Later, in the Jennings Arms, Mick and I agreed that the folk of the fens had some unorthodox ways but adding a fish to the dishwater just couldn’t be dismissed as a quaint old Norfolk tradition; Brenda was rapidly and inexplicably losing her marbles.
Before we’d left for the pub that evening, Brenda had been describing an encounter she’d had earlier in the day while hanging out the washing; she reckoned ‘ a bloody great ferret’ had run up her leg and bitten her in the nether regions!
Mick and I had been a tad doubtful to say the least but, adding a little substance to her story, she’d unashamedly lifted her skirt and pointed to what indeed appeared to be a rather nasty bite, there, on her upper, inner thigh (!)
Unexpectedly presented with the spectacle of pink lace and straining elastic we hadn’t conducted too fine an inspection of the wound, preferring to leave that to a G.P…or Reg even.
A skinful later, me and my pal meandered back to the house, joking about Brenda’s ‘nasty gash’ and the possibility of the ferret being one-eyed and of the trouser variety. There prevailed though a real concern for the lady and the words ‘sugar’ and ‘Warferine’ were entering the conversation.
It was our last night and we were pleased to find the television room empty on our return. With the gas-fire on ‘high’ and the rare opportunity to slob-out on the vinyl settee without a conscience, the day was drawing to a satisfactory end; had it not been for The African Queen on the box for the millionth time it would have drawn to a very satisfactory end. We could have turned it off but what the Hell? It provided a bit of background noise while the pair of us dozily discussed the plight of Brazen-Brenda. The idea of sneaking-out a sample of sugar was simultaneously mooted and thwarted on Reg’s unexpected and most unwelcome return from his local.
He came into the room trailing cold night air and collapsed drunkenly in an armchair, so me and Mick made pre-bed noises and headed for the door.
“Oi, where you goin’?” he piped-up, “oi was about to show you them focken plans again”
And for the next hour we endured the slurred ambitions of one very bitter man – ‘bitter’ having loosened his tongue.
………………………………………………………………………………..
Our departure in the morning was not too soon and we agreed that a third week in ‘Dunschemin’ was probably not on. We would, however, keep an eye out for developments on future day-trips.
The following September, Mick’s parents retired and moved to Wisbech; inevitably there were duties to perform and Mick and I spent a couple of weekends ferrying bits and pieces to their new home. On the final return journey, I suggested taking ‘the pretty route’ which would, coincidentally, take us past Brenda’s place: we might see her fighting off a one-eyed ferret or trouser-snake!
Rounding the familiar sweeping bend before our old digs, a distinctly unfamiliar scene came into view. Gone was the old, rickety, mould-green cottage and in its place stood the house of Reg’s dreams…..
One day, perhaps, I’ll take the time to drop in on Reg …and Brenda?
