Little Nelson Page 8

  Nor was that all. For the first time in his life the Vicar himself was now on drugs. He had fallen to the temptation simply because one of the regular parochial invalids had decided that her visitor looked even worse than she felt. Out of compassion, coupled with the desire to get rid of an unwanted bedroom intruder, she gave him an aspirin. And in an impulsive, reckless moment, the Vicar took it. That is how it was that on the night of the massed parade outside the Vicarage, Cyril Woods-Denton knew absolutely nothing about it.

  He was tucked up, sweating slightly, and dreaming peacefully.

  By now, reports of gnome massings were becoming something of a commonplace. They were relegated to the middle, or even back pages of the popular journals; and they occupied only the last thirty seconds or so of TV and radio bulletins. A fully authenticated account of a company of more than forty marching down Amersham High Street at three o’clock in the morning and all whistling cheerfully, received no national coverage at all.

  Then broke the truly dramatic news, the sort of item that sends up the pulse-rate of a jaded copytaster. It came over the tape in the usual way, amid reports of murders, kidnappings, derailments, broken-off engagements and unemployment figures. And it hit every front page in the country. GNOME WAR was what the banner headlines said. Apparently, at Scotch Corner where the A66 meets the A1, a company of vigorously marching gnomes had encountered another contingent of approximately the same strength, stepping out equally energetically, and both heading south. But instead of joining up and proceeding towards London, a small army of some two hundred strong, they immediately fell to fighting. In consequence the traffic in all three directions was disrupted. The AA reported a tail-back of over a mile and a quarter, and recommended diversions at Richmond (Yorks) and Darlington. Meanwhile the battle continued unabated. The two companies continued to hurl themselves upon each other, wave after wave attacking fiercely, only to give way to fresh recruits ranged up ready in the rear.

  Casualties were correspondingly heavy. An eyewitness, trapped in the cab of his lorry on the very point of the intersection, described the scene as unparalleled by anything in the whole of his twenty- six years’ driving experience. Even so, some of the newspaper reports were regrettably exaggerated. Accounts of shallow graves, hastily dug and marked by swathes of hedgerow flowers, were exposed as no more than the invention of sentimental sensationalists. On the other hand, there was ample corroboration of accounts of small bands of walking wounded, supported on the shoulders of their comrades, seen hobbling off across adjoining fields in search of rest and shelter.

  As soon as the new Deputy Commissioner had studied the in-coming reports he despatched his. team of experts up north to pursue enquiries of a rather more penetrating nature. And it was just as he had expected. A sub-postmistress on the Gateshead road, awakened by the sound of marching feet, expressed surprise at the conspicuously diminutive stature of the gnome soldiery endlessly filing past her window, while a retired bank manager in Hartlepool asserted that he had never seen a more robust-looking or better-fed gang of small outlaws in all his life. The Deputy Commissioner made his own deduction, and began probing deeper still. Sales records and delivery sheets revealed the truth. Those coming down from Newcastle-on-Tyne and thereabouts were predominantly from the Nursery Gardenware area, whereas the copy invoices showed that the East Coast and those parts were practically controlled by Ornamental Pottery Associates.

  The Deputy Commissioner, however, soon had more than gnome turnover figures to think about. Fireworks were not the only dangerous merchandise that had been stolen. There were now matches as well, and these presented a unique and baffling problem. They were not being purloined in quantity. There was nothing organized or wholesale about it. Indeed, at first glance it all seemed disconcertingly trivial, even domestic. The task facing the Police thus appeared insurmountable. Within the United Kingdom some two hundred million matches are consumed every year. What is more, the flat cardboard ones are deliberately designed to be appropriated, taken away and exhibited on the coffee tables of suburban drawing rooms. The statisticians were confronted by a whole battery of unknowns and variables. Additional mathematicians had to be called in, and nationwide computer facilities became stretched to the limit. Even then, the report was prominently marked ‘Provisional’. But it was enough. It revealed the astonishing figure of over a quarter million boxes (or books) of matches entirely unaccounted for.

