Rust by Arun D Ellis - book 9 in the Corpalism series

Living it Large


Lord Geoffrey Bledley-Smythe let loose the dogs, then watched as they raced frantically across the lawn, scattering in different directions.

Rusty, the Red Setter plunged through the Victorian rose arch, Disraeli, the Springer Spaniel crashed headlong into his prized Ceanothus 'Autumnal Blue' and out the other side. Gladstone, an English Bulldog, followed behind moving quite fast for such short legs. They all disappeared into the orchard at the far end of his beloved garden.

The road that ran along the outskirts of Lord Bledley-Smythe's estate was lined with a variety of vehicles; the ubiquitous SUVs driven by distracted mums and full of screaming children, the odd horse carrier and a few white vans driven by heavily tattooed workmen, and all of them belching fumes as they queued to get out of the junction located 100 yards down the road.

He was irritated beyond measure by the noise.

Since handing the 'big house' over to his son, and moving across the fields to the Manor his leisure time had been spent in this cherished garden, 12' high-walled on three sides only since the council decided to demolish the fourth wall for the puerile reason that it bordered the road, replacing it with an impenetrable, but not sound-proof, yew hedge.

The road itself was another bone of contention.

He mourned his youth when it had been little more than a dirt track and the clip clop of horses the only sound to be heard apart from the somnolent buzzing of bees and the occasional cry of circling buzzards.

He regretted the passing of time for that and for the disfigurement it wrought on his body. He was still an imposing six-footer when he forced himself upright, chin in, chest out, even at 84 but he'd lost a good few inches off his previous six-three, and standing erect caused him pain, whilst bending hurt his knees.

He was on 'poo patrol', trowel in hand. Lavinia had been giving him hell about it, the warm weather heightened the smell and he'd finally caved in and agreed to clear the lawn at least. He'd asked her yet again why the bloody gardener couldn't do it and she'd rounded on him as always with some nonsense about the gardener being an artist with the rhododendrons and azaleas in the main grounds and not about to get his hands dirty clearing up after dogs.

As a result he was talking loudly as he walked about, ranting about the unfairness of it all, head down, eying the grass for tell-tale signs that the dogs had been there first.

He twitched his bushy moustache and, spotting a suspicious-looking flattening of the grass, rounded on his target. He stared down at it, 2 days old, dried. This would offer a simple challenge, quick sweep of the trowel underneath, no fuss, no bother. Some deposits were more tricky, the recent soft ones, they tended to stick to the grass and his trowel, never pleasant.

He bent over and with a deft flick of the wrist he scooped the trowel underneath and lifted, then he was off to the road side of the garden, to toss the deposit into the no-man's land gap between his fence and the offending hedge.

He always stopped a good few feet away from the fence to make the toss. He would stand stock still and, flicking his wrist in a move of which he was quite proud, he would launch the poo into the air and watch it sail to its destination.

In more youthful times his aim had been impeccable, the poo landing within an inch of where he'd intended but a recent deterioration in his vision now played havoc with his targeting skills. More often than not it would land in the hedge or, worse still on the wire fence. Then Lavinia, whose vision was still 20/20, would insist he rescue it, a very messy business.

He paused speculatively at the next poo, squidgy and wet. He twitched his moustache, grunted, bent and swept. He readied himself for the flick; this one had to go over as he had no intention of retrieving it from the fence.

On the other side of the hedge Donna Carlton was clicking her manicured finger nails on the steering wheel of her Mercedes-Benz GL. It was her turn to do the school run and her nerves were stretched.

She'd not long come from her full Swedish body massage and hot tub treatment, supposed to set her up for the week, yet at this rate all the effects would have dissipated by the time they reached home.

"I don't care, Ayesha," she snapped, knowing as she did so that this was not good parenting.

She was supposed to have boundless patience with her offspring but truth be told at times she didn't even like them. Darren was bearable when he was on his own, but once roused to annoy his older sister as he was now, there was no reasoning with him.

And as for Ayesha's insufferable new best friend, the odious Hermione Carruthers, seated next to her daughter, words failed her. She continued, trying to keep her voice low and rational as she'd been taught by her therapist, "You can't go out tonight, you're grounded."

Darren buried a smirk in his blazer, nothing he liked more than Ayesha being blocked.

"I can see you, Darren," squealed Ayesha, leaning over the back of her seat and aiming a slap at his head.

"Stop it both of you," Donna said, counting ten and opening the sun roof. She glanced up at the sky and imagined herself on a beach somewhere, with Pierre, her tennis coach.

"Muuum!" wailed Ayesha, "Hermione and I are freezing back here."

"Yeah, mum," said Darren, "it's way cold."

"Way cold?" Donna was instantly back in the real world and very annoyed. She opened the sun roof all the way back to include the rear passengers; one of the design features of this particular SUV.

"We pay enough for your education, the least you could do is speak properly."

Ayesha let out a shriek, her eyes wide and bulging, as Lord Bledley Smythe's foul smelling missile found a target. Hermione's mouth dropped open. Darren burst out laughing.

"Oh my god," said Donna, closing the sun roof, "what's that awful smell? Surely it's too early for muck spreading."

Hope you have a nice week

Cheers

Arun