Waiting for Spanners
Number
36 Lumpslap Close had an established way of doing things on a school morning. A
sort of routine. Well you’d know that, I suppose; most homes do, don’t they?
Probably
your mother or Grandad wakes you up with a kindly voice. You stretch a bit,
smile back at your dreams, maybe try to snatch five more pillow minutes before
the voice returns, less kindly than before, and reluctantly you toss back your
blankets and pad in slippers to the bathroom to brush your teeth.
Well,
that’s how we do things in my house, anyway.
I’m
sure that it’s how even Patience would like her day to start, too, being a
little older than us. But, as you can probably guess, often that was simply not
the case.
“Grandad!
Grandad! Morgan’s farted again and it smells horrible!” Was that Faith’s shrill
voice screaming in horror? I think it was, you know. And look. The three
children are queued outside the bathroom which is most peculiar. Patience is
rattling the handle, too.
Why
is that unusual? Well, come on now, Morgan is always last up, and if even he’s
queueing, there’s something badly wrong.
Growling
like Mrs Dander’s dog if you approach him noshing on his rubber bone, Morgan
gave Faith a non-too friendly push to the back of her head and snapped, “What
do you expect? I’ve been out here ages. You know you should always open your
bowels in the morning.”
“You’re
disgusting,” moaned Faith, emphasising the ‘gust’ loudly, so that any nearby
grownups could hear. Clever, clever.
I
don’t think Morgan cared, anyway: “Well here’s another ‘gust’ for you, Faith.”
And he did it again, even louder. “Pardon me for being rude, it was not me it
was the mung bean stew!” and he snorted in delight as though he’d been very witty
indeed.
In
panic, Patience rattled the door handle again, up and down, clatter, clack,
clack. “Grandad! Grandad! Are you in there?” clatter, clack, clatter,” why is
the door locked?”
From
within came the sound of a contorted groan, somewhat muffled. Patience stopped
her door handle jiggery-pokery and the three children listened intently. “Are
you in there, Grandad?”
“Now,
don’t fuss, don’t fuss, po, po, po…ah, ouch!” the voice replied, “Patience? If
you’re there, I think you’d better telephone Spanners.”
“Spanners?
What do you mean, Grandad?” Patience turned to Morgan who was holding his
pyjama bottoms and executing a strange little jiggering dance, hopping first on
one foot, then switching to the other. “Morgan, get some spanners.”
“No.”
“Why
not?”
“I’m
desperate.”
Before
she could retort, Patience was interrupted by another cry from within, a
mixture of exasperation and pain. “No, Patience, my dear, not spanners.
Spanners. My friend Spanners, the plumber. Back in the sixties, during the
great waterpipe flood disaster of Harwich, Spanners and I were tasked with
dealing with an effluvium tidal wave when…”
“Right,
that’s it, I’m going in the garden,” snapped Morgan, “I don’t care if Grandad
Biggert does see and telephones the police again.”
“Don’t
you dare!”
But
Morgan, past caring, was already hurdling down the stairs, two at a time until
they heard the backdoor slam shut.
“What’s
going on? Did you ring Spanners?” called Grandad in a plaintive tone of voice,
“it’s awfully wet in here. And somewhat smelly, too.”
“I’m
phoning Ma,” Patience replied, angrily,
for it was always the most effective course of action.
“No,
Patience, dear, no need for that,” pleaded Grandad.
Patience
rattled the handle in irritation one last time, but to her surprise – perhaps
because the lock had loosened from all the exertion – the door opened and swung
elegantly outwards. She stared inside whilst Faith nipped around the front of
her to take a good look at what was happening.
Oh
dear.
Now,
there was Grandad Patches kneeling on the floor in a damp puddle of rather foul
looking liquid. It was clinging to his pyjama bottoms, and, what’s more,
lapping around his slippered feet like some evil and malicious sea at high
tide. You might almost think it was chuckling to itself, if it were alive,
which puddles generally aren’t.
What
was even worse than that? Well somehow Grandad had got his hand stuck right
inside the toilet, elbow deep in filth. From what the children could see, his
arm seemed to be lodged in that pipe that disappears into the floor to who
knows where.
Because
he was wearing his old towelling dressing gown, the one decorated in hideous
sixties swirly patterns, water had soaked up from the arm and was slowly
turning the fluorescent colours into an unpleasant shade of mustard brown.
The
smell was appalling.
Grandad
Patches couldn’t really turn his head to speak to Patience or Faith who, I’m
sorry to tell you, had begun to laugh. “What are you doing in the toilet,
Grandad?” she asked, trying not to snort and pressing her lips tightly together
– because Patience had glared at her in an unsisterly fashion.
“Did
you lose your hearing aid down there again, Grandad?”
When
Grandad Patches replied, he spoke into the bowl and his voice echoed in a
circular manner – a bit like the deep sound of a trombone. “No, indeed, I can
hear you splendidly, Patience, er…I just can’t turn my head at the moment, so
you wouldn’t be able to tell that I can hear you. If I could, well I would be
nodding in a most…er…vigorous fashion to indicate that I was hearing perfectly
well.”
“I
see. Well I’m still calling Ma. Before you damage your back. Or knees. Or
both.”
“No,
no…it’s surprisingly comfortable here, my dear, believe it or not.”
“Comfortable?”
“Yes.
I am using the toilet seat as a makeshift chin rest.”
“Ma,”
insisted Patience, grimly. “You can’t stay there all day. We’ve got school and
I expect Morgan is eating your emergency coco pops.”
“Emergency
coco pops?” coughed Grandad Patches, “but they’re only to be eaten in an
emergency. You stop him at once, Patience, and call Spanners.”
Faith
had managed to stop snickering by now. She probably would have knelt down next
to Grandad Patches, but, as I mentioned, there was rather an unpleasant watery
puddle next to him. “Have you been there a long time, Grandad?”
“Po,
po, po, tiddly pom,” hummed Grandad Patches, although it didn’t quite come out
as he would have liked because his teeth were chattering together. “Not long,
dear, not long, I can’t remember…probably since my nightly constitutional. You
know I’m a stickler for my nightly constitutional…”
“You
mean since two o clock this morning?” barked Patience, in disbelief.
“That
long, eh? Well, who would have guessed that? Time flies when you have your arm
stuck in the toilet. It’s so…fascinating, the things you find in here.”
“Fascinating?”
spluttered Patience.
Faith
giggled in excitement. “Is it, Grandad? Can I have a go?”
“Er…no
dear…there isn’t room for both of us, I don’t think.”
“Can
I pull the flush, then, Grandad?”
Patience
propelled Faith away from the bathroom and instructed her to go downstairs.
Before her little sister could protest about going to school with uncleaned
teeth, she executed a rather dazzling feat of acrobatics, retrieved the
toothbrushes without getting her slippers wet, then followed her down to the
kitchen where, as she had previously guessed, Morgan was digging in to a
mountain of coco pops. He glanced up, shrugged and pushed the box towards Faith
and Patience, who, after the tiniest wrestle with their consciences, also helped
themselves to generous portions.
