Mufti Day
“Grandad!
Grandad!”
A little
girl, with hair the colour of ripe peaches, is shouting at the top of her
voice. And can you guess who it is? Well it is three thirty in the afternoon,
after all, on a wintry Monday afternoon.
Well, of
course it’s Faith; out of breath and home.
Now, as
you know, there is nothing that Faith looks forward to more than coming home
from school. She rushes out of her stuffy classroom, the one that smells of
coconut mats, dried onion powder and dead hamster cage, pelters helter-skelter
down streets, skids round the corner into Lumpslap Close, fusses at the gate
latch of number 36, skitters up the path, yanks the door and slams it behind
her.
On different
days, she walks irritably with Morgan and Patience - that is, of course, when
her sister remembers to make her, but Faith finds them so slow. They never,
ever hurry.
Today, in
any case, Morgan was hanging around on the corner by the shop with his mates,
talking about rubbish like football, You Tube and girls, while Patience and her
pals giggled at them in a quite ghastly way while doing odd things like filing
their nails and taking selfies in awkward poses.
It was
quite easy to give Patience the slip and dash home.
“Grandad!
Grandad!” Faith hurled herself on the old sofa and tipped the contents of her
bag on the floor where they made a tatty heap. She listened carefully for
noises from upstairs. Where was he? Well, he might have been doing yoga or
having his sixties power nap. But, no, it was quiet. Was she alone? Should she
run upstairs or look in the garden? Faith scrabbled through the heap in front
of her, looking for a particular piece of paper that her teacher, Mrs Gridney,
had given her earlier.
“Grandad!
Where are you? I’ve got something to show you!”
Suddenly
there was a blood curdling thud; a noise quite hard to describe. I suppose it
was a bit like the sound of a large wooden packing case - the ones that people
who move houses put their valuables into, rolled up in scuddy newspapers - falling
ten feet down and smacking into a tray of very ripe oranges that had been left
floating in the bath. Now, obviously, when this happens the oranges explode and
make a delightful mess all over the wallpaper. I urge you to try it.
Although
moving houses can be quite heavy. So, if you try that, do watch your back.
Faith
bounced off the sofa and rushed to the foot of the stairs. She peered upwards,
making out the shape of a small man rolling on the upstairs landing in pain,
groaning and wheezing like Mrs Dander’s dog after it had scoffed everything
from Grandad Biggert’s dustbin sacks on a Thursday. Before they were collected.
“Grandad?”
Is that you?” Faith rushed upstairs, where Grandad Patches was a heap, a little
bit tangled up in a rickety aluminium stepladder and large plastic container
full of trinkets. His tie-dye romper smock had managed to get itself snaggled
over the top of the steps; his head was inside the container and he was
waggling a finger at both as though they’d been very naughty indeed.
“Grandad?
Are you alright? What happened?”
Grandad,
in a bit of a daze, took the container off his head and blinked as various bits
of bric a brac toppled around him. He looked up at the ceiling at a hole that
led to the loft. “Look out, Faith, my dear!”
A large rectangular
piece of wood tumbled down and shanked him on the head. It was the roof of the
loft. “Darn and blast!” he shrieked in pain, blinking at the little girl in
front of him. Then he shook his fist at the wood, “you didn’t need to do that,
you know.” And he sat up, untangled his smock and felt his head gingerly for
lumps.
Faith
looked at the wooden loft hatch covering in surprise. “Can it hear us,
Grandad?” she asked. Grandad blinked some more, still looking a bit wobbly, so
she started doing a little war dance around it. “Darn and blast!” she shrieked,
happily, “darn and blast, darn and blast, darn and blast…” she continued and
every so often gave it a kick for good measure.
Grandad
stood up and stopped her. “Of course it can’t hear us, it’s a piece of wood.
It’s not alive.”
“But you
said wood came from trees. You said trees are alive. You said that in the
sixties, your group ‘Inspector Trembly’s Tree Huggers Pipe Band’ used to sing
to trees before the woodcutters…”
“Well…erm…did
I say that?” spluttered Grandad, looking uncomfortable.
“Yes you
did. Darn and blast, darn and blast, darn and…”
“Now,
Faith, please stop saying that.”
“Is it a
bit rude, Grandad?”
