With a Whip and a Chair

With a Whip and a Chair

Being the memoirs of Rory Tremane

An Itinerant Lion Tamer

By

Ed Morgan

Copyright 2013 by Ed Morgan

Smashwords Edition

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 1

What it was about the dishevelled form that crouched in the doorway of the local Hari Krishna recruiting office that first caught my eye is difficult to explain. God knows, I had seen plenty of human wreckage in my time, quite a lot of it of my own making. I had certainly seen more than enough to inure me to the sight and smell of one more starving scrounger. But about this particular specimen of derelict manhood, there was something disturbingly familiar. Was it the scuffed and scum encrusted patent leather tap dancing shoes? No, for I had never seen tap dancing shoes before, and as I didn’t know what they looked like, it couldn’t possibly be them. Was it then the tartan ‘claw hammer’ jacket? No, even though this particular garment was minus one of its ‘claws’ there was nothing so unusual about it, in fact, I possessed just such a jacket myself. The reader may think this strange, but anyone who spends a great part of his life in close proximity to the king of the beasts, especially in a theatrical setting, is likely to acquire a similar piece of apparel.

It was as I pondered the tragic tatters of that missing ‘tail’ that the first intimations of the awful truth percolated through my cerebrum. Could this wretched creature, this ghastly example of humanity in its most ignoble form, could this thing possibly be a practitioner of my own beloved art? I recoiled from the very thought, but even as I looked, my eyes were drawn from the outstretched hand and the begging bowl it proffered, to the haggard face of this obnoxious supplicant. The coarse and grime encrusted skin, the grizzled and matted beard, the scabs and the open sores, the glazed staring eyes. Those eyes. Eyes that age alone had not robbed of their honest sparkle. Eyes, which at first sight, seemed to be devoid of life itself. But, there was something, did they yet hold within them the dim memory of a long lost natural nobility? Could I see within them the faintest shadow of a former life, a life of courage and honour perhaps?

Could I heck.

What then was it about this pathetic piece of human garbage that prevented me from delivering my usual Pull yourself together man, have some self respect.

I have developed this tactic for dealing with this type of situation over many years, and have always found it to be most effective, especially if the message is re-enforced with a swift kick to the lower abdomen or groin area. This is not a an act of cruelty, as it often has the effect of rousing the prostrate beggar out of his self induced state of lethargy. It is most gratifying to hear the mumbled thanks, delivered with such sincerity, by the newly invigorated mendicant, as he wheezes a simple phrase such as: -

Gawd bless you guvnor, you’ve set me up a treat you ‘ave.

Of course, not every recipient of this munificence is as grateful as they should be; indeed some of them are so churlish as to express the opinion that they would rather be left alone than have the benefit of my intervention. Still, one is filled with a feeling of quiet satisfaction (which is reward in itself) in the knowledge that one has in no small measure, helped to rescue a fellow human being from a wasted life of penury, and at the same time set him on the straight and narrow.

However, there was something about this face that made me hold both my tongue and my foot. As I continued to stare at the odious reprobate before me, realisation suddenly struck. It wasn’t the face that looked familiar, well not just the face. It was the face in conjunction with what was below the face. Which in this particular case was a cravat, and what is more to the point, a crooked cravat. There it was in all its glory, forming a buffer between the sateen paisley waistcoat and the spittle-flecked beard. It was a cravat of the most garish crimson colour it is possible to imagine, and it was so badly tied that it resembled nothing so much as a blood soaked rugby sock.

It was at that moment that I realised the identity of its owner. Throughout the length, breadth, and even history of the British Empire, there has only ever been one man who could display such stunning bad taste coupled with a complete inability to accomplish even the simplest sartorial task. There he lay, revealed to me in all his squalid degradation. This man, who had been by turns so many different things to me, a former school chum, a travelling companion, a rival, a business partner, even an enemy but now, saddest of all, an object of pity. Fatty Frobisher.

Since our first meeting in the dorm at Burntdown Academy for the Sons’ of Gentlemen, our lives seem to have been inextricably linked. Although it had been some fifteen years or so since I had last clapped eyes on him, I had never really felt free of his malignant influence. Yes, when I look back now, I can see that old Philip Frobisher has always been with me in one way or another. He was like the smell you get from an overflowing latrine on a hot Calcutta day, you could wash your dinner jacket as often as you liked, but it was nigh on impossible to rid yourself of that horrible stench. By God, I’ve known men to be driven mad with embarrassment, as an odious miasma drifted down the length of the Governor’s banqueting table. Protestations of innocence only make matters worse. In such a situation there is only one course of action left open to a gentleman. A service revolver and a single bullet. It may seem cruel, heartless, and unjust, but it’s none the worse for all that, after all that’s the sort of thing the British Empire is built on. It’s all a question of setting the correct example to show a subjugated nation that we British live by higher moral code than they could ever imagine. Apart from which, a bullet in the brain is all some of these laundry wallahs understand.

But I digress, suffice it to say that in my not inconsiderable opinion, a bit of cruelty, judicially administered, never did anybody any harm. However, to return to the problem of Fatty Frobisher, what could I do? For all his faults, he was still a Burntdown boy. No matter that he had plumbed the depths of human degradation, and burrowed his snout into the trough of debauchery, where, by the looks of him, he had had a jolly good feed. Not withstanding my own personal feelings of ill will towards him, I still felt it incumbent upon myself to try to help my former friend.

