Dave Trellis and the Allotments of Doom (2 page)

‘Bloody
Coleridge,’ he said and shook his head gently; ‘I still miss you,
you mad bugger.’

He looked
across the rolling parkland towards the steep scarp face, where the
river emerged and flowed towards the allotments, then swept around
and on to a waterfall, finally disappearing into a muddy swamp of
willows trees. This pastoral loveliness was broken by a scruffy
individual walking towards the allotments.

‘Strangers in
the gallery and not a single bark,’ muttered Dave. He drew a deep
breath, ready to shout about dogs that couldn’t spot their own
nose, when a warbling yowl rose from the barbican.

‘About bloody
time,’ said Dave and went back to reminiscing; the dogs could
handle one feckless visitor.

Fergus gazed at
St Catherine’s allotments. The circular walls were thirty feet high
and a stone bridge led to a barbican at the front. The huge wooden
gates were open, but the entrance angled away, so Fergus couldn’t
see inside. The bridge arched over the river in one large span and
two dogs sat on the apex staring at him.

The dogs were a
deep iridescent blue and their eyes had bright golden irises. They
were too big and too broad in the chest to be Black Labradors. They
looked intimidating.

Fergus liked
dogs and walked towards them. They stood up; no friendly hello, no
grin, tails up, they moved. One blocked his path the other swept
past and stood behind him. A short bark from the dog in front told
Fergus he wasn’t welcome.

Instead of
backing away, Fergus shrugged off his backpack and lifted the flap.
A waft of curry pastilles assaulted the nostrils of all around. The
change was instant and hostility gave way to friendly interest. The
dog in front sat and gave a happy bark. Fergus squatted down and a
nose appeared at his side followed by a head that dived straight
into the backpack.

‘Oi gerroff,’
said Fergus and pulled the backpack way. ‘Just sit like a goo… Like
a polite pu… Like that.’

Fergus pointed
to the dog in front and the second dog sat next to it, their
attention fixed on the backpack. Fergus pulled out the brown paper
bag and offered two of the yellowish brown pastilles to the first
dog. They disappeared. Fergus blinked. He didn’t see its head move,
yet the pastilles were gone and the dog was chewing and drooling.
The other dog barked and Fergus handed it two pastilles. This time
Fergus saw the head blur with motion. The dogs still stared, but
there was little menace, just curiosity.

Fergus put the
curry pastilles back in the rucksack and looked at the dogs sat in
front of him. There was intelligence in the eyes and a sense of
anticipation in the set of the head. It seemed the dogs were
waiting for an explanation.

‘I’m here to
see Dave Trellis, can I come in please?’ asked Fergus.

He felt foolish
talking to dogs, but was mindful of Ernie’s advice. The first dog
tilted its head and gave the same happy bark as before.

‘No. No more,
they‘ll give you wind. Now can I see Dave Trellis?’

The two dogs
looked at each other, turned round and trotted toward the barbican.
Fergus followed them over the bridge. He passed through the
barbican and saw the terraced allotments at last.

It was like a
Roman amphitheatre, but instead of rows and rows of seats there
were two broad terraces separated by a stone-faced step. Each was
broken into wedge shaped allotments. Each allotment was different,
some with sheds and others with fences; some well-tended with
abundant crops, others over-filled with unusual shrubs growing with
vigour and vegetable flamboyance. The high, circular wall at the
back had crenulations and a walkway like a castle.

Fergus stood in
the central courtyard and looked up at the lower terrace. It stood
just above head height and large rectangular blocks of finished
sandstone faced the drop to the courtyard. Yorkshire stone paved
the courtyard floor with a well to one side. On the other was a
large, dark archway that looked just like a railway tunnel. St
Catherine’s allotments were a fabulous example of Victorian
extravagance, unequalled in the modern world of concrete, town
planning, and cost benefit analysis.

While Fergus
stared at the surprising interior of the walled allotments, the
dogs trotted up steps to the right, leading to the lower terrace.
One gave a couple of short barks that sounded disdainful, cheeky
even.

Fergus walked
over and looked into the well. It was wide, deep, and smelled of
damp moss. He stood wondering what to do next. With no better idea,
Fergus followed the dogs up the steps. He wandered along a path and
tried identifying the vegetables. There were rows of purple bananas
growing straight up out of the soil and a cabbage the size of a
space hopper. One plot was just a jungle of black cacti; another
had flowers with silver blooms that seemed to track him as he
walked by.

