Open Writing

The dragon lifted his head, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and shook his wings. As he did, droplets of water sprayed far and wide, and from Merioneth to Cambridgeshire, people walking to church on Sunday morning looked up to the skies and wondered at the passing shower of golden rain.

“Now, where did I put the it,” the dragon muttered to himself, patting his pockets while trying to remember where he’d hidden his wallet. “No, not in there,” as he investigated the scales under his left armpit, “Not in there either,” as he searched another recess, “trouble is, I’ve got too many pockets,” he said in exasperation. “Running late already, wasting time I’ve spent looking for the darn thing. Oh well, I’ll leave it for the moment. Better things to do. Borrow the fare from the cabby. He’ll understand,” and with that a black cab rolled to a stop and he jumped in.

“Where to, Guv?” asked the cabby, and settling back, the dragon gazed as the streets of London rolled past.

“Soho Square. Meeting a Chinaman. Pal of an MP friend. Need to speak to him about a little matter of speeding in my Red Ferrari,” and he settled back and closed his eyes, remembering his real life.

‘In the old days, a couple of beats of my wings took me from Scotland to Suffolk. Then, with a deep breath I’d soar into the skies, and standing on my tail, do a double-axle twist and soar through a fat thunderhead. But I reserved my specials for those okes riding full-tilt in their tin suits. Give ‘em a couple of puffs, and they’d throw down their silly lances and gallop hell-for-leather on their moth-eaten steeds. Should have heard them squeal when their saucepan hats got hot! Laugh? Near popped me scales! Better players in the teams too. Years before BEE and similar nonsense.’

As the cab drew up to the curb, he sprang out and grabbed a pig-tailed gentleman in a brocaded kimono. Vigorously shaking his hand, he asked, “How’s the Peking duck, me ole China?” and they walked away chatting animatedly in Mandarin. Passing a filling station, the dragon stopped, and still talking, tanked-up with a bellyful of 105% unleaded. “That’s better,” he murmured, wiping his mouth and dislodging a stray petrol cap from his back teeth with his pointed tail.

“Needed that,” he said. “Beginning to feel a little peckish. Noticed my energy levels falling. As me ole Dad used to say, ‘Never stand when you can lie down, always take the opportunity for a pee, and tank-up whenever you pass a filling station’. Jolly good advice.”

*

Back at Trafalgar Square, the pretty blonde shivered as she shook out the last of the breadcrumbs. “Bloody London weather,” she thought. “Weeks and weeks of grey skies and freezing temperatures. Don’t know how they can stand it, and even the beer’s not what it used to be. I remember when Best Bitter was thruppence a pint. Now you’re lucky to get change from a fiver. Roll back the old days,” and she pulled her flimsy muslin draperies tighter and settled her cone-shaped hat against the winter wind.

One by one the red London busses queued along the Mall, waiting for a break in the traffic outside Buckingham Palace. “What are we waiting for?” one of the drivers asked a neighbouring cabby. “Word’s out a Guard lost his busby in the fountain. Stood on the bass-drum to fish it out. The drummer gave him a poke in the eye for spoiling the drum’s gold leaf and putting his foot through the top. His pals took sides. Before you could say Mike Tyson they were all at it. Had a real bust-up. Now Sarge says the Queen’s cancelling all leave. She won’t have that sort of behaviour in front of her palace,” interjected another cabby and in the confusion the pretty blonde in the tall hat jumped on the bus, saying, “Kensington High Street and make it snappy!” The bus roared into gear and continued on its way.

*

Coming up the A40 from Staines, the scooter-driver wiped the squashed midges and mud from his visor. “Need a fag badly,” he thought, but he never smoked while riding. Ciggies got wet and within seconds he’d spit them out. “Takes all the fun out of things,” he thought. “But I’ll have a splif when I get to London.”

Circling around Hyde Park, George caught the tail-end of the gridlock. Weaving in and out of the traffic, mounting the pavement to overtake on corners, and nipping round pedestrians at zebra crossings, he reached Horse Guards Parade in record time. Winking at the sentries, he coasted quietly into the C.O’s parking bay and switched off the engine. Then, ignoring the commissionaire, he vaulted the barrier and ran up the stairs.

