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Chimes at Middlemyte

The tears, the tantrums, the ambitions and the missions; the madness behind the methods. A malevolent wind is about to blow into the village of Middlemyte. The singles are about to fly. In the thick of the fray, just who will be able to keep the rounds clean?

Chimes at Middlemyte is a soap-opera brought to you by the Oxford City Branch. All of it is entirely fictional. Any correlation between it and any event that occurs in real life is purely coincidental. We therefore cannot supply the email address of any of its characters, since these do not exist outside the mind of its authors.

The lack of a "Lower" or "Upper" Myte is evidence as to the growth of Middlemyte, although no Upper Myte ever existed as far as anyone seems to be able to recall. On the other hand, Lower Myte did indeed once figure on maps and documents of note. Although long since subsumed it still lives on informally thanks to local traditionalists, a couple of road names, and a cul-de-sac.

A stream, a bypass, a railway line and a by-way all twist their way either through or around the village like plaited ribbons. At the time of writing, most of the quintessential features and amenities expected of an English village by the visitor are present and correct.

The picturesque church of All Saints still sits very much at the heart of Middlemyte, even if not geographically central within the village, sitting as it does at the northerly edge. As well as being rich in history, the church is equally notable for its well-maintained state that makes it the obvious pictorial representative for the village in books, periodicals and magazines.

Despite a welter of modern development, a wistful rural ambience is still evident just a short walk away from the more obtrusive signs of modernity, due in the main to the preponderance of by-ways and allotments that fortuitously break up the ongoing development.

Canon Aubrey Hapless, The Essential Villages of England and Wales, 1982

EPISODE ONE
published 1st November 2005

Spirits In The Personate World

For most residents of Middlemyte, that particular spring morning merely arose from its tauperic slumber with an accompaniment of sullen shades of mightily opaque-lustred and possibly rain bearing clouds. This was not at all so for Naomi Timbrel prior to the shrill ring of the front doorbell, and most assuredly not after the subsequent disclosure of her very own grande-passion that inevitably followed. A leman with whom enamour and amativeness were words of prodigious understatement in Naomi’s book. A veritable “heart-throb” the like of which she had only faithfully taken to bed with her most every night in her head to anywhere within sight of the same degree during her teen idolising days. Even then the circumstances were hardly comparable as this persona grata did not need to be bolstered by an assemblage of colour posters, pullout supplements, album covers or culled ephemeris.

The minds’ eye alone easily satisfied all those utopian dreams of the discrete hours, late of night and early of morning. Naomi had a full awareness of just how juvenile she was apt to become from time to time, but that was a major ingredient in the addiction of it all. That was the first time, and absence appeared to actually make the heart grow fonder in her case. Possessing a considerably close friend in a glamorous job, and in as imposing a location as Las Vegas made Naomi feel immensely special.

At the time, this particular day was primarily marked out for another resident of the greater confines of Middlemyte as being probably no more than a further false dawn amongst an ever scrolling list of little disappointments. Gemma Ferley, 16, of 23 Reremouse Road began her bell-ringing career that day, with no great expectation of it burgeoning into anything that would continue long enough so as to qualify as a career. As it turned out she possessed many a fine attribute from her years of newspaper delivering, especially the rigours of Saturday and Sunday Supplement shoulder that had given her a strong upper arm. Also of great use were her quick hands, finely honed as a result of encountering a worrying percentage of guillotine-like letter flaps. Gemma had next to no idea as to just what she was letting herself in for when she acquiesced in following her rather bumptious uncle into learning how to ring bells. Uncle Forrest may only have been something of a distant relative but his roughshod nature squeezed the last drop out of every visit to the Ferley household.

Even allowing for the assertiveness of her uncle, Gemma still set herself a general target of two weeks to determine whether it was worth pursuing ringing or not. All the set ideas went out of the window as the first week was marked by her being informed that she had this natural aptitude for the dextrous component parts, but then came the retrograde second week where it all suddenly looked more tricky than it did on week one. This left her with an awkward decision to make as to whether there would be a third week.

Well, six months later and she was glad that she had, although abashedly at the time, decided to give that third week a try. Gemma only had the tenuous link of Uncle Forrest Bore as a family background history in ringing, and he was a very irregular ringer of late. There had only been church attendance in the near family for the social requirements of weddings and funerals, and only one of those was at All Saints.

Most weekday afternoons consisted of a monotonous schedule, and Gemma could tell you virtually to within seconds what time she would arrive home, undergo a manic changeling scramble from school uniform to paper-round attire, perform her delivering tasks, and then return home more permanently. The only variance of note between these weekday afternoons was the meal that she might fix herself, the subjects of homework, and the probable presence of her appalling brother Terry.

Gemma’s mother being at the beck and call of an employer who had come rely upon her as if she were a soubrette meant that that she was seldom home before early evening in even the most generous interpretation of early. At some stage during the consumption of whatever Gemma had concocted there was every chance of having an odorant jacket discarded over her head or dinner plate by her returning brother. Depending upon his afternoon intake he would either be surly, giggly, or in a disquieting combination.

Every so often Terry could be violently insistent that his sister vacate the house temporarily to allow him to do whatever he felt had to be done. Every further indignity ratcheted up Gemma’s determination to find an outlet from this ghastly regime. As it was she hardly dared to think of the consequences should determination turn to desperation.

In the early days of this new dawning in lifestyle about the house Gemma would occasionally find incriminating evidence deep in the recesses of the sofa. In those days she was more vocal in her resolve to confront Terry decisively, but after all this time she had effectively given up all hope for her brother. Given that she only appeared to possess a priority in his life as a money machine then Gemma no longer had any qualms in consigning him to the ranks of no-hope cases.

There were still phantom bottles of spirit appearing around the house and garden on the odd occasion as big brother stocked-up on his part-payment toward the goods he was really after. Terry found it all very easy to convince himself that he was something of a businessman or entrepreneurial figure in his ability to sell to more than one dealer. Even more than his lethargy about the house, it was the sheer irrationality of her brother that worried and sometimes frightened Gemma.

Never had there been more choice on offer by way of activity for someone of Gemma’s age, and it was not a conspicuous lack of money that stood in her way, rather the sheer weight of fashion. She was part of an annoyingly unadventurous and supine hobby class at school who had a consensus against virtually every one of her interests, and who instead adopted the most indolent pursuits on offer. A void between her and most of the rest had become patently obvious some considerable time ago as she was refused access to the nightly rituals out on the streets more than her actually declining to take part.

The only benefit of a household whose occupants had drifted into developing cultures of their own was that they managed to be almost unaware of the presence of the others for the most part. Even mother and daughter did not relate so easily as had once been the case. From Gemma’s perspective, her mother seemed to be willingly accepting the extra work that was on offer to her of late primarily to give her extra time away from the strong domestic adversity. It might have been purely for the extra finance, but Gemma wasn’t convinced.

Even though it was fast becoming a fading memory, the closeness of home life that used to be so prevalent still held a precious sway over Gemma, in that she could discern it as being a distinctly different form of bonding to that with her erstwhile predominantly street-roaming friends. Potential newer partners might possess tempting affiliations when the situation demanded, but she was nearly always aware of fickleness. Ostensibly, the school gang closest to Gemma’s acquaintance was so low down the pecking order as to be restricted to being mere onlookers. For the most part they did not carry enough weight to muscle in on the centre stage, although with a little pep added then a modicum of disorderly conduct and petty criminality was always possible from the odd one of them.

Gemma felt infinitely more at ease in a small clique rather than the vigorous groupings of ten or a dozen. This being so then it should have come as no surprise to find that she was soon a close confidante of Naomi Timbrel’s younger sister. The degree to which Gemma's head was turned by the undemonstrative celebrity of Naomi was as nought by comparison to that of Ruthie Timbrel, who would have been off the scale of excitability had her sister been of international fame. Just by Naomi having her own Website was cause enough to seal her stardom for Ruthie.

There was never anything other than pride or awe emanating from Ruthie about her “talented” and “awesome” big sister. The only down side was that Naomi had to come to the financial rescue every week as Ruthie never had anywhere near the required amount of money to buy the thumping number of celebrity-driven magazines that she so desperately craved. Despite the fact that barely half a dozen out of the many hundreds over time had contained even the merest mention of her sister, Ruthie still counted anyone who Naomi had rubbed shoulders with. It didn’t stop there, as she extended this to include those who she had discovered to have been pictured with other minor celebrities, and other equally tenuous links.

Thus it should have come as no surprise to find that Gemma swiftly became infected by the same celebrity-itis. Ruthie liked to think that she was actually quite discerning about selecting worthies from wannabes, but everyone else in the family saw her very much as a S.L.E.B. in the making. The girls were hardly yet S.L.’s (Shameless and Libidinous), but Egoistic and Slaves to celebrity was becoming very much up their street. Reremouse Road, or Abi Titmuss Road, as its road-sign had been renamed with a bit of adept daubing, was hardly in line to be picked by any location directors as a prime specimen for typifying a wasteland ghetto, but equally it was not brimming with opulence.

As a flip-side to familiarity breeding contempt, the very fact that Naomi was only to be fitfully seen at ringing practices during Gemma’s early learning curve merely added to the mystique. Ruthie only added to this kudos by shamelessly exaggerating and sometimes inventing the life and times of her sister so far.

There were two high profile occasions at which Naomi was in evidence, both of which managed to provide opportunity for her to make use of her organisational skills and general competence. This was in stark contrast to the notional organiser Christopher Padget, who remained almost as big a bag of nerves over timings and attendance at the start of a ringing outing in a minibus as he ever was during the coach era of days past. The tower was immensely fortunate in having the advantage of having a semi-retired coach driver in Fred Tumble amongst their number who knew how to get in and out of most any destination.

Gemma’s first ringing outing had primarily been organised by Chris, with his usual adeptness for making the best of what resources were available. Every once in a while they might get the opportunity to offset some of the cost of the outings be ringing for a wedding as part of the itinery, but on this occasion they had to take their set of hand-bells with them to entertain at a fete at one of the towers they were visiting. Through the course of the day with its usual little hiccups and unforeseen hitches, it was perfectly evident that Naomi was the natural team leader. Rather like “The Laughing Cavalier” her gaze manoeuvred itself to the directions that those around her may have needed in a moment of uncertainty.

