Once again, the riverside door slammed open with beverage-shivering force. Once more, the appalling lowing of fornication-starved seamen. Once more, a figure planked to the floor of the Duck, beating at amorous arms before slamming the door behind. A voice, high, pinched, familiar: all nose and wind through eucalyptus leaves:
“Bloody sailors!”
Where the Undertaker’s apparel was virtually monochromatic, this new entrant was saturated in a head-to-toe scarlet cassock; a monkish face, clean-shaven (but wishing it wasn’t), and bulging eyes beneath a heavy brow, sneered from the crimson hood; a claw of a hand held a long twisted rowan staff in a white-knuckle death grip: The Alchemist of London Bridge, Dominus of Nonsuch House and Scourge of Tea Towels, Transmuter of Rodents and Father to the Fair Isabella, leaned back against the door, closed his eyes, and passed the wind of blessed relief.
“Alchemist!” came a tombful bark! The newcomer’s entrance had not gone unnoticed.
Not for the first time this evening, tables, chairs and publicans were screeching in rapid rearrangement. The Alchemist raised his staff in a warding gesture, and the standing crowd parted like reeds. The Undertaker stood at the far bank of the room, legs bowed, fists clenched at his sides.
The Alchemist’s eyes slanted, “Anbury! I thought I would find you here, in this... this cesspit of scum and villainy!”
Suddenly Milly was there, shoving her way between the gathering crowd. “Now, now, you two! I’ve only just finished redecorating since the last time you were in here!”
The Undertaker shot her a fierce look. “Shut it, Milly!”
“Yes, silence barmistress of the Bear!” seconded the Alchemist. “This is just between the two of us!”
Jerry and Isabella smoothly intercepted Milly and pulled her backwards out of danger, her arms wheeling in protest. That didn’t stop her cursing like a viking, of course, until Jerry clapped a hand across her mouth.
Clive followed, rather lost.
The Alchemist undulated forward, the seesawing crawl of a pantomime beast, propped, seemingly, by too many limbs beneath his scarlet skirts, and pointed his staff pointedly.
“This time, things will be different, Undertaker!”
“I doubt that very much, Alchemist. Quatrains?”
“Fine! But I get first flyte!”
“Be my guest!”
“And no bringing Mother into it, this time!”
“Very well! One-hand tied it is! Oh and Alchemist–”
“Yes?”
“Your flap is undone!”
The Alchemist grabbed at his groin– “What? Impossible! This cassock doesn’t even have any–” The publicans’ muffled snickering rather gave the game away. The Alchemist sneered. “Oh, very funny, Anbury! It’s true – you do have the gift of comedy! But you’ll be laughing on the other side of my face by the time this is finished!”
“We shall see!”
“That we shall!” The Alchemist raised his hands to the crowd. “A beat please, if you will, foul publicans!”
A rocking ruckus of a drumbeat began to build: a one-one-two of stomping feet, clapping hands, banging tanks, and smashing bott’es. John, leaning close by at the bar, grinned wolfishly. “Ah! The Queen’s!”
There were some very strange gargling sounds coming from either corner of the room.
Clive turned to Jerry with an exasperated look. “What is happening?”
Jerry never took his eyes from the two warming combatants. “They each take a turn. It continues until one of them stumbles. First blood, stangentially speaking. Stay close to the bar – if things get ugly... use it!”
Clive followed Jerry’s gaze. The Alchemist had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply.
The floorboards were vibrating like a heartbeat.
One-one-two. One-one-two.
And then, the Alchemist’s lip curled, his eyes snapped open, and with a furious denasifying upward point in Anbury’s direction, the flyte was on!
“This fool thinks
he’s the ferryman,
just ’cause his business Stynx
like the pits of Manannán!”
The Alchemist crossed his arms with a defiant flourish. The crowd roared their approval! Bottles sailed overhead, striking board and bod! One smashed against the bar next to Clive, showering him with glass! He was beginning to understand... He sidled into cover behind Jerry and Isabella.
Isabella looked back at him smugly. “You see, now?”
The beat rolled around the pub, thick as surf...
...but Anbury was both rock and lighthouse, and all eyes were upon! Clive stared – the Undertaker seemed to have swelled to twice his size! The intake, suddenly released, was physically concussive:-
“He stands in the Duck,
and thinks it the Bear!
