Contents of article "’Beyond the Hedge’ - Chapter 3 Part 2 "
’Beyond the Hedge’
The Mischief Maker is a rundown, dilapidated tavern on the west bank of the River Pinkie. The pub is on the edge of Skerries, a village no more than a mile from Gilbert’s gaff. It’s little more than a boozer with an attached doss-house and it’s the favoured haunt of hoodlums, ruffians and scoundrels. The inn belongs to Jem Slack, a shifty apology for a gnome, and his unfortunate wife, Gertie.
One supremely nasty piece-of-work has made The Mischief Maker his second home, self-styled ‘Captain’ Pestilence Grimshaw. When he’s not looting ships on the high seas in his brigantine, ‘The Cheeky Monkey’, he’s likely to be found slouched in a battered old lug-chair reserved for him in front of the inn’s meagre fire. There he sits, quaffing ale by the quart, regaling everyone with stories of his brutal adventures.
His First Mate, Jedediah Malahyde, was sitting opposite Grimshaw, guzzling a bowl of herring-tail broth. Pestilence was still waiting for his supper and was more than a little disgruntled.
“Landlord,” bellowed the pirate, “where’s my dinner? You wouldn’t want me to come over and give you a smack on the head, would you?” The tall, wiry buccaneer made as if to get up from his chair. “It would be my pleasure to oblige you, Slack, you only have to say the word.” His smile was a gash across his weather-beaten face. Violence is a way of life for Pestilence Grimshaw and his crew.
The landlord’s left eyelid twitched nervously and he gave an uneasy laugh. “Now, now, Cap’n Grimshaw, your haddock and pilchard stew’s on its way.” He turned on the down-trodden, frumpy creature who had the misfortune to be his wife. “You’re a lazy article, Gertie, and I won’t put up with it. Fetch the stew right away.” She didn’t bother to acknowledge her husband and, with a sullen scowl, scuffed off in her grubby, down-at-heel slippers towards the kitchen.
Jem called after her, “Make sure you apologise to Cap’n Grimshaw for taking so long.”
Gertie’s voice was flat and toneless. “Whatever you say, Jem.” She shoved her greasy hair out of her pale, watery eyes. “Nag, nag, nag. That’s all I ever hear from you these days, Jem Slack. What happened to the cheerful young gnome I married?”
Pestilence Grimshaw couldn’t resist poking fun at her. “He bought himself stronger glasses and saw what you really look like, Gertie. Isn’t that right, Slack?”
Customers by the bar collapsed laughing and Jem joined in, relieved the awkward moment had passed. Grimshaw’s cabin boy, Pigsblanket, was knocked from his stool by a sniggering goblin. He crashed to the floor, capsizing a quart of beer which the landlord had just placed on the counter.
The First Mate gave the lad a light cuff round the ear. “Pigsblanket, you oaf, get up and fetch the Cap’n another ale and be double quick about it.”
The under-nourished boy was desperate to get back in Malahyde’s good books. The First Mate was the only member of the crew who held any sway with Pestilence Grimshaw and he’d saved Pigsblanket’s bacon on more than one occasion. “Yes, sir, Mr Malahyde. Would you like another ale yourself?”
“No thank you, lad.”
Jedediah had a soft spot for young Pigsblanket and knew the lad could barely afford to pay for Grimshaw’s ale, let alone one for anyone else. What Malahyde failed to realise was that the cabin boy had so little money he couldn’t even afford a piece of stale bread for his supper.
Grimshaw is a man of his word when it comes to violent threats and Jem Slack gratefully swallowed the best part of a tankard of ale. If his luck held he might make it through the rest of the night without a beating.
The landlord was still recovering from a run-in with the buccaneer who had landed an all-too-accurate punch on his jaw only last week. Jem had tripped over Grimshaw’s discarded boots when the tavern was filled to the rafters and, unhappily for him, had spilled some of the irascible pirate’s beer. The pub was seething with folk who had come to hear Flip Flapper and the Snappers, an up-and-coming pixie band. They’re fine musicians on the threshold of success and will soon never have to play disgusting dives like The Mischief Maker again. The group was supported by the tavern’s resident ensemble, Pond Life, an especially apt name for this bunch of talentless no-hopers.