Ever a man of action, I lost no time in retiring to the nearest public house to fortify myself against the ghastly work that lay before me. It was during my third or fourth chota-peg that I finalised my plan. The time for dalliance was over, now was the time to set the wheels in motion, and that is exactly what I did. Rising from my seat I approached the bar and called the landlord over. He was an amiable fellow with a pleasant demeanour and a rather endearing squint. We were old acquaintances and I knew that I could rely on both his judgement and his discretion. As he limped along the bar towards me I was reminded of how he had lost his leg, just above the knee, in a little contretemps with Johnny Turk. It said a lot for the man’s forgiving nature that he still let Johnny drink in the pub. I watched with mounting impatience as he ponderously swung his wooden leg back and forth in a feeble attempt as briskness.

For God’s sake man, can’t you do better than that? I said by way of encouragement. When he eventually arrived I asked him a question that had been bothering me for quite some time.

In heavens name, why don’t you wear that thing on your stump instead of carrying it round with you?

It’s the customers guv’, some of them don’t like the noise it makes when I walk up and down, they say it brings back bad memories.

Well you must have some very peculiar customers then, I said, as I thrust my empty glass at him.

Now just fill that up for me while I ask you another question. Can you tell me if there is a couple of likely lads in here who might just want to earn a few shillings, but who you can trust to keep their mouths shut?

Oh I see, keep their mouths shut is it, so you don’t want them to.?

No, no, no! I said.

This is something entirely different, anyway, those last two you found couldn’t sing for toffee. No, what I need is a couple of stout hearted lads with strong stomachs and a wheelbarrow or handcart.

Well now mused the landlord "there is a coincidence. It just so happens that not two minutes ago I was having a quiet chat with a couple of young coves in the other bar, they go by the names of Tommy and Terry Totteridge, and Lord bless me if they weren’t saying as how they were looking for work in the removal business, seeing as how they had just taken possession of a costermongers barrow what had been left to them by a lately lamented loved one".

What an extraordinary piece of good luck I said Wheel them in and let’s see if they fit the bill.

The two individuals who were then summoned into my presence both appeared to be eminently suited for the task I had in mind for them.

First things first I said Now I can see that you are no strangers to heavy lifting and hard work, but have you got the stomach for dirty work eh? Because if you are the least bit squeamish say so now and we can part on friendly terms.

To their credit, neither of the stouthearted fellows gave any sign that they were averse to getting their hands completely filthy, let alone dirty, so we agreed terms on the spot. Without further ado, and pausing only to seal the bargain with a much needed snifter, we left the comfort and warmth of the Ravening Vulture (for so the hostelry was called) and set forth on our mission of mercy.

As we made our way through the streets, to the place where I had left Fatty Frobisher, I explained my purpose to my companions. As I described more fully the physical condition of the noisome Frobisher, their formerly high spirits gradually sank as the realisation slowly dawned on them that their task was not quite so simple as they had at first supposed. The closer we approached the malodorous Frobisher, the lower their spirits became, and the greater their sense of dread.

By the time we closed on Frobisher things had taken a turn for the worse, and impossible as it may seem, he had managed to increase the level of his repulsiveness by displaying on the outside that which, according to the science of biology, should remain on the inside. I refer to a substance which, when it must leave the body, should certainly not end up as a steaming, smelly deposit on a gentleman’s trousers. Of course, the substance to which I allude is none other than spaghetti bolognaise, which Frobisher, in my absence, had vomited all down his legs. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the dish, all I need say is that it is of Italian origin, is red and white, and is made from a sort of soggy string. To the untrained eye it actually looks very similar to vomit (and I dare say it tastes like it too) but to someone of my experience it is quite easy to tell them apart, even in bad light.

But perhaps I was being a bit hasty, for it is all too easy to assume the worst of a person of whom one has a low opinion to start with. Possibly, in this case, Frobisher was the victim of a harmless prank, played by some young jackanapes of a varsity type as he weaved his merry way home after celebrating some sort of manly sporting victory or other. After all, I know that’s the type of high jinks that my friends and I used to indulge in when we were young and carefree. There’s certainly no harm in it and no lasting damage done to anyone, least of all the recumbent recipient of the foaming broth. Still, the mystery, unlike the sick, was never cleared up, and the truth of the matter remains hidden to this day.

Having fortified myself with a generous pull at my hip flask, I gave instructions to have the insensible Frobisher lifted onto the barrow. The most hygienic way of doing this was to tie his hands and feet together, and then pass a pole through them as one would if one were carrying a dead antelope. This proved to be most effective, and in no time at all Fatty had been installed on the conveyance. The most disturbing aspect of the operation, apart from the assault on the olfactory organ, was the horrible sucking and squelching noises that accompanied the work. It was the sort of sound one might expect to hear if one were removing one’s foot from a Wellington boot filled with cold custard.

As I eyed my two grim faced companions, I silently wondered if they were up to finishing the job. Only time would tell, I gave them both an encouraging smile.

Well done lads, well done. You’ve made a good start, and just remember, after the next bit, the worst is over. Now go to it with a will, bite the bullet, and do your duty.

Into the hand of the less moronic of the two, I placed a piece of paper on which I had written the address of my club.

