Yo-yo's Weekend Page 17

  12.

  The King's Head

  ''I need another drink,'' Katze says grumpily. He shoves his blue cap further back on his head and marches off towards the river. They end up on the wharf at The King's Head, the medieval pub at the foot of the steps of Micklegate Bridge. They sit at a table under a signboard bearing the sour, frowning face of King Richard III and sup their pints of Samuel Smith's Best Bitter. Yo-yo is restricted to a Coca Cola and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. In Gillworthy, he isn't allowed either crisps or Coca Cola. Doctor Molasses says salty snacks make him piss too much and fizzy drinks make him 'hyperactive'. Yo-yo doesn't know if this is true. He has not been allowed to find out.

  ''What were you doing with those two?'' growls Katze.

  Not a lot, thanks to you, Yo-yo thinks.

  ''They saved me from Mister Vanilla,'' he says.

  ''No-one saved you from Mister Vanilla.'' Uncle Reefer puffs on his pipe. ''Only you can do that, Yo-yo.''

  ''Rue and Thyme are bad news,'' says Katze. ''They can read men's hearts and desires and that makes them dangerous. Do you understand, Yo-yo?''

  ''I guess.'' Yo-yo sips his Coke and crunches a crisp.

  ''They can read men's loins,'' chutters the pipe, ''And that makes them more dangerous.''

  ''Why does Mister Vanilla want my ring so badly?'' asks Yo-yo.

  ''He's a collector,'' chuffs the pipe. ''The jewel's very precious.''

  ''What would he do with it?''

  ''Mount it in his private collection,'' says Katze, ''Or maybe he'd set it into a new ring, sell it abroad. Jewels are big business in Europe.''

  ''Mister Vanilla has jewels from all over the world,'' adds Uncle Reefer, ''Sri Lanka, Africa, the Middle East ... He's been very successful.''

  ''Oh, he's clever, right enough,'' says Katze. He sups on his bitter and broods.

  Weed:That he is.

  Stone:But he wouldn't want me, an ordinary pebble. I'm not exotic at all, although I've a cousin who was related to a nugget of quartz. She was pretty.

  The Weed and the Stone have drifted down river and are sheltering in the shadow cast by the bridge. The spring sunshine warms their water.

  Weed:And your wife was exotic.

  Stone:No, Weed. Erotic. Pretty little red thing, nicely polished.

  Weed:Your kids were gorgeous. Beautiful stripes. (Sighs)

  Stone:Your kids were pretty too. I remember your daughter. She had lovely wavy hair. Till that carp got her.

  Weed:He stripped every leaf, the bastard. If I could get my fronds on him ...

  Stone:Do you remember the last time we were here? We had a fine old time.

  Weed:(Brightening up) We sat in the bar for days. That was a lock-in, eh?

  Stone:(Chuckling) Great beer, good snacks, plenty of dancing - remember that pond-skater? He couldn't stand up by the end. Legs going all over the place.

  Weed:And that old bag came in looking for her husband.

  Stone:Aye, and that conker told her he'd seen him washed up, full of mud and hanging from a branch. God, she screamed the place down.

  Weed:More reasons to shop at Morrison's, arf arf.

  They both cackle.

  The King's Head is one of York's oldest pubs. Because it stands on the river bank, it is prone to flooding. A brass scale on a whitewashed wall by the door shows how much water has washed inside over the centuries, with 5th January 1982 as the highest level, just a yard or so from the dark wooden ceiling beams. Black and white photographs show people shipping barrels into boats from the upper windows.

  Reefer and Katze are onto their second pints. Katze relights the tab-end stuck to his lip. ''I hear we've bought a couple of new players, a striker from Hartlepools whose seventeen and supposed to be great, an' a defender from Scarboroughs.''

  ''Nowt good ivver come out o' Scabby,'' grunts the pipe.

  '' 'Cept fish and chips,'' says Katze.

  ''Aye, all reet. Fish and chips.'' The pipe putters. ''Great fish 'n' chips.''

  ''So ... do you fancy going? Middlesbrough match?''

  ''Friendly?''

  ''Don't be daft.''

  Whilst Reefer and Katze analyse York City's prospects of signing more players during the summer, Yo-yo twitches restlessly. His sporran is hot and he is thirsty. Dare he risk another Coke? Oh, hell, says the Stonegate Devil. Molasses ain't here. You're on your holiday.

  ''Wait,'' barks King Richard III from his signboard. ''You think Doctor Molasses is a silly old fool. But what if he's right? What then? Eh, Yo-yo? What if he's right, and you are wrong? Eh? EH? What then? EH?''

  ''Bollocks,'' says Yo-yo, leaving his tartan rucksack with his uncle and stepping inside the cool, shady lounge. In the corner stands a Who Wants to be a Squillionaire? quiz machine. Yo-yo puts in a million coins and starts to play.

  ''Hu ho,'' says Chris Tarrant, ''And welcome to another edition of Who Wants to be a Squillionaire?

  ''First question - (diddle

  diddle

  dum!)

