Beyond the Bandstand 4 - Mothborough and Belle Wayward Strand.

Having finished a pleasant cuppa, it was time to continue the journey to Mothborough. Wancote drove quite slowly back down the track and I had a chance to notice allotments full of tall bean plants, squat bright green cabbages and the like. There were stacks of timber in covered stores and the occasional very utilitarian vehicle.

Without prompting, Wancote started to talk earnestly about his relationship with his brother, how Lionel was infatuated with this ‘Miss Lucy’, how she gave all her attention to Wancote and politely rebuffed all other advances. Lionel was incensed when Wancote had moved to ‘the big city’ to work, his attitude being that he should stay and do the right thing by his lady friend.

‘Isn’t Lionel jealous of you then?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes, he is. But he’s also sensible to the reality of Miss Lucy’s feelings. He just thinks that I’m letting her down. He thinks that I should have stayed at home, joined the family business and made a life with Lucy in the village. He thinks that I’m throwing away the good fortune that he so desperately would love to have. It’s really complicated…I would like to go back someday, maybe, but not yet. I want to spread my wings, live life to the full while I can and I like city life anyway.’

‘Would she go and live with you In the city?’ I asked.

‘No, she’s a Friendly through and through. She’s virtually the village witch, does creams and potions and so on – people depend on her…she wouldn’t dream of leaving. It’s all very difficult…’

After a short silence, Wancote changed the subject. ‘Where are you staying in Mothborough?’ he asked.

‘Gail at the Inn gave me a list of addresses that were part of the Company group. Where’s that paper…’ I rummaged in my kit bag. ‘Yes, here we are…Mrs. Wayward-Strand, number 12, Vole Street…The Young Person’s Reasonably Friendly Association, Gravity Crescent…and Viewpoint Lodge, Moth Hill. My goodness, there are moths everywhere round here, places, families, all sorts…do they OWN the place?’

My companion gave a wry grin and explained that Mothborough had once been a small village called Wyverne Bridge. The Moth family were engineers and businessmen and had developed the Directional Gravity Thrusting drive, becoming extremely rich. They had diversified into many other areas of trade and industry and, like many successful people, had become very unpopular in certain quarters. Developing and renaming Mothborough was their statement to the world and envy and distrust followed in their wake. This all sounded familiar somehow…

‘I stay at Viewpoint Lodge,’ he continued, ‘There’s a lovely view and it’s one of the older houses – used to belong to a big landowner, Roland Rock, one of the founders of the Friendlies. It’s a really beautiful place. But if you want to be handy to the main part of town, I should try Mrs. Strand. She’s a bit odd, but you soon get used to her. I wouldn’t go to the Y.P.R.F.A. if I were you, you have to share a dormitory and help with the chores.’

Just then, we reached the end of the downhill track at a T-junction with a metalled road. We turned right through bright open woodland with wide grass verges to each side. The sun was rising high behind us in a sparkling clear blue sky, lifting our spirits with the promise of a beautiful day. We breasted the top of a steep hill. On the other side, spread out below us, lay Mothborough, gently hugging the rounded contours of the valley floor, like a glistening patterned quilt of cream stone and red tiles. In the middle distance shone a silver band of searing light, the River Wyverne. Weathered bright green grassy hills formed the backdrop, cloud shadows drifting waywardly across their undulating sides.

* * * * *

When your driver is competent, it can be a joy to be a passenger. Such was the case now, and I had ample opportunity to gain a wonderful first impression of the town…or was it a city?

The downhill sweep into Mothborough became a wide four lane boulevard shortly after several side roads had filtered into the flow. Traffic density was light. Vehicles skipped around us, all of varying flowing profiles and colourful in a gaudy way (lots of bright greens, reds and virulent pastels) which seemed to be in keeping somehow with the overall sense of place. There were many more Public Service and utility vehicles than I was used to back home. Trees lined the road on both sides, gradually giving way to more open planting with large and handsome three storey buildings set back a good twenty yards or so behind neat lawns…possibly offices? Almost all were built with a stone or some other masonry which glowed creamy gold in the morning light, each topped with a bright red pan tiled roof.

Wancote turned into the small front parking area of one of these, saying that it was his company’s “Head Office” and asking if I could I wait for him for a few minutes. I noticed a discrete but very colourful moth symbol on a board to one side of the main entrance. So perhaps the Moth company were ‘the people’ that his brother did not like him working for…?

While my companion was away, I took the chance to stretch my legs and have a quick look around. The air was warm with only a faint pleasant breeze and I wondered if the seasons were also different here. Trees were still in full leaf and I recalled seeing bushy bean plants at the Friendly Village. If it were an Autumn day at home, it would be an absolute cracker! As I walked round the side of the office, I saw that the gable wall was painted with a mural of some mutton-chopped local dignitary or other (a Moth?), which then abruptly changed to a view of a wide and elegant suspension bridge over a substantial river – the Wyverne? I assumed that this small miracle was due to the “chalkboard” technology that I had seen before, but on a grander scale by far. I was getting used to it by now…

I sat on a grassy bank under a nearby copper beech and decided not to stay at Viewpoint Lodge with Wancote, but risk the unknown by going to Mrs. Wayward-Strand’s lodgings in Vole Street. Much as I liked my new acquaintance, I was wary of being too friendly at first – call it natural British caution with new people. Besides, my spirit of adventure was still strong and this place was truly amazing in every way.

One hour later I found myself at the top of the stone steps up to the front door of 12, Vole Street, a substantial mid terrace town house. Wancote had driven off to Viewpoint, with my promise that I would visit him on the morrow. He was grinning in a worrying way about my forthcoming meeting with Mrs. W- Strand. Her front door was either painted bronze, covered in a thin layer of bronze or was actually cast from that metal. To either side stood a three foot high sculpted panther carved in the same creamy stone as the building. A note on the door said ‘If you don’t like cats, you can scram now!’ Well, I did like cats and I do still, so I rang the brass bell which hung to one side. A light jingling noise grew louder from within. It was not the doorbell that I heard…

A vision is one way of describing what opened the door. A mess is another…At first all you could see was a flock of diaphanous pastel scarves hung apparently haphazardly from neck to knee. Above was an explosion of finely braided hair, each braid sporting an individual brass bell, all jangling together like a miniature gamelan. The face peering from within this carnival of delights belonged to a fairly tall lady who possibly claimed to one and all that her age was “29”. (To keep things fair, many men do this too!)

