The Exploits of Engelbrecht Page 4

  We held an indignation meeting on the spot. Some of the tropical growths were very keen on starting a forest fire, but Engelbrecht and I pointed out that with all that rain about it didn’t stand a chance of catching, and it was too long to wait for the one-day heat wave that was due to coincide with the Hollyhock’s Birthday Ball in the finale of the August act. Finally we persuaded them to let us organize some massed barracking behind the scenes during the May 1st twilight scene when the Oak was due to sing a baritone solo that went:

  Devonshire, Devonshire,

  Sometimes I think it’s Heavenshire,

  Down there in Devonshire.

  We spread rumours right round the cast that the Oak hadn’t been playing cricket and had been tapping the Ash’s roots, which is the worst thing one tree can do to another—tantamount to arboreal murder. The Ash got to hear of it just as the Whirlitzer was starting up the bars of Devonshire, and the next moment the two forest giants were locked in mortal combat.

  This was the signal for pandemonium. In only a few weeks the stage of the Plant Theatre was a solid mass of fighting, thrusting, scratching, pricking, sucking, draining, plants, flowers, shrubs, trees, mosses, ferns, and liverworts. In vain did the two cowslips, supporting between them a fainting Hollyhock, call out shrilly: “Plants! Plants! Remember the traditions of the Profession! Remember your Contracts!” In vain did the thing that was barely a thing pound out Trees at the Whirlitzer in an attempt to drown the terrible rustling, snapping and cracking, the screams of sundered roots and plucked stalks. And behind the scenes, egging them on with subtle botanical insults, was Engelbrecht…

  It was not long before the Oak-Ushers and the Thom Bush Chucker-Outs began joining in, and we were able to set about freeing the Id and the rest. A torrential downpour of rain, timed to coincide with the August Bank Holiday Flower Show Scene, was very useful in helping to loosen the soil. Even so we had to dig pretty deep to uproot Lizard Bayliss who had to put up with no end of chaff about his privet parts.

  The last I saw of Engelbrecht he was staggering off back-stage again, bent nearly double under a shapeless bundle done up in cobweb from which could be heard a faint buzz. When I asked him what on earth he thought he was doing he told me he had a supper party date with a Giant Sundew.

  THE MAN-HUNT BALL

  It seems to be generally agreed among surrealist sportsmen that the crownin’ event of the season at which attendance is absolutely indispensable for Anything which is Anything, to say nothing of anybody who is anybody, is the famous millennial Man-Hunt Ball. It’s a little as if you were to combine Lord’s and Ascot, the Boat Race, the Finals of the Sudanese Belly Dancing Championships and the Ladies’ Singles at Wimbledon, the Derby and the Peking Cockroach Racing Cup, and mix them up with the Waterloo Ball, the Caledonian Ball, and all the other sportin’ championships, contests, celebrations, occasions and festivities under the sun…

  And when I tell you that this was his very first Man-Hunt Ball, you will understand why Engelbrecht, the dwarf surrealist boxer, was in such a state of twitterin’ excitement, so unlike his usual deadpan sangfroid, when I met him and his manager Lizard Bayliss underneath the Station Clock to travel down together to Nightmare Abbey for the old Id’s house-party.

  “I don’t know what’s come over you, kiddo,” Lizard was saying. “Keep still, can’t you. Why, you’re as excited as a…”

  “...As a young surrealist sportsman before his first Man-Hunt Ball,” piped little Charlie Wapentake who joined us at that moment. “I say, what the dev have you got there?” He pointed to a huge beehive-shaped parcel at which Engelbrecht kept glancin’ coyly.

  “That’s his fancy dress, that is,” said Lizard sadly.

  Then, after a little more chat and showers of chaff we all moved off to platform N where the underground special for Nightmare Abbey, locally known as The Town Drain, was drawn up waitin’, already packed tight with surrealist sportsmen, and their fair partners with them, these last includin’ a bevy of ravishin’ mechanical contrivances, some of them so fetchin’ in their discreet travellin’ clothes of brown paper and string that Chippy de Zoete whispered in my ear that he hardly knew how to keep his pliers off them.

  Indeed, what with one Thing and Another, and the ten-gallon flask of Embalmers Fluid which generous old Lizard would insist on passin’ round, we scarcely noticed the nights fly past or felt the shock when we cannoned into the tremblin’ old buffers at Nightmare Abbey Halt.

