Excerpt from Chapter 7
Note: Set in 1979 in the English village of Little Saddlington.
Herpes alias 'The'Erp' is the name of the mongrel dog.
Chapter 7
The Viewing DaysIt was now just seven days before the auction. Shipley had moved the start of the viewing days of the items that were for sale even further forward, due to the excessive amounts of people that had appeared in the village. For the three days prior Rubicon and Shipley's removal van had been transporting numerous loads of sale goods between the hall and the marquee and they were all now exhibited by their numeric lot numbers in both locations ready for people to inspect. Charles had anticipated the amount of people that would be present and had employed a security guard with a dog to protect the goods in the marquee each night and another to watch out for would-be thieves through the days.
Little Saddlington had become Big Saddlington. More than a hundred caravans were dotted around the village outskirts along with some three hundred tents. The first traffic jams in the village's history were occurring as the hundreds of people staying in the surrounding area tried to get in to view the sale. Every hotel within a thirty mile radius had laid on buses for their guests, but there was practically nowhere for them to park and, along with all the other vehicles that were trying to get into the village, chaos ensued. In the middle of it all Chuck Verbeer ran into the police Sergeant, who was trying to sort out the worst of the jam.
"What you need is a little military organisation!" he yelled above the hooting car horns.
"You're right, I certainly could do with reinforcements! Unfortunately I'm on my own!" shouted Bert Hughes as he tried to direct the vehicles.
"Let's see if we can't make some sense of this mess!" said the General and the two of them began trying to sort out the snarl up. They had only been at it for fifteen minutes and were beginning to get somewhere when the traffic suddenly ground to a complete halt and immediately began to back up in either direction as a large number of ducks came waddling across the road from the direction of the river, on their way to lunch. The General and the policeman stood there bemused as, in a perfect line all evenly spaced trailing one behind the other, the ducks took their time to slowly cross the road. The two men smiled at each other and shook their heads as the ducks kept coming, waddling along completely unconcerned about the traffic chaos that was building up around them.
'Smarten up there.' thought the General to himself as they paraded past him. 'You man, yes you, pick your feet up and you, stand up straight and at least look as if you're proud of yourself. Good, good. Well done, men, well done. Carry on.' he was having great trouble resisting a most dreadful urge when the policeman swept all his resistance away.
"Do you think we should salute?"
'Oh, hell.' thought the General. 'Nobody knows me here anyway.' He nodded at the policeman and, to the delight of the dozens of motorists hemmed in all around them, they both stood there and saluted the Little Saddlington Duck Contingent as it quietly waddled its way past them and off towards the square, leaving them with such an awful traffic problem that it took another half hour to get some semblance of a proper flow going.
"You know you said reinforcements, Sergeant?"
"Yes."
"Well, I think you're seriously going to need some, otherwise this could turn into the greatest English log jam of all time."
"You're right, I'm certainly going to have to do something about it."
"Chuck Verbeer." The General held out his hand.
"Bert Hughes. Thanks for the help, General. Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Verbeer told me all about you. Anyway it's my business to know who's who around here. I'll never keep track of this lot though. No, madam, you cannot park there, now move on!"
They began to make their way through the crowds to the police station where Bert rang up his headquarters and requested that six men be sent into Little Saddlington until the auction was over, but the best headquarters could do was to provide two and those for only three of the viewing days. Chuck Verbeer asked if he could try and arrange something and dialled a number from his address book.
"Hello. Can I speak to the base Commander? This is General Chuck Verbeer out of Reno, Nevada. My unit? Well, just mention the word 'LAOS' to him would you. Yes, that's right. Yes, I'll hold."
"Base Commander?" enquired Bert Hughes. The General winked.
