Catweazle

absolutely flabbergasted.
    ‘Well
... er ... I want a change I reckon,’ mumbled Sam, looking at the floor.
    ‘I
thought you liked working here,’ said Mr Bennet.
    ‘Well,
I do, I mean, I did,’ stammered Sam. ‘But, you see Mr Bennet, I ain’t done
anything. I ain’t bin anywhere.’
    ‘But
why suddenly now?’ asked Mr Bennet, bewildered.
    ‘Well,
I was never cut out for farming,’ answered Sam, evasively.
    ‘I’ve
never heard anything so stupid,’ said Mr Bennet. ‘You’re - ’
    ‘So I’m
stupid am I?’ interrupted Sam angrily.
    ‘I didn’t
say that,’ said Mr Bennet, ‘I only meant that - ’
    ‘I’d be
stupid to stay here,’ said Sam, cutting in again, ‘There ain’t no future in
it!’
    There
was a pause while Mr Bennet looked coldly at him.
    ‘Are
you implying I don’t know how to run this farm?’
    ‘I
didn’t say that,’ said Sam. ‘I only meant that - ’
    ‘Because
when I want your opinion,’ Mr Bennet went on rudely, ‘I’ll ask for it.’
    ‘You
never listen!’ roared Sam, losing his temper completely.
    ‘Don’t
shout,’ shouted Mr Bennet.
    ‘I
ain’t shouting,’ shouted Sam. ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’
    ‘I’ll
tell you what you can do right now, Woodyard,’ shouted Mr Bennet. ‘You can get
out. You’re fired!’
    ‘Oh no
I’m not,’ said Sam. ‘I’m giving notice! I’ve got a much better job,’ and he
slammed out of the door.
    It was really
all Cyril Fitton’s fault. He had come down to Westbourne to record all the
birds and animals of the area and had managed to persuade Sam to join him as
his assistant. Cyril went all over the world with his caravan recording things
and it was this tempting fact that had eventually made Sam decide to give up
his job at the farm.
    As he
approached the clearing where Cyril’s caravan stood, he was unaware that his
old adversary Catweazle was watching from the safety of a convenient tree.
Catweazle had been keeping a close watch on Cyril’s activities for several
days. He had heard terrible roarings coming from the little house but, when he
screwed up the courage to peep through the window, all he could see was the
sorcerer, wearing giant ears and bending over a sinister machine. At other
times, the sound of wild music could be heard, doubtless played by invisible
Demons, he thought fearfully.
    Now, as
Sam went inside, Catweazle couldn’t resist creeping up to the window to see
what was going on but unfortunately Cyril had drawn the curtains. Suddenly
there was a strange high-pitched gabbling followed by a blood-curdling scream,
and Catweazle took to his heels with a moan of terror.
    ‘Startling,
isn’t it?’ said Cyril switching off the tape-recorder. ‘A screech owl of
course. Bagged it in the Orkneys - took me a month. Finished up in hospital,
suffering from exposure and malnutrition. Like to hear it again?’
    ‘No
thanks, Mr Fitton,’ said Sam, taking some batteries from his pocket and putting
them on the table. ‘Those the right ones?’
    ‘Good,
good,’ said Cyril, absorbed in adjusting the recording machine.
    ‘I’ve
chucked my job in at the farm,’ said Sam.
    ‘You
won’t regret it.’
    ‘Hope
not.’
    ‘You’ll
love Iceland. I was there last spring with my ... er, former assistant.’ Cyril
stopped and stared into space.
    ‘Unfortunate
business that.’
    ‘What
was?’ said Sam.
    ‘Well,
we were recording in a volcano,’ said Cyril, shaking his head sadly.
    Sam was
horrified, ‘You mean he - ?’
    ‘Poor
Jasper,’ said Cyril. ‘I’ve got the recording somewhere,’ and he reached up to
find it.
    ‘I’d
rather not,’ gulped Sam hastily.
    ‘Of
course,’ said Cyril. ‘After all it’s not as if you knew him. Here!’ and he held
up the microphone. ‘Go on, say something.’
    ‘Hullo,’
said Sam feebly, still thinking about Jasper and the volcano.
    ‘Louder,’
said Cyril.
    ‘This
is Sam Woodyard speaking,’ said Sam clutching the microphone as if his life
depended on it.
    ‘Good,
good,’ muttered Cyril, ‘much more volume. Found anyone for “Vanishing Britain”
yet?’
    This
was a set of folk-tales that Cyril was collecting from old people.
    ‘Had a
word in the pub last night,’ said Sam putting down the microphone. ‘Wally said
he might come up -he’s a laugh.’
    ‘Is he
an octogenarian?’ asked Cyril.
    ‘I
think he’s a Methodist,’ said Sam. ‘But he knows lots of songs and jokes.’
    Cyril
sighed. Obviously Sam hadn’t understood what