Elver Day

As Whittaker was well aware, as aware as you or I, throwing a large tin of pineapple chunks at your boss's head is no way to get on in business. Throwing anything at your boss's head is probably ill-advised, but tins hurt, and Whittaker was not really surprised when Ron Walton, owner of Rococo, the painfully modish mega-restaurant in Islington where Whittaker was head chef, rose from the kitchen floor, blood pouring from the wound on his forehead and said,

"You can take your Michelin Stars and bugger off, Terry, don't you think?"

So that was that.

Whittaker had always thought of himself as the most even-tempered of the super-chefs, and he was almost as shocked by his tin-hurling as Walton. All Ron had done, after all, was to describe Terry's Wild Boar Liver Pate as 'nice'. Terry’s staff were shocked too. They all loved him, loved him for his uncomplicated amiability, his quiet professionalism, his openness and vulnerability. They called him ‘Cuggles’.

As he sat in his flat that evening trying to think it through, Terry Whittaker suspected that life was conspiring to tell him that things were wrong. It was a warning signal, that tin-throwing fit. All was not well, Terry decided.

For one thing, he was bored, bored witless by London and the over-heated world of London restaurants, bored by his occasional appearances on daytime television, bored by the series of recipes he had been preparing for 'The Independent on Sunday' showcasing new English cooking, bored bored bored.

And stressed. Stressed? Not many. Not only was he trying to keep his career running on track from success to success, the restaurant buzzing with happening hipsters night after night and the critics and pundits raving, but he was having to do it in the teeth of raging rampant insomnia. He got home from work at two in the morning, and tried to sleep, his pulses ticking like Japetto’s shop. He chased sleep, laid traps for it, lay in wait for it, and just as it came he was jerked awake, every morning at around seven, as his Father phoned him from the hospice.

"I loves ya, boy." His father's voice, hard and commonplace, made Whittaker ashamed; ashamed of his father's lack of class; ashamed of his own snobbish sensibilities.

"Yeah."

"I loves ya, you soft wanker. You alright? I didn't phone at a bad time, boy?"

"Yes, Dad. You did."

"Why? Did I catch you on the job? Eh? Did I catch you on the vinegar strokes? Are you getting yours?"

"No. it's just that, like I say every morning, I work as a chef, very late, and this is early for me, and I'm finding it hard to sleep and could you please phone a bit later. About midday."

"Its not early for me. I've been up all night. Thinking. And pissing. And coughing. I'm dying. I might be dead by midday."

"Yes Dad."

"And what are you doing about it? Fuck all. My rich son, what does he do for his dying dad? Fuck all. That's why you can't get shagged, cos you're a cruel heartless fucker. Even if you are on the telly. On the telly, and can't get shagged? You're pathetic."

"Well, Dad, it's been nice chatting. Is there anything you want me to bring you this afternoon?"

"You? What can you bring me that I want? Can you bring me  health? Course you can't? Bring my sweets."

"I always do."

"I know. I loves ya, boy."

"See you later dad."

"If I'm not dead."

"Sure."

Terry usually managed to fall asleep again, but on the morning of the tin throwing he had found it impossible. His pulses were banging too insistently. He got up, made himself coffee, and showered. The radio played 'Pretty Vacant' while he was dressing, and Whittaker thrashed with unusual savagery at his air guitar, his fleshy white thighs wobbling at him in the mirror.

The song finished, and Whittaker put on his trousers while Wogan introduced the traffic report.

My Father is dying, and I'm listening to Radio Two. I'm middle aged.

He sat at his computer, and stared at the recipe for Lancashire Cheese Tartlets he was working on for the paper.

And stared. And stared.

On his way to work that morning, he had bought his father’s sweets, and had stopped by to visit the old man in the fanatically expensive St. Johns Wood hospice which Whittaker was paying for. He was asleep, and Terry sat for an hour in his room, watching his lined grey face, listening to his snorting breath, smelling the decay from his father’s lungs, his bones, his colon, before heading for Rococo and the fateful tin. That was one reason Terry was stressed, he guessed. No sleep.

And he was lonely. He shook his head in painful realisation of how lonely he was.  His Dad was right. He was pathetic. He tried not to think of it.

But that was why he had attacked poor old Ronnie, no question. He was bored, he was wound up to breaking point by stress, and he was so lonely that thinking about it made him want to curl up in a corner and sob. He wanted out, and he hadn't had the courage to face it. Well, now he was out, and it was going to have to be faced.

But what to do?

He was going to take a holiday. He hadn't had one for three years, years in which he'd worked his spreading arse off to get those two Michelin Stars for Rococo, those glowing reviews. That was it. A holiday. He must get away.