"Hello, is that the base Commander? Good, this is General Chuck Verbeer, I gather you know about 'LAOS'? You are? Well, good to have you on board. Commander, I'm over here in Little Saddlington. You haven't? I'm not surprised, it's a pretty small place. Well, we've got a traffic problem that needs handling. It could go on for about two weeks?" Bert nodded. "Now I know it's an unusual request but in terms of Anglo-American relations this could be a big one. I mean we've got traffic here like downtown New York, kind of limited parking, no one to control things. Ah-ha. Ah-ha. Yes, I see. Well if you're happy to do that Commander that would be just fine, we'll expect them as soon as you can... Oh, good, good. Now if you're ever in Reno you'd be most welcome. O.K. Thank you, Commander." He put the phone down and looked at Bert Hughes. "Well, help is on its way. They aren't exactly the US cavalry but they'll do this job real well."
"So who are they sending us?"
"Military Police. They're going to let us have fifteen Military Police."
"MP's? Good! That should sort this lot out."
"Yep, nothing'll sort this lot out like American Military Police, they're a tough bunch and this particular group are tougher than most."
"Oh?"
The General grinned. "You better believe it, they're women!"
Bob and Herpes entered the auctioneer's front office.
"I was wondering about your auction."
"Oh yes, Bob?"
"Well, I mean, how are you going to sort out who gets to sit here in the village hall?"
Charles was completely floored. "Do you know, I hadn't even thought about that, it's a good point."
Bob's eyes gleamed. "Well unless you want a free-for-all rugby scrum when you open up you better start selling tickets."
"Tickets?"
"Tickets." Bob waited as the wheels within Charles' grey matter slowly turned. "I've thought about it and I reckon it would be simple. If I got some raffle tickets and stuck one part to each seat then all that people would have to do would be to match up the counterpart to their seat. I could use different colours for different parts of the hall so people could find their seats easily."
"What's this 'I' business?"
"Well, it's only that I'd thought about it and you hadn't and maybe I could handle selling the tickets for you and save you a lot of work."
"Selling?"
"I reckon we can charge a fiver a seat per day. You've got three hundred and eleven seats in here.."
"Have we?" Charles looked at the secretary.
"Counted 'em myself. That means fifteen hundred and fifty five pounds a day you could be making. Sounds like an awful lot of money to me." He eyed Charles warily.
"And you want to set this up and do the selling for a commission I suppose?"
"Well, it's just that I'd thought about it and you hadn't and a bit of cash would come in handy like."
"What about Shipley?"
"What about Shipley? I won't tell him if you won't and by the time the auction starts and he realises what's going on it'll be too late for him to do anything about it."
"A fiver sounds a lot to me, Bob, maybe we should make it two pounds fifty?"
"No, stick to a fiver a seat. You don't want just any old riff-raff inside the hall, do you? What you want in the hall are the folks with the money and they're the ones that are prepared to pay a bit to get a ringside seat, so to speak. With all these people coming to the auction we'd be bound to sell out."
"We?"
"Well, I'm presuming you'd be taking a commission as well, wouldn't you? I mean Shipley's not going to get anything out of it, is he?"
Charles was very conscious of the secretary's presence. "Bob, I'd get the sack for doing that kind of thing as you well know."
"Don't know why you work in this place anyway, lad. You're wasted here and so are you, lass." He looked at the secretary. The secretary looked at Charles. Charles thought. Bob waited, then seized the initiative. "How's about a sixty-forty split then? Sixty for you two and forty for me?" The secretary could not believe what she was hearing.
"You mean we get thirty percent each and you get forty percent?"
"Well, I'd be doing all the work selling the tickets. Only seems fair to me."
"What do you think?" Charles asked the secretary, who had already done the figures in her head. She nodded vigorously.
"Mind you, Bob, we'd have to keep it from Shipley."
"Right you are. So that's it then, is it? We've got a deal?"
"I guess so. Just make sure you don't cock it up for us will you?"
"Me? Cock it up? Never!"
But Charles wasn't going to trust to fate when it came to Bob's ability to handle things properly. "Well, I'll tell Shipley the tickets are free as far as I'm concerned and you'll be on your own if he finds out."
"Alright, Charles. I'll set the terrifying 'Erp on him if he starts anything. You just leave it to me."
Bill Boyd was waiting for Bob and Herpes out on the village green by the beer tanker. "Well, did he go for it?"
"Yes, it's all agreed."
"How much?"
"A fiver a ticket."