Jem’s tavern has always been a serious drinking house, but recently it has become a magnet for the dregs of Sylvanian society. It’s a dump and a disreputable one at that and, as such, is precisely the sort of place where you might expect to find supporters of a certain Harpie. Maligna may have been incarcerated for years but she’s far from forgotten.
Pestilence Grimshaw is one of an increasing number of sympathisers who would like to revive her cause. He may be quick-tempered and violent, but he’s nobody’s fool. Maligna’s wickedness appeals to him and he’s sure there are great rewards to be had for anyone who can help her escape from the Island of Long Forgotten Dreams. Pestilence can see limitless possibilities for self-enhancement in befriending one such as her which is why he’s aiming to make himself indispensable to her. They also happen to connect in another, less significant area of their lives. They both have the sea in their blood.
Grimshaw’s mother is a formidable seawitch. His father was a foolish mortal who fell under her spell when, for a bit of fun, she decided to visit Irvine in the guise of a pretty young woman. You know how it is, callow youth has head turned by beautiful, heartless damsel. They were married and settled down together in a house near Seagate Castle in the centre of the town.
When the enchantress became bored with domestic life she returned to Sylvania with her newborn son, leaving her husband in a state of abject misery, never knowing what had become of them both. He died a few years later, a broken man.
A strange bed, in an unfamiliar cottage, in an enigmatic new world. The ideal recipe for a sleepless night? Most definitely not.
Pogo Pixie led them up the wooden stairs with the cluster of stars following on behind.
Pongo was sandwiched between Sandy and Jamie, determined not to be left out. “You’ll be sleeping in Estella’s room while she’s away,” he announced with an air of importance. “It’s down the passageway to the left and the bathroom is straight ahead.”
“Thank you boy, most informative. Make yourselves at home,” Pogo said, ushering them into her daughter’s bedroom.
It was surprisingly spacious and Sandy felt instantly relaxed in her new surroundings. The walls were decorated with pastel shades of luminous glitter paint depicting woodland scenes of unicorns and flying horses. Oil lamps and candles created a rosy glow and a log fire crackled in the hearth. Above the mantlepiece was an oil painting of two birds. The larger of them sported a clutch of white feathers on his broad, glossy chest and a suitably dignified expression on his noble face.
The smaller bird had a monocle and was kitted out in a flamboyant waistcoat and snazzy bow tie. He was sporting a pair of black patent shoes with bold silver buckles which he reserves for occasions of the greatest importance. Two distinguished characters with whom we’re already well-acquainted.
The mass of stars drifted in and congregated in a desultory pattern above the bed.
There were new clothes on the chair by the window and a pair of boots behind the open door. Toiletries had been laid out on the dressing table, including a silver hairbrush with Sandy’s initials inscribed on the back. Soft fluffy towels, a nightgown, a robe and a pair of exotic hairy slippers lay on the ottoman at the end of the bed which was covered with an elaborate quilt.
Jamie spotted a brush with his name engraved on it. “That’s a nice touch, Pogo, thank you.”
Sandy beckoned the cat. “Come and look at this quilt.” The patchwork squares were moving vertically and horizontally in a constantly changing design. Jamie leapt onto the bedside table to take a closer look. “My word,” he exclaimed. “I thought the stars were unbeatable, but this quilt might force me to revise my opinion.”
The stars were not about to be shown up by an inflated, uppity coverlet. They formed a dazzling banner that read, “Match this, you over-stuffed show-off.”
Pongo barked encouragement while Sandy and Jamie looked on appreciatively.
“That’s enough, stars. You’re behaving outrageously. That applies to you too, quilt.” Pogo’s attempt at a reprimand was unconvincing, she was clearly amused. The stars reluctantly returned to their random composition and the quilt stopped its mesmerising display. Its saggy demeanour indicated it was in a huff.