It was exactly the same at the Tri-Society Skittles Challenge around the same time. That Chris was constantly exuding traits that came from being under pressure may actually have increased the impression that Naomi was cool, calm and collected, but still she certainly seemed much more in her element than anyone else on the Middlemyte dominated team.

In spite of all these merits, it was probably the way that Naomi got off on the right foot with Gemma, after initial introductions, by making mention of her progress in so few weeks of learning to ring. Putting the various aspects together made for a massive boost to Gemma’s self-esteem.

With Christmas looming and Carol Singing expected to be organised, Chris had staged something of a minor coup, in novelty value at least, by discovering that the new landlord of one of the local public houses kept a pair of reputedly amenable goats which he was confident enough in their sheer affability to allow them to be walked around the vicinity for a couple of hours in aid of charity.

The Sprat & Mackerel was still mostly unlit, locked, and slumbering prior to its evening opening. Having knocked at the front door, Chris and Gemma had to peer through several windows, some more than once, before the landlord deigned to come over to one of the dimly lit windows and give them a signal to go around the side of the building and meet up with him at the rear of the car park.

Gemma and Chris were both of a mind that he had actually forgotten that they were coming, especially as he was barely dressed for venturing out into the fresh evening air. The fact that his shirtsleeves were dangling down unbuttoned, and about his chest region the buttoned were outnumbered by the unbuttoned gave a fair indication as to his lack of readiness. Despite this he made no mention thus, instead homed into the matter at hand, introducing his “babies” with the gusto of a ringmaster. On request of their respective names he became so effulgent in having his goats recognised that it sounded like an echo as he excitedly repeated their names with only marginally less volume on each succeeding airing of the names “Popsi” and “Jody”. “Now if they takes a liking to you, then that’s qualification enough... as good as anyway. You won’t have to do much scooping up, they’re under strict orders to hold 'emselves in for the duration.” Chris had thought to bring along a bucket and shovel in any case, with instructions to all concerned to be diligent in not allowing any potential financial donators to deposit their contributions into it. The landlord appeared to be in something of a hurry so Gemma never got the opportunity to ask why a pub so far inland would come to be named such as it was.

On arriving at the local Scout HQ, the goats immediately became the centre of attention, which soon upset the elder statesman of Middlemyte ringing, Derek Pannier. “Now don't you go scaring 'em!”. The first hour proved a resounding success financially and personally, with an absence of argument and dissension from the foot-soldiers who all felt like equal contributors on the evening of cold shards in the air. At about this time Pannier found his age stealthily creep up on him, although he girded himself to see this engagement through to its conclusion. This did not necessitate him to become tailed off, but a shaft of keen wind that managed to thrust its way between the ill-fitting panes of glass that surrounded the candle in a lantern provided an ideal opportunity to stop momentarily to relight the candle. Consequently, Gemma, Chris and he did get left behind all of a sudden, and were left with some catching up to do.

Naomi had reluctantly promised to spend the main part of the evening in the company of Stephen Petters as opposed to taking to the streets with the others. To be in his company was not a complete reason for her reticence, but an office Christmas rave-up with him in tow smoothly made up the rest of the percentage. She could almost smell an exotic fragrance of male contraceptive wafting up from his top pocket.

Having come to terms with the temporary embarrassment of cutting short her participation in this seasonal “rubber-chicken” event, Naomi tried to make some amends, for herself as much as anything, by driving the length and breadth of Middlemyte in the hope of being “better late than never” for the carollers. Eventually she caught a glimpse of one of the goats out of the corner of an eye on the far side of the road, and by the law of probabilities it followed that there would not be more than one group of people traipsing the local streets with goats in tow.

Naomi had crossed the road, and would have sprinted down the passageway after Chris had it not been for the twisty nature of the walkways which effectively broke up any prolonged turn of speed. Only a mere one twist into this maze and Naomi suddenly found herself yanked and swivelled into a contrary direction by a flailing pair of hands that just about managed to snake around a shoulder without any sense of coordination, but had within seconds homed in on what money she had about her person. She only caught the briefest of glimpses on the features of her attacker to measure just what she was up against, and in what capacity.

Such was her rage that it carried far enough to be heard by the lagging trio. Chris thrust the awkward lantern on to Pannier as he immediately recognised the voice behind the obscenity. The entirety of his recognition focused upon doing his best to get the attacker away from Naomi as speedily as possible, in however clumsy a way that he could manage in such unpredictable circumstances. There was no really prolonged struggle to speak of, although a further flurry of obscenities exchanged briefly between Naomi and her assailant as he and Chris reeled away from her totally out of control. Chris found himself an unwilling passenger as he was pushed some six or seven paces backwards until he collided with a bordering hedge that only took off a fraction of the ever accumulating speed.

After brushing past the hedge and out of the anonymity provided by the alleyway, the two remaining combatants stayed linked, albeit off-balance and heading downward, only to be abruptly and violently halted in their tracks by the railings than ran either side of the pedestrian crossing. All so short too were the moments that it took to physically log the shattering distortion that overcame Chris as his neck felt a jab that seemed anaesthetised from its rear entry point, but caused an unrestricted ruction on and around his throat.

Having taken the brunt of the impact, Chris would probably have slumped very near to where the impact occurred but for some semblance of consciousness which enabled him to hang on to his foe. Consequently he was flung directly around by his fright-charged contestant as he yanked himself up, the force being quite sufficient to detach Chris.

The entry to the alleyway was not particularly wide, but Chris avoided touching either side of the opening as he was propelled. His inevitable second heavy impact was only prevented in part by Naomi, who by no means stabilised, had managed to follow after the struggle and acted as a slight brake. Naomi was knocked back and virtually off her feet as Chris rebounded and landed in her midriff, but she managed to use her clash with the barrier to steady herself as the two of them ended up on the deck in what passed for a controlled fashion.

Within a couple of seconds of reaching a sitting position Naomi could sense the seriousness of Chris’s condition, and she knew that the assailant was now out of reach and therefore of less import, leaving only one thing to concentrate upon. Even though she was aware of certain peripheral sounds, she did not register any impact accruing from the strident sounds of screeching tyres some distance away. Instead she put all her efforts into comforting Chris in the way that she considered best in the heat of the moment, with her rudimentary knowledge of satisfactory procedure tattered by upset and immediacy.

Naomi chastised herself throughout the efforts to prop Chris up and cradle him as she felt her every impalpable movement hurt him. She felt too scared to scream for aid as she swiftly became subsumed and overwhelmed with intent to avoid disturbing this precarious stand-off, yet deep down she desired to the contrary, wanting desperately to let loose her pent-up vitriol and frustration to the mercies of the dank night air. “Don’t die.” She pleaded softly in consideration of the traumatic scenario that she found herself sitting amidst. Trying her best to disguise the all too frequent trembles in her voice, Naomi inwardly buckled at the whim of a conspicuous force that was at large, with every second appearing to deliver good or bad missives as their world came down to merely this.

So very long a time seemed to go by until Derek Pannier and Gemma arrived into Naomi’s vision. Even though they were unable to do more than telephone for assistance, and simply be there on hand as friendly faces in support, Naomi felt bolstered and more hopeful by their presence alone. She continued to endure a pulsating power of life ebbing and charging against her body from the waist upwards that she had never remotely approached before.

Naomi vainly tried not to dwell upon the blood that managed to coat her chin and neck in an attempt to convey an oasis of kindred serenity for as long as it should take. She could only patchily interpret what Derek Pannier was trying to convey to her, but she simply could not concentrate on all his words or answer coherently amidst this centre of battle. At this time of heightened senses of priority any unnecessary utterance would have been tantamount to a literal injurious betrayal of Chris.

The time that sadistically dragged by at least created a bond of determination between the bloodied pair that battled doggedly to prevent itself from being severed by any outside interference other than medical. Once the paramedics had arrived and prised a reluctant Naomi apart from Chris, she was hit by an urgent crowding aura that surrounded her head and upper body. This was a sudden numbing sensation of something tangibly draining away, with her helpless to intercede as an anxious weight bore down upon her.

EPISODE TWO
published 12th December 2005

The Lost Gardens of Hell On Earth

Virtually everything had become illogical for Naomi since the ferment of that December evening where several little worlds collapsed almost within the blink of an eye. Of the three most involved in the incident, Naomi was the only one to come away physically unscathed, but she was shackled with guilt writ in letters as large as the HOLLYWOOD sign in California.

During the period where Naomi had no one but Chris to talk to and comfort she was granted a certain respite from dwelling incessantly upon all things guilt-ridden. Then the whirlwind that is the Christmas rush alleviated some of the angst, not that Naomi was in the frame of mind to make seasonal preparations. Once the preamble was done with and the lull of the actual Christmas period upon them it came as no surprise that emotions were raised due to a surplus of thinking time.

Naomi was thoroughly resistant to being dragged along the route of sustained checking for trauma and various analysis. Nobody needed to tell her that she was under the cosh of continued angst, and this particular Christmas period quickly attained a quirk of similarity to the very first Christmas that Naomi and Chris enjoyed in the joyous knowledge of each other. That past Christmas season it seemed as if Christopher had spent every waking hour at Naomi’s house playing Monopoly, Scrabble, Pictionary or even occasionally Twister. Now it was Naomi’s turn to perform the visiting role, which she was grateful to do, as she battled an immense paranoia that she would be subjected to blame for this state of affairs to the same degree that she shamed herself. Despite no evidence of even the slightest animosity or blame being attached to her by anyone, Naomi was constantly swayed by a little voice telling her to look beyond what people might be saying to her face. If nothing else, she was beginning to know what it was to be scared over an extended period of time.

Of course it never was going to be a symmetrical role reversal of those bygone days given the inescapable fact that Chris was still more than somewhat incapacitated, and obviously unable to take part in anything physically or mentally intense. Christmas Eve went by in only a slightly troubled fashion as Chris was able to attend the early evening service, but having to satisfy himself with merely watching the rest of the band ringing beforehand was seriously frustrating.