‘No, I don’t want any, I keep telling you!’ It shouted.

Taken aback, I said ‘Pardon?’

‘Not you, you fool… him…him here on the other end of my earphone. Damned man keeps trying to sell me windows. I keep telling him that I’ve got some, thank you. Won’t take a blind bit of notice of me and what do you want anyway?’

‘Um…Gail at the Biscuit Inn said that I could stay here while I’m in town?’ I began to wonder if this was a good idea…and the next thing said didn’t help!

‘Aaahh! The latest victim, pray dooo come inside, dear boy!’

Eh?  Thought I…

* * * * *

FIL - Februaury 2008

Beyond the Bandstand 3 - The Glosse Family.

From January 2008  -  I do believe that I detect a very slight improvement in writing skill... but also notice several continuity mistakes yet to come. Never mind, in the raw as it was written! :)   


                                                                                                                                    


Thus it was that, next morning, I found myself sat in the passenger seat of a vehicle driven by Mr. Glosse, who rapidly said to call him Winnie or Wancote. I chose Wancote (which is apparently pronounced ‘onecoat’…hmm!)

The vehicle requires some rapid description.  The main impression was that it was SOLID; no rattling doors or odd vibrations here, which is perhaps a shame… the engine sounded throaty and powerful, but there was none of the accompanying ‘thrust’ or vibration. From outside it looked like a bright green cross between an estate car and a van (sorry, don’t know the American equivalents), and had all its bolts and seams proudly on show, as if to change a panel was a matter of easy consequence. The interior was cushionly comfortable but open and fairly austere – and stained with splashes of paint and varnish like a mobile sample card, which of course it was…

Wancote proudly told me that it was powered by the latest thing in ‘Directional Gravity Thrusting’ technology, which I found mildly disturbing for some reason. It seemed that there were two plates, one front and one rear, coupled to some arcane gizmo which could redirect any local gravity force in the direction required. This had the benefit of making the van, contents and passengers that much lighter as the vehicle was fooled into thinking that it was ‘running downhill’ all the time. Unfortunately it also had the effect of making my insides contemplate a rather similar problem, which was luckily unfulfilled as the journey progressed. The engine noises were partly produced by the backup hydrogen powered motor and partly by the ‘Health and Safety’ audio device demanded by the local powers that were.  This information did not assist my assessment of what on wherever was going on – but I didn’t press the point.

Wancote asked if I minded stopping by his family homestead briefly during our journey and I was intrigued and happy to agree. This meant turning sharp left off the main track, up through the woods for at least a mile onto higher, scrubbier, more windswept ground where coarse, hillocky grass and russet and yellow scruffy bushes took over the landscape.

The ‘mean green painting machine’ swept round a more sheltered bend in the track. Just in front, nestled in the hillocks and lumps of tufty grass, were five or six brightly painted log cabins of similar design. Some were red, some bright blue or green. Paint supplies were obviously not a problem hereabouts! All were roofed with thatch, and had small windows set at unusually varying levels. Each sported a bright red brick chimney to one side, all gently smoking in the cold, still air. Not very ecologically sound, I thought, especially considering all the information I had been given so far!

Wancote parked in front of a particularly bright red example of the architecture and announced that we had arrived at the family seat.

‘Wancote, why don’t you stay at home when you’re visiting the area?’ I asked, adding ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being too nosey…’

‘Aaahh!’ he replied, ‘…long story Phil…let’s just say that I’m the “black sheep” of the family. I always call round, but if I stay too long there are arguments between me and my brother. So I stay at the Biscuit Inn and don’t tell them that I’m here. I just turn up, out of the blue so to speak. I hope you don’t mind, but I suppose that I’m using you as a bit of a shield against an argument even starting. You can stay in the car if you like…’

I’d had a pleasant chat with Wancote during our journey, and quite liked the man. His amusing resemblance to Clark Gable may have helped – who knows…Anyway, my stomach had more or less recovered from the churning caused by the van’s unusual propulsion system and I said that, of course, I would accompany him inside.

We ‘de-vanned’ into cold, dry air. Now, I know that many wonderful authors have described the enormous variations you can experience in types of rain and snow and drizzle, but I don’t think any of them has mentioned ‘snizzle’! Snizzle is that pinprick shower of cold, almost invisible somethings which hit your face and hands, but doesn’t get you wet. Well, it was snizzling, and I looked forward to entering what looked a very cosy dwelling.

*****

Wancote led me up the three steps onto the veranda style porch, wiped his feet on the coir doormat and tapped lightly on the varnished planking door. I noticed a coloured moth symbol on the mat, which had a cross scraped through it, possibly by years of judiciously aimed boot cleaning…Not waiting for a reply, my companion opened the door, coughed loudly and shouted ‘Hellooo! Only me! Erm, anybody home?’

A voice laden with sarcasm, obviously not meaning a word, came from within, ‘Father, its Winnie at the door, your long lost son. What a delight!’

Footsteps approached and the door swung wider, revealing a copy perfect reflection of Wancote, but without the small moustache. ‘What do you want? Oh, you have company…he has company, dad!’

‘Show them in, show them in.’ came a faint voice.

Wancote made the introductions. His brother, for such he was, was Lionel Glosse. He dressed, not in a business suit like Wancote, but in heavily woven, earth toned shirt and trousers and stout black boots. There was no sign of the father as we entered and I had a chance to look at the surprising interior of the timber dwelling.

The door opened directly onto a large room, open right up to the rafters, the eaves being about fourteen feet above the floor. From these were hung slender timber beams, which appeared to be on some kind of rope and pulley system for raising and lowering. The beams had metal hooks at intervals, holding sides of bacon, bunches of unknown herbs and various pots, pans and other paraphernalia of the kitchen or workshop. Brass and copper shone down on us, glinting in the cold light which cut through the high windows.

