Sleepy Hamlet was in turmoil. The beast was back and the whole village had decamped to the Cock & Bull pub, as they had done every year for the past five years.
Most country areas have tales of large cats that roam the fields and woodlands looking for lambs and easy prey; the difference between the Sleepy Hamlet beast and everyone else’s was their beast only ever came out on Halloween. At first they had formed a posse to go out and catch it but when Tom, entrepreneur and incomer landlord of the Cock and Bull---the village pub, had shown them a blurry picture of a large bear type creature that seemed to be looming out of the woodland at great speed, they decided the best bet was for safety in numbers and Tom had been quick to suggest that they all come to his pub where they could be safe and if they fancied a few pints and a warm meal, well that was fine by him. The village had agreed, and that was where they were now---All except for her at number 42; no one had bothered to warn her as it was generally accepted that if anyone wouldn’t be fazed by the site of a large hairy creature suddenly appearing at her door, it was most definitely her at number 42.
One year someone had sighted a large dark mass skulking around Hamlet Hall, the ancestral home of Lord Hamlet. Lord Hamlet had asked at what time it had been spotted and upon been furnished with the details he’d calmly stated that it was probably her Ladyship out for an evening walk. The villagers, having seen Lady Hamlet by daylight, agreed and went back to their pints.
A typical village is just like a big family, only more so. And as with most large family reunions they start all jolly as everyone is happy to see everyone else, the drink starts to flow and nerves begin to strain, old wounds are opened and vendettas are rekindled. Sleepy Hamleters are a lot like a large family; by and large they get on, usually for the purposes of the spreading and the receiving of gossip, but when you put them all in a confined space like the village pub or the village hall, nerves are going to be gotten upon, voices will be raised and opinions articulated with varying levels of vociferousness and seeing as this was one of the two afore mentioned meeting places, a typical Sleepy Hamlet Halloween night would go something like this:
Mrs. Markle, the village post mistress and tea total would argue that if there was a beast how come there was never any sign of carnage, Mrs Heppleheimer, the redoubtable Bavarian octogenarian would say how her back door was once scarred by the beast, Rev Batwing would sip his glass of sparkling Holy water and silently pray. Intermittent growls would be heard from outside, the villagers would get tanked up, become bawdy, Mrs Markle would start quoting the psalms and everyone would pour out onto the street around 12, agreeing as one that they’d rather face the beast than another mass of liturgical diatribe from the frizzy haired mass of tweed that was Mrs. Markle. The street would reverberate to the sounds of drunken slurings and off colour comments; the air would be rent asunder by Mrs Markle belting out onward Christian soldiers, all the village doors would slam shut and piece would once again reign in the village.
When he was sure the all the village nut-balls had all gone home, Tom would always meet Mrs. Heppleheimer at the back door of the Cock and Bull. He’d congratulate her in her part of keeping the scam, that is the Beast of Sleepy Hamlet going, and she’d congratulate him on his part: The photo’s, for those of you who haven’t worked it out already, where of Mrs. Heppleheimer from a distance and with a furry mask on and the beasts growls were courtesy of a sound system set up outside and operated from under the bar by Tom.
As Tom gave Mrs Heppleheimer her share of the annual takings and she wobbled drunkenly off in the direction of Strawberry Lane, somewhere, just beyond the pub’s cark park, a large dark shape growled a low guttural growl before moving off into the night in search of smaller prey.
© 2010 Karl Dixon
Most country areas have tales of large cats that roam the fields and woodlands looking for lambs and easy prey; the difference between the Sleepy Hamlet beast and everyone else’s was their beast only ever came out on Halloween. At first they had formed a posse to go out and catch it but when Tom, entrepreneur and incomer landlord of the Cock and Bull---the village pub, had shown them a blurry picture of a large bear type creature that seemed to be looming out of the woodland at great speed, they decided the best bet was for safety in numbers and Tom had been quick to suggest that they all come to his pub where they could be safe and if they fancied a few pints and a warm meal, well that was fine by him. The village had agreed, and that was where they were now---All except for her at number 42; no one had bothered to warn her as it was generally accepted that if anyone wouldn’t be fazed by the site of a large hairy creature suddenly appearing at her door, it was most definitely her at number 42.
One year someone had sighted a large dark mass skulking around Hamlet Hall, the ancestral home of Lord Hamlet. Lord Hamlet had asked at what time it had been spotted and upon been furnished with the details he’d calmly stated that it was probably her Ladyship out for an evening walk. The villagers, having seen Lady Hamlet by daylight, agreed and went back to their pints.
A typical village is just like a big family, only more so. And as with most large family reunions they start all jolly as everyone is happy to see everyone else, the drink starts to flow and nerves begin to strain, old wounds are opened and vendettas are rekindled. Sleepy Hamleters are a lot like a large family; by and large they get on, usually for the purposes of the spreading and the receiving of gossip, but when you put them all in a confined space like the village pub or the village hall, nerves are going to be gotten upon, voices will be raised and opinions articulated with varying levels of vociferousness and seeing as this was one of the two afore mentioned meeting places, a typical Sleepy Hamlet Halloween night would go something like this:
Mrs. Markle, the village post mistress and tea total would argue that if there was a beast how come there was never any sign of carnage, Mrs Heppleheimer, the redoubtable Bavarian octogenarian would say how her back door was once scarred by the beast, Rev Batwing would sip his glass of sparkling Holy water and silently pray. Intermittent growls would be heard from outside, the villagers would get tanked up, become bawdy, Mrs Markle would start quoting the psalms and everyone would pour out onto the street around 12, agreeing as one that they’d rather face the beast than another mass of liturgical diatribe from the frizzy haired mass of tweed that was Mrs. Markle. The street would reverberate to the sounds of drunken slurings and off colour comments; the air would be rent asunder by Mrs Markle belting out onward Christian soldiers, all the village doors would slam shut and piece would once again reign in the village.
When he was sure the all the village nut-balls had all gone home, Tom would always meet Mrs. Heppleheimer at the back door of the Cock and Bull. He’d congratulate her in her part of keeping the scam, that is the Beast of Sleepy Hamlet going, and she’d congratulate him on his part: The photo’s, for those of you who haven’t worked it out already, where of Mrs. Heppleheimer from a distance and with a furry mask on and the beasts growls were courtesy of a sound system set up outside and operated from under the bar by Tom.
As Tom gave Mrs Heppleheimer her share of the annual takings and she wobbled drunkenly off in the direction of Strawberry Lane, somewhere, just beyond the pub’s cark park, a large dark shape growled a low guttural growl before moving off into the night in search of smaller prey.
© 2010 Karl Dixon
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