The Witches of Chiswick (31 page)

Three and a half hours earlier, Colonel William Starling of the Queen’s Own Aerial Cavalry Regiment had awoken to the sounds of an instrumental rendition of Little Tich’s ever popular Big Boot Dance, issuing from his Babbage digital alarm clock. This clock, a present from his now late and lamented daddy, had been given to young William upon the occasion of his sixth birthday. William reached out a hand and silenced the clock.

He blinked his eyes and focused them and took in his present surroundings. These were
not
his barracks at Queen’s Gate. William scratched at his blondy head and his prodigious sideburns and then memories returned to him: memories of the night before, the riotous night before.

He had been taken “out on the razzle” by the chaps of the officer’s mess, to celebrate the moon launch of the morrow. Much champagne had been imbibed, many guineas had been squandered at a Notting Hill gaming hell, named Barnaby Rudge’s Electric Fun Palace, and much clubbing had been done at the Burlington, Stringfellow’s and at the Pussycat Club. And there had been much whoring too, at Madame Lorraine Loveridge’s establishment in Bayswater. But beyond this, things were blurry for William.

He dimly recalled a urinating competition which involved an attempt to extinguish a gatherer of the pure whom Binky Harrington had set on fire for a bit of jolly. And then there was the stoning of a tramp who had looked at them in what they considered to be a funny way. And an old lady had been thrown into the Thames from Kew Bridge for some reason that now escaped William, but had seemed appropriate at the time.

All in all, it had been a memorable evening, although no less memorable than any other Tuesday night, when the regiment was down from the sky and billeted in Queen’s Gate.

William arose from the bed and stretched his lanky limbs. His regimental cronies had brought him back here, to his childhood home at number seven Mafeking Avenue, Brentford and laid him to rest upon his childhood bed. William glanced down and noticed that he wasn’t wearing any trousers, and that his genitals had been painted with boot black.

“Damn poor show,” said Colonel William Starling, examining his blackened bits. “Tarring a fellow’s chappie when he’s in the land of Nod. Although,” and here he paused and clenched his buttocks, “it could have been a lot worse. ‘Chunky’ Wilberforce could have rogered me rigid and I’d not have known a damn thing about it.”

“Willy dear,” a voice called up to him. “Are you out of your bed yet? It’s a big day for you, remember?”

“The mater,” said Colonel William. “I shall be down in an instant, mother of mine, just as soon as I’ve had a wash and brush-up.”

“It’s kippers and jam,” called his loving mother. “Your favourite.”

“My favourite is pâté de fois gras smeared upon a maiden’s nipple, you common old cow,” muttered Colonel William. “My very favourite,” he called down.

Getting dressed proved to be something of a problem, for Colonel William’s trousers were nowhere to be found. His boots were there, patent and polished, complete with their golden spurs with airship motif, but of trousers, Colonel William’s bedroom was a regular Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

“Damn poor show,” said the Colonel once again, and with no propriety-brand cleaning products to hand, he strode down the stairs to breakfast, sans trousers and dark as a nigger’s
[26]
nadger about the nadger regions.

William scarcely glanced at the pictures that hung upon the gaily-papered staircase wall. These were all of his father, the late Captain Ernest Starling, who had been posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross for saving the life of his monarch during the launching of the
Dreadnaught
.

The son of a national hero was Colonel William and he had every intention of eclipsing his father’s fame and winning for himself a very large place in the history of The Empire.

Colonel Will entered the front parlour. It was decorated in the suburban chic of a time two decades before, quilted Farnsbarns ruff-tuckers with extended dolly-frames and overlarge splay-footed finials in the style of Marchant; a Dutch crimping cabinet, with the original geometrically glazed sodium foils, a matched pair of Cheggers, a filigreed muff tunnel, and a dining table and six chairs that were recognisable as “Olde Chameleons”.

Upon the table was the morning edition of the
Brentford Mercury
. Colonel Will’s mother, who had been decanting kippers from the Babbage low-fat fryer to the Babbage electric hostess trolley, caught sight of her son’s naked loin area and all but fouled the fish.