In the normal course of events Chris would have dealt with the majority of seasonal decorating, but this year it had been a shared effort, with Ruthie and Gemma adding their own unique slant on what should go where, and Forrest Bore surpassed himself with his donation of a small tree. Trees had very much been Forrest Bore’s business for many years, and his father before him. Morris Bore had made a killing thanks to the sad era of rampant Dutch Elm Disease, and the young entrepreneurial Forrest was weaned on enticing people to stock up on logs, firewood, kindling, etcetera. Given the arboreous contacts that the Bore’s made, there were plenty of other trees that were never going to be safe from the “have tree - will chop” boys. Even though the Bore dynasty had largely diversified away from all things wood related in recent years, Forrest still kept immensely busy in a variety of fields, so he was very much an occasional ringer content to cover or treble. This meant he kept open a ready customer base for new product opportunities.

Christmas Eve ringing was populated by a more representative portion of the regular practice night band, whereas Christmas morning consisted of a not very often seen permutation of Middlemyte ringers. Russell Blender was briefly back from university, plus even the bellringers venerable benefactor and some time secretary Mrs.Dolly Gaskin came up for a quick chime.

As far as Naomi was concerned Christmas Day was much worse initially, as she replaced Chris in the quarter peal band and thus had the uncomfortable task of reporting back on it. A quarter peal of double oxford that she herself conducted despite considerable preoccupation and a paucity of ringing in recent months. Had it been anyone else then Chris would have been jealous at best, and wishing ill upon it at worst, but obviously not in this instance. The quarter peal turned out to be something of a Timbrel family affair, with Ruthie on the treble, Naomi conducting from the tenor, and their mother on the two.

Once the ringing had finished, Ruthie met up with Gemma and they pretty much had the run of the Timbrel house for several hours as Naomi spent the remainder of the morning with Chris, and parents went a visiting in-laws.

There was never a contest to be had between Chris and Naomi as to who was the best at concealment of their true feelings, but he was definitely getting more adept at it. Sure enough he was subjected to plenty of stabbing pains and the frustration of being forced into going painstakingly slow at most anything he had to attempt, but being number one on Naomi’s list again rather than one of the minions was worth much greater pain than he was currently experiencing.

There was certainly no malingering around here for much of the day as Chris sought to will himself to some kind of acceptable level of fitness, at least while Naomi was present anyway. She was ideal for any light fitness regime given that the most prevalent first male reaction was to swoon at her feet.

Boxing Day was a bit freaky as a two-hour "Best of" melange had been slotted in on the radio station between 20.00 and 22.00, and as it turned out it became syndicated across several other sister stations. There had been very little input requested from Naomi during the compilation of the programme which was fine by her during such an awkward time. She generally found it acutely embarrassing listening to herself in anything other than pre-broadcast material, and it took Chris to convince her to even have the radio on at a low volume as her best bits were aired.

In respect of many issues any advice from Chris would carry no more weight with Naomi than the next-door neighbour or the milkman proffering ideas, but over these matters he only had to remind her of how they set out to treat all things beyond the mundane and day to day as something of a great adventure. Chris himself felt ill at ease about listening to everything that Naomi did by way of broadcasting, especially as he was responsible for a not insubstantial proportion of the ideas and dialogue.

Listening to a rerun of Naomi describing various interesting ways of dancing in bed whilst half asleep thus making it easy to imagine you’re vertical when you’re actually horizontal proved far easier for Chris than Naomi. Oh yes, that was what Boxing Night was all about, this fortuitous opportunity to be reminded of the inordinately long oo-ooh! in Starship’s - We Built This City, and an unforgettable ooo-ooh! in ELO’s – Don’t Bring Me Down. Then there was the classic Waa-ooow! from Baby Jump by Mungo Jerry, and a warning to brace oneself for a huge Ni-ahh! and arguably the biggest Uhh! ever committed to record.

What better during the last dregs of the main festivities than to scour the deepest recesses of the kitchen drawers in order to determine that the nutcrackers were still in residence since the previous Christmas? One of these years some nuts in necessity of cracking might return to the household, so precious leisure time was ideal for such purposes additional to the norm.

After a while they were unable to resist noting where it could have been improved or how they might do it now. Such as the exceptional Number One ratio of music chart acts with Pussycat in their name, two out of two for the Pussycat Dolls in 2005, and one out of one for Pussycat with Mississippi back in the 1970’s. Just how the creators of Are You Being Served? must be kicking themselves that they didn’t cut a record deal for Mrs.Slocombe’s much vaunted, although sometimes misunderstood pussy when it was really hot in the late 70’s and early 80’s.

As the hours and days of the season ticked by things noticeably got easier, but far from making resolutions for the fresh year on the horizon, Naomi headed towards January with a mist of utmost confusion as to where her life was directed.

Naomi was not in the least bit put out by any comments to her face that she was neglecting what passed for her career, and would only have been aghast if anyone intimated toward the other extreme. As far as Naomi was concerned she was keeping busy enough with her reduced hours in the proper job, and the odd interview here and there with various interested parties. Two of which could hardly have been more diffuse. The Laura Bevan Show had what Naomi’s father described as all the bite of a chocolate mouse. Interviews never got more abrasive than a collision of two cotton wool balls. Apart from Laura mentioning that she was still waiting to receive an award in recognition of her broadcasting feats, unlike Naomi’s early plaudit, it was nothing worse than a saunter.

Giles Pinfield at the opposite extreme had a tendency to be psychoanalytical in his approach to interviewing. Most everyone around Naomi who knew of his newspaper column cautioned her to avoid that particular offer, especially Dennis Lomas, who served as what passed as being her agent. Naomi’s sister was the only one really positive about this matter, but she always wanted Naomi to say yes without much notion as to what the matter would entail. Of course, as totally unrealistic as it was, what Ruthie really hoped for was for her sister to be given the call to one of her own wish-list shows, then feign injury or illness and suggest that she go in her stead.

Celebrity Love Island, Celebrity Fame Academy and Celebrity Big Brother were top of the list. With a second tier of Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, Weakest Link, and several others, a group which would leave her knowledge open to humiliation, but still reap rewards to outweigh such a down side. Of course there were days when Ruthie would consider the most inappropriate celebrity formats so long as it meant exposure. Celebrity Detox, Botox, Mastermind, Plasteredmind, Weakest Link, Missing Link, etc, were all completely unsuitable, not that Naomi was ever likely to accept any prospective offer from ninety nine percent of them.

In fact, the most prescient reason against doing any interview was Ruthie herself, as Naomi considered her to be the one in need of protection, not that she could or would dare to let this be known her sister.

It was a decided novelty for Giles Pinfield to be intrigued enough to want to interview anyone on the basis of what he considered to be a diminutive a pretext, but there was one pre-eminent question that he unequivocally had to ask, stemming as it did from a description that he could have wished to have coined himself for her as a by-line, defining Naomi Timbrel as: "The Greta Garbo of local radio" due to her preparedness to walk away.

On first meeting Naomi, he found her seemingly adept and at ease with dispensing hospitality, somewhat counter to his preconceptions. Most definitely a first for him was being treated to a pot of tea and a delicate concoction of egg, crème fraiche, and smoked salmon on crumpet, across what he suspected to be an American-style breakfast bar that to him appeared utterly out of kilter with the rest of the interior of the house.

The building suffered the misfortune of being very much a statement of its time, complemented as it was by a particularly archetypal plot for a back garden, with the requisite shed at the end, a reasonable well-attended vegetable patch, and the aroma of a recent barbecue still hanging in the air adjacent to the kitchen door. On the day there was even an oblong tray affair conspicuous in the kitchen that he rightly imagined served as an indoor herb garden, although his knowledge of herbs didn’t go beyond recognising parsley and chives amongst the viridescence.

GILES PINFIELD Meets... A young woman going places in no great hurry

At 22, the middle of three children, and hitting the interviewer straight in the eye with the eurythmic bone structure of her face, Naomi hails from the quiet backwater of Middlemyte. She would appear to be the personification of an anachronism in transgressing seemingly immutable laws that require the polish of an Oxbridge education or the school of hard knocks to play the entertainment game. All evidence would suggest that she is perfect for being the paying spectator or watching viewer from that huge sector of the community that goes about its business of work without frills, only asking for entertainment of an evening as an escape from the grinding rigours of a world gone speed-freak crazy. A generally silent band, fearful of reproach for having such an unexceptional existence in a climate riven with deference for the hysterical, camp, and overexposed.

Trying to ascertain exactly when this implausibly formidable scion placed a foot on the first rung of the ladder is not as straightforward as it might be, a trait that seems to recur with regularity that borders upon the monotonous. The first of her staccato steps into the business came about through her "proper job" for an incentivising company – Paintball, Laser, White-Water Canoeing, and general esprit de couer - where she currently continues to work on a part-time basis.

Despite the all-action image, she is more likely to be found in the more mundane areas, dealing with clients, ticketing software, and signage. The perverse logic of a few more staccato steps eventually found Naomi with a two-hour Saturday morning show that in its relatively short existence roused an estimated 10,000 + extra slumberers to the station.

The timbre of the piece inevitably did not remain so encouraging through to the end, but still ended up noticeably more sympathetic than the majority of his articles. The finished product still incensed Dennis Lomas who thought it bore out most everything he had warned of beforehand.

The spry figure and abrasive nature fashioned by nearly twenty years in the Armed Forces had alternately helped and hindered Dennis Lomas on his return to the vagaries of life as a civilian. He was ex- two indelible imperators, the Army and London, and would not have cared to be pressed into elevating one above the other in their influence upon his mid-life direction. The choices that presented themselves to him in the way of immediate employment back then were not outstandingly attractive to him, but having discovered that one did not necessarily have to belong to the Officer class to develop a taste for Grand Cru, Gran Reserva, nicely crusted port, cognac and malt whisky, he eventually decided to make best use of this knowledge.

A few short courses in viniculture training and well subsided weekends to the Loire and Rhone valleys were more than plenty bring Dennis up to speed on what he needed as a minimum to secure the job he wanted. The central location of the wine merchants that he took charge of proved ideal territory in terms of making the sort of contacts that he was really after. The steady base of well-heeled customers and generally thrusting young turks made for a good turnover of Remy Martin X.O., 10-y-o Bushmills, 20 y-o single malts (various), 1963 vintage port, magnums of Dom Perignon, and several other favourite recommendations for successful entertaining.