He flicked through Teletext to see what trips were on offer, and speared a piece of pear from the tin on the arm of his chair with a fork. Strange how he still liked tinned fruit more than anything, after all those years of cooking sophisticated dishes for the well-heeled. The pineapple chunks, which he had been on the verge of opening when provoked, were to have been his lunch.

Terry slowly worked through the pears as he studied the availability of flights. There was one in the morning for Bali, and he pictured himself lying on a golden beach, gamelans tinkling soothingly, while he ate tinned durians, scented like a lavatory door. Then again, there was another for San Francisco, and Terry thought of sea-frets ghosting around The Golden Gate, cable cars winding up into the sunshine, and succulent California prunes in a thick, dark syrup. Or there was Ibiza - long nights of inappropriate E-fuelled partying and sexual adventuring, followed by languid days eating stewed apricots in the pellucid Mediterranean air. Nothing seemed quite to fit the bill. He dropped the empty pear tin onto the pile next to his chair, clicked off the TV, and ran himself a bath.

The water was displaced higher up the tub with each passing year, as Whittaker got fatter and fatter. When he started as a chef he had been like a french bean - now he was just broad. His face, once described as looking like a cross between the young Peter Purves and a mid-period Donald Sinden now looked Churchillian in the shaving mirror. If he squinted down at his ever-growing little tits, pert and expectant like a pubescent girl's, it looked as though he was wearing a fur bikini. He rubbed his nipples with a bar of Neal's Yard soap and considered which of the various flights he might take.

No, thought Terry as he lay back in the warm water, no, none of the above. All he would do was pack a bag, get into the car, and drive off somewhere. He had always specialised in British cuisine - well, now was his chance to take off and find out something about his own country. A Londoner by birth and upbringing, the time had come to get out of town and up into the hills, to explore strange new dishes, to seek out new ingredients and new flavours, to boldly go where no chef had been before. It would be the equivalent of the Australian's Walkabout, except he would be in his new Subaru Impreza, rather than on foot, and would stay in four-star hotels instead of improvised bush bivouacs. He would go where his juices led him. It would be fun. After a couple of weeks, he'd come back, and see what he wanted to do then. There was no great rush. He emptied the bath, got into bed and fell easily into sleep. He dreamed of man-eating pineapples.

When his Father phoned in the morning, Terry told him he was going away on holiday.

"A shagging trip is it? Will you get your bell end polished? Where you going? Hamburg? Bangkok?"

"No Dad. Just a driving holiday."

"Wish I could go on holiday. It would be nice to go on holiday, instead of dying."

"Yes Dad. You'll be alright. The sisters say you're good for another six months yet." Probably, he muttered under his breath.

"Fuck off then. Fuck off and leave me here to die."

"Sure. I've fixed it so the sisters bring you your sweets. See you in a couple of weeks." Terry hung up.

As he packed a bag, he thought he might phone Francesca one last time. To say what? Let's give it another try? I still love you? He had done it a hundred times before, and still she stayed with her husband and children. One more call might do the trick, or it might be the one to trigger a restraining order, forbidding him from contacting her. Face it, that was over too, a year ago now. A good thing, probably, thought Whittaker. Children need a mother. It's time to be noble. God only knows I've tried everything else.

He locked the door of his flat, and pointed his infra-red key at the car, which hummed and clicked into expensive life. A full on lad-spec Impreza, and he'd never been further than Whitstable in the three months he'd had it. He'd been too busy, and still in bits over Francesca's return home. The two things were related, he suspected, if he was looking for reasons for losing it with Ron Walton. It was time to get over them both, love and work, and time to start again. So he put his bag into the boot, started up the car, turned into Warwick Avenue, round the back streets of Paddington and onto the Westway, up the M40 and was gone.

He didn't drive fast, not as fast as the car was capable. He was out of practice, and cautious by nature. Before Oxford, he got off the crowded motorway, and stopped at a famous old inn in Thame for some lunch, a fairly creditable steak and ale pie, and then moved on again, always heading west and slightly to the north, always skirting around the big cities. By late afternoon, he had arrived in Ludlow. He parked the car, and walked around the little town. It was late February, cold but halogen bright, and the setting sun sparkled on the river. This is nice, thought Terry. I'm a long way away from London here. What lovely architecture. He booked himself into The Feathers Inn for the night, and looked around for dinner. Every other building was occupied by restaurants, brasseries, trattoria, tapas bars, cafes, fast food joints and pubs. Three of them seemed to have Michelin Stars. He was reading the menu in the window of one of these, when a short lively woman wearing chefs whites came bustling out.

"Terry Whittaker! Cuggles! As I live and breathe! Come in, you fat old bastard, and tell me what's been happening in Rococo!"

"Hello Ali." said Whittaker. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here. This is my place, didn't you know?"

