The sun beat down hard on Sleepy Hamlet. All was silence save for the crowing of a distant cockerel and the barking of an even more distant dog. There was no sound of tractors trundling down dusty country lanes or from farmers, whistling their sheep to pastures new; the air was devoid of the sound of cows being milked or grain silos being filled---The fields had no combines, gorging at the wheat and the corn just rustled without fear of interference. In fact this was an early afternoon lacking in the typical noises of a late summers pastoral scene and there was a very good reason for this: The inhabitants of Sleepy Hamlet were having their siesta.
They weren’t Spanish or indeed not even twinned with a Spanish village. It’s just that Mrs. Heppleheimer had read about such practices in an old readers digest that sat in the doctor’s surgery and she’d passed the information around a bit, gossip had taken over and before you could blink twice the whole village was aware of it and had decided to adopt this most pleasurable of notions, and had grabbed their pillows and headed for bed. In most cases their own. So since June, 19 1974, every day the village of Sleepy Hamlet had gently snoozed its way through the afternoon while the rest of the UK beavered and toiled under sweated brows, for bucking the national trend was always the way with this little village of eccentrics.
So it was all the more noticeable when this tranquil scene was abruptly shattered by the hostile jingling of the post office door and its subsequent slamming as the booted feet of Mrs Markle, (village post mistress and head of the Hamlet amateur sleuths society), made her way determinedly down the centre of the street: curtains started twitching that hadn’t twitched at this time of the day since June, 18 1974. Little bleary eyed inhabitants peeked out to discover for themselves what or who had broken the siesta. Noses, finely tuned and hardily trained in the art of arriving promptly into the middle of other peoples business started their familiar twichings and the village was once more alert to the threat of undiscovered gossip.
Mrs. Markle, the cause of the uproar, was heading straight towards the Cock & Bull, the village pub and as she veered off to the right you could almost imagine her indicating as she manoeuvred her hostile and threatening presence towards the pub’s door. To the untutored onlooker the pub, who normally adopted a pose of passivity bordering on the inert (well it was only a building after all) suddenly took up a flinching stance that looked to all the world like someone raising their hands in a ‘Hey, not me guv’ kind of a way. Mrs Markle carried on toward the pub, determination rendered onto her features.
The Cock& Bull was just like any other country pub. It sold ales, wines and spirits, the sign outside said good pub grub and it had that country ambiance that made city weekend trippers want to stand by the log fire and make rash promises about telling the boss first thing on Monday morning to stuff his damned job and move the whole family out to their new and exciting rural idyll and set up a business making walking sticks and selling hiking holidays. This feeling of euphoria would continue either until their daughters got a closer look at the inbreds that passed for future boyfriend material or when the alcohol had worn off and the smell of real fires had left their nostrils.
At this particular moment the Cock & Bull was gloomy and devoid of customers. All except the one: Lord Hamlet, he who’s family had given their name to this village and could trace their ancestors back to the Black Death, and Tom, the incomer landlord and entrepreneur. These two were the only ones who never observed the daily siesta as the one needed to drink and the other needed to serve, it was a match made in heaven.
So it was upon this gentle scene of country serenity that the door crashed in to the formidable presence of Mrs Markle who stood, hand-on-hips, in all her tweed ensconced finery. If this had been a western movie, lightening would’ve ripped the air and Mrs Markle would have been slightly less tweedy and a lot more poncho’d. She would have stamped her cigar butt out on the tavern floor before making her way dramatically towards the bar, stirrups chinking all the way and avoiding the squinting, crease ridden glare of Lee Van Kleef. But seeing as this wasn’t a movie and the smoking ban was already in force and Mrs Markle almost never did anything silently, Lord Hamlet had to make do with the sun causing a halo around her frizzy red hair while Tom whistled the theme tune to the good the bad and the ugly.
Now before we go further into this tense setting that even as we speak is dripping with drama and crackling with atmosphere, I feel we should take a little time out to explain more about the force of nature that is Mrs. Markle. To say that she was formidable would be to state the obvious. To say she was feared would receive no argument but call her a simple country woman and you would be opening a can of worms that would be impossible to put back, for there are many sides and indeed many layers to the Markle personality. So many, in fact, that if they all popped up at the same time, it would make for a very crowded room and have the air of a badly organised school reunion. But the two sides to her multi faceted nature that shot up at this particular moment like the 2/6 shilling tabs on an old cash register were her steely eyes and a distinct lack of humour.
