Fletcherloyal

Hannah threw herself off the table in a fury. "Cubic inches? Cubic? Are you saying my bum's nobbly? There are no corners on my bum, I'll have you know. Uncle George, aren't you going to stand up for me?"

George looked pleadingly at Miss Trimble. "That wasn't what you meant, was it, Miss?"

"Of course not, George. It's just a measure of capacity, Hannah. It could just as easily have been cubic centimetres. Oh dear, that's no better, is it? How about pints? Would you accept it converted into pints?"

"I've pulled many a pint in my time," Betty observed, "but I've never been asked for a pint of bum."

Miss Trimble was once more consulting her pages of 'useful information' and scribbling in her jotter. At last she announced, "All right then, here it is. Just over three pints, or in metric, one point eight litres. That's the whole bum, remember, not just one cheek."

"The bum, the whole bum, and nothing but the bum," Eddie murmured.

"Right, it's time you lot went home," Martha announced, "and you know what? I could have saved you a whole heap of trouble. I've got a set of round measuring bowls in the kitchen. We could have just tried them one at a time until we found one that fitted. If your calculations are right, the 0.9 litre one would have fitted one of Hannah's buttocks to a tee."

She unlocked the door and ushered them out. They were still arguing as they went, Miss Trimble suggesting that perhaps the ideal buttock should be standardised at one litre, George insisting that Hannah's was a good English bum, not to be sullied by metrication, and Hannah issuing pugnacious challenges to any suggestion that her bum had corners.

For some time after this incident, Martha noticed that whenever Eddie helped with the washing up, he would get a dreamy look in his eye if any of her measuring bowls were involved, and would take longer than necessary wiping their convex surfaces.

* * *

Betty

One day, as they chatted while waiting to open the bar, Betty said to Martha, "You're right about the old boys being the best tippers. I've had many a pound note or fiver pushed down my cleavage or tucked under my knicker elastic. I even got a twenty once."

"A twenty? How did that come about?"

"It was the old chap they call Granddad, the one who usually sits in that booth over there. One day I found out that it was his eightieth birthday, so before serving him, I went out the back and took my knickers off. When I gave him his beer, I leaned well over and let him have a good look down my blouse. While he was looking, I gave the neckline a little pull to expose my nipples to him. The gleam in his eye showed how pleased he was, but that was nothing to the look on his face when he slid his hand up my leg and hit my hairy twat! He had a good feel and slid his finger in for a bit. When he took his hand out, he stirred his beer with the same finger, then licked the froth off it, grinning wickedly at me.

"He chuckled and said 'One good turn deserves another,' and with that he took out a twenty pound note, rolled it into a tight spill, put it up my skirt, and lodged it you know where. For the rest of that shift I walked around with twenty quid up my fanny. I didn't take it out until I got home."

"Was it still fit to be used as legal tender?"

"Yes, after I'd wiped it down and ironed it to take the curl out. Though when I deposited it at the bank, the teller did give it a funny look. He held it up to the light and examined both sides. Then he gave it a sniff and his face cleared immediately. He endorsed my paying-in slip with a knowing smile."

"Betty Bascombe, you shock me!"

"Oh, come off it, Martha. You know very well how I get my tips."

"I'm shocked that you should be so careless as to bank them. Aren't you afraid the income tax man will get on to you?"

Betty laughed. "Martha, you have no idea how funny that is. Every year the local Inspector of Taxes visits me to help me fill in my tax return. He shows me how to claim for all sorts of deductions. You wouldn't believe what he lets me take off. That year I claimed for 'maintenance of receptacle for collecting tips'. So I'm not afraid that the tax man might get onto me. On the contrary, the more he gets on to me, the less I pay. I've discovered that full disclosure is the best policy."

* * *

Luigi

There is a certain type of Mediterranean male, recognisable by its patent-leather hair, long sideburns, and thin moustache, which in an English female is apt to evoke adjectives such as 'handsome' and 'romantic,' but in an English male is more likely to conjure up derogatory terms such as 'gigolo' and 'oily dago'. I do not intend here to enter into a psychological or philological discussion as to why there should exist this curious sexual dichotomy. Suffice to say that:

(a) you know the type I mean; and

(b) Signor Luigi Baloni was of that type.