Now, when you have finished at the river, bring him to me at that address, make sure no one sees you, and use the tradesman’s entrance at the rear of the building. Make a good job of this and I can promise you a little something extra on top of the agreed price.

That seemed to have the desired effect, and although they can hardly be said to have gone off brim full of enthusiasm, they did at least have an air of grim determination about them that led me to believe that they would keep their part of the bargain.

It was at this point, as I watched the inert form of Fatty Frobisher being trundled unceremoniously through the darkened and almost deserted streets of our fair capital, that a bizarre thought struck me. Bearing in mind that we both started down life’s rocky path from the same batting crease, was there any possibility that our roles could have been reversed? Was it beyond the bounds of imagination that it could have been me, instead of him, that was now on the way to a nocturnal drenching? I suppose it was really, when you think about it. I mean, when all is said and done, he is merely a Frobisher whereas I am a Tremane.

Now, you can call me a bluff old cove if you like, and I’ll not deny it. I am one of the old school, and was taught that big boys don’t cry. I’m not one for fripperies and fol-de-rolls, and in my experience flights of fancy often end in hard landings. The university of life has taught me that the way forward for a chap is to keep his bat straight and to bowl a full length. I leave all that clever stuff, like thinking, to them who are suited to it. I have never wished to tread the paths of Academe or wander in its leafy glades bathed in the light of self-awareness. As a man of action, life, for me has consisted mainly of the thrust of the Chippendale and the crack of the whip. There’s been precious little time to ponder the workings of fate or the possibility of predestination. But as I watched Frobisher’s doleful departure, the thought occurred to me that our meeting, in the present circumstances, was certainly passing strange. Was it just coincidence that led to such a reunion or could it be that the great ringmaster in the sky had printed my name on yet another poster? Heaven only knows, but the more I thought about it the less likely it seemed that chance alone was responsible for the strange turn that events had taken.

Fanciful as it may seem I became instantly convinced that I had been chosen, no doubt for my qualities of courage and determination, and my uncanny knack of understanding the thought processes of dumb animals, to undertake the rehabilitation of Fatty Frobisher. I don’t mind admitting that I was momentarily stunned at the prospect that lay before me, and it was only with a great force of willpower that I managed to raise my hip flask to my lips and drain off its contents.

The reviving effects of the fiery liquid were soon in evidence, indeed, a casual observer may have come to the erroneous conclusion that they were all too evident. I have had cause in the past to note the effects of strong liquor on those of us who are blessed with the constitution of an ox. In lesser men the result of the rapid or prolonged intake of alcoholic beverages is usually intoxication, whereas in we hardier mortals the result is more likely to be a heightening of the senses. One of those senses being that of balance, it is sometimes necessary to, as it were, overcompensate when making forward progress. This sometimes gives the false impression of a stumble or a stagger. Why it should be that the average British bobby seems to have a problem grasping this concept I do not know. Suffice it to say that in times gone bye I have spent many hours propounding this explanation to various magistrates around the country. All, I might add sadly, to no avail.

Be that as it may, having watched the ill-fated Frobisher disappear into the darkness, I stiffened my resolve and made my way to my club. Leading something of a nomadic life I have never felt the need to put down roots in any one place. A rough and ready chap like myself is just as comfortable in a jungle bivouac as in the best room at the Ritz Hotel. All I need to make me feel at home is a blazing fire, a mug of tea, a fill of good ‘baccy, the odd chotah-peg, a blanket, a whistle, a stick with a very sharp point, three dead mice, and a general dogsbody. I find that the simple pleasures in life give the most satisfaction, and the austere camaraderie of a gentlemen’s club is well suited to my meagre needs.

As I approached the hallowed portals of the Whipaway Club, secure in the knowledge that my reception there would be one befitting one of my stature, I cast my mind back over a life that could be held up as a shining example for any young gentleman to follow. I don’t mean to give the impression that I consider myself to be perfect in every way (I leave that to others), far from it. I am well aware of my own weaknesses and foibles, insignificant as they may seem when compared to the faults of others. I firmly believe that a man needs the odd little weakness in order to keep him striving for that unobtainable goal of perfection. It is commonly accepted that perfection in human form is most closely approached by a certain class of English gentleman, who have attained a certain age, and, therefore, experience. Modesty prevents me from placing myself at the head of this group, although I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that I have yet to meet a specimen of this species to whom I would naturally defer.

I now understand why the odious Frobisher had been, as it were, thrust under my nose. God himself had taken a hand. The finger of guilt was being pointed at me by power that knows no equal among mortal man. I could see now that I was being given a chance at atonement. For in my otherwise blameless life, there had only ever been one episode that could possibly be perceived as being in the least way ignoble. It had happened many years ago when I was little more than a child, and as you may have guessed, it involved Fatty Frobisher.

It was with such thoughts filling my head that I mounted the steps to my club and distractedly walked into one of the ornate columns that support the façade of the building. I think the resulting head wound must have affected my hearing, as I could have sworn that I heard Bellis, the doorman, say Oh God, not you again! When in fact, he must have said something like ‘How glad I am to see you again sir’. Funny things head wounds, can’t be too careful with them.