"No, I'm sorry. I thought I hadn't seen you for a bit."

"I suppose I should feel complimented that you thought about me at all. Come in, come in. Dinner on the house."

Whittaker sat in the kitchen, eating Ali's mucked about, over fussy, post-River Cafe neo Italian cooking, while she pumped him for information. He told her that he had left Rococo, and was looking around for something new.

"You should come here. Everyone else has. There are more Michelin Stars per square mile in South Shropshire than anywhere else in Britain. It was you who earned them for Ronald Walton, everyone knows that. You'll soon get more. Got mine just this year. You'd love it! All your friends are here. Alan Gregory has The Old Watermill, and Frank Kettle has just opened a post-imperialist Anglo-Indian. The Guardian have already given him an 8. It's just like being in London, except you can park. And the rents! My god, you wouldn't believe how low they are."

"I don't know, Ali. I don't know if I really want my own place. I might. I might not. Besides, aren't there enough restaurants in Ludlow?"

"You can't have enough, not here. Look at this place - packed every night. People are coming here from all over the country. Stay a few days. Have a look round. Think about it. Christ, if the worst comes to the worst, you can come and work with me. How's Francesca?"

"Gone back to her husband. A year ago. It doesn't seem like home without her, really Ali."

"Poor old Cugs. I loved Francesca. Everyone did. Only food writer worth reading."

Terry got up very early in the morning, so early that he was forced to go without his Full English in the hotel, and took the back way out of town, hoping Ali wouldn't be too offended. London was what he wanted to escape, not recreate. He headed north now, up the Welsh border and towards Chester. It was still only 9 when he arrived in the old city; he bought a road atlas from a newsagent, and sat in a greasy spoon, eating his missed breakfast. Looking at the maps, he saw that it would be the easiest thing in the world to get onto the M6 and hit Scotland. He'd never been. If he wound the car up a little, he could be in Dumfries by lunchtime, and then see where he wanted to go from there. The Scottish Islands, maybe. You couldn't get much further away from it all than that.

A rather distinguished gentleman in his fifties, a solicitor, or an architect perhaps, sat reading the Times and looking over at Whittaker. He cleared his throat.

"Excuse me," he said, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but aren't you Terence Whittaker, the chef? I think I saw you on 'Junior Masterchef'. Your fellow judge was Timmy Rubenstein, the comedy actor and 'Time Gang' presenter. I like him, too. 'I've got a wizard wheeze', that's him, isn't it? The girl from Norwich won it."

Terry smiled and admitted it was true.

"Well, then, I'd like to say thank you. My wife and I had dinner in Rococo last year, after we'd been to see 'Phantom' for our anniversary, and, my god, your Arbroath Smokie Kedgeree will stay with me for a long time."

"Bit indigestible?" asked Terry.

"No, no, it was superb. And the breast of ptarmigan in balsamic vinegar! Marvellous. Worth every penny."

Terry thanked the man, and wondered if there was anywhere where he could escape the past. He stopped at Asda on the outskirts of town, bought himself some tins of fruit and an opener, and made for the motorway. It was, Whittaker imagined, foot-down time.

Four hours later, his fruit eaten, the syrup slurped, the empty tins rolling around the passengers footwell, and sitting in the mother of all tailbacks somewhere north of Preston, Whittaker sensed that he would probably not make Dumfries by nightfall now, after all. This was no fun. He hadn't realised that it wasn't just London that was gridlocked, it was the whole motorway network too. For the first hour or so of creeping along, he had amused himself by ringing the numbers on the back of wagons from his mobile phone,

'Well driven? Phone 0800 782642 and let us know!'

A woman with a slight West Country accent answered.

"Hello? Truckers Helpline. Can I help you?"

Yes, hello, I'm sitting in a traffic jam behind one of your vehicles, registration S for sugar 9er3er6er T for tortilla R for risotto E for extra virgin olive oil, and I'd just like to say, that as far as I can tell, it is being very well driven. A thoroughly professional job.""Oh... er... thank you."

"No, thank you. You're offering a very valuable service."

The woman sobbed.

"No one's ever said that to me before."

"Well, I'm glad to be the bringer of good news."

"You're very kind... I didn't catch your name.?"

"Terry. Whittaker."

"Well, thank you Mr. Whittaker."

"My pleasure. Good-bye."

"Good-bye sir."

This had kept him amused for a while, so long as his tinned fruit lasted, but now he was going frantic with boredom, and, to make the situation worse, the sun of the early morning had been obscured by a freezing February fog. The traffic inched through the icy vapour, which clung to the cars and made their windscreens opaque. He resolved to take the next junction, and see where he was. It didn't matter too much if he didn't make Scotland today. Nothing much mattered at all. The traffic crept along, for another five miles or so, and still there was no way off the motorway.