“Well,
yes, a bit rude.”
“But you
said you never, ever used rude words like Grandad Biggert does. You said it to
Morgan, when he said ‘old farter’ yesterday.”
“Yes. Oh
dear, I seem to have got myself in a bit of a pickle, haven’t I? Now you see,
Faith…please stop shouting, you see, Faith…well, those words are not really
rude because ‘darn’ could mean…er, sewing, and ‘blast’ could mean, ah, a man
with a bad cold who just lost a race and can’t pronounce his words.”
“Can’t
pronounce his words?”
“Yes.
When he said, ‘I came blast’, he probably meant to say ‘I came last’. Stuffy
nose, you see?”
“I think
so, Grandad.”
Grandad
Patches smiled, relieved, and ruffled Faith’s hair.
“Grandad?
What’s an ‘old farter’ then?”
“Let’s
go downstairs. By Jove, what have you got there, Faith?” And he took the paper
from her hand as they descended. Possibly too hastily, as he shepherded her
into the lounge.
As they
plonked themselves on the sofa, Grandad rubbed his head one last time and
unfurled the paper like a flag with a flourish. “Po,po,po,po…what’s all this,
then?” And he squinted at it, the way he does when he’s forgotten his glasses
or jabbed a spicy mung bean finger into his eye by accident when cooking.
“Goodness gracious me, well I never, Mufti Day. Well, well, well, that takes me
back…do you know what this is, Faith?”
“No, I
don’t Grandad. But Mrs Gridney said I had to dress up tomorrow. Why do I have
to do that?”
“Well of
course you’ll have to dress up,” said Grandad, stressing the word ‘course’ as
though it was either important or they were having one of those posh meals that
Ma occasionally served if her friends were coming for supper on coupons day.
“Of course you will. Why, yes. Now, do you know? I do recall, back in the
sixties when I worked as a film director for ‘Public Hazards and Nuisances’, we
directed a series of safety films…”
Faith
yawned. “What’s for tea?”
But
Grandad leapt to his feet. “There’s no time to lose, Faith!” And he dashed back
upstairs, leaving Faith to turn the paper over and over in her hands in
puzzlement.
A short time
later, to her astonishment and, I might add, irritation (if Faith knew that
word yet) they were heading back to school. Although her tummy was rumbling,
Grandad Patches took no notice and strode ahead through the biting air with a
purposeful gleam in his eye, holding Faith in one hand and a chain in the other.
Well more like a dog’s lead; the type that Mrs Dander would use to shackle her
dog to the gate post after it had been caught biting the tyres of passing cars.
“Pom,
pom, pom, pom,” he would mutter, in between some po, po, poing, as they
scuttled along the streets, past Patience and Morgan - now doing some juggling
and keepy-uppies with a tennis ball - until they were across the road from her
school, facing the bright green painted gates. And there they stopped.
They
stopped because of the traffic. Rivers of it flowed past, brightly coloured
streamers in red, yellow and silver, trailing like long, silent, electric
ribbons. But Grandad Patches did not look entranced, by no means. Instead he
rubbed his chin then looked at Faith. “Hmmm. I thought so, my dear, I thought
so. No wonder Mrs Gridney wants you to have a Mufti Day. Look at all this
traffic, polluting the lungs of the earth. And right in front of your school as
well.”
“But Mrs
Gridney says that electric cars don’t harm the world, Grandad.”
“Did
she? Po, po, po. Did she indeed. Pom, pom. Indeed, she did?”
“Are you
cross, Grandad? Grandad, will you say ‘darn and blast’ again?”
Grandad
shook the metal lead in his left hand and it rattled like old bones. “Just as
well we bought Mufti along, Faith, my dear. It seems that Mufti is needed
again. You know? I long suspected this might happen. Which is why I kept him
safe all these years in the loft. It was by pure chance that I happened to be
up there today in my romper smock looking through my treasure box for keepsakes.
And there he was, in the corner, fixing me with his one good beady eye.”
“What’s
a beady eye, Grandad?”
Well, if
you’re clever, you’ll probably be thinking that it means somebody’s keen eye
keeping a lookout for danger or French spies…but no, you’d be wrong, because
Grandad replied: “Well, it’s an eye made from a bead, Faith.”