The faithful Bellis having assisted me to my usual chair in the library, I ordered a large brandy to be brought to me, along with various dressings from the first aid kit. Being the sort of club that it is, this request for medical supplies was treated with equanimity, for many of us old troupers preferred to treat our own wounds, it was almost a point of honour that in all but the most serious cases we did our own sewing. As the laceration to my scalp could hardly be considered life threatening, I considered the recourse to needlepoint would not be necessary, and that the application of a brandy soaked compress to the afflicted area would be sufficient.

The old boy that brought me my large brandy had been on the staff of the club for at least fifty years to my certain knowledge. He was an ancient buffer by the name of Dithers, and had been the butt of many a friendly joke, but like so many of the old die-hards, he was the right man to have around in a crisis. Having seen the extent of my injuries, he acted on an instant, and unerringly flung the contents of the brandy balloon at my head. The force of the liquid hitting my scalp was more than adequate to clean out any detritus or infectious material that may have been lurking there. Without a word from either of us, he took one of the dressings from the first aid kit and ran it around the inside of the glass, Having soaked up the remnants of the drink, he then took one of the bandages and bound the compress to my head. For a man of his advanced years Dithers exhibits a remarkable amount of physical strength, and more than once during the bandaging operation I had to remind him to slacken off the tension. Heaven alone knows what would have become of me if I had injured my neck instead of my forehead. After he had finished dressing my wound I told him to fetch me another brandy, this one I applied internally.

As I sat there, allowing the tawny liquid to fortify the inner man, my solitude was disturbed by the sudden arrival of an old friend of mine by the name of Brigadier Snittering-Quin. Snittering-Quin and I went back many years, and we had come through shot and shell together on more than one occasion. I knew I could rely on him implicitly, for this reason I did not find his intrusion altogether unwelcome. Any man who could keep as cool under fire as jumbo Snittering-Quin deserved a certain amount of respect. It was bearing this in mind that prevented me from telling him to push off and mind his own damned business when he said to me

Squittering squadies Rory, what the devil have you been playing at, not another set too with Johnny Turk was it?

Not this time jumbo I said I thought it best to let bygones be bygones, we had quite a civil chat actually. I then went on to relate to him the events that had led to my present, slight, incapacity. I looked Jumbo squarely in the eye and said:

Not so very long from now Jumbo, I may need a hand with an unconscious man that I am having delivered to the back door, do you think you could oblige me?

"Now look here Rory he said in an aggrieved manner, I thought you, of all people, believed me when I said there was no truth in those ugly rumours. Because that’s all they are you know..".

I held my hand up to stop him.

Steady on Jumbo old fellah, goes without saying that I never put any credence in those stories. Good God man, I know you better than that, I know damned well that you wouldn’t stoop so low as to take money for that sort of thing. I know fixing prize-fights isn’t your line of work. Just hear me out will you, then you’ll understand?

Jumbo eyed me with a rather quizzical look on his face.

"Oh, it’s those stories you’re on about is it"?

It was obvious that Jumbo had been upset by the imagined insult contained within my request, so I summoned Dithers again with a view to ordering two very large whiskies. When he eventually arrived I greeted him with my usual cordial affection.

Oh, so you made it then did you, you bumbling old bag of bones. Couple of stiff ‘uns here, and be quick about it.

As he shuffled off to fetch my order I thought I heard him mutter ‘If only that were true’, but as Jumbo didn’t seem to hear anything I assumed that my ears were still playing tricks on me. Whilst awaiting the return of dithers, I acquainted Jumbo with the situation. I recounted a small portion of the history that I shared with Fatty Frobisher, and quickly explained why I felt duty bound to help the wretched creature. In the fullness of time Dithers delivered our drinks, and passing jumbo his I said:

Get yourself on the outside of that old friend while I tell you exactly what my plan is and, if you’ll agree to help, what your part in it will be.

Jumbo’s reply, though not entirely unexpected, brought forth from within me such a gushing emotional fountain, that the odd tear or two managed to squeeze themselves out of my hard-boiled old eyes. To command such loyalty is an honour indeed.

Well damn me to Dunstable and back! Call me a Crab faced cockroach if that don’t take the bally biscuit. You know damn fine that any man worth his salt would consider it a privilege to stand shoulder to shoulder with you on any enterprise you care to name. Good God man, you know it was only a recurrence of the old plumbing problems that stopped me from coming with you on that last jaunt when you went Hun-bashing. Of course I’ll help, goes without saying. Bye the way, what does it pay?

All I could do was nod my head in mute appreciation of Jumbo’s words. I was used to his little jokes, he knew quite well that the chance of him getting any money out of me was nil. Especially as I was the only person left alive who knew exactly what had caused old Jumbo’s plumbing problems. Even though his blind faith in my abilities was no more than my due, my natural humility left me greatly affected by this spontaneous oath of allegiance. Too few men are given the gift of inspiring unquestioning support and obedience, and I gave a silent prayer of thanks that I was one such.

Well bless you for that Jumbo I said But perhaps you won’t thank me when you hear what’s in store for us. Before he could remonstrate with me, I again held up my hand to silence him, and without further ado I laid before him my plan of campaign. When I had finished speaking, I allowed Jumbo a few minutes to gather his thoughts before asking for his comments. He seemed to struggle to find the right words, but when they came they served yet again to confirm not only the calibre of the man, but also the quality of my own powers, when it comes to judging a man’s character.

