Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 34

In my preoccupation, I’d allowed my voice to rise. The landlord caught my last words.

  ‘Rollover Night?’ he said gleefully. ‘Is it?’

  Suddenly it was like Remembrance Sunday or the moment in the Western when the sheriff enters the saloon. Every eye was riveted upon us.

  ‘Seems so,’ said Mr Disvan just as loudly and to all and sundry in the bar. ‘Mr Oakley has spotted it starting up.’

  I was both gratified and puzzled to receive a spontaneous round of applause. I felt obliged to say something but inspiration failed and only ‘Um... thanks’ came out.

  ‘Right,’ said the landlord. ‘Picnic time! Everyone go spread the word and we can be up on the hill within the hour. There’s still plenty of light for the start of the show. Lottie, you get weaving on the sandwiches and I’ll fetch some bottles together. Good on you, Mr Oakley—you’ve done something right for once.’

  This seemed both praise and a kick, so I didn’t answer. No one would have been listening if I had, for the Argyll had suddenly become a hive of activity. People were heading for the door like a lemming display team, and the landlord was descending purposefully into his cellar. Soon, other than for a few women who accompanied Lottie the landlady into the kitchen, Mr Disvan and I were the only persons remaining in the bar.

  In the silence that followed, I thought I would see if the ‘aggrieved and pompous’ approach would prise any joy out of Disvan.

  ‘Don’t you feel you owe some sort of explanation?’ I asked him.

  Mr Disvan’s brow creased as he obediently examined his mind for signs of such an IOU.

  ‘No, not really,’ he answered innocently.

  ‘Well, I do.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why do you have to have an explanation for everything, Mr Oakley? I once read about a case like yours, only much worse. It seems this chap was possessed by the spirit of a late Victorian accountant and—’

  This was too much to take. ‘Are you suggesting..?’

  Mr Disvan held up a placatory hand.

  ‘No, of course not, Mr Oakley. I’m sure the accountant in your soul is of your own creation. However, if it’ll make you feel safe, listen up for a moment. Then we must be busy, loading up beer and sandwiches into your car for the landlord. We can’t be late for the picnic.’

  I almost asked ‘why not?’ but stopped myself in time.

  ‘Okay,’ I replied, ‘I’m listening.’

  Disvan didn’t seem to care one way or the other and idly traced a ‘smiley face’ in the head of his Guinness as he spoke.

  ‘All right, Mr Oakley. Rollover Night probably happens every year but we don’t always get to see it, because when it happens seems to be more or less random. Fortunately, where it occurs appears to be fixed.’

  ‘On the slope down from Binscombe Ridge?’ I hazarded.

  ‘Precisely. And, if someone observes it in enough time, we have a little celebratory gathering up there. In fact, it can get quite festive. You’ll enjoy yourself.’

  ‘So I’m invited, am I?’

  ‘Certainly. We need your car to ferry food and drink up there, like I’ve said. Then there’s old Mr and Mrs Springer to consider. They’re not too good on their pins nowadays. You must go and give them a lift—we can’t possibly leave them out of it.’

  ‘Let’s not forget it’s my car we’re talking about,’ I said huffily.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Mr Oakley,’ he replied, once again entirely unfazed by my ersatz indignation. ‘I’d take my Porsche but your car is—what, two or three years old now. It won’t matter so much if it gets beer and breadcrumbs all over the inside. That’s why I suggested using it.’

  Despite these Parthian slings and arrows, I gamely pressed on.

  ‘But you still haven’t told me what Rollover Night is.’

  ‘No... well, okay: it’s Rollover Night because it usually happens at night when the world is quiet. Though not, it seems, this year. And as for “Rollover”, well...’

  The bar door crashed open and Doctor Bani-Sadr entered.

  ‘I’ve heard it’s Rollover Night,’ he said cheerfully.

  Mr Disvan nodded.

  Bani-Sadr’s smile widened. ‘That’s fantastic. Couldn’t be better.’

  ‘I take it you’ll be able to join us then, doctor,’ said Disvan.

  ‘Certainly. As chance would have it, I’m not on call tonight.’

