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'It might help me resolve matters with my uncle – and that twit Laertes.'
I thought for a moment. An all-action Hamlet might not be such a good idea, but since he had no play to return to it at least gave me a few days' breathing space. I decided not to intervene for the time being.
'When are you talking to him?'
He shrugged.
'Tomorrow. Or perhaps the day after. Conflict resolution advisers are pretty busy, you know.'
I breathed a sigh of relief. True to form, Hamlet was still dithering. But he had brightened up having come to a decision of sorts and continued in a more cheery tone:
'But that's enough about me. How goes it with you?'
I gave him a brief outline, beginning with Landen's re-eradication and ending with the importance of finding five good players to help Swindon win the Superhoop.
'Hmm,' he replied as soon as I had finished, 'I've got a plan for you. Want to hear it?'
'As long as it's not about where Biffo should play.'
He shook his head, looked around carefully and then lowered his voice.
'Pretend to be mad and talk a lot. Then – and this is the important bit – do nothing at all until you absolutely have to – and then make sure everyone dies.'
'Thanks,' I said at length, I'll remember that.'
'Plink!' said Alan, who had been padding grumpily around the garden.
'I think that bird is looking for trouble,' observed Hamlet.
Alan, who clearly didn't like Hamlet's attitude, decided to attack and made a lunge at Hamlet's shoe. It was a bad move. The Prince of Denmark leapt up, drew his sword and before I could stop him made a wild slash in Alan's direction. He was a skilled swordsman and did no more damage than to pluck the feathers off the top of Alan's head. The little dodo, who now had a bald patch, opened his eyes wide and looked around him with a mixture of horror and awe at the small feathers that were floating to the ground.
'Any more from you, my
fine feathered friend,' announced Hamlet, replacing his sword, 'and you'll be in the curry!'
Pickwick, who had been watching from a safe corner near the compost heap, boldly strode out and stood defiantly between Alan and Hamlet. I'd never seen her acting brave before, but I suppose Alan was her son, even if he was a hooligan. Alan, either terrified or incensed, stood completely motionless, beak open.
'Telephone for you,' my mother called out. I walked into the house and picked up the receiver. It was Aubrey Jambe. He wanted me to speak to Alf Widdershaine to get him out of retirement, and also to know whether I had found any new players yet.
'I'm working on it,' I said, rummaging through the Yellow Pages under 'sports agents'. 'I'll call you back. Don't lose hope, Aubrey.'
He hurrumphed and rang off. I called Wilson Lonsdale & Partners, England's top sports agents, and was delighted to hear there were any number of world-class croquet players available; sadly the interest evaporated when I mentioned which team I represented.
'Swindon?' said one of Lonsdale's associates. 'I've just remembered – we don't have anyone on our books at all.'
'I thought you said you had?'
'It must have been a clerical error. Good day.'
The line went dead. I called several others and received a similar response from all of them. Goliath and Kaine were obviously covering all their bases.
Following that I called my old coach, Alf Widdershaine, and after a long chat managed to persuade him to go down to the stadium and do what he could. I called Jambe back to tell him the good news about Alf, although I thought it prudent to hide the lack of new players from him for the time being.
I thought about Landen's existence problem for a moment and then found the number of Julie Aseizer, the woman at Eradications Anonymous who had got her husband back. I called her and explained the situation.
'Oh yes!' she said helpfully. 'My Ralph flickered on and off like a faulty light bulb until his uneradication held!'
I thanked her and put the receiver down, then checked my finger for a wedding ring. It still wasn't there.