‘What are you
standing around there for?’ said a loud voice with a soft Yorkshire
accent.

Fergus turned
round and saw a man looking down at him from the top terrace. He
wore a white collarless shirt, scruffy dark trousers, and heavy
boots. He had short grey hair, bushy eyebrows and a slightly
annoyed expression. He looked hard as a dry stone wall.

‘I’m looking
for Dave Trellis,’ said Fergus.

‘Oh aye? And
what would you want with Mister Trellis?’ asked Dave.

‘I want an
allotment,’ said Fergus.

‘Well, while
you may be in the right place and Mr Trellis is certainly the man
in charge, these here allotments are not allocated to the public,
nor are they public property. Not to put too fine a point on it,
you’re out of luck and trespassing to boot. The way out is exactly
the same as the way you came in.’ He started to turn away.

‘Sorry to
intrude, but surely, with all this space you can spare one
allotment. I mean, look at that one,’ Fergus pointed to a green
mass of weeds and brambles, ‘No one has tended that plot for years.
I could have it nice and tidy by the end of the week.’

‘That happens
to be the best bramble patch in West Yorkshire. In any case, your
views on the quality of cultivation, with regards these here
allotments are irrelevant.’

‘You must have
a bit of spare land somewhere in this huge allotment. I can pay
rent, as long as you don’t mind waiting for it.’

‘Again
irrelevant, we don’t charge rent. Nor do we have any rules about
regular tending, or crops grown - .’

‘That’s good,’
said Fergus, earning a suspicious glare from Dave.

‘As I was
saying, we don’t have rules on who holds these allotments – ‘.

‘Even better,’
said Fergus.

‘If you’d be so
kind as to let me finish. As I was saying there are no rules,
except one. What Mr Trellis says goes.’

‘So there’s
nothing stopping Mr Trellis letting me have an allotment?’ asked
Fergus.

‘True, there is
nothing stopping him, but then there’s nowt persuading him
either.’

‘Look, I’m
desperate. I need money and somewhere to crash. If you let me have
an allotment I can grow cash crops and sleep in the shed. I can
sort my life out. Get things going again. This would be a fantastic
opportunity for me and I’d be a good allotment holder.’

‘Look lad, I
can understand your desperate horticultural need, but you can’t go
growing the sort of crops that generate substantial amounts of cash
on these allotments. And you certainly can’t sleep here.’

‘I thought you
said there were no rules?’

‘Except one,’
said Dave.

‘I wouldn’t be
any trouble. In fact, it would be good to have someone here at
night. Keep an eye on things, stop petty theft and vandalism.’

‘We don’t have
any of that. We have superlative security staff.’ Dave paused and
looked at Fergus. ‘Any road, how did you get past the dogs?’

‘They seemed
friendly enough, well-mannered I thought.’

Dave muttered
something and seemed about to speak, when a female voice started
singing ‘Rule Britannia’. It was perfect and very loud. It ended
abruptly and all was quiet until the dogs started barking.

‘Oh bugger!’
said Dave, ‘Listen lad, come up here. You can wait in the pavilion
while I go and see if Mr Trellis is around. The steps are over
there.’ Dave pointed to the steps set in the terrace wall.

‘Quickly lad,
Dave will be off for his lunch soon. Don’t break into a sweat or
nothing.’

Fergus broke
into a jog and started climbing the steps to the top terrace.
Suddenly he noticed his shadow in front of him and a green light
reflecting off the steps. He turned around. In the circular
courtyard below a green haze glowed. It started to turn lilac and
slowly brightened.

‘Never mind
that lad,’ said Dave, ‘it’s a local mirage effect, caused by the
warming effect of the terraces and movement of the magnetic poles.
Come with me, come on, quickly now.’

But Fergus just
stood there and watched as the light turned violet and then another
colour, which looked almost violet, but was ever so faint.

‘Are you deaf?’
shouted Dave. ‘You need to get a move -’

There was a
claustrophobic silence and the air was thick as a woollen blanket.
Fergus’s fingers felt like huge sausages and there was a smell like
the taste of copper. He seemed to float; it was hard to tell as the
strange light dazzled his eyes.

