The Maypole Affair

On Midsummer’s eve in Burnsall, England, the villagers awoke to the discovery of a crime most despicable.

“Thieves! Scoundrels!” shrieked the woman, racing down the street, dressing gown flapping behind her.

“We’ve been robbed! Pilfered! Plundered!” If she’d had a bell, she would have shaken it like a frenzied Town Crier. Curtains twitched and faces peered from windows as the woman staggered past at full pelt, never ceasing her piercing alarm call.

At last she came to number seventeen, a neat little house with hedges trimmed into perfect right angles. The door was a tasteful shade of olive. Without pausing to knock, the woman burst into the house, down the corridor and flung open the door of the dining room.

The Chairman of Burnsall Village Committee froze with his spoon suspended in the air, egg wobbling, mouth agape.

“Goodness gracious, Agnes, what can you mean by all this racket!” he cried, moustache wobbling much like the egg precariously balanced on his spoon.

Agnes was doubled over, chest heaving. The chairman sprang to his feet and ushered her into a chair, muttering a good number of dear me!’s under his breath.

Agnes took a steadying breath, recovering her composure. The Chairman leaned forward.

“It’s the maypole, Chairman!” she wailed, a picture of sorrow, though the Chairman thought he detected a hint of glee in her eyes.

“They’ve stolen the maypole.”

The Chairman stood next to Agnes in Burnsall village square, surveying the scene of interest. Just yesterday, here stood a proud wooden maypole almost as tall as the houses facing each side of the square. How majestic it had looked, ribbons streaming from the top in a waterfall of colour, and crowned with a merry garland of wildflowers and leaves!

Freshly decorated for the Midsummer celebrations. The pride of Burnsall.

Now, the Chairman glumly nudged a clod of mud with his slippered foot, one of many strewn across the once immaculate grass. In the centre, a deep hole was the only remnant of the pole’s former residence. Boot prints and wheel ruts formed a track leading out of the village eastward.

Villagers were starting to rouse; some stood in open doorways, making shocked remarks and shaking their heads.

Nodding to himself once, the Chairman raised himself to his full height and said solemnly, “Agnes, spread the word, quick as you can. I’m calling an emergency Committee meeting.”

He looked her dead in the eyes. “Code black.”

The chapel thrummed with voices, the crowd tense with anticipation that was nearly reaching fever pitch. More villagers tried to cram in from the open doors at the back, but the pews and the spaces between aisles were rammed.

Reverend Nealey stood to one side of the dais, torn between excitement and annoyance. He’d never had a turnout like this to his sermons, not even on Christmas.

The Chairman sat behind the altar on a hastily placed fold-out chair. To see the Chairman’s face, it might’ve been a throne.

He cleared his throat. The crowd hushed and turned to him expectantly.

“People of Burnsall! Thank you for coming so quickly.”

On the front pew, the Burnsall Village Committee Secretary, Edith, began feverishly scribbling the meeting minutes.

“The reason for this meeting needs no explanation. By now we have all seen for ourselves the aftermath in the village square.”

He paused dramatically, and felt a thrill when not one person broke the silence.

“Last night, we were the victims of a cowardly and disgraceful attack. Under the cover of darkness, thieves have knocked down our maypole and carried it off who-knows-where to do who-knows-what. Not since the Postbox Affair has Burnsall seen such shameful behaviour.” At this, several audience members shifted nervously.

“In order to get to the bottom of this, we must gather the facts.” He slapped the altar in emphasis.

“Therefore, I open the floor to anyone who might have witnessed anything of note last night. Anything at all.”

He scanned the sea of faces, waiting. A low murmuring arose as people whispered to each other.

At last, a figure at the back stood. People craned their necks to see.

“Rahul, do you know who did this?”

Rahul looked around nervously. “No, but I… I saw something”. He swallowed and looked to his wife for comfort. She squeezed his hand.

“Last night, it must have been the small hours of the morning, the baby woke us…and as I passed the window, I saw, I mean I thought I saw…”

“Go on.”

“There were people in the square, I heard voices. They had flashlights. And… ropes, maybe.”

At this, another man sprang to his feet, unable to contain himself.

“You saw figures with flashlights and ropes in the middle of the night, and didn’t raise the alarm? Good god man, where is your community spirit!”