Her booted feet stepped further into the pub as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings. The fruit machine blinked and flashed its twirling ritual of lights, the jukebox held its breath and the beer mats, that up until now had been sort of, hanging out on the tables with no direction or aim in life, suddenly felt the urge to straighten themselves out and pull their shoulders back and get a job. Thus was the power of the famous ‘Markle Stare’.
And now she levelled it at Tom, landlord of the Cock & Bull and entrepreneur.
“Well?” Salvoed Mrs Markle
“Well what?” Countered the landlord
“Is it true?” Continued the undaunted Mrs Markle
“Is what true?” Persisted the landlord; now warming to the bout
“What I hear the village talk about” Cleared up Mrs Markle
“Oh that.” Conceded the landlord with a certain amount of largess.
“Yes” Bristled the twitching Mrs Markle. “That!”
“Possibly” stated the landlord. Cryptically.
“Well it has to stop!” said Mrs Markle, leaning into the conversation whilst violating the nearest bar stools air space with her Herculean bosoms.
The blank expression that up until now had claimed squatters’ rights on Lord Hamlet’s features suddenly slipped away.
“What the deuce are you two talking about?”
Lord Hamlet’s interjection had the sudden if not brief effect of bringing the two combatants back into the room.
“Well I would have thought it was obvious” Continued Mrs Markle, now into round two.
“Yes, I thought it was obvious” Smirked Tom, gently elbowing to the befuddled Lord of the Manor.
“He” Continued Mrs Markle, pointing at the landlord while looking directly at Lord Hamlet. “He has set up a Post Office here in his…” She looked around for words and inspiration to best describe this anti tea totalling establishment “Den of iniquity” triumphed the redoubtable Mrs Markle
“Is that right, Tom?”
“Certainly is Y’Lordship”
“Jolly good. Then I’ll have a couple of first class stamps, a second class and have one yourself”
“Don’t mind if I do, I’ll join you in an international reply pay coupon”
They both burst out laughing in the comfortable way that only vendors of alcohol and consumers of the same can do. But the hedonistic moment of free banter was cut short by the icy expression and heady aroma of evening primrose that exuded from the wall of tweed that was Mrs Markle.
“You may find this ‘amusing,’ Lord Hamlet, but I find it extremely worrying”
“Oh come now, Mrs…er… What is your first name, by the way?”
Mrs. Markle stared unblinkingly and stood unflinching in her refusal to discuss the matter of first names. Lord Hamlet looked upon her, as had many in the village when broaching the sticky subject of first names, and had come to the only sensible conclusion, that when she had been born and the delivering doctor had enquired as to names for the little tyke, her parents, looking upon this already redoubtably fierce looking child, had decided to name her ‘Mrs’
“As the lord of this manor” persisted Mrs Markle, icily “I expect it will not escape your awareness that two post offices in one village this size means that one will have to go; Put simply, your Lordship, there isn’t enough business to go around”
Lord Hamlet swivelled on his bar stool and faced Tom.
“She has a point, Tom. This is indeed a small village” Tom levelled his strong ‘Townie’ gaze at Mrs Markle but her deflector shields were up. This admirably strong example of ‘country woman’ just glared her indomitability back and nearly knocked him psychically, off his heels. Tom regained his composure quickly, rallied all his senses and went back on the offensive.
“She does have a point, your Lordship. But it’s also very hard in the publicans game, and unless we diversify, this pub will have to shut” He let that thought hang in the air before it drove like a set of coach and horses through Lord Hamlet’s senses. Particularly the part of his senses that dealt with alcoholic consumption. “And you, Y’Lordship will have to stay at home” Lord Hamlet Blinked. Went rigid; his normarily stiff upper lip went weak and wobbly before Tom leant forward and delivered the killer blow. “With Lady Hamlet”
A low squeak emitted through the now weakened upper lip of Lord Hamlet and the dam burst. The thoughts of cosy winters’ evenings in with his wife was a point too far. He revelled in his care free life of drinking, smoking, hunting and making a general nuisance of himself around the village. He never bothered Lady Hamlet and she never bothered him. Their marriage was one based on mutual indifference; she had a title and he had a well ordered house to come home to. This is how it had always been and in his simple, fog riddled mind, it is how he had always imagined it to be. This was now under threat and he was aware that something had to be done. But he could not entirely ignore the concerns of one of his tenants, nor could he either forget the image of winter’s evenings with the leviathan that was Lady Hamlet. He was also aware that as Lord of the manor the successful conclusion to this sticky problem lay solely within his remit and the redoubtable Mrs Markle and the resourceful Tom also looked to him for an out come that would leave them both on the winner’s podium. Lord Hamlet opened his mouth to speak. No thoughts issued forward and no words rallied themselves to spring board off his tongue and into the arena; exemplifying themselves with a radiant glow that would leave all present with no misunderstanding that his was indeed a sparkling and brilliant intellect. In short his Lordship was without answer. Instead he picked up his tankard of amber liquid raised his glass to them both in turn, drained the last few mouthfuls and announced he was off for a tinkle to deliberate on the matter. As he tottered off in the toilets general direction, he hoped against all hope that when he came back, this dreadful situation would be solved and he could go back to his privileged life of doing absolutely nothing all day.