Those were the days of Hirondelle, Blue Nun, Armadillo sherry via a plastic flask, Double Diamond, Long Life, Orson Welles imbibing sherry on television adverts nightly, and Paul Masson carafes being the general idea of "New World" wine. Travelling out to discover the wines in Piemonte, Touraine and Mosel, and getting paid to do so was not unlike some of his Army postings, although a hundred times more sedate. As pleasant as it was to receive the opportunity to take discursions to non-wine related regions such as the Camargue, they were in truth merely trimmings.

A regularly chaotic chain of command amongst the unwieldy divisions of the retail, brewing and delivery arms of the company opened a gap in the market which Dennis swiftly seized on, and eventually acted upon once confident of having made sufficient contacts. It had not taken long for him to decide that there was another way to go other than the viniculture route once he had spotted the demand and profit margin in the courier business the company was putting the way of outside firms.

After being up against the wall through the first winter in the courier business, a fair chunk of army pension had been eaten into, but salvation came rather fittingly for Dennis in the winning of the much vaunted "blood-run" contract that entailed transporting blood up to London. From there, even if his birthdays didn’t exactly all come at once, they did come along at handy little intervals, allowing the business to move onward and upwards to new premises on a rapidly expanding trading estate that was home to a diverse collection of enterprises. It was something of a moot point whether the Radio Station was officially situated on the estate or whether it merely bordered it.

Over the space of not that many months the station wobbled at management level, and Lomas bought in, then bought up, free from the set-up costs, and concentrated on a course wildly different from what even he had been expecting. He could easily have been a role-model for the many who expect the army to turn out individuals who are capable of thinking on their feet and have confidence in their ability to learn on almost any job.

There was nothing that Dennis liked more than to play possum, often allowing others to judge him on his relative lack of high-profile schooling, and then fatally overlook the possibility that he may well have indulged in ardent self-tuition for many a year since. Some many years later, the fact that Naomi had been traversing a similar course in playing catch-up obviously did her no harm in the eyes of Lomas.

With such a track record of changing tack yet still proving pundits wrong, it hardly came as a surprise that Dennis eventually relinquished the pressures of CEO for what had swollen to a clutch of stations, so that he could make best use of his many contacts as an agent, of whom Naomi was his favourite, yet least thirsting for work.

Whenever things were looking disappointing or bleak for a young Naomi her grandmother regularly used to quote from her favourite Dickens novel by way of soothing balm - that something would turn up. In those days Naomi used to be rather dismissive of such clutching at straws for rectifying miserable periods, but as she had got older there had been decided incidences of such bolts from the blue. Unfortunately there were plenty of instances of something turning down as much as up, and even the “princess of wariness” did not rumble the next shock around the corner.

EPISODE THREE
published 15th January 2006

Digging For Victory

Despite their generational differences and a gulf in recognised education, Dennis always relished having his nephew Dominic stay with him from time to time as work allowed. The verbal feuding they would indulge in over politics, economics and law enforcement was enormously invigorating for starters, which was hardly good news for Dominic considering that he had his sights almost exclusively set on a career in politics. Trying to conduct an earnest conversation generally proved beyond Dominic as his uncle vehemently defended boiling certain criminals down to make glue and gleefully bypassed even a dash of erudition.

Dominic Sharwood Bowskill was the result of Dennis’ elder sister Marianne marrying into new-money after an arduous search down the years to find the right man. As usual, Dennis was given very short notice of the imminent arrival of his nephew, but this time he decided that it would look just too obvious to Dominic that he might have been manipulating things on all the previous occasions if he came up with yet another excuse that prevented a meeting with Naomi. Every time Dominic rolled into town he would badger his uncle to try and arrange a seamless introduction, but unforeseen circumstances constantly got in the way, at least as far as Dominic was aware. Given that Naomi had been a relatively late and reluctant convert to mobile telephony and lived in a house with its unpredictable chain of message retention it was not such a stretch of the imagination that she might not be available on a clutch of previous visits. Such disappointments merely lent to the intrigue and cachet surrounding Naomi from Dominic’s perspective.

For two people who regarded each other as the very epitome of unadulterated bumptiousness it was fortunate indeed that the hidden agendas of both uncle and nephew conspired to initiate these meetings and also prevent any unpleasantness beyond bouts of verbal sparring. Naomi was a sublime catalyst for both protagonists as she appeared to engender an inconsistency in them both that neither of them accepted they could ever suffer from.

"I think she’s what your lords and masters up in the Westminster village would call off-message. Of course on that basis you shouldn’t be in the least bit attracted to Naomi…unless you believe in opposites attracting which I didn’t think you did." Dennis jibed to his nephew for not the first time. Dominic didn’t find it hard to counter given the clear weak spot that his uncle had where Naomi was concerned. "I can understand you empathising with someone who hasn’t necessarily got qualifications coming out of their ears, but beyond that everything becomes illogical, and illogicality is something that I thought was as verboten in your sphere of influence as in Mr Spock’s."

Dennis had long since fancied himself as being a capable actor, but he was rather more tasked than he had bargained for as Naomi was not readily available on this occasion when he wanted her to be on hand. Dennis as well as anyone knew that Naomi was apt to eschew her mobile phone whenever possible, so he really shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the nearest he could manage by way of making progress was to leave a message with her mother.

Talking to Naomi’s mother could sometimes be as obtuse as the intransigently confusing Ruthie. Whereas daughter would confuse with garbled information, mother could be hard to discern due to her great brevity. Pat-dogs, nursing homes and allotments made little sense to Dennis when reeled off really quickly with little frame of reference. What it actually meant was that Naomi had dropped off Ruthie and Gemma at the Sylvan Residential Home along with family pet Kalinka, a wonderfully amenable cross-breed ideal for spreading tranquillity amongst those in need of a friend to stroke. Dennis had never thought to extend the training of any of his dogs beyond fetching newspapers and slippers, not that there had been much success in either of those departments in all truth. Whilst the girls shared a contented dog around a select group of the elderly, Naomi availed herself of the opportunity to make best use of valuable time by nipping back to Derek Pannier’s house to see if she could sort out his travails.

Naomi could not claim ignorance of what she acquiesced to in calling round at the home of Derek and Eunice Pannier in response to the urgent telephone call from the feverishly industrious septuagenarians. There was nothing aberrant to find the front-door opened by Eunice thus to be re-routed to the garage, potting shed, greenhouse, loft, ladder or on a handyman’s errand next door. It was seldom that he was to be found in the softly furnished parts of the house. He still kept himself busily in trim to leave it not beyond the realms of expectation that some days he might still be found up a tree or down a hole.

As Naomi set out on her short expedition to find him she was well aware that when she did track him to his lair there would be every chance of her interrupting him in the middle of some operation or mandate that was at a critical stage. Then she would be loathe to disrupt his concentration and hold herself back until a natural pause in endeavour presented itself, consequently losing precious time. Derek was the embodiment of the retired grouping who found themselves busier of many a day than they had been during their years of paid employment. Add to that he carried over his habit for meticulousness, and he could easily eke out a relatively straightforward task, thus he could make it last long enough until another project came along.

The noises emanating from within the confines of the garage led Naomi to know that she had pinpointed him, but then followed the trepidation of finding the best moment to tap on the door, and exactly how hard to rap. With all that overcome she stood well back as he upturned the garage door from the inside. Derek instantly put on that face which conveyed an elation in seeing someone overdue to be seen rather than only a few hours arranged.

For such a meticulous and punctilious person the garage was more than a little cluttered with an enormous collection of paraphernalia stored from floor to ceiling, or on tables and work-benches that ran the length of the three walls. "I take it that you’re not going to get a car again?" Naomi mentioned by way of conversation as Derek carefully cleared a work-bench of some of the items that he would be using for a slide-show he was preparing for the Pensioners Club in his own deliberate fashion. "No, not now, that time has been and gone. It’s uncanny, I used to wonder how on earth we could ever manage without a car, yet now I don’t know how I managed to store all this gubbins when we had one." Naomi decided that this was an apposite moment to prompt Derek to get onto the supposedly so important matters that he had called her over to discuss. Unfortunately his mind wandered just at the moment he was about to expound and he threw in a: "by the way, did I mention...?"

Naomi couldn’t be altogether sure whether the breaking news that he had been made a Parish Constable was actually the matter of great import that she had been summoned here to learn as Derek expounded on his junior status as the oldest of the new recruits to crime-fighting on the neighbourhood front-line. Of course the brilliant ideas that he hoped would make their mark and be implemented by those in positions of power directly above him took up a fair bit longer in time. Not without foundation Derek had acquired a reputation as a veritable buffer, a bit of a bluff old cove, a fully subscribed t.o.g., but when he did cut to the point it was quite obvious that he had done so. "Allotments!"

Suddenly it all made sense, the parish meeting for the month was due to be held the following evening, not something that normally set the pulses racing or would encourage the good citizens of Middlemyte to throng the back room of the village hall, but the imminent threat to sell off the allotments to make way for a housing estate had roused dormant emotions beyond merely the holders of plots. The majority of villagers weren’t aware that they were entitled to attend meetings other than the public meeting every April, and thus an information campaign had been launched by a makeshift action committee to publicise this fact. At this stage nobody could accurately gauge whether there would be a meaningful show of dissent come the night.

There were actually two allotments to service the greater Myte area, but the one earmarked for continuance was the considerably smaller of the two situated none too conveniently at the sparsely populated end of the village. It had been less than a year since one of the village pubs had closed for business and the cul-de-sac that had replaced it was just nearing completion. To accommodate so many relatively upmarket new properties meant something having to give, namely the size of garden allotted, a pocket-handkerchief width strip of soil along the frontage having to suffice. With this in mind it provided a solid argument for the pro-allotment camp to intimate that the shortfall in plot-holders would soon be more than made up with so many prospective new applicants. "I’ve always subscribed to the view that if you wanted to get something done in this village then your family was the one to seek out." Derek lauded Naomi with the utmost alacrity.

Once on to the subject at hand Derek was reasonably pliant with getting to a resolution of sorts so long as one led the conversation for him, thus encouraging him to listen intently and nod furiously in agreement. Derek was made immensely confident about the chances saving the allotments as Naomi brought good ideas to the table that combined with his potentially important information culled from the archives. Naomi was expected back at Sylvan House so had to move the conversation on at a fair lick, so when this little cabal was interrupted by local bigwig Blair Pelfrey the timbre of the conversation was hardly conspiratorial any more.

