayed
while the crowd drifted away to the Wake and watched the flames die
down to embers.
‘Now time for
beer,’ said a deep voice.
‘Aye, Enoch,
you’re right,’ said Painter turning round, ‘Time for beer and song.
Do you know ‘Closing Time’ by Leonard Cohen? It’s a good song for a
night such as this and I’m sure Dave would’ve appreciated it.’
‘I learn. Come,
before Landlord gone.’
‘Don’t worry
big man. We have scarfed every barrel of decent beer in
Huddersfield.’
‘Won’t be
enough,’ said Enoch.
They wandered
towards the light and music of the Wake, the ground in front lit by
the glow of the pyre and the stars bright in the dark night over
Huddersfield.
The soldiers
looked on, standing guard in the cold night, seeing flashes of
mayhem every time the Marquee tent flap opened to allow a reveller
to stagger out to relive themselves, or a returnee now ready to
face to the excess that skirted the edges of hedonism. Boisterous
singing, bearing little resemblance to the tune belted out by Brass
Neck, assaulted the peaceful vale and the clang and clink of barrel
and glass spread far.
Inside, the
party divided into distinct factions. The mournful drunken formed
quiet angry clots, while the emotion charged exuberance of the
Palaver captured the dance floor and others watched in
surprise.
Mrs Yorkshire
was the only woman to brave the giant mosh pit of Palaver in the
centre of the marquee. Perhaps it was the Sherry she drank by the
pint, or may be the after effects of battle, but she tore her
blouse off and screamed defiance at the bemused Palaver. Her
cleavage was an impressive sight, if a bit hairy.
When band
stopped playing for the first interval, Enoch shouted for swords
and the Palaver arranged themselves in a circle preparing for the
ancient ceremonial dance of “Too Many Blades”. One or two
enthusiastic members of the crowd were discouraged from joining,
but Painter had special dispensation.
Arrrooogaah’
yelled Enoch, hurting the ears of the spectators, and the dance
began.
They stomped
hard, shaking the tent and moved in a complex swirl of twists and
leaps. Sword clashed constantly in a bewildering storm of blades,
the whole a whirling complex of huge bodies and deadly steel. They
chanted strange words, traditional and sombre, their feet banging
out a driving rhythm. In the midst of it all Painter danced with
fierce abandon, often grabbed by a Palaver and thrown back into
position, before a six foot long blade cut him in half. He was
singing something that caused tears to roll down his face.
