tell me the name of this village?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Of
course I can, I live here.’
‘So
what is it?’
‘Oh, I
see. It’s MacGuffin.’
‘Ah,’
said Maxwell. ‘Then perhaps I am in Scotland ?’
‘No,’
said the young man. ‘You are in MacGuffin.’
‘Yes,
but where is MacGuffin?’
‘You
have me puzzled now,’ said the young man. ‘I always thought it was here.’
‘Then
you’re probably right.’
The
young man weighed this up. ‘Have you ever seen me before?’ he asked.
‘No,’
said Maxwell.
‘Then
how do you know it’s me?’
‘I
think I should be going now,’ said Maxwell.
‘Are
you looking for work?’
‘Yes, I
am actually.’
‘Then
come with me while I drop my shopping off.’
‘Wonderful,’
said Maxwell.
‘Oh,
it’s not all that. I drop my shopping off every day.’
The
young man, who, after much prompting with specific questions, revealed that his
name was Dave, led Maxwell to a cottage which huddled at the rear of the bygone
Budgen’s. They arrived by a somewhat circuitous route, but Maxwell made a point
of not asking why.
Within,
a cosy sitting-room showed a fire in its hearth, a comfy box ottoman, a carpet
bare of thread, but with a nice pattern, a few sticks of furniture and a few
extra sticks for the fire. Maxwell hung his cloak upon a cloakhook and sat
down in a rocking-chair.
‘Be
careful on that,’ Dave advised. ‘It has a tendency to move back and forwards in
an arc.’
‘Thanks,’
said Maxwell, shaking his head.
Dave
tossed both bags of shopping straight into a cupboard, then turned to Maxwell.
‘I have trouble with my trousers,’ he said. ‘Every time I shake them, something
flies out.’
‘What,
moths, do you mean?’
‘No,
sea fowl, curlew, birds of the air.’
‘That
sounds somewhat unlikely,’ said Maxwell.
‘But
nevertheless it’s so.’ Dave gave his left trouser turn-up a shake. ‘There you
go,’ he cried. ‘That’s a sparrow hawk, if ever.’
Maxwell
stared up at the bird, now flapping about the ceiling. ‘Looks more like a
kestrel to me,’ he ventured. ‘By the plumage.’
‘But
you see what I mean?’
Maxwell
nodded dubiously. ‘They are without doubt most unusual trousers.’
Dave
pulled gingerly upon the knees of his trews and sat down on the box ottoman.
‘It is the curse of the Wilkinsons,’ he explained. ‘Some say that one of my forefathers
fell out with whichever god was then in fashion. Some say.’
Maxwell
asked, ‘Why don’t you just get rid of the trousers?’
Dave laughed
a hollow laugh. ‘If only it was that easy. You didn’t come to my wedding, did
you, Maxwell?’
‘I’ve
only just met you, I thought we’d established that.
‘Well,
it was a grim day for the Wilkinsons, I can tell you.
‘Really?’
said Maxwell, wishing he hadn’t. Dave now sighed a sigh. ‘I had postponed
putting on my wedding suit until the very last moment. Then, feeling it was
safe to do so, foolish foolish me, I togged up and set off to the church. All
went well for a while. I stood at the altar, my fragrant Mary at my side. The
sky pilot read the service. The choir sang, “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”.’
‘It was
a Christmas wedding then?’
‘Christmas?
What’s Christmas?’
‘Never
mind,’ said Maxwell. ‘You’ve started, so you might as well finish.’
‘Yes,
well, the choir sang. The sun beamed rouge rays through the old aeon
stained-glass windows, lit upon the gilded ornamentation of the rood screen,
brought forth mellow hues of—’
‘And?’
Maxwell asked.
‘And I
was about to slip the ceremonial wedding sprout into the head band of my fair
one’s bonnet—’
‘When?’
‘When
okapi!’
‘Okapi?’
‘Okapi! Dirty great okapi came roaring out of my
waistcoat.’
‘Okapi
don’t roar,’ said Maxwell. ‘But otherwise it was not a bad yarn.’
Dave
looked defeated (but he wasn’t). ‘No yarn, my friend. No yarn. Here, take a
look at the wedding
‘Of
course I can, I live here.’
