The Witches of Chiswick (40 page)

“Did you see
that
?” asked Queen Victoria. “Over there, in the Whitechapel area, above the rooftops? A big bright flash followed by a tiny pop?”

“Probably just fireworks, ma’am.” A courtier bowed his head low. “And if your Majesty would be so inclined as to wave her handkerchief over balcony, the Centennial fireworks display will begin.”

“Indeed.” Her Majesty fluttered her hankie.

“Gawd bless you, ma’am,” said the courtier.

And down upon the palace lawns, a pyrotechnician lit the blue touch paper and the firework display began.

It was a marvellous firework display and it was greatly enjoyed by the crowds that filled the Mall and waved their Union flags before the Palace gates.

“A new century,” said a lady in a straw hat as a ragamuffin called Winston deftly relieved her of her purse. “Who knows what wonders it will bring.”

“Electrical lighting,” said The Man in the Street, as Winston’s brother, Elvis, deftly relieved him of his clockwork pocket watch. “And something called the internal combustion engine, which I am told will supersede horse-drawn transportation.”

“Electrical lighting?” The lady in the straw hat laughed. “That’s just a music-hall trick. And nothing will ever supersede the horse. You’ll be telling me next that man will be able to fly.” Winston’s other brother, Kylie, deftly relieved the lady of her false teeth.

“Fly?” said The Man in the Street. “I wouldn’t go that far. And I think you’re right about the horses. But it’s my opinion that by the year of nineteen twenty, every street and thoroughfare of this country will be nose to tail with horse-drawn vehicles and London will be thirty-five feet deep in horse manure.”

“Now
that
makes sense,” said the lady, although she lisped somewhat as she said it, due to the lack of her teeth. “That would be an accurate prediction for the future.”

And fireworks blossomed in the twentieth-century sky.

And Queen Victoria went inside and had a cup of tea.

On the first of January, in the year two thousand two hundred, Mrs Starling of number seven Mafeking Avenue, Brentford, gave birth. She gave birth to twin boys and named them William and Timothy. They were not born into the dystopian future of the sky towers and acid rains that our Will had been born to. Nor were they born into the Utopian super future that Will’s other self had grown up in as the Promised One. Nor indeed any twist or permutation of these two.

William and Timothy were born into
our
future, the future that will be what
we
make it to be, and a future which, if the past and the present are anything to go by, won’t be all
that
bad.

It won’t be all that good either, of course.

But it won’t be all that bad.

It will be somewhere in the middle.

It will just be the future.

Our future, which won’t be so bad, will it?

And that, of course, should be that: the end of our tale, and as near to a “happy ever after” as it’s possible to be.

If it wasn’t just for a few loose ends.

Five
loose ends, in fact, which probably means that it isn’t the end, but only the beginning of a great deal more.

And then some.

One of the most wonderful works of Victorian erotica ever written. Buy a copy.

You really should see this painting; it's in the Tate Gallery.

Corporate sponsorship of months had been all the rage in 2207, but had since been discontinued, because it was stupid.

Pink being the new black this particular year.

Unforgivable, I know. I should never have left it in. Sorry.

As opposed to the Cartwright known as Hoss. Or even a man called Horse, played by Richard Harris. Who never even owned a horse. (Or Robert Redford who whispered to horses.)

On the area that we now all know is your philtrum.

Alice Bands: Hands.

Rhythm and Blues: Shoes.

Patent Pelmet: Helmet.

Whistle and flute: Pair of trousers.

This was not an old one then; it was a new one.

Davy Crockett: Pocket.

Bangers and Mash: Cash.

Collectors of dog shit that was used in Victorian times for the process of tanning kid gloves. It's true, you can look it up in
Mayhew's London
. (I did.)

It was a very big pile!

You can't say Major Tom. It's an infringement on copyright and you have to pay royalties, so stuff that!

Equivalent to one and a half mo's. Or three quarters of a tick.

It was the white dog poo they collected in those days for the tanning. You just don't see white dog poo about any more, do you?

Which is allowable and not a breach of copyright.

Not to be confused with a hairy trigger, which is a variety of Siberian mountain horse. Or a willy.

Berkshire Hunt: Fool (loosely speaking).

Arsenic and Old Lace: Face.

Spitting sound.

Gawd Bless Her. Take it as read.

It must be remembered that in Victorian times such terms as nigger, darkie, savage and coon were considered politically correct. And the word spastic was still a term of endearment, although mostly favoured by gyppos.

Except outside the Greater London area.

Tim's nose.

God bless you, Spike Milligan.

Or wherever it is in the movie.

Not on the back of the same ostrich, obviously.

Unforgiveable, I know. But hey, we are reaching the end of the story now and how many times is an opportunity like that going to come up in a single lifetime?

Careful phrasing, there you notice. No copyright infringement.

Rune actually was the first person ever to utter this line. And very well uttered, it was.

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