Part Thirty-One of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: The Storm Gathers.

Last Time, we left a funeral in the Tipperary town of Arracrowe as five uninvited guests – farmer Cormack McMullen and four of his biggest prize Hog – all propelled by one of the biggest tractors in the known universe at a speed well above the local limit – were not so much about to gate-crash the party as simply ignore any and all gates which might be in the way and crash head-first into the funeral cortege which blocked the main street at unbelievably high speed.

But we now return to a gathering storm – both metaphorically and literally – to be found developing in the Irish Sea just off the inlet known as Morecambe Bay as freezing winds from the north collided with warmer winds from the south.

On the wilder, more barren eastern part of Cumberside Island, the Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town AFC is skulking in a rusting container and licking his wounds after a fraud involving executive tickets which he had been operating had come back to bite him in a way he had never experienced before. He is traumatised by what had happened to him as four local farmers and a man with blue blood put him in his place so firmly that he felt personally totally humiliated by it: which was another unwelcome new experience for James Churchill Proudfoot.

However, we are now going to visit the posh, western part of Cumberside Island and the Earl of Cumberlake’s Estate.

An expensively-dressed man – who is directly responsible for all of poor old Jim’s woes – is sitting outside a fabulous Gothic mansion in his enormous four-by-four All Terrain top-of-the-range car…

Half an hour or so after his encounter with James Proudfoot at The Black Pool on the other side of the small island, the huge vehicle which the son of the Earl of Cumberlake was driving had come to a stop on the driveway of one of the few really interesting – and very valuable – properties to be found on the island: the iconic Lake Hall itself.

He had dropped-off the farming friends who had accompanied him to his earlier showdown with Jim one-by-one on the way. Tonight, he expected to see one of them again when his father hosted a dinner for the great and good of the island – a very small and select clientele. The common rabble or hoi polloi were not only not invited but not welcome either. And – unlike the Kellys across the water in Tipperary – the Cumberlakes had centuries of experience of excluding the uninvited and the unwelcome – and did so sometimes spectacularly successfully…

As things would turn-out, the son of aristocracy would see the man he had in mind: but not at the feast he was currently looking forward to. No – they would meet again in a situation he would not have envisaged in any circumstances – until a few short hours ago…

The storm he had travelled effortlessly through in his top-of-the-range car had almost blown itself out and a strange, grey almost luminescent light hung over the waters of the Irish Sea. It seemed – spookily – to be almost trapped by the angry clouds above as it swept across the choppy waters towards Lake Hall and the small tarn which fronted the huge house itself.

Pleased with his afternoon’s work, the big man was about to get out of the car before dressing for the impending gastronomic delight. But just as he was about to move, an unfamiliar sound came from one of the pockets of his Barbour waterproof. It was the phone he had taken from James Proudfoot earlier – and it was ringing.

The petty aristocrat wondered vaguely to himself: what kind of underworld scum would a man like that have ringing him? He looked at the screen to find out.

LADYSHIP was flashing brightly upon it. It must be a joke, surely.

But some gut feeling caused the posh gent to press the green icon on the number pad to answer the call. He said nothing but put the device to his ear.

There was a delay for a moment but then a rather delicious and obviously cultured voice – which might just be foreign – said: “Jim? Mr Proudfoot? Are you there?”

The man sitting behind the wheel of the monster car smiled to himself. He could have some fun here…

“I’m afraid that Mr Proudfoot is – indisposed – at the moment. Who shall I tell him is calling?”

“Oh give it a rest Jim for god’s sake!” said the mysterious voice at the other end of the virtual line. “You don’t sound convincing for a single moment! Stop messing about and give me a report! You know it’s already well overdue! Where the hell is Simran? I want to speak to her now – this instant! Do you hear me?”

The posh bloke stared anew at the phone. This woman sounded feisty! She might well be the sort of women that had always attracted him. The sort with spirit. Which needed breaking. As they were Taught a Lesson. Shown who’s boss…

“I’m terribly sorry that you don’t find my accent convincing, my dear lady. Allow me to introduce myself. I am the son of the Earl of Cumberlake – otherwise known as The Honourable Cornelius Cumberlake Junior. Perhaps you might have heard of me. In Tatler, perchance. And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“OK Jim – have it your own way! My crew and I have just ridden-out the latest storm slightly north of Barrow. We’re coming ashore tonight. Make sure you have Chopra and Simran at the ground by ten! They’re going on a little voyage with us! We will see you then! Don’t let me down- unless you want a visit from MI5 about those secret letters of mine you photographed when you thought I wasn’t looking! And by the way – next time you try to hoodwink me with a false identity – choose a better name than Cornelius! Corny – certainly – but Cornelius? Nobody is called Cornelius these days! Remember – ten o’clock! Be there!”

With that, the call abruptly ended.

The Honourable Cornelius was intrigued. Perhaps even a little offended. This feistyness was something he might have to deal with – urgently. But then he thought about the rest of the call…

Secret letters? MI5? What exactly was going on here?

He sat in the car and pondered this for a while. Then he fired-up Jim’s phone anew. He searched for the video he had seen earlier in the football club container. Next, he watched it again, with a lot more interest than when he had seen it before.

