Pawser sat despondently on the 8.05am to Dorking, rail ticket in one hand, change from the £20 Mr Roberts had lent him in the other. The other sole occupant of the carriage, a rail worker in a yellow florescent jacket on his way home from a night shift slumped unconsciously in his seat occasionally omitting a stream of intelligible grunts before drifting off again into a disturbed sleep.

Pawser stared dejectedly out of the window. When they stopped briefly at Clapham Junction he could only look on enviously at the commuter packed trains clattering slowly up the line toward Waterloo. As the ragged tower blocks of the city began to slip away into the distance, replaced by the long formations of red brick terraced houses of the suburbs Pawser reflected on the events of the last few days. The unexplained Christmas cards belittling Jocko McBride and Mr Bentley, Killermans shooting of the poodle, the missing money, chemical suits and rabbits, the bewitching one eyed librarian, the blackmail notes in Mc Bride's office all crowned by the unfortunate incident with hedge-maze Betty that had led to his current predicament. With Jocko now gunning for him his days with the service were numbered. Suspension would be followed by an inquiry which would inevitability be followed by sacking.

It all amounted to a depressing catalogue of events which he would have time to stew in over Christmas. As his mind turned to Penny and what he was going to tell her an awful chasm of realisation opened up in his stomach. With all the events of the last few days he'd forgotten - about Penny and her grotesque infatuation with Nobby the pie man.

*

It had started in May earlier that year, long before any of this current nonsense had begun. A Sunday Pawser recalled, and like most Sundays Pawser was having a lie in. It allowed him to gently soak out the excesses of the prior evening usually spent down at the Sleepless Owl with Earl, sampling guest ales and discussing the things in life that really mattered ,the renovation of old Land Rovers and the place of the British Roman snail in French cuisine. That morning Pawser lay there all toasty, head partially buried under the eiderdown listening to the small group of lively campanologist that had taken up residence in his head in celebration of the, 'Bell Ringers Tackle Temperance Ale,' that he and Earl had wilfully consumed to excess the night before.

Downstairs he could hear Penny clattering about in the kitchen, cleaning the Aga as she always did on Sunday before oiling the horse's tack, a prelude to one of her long rides across the North Downs. The aroma of roast coffee beans drifted up the stairs and the sound of the doves cooing happily in the bleached white dovecote in the garden outside lifted his spirits. Life was just as he generally found it, just Tickety Boo.

Pawser was looking forward to a comfortable Sunday morning borne of habit. He opened one eye and peered up cautiously through the skylight. A more perfect day he could not imagine, the bright ice blue sky promised an idyllic day for fiddling and polishing his old Land Rover. But not yet, a little bit more snoozing was in order first.

A small portion cloud shuffled its way into his view eclipsing one corner of the skylight. He closed his eyes. He opened them again. A little more had crawled across the skylight, small and angular, it slowly slunk into frame and then settled in full view. For a moment he studied it surprised in its lack of progress, then closed his eyes again. There was something that bothered him. He pulled down the duvet and stared intently at the odd shape. For all its welcoming white fluffiness there was something deeply disconcerting about this cloud. Twisting his head sideways an image began to evolve. A round forehead, a sharp jutting chin, prominent nose and what looked like a bushy moustache. Shit! It was that oddball Killerman, come to haunt him in his bed. He closed his eyes, groaned and turned on his side.

He wasn't getting out of bed until it had gone away.

His ears pricked up. Far off he could make out a noise like ice being crushed, it steadily increased in intensity until it was right outside. Then with a scrunch it stopped. Pawser sat up in bed. Someone had driven down the drive! It was Sunday and someone had actually driven down their drive! He lay back and calmed himself. He wasn't bothered. It was probably a neighbour who had driven up to ask why a cloud in the shape of Killerman's face was skulking over their house. He wasn't going to get involved. Penny would just have to explain it to them. He slumped back into bed. Another noise, a car or maybe a van door slamming, the sound of someone walking slowly over the gravel to the kitchen door. A heavy slow perambulation. Pawser deduced its owner was elderly, portly, possibly both or maybe they were carrying something heavy. Perhaps it was all of these, a fat old pensioner carrying their wheelchair across the gravel.

A bang on the door. A murmur of voices.

He dozed and then jolted awake -he'd hadn't heard the slow walk back to the car or the van or whatever it was. Had he slept though it? Was the van still there? Should he look? No, it would be too much, Killermans nonce and a visitor downstairs. ON a Sunday!

He turned on his side, pulled the duvet right up over his head and drifted. Raised voices, raucous laughing downstairs. This was unforgivable. He threw the covers off his head and lay there looking up at the skylight. Killerman's cloud had gone, evicted by a posse of dark rain filled clouds. Either he'd been asleep for a while or their outsized, laughing visitor had bought the clouds with them. The Bastard.