Lord Hamlet bobbed and weaved his way drunkenly towards the men’s toilets, leaving in his wake a trail of upturned chairs, tables and scattered pool ques and only once he was safely ensconced within the fiefdom of the Cock and Bulls conveniences could the pub’s fixtures and fittings finally sigh a huge sigh of relief: that was until he bobbed and weaved his inevitable way back to the bar again--- then it was every fixture and fitting for themselves.
Mrs. Markle and Tom removed their eyes from this scene of drunken carnage and returned once more to the here and now; it was obvious that Lord Hamlet was not coming back out--- well not until the situation was solved one way or the other.
**************************
Outside the ivy covered frontage of the Cock & Bull pub stood the lone, but solidly built figure of Mrs. Heppleheimer, she of the siesta fame. Mrs. Heppleheimer was quite possibly the oldest inhabitant in the village and had come over to England
Although she’d been here since childhood she still had the vestiges of her German accent and the German way of thinking was still enshrined within her psyche, often creeping forward to invade her personality. Stereotypically she had no sense of humour, had very strong, some would say draconian views on crime and punishment and was said to have secluded somewhere about here extremely organised cottage, a letter of expulsion from the 1930’s Berlin wing of the Hitler youth: On the dotted line left for giving the reason for the expulsion was neatly written two words ‘Unnecessary roughness’.
So it was no surprise that should battle lines of any sort be drawn up in the village it would be the heavily jowled presence of Mrs Heppleheimer that should be first on the scene. And as she pressed her nose against the mullioned windows that looked directly onto the bar scene where the altercation between Mrs. Markle and Tom, the incomer, was taking place, Mrs. Heppleheimer nearly leapt out of her many folds of skin when she was suddenly tapped on the shoulder from behind.
“FERGUSTINGHOPPLE!!” invented the taken-by-surprise Mrs. Heppleheimer “Vot in ze name of Odin are you doink?!” (For Mrs Heppleheimer was a believer in the old gods, they seemed to be more akin to her way of thinking and knew how to party and keep order)
“I’m sorry, dear lady, did I startle you?”
“Dumkomph! You could have scared me out of mine skin”
Standing in front of Mrs. Heppleheimer was the Rev. Batwing, a buck toothed gentle soul who wished only the best for his parishioners, even openly hostile pagans like Mrs Heppleheimer. He lived within the airy-fairy, theocratical world that existed between the pages of the good book that he was never seen without. He stood a very spindly six foot four and was bald except for two amazingly elongated tufts of hair that sprouted out from the side of his head like two giant bats wings, hence, most of the villagers thought, the name. As Mrs. Heppleheimer took the time for her heart rate to slow down from turbo charge to something nearing normality, she took in this vicar of the old school, straight down to his wellies; one of which was caked in cow muck.
“Vot is that on your vellington boots?” The Rev. Batwing looked down absent minded at the sight of his bedecked boot and his memory was jolted.
“Oh that’s a cow pat---I trod in it on the way over” He looked at the unblinking Mrs. Heppleheimer and continued “I just forgot about it---Things on my mind and all that”
“It looks very fresh” continued Mrs. Heppleheimer
“Oh it is---Didn’t even have time to form a crust before I stepped in it. In fact the cow that delivered it, as it where, was still to be seen walking away with a crossword puzzle under its arm”
Mrs. Heppleheimer stood and stared at him, appraising the situation and wondered, not for the first time, whether this was a case of the famous British sense of humour or just the dusty headed old cootishnes that was the Rev. Batwing. Oblivious to Mrs Heppleheimers dilemma, the Reverend carried on.
