The gentlemen had congregated towards the back of the natural amphitheatre, where they felt the freedom to talk without being under the ever watchful eye of fiancés, aunts, nieces, wives and whatnot. A heated tournament of table games was underway; Backgammon, Mancala, Shove Ha'penny, Tiddledy winks and Ludo were all taken on. Two elder gentlemen had even locked horns over a impassioned match of Nine Men's Morris; jostling with one another, they had buffeted and impinged on the other athletes until the surrounding grass was littered with lost winks and dropped draughts, halma men, coins and matches.
'I must just catch the tail end of the Reverend's talk. Woe betide I miss it all, you know what he can be like...' slurred Thrust-Munch by way of escape from a voluble group enthusiastically berating one of their party’s asthmatic mathematics.
'...and this brings to a close, the era of the Dog-legged gate.’ finished the Reverend. A smattering of polite and relieved applause accompanied Bean Weevil's departure from the spot lit bandstand. As he wove his way towards the small huddle of men, he caught a few snippets of indiscrete conversation from the gathered crowd.
'... limp and damp, always was, always will be...an unmitigated fool!...'
'A flimsy excuse for a man. I for one wasn't at all surprised to hear about the 'goings on'…’
'I know, but, but why would you? Is anyone interested in what that unctuous bell-end has to say?!'
'...well, they say the cheese slid off his cracker when his wife left him, after she caught him carrying on with that strumpet...'
He strode on, deciding to listen to no more. Besides, he allowed himself, it was hardly as if they would all have been discussing him. Nevertheless, after what he felt had been a triumph of a talk on one of his favourite worthwhile pastimes, he felt a tad deflated.
Mrs Feltch had by this time joined the onlookers. No expense had been spared on her tout ensemble; its finery belied her humble background. Her invite had been astutely issued on the grounds that it never hurt to have a few tongues wagging in the right direction. Indeed the Box Of Frogs was a veritable hotbed of gossip, with Mrs Feltch herself being the queen rumourmonger. Never one to let insubstantiation ruin a good scandal, she had ruthlessly passed on vicious whoppers regarding the Reverend Bean Weevil, his wife, an unnamed effervescent hussy (who may or may not have been called Plethora) and even Crispy McGinty, the gusset chiseller.
'I stopped for a crafty half of Wazzock's down at the Haughty Crab on the way here, and as I left, I passed old Crispy McGinty's place, you know, Glory Hole Cottage. She looked like she had her work cut out for her today; they were queuing round the block!' offered Horatio Flange at her elbow, angling for something a little more.
'No, I've heard she's quite ambidextrous in that matter, enabling her to run off two at a time!' whispered Mrs Feltch, barely missing a beat.
Raised eyebrows all round, revealed that it wasn't just those of the fairer sex who were adept at eavesdropping. Several of the gentlemen in the immediate vicinity took a mental note. A few surreptitious winks and almost imperceptible receptive nods could be spotted here and there.
Professor Dreadnought meanwhile, was creating quite a stir himself. He had seen fit to bring along his unearthly pet Aye Aye. The piercing, beady eyes of this nocturnal primate were far from its most repugnant features. Crepe-thin, black scrotal skin, spoon shaped ears and a demonic maw, coupled with other disturbing elements, such as sparse wiry hairs in all the wrong places and articulated fingers of erratic length and thickness, left one with a crawling, spidery sensation running down one's spine. If licked, one felt sure it would taste of arsenic and liquorice.
The shy creature, in an attempt to take refuge between the ample rolls of flesh and droopy skin folds of Rotunda Asquith's corpulent figure, had scampered down her cleavage, leaving just the bristly brush of its tail advertising its presence.
'Marzipan!! Stop that immediately!' scolded Professor Dreadnought, blushing profusely, as he lifted his beloved pet off Dame Asquith, unhooking its ebony, skeletally clawed fingers from her contrastingly white bosom. Dame Asquith visibly blanched, swaying gently, then collapsed in an unceremonious swooning heap.
Clambering intricately up and around its master's shoulders, the Aye Aye came to a rest with its chin in its paws, elbows cocked, resting atop his balding pate, its bushy tail twining around the professor’s neck.
'Its fingers...so filthy... inky...and, and black!...' breathed Dame Asquith, looking down at herself, half expecting to see its tiny fingerprints branded into her skin. With a hastily garnered lawn chain beneath her and a stiff whisky in hand, she finally began to regain her composure, all the while fanning herself furiously.
'Yes, yes, he's quite something, isn't he? Marzipan here is one of the more interesting specimens from my menagerie. I have an engagingly amorous spectacled bear named Quentin, a rather reticent Hoffman's two-toed sloth named Mogadon, and no less than five pigmy marmosets, Thoby, Codger, Gurn, Spong and Fflaps who I must confess I can hardly tell apart. I also have my aardvark, Jazz Apples, who is of course a constant source of comfort. Indeed, it is her warm breath on my cheek at night that ensures I sleep soundly even through that darned cacophony they call the dawn chorus.' chatted the Professor to anyone in earshot, utterly carried away in his passion.
'But I digress...' he muttered, looking round and finding himself alone.
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