‘Two years? Is that real time or Renshaw time?’ said Fry, who wasn’t really listening.
They all dress up in hooded cloaks and fox masks, and they only perform at night, by torchlight/ said Murfin. ‘And when I say torchlight, I don’t mean things powered by Ever Ready batteries, I mean flaming torches. You never quite know where they’ll turn up.’
‘Fox masks? If they turn up here, I’ll set the hunt on them.’
‘Isn’t fox hunting illegal yet?’
‘I don’t care whether it is or not.’
A group called Betty Lupton’s Ladle Laikers were taking their turn to perform in the market square, while dancers from the Norwich Shitwitches looked on. Outside the Red Lion, Fry could see yet more ribbons and bells, where Boggart’s Breakfast and Treacle Eater were taking a beer break.
‘When we were young, our dad used to tell us that morris dancers were to blame for the spread of VD,’ said Murfin.
‘Why?’ said Fry.
‘Oh, we never thought it was right. We knew it was to do with not taking precautions when you had it off with a bird, like. You know, you could catch it if your johnny burst or something. We could never quite see where bells and hankies came into it.’
‘How old were you at this time, Gavin? Thirty-two?’
‘Give over. I was very mature for my age. I had my first proper girlfriend when I was fourteen.’
‘I don’t think I want to know any more.’
‘Sharon was two years older than me. She worked on the checkout at Tesco’s, so she had strong fingers. She got free food, too - stuff that was going to be chucked out because it was past its sell-by date. But the trouble was, she wouldn’t go all the way. She was scared to death of getting pregnant, the way some of her mates at school had done.’
The didn’t know there was a Tesco’s in Edendale,’ said Fry.
‘Not any more. They had to pull out, too,’ said Murfin gloomily.
They had parked the car partly on the pavement, nudging a
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yellow ‘no parking’ cone out of the way. Edendale town centre was solid with vehicles today.
‘Anyway, it was the sort of thing Dad said to us/ said Murfin. ‘I reckon it was his way of saying morris dancers were a set of soft Jessies. These days, he reckons they’re responsible for AIDS.’
Fry locked the car and looked back at him. ‘Are you coming, or are you happy just reminiscing about your vanished childhood?’
‘These morris dancers,’ said Murfin. ‘I don’t suppose they’re actually gay. Most of them have beards, don’t they?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
A little bit of sun was out. That meant people would be crowding the garden centres and nurseries, buying up bedding plants that would be killed by frost within a week. In the car park behind the market square, a girl in a converted Bedford van was selling ice cream.
‘Don’t think I’m obsessed or anything,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s just that Mr Kitchens had me helping with those enquiries into the gay community when he found out about Neil Granger. I think it might have turned me a bit funny, like.’
The venues chosen for the dance groups were all within a couple of minutes’ walk of each other. As a result, it was possible to hear several different kinds of music at once, all coming from different directions. Over there, towards the river, was a country and western line-dancing tune coming from a portable speaker. Behind the shops, in one of the cobbled courtyards, someone was playing ‘Zorba’s Dance’ on a CD, and probably just getting to the stage where they all tried to dance too fast and trod on each other’s feet.
From the market square came the sound of melodeons and a banjo, where one of the border morris teams was performing. That was definitely live. Fry could almost smell the sweat.
There were extra officers on duty in Edendale today, too - not to control the morris dancers, but because Stoke City football fans were in town, passing through on their way to Sheffield for a match. Traditionally, they called at Bakewell, on the A6, to tank up on beer in the local pubs, which they always left wrecked. But last year, the pub landlords in Bakewell had shut their doors for an hour or two until the Stoke contingent had moved on. This year, the fans had chosen to come to Edendale instead. And their arrival had coincided with the Day of Dance.
Fry found a grey-haired morris dancer taking a rest on a bench.
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He was dressed in white shirt and trousers in the Cotswold style, with ribbons tied to his wrists and ankles and a colourful baldrick across his chest. He was using his handkerchief to wipe some of the sweat from his face.
‘The Border Rats? They’re down in that little courtyard by the river, I think,’ he said. ‘What have they done?’
‘Nothing. We just want to talk to them,’ said Fry.
‘Well, it’s no use talking to the Squire. He’s an Oxley. You might as well talk to that lamp post.’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
‘Aye, their Bagman. He’s the one that has the brain cell.’
‘Bagman?’
‘Secretary, if you like. The organizer, the admin man. He has to make sure everyone gets to the right place at the right time and knows what they’re supposed to be doing. That’s no mean task with that lot, I can tell you. I’d rather try to herd a pack of wild dogs.’
