The Lower Strangling Chronicles
“So, floods in England and fire in Los Angeles,” Dave said as he waited in a queue to get into the Hangman’s Noose. “Who are we betting will get the plague of locusts?”
The people around him met his remarks with groans. His wife, Sarah, glared at him.
”Not particularly amusing, Dave,” Simon Abernathy, the parish priest, said.
”It makes you think those, doesn’t it,” Dave said. “What of all this is part of God’s plan that he’s not telling us?”
”For all our sakes, let’s hope it’s not,” Simon said.
They were queuing outside the pub because John Granger, the pub’s owner, was selling some strawberry and cream-flavoured croissants to raise money for the victims of various natural disasters worldwide.
To curb his boredom, Dave began observing the scenery around him, which he was already familiar with as he lived there.
A shiny red Ferrari parked outside the Church of St Gerald the Damned grabbed his attention.
”Hold up, somebody got lucky at the airport car hire,” Dave said, admiring the car.
”Yes, you never know what you’ll get at those places,” Sarah said.
“Something tells me the person who hired the car held sway over the company,” Dave said.
Sarah smiled and nodded at her husband.
”Either way, it’s jolly good of them to spend a part of their holiday buying local croissants for a good cause,” Simon said.
“He might have personal reasons for doing so,” Eleanor, Dave and Sarah’s precocious daughter, said. “He might live or know someone in LA.”
”You could be right there, darling,” Sarah said.
The queue moved forward an inch, and the Petersons were inside the pub.
John stood behind the bar before the queue, croissants piled high in front of him.
Eventually, it was Dave’s turn to try one.
”You must be pleased to see this selling like hotcakes,” Dave said. “Or, rather, strawberries and cream-flavoured croissants.”
John chuckled.
”Thanks,” John said, holding his head and shoulders back. “Honestly, I was worried they’d be a disaster.”
”I’ll let you know my verdict,” Dave said as he helped himself to one and slipped a ten-pound note into the donation box.
“Be as brutal as you like,” John said. “I need to know if they’re any good.”
Dave smiled at John as he moved further into the pub.
Sarah, Eleanor, and her brother Will got their croissants and made individual donations before tailgating him.
Dave stopped suddenly, noticing the full tables in front of him.
“Ah,” Dave said. “It seems John’s croissants were more popular than we realised.”
”There’s plenty of space in the garden,” John said.
Dave’s heart sank. He spun round to John, frowning.
”Thanks, John,” Dave said. “Appreciate it.”
Dave ambled through the pub toward the bitterly cold beer garden. His family followed his lead.
Dave and his family ran across the frost-covered garden in a hurry towards a table where a couple of their friends and neighbours were sitting.
They made room for them, and they sat down.
“You know, I never put John down as the baking type,” Paul Stiller, the local wine merchant, said as he analysed the confectionery before him.
Sarah crisply nodded as she savoured another bite of the croissant. “What’s better is that he’s selling them for charity.”
“It would make a more substantial choice at Wimbledon if he were to sell it to them,” Dave said, scoffing down the remains of his croissant.
Simon emerged from the pub and traversed the cold crust grass towards the table just then.
“Hello, everyone,” Simon said. “Room for one more?”
Paul scooched across the table, and the vicar sat next to him.
“This is all roaringly marvellous if I dare say so,” Simon said, admiring the wintery scenes around him. “Everyone coming together in the name of charity and eating homemade local produce.”
”It’s a shame the weather makes me envious I’m not in LA currently,” Dave said, rubbing himself warm.
Simon glanced at him. “I’m sure you wouldn’t think so if your house had been burnt to a crisp by a fiery inferno.”
He took a big chuck out of his croissant. His eyes widened as he registered the taste.
”I say, these aren’t half bad, are they?” Simon said.
”I hope John bakes these more often,” Will said as he finished his croissant.
”If you like them that much, I probably will,” John said, who had lumbered out of the pub to check on everyone in the garden.
The group around the table cheered as they noticed the publican.
“How is everything, anyway,” John said. “All good?”
“Well, I haven’t got food poisoning yet, so that’s a promising start,” Dave said.
A sizeable warm grin appeared on John’s face. “If any of you have spare change, I’d be happy to relieve you of it.”
Sarah examined the insides of her purse. “I’ve got a few pence if that’s useful.”
John smiled at her. “Whatever you do no use, I’m welcome to take it.”
Sarah sifted through her purse and gave John all her loose change.
Her companions on the table did the same.
”You must have made a lot of money by now, John,” Paul said.
John nodded his head. “Yeah, about £100 at least.”
”Is half for the flood victims and the other for the wildfire victims across the pond?” Simon said.
“That is the plan, yeah,” John said. “I’ll put it in my account and transfer it electronically.”
“It sounds like you’ve got it all planned out,” Simon said.
”Yeah,” John said. “I certainly have.”
John strolled back into the pub, ready to sell more croissants.
A little while later, Dave began to shiver.
”I think we should go home,” Dave said. “Otherwise, we’ll need to be flown to California to thaw out.”
The Petersons bid goodbye to their confidants and made their way back home.
Outside the pub, there was a commotion.
”Oh no, something’s happened to the hire car,” Dave said.
A man in flashy designer clothes scolded his son, aged about ten.
Dave was cold, but not so cold that he could not examine the scene more closely.
Sarah knew better, of course, but she too was curious, so she gladly tailgated him.
Their children had no choice but to get a better view as well.
Lo and behold, a substantial splatter of clotted cream covered the shiny red centre of the Ferarri’s bonnet.
”Do you know how much the damages to the car will cost,” the man said. “More money than it’s worth.”
”Not that it will be a problem since you got the car,” Dave said in his wife’s ear, who chuckled in amusement.
”Don’t worry, coming through,” John said, worming through the intrigued crowd with a roll of paper towels.
Once he got to the car, he ripped off one of the towels and wiped the bonnet.
”Be careful,” the man said. “You’ll smear it.”
”Relax,” John said, placing the towel into a bucket of water and wiping the car.
To the man’s amazement, the car was squeaky clean and contained no clotted cream.
”It’s all gone,” the man said. “Remarkable.”
”Think nothing of it,” John said, halfway back towards the pub. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
The man and his family got into the Ferrari and drove off.
”That was nice of John to save them a thousand quid in damages,” Dave said as he mockingly waved the car goodbye.
”Yes,” Sarah said. “I hope he apologises to his son for snapping at him.”
Dave nodded. With the thrill of the commotion over, the cold set back in.
”Right, let’s go home,” Dave said, already jogging towards the manor.
His family followed on behind, all of them hoping that the year hadn’t started as it meant to go on.
The Robinsonverse 