Interim Solution

15

Interim Solution

October 18 Not. Next morning Mr Ovenden thought he might have a solution but it couldn’t be put into operation yet. Most of the Junior Drones were looking very puzzled, but Mrs Ovenden said comfortably: “It’ll be something to do with the horses, dears.”

    Oh—of course. We smiled weakly.

    Horrible Hearty Henry, Egg’s older brother, otherwise known as the Towering Infernal Hulk, had recently returned from falling off someone else’s horses as a break from falling off his dad’s and generally driving not only his parent but also the stable lads to desperation. “U’ uh uh u’-eeuh,” he offered thickly.

    “For Heaven’s sake don’t speak with your mouth full, Henry,” sighed Mrs O. “Anyone would think you were ten years old, still.”

    Well his brain was definitely less than that and I could see the other Junior Drones were thinking it too.

    The Hearty one swallowed with difficulty. “I’ve got an idea.”

    Nobody looked thrilled, or even expectant, really.

    In fact his father sighed, reached for the teapot, refilled his mug and said heavily: “Go on, if you must.”

    Unabashed, Henry continued: “Send ’em up to old Mac’s dump! Nobody ever goes there!”

    “With good reason,” noted Egg. “Isn’t it under ten feet of snow?”

    “Not in summer, y’fool.”

    “Um, who is he, Henry?” ventured Mrs Fletcher.

    The rest of us were aware that this “Mac”, a Scottish person as the name suggested, was an old crony of Henry’s, I don’t think from his schooldays, but a fellow keen shooter of innocent feathered friends, sort of thing. Well that was what they generally did together and in fact wasn’t he due to dash up there about now and do it?

    Mr Ovenden drank tea and sighed. “Scottish chap who’s got a place where Henry and he slaughter game birds, Wendy. –Listen, you chump,” he said to his eldest offspring: “the whole yard will see if you cram them into that heap of yours, it’d be like telling the town-crier!”

    “Oh. Well, uh, could leave at night?”

    “Drive Mel and the boys up to horrible Scotland in the middle of the night?” gasped Mrs Ovenden in horror. “You’ll do no such thing!”

    “No,” the Egg agreed. “As a matter of fact, you won’t drive them at all, old man, your record on the road isn’t too damned hot.”

    “Exactly,” said their father heavily as the misguided Henry opened his mouth. “Shut up, Henry. Everyone told you not to drive while your damned leg was still in plaster.”

    “Added to which it was still the lockdown: you shouldn’t have been driving at all,” put in his mother.

    “I only—”

    “Ended in a ditch,” said his father flatly. “Shut up.” He looked hopefully in the teapot but it was empty.

    “I’ll make another pot, Dad,” said Egg peaceably. “Look, it’s a good idea, Henry, but will Mac want to have them, and can he be trusted to keep his mouth shut?”

    “He won’t talk—well no-one to tell, but anyway he’s no gabster. And he won’t care if they stay, so long as Mel doesn’t make eyes at him: doesn’t like that. Or put frilly cushions everywhere: hates that, too,”

    At this I was driven to cry indignantly: “I’ve never put a frilly cushion anywhere in my life!”

    “No, to be fair, she hasn’t. And don’t worry, I’ll scrag her if she makes eyes at him—where the Hell did you get that one from, Henry?” asked the Bean with a grin.

    “Eh?”

    Flossie had merely been finishing his mug of tea and looking sardonic throughout these exchanges. Now he drawled: “The charmingly old-fashioned expression ‘make eyes at him’, old thing.”

    “Oh—that. It’s what he said.”

    The company was momentarily silenced, except for the sounds of Egg making more tea.

    “Well um, who is he?” ventured Bean Minor.

    “Mac McDougall. Well they call him ‘The McDougall’ in those parts but y’don’t need to worry about that. Got a place in Scotland.”

    “With poor birds that he and Henry shoot,” Mrs O. elaborated kindly.

    “Oh,” the unfortunate lad replied.

    “Um, what does he do?” ventured Trelawney, possibly feeling that his chum needed some jolly old moral support at this juncture.

    Henry looked blank. Well blanker than usual. “Eh? Like Mum said. Dashed fine shot.”

    Poor Trelawney tried to smile, valiantly uttered: “I see,” and subsided.

    Mr Ovenden sighed again. “We’ve gradually and painfully gathered over the years—yes, thanks, Alan, another cup’d hit the spot,” he agreed as Egg poised the big old teapot suggestively. “Pass us the milk, would you, Carrie-Ann, dear? –Thanks. As I was saying, we’ve managed to gather that Mac, known to his clan members as The McDougall, owns a large tract of Scotland, empty except for rocks, heather, a few deer and the unfortunate birds that his gamekeeper raises, or perhaps fosters, is a better word—yes, fosters, so as he and Henry can kill them, and also— Did I say rocks?”