Luigi was the mechanic summoned from Italy to cure the indisposition of Lady Charters' car. The car had been fixed before he arrived, so he might just as well have turned around and gone back to his native heath, but he did not do so. He had had no previous experience of English women, and he intended to fill this gap in his education while he had the chance. He did not expect his ignorance of the language to be any barrier to this ambition. Past experience convinced him that self assurance would more than compensate for linguistic shortcomings.

This conviction proved to be justified. On his first day he explained, in mime, to Lady Charters' cook, Mrs Larkin, that he was from Italy. His native land being shaped somewhat like a leg, what better model to use in dumb show than an actual human limb? Conveniently, Mrs Larkin's right leg proved suitable for use as a demonstration model. He told her, wordlessly, that he was born in Sicily, just off the toe of Italy. This necessitated the cook's foot being placed in his lap. In his youth, he indicated, he had moved to Rome, the journey taking him up Mrs Larkin's calf to her knee. Later, however, he crossed the Appenines and travelled northward up the coast, represented by the underside of Mrs Larkin's leg. He then moved northwestward across the Padan Plain to work in a car plant in the city of Turin. Mrs Larkin gasped upon learning just how far north Turin was located. Luigi's instructive fingers then boldly crossed the Rubicon and outlined the extent of the Alpine ranges.

Judging that the cook was in the mood for further enlightenment, Luigi told her of his skill with internal combustion engines, explaining in particular the operation of a car piston. He left her in no doubt as to the strength and durability of Torinese pistons.

Mrs Larkin was a generous woman, both physically and emotionally, and she did not hesitate to share her discovery of Luigi's talents with several ladies of her circle. He soon found himself with a full diary, so keen were the village ladies to learn of thrust bearings and four stroke cycles. The Vicar suggested that it might be more efficient to form an evening class in the subject, but Luigi made it known that his pedagogical methods were more suited to individual tuition than to class lectures.

At the end of his second week in England, Luigi received a cable from his wife asking when he intended to return. He ignored it. A week later he received a cable from his employers, suggesting that if he did not return soon, his job might not be available when he did. He thought this over and decided to stay a little longer. A week later yet another cable arrived. This was from his capodecina, advising him to return immediately if he wished to avoid being called in by his Mafia family boss. This gave Luigi serious food for thought, yet still he wavered, until another cable arrived later that day. This was from his mistress telling him what she was going to do if he stayed away any longer. Within four hours Luigi was on board an Alitalia flight homeward bound.

* * *

After Luigi

Without Luigi, discontent arose among the ladies of the village. They hoped that the Vicar might prove a suitable substitute, but he was not up to the task. He delegated the curate to visit the ladies and offer consolation, but that young man's constitution began to flag, even after he enrolled Eddie as a supernumerary assistant. The Vicar consulted Mother Amelia, Miss Trimble put the problem to Farthingale, and Farthingale dropped a word in Lady Charters' ear. Her ladyship appointed a committee to investigate the matter. At its first meeting Mrs Broadhurst, the ladies' spokeswoman, put the problem bluntly. "We haven't got enough men, that's the long and short of it. There's the curate and Eddie, Hoskins, and at a pinch the Reverend, but after that, not a man worth dropping your knickers for."

Lady Chalmers did not welcome the suggestion that Hoskins should be available to all the ladies of the village, and she showed her annoyance. "What a spineless lot you are," she told them scathingly. "I never had any trouble finding a man. Put out the honey, and the flies will come. This committee is now dissolved."

Angry at their abrupt dismissal, the ladies formed their own action group, at first calling themselves 'Women Requiring Virile Servicing'. This brought upon them a stiffly worded note from Buckingham Palace, advising them that the initials WRVS were already established as indicating the Women's Royal Voluntary Service, of which unimpeachable organisation Her Majesty the Queen was Patron, and any continued use of their proposed name would be treated as a case lèse-majesté. The ladies stopped using the name, but meetings of the group continued with a productive result.

Mrs Broadhurst drew their attention to a women's magazine called The English Lady. It contained anodyne short stories and articles on such subjects as the cleaning of family silver and how to make your tea caddies secure against predatory servant girls, but most of its pages were given over to classified personal advertisements. The majority of these were unexceptional, covering holiday lets, recruitment of domestic staff, and the like, but there were not a few which were curiously cryptic. Mrs Broadhurst drew the ladies' attention to one which read:

Retired staff nurse, strict disciplinarian, own uniform, available to give high colonic irrigation to gentlemen in their own homes. Strictest confidentiality assured.

