Switchback Fair

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

Frank Ashizukai, ninja postman, surveyed the scene. He was charged with a seemingly simple task: deliver a parcel to Dr M. Bayernfels at the Tent of Wonders. But Ashizukai knew better than to take any delivery for granted.

A pigeon landed in front of the tent and started pecking the ground. Was it an ordinary pigeon? Or was it a highly-trained samurai pigeon, in the pay of the local warlord, just waiting for its chance to strike with a blade concealed under its wings? Ashizukai shuddered at the thought of how many times he had faced death in pigeon form.

He continued to watch patiently, hidden behind a stall that sold quality wooden knick knacks for mantelpieces. His hand poised above a replica bird of paradise, carefully chosen for its suitability as a close combat weapon.

Eventually, the pigeon flew off again. Ashizukai kept his eyes on it as it circled over the fair and then turned away towards the village. When it returned, he would be ready.

The coast now clear, he headed stealthily to the entrance of the Tent of Wonders.

‘Dr M. Bayernfels?’ he called.

A small man emerged from the tent.

‘That’s me!’ said Bayernfels cheerfully, but his face dropped when he saw how Ashizukai was dressed. ‘Have you come to kill me?’ he said, resigned.

‘Not today,’ said Ashizukai, handing him his parcel.

‘Oh right,’ said Bayernfels. ‘You’re the new postman! Thanks a lot, I’ve been waiting for weeks for this. Do you want to see what’s inside?’

‘That’s up to you,’ said Ashizukai.

‘You’re not the tiniest bit curious?’ said Bayernfels. ‘This is the Tent of Wonders, after all.’

Ashizukai assessed the potential threat level of the box.

‘Very well,’ he said.

Bayernfels opened the box and beamed with pride.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’ he said. ‘It’s come all the way from Papua New Guinea. Handmade by a tribe considered lost until three months ago. The crowds are going to go wild for it.’

Ashizukai took a closer look at the Wonder. It was a wooden bird of paradise.

‘Erm … you do know you can get these over at the knick knack stall, don’t you?’ he said. They’ve got a two for a tenner deal on at the moment.’