The Vacant Casualty Read online

  ‘I’m afraid,’ came a rather prim and schoolmarmish voice, ‘that we still have the issue of Cedric’s shop.’

  ‘Oh, bugger it,’ whispered Lord Selvington audibly, and a big grin spread over Major Eldred’s face.

  ‘This is the issue that we have tried to prevent Cedric Gray . . .’ said Selvington.

  ‘. . . Cedric the Bastard,’ said Saracene Galaxista.

  ‘I’m aware what he changed his name to,’ said Selvington in a warning tone.

  ‘It’s deed poll, you can’t not call him it.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Selvington, running a hand over his forehead. ‘The man who used to be called Cedric Gray, and who—’

  ‘And who is now called Cedric the Bastard . . .’ said Major Eldred.

  ‘Fine,’ said Selvington. ‘Fine! Call him what you want. Does someone else want to take over the relentless brain-fuck of handling this meeting?’

  Major Eldred and Saracene Galaxista were enjoying themselves hugely but not enough to want to actually take over, so they lowered their eyes.

  ‘Oh! No? No one else? Listen, Cedric can change his name on deed poll to “Fuck the Parish Council Meeting in the Quivering Arsehole” if he likes, I still have to get through the agenda. So, item one, here’s a huge bloody surprise, Cedric the Tedious Flippin’ Bastard’s shop has changed its name. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the quiet voice of the Parish secretary from the corner.

  ‘I know we in this meeting, and in this village, have long had a problem with Cedric’s shop being called Ye The Olde Curiositye Shoppe. We’ve had a vote on every one of those extra letters. Except perhaps for that extra “p”, which we didn’t object to after allowing the “e” that went with it.’

  There was a brief pause while everyone took this in, not just the two visitors to the chamber.

  ‘Please tell me,’ said Lord Selvington, ‘that he has decided, as we have long demanded of him, to remove either the “Ye” or the “The”.’

  ‘No, he wants to change the “Ye” into a “Yeay” – Y, E, A, Y. To make it more phonetic.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be more phonetic, it’s a fucking sign!’

  ‘But for Americans. That’s what he’s saying.’

  ‘It’s even worse than before,’ chipped in one of the Quimples. ‘That’s like text speak.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the major, his one visible eye goggling. ‘Why are we troubled by this runt, week after week? Is he English at all?’

  ‘He is called Cedric.’

  ‘Are Cedrics really English? Sounds a bit Danish. I mean, is it illegal to kill the bleeders?’

  There was a considerable amount of gasping at this, which only encouraged the major to rise to his theme. ‘I mean to say, and I have been hoping to get the phrase “I mean to say” in for quite a while, so God damn it, I mean to say it!’ he said. ‘We have to talk about this crapulous little buffoon’s signposting habits for almost half the meeting every week and I Mean To Say I resent that it delays me getting my cup of bloody tea and Rich Tea (or WHATEVER) biscuit. So there.’ And so saying he stood back down from the table and removed the scimitar he had thrust passionately through the ornaments in the top of Miss E. Quimple’s hat, which might once have resembled fruit or birds, but were now snowflakes of paper.

  ‘Thank you, Major,’ said Lord Selvington quietly, ‘for moving the conversation on so far as to discuss Cedric’s name.’

  ‘May I for my part say,’ said the mayor, already looking quite pleased with himself, ‘if he wants it to be in text speak, why doesn’t he go the whole hog and call it Yeay, The Olde Curiosity Shoppe Lol!’

  ‘Well, exactly,’ said Emily Quimple.

  ‘No, that was a joke,’ said the mayor, with a falling face.

  ‘OMG ROFLMAO!’ said Sam suddenly from the corner, at the top of his voice, smiling.

  They all turned slowly to look at him in confusion, including the mayor (looking more scornful than the others, clearly grateful to have the attention distracted from himself) and once again he found how unexpectedly out of place he was among these rich old folks. He was surprised at how abashed he felt.

  ‘WTF,’ Sam muttered to himself, leaning back into the shadows.

  ‘Well, apparently it’s “Yeay” or “Thee” with two “e”s, and that’s that.’

