Shut Your Pie Hole
Have you ever put a soggy sponge down a trumpet’s horn then had a
really good blow?
You don’t own a trumpet? Really?
Well, you really should; everyone should play with something.
And, while I’m at, a little writing every day doesn’t hurt, either.
The reason I’m talking trumpets is because I’m having trouble
describing the extraordinary sound you’d hear if you happened to be on
Purridgeton High Street this rainy March morning.
Oh yes, it was blowing a hoolie, and the wind was lashing at those
bare, black trees with a cat-o-nine- tails and they’re twisting and turning,
shaking loose whatever leaves had happened to remain clinging on to them that Winter
for dear life.
But that’s not the noise I’m referring to, dear me, no.
The noise that I want to bring to your attention was quite
ghastly. A shrieking and howling that might be likened to thirty or forty
banshees being grouchy with a similar number of fully inflated bagpipes and
stamping upon them repeatedly with spiteful soles.
Yes, that was the noise, but what the cause?
As it worked itself into individual consciousnesses the way vile noises
do, timid at first, then with increasing confidence, people began to appear at
shop fronts and gaze towards the west end of the street, blinking through the
murk. It was fairly early, you see, and light hadn’t established itself quite
yet.
Now, looking towards the cacophony, there appeared to be a very
low lying, unmoving cloud. Well, when I say unmoving, I mean that it was fixed
in position. However, it was quite a different situation within. There was
frantic, frenetic action and bits of cloud seemed to detach themselves, circle
loudly and dive back inside with seditious squawks.
Those bystanders were staying firmly away.
“Aliens, by thunder. The day has come!” shrieked one of them,
waving a rolled up newspaper in the cloud’s direction. “Alert the authorities.
Call out the fire brigade. Where is that hempen harridan, Constable Muff? Never
around where she’s needed, the old hag.”
Another of them, a very elderly tobacconist of no fixed teeth,
shook his head firmly. “No, Grandad Biggert, thems not be aliens, thems be
seagulls.”
“Don’t talk to me in that pidgin dialect, you toothless turnip,”
snapped Grandad Biggert, rudely, swiping the fellow’s head with his newspaper
to punctuate his point, “round up the hounds and set to.”
But, before our aged vendor could complain about mistreatment,
from the east end of the street an entirely different sound boomed in a clap of
thunder, like mighty Hercules pounding two boulders together until they were
pulverised. A triumphant fanfare, a mighty blast on Hades’ horns – help was on
the way.
“Who be that, then?” queried the tobacconist, before ducking
quickly.
Grandad Biggert’s gaze moved eastwards, followed by the rest of
those slack mouthed mumblers on the High Street. An elderly man, sat upon a
motorized shopping trolley, was hurtling towards them, teeth set grimly against
the onrushing wind, his grey long locks billowing behind his forehead like some
sort of Robinson Crusoe on castors.
His finger was jabbing frantically on the multi-coloured, flashing
control panel fixed to the handles in front of him, and each time he did so,
several klaxons played an urgent fanfare - a warning to move aside or be fried.
“I’ll rescue you,” he was screaming, “stand back, stand back. I’ve set my power
to turbo-charge, and who knows what this baby is capable of?”
“My God, my God!” murmured the crowds, “it’s Willie Wheels!”
Well, at this point, I must confess to you that I am embellishing
these events just a little, to make the story more – exciting. You are probably
well aware that an electric shopping cart doesn’t have much of a top speed,
aren’t you?
Willie Wheels approached the whirling cloud of gulls with all the
velocity of a defective banana that had shed its skin and had decided it was
feeling a bit browned off. “Don’t worry, Grandad Patches!” he shrieked, “I’ll
save you!” And he trundled towards it very slowly indeed.
Inside the maelstrom, it was indeed Grandad Patches, looking
somewhat unhappy and bedraggled as he attempted to fight off three or four
rampaging birds. Have you seen the eyes of gulls? They’re yellow. They look
heated even when they’re set on cold, don’t they?
Even worse for the poor old fellow, he had around his neck a
lanyard, attached to the sides of a vending tray. This restricted his movements
– I’m afraid he was something of a sitting target. In the tray? Some rather
tatty looking dead fish. Judging from the stench, you might suppose they’d been
dead for quite some time.
The only thing offering Grandad Patches protection was his straw
hat, a boater he had set upon his head at a jaunty angle with the words ‘try
one, buy one’ splashed all over the rim. I said had been set at a jaunty angle; now it was all skewiff and covered
in white splodges as each gull tried again and again to dive in and seize fish.
“I say,” Grandad Patches was spluttering in a reasonable tone at
the avian horde, “why don’t you just stop it, or something? If you all sat down
over there, or the like, I’m sure we could divide up these ‘produits de la mer’
in an equitable fashion. What if I toss a couple towards the park, eh?”
The howling flock would have none of it; Grandad Patches was
besieged. He was now beginning to regret stealing the tray from them in the
first place.
Amongst the bystanders, there was now more understanding, and,
appallingly, one or two titters. They started to follow Willie Wheels towards
the quarrelling throng.
“What’s that disgusting stench? Is it you, Patches, you fetid
fishmonger?”
“Take no notice of Grandad Biggert,” grunted Willie Wheels,
arriving at last and plunging headlong into the danger zone, “we’ll have you
out of there in a jiffy. Grab hold of this line.”
“Willie Wheels. Am I glad to see you.”
Willie Wheels cast around him with a knowledgeable look, “what
happened here, Grandad Patches? Have you assessed the situation?”
“I just don’t understand it, Willie,” returned the other, fighting
off another attack from a squawking fiend, “I was simply conveying this tray of
fresh pilchards I found by the side of the road to the market hall, my sole
intention was…look out!”
Willie fended off a diving, spiralling razor bill with his trusty
wooden mallet high above his head. “They don’t smell too fresh to me.”
“Well, I thought they were when I found them abandoned by the glue
factory.”
“Never mind that now. Secure the line to your belt.” Willie Wheels
had tossed him a rope. While Grandad Patches attached his end to the leather
belt tied around his romper smock, Willie deftly knotted his end to the cart.
“Drop the fish, Grandad Patches. Leave them to those savage sawbeaks to fight
over.”
“Oh, I say, are you sure?”
“Sure as eggs is eggs.”
“But they might fetch in a pretty penny. There is a recession on,
you know.”
“The only thing they’ll fetch in is the cat,” grunted Willie
Wheels, chucking the tray to one side. “Stand by, Grandad Patches. Are you
secured?”
“’Pon my soul, I suppose I am,” Grandad Patches spluttered, as
another gull swooped in, narrowly missing the straw boater with its webbed
talons. “Quickly, no time to lose.”
“Hah! Never fear, I’ll deploy my latest weapon. I’ve been itching
to try this out.”
“Latest weapon? Oh dear, I’m not sure I…er…like the sound of that,
Willie Wheels.”
“Of course, latest weapon. I can’t ride around this hell hole
defenceless, can I? A man of my age, with limited mobility?”
“I suppose not, dear fellow. Um, well, what does it do?”
“It’s the very latest in drone tech. It’s called ‘Seagull Away’,
and it’ll certainly deal with these vicious blighters by sending out an
invisible, inaudible ultra sonic beam that will drive them in torment to the
farthest reaches of the sky.” Triumphantly, Willie stabbed a mighty thumb on a
particularly impressive red button on his multi-coloured, flashing control
panel, affixed to the handle bars of the cart. “Hah. Have at you, you blue and
grey sky ferrets.”