"Five pounds each, that's good going, mate."
"Brilliant idea of yours Bill, this cash is going to change my life. Are you sure you don't want anything out of it? I mean it's a lot of money."
"Nah, from what I can see your need is greater than mine. Anyway, you'll be buying me a drink or two, won't you?"
"At five pounds a ticket you can bet I will."
However Bob's brain was already teasing with the idea that maybe he could charge a little more than a fiver a ticket and make a bit on the side. In fact, maybe he could charge a lot more.
Just then a strange sound could be heard and people stopped talking to hear it better. It was strange but familiar at the same time and, as it grew in volume, everyone looked towards the village square as three Scottish pipers, dressed in full Highland regalia, came marching around the corner of the hall. Willie, Hamish and Rory Laird made a splendid picture. They walked once around the square and proceeded out onto the village green. People clapped in time with the tune 'Scotland the Brave' as it sang from their bagpipes. The General stood listening, the sound of the pipes had always made him emotional, reminding him of the time the Brits fighting alongside him had launched an attack with bagpipes wailing as bombs exploded around them. A lump rose in his throat as the three Scots marched up and down the green and finally came to a halt, ceasing their playing in front of the beer tanker.
"I'm Willie Laird and these are my sons Hamish and Rory. We're here to give you English a sound beating in the auction room!" announced the Laird of the Highlands.
"How about us Australians, mate?" enquired Bill Boyd.
"Australians don't count!" pronounced Laird.
"Oh, yes they do! Listen. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. There you are!"
"Och, you know what I mean, laddie!"
"Yeah, I think so. Want a beer lads?"
Willie Laird and his sons had arrived and created quite a stir with the pipes, although Willie had been concerned to see the amount of people that had gathered in the village and wondered whether that meant he would have a real fight on his hands to buy anything in the auction.
Try as he might Julius Polperro had not been able to find a single artefact in either the catalogue descriptions or the late entry sheets. But they had definitely been mentioned in the advertisement and he was eager to locate them. He had a ready market in the antiques trade for any kind of artefact and knew he could make a good turn on them. Frustrated at not having located any after searching through the vast amount of goods on view in the hall and the marquee he knocked on the door of the front office.
"Yes, sir." said Charles. "Can I help you?"
"I hope so, I simply can't find some of the things that were in your advertisement for the auction."
"Right, sir. What exactly was it you were interested in?"
"Artefacts."
"Artefacts?"
"Artefacts."
"Oh, yes. Artefacts." Charles had known there would be a comeback to deal with over the descriptions he had put in the advertisements and hoped that people were not going to get too upset, especially if they had come a long distance.
"I think I know what it is you're after, sir, if you'll just follow me I'm sure I can locate it for you." Julius cheered up at this and followed Charles out of the office.
"Have you come a long way?"
"Yes, from Cornwall."
"Ah. Cornwall, I see."
They walked up the wooden steps at the side of the stage and Charles looked through his catalogue and searched amongst the items laid out on the tables.
"Here we are, sir. Lot number eleven hundred and sixty two." He turned to Julius and showed him the book he had picked up from the table.
"But that's not an artefact." said Julius and he was quite right.
"Well it does plainly say it in the title, sir." Julius looked at the cover of the book. "You must be bloody joking!"
Charles had to keep a lid on things. "No, sir. Why, is there something wrong?"
"Wrong? Exactly what colour of canary do you take me for?"
"Canary, sir?"
"Listen you young Smart Aleck, I've been going to auctions for thirty years and for you to describe that in your advertising as 'Artifacts' is a downright liberty. What a con. You've just used that to get people like me to come all the way here in the hope that we'll buy something. 'Artifacts' my eye."
"I'm not sure I follow you, sir. The book title is quite clear and correctly described in the catalogue. Look."
"Never mind that," said Julius. "What about this?" From his pocket he took a cutting of Rubicon & Shipley's advertisement. "Do you see what it clearly states right there? Artifacts. Spelled A-R-T-I-F-A-C-T-S. What you're holding is not 'Artifacts' as if you didn't flaming well know." He was trying to stay annoyed but couldn't help seeing the funny side of what the auction house had been up to.