“So, why are you looking through the pub window, dear lady?”
Having come to the opinion that she was never going to understand the British sense of humour (great or otherwise) she decide to once more engage in conversation with the Rev. Batwing, fully aware that the weirdness that seemed to surround him like a fog could suddenly pop up without warning and send another well ordered conversation into disarray, and as I think I’ve just said, Mrs Heppleheimer’s German sense of organisation was on constant alert with its verbal broom always on the ready to tidy up a conversation and with the Rev. Batwing its bristles were running pretty thin.
“I am checking up on a heated discussion that is goink on between Mrs Markle unt Tom, ze landlord”
“Really?” Replied Rev. Batwing, his interest now piqued; vicar or not he was a ‘Sleepy Hamleter’ first and his sense of hidden gossip took president over any of the scriptures and at least seven of the major commandments.
“Ja, unt it seems to be about Tom taking ze Markle voman’s business”
“Really?” Repeated the Rev Batwing as he stroked his lack of chin.
“Ja, und Lord Hamlet has done his usual thing unt disappeared into ze bogs to hide from doink his duty”
Rev. Batwing looked through the windows and noted the trail of carnage that led up to the toilets, confirming Lord Hamlet’s recent presence.
“Maybe he’s going to contemplate on the issue; we both know he’s not one to make rash decisions…” Rev. Batwing’s argument trailed off to find a dark corner to hide in rather than face the intrinsically German glare of Mrs Heppleheimer.
“Ve both know” continued Mrs Heppleheimer as though speaking to a child with more than its fair share of learning difficulties. “That Lord Hamlet is not ze man his father was. He vould always rather shirk his duties than stand and make a decision. He has never now or ever will he do anything other than live the life of an over privileged school boy” She then turned her attention back to the scene indoors; although her words hung in the air they did not invite a reply. And although Rev. Batwing’s words jostled around on the tip of his tongue, none dared spring forth for fear of being mugged by the invading force of syllables that awaited their arrival. Instead the Rev. Batwing insinuated himself into Mrs Heppleheimer’s presence.
Just as he did so the larger part of Mrs Heppleheimer jumped back without any written warning and caught the inferior frame of the Rev. Batwing knocking him over. Mrs Heppleheimer, who had seen Mrs. Markle heading for the door and didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, lunged forward to catch the flailing Rev. Batwing, but missed him as he crashed into one of the outdoor bench sets and fell sideways into the pile of bin-bags that were awaiting their collection. He tried to get up but every time he did so, the supporting hand would puncture a bag and bury itself deep into the contents of whatever was inside. Mrs. Heppleheimer then waded in to help the Rev Batwing up, only to slip on something that was probably once a homemade hot pot but now wasn’t, and got as mixed up with the bags as the Rev. Batwing was.
So it was to this scene of the dotty old vicar with assorted ‘specials of the day’ splodged liberally about his person, who was still trying to stand up and finding yet more unbroken bin-bags to puncture, and the squirming bulk of Mrs Heppleheimer who was trying also to regain her composure and dignity, with the added help of a hair full of spaghetti Bolognese that Mrs. Markle came out to. They stopped struggling so violently and as she looked down her long nose at them, they squirmed embarrassingly like naughty school children caught suddenly by the withering glare of an old school mistress. She mentally re affixed the rod of iron that seemed to be her backbone and walked off.
As she walked back up the street, all the village curtains in front of her snapped shut and only re-opened after she’d walked past them; they looked a little like a Laura Ashley Mexican wave, and only when the booted feet of Mrs. Markle were once again inside her village store/Post Office, did the inhabitants of Hamlet Villas venture out; all hopes of a siesta now forgotten. There was gossip to be dissected, facts to be mangled and rumours to be set upon their way. No one knew what was going on, but this was a village that was fuelled on knowing something your neighbour didn’t; these were people who were taught how to sniff out gossip before they could walk. In fact they only seemed to learn how to walk so as they could spread their gossip even further afield.
As one they all spied the dishevelled figures of Mrs Heppleheimer and the Rev. Batwing as they emerged from their bed of pub grub and honed into view. The villagers started moving slowly in their direction in search of hidden gossip and looked not unlike zombies seeking flesh--- the only difference being, you could out run a Zombie.
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