The Scuttletongues of Midgely Manor

Oh, but she must maintain her facade for now, her man's guise! And fly in the team with Charles? She? Fly? She'd fantasized broomstick bewitchery with Rita Vita Bagge many moons ago at Boneridge towers but as for real flying! In the air! Over the King's head? Oh! What to do? What to do?

Charles approached her, scrutinising her moustache intently.

"You look an interesting chap. I like a man with a cruel mouth. What's your name?"

"Er, er, Bugges."

"I've got bugs! I've got bugs in my room! Dashed dormitory's infested with the buggers. And this is?"

"Dumbmoppe", Libby intoned low, giggling under her face wig.

"Bally well spiffing, what? You know", whispered Hardy-Banger, pulling Maybeline lightly aside by the elbow. "I like a man with spunk. Edge. Determination. There's something about cha. I can tell from the first." Maybeline blushed as Charles winked at her, er, him.

Sir Tarquin mumbled dreamily as the porker happily snogged his face. "Beryl, you're a naughty girl! Disobey me! How I love your insubordination! That pout! That squint eyed petulence! Your talk of daddy and his gammy leg, and his limp on the workers' marches! Hmmm, kiss me slowly, hmmmm, you naughty thing...."

Tarquin's good eye opened. Face to face with him on the pillows, smiling merrily and sliding his long rubbery tongue along his cheek was the full, glorious, pinky visage of the pig.

"Oink", said The Master, by way of good morning.

"Great Scott's frozen leghairs! What in the name of demented gerbildom is this! Aggggghhhhhh!!!!!!!! What confounded minion did this? Maybeline? Where are you? Let me pull the bell cord! Get off me, you beast! Help, ho! Help! Maids! Slackpole! Fetch a bucket of cold water and some stirrups!"

Slackpole bent his creaking back to tug at the jerrypot, ooarrrrcorblimeyin' and flippineckin' and begginyerpardonsirrin' as he sweated to pull it off the old baron's foot.

"It won't budge, Sir."

"Nothing for it. Get a sledgehammer. There's one under the bed."

"Right you are, Sir."

"Now, stand over me and bring the hammer down gently. This is a very delicate operation. Precision is everything. That's it. Angle it. It doesn't need force. Hit the china in a weak spot, where the flowers are embossed. It'll break. That's it. Bring it down. Gently does it."

At that point The Master shot out from beneath the dresser and banged into the back of Slackpole's legs. Slackpole dropped the hammer hard bang on the pisspot, smashing it to shivers, and right onto Sir Tarquin's toe.

"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!"

Half an hour later Sir Tarquin's foot was placed in a cast by the doctor amid ribald anglo saxonisms and throwing of shoes at passing domestics. Downstairs, the maids were all in a bustle in their soup dirtied aprons as they dropped trays and forks while scuttling about the banquet hall, laying the giant table for the King and company. In the kitchens, the pheasants were plucked, the geese goosed, the cabbages simmering in pots, the herbs sprinkled, and the chef, Olivier, drunk and passed out under the cutting table after six bottles of sherry.
Meanwhile, a search party was sent around the grounds to look for Maybeline; and Sir Tarquin was being wheeled across the grounds at a death pace in his makeshift chair by Slackpole.

"Faster, Slickpile!!! Hurry to the stables!!! Giddyup!"

"Slackpole, sir."

"Never mind that! Faster, you worsted stockinged nincompoop! Otherwise I'll be shoeing you with felt. Might make ya a bit faster, I daresay! Mush!"

Slackpole's shoulders shook as he entered the fusty barn, negotiating badly the steaming straw and woodchip piles festooning the ground like the debris of a woodpeckers' wedding feast. Standing several giants' hands high was Black Jeremy, blowing blue swarthy blasts of hot air from his enormous curly nostrils and eyeing Slackpole askance from his enormous eyes, volcano black and red. Black Jeremy ushered his massive long head forward and evidenced teeth each as big and broad, Slackpole thought, as sister Mabel's wood chip board shutters back at home in Six Mile Bottom.

"Easy boy, easy.....", stammered Slackpole bending down to touch the beast's left foreleg while it bent to a mouthful of straw, catching it between his teeth and dumping it square on Slackpole's bald head.