Quick he said, Get me a refill.

I decided this was no time for half measures, so I screamed over to Dithers to bring us a bottle, from my own private stock, of a drink that I happened across in Poona. It is a strange drink brewed not from grape or grain, but from the internal organs of various wild animals and insects. It takes quite a time to mature, but when it does, my God, the results from drinking it can be spectacular. Many is the young Subaltern I’ve seen burst apart, like an overripe pumpkin after one glass too many. Still, I knew that Jumbo and myself were made of sterner stuff.

I gingerly poured out two glasses of the evil smelling green liquid and passed one to Jumbo, I looked at him and said, You know how dangerous this stuff is, so I’ll leave the bucket in between us.

He took a good pull at his glass and I could see, straight away, that this particular vintage must be an exceedingly good one. He returned to his chair after his fourth reverse somersault and continued speaking.

If any other man had put forward a proposition like that, I’d have laughed in his face, and given him the order of the boot. But coming from you Rory, well, that’s a different kettle of fish cakes altogether. By jingo, if there’s a man alive in the whole of England who could pull this off, then that man is you Rory. Rory, I salute you. Here man, take my hand, I consider it an honour to be asked to help.

We shook hands in a spirit of comradeship that is seldom found outside the fraternal confines of a gentlemen’s club. Such friendships are forged in the fires of adversity, and it takes a lot to break such a bond (it could be as much as £50:00 pounds). Though it may not be fashionable these days, for chaps like Jumbo and myself, the stiff upper lip is still important. We may not be much given to openly displaying our deeper emotions, but that is not to say that these emotions do not exist. We do not have hearts of stone; we are not made of sausage meat alone. We have feelings just as other men do. They course through our veins just as a mighty subterranean river may course, unseen, through the heart of a continent. A handshake is all it takes to re-forge the chains of trust with which we willingly bind ourselves one to another.

Stout fellow Jumbo I said, Glad to have you aboard.

It was as we stared at each other over our drinks that I noticed a pained expression pass across Jumbo’s face.

"Er, well actually, though I would obviously love to help, there might be a slight problem there. You see, the thing is, I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment, and I’ve just received a horrendous bill from the hospital for them sorting out that plumbing problem I told you about. I don’t suppose you could see your way clear to a small loan, just to keep them quiet while we work on this project of yours"?

I gave him the benefit of one of my most ferocious stares; it was the sort of stare that I usually reserve for the most recalcitrant of big cats, and cab drivers. I don’t know what he thought I was going to say, but whatever it was, it certainly made all the colour drain from his already pasty face. He needn’t have worried about my reaction to his request.

By God Jumbo, I respect you for that. I know how hard it must be for a man like you to ask a question like that. I admire a man who meets his problems head on, with none of this namby pamby shillyshallying that’s done so much to ruin the Empire. How much do you need?

As a large smile spread across his open, honest face, he named a sum, which I thought must indicate that the seriousness of his operation was far greater than this noble hearted creature had led people to believe.

You, er, are now completely cured I take it. I mean, I wouldn’t want to lay out all this cash if there was a chance of a relapse or anything like that.

He assured me that all was now well and in fact, went on to say that he had not felt as good as he did at that moment for a very long time. I wrote out a cheque there and then.

Jumbo, let’s drink a toast to your continued good health.

I took a swallow of my own drink and carefully placed it on the table. Firmly gripping the arms of my chair I waited for the potent liquor to do its work. When I was a nipper, there used to be a particular type of firework that we called a ripp-rapp, it was like a smaller version of a Chinese firecracker. After you lit it, the thing went of with a series of loud detonations with an interval of about a second between each bang. The force of each explosion would hurl the firework across the ground at a not inconsiderable speed. Well, suffice it to say that a similar effect was produced in myself by what was proving to be a very good vintage indeed. After several minutes, and numerous explosive contortions, I had more or less jack-knifed my way round the room. The resulting destruction of various fixtures and fittings was of an order of magnitude seldom seen outside the field of battle. Fortunately, there were few members of the club present at the time, so casualties were kept to a minimum. I eventually came to rest in an alcove on the far side of the room, wherein was housed a bust of the founder of the club, none other than Sir Fredrick Farrington.

Fearless Freddie, as his adoring public knew him, was the only lion tamer in the world to perform his act wearing a blindfold. His short but illustrious career is an inspiration to all who would beard the lion in his den and face the ultimate theatrical test.

Fearless Freddie came from a long line of circus performers, yet Freddie was the first of his clan to break with family tradition and take up the whip for anything other than purely recreational purposes. He spent his formative years, as did his siblings, learning the craft of clowning. Therein lay his undoing, for he learned the lessons of his youth too well. It was during a tragic matinee performance that his natural instinct for clowning, coupled with years of boyhood schooling in slapstick, came to the fore. As his trusty assistant tried to warn him of the deadly danger approaching from the rear by shouting ‘It’s behind you’! The unthinkable happened. Instead of turning to face the stealthily slinking panther, poor old Freddie automatically shouted out ‘Oh no it’s not’. Hardly had he uttered the fateful words when the cowardly cat pounced. It was some time before the frenzied feline could be subdued, and all who saw the limbless torso being wheelbarrowed out of the ring assumed the end had come for Freddie.

