5. The Moaning of Don
994 Words
Chapter Five
The Moaning of Don
“Never toss a roll at a seagull.”—Archie after cleaning his windscreen
Bunnie and Don remained in the car for the ferry journey. Thanks to the old lady, Don was in a foul mood. The ferry had no sooner left Dunoon, and the old lady was out of her van hobbling with her stick uselessly swinging in front to her. Even AC DC classic hits couldn’t shift his mood.
“Of all the friggin’ car spaces she had to park next to me?” muttered Don.
The old lady caught sight of Don and mouthed a “hello” with a poor little me stance that would annoy even a comatose footman. Don gave up on his roll and sausage.
Bunnie waved back.
“Don’t encourage her,” he snapped.
Bunnie tried to calm Don.
Don huffed. In the dark morning it was hard to see the damage. But by the time they were on the ferry and sun was up the damage scrapped across several panels of Don pristinely polished car could not be missed.
Don was anything but calm. In fact, he was as scratchy and unbearable “as sand in your knickers,” according Bunnie, a turn of phrase that had Pete, Mex, and Don leaving the car for a “wander.”
“Cheer up,” said Bunnie with a paternal pat on his knee. “You’ve got her details.”
Don, with a dramatic sigh, took aim at a seagull with his half-eaten roll; the seagull dodged with a screech.
“Well there was no need for that,” muttered Bunnie, and turned up AC/DC.
DJ’s mind was full of Beryl; she had captivated him. He could not get her face out of his head. There was more to her than a one-night laugh and an all-night romp.
Where did she come from? And why? He wanted to meet her—how?
The ferry arrived with a bump at the other side of the Clyde.
Hilda watched as Mex’s gang (which she now called them as opposed to Beryl’s entourage) drove off the ferry.
Hilda pressed the 36 degrees and more button. The view panned out, catching sight of the old woman’s van at the back of the queue.
“I wanted a close-up, not a panoramic view.”
The H-Pad zoomed in on the old lady’s van backfiring into action.
“Not her—Mex’s gang.”
The van, under a cloud of black smoke, drove off the ferry and followed Mex’s gang.
Hilda watched the two vehicles continue down the same road. “Follow that van,” she shouted.
The van turned off a side road.
“No, now the taxi.”
The footman spied the manual on the floor. His fingers itched to hold it—open it. He went for a foot around the book followed by a pull towards him; no one noticed, as the taxi had sped out of sight.
Hilda watched as the van headed down a side street and then another.
“You’ve got the wrong car,” she shouted.
The van finally jutted into a pile of empty boxes behind a chip shop and stalled. The old woman jumped out, skidded on several chip wrappers, and righted herself. Hilda watched as the old lady slipped off her jacket.
“I want the taxi,” she shouted.
The old lady thrust the jacket in the van along with a javelin toss of her cane.
“The taxi, not this old lady,” shouted Hilda.
“Old Lady does not compute,” said the H-Pad.
The old lady tugged off her bonnet and shook her head; thick luxurious grey hair cascaded down like a shampoo add.
“Compute?” said Hilda.
The old lady pulled her hair into a ponytail, dismissed her comfy shoes with a karate kick, and pulled her bra from underneath her clothes. Mountains of tissues tumbled to the ground as she, with the swing of a striptease, tossed it into the van.
“I knew it,” muttered the H-Pad.
The old lady jumped into the van and minutes later appeared dressed in bike leathers wheeling a small 50cc motorbike. She was no longer a she but a he.
Hilda stared closer; it was the ol’ fella.
She slid on her earphones and listened. The ol’ fella was thinking; a few disjointed words crackled . . .
Feeling . . . his prostate . . .
“Prostrate?” muttered Hilda. “What the pickle?”
“He said his prostate never lies,” said the H-Pad.
The ol’ fella jumped on his bike and motored off as Hilda wondered what a prostate had to do with things, or for that matter what it was.
The footman watching Hilda took a chance.
He slid the manual under one foot, then the other, and stood on it.
“What are you up to?” snapped Hilda.
The footman coughed, stuttered, and began to embark on a lecture about the prostate when disjointed thoughts racing through the ol’ fella’s mind began to blare from her earphones.
“The Herald.”
“Malarkey.”
“That’ll tackle it.”
“Oh bugger.”
“And prostate . . . yet again.”
Hilda began to grimace, pushing her half-finished breakfast to the side, she cursed. It seemed following the ol’ fella was not the breeze she thought it was.
Was he deliberately revving his engine, blocking her?
Hilda, exasperated, tuned into the shed, remembered it was empty, flicked to the room with a view. Then remembering it was full of the Operators who were still waiting for their induction, shouted, “Oh for pickle’s sake,” jolting awake a few of the footman in the corridor.
“Ask me anything,” purred the H-Pad.
She glared at the H-Pad with an “I was just about to” look, and shouted, “Look up ‘prostate’!” which echoed through the corridor.
A few of the footman winced.
“And while you’re at it, ‘malarkey’!”
One footman peered from under his white fringe. “Malarkey,” he muttered, “that’s a good old-fashioned word that!” and fell back to sleep.
The H-Pad began to talk on prostate until Hilda told her to stop—she had just had her breakfast.
The H-Pad, moving on to the meaning of “malarkey,” captured Hilda’s attention for a second. “That’s enough, I get the picture,” she shouted as the footman caught her eye . . . he looked taller.
“What you been eating?” said Hilda.
“Ma’am?”
“It just that you look . . .” Her eyes ran down to his feet, where she spied the manual, “The Job of Mind-Reading for Men.”
Oh, bugger, thought the footman.
- Writer
