breath. “Ow, ooh, get off, get off.” These imprecations were directed towards Jim Pooley, whose oversized boot had come snugly to rest beneath Omally’s chin. “Will you get off I say?”
Pooley jerked himself awake. “Where am I?” he groaned.
“Where you have been for the last two days, in my bloody allotment shed.”
Pooley groaned anew. “I was having such a beautiful dream. I can’t go on here,” he moaned, “I can’t live out my days a fugitive in an allotment shed, I wish Archroy had never rebuilt it. You must give yourself up, John, claim diminished responsibility, I will gladly back you up on that.”
Omally was not listening, he was peeling a potato. Before him a monstrous heap of such peelings spoke most fluently of the restricted diet upon which the two were at present subsisting. “It is spud for breakfast,” said he.
Pooley made an obscene noise and clutched at his rumbling stomach. “We will die from spud poisoning,” he whimpered. “It is all right for you blokes from across the water, but we Brits need more than just plain spud to survive on.”
“Spud is full of vitamins,” said Omally.
“Full of maggots more like.”
“The spud is the friend of man.”
“I should much prefer an egg.”
“Eggs too have their strong points, but naught can in any way equal for vitamins, carbohydrates or pure nutritional value God’s chosen food, the spud.”
Pooley made a nasty face. “Even a sprout I would prefer.”
“Careful there,” said Omally, “I will have none of that language here.”
“Sorry,” said Pooley, “it just slipped out.” He patted at his pockets in the hope that a cigarette he had overlooked throughout all of his previous bouts of pocket-patting might have made a miraculous appearance. “I have no fags again,” he said.
“You’ve got your pipe,” said Omally, “and you know where the peelings are, there are some particularly choice ones near the bottom.”
Pooley made another tragic sound. “We eat them, we smoke them, we sleep on them, about the only thing we don’t do is talk to them.”
Omally chuckled. “I do,” he said, “these lads are not as dumb as they may look.” He manoeuvred the grimy frying-pan on to the little brick stove he had constructed. “Bar-b-que Spud,” he announced, lighting the fire. “Today, fritters lightly fried in their own juices, turned but once and seasoned with…”
“Seasoned with?”
“Tiny golden flakes…of spud!”
“I can’t go on,” said Pooley, raising his voice to a new pitch of misery. “Two days here wondering who will get us first, the police or that maniac in the Mission. I can’t go on, it is all too much.”
“Your fritters are almost done,” said Omally, “and this morning I have a little treat to go with them.”
“Spudburgers?” queried Pooley. “Or is it Kentucky fried spud, or spud chop suey?”
“You are warm,” said Omally, “it is spud gin.” He hefted a dusty bottle into the light. “I thought I had a few bottles of the stuff left, they were in the bottom of one of the potato sacks. Good place to hide them eh?”
Pooley ran a thoughtful hand over his stubbly chin. “Spud gin, is it good stuff?”
“The best, but seeing as you have this thing against spuds, I shall not offend you by offering you any.”
“It is no offence, I assure you. In fact,” Pooley scooped up a spud fritter and flipped it into his mouth, “I am growing quite fond of the dear fellows. Ooh, ouch!” He spat out the fritter and fanned his tongue desperately.
“They are better left to cool awhile,” Omally informed him. “Here, have a swig.” He uncorked the bottle and passed it to Pooley.
Pooley had a swig. “Not bad,” said he. Omally watched him with interest. Pooley noticed that he was counting under his breath. “Nine, ten,” said Omally.
“Ye Gods!” croaked Pooley in a strangled voice, clutching at his throat. Sweat was appearing upon his forehead and his eyes were starting to pop.
“Creeps up on you doesn’t it?” Omally asked, grinning wickedly and taking a lesser swig from the bottle Pooley had dropped into his wisely outstretched hands.
Pooley’s nose had turned a most unpleasant shade of red and his eyes were streaming. “That definitely has the edge on Old Snakebelly,” he said when finally he found his voice, “but I feel I have the measure of it now, give me another swig.”
The two men sat awhile in the morning sunlight sharing the bottle and chewing upon Omally’s potato fritters. At length Jim said seriously, “You know, John, we really cannot keep this up much longer, we are dangerously close to the Mission and if that character does not get his Papal paws upon us then someone else is bound to observe the smoke from our fire and report our presence to the police.”
Omally nodded sombrely. “All these things have of course crossed my mind, our imposed isolation here has given us both time for reflection. For myself I am prepared to sit it out and await the Professor’s word, what of you?”
Pooley shrugged helplessly. “What can I say, I am up to my neck in it, I suppose we have little choice.”
Omally passed him the bottle once more and leant back amongst the potato sacks. “We shall not starve,” said he, “although I am afraid there is a limit to the things even I can do with a potato.”
Pooley had risen to his feet, his right hand shielding his eyes from the sunlight, and he appeared to be gazing off into the distance. “Now what do you make of that?” he asked in a puzzled voice.
Omally rose to join him. “Where?” he asked. “What are you looking at?”
Pooley pointed. “It’s like a swirl of smoke, or a little black cloud.”
Omally shielded his eyes and squinted off into the haze. There was a dark shape twisting and turning in the sky, and as he watched it grew larger and blacker.
“It’s locusts,” said Jim, “a bloody plague of locusts.”
“It’s not locusts,” Omally squealed in a terrified voice, “it’s birds, the birds from Archroy’s garden. Run for your life.”
Pooley’s feet were welded to the ground. “I can’t run,” he whimpered, “I fear that the potato gin has gone to my legs.”
“Into the shed then.” Omally grabbed his companion by the shoulders and yanked him backwards, slamming the door shut behind them. He was not a moment too soon as the screeching mass of birds covered the allotment in a whirling feathery cloud, obliterating the sun. The sound was deafening, horny bills scratched and scraped at the corrugated iron of the small hut, a thousand tiny hooked claws tore at it. Pooley’s hands found themselves once more clapped over his ears while Omally beat away at the snapping beaks which forced their way in through the cracks of the door.
“Do something, Jim,” he shouted, his voice swelling above the din. “If they get in here, there won’t be enough of you left to send home in a tobacco tin.”
Pooley took to turning about in circles, flapping his hands wildly and shouting at the top of his voice. It was a technique he had perfected as a lad and it had always served him well, when it came to getting his own way.
The birds, however, seemed unconcerned by Pooley’s behaviour and if anything their assault upon the hut became even more frenzied and violent. There was the sound of splintering wood and Omally saw to his horror that scores of tiny dents were beginning to appear on the corrugated walls. Then suddenly the attacks ceased. Pooley found himself spinning, flapping and shouting in absolute silence. The birds had gone.
“The birds have gone,” said Jim, ceasing his foolish gyrations.
“They have not,” Omally replied, “I fell for a similar trick on my first encounter with them.”
Pooley pressed his eye to a crack in the door. “I can’t see them.”