‘So
what is it?’
‘Oh, I
see. It’s MacGuffin.’
‘Ah,’
said Maxwell. ‘Then perhaps I am in Scotland ?’
‘No,’
said the young man. ‘You are in MacGuffin.’
‘Yes,
but where is MacGuffin?’
‘You
have me puzzled now,’ said the young man. ‘I always thought it was here.’
‘Then
you’re probably right.’
The
young man weighed this up. ‘Have you ever seen me before?’ he asked.
‘No,’
said Maxwell.
‘Then
how do you know it’s me?’
‘I
think I should be going now,’ said Maxwell.
‘Are
you looking for work?’
‘Yes, I
am actually.’
‘Then
come with me while I drop my shopping off.’
‘Wonderful,’
said Maxwell.
‘Oh,
it’s not all that. I drop my shopping off every day.’
The
young man, who, after much prompting with specific questions, revealed that his
name was Dave, led Maxwell to a cottage which huddled at the rear of the bygone
Budgen’s. They arrived by a somewhat circuitous route, but Maxwell made a point
of not asking why.
Within,
a cosy sitting-room showed a fire in its hearth, a comfy box ottoman, a carpet
bare of thread, but with a nice pattern, a few sticks of furniture and a few
extra sticks for the fire. Maxwell hung his cloak upon a cloakhook and sat
down in a rocking-chair.
‘Be
careful on that,’ Dave advised. ‘It has a tendency to move back and forwards in
an arc.’
‘Thanks,’
said Maxwell, shaking his head.
Dave
tossed both bags of shopping straight into a cupboard, then turned to Maxwell.
‘I have trouble with my trousers,’ he said. ‘Every time I shake them, something
flies out.’
‘What,
moths, do you mean?’
‘No,
sea fowl, curlew, birds of the air.’
‘That
sounds somewhat unlikely,’ said Maxwell.
‘But
nevertheless it’s so.’ Dave gave his left trouser turn-up a shake. ‘There you
go,’ he cried. ‘That’s a sparrow hawk, if ever.’
Maxwell
stared up at the bird, now flapping about the ceiling. ‘Looks more like a
kestrel to me,’ he ventured. ‘By the plumage.’
‘But
you see what I mean?’
Maxwell
nodded dubiously. ‘They are without doubt most unusual trousers.’
Dave
pulled gingerly upon the knees of his trews and sat down on the box ottoman.
‘It is the curse of the Wilkinsons,’ he explained. ‘Some say that one of my forefathers
fell out with whichever god was then in fashion. Some say.’
Maxwell
asked, ‘Why don’t you just get rid of the trousers?’
Dave laughed
a hollow laugh. ‘If only it was that easy. You didn’t come to my wedding, did
you, Maxwell?’
‘I’ve
only just met you, I thought we’d established that.
‘Well,
it was a grim day for the Wilkinsons, I can tell you.
‘Really?’
said Maxwell, wishing he hadn’t. Dave now sighed a sigh. ‘I had postponed
putting on my wedding suit until the very last moment. Then, feeling it was
safe to do so, foolish foolish me, I togged up and set off to the church. All
went well for a while. I stood at the altar, my fragrant Mary at my side. The
sky pilot read the service. The choir sang, “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”.’
‘It was
a Christmas wedding then?’
‘Christmas?
What’s Christmas?’
‘Never
mind,’ said Maxwell. ‘You’ve started, so you might as well finish.’
‘Yes,
well, the choir sang. The sun beamed rouge rays through the old aeon
stained-glass windows, lit upon the gilded ornamentation of the rood screen,
brought forth mellow hues of—’
‘And?’
Maxwell asked.
‘And I
was about to slip the ceremonial wedding sprout into the head band of my fair
one’s bonnet—’
‘When?’
‘When
okapi!’
‘Okapi?’
‘Okapi! Dirty great okapi came roaring out of my
waistcoat.’
‘Okapi
don’t roar,’ said Maxwell. ‘But otherwise it was not a bad yarn.’
Dave
looked defeated (but he wasn’t). ‘No yarn, my friend. No yarn. Here, take a
look at the wedding
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