"Ah, well you see, sir, there must have been a typographical error."
Julius began shaking his head and laughed. "'Typographical error'? Don't give me that load of old balls. 'Typographical error' my arse."
"Please, sir, your language. There are ladies around."
"Oh, are there? Are you sure they're not just more 'typographical errors'? How many people have you had to explain this to before me?"
Charles could see that the man was thankfully not too upset and so confided in him. "Well, one or two, actually."
"I'll bet you have. More like a few hundred I should think. Who had the brass neck to pull a stunt like this? Was it you?"
"No, it's not a stunt, sir. As I told you it's a..."
"'Typographical error.' Yes, I know that's what you said. I just don't believe you."
At that moment a small, white haired elderly man interrupted them and inquired of Charles where the artefacts might be.
"Here." said Julius as he took the book from Charles and thrust it into the man's hands.
"What's this?"
"A 'Typographical sodding error.'" replied Julius laughing.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," said the man.
"You will if you read the title."
The man peered through the lower half of his gold rimmed bi-focals and read the title out loud.
"'Arty Facts'. A reference work by Anne Richardson. Is this some sort of a joke?"
"I think you might be right. I was just saying to this Smart Aleck here that someone from the auctioneers is really trying our patience with this."
"But, I don't understand. It clearly stated in the auction advertising that there were 'Artifacts' for sale."
Julius turned and walked away, laughing as he heard Charles begin explaining again.
"Well, you see, sir, there seems to have been what we call a typographical..."
"Auction tickets for the village hall! Reserve your seats now!" Bob raised his voice as he wandered about the green.
"We can reserve our seats?"
"Yes, sir, tickets are for sale for each day and different colours denote different parts of the hall. Blue is at the front, Green is in the middle and Yellow is at the back. Ten Pounds a ticket to get yourself a seat."
"Ten Pounds! What, even for those at the back?"
"That's right, squire, they're the same price wherever you sit."
"That's outrageous! I'm not paying that each day!"
"Well, suit yourself, but if I were you I'd spend the money and get the best crack at the auctioneer. Otherwise you mightn't buy anything."
"I'd like some tickets please. I want four for each of the first two days," said a woman who had been listening. "Would you take a cheque?"
"Not likely, luv. Cash only I'm afraid. If you haven't got it on you I can hold the tickets until you get it." But she did have the cash and so Bob supplied her the tickets and pocketed the money.
"Oh, all right then, but it's daylight robbery," said the man.
"Yes, I know it is, guvnor."
"Two tickets for four days then and I want Blue ones. I want to be right up at the front for that price."
"Right you are, squire."
And so Bob sold the tickets for the seating in the village hall. He gave a few out to his friends free of charge but most were sold to the throng in and around the village. He made two trips to increase sales, one to the Tudor Arms and one to the Somerville Hotel, where the patrons just about cleaned him out. Each day he came back to the pub laden with cash and he and Bill Boyd sorted it out, but not before Bob had already stashed approximately half of his takings at home. They divided up the money and each morning Bob would pass by the office with two brown envelopes for Charles and the secretary. Neither of them had any idea that he was charging double the agreed amount, but sooner or later Bob was going to find it impossible to cover up.
The fifteen female American Military Police arrived early in the morning on the second day of the auction viewing. They rolled up to the police station in three huge army trucks and reported to the General and Sergeant Hughes. Unlike the General the Sergeant was amazed to find that they didn't need accommodation or food, nor did they require much instruction on how to deal with the traffic problem. The General stood with the Lieutenant in charge and together they rapidly worked out the best approach. It seemed that they hadn't been there minutes when the Lieutenant saluted the General, climbed into the front of the first truck and off they drove.
"Where are they going to sleep?" Bert asked.
"Oh, don't worry about them, they'll be fully organised and on duty in a short while. Then you can sit back and put your feet up."
"Oh, yes? You think this lot'll run sweetly then?"
"I was just kidding. But you can forget the traffic problem anyway; it's all under control now. I just hope they remember that it's civilians they're dealing with out there."
