The Garden of Unearthly Delights by Robert Rankin Page B

Tailier.
    ‘Ah…‘ said Maxwell. ‘Oh Goddess!’
    ‘Go into
the commercial break. I’ll do it if you like.’
    ‘No you
will not.’
    ‘Please
yourself then.’ Miss Tailier folded her arms and made a huffy face.
    ‘And
now’, said Maxwell, ‘the moment that many of you have been waiting for. The
commercial break.’ He rummaged about amongst his papers. But for the single
sheet he had been reading from, all others were uniformly blank. ‘Oh dear,’
said Maxwell. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’
    The
crowd was now becoming very restless indeed and through it there came a large
man. He was hauling behind him an even larger young woman. ‘Hold up there,’ he
shouted. ‘Just what is going on?’
    Maxwell
blinked at the new arrivals. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but who are you?’
    ‘I am
Rushmear the horse trader and this is my daughter.’
    ‘Pleased
to meet you,’ said Maxwell.
    ‘The
pleasure is yours alone. Why have you begun half an hour early?’
    ‘The
news began sharp at six,’ said Maxwell.
    ‘Then
we were misinformed.’
    ‘My
apologies.’
    ‘Apologies
are not sufficient. What is that woman doing in there with you?’
    ‘This
is Miss Jenny Tailier, the news crumpet.’
    ‘The
town strumpet you mean, I know her well enough.’
    The
crowd cheered somewhat at this, but, now eager to learn what the fearsome
Rushmear had to say for himself, soon quietened down.
    ‘Get
that woman out of there and put my daughter in at once,’ was what he had to
say.
    ‘Impossible,’
said Maxwell. ‘Miss Tailier has been accepted for the post.’
    ‘Swindler
and cheat,’ bawled Rushmear. ‘I paid your zany two fine white horses on the
understanding that my daughter would be given the job.’
    Maxwell
viewed Rushmear’s larger daughter. She was well-knit and muscular. She had a
small black moustache and an interesting line in tattoos. ‘Two fine white
horses?’ Maxwell turned to Miss Tailier. ‘Did your father pay any such, er,
fee?’
    ‘Certainly
not. I was picked from dozens of other applicants who auditioned on the
“casting couch” at the inn.’
    ‘Casting
couch?’ Maxwell let out a mighty groan. ‘ Inn ?’
    ‘My
inn,’ cried another large man, elbowing space beside Rushmear. ‘As you know
well enough.’
    ‘I?’ asked Maxwell.
    ‘You,’ said the innkeeper. ‘My inn where you and your zany
have been enjoying first-class accommodation for the entire week on the
understanding that you would “sing the praises” of my establishment. So go on, sing.’
    ‘There
seems to be some mistake,’ Maxwell chewed upon a thumb nail.
    ‘Enough
of this,’ shouted yet another large man. ‘What singing there is will be done
for my beef.’
    ‘Your
beef?’ Maxwell asked.
    ‘My
beef. I am Bulgarth the butcher and you Bulgarth stared in at Maxwell. ‘You… Who in the name of the deity are you anyway? You’re not Dayglo Hilyte.’
    Maxwell
gagged and spluttered. The crowd erupted. ‘What?’ they went. ‘What?’
    ‘There
is duplicity here,’ yelled Bulgarth. ‘Give back my money whoever you are.
    A woman
close at hand peered in at Maxwell. ‘It’s that arrow-nosed scoundrel who calls
himself an imagineer. He pulled my dog Princey from the sewage pipe. I reckon
he stuck him in there too.’
    ‘Boo!’
went the crowd once more.
    ‘What
of all this?’ cried Bulgarth and the innkeeper and Rushmear and Rushmear’s
daughter also. And a lot of the crowd too.
    ‘Mr
Hilyte was taken sick,’ whimpered Maxwell. ‘I am standing in for him.’
    ‘Hilyte
promised that he would recommend my beef. Give me back my money. I paid
out ten pieces of gold for my commercial.’
    ‘Only
ten?’ This voice came from Leibwitz who, although not quite so large as
Bulgarth, was respected for his hams. ‘Hilyte told me the fee was fifteen, for
the exclusive recommendation of my beef alone.’
    ‘I paid
seventeen,’ shouted Grimshaw’s third butcher.
    ‘Shut
up, the lot of you!’ Rushmear pushed