When the junction eventually came up, it was one of those funny little ones that you never see anyone use, right out in the middle of nowhere. The signpost said Pancester and Laikley.

I've never heard of either of them, thought Whittaker, as he took the sliproad. Funny how you can live on a little island your whole life, and never hear of places. At the top of the slip there was a brown heritage sign, pointing westward into the fog. It said, 'Historic City of Pancester. 17 miles.'

"Might as well.", said Whittaker aloud, and followed the sign.

Even through the freezing fog, Whittaker could make out that he was in flat country, the fields drained by dykes skimmed with cat-ice. After a few miles, he flashed through a large but undistinguished village called Blackhampton, and then, for almost ten miles more, there was nothing at all, just more flat fields and stagnant ditches. The mist wreathed road carried hardly any traffic, except that twice Whittaker passed two ghostly empty coaches, coming away from wherever it was that he was heading.

Suddenly, as he came around a sharp corner, the fog in front of him seemed to stir and lift as a light salty breeze trembled the twig tips of pollarded willows along the field margins. The late afternoon sun lanced the gloom and he could see where he was. The flat fields were now divided by what looked like tidal creeks, and rising in front of him from out of the marshy country, a mile or so away, there was a walled stone city on a rocky hill, crowned by a huge castle, glowering orange as the sun dipped towards the horizon, which shimmered with the promise of the sea. Far away to the north scintillated high snow topped mountains. It was the most beautiful place that Terry Whittaker had ever seen. It would be nice to report that Whittaker heard angelic voices going "Aaaah" too, but he would insist on listening to Radio Two while he drove, so he had to make do with 'Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft' by The Carpenters instead. Strangely appropriate, thought Whittaker. This was another world. He would park up and find somewhere to stay for a night or two. He passed the sign which read 'Pancester welcomes Careful Drivers. Twinned with Brigadoon and Tilling', and entered the one-way system.

That's some one-way system, as visitors to Pancester will no doubt remember. The signposts offered Whittaker two options: 'Through Traffic' and 'City Centre'. Naively, he followed the City Centre arrows, which just took him right round the walls. The sun seemed to have brought out other drivers, and Whittaker felt that he was in a race. Cars whizzed around the orbital road; Whittaker became involved in trying to beat a disgusting old Maestro van, once white but now with a maroon bonnet and one green door, and forgot that he was supposed to be looking for somewhere to park. Whittaker had the better vehicle, the van had the better driver, and they were neck and neck on the twin laned road. They crossed a sluggish estuarine river on a modern bridge; Terry was staring out the van driver, and so failed to notice the signs saying 'Parking' pointing up through a gate in the walls and into the city proper.

As Whittaker and his rival came round to the side of the city which was hidden from view on first arrival, he could see that there was a fair amount of building that was not inside the walls - the railway station and a large overfull coach parking facility, some waterside warehouses tastefully and obviously fairly recently converted into a four star hotel and conference centre, a couple of sports grounds, some thirties semi's with an arcade of shops: a newsagents, a car spares place, a fish and chip shop - and behind them all a large council estate and a small industrial area. Next to some scrubby meadowland beside the river, a graceful medieval stone bridge arched over a loop of the river and up through yet another gate into Pancester. A sign said 'Pack Bridge. Pedestrians only.' The road divided, signs pointing to 'Laikley, 3 miles', and Whittaker's rival peeled off, giving him a grin and the thumbs up as the Maestro disappeared, leaving Terry to finish the circuit of the city on his own. He came back to where he had come in; the signs said, 'Blackhampton 11, M6 17'.

He started again, somewhat more assiduously, and this time spotted the way through the walls. He drove through the ancient gate and into a warren of steep narrow streets, shop front lights shining on the smooth pavements, pedestrians (many of them, from their fluorescent fleeces and dangling photographic equipment clearly tourists) spilling out into the roadway. The car crawled through the throng, and Whittaker found it difficult to concentrate on the undoubted beauty of the honey coloured buildings and the uniquely unspoiled character of the city, as he tried to follow the 'Parking' signs. They took him up past the huge castle and its attendant church, round the ramparts, and down into more streets packed with pedestrians, until the signs finally spat him out again onto the ring road, through the gate by which he had come in.

This place could do with a new car-park, thought Whittaker, as he pulled up in front of the converted warehouses outside the city proper, but at least those fruitless circuits of the city had solved the problem of where to stay. He locked the car, took his bag from the boot and entered the lobby of the new hotel.