    “Yes dear, and do spit it out. You’re getting as bad as Alan,” replied his spouse calmly.

    Winking at the Egg, Mr O. continued calmly: “We’ve gathered that this McDougall, first name putatively Dougal,”—Flossie at this point choked slightly—“also owns a ruddy great salmon farm and the smokehouses to go with it. Fortnum’s for the use of.”

    “You forgot the trout streams, Dad, but in essence, yes, that’s it,” grinned the Egg. “Anyone fancy more toast, marmalade or jam optional?”

    Of course the workers had breakfasted very early and tho the rest of us hadn’t we all thought another round of toast would go down well, the Egg deciding happily, tho it wasn’t yet eleven, that the workers could call it elevenses.

    So as not infrequently occurred we all ended up sipping and munching happily round the big old kitchen table.

    Eventually the Egg said: “I think I’ve figured out how to get them up to Scotland. It won’t involve you directly, Henry, so there be’ll no trace from this end. Um, but it’ll need your cooperation, Dad.”

    “What makes you suppose that I won’t cooperate in keeping dear little Mel and the boys safe, you ape?”

    “Well, uh… It’ll sort of involve the business, Dad.”

    Sighing, Mr Ovenden got up, saying: “Very well, come into the office and we’ll discuss it. –Not you, Mel dear,” he added as I got up too.

    “But—”

    “It’s not your decision, Mel,” said the Egg firmly. “But do you agree in principle that the obscurest wilds of Scotland with Henry’s chum Mac would be the go, as a stop-gap measure?”

    “Well, I— As long as there’s no chance of putting the poor man in danger,” I faltered, looking at Henry.

    Crumpy, who was sitting beside him, gave him a violent nudge at this, and he looked up, startled. “Eh?”

    “Danger,” said the Crumpet clearly.

    “Eh?”

    “Do you think that your pal Mac will be in any danger if we can get Mel and the lads up to him without anybody knowing where they’ve gone?”

    “No, of course not, thought I’d made that clear?”

    Crumpy swallowed, managed to say: “Good show,” and subsided.

    “Right; come on,” said Mr Ovenden. “Henry!”

    “Eh?”

    “Come into the office. We need to get this settled,” said his parent clearly.

    “Uh—thought you didn’t want me to drive them?”

    “No. You will drive up alone— Look, just come on!”

    Henry stumbled to his feet and the male Ovendens exited.

    Silence fell in the roomy Ovenden kitchen.

October 21 Not. Continuing: After a little the cat flap was heard to make its irritating clacking noise and Cat Ovenden entered on noiseless feet. And uttered a loud croak. Several persons present might have been observed endeavouring to control winces for her deluded owner’s sake.

    Bean Minor, however, had always been her greatest fan. He leapt up immediately. “Hullo, Cat! So you’ve come in? Good puss! Yes, Henry’s not in here, it’s all right!” he cooed.

    Flossie at this sighed heavily, and muttered: “Thought she would’ve passed on by now.”

    “No, she’s marvellous for her age!” beamed Mrs O., the deluded owner in Q. “Alan was only seven when we got her, Wendy, did I ever mention it?”

    “Seven? Really? She is doing well,” Mrs Fletcher managed gallantly.

    “The creature bitten you yet, Mrs F.?” asked Flossie, appearing to revive.

    “No,” she replied, looking rather taken aback.

    “Oh,” he said, relapsing into apparent gloom.

    “She doesn’t bite!” panted Bean Minor from a bent-over position. “Good puss, Cat Ovenden! Want milk?”

    “Tommy dear, there isn’t much milk left,” ventured Mrs O. “And she has been fed.”

    “Well I could nip down to the sho—”

    “NO!” the assembled company cried in horror.

    “Oh—no,” he said, looking dashed. “Forgot.”

    “Look, give the monster the milk and I’ll get down to the village,” sighed Flossie.

    “Really? Thanks awfully, Flossie!” With this the besotted young legume transferred the rest of the milk to the grossly swollen ancient feline’s bowl.

    As anticipated, she waddled over to it, sniffed, turned her back on it, sat down and began to wash her bum.

    “I expect,” said Bean Minor valiantly, “that she’ll drink it later.”