That gave Pongo an excuse to tease it. “That’s all we need now, PP, a sulky quilt and on Sandy’s first night here.” The patchwork coverlet was distinctly unimpressed by the dog’s remark but, without hesitation, reinflated itself and folded a corner back in a welcoming gesture.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable in here, Jamie.”
Pogo pulled back a chenille curtain to reveal a small turret that jutted out from the right-hand corner of the room. There were three lancet windows halfway up which overlooked the front garden and the path that led to the copse behind the cottage. Jamie inspected the cat-sized four-poster bed covered in turquoise silk cushions.
“What do you think? Will it do?”
“It’s perfect,” said the Siamese reverentially.
“I’m so glad you approve. We’ll leave you both to settle in.” Pogo embraced Sandy and blew a kiss to Jamie. “Ring this hand-bell if you need anything, even if it’s the middle of the night. The slippers are a present from Queen Celestina and Prince Hamish. They’re made from the finest quality struntie fleece.”
Sandy removed her shoes and slipped her feet into the deliciously soft slippers. A blissful feeling of well-being washed over her. “Thank you for everything and that goes for Alfie and Pongo, too.”
The pixie smiled indulgently. “Come out from under the bed, boy. I can see your tail wagging. You’re not sleeping in here.” The dog scrambled out with a ‘well, it was worth a try’ sort of look on his face. He decided the time was right to play his persistent card. “Why ever not, PP? The cat’s allowed to, so why can’t I?”
“I’m well aware of that, but Jamie does have his own bed in the turret and yours is waiting for you downstairs. Now, no more back-chat, you cheeky beast, it’s time we were all in bed. Night, night. Sleep tight.”
The dog padded across the room and, with one of his toothiest grins and a nonchalant “see ya”, toddled off after Pogo. Sandy and Jamie listened to his toenails click-clacking on the wooden floorboards as he ran along the passageway.
“He’s not at all bad, for a dog,” said the cat, nudging the tasselled cushions around until they were just right. He yawned, displaying fangs worthy of Count Dracula himself, and settled down with one eye lazily watching the stars dancing to their own silent tune.
Sandy went off to the bathroom for what her Mum would have called ‘a cat’s lick and a promise’. A short while later she was tucked up in Estella’s bed, watching the flames behind the wrought-iron fireguard. “Have you always been able to speak, Jamie?”
“Of course,” said a sleepy voice from the turret, “but it wasn’t appropriate until we came here. In our world it doesn’t do to be caught talking if you’re an animal. Most humans are emotionally unequipped to deal with that. They tend to feel threatened, in some way less special.”
“I see what you mean, but they’re missing such a lot.” She blew out the candle on the bedside table. “Goodnight, Jamie. Maybe there will be news of Leo tomorrow.”
Sandy sank into the fairygoose-down pillows and gazed at the dancing stars through unfocused eyes until she fell asleep.
When Jock Craw arrived back in the Hendersons’ garden his first port of call was the rickety old bird table. He was not disappointed for it was groaning with tasty scraps and there were other titbits strewn on the grass underneath.
The crow was in need of fortification so he settled down for a good feed. He was halfway through a chunk of floury roll when he was pitched forward and found himself with his beak firmly planted in the ground.
Peg Leg had misjudged his landing and thumped Jock on the back of the neck. It’s pretty tricky when you’re being buffeted by a bracing south-westerly and you’re short of a limb. The gull rolled over and cackled with laughter. “Great to see you, pal.”
Jock’s voice was muffled as he struggled to free himself. “You too, Peg,” he spluttered, spitting out lumps of crummy turf, “but could you be slightly more restrained next time?”
“I did my best but it’s a bit gusty.”
The crow chuckled. “That was artistically choreographed compared with the way we arrived in Sylvania.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense. I’m dying to know how it went.”
Jock looked doubtful. “I really need to catch up with Ralph…”
“I heard him talking to Tina just before you arrived,” said the seagull helpfully. “He’s popped down the town to buy something or other. You might as well fill me in while you’re waiting.”
