Les Scoots

There was tremendous Bell ringing and hammering at the front door the other afternoon. I was dozing in my chair, in what I regard as 'my secure hour'. So Mrs Poole went to 'repel boarders'. “What was it?”
“It was a boy scout wanting a sandwich;” she said, “or rather 10 sandwiches.”
“Why 10 sandwiches?”
“Because there are about 10 scouts”.
“Did you not tell them what the Black Prince's Archers did to the Boy Scouts after the sack of Poitiers?”
“Yes but they said that is for the honour of France and they were hungry.” Then Aurora came and spoke to them and now they have gone. I am not surprised. Aurora is our neighbour and very fierce and she had seen the scouts off and a good job too. They would have got short shrift off me. I could tell you a thing or two about French Scouts and now I will.
Christian had invited us out to Lunch in Paris. It had been a memorable meal. The restaurant specialised in Duck and Burgundy. Both of which were excellent, so excellent that even a dumbo like me realised that there had to be a catch somewhere; there was. I knew that Christian was quite grand, but in fact he was grand beyond the belief of ordinary people like us. After some exceedingly rare brandy had been produced, Christian turned on me – he understood that we lived in quite a wild spot? Exceedingly ‘sauvage’. I assured him. Would it be a suitable place for his Scouts? He inquired? In fact he called them ‘Scoots’ and that is how I remember them. Well, it was a bit rough, I thought but that it seemed was no matter. These were top of the line scoots. In deed they could not be compared with or mixed with ‘ordinary' Scouts. The ‘Scoots' came from some of the finest families in France. I was to understand that they were from ancient Papist families who were so far to the political right that they regarded the Papacy as dangerously left wing. I had another sniff of brandy and swilled my thoughts round with it. I knew that the Honourable, my neighbour, was a great man for knobbly knees and toggles. I also knew that he had given his estate over to 2,000 scouts from round the world [His gamekeeper had fled to Wester Ross] and I thought that few Scoots would not make things worse. The Hon agreed with me, especially as the Keeper was too far away to argue. I passed the good news on to Christian, but I told him that the World Scouts would be leaving just as his men arrived. It seemed that the Scoots did not mix much with what they regarded as lesser Scouts. So as the Scouts moved out of camp The Scoots moved in. We arrived home from France to find that the Scoots had already established a ' reputation'. They had attended a village cricket match and by way of living off the country had consumed all the teas. Confronted by massed cricket bats, they had reluctantly agreed to wash up and when no one was looking they had filled the kettle with washing up liquid – so when the kettle had next been boiled....
Mrs Poole and I [as honoured guests] were invited to lunch by the Wolf Patrol. Jolly good it was too. If I had not known better, I would have said that it was roast pheasant. “Ah” said Kansas –“a slight mix up there”. It seemed that The Honourable had called to welcome them and they had understood him to say that they should make free with the Estate. Mind you, 'understanding' was an on going problem. None of the Scoots spoke English. They relied on Kansas who spoke it heavy with Yiddish. No one seemed to quite understand how he had got there, but now that he was there they dare not let him go because of 'the Misunderstandings'. We had one on the next day. The local garage was holding an ATV scramble on the Estate and had erected a wonderful course with ropes. These disappeared over night. I knew where they were because, I had seen them during a visit to The Leopard Patrol who had erected a splendid hammock system suspended from the roof of their hut. The hammock system just happened to be made from twisted rope. “It was”, said Kansas “an unfortunate misunderstanding”. They came thick and fast now; especially with the return of the Keeper. It was quite right and proper that the Scoots were strong on Hygiene. The Wolves had set their camp next to a pheasant cover. In this they dug a deep trench and covered it with brush and sticks making some excellent camouflage to cover up waste products. It was unfortunate that the Keeper should have attempted to walk across it, although 'unfortunate' was not amongst the many words that he used.
They say that all good things come to an end – the visit of The Scoots had to be included. On their final evening, I walked across to their camp to wish them farewell. I heard noise – growing noise and as I opened the gate at the bottom of their lane the noise grew and very nearly trampled me in huge knobbly boots – down the lane came a trample of Scoots screaming with excitement. I soon saw why – hard behind them came the Keeper. He as brandishing a spade round his head and screaming:
“ FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF - YOU LITTLE BASTARDS!”
No doubt there was an explanation for all this unhappiness, but I did not think this the time or the place to enquire. So when the rush had passed, I made my way up to the Honourable's house and let him pour me a fighting dram, whilst I brought him up to snuff on local happenings. At last he held up his hand and said
“Willy, I want you to promise me that I shall never have to hear anything about Les Scoots again”. Well unless he reads this, I shall have kept my promise.