Pawser stumped out of bed, irritatingly tugging on his dressing down and easing into his cold slippers before tugging the curtain aside to discover the source of his discomfort. On the drive sitting uneasily next to Penny's gleaming Volvo loitered a dirty white van. On its side in large gothic gold letters sprawled the magisterial legend, 'Nobby Slowhand. Fine Meats and Pies. By Appointment.'

The appearance of a trader on the premises struck Pawser as rather rum given the large, 'No Traders,' sign he had stuck on the five bar gate some years ago. This allied with Penny's lack of patience with door to door sales people piqued Pawser's curiosity. It was no good, sleep- in be dammed. He would have to go to investigate.

Slowly descending the stairs Pawser was able to see through the partially open door. At the end of a pair of extremely stout legs a large pair of muddy boots rested on one of the kitchen chairs. Pawser was somewhat taken aback. Even he was not allowed to cross the threshold to the homestead still heeled, and the placing of one's feet on the chairs was in Penny's eyes one step above licking ones knife at dinner in the social etiquette rankings.

He pushed the door open. A large wicker basket lay open in front of Penny, its contents spilled out across the table. An assortment of pies, meats and sausages crowded the table and the kitchen oozed with the sweet smell of hot steak and kidney pie. On the range there was a discarded tea service bearing two half filled cups of tea. Pawser noted with some suspicion that the tea set was the one they'd received from Penny's parents on their marriage and that was strictly out of bounds for all except visiting members of the WI. However more unbelievable still was on the table stood one of Pawser's bottles of wines -uncorked!

'Pawser, Pawser,' Penny gushed excitedly seeing Pawser at the door, 'you must meet Nobby. He's just opened a pie shop in the village. Isn't that thrilling?'

Nobby had the pallor of an undertaker and the girth of a man who enjoyed his own produce to excess. He sat sprawled on two of the wooden kitchen chairs to accommodate his enormous buttocks. His face, round as the waxing moon looked as if it had melted after many years sweating in front of his oven. His smooth bald head had slowly sagged into his face leaving streamlets of creases down his face. His fleshy forehead sagged over his black olive eyes. He wore a chef's hat and large checked chef's whites.

Pawser was not thrilled. A number of other expressions entered his head. He didn't have to check very carefully to know the word, 'thrilled' did not figure amongst them.

'Hello matey, fancy a pie?' Nobby raised a fat arm, took a slug of what Pawser took to be his wine then casually pointed to display his wares scattered across the table.

Actually Pawser didn't fancy a pie as it happened. Not from this fat dullard lounging across his chairs, drinking his wine. An oaf who'd had the affront to turn up uninvited to his abode on a Sunday morning. It was clear Nobby had caught Penny with her defences down. It was now the time to put the loafing imbecile back in his place.

'Did you see the sign on the gate?' Pawser asked obsequiously. He causally picked up his wine, pushed the cork back in the bottle and placed it on the shelf above the Aga out of fatty's reach.

'What, this one?' and with one large grubby hand Nobby tossed a rusted sign on the table.' It fell off when I opened the gate matey. I'd get your money back from the bumpkin that put it up for you. Poor show if you ask me.' Nobby looked a Penny and they both roared with laughter.

Pawser stood humourless and waited for this sudden bout needless hysteria to die down.

'It was Pawser, Pawser put it up!' screeched Penny barely able to contain herself.

Off they both went again. Nobby slapping the table, wiping tears from his eyes. Penny, evidently so overcome with Nobbys eloquent drollness had to clutch the top of the chair to stop herself doubling up and sliding under the table.

Pawser was rather miffed at being treated this way in his own house. As any self respecting man should know to go into another man's house and cast aspersions on his handyman skills is just not the done thing . To do it in front of his wife was taking things one step too far, it was a positively disrespectful.

'It's all about doing the job right.' said Nobby, turning to Penny. 'Look at my pies for instance, made with love and an artisan's attention to detail using only the best ingredients with recipes passed down through my family for generations. Do it right and you get the best results. Sloppy approach means sloppy results.' Nobby picked up his glass and noticing it was empty, nonchalantly waved it at Pawser for a refill.

Pawser ignored him. 'I'm not inclined to get too excited, after all it is only a pie.'

Nobby eyes widened as if he had received a sharp kick to the groin which he had'nt but Pawser considered he would quite happily have obliged provided Nobby had the grace to allow him a him a couple of moments to nip back and change his slippers into his walking boots.

'Only a pie!' Nobby cried. 'Only a pie! I'll have you know the pie was bought to us by the Romans who got it from the Greeks. Puff pastry was invented in the Renaissance in the time of Titian and Di Vinci. The pie is a mark of civilisation matey. The humble meat pie is the cornerstone of western society. The French who know about these things have over fifty thousand pastry cooks solely dedicated to pie making. Where would the Americans be without apple pie or the British without steak and kidney pie? It's the essence of what we are, without pies we are only one step away from anarchy!' Nobby slammed his hand down on the table as if to make his point and waved his empty glass at Penny.

