Part 3, Chapter 4, of RFV.

                    FOUR

 

    Lunch the next day boasted the speciality of the house �" alien’s brain stew. Everyone was seated round the table in the kitchen and a lot of small talk was floating about. Doris was telling Roger a story about the psychiatric problems her cousin Noreen had on Earth……

    “It were terrible, love,” she told him. “A sort o paranoid schizophrenia it were wi a touch o underlyin endogenous depression.”

    “How dreadful,” Roger said sympathetically.

    “It were,” agreed Doris. “She moped about village square for weeks. Ah didn’t know where t’ turn. In the end Ah said t’ Thropely, ‘Listen, ye’ll have t’ do somethin about our Noreen.’”

    “What could Thropely do?” Roger asked. “He didn’t have any medical training, did he?”

    “Well he had studied psychiatry a bit when he weren’t inventin things,” Doris told him.

    “So what did he do?” Roger asked. “Use some sort of special therapy on her?”

    Doris cackled. “Nae love, he used his twelve bore on her! He shot her!”

    “Aye, that cured her,” Thropely said, grinning.

    Half-way through the meal the door was flung open and a young man rushed in. He was wearing old clothes, a cloth cap, boots and was covered in coal dust. He pulled off his cap, clutched it to his chest and stared at them all.

    “There’s trouble at pit!” he announced dramatically. “Sorry about cliché,” he added apologetically

    “Who’s he?” Thropely asked, frowning.

    “That’s your other son �" Valory,” Doris explained.

    “Oh, is it?” Thropely muttered and continued with his dinner.

    “What sort o trouble at pit, our Valory?” Doris asked.

    “Its Germans,” Valory replied. “Them ones that live like its World War Two back on Earth.”

    “B******s!” spat Stan. “They’re after rulin whole planet!”

    “They are that,” agreed Thropely.

    “So what are they up to?” asked Doris.

    Valory looked round at them all. “They’re takin over at pit an forcing us all t’ speak german!” he said.

    There was a stunned silence for a few moments.

    “Oh no!” wailed Doris.

    “Christ, is this true, our Valory?” asked Thropely, standing up.

    “It is, our Dad.”

    “Ye know what this means, don’t ye, Thropely?” asked Stan.

    “Aye, that Ah do, Stan. Ye know how them f****n Krauts talk - verbs at end o sentences an male an female definite articles an crap like that. Never know what the b******s are on about.”

    “Aye, it’ll just be like bad grammar in Grimbledyke all over again.”

    “It will that, Stan.”

    “So what’ll happen now, our Valory?” Doris asked, nervously wringing her hands round the cat’s neck.

    Valory shrugged and slumped down at the table. “Ah’ve already contacted Arthur Ackley, union leader, he told her. “He’s comin round later.”

    “Let’s go an see if there’s owt about it on tv,” suggested Thropely.

    “TV?” said Roger, surprised. “I didn’t think you would have had that here.”

    “Just basic channels,” Stan told him. “News, sport an porn.”

    They all strolled through to the lounge and Doris switched on the tv. As it happened, a news programme was on, being presented by a four-armed alien newscaster.

    “….said he’d like to give her one himself,” the Newscaster said and picked up his next sheet of paper.

    “Its funny how all these aliens manage to speak english in science fiction stories, isn’t it?” Roger remarked and sniggered.

    “Shutit smartass,” the Newscaster said to him.

    Roger flushed.

    “Reports coming in,” the Newscaster went on, “suggest we might be having trouble at pit. Sorry about the cliché. For an on the spot report, over to Sir Ashley Whig who is outside Klyzemadex’s main mine.”

    The picture changed to a scene outside the pit. In the background, four-armed aliens wearing cloth caps, work clothes and work boots could be seen walking about. They were all wearing swastika armbands.

    In the foreground was a three-quarter drunk Sir Ashley who was propped up by a couple of the aliens. Behind him were some alien children who were jumping up and down and waving four-handedly at the camera.

    An alien technician strolled into the picture and handed Sir Ashley a microphone. The aliens who were propping him up on either side stepped away. This was a mistake. Sir Ashley fell backwards. The aliens got him to his feet again. His dark brown wig was now on sideways. The aliens got behind him and tried to support him from the rear. This was a mistake. Sir Ashley fell forwards.

    The aliens got him to his feet again. He was now clutching his wig and had dropped the microphone. He spoke into the wig but nobody could hear what he was saying.

    The same technician came on again, took the wig and gave him back the microphone. Things now straightened out, this true professional broadcaster was ready.

    “Hi!” he shouted and waved at the camera, his bald head shining brilliantly in the lights. “An if you’re watchin, h’lo Doris ole girl!”