The trucks crossed the bridge and made their way out of the village. Stopping after half a mile they turned into a secluded field, sheltered by trees on both sides. For the next hour the fifteen women set up a camp that the General would have been proud of. Tents, hammocks, sleeping bags, kitchens, latrines, showers, communications, medical facilities and stores appeared as if by magic. When the first contingent left for traffic control duty they had breakfasted superbly and were more than ready for a 'no nonsense' day.
The first priority was to completely stop all traffic from entering the village by erecting two barriers at either end of the main street, one of them on the other side of the bridge in the direction of the MP's camp, and a third along the minor road into the village. Too bad if you were trying to drive through Little Saddlington as, from the moment they went on duty, everyone was stopped and turned around at the barriers unless their names were on a fairly extensive list that Bert Hughes had drawn up. Those on the list were either concerned with working in Little Saddlington or were locals or important landed gentry. Apart from them no one was getting in with a vehicle. At each of the two main street barriers there was a designated turning area for buses, none of whom were allowed to disembark their passengers until fully turned around and pointed in the opposite direction. Driver's complaints fell upon deaf ears and, whether they liked it or not, they had to drive off the way they had come and find somewhere else to park. On that first day there were arguments a many, but the MP's set the precedent and those who had their vehicles turned back were given due warning that this was how it was going to be for the duration of the auction.
The main road along the valley became a solid line of parked cars down either side, leaving barely enough room for two vehicles to pass each other. Local farmers were approached with financial offers and soon empty fields were being opened up as car parks. The ingenuity of those desperate to park their vehicles knew no bounds and before long the Valley School had rows of vehicles stretching across its playing fields. By the time it would come to the auction itself all the taxi and mini-bus services for miles around would be fully booked and each day they would drop their charges at the village barriers, picking them up later at prearranged times. Within 24 hours, after having to add a few more names to the list of those who were allowed into the village, the traffic problem came fully under control.
It took only nine of the MP's to run the three barriers allowing a most reasonable duty roster to be set up. Once their period of duty ended they were able to go back to their camp to shower and get some rest, but instead they immediately headed straight for either the beer tanker or the Flying Start where soon everyone got to know them pretty well. These military women brought an air of organisation to the chaos that had descended upon Little Saddlington. Maybe it was their uniforms or just the way they went about things, but even by them simply wandering about the green people gained a sense that there was some firm protectiveness present and consequently those that were thinking of misbehaving, in no matter how little a way, thought better of it. Everyone agreed they were a pretty good influence.
For their part the MP's rapidly identified all the available single men in the village, who soon found themselves being chatted up. Dirk and Terry were prime targets but Bob came in for quite a bit of attention and even Herpes got his share.
On their second night, after all the traffic had disappeared, twelve of the fifteen were in the pub whilst the other three were preparing dinner back at the camp. A tall Texan lady called Sally or LT for short (Long Tall) was leaning on Terry's shoulder, Bob was showing Gail and Sue how to play darts and Dirk had Dolores, Rose and Serendipity (Dip) laughing with stories about the village. Despite the attraction of the opposite sex Dirk and Terry could see the river mist forming. Neither were earning money from the auction opportunities and they were keen to take up their stations under the bridge. Their excuses for having to leave started early and escalated throughout the evening, but the women were not going to let them get away easily. Eventually the two of them went through to the toilets and slipped out of the pub the back way. Walking around to the front they were happy to see thick mist hanging directly over the river, but not so happy when they heard a voice they instantly recognised.
"And where might you pair of scoundrels be off to then?"
"Oh, good evening Sergeant Hughes, well, we're just off home actually."
"Home? Home at nine o'clock? No, lad, you two are certainly not off home. My guess is you're off to do spot of salmon poaching in the mist. Now where would you be going to do that, I wonder?"
"No, not poaching Bert, not us, not anymore. You know that. We're just going home like good little boys."
"Good little boys my.." The front door of the pub opened and LT, Sue and Dip came out.
"So here you two are. What seems to be the trouble officer?"
"Oh, it's no trouble really, miss. Just this pair of scallywags getting up to no good as usual."