Faith stared
at the lead because on the end of it was a large stuffed squirrel. It was on
wheels and looked a bit tatty – bits of fluff here and ripped stitches there. It
was not in the best of shape at all. And, Faith noticed, as it was pulled,
bumping along the pavement, one of the wheels squeaked. Loudly. Faith stared at it and scratched her head. “I
see.”
Which is
more than Mufti can do, isn’t it?
But
Grandad wasn’t really concentrating on Mufti, otherwise he might have said
more. Instead he was waiting for the traffic to slow down, or at least stop, so
that the three of them could safely cross the road.
But it
just kept coming. “Now where do you suppose the lollipop man is? There should
always be a lollipop man outside the school. The situation is much worse than
even I suspected. Yes, we must see Mrs Gridney at once, Faith.” And Grandad
Patches’ voice and stare was one that made Faith realise that there was something
very, very wrong indeed.
“Patches!
Patches! What the blazes have you got there, you blind old crumpet muncher?”
Grandad
Patches stiffened and the hairs prick-prick-pricked on the back of his neck as
though they knew danger was approaching. And, sure enough, a familiar shape was
shuffling towards them.
It was
none other than Grandad Biggert.
Now, I’m
not sure what it was, but he flicked something bright and smoky into the privet
bush alongside the pavement as he approached. He was pointing at Mufti the
Squirrel. “What the devil is that?”
“Grandad
Biggert. I might have known you might have something to do with this.” And Grandad
Patches moved Faith behind his back. Just to be on the safe side because he
spotted the rolled up newspaper in Grandad Biggert’s left hand and a gigantic
yellow pole in his right.
In point
of fact, Grandad Biggert was, for him, dressed very strangely indeed. He was in
a long white coat, wearing a peaked hat and pinned to the lapel of the coat was
a badge which had this slogan written on it: ‘Don’t be carried home in a
coffin, listen to and obey your Road Safety Officer boffin.”
Still,
Faith, being Faith, let go of Grandad Patches’ hand and ran towards him
laughing happily. “Grandad Biggert!” And she made as if to hug him until he
swiped at her head with the newspaper. “Get out of my way, wretched child. Unless
you have any lollipops. Do you have any lollipops?”
“No,
Grandad Biggert. I gave you the last one this morning.”
“Bah. I
thought not.” And he pushed her away and strode up to Grandad Patches. He began
jabbing him in the chest with the newspaper. “Get out of my way, you feeble,
pacifist bean gobbler. I need to buy some fags and you’re blocking my path.”
But
Patches refused to budge. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Grandad
Biggert smiled, but not in a nice way. “Well, yes I can, actually.” And he
pointed at his badge. “Obey. See? It says here. Obey. And that’s official. So
get out of the way.”
“What
badge? I can’t see that,” grumbled Grandad Patches, “Where’s my glasses?”
Tearing
the hat and coat off, Grandad Biggert threw the first onto the pavement and
thrust the other into Grandad Patches’ eye, who read the badge out loud. “Huh,
that doesn’t even scan,” he said, but I’m not sure what he meant by that,
anyway.
Looking
again at the badge, as if he couldn’t quite believe it, Grandad Patches
declared, in a rude voice, “where did you get that?” which was a reasonable
enough question, I think, given the situation.
Grandad
Biggert laughed in an evil way, like they do on those old films about Flash
Gordon and Emperor Ming that your dad will show you. Or the pirate ones. “Ha ha
harrr. You will never know.”
“He is
our lollipop man,” Faith
said, quite helpfully
“Is he?”
“Yes,
Grandad. If we want to cross the road we have to give him lollipops.”
Bristling
like a shaving brush, Grandad Patches glared. “Lollipops? Lollipops! Does he
indeed? He’s abusing that badge of trust. Well, the authorities will hear of
this. You scoundrel. I’ll see you are stripped of that coat and stick, you see
if I don’t.”
Making
noises like a chicken, Grandad Biggert strutted up and down the pavement in
front of them – first five paces away from Grandad Patches and then back. On
each return, he swiped Patches’ head with his rolled-up newspaper. “Pah! You
haven’t got the cojones, you truffle snuffler!”, he declared loudly, “and in
any case…” he continued, strutting away five paces, “…even if you did…”
strutting back and taking another hefty swot, “…you won’t get very far. I was
forced to do this by the council.”