Nothing happened.
On the contrary, if it were possible, it had the opposite effect.
The gulls seemed to become even more enraged. Even now, one successfully had
the straw boater away, carrying it aloft exultantly.
“Oh no!” screamed Grandad Patches. “You’ve made it worse, it’s had
my hat, it’s had my hat!”
“I can see that,” snapped Willie Wheels, “You know what this means?”
“No, what does it mean?”
“It means that ‘Seagull Away’ doesn’t flipping work, that’s what.
Three hundred pounds, that cost me.”
“It should be called ‘Hats Away’.”
The gull itself hovered above their heads, holding the hat in one
mighty talon whilst its beak stabbed the straw with malicious intent.
Disappointed with what it tasted, it glared malevolently, tossed the hat onto
the breeze, then resumed dive bombing the helpless old man.
Shifting his cart into first gear, Willie Wheels began the task of
towing Grandad Patches away from the frenetic flock of fish gobblers. Slowly at first, then with increasing
slowness the two gradually inched their way from the discarded vending tray.
And now they were no longer in the vicinity, the gulls began to fight amongst themselves
over the remaindered stock.
It was enough. They were free from the cyclonic blades and cutters
of those feathered fiends.
Grandad Patches dusted himself down, unhooking the towline from
his belt. “I say, that was one brave and daring rescue, my dear friend.”
There was a smattering of applause from the onlookers and a few
cries of ‘for he’s a jolly good fellow’.
But one individual was definitely not clapping, dear me no. “Shut
up, you mumbling misfits,” snapped Grandad Biggert. “He’s not a jolly good
fellow. Not even close.” Taking his rolled up newspaper, he swotted Grandad
Patches across his head with a quick swipe.
“Ow!” cried Grandad Patches, who’d had quite enough pain for one
day, “what was that for?”
“For smelling of fish. The whole street stinks now, and it’s your
fault Patches, you doddering dishrag. I did not sally forth today in order to
be assaulted by your putrid piscium pong, did I?”
A little time later, safely parked at a small, round and rickety
table in the American coffee shop, Grandad Patches and Willie Wheels were
snorting disconsolately into two mugs of brew, poring over the daily newspaper.
“Not much news today, Grandad Patches,” muttered Willie finally,
pushing the paper away.
“No, indeed, Willie Wheels,” he agreed, “I do wish they wouldn’t
waste so much paper. Don’t they know there’s a recession on?”
“What do you mean? It’s a newspaper. You can’t have one of those
without paper, you know.”
Grandad Patches turned the pages with a sigh, “yes, but it might
be even better if they printed something on it, Willie. Like some news, for
instance.”
Nodding sagely, Willie Wheels agreed. “There’s a lot of it about
these days. What about that blighter who left a tray of fish by the sewerage
works? Just so you could do your civil duty and pick it up?”
“It was the glue factory.”
“Oh. Well, all right, then, but what about that machiavellian
misfit who sold me ‘Seagull Away’. That didn’t work, did it? And I’m still not
sure about this so called ‘turbo charge booster unit’, either.”
“Who keeps selling you these things, Willie Wheels?”
“Difficult to be sure. The way it works is that a man dressed
entirely in a shepherd’s smock rings the doorbell once a week…”
“Shepherd’s smock? Does he bring a crook?”
“Yes, I think he does, Grandad Patches. A shady fellow who looks
shifty, always standing just behind him. And, now you come to mention it, a sheep on a
lead. Yes, I forgot that bit.”
Grandad Patches rubbed his chin. “Po, po, po, po. Sheep on a lead,
eh? Does it bleat a lot?”
“No. It’s a bit dead. When I looked, I noticed it was stuffed. On
wheels, you see?”
“I see. A bit like you then.”
“What? I’m not a stuffed sheep, am I?”
“Of course not, I didn’t mean to imply…I meant you have wheels,
too, that’s all.”
“Well, anyway, once he’s parked the sheep, he gives me a form to
fill in. I must say, it’s a very nice form, all coloured in with crayons and
everything. And on that form are all the new things the company’s invented that
week for motorized shopping trolleys. I tick the form, give him the money,
leave my cart outside overnight and in the morning, it’s all done. Amazing.”
Grandad Patches cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed it is,” he
grunted, taking a sip of his coffee. “I wish I knew the name of this charming
businessman. Is it ‘Pie’?”
“Pie?”
“Like Shepherd’s Pie.”
“No, I know his name, all right, don’t worry, I’m not stupid. Had
to check the company was all kosher, you know? There is a recession on, isn’t
there? It’s ‘Brit Egg Enterprises Ltd.’”
“Well, that’s just fine and dandy. You can’t get more authentic
and patriotic than British eggs.”
Somewhat satisfied, Grandad Patches took a sip of his coffee and
then grimaced. “My goodness me, Willie Wheels, what did you order? This is the
vilest coffee I’ve ever tasted.”
Willie Wheels scratched his chin thoughtfully and reread the card.
“Yorkshire Cappuccino,” he replied, “made by only the finest baristas in the
land.”
Grandad Patches cast a suspicious look across the café towards the
bar. The ‘finest baristas in the land’ were two very elderly gentlemen in pinafores,
oblivious to his discomfort. Now, as you know, he was usually terribly polite,
but as there were no children in earshot, he yelled out very loudly indeed.
“Hey, you! Are you trying to poison us?” Well, after all, they could be deaf.
He was.
One of those two gentlemen looked up from his job of polishing
china mugs. “Is there a problem, sir?” he asked in a neutral sort of way and
shuffling towards the table. The he recognised the owner of the voice. “What’s
the matter this time, Grandad Patches?”
“It’s this,” he replied, indicating the mug, “this Yorkshire
Cappuccino. It tastes like nothing more than flour and water with salt in it.”
“Oh, yes. The Yorkshire Cappuccino, you say?”
“I’ve tasted better batter pudding mixes than this. Back in the
sixties if we ran short, I’d use something like this for glue.”
The barista didn’t look bothered by Grandad Patches’ complaint at
all and sniffed. “Well, that’s because it is flour, water and a little salt,”
he said, emphasising his point by jabbing at the milky white liquid with his forefinger,
“There is a recession on, you know. Please stop wasting everyone’s time. We are
very busy.” And he would have flounced away, but was just that little bit too
old, so settled for a dignified shuffle instead.
“You don’t look very busy to me,” grumbled Grandad Patches.
Willie Wheels nodded. “That’s just what I mean. And, of course,
this whole pie business.”
“Pie business? Shepherd’s pie business?” enquired Grandad Patches,
thrown momentarily by this change of topic.
“Aye, you could say that,” added Willie, with a mysterious
Scottish burr to his voice, “You might very well say that indeed. Yes, indeed
you might very well…”
“Stop it, Willie Wheels, you’ll have one of your turns. Do you
need me to strike you kindly but firmly about the face?”
Willie Wheels frowned, felt his face and stopped chattering. “No.
I think I’m all right,” he mumbled, his voice resuming its normal tone.
“Well, what pie business?”
“The strange affair of the mince pies affair.”
Grandad Patches started to feel himself getting a little tetchy.