  Since the bar was presently unmanned, the doctor helped himself to a barley wine, leaving the money on the counter, and then came over to join us.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘this might be even more fortuitous than I first thought. Do you think I might be allowed to bring a stranger along?’

  Mr Disvan looked shocked.

  ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘A patient of mine. A newcomer. He lectures in politics at Goldenford University and he’s suffering from depression.’

  ‘As well he might,’ said Disvan sympathetically.

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ the doctor said slowly, considering his words. ‘Well, not entirely anyway. You see, he’s got himself into a lather about nuclear weapons and the prospects of war. All those missiles waiting to go, the bunkers primed and operational, the vast instruments of destruction poised to destroy the planet, the underground silos, the megadeath hypotheses, the nuclear winter, the—’

  ‘Yes, all right, all right,’ I said testily, now feeling a little depressed myself, ‘we get the picture.’

  ‘Good. Well, the gist of it all is that he doesn’t actually see the point in life if we could all be nuked to kingdom come any minute. That being so, I think Rollover Night would be a shot in the arm to him.’

  ‘It’s against all tradition,’ said Mr Disvan, a tentative note of warning in his voice, ‘but I don’t think we can refuse him in all charity. Leave it with me, doctor. I’ll do the necessary to get clearance.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bani-Sadr warmly. ‘I’ll go and phone him now.’

  There was a telephone box very near to the Argyll and the doctor went off to use it, leaving Disvan and me alone again. Mr Disvan downed his drink in one and then started to rise from his seat.

  ‘Well, Mr Oakley,’ he said, ‘time is of the essence. I reckon we’d better be off.’

  ‘But you still haven’t answered my question about what Rollover Night is.’

  Suddenly it was panto season again.

  ‘Oh yes, I have.’

  ‘Oh no, you haven’t.’

  ‘Oh yes, I have.’

  Of the two of us, I had the keenest sense of the ridiculous. That is to say, my nerve broke first.

  ‘When?’ I asked, departing from the formula.

  ‘Just now. I do wish you’d listen, Mr Oakley but I’ll say it once more. Concerning Rollover Night, time is of the essence.’

  I might have said ‘what?’ or ‘come again?’ had not the landlord’s head emerged up from the cellar trap door.

  ‘Mr Oakley, I need your advice,’ he shouted. ‘Which do you think I should take more of, light ale or brown ale?’

  Despite obvious distractions, I gave the matter serious thought.

  ‘Light ale, I think.’

  ‘Right, brown ale it is, then,’ said the landlord confidently, disappearing into the underworld once more.

  ‘Suddenly, I don’t care what Rollover Night is,’ I said. ‘Let’s just go and see the damn thing.’

  Mr Disvan smiled at me, a patient teacher seeing his dull pupil’s first success.

  ‘That’s the spirit, Mr Oakley,’ he said.

  * * *

  When we finally arrived at the Ridge, my car laden down with beer, sandwiches, and a not particularly grateful Mr and Mrs Springer, the roadside was already chock-a-block with vehicles. More were arriving minute by minute, disgorging whole families as well as the elderly and infirm. Even larger numbers of pedestrians streamed in from all sides. Kevin, the new community policeman, was making himself useful, supervising the parking plan a
nd ushering the cars of puzzled strangers through the congested melee and on their way.

  Dusk wasn’t far off, but I could still see up to the top of the hill and the stile where I’d sat only a few hours before. The hillside was already thickly scattered with hundreds of Binscomites. Some had started their picnics and were seated round food-laden white cloths. Other groups and individuals were promenading casually about. The distant sound of chat and laughter filtered down to us at the road and I detected an anticipatory, carnival note in the sound.

  Nor was that all. There was definitely something strange in the air that evening, a certain low voltage tension that plucked at the skin with dainty fingers. If one looked closely, the edges of objects seemed slightly blurred and afterimages prolonged any movement. I mentioned same to Mr Disvan as we unloaded the crates, packages and livestock from my poor car into waiting helpful hands.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Oakley,’ he said, peering at the ‘sell by’ date on a beer bottle, ‘that’s just the backwash from the field.’

  I looked at said unoffending field. Apart from the serried ranks of Binscomites at its upper edge, it was entirely empty.

