photo.’
‘Photo?’
Maxwell leaned forward in his rocker. A smile appeared on his face. ‘There is
still photography?’
Dave
tugged a well-thumbed item from his trouser pocket and thrust it into Maxwell’s
hand.
Maxwell’s
face fell. ‘This’, he said, ‘is a photograph of the March of the Wildebeest.
Cut, if I’m not mistaken, from a now ancient copy of The National
Geographic.’
‘So how
do you explain that?’ Dave indicated the top of a church spire, clearly visible
in the background. ‘That’s St Wilko of Feelgood’s in the high street, you must
have seen it when you entered the village.’
Maxwell
parted with the photo. ‘They used to do that sort of stuff with things called
computers. You have my admiration none the less.’
‘And the
sparrow hawk?’ Dave pointed to the bird, now quietly roosting on the
mantelpiece.
‘Kestrel,
you mean.’
‘The
kestrel then?’
‘It’s a
conjuring trick. You’re winding me up. An uncle of mine could poke a pencil up
his nose and make it come out of his ear. That was a conjuring trick also.’
‘We
have a woman in the village who can…’ But Dave left the sentence unfinished.
‘This kestrel business is no trick, I can assure you of that.’
Maxwell
shrugged. ‘I have heard of ferrets in the trousers. But of okapi in the
waistcoat, I remain unconvinced. Sorry.’
Dave
threw up his hands in despair. Two squirrels emerged from his left shirt cuff
and scrambled onto the curtain pelmet.
‘There,’
Dave cried. ‘Explain that, if you can.’
‘You
might perhaps open a zoo,’ said Maxwell, who still had his doubts.
‘What’s
a zoo?’
‘A
place where you keep a collection of interesting animals. People pay-to come
and view them and—’ Maxwell halted before he reached full flow. Zoos were
perhaps not the best idea in the old world.
‘Pay?’
Dave laughed. ‘Pay to see my animals? And what if some visitor steps up to bid
me good morning and a venomous cobra darts out of my buttonhole and sinks its
fangs into him?’
Maxwell
rocked backwards with such vigour that he nearly fell off his chair. ‘That sort
of thing doesn’t happen. Does it?’
‘No.
Not as such. It probably depends on the season and where I happen to be. It is
summer in MacGuffin, hence the squirrels and the sparrow hawk.’
‘Kestrel,’
said Maxwell.
‘Kestrel
then.’
‘So
what about the okapi?’
Dave
now shrugged. ‘The exception that proves the rule, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
Maxwell rose and stretched. Enough was quite enough. ‘I think I’ll just take a
little stroll around the village,’ he said.
‘But
what about the job? You wanted a job.’
‘I’ll
get back to you on that.’
‘No,
really, please don’t go.’
‘Things
to do, people to see.’ Maxwell snatched his cloak from the cloakhook and made
hastily through the door and into the little lane beyond.
At
least he thought it was his cloak.
A
moment passed, the way some of them do. Then Dave heard a startled scream,
followed by a great trampling sound and the distinctive baritone snort of a
Tibetan yak.
‘There,’
said Dave to the squirrels. ‘Let’s hear him talk his way out of that.’
As he
spoke, a rabbit appeared from his right trouser cuff, twitched its nose
nervously and scurried away to take shelter beneath the box ottoman.
Where a
fox ate it.
8
Cocking a snook at the now
traditional, ‘Where am I?’ Maxwell awoke from unconsciousness with a cry of, ‘Dave, you BASTARD!’ This cried, he blinked his eyes and asked,
‘Where am I?’
He was
lying on a couch. It was an over-stuffed leather jobbie of the type once
favoured by psychiatrists, for putting patients at their ease, while they were
relieved of their cares and cash.. This stood in a pleasant enough room, about
as broad as it was long, and bathed in the red sunlight which washed through
two high arched casement windows.
This
room owned to a multitude of glass-fronted showcases
‘Photo?’