There were others similar in nature.

Mrs Broadhurst suggested that these advertisement were not to be taken at face value, but were in code, and she proposed that the ladies should insert their own coded small ad in The English Lady and see what happened. This proposal was adopted, and in due course, the magazine carried the following advertisement:

Genteel English widow, own home, offers short term accommodation and board to young bachelor in need of rest and relaxation. All needs catered for. Living en famille. Every home comfort assured. Opportunities for indoor sport available for athletic types. Rates variable, depending on level of care required. Serious enquiries only. Enclose 10/6 PO (refundable) as earnest. Apply Box No 9763.

The response was gratifying. Even after the obviously unsuitable were discarded there were still enough promising applications for every lady in the group to take two or three.

The first of the applicants to arrive in Fletcherloyal was a short dark young man wearing a pork pie hat, heavy horn-rimmed spectacles, and a knobbly pipe. He declared himself to be a writer. Other miscellaneous young men swiftly followed and settled in with their respective ladies, who soon expressed satisfaction with them. When the ladies went to the pub in the evening, they would be escorted by their lodgers, who would gather together and exchange notes about their hostesses. It was noticed that the lodgers did not always leave with the same ladies that they had come in with.

Peace again prevailed in the village, but rumbling on the plains of Lombardy was a dormant volcano whose burning ashes would engulf Fletcherloyal as surely as Vesuvius overwhelmed Pompeii.

* * *

Sylvana

Back in his homeland, Luigi often thought of his English adventures, and to amuse himself he wrote a mémoire describing his experiences. Written for his own eyes only, he carelessly left it where it could be found by his mistress, Sylvana Magnamammari.

Sylvana had been the mistress of a movie director, Roberto Rossini, who had promised to star her in an advertising film promoting rice products, the tentative title of which was 'Riso, Ti Amo'. An advance publicity photograph for the film showed her wading barelegged through a paddy field in legless shorts and a tight sweater with a plunging V neckline, an image to stir the loins of any risotto loving Italian male. But Roberto fell in with a Hollywood blonde, the film was cancelled, and Luigi inherited Sylvana.

Sylvana was a powerfully built black haired lady with an expression which boded ill for anyone who crossed her path. Her resentment against Roberto she transferred onto Luigi, whom she considered unworthy of her, and the discovery on reading his memoire that the little worm had had the gall to be unfaithful to her was the last straw. She spent twenty furious minutes devising a number of impracticable punishments for him, mostly involving red-hot pincers and surgery without the benefit of anaesthetics, then calmed down and smiled chillingly. He could be hoist with his own petard, she thought. She collected up his manuscript and posted it to a publisher in Rome. The publisher was favourably impressed, and put it into print under the title 'Life in an English Village, by an anonymous traveller'. The book shot immediately to Number 1 in the Italian best-seller lists.

Sylvana bought a copy of the book on its first day of publication. On the title page she crossed out 'an anonymous traveller' and substituted 'Luigi Baloni'. She took it without delay to Luigi's capodecina. Before the end of the day the book, now with a number of passages marked, was in the hands of a well dressed gentleman at an executive desk in an expensive office in Turin. He scanned the marked pages, and looked up. The man who had brought the book to him had a question in his eyes, which the man at the desk answered with a nod.

The next day Luigi disappeared, never to be seen again. The mystery of his disappearance remained unsolved, although local carabinieri did notice that Sylvana would often smile and cross herself when passing over a recently constructed autostrada bridge, the concrete for which had been poured on the same day that Luigi disappeared.

The book's Italian success attracted international attention. Publishers around the globe clamoured for translation rights. The English language rights were acquired by a London publishing house.

* * *

Goodbye, Fletcherloyal

The English edition of the book was a sensation. There was no difficulty in identifying the village; Luigi had used its real name freely in his mémoire. The villagers of Fletcherloyal put up their shutters and went to ground, but it was too late. Plagues of investigative reporters, TV crews, and prurient tourists descended upon them. Soon there was a McDonald's and a Starbucks in the village. A Travelodge opened and a Fletcherloyal Hilton was mooted. Roundabouts, traffic lights, and road signs proliferated. Construction started on a theme park. Commercial development was doing what it does best -- destroying the very amenities it seeks to exploit.

Another little candle of joy went out, dowsed by the flowing tide of materialism.

The End