The left hand side of the room (looking inward) was dominated by a large, redbrick fireplace, not with an open fire, but with a large black cooking range, the blackness almost glowing with the comforting warmth it gave. A twenty cup and gently steaming, copper kettle stood on a heat plate. An enormous farmhouse table of well scrubbed wood claimed the space to one side, guarded by eight beautiful beechwood chairs of a design I did not know.

At the far end of the living space was a staircase up to an open balcony, about the depth of a room to the back wall. This was guarded by a carved wooden rail and banisters, through which could be seen the tailboards of two large beds. Two doors nestled under the balcony, presumably leading to the smaller rooms that you find in a homestead…a further bed and various pieces of furniture and carved wood occupied the rest of this space.

The star attractions of this strange dwelling, however, were the painted, wood panelled walls…

*****

Every square inch of the lower half of the walls opposite the cooking range was graced with colourful art painted directly onto the boards. The style was primitive but joyful to the eye and the medium used looked suspiciously like household gloss paint. The works were divided into panels about the size of a kitchen unit door and appeared to celebrate local life. There were carefully sign – written titles under every scene and I note below the most memorable examples. I must leave the accompanying artwork to the reader’s imagination…
1.    The Mothborough Maurice dancers (with added maydens).
2.    The Building of the Meeting House by Glosse Bros. (Carpenters, Joiners and Scrub  Wranglers).
3.    Midsummer Fayre at the Truth and Biscuit Inn. (The Dogg Ate All the Sossidges).  
4.    National Tree Hugging Tuesday (Miss Lucy Clutching Her Sweet Chestnut).  It’s a perfectly clean title, thank you so much!
5.    Lonely Smith Accidentally Caught Thinking (He Had to Lie Downe After).
6.    View of the River Wyverne from the Banke. I should hope so! It would be a bit wet otherwise…
7.    Mr. Verne, One of Our First Visiters (He Wrote a Lott).
8.    The Small Red Brick Toilet Blocke in the Wood with the Thunderbolt Tree on the Right. Mentioned in an earlier blog – ‘Any Port in a Storm’.
9.    Still Life (The Resulting Licker was Most Agreeable).
10.  Brian Hopworthy with his Prize Winning Wolfhound Langley (He is a Greedy Dogg, Langley that is, not Brian).
11.  That Ginger Haired Lad being Wrangled by some Scrub (He did not Whin).
12.  Miss Milliner Beating Buster Tikkit in the Annual Fierce Staring Contest (He was No Match for the Hatte).

*****

I studied the paintings on the wall with a diligence and with a vengeance. No person has ever shown more interest in how a tree or a shoe was painted, the delicacy or otherwise of each brush stroke, or the particular curl on a sign written letter ‘S’. Why? I’m sure we’ve all been in this situation! The brothers Glosse, Lionel and Wancote, were attempting to argue under their various breaths in a nearby corner. Attempting, but failing. Now and again a louder snippet of conversation reached my ears. I really, really was not trying to hear…well, I’m inquisitive by nature…but no person in the room could have missed one or two phrases from each of them.
Lionel came up with: ‘Dad should have named you Turncoat, not Wancote’, ‘…and what’s wrong with being a Friendly?’, ‘…Miss Lucy really misses you…’ and ‘…of ALL the people to go and work for…where are your principles man?’
Betwixt and between, my new acquaintance Wancote came up with: ‘You have to be practical…’, ‘…and I don’t fit in with your lifestyle…’, ‘.Look, we’ve been through all this over and over again!’, ‘I’m rubbish at woodwork, you know that, and what’s more…’, ‘Leave Miss Lucy out of this, that is not your business’.
I coughed and moved to a picture further away from the two combatants. They noticed, immediately stopped the war of words, and came over to where I stood, by chance examining a landscape of ‘The Wyverne Valley, notte from the banke’, but from a hillside vantage point.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ asked Lionel.
I agreed and asked in return ‘Have you lived here long. I mean, I would guess that your family has lived around here for some time?’
‘That’s an understatement!’ he laughed but looked mildly annoyed. ‘The Glosse family are part founders of this community. The families in this village have been here for hundreds of years, my father helped build this meeting house when he was young and we’re very proud of our achievements. At least, most of us are…’ He glanced sideways at his brother who was turning an odd colour, his moustache twitching on one side.
Wancote looked as if he was going to come back with a very sharp reply, so I swept in with another question. ‘Meeting House? I thought this was where you lived? It’s a meeting house as well?’
‘A tradition of the’ Friendlies’, my friend. We have always used a homestead for meetings, but as we grew in numbers, it just wasn’t practical…this is a meeting hall, theatre, home and workshop, all rolled into one building. Dad and me are the caretakers. In return, the village pays for the upkeep and everyone mucks in anyway. That’s what we’re all about, you see. Well, most of us…’
Wancote now looked near exploding and I felt most uncomfortable.