  Nightmare Abbey was packed out. I found I’d been allotted a poky little oubliette in the tower at the end of the Bachelor’s Wing. When I started beefin’ about it old Lamia Lobb, the Id’s housekeeper, said I was lucky not to be sharin’ a coffin in the crypt like Nodder Fothergill and Chippy de Zoete. She was an ex-witch whom the Id had winged out Witch-Shooting and brought home and tamed. Lizard and Engelbrecht were just underneath me and I could hear their conversation through a hole in their ceiling. “I don’t know how you think you’re going to get them to stay on at all, kiddo, much less to stay on in formation,” Lizard was saying. Engelbrecht didn’t sound quite as perky as usual but I couldn’t catch what he said because it was drowned in a sudden blast of hummin’. I surmised the plucky little chap was trying to cover up his nervousness. Even I, old hand that I am, was feelin’ the strain. My hands were shakin’ so I could scarcely do up the straps of my Surrealist Huntsman’s strait-waistcoat.

  The Man-Hunt breakfast is scheduled for an hour before midnight and I always like to be down early for it. It didn’t take me long to slip on my trusty old pillar-box over my strait-waistcoat. Then I scuttled down the corkscrew staircase past Engelbrecht’s door. The hummin’ was louder than ever and Lizard Bayliss was giving tongue with a series of intermittent yells that sounded as if he was being pricked all over.

  The Great Hall was beginnin’ to fill up with surrealist sportsmen of all shapes and sizes. I joined Nodder Fothergill and Charlie Wapentake over by the fireplace for an eyeopener of Vampire’s Blood, and we stood there coughin’ and chokin’ and slappin’ each other on the back, discussin’ famous runs of the past and criticizin’ the dresses. You see, as Master of the Man-Hunt, the Id always insists that the Hunt which precedes the Ball shall provide the run of the season. If anything goes wrong Bones Barlow the huntsman and Rollo Chatteridge the Whip get the lashin’ of their lives. It’s up to them to see that the Kill takes place in the Ballroom so that the Ball can begin right away.

  Presently there was a tremendous blast on the huge Man-Huntsman’s Horn and we took our places for the ceremonial entry of the Master. I was beginning to think that Engelbrecht had missed the bus. Then I heard the hummin’ again, only louder still, and I saw hurryin’ into the hall, Lizard Bayliss, his face swollen to four times the natural size and covered in blue bag. Behind him was Engelbrecht. He was dressed in nothing but a swarm of bees. They had assumed the formation of a faultlessly cut ridin’ coat and breeches. Next moment the Id was in his place, raisin’ his skull for the first toast and the Man-Hunt breakfast had begun.

  Soon there was another blast on the Horn and the two Ghoulies staggered in with a covered-in cage containin’ the Quarry. These Ghoulies are something like the Devon and Somerset stag-hunt’s tufters, but in addition to markin’ down the Quarry they have to bag it and bring it back.

  There had been rumours that the Quarry this time was something quite exceptional, and when the Id got on his feet he was beamin’ all over. “Gentlemen of the Man-Hunt,” he roared, “it gives me much pleasure to introduce to you our Quarry who will, I feel sure, mark an occasion in the annals of the Man-Hunt. We’ve hunted all sorts of types in the past. Schoolmasters, Stockbrokers, Bishops, Generals, and now and then, but only when scent was very poor, a Dartmoor Convict or two. But this, gentlemen, is the first time we have ever had for our Quarry”— here he stepped up to the cage and twitched aside the cover: “a carted prime minister.” You should have heard the roar that went up.

  Then the Id’s family chaplain, old Father Carf
ax (unfrocked from all the eastern churches in turn for Wizardry) read the burial service and the pack, huge great coal-black brutes of the true Baskerville breed, big as bulls, bounded into the hall and began sniffin’ at the cage and bayin’ like the devil. The Quarry was sprayed with “My Sin”, just in case his natural scent shouldn’t be strong enough, and dosed with a special fiery concoction of Bones Barlow’s, guaranteed to make him “lep like a hippogriff”. Not, as Charlie Wapentake pointed out, that there was really any need for it in this case, as most prime ministers are in such a state of terror these days that they’ll lep like hippogriffs anyway. Then hounds were whipped off and the Ghoulies staggered away with the cage to Hangman’s Copse, traditional covert for “Releasing the Quarry”, and we all trooped off to the stables, mounted our surrealist steeds and jogged off to the meet.