Wow! – that Simran really was a dish! And the scene she dominated wasn’t quite as much of a gaudy tart’s boudoir as he had first imagined – it was actually quite tasteful in fact. Exotic. Erotic, even. Those gems in her tiara were obviously real! –  as were the perfectly-shaped and very womanly contours of her upper body. He’d quite like to meet a girl like Simran…

He looked at her wholly alluring mouth with the wet-look red lipstick as she pouted and pointed her rather crummy football programme towards the camera.

Full of Eastern Promise hardly described it.

“Peel me a grape!” he thought.

And if the intriguing woman who had just spoken to him on the phone was going to be part of the bargain, it might well be worth skipping dinner altogether tonight. Because even if the suddenly entirely enchanting Simran wasn’t going to be at the Black Pool later on, this exotic creature certainly would be: he had just heard her promise to be there at exactly ten o’clock…

Cornelius went into the big house and made his apologies to his father.

“Don’t tell me – it’s a woman, isn’t it?”

“Two women, Dada!”

“Good luck Old Chap! I’ve always said – you can’t beat a good old threesome! Still don’t really know which of those horny bitches from Way Back When is actually your own dear Mama, my boy! But don’t worry your pretty head about it – you’re still a chip off the old block whatever!”

The Earl of Cumberlake’s son got busy. He suddenly had a lot to do. He rang the largest of the men he had visited Jim with earlier on. Roddy was a genuine hard man. Tought. Reliable. Loyal. Plus – he had always been a good sport too. And his chaps could be relied upon to keep their mouths shut as well. Besides which, Roddy was the best shot on the island. Precisely the sort of fellow who might come in handy later on.

They arranged to meet at Roddy’s place at eight. The mysterious woman on the phone had said she would be at the football club at ten. Cornelius intended that Roddy, two of his men and himself would be in position there by half past eight, armed and ready for whatever action might then ensue.

Another would stand by in the distance with a cattle truck attached to his Land Rover. And this man would be the local Master of the Hunt; the trailer full of his best hounds. Because no tree-hugging Vegan Hippies in Westminster were ever going to spoil the sport of choice on this island as long as the Cumberlake family were in charge. Besides which, Cornelius envisaged a very specific job for the pack this evening.

The son of the Earl of Cumberlake went to his bedroom and changed. Dark clothing. A lot of Gore-Tex. Padded, waterproof jacket. There was still the possibility of rain in the air and it was certainly cold enough to snow tonight.

Then – collecting his favourite Twelve Bore shotgun on the way – he set off for Roddy’s farmhouse – the biggest one on the island except for the Lake Estate’s own suitably enormous example.

—

Meanwhile, totally oblivious to all the carefully-laid plans involving himself and the Earl of Cumberlake’s son or Lady Lynne Shrimpleton, James Churchill Proudfoot could still be found inside the rusting Shipping Container which doubled as Shrimpleton Town Football Club’s General Office.

Since he’d been robbed and humiliated, Jim had sobbed himself to sleep on the filthy floor. He awoke briefly at about half past seven, cold and stiff. But the shock he had received earlier was of such a magnitude that he still felt absolutely exhausted. The thought of walking back to the pub – aware for once that his appearance alone and people’s reaction to it would make him feel worse than ever – did not appeal to Jim in his diminished and vulnerable state. It appealed even less when he opened the door of the container to discover that although it had stopped raining, a deadly cold had crept out of the dark shadows to replace it. He looked up.

Undisturbed by light pollution out there in the north Atlantic, evidence of millions of worlds in the vastness of space lit-up one half of the sky above him. But the other half – towards the north-east – was less clear. Wispy cloud obscured the heavens in places. Further north, darker mist was beginning to obliterate the view completely. The wind was still quite strong and the inky blackness in the distance was getting steadily closer.

If he had been brought-up on Cumberside Island, Jim would have recognised the tell-tale signs of heavy snow on the way. He could have probably even have smelt it – the air preceding it was suddenly clear; crisp and smelled slightly metallic, vaguely like the taste of blood in your mouth. But James Proudfoot was a city boy from Hackney: you couldn’t even see the sky most of the time there, let alone taste anything hidden up in it. And who could taste the weather anyway? It was the kind of Old Woman’s Tale relied on by cheap novelists who lack the creativity to describe the scene they are trying to set in readers’ minds adequately. Plus those people who had never heard of the trigeminal nerve…

Jim stumbled in the darkness towards the semi-derelict Changing Rooms. He had an overwhelming compulsion – never before experienced – to have a shower. Religious readers would no doubt read into this the imagery of washing away his sins. Maybe they’d be right.  Or maybe Jim was just trying to wash away the troubles which had caught up with him so spectacularly this afternoon. Or was even trying belatedly to free himself of the stench which – he shamefully realised at last – traditionally followed him around like a guilty secret.

By the weak light of a single bulb, he discovered a number of grubby towels and – finally – a tracksuit. Most of the towels had once been white; the others red: the club colours. He gathered a pile of them and then found some acceptably clean shorts and two large pairs of football socks. He binned everything he had been wearing next except for his tatty but comfortable Duffel Coat and shoes and stood for some time under the luke-warm trickle that passed as a shower.