  ‘For crap’s sake, it doesn’t make any sense,’ said Lord Selvington. ‘What is he, on commission from the Unconvincing Old-Fashioned Font Association? No. Our answer is no. What’s next on the agenda?’

  ‘It’s the least curious shop I’ve ever seen, anyway,’ said the Reverend Smallcreak. ‘It’s just full of tat.’

  ‘Point two, a question from two meetings ago, when I wasn’t taking the minutes,’ came the voice of Lord Selvington’s secretary. ‘Re: the opening of the £7 million abbey renovation. Are we really to invite Abi Titmuss to cut the cord?’

  Selvington gave the mayor a suspicious glance.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ protested that dignitary, evidently very excited and shifting in his seat. ‘Did we really say that?’

  ‘Apparently she came top of the list,’ said the one-eyed major sadly, reading from his minutes. ‘I suppose it’s because she’s called Abi,’ he said, looking up. ‘And has huge knockers.’

  ‘Well, I must say Abi Titmuss is a charming name,’ said one of the Quimples. ‘Sounds like a type of bird.’

  ‘She certainly is a type of bird, but not one of which you would approve, possibly,’ said the major, leaning back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the other Miss Quimple, looking distressed. ‘Not a chaffinch?’

  ‘I fear we’re straying from the point somewhat,’ said Lord Selvington slightly huffily. ‘Let us return to this next time, Miss Stissinghurst. Now, ladies and gentlemen, of course we all hope Terry is going to turn up alive and well as soon as possible but he is not here, and as we all know, with our vote coming up at the end of this week, and the votes standing the way they are, we need to fill up this vacancy (which is, in the circumstances, not so much of a “casual vacancy” as we would hope it might be). So it is now time for us to meet our candidates . . .’

  ‘Time for refreshments, then,’ said the major, in such an excitement that he switched his eyepatch from one socket to the other without anyone but Sam noticing. Tea was indeed brought, poured and handed round, with Custard Cream biscuits on each saucer.

  ‘Please bring the first one in, Mrs Trench,’ said the mayor, and the frightening and apparently female creature who had welcomed Sam and Bradley in the previous day limped theatrically to the door, pulled it open and then nodded to whoever was outside.

  Sam found this woman chillingly fascinating, in just the same way that he would sometimes catch a glimpse of a particularly unwell and miserable-looking homeless person, or someone in the furthest stages of a degenerative disease, and be suddenly convinced that by some cruel and relatively sudden twist of fate he might find himself in their shoes. These occasional shocks were one of the relatively few things that genuinely gave his existence zest and meaning. She seemed to have not much more mental faculty than the average home computer, and accomplished her simple tasks with a great deal of visible effort. She presently subsided onto a chair at the back of the room and instantly fell asleep, farting loudly as she did so.

  This was quite possibly a common enough occurrence not to warrant any notice or comment from anyone else in the council, but either way their attention was now firmly fixed on their first interviewee. He was a tall man, fat and completely bald, perhaps fifty years old, and wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt with a picture of the Union Jack on it.

  ‘Now,’ said Lord Selvington, clearing his throat and looking at the papers in front of him, ‘I understand that you were until recently Professor of Middle Eastern Politics at Trinity College Dublin, is that right?’

  ‘Nah, nah,’ said the man, waving his hand. ‘I run a burger van.’

  ‘Oh, I�
�m so sorry,’ said Selvington, putting the paper down. ‘I was getting you mixed up with Angharad Trefusis.’

  ‘Who, in turn, must be a woman,’ said the mayor quietly.

  ‘Er, indeed. Please do go on,’ said Selvington.

  ‘Well, I run my burger van just up on the A-road over the hill, and what I’m saying is . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Selvington. ‘You actually live here in Mumford?’

  ‘That’s right,’

  He nodded three times.

  ‘Really?’

  The man nodded again.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Selvington.

  ‘I’m not a racist . . .’ began their guest.

  ‘Now, wait a minute. Call me old mister psychology-pants,’ said the mayor, ‘but that probably means that you are, doesn’t it? Just a bit.’

  ‘No! No, what I’m saying is – and hear me out – is that I think we should keep this town the way it is, and – excuse my French – but not let in any bloody foreigners.’