But no-one gives a cluck –
Not e’en his daughter cares!”
The crowd vocally winced. The Alchemist’s face reddened: he glanced sideways to Isabella at the bar, mouthing a silent, Duck? She opened her mouth to answer or protest, but choked on it, and instead had the decency to lower her eyes. Drawing himself up, the Alchemist yawed right up to Anbury, such that they were chin to beard.
The beard won.
The Alchemist’s eyes evilled. “Family! So that’s the way the windigo blows, is it, Anbury? No holds barred then?”
“Always, Alchemist!”
“Very well! But I shall not be held responsible for the consequences!”
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“Words, words! Save them for the flyte! Lord knows you need the help!”
“Ha!” The Alchemist swung around and rolled back down the aisle between the parted crowd to his starting position. He swung round so hard that his staff knocked an unfortunate young man doubled with dysentery unconscious:-
“His name is a joke,
his calling a drag!
The only scold’d have him
is the Atroposian hag!”
The Alchemist pugnaciously flicked his hood down over his face. The crowd “Ooooed!” approvingly, wowed by the allusion, despite not having learning enough to understand it in the slightest.
Jerry, at Clive’s side, mounded his mouth in grudging approval. “‘Atroposian hag.’ That’s not half bad!”
Clive thought he saw the faintest mirage of a smile slip across Isabella’s face.
But the Undertaker was just getting started! Anbury had now begun wheeling his arms in complex intersecting circles as he coaxed yet even more breath into his inflated frame... And then the damn burst!
“He called it Nonsuch
(he couldn’t think of a name)!
Yet all his gold is Dutch
’cause his Midas touch is lame!”
Cheers and angry vows to murder every Dutchman both without and within Holland! This crowd could turn upon a coin, and the Undertaker had just called heads!
“Nice one, Phil!” Jerry breathed. “Play to the gallery!”
“Internal rhyme, too!” added John. “That’s gotta sting!”
“Anyone can rhyme on ‘Dutch!’” mumbled Isabella.
The Alchemist’s face was fast approaching the colour of his cloth. But he was not done yet! He turned to the leveed crowd, arms outstretched in the vocative:-
“Your stretch he’ll chase
with singular purpose!
And, when the end you face,
he’ll force you a purchase!”
The crowd rounded upon Anbury with an indignant guffaw! Glass shattered about the Undertaker’s feet, yet still he advanced, inexorable, hands whirling like tilting windmills:-
“He wears of the crimson,
like the cardinal Cath’lique,
An’ up the robes of choirboys
enjoys a good peek!”
The crowd went wild: hooting and braying and slapping each other ’pon shoulder!
“Aw, ’at’s genius!” silent-clapped Jerry.
John grinned over at his uncle: “Dutch, Catholics and kiddy fiddlers! Trifactor!”
“Fish in a barrel!” Jerry grinned back, then caught himself.
Milly suddenly realised her mouth was free. “Stop this at onc–” Jerry slapped his palm back into place.
“It’s not over yet, Muldoon!” Isabella snapped.
“Mhmmhfffhhghhh!” said Milly.
The duellists were so close now they no longer had time for stanzas. They advanced, snapping off insults with every step–
“Sulphur-sniffing...”
“Dirge-drawling...”
“Poultice-whiffling...”
“Grave-licking...”
“Trifle-trifling...”
“Widow-bawling...”
The slights were so intense now they were taking on metaphysical force! One poorly aimed insult took the feathered cap off a fletcher; another ricocheted off a cymbal hanging over the bar with a clang and struck a parson down from behind in mid-prayer. Jerry and Isabella dived backwards over the bar, pulling Milly with them. Clive took one look at John’s enraptured face (he wasn’t going anywhere!), and decided to join the saner crowd!
“Gunk merchant!”
“Pall trawler!”
“Serum smuggler!”
“Skull stasher!”
“Rat jeweller!”
“Daisy pusher!”
The combatants were nearly face to face – each leaning backwards beneath the other’s verbal onslaught... but something else was happening... If Anbury was swelling in shadow, the Alchemist appeared to be guttering, diminishing before the oncoming storm like a red flame.
“Potion pimp!” bellowed the Undertaker.
And this time – the Alchemist fumbled! “Filthy – no, wait – dirty – no, um...”