    In the lounge, Doris beamed and waved to him.

    Sir Ashley searched through his jacket pockets, perhaps for some notes he had made on the current troubles at the mine but no, it was a half-bottle he brought out. He began strolling along a path, drinking from the bottle and the camera followed him. He came to a small, knee high wall and decided to sit on it. This was a mistake. He toasted the viewers with the bottle, took a swig and fell backwards over the wall.

    The two aliens who had earlier supported him rushed on screen and hauled him up. They leaned him over the wall so he was facing the camera.

    “Sorry bout that,” Sir Ashley slurred, “spot o bother with the ole vertical hold…anyway, seems there’s some nonsense in the damn pit here, Germans takin over an forcin everybody t’ speak their lingo or some ruddy crap like that. Strikes me as a bit silly when there’s more serious matters afoot, I mean, have you ever tried to get a half-way decen brandy on this planet or a half-way ’ceptable burgundy?”

    He took another swig from his bottle then tossed it over his shoulder. “Ratpiss,” he muttered, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. “Where was I? Oh yes, is young Valory watchin?”

    “Hallo Sir Ashley!” Valory called, waving at him from the lounge.

    “Lo Val,” Sir Ashley replied. “Be a sport an come roun an we’ll do a spot of interviewin, there’s a good chap.”

    “He wants t’ interview ye, lad,” said Thropely. “Best get round there.”

    Valory put on his cloth cap and rushed out.

    “Oh my, our Valory’s goin t’ be on television!” exclaimed a proud Doris.

    And a minute later he was. On screen, a nervous Valory could be seen shuffling in towards Sir Ashley. He grinned and waved.

    Everybody in the lounge, including Roger, waved back.

    “Bring anythin with you?” asked Sir Ashley, lifting his hand towards his mouth. “Spot of anythin?”

    Valory crouched down beside him. “Sorry Sir Ashley, Ah rushed out when ye said ye wanted t’ interview me.”

    Sir Ashley cursed. “Well I’m off for a drink before they close.” He fumbled the microphone into Valory’s hands. “Tell everybody what happened at the pit. See you later, ole boy,” he muttered and crawled off.

    Valory was still crouched down by the wall. He smiled again at the camera, nervously took off his cap and clutched it to his chest.

    “Get on with it!” the Director ordered from off camera.

    “Oh, right,” said Valory. “Well whole thing started in number four shaft.”

    “You can stand up,” the Director told him.

    “What? Oh right,” said Valory and stood up.

    The camera stayed where it was.

    “It was just gone half past one,” said Valory’s knees, “an there we was at coal face.”

    “Up camera!” the Director ordered wearily.

    As the camera shot moved upwards, the brass band rushed in behind Valory, set up and began playing softly.

    “Well we’d just hacked out big load o coal,” Valory went on. “Real b*****d it were too. We were just havin lunch break when Germans appeared. Wearin pit clothes an swastika armbands they was. One o them, must have been leader, tells us that Germans have bought all pits on Klyzemadex. That they’ll be runnin them from now on an anybody that wants t’ keep workin down pit has t’ learn german an wear armband.”

    Valory paused and wiped the sweat off his brow with his cap. The brass band continued softly in the background.

    “Christ, ma blood ran cold,” Valory went on. “Before Ah knew it, aliens in pit were startin t’ say a few german words. Soon they were all at it. Collective madness seemed t’ seize ’em. Ah froze. Didn’t know what t’ do. Hair inside ma nose was standin on end. Balls were like two prunes. Black puddin yoghurt tasted like dead cow’s blood in mouth.”

    Valory wiped more sweat away from his brow.

    “Before Ah knew what Ah was doin Ah panicked an ran home t’ comfort o family,” he told the rapt viewers.

    “Quite right, our son,” said Doris in the lounge. “Ah always said, discretion was the better part o Valory.”

    Thropely nodded in agreement.

    “So as tune brass band’s playin is conveniently drawin t’ close, Ah’ll hand ye back t’ studio,” finished our man at the pit.

    Thropely got up and switched off the tv and shortly afterwards, Valory came back into the lounge.

    “So what happens now?” a bemused Roger asked.

    “Well have t’ wait for Arthur Ackley, union leader,” Valory told him.

    Thropely and Stan brought out their pipes. Doris brought out her knitting. Roger sat wondering why he hadn’t figured much in this chapter so far but his thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at one of the French windows. Young Wilf strolled over to open it.

    A man was standing outside. Momentarily a shaft of sunlight shone on him. It shone on his head, seemed to be absorbed into his body and left via his buttocks.

    “Afternoon brothers!” he announced, striding into the room. “Arthur Ackley, union leader, as mentioned a few sentences ago!”