Hosstory - At a snails pace Hosstory - At a snails pace
Chapter 1
It was a rain driven autumn day as John proudly walked home carrying a large and bulging sack over his left shoulder. This harvest of snails had been a particularly good one and John knew that he and his family would not go short of food in the months to come.
As he reached his house the dog came bounding and barking towards him. John on meeting it gave it one swift kick in the teeth sending it yelping and whimpering away again, it not been his dog.
Fumbling with his keys and trying not to drop the sack, John managed to open the door and briskly stepped inside. There he carried the sack through to the kitchen where his loving wife waited.
“No John. No. Not more snails?” Yvonne wailed. “I thought you were going to give that up?” she blubbered.
“Well wife. There’re hundreds of them this year. There for the taking and do you know what? I was dead lucky. I was the only one catching them. There was no one else.” John explained jubilantly.
“But what will you do with them?” she sobbed. “Last year we ate some and we ended up in hospital having our stomachs pumped.”
“They were free weren’t they?” He explained. “We didn’t have to pay for them then, and we don’t have to pay for them this time. I told you then that we must have both eaten a bad one.”
There was some truth in what he had just said. Firstly they had indeed eaten a ‘bad one’. In fact it was more mathematically correct to say that they had eaten a whole bag full of bad ones, there not been a single good and edible snail amongst them. Secondly, the snails were indeed ‘free’ and anyone with the least culinary knowledge or desire not to be poisoned would have let them stay that way.
John, even before he’d got married had always had a hunting instinct. A will to be the hunter, the first, and the best at what ever he did. He also had an eye for a bargain, especially those bargains that were for free and didn’t cost him anything. In his early years he’d bought ferrets and tried to go out catching rabbits with them. That had ended up a bit of a disaster as every time he’d seen a rabbit and let the ferrets after it, they’d just wandered around sniffing at things and not seeming to be the least bit interest.
Later, and not wanting to disappoint his family, he’d killed, skinned and butchered the ferrets and gave them to his mum as rabbits; she in turn had cooked them and they were eaten.
Next it was grubs. He’d seen a program on TV about Australia and the Aborigine tribes who lived there. They ate grubs that they found and hacked out of the tall dark tree stumps around the land where they lived. They didn’t pay anything for the grubs and they seemed to survive quite well on them. John knew if they could do this…then so could he.
The only thing John knew that resembled these dark slender trees were the darkened telegraph poles in and around the streets of Filey. There were hundreds of them and he thought that surely some of them must contain grubs.
One morning, taking a small hand axe from his fathers tool shed, he set off on his hunt. He quickly came across a pole and immediately began to hack into its base. There he stood for near on two hours slamming and chopping until the pole finally fell. Four hours later it was in pieces with John, his hands blistered and totally exhausted, not a single grub to show for his effort. The next was the same, and the next, and the next. In fact the four poles he did manage to fell and hack to pieces did not produce a single grub. The only thing they in fact did produce was an acute ache in both of Johns arms and an even acuter dent in his ego.
He put this first attempt down to pure bad luck and he knew within that there must be grubs in some of the poles. If the Abbo’s could find them, then so could he. What he needed was something to do the work for him and he knew what it was and where exactly he could get it.
The very next day John had in his possession a brand spanking new chainsaw. The receipt of such an expensive and labour saving tool doesn’t matter at this time as it’s acquirement is a story in itself, but now he had one.
Taking the saw he pulled the ripcord that started the motor. Several pulls later it sprang to life and sat there chugging and rumbling as its piston ticked over noisily. John excitedly picked it up and pulled tightly on the trigger. Immediately the motors speed increased and the saws chain blade began to rotate at an ever increasing speed.
This was it, he thought. How many poles could he get through in a single day? And how many grubs would he find using it?
Delightedly he set of again on his hunt. This time there would be no stopping him and things would be easy. So, so easy.
The first pole he came across was felled in an instant and within minutes was laying in bits around him. There were no signs of grubs in it but not to be swayed he carried on his quest until he found another.
There above him and about his days work sat telephone engineer Big J.B. He was oblivious to what was going on below due to the soundproof BT issue headphones clamped firmly over his ears, and a particularly interesting and personal conversation he had tapped into on one of the phone lines. His oblivion and the call were suddenly and abruptly cut short when the pole along with him came crashing earthwards, and its sudden stop on reaching the earth knocking him flat and out cold.
John didn’t even notice him, all he was interested in was grubs, and now he knew he had the tool and the power to get them.