*****

Luckily, at that moment, Glosse Senior appeared from one of the purpose-unknown doors at the back of the room. ‘Have you lads not offered our guest a drink yet? Come along, remember your manners! Put the kettle on Lionel.’
A grey haired copy of the brothers strode toward me, smiling and with hand held out in greeting. He was wearing a brown overall coat, covered in sawdust and wood shavings and carried the odour of pine resin and varnish with him. It was obvious from the hardened skin that I was shaking hands with an experienced tradesman. He announced that he preferred to be called by his nickname, Streaky (?) rather than the formal Mr. Glosse that I first proffered. I also noted that neither Lionel nor Streaky had known my name before introduction, unlike Wancote and the staff at the Truth and Biscuit Inn. Odd thing that, in many ways…and reinforced by Wancote telling his father that I was an ‘invited guest’ of the Friendly Group (of Companies).
Streaky pondered a moment, raised his eyebrows a little and gave a strange little half smile. ‘Well, Phil, I do hope you enjoy your stay. How long are you here for?’
‘I really haven’t thought about it,’ I replied, ‘it’s all a bit open ended. Things are secure at home, as long as they keep the trainee away from the paint pots…and the zebra…yes, we keep zebra, horses, donkeys, llamas, all sorts. Erm…please don’t think I’m rude. I’ve tried to find this out at the Inn, but no one was letting on. What IS the Friendly Group…are you ‘Friendlies’ part of it? It’s not a cult thing is it? I mean, the price for this trip was very low and I seem to be wandering through the experience in a bit of a dream…all my questions are politely… well… sidetracked in a way.’
‘Come and sit down and have a cup of tea,’ said Streaky. ‘A lack of surprise is quite normal for a visitor from the other side of the Bandstand. We don’t really know why…the change of air, perhaps? No, we’re not a cult of any kind whatsoever, (he grinned), we’re more what you would probably call a ‘commune’ or ‘friendly society’ perhaps. The Friendly Group is our commercial branch, so to speak. We have a very long history, hundreds of years. I could lend you a book if you like – just give it back to Winnie (Wancote’s family nickname, remember?) when you’ve read it. And it’s not a dream! We are all very real, I assure you.’
The conversation continued while Lionel brought over a huge ‘Brown Betty’ teapot and lowered a small box from the storage beams near the rafters, which contained what I would hazard was the best porcelain tea service, hand painted with orange and brown flowers, foliage and field mice, (for some reason), and with those delicately stupid ornate handles that you can’t grasp properly, but are much beloved of maiden aunts and grandmothers. I swear that one of the field mice winked at me! I found out later that this was perfectly possible, but at that moment, I simply thought myself imagining things.
 Streaky and his sons were chatty, but noticeably reticent about why the Friendly Group ‘sponsored’ visitors. I suspected that I was perhaps expected to be an advocate for further visits by others in the future. At least the brothers had ceased hostilities while their father was there, though a certain moustache occasionally flickered a little when Lionel was talking.


FIL January 2008

Beyond the Bandstand 2 - Wancote's first mention - Nov/Dec 2007

Written between 30th. November and 14th. December 2007, the scribbles are still very experimental and I was (still am of course) learning...




I must have then fallen asleep for a while or daydreamt at least. I remember briefly being back home, tending to the new stud zebra, ensuring that the keepers were looking after him correctly, and telling the young apprentice off for giving him a pink and lime green stripey paint job. Very 'OZ' magazine from the 1960's. Allegedly the zebra had asked for it as a reward for classy performance and high levels of stamina. (Hi Helen!). I recall Langly the wolfhound running round and round my house, all six legs a blur of canine action and power.
I remember being served a steaming hot yellow and white cleaning cloth for tea with a jug of engine oil at the side, which I ate out of British politeness to Gail, who had lovingly prepared it.
Finally, and a little more hazily, I thought I saw Old Tom, resplendent in his breeches, brocade waistcoat and tricorn hat, come out of a cupboard and proceed to tidy the room and pull the curtains together against the gathering darkness outside.

A tap at the bedroom door woke me, just as the ghostly Tom disappeared back into the cupboard. It was Gail, asking if I were coming down for tea, as it was 'all included in the price'. Answering in the affirmative, I roused myself, felt my way to the light switch and clicked it down. The curtains were closed, but I hadn't closed them, had I? The brochure I had been reading was back in a small rack on the bedside table...

After changing into some fresh clothing taken from the knapsack that I neglected to mention earlier (writing on the hoof has its pitfalls), I had a quick wash and brush up in the bedside sink and trundled down the two flights of twisty stairs to the 'Snug' where I had been told tea was served.

*****

An odd scene greeted me as I entered the small 'snug' bar. A podgy, red faced gentleman aged about forty something was sat over by the window, reading a horse racing newspaper and inhabiting a pair of blue, paint spattered dungarees. I discovered during the course of tea that his name was Romney Marsh and that he was decorator and "jack of most trades" for the 'Friendly Group' of companies.

A small lady of great but unguessable vintage, dressed all in black except for her feathered and be-fruited multi hued straw hat, stood at the servery. Thumping a milk jug onto the bar with surprising venom, she shouted at Brian who happened to be passing through. 'You can put that back in the cow, young man! I always take cream with my coffee. You all know that, and you always get it wrong! Always!'

'I'm sure that's not always so, Miss Milliner. I'll tell the lad. So sorry, so sorry!' Clutching the milk jug against a sheaf of official looking forms, Brian exited stage right toward the Kitchen.

'The Lad' turned out to be a young fellow with ginger hair who made the journey all the way round from the other bar and across the hallway so that he could personally deliver a small jug of cream directly to where Miss Milliner had reseated herself by the open fire.

Meanwhile, Brian passed the back of the bar in the other direction, wiping down a sheaf of official looking forms with a tea towel…

Nodding and smiling in acknowledgement of my fellow diners, I sat at the third table, tucked in a corner opposite the decorator. He folded his pink sheeted newspaper and asked if I liked horse racing. I said that I liked riding, but wasn't overly keen on watching or betting. Despite this, we seemed to strike up a good relationship, swopping tales of zebra husbandry and gaudy decoration, as you do…

Meanwhile, Brian passed by again from left to right, desperately trying to air-dry an official looking form by flapping it around. It tore: Brian swore.

'Can you enlighten me on something, please?' I asked Romney. 'Do you have cars, computers and all that sort of thing? You have electric light, but everything appears to revolve around horses – it makes no sense to me. Nothing looks what I would call modern, though some things seem to be old things, but only just made. You know what I mean…like antique reproductions, but nobody has tried to ruin them by faking the appearance of age.

'Romney pondered a while, holding up a forefinger to signal that an answer was on its way.

'The best way to explain things is to pose you some questions first', he began. 'Do you assume that your world is the real one and that this is the strange one? Isn't it possible that your point of view might change according to which side of The Bandstand you were on?'

I do believe that my jaw dropped – I hadn't considered this idea for a moment. Romney smiled and advised me to think it over during tea. With her usual excellent timing, Gail appeared from the Hallway with Romney's food which looked like toasted sandwiches and smelt (small joke for those who know) of fish. I looked at the short handwritten menu and made my order.

Meanwhile, Brian passed by fighting a roll of sticky tape and cursing the fact that it stuck merrily to his fingers, but not to the wet papers he was holding. Find a table to work on, man!

