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(part 4)
Meanwhile, a bit further west, a chap set out for an afternoon’s pootling around Poole harbour in his grey RIB. As it was such a pleasant afternoon, and as he had a plentiful supply of food with him - including his mother’s famous pie, he decided to see if he could land on one of the islands - maybe even Brownsea. Avoiding the larger boats he went along quite merrily, until he became aware of a powerful diesel engine not that far from him. Glancing around, he saw the harbour master’s boat racing along. Someone was in trouble. He shrugged, and carried on his way. Shortly after, he realised the harbour master was hailing him.
“Hullo there! Whereabouts are you heading?”
“Oh - thought I’d pop over to one of the islands for a picnic” he said, nodding meaningfully at his hamper
“I see” There was something in the harbour master’s tone which suggested that what he saw was very much not to his liking. “And, um, are they with you then?” he asked, nodding towards the back of the RIB.
The chap looked at the harbour master. Was he drunk? Suffering from sun stroke?
“Ummm….?” he offered by way of a reply.
“Them. Little grey things in your boat” The harbour master’s temper was clearly wearing thin, so the chap thought it might be best to humour him, when a brief flash of movement in his RIB caught his eye. There, crouching almost nonchalantly in the stern of the RIB, was a brace of squirrels. Grey squirrels, to be precise. Outlawed on the islands in Poole Harbour to allow the native reds to flourish.
He followed the harbour master back to a dock, and glowered meaningfully at the squirrels. “You two, hop it. Or I’ll call my mum - and she makes a mean squirrel pie” and he glanced meaningfully at his hamper.
As if they understood, the creatures scooted out from the boat, and the chap could have sworn he heard one of them mutter “commie sympathiser” as they scuttled off. Scratching his head, he set back off again.
Further inland, a tense phone call was in progress.
“So, for the promise of some positive advertising which will probably sway hearts and minds, but cannot guarantee us even a reconsideration of our banishment, you want us to steal arguably the most famous recipe in the country? You don’t think that’s a bit, um, one-sided, do you?”
“Well, no. Not really. Think of the influence our adverts wield. Think how trusted our brand is. If we come up with a suitable campaign it will turn the tide of public opinion, and from that will come a re-consideration. And let’s be honest, as soon as the tabloids get on your side, your case is won.”
“I still think you’re… hold on a moment” and Mr Nuttking put the phone on hold as one of his many minions scurried in, holding a piece of paper. Cyril took the paper and read it. Then read it again. “Pies?” he bellowed. “PIES! I’ll give them sodding pies!” and with that he took the phone off hold.
“Mr Kipling - you have a deal. But I have one condition. No mention of pies. At all.”
“No pies. We do cakes, remember? And I look forward to working with your organisation on this matter. When can you start?”
“As soon as I possibly can, Mr Kipling. As soon as I possibly can.”
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