Few people in Middlemyte did not know of the semi-retired surveyor turned consultant, although this did not mean that it followed that this multitude actually cared for him, especially as the reputation that preceded him was as being a busy-body. That he regularly took a constitutional around and about the burgh at this time of late afternoon / early evening could not be in dispute, but seeing Naomi’s car outside of the Pannier house was all too much for his curiosity. As it happened, the car that Naomi had been making use of for a while now had been Christopher’s, who preferred it not going to waste in dormancy when Naomi could make best use of it in his enforced absence.

Given how close Blair Pelfrey kept either ear to the ground it was probably a surprise that he hadn’t already discovered this. So due to this misconception he came to the conclusion that it was Christopher who was in cahoots with the Panniers over the battle for the allotments which he was in favour of concreting over. It immediately struck him that perhaps Chris was not as impaired as had been touted and despite not agreeing on much it was not unusual for Blair to stop off from his walk and chew the fat with Derek at this time of day. In the summer it was quite common as Derek was likely to be tending some bloom or other in the front garden at around this time.

The light in the garage was a give away as to where Derek was bound to be, and he clearly had company, but he had already made his presence known in his usual presumptuous way before he realised that Naomi was not Chris. He contented himself that he was half right in that this was a bit of a bell-ringers coven, an activity that he was often critical of whenever it took his fancy. "I take it you’re in the opposing camp as well." "The majority camp I’d call it." Naomi was assertive. "Well, yes, I guess we can agree on that, it never means that you must be in the right by merely following the herd. Should I take it that the bell-ringers have allied themselves with the allotment holders?"

Naomi admitted that she had no idea of how many of their band would attend the forthcoming meeting. Pelfrey openly conjectured that Forrest Bore would probably keep a low profile as there were only a smattering of trees involved that were subject to felling. In fact it was lucky for the allotment brigade that there was no coppice or thicket involved or else he would positively have been in the pro-housing camp given his proclivity for making money out of anything in the lumber line. "There’s a dual carriageway running right past the land, would you want to eat vegetables grown so near?" Pelfrey sniped. "I assume then that if you get these houses built then they won’t have any gardens and they’ll never have need to open the doors and windows." "From the revenue coming in there’ll be funds to diffuse any potential pollutants." "That’s nice, infect us with a flu bug, but give us a lifetime supply of tissues in return."

Pelfrey would have launched into a full blown argument had Chris have been standing where Naomi was, but he regarded himself as being far too urbane to like arguing with the ladies, so he made his polite excuses and left them to their devices. Derek soon launched into a bout of bravado once Blair Pelfrey was definitely out of earshot. "You probably won’t remember because you were only so high, but when your granny and I were on the parish council we used to dole out the bus tokens and you diligently sorted out the bags into twos and fours better than a lot of adults would manage. I reckon she’d have given Mr Pelfrey one of her worn out thimbles to bail out his leaky boat. We’ll show ‘em a clean pair of heels on the night." Derek was confident for now, but there was only a receptive audience tonight, but tomorrow would be one of his different kettles of fish.

It was barely half past six, a fully thirty minutes before the big face-off, and already the turnout at the village hall was approaching the three figure mark with extra chairs desperately being sought out from every nook and cranny. Cabals were beginning to form, some tense and others remarkable relaxed given the battle ahead. For all the crush of people outside and around the back and sides of the hall the front two rows were contrarily lacking in occupation, the majority favouring the relative anonymity of the later rows or standing positions on the fringes, even perching youngsters on the kitchen serving hatch and a couple of waste bins affixed to the wall about the outer reaches. Blair Pelfrey was partially right concerning Forrest Bore, who was in attendance, but steering well clear of the front, and popping in and out of the hall as if he wanted to be there but unfortunately suffered from an allergic reaction to the floor polish.

Derek needn’t have worried as to the bell-ringing representation on the big night, even if the likes of the Wesley and Melody Cramp and the Dusty sisters were very much to the rear of the hall. The vicar gravitated toward the middle rows along with Mr and Mrs Timbrel. Even Gemma’s mother had buckled under the resolute prompting of her newly enthused daughter and made time to accompany her on this occasion. Naomi could nearly always rely upon her sister Ruthie for support in some form, even if it was not solidarity in the more obvious form. True to form an excitable Ruthie made sure that her i-pod was at full volume relaying The Kaiser Chiefs – I Predict a Riot, appropriate she thought for the battle to come, although she had little intention of making any other contribution to the debate outside of adding to any jeering or heckling.

The audience sounded as if they were fairly riled even before Smithers, the chairman, decided to take the plunge in opening proceedings. He could see that he was unlikely to gain much attention from anyone, save for his colleagues, so he thought that he might as well get this uncomfortable experience started and over with as soon as practicably possible. "I am led to understand that some of you may wish to voice opinions on the said matter..." "Some?" Reverberated loudly around the hall, as the same word came to the lips of many of the assembled at various rates of delay. This brought about the second set of bangs of the gavel from the nonplussed chairman who had swiftly lost all hope of disguising his anxiety at the size and slant of the turnout. "A modicum of order, please! I’m sure you will have noted that I was not so ill-prepared as to have forgotten to bring a gavel with me, and I am prepared to use it until it breaks if necessary." Smithers tried to lean over surreptitiously toward the Parish clerk in making a point of how farsighted he had been in electing to bring his gavel out of storage for this night. "I told you that I was going to need it." The clerk put the supposed foresight in a decidedly lower perspective. "If you’d brought a bloody big stick with you it might have qualified for being called foresight."

The multitude afore them continued to murmur amongst themselves as the chairman set out the order of business. "I think it only right and proper that I remind everyone here present that this is not a public meeting it is a parish meeting which on this occasion just happens to have a hundred more people in attendance than usual..." Several from the massed ranks corrected him. "200!" "Now, now, you must display forbearance or nobody will get their voice heard above the din. The minutes of out previous meeting must be read and ratified before we can move on to what most of you have seemingly come here for this evening."

As the preliminaries were ground out painfully, the unmistakable sound of chair legs randomly grinding against the floor provided a regular background noise to the talking. Dozens of restless and shifting posteriors set the chairs moving as the assembled tried to find their own ways of passing the time, torn as they were between twiddling thumbs, sitting on hands, doodling, letting out surreptitious yawns and incessantly clicking pens. The divergence in patience was made clear by the speed and irrationality of the clicking as things droned on merely stoking up the coals of discontent. The monotony was briefly broken up by a scream from the equally crowded kitchen due to one of the ladies being spooked by catching a glimpse of a pair of eerily peering eyes from the other side of the kitchen window as Forrest Bore had gone for another wander in search of a low profile.

When the top table did eventually finish with the lengthy preamble Derek Pannier was not as impassioned in his speech as he had been telling Naomi that he would be without fear of a doubt. Supposedly it was going to be all about taking the fight to the enemy, but in reality he was shrouded by nerves and regularly had to resort to reading from his notes in an obviously stiff manner. "I have a photocopy of legislation that dates back to the sixteenth century, around the time of the Spanish Armada in fact, and it states that it is unlawful to enclose or take in any part of the common or waste grounds, situate, lying or being within four miles of the said parish boundaries. Nor must there be severance or division by any hedge, ditch, pale or other wise of any of said fields, lying within the afore said four miles, to the let or hindrance of walking, recreation, comfort and health of Her Majesties people... er... so in effect... um... that means..." Derek’s hesitation found him being swamped by others who were confused as to which side he was supporting or felt that a more forthright approach was required to avoid wasting this platform for protest. The crestfallen look on his face at having his key speech trampled underfoot was clear for all those close to him to view. "Don’t fret." Naomi consoled a distraught Derek. "There’s another couple of hundred people here to reinforce your point for you."

Such was the crush of interested parties by this stage that a certain amount of activity at the front entrance to the hall had a huge ripple effect akin to a shallow Mexican wave, cutting a swathe of turning heads of those already gathered as they were intrigued by an alternative attraction. Characteristically ignoring a goodly number of angry glances Dennis muscled his way to the fringes of the front row with Dominic trailing abashedly in his wake. Even after a number of implorations from the chairman to encourage a fully seated front two rows there was still the odd vacant seat, thus Dennis was able to position himself within earshot of Naomi and Derek. By allowing himself to merely be a follower resulted in Dominic having to settle for a seat on the periphery. "Spoken yet?" Dennis whispered to Naomi. "Not as yet." "Well, better out than in." Knowing Dennis as she did Naomi wouldn’t have been surprised to find him trying to surreptitiously lift her arm in the air, so she decided to get it over with on his and Derek’s behalf. It was impeccably good timing really as the arch-enemy Blair Pelfrey had begun setting out his contentious argument in favour of expunging the allotments, so if ever Naomi was going to try and pick her moment then this would have been it.

Pelfrey was just one of those people who she just could not take to no matter how much effort she might put in, as she took a certain exception to the way that he flaunted the distribution of his expertise. He had a verbal way about him that gave the impression of his talking down to underlings in his presence. He might not have done it purposely yet it still counted against him with Naomi, which made it possible for her to be at ease with combating him. The architect was just about the only proponent of the plans to give off the impression that he was not imminently about to fall apart at the seams and end up cowering in a corner amidst this rough-house atmosphere. "As you will probably be aware, the majority of our esteemed councillors are in favour of selling this land for residential housing… yes, you may jeer, but you have elected them to be your representatives, and as much as there has been an increased demand for plots in some areas, the plots we are talking about here are nowhere near proper utilisation. This was a point of discussion prior to the last round of elections, but it’s only now that there is all this bellicose indignation. Now I know the ramblers amongst us are worried about losing a right of way, but the path that runs through the allotments is not a designated part of the bridleway, it’s a short cut that has been given an unofficial upgrade."

A few more bangs of the gavel had to boom out as the massed ranks at the rear of the hall took great issue with the vested interest building consultant. "I’m only interested in shedding a modicum of light amidst the heat. You may or may not, probably not, be aware that the footpath system is an amalgam of inherited popular routes to churches and public houses that came about initially as a convenience for the staff of wealthy landowners. Many of these back lanes serve little purpose nowadays as most people I know would be too scared to walk along them even if they did so desire. I’d suggest that some of the noisier elements here should be honest with themselves."

