Switchback Fair

The fifth anniversary of Lord Switchback’s proclamation had come and gone, and there was still no sign of a mission to Mars. But Steven “Stevezilla” Lock was back in town. His firm has been given the contract to fix the fair’s perennially leaky drains.

‘It was a beautiful dream,’ he said, to anyone who would listen at the bar of the Lucky Drover.

‘It could still happen,’ said Zak Ziyad. ‘You’ve got until the end of the year.’

‘It’s no use,’ said Lock. ‘The sewers will take three months of full time work, and I’ve got no source of rocket fuel any more. Not to mention it takes eight months to get to Mars.’

‘Oh well,’ said Zak, whose natural optimism did have limits, ‘it was a beautiful dream. And the drains are a real nuisance.’

‘I should be having this drink on Mars,’ said Lock, wistfully downing his Dogswaggler.

‘A pub on Mars,’ said Zak. ‘Now there’s a dream…’

‘Ha! You’d have to sell a lot of pork scratchings to finance that,’ said Lock. ‘One packet for me to start you off. And a pint while you’re at it.’

‘I made 500 million dollars yesterday on pork futures,’ said Zak.

Lock stared at him. ‘You’re kidding me!’

‘Would a barman ever tell a lie?’ said Zak.

‘That drink’s on you then,’ said Lock.

‘Tell you what,’ said Zak. ‘I’ll buy you one in 2020. On Mars.’

Switchback Fair’s ghost ride was reopening after the end of a prolonged period of industrial action by Neville the Ghost. The strike dated back to an unwelcome visit from Glenda Kneerot, the fair’s treasurer.

‘Woo woo!’ Neville said, leaping out from the ceiling in a special effort for the VIP. He rattled his chains diligently.

‘Ah Neville, there you are!’ said Kneerot. ‘May I have a word?’

Neville was put out by the lack of even a polite scream, but he floated down to join her.

‘Now Neville, I’m sure you know that these are difficult times for the fair,’ said Kneerot.

‘I’ve been through worse,’ said Neville. ‘Have I ever told you what happened to me in the civil war?’

‘Some other time, perhaps,’ said Kneerot.

‘Woo woo!’ said Neville desultorily.

‘Anyway,’ said Kneerot, batting away an inflatable skeleton, ‘we’ve all got to pull together to make ends meet. I myself will be forgoing my Swedish masseur for the whole of July.’

Neville mumbled approval while checking that the bats had been fed and watered for the morning.

‘We’ll need you to contribute as well, of course,’ Kneerot continued. ‘So I’ve come to ask you to accept a 20% pay cut.’

In his shock Neville let go of the cage door and the bats flew out joyfully around the ride.

‘Woo woo!’ he said. ‘Come back bats!’

‘Are you listening, Neville?’ said Kneerot.

But Neville was too busy coaxing the bats back into the cage. Kneerot’s car trundled round the corner and out of the ride, and Neville convinced himself that the conversation was just a figment of his imagination.

The strike began when he received his next pay packet. Neville angrily pulled off his chains and went outside to form a picket.

‘Woo woo!’ he said. ‘Support your hard-working ghosts!’. Next to him a baby bat was holding a placard that read: HUNGRY, PLEASE HELP.

But the crowds didn’t help. They mostly ran away, as terrified as usual. Neville eventually accepted that he would never be able to truly withhold his labour. He reluctantly went inside and put his chains back on.

The next day, Glenda Kneerot was given the fright of her life when she discovered an inflatable skeleton in her wardrobe.

Tea was being taken at the 95th annual cricketing showdown with Barnaby Fair. Switchback’s record was not good: their last victory had been in 1955, and that was only because someone had spotted Denis Compton at the cake stall and persuaded him to open the batting in return for a lemon slice.

It was a source of great regret to Lord Switchback that he had not led a team to victory since succeeding his father. Indeed, he had been instrumental in many of their defeats, starting with a disastrous spell of captaincy in the 1970’s, followed by a further period of decline as coach, and continuing to his present day role of selecting the wrong team every year. Today, with his side eight wickets down and a hundred and twenty runs behind, was apparently no different. But as he sat in a deckchair in front of the pavilion, sporting the famous red and yellow striped Switchback tie, he looked remarkably serene.

Zak Ziyad was padded up as the last man to bat. He attempted to sit down in the adjacent chair, but as soon as he did so realised that he would not be able to get up again without help.

‘Zak, my lad!’ said Lord Switchback. ‘Thank you so much again for filling in.’

Zak nodded grimly. Lord Switchback had turned up at the Lucky Drover the night before. He was searching for a last minute replacement after an injury, and Zak had been foolish enough to admit that he came from the home of cricket^*. He protested that he had no idea how to play the game, but was persuaded to take part at the modern going rate of two lemon slices.

‘Fancy yourself for a century today?’ said Lord Switchback.

‘What’s a century?’ said Zak.

‘Never mind,’ said Lord Switchback cheerfully. ‘You won’t be needed today. Sit back and enjoy the display.’

Up in the sky, Max Bayernfels was piloting a cherished biplane from the Tent of Wonders. A fly-pass had been arranged for the crowd at the tea break.

‘SCC Pavilion, this is Wonderwing six seven four six,’ he said into his radio.

Back on the ground, Lord Switchback groped for the microphone in the picnic hamper by his side.

‘Wonderwing six seven four six, standby,’ he said. He put the mike down and poured himself another glass of wine.

‘Wine for you, Zak?’

‘No thanks,’ said Zak.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Lord Switchback, and finished off the bottle. He picked up the mike again. ‘Wonderwing six seven four six, start the display.’

‘Wonderwing six seven four six starting the display,’ repeated Bayernfels over the radio.

A coloured trail came out from the back of the plane. Bayernfels flew over the field and looped-the-loop. An ‘oooh’ from the crowd greeted the display, but then the plane disappeared into a cloud and it turned into an ‘oh’. By the time it re-emerged, the trail had stopped.

‘Shame about that cloud,’ said Zak.

Lord Switchback said nothing, but took another gulp of wine. Zak looked up at the sky again. It was a puzzling sight.

‘I’ll never get used to this British weather,’ he said. ‘I’d no idea clouds could go black so fast.’

Lord Switchback took out an umbrella from his picnic basket.

‘That’s one of life’s little miracles,’ he said.

[*] Dubai