*****

Tea was served by the warm and gracious Gail. I had ordered the 'Marmalade filled pancakes with spiced fruit syrup' because it sounded odd and intriguing. It was wonderful, but I couldn't help thinking that it looked very similar to something that I had possibly eaten before…Perhaps it was the way that the pancakes were cut in very neat squares and the syrup was a clear golden colour? Who knows!

Romney had, by then, finished his 'fish dish', (which turned out to be bloater paste and horseradish- cream toasted sandwiches, which I highly recommend. Really!), and was ready to talk further.

He sat back and patted his generously proportioned belly. 'Have you had a think, then, Phil? Are you any the wiser about what this is all about?'

'Well', I replied 'I think that it's all a bit of a mental voyage of discovery. Everything seems very real – possibly it really is. Normal rules do not seem to apply, but I suspect that this land (what is it called, by the way?) has its own logic, and I just need time.'

'You are, at the moment, in the Marchlands of Britannica, my boy. Our company very quietly invites suitably minded people to visit. In answer to your previous question about old and new artefacts, we have simply followed a different route to all of you on the other side of the Bandstand. You may find it better, you may find it worse. This is up to you. We haven't approached technology the same way. I think the general way we look at things might be summed up as "If it isn't broken, don't fix it", although genuine improvements are always welcome. We also embrace abstract thought as a valuable resource.

*****

I decided to hit Romney with what I thought was a 'killer' of a question.

'Hang on a minute,' I had unsconciously leaned forward and set my head at a quizzical angle. 'What about the chalkboard outside the inn? You can't tell me that's not magic! How on earth (or wherever) can you draw and write in chalk on a simple blackboard and achieve buttons that actually work to summon people? Not to mention the fact that you can change the page that you are reading! Now that HAS to be magic - so the Marchlands aren't real!'

The odd job man grinned. 'Wrong! You have these things at home! They may not look the same, but you have all the technology to make such a chalkboard! You have computers, you have touch sensitive screens and you can code recognition of signs, symbols and colours into your machines. You have programmes that recognise handwriting and can change it in any way you choose. The board outside is a conceit - a bit of fun. It looks in keeping with the Biscuit and has been very well received. Brian allows Gail to use it because her work is amusing. She always runs out of room to write things and it adds a lovely personal touch,'
I think that I was disappointed by this answer, and not entirely convinced. This chat continued a little longer, during which I discovered that building things to last was very important here and that the largest industry was recycling. All rather too good to be true. Can you have a 'perfect' world which contains human beings? Now there's one for further thought (but not today).
We were interrupted by the ginger haired lad popping his head round the door. 'Anybody need a lift to Mothborough tomorrow morning? Mr. Glosse has business there and is setting off at eight o'clock sharp.'
There was car sharing as well? If it was going to be a car, that is – I wasn't sure any more. I wanted to move on, so I piped up in the affirmative and enquired who Mr. Glosse might be.
'Mr. Glosse, Mr. Wancote Glosse – sells paint and stuff,' answered the boy. 'You'll meet him at supper this evening. He always stays here when he's in the area.'


Right! I've been stuck in this pub for months now and at last the leaving of it is in sight! And I'll be blowed if I write in the first person for any future project. I'd read that it could be difficult - so of course, I had to have a go. I am an idiot!

Beyond the Bandstand; a silly story in an infinity of parts...

I considered editing this and decided against - when I wrote it I hadn't written anything in poetry or fiction for around 40 years. So here it is - me finding my way through the words and learning how its done (badly most of the time) 



In response to one and a half requests, I have compiled the first five parts of the story, first posted between September and October 2007. I wrote very short sections at first and I'm amazed they read as well as they do after being stuck together.

So, here goes!!! Unedited and not cleaned up in any way.




Well, the map (for what it's worth - not much) has arrived at last. The only key to the world beyond the bandstand is in my possession. There are warnings such as 'Here be dreamers', 'Highest point you could imagine', 'Here be Monstewers' and 'Beware of the Instant Friends'. I'm not sure that I'm brave enough to tackle the journey on my own, but I can't think of any true friend that I would wish to subject to the possible dangers, or any other person I would trust to accompany me and manage to keep quiet about the line that the plot of this blog might take. Resting places are indicated on the map with the appropriate pint of foaming ale symbol. No such advantage shall be given to those mad enough to read this rubbish (serve you right!)

The morning air was cold and sunny; somehow the word "smartling" seemed suitable for the fresh touch of breeze on my face and in my lungs. The walk to the bandstand was a gentle fairground ride through small industrial areas with the smell of dust and resin, then between green fields with head high hedges of hawthorn and bramble. The last hill, and turn to the right where the meend* grew wider and the breeze was stilled by the surrounding beech and oak.There, not one hundred yards away, was the Bandstand, neglected now for some thirty years, but still evocative of a timeless time which may never have existed as it is seen in the mind...

How many musicians had played within those decaying wooden rails, beneath the peeling grey-green shiplap roof? How many splendid Sunday afternoons idled away, picnicking to the strains of a stirring march by the local silver band? All gone, all apparently unwanted, obviously unloved.

Following the advice given on The Map, I walked firmly toward a large oak on the other side of the meend, skirting the bandstand to my right hand side, but never looking directly at its peeling, dusty form. 'On reaching the tree, turn around with confidence and look back'. Those were the final instructions for entering this land.

As I turned, the sound of a sinuous tune played on a classical guitar gradually became louder. Looking back, the bandstand was transformed; all the timbers were complete and new, brightly painted in reds, yellows and greens with gold highlighting the ornate fretwork to rails and canopy. The player sat within on a low stool, a shadow at this distance. The playing stopped and the silhouette of the figure beckoned me over...

As I walked forward, I saw the player was a young man with mid-length brown hair, wearing bluejeans and a teashirt (which said 'Chas and Dave') And it IS spelt like that in my blog!

Thinking of nothing better to say, I sayed "Hello, who are you...?"

"My name is Lol; I am your guide to this land. Hang on, that sounds a bit too mystic - neither of us think like that, do we...You'll have to learn to be careful; people look over your shoulders here all the time".

"Do you guide many people - do you have anything to do with this blasted impossible map?" I asked.