From
upstairs they could now hear urgent noisy exertions, loud struggling followed
by a despairing wail and the sound of tumbling water.
Morgan
mumbled through a mouthful of coco pops and stated, unnecessarily. “He’s flushed
himself, hasn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“Shall
we call Ma?”
“Nope.”
As
the three children struggled quickly into school uniforms left by Ma to warm on
the radiators the night before, they thought they could hear the sound of
overflowing toilet water starting to trickle down the stairs towards the
hallway. But they were late already and…
* * * * *
…
leaving the house, bright February sunbeams quite dazzled the eyes, rebounding
off a rain washed slick black tarmac of Lumpslap Close. Patience, Morgan and
Faith started the long, familiar trek to school, past parked electric vehicles,
following the other uniformed schoolchildren, kicking up puddles and scudding
shoes through leaves left over from the night’s winds. It was a little chilly,
so Faith was glad that her small hand was enclosed in the damp palm of her big
sister.
Morgan
didn’t seem to care though - running slightly ahead, kicking imaginary
footballs and screaming ‘goal’ in the sort of accent you hear on sports radio
programmes, ‘oh, he played a blinder, unstoppable, back of the net, keeper didn’t
stand a chance…’ you know, that sort of thing. He does that a lot except where
there are girls around because then he has to be grown up and cool.
As
they approached the corner, though, where Lumpslap Close joins the busier road
in front of the park and there’s that little shop on the right, you know the
one that sells sweets, tinned food, newspapers and tobacco, the three slowed
down just a little. The trek became a trudge, the trudge became a crawl and
thereafter it was all stop. Morgan assumed the face of a hunter-gatherer,
looking this way and that, checking out for possible escape routes.
Why?
Well, because they could see, just exiting the shop, a familiar figure
clutching a rolled-up newspaper tightly in his right fist.
The
figure, shrouded in that morning haze that rises as the sun does, fiddled about
in its pockets for a bit, then started to amble towards them.
“It’s
Grandad Biggert.” hissed Morgan. “Damn. That’s Grandad’s fault for making us
late. Now we’re in for a pre-school newspaper swotting. Quick, Patience, where
can we leg-it to?”
“Hi,
Grandad Biggert!” cried Faith, slipping from Patience’s hand and running
towards him, arms outstretched. Well, she was too young to know better, wasn’t
she? Morgan briefly thought about covering his face and leaving her to the fate
that he felt sure awaited her, but, as he was very occasionally chivalrous and
had been a little rude to her that morning, ran after her.
“Faith.
Get back here. Leave Grandad Biggert alone.”
As
Faith reached him, Morgan saw the newspaper twitch. However, what happened next
took him completely by surprise.
Grandad
Biggert stooped a little then ruffled Faith’s hair in what was almost a kindly
way. He didn’t even accidentally pull any of it. “Why, hello there, young lady,”
he said in a voice that was almost pleasant, for him, “and how are you this
fine morning.” The newspaper twitched again.
Morgan’s
mouth opened in surprise and he pointed without meaning to; not even looking a
little bit cool, and, as Patience caught up, he was almost frozen like a statue,
looking a bit like a feeble copy of those tatty ‘What did YOU do in the war?’
posters you’ll see here and there around Purridgeton.
Grandad
Biggert stood in front of the three children as if even he was surprised at
this turn of events. The three looked back, probably wondering if it was safe
to slip past and make a run for it.
Just
then, however, the shop door opened a second time and Patience saw an elderly
lady exit. She was pushing one of those tall square tartan covered shopping
trolleys with black plastic wheels and supporting herself with a metal national
health walking stick. Spying Grandad Biggert ahead of her, she hobbled towards
him as fast as her age would permit.
“Robert!
Robert!” she screeched sounding a bit like a cross between a night owl and the
bald eagles you sometimes see on television, “Robert!”
Mute
but speaking volumes, Grandad Biggert glared at the children threateningly,
then cast his eyes down at the pavement. “Yes, dear?”
“Wait
for me!” snapped the old lady. So he watched her approach until she was
alongside, puffing like a tugboat. “You aren’t menacing these three children,
are you?”
“No,
dear.”
“Well
you’d better not be. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“No,
dearest. I was only saying good morning to them. Wasn’t I, children?” And he
pressed his right foot, ever so slightly, down on Morgan’s trainers until the
boy winced a little. “Wasn’t I?”
“Yes,
ma’am, he was ma’am,” replied Morgan through gritted teeth. “He’s our Grandad,
ma’am.”
“Oh,
how lovely. You didn’t mention them, Robert.”
“Didn’t
I? Oh, well they’re the apples of my eyes, sweetmeats, aren’t you children?”
“Yes,
Grandad Biggert,” chorused the three children in unison.
“Well,
you really must get to school now, you’ll be late. You wouldn’t want to be
reported to Doctor Snaptor, would you?” smiled Grandad Biggert, silkily,
stroking his beard. “And don’t forget to tell Patches…ah, Grandad Patches, that
me and Irene are walking out, will you?”
Faith
looked as though she was about to blurt out about the toilet and Grandad being
trapped, but Patience stopped her quickly because, as you know, loose lips sink
ships, don’t they?
Grandad
Biggert gave the three children one last unpleasant stare and, noticing that
the old lady was distracted by something entrancing across the road near the
park entrance, he took the opportunity to point sneakily in the direction of
the school, mouth ‘Doctor Snaptor’ silently and make a ‘dialling the phone’
gesture with his hand. Patience took the hint and the three children zipped
quickly away, straining their ears in disbelief as they heard Grandad Biggert
say something like: “let me help you with that shopping, buttercorn, you need
to save your strength.”
No,
I don’t believe it either.
* * * * *
Now,
at the school gates, a slight winter wind had whipped up and, caught by the
four walls of the playground, it swirled icily, driving leaves and empty sweet
wrappers into a circular skirmish that skittered across the abandoned yard.
As
you probably realise, most children were already inside the draughty classrooms
because the bell had long since rung – the older children upstairs and the
youngsters beneath. Mrs Gridney was, no doubt, already calling the register in
between looking at the internet and handing out worksheets before she put her
feet up for the morning. I imagine she’s already asked if anybody has seen
Faith today and it’s not like her, she never misses school and is she sick, do
we know?
Look,
here they are now, racing across the park, anxious to avoid detentions at break
or lunchtime because nobody likes the cold, hard floor of shame, do they?
Especially when all your friends are out playing football, looking up celebrity
heroes on their phones or skipping.
Morgan
reached the gates first. He put his head around the corner carefully, as
cunning as a town fox sliding its snout quietly into abandoned sacks of trash
at dusk and beckoned with his fingers to the other two. “It’s okay, nobody
about. We’ll slip in and pretend we were locked in the bogs. That’s how Derek MacPlumford
does it. He told me. Works every time. Tells them he got his bagpipes stuck in
the pipes.”