It had not been the best of starts to the day, what with the fish, the weather
and the attacking bird life. “That’s just what I said,” he complained,
accidentally taking another gulp of liquid Yorkshire pudding, before spitting it
back hastily into the mug. “Shepherd’s pie is made of mince. Minced lamb,
usually.”
His face brightened, “and if you make it with minced beef it’s a
cottage pie, of course. Why, back in the sixties, I now recall an occasion when
I was serving as an office boy in ‘Beefy Brothers and Sons’ an international
importer of minced beef and purveyors of pies thereof. Now, strangely, just
next door was ‘Yummylambs Inc.’, who concerned themselves with importing…”
“Is this going anywhere?” asked the aged barista, who’d drifted
back to their table because he was bored and had nothing to do.
“He’s a strict vegetarian, normally” replied Willie Wheels. “It
makes you wonder why he’d even agreed to join ‘Beefy Brothers and Sons’ in any
sort of role.”
“It beggars belief.”
“Yes. Why did you even work there? Why not try your hand at ‘Carrots
and Co’ instead?”
“Po, po, po, you’re ruining the story.”
“Valid questions, Willie Wheels, for one who makes loud claims
that he fights for animal rights on a daily basis,” agreed the barista.
Grandad Patches ignored them both. “Well, the incredibly
surprising thing was…on that very day, there was a mix up with the dockets and
forms. I warned Mr Beefy that this was very likely to happen one day. ‘It’s very
likely to happen one day’, were my precise words to Mr Beefy.”
“Which Mr Beefy was it?” asked Willie Wheels, stroking his chin
with slow deliberate actions.
“Pardon?”
“You said ‘Beefy Brothers and Sons’. That suggests to me that
there might be any one of several males called Beefy.”
“Does it matter?”
“Well, of course,” argued the barista, “it could be the younger,
more incompetent Mr Beefy who was responsible for the dockets and forms being filed
incorrectly and mixed up. He could bring the whole enterprise into disrepute,
simply through youthful enthusiasm and inexperience.”
“Sack him, I say. Or her.”
“Yes. Sack him or her. Were there any sisters?”
With a wave of the hand, Grandad Patches continued, his voice rising
in enthusiasm. “Well, there was mayhem. A consignment of minced lamb arrived at
the gates of ‘Beefy Brothers and Sons’, whilst at the same time, a lorry load
of minced beef…”
“Pathetic,” snapped the barista.
“I beg your pardon?”
“That is the single most predictable thing that could possibly
have happened, Grandad Patches.”
“Is it?”
“I must say, I did see that coming,” agreed Willie Wheels, with a groan
of disappointment.
The barista shuffled away, flicking his tea towel in contempt,
whilst Grandad Patches looked a little crestfallen. “Well, what about your mince
pies, then?” he muttered, in a sulky voice. “Your strange affair of the mince
pies affair. Is that any better?”
Once again, Willie Wheels stroked his chin in deliberation. “Ah
yes. Those mince pies.” He looked up from his coffee, fixing Grandad Patches with
a look that struck terror and dread into his soul. “Worse, Grandad Patches,
much, much worse.”
“In what way, Willie, in what way?”
“I am, as you know, a man of limited space.”
“Limited space and limited mobility,” agreed Grandad Patches.
“Imagine my surprise, then, when all my space was taken up by a
huge consignment of mince pies. Boxes and boxes of the wretched things. Made by
Mr Krippins.”
“Mr Krippins? Po, po, po, po. My dear fellow, how did this happen?”
“Never mind that, Grandad Patches. It’s a scrag end minted lamb
chop of a problem. What’s worse, they’re past their ‘use by’ date.” Willie’s
eyes narrowed hopefully. “I say. Do you like mince pies? I have some going at a
very cheap price, you know.”
“Hmmm. Mince pies. Past their ‘use by’ date. Do they contain meat
products?”
“Of course not, Patches. These are of the deliciously sweet
variety, containing candied peel, figs and currants. Yum yum.”
“What sort of candied peel?” Grandad Patches looked a little doubtful.
I imagine he was wondering just what the average consumer might encounter inside
a Mr Krippins pie.
“How do I know, Grandad Patches? Potato, turnip, carrot peel…any
of those, probably.”
“Maybe not this time, Willie Wheels. But if I can help you, I will.”
“There’s no time to lose! We must act now!” And with that, he
fired up his shopping cart, pressing the ‘turbo charge’ button with a decisive
jab of the finger. “Come on, man! Let’s go!”
“Yes!” snapped Grandad Patches, leaping to his feet and flinging
the mug of Yorkshire cappuccino across the café. It slopped its contents onto
the floor and broke into pieces.
“You’ll pay for that, Patches,” yelled one of the aged baristas,
as the two hurtled through the door.
In like a lion, out like a lamb, the wet, windy March weather
continued to toss up litter into the unkempt streets of Purridgeton, and the
garden of Number 36 Lumpslap Close looked and wailed like a choir, late for
practise who’d all just chucked back the sheets and had particularly bad bed-heads.
You might say flowerbed-heads. You might say that; I wouldn’t be
so cheap.
Inside the house, however, it was surprisingly tidy and
harmonious. In no particular order, you’ll see Faith, lying belly down on the
carpet, her small legs flicked upwards behind her whilst she was thoughtfully
doing some colouring in, humming a little tune to herself. Beside her right
hand, a glass of milk with a straw. She looked peaceful, contented and not in
the slightest bit bothered by the raging storm outside. “How do you spell ‘Brit
Egg’,” she asked, but no one answered.
Behind her, watching sport on the television, was Patience. I
think she it was football, but I can’t be sure, because, you know, it’s only a
small, flickery black and white.
Oh yes, it is football, how strange. Look. One of the women just
scored.
“Get in!” Patience muttered, sounding rather like Morgan, but
without much enthusiasm. She didn’t come close to punching the air.
On closer inspection, she doesn’t just sound like Morgan, she’s
dressed like him too.
Patience jumped to her feet and glowered out of the window. “Damn,
I wish this weather would clear up. I want to go down the park for a kickabout.”
And she was dressed in Morgan’s jeans – a little tight around her waist, and
Morgan’s sweaty cream coloured jersey, the one with Tunisian egg stains down
the front.
Those stains had never come out, no matter how hard she’d scrubbed
them.
Faith ignored her, continuing to colour in contentedly. She often
ignored her brother and sister, mainly because on normal days, Morgan was being
wretched, and Patience was barking orders like ‘brush your teeth’ or ‘eat up
your porridge’.
And where was that big brother of hers?
Outside, the sitting room, in the hallway that led to the door and
stairs, if you listen carefully, you can hear singing.
“Oh, what a beautiful morning…”
Wow.
Here’s Morgan, dressed in Patience’s skirt and a neat, well ironed
flowery top. He’s wearing a pinafore and using that multicoloured feather
duster, busy dusting the cobwebs from the hallway lights.
He was smiling, but it was more of a grimace than a grin.
Presently, he had finished removing the cobwebs and then ran his
fingers along the varnished stairs. “Oo, look at all this dust, it’s awful.” he
said loudly, in a high-pitched register. “What a palaver. It’s a right carry on
and that’s no lie.” Then he switched on their battered old hoover and started
to sweep the carpets with it, to and fro.
After five minutes, he snapped it off, gave up the pretence and
flounced into the sitting room. Patience was still at the window, watching the
weather, so he avoided Faith, came up behind her and jabbed her on the right
shoulder blade.
