Reveries

Elizabeth Ivory was a hero, her achievements known far and wide.

Her war record was so effulgent that efforts to count her dead resulted in headaches. Research departments compiled lists but exact figures eluded them. The weight of her medals, bestowed upon her by the head of state for such abundant bloodshed, rendered necessary a second pair of shoulders. Charged with the task was Tony Bellcock, of ignoble birth. He accompanied her twenty-four/seven, wearing both her second and third military jackets (what better way to flaunt one’s accomplishments), so that they never left her side. His was a much coveted position.

Tony served her exquisitely, always either in mind but out of sight, or in sight but out of mind. He struck a perfect balance: always within earshot but never intrusive, always holding the right jacket the right way, the left jacket the left way, sleeves agape, or not, as required. The balance he struck was so perfect, in fact, that it earned him badges of his own.

Keen to impress his Ladyship, he chose to wear these honours on his own jacket whilst, of course, making sure never to outshine hers. His intention was to supplement her decorations, to garnish her main dish. His critics, however, were unforgiving.

Jealousy breeds injustice. Frequent appearances in the public domain brought him fame: people recognised him in the streets, media moguls bandied his image around like a beach ball, aristocrats hired him for dinner party speeches and invited him to chair conferences, and property magnates traded cheques for endorsements. His soaring popularity unnerved powerful people who sought to undermine him.

At a dinner party commemorating the death of a man who championed the oppression of the working class, Tony spoke softly to his neighbour of stronger taxation for the rich. There was a hush. Had everyone heard? Silverware clattered against china, eyes glanced up from platefuls of purple asparagus and beef cheeks with salsify. On the other side of the room, a moustachioed vicar expectorated into a Lady’s glass. Did someone say stronger taxation for the rich? Was it Tony Bellcock, that ragamuffin whose rise to fame was seemingly unstoppable? At last—something solid to work with! Two dozen men in black hats and shiny shoes stormed into the banquet hall, seized Tony by the scruff of his neck and indelicately asked him to bloody well come with us.

The headlines the following day were lethal. (Even before the likes of Maxwell and Murdoch, national press was rife with sensationalism and partisanship). As soon as the news leaked of Bellcock’s burgeoning anti-establishmentarianism, political connections sparked like wildfire and vitriolic words appeared in the red-tops:

Is This The Most Dangerous Man In Britain?

HIS Hand Is In YOUR Trousers

Jury In: Bellcock Bonkers!

Elizabeth’s advisors ran around like chickens without heads, barking such tomfoolery as might make a pudding crawl. They absolutely could not have their Lady’s reputation marred by dysentery, nor dissidence. Action was required post-haste.

They bade Elizabeth see it from their perspective. Bellcock’s incentive all the while was aesthetic supremacy—he was just using her for his own ends. It was belittlement by proxy; he planned to rob her of her medals, her fame, her fortune. He was a shrewd strategist, and they were lucky to have found him out. Nobody could be permitted to outshine Elizabeth Ivory, whose heart was made of steel.

Elizabeth needed little convincing. She was litigious and notoriously brash. She acted with the clout and narrow-minded dogmatism which characterised those colonial wars in which she had earned her accolades. Tony Bellcock would be executed, forth-bloody-with.

But this would be no ordinary death, no run-of-the-mill punishment. Bellcock would set a grievous example, thus pre-empting libel and future name-tarring, and nip it firmly in the bud. No more conspiracy, only fear.

Using classified technology only accessible to those with extreme political influence, Tony was condensed to a cube. A pulpy mass of limbs and tissues and left-leaning blood. No one protested. Elizabeth’s peers joked about pliability. It was a great time to be alive, for them.

He was falsely reconstituted. His new body bulged and swelled in odd places. He was horned and web-footed, his ‘evil deeds manifest’. Many bought it, and bought old tomatoes to fling at him. Bellcock was erected on a pedestal in the shopping district. Passers-by jeered, lobbed and gyrated in self-righteous ecstasy. It was an act of political terror, disguised as one of holy cleansing.

A week later it was moved to its proper destination, amid cries of consternation. Tony now stood at 61m, just yards away from the Elizabeth Tower.

Named after Elizabeth Ivory herself, the tower was built as a tribute to her imperial track record, and it housed within it the Ceremony Bell. This diabolical bell was assumed to be secure, just like the façade of the government which presided over it. But never was a lesson more duly learned than that of assumptions, and what they make of ‘u’ and ‘me’.

Tony was held up high against a ravishing sky upon his rostrum for all to see. Political debate seethed below the surface of the city but the newspapers focused on other things. Three days after Tony was relocated, a grassroots movement dubbed Believe in Bellcock took hold among the public. Young, impassioned and communicating instantly via a complex network of cups and taut strings, they took the city by storm.

After days of planning, a solution was proffered. The city’s deftest, most esteemed apple-lobber, whose background was in orchard-keeping and cricket, was to pitch a Braeburn to strike Tony’s pulverised cadaver from its vulgar position, causing it to land with mathematical precision upon a stretcher laid out below. Thence he would travel to a proper burial site.

It was a controversial plan. Many railed against the operation, deeming it quixotic, the blueprints incomplete, the physics unsound. Indeed, with so many variables, no one could guarantee success. Regardless, it went ahead.

Hurling her missile with unprecedented power, the people’s female Adonis, though singularly mighty, misjudged the howling wind. At first the apple flew admirably, piercing the sky like a red-green bullet. It struck Tony as planned, but nicked his side rather than punching him with full aplomb. He was knocked from his position. The crowd roared. The apple, whose post-collision course had been left to fate, ricocheted at a degree any trained mathematician could have predicted and struck the Ceremony Bell, knocking it from its elephantine bell-hooks.

The bell sighed, and the crowd sighed with it. No one could have predicted what happened next.

Bellcock fell, as did the bell. They somersaulted with incongruous grace. No one took pictures. After three and a half seconds of silence, Tony and his gargantuan pursuant came crashing down. The noise could be heard from Peckham to St Pancras. Ears pricked throughout the suburbs. Once the dust had settled, all that remained of Tony, having been largely but not entirely concealed by the cavernous bronze dome, were three appendages. Protruding from the unforgiving rim were his toe, his knee, and his cock. The event was attributed to Our Lord.

The national papers milked it for all it was worth and then, like everything in history, Bellcock’s death was rewritten to fit the narrative. Elizabeth Ivory went on to live a fruitful life, earning still more decorations and acclaim. Bellcock’s post mortem palaver had little effect on her private life, and marred her image not a jot. She died in her bed many years later, with a smile on her face.

Her passing is commemorated annually by many institutions, including secondary schools. Whilst some celebrate dispassionately, others take it upon themselves to mark the occasion with pizzazz. One school with a particularly pompous Ivory Day tradition was attended two-score years later by a girl called Josie Haybottom, whose story illustrates the fervour with which some institutions mark Ivory Day.