Enraged,
Patches snatched the paper off him, halting another inward bound strike of the
bonce. “I demand you step down and stop these lollipop shenanigans. If you do
not…I’ll…I’ll report you!” he snapped.
“Step
down? Step down?” Biggert thrust his face forward as far as he dared, “What’s a
few lollipops to you, Patches, eh? And, in any case, think of the poor little
children having to cross this…” he waved at the ceaseless traffic, “…without
someone to help them. You won’t sleep easy with that on your conscience.”
“The
children don’t need you anyway, not with me around,” the other snapped in
return, “I am an expert on road safety. Why, back the sixties I directed
several award winning…” But Grandad Biggert didn’t wait long enough to hear the
end of the sentence. Suddenly he was tearing off down the road as fast as his
old legs could carry him.
Scratching
her head, Faith puzzled at the departing back. “Why has he disappeared? Look,
Grandad, he’s left his coat, hat and stick behind.” And she pointed at the pile
on the pavement.
“I don’t
know,” replied Grandad Patches. And then he turned. And blinked.
Strolling
towards them was another person in uniform, holding a different kind of stick
and tapping it against her thigh. Tap, tap, tap.
Grandad
Patches smiled. “Good afternoon, Police Constable Muff. How nice to see you.”
But PC
Muff didn’t return the smile. Indeed, she looked rather cross. But then she
always does, doesn’t she? After all, a policewoman’s lot is not a happy one
these days, is it? In fact, she
positively growled. “Grandad Patches. I’ve had reports of a lollipop man
stealing sweeties from children in the vicinity of this school. There are some
angry mothers down at the station. That’s not you, is it?”
Shuffling
sideways so that his body partly concealed the pile on the pavement, he
coughed, “No, no, no, of course not. I believe the man you’re after went that
way.” And he pointed towards where Grandad Biggert had recently disappeared.
PC Muff
looked at him suspiciously. “Are you sure?”
“Why
yes. In fact, we’re only here because of Mufti Day. It is my belief that we
need to make people more aware of the dangers. Mufti can only help. Did you
know, that during the sixties, I was in charge of…”
But PC
Muff had gone.
In the
meantime, Faith had unsteadily picked up the bright, yellow pole that Grandad
Biggert had discarded in his haste to escape. On closer inspection, it was in
fact striped, yellow and red. And on the top was a large saucer shaped sign
containing bold words which read ‘Stop! Children Crossing!’ Now, the peculiar
thing was that, as soon as she waved it at the road, like a magician with a
wand, all the brightly coloured traffic screeched to a halt.
And
then, if she stopped waving, they started up again. So, Faith tried it a few
more times.
Traffic
braked and squealed. Coughed and started. Braked and squealed. Started again.
“Wow,” breathed Faith, impressed, as though she had discovered a brand-new
colour for crayoning in. “Look, Grandad.”
“Excellent!”
smiled Grandad Patches. He gathered up the hat and coat, ignored some angry
looks from drivers, seized the pole and they crossed the road, dragging Mufti
the Squirrel behind them.
Once
they were inside the school, Grandad began shouting. “Mrs Gridney? Mrs Gridney?
Is anybody here?”
There
was no answer.
“Po, po,
po,” muttered Grandad, “now where do you suppose everybody is?”
Shouting
once more, the two of them entered Faith’s empty classroom. Not even Mr
Muggins, the caretaker, was anywhere to be seen. Faith sat down at her tiny
desk and Grandad Patches, being too big for the seat next to her, perched on
the top. He placed Mufti the Squirrel on the floor where he wobbled like a
jelly then toppled over with a loud squeak. “Hmmm. Mufti seems a little bit
unsteady on his wheels.”
“What
are we going to do, Grandad?”
“Well,
we’ve come an awfully long way to leave empty handed. But all the teachers seem
to have gone home. You would think they’d be marking books or having a meeting,
wouldn’t you? I’m sure that when I used to teach, back in the sixties…”
“Can we
go home, now? I’m very hungry. Ma might be home from work.”