  One explanation soon began to present itself – a blazing hayrick here, a gutted sports pavilion there. Reports began coming in of wisps of burning newspaper thrust wantonly into the slots of pillarboxes, of Corporation litter bins unaccountably spouting smoke and flames, and of piles of hymn books, scorched almost beyond recognition, discovered in the chancels of remote, unlocked country churches.

  Then came a new phenomenon, the night flares and beacons. On a single night in September as many as eleven entirely separate conflagrations were observed by a company of Boy Scouts camping on the hills by Ivinghoe; and hardly a full twenty four hours passed without dancing lights being seen, piercing the darkness in places where no light had ever been observed before.

  The Deputy Commissioner was wholly unprepared when the day’s case-sheet from Larceny listed a major raid on a world-famous West End toy emporium. Here again meticulous planning was immediately apparent. No fewer than three – the Traffic Department contended that there must have been a minimum of four – lorry-loads must have been employed to cart the stuff away. And the nature of the stolen goods was in itself remarkable. Some departments were utterly cleared out. All air rifles, bows and arrows, boomerangs, catapults and water pistols had been painstakingly removed, and the entire garage of pedal motors, scooter cars, tricycles and fairy cycles were cleared out, leaving nothing but tyre marks on the polished boards.

  One floor above, the electronic toy section, was similarly cleared out. Miniature racers with remote control were all taken, and a full showcase of toy airplanes including one toy helicopter – all expensive demonstration models – was emptied on the spot. Here again it was significant that the kind that simply had miniaturized petrol engines and were kept tethered on a string were left untouched in their separate showcase, and that it was only the fully manoeuvrable sort that was stolen. Plainly the theft had been methodically planned in advance because the department’s entire stock of batteries for the operating panels had all been removed, too.

  It is to the RAF that the credit must go for discovering the eventual destination of the stolen goods. A Nimrod aircraft, returning from a more than usually pointless sea reconnaissance, spotted something unusual on the runway of a disused air station on the Norfolk coast. Coming down from some thirty-five thousand feet, the Captain made three low-level runs across the field and, despite deteriorating weather conditions, secured irrefutable photographic evidence. This revealed six lines of extremely small vehicles all drawn up along the tarmac, and all in the hands of equally small drivers in bright, unfamiliar uniforms. What was of particular interest, however, was the picture sequence of the rapid-succession camera. It showed that the runway was being used for intensive training exercises – rapid acceleration from a standing start with the drivers bent low over the steering wheel and peddling away like mad; U-turns taken at full speed; and delicate reversing operations into narrow and confined spaces. Some of the photographic frames even showed up minor collisions, and one a quite nasty pile-up involving a road racer, a toy fire-engine, a kiddy’s go-cart and a fairy cycle complete with bell, headlamp and wicker shopping-basket.

  Chapter 8

  It is noteworthy that, at the very moment when gnomes were congregating in the shires and counties of the kingdom, Cyril Woods-Denton’s Vicarage should have been singled out for special attention.

  Up to that moment the evening which the Vicar and his sister were sharing together had been a quiet and placid one – baked beans on toast, ‘This Is Your Life’, cocoa boiled up in a saucepan, the News, a few simple prayers, one last check on door
locks and window fastenings, and bedtime. Not until 12.30 or thereabouts – neither of the occupants had thought to consult a clock – did anything untoward occur.

  Then they were both wakened by the sound of a fairy cycle being parked in the driveway. The noise made by the rear bracket scraping on the gravel was unmistakeable. Brother and sister rose hastily and looked out of the window, he from his room, she from hers. Below was revealed a remarkable sight. In the glow of a match that had recently been struck they saw a travel-stained midget, heavily goggled and wearing elbow-length driving gloves, peering up at the nameplate on the door. The match went out and the rider, still clearly uncertain that he had found the right address, thrust his goggles up onto his forehead and began fumbling with the matchbox again. This time he dropped the match altogether, and began peeling off his driving gloves. When at last he had succeeded in striking the third match, Hilda was surprised to see how young he was.

  By now he was apparently satisfied that he had reached his destination. Reaching for a strap that was hanging across his right shoulder, he promptly began opening his despatch rider’s wallet. In the half light they saw him take out a crumpled-looking envelope and, with no attempt of concealment, walk boldly up to the front door. A moment later they heard the flap of the letterbox being raised and the sound of something being pushed through.