"Oh, and what kind of 'no good' would that be?"
"No, we aren't LT, honest, we're just going home like we told you." The other MP's came out of the pub and gathered around them.
"Grown lads going home at nine o'clock?" said Bert Hughes, "I think not. Ladies you are looking at the two most infamous poachers in this part of the world. This pair are capable of sneaking a pheasant or a hare or a salmon in the blink of an eye and it's my guess that's just what they were about to go and do."
"Poachers?" said LT. "Well we can't have that going on now can we, Sergeant Hughes?"
"No, miss, it's a very bad thing is poaching. Stealing it is really and we don't much like having thieves in our village."
"What's going on 'ere? In trouble Terry?" Bob had been upset at having lost the first female attention that he'd enjoyed in a very long time and had followed them out. All twelve of the MP's had now surrounded the three men and not even Herpes could get through to his master.
"No, no trouble it's just that Bert's gone bleedin' mad. Thinks we're going poaching."
"Well, like I said, we can't have any of that going on while we're here, so what shall we do with them, ladies?" LT looked at the police Sergeant as, on Dolores' command, the others grabbed hold of the three men.
"I guess we better take care of them tonight then, officer?" asked Sue as the men struggled to get free.
"Not my place to say, miss. I think I'll ask the General. Tomorrow."
"You do that, Sergeant, you do that."
"Oi! Get off! What are you doing? Let go of me!"
But nothing was going to stop the women now and the three were briskly womanhandled across the road to the truck.
"Bert, don't leave us! Bert!" yelled Dirk.
Bert Hughes had no intention of being subjected to the same fate, whatever that might be going to be, and so helping the hapless three was out of the question. He just watched the proceedings with great amusement.
"What are you doing? I'm not a poacher!" complained Bob as he was slung unceremoniously up and onto the truck's hard floor.
"You might as well be because you're coming with us!"
"Wait a minute! Stop! What about the 'Erp?"
"'Erp! Get up there!" commanded Dolores. Now Herpes was a bit daft, but he wasn't downright stupid and he knew that tone of voice meant serious business. In one bound he leapt into the back of the truck and landed on top of his master.
"You turncoat!" shouted Bob as Dirk and Terry kept shouting for the women to stop. The truck started up and made for the bridge. Inside it female hands were undoing the men's shirts and trousers, despite their attempts at defending themselves.
"So why do you call him 'Erp?" asked Dip.
"Because that's his bloody name! Herpes! He's got bloody Herpes!" yelled Terry, desperately trying to put the women off.
"Yeah, just like his master!" screamed Bob. For a few seconds the men thought they'd succeeded and that the American women were going to stop molesting them.
"Hell, we've all got worse than that!" said Dolores and the de-clothing resumed along with the male screams of complaint as the truck crossed the bridge, leaving Bert Hughes chuckling to himself as he listened to their dwindling shouts for help.
The Laird of the Highlands located the two locked boxes at the same moment as Julius Polperro. They looked them over, trying not to seem too interested, each being highly suspicious of the other.
"Have you ever heard of anything like this before?" asked Julius.
"Not me. Only the Sassenachs could lock something in a box and try to sell it in an auction."
"I don't believe the description. 'A Shagreen covered silver bound locked box thought to possibly contain jewellery and precious metal'. How on earth can they claim that?"
"Och, the English will say anything to make a sale. But there's definitely something in this one." Willie had turned the box upside down and was shaking it.
"Less about the English, Jock, I'm a Cornishman and proud of it."
"Only joking ye ken, only joking. Now then, what exactly is 'Shagreen'?"
"Shark skin." said Julius, impressed by the exterior of the boxes.
"Very appropriate seeing as we're South of the Border. Ye dinna know what a 'jewellery' or a 'precious metal' sound might be like do ye, laddie?"
Julius decided he was not going to help the Scotsman by shaking the other box so Willie picked it up and did so.
"Well something's rattling around in this one. No sense in getting worked up about them though because ye can't risk throwing away money on something that might be worthless, now can ye?"
