The Morris Dancers' Union

It didn't take long before the dancers all returned and shared their findings. Brian's clothes were missing, he had packed in a hurry but it was obvious that he had thrown something in a bag. He was a very ordered person but his bedroom drawers had been left open with some clothes not folded up. His granddad shirt, breeches and waistcoat were nowhere to be seen. Nor were his bells, sticks or handkerchiefs. Brian had lived alone for almost twenty years, ever since he lost his wife in a tragic paper-clip incident. The photograph of her which usually sat on the centre of the mantelpiece had gone, telling them that Brian wasn't looking at returning any time soon. Derek and Dennis returned with nothing of use from the neighbours. Agnes had nothing to add either. She had spoken with Brian's sister but she had no news.    "He has definitely left," concluded Flo. "I found this in the bathroom, the cold-hearted bastard." He placed an empty fish b...

Being ready to take on Brian was one thing, finding him in the first place was something else entirely. The dancers tried knocking on his front door but there was no answer. They tried tried banging louder but it made no difference. Agnes even tried rattling the letter box flap. "What now?" asked Dennis feeling slightly deflated. He had psyched himself up for a battle and was now a bit put out. "I'm thinking," replied Cecil. Brian was rarely away from home. If he wasn't carrying out the three P's - patrolling, practising or performing - he was at home doing some kind of DIY. "Try the garage," Cecil suggested. "Already have," replied Flo, "no sign of him." "Cunning," said Cecil. "He obviously knew that we'd be coming," said Sylvia with an air of I-told-you-so. "He's legged it. What we need to do is work out where, is there anywhere he would go? Friends? Family? If not, we ne...

"Cotswold?" Really? Why?" The dancers did not take the news as well as Cecil had hoped. He knew that the dancers were proud of their style but did not expect them to be so defensive. "What can they do which we can't?" Cecil had a job of explaining but he persevered. Eventually the complaints died down and the dancers accepted that there may be some things which they can learn. They were willing to give it a try. "For his sins, Brian did have one thing right," said Cecil. "We have become lax. We have taken our skills for granted. But no more. We will train harder than ever before..." There was a cheer from some of the dancers in agreement, "We will regain the trust of the people who we protect..." another cheer, this time louder, "we will regain our bells!" With this, the team cheered and applauded, although only briefly, in a restrained manner and without any whoops. The trainer's name was Gerald. He had...

Morris dancing wasn't supposed to be like this. Cecil Sharp had finished in the early twentieth century what Robert Peel had tried in the nineteenth. Ever since, the reputation of the Sharpies had grown to become what it was today. Sides across the country revelled in the heritage that had built up but they all favoured different styles. The border teams preferred the stick and were known for their strength whereas the Cotswold teams preferred the handkerchief and were famed for their ability to jump. Some other sides had branched out into more niche areas such as rapper and molly. No-one really understood the people with the coconuts but they didn't like to say. All however defended the peace and protected the people in their own special way. Over the years, they had brought crime under control such that the common man now respected his neighbours. People no longer stole from each other as they respected the fact that everyone should be able to live without fear of loss...

"It was one of us," said Flo. The room quietened down. Some of the dancers had gathered back in Cecil's kitchen, helping themselves to tea as was customary. They had awaited his return before discussing their findings, the Aga keeping the spring chill at bay whilst they sat chatting. Once Cecil entered, a few people started up at the same time, but Flo's announcement cut through the voices. "Explain," said Cecil. "If you have evidence against a morris dancer then you need to be sure of it, once blame has been laid there's no going back." Flo took a deep breathe. "I reviewed the injuries as requested," she started, her voice sounding hesitant. "They were caused by a wooden stick." "Are you sure?" asked Cecil. "Positive. The marks are consistent with having been bludgeoned with hard wood. The mottling suggests that the stick was not perfectly smooth, as in a baseball ball, but slightly imperfect,...

Brian felt ashamed about the way that he'd lost to the Lord of the Dance. He prided himself on being the strongest dancer, the most accomplished with a stick, yet he'd been bested by someone half his size. Dance practice had become to Brian exactly that, dance practice. It was meant to be a way to showcase their skills with a stick, their agility and ability. Instead, the focus had been lost and they were more interested in entertaining than educating. People needed to know how formidable they were. That reputation had been destroyed by the Lord of the Dance but it had been slowly eroded over the years by their own hand. Their signature 'bricklayers' dance using trowels and short sticks used to be breathtaking and awe-inspiring. Now it was almost farcical slap-stick. Brian reviewed the training program and with a smile, tore it in two. It would need to be redesigned, they had become lost and it was up to him to find them again, back to basics. He set to work. * ...