  It was Hilda who beat her brother in the race to the doormat. She was already halfway down the stairs when the Vicar came stumbling out of his bedroom, drawing on the woolly dressing-gown that had so alarmed Little Nelson. And it was Hilda who snatched up the crumpled parcel. She knew at once that it was precious and, for a moment, she held it pressed close against her bosom.

  By now Cyril was there on the linoleum beside her.

  ‘But who is it addressed to?’ he kept asking. ‘Who is it for?’

  He was already holding out his hand as though he expected her to give it to him.

  ‘It’s mine. It’s mine,’ was all that Hilda could say.

  And, pushing past him, she went hurriedly upstairs again.

  Seated on the end of the bed she began tearing at the brown paper. It was tattered enough already. And the string round it had been made up of quite short pieces: there were three large knots holding it together. And when she finally got the wrapping apart she could see that the contents had been wrapped up separately. Newspaper was what had been used this time; and very carefully used, too, with the torn edges all neatly folded over and tucked in. One by one she opened the tiny packets.

  The first contained two pennies of the big old-fashioned kind – one of them mint-fresh and gleaming. Then came a playing card, the six of hearts, with one corner missing; an acorn; the gold top of a Devon cream milk bottle; and the button that Hilda had been missing from her housecoat. There it was, one of the set, with the torn strands of cotton hanging from it.

  The sight of the button broke Hilda’s heart. It was just as she had always suspected. Though she had not actually seen it happen she had never doubted that Little Nelson had already put it in his pocket while still pretending to look for it. And, as she had told herself a hundred times, if that was what had really happened it was devotion and not deceit that had driven him to it.

  It was, however, the presence of the acorn as much as of the button that moved her so deeply. It stood out as an emblem, a symbol. Little Nelson had always liked smooth, bright, shiny things and, within that jumble of waste paper, was everything that he had held most precious. It was his treasure chest. If only Little Nelson had learnt to write, she kept thinking, then he could have told me everything. But she realized at once how foolish she was being. The parcel had told her everything. Unsigned and unwritten it said all that there was to say.

  It was a message of farewell, a last testament from an absent loved one.

  During the next twenty-four hours another minor incident served to divert public attention. A wine merchant in Kilburn was robbed, and twelve cases of champagne were removed overnight. Not that there was anything in itself very remarkable in such a raid. But there was one distinctly unusual feature. The wine merchant was one of the long-established kind who provided his customers with soda in the old-fashioned trigger-operated kind of syphon. As loot they were practically valueless. Nevertheless, the whole thirty-six of them, stored in the corridor leading to the basement, were removed on that single night. And whereas the champagne, Bolinger NV, was all conveniently crated, the syphons must have been laboriously removed one at a time.

  It was the theft of the syphons that revealed the one clue – though it was not yet to emerge publicly – as to the nature of the crime. A stipendiary magistrate, a citizen of the highest possible credentials, returning late from a social gathering with professional colleagues, came upon a remarkable sight in the roadway. Beside a lorry drawn up against the kerb were two of the smallest figures he had ever seen, both wearing stocking masks and both sitting on the pavement squirting each other with jets of soda water.

  The magistrate was transfixed. He stood watching in amazement. Then, as a series of shrill whistles from inside the lorry seemed to be urging the combatants on to further violence, he decided that it was his duty to report the matter.

  It was not until he had actually got inside the telephone kiosk on the corner that he began to entertain second thoughts about the whole affair. As he lifted the receiver he began to realize that he would find it impossible to prepare a coherent statement of what he was already beginning to doubt he had just seen. He decided therefore to go straight home to bed.

  A couple of days later it would have taken more than the misgivings of a bemused magistrate to keep any news out of the headlines; or, indeed, off the front pages, too. There could no longer be any doubt about it; the gnomes were mobilizing on a national scale. In strict accordance with some deep-laid plan, they were coming together not merely as battalions or regiments, but as brigades and divisions. Up and down the length of the country, whole armies were now in process of formation.