Someone gasped. Edith’s pen nib hovered uncertainly over her paper, unsure if it was appropriate to record such a personal attack.

“Reginald, please!” exclaimed the Chairman. Reginald bristled.

Rahul looked panicked. “I didn’t know! I thought it might have been some last minute decoration additions! I’m sorry…”

He sank back onto the pew, head lowered. Reluctantly Reginald sat too.

“Thank you, Rahul, for your account. Though this confirms what we already suspected, unfortunately it gets us no closer to identifying the culprit. Does anyone else have further information?”

Agnes glided to her feet at once.

“I was the first to discover the missing maypole, and I see it’s up to me to be the first to say what we’re all thinking.”

She smoothed her skirt, glancing around to ensure every eye was on her.

“We all know who stole it! It was those treacherous scoundrels from that poor excuse for a village, Thorpe!”

The crowd erupted. Everyone began talking at once. Over it all Agnes raised her voice and continued.

“It’s always them! Every year, trying to outdo us! Why, not last month didn’t that rascal Freddy knock down the fence dividing your land, Cathy, and put his sheep to graze on what is rightfully Burnsall land?”

“That’s right!” cried Cathy.

“You can’t bandy accusations around with no proof!” protested Rahul.

“Got to teach them a lesson…!” shouted Reginald, waving his fist.

“Let’s not do anything drastic, now…” the Reverend said weakly.

Wide eyed, Edith gulped and pushed her glasses up her nose.

“Enough, calm yourselves. Please!” cried the Chairman.

He glanced around, and finding nothing else suitable, grabbed the crucible from the centre of the altar and banged it on the table like a gavel. Reverend Neale flushed but let it slide; they had bigger fish to fry.

Finally the frenzy abated. Everyone turned to the Chairman as he stood grandly.

For the first time, Edith spoke. Her quiet voice was breathy. “What should we do, Chairman?”

“There’s only one thing we can do.” he said impressively. “We have to get it back.”

Agnes smiled.

Some twenty members of Burnsall village crouched low, peering out from their hiding place amongst the copse of trees. The Chairman held out an arm, indicating to the others to stay back whilst he assessed the terrain.

Thorpe village had chosen a field at the edge of their village for their Midsummer celebrations. A collection of stalls formed a loose circle - flower garland making, knick knacks for sale and the like. A young woman handed out orange juice in little plastic cups. Cathy’s eyes narrowed as she spotted Freddy the rascal flipping sausages on a BBQ, smoke trailing up into the perfect summer sky. Rahul couldn’t help but tap his foot to the merry tune from the folk band in the corner. After a scathing look from Agnes he quickly stopped. Children sat on the grass making daisy chains, whilst others ran around chasing each other and generally getting under everyone’s feet.

And in the middle of it all, the centerpiece, a magnificent maypole.

Ribbons even longer than the maypole cascaded down, fluttering in the warm breeze. Green, pink, yellow, blue. The pole itself was gleaming dark wood, with a spiral carved right from the bottom to the top. It had been hastily installed; the Chairman could see the line where the base of the pole used to be fully buried. The thieves hadn’t pushed it far enough into the ground. The garland at the top was lopsided and looked a little dishevelled, as if it had taken a beating and been sloppily straightened.

It was, without a doubt, the maypole that only yesterday had been the pride of Burnsall village square.

Stealthily, the Chairman hurried back to the waiting villagers. They had assembled their instruments of war in a small but mighty pile: three spades, several yards of rope, and a wheelbarrow. The maypole wouldn’t fit in a wheelbarrow, but it felt right somehow. Reginald had wanted to bring his rifle, and to everyone’s relief had been talked down by Edith.

They huddled in a circle, heads together.

“Here’s the plan. You see that gap in the stalls, between the water point and the ice cream van?”

They nodded.

“You see the maypole?”

They nodded again.

“We run through the gap, grab the pole, carry it back out, go home. Easy peasy.”

The villagers glanced at each other and grinned. It was a good plan.

They crept forward. The folk band had started up a new tune, and a traditional maypole dance had begun. Children held the end of one ribbon each, and were dancing in two concentric circles, each circle moving in opposite directions.They ducked around each other, the ribbons forming a weave that wound about the top of the maypole.