  ‘There we go,’ muttered the mayor. ‘I owe myself a fiver. Clever old psychologypants.’

  ‘But my dear man, there aren’t any foreigners,’ said Selvington. ‘That’s why the property prices are so high, and we’re one of the country’s most famous and desirable towns.’

  ‘I’m not a racist,’ insisted the man again. ‘I like Bolognese, and curry and that.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s fine. Thank you – we’ve got lots more people to see today, so would you mind making way for our next candidate . . .’

  The man lumbered disappointedly out of the room and the mayor and Selvington both shouted together to wake Mrs Trench to invite the next guest in.

  The next man strode in confidently, a wide fellow with an enormous bushy beard, bright eyes and the ruddy complexion of someone who shouted a great deal.

  ‘Looks like Brian Blessed,’ muttered Sam to himself.

  ‘I am indeed the famous actor Brian Blessed!’ yelled the man. ‘I would like to join your Parish Council.’

  ‘Brian, we’ve had this discussion a dozen times. You’re not getting in.’

  ‘Why not?’ bellowed the enormous actor.

  ‘Because you’re a lovely fellow, but the one time we had you in here, we got nothing done.’

  ‘Remind me?’ enquired Blessed at the top of his voice, suspiciously.

  ‘You mutter under your breath and it’s very off-putting.’

  ‘Plain nonsense!’ foghorned Blessed. The actor looked round at Sam and Bradley, raising his eyebrows and then jerked his thumb at Selvington as if to say, ‘Look at this fellow!’

  ‘What do I mutter?’ he demanded.

  Selvington took off his glasses and rubbed the top of his nose. ‘Must we do this? We all know where it’s going.’

  ‘I will not be oppressed, you vermin! Tell me! What is the phrase?’ And he cocked a hand against his ear and turned the ear towards the chairman, with an expression of majestic fascination, like a king listening for the trumpet-call of victory from a far beacon-post.

  ‘It’s extraordinary,’ whispered Bradley. ‘He really does shout all the time!’

  ‘“Gordon’s alive,”’ said Lord Selvington wearily.

  ‘Yes!’ said Blessed, crashing his fist onto the table. ‘That’s it! Gordon IS alive! I must find him at once. Stand back! Make way! Together we shall rid the universe of the tyrant, Ming! THUS IT MUST AND SHALL BE!’ And so yelling, he charged right through the middle of the circle of tables, luckily only knocking over the two behind, where no one was sitting. As the actor passed her, yodelling in fury, Mrs Trench mumbled in her sleep and turned over, farting again.

  It took a few minutes for order to be restored. The tables were put back in place, cups of tea re-poured and returned, and at last enough of a pretence of decorum returned to the meeting for Lord Selvington to invite in another candidate.

  The next person to come through the door was also a man, but quite a different proposition from Brian Blessed in every way. He stood in the centre of the room with the proud gait of a matador, tall coloured feathers sprouting from his headdress, a long black cloak swathing the rest of him from head to foot. He looked gauntly down at them all, one by one, and they were each struck by the thunderous certainty of his gaze, which seemed to say, ‘You know me as your superior; I see you and have the power to crush you.’

  ‘Now, you must be Angharad,’ said Selvington.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered the mayor.

  ‘SPEAK NOT, WHITE MAN,’ said the apparition, leaping onto a table and upsetting most of the cups of tea. ‘I know your tricks! I would out-spell you with my magic. A-WOOO-YAH!’ And he back-flipped off the table, getting one of his feet caught in his own gown and hitting the floor with a painful-sounding crunch.

  ‘Ah, fuck!’ said a small voice from within the swirling cloaks.

  ‘Timmy?’ said Selvington, looking up. ‘Is that you?’

  The cloaks were pulled back at once to reveal the furious sage, looking more over-serious than ever. ‘SPEAK NOT TO ME, MAN-WHORE! I CURSE YOU TO A THOUSAND YEARS OF WALKING ON HOT BROKEN ORANGINA BOTTLES.’

  ‘Timmy, get up!’ said Lord Selvington, rising himself. ‘This is not the place for your stupid pranks. Look, even your face paint’s starting to come off. You could have broken your ankle with that jump, and then you’d miss the bloody boat race. Come on, get the hell on home with you, and I’m stopping your allowance for a month.’