  ‘That field?’ I asked, pointing. ‘Backwash of what?’

  Disvan shook his head.

  ‘You misunderstand me. I meant the backwash of the field in the field. The Rollover Night field. Do you take my meaning?’

  ‘Frankly, no.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Come on.’

  I accompanied Mr Disvan to the field gate where we found Mr Bretwalda and Mr Limbu (sometime Gurkha sergeant) in charge of security. The Bretwalda sons, Hengist, Horsa and Vladimir (back on vacation from Cambridge), plus a posse of local toughs, were under their industrious direction as stewards. There was a kind of homespun efficiency about the operation that made me think all this had happened many times before.

  We were honoured enough for Mr Bretwalda himself to open the gate for us. Mr Limbu broadened the smile he always wore and nodded politely to me.

  ‘Slight problem, Mr D,’ said Bretwalda. ‘The doctor’s brought a new face along. Says you know about it. Is that right?’

  We followed the line of Mr Bretwalda’s sidelong glance and saw, nearby, an over-weight, long-haired man, standing morosely under the restraint of Bridget Maccabi’s appalling gaze. Doctor Bani-Sadr was beside him, trying and failing to lighten the situation with small talk.

  ‘I do. It is,’ said Mr Disvan concisely. ‘Are you able to call her off, Alfred?’

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ Bretwalda replied.

  It took some negotiation and the personal intervention of Mr Disvan but, eventually, the doctor and his guest were released. The morose man could then be introduced.

  ‘Mr Disvan, gentlemen, Miss Maccabi,’ said Bani-Sadr graciously, ‘please meet Professor Moorcock.’

  We all said hello, it was nice to meet him. Even Miss Maccabi joined in.

  As if that was not enough, Disvan was charm itself.

  ‘Delighted you could make it, professor,’ he said affably. ‘I think that you’ll see something to interest you tonight; leastways, I very much hope so. Come with me and have a glass of something and a bite to eat.’

  Professor Moorcock allowed himself to believe that he wasn’t going to be knifed by a beautiful young girl after all and his shoulder blades unclenched.

  ‘It was good of you to let me sit in on this,’ he said in a soft and hesitant voice. ‘I’ve bought a little contribution to the festivities.’

  He held up a supermarket bottle of white wine that he’d been clutching.

  This sort of gesture, even such an unsatisfactory one, went down well in Binscombe culture. A certain social unfreezing signified that Moorcock had got his temporary visa.

  Since that was now sorted out, Mr Bretwalda felt able to provide Mr Disvan with a situation report. This was progress of a sort even if it still made no sense to me.

  ‘There was a bit of a show earlier on,’ he said. ‘But nothing clear, and pretty faint.’

  ‘Definitely post-present, though,’ contributed Mr Limbu.

  ‘Oh yeah, definitely. Anyway, it’s died right down now but even so, I should keep to the side path.’

  Mr Disvan agreed.

  ‘Sound advice. It’s in the air although it hasn’t come through yet. Even Mr Oakley noticed that.’

  A few of the stewards made ‘really? what a clever dog he is’ faces.

  ‘Oh, and by the way,’ Disvan continued, ‘will you notch the stone, or shall I?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Mr Bretwalda, ‘but we’re running out of room.’

  Mr Disvan looked surprised and concerned.

  ‘What, on all four sides?’

  ‘Arr, we’ll need another soon enough.’

  ‘My,’ said Disvan sadly as he turned to go, ‘how time does fly...’

  Doctor Bani-Sadr, Professor Moorcock, Mr Disvan and I made up a little party and joined the ragged line of people trudging up the hill, sticking closely to the field edge.

  In the context of a day of alternate pats on, and then blows to, the head, I oughtn’t to have been taken aback to receive applause as I breasted the rise—but I still was. Scattered clapping from those nearest to me turned into a tide of acclamation washing across the hillside. Even the people down by the gate, and those still making their way up, joined in.

  It was a nice reception in its way and certainly better than I usually got. However, at the same time, it made me feel rather exposed, as if a giant finger was poised above my head, pointing me out. I would have been happier (if only a little) if I’d known what I’d done right. Fortunately, Mr Disvan was close by and willing, for once, to provide an explanation.

