The Garden of Unearthly Delights (10 page)

The
town square became busy, stallholders plied their wares, folk came and went,
children played. The grim red sun offered its mysterious light and Maxwell, his
labours done, sat and watched it all go on.

It was
certainly a strange old business, watching these folk, dressed in the garb of
medieval peasants and living the lifestyle. To think that several generations
before, their ancestors had driven about in cars and enjoyed the benefits
brought by electricity; sat before real television and viewed news from every
part of the world.

‘I will
improve your lot,’ said Maxwell. ‘I, Max Carrion, Imagineer. You see if I
don’t.’

And
then the day passed into afternoon and then towards evening. The stallholders
packed their remaining wares away and departed. And Maxwell began to grow
uneasy.

There
had been no sign of Dayglo Hilyte and his zany.

As the
town hall clock, a water-powered contrivance, struck five-thirty, Maxwell felt
those seeds of panic taking root in a stomach which had survived yet another
day upon the ingestion of parsnips alone.

Folk
were now strolling into the square. They were all done up in their finest
attire. They had brought cushions, hampers of food, flasks of wine. They were
taking up positions before the curtains. They were evidently looking forward to
the broadcast.

Maxwell
looked this way and that amongst them. Where was Dayglo Hilyte? Where was the
zany? ‘Hello.’

Maxwell
turned.

‘Are
you Mr Carrion?’

Maxwell
blinked and stared. ‘I am.’

‘I’m
Miss Tailier.’

‘Yes,’
said Maxwell. ‘Indeed.’

She was
‘simply stunning’. Young and fresh and slim and shapely. Her face a most
vivacious instrument of expression. Great dark eyes fringed by curling lashes,
tiny upturned nose, wide and sensuous mouth. All framed by flocks of amber
curls.

She
wore a black figure-hugger of a dress that almost reached her knees, and soft
gold slippers. Golden rings sheathed her elegant well-manicured fingers.

‘Miss
Tailier,’ said Maxwell, shaking the pale hand that was offered.

‘I’m
the new crumpet. You can call me Jenny.’

‘Jenny
Tailier.
Jenny Tailier?’

‘Yes,
what about it?’

‘Oh
nothing.’ Maxwell shook his head. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘I was
supposed to meet Mr Hilyte at five-thirty. I’m a little late.’

‘He’s not
here,’ said Maxwell. ‘In fact, I have no idea what’s happened to him. Oh, hang
about.’

Through
the growing crowd came the zany. He waved to the right and left, uttered
greetings, but as Maxwell watched him approach, it was quite clear that
something was terribly wrong.

‘What
has happened?’ Maxwell asked, when at last the zany reached him.

‘Something
terrible. Terrible.’ The zany hopped from one foot to the other.

‘What
is it?’ Maxwell pulled him through the curtains and beyond the view of the
crowd. ‘You look dreadful.’

‘It’s
Mr Hilyte,’ the zany wrung his hands. ‘He’s collapsed. He’s in a terrible state
— pale as death and burning with fever. He worked himself too hard, got too
carried away with the excitement of it all. I think the parsnips have done for
him also.’

Maxwell
stared aghast. ‘This is appalling. Have you called a medic?’

‘A
what?’

‘A
doctor. The apothecary.’

‘Oh
yes, he’s in capable hands. But what are we going to do about the broadcast.
We’ll have to cancel it.’

‘No.’
Maxwell shook his head fiercely. ‘We can’t do that. There’s a hundred people
out there, we can’t let them down.’

‘But we
can’t do the broadcast without Mr Hilyte. This is terrible, terrible.’

‘Just
calm down.’ Maxwell gripped the zany by his trembling shoulders. ‘There must be
a way. The show must go on.’

‘I
could go on by myself,’ said Miss Tailier, in the manner of one who most
definitely could.

Maxwell
made a doubtful face. ‘I don’t think it would do.
You
could go on in Mr
Hilyte’s place,’ he told the shivering zany.

‘I can’t
go on. I can’t even stay here for long. I must go back to Mr Hilyte, I’m his
oldest friend. We’ll have to cancel the broadcast. Unless . .