“Bagpipes?
In the pipes?”
“Like
Grandad?”
“Shut
up, Faith. Keep quiet.”
“I
can’t keep quiet!” giggled Faith, “I’m so excited! We’ve got a very, very
special visitor in class today. None of us can wait!”
Patience
looked at her sister sternly, but she could see they’d have to tarry at the
gates a little until she’d calmed down if they were to make it in undetected by
the senior leadership team. “Hush, Faith.”
Morgan
glared at her. “Oh yeah, I heard the rumours. Professor Pipes and his sidekick
Dribbles? The pipes safety expert bloke? Well let me tell you, THAT woke nutter
comes every year at this time – it’s some old man from the residential home
with a false…”
“Stop
it, Morgan,” growled Patience, “you were young once.” Well, because she
remembered Father Christmas with a sad twinkle.
Sneering,
Morgan looked carefully once again then proceeded to lead the two others across
the yard, every so often holding his hand up like an Indian tracker scout. They
were now within sight of the big blue wooden door that led inside via the
toilets and they would have made it too, if it wasn’t for Faith.
Spotting
a tall, thin and sinister shape, she squealed in high pitched delight. “Doctor
Snaptor! Look, Morgan, it’s Doctor Snaptor!” and of course she ran over to give
him a hug. Your guess is as good as mine as to what possessed her or why, with
his vaguely reptilian scaly skin that was forever peeling from his grizzled
face or his two sharpened rows of clackety-clack teeth.
Fending
Faith off with his boathook, Doctor Snaptor grinned horribly, revealing a
fearsome row of yellow ivories. He grabbed Morgan by the collar. “Don’t blame
the gurrrl,” he scoffed, “I had a phone call and wuzz on the look-out anyway,
you razzcal. That’s a tardy note for the three of yoozz.”
“Grandad
Biggert,” snarled Morgan, attempting to free himself. “That blaggard. One
day…one day…I’ll be revenged.”
Patience
said nothing, but Faith looked a little sad and probably was secretly wishing
Grandad Patches was with her. She felt a little sorry that she had laughed at
him now for being stuck in the toilet. She peered up at Doctor Snaptor who
looked to her as though his head was in the very clouds themselves. “Doctor
Snaptor? Does that mean I’ll miss Professor Pipes and Dribbles?”
Doctor
Snaptor looked at her curiously then flung his head back in maniacal laughter.
”Hur, hur, hur – deyuh me naah, young ladee. You muz definitely wunt mizz the
inezztimable Profezzor Pipezzz!” And still roaring, he led the three across the
schoolyard and towards his office, leaving the swirling leaves and trash to
fight it out amongst themselves.
* * * * *
Mrs
Gridney looked up from her cup-a-soup in irritation and slammed the beaker down
on the desk theatrically – although not too violently as to spill any of the
precious juice, dear me no. It was broccoli substitute flavour, which is quite
difficult to come across these days, hence her grumpiness, although, thinking
about it, most of the time she looks as though she’s sucking a soor ploom.
“Faith!”
she shouted. The little girl had rapped politely on the door and entered as
well as she could under the circumstances, but this seemed to make no
difference. “You’re late. Now you are three worksheets behind everybody else.
How do you expect to get a good job if you don’t do your worksheets?”
“Grandad
is stuck in the toilet,” Faith explained, “Morgan had to go in the garden and
Grandad Biggert is walking out with Irene.” This caused hoots of laughter from
the rest of the class, and Faith grinned, pleased that she’d cheered everyone
up.
Everyone,
that is, except Mrs Gridney. “Take two demerits and I’m deducting ten
house-points from Brumby.”
Now
there was silence and Mrs Gridney glowered in satisfaction before resuming her
seat and grasping her cup once again. She gestured with impatience at the
endless piles of photocopied, smeary sheets of paper that sat on the back desk
like vile toads and Faith trotted over to pick one up. It had a warship on it
and the instructions were to work out sums in order to colour various bits of
it in. But since most of it was grey, there didn’t seem much point. There were
exclamation marks all over it too, failing to make it look in any way exciting.
With a sigh, she reached in her bag for some crayons and sat next to her friend
Harriet.
The
classroom war-board was set at condition RED which meant ‘enemy approaching,
strictly no talking’ and only a fool would disobey that command, wouldn’t they?
Someone very brave, very young or a conchie. Therefore, Faith glanced at the
sipping Mrs Gridney and whispered, “Did I miss Professor Pipes?”
Harriet
shook her blonde curls silently. She remained mum and focussed her eyes on the
worksheet in front of her, not daring to say anything and relieved that Mrs
Gridney hadn’t put the blackout boards over the windows by declaring a
Condition Purple, because she was scared of the dark.
It
looked as though Mrs Gridney might have heard Faith, because she began to move
her beaker from her mouth ever so slightly but, even if she had, the door
opened quickly and in slithered Doctor Snaptor with his snippety-snap shoes
clopping on the hard tiled floor. “Wazzz thizzz, Mrs Gridney?” he hissed, “a
condizzion red?”
“Why
yes, Doctor Snaptor,” replied Mrs Gridney, reluctantly removing her feet from
the desk and putting her phone down. “It doesn’t hurt to have a practice now
and then, does it?”
“Eggzzellent,
Mrs Gridney,” whispered Doctor Snaptor, “and zo well obzzzerved too. Well done,
zzhildren, quite commendable.” Then he saw Faith, glowered a, before smiling
thinly, “now zzhildren I have a little zzurprizze, for you.”
Well,
you’ve probably guessed who it was, and, glad of the excuse, the young children
began to scream their appreciation, hollering, stamping and clapping. But, I
have to tell you that after a brief explosion of noise, the crescendo began to
wither and wane until there was silence. A quite extraordinary apparition had
entered the classroom.
An
elderly man, dressed from neck to toe in a gigantic cardboard tube of toilet
paper, shuffled in quite slowly and carefully like a caterpillar, his toes
feeling the way cautiously so as not to trip over any stray satchels, bags or
chair legs. Two holes cut either side of his tube didn't help matters; they caused
his arms to stick out horizontally from the rest of his body like a gigantic
capital T. It looked as though, at any moment, he might topple over and if he
did, how would he ever get up?
It
was difficult to see if he was enjoying the reception from the children or Mrs
Gridney, because most of his face was covered by a black curly wig and a
straggly hairy beard that had been glued there in a slightly lopsided fashion.
Eventually
he seemed satisfied that he had reached his optimum position, because he now
started speaking in a choked voice. His face, held fast by the tube, was
pointed at the ceiling making his words slightly difficult to hear.
“Good
morning, children,” he mumbled, muffled by cardboard and toilet tissue, “my
name is Professor Pipes and I’m here to talk to you about the importance of
pipes. Now – which clever fellah knows what a pipe is?”