“Ow!”
“Listen, you,” he snapped. “I’m totally fed up with gender
reassignment week. I can’t believe I have to wear your dress to school on
Monday, neither. I feel like a right charlie.”
Patience spun on her foot to face him. "It's no better for
me. I hate football and your jersey is disgusting.”
“Why can’t we just swop back, then? Nobody would know, would they?”
“Yes, they would. We just have to tough it out, Morgan. It’s only
a week and, I suppose, it’s for the best.”
“For the best?” Morgan muttered something that I’m afraid I can’t
write here, so I won’t. “How is it for the best?”
“Grandad will wash your mouth with soap.”
“No, he should wash yours, actually. You’re supposed to be me,
remember?”
“Oh yes, it’s all very confusing.” Patience sat back on the settee
resignedly. “How long do these football pitches last? I’m bored.”
“It’s matches. football matches,” snapped Morgan, and he lingered
in front of the flickering screen, drawn to the action like a bee to honey. “What’s
the score?”
“Down in front. You’re blocking my view. Go and get on with the
housework,” ordered Patience, shoving him out of the way. “And it’s toad in the
hole for lunch. Vegetarian toad in a vegetarian hole.”
“What? Isn’t Ma bringing us something from the chippy?”
“No. There is a recession on, you know?”
“Yes. It’ll be all hole and no toad soon,” agreed Morgan, smirking
as though he’d said something clever, but I think we’ve heard that one before
somewhere, haven’t we?
Precisely now, however, the aproned Morgan froze like a preying
mantis who’d just spotted a plump stick insect, its jaws worked themselves into
a fury. “It’s him!” he snarled, “him!” And he pointed at the television set.
The football had stopped for commercials, as it often did and to
signify this, a white swirly pattern had blotted the screen, before fading into
the first attempt to make penniless punters part with peanuts
“Hullo!” mouthed a fruity yokel valley voice from a face with a
winsome grin.
Patience grabbed her brother by the shoulders. “No, Morgan, don’t.
Think what happened last time.”
But Morgan was looking for something, anything to attack the television
set with. He grabbed a cushion from the settee with sharp looking metal tassels
and raised it threateningly.
Oblivious to any drama in the sitting room, the plummy voice
continued: “I’m Farmer Christmas. Do you like mince pies? Feast your eyes on my
mince piesters.” and on this cue, it cut to a chorus of aged dancing men in sequined
gnome suits who were warbling in time to jingle bells, some sort of verse like
this one:
“Mincing pies, mincing pies, we love mincing pies, oh what fun it is
to munch our mincing, mincing pies.”
Farmer Christmas was smirking, watching on and nodding along in
time, while slapping his thigh and sitting in his sleigh. It was very festive
indeed.
This singing and dancing continued longer than it had any right to
and some of the ancient participants started looking a bit wobbly, slurring
their words whilst beads of sweat began to form on their foreheads.
Indeed, one of the old fellows stopped altogether until somebody
off camera poked him with a stick at which point he redoubled his effort: “Oh
mincing pies, mincing pies, mincing pies…”
“That’s the only bit I like,” snapped Morgan. “If only they’d prod
a few more of them.”
As the music began to fade out, the camera once more zoomed in on
Farmer Christmas who winked in a winning manner. ‘Oo, ar, oo, ar, you’ll go
far, with Farmer Christmas’ low, low prices.”
Just before Morgan could explode, the door of number 36 opened. In
rushed Grandad Patches carrying a large box with both arms. “Look at these,
look at these,” he cried triumphantly as he entered the living room. He placed
the box on the dining table and beckoned the children over. “I say, Morgan, why
are you wearing that dress?”
“You know very well. You ironed it for me last night.”
“Po, po, po…did I? Well, I must say it rather suits you.” smiled Grandad
Patches agreeably. “I say, Faith, what do you make of these?”
Faith had already jumped up from her colouring in and was already
dancing around her Grandad’s legs, the way young children do. “What is it,
Grandad? What have you got?”
Grandad Patches put on all the airs and grace of a magician about
to pull the rabbit from the hat. “You will never guess in a million years,” he
beamed, flourishing his hands as though conducting an orchestra.
A couple of paces behind them both, Morgan and Patience
simultaneously put their heads to one side and began reading the words written
upon the side of the carton aloud. “Mr Krippen’s Exceedingly Good Mince Pie
Treats,” they chorused, in unison. And the tone of voice both used suggested
they weren’t particularly in love with the thought of eating them, either.
“Are they Grandad? Are they mince pies?” Faith screeched in
excitement, jumping up and down.
“Yes, I’m rather afraid they are,” Patience muttered.
“That’s right, Faith, that’s right,” laughed Grandad Patches. “One
hundred and forty four Mr Krippens’ pies. Won’t that be a lot of fun?”
“Grandad, what are mince pies?”
Before he could answer, a loud voice interrupted them, strident and
demanding, from the vicinity of the hallway. “Patches? I say, Patches! Where
the devil are you? I’m about to be swept over the weir.”
Grandad Parches looked flustered, “Swept over the weir? Oh no. I
quite forgot I left Willie Wheels outside. His turbo trolley might not be able
to negotiate the doorsteps. Come on.” And he rushed back the way he came.
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Not Willie Wheels again. Last time he
came we had to winch him out of the front windows.”
Patience nodded grimly and followed her brother to the front door.
Once they got there, something nasty was waiting.
“Patches? Patches, you mulleted mackerel,” screamed Grandad
Biggert, “how dare you allow this castored custard stain to block access to Biggert
Mansions? His cart is a hindrance to my smooth passage to the entrance hall.” And
he was waving a rolled up daily in Willie Wheels’ face in a quite menacing
manner.
Willie Wheels was flinching in fear, “Get him away from me, get
him away, Grandad Patches. I gave him his menaces money yesterday. All thruppenny
ha’penny of it.”
“Thruppenny ha’penny?” screamed Grandad Biggert, “I’ll thruppenny ha’penny
you, you motorised malignant.” And he lunged in for a mighty swot.
Gracefully, Grandad Patches intercepted the newspaper and moved it
from harm’s way by tossing it into the road.
“You’ll pay for that, Patches, you penny dreadful.”
Morgan was beginning to snigger from behind his hand, as he always
did when Grandad Biggert lost his temper. Always did, that is, until he was
spotted. Which he was right now. “What are you laughing about, Munton? You’re
the one wearing a frock, not me. Hah. Let’s all point at you and laugh, shall
we?”
“We will do no such thing,” spluttered Grandad Patches. “What’s
all this nonsense about Biggert Mansions? Yours is a two up two down, same as
ours.”
“Pah. It’s bigger on the inside than the outside.”
Morgan leant into his sister’s ear. “And if he’s at home, it’s ‘Biggert’
on the inside.” And then he squealed as Grandad Biggert poked him in the eye
with a propelling pencil.
“I heard that, Munton, I’m not deaf, you pinafored snapdragon. Now
get that one man overdressed hostess trolley off my crazy paving before I let the
tyres down with my sonic scalpel.”
“Sonic scalpel? Po, po, po, I’ve never heard such nonsense.”
“That’s because it’s sonic, fool.” Grandad Biggert whipped
something out from the bag he was carrying and waved it threateningly at Willie
Wheels who flinched.