He was actually frozen to the core but he felt unaccountably better for the experience. He dried himself and pulled on his new clothes with his old shoes and coat. Then he thoroughly rinsed his mouth and even attempted to get some of the accumulated plaque of ages and other nastiness off his teeth with a used cotton bud he had found abandoned on a dusty shelf. His hair and beard were still wet but he felt strangely refreshed by the entire experience. There and then, he made a vow to do it a bit more often…

Jim returned to the General Office with a pile of dry towels. There, he pulled a dusty sofa with broken springs from the corner of the container into the centre of the room. He padded it as best as he could with white bath towels, wrapped his wet hair with smaller red ones; struggled into his Duffel Coat; lay down on the sofa; piled more white bath towels on top of himself as if they were blankets and fell into a deep sleep which was mercifully free – for once – of nightmares.

Very sadly though – unknown and totally unsuspected by the Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town Football Club – his real nightmare was just about to begin…

—

On her yacht not too far away from Jim and The Black Pool, Lady Lynne Shrimpleton was in a foul mood. This week had gone from bad to worse from her point of view as the days had worn relentlessly onwards.

First, there was the disaster with Baban Singh Chopra to deal with.

Then Soldier Jay, who she was furious with for abandoning her – no man had ever done that before.

But her greatest ire was reserved for James Churchill Proudfoot, for whom she could think of several choice Vietnamese expletives, none of which are repeatable here.

The smelly little conman had defied her; lied to her repeatedly and now he had led her on what would probably prove to be a completely fruitless voyage right back to where she had started only a few days earlier.

Nine and Four had been forced to use what seasoned mariners called ` motor-sailing’ – using the yacht’s motor and sails at the same time to beat tides, currents, adverse winds and – most of all, Old Father Time himself over the last few days. If they hadn’t, there is no way that they could have made their way back to the north-west coast of England from Portsmouth by today.

They had ended their southbound journey from Cumberside Island in Hampshire so that they could drop-off Her Ladyship in order for her to be able to catch a train back to London.

The seemingly miraculously revived Baban Singh Chopra went with her – all too willingly, apparently.

When Vietnamese Embassy officials met them on the way as arranged and took him to Heathrow, he seemed relieved. A flight to Hanoi and the treatment which Lynne had promised him for his heart problems deep in the Vietnamese countryside was far more attractive to the big Sikh than the treatment he might receive from his older brother and other members of the Khalistan Warriors if she had just dumped him on the street, as he had feared.

All Lynne’s plans changed, though, once James Churchill Proudfoot told her that he had been appointed Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town AFC by no less a personage that Ranjit Singh Chopra himself.

It was suddenly imperative that she got back to Cumberside Island before the Gala he had been entrusted with organising actually happened. And that was just a few short days away at the time.

But trying to then return and then lie-to in Morecambe Bay as Baban flew away towards the east had been a nightmare for her crew because of the state of the weather alone.

It had been a close-run thing getting there at all. To meet them, her Ladyship had to beg another favour from her contacts in the RAF and cadge another lone flight to Vickerstown Airport on Walney Island.

Nine had picked her up as soon as they had both arrived in Barrow again only for him to then have to sail the yacht quickly away from Cumberside Island due to the severity of the storm which was ripping across it. Only once they had found shelter in the lee of the Cumberland coast far further north and then dropped anchor had she been able to make her first call to James Proudfoot.

This idiot had repeatedly assured her during the week that his work preparing The Black Pool for the Khalli Scallies’ absurd `Summer’ Gala in the depth of winter was going Full Speed Ahead. She didn’t believe him for even one second: everything about this man told you that he would be incapable of organising even his most favourite type of event in a Brewery. She doubted he was telling her the truth about the appearance of both the lovely Simran and Ranjit Singh Chopra himself either. But what could she do?

She was even more furious when Jim pretended the call was breaking up when she demanded to speak to the nascent Bollywood film star today – and just about apoplectic when he had pretended to be some lesser member of the British aristocracy just a couple of hours or so ago. If she found that she had been dragged back here on a Wild Goose Chase, James Proudfoot would pay the price. She would personally drown the appalling little twerp herself!

Currently – as the boat constantly lurched beneath her feet and she started to feel actually quite unwell as the Spirit-Level in her head which we refer to as `balance’ couldn’t decide anymore which way was `UP’ – she had made seven more calls to Jim’s phone. But all of them – plus countless text messages she had sent him had gone completely unanswered.

If Lynne discovered that she had made all the effort to get back here – in the teeth of a gale as nausea threatened to overcome her; thunder rolled above the angry waves overhead and lightning regularly lit-up her constantly shifting surroundings – to no avail, then God Help James Churchill Proudfoot…

Poor old Jim was fast asleep and oblivious to the ire he had stirred in a woman’s heart which he thought was beating over two hundred miles away in London.

But he was in for a (very) rude awakening…

Read about it very soon in the latest scintillating instalments of

The Sensational Shrimpleton Saga…