The saw blades buzzed and masses of sawdust flew in all directions as its teeth cut effortlessly into the wood. The pole now lay flat, and there, it was immediately set upon by John using the saw.
Left, right, across, up, down, went its blade, its teeth tearing into the wood as a hot knife through butter. All the time John was ever vigilant for grubs, looking constantly at every bit of wood he cut. Suddenly he saw one. Then another, and another, and a fourth. All pink and fat, there they lay quite motionless just waiting for him to pick them up.
Quickly before they could crawl away he grabbed them and excitedly pushed them into a plastic bag.
“Grubs. Grubs!” he muttered to himself, as he looked to see if there were more.
His mind had been, and still was on a single and narrow path. All he could see he wanted was Grubs, and now finally he had found some. He cared not about anybody nor anything else in his blind excitement.
What John had in fact found and now had in the bag were the four fingers of Big J.B.’s right hand. Quickly and neatly they had been removed by the saw as John was dismantling the pole.
With one final slash of the blade, he cut through the very top of the pole and another part of J.B. There, before him but also not moving was another grub. This one was the biggest he had seen so far. It was much fatter than the others and he felt totally ecstatic on finding it. Swiftly he grabbed it and bundled it into the bag to join the rest. They all would make a fine and nourishing meal for everyone that evening.
Chapter 2
Unfortunately for John, they were the only and last grubs that he ever found although in his search he had near reduced Filey to an isolated hole of incommunication. For the next few years he had to resort to eating what was put in front of him on the table at mealtimes. Occasionally he would lash out and buy himself fish and chips, but that was a rare treat and there was never any real fun or excitement in it.
His instincts turned him towards football but soon after been enrolled by Filey Town Football Club, he was dropped. It wasn’t that he was a bad player. On the contrary, he scored more goals than any recorded player in the history of the club. It wasn’t that he ever turned up late either for training or the games. No. He was asked to leave due to his incessant and vicious attacks on other players, both of the opposing teams and his own. After scoring a goal he was known to tear the ball to shreds with his bare hands and teeth. Filey could not afford the cost of new balls and the law suits from players with bits torn out of various parts of their bodies.
Chapter 3
It was then John met Yvonne. They’d grown up through school together and now things were progressing as life sometimes and often does.
Later that year they were married and Yvonne relinquished he maiden name for that of his, taking her vows to stand by him no matter what. That what she didn’t know at the time, involved eating none costing but unusual and sometimes toxic things.
One of these things turned out to be what John had a sack full of. Snails. The first time he had thought of trying these delicacies was after seeing another TV program about the French eating snails. This had set his hunter killer instinct ablaze for he knew that snails would be easy to catch as he would, if they did try to escape, no doubt be able to outrun them.
It was very stormy, in fact it was always very stormy and it had rained now for weeks. The drains were in excess of their capacity, totally saturated with the gallons that had fallen from above and John knew that this would be a good, even the best time to look for snails.
“Snails.” He thought. “Snails hate water. And if snails hate water and there’s loads of water around.” He surmised. “Where will be the best place to find them? Somewhere they would go to get away from it.” He thought intently.
Sat there, with this question churning constantly through his mind, he remembered something from his past. Something that offered an answer and a solution in one.
The poles. The telegraph poles. They stick up high out of the water. Snails have no problem in crawling up poles to get away from floods. They should be, even must be there.
He did then what most people of Filey would never do or never want to do in their whole lives; he prayed for rain. For the next seven days he prayed for rain to every gods name he could find in books, on the news, and even suggested to him by passers-by he’d asked in the street, although most thought that he was some sort of religious nut wanting their money.
His praying and chanting had kept Yvonne awake most of the night for the past seven nights, but despite this, it had seemed to have had its desired effect as the rain poured down continuously for the next seven and a half days. On the eighth day it had died to the usual constant shower, but several of the residential estates of the town had been flooded. Scarborough Road was awash preventing traffic from entering or leaving that way, and the bungalows of Wharfedale and its adjoining streets were immersed under at least three feet of water, confining their residents to a long waterlogged wait or the dryer but darker confines of their loft-space.
John put on his fishing waders and grabbing the chainsaw, left the house to find his family food.
He had now to think up a strategy, as there would be rescue services all around picking and plucking pensioners from there waterlogged abodes. The best place he thought that would make him as inconspicuous as possible would be the Muston Road estate. There it was not on the main drag and he could easily blend in as a concerned helper amongst any rescue workers. Sure enough when he had arrived the place had indeed been crawling with rescue workers who were there. The fire brigade, the police, ambulance services, and one Scarborough Bourough Council worker who had taken a bad turn and suddenly found himself doing some work, were busy going about their tasks.
