AUDITOR JOE'S TENPENNY MAP

Farming used to be a leisurely occupation. Not so nowadays. Farmers spend all their nights and days trying to think of ways of making their land more profitable.

The following story relates how Baron Franco of Shirley, Lord Auditor Joe of Willesden Green, Baron Rackow of Dulwich and Chiswick, Earl Farmer Jack and Irish Jack – members of the Noble Order of Bunners – and their respective wives set out one fine August day to find a buried object on St. Luke's farm. According to legend the hidden object had been brought to England by Joseph of Aramathea during Roman times. It had originally been sought for many a long year without success by the Knights of The Round Table, a Noble Order founded by King Arthur of Glastonbury. Both Noble Orders, separated in time by thirteen centuries, were seeking, as you may by now have guessed, that elusive chalice, The Holy Grail.

(Glastonbury, by the way, is down the road going towards UpLoders. Turn due West when you get to the signpost – otherwise you find yourself in Downloders.).

The legendary exploits of King Arthur's knights, chronicled by Sir Thomas Mallory and celebrated in verse many years later by Lord Alfred Tennyson, have inspired great deeds. Our latter-day knights, the Bunners, were similarly spurred on by chivalry and a high sense of duty. (If any thought of gain entered at all into our gallant knights' calculations, it was only because a modicum of hard cash is needed for survival in this harsh world).

When their spirits flagged and the odds against finding the Holy Grail seemed too daunting, they recalled the miraculous reappearance of other precious relics such as the Dead Sea scrolls, the Minoan script in Crete and the terra cotta horses in China. Even Farmer Jack's more recent discovery of a Rolls razor belonging to the remote industrial past comforted them by suggesting that finding the lost chalice might not be as difficult as many supposed.

They had other solid grounds for optimism. Unlike their medieval predecessors they were equipped with modern appliances and techniques. These included metal detectors, a dowsing stick, a sniffer dog as well as some highly efficient digging implements. Nor did they intend to repeat the absurd blunder of Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot, who left their spouses behind them hopelessly encumbered by chastity belts. They cheerfully estimated that bringing their wives with them would double their chances of finding the missing chalice, although the Duchess of Dulwich and Chiswick, suggested tartly that they should multiply that by a conservative factor of ten.

Farmer Jack encouraged their enthusiasm for the search. He had suffered a grievous financial setback the precious year, losing his entire flock of gurkeys. But now he entertained high hopes that a successful outcome would turn St. Luke's farm into a centre of pilgrimage rivalling Lourdes, Mecca and Disneyland.

It all came about, as these things often do, by sheer chance. Lord Auditor Joe, rooting among the stalls at Bridport market, bought for tenpence what appeared to be an eighteenth-century rambling map covering the terrain of St. Lukes farm. The parchment was mouldy, blackened by time, the inscriptions almost indecypherable. He showed it to his fellow guests after lunch back at the farmhouse. They examined it and agreed, politely hiding their disgust at its pungent smell, that the map was extremely old. Irish Jack, looking at it through a magnifying glass, read aloud the words 'Kidd his cup' and looked puzzled. The Duchess of Dulwich and Chiswick explained that it meant Kidd's Cup.

Nothing would have happened, and indeed this story would not have been written, if Auditor Joe had not mused aloud: 'I wonder who Kidd was.'

It flashed through Farmer Jack's mind that the part of the Dorset coast adjoining Bridport had been for many years the haunt of smugglers, wreckers and pirates, the most notorious of them all being the infamous Captain Kidd. Had Auditor Joe stumbled upon a map which gave the hidden location of Captain Kidd's treasure? If so, should he wait until his guests had gone home before searching for it? Common sense suggested that it was unlikely that he would ever be able to find it without assistance. Accordingly, he announced after dinner that if Captain Kidd's treasures were to be found on his land the proceeds thereof would be shared equally among his guests..

There was jubilation all around. Everyone agreed that this magnificent gesture was worthy of the inventor of the famous Dorset Time Machine. (See story: The Autumn of Their Lives.) There was excited talk of finding a fortune in gold, jewellery doubloons and pieces-of-eight. Whiskey and Perrier flowed as they made elaborate plans for the treasure hunt the following day.

During long years of bargaining with Bridport stallholders Farmer Jack had accumulated a formidable collection of junk, ranging from heavy, unreadable tomes to mechanical razors incapable of depilitating the whiskers of a barmitzvah boy. It now seemed to him as though providence had all along been guiding him in his choice. Going through his hoard, he found several items that would help in the search for Captain Kidd's hidden treasure. They included metal detectors, a scythe, a douser's rod and a heavy old-fashioned snooker cue that had proved too long for use in the confined space of his snooker room but would be ideal for beating down the long grass.

