Janis Douglass, Mayor of Harden

Clinton, or Bill as he asked me to call him, turned out to be quite an interesting man.
In the occasional breaks that he got between shouting at the young ‘uns’ for putting the tyres in the wrong pile, he would come around to the portacabin for a quick chat and a nice brew up.

His time in the army was a rich source of stories, and he had me laughing or in one case weeping, as he shared his experiences, and tales about the characters he’d known.

One name that cropped up regularly was that of a Sergeant Dorks, obviously a great friend, the two had kept in touch. Bill kept promising himself he would go and visit Dorks as he only lived over in Harden, but he was finding it hard to find a whole day free to drive over there.
So when it came up that Dorks needed a bigger car, to fit his wife’s new walking aid, and Clinton knew someone who had just the thing, I volunteered Myrtle and I to drive it over. After all, we could interview Janis Douglass, the Mayor, and make the most of the trip.

The promised motor was to be picked up from behind the Foamy Fun bathroom emporium, with the key left in the ignition, and I would then collect Myrtle at 9:30am, after her weekly appointment at Edna’s Hairdressing Emporium.
Better still we discovered that Frank Highnote and his Fabulous Falsetto Five were due to perform at the Harden Hippodrome, and tickets were still available. Clinton insisted on paying for our concert tickets, and return rail fare, so we were getting a free day out for our trouble!

The young Frank Highnote, surrounded by his Falsetto Five in their glory days.

Myrtle was particularly excited, because as a teenager she had been forbidden from going to watch the group, in case their ‘tight trousers’ turned her head. She was almost hopping up and down on the pavement when I collected her from the kerb outside Edna’s.
Several of the salon customers stared out of the window, in envy of Myrtle’s ride.
 

 The vehicle had been somewhat bigger than I had imagined.
‘Are you sure this is the right car?’ my friend asked, poking at the touch screen of the fancy audio system.
I consulted Bill’s note once more. ‘Is it blue?,’ it was, ‘was the key in the ignition?’ Well yes, complete with fancy keyring.’Did I find the car behind the bathroom showroom?’ That was a little trickier, as I’m not good at recognising shops from the back and it was a long row of buildings, but surely it must be correct? Even the door had been left open for me.




We soon left Ballina Central behind, and it was a real pleasure cruising along in our plush cocoon. Myrtle discovered that the fancy radio could respond to voice commands, and she had great fun requesting tunes, or thinking up questions for the ‘posh lady’ to answer. Eventually though, she reached the limits of the system’s entertainment potential.
 

‘O-val-tine, the best drink is Ovaltine. Tell me now, what is the best drink?’ she asked sternly.
‘Beer is very popular, especially in the northern part of….’ *click* Our synthetic friend’s opinion met the barrier of the off switch.

I decided that  it might be a good strategic moment to make a comfort stop. Randy’s All Chicken Sandwich Ranch would not have been my first choice, but the parking lot was fairly empty, and I was keen not to damage the lovely paintwork on our wide berth vehicle. We both agreed though, that Randy kept his toilet facilities in a very hygienic condition, and that this outweighed the disadvantages of his limited menu options.

On returning to the vehicle we were concerned to hear a knocking sound, coming from the rear end.
I suggested it might air in the ‘pipes’. Myrtle looked uncertain, ‘does it have pipes?’.
We looked under the car, and up into the exhaust, but nothing struck us as strange.
‘The tyres have air, maybe it keeps going round for a while, after the wheels stop?’
I’d seen a science program about conservation of momentum on the small tv in the dentist’s waiting room the week before, and had been waiting to use the knowledge.

Crouching down by the hubcaps didn’t solve anything, and the noise had stopped anyway, so we set off towards Harden, chewing on chalk tablets to stop Randy’s paprika wraps from repeating on us.