At
this point, I think he would have held up an actual pipe or switched on a
presentation, but, as you’ll remember, his arms were stuck out at the sides,
rigid like railway barriers. And anyway, Doctor Snaptor, who hadn’t quite left
the room, standing as he was, on the threshold, gave the cardboard tube a mighty
kick at where the Professor’s backside might have been, setting a dangerous
undulating wobble in motion.
“Sorry,
sorry,” he gasped, rotating his arms like a trapeze artist on the high-wire,
“there are girls here, too, I remember that now, girls and boys. Girls
and boys, do any of you know what a pipe is?”
One
or two hands raised hesitantly across the classroom, but Professor Pipes was
quite unable to see, of course, so continued, oblivious. “No one? What a
remarkably dull set of chaps you are…”
another
hefty kick…
”I
mean dull girls and boys…dull girls and boys,” he warbled, swaying from this
way to that like a hideous cardboard jack in the box, without a box or a jack.
“Are
you a pipe, Professor Pipes?” a young voice, piped up from the back of the classroom.
Sorry, it was irresistible.
Doctor
Snaptor didn’t think it was funny though, and as a nervous ripple of laughter
reverberated around the classroom, he moved each side of his face in a series
of jerking chameleon motions to locate the culprit, his tongue flickering
slightly.
Before
anything unpleasant happened, a squeaky voice broke the tension. “Let me out of
my box, let me out of my box!” it cried from somewhere, everywhere and
nowhere…and Professor Pipes smiled in relief. “Mr Dribbles, you naughty,
naughty boy! Is that you?”
“Shut
up, Professor Pipes!”
By
the time Doctor Snaptor had clacked down the corridor to check up on Year 12, Faith
was giggling with the rest of her friends and even Mrs Gridney managed a pale
smile.
* * * * *
It
was 4.30 in the afternoon, and the sun was rapidly disappearing behind the
foodbanks as the door of 36 Lumpslap Close was pushed open. Morgan, as usual,
accurately slung his bag across the living room where it fell between Grandad
Patches’ two cheese plants. He slumped into the ancient, comfy sofa and flicked
the television on to catch the wrestling. Patience walked into the kitchen to
check on tea and Faith scurried to the bottom of the stairs.
“Grandad!
Grandad! Are you out of the toilet yet?”
The
backdoor swung open and in walked Grandad Patches beaming and wearing his
purple and pink gardening romper smock. “Faith, my dear!” he cried, “Home from
school? Po, po, po. What exciting adventures have you had today?” And he sat
down, ready to listen.
Faith
would’ve hugged him, but he did look a bit dirty. His fingernails were black as
though he’d been digging in the garden instead of planting vegetables or poking
around with his trowel. Still she sat by him, beginning her usual breathless resume
of the day’s events that all Grandads – most Grandads – take delight in listening
to.
“Professor
Pipes, eh?” Grandad Patches interjected, “Well, po, po, tiddly pom, he sounds
like a most interesting fellow – but as for that Mr Dribbles, he does seem a
bit rude, now, doesn’t he? Did he really tell Professor Pipes he was a smelly
old fool who hangs around stinky pipes putting his hands in dirty pipes that
reek as bad as he does? Well, bless my soul.”
Morgan,
who had pretended he wasn’t listening, now snorted from the sofa. “Professor
Pipes is some woke old bloke in a false beard and Dribbles is a sock puppet,
most probably made from one of his perished socks. Who goes around wearing one
of his old socks on his hand, I ask you?”
“Really?”
answered Grandad Patches, astonished, “well I must say he does talk a great
deal of sense, though. We should all look after our pipes, Morgan. Why once,
back in the sixties, my friend Stardust Spangles…”
“He
was never called Stardust Spangles, you made that up!” howled Morgan, throwing
a cushion in their direction.
Grandad
Patches ignored him and continued. “…made the mistake of ignoring his pipes.
Why before long, he was completely egg-bound and in the most terrible trouble.
We had to go on without him and he was the only one who knew the chords. Before
long we were having to dodge the most painful tin missiles and, therefore, I
have never made the mistake of taking pipes lightly, indeed no.”
Morgan
rolled his eyes and went back to his wrestling.
“Can
I tell you something Faith? In point of fact, I wish Professor Pipes was here
now. I really do. I need to consult him very urgently on a most perplexing
problem.” Faith wanted to know more, but just as she opened her mouth, the
doorbell rang. Grandad Patches cocked his ears and announced. “Splendid,
splendid, tiddly-pom, that’ll be Spanners.”
Morgan
groaned loudly, turned the television up and stuffed a paper bag over his head.
“Po,
po, po, now why do you suppose Morgan has done that?” Grandad Patches said in a
bewildered tone, as Patience went to the door.
Faith
and Grandad Patches could hear Patience’s grown up voice muttering something in
a polite tone, without catching the words. They heard the door close and
instead of Spanners, she entered the living room with the most enormous bunch
of flowers you’ve ever seen. A rainbow of dazzling colours, they dwarfed
Patience who could scarcely get them through the door.
Morgan
ripped his bag off, scoffed loudly and shouted, “they don’t look much like
Spanners to me.” Then he replaced his bag before anyone could answer or Patience
could give him a clip round the ear.
Muffled
by the mass of vegetation, Patience glared at Morgan, then said, “these are for
you, Grandad.”
“Are
they? Well, po, po, po, now who on earth would be sending me this wonderful
bouquet? Well, Faith, we will have fun sorting them out into vases, won’t we?”
“Yes,
Grandad,” shrieked Faith, bouncing up and down in excitement, while nobody
thought to relieve Patience of her burden, so she stood there unable to do very
much about it until the doorbell rang again, this time much more urgently and
accompanied by a foul tempered kicking of the door.
“Spanners!
At last!” beamed Grandad.
“Well,
don’t look at me,” growled Patience, through a mouthful of begonias, “someone
else will have to get it.”
Morgan
sighed, took his bag off and poked his head out of the front sash windows. He
whipped it back in very quickly and slammed it shut, I can tell you, when he
saw who it was, too, while the hammering, kicking and ringing of the door
continued. “It’s Grandad Biggert.” he announced. “Shall I throw my paper bag at
him?”
Indeed
it was. “Patches! Patches!” howled Grandad Biggert, “I know you’re hiding in
there you feeble mange-tout peeler. Come out this minute!”
“Po,
po, po. Well how am I supposed to do that when there’s a massive bouquet of
flowers blocking the hall like a fat-berg?” grumbled Grandad Patches, shuffling
to the window instead, and pushing it back open. “Good evening, Grandad
Biggert, and how may we help you?”
“Patches!
You rancid raw cabbage cruncher, I demand you give me those flowers back this
instance or it will be the worse for you, for I will bring down such
punishments upon your head that have not even yet been devised!”