Of course, on these occasions there is always someone who puts a damper on the proceedings. This time it was Lady Betty of Northwood, wife of Irish Jack. (It will be noted that Irish Jack has never been ennobled. The dark and disreputable secret behind this will be revealed in another St. Luke's farm story). She asked to see the map again, carefully examined the words that had raised their expectations and then coolly announced: 'It doesn't say "Kidd his cup"- it says "kiddush cup"'.

'Rubbish!' snapped Farmer Jack, unwilling to relinquish his dazzling vision of riches. He squinted at the map through a magnifying glass and was finally obliged to admit reluctantly that the words in question looked more like "kiddush cup" than "Kidd his cup."

He said caustically to Auditor Joe: 'You'd better ask for your tenpence back.'

Auditor Joe stuffed the map in his side pocket with a sigh. A moment later, second thoughts induced him to bring it out again. 'Why,' he asked, 'should anybody want to record the position of a kiddush cup on a map?'

Lady Polly suggested: 'Perhaps it was a special kiddush cup.'

Irish Jack nodded concurrence.

The Duchess of Dulwich and Chiswick gasped as an idea came unbidden into her mind. After a moment's pause, she said 'There was once a special kiddush cup the one used at the Last Supper.'

'Are you suggesting this could be the Holy Grail?' enquired Baroness Franco, in a tone of disbelief.

'Why not? It was lost in the West country.'

Impossible to describe the excitement that greeted these words. Their hopes of finding Captain Kidd's treasure had been cruelly dashed by Lady Betty's observation. But if the Duchess's theory was true, and the Grail had been hidden on St. Luke's farm, the Noble Order of The Bunners would acquire not only instant riches but undying fame as well. They would have made history, finally healing the rift between Judaism and Christianity. The chalice, authentically Jewish since it was used on the night of Passover. but of enormous significance to Christianity, would reconcile the two religions. The Bunners would earn the gratitude of the whole world. They might be invited to dine at the Palace. They would almost certainly receive the blessings of the Pope and the Chief Rabbi. They was even a possibility, admittedly remote, of appearing on television.

Their motives, it must be admitted, were not entirely altruistic. Motives rarely are. They were highly aware that if the long-buried chalice were to be found and proved authentic, Christies, Sotheby's, Bonhams, Phillips would all compete to buy it, as would the churches and many private collectors, forcing the price upwards to astronomical levels. But if their apparent greed seems a little unattractive, please remember that just as St. Luke's farm needed some extra revenue, so did the Bunners need a little extra something for their old age.

A salutary dose of reality soon entered into the proceedings.

Irish Jack reminded them that there was no guarantee that this particular kiddush cup would prove to be the Holy Grail,'

Auditor Joe, agreed, nodding his head solemnly. The other Bunners looked glum.

Rabbi Miriam saved the day and succeeded in raising their spirits for the start of their historic mission. In a brilliant display of the theological bent which had earned her rabbinical title, she commented: 'This farm is called St. Luke's, right? He was one of the apostles, right? And he gave the kiddush cup that was used on the seder night to Joseph of Aramathea. If this farm was called St. Luke's, it can only be because Joseph of Whatisit buried it here. Right?'

The silence that greeted her words was followed by a resounding cheer. Auditor Joe thereupon gave his wife an enthusiastic hug.

Now that irrefutable arguments had been advanced in favour of going ahead with the search, various ideas were put forward. Irish Jack suggested a prize for the actual finder. But it was turned down on the grounds that it might spoil what ideally should be a cooperative venture.

Farmer Jack was particularly elated at this juncture. He badly needed a break. His milk yield was down. His hay was sodden. His deer and goats spent so much time and energy fruitlessly butting each other with their horns they gave themselves headaches and went to sleep without producing progeny. This promised development was even better than striking oil. Oil would eventually run out. Finding the Grail would placed his farm permanently on the map. The turn-styles would click furiously for ever more as tourists paid their money to marvel at the place where the Holy Grail had lain hidden for nearly two-thousand years.

He was about to refill everyone's glasses, when Baron Rackow, ever mindful of his friends' health, looked at his watch and suggested that they go to bed early, in order to be ready for their epic search the following morning.

Irish Jack declared cheerfully at breakfast: 'I can't seek the Holy Grail without my prunes!'

Lady Polly went off dutifully in search of the wizened fruit.

Turning to Farmer Jack, Irish Jack suggested a square search, gradually narrowing the area until they meet in the middle of the farm.

Baron Franco countered by suggesting a round search. 'We'll never find it, so we might just as well go round in circles.'

