15. The Man from the Council

What Ho Proles!

I’ve always lived by the aphorism that you should never judge a book by its cover. So long as it is backed in quality leather with gilt lettering, there really should be no problem... Luckily, I’ve also lived by another rule, which is to damn a man by his suit.

All had gone well for that wonderfully hesitant moment when the door opened and a foot appeared. I always say you can’t go wrong with black, patent leather, but unfortunately, it was followed by another shoe and the remaining parts of a man whose appearance robbed my lungs of their last breath.

The previous time such a poor quality tailoring had appeared before me, I had the pleasure of sending it away for a twelve month custodial sentence, and I could not help but feel that if I was unable to do so again, at the very least I could put a demerit by the poor fellow’s name right from the off. This really was a grey suit remarkably drab even by the standards of remarkably drab grey suits. One had a distinct impression that its tailor had suffered from attention deficit disorder and had only finished it after twelve dozen visits to the dummy. No part matched the rest, though to the suit’s credit, I don’t believe I had ever seen so many different shades of medium grey in a two-piece worsted. The suit also allowed ample space for two secondary insults in the form of a shirt, stained yellow around the collar and a size too large, and a tie that was that shade of green you can only know if you’ve ever tried to gut fresh fish on a riverbank with a blunt knife.

‘Mr. Murgatroid?’ asked the man thrusting out his hand in a way that either denoted a welcome or the intention to disembowel me with his fingertips. ‘The name’s Finch... Jeremiah Finch.’
As a rule, I dislike handshakes. One lacks the intelligence informing you where the fingers had previously been, whilst one has enough intelligence to form a good suspicion. Nevertheless, I shook the man’s palm as politely as I could. It felt not unlike shovelling roadkill.

‘And what can I do for you, Mr. Finch?’ I asked, gesturing the fellow away from me and towards a seat. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever made your acquaintance, yet I thought I knew all the local council officials by sight if not scent.’

With a slight finessing of his trousers around the knees, the man sat down with an audible groan.
‘Oh, I’m quite new to the department,’ he sighed. ‘But I know all about you, Mr. Murgatroid. I’ve heard all about you...’

‘Have you indeed?’ I said after an ominous silence had developed. ‘And I hope you’ve heard nothing too flattering.’

He allowed another of those silences to sit between us before his tongue flickered out to grease his lips ready for the reply.

‘I understand you’ll be standing for the local seat at the election,’ he said. ‘The Conservative Party, isn’t it?’

‘I will and it is,’ I answered. ‘And I trust I can rely on your vote?’

It was the sort of thing I knew I shouldn’t have said the moment I knew I had said it. It was like asking a chap for a favour. It suggests two parts desperation to every part presumption. It could also land me in the chap’s debt if he answered in the affirmative. All of which explains why he took that moment to pull a pipe from his jacket pocket and clamp it between slightly yellowing teeth somewhat like the fangs of a puff adder that smokes twenty a day.

Reaching into another pocket, he produced a box of matches and, without another word, struck a flame and applied it to the pipe’s bowl. A couple of dry sucks and the place was as smoky as a tap room on a Saturday night.

‘I’m a man of simple convictions,’ he said plainly as he shook out the match. ‘I’m not interested in the business of politics, nor people who like to dabble in politics. My business is the real world. Pipe tobacco and an inexplicable love for my work are my only two weaknesses.’

‘Men must have at least a dozen,’ I assured him, knowing there and then that there was something odd about this thoroughly odd fish. ‘Only two weaknesses makes life terribly dull, don’t you find?’

‘Oh, things are never dull around here’ he replied with a smile. ‘In fact, Mr. Murgatroid, take this plan of yours, for a bonfire at your spring festival...’

‘Now you’re not going to start citing regulations to me, are you Mr. Finch?’ I asked as breezily as I could muster with only my small breakfast tipple in my system. Then feeling I’d been pressed to the defence a little too easily, I turned to the offence. ‘You should know that I’m aware of all the regulations that apply to C---- N----. I helped write most of them, you know?’

He withdrew the pipe in order to smile. ‘Indeed,’ he said and then drawled an ‘only’ as he took a deep breath. ‘You see, Mr. Murgatroid, I have to live my life according to all the regulations and not just those written by the local landowners. No man is an island. And this bonfire you have planned is part of a religious festival, is it not?’

‘Yes it is,’ I replied. ‘The locals call it the festival of Ostaramanoth. Can’t say I believe in any of it myself but there you go. I’m not a druid. In fact, I consider myself C of E. These rural folk can get a bit rebellious if we don’t let them occasionally set light to a bit of poultry. Besides, there’s no harm done and it’s all carried out on private land.’