  There’s no hard and fast rule about mounts out man-huntin’ and in addition to the ordinary run of equine beasts—horses, zebras, unicorns, and so on, you get a pretty fair selection of curiosities all accordin’ to what sort of a line—moorland, jungle, desert or big city—their riders think the Quarry is going to take. The Id, with about three hundred yards of Man-Huntsman’s horn slung round him, was sitting a deuced great hippogriff which threatened to become airborne any moment. I couldn’t see Engelbrecht at first. Then, just as I was draining my stirrup cup, Chippy de Zoete tapped me on the knee with his crop. (I was going to see a good deal of Chippy at that hunt because we were both ridin’ centaurs and they liked to stick close together and talk philosophy out of the cornet of their mouths.) “Look up there,” Chippy said, “there’s pluck for you!”

  I looked up and saw Engelbrecht, perched way up on the worst Nightmare in the Id’s stables. Even the Id was scared of her. Lizard Bayliss was clinging to the stirrup. “Have you ever ridden before, kiddo?” he was sayin’. “Well promise me you never will again.”

  Just then the Id roared “Hounds, Gentlemen, please!” and the field moved off at a trot towards Hangman’s Copse—all that is except the lady president of the RSPCA who couldn’t get her rocking-horse to start and the Fakir of Benares who was having trouble with the girths of his special Bed O’Nails saddle.

  The hunt started off much as usual. Rollo and Bones put hounds in to draw the covert from the Warlock Edge end downhill towards Witches’ Wen and the River Alph. The rest of us hung about outside the covert tryin’ to decide which was the least odious of the ways through it in the event of the PM breakin’ at the far side. Not a hound has spoken yet but they were forcin’ their way into that fearful, fiend-infested undergrowth, with growin’ excitement. We heard a yelp followed by a cry of “Baskerville has it.” Then the Id’s voice roaring “Hark! Hark!” and Bones Barlow’s renowned and blood-curdling screech of “Gone Away.” Then babel broke out as hounds convergin’ from every quarter, flung themselves howlin’ on the line.

  I must say that PM put on a turn of speed which was quite surprisin’ in a Quarry of such a sedentary occupation. By the light of the phosphorescent slaver from Baskerville’s muzzle I caught a glimpse of little legs in their striped trousers flashin’ like propeller blades. Then he made a terrific spurt and drew away into the darkness.

  Chippy and I did our best to go with Engelbrecht and give him a lead, but it wasn’t easy because that damned Nightmare of his was simply all over the place. Hounds ran devilish fast after breakin’ covert. There was a thick fog. Perfect for scent. Not a check for days. We galloped over moorland and meadow, flew banks and fences, crashed through gorse thickets. Then gradually the country changed to town. “Unsportin’ little beast,” said Chippy de Zoete, as our centaurs changed feet on top of an Odeon and plunged down into an allotment, “he’s makin’ a beeline for home.”

  As dawn broke we were checked in Parliament Square. The Quarry had gone to ground.

  Bones Barlow and Rollo Chatteridge were puttin’ the terriers down a manhole. Engelbrecht, I noticed, was havin’ a spot of bother with his huntin’ kit. Those bees were showin’ a distressin’ tendency to break formation. Suddenly with a yell of “God damn it, there go my breeches!” he dug his heels into his Nightmare and galloped off in pursuit of the nether half of the swarm. “Pity,” said Chippy de Zoete, “I’d hoped he might get the brush.”

  By means of some absolutely consummate huntsmanship—and a good deal of dynamite—Bones Barlow succeeded in boltin’ the PM from the cellar of the House of Commons. Rollo Chatteridge with three couples of Baskervilles headed him off from the continental boat train and the Id laid the rest of the pack on the line and hunted him along the Great West Road. He gave us the slip near Northolt and became airborne. We clung on to the scent but we had to hunt him across three continents before we finally turned him back to the Nightmare Country, and “killed” in the ballroom.

  The Man-Hunt Ball was at its height. Charlie Wapentake and various members of the house party were gallantly toastin’ Lamia Lobb in her own surgical boot filled with formalin. The fiddlers were strikin’ up the homicidal strains of D’ye ken Jack Ketch? and surrealist sportsmen were gallopin’ in the arms of Ghosts, Gorgons, and even a few Girls, when a naked dwarf dismounted from a limping Nightmare and knocked at the gate of Nightmare Abbey. He was accompanied by an object that looked like a man but whose features and limbs were indistinguishable on account of the presence all over them of a swarm of bees…

  We led Engelbrecht into the cloakroom and persuaded the bees to change over. This time they assumed the formation of faultless evenin’ dress. The man was revealed as an American president.