Framed reproductions of 'Spy' cartoons showing famous gentleman golfers of the nineteenth century lined the walls. A pegboard informed visitors that the North-West Regional meeting of the British Dental Association was being held in the Charter Room. Sales reps from central casting sat around in the lobby sipping lager and talking shop with their sharp-faced wives in chairs which looked inviting, but which Whittaker knew from long experience would be just slightly too narrow for his comfort. A Muzak version of 'Why Does It Always Rain On Me?' piped inoffensively from hidden speakers. A cheerful and pretty automaton greeted him from behind the reception desk. Her on/off button indicated that she was called Stacy.

"Good afternoon sir. Welcome to The Panster Riverside Hotel. How can I help you?"

"Yes, hello. I'd like a single room for the night, please."

A look of synthetic concern crossed her make-up.

"I'm very much afraid that we don't have any single rooms at present. The city is full of visitors for the ceremony, not to mention the dentists."

"Oh, well a double will be fine."

"I'm afraid that we don't have any doubles, or twins either. We do have a large family room, or The Lady Abigail Courtney Suite, if that would be of service. It is rather expensive...", she said coyly, looking up at Terry from lowered eyes.

"How much?"

"Lady Abigail Courtney? That's £90 a night, I'm afraid, but it does include the Continental breakfast, use of a sitting room, and full en-suite facilities, obviously."

£90 a night? Expensive? A carafe of house white at Rococo was £90. Money, if I may be so vulgar, was the last of Terry's concerns.

"Could I take it for two nights?"

"Of course sir. A pleasure to have you stay with us. If you could just sign here? And here? Will you be requiring a morning paper..." she extended her neck with a faint hum of servos, "...Mr. Whittaker?"

"Yes, please Stacy. Could I have The Christian Science Monitor and The Morning Star?"

The creature smiled again. She had been on a course, 'Recognising and responding to jokes in a hotel environment.'

"Certainly sir. I'll call the boy for your bags..."

"No need."

Terry took the keys, and made his way to the top floor. The last of the westering sun shone through the picture windows. He looked out at the city, high on it's rocky hill beside the brown slow moving river, and smiled at it. He showered and changed before setting out to explore.

On his way back through reception, the android called,

"Is this your first time in Panster sir?"

"Yes. Did you say 'Panster'? I thought it was called 'Pancester'."

"Yes, sir, it's spelt Pancester, but pronounced 'Panster'. Would sir like a brochure map?"

"Yes, thank you. And did you say something about a ceremony?"

"Oh yes, sir. It's Elver Day. If you cross the river by the Pack Bridge, through the West Gate, and up West Street, you'll find the ceremony on the Guild Hall steps, at about 8. Enjoy the spectacle, sir."

The brochure map was called 'Pancester - Where History Lives'. On the cover was a picture of a plump rubicund man, dressed in a red frockcoat and a black topper, standing on the city walls, sounding a great silver horn, shaped like that of a ram. Whittaker opened the map and walked along the riverside ringroad. He came to the unkempt meadowland he had passed earlier. There was a hand-painted sign by the gateway into the large field. It said “Dole Acre Donkey Sanctuary. Please Feed The Donkeys. Mrs. Jocelyn Innes, Custodian.”

Whittaker liked donkeys, and he always felt they liked him. Two of them were standing by the gate, and he leaned across and scratched one between the ears.

“Hello old donk. I haven’t got anything for you, I’m afraid.”

The donkey nuzzled his hand, and Whittaker resolved never to serve mortadella sausage again.

He took his leave of the old animals, and crossed into the city by the beautiful old bridge he had seen earlier.

It was 5.30 and already dark, but the streets still teemed with life. Walking up the road both Stacy and the map called West Street, Terry was forced off the York-stone pavements into the cobbled gutter by the sheer press of numbers. The mullioned windows of the tall elegant stone houses lit the way, as did the illuminated shop fronts and open doors of the crowded pubs. Here and there hot dog carts did great business, one of them displaying an enigmatic sign written in marker pen on cardboard - 'No Elvers until after the ceremony'. The tourists made up a fair percentage of the crowd, but there were also large numbers of people dressed more conservatively, without cameras and camcorders, many of the men sporting Dennis Compton hairdos, and many of the women with beehives. They looked very much like Khazac peasants, Terry thought - bad suits worn with migrainous Christmas jumpers, dresses and coats even the Queen would think twice about wearing. These Whittaker judged to be locals. He stopped a couple, and asked why there were so many people in the street.

"Visitor?" said the man suspiciously. "Visitors should visit the Tourist Information Office."

"Which is situated in the castle gatehouse." said his female companion. They moved on, laughing  to one another.