“Well
thank goodness for that,” said Patience, somehow managing to negotiate the door
and thrusting the bouquet through it, “here you are, Grandad Biggert.”
He
snatched them triumphantly from Patience and waved them jubilantly at the
window. “See that? See that? You can’t outsmart me, Patches, you baked bean
belcher. Hah. Take a long last look.” He waved them again. “And,” he continued,
“I am walking out with Irene Adder and these are for her, so suck on that.”
With an extraordinary gesture, the night swallowed him up.
Grandad
Patches looked slightly downcast as he returned to his seat. “Irene Adder. Po,
po, po.” Then he ruffled Faith’s hair and went to fetch the tea.
* * * * *
The
next morning, which was Saturday and therefore no school, several odd things
continued to happen. Although Grandad Patches was no longer stuck in the toilet
(as you know) he was still making quite a fuss and muttering about
Spanners this and Spanners that, popping in and out, rattling the flush chain,
making po-po noises and scratching his chin.
If
Patience hadn’t put her foot down, he was all for voting on whether the
bathroom should be a no-go area, even suggesting that they ask Grandad Biggert
next door or go to the ones in the park until Spanners arrived. This had raised
a point of order from Morgan though, who declared loudly that he certainly was
not going to lead any toilet expeditions into darkest Purridgeton, until eventually
a fed up Patience told him to shut up and put a sock in it.
It
was, by now, about 9.30 in the morning. Ma had gone to work and Morgan was
sitting in the lounge spreading some toast with margarine, occasionally peering
out of the bow windows through the nets.
Well,
we all do that sometimes, but Morgan, as it happens, was frowning, and pulling
the worried look of a monkey with a rubber banana.
“Hey,
Patience!” he called, “that’s the third time.” As he got no answer from the
kitchen, he repeated himself very loudly.
“What
is?” sighed Patience finally, without looking up from her phone.
“The
third time Grandad Biggert has walked past our window with Irene Adder,
stopped, stroked his beard and pulled faces at our house.”
“What
sort of faces?”
“I
don’t know, do I?” grunted Morgan, in irritation, “stupid ones. A sort of
grinning, snarling and grimacing combo, followed by jabbing his own chest
several times.”
“What’s
Irene Adder doing?”
“Wheeling
her tartan shopping trolley up and down and hitting him with her walking
stick.”
“Well,
probably they’re off shopping.”
Morgan
sounded doubtful. “Well, if you say so. Look, he’s at it again. Wow! That one
must have hurt. Grandad Biggert is hopping up and down, clutching his ankle.”
As
Morgan smiled snarkily, watching Grandad Biggert hop out of sight towards the
park, the doorbell rang with shrill insistency. Almost at once, there was a
clattering from upstairs as Faith and Grandad Patches hurtled to answer it.
“That must be Spanners!” screamed one of them, probably Faith, although they
both sounded the same to him most of the time. Sighing, Morgan got up and went
to the lounge door to see what might happen, closing it just a bit so that he
could peep through.
But
Grandad Patches, having fumbled the catch and opened the door, looked a little
disappointed. “Ah…hello, Mrs Dander.”
“Good
morning, Grandad Patches. Excuse me for bothering you, but I’ve lost my dog. I
thought he might be in your garden.” Mrs Dander squinted into the interior of
the house, so Morgan sniggered and ducked out of sight, still listening. He
noticed that she didn’t look very friendly, either.
“Po,
po, po, in my garden? Now why would you think that?”
“Yes,
why would you think that, Mrs Dander?” repeated Faith, looking up at the large
lady who was blocking out the watery winter sunlight.
“Well,
it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?” Mrs Dander snapped. “It seems that
whenever he disappears, he either fetches up here or next door. Usually returning
some time later stinking of pork chops or lamb bones.”
“Pork
chops or lamb bones?” spluttered Grandad Patches, in disbelief, “now I can
assure you he won’t find anything like that in my garden. We’re strict
vegetarians.”
Morgan
snorted from behind the door.
“What
was that?” asked Mrs Dander, hearing the muffled noise from within. “It sounded
like my dog.”
“No,
no, I can assure you, Mrs Dander, your dog isn’t here,” said Grandad Patches,
placatingly. “We were just waiting for Spanners.”
However,
Mrs Dander wasn’t convinced. She pushed past Grandad Patches and strode through
to the kitchen where Patience was still munching her cornflakes, then straight
into the garden. “What’s that, then?” shrieked Mrs Dander. And she pointed a
quivering, enraged finger at a hairy shape running round and round the flowerbeds in
delight, ripping up turf, tossing vegetables, snarling and growling in blood
curdling menace. “I blame you for this!” she continued, red faced at Patience,
“oh you make my blood boil.”
The
dog didn’t seem particularly pleased to see Mrs Dander and backed off growling,
its hackles raised and something nasty trailing from its mouth. In fact, as
Faith and Grandad Patches joined her, it began to snap its teeth together in a
most ghastly fashion.
“Come
here, sweet’ums,” coaxed Mrs Dander, hopefully, whilst all the time
approaching. She fished in her handbag and pulled out a soft toy mouse. “Look.
I’ve got Mr Cuddles for you.”
The
dog continued its snapping and was not in the slightest bit interested in Mr
Cuddles.
“Don’t
make any sudden moves,” hissed Grandad Patches, “I think it’s got rabies. Why,
back in the sixties when I used to work for ‘Dog Patrol 999’ we came across
this dog that had found a porker’s rear leg in a dustbin. He was snapping his
teeth exactly like that and…ow!”
“How
dare you?” screamed Mrs Dander, smashing Grandad Patches’ head with her
handbag, “porker’s rear leg in a dustbin?”
Provoked
by her sudden violent movement, the dog was off, dragging a stream of what
looked like greasy bones and fat from its mouth. As he reached Mrs Dander, he
made a passing snap at her buttocks and then, retrieving his meal, leapt the
fence into Grandad Biggert’s backyard like a champion steeplejack hurdler.
“Don’t
just stand there!” wailed Mrs Dander, setting off in hot pursuit.
Grandad
Patches scratched his head, stooping down to retrieve something from the lawn.
Raising himself, he held up a sizeable portion of material. “Wait, Mrs Dander.
I think this is a piece of your skirt.” But she had already straddled the fence
and was now in the next garden. “Well, well, well, Faith, this is most
mysterious, isn’t it, my dear, pom, pom, pom?”
“Yes,
Grandad. What was it that Mrs Dander’s dog was eating?”
“Well,
we can never know for sure, Faith, but it looked very much like some greasy
lamb bones and leftover pork chops, covered in even more grease.”
Grandad Patches took out his trowel from his
romper smock pocket then hurried to the very back of the garden; Faith
following him in excitement. “Look at this, Faith, look at this!” he shouted breathlessly,
pointing with his trowel at a huge white greasy mountain of fat and bones
beside the drain, “now why didn’t I see this before?”
“What
is it, Grandad? It doesn’t smell very nice, does it?”