John had looked around intently and there seemed to be quite a few poles, all of them having near no workers around them. He approached the first and sure enough, there covering it above the waterline there were snails. The number he could not count but it must have been over a hundred.
Producing a large bag from under his coat he began to scoop the molluscs into it. With ease they came off and soon he found that all those in reach he had. Now there were the ones above. If he could cut down the pole it would float and enable him to collect the rest.
Starting up the saw he did the same as he had done before. Within seconds the pole came crashing down and propped itself against the wall of one of the flooded buildings. Swiftly John was there, scooping for all he was worth at his beloved prize. He found that as the last was collected the bag was near half full, and that had been only one pole. With glee he waded on to the next.
Up this particular pole sat another telephone engineer. In fact this telephone engineer was near the same genetically as the previous one that some time ago John had dismembered.
Dale Butcher was trying to repair the damaged telephone lines due to the extremely bad weather. There he was at the top of the pole doing his best not to get a hundred volt electric shock from the wires he was toying with.
Seconds later, above the noise of the rain, he had heard the sound of what seemed to be a petrol lawnmower, and shortly after that he had seen the roof of a bungalow hurtling toward him.
Mrs Mappin screamed for her life as Dales head suddenly crashed through the tiled roof and stopped abruptly inches from her face. Dale, blood pouring from his nose and lips had give a confused groan and a toothless grin, and passed out.
Meanwhile with total ignorance to this, John was collecting his bounty. The snails of this pole had filled the bag to its limit and now he’d decided and he had to head home.
That evening Dale wakened in a hospital bed with a tube up his right nostril and something beside him going beep beep in his left ear.
Chapter 4
Back home John showed Yvonne the full bag. She had taken one look and decided she didn’t quite like the look of what was in it. John, not to be put off by this had finally convinced Yvonne that the snails were good nourishment and that if the French could eat them so could they. Dubiously she had cooked a few, enhancing the flavour with garlic, and that evening in front of the TV they had tucked in along with a bottle of quite expensive white wine.
Hours later they were both on their way to Scarborough hospital with severe food poisoning. John waking up in a hospital bed with a tube up his right nostril and a machine at his side making beep beep noises in his left ear.
After finding out from the attending nurse that Yvonne was in much the same way, and going to be alright, he looked to the next bed. The man there, his head and face bandaged except for a slit for his eyes and his mouth looked back and spoke.
“You’re awake then?” he said quietly.
“Yeh. I think so.” John replied still feeling a bit dazed.
“Where are you from?”
“Filey.”
“Filey. That’s where I’m from.” The man lisped having no front teeth.
“What happened to you?” John asked, slightly curious as to the extensive injuries that the man had seemed to have sustained.
“I’m a telephone engineer.” He explained. “There I was at the top of one of the telephone poles repairing the lines when someone cut it down with a chain saw. I crashed through a bungalow roof.”
“Oh.” Said John not really bothered or interested. “Me and the wife had snails for out evening meal. We must have both eaten a bad one. We got brought in here with food poisoning.”
A nurse came and began to get the man ready for his bandage change. She pumped up the bed and began to wheel it away
“That can be quite bad.” The man said sympathetically. “I hope that you’ll be alright?” he shouted.
John didn’t see him again, not that he cared. Two weeks later he and Yvonne had been released from hospital and were back at home. The snails John had collected had gone off and were causing one almighty stink throughout the house. He’d dumped them in the bin but the smell had remained clinging to everything for ages.
Yvonne had made him promise not to do anything like that again, especially with snails, to which John had not exactly promised not to, but said if times weren’t hard, he’d see.
So take heed. If it’s not in a packet, or someone tries to sell you it cheap or even give you it for free. Leave it alone. It can and will cause you a lot of trouble.
As for Dale Butcher. He recovered from his ordeal but told his employers that he would never go back to the top of a pole again. He’s now working with the bottom of poles. Putting them in the ground. His work does take him all over the country and he’s away from Filey for a lot of the time. But he’s sure that no one will remove the ground from beneath him, or that he’ll ever fall very far.
Mrs Mappin. She also made a full recovery and still stays with her son David.
Oh. And the biggest of the grubs John found? That was the thumb of Big J.B.’s right hand! Due to extensive and ground braking surgery, his fingers (and his thumb) have been replaced by kind and sympathetic donations from all over the world.
End