"Warm up" was called as Derek walked in, not quite
late but not early enough to warrant a few mutters and comments about car
trouble. The men and women started walking around in a circle. Some sauntered,
some jogged slightly, chatting amongst themselves about the events of the past
week. None seemed in a rush to actually 'warm up'. The view through the window
was priceless. A few lunges and chicken walks could be seen, odd steps which
would have made John Cleese proud. A few skips picked up the pace and they all
eventually fell into line, hopping and stepping, arms swinging in time. The
hall was full of the uniform clonking of
heavy soled shoes and lightweight trainers, stepping as one as they whirled
around like a mini vortex. And then it stopped. And the stretching commenced.
Limbs poked out at all angles, murmers of discomfort mixed with the talk about
shopping and gardens. Some looked as though they were trying to prop up the
walls as calf muscles were prepped for the bashing they were about to take.
"Women in here, men next door." Cecil always gave the
call, and it was always the same. Well, usually the same. There were times when
the men and women would practice together but in general, their specific
disciplines meant that it was more practical that they go their own ways. Derek
collected the equipment from the locker and joined the other men who were now
milling in the partitioned off chamber. A ting, ting, ting sound came from the
mandolin as it was being tuned, each ting slightly higher than the last until
it slipped into a harmonious chord.
"Six up for Upton" called Cecil as he donned his
melodeon and squeezed out an introductory chord. The men clamoured into two
lines of three, bustling for position within the set. Those not quick enough
picked up percussion instruments and joined the two musicians who started
playing the tune to the Upton-upon-Severn stick dance. Each dancer had armed himself
with a stick of his choice. All were of a similar length (about two feet) but
the girth and weight differed. Different woods provided differing qualities and
each dancer would be drawn to one which suits them. Derek preferred the heavy,
thick set birch which took a lot of effort to swing but produced a satisfying
clonk sound, whereas Brian was more of a smooth holly man, a thinner stick
which whipped with ease through the air.
The evening progressed with the dancers performing an array of
dances, designed to tease out and hone the techniques required to be a morris
dancer, the bastions of the British Isles. Keepers of the peace. Protectors of
the common man. It was not a profession for everyone but those who heard the
calling were swelled by the pride of performing their duty, even at the expense
of their own bodies. By the end of the evening, the number still standing was
small. Bodies lined the walls of the chamber, many bent over with pain. Legs
were being rubbed accompanied by unsettling groans of temporary relief. The men
slowly tidied away, spirits still high even though the aches followed them
through to the main hall where they rejoined the rest of the team.
The ladies had also been practising their art. Rather than the
heavy sticks which formed the mainstay of the men's arsenal, the ladies' weapon
of choice was the smaller, more versatile sticks, hankies, or only for the
highly trained, the garlands. They were finishing a hankie routine which
involved some deft flicks of the wrist as the men sat down to discuss the
recent events. The ladies finished the routine and joined the men as the
meeting was called to order.
"Well done all," said Cecil, "you've all put in
some good work tonight. Don't forget to keep stretching - we don't want a
repeat of last month." The meeting covered the usual updates and
announcements. The details of a slight skirmish on the Welsh border was
discussed as well as news that a pick-pocket ring operating in Shrewsbury had
been brought down by the fast action of the cloggers. There was a round of
muttering when the Hereford cow rustlers were brought up. "That's Cotswold
jurisdiction, not us," Brian called out, arms folded over his rounded but
solid stomach.
"We've covered this before," replied Cecil, not trying
to hide his frustration. "Crime is crime. We have an understanding with
the Cotswolds, it's dealt with by whoever deals with it." Brian didn't
reply but the cow rustling was quickly glossed over all the same.
The final item of the evening was a report in the local paper
about a murder. It was read out by Francis, a grey-haired lady with a
contagious wide smile and very bright leggings:
A man was found beaten this morning in an alleyway
by the Quarry Park in central Shrewsbury. He has yet to be identified. It is
hoped that what remains of his teeth will provide some sort of clue. The scene
was closed off and attended by a representative of the city's morris dancers.
Passers-by reported hearing screams around the hour of six. Crime of this sort
has not been seen in our fair city for many a year and the dancers are
requesting that people do not panic. No motive is known so it is assumed that
the attack was a robbery.
Francis put down the paper and was met with silence. The dancers
looked at one another across the circle. It was uncomfortable. There had not
been a murder in the county for over a decade, not since the dancers so swiftly
dealt with the unfortunate case of the old cat lady and the bin men. Their
presence in the city and the surrounding area had acted as a deterrent against
most serious crime for a long time. The worst thing to happen in recent memory
was the attempted theft of the statute of Darwin from outside of the library,
the culprits hadn't gotten far and the dancers were hailed as heroes when they
rounded up the gang using a combination of double-steps with full jips.
Cecil explained that they had no clues to go on and would be
doubling the patrols to help control the anxiety of the city-folk. The mandate
was to remain vigilant and don't let it spoil what had been a good week. After
all, this was an isolated incident and he felt that the culprit had probably
acted out of fear of capture rather than premeditation. The dancers eyed each
other, silently hoping that Cecil was right.
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