“Hell’s handbags!” shrieked she. “Oo, pardon my French.”

“No, pardon me, mater,” said Colonel Will. “The chaps played a prank upon me.”

“Boys will be boys,” said the lady of the house. “I recall the regimental dances that your dear dead daddy and I used to attend. Not a pair of trousers left on a man after the clock struck ten.”

“I shall need to borrow a pair of the pater’s kecks, if I’m to look respectable for the launching,” said Colonel Will, seating himself at the head of the table.

“His dress uniform is mothballed in a trunk in the loft. I know he’d be proud for you to wear it.”

“Damn good show.” Colonel Will took up a knife and fork and his mother served him kippers from the hostess trolley.

And then she hovered over him, wringing her veiny hands and cocking her head from side to side in that way which mothers always do when they gaze proudly upon their only sons.

“Sit down and join me, mater,” said Colonel William.

“Ah, no dear,” said his mother. “I’d rather not sit down, if you don’t mind.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, let us just say that your chum Chunky stayed rather long last night. After he’d put you to bed, he plied me with cherry brandy and one thing led to another, and I don’t think I’ll be riding my bicycle for at least a week.”

“Quite so,” said Colonel William. “I’d prefer not to hear the details.”

“So I’ll just stand,” said his mother. “And hobble when I need to get from A to P.”

“Surely that’s A to B.”

“More kippers?” asked his mother.

“I haven’t started upon these yet.”

Colonel William’s mother smiled warmly upon her son, then hobbled off to P.

She returned to find that the Colonel had finished his kippers and jam, and most of the cornflakes too. And was now engrossed in the
Brentford Mercury
. “Do you know anything about
this
, mater?” he asked her.

“Yes dear, it’s a newspaper.”

“Its contents,” said Colonel William.

“News, dear.”

“Today’s news!”

“No dear. There’s no telling what that might be.”

“Well, I damn well know what it
should
be, but it is not.” Colonel William made a very fierce face.

“You seem upset,” his mother observed.

“Damnedly right! I was informed by the Ministry that every newspaper in the land would be carrying my photographic portrait upon its front page this morning. This newspaper, however does not.”

“It’s the
Brentford Mercury
,” said the mother of Colonel William. “And this is Brentford. Things are done differently here. Brentford does not have much truck with the outside world. Not much lorry either, nor wagon, nor handcart, nor even—”

“Cease your babbling, woman.”

“That’s no way to speak to your mother.”

“No, damn me, it is not. My apologies, mother of mine, but this leading story, it is an outrage. A libellous outrage. I shall sue this newspaper for every penny it has.” Colonel William flung the offensive tabloid to the gaily-patterned carpet (an original Trumpton with the classic “Dancing Dan goes doolally” design). His mother stooped with difficulty and retrieved it.

JACK THE RIPPER ESCAPES FROM BRENTFORD COURTHOUSE

read the headline, and then there was a considerable amount of text, written in that style which is known as “purple prose.”

And then there was a single photograph of—

“But it’s
you
,” said the mother of Colonel William. “Your photographic portrait
is
upon the front page,”

“That is
not
me!” cried her son, rising hastily from his chair and striking his painted genitalia upon the underside of the dining table in the process. “It’s not me, it’s urrgsh!” And he took to clutching at his damaged parts.

“Well, this Mr Urrgsh looks very much like you! Except that he doesn’t have such magnificent side-whiskers.”

Colonel William’s eyes were crossed. “Damned slur!” he cried. “The work of subversives. Enemies of the Empire. A witch plot, I’ll wager.”

“A
what
, dear?”

“Nothing, mater.” Colonel William bent double and took to the taking of deep breaths.

“You said a witch plot,” said his mother. “It will be that Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild up to their unspeakable wickedness again, I wouldn’t wonder.”

Colonel William raised his red-rimmed eyes. “What did you say?” he asked.

“The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild,” said his mother. “Would you like me to put some turpentine on your bits?”

“What?”

“To remove the boot black. If I had a silver sovereign for each time I had to de-black your daddy’s bits with turps, I’d have enough to buy myself a diamond-encrusted handbag in the style of Wainscott and a pair of Le Blanc and Sons ivory clogs.”