"Oh, thanks!" shouted Whittaker at their retreating backs. They did not respond. He turned to 'Pancester - Where History Lives' for guidance. It said,

"Pancester is renowned for the survival of many of it's ancient traditions, ceremonies and rituals, including Wally Oop, Elver Day, the Pancester Dole, Burning the Midsummer Ring, Apple Plummeting, Eastering, and Hanging Nick. Visitors requiring more information should visit the Tourist Information Office, which is situated in the Castle Gatehouse, where they can also buy tickets for The National Museum of Crime and Punishment and The Lady Abigail Courtney Museum and Art Gallery. We hope you enjoy your stay."

Both the map and Terry's earlier experience of looking for a parking space showed that the castle, now revealed by the brochure as The National Museum of Crime and Punishment, was right at the top of the town. He passed into the large square in front of the Guild Hall, where a small brazier full of logs behind a roped off area on the steps waited for ignition. Opposite the Guild Hall were two black and white half timbered buildings, the first Whittaker had seen in the stone-built city, one a huge and beautifully preserved coaching inn, called Ye Blacke Bull, the other a large, brightly lit and clearly very busy cafe, De'Ath's. Heading up towards the castle, and passing more shops and pubs, Whittaker became uncomfortable. There was something missing, something not quite right. Whittaker realised that all the shops were small, family run concerns, and that not one of the pubs was themed. The biggest shop he passed was a department store called Courtneys. But where were Debenhams, BHS, Marks and Sparks, the Irish and Australian concept bars; where were all of the usual bland franchised businesses which stripped High Streets across the country of their individuality? Not here. He stopped another local.

"Excuse me..."

"Visitor?" said the man.

"Yes. I wonder if you could tell me the..."

"Visitors should visit the Tourist Information Centre..."

"Yes, which is situated in the Castle Gatehouse, yes, but could you possibly direct me to Macdonalds, please?"

The man stared hard at Whittaker.

"Macdonalds? You need shoes repairing? He'll be closed by now."

"Er... no, I mean Macdonalds, the burger place."

"There's one in Laikley, I believe." said the man, with a superior smile. "If you require more information..."

"Yes, thank you, I'm on my way there now." The man walked off. No Macdonalds. This wasn't just another world, it was a whole new galaxy. Whittaker reached the castle, and walked around the walls, looking for the Gatehouse.

He found it, adorned with a huge coat of arms, and a sign saying, "Welcome to The National Museum of Crime and Punishment.", and in smaller writing, "Abandon hope all ye who enter in.", and in tiny writing, "Director, Dr. Q Sandahl." In the Gatehouse, under the sign, was the Tourist Information Office, just as advertised.

It was the usual run of Tourist Information Office, with one major difference, in Whittaker's view, which was that Francesca was standing behind the counter helping an elderly American couple to book a hotel room. Why was she here, he wondered in shock, instead of reading a bedtime story to her spoiled brats, Satan and Beelzebub, or whatever they were called? Why wasn't she having dinner with the untalented misanthropic flabby-minded pasty-faced mummy's boy she'd preferred to Whittaker? Had she come looking for him, and somehow accidentally got a job in a Tourist Information Office?

Of course, it wasn't really Francesca, Whittaker saw after a moments open-mouthed incredulity. In fact, where Francesca was short, plump and bouncy, this woman was tall, slim and elegant; where Francesca was dark, this woman was strawberry blonde and grey-eyed, and where Francesca was full mouthed with a strong jaw, it would be fair to say that this thin-lipped woman's weakest point was a slightly receding chin and a hint of overbite, an impression that her teeth were perhaps slightly too large for her mouth. But there was something, or maybe, Whittaker thought, an absence of something, which they had in common, crucially so. Or how could he have mistaken this unknown woman for his mistress of three years? Yes, that was it. An absence. Both Francesca, and this... this... vision of glory, this goddess, lacked awareness of how sexy they really were. It was something in the way they carried themselves. They didn't know why men followed them around like slavering dogs. They were also both completely indifferent about Whittaker too, for different reasons. This was not going to deter Terry. Indifference from women convinced Whittaker that they were crazy about him and spurred him on to greater and greater heights of fevered devotion. Actually, active hostility encouraged him even more, as we shall see.

Whittaker looked around him while Francesca Two dealt with the old couple. He picked up a few books, and turned the pages, watching her as her hands flickered over the keyboard of her computer.  There were several colourful guides to Pancester, and a rather less well produced pamphlet called "Laikley, Crazy Golf Capital of England", which showed photographs of a muddy beach, a ratty zoo, and several Crazy Golf courses. He considered "Bygone Pancester in Old Photographs", but as he leafed through it, and saw pictures of The Pack Bridge, The Guild Hall, De'Ath's Cafe and the castle, all of which looked completely unchanged, he couldn't quite see the point.  But the ceremonies interested him, so he choose a facsimile book called "An Account of the Antiquarian Customs and Curious Survivals Of Pancester" by The Reverend Clement Dadd, originally published in 1907, and took it over to the counter, where She, The Only Girl Whittaker Had Ever Really Loved, had just finished with her Americans.