"No and no", he replied, "Every guide is conjured to suit the visitor...no, don't interrupt - you are really going to need somewhere to stay tonight. I will go now, but follow the path past the oak tree and stop at the 'Truth and Biscuit Inn'"

"Pardon, why on earth is it called that?"

"Well, you will see the reason for 'Truth' when you get there, but as for 'Biscuit', if you ask anybody, they really can't give you a sensible answer, if it comes to the crunch"...

Without dwelling on a further description of Lol and our conversation, which may or may not appear later, I consulted The Map and ascertained the approximate location of the "Truth and Biscuit" inn - I checked where it was, OK?

Heading to the right hand side of the large oak, away from the bandstand, I found myself walking over sunburnt scrubby grass with low bushes growing on either side of a half worn pathway of dry bared earth. As I walked on, the trees began to close in and gain in height; they were beeches casting dappled sunlight on the dark green forest undergrowth and there was a heavy scent of wild herbs. The path gradually began to slope downhill until it met a crossroad of woodland tracks, the widest being in front and continuing downward, which I followed. This was within an oakwood, darker and more mysterious, but comforting in its all-enclosing stillness and calm.

Half a mile further on I saw my destination. The path widened into a half moon shaped clearing with a three storey whitewashed building on the right hand side. Three horses were tethered to a rail outside just underneath the inn sign, which was a straw coloured wooden disc, carved cannily with the gentle, uneven, rolling surface of a biscuit, complete with the pinprick holes to help its baking.

*meend - Forest of Dean term for a scrubby, grassy, natural, uncultivated area, usually with gorse or whin as the dominant large plant.

*****

 I approached the inn cautiously. The horses whinnied and shyed away, but calmed after I stood still for a moment or three. There were two bay windows at ground level with a wide, green painted wooden door between, which was opened inward. The sounds of chatter and laughter (which were encouraging) came from inside. I sidled closer...By the right hand side of the entrance was a blackboard, covered in chalked writings and symbols, most peculiarly drawn. Chalked on the left side of the board was a series of circles, each about two thumb widths in diameter and of differing bright colours; opposite each circle, a handwritten statement. I now reproduce the sign to the best of my memory: -

The One and Only Truth and Biscuit Inn(well, hereabouts, anyway)

RED CIRCLE            Welcome! Press the circle for ostler.

GREEN CIRCLE       Press for today's menu.

BLUE CIRCLE          Press for local attractions.

ORANGE CIRCLE     Press for strange 'free' offers.

WHITE CIRCLE        Press to complain to the management

PURPLE CIRCLE     Press if you're brave enough to complain to Cheffy, but I   really wouldn't if I were you, you know, he's very temperamental, but he's very good considering what and whom he has to work with and we wouldn't like to lose him and I've run out of space to write everything I've been asked to wri

Well, what would you have done in my place; a blackboard with chalked circles saying 'press' for some sort of response? No sign of real buttons, no electrical or other connections - just a darned blackboard...I did what most of you would have done. I pressed one, and I chose the 'Welcome!' circle. The board didn't change, nothing seemed to happen, and I was left standing, feeling rather stupid and hoping that nobody inside the inn was looking out and laughing at my gullibility (and I wouldn't have blamed them).

But no... no sounds of laughter, only a steady patter of light footfalls approaching from the rear of the building. A short, rotund, cheerful looking man bounced up to me, his arms open wide in a huge welcome. (Chalk board truth number one).

'Well done, 'ol butty, where b'ist thee 'oss then?' he said.

'I don't have a horse - I pressed for welcome...who are you?'

'I be the ostler ol' butt', he replied, 'I looks arter the 'osses - I keeps tellin' 'em they ortn't to put it in one lump on the board with the welcome bit, but, you know, modern management, no beggar listens to them as da know summat!'

'Well,' said I, 'my name is Phil, who might you be?'

'I be Vernon, Vernon Tikkit, but you can call me Vern if you like.'

I had a pleasant chat with the ostler and warmed to him greatly. His clothes were well worn and Romany in style and colour. His voice was quiet, yet clear; his humour apparent and generous. Vernon was, and it's a word I hesitate to use, but he was a jolly man; the kind who presents no apparent threat and radiates a genuine, innocent charm.

'What should I do now?' I asked.

'I got to go, ol' butty, 'osses to muck out an' stuff, thouss know. Kip on wi' thick chalkboard. Im'll make sense arter a while. Take care!'With that Vernon turned and walked away, waving a cheery farewell accompanied by a cheesy grin.

 Nothing left to do but tackle the board again. I wasn't going inside the inn without some clue as to what was what, who was whom and where was wherem.

O.K. - Next circle down - green for menu......I pressed a coloured chalked circle (green), as before, but waited this time and held my breath, watching intently for any change. Nothing happened, though I waited at least ten minutes (or was it two?). Staring up at the sky, hands outstretched, and proclaiming to myself and the world in general, 'What do you expect, you daft sod?' had the desired effect. When I looked back the board had changed, written this time in a smaller, neater and more florid script. It read as follows:-

Hello Phil.

Breakfast - You're too late, but we had bacon, eggs and all the trimmings - Gail said the bacon was too salty, but I don't agree.

Dinner - No, it's not an evening meal in these parts, and you're in time if you get inside quickly. There's a choice of smoked haddock in cheese sauce (too salty - G), Lamb chops with boiled potatoes and minted peas (almost too salty - G) or wild mushrooms with cheesy pasta. Well, we had a load of cheese to get through and it's all Brian's fault for ordering too much. The chops have nearly had it too, so today's your last chance - they're still alright though - I'll eat them if you don't.

Tea - Gail does tea - ask her.

Supper - Freshly cooked Exotic Fish Curry with exotic oriental spices and mad rice* or Freshly cooked exotic Lamb Korma with exotic mad rice* or mushroom stroganoff with chips (well, why not?)

*Cheffy is the mad one - Gail.

I hummed a bit, decided to leave further examination of the board until another time, girded my assorted loins and walked up to the main entrance of the 'Truth and Biscuit'...crossed the threshold... entered the Inn...

