“Peter! Susan!” cried Lucy, “Edmund has been to Narnia too now, and he can tell you all about it!”
“Edmund – is this true?” asked Peter.
Edmund shuffled his feet in a shifty sort of way. “Ah no, we were just playing a game about her imaginary country, Peter. We had fantasy Narnian Lions v British & Irish Lions teams.”
Lucy turned pale, and ran out of the room.
Peter was very angry with Edmund for encouraging Lucy in her apparent silliness. Susan, also concerned, scowled at Edmund. Such a scowl he had never seen before, barring seeing Peter O’Mahoney once, and he also left the room.
“Peter,” said Susan, earnestly, “I think we should speak to the Professor. Lucy is going mad.”
* * *
“Bless me, me bairns,” said the Professor, taking off his glasses and wiping them, “Whatever makes you think that Lucy is mad?”
“But … but … Professor, we have told you about her imaginary country and Lions,” gasped Susan.
“Have you ever known Lucy to tell lies before?”
“Well … no,” admitted Peter, “She’s always been particularly truthful. That’s why we fear for her sanity.”
“The young lassie seems very sane to me, and we’ve established that she doesn’t tell lies. Perhaps she is telling the truth, hmm?” answered the Professor. “There are more things in space and time than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
As soon as the children had closed his study door, the Professor took a favourite memento out of his drawer, and stroked it absently. “Thank ye, Karlus, for the Narnian Lions medal,” he whispered to himself.
* * *
Things rumbled on for another week or so, with Lucy morose, Edmund gloating in a sulky sort of way, and Peter and Susan concerned.
Another wet day ensued, and the housekeeper, Mrs Weir, was showing another lot of visitors around the house. This was really a bit naughty, but they were all doing their best to maintain social distancing, which made it even harder to dodge the party.
No matter which way the children went, there seemed to be visitors wearing face-masks heading in their direction, and they were inexorably pushed towards the dusty gym. Assembled inside, they could hear voices approaching. It was as if some magic were pressing them into a hiding-place in the gym.
“All right, Lucy,” said Peter, “Show us where to go.”
Lucy pulled open the rustiest locker with the Lions shirts, and led them inside. Soon they found themselves gazing at snow-covered conifers.
They wandered around in amazement.
“I say,” said Edmund presently, “If we’re heading for the lamp-post, we should be going that-a-way.”
Peter and Susan stopped dead in their tracks.
“So you have been here before!” said Peter. “You absolute rotter. You bounder and cad. You … you Saracens fan, you!”
“Lucy,” said Susan, “I do apologise.”
“That’s all right,” replied Lucy. “Let’s go and see Mr Iknus.”
* * *
Lucy led them towards Mr Iknus’ cave, but as they neared its entrance, she gasped in dismay. The door was wrenched off its hinges. She spotted something white, and rushed forward.
There was a note pinned to the door.
To Whom It May Concern,
The Traitor Iknus has been arrested by the order of the Queen of Narnia for fomenting rugby enthusiasm against Her Majesty’s express wishes.
Any fellow enthusiasts will also be hunted down and arrested.
Signed,
Maugrim
Chief of Her Majesty’s Very Secret Police
* * *
As Lucy stared, dumbfounded, at the notice, Peter caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Oh Peter, Susan, Edmund,” wailed Lucy, “We must help Mr Iknus! It is probably my fault that he was caught!” She explained to the others all about Daughters of Maeve.
“That’s odd,” said Susan, “My mother’s name is Maeve too. I’m not sure why, because she is from the Valleys.”
“Well, my mother’s name isn’t Maeve,” said Peter. “It’s Eve, and my Dad’s George. But he’s always called Hamish on account of being born in Glasgow.”
Edmund’s eyes boggled.
* * *
Mr Beaver burst out of the undergrowth.
“Two Daughters of Maeve and two Sons of George, upon my word!” he cried.
The children all took a step back, because they had never seen a large Talking beaver before, and were a little surprised. But they were soon reassured by his smooth patter (“Call me Clyde”), and gratefully accepted the invitation to his lodge for tea, because they were getting right peckish.
“Shh!” said Mr Beaver, putting his paw to his teeth, “We must be very quiet and careful. The Witch’s spies are everywhere.”
They all crept cautiously after him through the forest until they came to the river, and scurried into the lodge under the cover of the fallen darkness. To their delight, Mrs Beaver, who didn’t seem at all surprised to see them, was just laying out a large feast, and they all tucked in heartily, along with the three Beavlets. (The Middle One occasionally made some disturbing pronouncements, but not disturbing enough to put them off their food. They were very hungry.)
As they all pushed back from the table, replete, Mr Beaver lit a fag, which he sucked through his teeth.
“Please, Clyde,” said Lucy, “tell us what you know of Mr Iknus!”
“Ah, my dear,” sighed Mr Beaver, “That’s a very bad business.
“We last saw him being taken by the Witch’s Secret Police towards her castle. Few who enter those gates come out again. They say that the whole castle is furnished with statues – but these statues are Narnians who have been turned to stone by the Witch’s evil spells. Some of them are even Narnian Lions.