Jock couldn’t argue with that and was pleased to have the opportunity to talk to his old friend.
Lorimer was heading for one of the buckets on the dredger in Irvine harbour. The lobster wasn’t relaxed. It would be fair to say he was a bit twitchy. His preferred bucket was the one just above water level, easy to get into and out of in a hurry, but the crustacean had been beaten to it by Yenka, a grey seal originally from the Faroe Islands who had decided Irvine was a good place to spend her retirement. Over the years the North Sea had become more of a challenge than a home for her. Generations of cubs had moved on and she had no other ties.
The seal loved the feel of the warm waters of the Gulf Stream off the west coast of Scotland and she’d always been made welcome on her occasional visits to the port.
Lorimer was forced to scramble up one of the ropes hanging down from the dredger and heave himself into the bucket above Yenka. He couldn’t resist pinching her tail on the way past. The seal didn’t flinch; she’s a well padded individual. The Irvine pilots and dockers have grown fond of her and make sure she wants for nothing.
“I’d know that claw anywhere Lorimer, how are you? ” She rolled over and leant out of the bucket in time to see his tail disappear into the one above. She could hear him clattering about as he struggled to turn round. The lobster managed to hoist himself up over the edge and was about to answer her when Peg Leg skimmed in and landed on the rim of the bucket where the seal was basking.
“Good to see you, Yenka,” Peg winked at her. “Thermidor, please tell me you’re not sunbathing. You’re a lobster, for goodness sake. I thought we’d established pink was not your best colour.” The gull shook his head in amusement. “What do you make of him? He’s unbelievable.”
“I can’t argue with that,” replied the seal amiably. “Have you seen his posh new goggles? They’re… em…strikingly different.”
Peg groaned and rocked back on his leg. “Subtle is not the adjective that readily springs to mind.”
“That about sums it up.”
Lorimer couldn’t stand it any longer, he just had to know what they were talking about. He checked to make sure his precious goggles were still hanging round his neck and flung himself over the side with the intention of gracefully swinging down to the bucket below, Tarzan style; the lobster in the loin cloth. He made an unsuccessful grab for the rope and Peg Leg and Yenka barely had time to think, let alone bail out, as Lorimer mistimed everything to perfection and joined them upside down but, thankfully, not quite inside out. The flustered lobster righted himself and donned his goggles. “Well, Peg, what do you think? Stylish, or what?”
The gull turned towards Yenka with an incredulous expression on his face. “You weren’t kidding! My ‘ghast’ is well and truly ‘flabbered’.”
The lobster had been hoping for a more positive response. “Don’t you like them?” he asked dejectedly.
Peg was dazzled by the excesses of the lobster’s eye apparel but knew he had to make amends. “Of course I do. I wasn’t expecting them to be so… magnificent. They’re veritable show-stoppers.”
Lorimer felt much happier. “Now you’re talking.”
The gull continued with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “I particularly like the sea urchin shells and oyster pearls which in no way detract from the fossilised starfishes and seahorses in between.”
“You don’t think they’re too much of a statement? I could have opted for something less showy, but as soon as I put them on I knew I had to have them.”
“You’ll certainly get noticed wearing those, Thermidor.”
Not necessarily a good thing if you’re regarded as a much sought after delicacy in local restaurants.
The lobster might make it onto the front page of The Irvine Herald, perhaps even The Glasgow Herald wearing such attention-seeking spectacles, but it was still odds on he’d be eaten after the photo call.
“Please tell me they help you see more clearly.”
“Absolutely. The lenses are made of magnifying glass.”
Peg look relieved. “Where did you get the fancy frames, not from round here surely?”
“Hardly,” Lorimer replied indignantly. “My cousin Kitt made them for me. He’s great with his claws. He replaced the glass in a pair of doll’s swimming goggles and made these fabulous modifications. Kitt’s ever so creative. He’s too talented to be a lobster and simply doesn’t get the recognition he deserves.”
The Harpie woke the baby dragon early to check he knew where to go and what to say before she sent him back through the crack in the rock behind her bed.
