It has been said that the thought of walking under ladders and having a black cat in your general vicinity can cause the superstitious heart to leap. And just as this is the case for most of us, simply uttering the phrase ‘Do you think you’ll get an extra cut in this year?’ can have a devastating effect upon the superstitious farmers of Sleepy Hamlet.
Lately a sudden and unexpected run of warm weather had been bathing Sleepy Hamlet in its good will and as the sun had started to drag its warm tendrils back over the horizon that night, the local farmers had congregated in the snug of the Cock and Bull and hoped for the good weather to hold out for just one more day
As the days had gone by and the weather hadn’t broken and the grass grew thick and long in the fields, the farmers had started to think the unthinkable. Could they indeed expect an unprecedented third cut? Like I’ve just said, they wouldn’t come right out and say this, oh no, that would to be to awaken the gods of misfortune and have them wreak terrible storms upon their land and deaden the grass beyond harvesting. What they actually did was to talk in code; they’d discuss the last time a third harvest was cut, then if all still remained warm and pleasant, they’d say they were just going to get the harvesters out and service them whilst hastily adding on the end ‘for next year of course’. And if that still didn’t bring the gods vengeance down upon them, they’d move the tractors and harvester in an almost tip-toe fashion to the edge of their fields, step lightly off them and head for the snug at the cock and bull to whisper conspiratorially about the next day while at all times keeping a close eye on the weather.
Tom, the incomer, entrepreneur and landlord of the Cock and Bull, had made the mistake in his inaugural year as landlord to utter the dread phrase and had been blamed for months to come for the sudden storms that had hurled and broken themselves upon the innocent inhabitants of Sleepy Hamlet. The fact that the BBC had been predicting the imminent arrival of Hurricane Tarquin for the past month had completely passed these superstitious numpties by. This year he wasn’t about to make the same mistake and as he was pouring the twenty-five pints of Squirrels for the snug full of farmers, he asked why they didn’t just check the weather; his suggestion was met with the kind of derisory ‘Harrumphs’ and snorts that are normally reserved for ‘incomers’. So he’d given them their change and went to serve the Rev Batwing his third glass of sparkling holy water.
Suddenly the door opened and a stranger walked in. Tom, Lord Hamlet, Rev Batwing and the followers of the secret order of the ‘third cut’ all turned as one.
‘Hi there’ started the cheery tourist with an accent that carried more than a suspicion of being foreign (to any true Sleepy Hamleter the foreign epithet can be attached to anyone coming from outside of their village). ‘Good day to you to’ replied Tom as he sized him up for potential alcohol and hot pot consumption. ‘What do you suggest for a thirsty traveller?’ continued the happy soul. ‘How about a pint of the local brew; Squirrels best bitter?’ suggested the landlord, the tourist agreed and Tom poured the drink. Tension from the snug area relaxed and an aura of conviviality once again permeated around the pub; that was until the tourist mentioned the weather---All went quiet, the snug turned as one, pale and wide eyed. And before they could move to smother any further utterances he’d turned to the farmers and spoken the dread words in an innocent attempt at cordiality. “Do you think you’ll get an extra cut in this year?”
Silence, a dart went thud, Lord Hamlet choked on his drink, Rev Batwing shrank behind his bible and Tom looked duly at the Farmers. The silence was all consuming and the moment intense. Then, on the window, came the dreaded sound of rain drops hitting the pain. As the farmers groaned, their shoulders dropped, their spirits sagged and the heavens opened
The stranger obliviously ordered a hot pot.
Sleepy Hamlet © Karl Dixon 2010
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