"No, you can't. What do you intend doing about them?"
"I was just thinking of asking ye the same thing."
"I asked first."
"So ye did, laddie, so ye did."
Julius had taken an instant dislike to Willie, whom he thought might be acting dumb to cover the fact that he really knew what the boxes contained. Willie Laird was thinking the same thing about Julius and the two of them were re-enacting what had already taken place between a number of people over the two locked boxes and their mysterious contents.
That evening Shipley and Rawlston were congratulating each other over a drink at Rawlston Manor. Both of them were excited at the prospect of making many thousands of pounds from the auction now that there was such huge interest in it and Shipley was congratulating Rawlston on the forthcoming outrageously priced sale of his estate to the Sheikh. Looking through the photocopied catalogue at those items marked off as being theirs Rawlston observed that perhaps they should have entered more if the auction was going to be so well attended. Shipley suggested that if they used the late entry arrangements they could probably squeeze another hundred lots in. In their greed they started taking things from the manor to sell. When Rawlston had originally bought the estate the manor house had been full of paintings, antiques and furnishings. Some of these he had sold off whenever Shipley had been able to get him a high price for them and now that he was going to sell to the Sheikh he intended to take full advantage of this last opportunity. He began laying his hands on a variety of items for Shipley to sell and piled them in the hall. Shipley wrote down the descriptions along with a ridiculously high guide price and gave them each a lot number. The reserve prices that Rawlston placed on them, the minimum that they could be sold for, were extremely high, for if they were not reached he would be quite happy to have them back. Not long after they had finished, leaving the pile of goods to await collection, the Arabs returned. The Sheikh looked at everything in the hallway and Shipley and Rawlston explained that it was all going to be put into the auction.
"Now then, what couldn't you wallahs do with these." said Rawlston as he picked up an old sword and drew it halfway out of its scabbard. "Japanese you know. Probably belonged to an Emperor or something and doubtless worth thousands. You'll find several of them. They were in the house long before I bought it and they're all for sale."
The Arabs examined the swords. "How much do you want for them, Mr.Rolton?"
"Rawlston, Sheikh. My name is Rawlston."
"That is what I said Mr.Rolton. How much?"
"Oh, you can't buy them now, Sheikh. No, no, no. They have to go into the auction." He looked at Shipley.
"Yes, they'll be in one lot. You know, all together so you can buy them all at once."
"Then you will let me know when you are selling them. And do not forget."
With that they went upstairs to bed leaving Shipley and Rawlston to enjoy another hour of mutual congratulation over the prospect of driving up the price of the swords with non-existent mystery bids the moment the Sheikh started bidding on them.
No one was ever able to discover the precise fate that Bob, Dirk and Terry suffered at the hands of the MP's, but they weren't seen about the village for the next two days. Whether the American women kept them prisoner at their camp or they stayed there out of their own free will no one ever found out, but on the third day all three surfaced looking none the worse for wear. In fact they were wearing self-satisfied smiles and even Herpes seemed chirpier than usual. Bert Hughes caught up with them in the pub at lunchtime.
"Well, well, been on a diet have we?"
"What do you mean?" asked Bob.
"Oh, it's just that you three look as if you've lost weight!"
"That's not funny. A lot of help you were, I must say."
"Yeah, Bert, we were abducted and you just stood by and let them get away with it."
"Abducted? Who are you kidding? I'll bet you lot enjoyed every minute of it, being sorted out by a load of American women. I can't imagine what they must have done to you."
"No, I'm sure you can't. You've gone right down in our estimation, so don't be asking us for any favours in future, you're on your own now."
"Favours? That reminds me, I've got a job for you three."
"Oh, that's bloody typical. Done nothing for us and now he wants us to do something for him."
"Well, it's just that with all these people around someone's got to watch the river. The gamekeeper's got his hands full on the estate protecting the pheasants and the deer and I'm more concerned about some of the other problems the auction has created. I thought that you three might want to become unofficial water bailiffs for the next several days, that's all."
"Get lost, Bert," said Bob. "You've got nowt else to do now your traffic problem's solved, so do it your bloody self."