The Bunners censured him for his pessimism.

Finally, after much discussion, it was decided to carry out a parallel track search. Farmer Jack produced a map of St. Luke's farm and indicated with a pointer the exact point where each person should start.

It was an excellent day for Grail hunting. Larks were singing in a cloudless sky. The sun shone on ten pairs of green wellies and the implements which Farmer Jack had carefully laid out. Baron Franco, Lord Auditor Joe and Farmer Jack were equipped with metal detectors. Baron, the Right Honourable Doctor Rackow, looked slightly embarrassed, waving around a genuine diviner's rod. Lady Polly was in charge of a neighbour's hounddog, Squiffy, who was under the impression that he was looking for a bird called the Holy Quail. Lady Betty had her favourite silver trowel. Irish Jack held the old-fashioned snooker cue. Dame Pat Franco clutched a scythe and Jean, Duchess of Chiswick – to give her a recently acquired title – wielded a heavy spade.

They took up positions at the southernmost end of the farm. As they were about to set off, Irish Jack, conscious of the unique solemnity of the occasion, proposed a minute's silence for fallen Bunners. This they readily agreed to, standing at attention and remembering the late Lord Frankpt Pratt of Kilburn and Northwood as well as the one-hundred and forty-thousand trillion Bunners who have fallen off the planet Earth since the world began.

A hawk hanging in the clear sky above would have seen at that moment ten motionless figures, spread out in line abreast, ready to begin their historic advance across Alexander's field. (It should be pointed out that this has nothing whatsoever to do with the Alexanders of Willesden Green, whose lands are held in fief and title by Lord Auditor Joe).

We can take advantage of this solemn silence to ask ourselves an important question: Were the Bunners selflessly united in their sacred task? Alas, the answer must be No. Among peer groups there is inevitably peer rivalry. Each one could see himself on the front page of the national newspapers, holding aloft the magic trophy like the triumphant captain of a winning football team at Wembley. The Bunners had all at one time or another suffered disappointments requiring painful adjustments to their life plans. Here at last was a chance to win honour, glory and undying fame. Can we blame them for wishing to be the one who earned undying fame by finding the Holy Grail?

Baroness Franco harboured a personal and private ambition of her own. She wished to record on canvass the appearance of the missing chalice for posterity as it emerged stained, mouldy and mud-encrusted from the earth, a picture surely destined for immortality in one of the great art galleries of the world.

Sixty seconds later they all began to move forward.

Almost immediately, the studs on Squiffy's dog collar set off Farmer Jack's metal detector. Sensing an impudent challenge to his sniffing powers, the animal attacked Farmer Jack with great ferocity. If the Quail was to be found he would be the one to find it. They were soon separated and moved forward again, pausing occasionally to listen, sniff and dig wherever the ground looked promising. Baron Rackow, discovering in himself powers that he had not until then believed existed, was at one stage whirled round in a complete circle by the gyrations of his divining rod. He had unknowingly stumbled upon an ancient Druid's circle. But since this was not the object of the search, he continued to advance along his assigned track.

The Bunners, meanwhile, were not finding it easy. They slipped down rabbit holes, encountered sharp brambles, brushed against stinging nettles, sank into cow pats, and were attacked by swarms of malevolent insects. The August sun shone down on them relentlessly. Perspiration formed on their necks and chests and rolled into their various bodily crevices.

Dame Pat Franco stumbled, sketch book in one hand, scythe in the other, slashing at the thick undergrowth, her eyes alert for any subtle change in the appearance of the earth.

Her husband, Baron Franco of Shirley, recalling that great country musical Oklahoma, sang in a stentorian tone: 'When you're out in the slurry with the turds on the top,' as he strode through powerful-smelling manure. This aroma invited the instant investigation of Squiffy, the retriever. The dog plunged through the bushes, making a loud rustling like a bird breaking cover. The confusion between Grail and Quail nearly brought about tragedy. A passing farmer let fly with a Purdy and Purdy shotgun, convinced that he had heard the mating call of a quail. Fortunately, he narrowly missed his target. Shaken but undeterred, Franco continued to advance, this time taking the precaution of adopting the infantry crawl he had learned during his military training. 'They don't call me General Franco for nothing,' he told himself. He had forgotten, of course, that his metal-detector was giving away his position, as it bleeped at metal corsets, bicycle wheels and other buried detritus from the past.

All of which proved to be false alarms. Farmer Jack wasted half an hour digging at a spot where his metal detector had bleeped, only to find an old Foster lager can discarded years before during an official visit to the farm by Les Patterson, the former Australian cultural attache.

