“Sit down and join me, mater,” said Colonel William.

“Ah, no dear,” said his mother. “I’d rather not sit down, if you don’t mind.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, let us just say that your chum Chunky stayed rather long last night. After he’d put you to bed, he plied me with cherry brandy and one thing led to another, and I don’t think I’ll be riding my bicycle for at least a week.”

“Quite so,” said Colonel William. “I’d prefer not to hear the details.”

“So I’ll just stand,” said his mother. “And hobble when I need to get from A to P.”

“Surely that’s A to B.”

“More kippers?” asked his mother.

“I haven’t started upon these yet.”

Colonel William’s mother smiled warmly upon her son, then hobbled off to P.

She returned to find that the Colonel had finished his kippers and jam, and most of the cornflakes too. And was now engrossed in the Brentford Mercury. “Do you know anything about this, mater?” he asked her.

“Yes dear, it’s a newspaper.”

“Its contents,” said Colonel William.

“News, dear.”

“Today’s news!”

“No dear. There’s no telling what that might be.”

“Well, I damn well know what it should be, but it is not.” Colonel William made a very fierce face.

“You seem upset,” his mother observed.

“Damnedly right! I was informed by the Ministry that every newspaper in the land would be carrying my photographic portrait upon its front page this morning. This newspaper, however does not.”

“It’s the Brentford Mercury,” said the mother of Colonel William. “And this is Brentford. Things are done differently here. Brentford does not have much truck with the outside world. Not much lorry either, nor wagon, nor handcart, nor even—”

“Cease your babbling, woman.”

“That’s no way to speak to your mother.”

“No, damn me, it is not. My apologies, mother of mine, but this leading story, it is an outrage. A libellous outrage. I shall sue this newspaper for every penny it has.” Colonel William flung the offensive tabloid to the gaily-patterned carpet (an original Trumpton with the classic “Dancing Dan goes doolally” design). His mother stooped with difficulty and retrieved it.

JACK THE RIPPER ESCAPES FROM BRENTFORD COURTHOUSE

read the headline, and then there was a considerable amount of text, written in that style which is known as “purple prose.”

And then there was a single photograph of—

“But it’s you,” said the mother of Colonel William. “Your photographic portrait is upon the front page,”

“That is not me!” cried her son, rising hastily from his chair and striking his painted genitalia upon the underside of the dining table in the process. “It’s not me, it’s urrgsh!” And he took to clutching at his damaged parts.

“Well, this Mr Urrgsh looks very much like you! Except that he doesn’t have such magnificent side-whiskers.”

Colonel William’s eyes were crossed. “Damned slur!” he cried. “The work of subversives. Enemies of the Empire. A witch plot, I’ll wager.”

“A what, dear?”

“Nothing, mater.” Colonel William bent double and took to the taking of deep breaths.

“You said a witch plot,” said his mother. “It will be that Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild up to their unspeakable wickedness again, I wouldn’t wonder.”

Colonel William raised his red-rimmed eyes. “What did you say?” he asked.

“The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild,” said his mother. “Would you like me to put some turpentine on your bits?”

“What?”

“To remove the boot black. If I had a silver sovereign for each time I had to de-black your daddy’s bits with turps, I’d have enough to buy myself a diamond-encrusted handbag in the style of Wainscott and a pair of Le Blanc and Sons ivory clogs.”

“No, no.” Colonel William flapped his hands about. “I have to know what you’re talking about. And I do not mean regarding the turpentine.”

“Actually it’s called turpentine substitute,” said his mother. “Although I’ve never been certain exactly what it’s a substitute for. I know they have substitutes in football but—”

“Enough.” Colonel William straightened himself up. “Speak to me only of witches,” said he. “And in a coherent manner, or surely I will dash out your brains with the Babbage electric waffle iron that hangs beside the brass companion set in the Mulbury Turner fireplace, with the scroll fandangos and moulded jiz-fillets.”

“You mentioned witches,” said the Colonel’s mother. “Why did you mention witches?”

“Because, mater,” Colonel William sighed. “Not that I should be telling you this because it’s top secret, but—”

“A cabal of witches exists, intent upon destroying technological society and so by altering the future.”

“What?” went Colonel William once more.

“Your father told me all about it. He was assigned to a special unit.”

“I knew nothing of this.”

“You were only a child when he died so valiantly saving the Queen, Gawd bless Her. Are you in a special unit too?”

“No.” Colonel William was fully erect and his shoulders were back. “But such matters are discussed in the officers’ mess. It is well-known that such plots exist. But as to who is doing the plotting; that is another matter.”

“You should have asked me then, dear. I went to school with most of them, evil harpies that they are. And you believe that they are responsible for this?” And Colonel William’s mother tapped at the Brentford Mercury.

“What other explanation could there be? To besmirch the reputation of the moonship’s pilot by accusing him of being Jack the Ripper.”

“Well, I suppose that’s one explanation.”

“And you know, for certain, that the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild is to blame?”

“Absolutely certain. I’d have told your father, had he ever asked me. But he never did. ‘A woman’s place is in the home,’ he used to say, ‘with her face in the pillow and her bottom in the air’.”

“I must relay this intelligence at once to the appropriate authorities.”

“I’m sure they already know, dear. I expect they have wives of their own, at home with their bottoms in the air.”

“About the witches.”

“They never marry, dear.”

“Fetch father’s trunk at once,” said Colonel William. “I must make haste to the Crystal Palace.”

A half of a morning hour later, Colonel William stood before the wardrobe mirror in his mother’s bedroom and examined his reflection.

He looked truly magnificent. His father’s uniform fitted him precisely. The dry cleaners had got most of the blood out of it and the invisible menders had mended the terrible rendings of cloth invisibly. But for the strong smell of turpentine substitute that now surrounded him, Colonel William was every bit a military gentleman, even though it was only a Captain’s uniform, rather than the far more flamboyant Colonel’s kittings.

Colonel William placed his father’s bearskin helmet upon his head, straightened the sabre, tucked a silver-mounted swagger stick beneath his left armpit and clicked his military heels together. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I have the pleasure to inform you that the threat posed by witches to yourself and your Empire no longer exists. A special unit, led by myself upon my successful return from the moon, has cleansed your realm of evil. A knighthood did you say? I would be honoured to receive it. And your daughter’s hand in marriage? Ma’am, you flatter me too much, but I am more deeply honoured and happy to accept.”

“Your cab’s here,” the Colonel’s mum called up the stairs. “He says to get your arse in gear because he has a busy morning.”

“Damned impudence,” said the Colonel, and offering his reflection a smart salute, he took himself down to the cab.

It was a Babbage Electric Wheeler. The nineteen hundred series. The cabbie leaned against the bonnet smoking a Wild Woodbine. “Morning guv’nor,” he said in the manner of cabbies everywhere.[27]