  ‘You’re guest of honour, Mr Oakley,’ he said, as though I should be ecstatic at the news, ‘since you were the one who first spotted the onset of Rollover Night. Consequently, you get to start the community singing.’

  That sounded ominous, and I quickened my pace to take myself into the safe anonymity of the throng. Once there, we found a space and sat down on the cool grass. A few flaming torches had been lit and stuck into the ground, creating flickering islands of half-light. Familiar faces passed in and out of the shadows.

  Whilst Mr Disvan got into deep discussion with Professor Moorcock (about higher political theory as far as I could tell) I sat and awaited developments, watching the dusk turn into a starlit night. Doctor Bani-Sadr, ever practical, went off in search of refreshments for us.

  A horrible child came and stationed herself opposite me and stared as if she’d never seen a smartly dressed, handsome young man before. I tried smiling, staring blankly back, and then looking round, above and below her, but nothing could distract her steady gaze. The blood was rising to my face and a churlish loss of cool was in prospect when Doctor Bani-Sadr saved me by his return. He was laden down with bottles of barley wine and breadcrumbed chicken legs, neatly wrapped in serviettes, and yet was master of the situation in a way I was not.

  ‘Off you go, Tracey,’ he said gently to the child. ‘You’re making Mr Oakley feel comical.’

  She accepted a chicken leg and chewed savagely on it, still staring. Then the doctor’s request seemed to sink in and she turned aside.

  ‘Ha—stockbroker!’ she laughed, pointing at me, before speeding off across the hill.

  ‘Take no notice, Mr Oakley,’ said Bani-Sadr. ‘It’s just that you’re a bit of an exotic bird in these parts. Here, have another sort of exotic bird.’

  He proffered a bit of dead chicken in front of my nose before I could wave it away.

  ‘Er... no thanks,’ I said gingerly. ‘Have they got any salad?’

  Doctor Bani-Sadr looked dubious and was about to say something when a great roar went up from the crowd.

  I heard Mr Disvan’s voice saying, ‘...but surely, the paradox at the heart of anarchy is...’ before he too faded off and joined in the general wonderment.

  The sky above the field was folding in on itself and then straightening out
again, like a sheet of paper held by a wide awake baby. Then the whole horizon shook as if it were a theatre curtain and the cast were impatient to get on. For a mere second, the stars blinked and went out. I found myself gasping with the rest, powerfully interested in whether we too would be swept up in the collapse of the World.

  It took a little while for me to notice that, whilst I was panicking, those about me, even the small children, were not. The associated sense of shame allowed me to calm down and I was able to register, with joy, that the stars were back and functioning.

  I felt a hand descend on my shoulder and found that Mr Disvan was standing above me.

  ‘It’s time, Mr Oakley,’ he said.

  ‘For what?’ I’d failed to keep the high note of alarm out of my voice.

  ‘For your moment in the limelight, what else? Come along.’

  For want of a good reason to resist, I allowed myself to be drawn up and forwards, out of the company of the crowd, out onto the bare hillside.

  ‘In your own time, Mr Oakley,’ came Disvan’s voice from behind me.

  ‘In my own time what?’

  ‘Give the signal to start the traditional singing.’

  I could have said ‘What singing? What song?’ but that exchange might have gone on some while, and I sensed that the Binscomite horde were waiting on me. Keen to get shot of all that attention, I surrendered to the flow of events, understanding or not. Pretending I was the starter at the Grand Prix, I raised my arm in the approved fashion, paused a second and then let it drop.

  Mr Disvan’s singing voice was surprisingly high and delicate, but the predominant noise was a great bass rumble from the crescent of male Binscomites across the hill. The ladies’ contribution occasionally soared up above the main choral theme, providing a softer, slightly unearthly contrast. There was a touching pause in which the thin and piping voices of the children were given a moment of prominence.

  I wouldn’t have said it was beautiful or even, come to think of it, very nice at all. Dire Straits couldn’t have done much with it. However, I was stirred by the sound. What I was hearing, although it might have verses and a chorus, was more of a statement than a song. Alas, the sense of that statement, if not its sentiments, was lost on me.