Fortunately, it was actually only a banana, so he looked rather
foolish. “Don’t worry, I can still eat this and place the skin where one of you
will slip over,” he snarled. Then he threw the banana on the path, pushed past
the shopping trolley and entered his house with a ‘heh, heh, heh’.
Safely back inside number 36 and some time later, Grandad Patches
and Faith were unpacking the contents as Willie Wheels watched. “It’s the very
devil of a pickled prawn of a problem,” he complained, “Boxes and boxes of Mr
Krippens’ pies, taking up all the valuable space I need.”
“But how did you come by them, my dear Willie?” asked Grandad
Patches, in his most soothing tone, “how is it that you are river deep and
mountain high in mince pie?”
Willie looked a little shifty. “Well, I didn’t ask you how you
came by that tray of fish, did I?”
Grandad Patches gave Willie one of his stares. “Well, you did,
actually.”
Before Willie could say any more, Faith, as she often did, jumped
up and down, interrupting impatiently, “Can I have one, can I have one,
Grandad?”
Grandad Patches beamed. “Well of course you can, my dear,” he
replied, ruffling her hair, ripping open a box of six as though they were at
the tennis and the umpire had called ‘more balls, please’. He passed one over.
With an eager smile, Faith bit into crumbly crust and chewed
thoughtfully. “Ewww!” she shrieked and promptly spat the mouthful back into Grandad’s
hand.
It was to his credit that Grandad didn’t throw the mulch onto the
carpet, but calmly transferred it to his pocket handkerchief. Let us hope that
later he does not use that same handkerchief to mop his fevered brow or something.
“I say, Willie, all these are well past their ‘use by’ date.”
“Why do you think I’ve had so much trouble trying to shift them?”
Never far away, Morgan sidled across and cast an expert eye over
the festive comestibles himself. “Grandad? I’ve a feeling we’re being watched.”
“Really? You think so?”
“Yes. I read on the internet that foreign agents were placing
surveillance devices in the most unlikely places. After all, pies rhymes with…spies.”
“Po, po, po, you are right, Morgan. These so-called mince pies
could a sort of flying pie shaped drone, designed to gather secret information
and aid the enemy’s war effort.”
“Worse than that, there could be bugs in the pies.”
“Bugs in the pies?” snapped Willie Wheels, ‘I say, they aren’t
that old.”
Ignoring him, Morgan took up a teaspoon with all the expert
precision of a surgeon with a scalpel. He began disembowelling the nearest one.
The others gathered around with an air of expectance.
With a trembling hand, Morgan held the teaspoon up.
“Good grief,” Grandad Patches muttered, “it looks like a currant.”
“What? A currant? In a mince pie?” snapped Patience,
sarcastically.
“What’s a currant, Grandad?”
“Well, it’s a sort of electrical charge…” Grandad Patches stopped
and rubbed his chin, “actually, I’m not sure you can get an electrical charge
in a mince pie, unless…ah, you attach the pie to a battery of some sort…”
“Who attaches a battery to a mince pie, Grandad Patches?” asked
Willie Wheels, curiously.
“Well, there is a recession on.”
Morgan threw his spoon down in disgust. “Nope, I don’t think these
pies are surveillance devices.”
“No. They must be for something else.”
“Of course they’re for something else,” Willie Wheels retorted, “They’re
for eating and having a jolly good time, that’s what.”
Morgan looked a little sceptically at him. “Well, in that case,
how come you have so many to get rid of, then?”
”Aye, there’s the rub,” agreed Willie Wheels, who was indeed rubbing
his chin. “How to get rid of several thousand of them? Before Tuesday? I must
have my space back, you see? It’s an emergency and I just can’t see any way out
of this one. I finally met my match.”
Patience looked a little crestfallen and gently ruffled Willie
Wheels spikey hair. “Never mind, Willie Wheels. I’m sure that Grandad has a
plan. He usually does.”
“By Jove, yes!” cried Grandad Patches, snapping his fingers. “I
think I have it.”
“What is it, what is it?” the other shouted in excitement.
“We’ll chuck the bally lot in the river and they’ll be swept over
the weir.”
Upon hearing this pronouncement, Patience spun around to glare at
Grandad Patches, whilst Morgan sniggered. “You’ll do no such thing. The damage
to the environment? That is the most irresponsible thing I’ve ever heard of,
you naughty old man.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
Willie Wheels cleared his throat. “In any case I already tried
that one. The boxes were returned to me. Found them on the doorstep. ‘Not known
at this address’.”
Not really sure of what was happening, Faith waved her hands at
everybody. “Listen. Listen. Maybe Grandad Biggert would like some of those
delicious mince pies?”
Grandad Patches pursed his lips. “Yes. Maybe he would indeed.” And
with a crafty expression that Patience did not like the look of, he disappeared
upstairs to rummage in the attic.
A little later, Grandad Patches, Morgan and Faith were in the
garden whilst Willie Wheels and Patience watched from the window, the latter
the very picture of mistrust and scepticism. The wind was still blowing which
made Grandad Patches’ plan somewhat difficult. Nevertheless, our three heroes
were soon in place by the fence that separated their garden from Grandad
Biggert’s.
Next, their followed a tricky manoeuvre that involved the three of
them squatting in the damp grass.
Fortunately, Grandad Patches had provided all three with
generously proportioned dayglo galoshes and sou-westers, so they did not get
too damp.
“It’s important to be very quiet at this stage of the operation,
we mustn’t be spotted,” hissed Grandad Patches, a finger to his lips. “Back in
the sixties, I was briefly employed by Peter Pucket’s Pop-Up Puppeteers.”
“Were you, Grandad?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“What was that Grandad?”
“We were a travelling troupe of entertainers that gave vital life
lessons to the under tens. Our marionettes were made from discarded crisp
packets with painted oranges stuck on a pencil for heads.”
“No expense spared, then?”
“Quiet, Morgan. Anyway, as I was sticking my pencil up an orange,
I accidentally stabbed my eye.”
“I expect you screamed?”
“Quite ruined the illusion. There was a riot. Disappointed ten year
olds, throwing chairs, breaking fences, demanding their money back…”
“I see.” Morgan tittered. “Which is more than you could.”
“So, silence is supreme.”
From the house, Willie Wheels slammed the window up, “What’s going
on?” he screamed, then regretted it, because he’d trapped his thumb on the
runners and caught a full blast of March wind.
“Shut up, Willie,” Morgan snapped, at the top of his voice. Then
clapped his hand to his mouth in horror.
The three looked upwards from their position at Grandad Biggert’s
bedroom. Did his curtain twitch?
No, all was well.
Grandad Patches released a relieved sigh.
Quickly, he pulled out three long and rather bendy bamboo poles,
passing one to Morgan, one to Faith and keeping the third for himself. Attached
to the end of each pole was some string, and attached to the string, a hooked
nail.
Almost immediately, Faith began to grumble.
“Grandad? Morgan’s got a bigger pole than me. And his is more
bendy. Why can’t I have Morgan’s pole?”
“Yes, my dear,” grunted Grandad, redistributing the poles by
snatching Morgan’s off him.
“There’s no need to grab,” snapped Morgan, who narrowly avoided
the bent nail gouging out his eye.
“The nail on this pole isn’t as bent as yours, Grandad.”
“Well, you have my pole, dear.”
“What do we do now, Grandad?”