Everything
stopped then started again, Fergus’s head jerked, as if he missed a
step and normality, of a sort, returned.

In the
courtyard were twelve very large men in dull black uniforms and
round helmets. They stood at attention.

Fergus’s brain
boggled. He drew a deep breath and looked again. They were still
there. The twelve figures moved; they ran fast, spreading out,
turning somersaults, and leaping onto the first terrace in huge,
unbelievable jumps twenty feet in the air.

They started
shouting.

‘Dave?’

‘Dave’s not
here!’

‘Dave, Dave,
Dave, Davey, Dave, Dave?’

Dave sighed and
said ‘Fart.’

Their uniforms
changed colour, one was bright red with black stripes, another dull
green, and one a shifting rainbow with pink stars. Their pattern of
movement changed, they converged and leapt straight towards
Fergus.

If the Olympics
hosted synchronised jumping, these lads would put the gold medal
winners to shame. From all over the terrace they leapt, one must
have gone 30 feet in the air, and they all landed together in a
neat rectangle. Every one of them dropped to one knee, bowed, and
raised their right forearm to their foreheads.

Dave Trellis,
wearer of the scruffy trousers and owner of the bushy eyebrows
strode towards them with half a smile on his face. He glanced at
Fergus and the smile disappeared. One of the twelve giant acrobats
stood up, rushed forward, grabbed Dave in a bear hug, and swung him
around. Dave looked small against the huge man, despite his broad,
six-foot frame.

The rest jumped
up and surrounded him, patting him on the head, punching his
shoulder and even pinching his bum.

‘Bonkah Dave.
Happy anniversary. May Rain Gods piss on you consistently,’ shouted
the leader and laughed. His voice was deep as an ocean trench with
a broken, almost Jamaican lilt.

‘Bugger off you
bunch of juveniles. Get off me. Who let you lot out again? Can’t
you lot learn to knock? I have company - profane company.’ Dave
glanced toward Fergus.

‘Sorry Dave,’
said the leader, ‘but something coming, something big, we
hurried.’

The leader
turned towards Fergus and gave a very slight bow and then said to
Dave, ‘want me kill it?’

‘What? No,
leave it to me.’

‘Want knife?’
The leader reached behind his head and from nowhere pulled out a
five-foot broadsword. The sword whirled much too fast for its
apparent weight and ended perfectly still, pointing directly at
Fergus.

Dave stepped
over to Fergus’s side. ‘What’s your name lad?

Fergus managed
to say his name in a cracked voice.

‘Good,’ said
Dave, ‘Fergus, I wish to introduce Enoch, first of the troupe, a
Palaver of great renown.’ Dave turned to face Enoch. ‘This is
Fergus, least of all, a human of unknown talent.’

Dave nudged
Fergus in the ribs, ‘Bow lad, don’t they teach you manners these
days?’

Fergus bowed
and Enoch nodded in return. The huge sword in Enoch’s hand swept
backwards and disappeared.

Dave dipped his
head towards Fergus and said in a low voice. ‘They won’t kill you
if you’ve been introduced, well not without asking permission
first. So shut up, do nothing and stand a few paces behind me.’

‘What’s going
on?’ whispered Fergus, ‘This is crazy. Who are these people and
where did they come from?’

‘I’ll explain
later, just don’t go blathering, or running around; you’ll just die
out of breath.’

‘All very nice
Dave,’ said Enoch, ‘But no time, something big coming. Where are
doggies?’

‘They must have
known it were you and scarpered; sensitive noses them dogs.’

‘Funny man! I
wake them.’ Enoch yelled ‘Arrrooogaaahh.’ It made Fergus’s ears
ring.

From all over
the allotments twenty or so dark blue, not-Labrador dogs ran
towards the group.

Enoch burst out
laughing. ‘Here little doggy dog dogs.’

Enoch dropped
to all fours and the leading dog ran straight at him, lowered its
head, and smacked into Enoch’s helmet with substantial force.

‘Bonkah little
doggy,’ shouted Enoch. He barked, growled, and grabbed the dog
around the middle and they rolled around on the ground.

‘I thought you
said there was no time,’ said Dave.

‘Heh heh, time
for friends Dave, else why live?’

Enoch stood up
and held out his hand to the lead dog. ‘You got it?’