The Chairman paused in dismay as he observed this new obstacle. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder if this was such a good idea.

He glanced at Agnes. She was staring determinedly at their target, undeterred.

The Chairman thought of the celebration back in Burnsall square, dejected and gloomy despite the perfect weather.

Nothing had changed. They had to get it back.

“NOW.” he roared, and charged.

The villagers of Thorpe looked up in terror as they saw the motley group rushing towards them, yelling and whooping.

The wheelbarrow led the charge. They wielded spades and twirled loops of rope about their head like lassos. The music stopped abruptly as the band’s instruments went slack. The dancing children screamed and scattered in every direction as they saw the horde sprinting directly at them. Several tripped over their own ribbons and caused a minor pile up.

The villagers could only gape and scramble out the way as the mob forged through the crowd and reached the pole. Those with spades began frantically digging at its base. The rest formed a protective ring about them, teeth bared.

Quicker than anyone expected, the pole began to come loose; it swayed ominously.

“Steady!” shouted the Chairman, grasping the pole in a bear hug.

Too late, it was coming down hard. Agnes’ eyes widened as she realised there was no stopping it.

“Get out the way!”

The pole leaned perilously to one side. Everyone in the area fled, but the trembling woman behind the juice stall stood frozen with an orange cup in each hand, eye’s fixed on the pole looming above her.

For a moment the pole seemed suspended in mid air, as if fixed in time. As if it might not fall after all.

Then it came crashing down onto the juice stall.

Just in time, Freddy the rascal rugby tackled the woman and propelled them both to safety. The stall collapsed under the pole with a crunch, jugs going flying and spilling juice onto the grass. Freddy and the woman lay on the ground, staring at each other and panting.

There was absolute quiet for a moment whilst all gathered processed what had happened.

Then the Chairman roared, “Get it!”

As if snapping out of a daze, the Burnsall crew leapt into action. Rushing the pole, they grabbed one end. They spread out half on each side, holding the pole under one arm, and tugged. Slowly at first, then quicker as it moved free of the stall wreckage, the pole began to slide. Across the field and towards Burnsall.

By this time, the Thorpe villagers had rallied. Led by a muscular man with an impressively red face, the Thorpe mass seized the other end of the pole and yanked.

What followed was a bitter tug of war. Initially the Burnsall crew were facing the wrong way, towards home, but they quickly spun and dug in their heels.

“On me!” cried the muscular red-faced man. “Heave!”

With a yell the Thorpe villagers hauled themselves backwards. The pole began to slide back to the clearing, with the Burnsall lot helplessly clinging on. They tried to copy this tactic, but were outnumbered, and with each Heave! the pole jerked closer to Thorpe.

The Chairman tightened his grip and strained, despairing. Then he had a desperate idea.

He released his hold on the pole, and running to the midpoint, jumped on top of it.

His plan had been for all the Burnsall villagers to join him - sitting on the pole in mass protest. If they couldn't return the pole home, they could at least stop Thorpe using it. They’d have to drag him away kicking and screaming.

Unfortunately, the Chairman had miscalculated his own weight and the strength of the pole. As he landed on it, the pole gave a sharp snap as of a broken bone and split clean in half.

Immediately both sides of the tug of war collapsed backwards, falling over each other in twin heaps.

Stunned, the Chairman looked around from where he sat, the two pieces of the maypole laying either side of him. Loose ribbons were littered everywhere. The flower garland was nowhere to be seen, presumably flattened.

The villagers from each side feebly freed themselves from the tangle of limbs. Their outrage had dissipated the moment they crashed to the ground. Most had the decency to look a little ashamed.

In the circle of stalls not far away, what remained of the Thorpe Midsummer celebrators clustered together and stared at the carnage. All was hushed.

A little boy gave a nervous giggle. Freddy the rascal and juice woman seemingly hadn’t realised they could let go of each other now.

The Chairman opened his mouth, but didn’t quite know what to say. The boy laughed harder.

Contagious giggles swept through the crowd and before long, most everyone was in hysterics.

A shadow fell over the Chairman, still sprawled in the mud. The red-faced man’s intimidating bulk blocked out the sun. He stuck out a hand.

The Chairman gratefully allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

Still clasping forearms, they locked eyes.

Ever so slowly, ever so sheepishly, they began to smile.