Grandad demonstrated. He took a mince pie from its carton, hooked
the nail through it’s crumbly centre and tossed it over the fence where it
hung, unseen, from its string. Grinning, Morgan did the same. Both held their
poles tightly, like fishermen.
Faith was having a little more trouble with her pie. The bent nail
went straight through the crust and bits of mince came out, dripping onto her
sou-wester. “Ewww,” she grumbled, because some of it was on her fingers, ‘this
one’s broken, Grandad.”
Grandad Patches took her pie, examining it thoughtfully. “Don’t
worry. I think we can use this one as seeding bait.” And he lobbed it over the
fence as high as he could, where it hovered briefly, then broke into pieces.
Grandad Biggert’s curtain twitched. Briefly.
Five minutes later, Morgan’s pole began to bounce of its own
accord. “I’ve got a bite, I’ve got a bite,” he cried.
“Quiet, Morgan, you’ll scare him off.”
But Morgan, excited and reckless, pulled the pole back over the
fence. His face crinkled into disappointment. The line was empty. “Damn.” He
threw a couple more pies over the fence, where they spun briefly before
descending out of view.
Now it was Grandad’s turn to get excited. The pole he was holding
twitched and then began springing up and down as though he had a shark on the
end. Being more of an expert fisherman than Morgan, he began to play with his
rod, pulling it this way and that. “Got him, by Jove,” he shouted.
But alas, as he whipped his rod backwards and over the fence, all
that remained was a bit of empty string, dancing in the brisk breeze. Grandad
Patches looked crestfallen.
Morgan was similarly despondent. “I thought you had him that time.
Throw some more over the fence.”
Grandad Patches was about to do just that, when he noticed a shadow
high above him, circling in the sky. It was soon joined by several more. “Seagulls,”
he mumbled, remembering his earlier unpleasant encounter. “I say, Morgan, they’re
heading this way. We’d better abandon ‘Operation Fisherman’s Pie’.”
“Grandad? I still can’t get my pie on my nail.”
At that precise moment, the window was thrown upwards, and Willie
Wheels hollered from the kitchen. “Patches? I say, Patches? There’s someone at
the door. Making a huge racket too. Sounds like the very devil himself has come
to pay us a visit.”
Hurrying to the front door, Grandad Patches opened it to be
greeted by several mince pies, in various states of disorder and covered in
grass and dried leaves. Before shoving the whole lot into his face, Grandad Biggert
snarled, “Patches? I believe these belong to you and Munton, you wretched rod
botherers.”
“Do they?” Grandad Patches mumbled, his vision obscured by a
malevolent piece of crusted candied peel.
“Yes, they do. And I had to detach Irene’s false teeth from one of
your rusty nails.” he snapped. “Here. Have these back, you pair of paltrid
piscators. If I see any more of your shambolic shortcomings, I’ll confiscate every
pie you possess and post them back to that tone deaf media mongrel Farmer
Christmas.”
I better not mention what Grandad Biggert did with those two bent,
smelly items, either, but once he’d stalked his way back to number 34, it was
as if a light went on behind Grandad Patches’ eyes. “I think I’ve had an idea,
Willie Wheels,” he muttered, as the pastry fell from his eyes.
It was mid-afternoon in Purridgeton High Street by now, the wind
had died down somewhat, and one or two brave souls were beginning their afternoon
ritual of window shopping. They rarely bought much, because there is a
recession on, you know.
Oh, but it was a gay sight, though. Elderly men, elderly woman stumbling
up and down the rain washed, grimy high street, a little splash of colour here
and a little there. There were walking sticks aplenty, one or two Zimmer frames,
lots of loud greetings, rubbing of spectacles and the occasional balloon
carried by the sporadic grandchild.
“Why, Edgar? It has been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, Harold, well there is a recession on, you know.”
What made this afternoon even more exciting, if that could be
possible, was the unexpected appearance of a rather splendid troupe of jugglers
and performers.
One of these was on a unicycle. He did look astounding in his
romper smock, wobbling this way and that as he maintained balance whilst
simultaneously demonstrating his dexterity with several pie-shaped items whirling
through the air, like rather large and ungainly insects.
Another small one was hobbling up and down on stilts, making a clackety
clack on the cobbles, balancing something rather unsteadily on her nose. No,
wait. On closer inspection, the items were not balanced. They had been tacked
into a pile of pies and secured in place with a skipping rope.
But you could not tell this from a distance.
Now a third member of the troupe appeared from behind the
unicycle, doing wheelspins in a wheelchair, up and down the street with bravery
and panache, whooping and hollering as he did so, drawing gasps of amazement
from an assembling crowd.
“Roll up, roll up,” cried a fourth, who carried one of those portable
step ladders that opened out into a triangle of three steps, “come and be amazed
by your very own ‘Purridgeton Patch Pie People’ performing feats of bold,
derring-do.”
The owner of the voice was a tall teenage boy, wearing a dress.
With a flourish, he flung the steps open onto the street, where they rocked for
a while before steadying themselves. “See how I climb these steps. Watch how I
balance on the top.” And he did indeed do this, step by step, until he wobbled
alarmingly atop the contraption.
“Why are you in a dress?” asked one of the assembled oldsters,
poking the teenage boy with his stick.
“Because…I am a gypsy.”
“No, you’re not, you’re that scallywag Morgan.”
Gingerly, Morgan descended. “Well, maybe I’m just starting out. My
new career. Gypsying.”
“Oh yes,” grumbled the po-faced poker, “that’s how it always
begins. They offer you hope, a new career, a fresh start, a fortune. I was such
a one, young man, and I had my dreams crushed.”
Morgan looked at him sceptically. “You? A gypsy?”
“I didn’t say that, did I?” the old fellow snapped. “I never said
nothing about being a rotten gypsy, did I? No. Not a gypsy. I was one of Farmer
Christmas’ Piesters. That’s what.”
“Oh yes,” Morgan retorted, “I thought I recognised you. Here, aren’t
you the one that falls asleep? They prod you with a stick? No wonder you were
made redundant.”
“Shut up. That was genius comedy. Timing, boy. It’s all about
timing.”
“No it wasn’t. You fell asleep.”
“Didn’t.”
“Did. Do you even like mince pies?”
“Hate them.”
“Well, what are you moaning about then, you old fool?”
“I was sacked by Farmer Christmas himself. Said there was a
recession on.”
Sensing a quarrel brewing, Grandad Patches dismounted from the unicycle
and hurried over, dropping the mince pies he’d been juggling into a nearby
trash bin. As he did so, he waved at Willie Wheels who ceased his wheel
spinning and helped Faith down from her stilts.
Then, Willie Wheels quickly rumbled off on his cart, a furtive
expression on his face.
“Quick,” Grandad Patches grunted. “Help me with this.”
As quick as a flash, and don’t ask me where it came from, Grandad
Patches erected a small trestle table. You’ve probably seen them. The sort that
people paste wallpaper on or use at car boot sales – that is back in the days when
car boot sales were allowed. There’s always a couple in the back of your
garage. Go look if you don’t believe me.
Faith was terribly excited. “Oh, Grandad, that’s cool,” she cried.
“May I skip around it?”
Beaming, Grandad Patches ruffled her hair. “Of course you may, my
dear.” And he watched proudly as Faith did a hop, one, two three, hop, one, two,
three, round and round the table whilst blowing a whistle.