  Chapter 9

  What was chiefly remarkable about this mobilization was that it should have been the historic sites of conflict that were ultimately chosen for engagement. The names Naseby, Culloden, and Bannockburn all figured largely in the headlines; and, further south, Barnet and Blackheath both reappeared. Within the northern and western suburbs of the capital there were purely contemporary forays in Richmond Park, Kew Gardens, Regent’s Park and Kenwood. Of these, the three-hour offensive and counter-offensive which raged in front of Kenwood’s Regency mansion was the most notable.

  Preparations for the confrontation had been under way for the whole of the preceding week. Adjoining woodlands were seen to have been full of small creeping figures and, on the open lawns and meadows, isolated platoons, presumably of shirkers, had been observed at fatigue drill. Nor was the scene of activity limited to Kenwood itself. Overnight, two lines of extremely narrow trenches had been dug across the whole width of the Heath Extension; hastily constructed landing barges, four foot six inches by six foot, were to be detected tethered to the little jetty on the Boat Pond; and the lower slopes of Parliament Hill were dotted with earthworks, tank traps, and bow and arrow emplacements. At night time the noise of whistling had become intolerable and residents as far away as Holly Lodge and Hampstead Garden Suburb were advised to keep their windows closed.

  It is here that the highest possible tribute has to be paid to the Deputy Commissioner. Not for a single moment did he waver. Cancelling all Police leave, he threw a cordon round the whole area, extending from Gospel Oak in the south and Golders Green in the west, and taking in Highgate Village and the Vale of Health on the periphery. Check points were set up, identity cards printed, isolated dwellings evacuated, churches closed and public houses put out of bounds.

  Naturally the Deputy Commissioner had his critics.

  His whole handling of the Emergency was regarded by many as weak and indecisive. And when he set up a special departmental Public Relations office for the issue o
f passes to reporters from television, radio and the Press, it was seen by his enemies as no more than a device by a publicity-seeking public servant anxious to achieve personal notoriety.

  The media, however, had good reason to be grateful to him. All that mattered to the great organs of information was that they should be there and at full strength. Indeed, when it finally became clear that the battle was to be fought on the lawn below the House, television cameras stretched, tripod to tripod, down the whole length of the terrace. Moreover, because of the exceptional demands on the local power supply, two mobile generators were brought in and installed in the sunken courtyard outside what had once been the old mansion’s great kitchen.

  By the Tuesday evening it was clear that the time for hostilities could not be far off. The whole day had been occupied by the bringing-up of reinforcements – one army using the imitation wooden footbridge over by the lake, and the other the disused carriage drive beside The Spaniard’s Inn. Throughout the whole of that night the glow of campfires lit up the surrounding northern heights, and the sound of whistling continued unabated.

  Wednesday, the day of battle, dawned crisp and clear. The call of bugles was carried on the autumn air, mingled with the noise of pedal motors being furiously revved up in readiness. Even so it was not until 1700 hours precisely that hostilities finally began.

  Oddly enough, the cause of the delay was civilian rather than military. With both sides fully equipped and ready to begin fighting, hostilities were held up by a commonplace industrial dispute. Special danger money rather than overtime demand was at the bottom of it. The gunners, archery divisions, and boomerang throwers had all been in position for hours but the night gear – mattresses, blankets, candles, alarm clocks and so forth – had failed to arrive. These goods were in the hands of gnome commercial contractors and, worse, of gnome commercial sub-contractors. These were an uncouth, rough-looking lot, mostly with thick striped mufflers and shapeless duffle coats. Having approached within a few hundred yards of the battle zone, they resolutely refused to draw nearer. Leaving their loads in the wheelbarrows, Super-market trolleys and push carts in which they had brought them, they simply stood around, hands thrust into their pockets, mooching. Not that they were by any means altogether without organization or discipline. They had their local representatives with them. Two soberly dressed figures, both with Persil-white shirts and a row of ball points and propelling pencils in their outside breast pockets, duly stepped forward. The others gathered round and, after a unanimous show of small pink hands, the two representatives marched off in the direction of the nearby Field Office.