“Po,
po, po, tiddly pom pom, no indeed it doesn’t, Faith my dear. Do you suppose it
was this that attracted Mrs Dander’s dog?”
“Yes,
Grandad, Professor Pipes told us what it is, too.” Faith scrunched up her mind,
trying to recall yesterday’s presentation with Mr Dribbles. “It’s called a fat
burger and we should report them straight away.”
Grandad
Patches scratched his chin. “Hmmm. You know, Faith, my dear, I wonder if that’s
why every time we flush the toilet, the water comes out of the top and all over
the bathroom carpet? I think we need to call Spanners right away.”
So,
the two of them hurried back up the garden path to where Morgan and Patience
were waiting. Now, can you guess what Faith thought she saw as they did so? Well,
she couldn’t be sure, but just where Mrs Dander’s dog had been growling and
snapping a few minutes earlier was an old sock he’d left behind, probably
because it wasn’t as tasty as the gristle he’d been tossing around. And…the
sock looked just like Mr Dribbles.
* * * * *
That
afternoon, the sun had risen as high as it was ever going to and was just
beginning its descent, casting bright rays across the back garden of 36
Lumpslap Close. Grandad Patches was pacing up and down the hallway and there
were a great deal of ‘po-po-po’, ‘tiddly-poms’ and ‘pon my souls’ as he did so,
whilst Faith watched him from the third stair, colouring in and writing stories
about Mrs Dander’s skirt; tittering quietly as she did so.
Alas,
as you probably guessed by now, Spanners had still not yet arrived. But there
was always time, and every so often, Grandad Patches cast a hopeful eye at the
door.
And
eventually, as they always do if you watch them long enough, the doorbell
shrieked a loud announcement that someone had, at last, arrived. Faith leapt to
her feet, tossed her books aside and fought Grandad for the handle rights, but
he got there first, and opened the door.
“Spanners,
old bean!” he beamed, “it’s been a long time.” Then his smile evaporated as
quickly as it had sprung forth. “You!”
“Do
you have any mung beans, old bean?” a familiar voice sniggered. “Heh, heh,
heh.”
“Hello,
Grandad Biggert,” called Faith from behind Grandad Patches and mimicking him,
“and how may we help you this fine day?”
“I
just told Patches, you wretched child, I want mung beans, so hand them over
now. I am not repeating myself. I know there are plenty of mung beans on the
premises.”
His
quarrelsome order was followed by some sort of commotion to the rear; several
quickfire brolly blows rained upon his head in rapid succession, causing him to
flinch and cover his head. “Robert? Stop being stupid and get out of my way.”
And Irene Adder pushed in front of him, her tartan shopping trolley blocking
the doorstep.
Grandad
Patches blushed. When he spoke, his voice could barely be heard beneath a bit
of harrumphing and it wobbled just a fraction. “Irene. It is nice to see
you…er…it’s been some time…er…I hope you are keeping well…um.”
“Shut
up, Grandad Patches,” she answered, impatiently. “I shan’t keep you long.
Robert has run out of mung beans and there are none at the corner shop. Have
you got any? Pay you, of course.”
“Mung
beans? Po, po, po. I’m surprised he even had any in the first place.”
“Yes, I've run out of mung beans, Patches, you rickety custard dribbler, mung
beans, old bean…yowch!”
“But
you only eat pork chops and lamb-bone stew, Grandad Biggert.”
Irene
Adder glared at Grandad Patches, coming a little closer to the door. “Robert is
a strict vegetarian. He looks down on all carnists. He told me so himself. This
afternoon,” she continued, her voice softening into a slight twinkle, “we will
be preparing a delicious mung bean stew together for our evening meal.”
“Yes,
Patches,” taunted Grandad Biggert, who had retreated down the path slightly, to avoid further beatings, “our evening meal together. Heh, heh, heh.” And, I have to tell you that when
he emphasised the word ‘together’, Grandad Patches’ lip wobbled.
Scratching his chin and looking slightly perplexed, he went into the kitchen
anyway and returned with some fresh mung beans from the fridge. “There you are,
Irene. Now, do you need me to help prepare them with you?”
“No
she doesn’t, Patches,” exclaimed Grandad Biggert, who returned and snatched the
bag from his hand, “I’ll take those, thank you. Now, shove off.” And he slammed
the door right in his face. Which was surprising, when you think about it,
given that he was on the wrong side.
“That
wasn’t Spanners, Grandad,” pointed out Faith, with a frown.
“No.
It definitely wasn’t him, my dear,” answered Grandad Patches in a crestfallen voice. Then he
snapped to attention as though something had suddenly occurred to him. “You
know what I think, Faith? Pom, pom, tiddly-pom, westering-ho and blow the man
down, Billy? I think it’s time we stopped waiting for Spanners and sorted this
out ourselves.”
“Hurrah!”
shouted Faith.
And
the two of them trekked back through the house and into the garden.
Well,
you should have seen the commotion; the hive of activity, because once Grandad
Patches has made his mind up and determined a course of action, he is very
rarely distracted from his destination.
Faith followed him, helping as best she
could. First down the garden to the drain, then back up, then back down again.
“Po, po, po, pom, tiddly-tee, Faith, my dear, no, no, this simply won’t do, it
won’t do at all,” he declared at last, scratching his chin, pondering and
staring at the grass.
Faith
did the same. “What won’t?” she asked, finally giving up, “What won’t do,
Grandad?”
He
ruffled her hair, then snapped his fingers. “Of course. We need my heavy
walking cane. I wonder if Patience would be good enough to retrieve it for us?”
“I’m
not a dog,” exploded Patience, as Faith ran up to the kitchen to repeat the
instruction. “I hate that attic. It’s full of…his stuff.” Nevertheless, a few
minutes later, and looking considerably dustier, she returned with it and
tossed it into the garden.
“Excellent,
excellent,” chortled Grandad. “Just the ticket.” And he continued to pace up
and down the garden, but this time tapping the lawn with his stick. Sometimes
he would pause and tap more firmly, occasionally indulging in some very hefty
banging indeed, while Faith cackled as she watched. Bang, bang, bang!
The
next-door upstairs window shot up suddenly and Grandad Biggert’s red face appeared,
jutting out like one of those stone gargoyles on the sides of old buildings.
“Patches! Patches!” he screamed, “stop that infernal noise, you turnip tosser.
Some of us are trying to sleep.”
“Trying
to sleep, Grandad Biggert?” asked Faith, “but the sun is still out.”
“Don’t
you argue with me, you wretched girl,” retorted Grandad Biggert, shaking his
fist, “if you two don’t stop it, I’ll throw something at the pair of you.” The
head disappeared but presently returned with a large ceramic pot. “See here,
Patches? Don’t think I won’t lob it over the fence.”
“Will
he?” asked Faith, curiously.
Grandad
Patches, still banging away with the stick, had not really paid any attention
and was frowning in concentration. “Will he what?”