  “Well, kiddo,” said Lizard Bayliss, checkin’ himself just in time from clappin’ Engelbrecht on the back, “you certainly got your man.”

  One school of thought wanted to give Engelbrecht both brushes, masks and all eight pads, but, as Nodder Fothergill, who is hon. sec. of the Man-Hunt and more or less the authority on minor matters of ritual, pointed out, you’ve got to observe some rules even in man-huntin’. However, the Id was so delighted with Engelbrecht’s pluck and persistence that he insisted on makin’ him a fully-fledged member of the Man-Hunt on the spot, and while I stuck on the Death’s Head Buttons, Lizard Bayliss got a bottle of red ink and started dyein’ the bees pink.

  THE ONE THAT NEARLY GOT AWAY

  Of all the events in the Surrealist Sporting Calendar few attract such a passionately excited following as the Annual Angling Championship, held in the Canal round behind the Gasworks, just where the Town Drain comes in.

  Unlike the ordinary humdrum disciple of Izaak Walton, your Surrealist Piscator can always be certain of catching something—generally something damned dangerous, if you ask me—and many’s the deathly struggle I’ve witnessed on the bank as terrified Anglers tried to put back Things that would have been far better never hooked. It was, therefore, with the keenest anticipation, and no little misgiving, that I accepted the invitation of my friend Engelbrecht, the dwarf surrealist boxer, an all-round sportsman if ever there was one, to make up a party to watch him compete for the trophy.

  A room had been booked for me at The Fisherman’s Eternal Rest, and when I arrived I found the little bar-parlour thronged with old friends and fiends, all keen amateurs of the gentle art, fortifying their nerves with rounds of double mandragora laced with poppy against the morrow’s encounters with the perils of the deep. Meanwhile, in the Hashish room at the end of the passage, Dr. Sadismus, the surrealist surgeon, then at the height of his fame owing to his daring operation for the removal of a human finger from the bowels of a sewing machine, was organizing, with the assistance of a posse of psychiatrists, a First Aid Post.

  The talk was all of the Catch that might be expected. In accordance with his usual general custom, the Id, that munificent patron of Surrealist Sport, had contributed lavishly to stocking the Canal, and some really sensational captures were anticipated. Rumour had it that the Prize was a 600-year-old giant pike from the Fens, the same who in 1448 snatched the Bishop of Ely from his mule as he rode the towpath.

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p; “You stand a fine chance of hooking him, my wee man,” chaffed Chippy de Zoete, patting Engelbrecht on the head. “Dwarfs are his favourite bait.”

  Just then Lizard Bayliss, my friend’s devoted but highly strung manager, who had been for a stroll along the canal bank, tottered in and collapsed in a trembling heap. “There’s Things in that there water that never ought to have been thought of,” he told us.

  After a restless night disturbed more than once by screams, I hurried down to find the rest of our party with grave faces. News had just been brought that the lock-keeper and his entire family had been dragged under.

  The beat Engelbrecht had drawn for the early morning rise was a stretch of jet black water between the Jubilee Gasometer and the Municipal Slaughter House. A dank mist lay over the canal. The vampire bats were out in swarms. The bot-fly waltzed in virid clouds. You could hardly have had a better surrealist fishing day. From their stand on top of the gasometer the Band of the Asylum Workers Union struck up the March of the Wooden Zombies. Presently the quavering tones of Dreamy Dan, the surrealist umpire, announced the start of play.

  “Crikey,” said Lizard Bayliss, “do you see what I see?”

  Floating on the surface of the water was a fleet of five pound notes. Lizard was in the act of bending down to pick one up when a voice behind him said: “I shouldn’t touch that if I were you. It’s surface bait laid on from below to catch the unwary fisherman.”

  It was our old friend the Oldest Member who had tottered out of his tomb swathed in a shroud of Donegal tweed to see how we were faring. Under his supervision we assembled Engelbrecht’s tackle, a somewhat eclectic assortment that included a rod as big as a crane and a float with a great chapel bell attached. Then Lizard Bayliss backed the Black Maria containing the bait down to the water’s edge.