The concert was as good as I expected, which was not really that good at all but with moments of enough interest to salvage the situation. The Falsetto Five were hampered by their trademark trousers, which impaired the dance routines. Frank Highnote seemed to be suffering from a bad cold, and had several coughing fits while cycling through their greatest hits. Most of the sound was pre-recorded, and the lead singer’s vocals carried on, even when he left the stage to fetch a glass of water. The crowd were enthusiastic nonetheless.

The group in more recent years.

‘He is nearly eighty now,’ Myrtle concluded, so you can’t expect much.
We saw the troupe later, as they attempted to enter a minivan in the Hippodrome car park. Eventually someone brought a safety step and they were able to make their exit, still waving to the fans.

Clinton’s notes were not that explicit when it came to finding his old army friend’s bungalow. 

‘White, with a blue door, next to a post box. Might have a tree in the garden.’
‘I can’t read his handwriting, what street is this?’
Myrtle donned her seldom worn glasses and pronounced ‘Cockwilton Road’.
My interpretation tended more towards Bob Newton Road, as he was a footballer that my Dad was fond of.
We decided that there couldn’t be many Dorks in Harden, we should just ask some passers-by if they knew the family.
Unfortunately, this didn’t go well. Maybe it was my accent.

Myrtle decided to tackle the in car infotainment unit once more, but it wouldn’t switch on.
‘That robot woman could be angry about the beer,’ suggested my friend.
She leaned in to see if there was a ‘stop sulking button’.

At this the unit burst back into life.

‘Facial recognition engaged,’ the posh voice intoned, mechanically,’Thank you O-val-teen, for using Magnaprime software, your region is set as,’ a slight pause followed,’Afghanistan, the date is the first of January 1999, time one minute after midnight, is this correct?’
‘Don’t argue with it, I hissed urgently, we just need Dork’s address, then we can,’ I mimed hitting the off button.

‘Bernard Dorks, where does he live?’ Myrtle asked, emphasising each syllable.

‘There is no..Bernard Forks…registered as living in Kabul at this time, glad to be of service!’

It was probably of benefit to our collective sanity that a dog walker chose that moment to pass by, and leaned towards us to ask if we knew that there was a knocking noise coming out of the boot of our car.
We reassured the good samaritan that we were aware, and discovered that he lived quite close to our intended destination, so we gave him and his little dog a lift.

I think it is quicker just to say that the Dorks family home wasn’t even a bungalow, and leave any comments about trees, nearness of post-boxes or deviations in described colour schemes for another occasion.
The ex sergeant waved out of an open window, ‘We’re watching the news, have you seen it?’ he called, beckoning us inside.

The small lounge was made even tinier by the hanging of an enormous television set, which took up most of one wall.
‘It’s new, I won it at bingo,’ explained Mrs Dorks, triumphantly.
‘Really, I never win anything,’ said Myrtle, unnoticed.



We were all glued to helicopter camera shots of the Ballina Central, a small family car was speeding along the emptied road, followed by a platoon of police vehicles.
My friend pursed her lips, and picked up a local freebie paper from the overcrowded coffee table in front of her. It was the kind of publication that is ninety percent advertising with the occasional article about how to clean your patio and so on. Nevertheless, she made sure we knew the content was much more fascinating than anything being broadcast by the mega television set.

The camera shots switched to an interview clip. A tanned man in a large cowboy hat was gesticulating angrily.

‘They said don’t call the police, well nobody tells JD Berkhamsted what to do so, I rang the police, hell I rang everyone. If that kidnapper wants to shoot my sisters he’d better get on with it, ‘aint nobody calling my bluff, not JD Berk…’

‘According to this feature in the Harden Gazette, Mayor Douglass’s favourite colour is yellow, and she wants to encourage music venues to open in Harden,’ said Myrtle reading quite loudly, then making vigorous page turning sounds.
When my friend saw her diversionary tactic wasn’t working added, ‘I never watch these HUGE tvs, I wouldn’t want one myself, they are bad for your eyes!’.

The fascinating footage changed again to a wobbly close up of the alleged criminal hanging out of the car window, waving a sawn off shotgun.



