lower to the ground than cruel fate had naturally decreed. Ahead of him the creature’s outline became more clearly defined and Small Dave knew that at least he was staring upon a beast of a known genus. Although this gave him little in the way of consolation.
The thing was of the genus
Small Dave’s thoughts all became a little confused at this moment. He was never very good when it came to a confrontation with the unexpected. Arriving with a six-inch letter to discover a five-inch letter-box was enough to set him foaming at the mouth. Now, a camel on the allotment, a camel that was eating his precious cabbages, that was a something quite in a class by itself.
Dave’s first thought, naturally enough, was that the thing should be driven off without delay. His second was that it was a very large camel and that as a species camels are notoriously malevolent creatures, who do not take kindly to interference during meal times. His third was that they are also valuable and there would no doubt be a handsome reward for anyone who should return a stray.
His fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh thoughts were loosely concerned with circuses, Romany showmen who were apt to snatch dwarves away for side-shows, an old Tod Browning movie he had once seen, and the rising cost of cabbages.
Small Dave’s lower lip began to tremble and a look of complete imbecility spread over his gnomish countenance. He dithered a moment or two not knowing what to do, flapped his hands up and down as if in an attempt to gain flight, gave a great cry of despair, took to his heels and finally ran screaming from the allotment.
He had not been gone but a moment or two when a soot-besmirched head arose from behind a nearby water- butt. Apart from its lack of teeth and eyebrows, it bore a striking resemblance to Sir Lawrence Olivier in his famous portrayal of Othello.
A broad and slightly lunatic smile cleft the blackened face in two and a wicked chuckle rose in the throat of the watcher.
“Success indeeds,” whistled Norman, rubbing his hands together and dancing out from his hiding place. With a quick glance about to assure himself that he was now alone, he skipped over to the cabbage-chewing camel and snatched up its trailing halter line. “Huts, huts,” he said. “Imshees yallahs.” With hardly the slightest degree of persuasion and little or no force at all, Norman led the surprisingly docile brute away.
From behind Soap Distant’s padlocked shed, yet another figure now emerged. This one wore a grey coverall suit, was of average height, with a slightly tanned complexion and high cheek-bones. He looked for all the world like a young Jack Palance. Through oval amber eyes he watched the shopkeeper and his anomalous charge depart. Drawing from a concealed pocket an instrument somewhat resembling a brass divining rod, he traced a runic symbol into the dusty soil of the allotment and then also departed upon light and silent feet.
7
When the lights returned once more to the Flying Swan, a moment or two after the holocaust in Norman’s kitchenette, they exposed a frozen tableau of deceit and duplicity, which was a sad indictment upon the state of our society.
Neville stood poised behind the counter, knobkerry at the ready, to defend his optics against any straining hands.
Pooley held Omally’s glass above his own, a stupefied expression upon his guilty face. Two professional domino players each had their hands in the spares box. Old Pete’s dog was standing, leg raised, to the piano, and a veritable rogues’ gallery of similar deeds was exposed the entire length of the bar.
Neville shook his head in disgust, “You miserable bunch,” was all that he could say.
The only patron who had not shifted his position during the unscheduled blackout was a green-haired youth, who had been so engrossed in his war against the aliens that he had been totally oblivious to the entire event.
The part-time barman shrugged. “Ask this mutinous crew,” he suggested. Raffles Rathbone turned towards the assembled multitude, but they had by now returned to their previous occupations. Conversations hummed, darts whispered and glasses rose and fell. All was as it had ever been.
“Same again then is it?”
“Why not? Got sixteen thousand, personal high score, got me initials up there three times.”
“Oh goody goody,” sneered Neville. “Are you sure you only want the half of shandy, I shouldn’t crack a bottle of Bollinger, should I?”
“The half will be fine, thank you.” Neville did the honours.
The Swan settled down once more to its lunchtime normality, and such it would no doubt have enjoyed, had it not been for certain distant screams, which were borne upon the light spring breeze to announce the approach of a certain small and disconsolate postman.
“Camels! Camels on the allotment!” The cry reached the Swan shortly before Small Dave.
Omally choked into his beer. “No more!” he spluttered, crossing himself. Pooley shook his head; it was proving to be a most eventful day and it was early yet. Neville reached once more for his knobkerry and Raffles Rathbone stood before the video machine, oblivious to the world about him.
Small Dave burst into the Swan, looking very much the worse for wear. He lurched up to the counter and ordered a large scotch. Neville looked down at the distraught postman, and it must be said that the makings of a fine smirk began to form at the edges of his mouth. Turning away he drew off a single for which he accepted double price. Small Dave tossed it back in one gulp as Neville had calculated and ordered another. “C-C-Camels,” he continued.
Neville drew off a large one this time as a crowd was beginning to gather. “So, Posty,” he said, pushing the glass across the counter towards the postman’s straining hand, “how goes the day for you then?”
Small Dave made pointing motions towards the general direction of the allotments. His lower lip quivered and he danced about in a state of obvious and acute agitation.
“No more postcards then?” Neville asked.
“C-C-Camels!” howled the midget.
Neville turned to Omally, who had dragged himself up to the bar counter. “Do you think our postman is trying to tell us something, John?” he asked.
“He is saying camels,” said Jim Pooley helpfully.
“Ah, that is what it is, camels, eh?”
“C-C-Camels!”
“Yes, it is camels for certain,” said Omally.
“He has a lovely way with words,” said Neville, suddenly feeling quite cheerful, “and a good eye for a picture postcard.”
“For God’s sake! Camels, don’t you understand?” Small Dave was growing increasingly purple and his voice was reaching a dangerous, champagne-glass-splitting kind of a pitch.
“Is he buying or selling, do you think?”
“I hadn’t thought to enquire.” Neville squinted down at the postman, who was now down on all fours beating at the carpet. “He is impersonating, I think.”
Old Pete hobbled up. He had experienced some luck recently over impersonating and wasn’t going to miss out on a good thing. “That’s not the way of a camel,” he said authoritatively. “That’s more like a gerbil.”
Small Dave fainted, arms and legs spread flat out on the floor.
“That’s a polar bear skin,” said Old Pete, “and a very good one too!”
Small Dave was unceremoniously hauled up into a waiting chair. A small green bottle was grudgingly taken down from its haunt amongst the Spanish souvenirs behind the bar, uncorked and waggled beneath the midget’s upturned nose.
“C-C-Camels!” went Small Dave, coming once more to what there were left of his senses.