To my right was a door with a sign in gothic hand stating it was the Taproom, a door reverberating with sounds of laughter, chinking glasses and general bonhomie. To my left were two doors. One read 'SNUG', the other read 'CUSTOMER '.A door signed just for me, (or us), was irresistible, so I opened the door - and jumped back instantly with surprise.

'What date is it?' asked the man, sat inside what was obviously a small cupboard. He was clad in a red and gold brocade waistcoat, green velvet breeches and a ceremonial tricorn hat.

Recovering from my shock at seeing that which I did not expect, I answered, 'November the second 2007......what are you doing in a cupboard?'

All I got as an answer was 'Too soon, too soon - I am on a timer, you know. Close the door and go away!'

What sort of timer was this, I wondered as I dutifully slammed the door shut with a suddenness caused partly by surprise and partly by puzzlement…

 Have you ever walked into a room full of people after an unnerving experience and found yourself glancing back towards where it happened as if the strangeness were somehow following you? I walked into two chairs and a generously proportioned, short, pretty, blond girl wearing a black skirt, flat sensible shoes and a crisp white blouse (I'm trying to flesh out my characters) before I reached the serving bar in the 'Taproom'.

'Oh! I'm ever so sorry, clumsy of me – are you all right? D'you know, there's a man sat in a cupboard out there, off the hallway?'

The blond, who was carrying a tray of old fashioned window-sided beer glasses, manoeuvred through the hatchway to the other side of the oaken bar, turning sideways to aid her passage.Leaning generously across the serving area, she announced to the several customers 'He's seen old Tom! First one this year!'

Ooohhs and aaahhs and knowledgeable mutterings rippled round the tables and benches, accompanied, I was relieved to note, by generous smiles - and the occasional wink, which I wasn't so sure about.

'I'm Gail, and we all know you are Phil' she said, smiling up at me. 'Stop looking so worried. You didn't buy just a map to find this place, you bought everything else as well – it's part of the deal.'

Pause for thought, furrowed brows and decision to carry on regardless...'Who is old Tom, and why is he sat in a cupboard?' I asked.

'Old Tom? Well, some say he's the ghost of the inn and some say that he is the person who really runs all this – not just the inn – everything! Keeps saying he's on a timer, apparently. I've never seen him myself. Tell you what, come with me and we'll have another look at your cupboard and see if he's still there.'

I followed Gail back out to the hallway. There was the cupboard, just as before I thought. But it wasn't the same. The sign now said 'Cleaner' and I could swear that the door was hung the opposite hand to before. My new friend lifted the latch and pulled it open, revealing a motley assortment of brushes, buckets and dusters. I needed a drink!

Back at the bar, Gail served me a pint of the best ale I had ever tasted. Sweet yet bitter, smooth yet sharp, complex and satisfying. Dare I also mention that the ensuing 'burp' was part of the pleasure – seasoned ale drinkers will understand – it's not something you can experience with pleasure when drinking fizzy beer! 

*****

I sat at a quiet corner table, set for two people, but fair enough for one, and took stock of my surroundings. My chair was crafted of a dark and ancient wood with a worn, but still colourful, silken, bargello padded insert to rest my weary...errr...bottom.  The company was varied, and included a long tableful of happy bucolic drinkers in rural work clothing, a quieter quartet of besuited tidy gentlemen and, to one side, a large mixed bunch of old and young family people, resplendent with children, grandmothers, grandfathers and everyone else you could imagine!

I mostly liked the way each group merrily swopped gentle insults, news, information and concern......yes, the meal I had ordered took THAT long to come! I wondered if I should complain to the possibly mythical ’Cheffy’, but thought better of it.

Now it may have occurred to you, as it did to me, that neat besuited businessmen, riding horses, would look rather strange and anachronistic. When they rose to leave, saying farewell to all including yours truly, I watched with anticipation through the bay window overlooking the crescent of flat mown grass to the front of the inn. I admit to expecting a sight of some comedy value or at least something unusual.

The four strolled out of view in (I assumed) the direction of the stables, all deep in arcane conversation, doubtless about mergers and ’downsizing’ and the like. Within a very few minutes,  the sound of approaching bells and hooves quietened the remaining audience in the bar and we all watched intently as a horse and trap swept in front of the window, rapidly followed by another.

Having little knowledge of the finer points of such matters, I can only describe what I saw in layman’s terms. No ponies these beautiful animals;  they were more like thoroughbred racehorses, one bay and one grey, but both with pale straw manes and tails, both impeccably groomed and wild of eye. The harnesses were covered in, well, sleigh bells for want of a better word, jangling in a pleasing harmony and rhythm. The traps were black and sleek of shape with odd additions like folded wings attached to the sides. One was plainly coloured, but the other had flames and swirls sweeping down its overlong sides. I assumed (correctly I was told later) that this belonged to the youngest of the quartet.

This latter combination of machine, man and animal proceeded to complete three breathless circuits of the crescent of grass, cornering on one wheel at least once and at prodigious speed. Both then disappeared further on down the wide track that passed the front of the inn.

The remaining two besuited gentlemen left shortly after in a dark green open carriage, their uniformed coachman sat on high at the front controlling two fine animals with understated skill. A coat of arms or company logo graced the carriage door. It appeared to be some kind of colourful moth, but swept past too briskly for me to be certain.

Halfway through my ordered meal of lamb with spuds and peas (the lamb was fine and nothing was too salty), I felt a very firm but gentle pressure upon my right shoulder. Nervously I turned my eyes... then my head... slowly... cautiously...  to see - who knew what! It was grey muzzled, grizzled, furry, bright of eye, apparently friendly, and big! It was nothing less than a wolfhound, taking an inordinate and uncalled for interest in my food. Dammit, he didn’t even have to reach up to lay his chin by my neck - he was that tall!

’Ummm! Help!’ I squeaked.

Gail grinned from behind the bar, ’Oh, that’s just Langly - he’s lovely - everyone loves him!’

’Langly?’

’Yes, Langly...because he’s gangly...gangly Langly - long leggedy beasty and all that. LANGLEY! Leave Phil alone!’

Langley removed the gentle pressure (after a presumably conciliatory nudge) and strolled round to sit by my side at an almost respectful distance. He was a very handsome animal of some vintage, with the deepest, darkest ’tiger’s eye’ eyes (sic)
that I had ever seen.

