The Pear Tree and a Partridge

 

On the fifth day of advent, my 3-D tree gave to me...a running bunny with a baby bunny in the driving seat. I am going to say these are definitely rabbits as we've already had a hare and who doesn't like a bit of variety? And here comes the next thrilling story chapter... 

...with Mrs Poo now safely behind the wheel of the motorhome and Kenneth the Phantomime safely installed in one of the passenger seats between Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey, the adventure begins anew.

‘Has anyone ever been to this Olden Glish place?’ says Mrs Poo. ‘Is it a town? Or a city? Or three houses in the back of beyond that share a toilet?’

‘According to my research,’ says Kenneth, leaning forward over Mrs Poo’s shoulder, and giving the satnav a surreptitious glance just to check she hasn’t sneakily changed the settings, ‘it is a smallish village that has seen little change in its structure or population in at least two hundred years. It was built on a site of magickal and historical interest. It was subject to an in-depth investigation by D.P.E.S.T – the Department of Paranormal, Ethereal and Spiritual Traumas – around twenty years ago, and is the childhood home of the famous Boom Penguin, lead singer of the ‘80s rock band, Boom Penguine.’

‘Sounds thrilling,’ says Mrs Poo.

‘Well, actually, it DOES sound rather exciting,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Sounds right up my unique and fanciful street, in fact.’

‘I remember Boom Penguin,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘All leather trousers, frilly shirts and a mane of glossy black hair. He was very handsome. I had a few posters of him on my bedroom wall when I was a teen hen. They didn’t last long though.’ She sighs fondly at the memory.

‘Did you go off him?’ says Kenneth, knowing how fickle the devotions of teenage hens can be.

Mrs Miggins rolls her eyes. ‘Posters belonging to teenage hens never lasted long,’ she says. ‘On account of when we kissed them, our pointy beaks eventually shredded them to pieces.’

‘Aaah,’ says the Phantomime, totally uninterested in any sort of celebrity star except himself. ‘Well, anyway, Olden Glish is also the supposed spiritual home of the Lord General Porpoise, who is, according to the Olden Glish website, the greatest and wisest of all porpi, and who is able to impart wisdom to all those who seek and ask.’

‘Did he just mention pork pies?’ says Mrs Slocombe, who is still feeling a tad nauseous, and the last thing you want when feeling nauseous is the thought of gelatine and fatty meat in your head.

‘He said porpi,’ says Mrs Miggins, ‘because somehow he thinks it’s the plural of porpoise.’

‘Thank goodness for illiteracy,’ says Mrs Slocombe, immediately feeling much better.

‘And where does this Lord General Porpoise live?’ says Mrs Poo. ‘In the village fish pond? Given that, according to this map, Olden Glish is about as far removed from any seaside location as its possible to be.’

‘Aaah, well, THAT’S the great and wonderful mystery,’ says the Phantomime. ‘So magickal is Olden Glish that the Lord General Porpoise is able to survive away from water most of the time.’

Mrs Miggins snorts. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘it’s worth going on a visit just to see what kind of crazy place it is.’

‘I expect they’ve got something Christmassy going on,’ says Mrs Slocombe, hopefully. ‘You know, a Christmas fayre, for example, or a show in the village hall. All the village shops with their windows dressed up for the occasion. Big tree in the village square, lots of lights. Small villages are good at doing Christmas.’

‘We can but hope,’ says Mrs Miggins. She’s not feeling remotely Christmassy.

At lunchtime, Mrs Poo pulls the motorhome into a service station to refuel, and they make the most of the break to stretch their legs and crack open Mrs Slocombe’s picnic hamper. Mrs Poo points her wing tip at the sat nav. ‘We aren’t going to arrive in Olden Glish today,’ she says. ‘But there’s a pub with reasonable reviews about a hundred miles away. I suggest we stop there for the night. It says motorhomes are welcome to park overnight in their car park as long as we buy a pub meal.’

‘Ooooh, I love a pub meal!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Will there be a dart board? I haven’t had a game of darts for AGES!’

‘There’s a good reason for that,’ says Mrs Miggins, remembering the last time Mrs Pumphrey was at the oche, and the number of minor puncture-wound injuries that ensued as a result.

The intrepid five set off again and by the time the sun is setting and Mrs Miggins has finally convinced the Phantomime during a way too long game of I-spy that ‘pheasant’ doesn’t begin with an ‘f’, Mrs Poo suddenly announces, ‘Here we are!’ and they pull into the capacious car park of ‘The Pear Tree’ public inn.

‘That’s very Christmassy,’ says Mrs Slocombe, as the hens and Kenneth make their way to the pub’s entrance. ‘I wonder if there’s a partridge in it! Ahahahahahaha!’

Mrs Miggins points up to the licensee details above the door, printed in black on a brass plaque. ‘Proprietor Mr A Partridge,’ she says. ‘Will that do you?’

‘NO!’ says Mrs Slocombe, squinting at the sign. ‘Well, that’s just perfect!’

Inside ‘The Pear Tree’ pub, the atmosphere is inviting, warm and welcoming. The décor is modern; the Christmas decorations are tasteful and a gentle hum of conviviality fills the air. And behind the bar there is, indeed, a jovial-looking partridge, landlord of ‘The Pear Tree.’

‘Good evening!’ says Kenneth the Phantomime, taking the lead. ‘Mr Partridge, I presume?’

‘’S, right,’ says Mr Partridge. ‘What can I get you?’

‘A table for five, please,’ says Kenneth. ‘And use of your carpark for an overnight stay.’

‘No problems,’ says Mr Partridge. He waves at a table by the window. ‘That one over there do you?  Make yourselves comfy and I’ll be with you in a minute to take your order.’ He hands the Phantomime a set of menus.

‘Just one more thing,’ says Kenneth, as the lady hens head off to their table.

‘Yes?’ says Mr Partridge.

‘I see your initial on the licence is ‘A’,’ says Kenneth. ‘Mr A Partridge?’

‘’S right,’ says Mr Partridge. ‘Mr Arnold Partridge. That’s me.’

‘Oh,’ says Kenneth. ‘Not Alan, then?’

‘No,’ says Mr Partridge. ‘Defintely Arnold.’

How disappointing, thinks Kenneth.