‘Unless
what?’

‘Well,’
said the zany. ‘Perhaps, but no . .

‘Go
on,’ Maxwell demanded.

‘You
could go on in Mr Hilyte’s place,’ the zany blurted
out.

‘Me?
That’s ludicrous.’

‘Well,
no it’s not. I could make you up to look like Mr Hilyte. Through the glass of
the screen and with the number of men concentrating on Miss Tailier…’

Maxwell
scratched at his head. This moment of hesitation caused further distress to the
zany.

‘You’re
right,’ he all but wept. ‘It would never work. We’ll have to cancel.’

‘No we
won’t.’ Maxwell’s voice was very firm indeed. ‘All right, I’ll do it. Make me
up.’

‘What a
hero,’ said Miss Jenny Tailier, squeezing Maxwell’s hand.

‘I’ll
have to shave your head,’ said the zany.

‘Forget
it,’ said Maxwell.

The
zany chewed upon his finger nails. ‘Oh calamity,’ he said.

‘All
right, all right,’ cried Maxwell. ‘Shave my head, apply the make-up. By the
Goddess, the things I do to make this world a better place.’

6

To the zany’s credit, he
was skilful in the art of make-up.

Not
quite so skilled in the barbering department, however: his trembling hand
almost cost Maxwell an ear.

Maxwell
examined himself in the zany’s hand mirror and the artist returned his make-up
sticks to the pouch he wore on his belt. A horrible sight met Maxwell’s eyes,
but a fair enough facsimile of Dayglo Hilyte.

Maxwell
shook his now bald head. ‘So,’ said he. ‘The all-important matter. The news
script. I haven’t even seen it yet.’

‘It’s
here,’ the zany thrust a wad of papers into Maxwell’s hand. ‘Mr Hilyte has been
working on it all week.’

‘What
about the one for Miss Tailier?’

‘I’ve
learned mine off by heart,’ said the beautiful young woman, fluttering her
gorgeous eyelashes.

‘Well
done,’ said Maxwell.

‘Now
quickly,’ said the zany. ‘Into the TV. I will take the collection and make the
introductions. Oh dear, oh dear.’

‘Don’t
worry,’ said Maxwell. ‘We can handle it.’ The zany opened the rear doors of the
wonderful wide-screen two-person TV and assisted Maxwell and Miss Tailier
inside.

‘Everything
OK?’ he asked.

‘Just
fine,’
said Maxwell, making himself comfortable. The TV set was roomy enough. But
now, with the doors firmly closed, rather intimate. Knees were touching and
shoulders too. Maxwell could smell the young woman’s hair. It smelled quite
wonderful.

A lump
came to Maxwell’s throat. Maxwell prayed this lump would be the only one that
came.

From
beyond the curtain came the murmur of the crowd. Gay voices, much laughter.
Maxwell heard the zany as he moved amongst the merry throng, joking, ‘warming
up’, passing the contributions sack. Silver collection only, this time.

Maxwell
suddenly felt a growing sense of terror. Stage fright! He glanced at Miss
Tailier, but she was cool, aloof, a real professional. Maxwell steadied his
nerves. If she was up to it, so was he. The dawn of a new age of enlightenment
was about to begin, and he, Max Carrion, Imagineer, was to be the rising sun of
this new dawn.

Oh yes!

‘My
lords, ladies, grandees and duchesses, Mayor and lady Mayoress, town’s folk of Grimshaw,
welcome.’ The zany’s voice rang out in a confident tone. ‘Tonight the first
ever, the never seen anywhere before, all new commercial newscast. Put your
hands together for your own, your very own Mr Dayglo Hilyte and his lovely
assistant Miss Jenny Tailier.’

The
crowd gushed out applause. The zany yanked upon the rope, the curtains parted.
The jukebox TV took centre stage.

The
applause was veritable thunder. Maxwell and Miss Tailier smiled out at the
multitude. And some multitude.

Several
hundred at least.

‘Will
they all be able to hear us?’ Miss Tailier asked.

‘Speak
loudly and clearly into your speaking tube. Are you ready?’