“Po, po,
tiddly pom. By and by, Faith dear, by and by. First we have to get you ready.”
Grandad Patches looked around the classroom and soon saw what he was looking
for – a large pair of scissors and some brightly coloured pieces of card. He
leapt up, seized them with a flourish and scratched his head. “Now…where do you
think Mrs Gridney keeps the glue?” And he began cutting great chunks off
Grandad Biggert’s coat.
About an
hour later, Faith was standing outside the school and facing the traffic again.
Only this time she was on the opposite side of the road, outside the school
gates, and dressed differently. Over her head, she was wearing a cube mask made
out of brightly coloured card. Grandad Patches had chopped some holes in the
front so she could just about see and had painted a large green cross on each
of the faces. She was also wearing Grandad Biggert’s hat and coat – except that
the hat had been stapled firmly onto the top of the cube to prevent it toppling
off and the coat had been snipped into bits.
“Well,
well, well, Faith, you look splendid,” nodded Grandad Patches, approvingly, “we
are sure to win the prize for Mufti Day.”
“What am
I, Grandad?”
“Well,
you are the ‘Green Cross Road Code Boy’.”
“What
does he do?”
Now, he
would have ruffled her hair, but Grandad Patches couldn’t, because Faith was
wearing a cardboard box, wasn’t she? So, instead he laughed, waved the stripy
pole vigorously and traffic screeched to a halt again. In fact, I think one or
two cars might have bumped into each other this time. Certainly there were a
few angry noises coming from the middle distance. “What does he do?” he
answered, probably not hearing the rumpus, “why, he helps Mufti cross the road.
You see, Mufti is not very good at crossing the road and nearly always does
something silly and causes an accident.”
“Is that
because he can’t see?” asked Faith, her voice a little muffled by cardboard,
and remembering the beady eye.
“Point
your camera at Mufti,” he answered, “this takes me back.” And as Faith began
filming, using her phone of course, Grandad began to speak in a terribly
serious voice. A deep voice. Quite unlike his normal one: “Mufti the Squirrel wants
to buy some lollipops from the lollipop shop…but what’s this?”
“I have
some lollipops,” interrupted Faith, feeling around in the coat pockets. “Grandad
Biggert left some.”
“Don’t
interrupt, Faith my dear,” said Grandad, now back in his usual voice, “keep rolling
until I say ‘cut’.” And he got down on his knees and began pulling Mufti along
the pavement by the lead. “We’ll edit out the squeaky wheel later. Heh, heh,
heh.”
“Sorry,
Grandad.”
“But
what’s this?” continued Grandad, all serious and sombre again, “a busy road.
Surely Mufti can’t be intending to cross here between all these parked cars? He’ll
be squashed to smithereens like the last time. Doesn’t he learn, children?”
“There
aren’t any parked cars, Grandad.”
Rubbing
his chin, Grandad saw that Faith was correct. The traffic had begun to move
again. Well all the cars except for the two or three that had bumped into each
other. They weren’t moving at all. In fact their drivers had, by now, got out
and were pointing at each other in a less than friendly fashion. “Wave the pole
again, Faith,” he said, kindly, “that should stop the others.”
Faith
was only to pleased to do as she was asked.
The cars
stopped in an untidy line. Grandad Patches, still on his knees, began to crawl
backwards, pulling Mufti into the road, who continued to squeak noisily. “Oh
dear,” he continued in his gruff voice, “who can save him now?” And he looked
at Faith in expectation as she continued waving the pole. “Who can save him
now?” he repeated, pointedly.
Now, I
think that Grandad Patches expected Faith to do something. And, indeed, he
stood up, leaving Mufti in front of the stationary cars and hurried over to
her. “You’re supposed to save him, Faith, dear.”
“Save
him?”
“Yes. ‘You’re
the Crossing Cross Code Boy’. You appear from the skies in a mighty flash and
shout ‘Stop! I’m the Crossing Cross Code Boy! Stupid squirrel, Don’t you know
your road code? Never, never, never go between parked cars!”
“OK,
Grandad.” And Faith put the pole down.
Now there
was horrendous rattling, clattering and a quite terrible clang because as she
did so, the cars sprang into life. Mufti the Squirrel, hit by the first one,
bounced, cartwheeled into the air, clunk clicked the windscreen of a second one
then descended back onto the road where he was squashed flat.