However, it transpired that the big cat had literally bitten off more than it could chew, and thanks more to natural stubbornness than anything else, Freddie survived the savage onslaught. ‘The show must go on’ may be a silly cliché to most people, but to Freddie and his ilk, it is a philosophy for life. The circus was in his blood, and when you come to think about it, there was at least one circus that had his blood in it. Even though his performing days were well and truly over, he could not as easily sever his connections with his former life as the panther had severed his former limbs. Freddie was determined to give something back to the profession that had treated him so well for most of his life. With the aid of his family and friends he founded both the Whipaway Club and the Society for the Betterment of Distressed Circus Entertainers, I need hardly add that both institutions have gone from strength to strength since their inception.

This brief resume of the history of the club and, its founder, flashed through my mind as I made obeisance to the marble monument before me. How strange I thought, as I tottered back to my seat, that although only a bust, it was, in fact, an almost perfect anatomical representation of the great man in his latter years.

I sat down and took out the bottle of stain remover that I always keep with me for just such occasions as this. I offered some to Jumbo, but before he took it from me he said:

Do you know Rory, you are an example to us all. No, no, I’m not going to spare your blushes this time, it is just a plane and simple fact and that is all there is to it. What you are trying to do here is nothing short of magnificent. Let’s face it Rory, your whole life has been one long series of triumphs, and this could be its crowning glory, a perfect act of selfless charity. That a man of such unique greatness as yourself would even consider sullying his hands on a feckless cretin like Frogface Frobisher, speaks volumes for you own noble character.

As Jumbo paused for breath I tried to interrupt him, to tell him that such things were better left unsaid and that amongst friend’s, modesty would certainly forbid them from ever being uttered. But it was no use, and like a dam that finally gives way under an ever increasing pressure, the torrent could not now be stopped until it had run its course. I realised that he was giving voice to years of pent up silent admiration. He would not be silenced and my protestations counted for naught, all I could do in the face of such an avalanche of encomiums was to try and beare the embarrassment as manfully as I could.

"No, it’s no use Rory, I will have my say, and you will listen. This is more important than you know. For God’s sake Rory look around you, look what’s happing to this country of ours. Can’t you see that it’s only men like you that can stop these incompetent politicians from destroying everything that the likes of us hold dear. Look at the way things are going, there’s no leadership, there’s no direction, and worst of all there’s no pride left. Rory, you have got to go public with this, you don’t have a choice, it’s your duty. It’s not the fault of the great unwashed that they don’t know of your exploits. Just think how the lower classes would feel if they knew that there really was still at least one true hero left in the country. Rory, you could turn this blighted land round. What this nation needs is an example to follow. Of course, we know that there’s only one Rory Tremane, and that you have no equal. But the majority of them, the scum who do all the work, they don’t even know that you exist. No other man on Earth could accomplish what you have, and only a fool would try to do what you have done. But at least you could show us the way, show us what is possible. Give us some hope Rory, let us try to emulate you".

I was stunned at the prospect of this mass emulation.

I say Jumbo, steady on.

But again Jumbo would brook no argument.

"Steady on yourself Rory, I know I’m right about this. People out there are only aware of a fraction of your worth. Let’s face it, Ringmasters Review and Big Top Times may be required reading for us aficionados but the general public don’t even know that such publications even exist. No Rory, we’re going to tell this country just how grateful they should be to men like you. Imagine how different things would have been over the last forty years if the lower orders had had you to look up to. Given the right leadership the British worker is the best in the world. You may well laugh, but I happen to believe that. Rabid Rottwiellers Rory! With you as our guiding light we could have pushed back the yellow peril and bounced the Bosch back to Bonn, along with the rest of those filthy foreigners, not that I have anything against them of course. Rory your story must be told, it’s got to be told, England needs to know. Only you can give back some pride to this ailing country, and with it chance to regain its greatness. Rory, we need your memoirs, it’s as simple and important as that. Apart from which, we might make few bob out of it ourselves".

So there it was, it had finally been said. Something that a self-effacing chap like myself had successfully avoided throughout my long and eventful life. I’ve never been one for blowing my own trumpet, though modesty prevents me from pointing out that it would have to be a long and mighty blast to do me anything like justice. Other than when professionally engaged I have always shunned the limelight. Being of a retiring nature I have found the adulation of the masses more irksome than rewarding. I dare say they mean well, but what they don’t seem to understand is that true genius such as mine should not be contaminated by too close a proximity to the less well loved in society. And although I am only too pleased to help improve the lot of the masses, I feel that no useful purpose can be served by being too familiar with them.

Having said that, what did my own personal feelings count for, when the honour and destiny of Queen and Country were at stake? My feelings were of no consequence whatsoever. Perhaps I was being selfish by depriving the world of an insight into my exemplary past. Let’s face it, not many are given the opportunity to test their mettle in the furnace of Simba’s fiery glare. Those were flames through which I had passed innumerable times, and been the better for it. I was the lucky one, I knew my own worth. But what of those others, those lesser beings, people like you, who had never been put to the test, who had never been confronted with a challenge and overcome it, who had never experienced the surge of satisfaction that came with a hard won victory. Then it came to me, what it was that was wrong with our society. Greed, laziness and stupidity were only the symptoms, the disease, the illness, was actually lack of confidence.

