[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

He scurried to one side, hugging the hedge as it rumbled past him and ground to a halt with a screeching sound. There were four men in the car. One of them, wearing a long duster coat, gauntlets, and a cap, with the peak backward, climbed from the vehicle. He had on a pair of light-brown-lensed goggles, which he pushed up onto his cap as he approached the boy. The lad shrank further into the hedge as the man stooped and thrust his face forward.

“G’mornin’, sonny boy. Is that there Chapelvale?”

The man pointed to a church spire in the distance. The boy shook his head.

The man scratched his coarse, stubbled chin. “Oh, I see, well, wot’s that place called?”

The boy spoke a single word. “Church.”

This seemed to exasperate the man. “I know it’s a church, sonny, but wot’s the name of the village where the church is, eh?”

The boy considered this for a moment. “It’s not Chapelvale.”

Another man emerged from the car, dressed in a suit of very loud green checkered material. He sported a pencil-thin mustache, his hair was plastered into a center part. He shouted out to his companion, “Come on, Gripper, the kid don’t know nothin’. Let’s get goin’!”

Gripper was about to shout back an answer, when a farmer appeared at the gateway of a farmhouse further up the road. He was a giant of a man, his sleeves rolled up to expose two brawny arms. Slamming the gate open, he marched aggressively up to the one called Gripper, whom he pointed a thick finger at.

“Hoi you! Gerraway from my lad an’ leave ’im be!”

Gripper backed off hurriedly. “I don’t mean the kid no ’arm. I was only askin’ him where Chapelvale is.”

The boy ran to his father and clung to his leg. The man ruffled his son’s hair as he replied, “Chapelvale. ’Ow’s Georgy supposed to know, eh, ’e’s only a child!”

Gripper tried a friendly smile, it looked more like a leer. “Then p’raps you can tell me where Chapelvale is, eh, mate?”

The farmer did not like strangers. His big fists clenched. “No I can’t, an’ I’m not your mate. Now, get on your way, quick!”

Gripper drew himself up in a dignified manner and strode back to the motorcar, which was still running. He shouted back, “Stoopid big lump. Bet you’d ’ave trouble findin’ your own be’ind with both hands!”

The farmer picked up a stone from the roadside. Gripper shoved his loudly garbed associate into the vehicle, leapt in after him, and accelerated off down the lane.

Gripper was the driver. The flashy one in the front with him was, aptly enough, named Flash. The two backseats were occupied by Chunk, a massive, unintelligent specimen who wore a suit three sizes too small and a pearl-grey bowler hat perched on his shaven skull; and Chaz, a small, weaselly type, dressed in a frock-tailed morning coat and pin-striped pants, a size too large. In lieu of a shirt or collar he wore a knotted scarf of once-white silk. He was perpetually sniggering at anything and everything, which was what he did as soon as they were out of stone-throwing range.

“Heeheehee, we’re lost! I told yer, didn’t I, Gripp. Hee-hee!”

Gripper clenched the brass steering wheel tight, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Shut yer gob, Chaz, or I’ll belt yer one ’round the ’ead, on me oath I will!”

But Chaz would not be silenced. “Why go onna train, ’e sez, let’s keep the money an’ steal a motorcar. Leave it to me, ’e sez, I’ll find Chapelvale. When’re yer gonna find it, Gripp, eh? Next week? Heeheehee!”

They all lurched to one side as Gripper threw the car around a hairpin bend, bumping off the high-banked grass verge. He snorted aloud in frustration. “Shut ’im up, willyer, Chunk; give the flamin’ nuisance a smack fer me!”

Chunk took Chaz’s scrawny neck in one huge paw, rendering him helpless. “Where d’ya want me to biff ’im, Gripp? In the eye?”

Chaz pleaded. “No no, ’e doesn’t want yer to biff me anywhere!”

“Ho yes I do!” replied Gripper. “Biff ’im where y’like, Chunk.”

In biffing people, Chunk always preferred the nose. Chaz had quite a big beaky nose, so Chunk biffed it enthusiastically. Chaz squealed and fell back in the seat, his nose bleeding profusely. He held the dirty silk scarf to it.

“Wot didjer do dat for? Be dose is broke!”

Chunk felt no sympathy or enmity toward Chaz. “I did it ’cos Gripper tole me to. Ain’t that right, Gripp?”

Gripper carried on watching the road. “Right, Chunk, now per’aps ’e’ll stop makin’ smart remarks!”

Flash had noticed a milestone. “It said arf a mile to Church ’aven on that stone, Gripp. Must be wot that place is called.”

They drove into the village of Church Haven and stopped outside the post office. Gripper went in to ask for directions; a kindly, old, silver-haired postmistress came out onto the street with him to explain things.

“Chapelvale, sir, my goodness but you are a long, long way from there. Where have you come from?”

Gripper was losing patience, but trying to stay polite. “London, marm, but which way is it to Chapelvale?”