The Undertaker chuckled, a sound like an earthquake being ridden lustily by a volcano. “Out of insults, old man?”
The Alchemist warded at him with the staff... “No, wait, you... you...”
Helpfully, the Undertaker proffered his foe a few lyrical lifelines: “...Tombtumbler? ...Slabslider? ...Mouldmuncher?”
The Alchemist cowered before Anbury’s alliterative might. “Yes, yes! All of those!”
“Taker of the Unders?”
“Curse you, Anbury!”
The crowd had fallen deathly silent. Clive risked a peak over the lip of the bar.
The Undertaker was staring down at his vanquished nemesis. Judgement came swiftly! “I’ve waited a long time for this, Alchemist! This ends here–” and, with that, the Undertaker’s arms wove their terminal tracery, lungs expanding with fatal intent, frontal lobes fastening upon the final mortal mock–
The Alchemist closed his eyes: “Sticks and stones may break my bones! Sticks and stones, sticks and stones!–”
“ENOUGH!” Isabella tore between the Undertaker and her father, arms outstretched in a shield.
The Undertaker deflated, air pouring from every orifice with a drone like a plague of farting locusts. “Isabella...”
“Enough, I say! You silly old men and your grudges! You won the duel, what more do you want?”
The Undertaker sighed. “Take him home, Isabella.”
Isabella nodded, and helped her father to his feet. They made for the street door, but, at the threshold, the Alchemist turned. “You may have won the battle, Anbury, but the war is FAR from over!” Isabella rolled her eyes, centrifuged her father out the door, and they were gone.
Clive was the first to reach the victorious Undertaker. “That was amazing!”
“That...” Jerry explained, not far behind, “was pest control.”
The Undertaker waved a hand. “All in a day’s work, son. Right – who’s for a drink?” He made for the bar.
Clive watched him go. “Does this happen often?”
Jerry nodded gravely. “Every time they meet. Always the same insults too! You’d think after ten years they’d have thought up some new ones! The Alchemist always goes first, and he always ends up second.”
Clive looked back at the door, “how could a man like that have such a beautiful daughter?”
Jerry followed Clive’s gaze. “You’re messing with fire, mate! Any suitor has to answer to her father! Most of Issy’s boyfriends have ended up as paperweights...”
“It might be worth it for her...”
“Clive, I’m telling you – forget about it! Even if she wasn’t guarded by the most evil trappist this side of Bruges, she’s out of your league! Isabella used to go out with the Pied Piper!”
Clive turned. “Pied... who?”
“Piper! You... you must have heard of the Pied Piper! Why, every woman alive wants a piece of the Piper!”
Clive sniffed. “Is that so?”
“Why, there’s not a girl this side of Hadrian’s Wall who wouldn’t give her right arm for a slice of Pie-d!”
“Alright, Jerry! I get the picture!”
“Once you’ve had Pied... you’ll wish you hadn’t tried!”
“What does that even mean?”
“Believe me – anything and everything that is even remotely female is instantly hypnotised by his huge… huge….” Jerry attempted a visual⸻⸻
Clive stopped him with an arm “…vibrato?”
“You better believe it!”
“Oh Jerry! What am I going to do?”
“Forget about her, Clive! Plenty of apples in the barrel!”
Clive felt a tap on the shoulder. It was John. The tap had become a caress, and he was smiling at Clive in a way he had not been earlier. “Know what swings both ways and is always open for business?”
Clive thought seriously on this. “Farriers?”
John smeared a lock of Clive’s hair between his fingertips. “Guess again.”
Mercifully, the Undertaker had returned, and pushed John aside.
“Easy there, big stuff!” John protested.
Anbury’s beard bristled at Clive and Jerry. “Why are you both still here? There’s work to be done! You never know, the Alchemist might drop dead on the way home!”
To Jerry: “Well? I’m not paying you by the hour...”
Jerry raised a hand. “Actually...”
To Clive, cutting off Jerry: “...because I’m not paying you at all! Go on, after them!”
Clive beamed. “Yes, sir! Come on Jerry!”
Jerry rolled his eyes, “Oh dear!” but followed.
And no-one, not the Undertaker, not John, and least of all not the two likelies making after the Alchemist and his fair daughter, noticed the two hooded but oddly misshapen shadows who detached themselves from propping up the bar, and scuttled towards the riverside exit...