  ‘I CURSE YOU, WHITE MAN!’ shouted the apparition again as it sped limping out of the door, to the relief of pretty much everyone except the Miss Quimples, who clapped excitedly. Meanwhile Mrs Trench dutifully mopped at the many cups of spilled tea.

  ‘NEXT!’ bellowed Lord Selvington.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Dad, old chap,’ said a posh young man, coming in and sitting down in the chair reserved for the interviewees. ‘I was wondering if I could borrow a bit of money.’ Sam immediately recognized him as the man whom he and Bradley had nearly crashed into yesterday.

  ‘What’s his name again?’ asked Bradley.

  ‘Horace. Or Sir Egbert, I think,’ whispered Sam.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Selvington. ‘This is not the place! I’ve just had your idiot brother in here making an absolute bloody mockery of this meeting.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know that. I gave him a lift up here. Thought it was rather a jolly wheeze.’

  ‘And you thought you’d come in here afterwards and try to knock me up for some cash?’

  ‘Well, yes, I did rather – just a couple of thousand to see me until my next book advance comes through.’

  ‘Don’t you know we’re trying to replace Terry Fair-breath?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right. I knew there was something else. I want to be on the Parish Council too.’

  ‘Well, you can’t! Just go over there and sit in the bloody corner, will you, and we can talk about this later!’

  ‘But what about Timmy? He’ll be waiting for me in the car.’

  ‘He can fly home with his spirit guide for all I care. NEXT!’

  Horace (or Sir Egbert) came and sat next to Sam in the corner, where they said a cheery hallo to each other as the next candidate came in.

  ‘Now you must be Professor Angharad Trefusis,’ said Lord Selvington to the six-year-old child who came in and sat on the chair. The mayor slapped his hand against his forehead, while Sam settled in for a bit of a snooze.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘WELL, THAT WAS JOLLY, wasn’t it?’ said Horace as he handed Sam a cigarette. They were standing beside the door as the others made their way out behind them.

  ‘What, the bit where your father turned down your request for money, calling you a pointless wastrel and piece of pond scum, or where the little girl wet herself during his questioning over her policies?’

  ‘Yes, the search for Terry’s replacement goes on. Hey, listen, never mind the old man. He’s just cross with me because of the whole “public intellectual” thi
ng I insist on doing, he thinks it’s beneath the dignity of the family.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Oh, you know – I knock out a book now and then, a novel here, bit of psychogeography there. New one’s my reminiscences of doing crack with W.G. Sebald on the fens. Appear on Newsnight now and then, just to keep old Jozza happy.’

  ‘Jozza?’

  ‘Yes – you know Jozza. That chap who introduces Newsnight. Jozza Paxo. Jeremy Oxocube. Old Pimply Paxington. My old man was at Cambridge with him, they used to gad about on the river and so forth. So I pop up on Newsnight from time to time to chat about this and that. Load of old rot, really, but keeps me busy between games of croquet.’

  ‘And your proper name is Sir Egbert, right?’

  ‘Ah – not any more, no.’

  ‘Oh dear. What’s happened?’

  ‘Well, it would appear I’m now Lord Ickham of High-church.’

  ‘What’s this, a promotion?’

  ‘If you want to put it that way, yes. My great-uncle passed away, on my mother’s side.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Well, he was a hundred and seven.’

  ‘Ah. So his hang-gliding days were over.’

  ‘Oh, good Lord, yes! He had to stop that way back in March. Although, to be honest, even then it was on the orders of the local magistrate. He said, “Wear some clothes, or don’t do it at all.” So he chose not to do it at all.’

  ‘He was a man of principle.’

  ‘Well, that was Uncle Hugo all over, you see. Could never bear to back down from a position. He was that way when it came to the Nazis, and the same when it came to nude hang-gliding.’

  ‘A staunch opponent of Hitler,’ said Sam.

  Lord Ickham looked awkward for a moment. ‘Y-y-y-yes . . . Yes. Let’s say that he was that.’ He swiftly changed the subject. ‘You haven’t seen an ogre round here by any chance, have you?’