Oh, dear.
Inside
her box, Faith began to laugh, I’m afraid.
Grandad
Patches looked appalled. “Mufti!” he yelled, “That wasn’t supposed to happen!”
But
worse was to follow.
Because
this time the halted traffic showed no intention of moving. Doors opened and several
angry looking people began marching towards Grandad Patches. One or two were
even shaking their fists. And, Faith observed, the nearest woman was holding
Mufti’s squeaky wheel.
“I can
explain,” Grandad was saying, as he backed up towards the school gates, “Er…back
in the sixties…”
Even
before the first motorist got to him, though, there was a terrific commotion
from across the road. Grandad Patches looked above the livid heads and pointed,
“oh dearie me, look out everyone!” Because, racing red faced towards them, as
quickly as he could, was Grandad Biggert, followed by Police Constable Muff and
behind her, hot on their heels, snarling and drooling ferociously, was Mrs
Dander’s dog, looking as though it hadn’t had a square meal in ages.
“Patches!
Patches!” screamed Grandad Biggert, “You feeble lentil scringer. You’re to
blame for this.” He pushed Grandad Patches in front of him like a shield.
Mrs
Dander’s dog stopped, his hackles raised, growling menacingly at the crowd gathered
in front of him, eyeing first the motorists, then Police Constable Muff, Faith
and finally Grandad Patches. “Nobody move,” he said, “Back in the sixties, when
I was a dog handler for Crofts, I was taught that…”
But
Faith was getting hungry. “It’s only Mrs Dander’s dog,” she said, taking off
her cardboard mask, “he probably wants you to throw him something, like a
stick. Here boy!” And she took Mufti’s wheel from the nearest woman and skimmed
it, like a frisbee, across the road.
And do
you know what? He barked and tore after it like an athlete doing a 100 metres
sprint.
“Of
course, Faith my dear,” smiled Grandad Patches, ruffling her hair. “Mrs Dander’s
dog was attracted by the sound of the squeaky wheel.”
“Was he?”
“Yes if
course. Dogs can hear sounds at a high pitch that we humans can’t.”
“Can we
go home now?” Faith took off the rest of her costume. I think she’d had enough
of being the Green Crossing Code Boy, even though it had been quite good fun. “Will
we win the Mufti Day prize?”
“Pom,
pom, pom. I’m sure we will when you show your film and costume to Mrs Gridney.”
Grandad Patches took Faith’s hand. “Now, let’s be careful when we cross the road,
my dear.”
However,
Police Constable Muff had seen quite enough. “Now just hold on a minute, Grandad
Patches. I want to know who’s responsible for this carnage.” And there were
several voices from the rest of the crowd raised in agreement. “Just who was
waving that pole and stopping the traffic?” And she took out her notebook,
flipped it open and licked the pencil tip. “Are you the lollipop man?”
“Yes,
Patches, you goat gruffler,” snorted Grandad Biggert, stepping out from behind
the school gates, “I’m sure we’d all like to know that, wouldn’t we?”
But as
he did so, the motorists started to stare at Grandad Biggert intently. One or
two began to point fingers. Murmuring voices could be heard: “That’s him. That’s
the man that charges two lollipops for halfway and three to get to the other
side safely. That’s the scoundrel…”
“Is it,
indeed,” snapped PC Muff, pointing at the costume on the floor “Is that your
coat, sir? Could you turn out the pockets? I am going to have to ask you to
come with me to the police station, if you don’t mind, sir.”
“Patches!”
shouted Grandad Biggert, “Patches!”
But
Grandad Patches had gone, holding Faith’s hand to see her safely home.
Now, I
am sure you’ll be pleased to know that Faith did indeed do very well in the
Mufti Day procession that following afternoon and Mrs Gridney gave her third
prize for coming dressed as a squirrel, although she didn’t get to see the film
because it had been deleted accidentally by Grandad Patches when he was editing
out the squeaky wheel.
And Ma
didn’t get to see it either.
And as
for that squeaky wheel, I hear that some boys are still using it in the park to
play toss and catch. When they can wrestle it from Mrs Dander’s dog, that is.