Later that evening at the farmhouse, they all gave vivid accounts of the dangers they had encountered. Lady Polly said that she had to defend herself against the ravages of a vampire bat. Lord Auditor Joe swore on oath that he was viciously attacked by a wild rabbit. Lady Betty had a frightening encounter with a Red Admiral- from the description of her ordeal one would have judged that she had been tangling with the entire Russian navy instead of an innocent butterfly. Irish Jack had been obliged to flee for his life from a charging bull. Coincidentally, he had been humming the Toreador song from Carmen at the time – enough, as Baron Franco remarked unfeelingly, to provoke any bull into a destructive frenzy.

Anticipating danger, Irish Jack had brought with him a flask of Famous Grouse whiskey. Shaken by the charging bull he drank it all in one go and by the time he arrived at the lake at the bottom of the hill was feeling quite sleepy. Tired and disillusioned at finding nothing on his assigned track, he disgustedly tossed the snooker cue with which he had been frenziedly beating the underbrush into the lake.

We now come to the grand climactic of the most exciting day that St. Luke's farm has ever witnessed.

To Irish Jack's utter amazement a hand appeared out of the calm water, grasped the cue and waved it slowly to and fro. Subsequent events have confirmed Irish Jack's story. The ancient snooker cue, which a stall-holder at Bridport had assured Farmer Jack once belonged to Hurricane Higgins, waggled around just above the surface of the lake. A sepulchral voice then called out: 'I am Merlin, magician extraordinary to the Noble Order of Bunners. Throw the red ball in your right pocket and wherever it lands there you will find the Holy Grail.'

Irish Jack shook his head dazedly as the snooker cue sank lower and lower into the water. It finally disappeared, leaving behind a few concentric ripples.

He mumbled to himself and fell into a drunken slumber.

When he awoke, vaguely remembering these strange words, he felt in his pocket and found a red ball that he had pocketed in a fit of pique after being soundly beaten at snooker by Auditor Joe the previous day.

It is dusk now. The assorted lords and ladies assemble tired, dispirited and empty-handed at the farmhouse. Irish Jack relates his extraordinary story and since he has lost his cue – and probably his marbles as well – they pretend to believe him. However, Baron Rackow, somewhat in awe of the supernatural power he has discovered in the divining rod, says with a disarming smile: 'You might just as well throw it and see what happens.'

Irish Jack thereupon throws the red snooker ball over his shoulder with all his strength.

It falls near the chalet. They rush to find it and Lady Betty digs furiously with her trowel at the exact spot where it has landed. A cry goes up. It appears that she has found something. Yes! there is something just beneath the surface. She uncovers an object and wipes it carefully with a cloth. It is, it is, indeed, a cup. Which, in essence, is what they have been looking for. Unfortunately, it happens to be a plastic beaker of the unbreakable kind given to young children. Is it the Holy Grail? Impossible, because, as someone points out, plastic hadn't been invented in biblical times.

An acrimonious argument now breaks out. How can it be the Grail, when it's made of plastic. Furthermore, it doesn't look as if it has been in the ground for thousands of years. But that, of course, is one of the advantages of plastic- it doesn't oxydise. Baron Franco points out that if you intended to lose the Grail for a long time, you would, of course, choose a material of just such a polymeric structure. But, you still can't get over the awkward fact that plastic hadn't been invented then. The Duchess of Chiswick points out that even if they didn't have plastic in biblical times, they did have miracles. And if they had miracles nothing was impossible, including the use of a plastic kiddush cup at the Last Supper. Hadn't Merlin said with the full authority of a magician that the Holy Grail would be found where the red ball landed. A cup had indeed been found there and must therefore be the Holy Grail.

Lady Polly suggests cautiously that perhaps the words on the map actually spelled 'kiddy's cu'and not 'kiddush cup.'.

'O.K., so, it's a Holy Kiddy's cup, comments Lady Betty. It has a hole in it, so therefore it could be said to be holey.'

Everyone ignores this totally irrelevant remark.

Farmer Jack's lips tighten with disappointment. It has been a hard day. Nothing useful had been accomplished. The turnstyles through which millions of eager tourists were to pass are doomed to stay forever silent. He throws away his metal detector in disgust. There is a high-pitched bleeping as it hits the ground. The Members of The Noble Order of Bunners look at each other and as one man begin to scrabble furiously into the earth, throwing soil into the air, digging deeper and ever deeper with spades, shovels, trowels, anything they can lay their hands on.

Rabbi Miriam smiles a beatific smile.

'Come on, girls, she says. 'Let's go inside and have a nice cup of tea and a natter while the blokes dig down to Australia.'