Francis and Mortimer were the first to discover the deserted village of Saintre Mawes, whilst on a jaunty boat trip from Foulmouth. The lights were glowing, but nobody was home.
‘Flaming mayonnaise,’ said Francis, as they boarded the empty quay.
‘My condiments exactly,’ said Mortimer, looking around in earnest.
They were expectant of an awkward encounter with the Harbour Master, as Francis sat astern with a crate of the finest malt whisky a man could encounter, and Mortimer stashed a similarly sized crate of mighty fine port wine. Contraband of the exquisite variety.
They couldn’t even spot Fanny or Maisy waiting for them in the lull of the evening tide. Francis had been looking forward to a dram or two, to warm him from head to galoshes, and maybe even a fandango in the moonlight.
Unloading their cargo, they wandered the sea wall, and up between the nestled cottages, but not a Frank, Matilda, Felicity or Maleficent could be found. They were mightily flummoxed.
‘Do you think they’re at a soiree?’ muttered Francis.
‘We’re not invited to a Saintre Mawes village do? It really would not do.’ muttered Mortimer, shifting suddenly into the look of a man on the edge. The very thought, it could not be borne.
‘Ahoy, land dwellers’ called Francis with all his baritone might, that echoed across the water to St Antonio’s lighthouse and back again. Waking the Fraggles from their rocks.
‘Do you think there’s something fishy going on?’ Mortimer said, and proceeded to suck his thumb.
‘I’d hake to think so.’ said Francis, feeling like a flounder in the moonfish.
It was then that the smugglers heard a strange sound, growing louder: a scratching, grating, pulse-racing squeak! It terrified them to their malty cores.
‘A fantastic mouse?’ said Francis fearfully.
‘An effing monster!’ said Mortimer, the whites of his eyes protruding.
And racing down from Castle Drive, came a frenzy of mad and ferocious beasts. Tides of ferrets, waves of mongoose and ripples of short furry mammals. On and on they poured, beneath the amber moon.
‘Time to fight’ said Francis, grabbing Mortimer by the Breton.
‘Time to flee’ said Mortimer, slapping his hand away.
And they ran as fast as their waterproofs would carry, back to the quay, back to their dinghy and off. Oars set to paddling, but alas they were too late.
The boat rocked and shook with the tsunami of falling miniature menaces. And out of the river they floated, in a mass of tails and squeals, out to the wide-open sea.
Not even the coastguards could find that fateful vessel. Our long-lost Francis and Mortimer.
Plaques were erected to their fine memory and tall tales are sung to this day, alongside the whisky and wine. The last infamous journey of two heroes, who saved the village from a plague of pests.
We salute you F&M, and your final misadventure. We salute you.
Cheers.