Maxwell leaned forward in his rocker. A smile appeared on his face. ‘There is
still photography?’
Dave
tugged a well-thumbed item from his trouser pocket and thrust it into Maxwell’s
hand.
Maxwell’s
face fell. ‘This’, he said, ‘is a photograph of the March of the Wildebeest.
Cut, if I’m not mistaken, from a now ancient copy of The National
Geographic.’
‘So how
do you explain that?’ Dave indicated the top of a church spire, clearly visible
in the background. ‘That’s St Wilko of Feelgood’s in the high street, you must
have seen it when you entered the village.’
Maxwell
parted with the photo. ‘They used to do that sort of stuff with things called
computers. You have my admiration none the less.’
‘And the
sparrow hawk?’ Dave pointed to the bird, now quietly roosting on the
mantelpiece.
‘Kestrel,
you mean.’
‘The
kestrel then?’
‘It’s a
conjuring trick. You’re winding me up. An uncle of mine could poke a pencil up
his nose and make it come out of his ear. That was a conjuring trick also.’
‘We
have a woman in the village who can…’ But Dave left the sentence unfinished.
‘This kestrel business is no trick, I can assure you of that.’
Maxwell
shrugged. ‘I have heard of ferrets in the trousers. But of okapi in the
waistcoat, I remain unconvinced. Sorry.’
Dave
threw up his hands in despair. Two squirrels emerged from his left shirt cuff
and scrambled onto the curtain pelmet.
‘There,’
Dave cried. ‘Explain that, if you can.’
‘You
might perhaps open a zoo,’ said Maxwell, who still had his doubts.
‘What’s
a zoo?’
‘A
place where you keep a collection of interesting animals. People pay-to come
and view them and—’ Maxwell halted before he reached full flow. Zoos were
perhaps not the best idea in the old world.
‘Pay?’
Dave laughed. ‘Pay to see my animals? And what if some visitor steps up to bid
me good morning and a venomous cobra darts out of my buttonhole and sinks its
fangs into him?’
Maxwell
rocked backwards with such vigour that he nearly fell off his chair. ‘That sort
of thing doesn’t happen. Does it?’
‘No.
Not as such. It probably depends on the season and where I happen to be. It is
summer in MacGuffin, hence the squirrels and the sparrow hawk.’
‘Kestrel,’
said Maxwell.
‘Kestrel
then.’
‘So
what about the okapi?’
Dave
now shrugged. ‘The exception that proves the rule, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
Maxwell rose and stretched. Enough was quite enough. ‘I think I’ll just take a
little stroll around the village,’ he said.
‘But
what about the job? You wanted a job.’
‘I’ll
get back to you on that.’
‘No,
really, please don’t go.’
‘Things
to do, people to see.’ Maxwell snatched his cloak from the cloakhook and made
hastily through the door and into the little lane beyond.
At
least he thought it was his cloak.
A
moment passed, the way some of them do. Then Dave heard a startled scream,
followed by a great trampling sound and the distinctive baritone snort of a
Tibetan yak.
‘There,’
said Dave to the squirrels. ‘Let’s hear him talk his way out of that.’
As he
spoke, a rabbit appeared from his right trouser cuff, twitched its nose
nervously and scurried away to take shelter beneath the box ottoman.
Where a
fox ate it.
8
Cocking a snook at the now
traditional, ‘Where am I?’ Maxwell awoke from unconsciousness with a cry of, ‘Dave, you BASTARD!’ This cried, he blinked his eyes and asked,
‘Where am I?’
He was
lying on a couch. It was an over-stuffed leather jobbie of the type once
favoured by psychiatrists, for putting patients at their ease, while they were
relieved of their cares and cash.. This stood in a pleasant enough room, about
as broad as it was long, and bathed in the red sunlight which washed through
two high arched casement windows.
This
room owned to a multitude of glass-fronted showcases
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