If anything, this even further enraptured the septuagenarian crowd
who shuffled forward as one, arms outstretched, mumbling appreciation,
gathering nearer and nearer to the trestle table. Well, all except one,
perhaps.
“Hop, one, two, three, hop one, two, three...ow!”
“Call that skipping?” snapped Grandad Biggert, “I’ve seen better
capers garnishing a five day old pickled herring gone to seed. “
“Robert Biggert. Did you just swot that child with a rolled-up
newspaper again?”
“No, Irene, my rose petal,” Grandad Biggert answered truthfully,
because he’d actually jabbed Faith with a plastic spork he had about his
person. “I most certainly did not, Angel Drawers.” And he looked about anxiously
for the owner of the voice, before allowing himself a smirk in Faith’s
direction and a ‘heh, heh, heh’.
“Good. Now, hurry up. We’ve shopping to do. I’ve heard there’s a
promotion on tinned broad beans in white sauce down ‘Family Food Mart’, and I
don’t want to miss out. And don’t call me Angel Drawers, neither”
“Broad beans in white sauce. Yum, yum.” grinned Morgan, who’d
noticed Grandad Biggert’s face. “Hurry along, I’m sure there’ll be a huge queue
for those.”
Grandad Biggert whipped out his spork, waving it menacingly. “I
don’t like your tone, Munton,” he hissed, like a snake. “Any more from you and
I’ll report you to the authorities for violation of dress code.” And he
stressed the word dress with a smirk.
Knowing he was licked and that discretion was always best, Morgan
replied with a quick apology. “Sorry, Grandfather.” And he curtsied politely.
“Robert Biggert,” screeched Irene, in a voice like nails scratched
down a blackboard, “Come here this instant. Why are you hanging around with
that boy in a dress? People will talk about you, won’t they?”
Scowling, Grandad Biggert reluctantly stalked away from the crowd.
Secretly, I think he was desperate to cause some bother, but it seemed the lure
of tinned broad beans was just too much. He satisfied himself with an ominous “I’ll
be back.”
Oblivious to one of life’s minor skirmishes taking place, however,
Grandad Patches had now produced three large coconut halves which he drummed on
the top of the trestle table with a rumbustious clickety-clack noise. They did
sound splendid and Faith almost immediately stopped rubbing her pricked neck. “Where’s
the horse, Grandad?” she asked.
Morgan rolled his eyes. “Have a day off, Faith. There is no horse.
It’s all part of the plan, remember?”
“No.”
“Shut up.”
“Grandad? Morgan told me to shut up, Grandad.”
“That’s nice, dear,” Grandad Patches replied, absently, continuing
to drum on the top of the table. As he had intended, there was soon a
reasonably large, expectant crowd, watching him agog. Well, they might have
been agog, perhaps they just wanted coconuts.
There is a recession on, you know.
Grandad Patches produced a cloak he had about his person and swept
it forth in a most Machiavellian way, I must say. It swirled in a blaze of
blacks, golds, purples, quite dazzling the onlookers.
“Roll up. Roll up. Win fabulous prizes,” he boomed, “Beat this
recession by becoming a winner…I have here, my dear friends, as you may see,
three coconut shells.”
There was a gasp from the crowd.
“Show them, Faith, show the crowd that these are real coconut
shells.”
Faith did as she was bidden, smiling prettily, running among the elderly
onlookers with the shells. Of course, being Faith, it wasn’t long before she
dropped one and it started to roll away from her feet towards the hooves of a
particularly hefty horse that was snorting and worrying the dank earth
impatiently.
No, wait. That’s no horse, is it? Morgan was right. It is, in
fact, Grandad Biggert, who having slipped his leash, was back to cause
mischief.
He seized the errant coconut triumphantly and held it aloft. “Real
coconut shell?” he cried with enormous glee, “don’t listen to that sixties
simpleton. Any fool can see this coconut is fake. It has a false bottom.” And
he waved it about, gesticulating wildly.
“This coconut has no false bottom,” announced Grandad Patches,
loudly, “And neither do these. There are no false bottoms here.”
“I have a false bottom,” admitted one of the old ladies, somewhat
shamefacedly.
“No, Agnes, you have false teeth.”
“So I do.”
Grandad Patches came out from behind his table and pushed his way
through the crowd, where he confronted the sneering Grandad Biggert. “Give me
my coconut shell back.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s mine and what’s more you’re ruining my whole show,
you bully.” And he snatched it back which was quite rude for him, before returning
from whence he came.
Now with three coconuts safely on the tabletop one more, he
produced a mince pie and held it enticingly in front of his audience, one or
two of whom started to drool at the sight of its frosted crust.
“I place this pie underneath the coconut shell thus.” And he did
just that, before beginning to twizzle the three shells in front of him this
way and that in a most confusing manner. “Round and round goes the pie, and
where it is, who will spy?” he chanted, like a magician. It was quite
impressive.
“That’s not even near to impressive,” screamed Grandad Biggert,
who had elbowed his way to the front. “That rhyme is pathetic. I can rhyme
better than that, any day. Pah. Listen to this.” And he stood in front of Grandad
Patches with his arms outstretched. “Round and round goes the sky, I stab my
spork in the…er…pie.”
“Get out of the way, Grandad Biggert,” one of the pensioners grumbled,
“we want to see the magic trick.” And somehow, the crowd pushed him backwards,
where he glowered, waiting his chance.
“Who can spy the pie and win the prize?” repeated Grandad Patches,
hopefully.
Agnes pointed with an uncertain wobbling finger. “It’s there,” she
declared.
Grandad Biggert didn’t even wait to see the result. “Don’t be
fooled by that pathetic prankster. It was never even under that shell. It’s
either up his sleeve, on the floor behind him or, with a sleight of hand, he
crunched it into the shell. Look at his palms, go on. Look at his palms.”
Was Grandad Patches even bothered? Dear me, no. In fact he looked
just this side of smug as he glanced at the noise from the crowd. Raising the
shell with a friendly smile, he looked at Agnes and said. “Goodness me, Agnes,
you are right.” And sure enough, underneath was the pie.
“Damn you, Patches,” Grandad Biggert shrieked. “You’ve not bested
me yet. I see your game, you mincing minstrel.”
Agnes ignored him. “What’s my prize, Grandad Patches?”
Grandad Patches stood up, flourishing his cloak with a twinkle of
his eye. “I’m pleased to tell you that you are the recipient of this box of Mr
Krippens’ mince pies. 144 in total. I’m sure these will help you through the
dark times. There is a recession on, you know.”
Arising from the assembled pensioners, a gasp of awe and perhaps
even a little envy. One or two murmurs of how fortune favours the bold, how
lucky Agnes was, if only if had been them, if only they had spoken first…but,
wait.
“Do the trick again, Grandad Patches,” cried someone, anyone – an opportunistic
cry. Surely, there were more boxes of festive fare under his cloak. “Again, yes
again! Again! Again!” And the chant began to swell, louder, louder.
With something approaching dismay, Grandad Biggert glared at
Grandad Patches’ beaming face and his look was even further disgruntled and
displaced when he received a mighty blow to the head from an ancient, leather
handbag. “Yow!”
“Robert? Why are you back here? I missed my broad bean opportunities
looking for you.”