"Pfffhhhh.... Stay! Stay! Er, heel! Give me your heel! That's it, boy!"

"Come on, Slippiddle, that's it!" bellowed Sir Tarquin from the stable door. "Take his blummin' foot. Lift it! There, catch this horseshoe! I'll throw it to you!" With that, Sir Tarquin was just about to fling the heavy steel implement underarm when a second voice clamoured through the barn.

"Don't do that!! He'll heel you on the bonce if you touch him! He's a cantankerous one!", yelled Jeffers, coming into the light just as Sir Tarquin's horseshoe connected with his head, laying him flat unconscious in the hay, with Black Jeremy munching yellow strands about him.

"You've done it now, Slackpole!", roared Sir Tarquin from his chair! "He's flat out! What will we do now?"

"Sir, sir... I've just noticed. His shoes have been done already, maybe this morning."

"Well why didn't you say so in the first place, you blithering custard head? Come on, I'll wheel myself back. Bring Black Jeremy up to the saddlers and we'll get him ready! Hurry, we're expecting His Majesty here in an hour! And where in the name of Vasco de Gama's oceanwide knickers is Maybeline???"

Back at the Manor, the red carpet was unfurled on the gravel, the maids, servants and cooks (bar the sozzled Olivier) were lined up outside on the great steps to the house, and Slackpole was inspecting them all while that fine stallion, Black Jeremy, saddled, shoed and ready for the King's constitutional gallop, snorted and steamed behind him. Ties were straightened, hems pulled down, stockings tweaked, etebrows combed, nostril hair clipped and cufflinks pulled into sharp crisp shape.

Inside the Manor, the banquet room smelled of a thousand basket apples and hot loaves; the air was alive with the throb of wait for the entrance of His Majesty. Hyacinths, orchids, roses and lilies, redblooming fuschia and imported Dutch tulips of red white and blue, gathered in straw baskets and Waterford crystal vases, blooming and lounging tastefully and bountifully about the huge oval oak dining table. Fifty places were laid with dazzling knives - plate and fish - soup spoons and forks, china place mats and lace frilled drinking goblets for wine, ale and port. A buzz of expectancy electrified the building.

Meanwhile a search party of maids scoured the upstairs wardrobes looking for Maybeline, being followed with a cane by mad aunt Marjory poised for attack, always with her gramophone horn in tow. "I heard that! What? I heard that! I'll catch you! You can't get away! I heard that! What?"

But right at that instant one of the local rabbit poachers from Chavvier's Hollow ran up the driveway squealing, followed by a pop gun pellet.

"Heeeeelllllllp!!!!! Hellllllllllpppp!!!!! They're firin' at me, Sir!"

"Who?", enquired Sir Tarquin from his chair.

"His Majesty's henchmen, Sir! They're on their way with coach and horses!"

The coach pulled up, the head postillion blew his conch until his cheeks purpled, the ravens in the nearby towers flapped and sqwawked and rippled golden shadows of Old England fell on the dulcit silverings of the nearby duckponds. His Majesty, a portly, bearded man with Germanic jowls, a pointy brown beard and top hat moved his massive body out of the coach door and threw himself down the coach step onto the gravel.

"Sir Tarquin, old chum. Sportin' to see ya. Anywhere I can put me 'ores up for the afternoon?"

"Horses? We have stables, Your Majesty."

"Not 'orses. 'ores."

"Thinking of going rowing, Your Majesty? Oh, I see. Um. Yes, there's some chambers we can, er, prepare."

"Jolly good. How'd ya bugger your leg up?"

"Spot of rough polo."

"Polo? Bloody sissies' sport. Now jerrypot wrestlin's my thing. You get your foot stuck in a pisspot and get yer valet to try an' pull it off. Now if you'd said that, I'd have been impressed. I suppose you want me to sign yer cast?"

"Oh, please!"

"There... K-I-N-G." That should do it. Did I tell ya the Empire just absorbed the Federal Union of Changopoolia today? I'd better add the F.U.C. as a prefix. There."

"I'm, er, honoured."