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).