"Can I help you sir?" she asked, looking up at Whittaker. Her eyes, bright as bullets, seemed to drill into Whittaker's flesh. She knew everything about him, Whittaker realised; everything he had ever felt and everything he had ever desired was all laid bare before her gaze. He found that he suddenly had a painful and potentially embarrassing erection.

"Are you married?" said Whittaker dreamily.

"Sorry?", said the woman.

"No! Hahahaha! Are you married?! Hahaha. No, what I mean is... hello.", said Whittaker.

The woman raised her eyebrows, and a frisson of pleasure ran up Terry's spine.

"Ohh my god, I mean... that is... I wonder if you can help me..." he looked at the name button pinned to her dress, "...Juliana. What a lovely name. Juliana. Anyway, Juliana, I'm a visitor, and whenever I ask anyone for directions, all they do is send me here. To see you. So here I am, seeing you." He gulped, and tried to be cool.

"Well, where do you want to go?" said Juliana.

"Well, Juliana..." he leant forward again, "Blezzard. Oh, that's not as nice, is it? Blezzard? Well, Juliana, I don't really want to go anywhere in particular, but what I would like to know is why are all these people here? It's so crowded. It's like Piccadilly Circus." His attempt at cool was not succeeding, he felt.

"Are you not here for Elver Day, sir?"

"Don't call me sir. I can't bear it. Terry. Whittaker. No. Never heard of it. I'm not really here for anything. I'm just... you know... passing through."

"Passing through? On your way from where to where?" said Juliana with some bitterness.

"Oh, you know, heading on the highway, looking for adventure. Footloose and fancy free. Single.". Whittaker raised his eyebrows and laughed. Ms. Blezzard frowned and did not.

"Well, Mr. Whittaker, Elver Day is when The City Alarumist, who is this gentleman here," she said, indicating the red coated man on the cover of 'Pancester - Where History Lives', "gets paid by the Mayor and Aoldermen of Pancester for his exertions on The Ramstheng with a silver bowl full of freshly netted elvers from the Athon, which he then cooks on a brazier on the Guildhall steps. To celebrate this, all the children under 11 march in torchlight procession through the streets, culminating in a feast inside the Hall itself. A feast of elvers, of course. After the ceremony, elvers are available in the pubs and from street vendors for those unfortunates without a ticket for the Guildhall."

Whittaker was entranced by her voice. It was one of those Northern voices, most often found in Lancashire and Cumbria, where the "R" is rolled at the back of the throat, as if the speaker is gargling with saliva. Perhaps you remember the old Hovis advert? The one with the brass band, and the old geezer going on about 'Rrreal Brrread'? Like that. Whittaker's own voice, what you might call a kind of Received Estuary, or default pomo generic southern English, sounded in his ears pale and anaemic by contrast.

"I see." said Whittaker. "Pretty obvious really. Is that horn the Ramstheng?"

"Yes sir. The Alarumist sounds The Alarum with it every morning on the City Walls. At six. In the morning." She winced.

"How marvelous." said Whittaker.

"Lots of people think so, yes. That's why all the tourists come. For the ceremonies. We're the seventh most popular tourist destination in the UK."

"Well, I never knew that."

"Oh yes... London, Stratford, Edinburgh, York, Bath, The Lake District, Pancester."

"I never knew that."

"No. So you said."

"And are you going down to see the ceremony Juliana?"

"I'm afraid I'm allergic to elvers, sir. Will you be wanting the book?"

"Yes please."

She took the details from Terry's AMEX card, put the book in a 'Pancester - An Older, Better England'  plastic carrier bag, and hustled him out of the door, while he tried, and failed, to think of a legitimate way to ask for her phone number.

"Thank you for calling, you fat-arsed blob of slime", she said as he stood in the doorway, opening and closing his mouth like an impotent goldfish.

"Sorry?" said Whittaker.

"I said, have an interesting time at the ceremony. Good night, Mr. Whittaker." She slammed the door shut, put up the 'Closed' sign, and drew down the blind.

"Goodnight... Juliana", said Whittaker to the door. He turned down the hill to look for dinner, his heart full of undying love.

He looked around for a chi-chi little eatery where he would feel at home, but could find none. There only seemed to be pubs and De'Ath's, and De'Ath's was packed, so he fought his way into the crowded dining room of Ye Blacke Bull.

He managed to attract the attention of one of the surly waiting staff, and asked him for the menu.

"We don't have a menu. It's Brown Windsor Soup, baked cod, and treacle tart or cheese. £4.95."

"Good god. Are you kidding?"

"Take it or leave it."

"Well... I'll take it, I guess."