‘And that’s just the point,’ he said, puffing away at his briar. ‘A large public event held on private land still needs to be sanctioned by the council. Certain arrangements have to be made to safeguard people’s safety.’

‘And how might we manage that?’ I asked, growing a little tired of stepping around a matter that would probably end with the transfer of coin. ‘You’ve clearly come here to shut us down and I ask: how might we satisfy you to make it all right again? How would you like your pound of flesh, Mr. Finch?’

An unhealthy glow came to his cheeks, though the chap did a superb job of keeping a lid on his temper. ‘Events organised by the council are made safe by ensuring they comply with all the proper regulations,’ he hissed. ‘You just can’t tell people to meet you in the middle of a ruddy field and put chickens on a bonfire! Plans need to be approved by the council.’

‘So, you’re telling me that the council can organise this sort of shindig?’ I spread my hands in a gesture of compromise. ‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Finch, that is progressive thinking.’

He shook his head slowly and took the pipe from his lips.

‘Unfortunately, the council can’t get involved in a religious festival,’ he said. ‘And we would never condone animal sacrifice.’

‘But they’re such little sacrifices,’ I assured him. ‘Look, it makes not make much sense to man of the town, but country folk have their own peculiar traditions. It’s not out role to stand in the way of tradition. Personally, I like to block progress and I’m all for the status quo.’

He grimaced and muttered something about: ‘Too much hair, though Mrs. Finch has a few of their albums.’ Popping his pipe between his teeth, he reached into a pocket and retrieved a notebook. He thumbed through the pages until he found a scribble that seemed to mean something to him as he tapped it with his finger. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know where to begin. You break so many rules... I mean your bonfire is even shaped like a man.’ He leaned forward to whisper. ‘I was particularly troubling by a branch that indicated anatomical detail.’

‘Is that a problem?’

The official tone resumed. ‘Should you burn it, Mr. Murgatroid, it would constitute a hate crime based on gender.’

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’m sure we can lose that one branch.’

‘And the whole bonfire would need to be made much smaller.’

‘But wouldn’t that constitute a hate crime towards midgets?’ I asked, but greeted with silence, I pressed on. ‘How much smaller?’

He shrugged. ‘Shall we just say smaller? It’s about making the right gesture.’

‘Okay, then consider the gesture made. What else?’

‘No sacrifices.’

‘That’s a tricky one,’ I admitted. ‘The locals love the smell of toasted goat.’

‘Why not sacrifice some bread or fruit?’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps some greens? A few potatoes? A lovely salad?’

‘I can but ask them,’ I said. ‘Is that it? We make the bonfire smaller, non gender specific, and replace the chickens with break rolls. Then you would allow this pagan festival to go ahead with its bonfire?’

‘Only if you promise that you won’t light it.’

‘Pardon?’

‘You can have your bonfire but only so long as you don’t set fire to it. There are environmental issues...’

‘But,’ I spluttered, ‘it would hardly be a bonfire if we didn’t light it.’

He smiled a vacuous smile. ‘It would still be a bonfire,’ he said, ‘only it would remain an unlit bonfire.’

I’ve not had an Oxford education without being able to spot a tautology. ‘A bonfire can only be considered a bonfire if there is an intention to light it at some point,’ I said, feeling a headache coming on. ‘If there is no intention, then you can’t advertise it as a bonfire. All you have is a pile of sticks.’

He tucked his pipe away. ‘Listen here. I’m not one to split hairs. You can call it what you like...’

‘Except we can’t use a man, describe it as a pagan ritual, involve sacrifice, or use any phrase that implies ignition.’

‘But you can have the intention of lighting it... only so long as you don’t actually set it on fire.’ He stood up and brushed down his suit. ‘To be honest, Mr. Murgatroid, I’m a bit disappointed by your attitude. I thought you’d be much more reasonable. After all: I’m only the one delivering the message. If you want to argue the letter of the law, then I suggest you speak to my superiors.’

‘Fine,’ I said, picking out a 2B from the pencil jar shaped like a skull. ‘Tell me the names of your superiors and I’ll have a word with them.’

He stood up and fastened his jacket. ‘Just ask for the Commissioner for Environment in the Hague,’ he said. ‘You see, Mr. Murgatroid, the council take all our regulations seriously. We can’t have you flouting European Laws, can we now? What would the Germans say?’

The pencil snapped in my fist. ‘I have a pretty good idea,’ I replied through gritted teeth.