Miss
Tailier squeezed his hand once more. ‘I’m ready.’

‘So be
it.’ Maxwell raised his other hand and the eager crowd stilled to its raising.

‘Good
evening,’ said Maxwell, in a voice which might almost have passed for Dayglo
Hilyte’s. ‘And here is the
six o’clock
news.

‘Bong!’
went Miss Tailier.

‘Bong?’
asked Maxwell, turning in immediate confusion to the news crumpet.

‘Bong,’
whispered Miss Tailier. ‘Mr Hilyte said I should go
bong
when you
announced the news. It’s a tradition or an old charter or something. It’s the
chime of Big Dick.’

‘Oh, I
see.’ Maxwell coughed politely. ‘Big Ben,’ he whispered.

‘I
prefer a big dick any time.’ Miss Tailier fluttered her eyelashes.

Maxwell
made that croaking throat sound of his. ‘Here is the
six o’clock
news,’ he went once more.

‘Bong!’

Maxwell
read directly from the first sheet of paper. ‘Hundreds feared dead as God
accidentally drops his toothbrush on village.’

‘Bong!’

‘Hundreds
what?’
Maxwell’s jaw was hanging slack. ‘What is this rubbish?’

‘Bluff
it,’ whispered Miss Tailier between the perfect teeth of a big broad smile.
‘Everyone’s watching you. Just read the script.’

And
everyone was watching Maxwell. And watching very closely. And being very very
quiet about it too.

‘Bong!’
went Miss Jenny Tailier once more for luck.

‘Blind
farmer wears out fingers trying to read cheese grater,’ read Maxwell.

‘Bong!’

‘Mayor’s
wife comes second in beauty contest. A pig wins it.

‘What?’
cried the Mayor, who was right at the front. ‘Oh my Goddess.’ Maxwell fumbled
with his script. ‘It’s a misprint,’ he blurbled. ‘I’m sorry. A misprint.’

‘Get a
grip of yourself,’ whispered Miss Tailier. ‘Introduce me.

‘Indeed,’
Maxwell grinned goofily at the now murmuring crowd.

‘Over
to you, Jenny,’ he said.

Jenny
Tailier smiled a sensational smile. The crowd cheered and clapped with great
enthusiasm.

‘Thank
you,’ said Miss Tailier primly. ‘I always appreciate a warm hand on my
opening.’

‘What?’
went Maxwell, turning ever paler beneath his
make-up.

‘This
week I’ve been out and about on the streets of Grimshaw talking to the men who
have been making the news.’

Ah,
thought Maxwell. Not bad.

‘I
spoke to a man with a foot-long penis, who told me, “It may be twelve inches,
but I don’t use it as a rule.”’

The
crowd erupted in laughter.

Maxwell
sank down below the level of the screen. ‘No,’ he implored. ‘Not knob gags.
Anything but knob gags.’

‘Also,’
Miss Tailier went on, when the laughter had died away, ‘the vicar who caught
his plonker in the bell rope and was tolled off by the verger.

‘No!’
Maxwell raised a hand and clapped it over Miss Tailier’s mouth.

‘Boo!’
went the crowd.

‘What
is going on?’ muttered Maxwell through seriously gritted teeth. ‘What is
happening here? My news is all rubbish and you’re telling dirty jokes.’

‘That’s
what I do’, said Miss Tailier, wrenching Maxwell’s hand away, ‘where I work in
the town’s bordello. I’m a star round these parts, everyone knows me.’

‘What?’

‘Boo,
boo,’ and ‘hiss,’ went the crowd, and ‘get on with it.’

‘Back
to you, Dayglo,’ said Miss Tailier.

‘Ah…‘ said Maxwell. ‘Oh Goddess!’

‘Go into
the commercial break. I’ll do it if you like.’

‘No you
will not.’

‘Please
yourself then.’ Miss Tailier folded her arms and made a huffy face.

‘And
now’, said Maxwell, ‘the moment that many of you have been waiting for. The
commercial break.’ He rummaged about amongst his papers. But for the single
sheet he had been reading from, all others were uniformly blank. ‘Oh dear,’
said Maxwell. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’