Startling in its simplicity, yet there it was. I saw now how it all came together. I had been right when I thought I detected the crack of the divine whip in this show with Fatty Frobisher. It was obvious that Fatty was, in fact, a metaphor for Britannia herself, and it was up to me to rehabilitate both Fatty and Britain. It was a daunting task, was I up to it? Could I possibly do it? Yes, of course I could, why else had I been chosen? It was obvious to me now that my life had thus far been but preparation for the big job. It was clear that I had been singled out by fate and by God for this specific purpose. The question uppermost in my mind was not whether I was up to the task, but how long it would take me to complete the task. I am not a man to waste time thinking when what is needed is action; there was only one thing to do.

Here Jumbo let me fill your glass. Let’s drink to my memoirs. It’s time for action.

We both took a good long swallow of our drinks. The resulting gyrations left us both feeling exhausted but, at the same time, invigorated. What is more, this time the resultant wounds were purely superficial, and there was hardly any further damage to our surroundings. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that my suit would need more than a sewing needle and some stain remover to restore it to its former glory. I decided it was time to replace it, and made up my mind to do so first thing in the morning.

As luck would have it, our joint gymnastics had carried us both, via the servants staircase, to the door of the butlers pantry. You may think it strange that we both ended up at the same spot in spite of our uncontrollable convulsive progress. The explanation is quite simple, at some stage during our acrobatic excursion we had somehow become entangled with each other, giving us an appearance not unlike that of a ball of conger eels. Thus, where one went the other must follow.

Under normal circumstances neither Jumbo nor I would have turned a hair at finding ourselves thus conjoined. Unfortunately, we had failed to take into account the laxative effect of the potion we had consumed. Our situation was becoming ever more uncomfortable, not to say desperate. As time was pressing and the need was great, I decided that the intervention of some outside agency would be the best way to avoid both a personal tragedy and a public humiliation. With that in mind I immediately commenced shouting at the top of my voice, in order to attract the attention of either Dithers, whom I knew to be upstairs, or more likely, one of his minions. After several minutes of sustained vocal exertion I thought that our sufferings were about to be eased, as from where I was lying, with my head jammed between the rails of the spindles of the staircase, I had a very good view up the stairs. As I lay there shouting, I thought that I could perceive the shadowy outline of a figure, not unlike Dithers, peering over the banister above me. Thinking that our rescue must now be imminent, I stopped shouting and tried to relax. Unfortunately, it appears that there wasn’t anyone looking over the banister at all, it must have been a trick of the light, as the expected help did not materialise. This mistake cost us vital minutes in delay, the unsavoury consequences of which I will not dwell upon.

At least with the easing of various internal pressures, a more studied assessment of our predicament could be made. Again my natural qualities of leadership came to the fore.

Come on Jumbo I said We’ve got to try to make it to the kitchen before this stuff sets hard.

It was with no small difficulty that I managed to extract my head from the railings, but I did eventually manage it with only minimal nasal discharge. Which just goes to show that every cloud really does have a silver lining. We next had to devise some method by which we could propel ourselves along the corridor to the kitchen. This proved to be a bit tricky, as I could no longer communicate with Jumbo, as he seemed to have lost the power of speech. My main worry on this score was as to whether or not Jumbo was merely unconscious or had in fact succumbed to something of a more terminal nature. In either case, the prospect of dragging an inert Snittering-Quin the length of the corridor, some sixty feet in my estimation, was not one which filled me with an overwhelming sense of delighted expectation, far from it. I need not have worried, the reason for Jumbo’s silence was made clear to me later when he explained that he was unable to open his mouth for fear that it might become filled with something that he would not, being a gentleman, name. If the fact that his face was in close proximity to my own nether regions had anything to do with this I cannot say, for being a gentleman myself I did not press him for further explanation of a matter that obviously caused him some distress.

It soon became clear that any motive power for the globular mass that we had become would have to be provided by me. It transpired that of all of the bits protruding from our spheroid, the only things of any practical use were my left arm (below the elbow) and my right leg (below the knee). The nett result of which was that I was now facing the prospect of propelling fifty-six stones of human flesh and bone through wrist and ankle power alone. Luckily I was more than adequately provided with the extreme muscular development needed for such a task. A lifetimes whip cracking does a great deal to improve the mechanical forces produced by the wrist, and as for the ankle, well any man used to subduing the lower orders will have developed such muscles. There’s many a scrawny working class neck that’s had the benefit of being under the heel of my handmade boots, so I have never been found lacking in that particular department.

Due to the impracticality of manoeuvring our combined bulks for a straight shot at the kitchen door I gathered my strength in order to attempt what, in billiard hall parlance, would be called a cushion shot. I gave a mighty flick with both wrist and ankle and we set off with a thunderous rumble down the corridor. As we careered from side to side, like some sort of malodorous, multicoloured cannon ball, I noted with some satisfaction that I had judged it about right, and we came to rest a few inches from the kitchen door. All that remained to do was to attract the attention of the kitchen staff, who could then summon Dithers.

Unfortunately I was unable to reach the door with either hand or foot, but luckily, during our ponderous process along the corridor, Jumbo’s head had been dislodged from its original position and was now protruding into the air. I found that the simple expedient of kicking Jumbo on the back of the skull caused his forehead to make contact with the kitchen door. It was not the first time that I had had to upbraid the kitchen staff on the length of time it sometimes took them to react to members’ requests for attention.