Opening the door to his office, he took a seat at his custom-made desk. Fitted with an electric foot-warmer and cocktail shaker, it also had an electric cigarette lighter which doubled as a pencil sharpener, a digital clock-thermometer-with-GPS, an Ipod and a top-of-the-range computer. Presented to him by the grateful peasants in Iraq when his tour of duty ended, it came with a card reading, “Don’t phone us, we’ll phone you.”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and calling, “Come,” he straightened his tie, smoothed his jacket and patted his hair.

*

“Lovely green, those fields,” the dragon thought, absently picking his teeth with a stray mangel-wurzel. “Farmers round here must make a good living. There’ll be plenty of employment for a willing lad. See if the blacksmith needs an assistant.”

A sign creaking in the wind read, “Ye Olde Oaken Bucket”. “Looks promising,” thought the dragon. “Landlord will know what’s what.”

Leaning on the counter, the landlord shaded his eyes against a sudden puff of flame. “Marnin’…” he said warily, eyeing his visitor. He took in the folded wings, flailing tail, and the ferocious teeth, and spoke quickly before the dragon could begin.

“Need any help? Like a couple a’ double whiskeys on the house? Nice packet o’ cracklings? Wife just cooked a beautiful side of beef, and she’s renowned for her splendid Yorkshire puddin’s. Been eating them for years an’ just look at me,” turning sideways and displaying his expansive middle. “Give you an extra large helping, all the veggies you want and a pint o’ my Best Bitter to wash it down… and there’s apple pie and cream for afters,” he added, wondering if dragons ate human food.

Hang the expense. In times like these, the business must take it’s chances. Add the cost of the dragon’s meal to the household expenses, and perhaps he’d be lucky with the 3:30 at Doncaster. That would cover it. No cause to get on its wrong side. Have to push the boat out. Reaching behind him, he filled a large glass with his best Glenlivet Single Malt. “There you are then!” he said cheerily, putting it down on the counter and filling another. “Something similar?”

“Good horse-riding country?” the dragon enquired, swishing the Scotch appreciatively round his molars. “Get lots of chaps in hunting pink and ladies in tight pants and hard hats jumping hedges and ditches?”

“Yers,” said the landlord. “Hunting’s popular in these parts, forget those chaps in Westminster and their laws. Come the cool weather, folk here hunt twice a week, sometimes three. Why? You interested in joining? Bugger the foxes,” he thought.

“No, not exactly. Thought the blacksmith might need some help. Couple o’ puffs and I’ll have his fires roaring. I’m an expert,” the dragon said proudly, followed by a burp and a flash of flame. “Pardon!” he muttered, covering his mouth with his tail. “Excess gas,” he explained with a giggle.

“Got the same problem myself,” the landlord agreed. “Know exactly what you mean. When ya ready – after you’ve had your lunch, I mean… an’ you can come back for seconds as many times as you like…” he added before the dragon could interrupt, “Why don’t you take a stroll past the White Stag Inn? Next corner. You’ll find the blacksmith in his forge. He’ll fix ya’ up.”

“Book you into the best front bedroom for a couple of nights?” he queried. “Got it’s own colour telly, and there’s a big bath and plenty of towels. Everyone’s friendly around here and there’re a lots of pretty girls. I’m sure you like pretty girls.”

“Yup! I slay ’em,” the dragon roared, licking his lips.

*

The young officer entered the room and, taking one look at George behind the desk, came to an abrupt halt. Stamping his feet, he drew himself up and saluted. “At your service, Sire,” he bellowed, a light film of perspiration beading his forehead.

“Compliments from Gieves & Thomas, Sire,” he ventured. “This parcel arrived for you. I signed for it in your absence, and was told it was the new set of biker-leathers you’d ordered. Been beautifully silver-plated, if I may say so.”

Busy with paperwork, George scarcely lifted his head. “Just dump them over there,” he muttered, airily waving his hand towards the corner. Clicking his heels together, the young officer saluted once more and left the room.

“Nearly didn’t recognise him. After that tour of duty in Afghanistan he’s matured a lot. Must be sure to give the Heir to the Throne and the Colonel of the Regiment the respect he deserves. Expect there’ll be no more larking around in night clubs for him now. No more little Chelsyites to calm him down when he gets into a royal temper. It’s about time he married and settled down, and left us career soldiers to get on with the real work.”

*

Alighting from the No 17 bus at Kensington High Street, the pretty blonde walked into Marks & Sparks, searching for the Ladies Department. “Need any help, Madam?” an assistant enquired, popping up unexpectedly, as she shoved another dress into her brown carrier bag.