“No, no.” Colonel William flapped his hands about. “I have to know what you’re talking about. And I do
not
mean regarding the turpentine.”

“Actually it’s called turpentine substitute,” said his mother. “Although I’ve never been certain exactly what it’s a substitute for. I know they have substitutes in football but—”

“Enough.” Colonel William straightened himself up. “Speak to me only of witches,” said he. “And in a coherent manner, or surely I will dash out your brains with the Babbage electric waffle iron that hangs beside the brass companion set in the Mulbury Turner fireplace, with the scroll fandangos and moulded jiz-fillets.”

“You mentioned witches,” said the Colonel’s mother. “Why did you mention witches?”

“Because, mater,” Colonel William sighed. “Not that I should be telling you this because it’s top secret, but—”

“A cabal of witches exists, intent upon destroying technological society and so by altering the future.”

“
What
?” went Colonel William once more.

“Your father told me all about it. He was assigned to a special unit.”

“I knew nothing of this.”

“You were only a child when he died so valiantly saving the Queen, Gawd bless Her. Are you in a special unit too?”

“No.” Colonel William was fully erect and his shoulders were back. “But such matters are discussed in the officers’ mess. It is well-known that such plots exist. But as to who is doing the plotting; that is another matter.”

“You should have asked me then, dear. I went to school with most of them, evil harpies that they are. And you believe that they are responsible for this?” And Colonel William’s mother tapped at the
Brentford Mercury
.

“What other explanation could there be? To besmirch the reputation of the moonship’s pilot by accusing him of being Jack the Ripper.”

“Well, I suppose that’s
one
explanation.”

“And you know,
for certain
, that the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild is to blame?”

“Absolutely certain. I’d have told your father, had he ever asked me. But he never did. ‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ he used to say, ‘with her face in the pillow and her bottom in the air’.”

“I must relay this intelligence at once to the appropriate authorities.”

“I’m sure they already know, dear. I expect they have wives of their own, at home with their bottoms in the air.”

“
About the witches
.”

“They never marry, dear.”

“Fetch father’s trunk at once,” said Colonel William. “I must make haste to the Crystal Palace.”

A half of a morning hour later, Colonel William stood before the wardrobe mirror in his mother’s bedroom and examined his reflection.

He looked truly magnificent. His father’s uniform fitted him precisely. The dry cleaners had got most of the blood out of it and the invisible menders had mended the terrible rendings of cloth invisibly. But for the strong smell of turpentine substitute that now surrounded him, Colonel William was every bit a military gentleman, even though it was only a Captain’s uniform, rather than the far more flamboyant Colonel’s kittings.

Colonel William placed his father’s bearskin helmet upon his head, straightened the sabre, tucked a silver-mounted swagger stick beneath his left armpit and clicked his military heels together. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I have the pleasure to inform you that the threat posed by witches to yourself and your Empire no longer exists. A special unit, led by myself upon my successful return from the moon, has cleansed your realm of evil. A knighthood did you say? I would be honoured to receive it. And your daughter’s hand in marriage? Ma’am, you flatter me too much, but I am more deeply honoured and happy to accept.”

“Your cab’s here,” the Colonel’s mum called up the stairs. “He says to get your arse in gear because he has a busy morning.”

“Damned impudence,” said the Colonel, and offering his reflection a smart salute, he took himself down to the cab.

It was a
Babbage Electric Wheeler
. The nineteen hundred series. The cabbie leaned against the bonnet smoking a Wild Woodbine. “Morning guv’nor,” he said in the manner of cabbies everywhere.
[27]

“Into your driving seat, my man,” ordered the Colonel. “And convey me at speed to the Crystal Palace.”

“Off to the launching, is it?” The cabbie tapped ash from his cigarette.

“And get a move on.” Colonel William stood before the passenger door, waiting for the cabbie to open it. “I was given to believe that
you
were in a hurry.”

“Nah, not really. That was just to wind you up.”

“Kindly open the passenger door.”

“Lost the use of your ’ands ’ave you?”

“You surly lout!”