“Lob
it over the fence at us.”
“Oh,
I should think so, Faith, my dear,” muttered Grandad Patches, still not really
looking, then standing up. He beamed. “Yes, now we just need some string.
That’ll do it. You see, Faith,” he explained, “back in the sixties when I was a
novelist, I invented a character and published a series of stories about his
masterful detective work tracking down villainous red headed monsters…”
“No,
you didn’t, you lying liar!” screamed Grandad Biggert, still waving his pot at
them. Some liquid sploshed up. “Damn!”
Suddenly,
Irene Adder also appeared, thrusting her head through alongside him. “Robert?
What on earth are you doing? Get back from the window this instance, do you
hear?”
“But
Grandad Patches is banging his garden.”
“Now!”
And the window slammed shut with a hollow, deafening crash.
“What
very strange behaviour,” mused Grandad Patches. “Now, Faith, let’s go and get
that string, shall we? Oh, and I think we’ll also need a few tons of manure,
and the biggest didgeridoo I own.”
“Didgeridoo?
What’s one of those, Grandad?”
“Well,
back in the sixties, when I was stationed off Australia….” and the two friends
disappeared back inside 36 Lumpslap Close.
* * * * *
Sunday
morning dawned and it was at 9.30 precisely when at last Spanners completely
failed to pop over to look at the pipes.
Now,
there was grumbling a-plenty as Morgan led an expedition through darkest
Purridgeton. His mission? To use the municipal toilets which were thoughtfully
provided for those unexpectedly caught short in the large, rolling parklands.
There
was a queue, he noticed, gloomily, so they waited until it was convenient.
Clapping
his hands in satisfaction, and uttering the occasional po-po, Grandad Patches
waited outside until Morgan’s toilet party were ready to continue their march
to the church of non-specific religions for Sunday service, a tiresome ritual which
caused a great deal of fidgeting, dropping of hymn books and nicking hassocks
from beneath knees which was one way of passing the hour.
Upon
entering the church, mobile phones were dropped into the cardboard box on the
right. Trying not to breath in too much camphor and cockroach fumes, most
scuttled to their pews. The organist struck some chords with a flourish and the
congregation mumbled and muttered their way through ‘For those in Peril on the Sea’.
It
was, I suppose, halfway through Reverend Bunyan’s service when she clapped her
hands for silence. It was not as if she needed to, actually, so perhaps I
should rephrase that to...er...she clapped her hands to wake everybody up. Anyway,
clap her hands she did, slurring some sort of announcement which nobody could
hear due to the P.A being faulty, gestured her hands at the front row in a
beckoning motion and standing down from the pulpit while an astonishing event
occurred.
Smirking
to the very depths of his slick oily beard, black eyes blazing and brow crinkled, Grandad
Biggert ascended the steps to the pulpit.
He
grasped its gritty sandstone edge and peered across the pews, his gaze raking
like searchlights until he spied Grandad Patches, yawning at the back.
“I
have sinned,” he cried, in a deep and mournful tone, quite unlike his usual way
of speaking, “Yes, I am a miserable sinner, but today I repent. I cast aside my
old ways like…a fisherman with his fisherman’s rod doing some sort of casting
thing like this…” and he waved his arms wildly before continuing.
Morgan
nudged Patience and spoke softly behind his hymn book. “Is he possessed?” he
grinned as he strained to hear.
At
the front, Doctor Snaptor turned around and glared at them with icicle eyes.
“I
cast my fish upon your mercy,” continued Grandad Biggert, on a roll and happy
to throw anything into the pot, “oh, I was a fish once, but now, my rod and
staff me comfort still in mercy. Yes.” He thumped the pulpit impressively,
stubbed his thumb then winced. “Shall I recount thee to my sins?”
Nobody
answered. I imagine they were worried they’d have to endure two or three more
hours.
“What
has brought around my change? Well I’ll tell you,” he nodded vigorously, his
beard shaking, his voice trembling, over-emoting like a bad actor in an
underfunded soap. “I’ll tell you. Tell you, I will.” Then he pointed. “Why the
love of this good, good woman!” And he pointed at Irene Adder, sitting and
bobbing in approval.
“Pass
me the sick bag,” grumbled Morgan. “what a load of…”
“Sugar!”
screamed Grandad Biggert, “Like sugar in a cup of vile, bitter tea, mix the two
and you have…er…a sweeter cup of tea. With sugar in it.” He paused importantly
and there was a smatter of applause, no more than that. “Yes, friends, seize
this moment. If you find love, hold on to it, grasp it firmly, tug it hard, let
it tug you back then put it inside your woggle so the woggle grips tight and…”
Reverend
Bunyan leapt up the pulpit stairs. “Thank you, Grandad Biggert, that's quite
enough.”
“Is
it?”
“Yes,
I’m sure we were all inspired by your speech and will find it in our hearts to
forgive you.”
“But
I haven’t fingered Grandad Patches yet. That was to be the climax of my sermon.
I need to expose his sins. That he, too, can repent.”
“And
I’m very relieved you didn’t. We don’t approve of fingering at this church.”
On
the way home, they were passed by a tractor. Now I wouldn’t mention it
ordinarily, but this one was pulling a mountain of foul-smelling manure,
steaming in the February sunlight and was thundering down the road at quite a
lick. Grandad Patches looked at approvingly as though he liked the rank
odour. “Reminds me of my boyhood,” he announced, taking a deep breath, “the
heady smell of Mother Nature. Why, when I worked on a farm, back in the
sixties…”
“Didn’t
you ever do anything ‘back in the seventies?’” interrupted Morgan, rudely. “Or
even the eighties?”
“Po,
po, po, dear me, no,” frowned Grandad, “the seventies? Certainly not.”
“Well,
can we hear more ‘back in the seventies’ and less ‘back in the sixties’, then?”
“You’re
being extremely rude, Morgan,” warned Patience, “we love hearing Grandad’s
interesting tales, don’t we, Faith.”
“Yes,
I do,” and Faith emphasised this by giving Grandad’s hand a squeeze.
“Oh
well, please yourselves, then. I’m off to meet Mordred for coffee and a kickabout.”
Morgan waved nonchalantly and dodged through the park gates as the others
crossed the road into Lumpslap Close.
They
narrowly avoided being mown down by the same tractor, now speeding the other
way, considerably lighter having deposited its steaming heap somewhere in the
vicinity.
At
number 36, something unpleasant awaited them.
“Patches!
Patches! What is the meaning of this?” screamed Grandad Biggert, waving his rolled-up
newspaper at a trail of smouldering manure that led into the back garden of number
36, “It stinks.”
“Well,
I say, I wouldn’t go that far.” spluttered Grandad, “Who doesn’t love the tangy,
sweet smell of fresh horse dung?”
“Me.
And neither does Irene,” warned Grandad Biggert, “If you don’t remove this
smell at once, I’ll call the authorities.” And he jabbered Grandad Patches with
his newspaper.