“No, no – it’s quite all right,” Selina replied, slipping the bag over her arm and walking quickly out of the store. “Stop her, stop her!” shouted the assistant, “She’s a thief, she’s stealing the gowns – where’s that store detective?”

Mingling with the crowds, Selina ditched her cone-shaped hat in the nearest bin. Dashing down into the tube station she jumped on an Inner Circle as the doors were closing. Finding a seat near the door, she observed a posse of people running down the stairs who stood watching as the train gathered speed and disappeared into a tunnel.

*

“You look gorgeous!” said the pilot as he inched past her in the crowded pub.

“You’re not so bad yourself, soldier!” she replied, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Buy you a drink?”

“Love one. I’ll have a double Martini with an olive. Shaken, not stirred.”

“Ah – a girl after my own heart. Name’s Bond… James Bond…” he responded.

Settling down in a corner, the friendship blossomed. Four drinks and they were planning the future.

“Tell you what,” he suggested. “I’ll take you for a spin in my Harrier Jump Jet. Show you my latest trick with the InterCity trains. Sends the drivers into fits!!”

Taken with his exuberance she accepted, and soon they were climbing into the blue. Leaving the murk of London behind, they headed north and followed the railway line to Scotland. Spying a Virgin InterCity near Carlisle he put the plane into a dive and swooping low, soon had the passengers hanging out of the windows. Hovering just out of reach, they watched the engine driver’s anguished face as he throttled back and brought the train to a stop.

“There, what did I tell you? Knew I could do it!” the pilot boasted as he took off in an ear-popping ascent, “Never catch me now!”

*

At the Court Marshall, he wondered what had happened. “She made me do it!” he protested to the stony-faced senior officers of the Tribunal. Poor man, he was not the first to make a silly mistake with a blonde.

*

Selina was glad she’d ditched that silly pilot with his childish games – shooting up a train indeed! Whatever next!! Climbing over a stile, she caught her foot in the lowest rung and fell headfirst into an enormous cow-pat.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she yelled, wiping the muck from her eyes with the hem of her skirt. Beside her she smelt something dank, and felt hot breath on her arm. Opening her eyes at last, she nearly fell over backwards as she realised what it was.

“Ooops! Careful!” said a kindly voice. “No call to get violent! Just trying to give you a helping hand, No more, no less. Nothing in it for me – that is, unless you’d like to get to know me better? Name’s Dragonette, by the way. Pleased ta meet ya,” holding out his hand and grabbing both of hers in his scaly paw.

“Take your rotten, stinking hands off me!” Selina cried furiously. “I never allow myself to be picked up by strange men at stiles. Or dragons either, for that matter,” she added as he sat down on a large rock and lifted her on his knee.

*

The black Harley Davidson purred between his legs, swallowing up the miles. “Nothing like the old machines,” George thought as he neared Carlisle and caught a glimpse of Hadrian’s Wall. “Coupla hours more, and I’ll be at Grandma’s. Be nice to see the old place again. Do some salmon fishing if the river’s high enough, or walk on the hills and shoot a stag. Hope she’s left the corgis at Windsor. They’re a real nuisance, always biting the footmen’s ankles.”

Stopping for a breather, he saw something strange. Perched on a large boulder was a golden dragon and in his arms a pretty blonde. Despite the dragon’s protective arm, she looked uncomfortable and very frightened, and even from a distance he could hear her anguished cries.

“Put me down! Put me down AT ONCE!” he could hear her shouting. “You great big BRUTE! Unhand me! You’ve got no right! How can you DO this to me? Don’t you know I’m a princess in disguise and you could be put to death for this?”

The dragon laughed; a deep, echoing laugh, and as he laughed a gust of fire shot out of his mouth, singeing the grass and trees.

“Ho, ho, ho! So you’re a Princess, are you?” repeated the dragon nastily, “And who told you that?”

“I DID!” said George, striding rapidly to the rescue, resplendent in his silver biker leathers. He helped Selina down from her perch on the dragon’s knee.

“And who are YOU young man?” replied the angry dragon.

“I’m prince George of England… and Wales, and Scotland too – at least I think so, at the last count,” replied the young man. “And, what’s more – I’m a legendary slayer of dragons, I’m well known for it. So if you don’t want to end up as a PREMIUM DRAGON BURGER with fries on the side, you’ll take my advice and hop it!”