The soup was cold and smelt of diesel, the fish was luke warm and gelatinous, the vegetables villainously overcooked and the treacle tart hard as the waiters eyes. Whittaker was charmed. He hadn't had a meal so bad since he was a teenager in the seventies. The service set new low standards. He paid his bill, taking care to leave an ironically large tip, and wandered out into the square to find a good place from which to watch the ceremony.

The square in front of the Guildhall teemed with life, both visitor and local. The vapour of their breath hung in the freezing night air. By standing on the steps of Ye Blacke Bull, Whittaker found he could see right across the square to where the Alarumist in his red frockcoat stood holding the gleaming Ramstheng next to the newly-lit brazier. The Guildhall steps were covered with children, all holding unlit torches. The Alarumist raised the Ramstheng to his lips and blew one long blaring braying note whose ancient tones rattled the windows around the square. The crowd fell silent as the Mayor, leading the Aoldermen, emerged from the hall, carrying a large silver dish. They all wore red robes and large black hats with feathers in them, the Mayors dyed yellow and the Aoldermen's green. The Alarumist bowed to the Mayor, who bowed in return. The Mayor then turned to the crowd and shouted something - Terry was too far away to hear what. The mayor turned again and presented the dish to the Alarumist, who bowed once more, and shouted something else. There was a ragged cheer from those at the front who could hear what was going on. Then Terry watched as the Alarumist poured what looked like water out of the silver dish into a bucket, which he placed on top of the brazier. This was the cue for the children to start singing, and to come forward to light their torches from the brazier. There were at least a hundred children giving voice, but still Terry could only make out one or two words - "Elvers" and "Athon", nothing more. Their torches lit, they processed down the hill, still singing, while the Mayor and the Aoldermen watched as the Alarumist tipped the contents of the bucket, cooked now and no longer transparent, back into the silver dish. He began to eat his wage of elvers with a gold fork. More cheering started, and many of the crowds set off to follow the children round the town. Terry noticed he was standing next to the American couple from the Tourist Information Office. The woman smiled at him with expensive orthodontistry while her husband sucked the scene into his camcorder.

"Wasn't that the cutest thing you've ever seen?", she said.

"I had a chinchilla called Barry when I was a kid. He was very cute indeed. Big floppy ears. But this came close."

"Does the fat man in the red coat really eat the elvers, do you think?"

"They're very nice. I had them once at a hotel in Bath."

"Really? Do you think I should try some?"

"Oh, yes. You'll probably never get another chance. I recommend them."

"Really? You hear that, Zwignew? This guy says we should try the elvers."

"Well, they can't be worse than dinner. Jesus, I've never had anything like it."

"Where did you go?"

"That place there. Deaths. I should have known from the name."

"It's strange," said the woman. "This place is fulla tourists, but there don't really seem to be any facilities."

"Somebody should do something.", said Zwignew. "Anyone who opened a decent place would clean up."

Whittaker smiled a good-bye, and started down the hill, pausing at one of the hot dog carts to buy a paper cone full of steaming hot freshly cooked elvers.

"Do you serve elvers all year round?", he asked the vendor.

"No sir, just this one week when they runs up the river. I wish I could, they sell like hot cakes."

"Why not sell hot cakes the rest of the year?" suggested Whittaker helpfully.

"No, I only sells hot cakes for Hanging Nick", said the man, with a puzzled look.

Whittaker carried on down the hill, eating his elvers. They were superb, a little like whitebait, but with a faint aftertaste of seaweed.

These would be nice seared in bacon fat, he thought, with a little pureed fennel.

On The Pack Bridge, the children were throwing their torches into the river and calling,

"Here be the torches to light the way,

Elvers come back another day."

Whittaker watched the extinguished torches swirl in the out-going tide for a moment, before walking back along the river to his hotel.

The robot had gone off duty, to be replaced by a cadaverous night porter whose badge said "Hi, I'm Dennis. How can I help you?"

"Hello Dennis.", said Terry. "Can I have the keys to The Lady Abigail Courtney Suite, please?"

"Nice Elver ceremony sir?" said Dennis, as he handed them over. "Not like it was in my day, of course."

"I'm sure nothing is, Dennis. Good Night."

"You're right enough there. Good night sir."

Back in his sitting room, Whittaker drew the curtains, and turned on the TV. He flipped through the channels, and couldn't find anything to arouse his interest. He wondered about taking advantage of the free five minutes of the adult channel, but wasn't in the mood. He hardly ever was these days. He clicked the TV off and re-opened the curtains, to look at his view of the old city glowing on its hill. He rubbed his belly, and wished he had a nice tin of something fruity.

But still, he just couldn't stop smiling. Zwignew had a point.

"I could clean up", he said aloud to the world outside his window. "I could bloody well clean up."