Cahoots repeated the message under his breath. He was word-perfect.
The dragon looked uncertainly at his mother. He was hoping for a reprieve. If he failed again, it might make her angry with him, which was something he couldn’t bear to contemplate.
Cahoots was under a great deal of pressure. He desperately wanted to please Maligna but dreaded having to leave her. The early stages of separation anxiety were making him feel sick.
“It’s time for you to go, darling one.” The dragon was devastated, even though he had prepared himself for those words. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be with you in spirit and, if all goes well, we’ll be reunited very soon.” Her eyes were profoundly black and glittered like jet beads. “I know you won’t fail me.”
Cahoots smiled unconvincingly and Maligna saw a tear run down his cheek. She experienced another unfamiliar emotion; one of pity, triggered by the sadness the baby dragon was incapable of concealing. She knew not to prolong the moment. “Off you go, dearest.”
The little beast slid down between the bed and the rock wall. The last thing she saw was the end of his tail disappearing behind the flimsy headboard.
Maligna strained to hear one final sound from him but there was nothing but oppressive silence. The dragon had gone and the Harpie felt acute loneliness of a kind she hadn’t known since he’d come into her life.
Maligna should have been elated, he was potentially her ticket to freedom. Instead all she felt was fear, emptiness and a suffocating weight on her chest. Claustrophobia seemed determined to fill the void left by the dragon. The Harpie threw back her gaunt head and wailed in anguish.
The guards above her dungeon shuddered and exchanged nervous glances. The familiar shadows created by their flickering oil lamps deepened malevolently.
“I definitely preferred the wild laughter, didn’t you?” said the older of the two with a hollow laugh.
Gilbert waited until he was sure Leo was dead to the Sylvanian world. It had been a nerve-racking day, full of new-found responsibilities and the Giant Rat was in need of something to calm his nerves. He was exhausted but unable to unwind and settle down for a much needed night’s sleep. He felt drawn to the last remaining packet of sparklers, like a child is to a comfort blanket, or a favourite teddy bear. Sparklers were not viable unless he ventured outside with them which would be seriously stupid.
The rodent’s next thought was unsolicited and he should have known better than to act on it, but he was long past thinking clearly. “A relaxing drink and inconsequential chat, that’s what I need. Just the one then straight back home to bed.” Gilbert is in the habit of talking to himself since he is seldom in the company of others. Leo looked set to sleep for hours so the rat reckoned he could pop out and be back before he was missed.
There was only one place in these parts where the Giant Rat could go without fear of being set upon and that was a certain tavern frequented by rascals and rapscallions which was tantalisingly close to his den. He donned his Paisley patterned neckerchief and made for the shaft that led to the surface.
Gilbert sneaked out from underneath the holly bush and slipped into the shadows. In no time he was standing outside The Mischief Maker. He quietly opened the door and nipped in. He didn’t feel he had particularly drawn attention to himself. The place was crowded and no one appeared to take any notice of him, something Gilbert should have been suspicious about from the moment he entered.
Considering how packed the place was, he managed to reach the bar surprisingly quickly. “What will it be, young sir?” asked the landlord with a sly, sideways look. “A pint’s never going to be enough for a big lad like you now, is it?” That should have been Gilbert’s cue to leave, but he was weary and beyond rational thought. “Shall I make it a quart?”
“Go on then,” replied the rat reluctantly, “but I must be off after that, I can’t stay long.”
“Put that on my tab, Slack,” called a voice from the lug chair nearest the fire. “This one’s on me.”
The Giant Rat turned to see who had spoken with such authority. Pestilence Grimshaw obligingly leant forward and raised his tankard in a silent toast to him. “Care to join us?”
Gilbert was confused. “Are you talking to me? I’m fairly certain we’ve never met before.”
Pestilence gave a smug smile. “You’re right, we haven’t been formally introduced, but I have enormous admiration for you, Gilbert. You’ve managed to survive in a hostile world where you don’t belong.”
The rat was wary, he knew the buccaneer by reputation, but he was also flattered and found his legs propelling him towards Grimshaw’s entourage by the fire.
