Fun and Games
For Robin and Nicki, who are both rather
partial to the idea of kilted Cartwrights.
As dusk drew in across
“Could we play a different game, just for a change?” the blonde pleaded, giving Ben a beseeching look. He leant over and patted her on the knee.
“Would you prefer a nice game of chess?” he suggested. This was the only other board game in existence on the Ponderosa and, handily enough, the same board was used for both games. Ben was not exactly parsimonious, but he’d not become one of the wealthiest men in the territory by squandering money. Mind you, one of the marketing chappies had a terribly good idea for a Bonanza Rummy game, which could prove to be a handy source of extra revenue. “Or we could nip outside for a quick game of horseshoes, if you prefer?”
The Giggly Sisters exchanged pained looks. They were longing for a change!
“You wouldn’t happen to have Twister stashed away somewhere?” ventured the redhead, hoping against hope. Hoss shook his head sadly.
“I ain’t built for them sorts of games!”
Adam looked perturbed. “Don’t forget my bad back!” he protested, envisaging all sorts of unseemly wriggling, if the broad grin on Joe’s face was anything to go by.
“Now, Adam!” Ben chided. “That back of yours isn’t all that bad, is it?”
“I couldn’t carry Joe in the Honour Of Cochise!” Adam countered swiftly.
Joe shot him a venomous look. “But you managed to drag Kane half-way across the desert in The Crucible!”
“That was completely different!” Adam protested.
An evil grin flitted across the redhead’s face. “Yup, The Honour of Cochise featured the whole family, while The Crucible was Adam-centred!”
“Don’t forget those seminal shots of me in the bath!” Joe added. The thoughts this conjured up caused the blonde to take several deep breaths and put her head between her knees for a moment.
Ben tried desperately to think of another activity to keep his sons and the girls occupied. He dismissed a fencing tournament: once again, the epees had vanished – he really would have to have a word with Continuity one day. Although, in a pinch the unfeasibly large poker and other assorted fireside tools could be used.
“What sort of things do you do in
A gleam lit the redhead’s eyes and Ben instantly regretted asking. “We play toss the caber and do Scottish country dancing,” she suggested. “You’ve got lots of suitable trees for tossing the caber, and Hoss is just the right size to do it.”
“You lot are good at dancing,” the blonde said, excitedly. “We could have some dancing.” She glanced around and saw that the epees were missing. “If we could just scare up some swords, you could do a sword dance!”
For a horrified minute, Adam envisioned he and Joe trying to dance carrying massive swords, but the blonde read his mind and put that idea to rest. “You lay the swords on the ground, crossed over and dance around them,” she explained.
“But you can’t do any of this unless you’re wearing a kilt!” exclaimed the redhead. “It’s just not the same. The skirl of the pipes and the swirl of the kilt.” She sighed. In actual fact, the redhead hated pipes close to, but she wasn’t going to share that thought with Ben. Not actually being Scottish (despite the accent) the blonde loved the pipes and enjoyed nothing more than hearing the pipes and drums in the brisk winds that generally plague most part of Scotland.
Joe suddenly recalled that he’d stuck the epees behind the picture of the scary Indian in his bedroom. However, with darkness falling, he certainly wasn’t about to go and retrieve them now. That picture was terrifying in broad daylight, but in the half light of dusk… He shivered slightly. No wonder so many fanfic writers had him constantly suffering from nightmares – that picture was truly terrifying.
“I’d like a kilt!” Hoss piped up. He could just see himself – pleats swaying to the primitive rhythms as he marched proudly along, a bass drum balanced on his broad, manly chest.
Situated on the sidelines, the wardrobe lady blanched. She knew that a traditional kilt required 8 yards of pure wool tartan, an expensive business at the best of times. Casting an experienced glance at Hoss, she estimated that a properly fitting kilt would require at least 12 yards of material and would take up a good deal of the clothing budget for the rest of the series. Then a thought struck her and she smiled broadly: trimming a couple of inches off Joe’s trouser legs would be one way to recoup costs and no-one would ever notice!
“Tell me more about this caber-tossing!” Hoss begged and as the redhead explained the intricacies of throwing a tree trunk so that it landed upon its end and then tumbled its length, the blonde got down onto her knees, pulled out an inch tape and began to measure Hoss’ calves in order to knit him a pair of kilt socks. She gulped loudly when she looked at her measuring tape, double checked it and then decided to switch to a larger size of knitting needles. Or rather, two pairs of double-ended needles, as socks are knitted on four pins. The blonde could “turn a heel” with the best of them!
Hoss was in seventh heaven: the Highland Games promised all sorts of sports at which he could excel! As well as caber tossing, there was shot putting and tug of war.