    Well none of the Junior Drones replied, he said that every time. Mrs O., however, managed: “Yes, dear, of course.” Tho not even she managed to sound convinced or convincing.

    And we all relapsed into silence, wondering what on Earth the male Ovendens could possibly be dreaming up in the sanctuary of the office. Tho Mrs Fletcher who, it might be remembered, was nominally employed to help Mr O. with the paperwork, did look uneasily at her watch.

    Oh dear. Scotland? Wouldn’t it be terribly cold? And Horrible Hearty Henry, tho he meant well, was one of the most boring male creatures ever to have unnecessarily walked the jolly old planet, and it sounded as if his Scotch pal was likewise. However, if the Egg and Mr Ovenden okayed it, I supposed I’d better go. God knew I didn’t want to put the family in danger any longer than I had to. And if this place belonging to the unseen Mac was as obscure as rumoured, it did sound pretty safe. Tho it was dashed hard to envisage how we were going to get away without being seen by on average half the yard, that was, the half of the stable lads who weren’t out with the horses at that particular moment. Which they frequently were, of course, but not always, in fact there were largeish stretches of time when they all might— Um, yes.

    Well the male Ovendens duly returned, all looking rather pleased with themselves, and Mr O. clapped Egg on the back and said: “Alan’s worked it all out. He’ll tell you about it—I’ve got to go, got entries in the two-thirty at (name of doubtless well-known English horseracing venue)”. And with a quick kiss on the cheek for his spouse, off he hurried.

    Henry sat down again. “I say, any tea left in the pot? I mean, think I’ve got it clear, but a shot of tannin might help. –I mean, old chap, couldn’t we check the map and make a definite spot to meet up?” he added plaintively to his younger sibling.

    “Yes, but I’d better explain the plan to them first.”

    “Well yes, otherwise we may all explode with frustration, old man,” sighed Flossie.

    “Abso-bally-lutely!” the Bean agreed with feeling.

    “Hear, hear!” chimed in Crumpy.

    “Rhubarb, rhubarb!” contributed Bean Minor. –It had become a Junior Drones swear quite some time back, an anachronism tho it had been recognised to be, but the magic phrase “the Goons” having been used, all male members of the Junior Drones as then constituted had voted Aye. Tho the usage “Rhubarb and custard,” it was generally agreed, should be confined to Special Occasions.

    “Okay; well,” the Egg began, “the Scottish scheme is on, if the F.-B.s agree to it.”

    “It’s really up to Mel,” said the Bean on an uncomfortable note.

    “I’ve said I agree so long as Henry’s friend won’t be in danger.”

    “Not a chance of it,” said Henry, peering into the teapot. “Miles from nowhere. I could show you on the map, if Alan would get round to hauling it out.”

    “Well that’s all right, then, Henry; thanks very much,” I said to him.

    “Don’t thank me, old girl, it’s Mac that said you can come.”

    “You—you mean you’ve rung him already?” I faltered.

    “Eh? Yes, of course,” he replied, mildly surprised.

    “What on?” asked the Bean tensely.

    “Eh?”

    “Henry dear, just concentrate,” put in his mother with a sigh.

    “I am! –I say, Trelawney, you’re nearest: would you put the kettle on again?”

    “Refill it first, Teddy dear,” prompted Mrs O. as the chum leapt up to obey. “You’re not concentrating, Henry. What did you ring Mac from?”

    “From here, of course, Mum, what are you on about?”

    “What PHONE?” shouted the Bean, losing it.

    “Eh? This one, of course,” he said, producing it from his pocket. –Were those baggy things jodhpurs? Baggy, anyway.

    Bean, Bean Minor, Crumpy, and over at the bench Trelawney might have been observed to sag. “Thank God,” muttered the Bean.

    “Well I’m not going to make calls to dashed Scotland on Dad’s phone!” the Hearty one said loudly.

    Crumpy began: “That’s not the p—” and apparently thought better of it.

    “Never mind, Crumpet, old chap, the outcome was satisfactory,” drawled Flossie. “Shall we let the Egg speak? Or follow Henry’s example and relapse into comas?”

    “I must say, Alan dear, I don't know how you ever manage to hold your meetings!” said his mother brightly.

    “No, quite,” he agreed drily. “Tho Henry’s not a Junior Drone, that helps. Anyone want to know what the plan is, or shall we take up Flossie’s counter-suggestion?”

    “Yes of course we do!” said Bean Minor crossly. “I wish you chaps would shut up! You’re as bad as the aunts and the old uncles in Paris!”

    Some of his elders might have been seen to swallow, at this, and amidst the consequent silence the Egg was able to speak.