The chairman pointed his nervously waggling gavel in Naomi’s direction. "Indeed Mr Pelfrey, I believe we are all well aware that most of our councillors are mad keen to steam-roller through this sell off of the allotments which they may wish to reflect upon concerning their judgement and accountability. They are either woefully out of touch or they possess very thick hides in not minding all this speculation about the reasoning behind some of the recent decisions. I’m surprised given the age and experience of our parish representatives that they should be so dismissive of the benefits from growing ones own food."

Naomi was interrupted by Pelfrey, who had temporarily put his urbanity aside, due to her lack of having a plot on the allotments. She was fully aware of this discrepancy but sought to remind the assembled that she had long since grown and tended lots of vegetables in her own portion of garden at home, otherwise she would have taken up a plot. "And just how much do you call a lot?" "Ninety percent is turned over to vegetables in my part. I can understand the temptation for a professional person like Mr Pelfrey to disregard what for him would be minuscule financial rewards considering all the effort that goes into tending these plots of land, but as we’re getting used to utilising our food as part of a calorie controlled diet then perhaps we could all try getting used to growing our food as part of a currency controlled diet."

For the first time in some while the vast majority of those gathered were silent, as the bigger argument was played out amidst the confines of one on one rancour. "Young lady, you’ve made my point for me, the economics of the allotments just don’t add up, unless you know something that I don’t." "It might interest you to learn that Midsomer Murders have enquired about filming scenes on the allotments later this year." "I think I’m safe in saying that this is the first any of us have heard of this." Smithers glanced round at his colleagues. "How can we not have been informed of this first? Is there any corroboration of this news?" The secretary of the allotments committee confirmed that approaches had been made to him, but that certain committee members were resistant to the offer as the bad taste synopsis of victims having a variety of vegetables such as shallots and Brussels sprouts wedged in their mouths was not a general concept of gardeners behaviour that they wished to foster. "So even if you do come to us with this proposal, a one-off murder is surely going to be no more than a short term thing." Smithers surmised. "I think you’ll find there’s always more than one murder per episode Mr Chairman." Naomi helpfully interjected. "I think we may be getting a little sidetracked from the central matter, before we know it we’ll be finding ourselves discussing episodes where they kill off the councillors and stick their heads on poles, and that wouldn’t be getting us anywhere, would it?" An uneasy silence followed as the chairman began to take in what he had just said unthinkingly. "Well, let me just say that we should try and finish at a civilised hour. I think we’ve explored most of the relevant arguments on either side. Ourselves and those at a higher level will have been given much food for thought. I can’t see any point in shouting ourselves hoarse, unless anyone seriously thinks that they can significantly add to the debate..."

At this point Dennis slowly raised an arm. Asking permission to speak was not something that he was in practice at having to do, certainly not for many years since. Smithers reluctantly accepted this request as it probably meant that the meeting would trail on once the flame was reignited. "From what I can see, decisions made here, or whatever you knock up after here, will impact on generations to come so it’d only be fair to ask some of the youngest people here tonight what their view is. What they think ought to weight heavy on your minds whenever you ultimately arbitrate on this farrago." The clearly depressed chairman acquiesced with an air of detachment. Gemma was the youngest ,and nearest the front, and with her hand up. "Go ahead." Smithers waved a tired Roman empirical hand in her general direction. "I know I’m supposed to only think about my exams and McFly or Westlife, but I’m sure there’s millions of other teenagers besides me who are concerned about the world we are going to grow up into. We’re going to need somewhere to live as well, but we’d like to have somewhere that is actually liveable." Carol’s head swivelled around like a hyperactive owl as pockets of applause broke out across the breadth of the hall in response to her daughter’s contribution to the debate. She pulled a face that suggested that she was surprised to find herself impressed by her girl.

The much distressed chairman had originally intended that they move on to any other Any Other Business, but any such thoughts had long since evaporated as nothing was of sufficient consequence that it couldn’t be held over to the next meeting. This was not the most satisfactory conclusion to proceedings, but it was glaringly manifest the way that the chairman sought to leave the angry ninety nine percent not only assuaged, but confident that the committee had undergone a change of heart and were likely to recommend kicking the issue into the long grass for some time.

Once the meeting had officially broken up, Derek suggested that they ring a quarter peal to mark this victory on the night, although he couldn’t rightly think of any really appropriate method with a vegetable slant. Even after intense thought the best he could suggest was St.Clements, not that any oranges or lemons were likely to be harvested hereabouts. At this moment no one else was really ready or energised enough to sanction such a tribute as various groupings formed and educed a variety of loud murmuring from their impression of what had just gone before. Rivulets of people heading for the exits threatened to detach the outer members of any clique such was the overload in numbers for the hall.

There was much congratulating, thanking and plotting going on in little hotspots as the few people prepared to stack away the chairs fought a difficult and lonely battle amidst the confusion. Unlike Derek, who was now back in fighting fettle, Naomi chose to at least stack and return the seats around about her to where they were stored on the stage. Gemma’s mother had barely uttered a dozen words in expressing to Naomi how impressed she was by the show of local resistance before Derek edged into the picture with his new found ebullience. "You’re daughter is making very good progress with her ringing." So, finally Dominic got his chance to ingratiate himself with Naomi. "This is the young man who harbours delusions of surviving the firmament and being Premier of this benighted land one day by generally keeping out of controversy." Dennis captiously introduced. "I was watching and observing, that’s not a treasonable offence." "I seem to recall a local saying that you told me about roosters doing the crowing but it being the hens that deliver the goods." Dennis complimented Naomi. "That was from a poster advertising eggs." Naomi corrected him. "She’s always better at remembering one of my sayings that vice versa. Anyway, this is my nephew Dominic, and obviously this is Naomi." "Naomi, beautiful biblical name, Book of Ruth, am I right?" "Yes, one of the shorter books." "You were very impressive in speaking, you make me feel horribly inadequate, how come you’ve not done any telly?" "My hair is too dark, apparently I’ve got a dead crow laying on my head." "Well, I’m sure we can get that nonsensical situation rectified."

Dennis afforded himself the luxury of a barely audible whistle at the hole that his nephew was seemingly going the right way about digging for himself by fawning over Naomi. So long as he wasn’t in imminent danger of being sullied by Dominic’s naivety then it would be a fun ride, although probably very brief.

EPISODE FOUR
published 2nd March 2006

England’s Media Made Me

The first inklings of spring often seemed to coincide with a sudden burst of enthusiasm amongst the ringers of Middlemyte. Certain members of the band were apt to make resolutions that concerned them knuckling down and learning a new method around this time of year, but these good intentions rarely lasted until Easter, no matter how early it might fall in any given year. At the time of the tower AGM, and her confirmation as Captain, Naomi had her working-wise commitments at a distinct minimum, but within a week of the meeting an offer came along that she couldn’t refuse, so had to make a compromise about.

Once again Naomi was given to thinking back to her grandmother’s fondness for paraphrasing her favourite Dickens novel whenever times were maudlin for an easily despondent pre-teen Naomi. Indeed something had turned up again, on this occasion more than one thing, leaving her mightily embarrassed by this quandary. Being approached by Naomi for advice was something reserved for the very few, and taken as a privilege akin to being on the Ultra-List, as Naomi knew her own mind really, even if she did have to spend tracts of time disseminating around her head these days. Chris knew full well what Naomi wanted to hear, so it was just a matter of getting the phrasing right. Most times over the years it was assured that whatever best suited Naomi was most most likely to distance her from Chris, but still he knew that the human urge was to be continually working toward something in life, no matter how intangible, and that was what he would be doing anyway.

Naomi had been guiltier than most in neglecting her contribution to the ringing in Middlemyte for extended periods of time, but this was probably as good a time as any to find herself daunted by the various assignments stacking up concurrently, and this time she was determined to do her share no matter what else came her way. The annual quandary over getting a replacement storage cupboard had resurfaced courtesy of Forrest Bore offering the ringers a cupboard (wooden of course) that had come his way, at what he described as a nominal price. Naomi’s extended periods of absence during the past couple of years had shielded her from the greater vicissitudes of the cupboard saga, which was as well given that Naomi couldn’t abide wordy asides that made one hark as to how short life really is. Fortunately the Middlemyte band possessed the resources and calibre of personality to maintain a sub-committee to keep on top of this project, thus a delegation led by Wesley Cramp and Nelson Cable was despatched to view this supposedly "nearly new" cupboard before making a commitment. On closer inspection it was plainly evident that this alternative cupboard was in a more distressed state than the one they were looking to replace, which came as no surprise to anyone who was aware of Forrest Bore’s track record.

Forrest was actually diversifying his sphere of influence by moving into cooking oil which was the new wood for its possibilities of being picked up second-hand for nothing or next to nothing. He didn’t possess a vehicle that ran on such recyclable resources himself, but he was picking up grateful customers who did all the time, so long as they weren’t picky over whether their exhaust emitted Chinese, Indian, French or Italian inferences.

By this stage Chris had persuaded the other ringers to let him make some tentative steps back into ringing a bell by singling out the treble that was so positioned as to allow him to lean against the wall and so disperse much of the strain on this neck. He knew that when Naomi stated in front of the others that he probably shouldn’t risk himself so soon she was being sincere, but still there was no getting away from the fact that she needed him to fend for himself right now. So long as he felt that his efforts were being transferred into Naomi’s good books then he would take risks tenfold to this mere bagatelle by comparison.

In the wake of Naomi receiving a goodly number of plaudits for her supporting act to the often foul-mouthed and nearly always acerbic Scottish stand-up Jamie Stuce in Edinburgh the previous summer it seemed almost inevitable at the time that he would stand by his initial declaration that he would be seeking a reunion at some later date, even if he did find it difficult to conceal all of his vexation at the critical acclaim not fully taking into account just how uncompromising his characterisation really was. Obviously his occasional snide references to the inequality in praise were all part of his nature as the impending Brighton Festival of Comedy seemed to be the ideal opportunity to bring the clash of morals to an audience at the other end of the British Isles.

Jamie and Naomi were a good representation of complete opposites on most matters, which was exactly what he was looking for, namely ease of friction and combustibility. Naomi was equally flattered or embarrassed to be recognised by members of the public unknown to her, whereas Jamie regarded the oddity of people desperately wanting to meet him as if they only liked meeting ducks because they enjoyed eating pate. In many aspects Jamie Stuce was quite like a young unshaven Scottish version of Dennis Lomas in his bravado and forthright manner of speaking, and in making money out of so doing.