Gently I returned to, and finished, my meal - ever watchful of my new uncalled for companion.

When I had finished, Gail bustled up to me with her already customary smile, asked the dutiful ’Did you enjoy your meal?’, and rebustled back to the nether regions of the Inn. Langly the wolfhound gave a deep disappointed sigh and went to fold his long legs around his nose over in the corner.

Sipping my remaining beer, I further examined my surroundings. The large family were making preparations to leave, installing infants in pushchairs, rescuing assorted toys from under benches and surreptitiously pocketing small packets of sugar, salt and pepper from the bowls on their table. The farmworkers had long gone. I had eavesdropped on their conversation, which had been a good natured argument about the correct way of catching eels and preserving them in aspic jelly -  and whether French herbs counted as ’exotic’. I learned that day how to skin an eel by ’sleeving’ - but I will refrain from further description!

’Good day sir, good day sir, good day!’
A short neat man in an apron was trotting Gail-fashion across from the bar. He was about forty something and was rubbing his hands together proprietarily.(Got you all - I looked that one up!)

’I’m Brian, Landlord of the one and only ’Goat and Bucket’ Inn. Gail says you enjoyed your meal - not too salty was it?’

’No, not salty at all,’ I replied, ’I thought this was the ’Truth and Biscuit’?’

’So it is, so it is. Getting muddled with the last one!’ he replied enigmatically, sitting down in the other chair. ’We hope you enjoy your stay with us - if there’s anything we can do to help...I gather Gail has explained that the price is ’all-in’ whilst you stay at this establishment and any others in our little chain of businesses? Yes? Good! Have you any questions?’

’Many, many questions,’ said I, ’But I don’t know where to start...You could tell me about those four businessmen - are they local or just passing through?’

’Aaaahhh!’ They work for B. E. Moth and Company, down in Mothborough. Biggest local employer, fingers in many pies...don’t own us, mind, but they do all our supplies and so on. Very important world wide!’

Me being me, I idly wondered if their suits were from Moth Bros., or if they owned a soup company called Moth Broth - probably not - not a very appetising name.

Brian continued, ’The one of them is young master Moth - he stands to inherit the company one day - working his way up from the bottom so to speak. He’s a bit of a lad, that one. Very polite people, they are, but be careful if you have any dealings with them.’

My attention was then caught by a familiar face behind the bar, wearing chef’s whites complete with tall hat, puffed out at the top.

’Wasn’t that Vernon the ostler I just saw, wearing kitchen uniform? Does he do two jobs?’

Brian glanced round, ’No, that’s Cheffy...he’s Vernon’s brother Buster, Buster Tikkit.’

Soon afterward, Brian showed me to my room on the second floor (third floor, for any American friends), up steep and twisty stairs with half hollowed barewood treads, smoothed and rounded by myriad footfalls. I lay back, fully dressed, on the bed and pressed into the soft pillows, hands behind my head.

The room was snug with a gabled roof window, through which early evening sunlight streamed, the strength tempered to a glowing gold by the half closed, coarse linen curtains. Walls and floor and ceiling were without right angle or straight line. All plaster surfaces were uneven and of an aged and friendly cream colour and the small bedside carpet was a Persian style confection in blues and reds laid over polished oak boards.

I looked idly at the light above the bed...and looked again...and yet again. No doubt about it - it was an electrical fitting, not the expected oil lamp. Sure enough, over by the door was a switch at shoulder level, ornate brass and apparently quite new. This all required some collecting of thoughts and assessment of what had happened so far.

I remembered how I had first read of the map that had gained my entry to this land ’Beyond the Bandstand’. I had been sat in a doctor’s surgery, waiting on my appointment for a minor health problem. An odd magazine lay half buried in the pile of gaudy detritus passing itself off as entertaining literature - a small and plain pamphlet printed in sepia, with the title ’Interesting and Informative Insights’. Near the back of the booklet was a small rectangular advertisement, which read: -

BEYOND THE BANDSTAND

You’ve heard the stories - now you can visit and see for yourself.
You won’t regret it!
Just send 300 shillings for a map and guidance to PO Box ****, Gloucester.
You know it makes sense, Phil!
We look forward to your company!

Advertisement posted by the Friendly Group.
"We are the good guys!"

Now here I was, lying on a bed in an Inn which was part of the ’Friendly Group’, miles from home, all on my own and yet strangely unperturbed. My mind flew with questions. Why had I sent for the map - simple curiosity, a need to find something missing in my life, or had I at last found that sense of adventure repressed for so many years? And why was I not more astonished and unsettled by events so far? After all, I’d seen a ghost, used a ’magic’ blackboard, met a giant wolfhound, been entertained by a madly racing horse pulling a  trap with go faster patterns down the side, not to mention meeting people who at first seemed ordinary, but were not quite right when you stopped to think about it...

Nothing seemed to add up. This world was entrenched in the look of the nineteenth century, but there was an electric light above my bed. Everyone was extremely friendly - too friendly for my naturally suspicious nature - and yet they radiated genuine charm. How big was it all, as big as the ’other’ world? Bigger?

Enough, enough! I noticed a small colourful brochure sat upon the bedside table. The cover showed a view of the green in front of the ’Truth and Biscuit’ with the Inn in the background. A party or revel was in full swing. I could just identify Gail, Brian, Vernon and Cheffy standing around what appeared to be a barbecue. The aquiline features of one figure suggested Lol, the talented guitar player I had met first at the Bandstand.  - and it was definitely Langly the wolfhound in one corner, doing a very good impression of a Llama. Oh yes - and it was a photograph!

Beneath the picture was the following: -

The one and only Truth and Biscuit Inn, Nr. Mothborough
Part of the Friendly Group

Other establishments in our group of companies include - ’The Goat and Bucket’ at Cesspool - ’The Three Ferrets’, Upper Drainpype - ’The Stressed Hen’ at Pullet Tawtley - ’The Scone of Stone Tearooms’, Stoney End - ’The Mildew Theatre’ at Lumpeter.

printed by Moth Graphics at Stressford.

***** 


To possibly be continued (lots already written as some of you know).