The Narrow Boat Diaries: the visitors.

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUDCHIOO CHIOOO CHIOOO CHIooo choo swishhh swisssshhhh hiissss.

Stop.

The helicopter landed; a door opened. Suddenly the field appeared to fill with very large men in inappropriate suits, curly bits of wire coming from their ears, marching purposefully to each corner of the field and scanning what little horizon they could see through their mirrored glasses (for goodness’ sake; it was almost dark and we were just outside Tamworth). I saw one of them sink up to his ankles in the patch of mud recently vacated by our terrified audience of Friesian cows.

An immaculately dressed Jay Z stepped gingerly from the Agusta AW139, a glimpse of its interior un-missable from our perch on the Kettleby Princess, the narrow-boat from another age and world entirely to that from which the cherry red helicopter had just arrived and which had just plonked itself down in the field before us.

Scanning the wet, soaking grass and the gulf of mud between him and the canal bank Jay (Mr Z?) barked: ‘Y’all comin’ or what?’

For whatever reason, I found myself becoming overwhelmingly protective and stepped forward. Beyoncé laid a hand on my arm; ‘S’ok Fred. He’s fine; pay no heed to him; he’s just jealous’ at which point she let out the filthiest laugh imaginable, doing a lot to break the ice.

True to form, at this precise moment the sprightly Des O’Connor stuck his head out of the saloon hatch, his walnut tan glowing through the damp evening air, and shouted: ‘Tea anyone? Come on Loves; you’ll need a brew before you get back to Glastonbury; switch that thing off properly and come aboard; I’ve knocked up some scones’ Well done Des; just the ticket. The whine of the gas turbines subsided and the field was silent save for the steady patter of rain, lighter than before but ever-present.

As you might imagine, getting all these giant men (there were only four but they were so big it seemed like many more) into the Princess’ cramped saloon took some organising; they had to go down the steps sideways, so ample was their girth, and it was clear they could make neither head nor tale of the barge herself.
Soon enough we were all wedged around the see-all, hear-all Formica-topped table, with Des pouring and me explaining the niceties of an English cream tea to our guests. Jay Z I could tell was distinctly underwhelmed by the set up, and glared whenever B laughed at one of my jokes. The Men (impossible to think of them without capital letters) sat very still, using small, decisive movements to load clotted cream and homemade gooseberry jam onto Des’s wonderfully tasty scones. If this is what they’re like eating a cream tea God knows what they must be like in the field of battle, I thought, gulping down a mouthful and beginning to wish they’d all just hurry up and go.

‘So’ said Jay, addressing Des but unreadable behind yet more mirror shades, ‘D’j’all call em’ scones or scones?’ He rhymed the first with dons, the second with tones.
Surprised, and momentarily thrown by this depth of knowledge Des answered: ‘Scones rhymes with Fonz’.

‘No man, wrong; it’s scones rhymes with cones.’ A pause; Des put his scone down and wiped a bit of cream from the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, I beg to differ Poppet’ he said ‘but it’s scones; short o’

‘Scones, long o,’ Jay Z’s eyes narrowed.

‘Scones Jay; scones’ Des wasn’t giving up without a fight.

‘Scones!’ A barely suppressed snarl behind the word.

‘Scones’ Countered Des, as calm as you like.

‘No Godammit; no, no, no, no, no; scones’

‘Scones’

‘Scones’

‘Scones’

‘Scones! Scones Man! Long friggin’ o. The word is scones rhymes wid’ loans, phones, zones, Capone’s, bones, saxophones...’

‘Y’all finished?’ Beyoncé cut across the pair of them, and not a moment too soon; our new star guest was getting a little shrill and Des, I could tell, was feeling increasingly foolish for rising to the bait.

‘S’tea is all, and real nice too; thank you Des’ and with that she turned and gave Mr O’Connor that full beam, full wattage Knowles’ smile. She then turned to Jay Z and gave him the polar opposite. Ah! Marriage!

Throughout this The Men sat motionless; one with vast hands placed on the Formica-topped table to either side of his willow-pattern plate, another with a scone half way between plate and mouth and the other two mid-munch. Everyone began to relax a little and then Jay did the most extraordinary thing; he stood, almost banging his head on the cabin roof, and then stooped into a full Shakespearean bow.

‘Beyoncé my Darling you’re right. I took that a little far’ and promptly sat down. Unfortunately in so doing he caught the edge of his plate, flipping his heavily en-creamed and en-jammed scone straight onto his chin. The Jay Z chin, fashionably stubbled as it was, now had cream, gooseberry jam and scone clinging to it like Velcro. The largest of The Men went first, the tell-tale shoulder movement; up and down, up and down, accompanied by a peculiar rhythmic hissing as he tried hard to suppress a fit of giggles. To no avail; the giggles spread around the tiny table like a small but perfectly formed Mexican wave. Resistance was futile, and soon all of us, even Jay Z, rapper billionaire and fashion icon, were shaking with laughter, tears streaming down our faces and napkins flying hither and thither in an attempt to stem the flow; oh for a camera!

‘C’mon B; s’time to go;’ said Jay, now composed, ‘there’s a field full o’folk waitin’ ta hear you sing, an’ we ain’t about ta let ‘em down. Saddle up!’ At which point dutiful, beautiful Beyoncé walked to her cabin, emerging moments later in the most extraordinary costume I have ever seen (how? Where had she hidden it?), skipped up the companionway, jumped onto the only dry bit of canal bank to hand and stood, imperious, while The Men scuttled around her like so many worker bees. Two of them, unbidden, hoisted her aloft and squelched through the mud to the Agusta, now winding up its turbines in readiness for departure and beginning to heave and wrench against its muddy launch pad. Jay was soon on board, and then the last of The Men. The door slammed shut; the briefest of waves, and one last smile from Beyoncé before the noise increased. Des and I clung to both each other and the Princess’s tiller as the rotor wash threatened to blast the pair of us across the canal. More noise; deafening now, and then the helicopter broke free and soared, straight up like a lift, hovered briefly, spun on its axis to face the two of us, dipped its nose in salute to all that had just taken place, turned, accelerated, and was gone.

Silence returned to our little water borne world. Des and I, embarrassed, released the vice like grip in which we held each other, and stood at ease. We stayed like that for some time; I’ve really no idea how long, enjoying the peace of the damp Warwickshire evening, the cows slowly reclaiming their field, the sound of them chewing the long, wet grass the only noise to be heard.

‘Fred?’

‘Yes Des?’

‘Did I ever tell you about my time with Guns’n’Roses?’

‘No Des. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Think you’d better Fred’

To be continued...