Doomed, Gloomed and Dangerous To Know

 On the eighth day of Advent, my 3-D tree gave to me...a wise old owl. Holding a leaf for no apparent reason. Still, the owl is wise. I expect she has a purpose for it. Or a porpoise for it. Talking of which...

...when everyone has left and Mrs Glossop has locked the door, she pours herself half a pint of ‘Mrs Smith’s Best Pig’ bitter, tops it up with lemonade and sits down.

After taking a fortifying swift from her beer glass, she says, ‘How do you know about the Lord General Porpoise? You’re treading on very dangerous ground, coming here mentioning his name.’

‘Of course we are,’ says Mrs Miggins, rolling her eyes in a why-am-I-not-surprised kind of way.

‘I read about him,’ says Kenneth. ‘In a book in a library at Much Malarkey Manor. It’s the third book I’ve read since leaving school,’ he adds, proudly. ‘I rather enjoyed it. I might read another book in the future.’

Mrs Glossop narrows her eyes. ‘This book,’ she says, ‘it wouldn’t happen to be called, ‘My Life Porpoise and Other Dangerous Cetaceans’, would it?’

‘Possibly,’ says Kenneth. ‘I can’t say I remember.’

Mrs Glossop leans back. ‘What exactly is it you want with the Lord General Porpoise?’ she says.

‘I have some questions to ask him,’ says Kenneth. ‘Do you know where he is? When can I see him?’

‘Firstly,’ says Mrs Glossop, ‘I do NOT know where he is. Nobody does. He hasn’t been seen around Olden Glish since before the Great War. And secondly, even if I DID know where he was, which I don’t, I wouldn’t tell you.’

‘Why not?’ interjects Mrs Poo, who doesn’t like being told ‘no’ any more than does the Phantomime. ‘We’ve come all this way. Surely someone must know where he can be found?’

‘If Mrs Glossop says this Porpoise chap isn’t here, then we must believe her,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Thank you for your help and advice, Mrs Glossop, but I think we’ll be on our way home…’

‘NO!’ shouts the Phantomime. ‘I shall not give up my search that easily. ‘What is so bad about the Lord General Porpoise that the whole pub reacted with silence when I mentioned his name? I demand to know, Mrs Glossop. Tell me everything you know. NOW!’

Mrs Glossop turns to Mrs Slocombe who is sitting next to her. ‘Is he always this demanding?’ she says.

Mrs Slocombe nods. ‘We find it best to give in to him, just for a quiet life,’ she says.

‘I see,’ says Mrs Glossop. ‘Right, if I tell you all I know, then you must promise me to leave this place immediately and never return.’

‘Sounds a bit melodramatic,’ says the Phantomime, the irony completely lost on him.

‘I mean it,’ says Mrs Glossop. ‘Leave Olden Glish, never return, and speak nothing of what I am about to tell you to ANYONE. And especially not the press.’

The hens glance solemnly at one another. Even Mrs Pumphrey seems suddenly sober. The Phantomime is perched on the edge of his chair, his left knee jiggling up and down like a rabbit on a caffeine overdose.

‘Please,’ he whispers, ‘tell us everything you know about the Lord General Porpoise. We promise to keep your secret sacred, don’t we?’ He looks pointedly at the hens, who all nod in agreement.

However, he crosses his fingers beneath the folds of his voluminous cloak…

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‘Well!’ says Mrs Poo, looking pale around the wattles, which is unusual for her, being of bold and sturdy constitution. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear THAT.’

‘Me neither,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘In fact, I rather wished I hadn’t heard that at all.’

‘It was a bit…colourful…’ says Mrs Pumphrey, pushing the remains of a Spam fritter away from her.

‘But hear it we did,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘and now we must go home and forget everything. Right?’

They all look at Kenneth the Phantomime, who is sitting in silence. His right eye is twitching and his hands are clamped so hard around the mug of coffee Mrs Glossop has made all of them that his knuckles have turned white. He has the look of a stunned mackerel about him. Mrs Glossop is busying herself behind the bar, wiping down surfaces, restocking peanuts and checking her optics. She’s had her say. The clock is ticking slowly towards 7 p.m and she is keen to reopen ‘The Rutting Deer’ and get back to normal as soon as possible.

‘There’s a nice camp site that’ll be perfect for your motorhome about two miles up the road, just outside the village,’ she calls from behind the bar. ‘They’ll have vacancies at this time of year. Tell them I sent you and you’ll get a cheap electric hook-up.’

Mrs Poo gives her the thumbs up, and Mrs Glossop’s shoulders relax. ‘We’ll be off in ten minutes,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Thanks for, well, you know…’

Mrs Glossop nods. She does know. Only too well.

The hens manage to prise Kenneth from his seat and steer him out of the pub and across the car park to the motorhome.

‘Are we going to look for him?’ he whispers. ‘The Lord General Porpoise?’

‘Yes, yes,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Up you go, there’s a good chap. Mrs Poo will drive us, won’t you, Mrs Poo?’

‘Indeedy do, yes I shall!’ says Mrs Poo with false cheerfulness.

Everyone climbs aboard and settles into their seats. They have no intention of stopping off at the camp-site suggested by Mrs Glossop.

‘Home, I think,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘And well done, Mrs Slocombe, for slipping those pain-killers into Kenneth’s coffee.’

‘I managed to crumble some fig roll into it, too,’ says Mrs Slocombe, proudly.

‘Oh joy,’ sighs Mrs Miggins. ‘Still at least we are back in charge of this ridiculous situation.’

Kenneth the Phantomime slumps forwards in his seat and begins to snore.

‘Home, Mrs Poo!’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘And don’t spare the horse power.’