“Pigsblanket!” yelled the buccaneer.
There was no response. Jedediah Malahyde gave the sleeping bundle at his feet a swift kick in the ribs.
The dishevelled cabin boy sat bolt upright. “Right away, Cap’n… Would you like a biscuit with your tea?”
Everyone round the lad, including Pestilence Grimshaw, fell about laughing. “No tea or biscuit, boy, just make room for my good friend, Gilbert.”
Pigsblanket realised he’d said something foolish and tried to scramble behind the First Mate’s chair.
“No need for that, there’s space for us both,” said the rat amiably. He noticed the boy was shivering. “Would you mind sitting by the fire? I’m too hot as it is.”
Pigsblanket smiled gratefully.
The Giant Rat felt drawn to the puny cabin boy who was so desperately anxious to please, and wondered how he had become involved with the likes of Grimshaw. There was an indefinable quality about the boy that set him apart from the uncouth, nasty specimens that made up the crew of ‘The Cheeky Monkey’.
Jamie woke first. He stretched and rolled over just in time to see Pongo tip-toeing out of the turret. The cat was intrigued and decided to lie doggo to find out what he was up to. Pongo glanced back at Jamie’s bed. The cat feigned sleep and threw in a refined, rippling snore for good measure. He watched the rumpled little dog through slitted eyes. Pongo gave a satisfied snigger and jinked out of the room.
Three collars were laid out on the cushion next to the Siamese cat. They were all slightly different in design but each one was studded with various combinations of diamonds and sapphires. There was a little note which read: ‘Sammy says you’re to keep the one you like the most. Love Pongo.’ Then underneath. ‘I didn’t write this note, PP did. I’m smart, but not that smart.’
Jamie was astonished and thrilled at the same time. “What a character, I honestly thought he was showing off.”
It was impossible to tell whether Sandy was awake or not. All he could see was a bump in the patchwork quilt.
Jamie sprang from the bed, stretched languidly and padded across the room. He stood on his hind legs and gently placed a paw on the pillow. Sandy was still sound asleep.
The cat went off in search of Pongo. When he reached the foot of the stairs he was met by a mouth-watering smell wafting out of the kitchen. He ambled in to find Alfie and Pogo breakfasting on quail egg omelettes. They greeted him warmly.
Pongo bounced out of his basket with an innocent expression on his face. “Sleep well, Jamie?” he enquired airily.
“Wonderfully well, thanks for asking.”
The dog wasn’t about to be deflected that easily. “Notice anything different this morning?”
Jamie decided to play along with him. “I can’t say I did.”
“Then perhaps you ought to get your eyes checked.”
“I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with my vision.”
“You could’ve fooled me,” said an exasperated Pongo.
“Cut the cackle, boy,” said Alfie. “Will you have some breakfast, Jamie?”
The Siamese responded to the offer of food enthusiastically. “I’ll just pop outside for a…” He hesitated, choosing his next word carefully, “…reconnoitre.”
“I’ve not heard it called that before,” retorted the dog.
“Basket now, Pongo,” chorused Alfie and Pogo.
Jamie made for the open door that led to the garden behind the cottage. The scent of fragrant herbs in the kitchen garden was glorious. He paused to sniff the air. “Catmint, if I’m not mistaken. How delightful.”
Pongo was sitting in his basket attempting to look angelic when Jamie deigned to throw him a verbal scrap. “The collars are heavenly, but which one to choose…” The dog spun round eagerly. “You’re the most extraordinary canine I’ve ever met.”
Jamie stepped out into the warm sunshine wrapped in a blanket of well-being.
“Did you hear that, WAE? His nibs says I’m extraordinary and I couldn’t detect the slightest hint of condescension in his voice.”
Pongo whizzed round the table a couple of times, turned an untidy somersault and landed like a sack of spuds on the floor next to Pogo. The elf and the pixie clapped spontaneously.
The dog was panting after his exertions. “While he’s still out of earshot,” he puffed, “I’m glad he came with Sandy, aren’t you?”
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