“But there is a prophecy in Narnia that when two Daughters of Maeve and two Sons of George sit on the High Thrones of Cair Paravel, then we shall be freed. And lo, we hear that our true ruler – the great Narnian Lions Captain Paulan – is on the move from his long exile, and we shall meet him tomorrow at the Stone Stadium.”
Unnoticed by everyone else, Edmund had sneaked away to find the Witch’s castle.
Ovally Balls 
This is brilliant:
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You can get a long way on wonder bread.
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“Winning all the time would be so boring.”
Well, no, but our run since 2000 does makes every victory worth savouring. We, the SRU, made the decision to go massively into debt to rebuild Murrayfield the year before the game went pro, that allied to resistance to paying players from the rich farts at the SRU, the shitehawks who were using those games the players played in as opportunities to promote their own business interests via hospitality at games meant we’ve been playing catch-up for twenty five years.
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Wonderbread is an abomination unto the face of the Lady.
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Ticht – this is all true, but at this point Scotland need to knock this winning three games one year and two the next nonsense on the head. Grand Slam followed by Wooden Spoon and then some kind of groundless belief that the previous twenty-odd years never happened. It’s the only way to go.
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@Thaum – never heard of it before, do tell.
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It’s some kind of lab-manufactured Yank ‘bread’. Probably doesn’t go off for centuries.
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We ain’t done the Slam/Spoon back-to-back, have we?
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CMW, I’d take a Grand Slam next year and see where we go from there.
It was good to see David Denton playing there, such a shame that concussion did for him
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Not sure the merits or demerits of Wonder Bread is the main talking point from that paragraph but it kinda makes a good point.
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@TomP – Can’t be bothered to check the table, but i expect we would have done if Scott Murray hadn’t kicked Cockbain in the head (and then apologised). Scotland need to get on with things though so they could do all of our 2006-7 in one go if they want.
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New ATL might be tomorrow, as there are some photo-editing decisions to be made.
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@Thaum – cut Lenin and the sharecroppers and show us the wonder bread.
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That is a good paragraph, right enough.
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It was Ian Gough he kicked apparently, all much of a muchness in the Wales second row over the years with your one notable exception.
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He probably meant to kick Cockbain, but forgot he wasn’t playing which is why he apologised.
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Wonder bread?
Sounds horrifying
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Is it cos you wonder what’s in it. Or wonder why you feel so ill after having it.
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@Chimp – you wonder why you’re looking at a picture of Lenin when you could be finding out. I think it’s because thatThaum’s a communist.
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@Clyde – it’s a fair cop.
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The best thing/only good thing about Wonder loaf was the misheard lyric in the Joe Cocker version of With a Little Help from My Friends
you’ve all seen this already
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I didn’t expect the film clip at the start
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@Ticht – Be prepared is what I’ve always said.
That and “Oh liver!”
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“Oh liver” is genius
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Run out of whisky (and never get to do the shopping) so might have a G&T.
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Lynn Faulds-Wood RIP.
She was married to Oldham lad John Stapleton. When I first moved down south I used to go drinking with a guy called Cedric who also was from Oldham and went to school with John. Latics were playing QPR so we decided to go and watch it and John was meant to come along. In the end he didn’t turn up cos he was too busy. Plus he’s a City fan.
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@OT -Wikipedia tells me “He did not go to university, but started working as a trainee reporter at the age of seventeen on the now defunct Eccles and Patricroft Journal. He was later indentured to the Oldham Evening Chronicle for three years”
So John was probably unable due to being indentured to the Oldham Evening Chronicle. Either that or he was still enslaved by the Eccles and Patricroft Journal.
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Martin Miller it is as recommended by Boa many moons ago. Blended with Icelandic water for ‘Arctic Clarity’ which is what I’ve always looked for in a bottle of gin.
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When I didn’t meet him he was living in suburban splendour in Richmond-upon-Thames.
Weird beat for an Oldham Chron reporter to have but there you go.
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When you’re indentured you’ve to go where you’re told.
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All kinds of fates befall those who don’t go to university.
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I’m in danger of achieving clarity even before the gin kicks in.
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Where did Cedric live?
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Evergreen Forest.
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OT and his celeb pals.
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I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sneer.
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The Trumpster would have turned out to better off pushing Big Tobacco than Big Bleach.
Anyway, time for my cigarette before bed pour la santé.
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“Adjust your clocks: lockdown is bending time completely out of shape”
Chek’s having a bit of a breakdown on the Guardian.
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@tomp
Cedric lived in Hampton Wick
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Thought he was in Camberwick Green?
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Most sickening thing I’ve seen of late is ‘pastors’ exhorting people to send them their stimulus cheques in the US
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Back in January many journalists were saying this covid thing was no worse than flu. Turns out those urging caution and that it might be worse were justified. It seems to be causing strokes in people in their 30s and 40s.
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A lot of journalists thought there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, OT.
Drill music had better communications than the UK government:
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New ATL imminent!
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@tomp
I have this innate prejudice against the press and journalists* and this covid malarkey isn’t doing it any good.
*Apart from John Stapleton that is. A fine upstanding citizen.
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