  What does the word hippopotamus mean? Is it A: river cow, B: river horse, C: river baboon or D: river pig?''

  Yo-yo hits B.

  ''Is that your final answer?'' asks Chris Tarrant. ''Do you want to go fifty-fifty, or phone a friend?''

  ''You must be joking, Chris,'' says Yo-yo. ''My friends wouldn't know that. They're mostly completely fuckwitted.''

  ''OK,'' says Chris. ''The answer is .... B: river horse. Congratulations. Second question. What is tahini? Tahini. T-A-H-I-N-I. Is it A: a small island in Polynesia, B: a paste made from sesame seeds..''

  Yo-yo hits B again.

  ''Hu ho,'' says Chris. ''I haven't finished yet.''

  ''Give us something more difficult then,'' snaps Yo-yo.

  ''Right-o,'' says Chris. ''Third question: What is the name of the hero of John Frederick Lampe's opera The Dragon of Wantley? Is it ....?''

  ''Moore of Moore Hall.''

  ''What is the atomic weight of mercury?''

  ''200.59 amu.''

  ''Distance of the Earth from the Sun?''

  ''It varies because the orbit is elliptical.''

  ''Shut up ….''

  ''But the average is 149 million kilometres.''

  ''Shut up….''

  ''But that depends on the position of the perihelion.''

  ''Shut up….''

  ''Next.''

  ''Melting point of gold''

  ''1064.43 degrees Celsius. Boiling Point is 2807 degrees Celsius. That's hot.''

  ''First secretary-general of the United Nations.''

  ''Trygve Lie. A Filipino.''

  ''The name of the servant in Around the World in Eighty Days…''

  ''Passepartout. For goodness' sake, Chris. Call this a quiz?''

  ''Right,'' says Chris Tarrant tetchily. ''I'll show you, you smart-arsed little git. You are on half a million pounds right now. For one million pounds how many gallons of water would it take to fill this room?''

  ''To the ceiling?''

  ''To the ceiling. For one million pounds.'' The music pounds. There is an amplified heart beat: BUH BOOM, BUH BOOM. Chris Tarrant waits expectantly. ''I'll have to hurry you,'' he says. ''You can ask the audience.''

  ''Are you mad?'' says Yo-yo. ''That bunch of losers?'' He looks around the pub, mentally calculating the volume, then his imagination fills it with water. Oh bollocks. A fish darts past. He winces as his fingers sprout webs. ''Look what you've done,'' he admonishes the machine.

  Diddle

  Diddle

  Dum, the machine replies.

  ''Hu ho,'' gurgles Chris Tarrant through the gushing water. ''Serves you right for being a smart-arsed little git and for wearing a kilt when you're not even Scottish.''

  Blowing out a stream of silver bubbles, Yo-yo swims through the murky, green-brown floodwater to the bar. How could he have been so careless? One moment, one lapse of concentration and here he is in a river-filled room.

  ''Me beer'll be ruined again, you tosser,'
' mouths the barman.

  ''Sorry,'' mouths Yo-yo. ''I didn't mean to. That bloody machine caught me off-guard.''

  ''You careless berk!'' gurgles King Richard III. ''I'll be covered in mud for months. They never clean me, never, not till they've cleaned out their beer cellar. Have you any idea how undignified it is for a King to be underwater?''

  ''Sorry,'' says Yo-yo, ''But since your bones are at the bottom of the River Soar, you should be used to it by now.''

  ''You never get used to it,'' laments King Richard. ''Five hundred and summat years, and you still don't get used to it. Bastard Tudors.''

  Yo-yoshrugs,removes some weed from his hairandstrips off the kilt,the water-logged sporran whichweighshim

  DOWN

  andthegreen jacketand swimsinhis

  underwear towards the toilet. A

  couple of bream nod as they pass by. He peers

  through the green gloom, notes a

  green, bog-eyed, cartoon octopus grinning from its perch on a washbasin, swims

  overorangefloor tiles,past three

  urinals

  clambers over the broken pieces of a sunken boat

  disturbs a shoal of sticklebackswhich

  flashawayinsilverstreaks, scratches his kneeon a limpet, notesa

  beautifulstarfish,waves to a mermaid lazilycombingher

  longblondehair(or is it a Rhinemaiden?) sees the

  sloooooowly drifting chain of a floating sea-mine

  swimspastthe orangedoorandinto a cubicle,

  clutches the

  cistern, raisesthecheapblack

  plasticseatand hits the flush handle.

  Everything is sucked away into the toilet, broken-backed boats, sea-mines, Rhinemaidens, bream, starfish, all disappear in a frothy brown whirlpool. Yo-yo waves as the octopus swirls down the pan with an expression of puzzled disappointment. Yo-yo remembers where he has seen the octopus before. He is on the wallpaper of the playroom at Gillworthy.

  ''Don't worry, Olly,'' says Yo-yo. ''You'll be back.'' He opens the toilet door. He is no longer in the pub. He is somewhere completely different, and he doesn't like it,