A pale looking Sam Worthington, government advisor for public safety, was inset into the live video stream, advising all citizens to stay indoors.
In the background we could see a hot-dog wagon being hauled off the highway by a group of officers, followed reluctantly by a long queue of hungry onlookers.

Myrtle, was now so enraged by being ignored that she jumped up and stood in front of the enormous entertainment screen gesticulating like an angry windmill.

‘I could have won one of these big tvs if Reverend Cotterall hadn’t got his sixes and nines upside down. He’s a rotten bingo caller!!.’

Ex sergeant Dorks leaned around my animated friend to view a wide shot of the runaway vehicle careering over a grass  embankment to land upside down in an office car park. Onlookers were cheering as armed officers surrounded the smoking car like a swarm of bees.


Bernard whooped as the miscreant was dragged away by the tiny looking officers.

‘You can see every detail, the picture clarity is amazing!’ he thrilled.
‘I’ll have a cup of tea love, if you’re not watching it,’ the brave man suggested to Myrtle, twisting this way and that to see around her.

‘Ooh yes, and the sound quality, it’s like you are actually there in real life, two sugars for me  if you’re brewing up pet,’ piped up Mrs D, ‘The funny thing is that’s the kind of car we thought we were getting, same colour ‘an all.’ She continued to laugh in delight as the fire crews doused the flames of the crashed vehicle.

Myrtle erupted like a floral patterned polyester volcano. ‘TEA!!! We drove all the way here with a lovely car that anyone would be grateful to have and you’re not even interested in it.’

Something about my friend’s tone broke through the Dorks’ fixation with the news channel, and they reluctantly agreed to find the record button on the remote so as not to miss the inevitable follow up and speculation. They then followed us outside, though it was obviously a wrench to do so.
 

‘A bit posher than I thought,’ said Bernard, ‘but the boot looks small, bring your walker Jean, we’ll see if it fits ok.’
 

‘What’s that noise?’ Mr Dorks asked, as we attempted to open the back hatch.

Myrtle folded her arms in annoyance, ‘Air, in the pipes,’ she menaced.
‘Push both buttons together,’ Jean Dorks suggested. ‘On the keyfob’.

‘You can do it if you like,’ my friend rankled, followed by, ‘as if we hadn’t tried that a hundred times already.’ under her breath.

A luxurious popping sound announced unexpected success, and the boot lid swung slowly open.
Mrs Dorks was unable to try out the fit of her walker however, because the luggage space was already occupied by a pair of glowering Berkhamsted sisters, tied up with waterproof plumber’s tape.

The local police force in Harden were delighted to be invited to take part in the media frenzy of the month, but we slipped away to the train station as soon as we could, and skipped our planned Mayoral interview altogether.



We refused to appear in the evening news bulletin, so the news channel used my old college photo with an unfortunate hair-cut, and Myrtle suffered by being represented by a twenty year old wedding shot, with the veil edited out.
Marlon Tapp, would be kidnapper, and owner of the Foamy Fun bathroom company had apparently ‘cracked’ due to the stress of trying to extract payment for plumbing work done on the Berkhamsted mansion, and had masqueraded as an agency chauffeur when the family’s original driver had walked out due to unreasonable working conditions, such as not being paid.

Tapp had planned to drive the sisters to a remote farmhouse, but I must have come along just as he nipped back inside his shop to get some extra tape due to the elderly female Berkhamsteds being more feisty than he anticipated.

Street cameras showed the culprit running around Ballina Central’s back-streets, before ‘stealing’ the unlocked small blue family car, which had been located behind a gas fitter’s workshop three streets away.
It was widely anticipated that attempting to get money out of JD Berkhamsted would be considered extenuating circumstances in any court of law.

Myrtle was still muttering outraged phrases such as ‘Tea!!’ and ‘75 inch set!!’ for up to a week afterwards, whereas I focused on complaining about our neighbour Clinton’s appalling lack of attention to detail when it came to directions.