    “We’re going to use a horsebox. We’ll get all three of you into stable lads’ gear—which won’t entail much more than the two chaps donning woolly hats,” he noted, eyeing their lack of sartorial splendour somewhat drily, “tho we might manage a pair of my riding breeches for Bean—sorry, Bean Minor, but they’d be miles too baggy round the waist for you. But jeans will be fine.”

    “What about Mel, tho?” asked Mrs O. anxiously.

    “You could borrow a pair of my jeans,” offered Carrie-Ann.

    “Thanks awfully, Carrie-Ann, I think I’ll have to, I don’t seem to have packed anything sensible. Not that I had much that was sensible to start with, actually, but I think my good jeans might be in the wash at Mum’s place.”

    “You’d better have her oldest pair, not that I want to palm them off on you,” her mother explained, “but you’d look more like a stable lad in them, I think.”

    “Yes, good,” the Egg approved. “And a shabby top—well one of Bean’s Tees would hit the spot, that’s no problem. Um, we don’t want to be caught loading luggage up, tho, so none of you will be able to bring more than overnight things. Toothbrush, spare underclothes and socks, kind of thing.”

    “That’s all right, dear: Henry can take an extra case up in his car,” said his mother placidly.

    “Good idea, Mum. Right well, you three pile into a horsebox with me, and we tell everyone that I’m nipping up to Yorkshire to look at a horse that one of Dad’s owners is interested in. It won’t surprise anybody, one of the owners lives up that way and is known to covet anything equine that is his neighbour’s, so to speak,” he ended with a twinkle in his eye.

    “But do you go to Yorkshire? That’s the thing,” said Henry heavily. “–That’s right, lad, empty the pot and refill it, might as well make another round.”

    “No, Henry,” his brother explained kindly: “there’s no need to actually go there, that’s just an excuse so as none of the stable lads will question the horsebox driving off. And if anyone does realise Mel and the others came too, well all that they’ll be able to say if questioned is that they headed for Yorkshire.”

    “Oh good. –Went there once, y’know: frightful place, got hopelessly lost. Chap I know’s keen on old steam trains, y’see, and they’ve got this dashed—”

    “Shut up, Henry! Stop interrupting!” ordered his mother sharply.

    He looked injured but mercifully shut up.

    “Hang on,” said Alysse. “Won’t the lads wonder who these three odd-bods are, getting into the horsebox with you, Egg?”

    “Well as I say, if it does dawn it won’t matter too much, if they think they’ve gone to Yorkshire. But we’ll do it while the first string’s out riding work and the second lot are having their brekkers!” he said with a laugh.

    “That sounds okay,” she conceded.

    “As far as it goes, yes,” drawled Flossie. “Tho when the box returns with only you in it, Egg, horseless an’ all, won’t they wonder why Uncle Ian let you go all that way without a lad to travel back down with the putative horse, as per his absolutely unbreakable Medes and Persians?”

    “Medes and what?” sighed Mrs Fletcher.

    “Er—sorry. Medes and Persians. Laws, rules and regs.”

    “Good Heavens,” she said faintly.

    “Don’t let it worry you, Mum,” said Carrie-Ann kindly. “They pick up these things at their trad. boys’ schools. They’ve probably been saying it at Marbledown for the last hundred years.”

    “Hundred and forty-two,” said Crumpy promptly. “I say, tho, Egg, that’s a point. I’d better go with you. Openly, I mean: do groom for you.”

    “One was about to volunteer one’s poor self,” murmured Flossie.

    “Shouldn’t have given with the verbal garbage, then,” replied the Crumpet with some satisfaction.

    “Yes, okay, Crumpy, thanks very much, you’re elected,” said the Egg. “Well? Any flaws?”

    Nobody could see any, he seemed to have covered all the angles, as usual.

    “I’ll see to it that the lads’ Mrs Crowe does extra sausages and bacon that morning,” Mrs Fletcher decided.

    “Good!” Mrs Ovenden approved. “And it can come out of petty cash and we won’t tell Ian, he’ll never know!”

    Certain persons looked from one to the other of them in horror at this one, but the two matrons just nodded and beamed. Gulp.

    “Right. First thing tomorrow, then,” the Egg said briskly. “How’s that tea coming along, Trelawney? –Jolly good! Let’s all have another cuppa, and then we’ll look at the map and figure out where to meet Henry.”

    And that seemed to be that.

    Help.

    Frankly I knew very little about Scotland and I didn’t quite see myself up there amongst the game, so to speak. But the Die was Cast.

Next chapter:

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