Jamie wanted a weekend of brain-storming with Naomi to hone the by-play for a new audience, but any weekend he could have chosen would probably have clashed with something that Naomi had planned in advance. As Naomi was known for her ornithological interests it was barely surprising that she had religiously participated in the big bird-watch for several years now, and it was this weekend that Jamie wanted. Even with the sop of him travelling to her it was still inconvenient for counting birdlife as Naomi wasn’t going to see many blue tits or robins after dark. Ruthie promised no more than that she might keep count at some point during one day or the other, but since Naomi had somewhat reluctantly helped sate some of Ruthie’s appetite for the celeb arena by putting in a good word for her to get in as one of the unpaid teenage gofers at the local radio station it had actually left Ruthie less time to devote to more mundane matters. For reliable results on the bird counting then Chris was the obvious choice, given that he was always more likely to conduct such tasks for Naomi with a far greater thoroughness than he would for himself.

The first assignment for Naomi on her return to the airwaves found her setting out on a seemingly less ambitious option than the majority of proposed alternatives, probably as befitted someone who was in a position not dissimilar to that of a probationer. Exceedingly early starts - 3.00am in this instance - were not unknown to Naomi given her interest in birdlife, something which often necessitated either an early night or no sleep at all in order to catch the dawn chorus. The initial fervour that Ruthie displayed for wanting Naomi to find an excuse for her to tag along in some capacity soon palled once she discovered the unsociable hours and dry subject matter. This was fortunate considering that it would not have been within Naomi’s gift to allow her to tag along anyway. 6.00am at a fruit and veg wholesalers in Hertfordshire did not fall into the brief of the showbiz world that Ruthie actually had in mind, although the time was the biggest determining factor.

The prevailing climate in wholesaling having been chilly to say the least for many years since, thus it made for a determinedly downbeat piece for the most part. The one bright spot was long standing breakfast provider Ivy who turned out to know more about the history of the place than any of the current stall-holders. Ivy considered herself a bit of a fruitaholic, if such a condition existed, and had plenty to say about how things had changed over the years, especially the arguable false dawn of the so-called banana years which saw some people getting overexcited over the saviour potential of the previously underexposed banana. At the time many saw the banana as the fruit that was going to get the job done, but in truth it really only masked an almost identical decline in the other familiar favourites such as oranges and apples especially. "People still like their fruit, but the supermarkets have been sucking the life out of this place for years. I love my fruit, but my young helper Mariah here would rather take vitamin tablets to make up for getting a real meal inside her, isn’t that right Mariah?" "At least I know they’ve not been sprayed with a load of chemicals." Mariah argued vehemently. "What’s that one you’ve got in your hand now ? That is a load of chemicals." "No it’s not, it’s fructose." "My sentiments entirely love." Ivy misinterpreted her young aide. "I mean it’s fruit based." Mariah explained. "You know they mess about with all the genetic this and that, but if they could develop apples and oranges that peeled so neatly it might help more. Apropos of nothing as they say, have you seen that film about the penguins on the march?" "As in The March of the Penguins?" Naomi surmised. "Well, once I’d seen that film, could I get to sleep that night?" "What, no?" "No, I did, but only eventually, almost as soon as I closed my eyes there were columns of penguins in my mind, stretching right across my eye-line. My late husband had just the same thing happen to him." "Was he at London Zoo or actually in the Antarctic?" "Oh no, he worked here, it was bananas with him, we went through a period when the banana boom was in its first flush where he’d wake me up in the middle of the night after a dream of massed ranks of bananas trooping the colour or his beloved West Ham football team kitted out as bananas playing Norwich City in their canary outfits and not knowing who had got the ball in the net half the time."

The syndicated inserts that Naomi was charged with doing on how life continues out of season at certain seaside towns struck Ruthie as being much more interesting, as seaside resorts to her equated to lots of nightlife, hopefully a few hunky surfers and crazy golf. She rather unrealistically expected that if Naomi was going to stay overnight in some of the more far flung places that she would be able to tag along as it was half-term. Ruthie had it all worked out in a flash, if Naomi really wanted to be a good girl and keep a clear head for the morning there were plenty of places to go ringing at during the evening, whilst she soaked up the local colour as she euphemistically put it. She was hoping for the destinations that promised at least one of the first two ideals, such as Bournemouth or Newquay or Brighton or Torquay, but it was never to be. Had Naomi been in a position of having her own production company and been able to suit herself how recording was scheduled then she would happily have let Ruthie come along, providing that she settled for soaking up the ambience of the day-life as opposed to the more raucous nightlife. As it was, the Best Rest B+B was hardly the kind of salubrious five star residence that Ruthie had in her plans.

As it was, Naomi discovered that strange things happening at sea didn’t mean having to sail miles out from shore, as she could take her pick from the assorted characters on and around the pier, they would be quite sufficient. Britain’s "Whelk Personality of the Year" continued in business through the quiet out-of-season months, entertaining the populace of Weston-Super-Mare with her unchallenged ability to balance four whelks on her nose or juggles two crabs and a lobster, but not at the same time though. As much as Naomi considered the latter slippery trait to be somewhat unpalatable, the despondent fishermen at the other extreme of the pier were really only able to contribute doom and gloom mixed in with a little of the inside track on mackerel, squid and lugworms with added temptation, which was hardly likely to grab the attention of the grazing listener.

The expectations that Naomi had entertained of finding the more unusual and cosmopolitan elements of seaside life along the promenade represented by a street musician or mime artist were replaced in reality by a most soberly dressed bloke reposing in a deckchair surrounded by a gallimaufry of squashes and pumpkins waiting for a customer. She thought it rather out of season for such produce, but luckily decided that she was possibly not well enough versed on this particular niche to make mention aloud, which was just as well when a tourist in front of her had the self same question answered by the fact that they were made of wax. Just why someone resolved that there must be a market for facsimile pumpkins was another and safer question altogether.

On returning to the pier Naomi finally discovered the trump in the resort’s pack of cards with a dapper old guy by the name of Audric Yelper in company with his diminutive cat precariously perched on his right shoulder. Considering the post looked rather perilous the cat appeared surprisingly contented. From his forward manner of introducing himself, Naomi concluded that this eccentric had evidently given interviews before at some level besides simply accosting the passing holidaymakers. "Catman" as he had been nicknamed was very coy over revealing the name of his cat. The feline appeared to be minus a tail from what Naomi could discern, but she wasn’t convinced that it was a true Manx cat. According to the cat’s mouthpiece there was definitely Manx in the breeding, so Naomi naturally enquired if its name was Kelly.

"Catman" didn’t seem to be aware of the Kelly name connection to The Isle of Man so Naomi was momentarily left a little beached for where to go next with her questioning. "Kelly’s an Irish name, if I was going to call him anything it would more likely to be TT Racer or... er... um..." "Douglas?" "No, it was thought about, but he told me they decided against it." "He speaks?" "Don’t be so absurd, he writes down what he wants to communicate." "Oh, how remiss of me, would he care to use my pen, or does he have his own special one?" "He can only manage a crayon as yet." The answers sounded as if they were meant in all seriousness, so Naomi decided to follow the example. "I don’t see why that should be held against him." "Exactly what I’ve long since said. Now, are you right or left handed?" "Predominantly right." Naomi admitted perplexedly. "Ah, well now, you see I’m afraid that he’s left-pawed and is disinclined to perform for those of the alternate persuasion." Naomi had expected as much. "Sinistre pussy huh?" "That’s the absorbing thing about black cats, they do often give out the most ominous vibes." "What if I happened to be ambidextrous?" "Now you can’t expect him to be understanding great long words like that." "He’s not a young cat is he?" "No, but he’s a late developer, night school and all that sort of thing." "So, if I was to find a leftie then your cat would perform?" "Well now, he’s somewhat sore-pawed at the moment." "From signing too many autographs I suppose."

The owner insisted that Naomi should not be fooled by the quiet demeanour as this cat could be a bit of a lad should he get the urge to go out on the tiles after playing too much football. Catman liked to think that some of him rubbed off on the cat, to which end Naomi suggested that it might be prudent to get a lawyer in first before going into further detail. Naomi was then informed that the cat had a brother at home. "If they’d looked more alike they could have been twins." "So, is this home-bird moggie a right-hander?" "That is staggeringly perceptive of you, indeed he is, but nowhere near as advanced. Hardly surprising considering that you are looking at a living miracle."

Naomi was definitely aware of being in the presence of a living something. The pre-programmed manner of answers for everything gave Naomi the notion that Audric Yelper may have worked in the political waters of the civil service at some point during years gone by. "I trust that if some young hoodlum attempted to molest us my partner here would spring into devastating action, isn’t that right?" The cat appeared to nod, but this may have been a trick on the eye brought about by the movement of the host’s head and shoulder. "Do you carry covert protection young lady?" "Some people have advised that I carry mace, yes." "Wouldn’t that be rather cumbersome? You might as well lug a pikestaff around with you or don the whole suit of armour." "No, this is mace as in that pepper-spray stuff."

The cat never did actually utter even a mew let alone a word whilst Naomi was present, but she decided that the bizarre lopsided double act had been very much value for money, and she didn’t realistically expect to unearth anyone else quite so seriously off the centre than this as even a fair sized resort as Weston would scarcely have been likely to play host to anything else quite so bizarre along its frontage.

Amidst this flurry of paying activity there was an invitation to a Mozartian celebration down in Sussex. As the initial invitation for Naomi extended to as many friends and family as she liked within reason, there seemed every probability that she might be taking a carload with her to the downs from the first reactions of those in the know. Naomi discovered some unexpected classical enthusiasts such as Gemma’s mother who found out about it by way of Ruthie babbling long and loud as usual to Gemma concerning this cultural event that somehow managed to garner a roster of possible celebrities that might turn up thanks entirely to Ruthie’s fertile imagination.

Eventually Ruthie cooled on the enterprise once she had finally taken in the true nature of the musical entertainment, and that Il Divo nor Myleene Klass were going to be there. Even their father had tethered his tentative interest to some notion of one of the sexy “opera-babe” type groups possibly making an appearance, thus it was clear where Ruthie took her cue from even though she was the adopted one of the three children. Then Mrs.Ferley found an alternative engagement that meant she was unavailable, so only Gemma was left to accompany Naomi which was a combination that left the entire excursion in doubt, but Carol Ferley was insistent that her daughter go as she seemed so eager.