'Oh Nobby, you're so passionate about it. I'd love to be like you,' exclaimed Penny enthusiastically.

'I've left some stuff in the car,' Pawser remarked dourly, left cold by Nobbys well practiced 'only a pie patter.' 'You'll show yourself out when you're done won't you? Don't forget your pies.' Pawser left the back door in somewhat of a huff and strode across the gravel to the wooden shed. He needed a little tinkering to calm himself down after this encounter with the over inflated, crust scoffing nerk.

Passing Nobby's van Pawser stopped and decided the pie transporter was worthy of a closer inspection. Glancing back Pawser made sure he could not be seen from the kitchen windows before making a slow circle of the van and casting his expert eye over it. Pawser knew a few things about vans. After all you did'nt spend twenty years not renovating a Land Rover without ending up knowing a thing or two about vans.

It was a small Renault of the sort favoured by blokes in the building trade who would turn up offering to do your drive. Renault with typical Gallic flare spotting a gap in the market had filled it with something rather less expensive than a transit and marginally faster than a bicycle. Peering through the dirty windows revealed that Nobby clearly had a penchant for choco bars of the nutty variety, cokes and cheap sandwiches. The passenger seat and floor well were full of discarded packaging, old invoices and drink cans. Standing back Pawser's eye revealed that the French had again scored highly by designing a van whose fork stanchions rotted quicker than a ripe banana with a red rash of rust spread across both wings. Round the rear of the van things did not improve much. There was evidence of a recent knock, with a big dent having been covered by a splash of white paint -Dulux he supposed. A bit of new coat hanger wire held on one end of the bumper. The signage 'By Appointment' looked recently added and round the front a close inspection revealed the tax disc to be eight weeks out of date. Her Majesty would no doubt not have approved. Pawser stood back to take it all in, without doubt the pie transporter was a heap of junk, rusted to the hilt and full of the debris of a pie munching, gorger with no self respect. Nobby was clearly living the dream.

Checking he could not be observed from the kitchen Pawser dropped to one knee and stuffed the plump venison sausage that he had palmed from the kitchen table during Nobbys ,'only a pie rant,' up the rusted exhaust. With a little bit of effort he was able to ram the full length of the sausage into the pipe.

Pawser was walking back to the house when he was greeted by a beaming Nobby leaving with his large wicker basket slung under his arm. Seeing Pawser the smile faded quickly from his chubby lips.

'Don't stand too close to the van matey. I might clip you when I reverse.' Nobby growled.

'Oh, it's got reverse has it?' replied Pawser brightly.

'Well bye matey,' said pie man gaily to Pawser seeing Penny had come out to see him off. 'Thanks for the wine. I've just finished the bottle. I hope that was OK?' Nobby sat down heavily in the car seat. The engine clattered into life.

'What a lovely man,' Penny exclaimed as she waved the knocking vehicle off down the drive.

'More like a Pratt,' muttered Pawser grumpily.

'What?' Penny looked at him sharply.

'I said it's a death trap .That van, it's a death trap.' Let's hope it is, reflected Pawser then at least the pillock won't be back disturbing our Sunday mornings.

'I don't think so. Look, it's got By Appointment on the side. He says he does her garden parties, knows all the celebrities.' Penny was clearly impressed by the pie-transporter.

Pawser considered it wasn't worth his trouble giving her the inside track. Penny had clearly made her mind up over Nobbys virtues and they obviously had ended up on the cherubic end of her angelic pie appreciation scale.

Nobbys van was almost at the end of drive. Pawser was beginning to think his handwork was might have all been in vain but he was rewarded when a loud bang shattered the early morning silence. A small black object curved in an arc through the space between them. Pawser reached out to pull Penny aside allowing it to whistle past and land with a loud thawk on the window of the Volvo.

'My God! What was that?' exclaimed Penny.

'It's OK. It's French, they all do that.'

'Do they?' Penny looked perplexed.

They watched as the van lurched to a halt. Nobby got out and inspected the back. He looked up not expecting them to still be there. He looked pissed off.

Pawser waved cheerfully and shouted, 'Got a problem matey? Oh and don't forget to close the gate .We don't want any old riff raff in. It is Sunday you know.'

'Pawser, don't be so rude.' Penny poked Pawser in the ribs.

Pawser walked down the drive to attend to the gate which Nobby had neglected to close having driven off like a novice driver, kangarooing down the road with the occasional bang and puff of black smoke shooting out of his exhaust. When he returned he found Penny standing by the car looking at the smeared chunk of meat on the windscreen.

'What do you think it is? It looks like poo?' Penny inspected the smear closely before cautiously taking a sniff.

Pawser put his finger in it, took a big scoop out and put into his month.

'Oh Pawser, that's disgusting,' Penny looked dismayed.

It tasted of strong venison with a splash of tarragon with a hint of thyme and had the smooth texture of a fine pate. Killerman would have approved.

'Yes, your right,' Pawser pulled a face,' I think it's bullshit.'