In this particular case, I thought that to ignore what amounted to a constant loud hammering on the kitchen door for twenty minutes was inexcusable, and I lost no time in telling them so when the door was eventually opened. Why it was deemed necessary to lock the kitchen door at all was beyond me. It is easy to see how all those fantastic rumours about cannibalism gained such currency. But who knows, perhaps in the jungles of Java (where most of the kitchen staff were captured), all kitchen doors are routinely kept locked. Having made plain to them what our orders were, and that, far from coming to inspect the kitchen, we did in fact desire to be disentangled. A scullion was despatched to inform Dithers that his services were urgently needed.

As stated previously, Dithers is a man with a lightning quick brain, which is unfortunately trapped in a somewhat less than lightning quick body. Whilst awaiting his arrival and having refused the offer of a cup of tea, I took the opportunity of warning the hired help to expect the delivery of one Fatty Frobisher Esq. No sooner had I done this than Dithers appeared on the scene. When it comes to dealing with these little domestic difficulties, Dithers has no equal. Without batting so much as an eyelid, he shouted out in a stentorian voice, Lard, hot and slippy.

Whether ‘hot and slippy’ was a description of the substance referred to, or an injunction to his staff regarding the rapidity with which they should carry out their instructions, did not at first become clear. It was only with the passage of time and the increasingly strong smell of hot fat that my feeling of unease grew.

As the cauldron of smoking lard began to sizzle and spit I caught a glimpse of the cherubic features of Dithers as he donned his protective gloves and apron. He said, with a reassuring smile:

Gentleman, this may entail a small amount of pain and a little discomfort, for me. For you, however, things may be a tiny bit more gruesome, but I am sure that I can rely on your stoicism to set a good example to the staff. Before we begin, would either of you like a piece of wood to bite on?

Both Jumbo and I knew the value of showing the fuzzi-wuzzies what you were made of, and so we both declined this kind and considerate offer of Dithers.

Very good gentlemen, then we will begin. Magumli, fetch the meat hooks and the crowbars. You, Jambala bring the iced water and the salt.

With that the tricky business of separation began, and as Dithers brought what was to be the first of many ladles-full of hot lard over to us, I mentally prepared myself for the ordeal to come. I am glad to report that Jumbo and I gave a good account of ourselves and not once did either of us cry out in pain. Though I will allow that there might have been the odd stifled scream.

What a man is Dithers. How fortunate we were to have a chap with his experience to minister to our needs. He knew that the only way to separate us without snapping something off would require the application of some sort of grease. He set about the job with a diligence that one seldom sees in today’s domestic servants.

In order to lubricate our bodies and limbs, it was necessary to pour copious amounts of boiling fat over us. As the bubbling liquid penetrated our various cracks and crevices, the ever attentive Dithers was there, ready to douse us with freezing cold water in the event that we should lapse into unconsciousness. How well I remember his beatific smile as he crouched over us, poised, ready with meat hook in one hand and crowbar in the other. At the slightest sign of a gap he would plunge in with whichever implement was best suited to the purpose, working away with gusto to enlarge the said gap. On the odd occasion when an involuntary twitch or spasm caused Dithers to miss his aim, the resulting laceration was liberally treated with salt. This was both to staunch the flow of blood and to stop the spread of infection.

Thanks to Dithers, our ordeal lasted barely an hour and we both survived it with very little permanent scarring. What a master of his art that man is. Having thanked him profusely for his help and given him something for his trouble, he endeared himself to us even more by saying that it had been his pleasure and that he would gladly do it all again, even without the prospect of monetary gain! On hearing these words I realised that even I had probably underestimated Dithers, and I had to ask myself if I really new the man at all.

Having changed our clothing and completed our first aid treatment, I was left with little time in which to prepare for the arrival of Fatty Frobisher. It was only minutes after I had organised the bath full of disinfectant that there was a resounding knock at the street entrance of the kitchen. I looked over at the grim faced Jumbo and said Well old lad, this is it. It’s not too late to change your mind you know.

Perishing pensioners Rory! Didn’t I say I was with you. Come on, let’s have that door open and wheel the blighter in.

Brave words from a brave man, and suiting the action to the words Jumbo hobbled shakily across the floor and flung open the door. Rather unfortunate that as the door opened outwards, and whoever had knocked on it had stood quite close to it. I was quite surprised by Jumbo’s strength, especially after the somewhat trying circumstances in which he had spent the previous couple of hours. I made a mental note of it, for such power could prove useful in the future.

From outside, my ears were assaulted by a horrendous cacophony. Screams of pain mingled with blasphemous oaths, the sound of breaking glass and the clattering of dustbins, and above it all, the high pitched keening wail, as of some animal that has got something vital caught in a trap. After a minute or two of this confused babble, I heard a series of dull thuds, not unlike the noise produced by whacking a pumpkin with a cucumber. Shortly thereafter, blessed silence reigned once again. As I stepped into the gloomy ally that ran along the back of the club, a bizarre sight confronted me. From out of the half darkness came a muttered enquiry which, to save the blushes of the less worldly wise amongst you, I shall paraphrase;

Where’s the silly sausage what threw that door open? Bless me if I don’t give him a good talking to.

I made no reply. But as Jumbo joined me in the dimly lit