“Well,
I can’t very well do that, can I? In any case, now that you’re a strict
vegetarian, I will have to grow twice as many mung beans as before,” complained
Grandad Patches, moving his hands in a sweeping gesture at the manure. “See?
That’s what it’s for.”
“Pah!”
spat Grandad Biggert, swiping accurately with his newspaper, “Heh, heh, heh. Strict
vegetarian? That was just made up, to please Irene Adder. I threw my mung beans
down the toilet, anyway. No one will ever know.”
Faith
gasped in horror. “Threw them down the toilet? Wait until Professor Pipes and
Mr Dribbles hear about that!”
“Don’t
worry, Faith, Grandad Biggert didn’t mean he really threw them down the toilet.
He was using a metaphor. Weren’t you?”
“No,
I wasn’t, Patches, you dreary, old swede quaffler,” sniggered Grandad Biggert,
“I’ll flush what I like down my toilet, if you please, you halfwit, and if you report me I'll deny everything and say you did it anyway. Now remove
that smell. I’m taking my afternoon nap and I want sweet dreams. Not the sort
dished up by your reeking manure pile.” And with that, he marched indoors.
Faith
was still horrified. “Grandad. He flushed mung beans down the toilet. We will
have to tell Professor Pipes!”
And,
just for once, Grandad Patches looked a little cagey. As though he might know a
secret. Something he didn’t want Faith or even us to know. Still, he smiled a
little half-smile and said, “Oh, I should think he probably already knows,
Faith, my dear. He probably already knows. Now, to work!”
Patience
watched from the kitchen window, as Faith and Grandad appeared in the garden.
The
previous night, as I think you’ll recall, Grandad Patches had hammered two pegs
into the lawn and fastened string between the pegs so that it followed the path
he had been thumping with his heavy cane. Now, he was pleased to see tons of
manure placed alongside that string in an almost straight line. It was steaming
terrifically.
Faith,
being very clever, was beside herself with excitement and didn’t even notice
the smell at all. “Look Grandad, it’s above the pipes!” she cried.
“Po,
po, po. Yes. You are clever, Faith. But I’m worried it won’t be warm enough to
melt it.”
“Warm
enough to melt what, Grandad? The fat burger?”
“We’ll
just have to use the didgeridoo to find out.”
Following Grandad Patches back into the house, up the stairs and to the bathroom
where it had all begun, Faith clapped her hands in delight. It was still very damp and smelly inside but she soon
forgot that as Grandad grasped his didgeridoo and thrust it right into the
toilet. “What are you doing, Grandad?”
“Well,
my dear, I’m going to play a tune. If I can just get the right frequency…all
our toilet troubles will be over. Now, Faith, my dear, stand well back. There
could be a great deal of pressure.”
And
with that, Grandad Patches puffed out his cheeks and began to play straight
into the pipe that disappears beneath the floorboards. The noise was horrible; a sort of
low pitched groaning and clanking that seemed to shiver the very timbers of the whole
house.
Undeterred, Grandad grimaced, puffed ever harder and kept playing; the noise building up to a crescendo until there was a tremendous 'whoosh' and, next door, something that
sounded very much like an explosion. Faith jumped out of her skin.
Removing
the didgeridoo and breathing heavily, Grandad seemed quite unperturbed. “Pull the flush, Faith, my
dear.” And as she did so, both were overjoyed to see the foul liquids disappearing
just as they should and fresh, clear water refilling the bowl. Grandad Patches
beamed in delight.
* * * * *
Returning
from his morning football, Morgan was accosted by one of the most terrible
sights he had ever witnessed in his young life. At first, he stared, mouth
open in disbelief. Then he ducked into a nearby privet hedge, listened and
began to howl with laughter.
BOSH!
Down came the brolly on Grandad Biggert’s head. “How dare you put me in an
exploding bedroom?”
“Now,
then, honey-cakes, I did not know it was going to explode, did I? Ouch!”
WHOMP!
“I’m covered from head to toe in half gnawed lamb bones and pork chop grizzle.
My clothes are ruined. People with laugh at me. Dogs will follow me through the
park. They'll call me Mrs Meat.”
“I
can’t explain where they came from, dribble-chops, give me a second chance…yow!”
“Can’t
you?” CRASH! “I can. All the time you were pretending to sleep you’ve been
secretly consuming meat products in the bedroom and flushing them down the
toilet, blocking the pipes for miles around with grease, fat and offal, haven’t
you?”
“No,
honestly. Owwwww!”
“Haven’t
you!”
“Yes.
A bit,” admitted Grandad Biggert, defending his face from further blows. “Although
some of it was Grandad Patches’ fault, to be fair.”
Irene
Adder stamped down hard on his foot instead. “Grandad Patches? How was it his
fault, you carnist?”
“Well,
you see…er…everything always is his fault…ooooyah!”
Irene
Adder glared at him with frightening intensity, rubbing some sticky mint sauce from her eyelashes and flicking it from her fingernails in a most unladylike fashion. It
landed right on Grandad Biggert’s quivering lip. “Goodbye, Robert Biggert.” With that
she trundled her trolley down Lumpslap Close, past the shop and into the park.
Grandad
Biggert shook his fist at her, glared, then called out, “I know you’re hiding
in there, young man. Wait until I get hold of you.”
Morgan
scarpered, as fast as he could, still holding his sides.
* * * * *
Now,
you might think that was the end of that, no harm done: but there were one
of two mysteries that persisted I have to mention.
Firstly,
Grandad Patches was beaming with delight for the next two or three days as
though he’d been very clever, but when asked, he smile dropped and he went
about his business, saying nothing much about events. Of course the manure did
come in handy for the flowerbeds and vegetable patch and when Faith was helping
him fork it into the earth, she once again saw that old sock.
“Grandad,”
she asked. “Is that Mr Dribbles?” And she passed it over.
But
Grandad Patches, turned it over in his soily hands, harrumphed and shook his head, frowning. He didn’t seem to know
what he meant, muttering something about putting it with the toilet roll for
next year.
Secondly,
late one evening, a couple of days later the doorbell rang and Patience, as usual, went to answer it.
An elderly man stood before her, dressed in blue coveralls. “Yes?” she asked, “and
how may I help you?”
The
man looked a little embarrassed. “Good evening, young lady. I’m Spanners.”
“Spanners?”
“Yes,
Spanners. You were waiting for me. I believe you have an emergency.”
Patience
smiled, recollecting the events of the past two or three days. “Of course,
Spanners,” she replied, “oh, well, you see, Spanners, we did have an emergency,
but it’s all sorted out now.”
“What
sort of emergency was it?” asked Spanners, intrigued.
“Well,
Grandad had his hand stuck in the toilet pipes.”
“Did
he?” Spanners scratched his head. “I’m not sure I believe you. Those pipes are
far too wide for anyone to get their hands stuck.”