"Yeah, why would we be interested in helping someone who didn't help us in our hour of need?" said Dirk.
"Hour of need? Don't make me laugh. It wouldn't surprise me if I found you all back at their camp tonight." At that the three of them went quiet. "Anyway I was really thinking of you lot. I mean let's say that out of these hundreds, if not thousands of people that are here just one percent poach the river each night. There won't be a salmon left for miles and we all know who'll suffer for a couple of months after that until the stocks build up again, don't we?"
It was a good point. Dirk and Terry's record night under the bridge had been just eight salmon and normally they only took one or two at a time. A couple of dozen people poaching over the next ten days could virtually wipe out the stock of fish in the area. They would be left with next to nothing to poach until a flood brought new fish in and who knew when that might be?
"We might go for an occasional walk along the river I suppose, but what would we do if we found any poachers?" asked Dirk.
"The boot would be on the other foot then, wouldn't it? You could either whistle me up or deal with it yourselves, within the law of course, or you could always set your lady friends on them!" Bert chuckled, provoking looks of spite. "Seriously though, if you do it well I'll put you up for bailiff's jobs with the River Board after the auction. You could each do with some regular income and then you'd be out on the river all the time. That would be a lot safer than parading around here like red hot targets for heat seeking American MP's, now wouldn't it?" They were not amused.
"Well, I'm not a poacher or a fisherman," said Bob. "But if it gets you off our backs then I'll give it a go. The ferocious 'Erp will sort any poachers out, won't you 'Erp?" he looked down at his dog, lying comatose and snoring under the table.
"Yes, I can see how he would. Well you can get on with it anytime you like because I saw some activity down past the Major's stretch this morning and just remember, doing a good job will get you my recommendation."
Bert Hughes had initiated the plan he'd been turning over in his mind for some time. Set a poacher to catch one. Who could be better at it than the wiliest of poachers in the district? They knew every trick in the book and every place to poach salmon for miles around. He knew the river was in good hands now and, if they did poach some fish for themselves, they wouldn't be taking many as they could plainly see that his attention was well and truly focused on them.
Hiroyuki Takada and his friend were hunting through the items for sale.
"So this is Shakespeare country?"
"Not exactly, but now that we are here we might as well find something to buy." Takada was rummaging about in some cardboard boxes.
"Like what? This is all junk. I do not think you have been completely honest with me, you know."
"You are right, my friend. Not completely honest. When I read about this auction I just fancied coming to see what I could find. I apologise to you that it's not very good, but we will enjoy some Shakespeare at the theatre in London, do not worry."
"So now I have to rummage around like a pig in a sty trying to find us something, but we don't know what, so that we can attempt to buy it?"
"Something like that, yes."
"I think you are going senile. However I shall persevere as I happen to like the best thing about this part of England."
"The people?" enquired Takada as his friend searched under a table.
"The people are O.K. that I grant you. They are polite and helpful. Quite the opposite to how they were in the war. No it's not the people, it's that beer tanker."
"Ah, yes, the beer tanker. Only the British could organise an entire tanker of beer as a priority for such an occasion and the beer is not at all bad is it, my friend?"
There was no answer.
"Is it?" Takada looked around. The other man slowly emerged from under the table holding a Japanese sword. Takada moved around the table and stopped his friend from drawing the blade, indicating that he should wait until the crowd thinned out a little. After a few minutes people drifted away from them and the blade was drawn.
"Wakizashi. From Edo period. The blade is good, even if the handle is worn and what about these?" They knelt and looked at the seven other swords lying under the table.
"My friend you have found us something very exciting, so much so that I will definitely take you to see some Shakespeare." He was answered derisively. For the next half hour they examined the swords. Some were a little rusted but others were perfect and any damage they found could be repaired fairly easily.
"We need to have a serious think about this find. We need to go somewhere where we can meditate about the values of these. I mean they are obviously worth far more at home than they are here. Yes, we must find a place where we can think in peace and work out exactly how we are going to make sure of securing them."
His friend agreed and together they walked out of the marquee and headed straight for the beer tanker.
Jess Miller
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