It was an anxious day and a half of waiting for Gemma, hoping for confirmation, and hoping against hope that it would not be a cancellation. As soon as there was a choice on offer Gemma unreservedly opted for outgrowing the frippery of childhood emancipation. Being paired with Ruthie felt like a partnership of equals, but moments with Naomi being as scant as they were took on a perception of awe. Amidst the bouts of trepidation and veneration that overcame her, Gemma managed to collect herself sufficiently to dissemble all the things that she knew concerning Naomi’s likes and dislikes. Had Naomi seen the look of trepidation followed by unbridled celebratory countenance that overtook Gemma when the call came that the trip was still on then she might well have reversed her decision at the very last moment, but as she had resisted equipping herself with a cutting edge mobile phone she was left in the dark as to the significance of this coupling.

The venerable woman who had requested Naomi to visit was one Brenda Putt, who had for some years served as a senior adjudicator on a national "Good Citizens Award" committee, an organisation that had seen better and more publicised days, now handing out awards with about as much fanfare of publicity as a local bring and buy sale. The fact that Naomi had accepted the initial invitation the year before was a bit of a coup as many recipients of these particular awards politely declined to travel in order to accept personally. Being seen in such obsolete circles could be bad for the health in career of maybe half of those awarded honours, but the observer in Naomi’s make-up led to her treating herself to a day out with the wrinklies. The citation stemmed from what was one of her very first forays into radio, as unplanned as the event was, during a bout of severe weather that kept those already ensconced at the station in and those due to replace them firmly out.

Naomi being one of those in situ had soon found herself elevated to unexpected and undreamt heights of responsibility, finally eventuating in her making use of culinary knowledge passed down through the family on how to make snow pancakes, a delicacy that was concocted very much as its name suggested. Several outlying villages had been hit hard by the sub-zero snap, with chaos such as frozen water pipes, loss of electrical supply and vehicles stranded in uneasy places commonplace. Naomi gamely agreed to accompany the best driver present at the radio station in the most serviceable 4WD radio-car on a mission of mercy, or mission of getting a story, depending on ones viewpoint.

Even though Naomi had only merited a Highly Commended citation for this demonstration of public service she so impressed Miss Putt in particular that she had insisted on keeping in touch, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in wanting to preserve traditional local crafts and ways of life. Naomi forewarned Gemma that a straight face would probably be in need of being kept as Miss Putt was what some might consider to be a little cranky, thus any giggling and sniggering as she served herb cake for tea would not be advisable. The name of Miss Putt’s home village Oddly Fremley gave something of a clue as to what she might be like.

As much as it ran contrary to the predominant way that Gemma felt about her friendship with Naomi, she was very soon nervous and struggling to find any opportunity to engage in a conversation that she had any confidence of being of interest to Naomi, and that she had a reasonable expectation of sustaining for more than a few seconds. In the conversations that ran through her mind Gemma was nothing like as stilted, holding her own on many a subject, but when it came to enunciating little or nothing came forth. "You must be doing a lot of travelling at the moment." Gemma enquired by way of contributing to a passable conversation. "Do you like driving?" "The more miles I have to do the less I like driving."

This rather negative answer didn’t bode well for a long conversation. After an uneasy pause that seemed to last a fair proportion of a lifetime as far as Gemma was concerned, Naomi followed up her peremptory reply with a little flesh on the bones of driving vehicles "This car feels like an F1 machine compared to my first car, which was more the sort of vehicle you sit on as much as sit in. If it hadn’t been a hand me down from my brother I would have suspected that it was a stolen dodgem car with a roof tacked on. I suppose it’s churlish not to recognise that it did have a passing resemblance to a proper car in most of the basic departments, but it was one of those cars that if you see it advertised as having low mileage it’s because it hardly ever starts, yet you build up a certain affection for your first car, they do that to you somehow, don’t ask me how." "But you prefer this car?" "Definitely! I’d say it comes under the category of what used to quaintly be described as being jolly grateful, that is to Chris for loaning it to me for so long. It’s light years ahead of anything I’ve ever owned."

From the moment when a pre-school Naomi had been given a Christmas present of a pedal-car, by the same magniloquent godfather who would later take her on as an employee, she displayed a marked lack of ability with vehicles, mixed with equal measures of disinterest in how they should ideally function. As much as she was welcomed as a god child, Naomi had not always been capable of adapting to the mainly male-oriented presents that had come her way. With the pedal-car she spent more time walking it around the garden than she did pedalling it.

Dennis Lomas was always good for a quote if Naomi was running dry on other radio related reminiscences, as although she was very poor at remembering other quotations and quodlibets she surprisingly had little difficulty in retaining the wit and wisdom of Dennis, as salty as some of it may have been. Given that Naomi was on his elite list of those eligible for one of his anti-nuclear radiation suits and might even get sneaked into one of the bunkers around Chepstow she was obviously privy to a wealth of information. His “hands off cocks, on with socks” attitude from so many years in the armed services was clearly never going to wear off completely.

An hour into the drive, somewhere between Basingstoke and Farnham the conversation had become rather more equalised between the two girls in as much as Gemma was now on her best form for engaging Naomi’s interest which meant that Naomi was doing the lion’s share of the talking but Gemma was prompting the directions. The loquacity of Naomi was music to Gemma’s ears as she explained how it was something of a blessed relief to talk with a sensible person such as Gemma after the enforced heightened sensibilities accruing from material accumulating time spent with Jamie Stuce. As she explained, he probably had the better of the deal as he had free licence to use any language he liked in order to get his point across, and be as contentious as he wanted by way of expurging his system, whereas much of the act revolved around her resolutely avoiding responding in unexpurgated kind. In all truth, substituting mild expletives like frigging and spigging sounded even more unrealistic than calling him a twit or an idiot.

She and Jamie were very polarised, and Gemma might have been surprised at how just how even the support split between them amongst an audience, such was the distaste for reserve and modesty. Having concocted material with Chris for a number of years she now had an extremely wide perspective of the creative process. Chris had what would be most accurately described as a dry, sometimes even childish, sense of humour, something which Naomi found it easy to align herself with. Chris was a conduit for a very different brand of observational humour than that dispensed by Jamie Stuce. Where Jamie would concentrate on a verbal diet of football, drink, drugs and four-lettered disappointment in any current government administration for a good hour’s set, Chris was more at home with minutiae such as noting how supposedly mixed fruit salad packets of Chewits seemed to have developed a trend for having the same flavours all at one end of the tube or the other rather than coming at regular intervals any more. The first couple of strawberry ones were all very fine, but after the fourth in a row you begin to wonder if there had been a technical difficulty at the manufacturers end, and it all made for very dangerous driving as it always seemed to happen when one was driving, and the natural human urge was to investigate whether there were actually any other flavours in the packet, something which was all very distracting and likely to get you an unwanted invite on to Police, Camera, Action.

Chris perhaps best described himself as a human incarnation of Winnie the Pooh, not because he was corpulent or liked devouring honey, but due to him being a bear of little brain in many of the ways of the world. Depending on where her life was situated, Naomi could find this immensely disarming. Where Chris would observe foibles, Jamie would see perversions or hang-ups, and Naomi liked a bit of both but couldn’t make a firm decision one way or the other.

Naomi had been given a lengthy appraisal before of the chocolate box quality of her thatched cottage, a house that had possibly graced more than a few 500 or 1000 piece jigsaws, or selection boxes down the years. Luckily for the sweet-toothed brigade and those with the time to spare for piecing together jigsaws, neither could convey the very strong aural drawback of being roughly under the flight-path from the might Gatwick Airport, only a mere handful of miles to the north. Brenda was chatting with a near neighbour over her front gate at the time when Naomi and Gemma arrived at her abode with its trellising surrounding almost every exterior entrance of any account that awaited their annual transformation by hundreds of roses. This was a garden that acted as a favourite stopping off point for an abundance of insect life with its selection of wispy and straggly wild flowers that kept some contrast of colour for the garden all year round, even in the absence at this time of year of the award-winning hollyhocks that stopped many a visitor in their tracks.

Once inside the house one of the first things to strike Gemma as well as Naomi was the sheer quantity of little objects and delicate frissons residing on, or clinging to nooks and crannies. The living-room was a paean to pastel, but moreover it resembled a china and crystal encrusted minefield that never seemed more than a couple of inches away from some suddenly nervy part of the body. Quite simple, there was something fragile at virtually every turn, along with a fair sprinkling of clearly antique furniture.

The tray adorning the table by the piano laden with its crown of sandwiches and the other trays decorated with the most delicate of pear charlottes, noisettes, tartlets butter brioche and clafoutis could have been props from a period costume drama, but Miss Putt didn’t furnish her home to completely match the age of the property. She liked nice comfy sofas and chairs that the unsuspecting would sink so deeply into that they had to be warned not to have any form of drink to hand for fear of the staining consequences, but at least the armchairs really did possess comfortingly wide arms that could be used for small plate resting purposes.

Brenda introduced the girls to her friend Abigail who was snoozing on a well upholstered chair in one corner of the room. Abigail was a few years senior to Brenda, and certainly not sprightly, which appeared to add a few more years between their ages at first glance. Brenda merely introduced her as Abigail, which left the girls to draw their own conclusions. After revealing how pleased she was to make their acquaintance, Abigail apologised for not having got up to greet them at the front door, but she was partially housebound these days.

The image of quiet segnitude was broken soon after Brenda had sat down in her favourite chair, when the pet of the house, a mischievous budgie, took what looked like well rehearsed action by way of swooping across the room toward a favoured vantage point from where it proceeded to edge its way on to Abigail’s shoulder and then on down until it nestled in her cleavage. From the lack of adverse reaction the ladies showed towards this behaviour suggested that this was not an isolated occurrence. Abigail blithely announced how they had first met at a Vivaldi festival in Venice back in the early 1970’s, where she had converted Brenda to the delights of cappuccino coffee. Brenda inserted that she was still a tea aficionado even though Abigail had wooed her with coffee. "I would say they make the best coffee in the world in Venice." Abigail noted. Brenda concurred, but it was also by far