By Mark Hayes

In the aftermath of broken bottles and stamped on night potatoes no one was entirely sure what had happened. No one even admitted to having been there. The most anyone would admit was knowing someone who knew someone who had been there. There were no witnesses because no one was willing to admit to having been there and witnessing the event and by mutual unspoken agreement those who had seen others in attendance and been seen themselves never spoke of it directly.

Everyone one was however more than happy to apportion blame, as ever.

In this case though that blame was easy enough apportioned. It was the fault of the newcomer. The man in the red-tailed jacket who had washed up on the shores of the island less than a month before in most unlikely circumstances. Barham P Bingley. Just how he had washed up in a old but well maintained circus wagon bearing his name in salt damaged, peeling paint, no one was entirely sure. The residents of Hopeless were also unsure just how he had convinced them to help tow his wagon up from the beach to a small meadow just along the road from the bridge of bottles. Other things of which they weren’t entirely sure of included why they had parted with coin, food stuff and other odds-n-sods to sit on uncomfortable wooden benches and watch ‘The World’s 2^nd Greatest Showman’s’ put on his somewhat limited show for several nights on the trot. Mostly the audience just left each evening feeling a little sad and in no small part sorry for the little man in his faded red coat, with his battered top hat and painted smile.

The shows were however over by early evening and the audience could all repair to the squid and teapot for a couple of pints afterwards. Also the little man and his show was the kind of thing the residents of Hopeless expected to come to some tragic end. If it wasn’t for the fact his name was boldly escribed upon his wagon, it would have had pathos written all over it. And while they might deny it, the folk of Hopeless could never resist watching another calamity happen before their eyes. As such it became something of a vogue to attend the makeshift show for the first few weeks of what the locals laughably referred to as early spring. Which was one of those dismal fog laden moist springs that never quite got the hang of not been a late winter.

After the first couple of shows, and the merger takings from ‘the passing of the hat’ Barham himself began coming to the pub as well, mostly to get out of the fog for a while and nurse what could, if you were being kind and had never tasted the real stuff, be called a small brandy. Whence he would further ‘entertain’ the locals with talk of the many strange places and strange things he had seen. The wonders of his shows in Paris, Milan, New York , London and Dulwich. He also took pains to explain how once his circus once consisted of a dozen elephants, a trio of trained sealions, A pair actual lions and a tiger name King Stripentooth the third.

What had happened to King Stripentooth the second and first he would not say but King Stripentooth the fourth was one of the few animals that had remained in his circus when he arrived, a small domestic tomcat who’s fur had been badly dyed with orange stripes, much of which had washed out by ocean spray. King Stripentooth IV had run off after their second night and not been seen by Barham. However, he took heart in the appearance of the occasional rodent corpse presented at the foot the caravans step each morning which suggested the cat was thriving on the island.

The residents chose not to dissuade him of this notation or mention something else leaving the corpses of dead rodents for the showman to step into each morning was equally possible. This was Hopeless after all.

Late one evening in a near empty bar, after his least successful show so far, Barham was lamenting his lot. The veneer of outgoing upbeat cheerfulness had been chipped away earlier that day when the matinee performance had netted him the princely sum of a half rotten turnip and two carrots that had seen better days. He would not have minded so much if this pitiful return for his endeavours had been placed in the hat in the traditional manner, but hurling rotten vegetables at him seemed both ungracious and somewhat ungrateful of his audience, most of whom for the matinée had been children from the orphanage.

“They must have like the show.” One of the other drinkers, sagely told him. “Poor sods don’t have much to eat up there, though Davies does his best by them.”

There were nods all round at this latter comment. Barham chose to let it pass. His only interaction with the islands resident man of god had been when the Reverend turned up to condemn the painted ladies and heathen gypsy fortune tellers that he knew frequented the circus. He had some wondered off somewhat aggrieved when he had discovered there were none.

Barham suspected Reverend Davies was disappointed by the absence of fallen women he could condemn. He had met such men before.

“I am sure the little scamps were delighted.” Barham said, working up the courage to drink some more of the local brandy.

“Well a whole turnip, that’s fair reward I’m sure,” said another of the sage drinkers.

“Yes well… I would not mind so much but I’m sure one of the ‘delightful little scamps,” nicked the spoon form my coffee mug as well while my back was turned.”

“Now Mr Bailey, there no need to accuse the kids of stealing, poor sods have naff all but they would nay nick a man spoon I’m sure, not around here.” The older of the sages said.

“Nar, that would be one of them spoon-walkers.” His younger compatriot put in.

Several nervous laughs issued forth from other drinkers. The kind of mocking laugh you get from people who know what has just been said is ridiculous and the kind of local legend parents tell kids to make them do the washing up and put the cutlery away. But while they all knew that’s all it was , all of them also knew spoons went walkabout all the time. And everyone had seen a spoon-walker at some point in their life, often after too much night-potato vodka…

“Ha, Spoon-walkers, you gonna tell him about dustcats next?” laughed the older sage.

“Dust-cats..?” Barham half inquired but then said, “No one thing at a time, spoon-walkers, what pray tell is a spoon-walker?”

“Well, they’re like, squidgy things than nick spoons so they can walk about on land without damaging there tenacles.”

“Really?” Barham said, showing more interest in such things than you might expect. But Barham P Baily was a Showman born. Strange creatures were his stock in trade, a stock he was woefully short of at this time. If this miserable island had some interesting fauna then being stranded here for some time may not be the worst thing to have happened after all.   

“Aye, and they are dangerous too.” The young sage said, to more bouts of laughter

“Get off with yourself, nothing dangerous about spoon walkers.” The old sage piped up.

“You say that but I heard tell about a huge one a few months back, stamping around causing havoc over on the other side of the island.

“Oh that bat droppings. It was a Walloping Jenny not a spoon walker.” Another drinker put in.

“No I heard it was Spoon-Kong reborn.” Laughed a fourth.

And argument ensued, but Bailey wasn’t listening anymore, he was having visons of strange beasts walking about like stilt walkers. Towering beast. If they walked on spoons naturally then he could train them to walk with larger thing. If they weren’t scary he could make them so, Spoon-walkers, why if he could capture a few of these beasts and teach them to walk with knives…  Stand amid them with a bullwhip and a chair, as you always needed a chair. Why lion taming was old hat, it had been done a hundred times over, but a knife-walker tamer. The crowds would flock…

The argument in the squid and teapot was raging for a while before Barham managed to cut through the din with his ringmaster’s voice…

“So tell me, just how exactly would one go about capturing one of these ‘spoon-walkers’?” he asked.

This, it was determined afterwards by the sage drinkers of drink, was the point at which things started to go wrong for Barham P Bailey.