“You have to wear a singlet, or sleeveless t-shirt with your kilt when competing,” advised the redhead. Hoss nodded eagerly. This would be an ideal opportunity to show off his musculature. He smiled happily in Adam’s direction.
“You ain’t the only Cartwright with a hairy chest, you know!”
As viewers will confirm, Adam was not the
most athletic of the Cartwright brothers.
However, Adam thought there ought to be some Scottish sport he would be good at and he tried a smile in the redhead’s direction as he asked, “And what else is there? Something I’d be good at?”
Glancing dubiously at him, the redhead
frowned. Her hair had miraculously straightened itself that day, and was yet
another vibrant colour of red. Adam found the effect rather confusing. Perhaps
this was why he was suddenly being nice to her, as he usually couldn’t stand
her. But try as she might, she couldn’t think of a single
“I’m sure you’d have fun at the ceildh afterwards,” she ventured, thinking of all those church ceildhs where the minister’s four sons had swung the kilt with the best of them, even if they had been wearing rugby shirts with their kilts. “You’re quite a good dancer.”
To say Adam was put out was an understatement. He wanted to show off his manly hairy chest. The girls were carefully not thinking of the unfeasible amounts of fur the two oldest Cartwright sons sported on their chests. Joe’s golden smoothness was much more their style. The thought of Joe caused them to sigh in unison.
“What about me?” Joe asked, plaintively. He did that so well. Okay, he did everything so well.
“You could help us support the beer tent,” the blonde suggested. “That’s a very important part of the games.”
“Plus, we can all do the Dashing White Sergeant!” the blonde added, thinking how handy it was that this particular dance stipulated one man to two women. You’d almost think it had been invented especially for the sisters and Joe! Paw looked boot faced at this and she hastened to reassure the little bear.
“Grandpa Ben will do the Gay Gordons with you!”
Paw looked delighted, but Ben had an expression of supreme dourness that would rival that of John Knox, who was not renowned for being a barrel of laughs. It was bad enough to have these two girls living in the house and almost beyond the pale that Joe and the blonde had a furry animal as their child substitute, but to have to partner the creature in a dance with a very dubious name…!
Sensing the unease, Joe jumped into the fray. “I will get to wear a kilt, won’t I?”
“Of course you will, poppet!” the redhead reassured him. A frisson of delight ran up her spine as she envisaged Joe’s neat butt encased in swinging tartan pleats.
Adam smiled sardonically. He had no intention of clothing himself in some outlandish garb. “Ah, but will you be a proper Scot?”
Joe returned Adam’s gaze steadily. “I already am, brother!”
Ben buried his head in his hands, while the entire wardrobe department celebrated with a spontaneous Strathspey. They’d often noticed Joe’s cavalier attitude towards underwear and thought it a splendid tribute to their tailoring skills that he did not wish to spoil the cut of his trousers with visible lines.
In sheer desperation, Ben was just about to suggest a stirring game of “Murder in the Dark”, but Joe and Adam were still staring with undisguised animosity at one another. Perhaps that was tempting fate just a little too far, although it was hard to see how Adam could claim to mistake his baby brother for a wolf while actually inside the house.
Luckily, Hop Sing staggered forth, carrying a steaming platter at shoulder height. Adam sniffed ostensibly and started to declaim loudly and with great portent.
“Great Chieftain of the puddin' race!” Adam gave Rabbie Burn’s tribute to the Haggis great dramatic emphasis, but sadly the allusion was lost on Hoss.
“Who are you callin’ a puddin’?” he demanded. Adam turned pale and started to back away. He wished he were wearing a kilt: the sporran would provide an admirable degree of protection and, in an emergency, could be swung at one’s opponent’s head.
For a moment it looked as if things were going to turn rather nasty. Then Joe had the bright idea of drawing out a hopscotch grid in the dust that covered the peculiar gap at the side of the stairs. Silence descended, except for the toss and clunk of the peever, followed by the thunk, thunkety thunk as the combatants jumped their way up the grid and back down again.
Sitting on the sofa, knitting industriously away, the blonde smiled at Ben in a distracted fashion. She’d always thought he would look stunning in a fair-isle pullover and it would make a lovely change from his normal leather waistcoat. Perhaps she could also knit Buck a matching tam o’shanter? It would be handy for pulling over his eyes when he had one of his numerous little dozes.
As a particularly loud jump reverberated throughout the house, Ben recalled the Highland Clearances of the 1700s. Presumably, there were vast tracts of Scottish wilderness, where all that could be heard was the wind whistling through the glens and the eerie cries of long-dead clansmen. Perhaps he could have a little word with Mr Dortort (or The Creator, as he was known on set) about a new series, where a brave pioneer conquered a hostile environment. Only this time the hero would definitely not have any children…
The End
Giggly Sisters Productions
August 2003