Rubbing his head, Grandad Biggert looked round with something akin
to pure venom, but he quickly replaced that with a watery smile, remembering
that time she had chucked a bottle of pickled onions at his head and the
vinegar had stung his eyes before ruining the wallpaper. “Ah, Sweetmeats. How
pleasant to see you.”
“Don’t call me Sweetmeats.”
“Grandad Patches is giving away mince pies, Petal.”
“I’ve told you before to have nothing to do with Grandad Patches,
haven’t I? He’s nothing but trouble, that one. Rather roguish, good looking
trouble, to be sure, but trouble nevertheless and trouble is as trouble does.”
“Yes, but you love mince pies, my syrup of figs, don’t you,” Grandad
Biggert blustered, well aware that Morgan was watching, with a grin. Did he
dare shoot an evil look in his direction? It seemed not.
“No. I hate them and I hate anything that Mr Krippens deems fit to
put in a box. Absolute rubbish. Full of sugar and cholesterol.”
“Yes, dear.”
And she dragged him away by the ear, while still the crowd
chanted.
Grandad Patches would have none of it, however. “The show’s over,”
he declared firmly, waggling his finger.
“Awww’” replied the crowd, also having none of it, “we want mince
pies, we want mince pies.”
“Medieval misfits,” snapped Grandad Biggert, still being pulled in
the direction of ‘Family Food Mart’ by his ear, “This planet’s gone to the
dogs, and you’ll have kennels for houses. I hope you choke on candied peel in
the middle of the night.”
“There’s no cause for language like that, Robert,” snapped Irene,
clobbering him with the handbag once again.
As he was pulled past a sniggering Morgan, Grandad Biggert
contented himself with: “And you, Munton, will carry your books to school in
rolled up newspapers.”
He often said things like that. It was probably a deadly insult where
he came from.
But still the crowd would not be mollified. What? Oh, it means
calmed, put at peace, be satisfied. They wanted mince pies, that much is
certain, and I for one cannot tell you why. But for Grandad Patches, it was
nothing doing.
He stood up grandly. “There will be no more mince pies, because I
have an even better treat for you all gathered here, my friends.”
“It better not be loaves and fishes, Patches,” someone yelled from
the back, indistinctly, followed by, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” And, “let go of
my ear, Pancake.”
“Better than that,” Grandad Patches retorted. And with a sweeping
gesture of the hand he announced, “ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm Purridgeton
welcome and a big hand to the one and only ‘Farmer Christmas and his Mincing Piesters!”
Something extraordinary was happening behind the crowd. Something
rather special and rather exciting.
With a blare of his klaxons, here was Willie Wheels, dressed up as
Farmer Christmas. And you know what? He looked exactly like the one on the
television. He was even saying his famous catchphrase, almost word perfect. “Oo,
ar, oo, ar, you’ll go far, if you eat my mince pies, you’ll be my star.”
Or something along those lines. It was so exciting; I could barely
scribble it down in my notebook.
Costumed up magnificently, Willie Wheels was using his shopping
cart to a line of trucks, like a goods train. No, not trucks, even better,
these were shopping trolleys, clanking behind him quite splendidly, and in
each? Boxes and boxes of Mr Krippens’ mince pies.
In the very last but one, Faith was squatting, with one of those
wind up gramophones from the dark ages. It must have been one from Grandad
Patches’ attic, because I’m sure I’d seen it before. She was winding vigorously
and all the time, an old shellac 78 record was churning out the tune of jingle
bells.
And behind Faith? Well, here come Morgan and the Mincing Piesters.
Gyrating their ancient hips, throwing shapes and mumbling, “mincing pies,
mincing pies, we like mincing pies,” all the while.
“Come. The recession’s over, my friends, join my Piesters in their
mincing. Free pies for all,” shouted Willie Wheels, enticingly.
But almost immediately there was trouble.
“Here. Thems not be the real Mincing Piesters, be they?”
“I can see that, you black-lunged buffoon,” snapped Grandad
Biggert, who had somehow wriggled free from Irene Adder, and was jabbing the
tobacconist up the nose with his sonic scalpel.
“That not be a sonic scalpel,” grumbled the tobacconist, “that be
a spork.”
“Quiet, you crumpled cretin, before I administer another deadly
dose. Pass me my spectroscopic optical visualiser. Quickly, quickly.”
“You mean this? This be a magnifying glass, b’aint it?”
Grandad Biggert snatched the glass and raised it to his eye, in
the direction of the cartons of mince pies. “Hah. Just as I suspected. They’re
all past their ‘use by’ date. We have Patches this time, by thunder.”
But even if he hadn’t noticed, the gathered throng had.
“I don’t even like mince pies,” shouted Agnes, lobbing her box of
144 back at Grandad Patches’ trestle table, who ducked quickly, watching in
dismay as its contents crumbled across the cobbles.
“Nobody does, Agnes,” said a friend reassuringly, “nobody likes
that rubbish Farmer Christmas either. Him and his pathetic prancing piemen,
ruining our telly at nights. Come on ducky, let’s go home.”
As the crowd began to disperse, Grandad Patches peered worriedly at
the sky. Was that a cloud? Or were they seagulls massing malignantly overhead?
In any case, as Willie Wheels trundled over, he had worse to deal
with. He could see Grandad Biggert mouthing something to an elderly accomplice
while occasionally jabbing him.
“Quickly, quickly,” he was saying, “We must alert that wheezy
wielder of wanton justice, Police Constable Muff. Pass me my transistorised communications
transmitter array.”
“I be thinking you left that back at Biggert Mansions, Master.”
“Pah. You not be thinking at all, you trundling trolleybus. Take
this.” And Grandad Biggert sporked him again. “What have we got, then?”
The tobacconist passed him two empty broad bean tins, connected by
a long piece of string.
Grandad Biggert emitted a ‘heh, heh, heh,’ and rubbed his hands. “Excellent.
Better than nothing. You. Throw this tin in the direction of the police
station, as hard as you can.”
“Why, I be doing that, Grandad Biggert?”
“Obey me, you fetid fool.”
Grandad Patches and Willie Wheels watched, somewhat wretchedly, as
the can wheeled through the air, before bouncing off the head of an
unsuspecting war veteran and clattering onto the floor.
Grandad Biggert raised his tin to his mouth. “Hello? Hello? Is
that the authorities? It’s Biggert here.” Then he placed the can to his ear, as
if expecting to hear something. “It doesn’t seem to be working.” He jiggled the
string up and down a bit. “Hello? Are you receiving me?”
Then he felt a hand upon his shoulder. “Grandad Biggert. Does this
tin belong to you?” It was Police Constable Muff, and she looked none too
friendly.
“Police Constable Muff,” Grandad Biggert responded, gesturing
triumphantly at Willie Wheels, Grandad Patches, Morgan and Faith. “You received
my summons. Thank goodness you arrived. Just in time to prevent a major
transgression of the law.”
P C Muff scowled in anger. “Received your summons? Your summons?” she
repeated, as if she could not quite believe her ears. “I did not receive any
such thing. What I did ‘receive’ was a complaint from somebody who had been
assaulted by this tin can falling from the sky, onto her head. I followed the
string and, surprise surprise, it led me directly to you.”
“The unexpected hits you between the eyes?” shouted Grandad
Patches, safely behind his table, with the mince pies between him and the long
arm of the law.
“Shut up, Patches, I’ll get to you in a minute.”
Grandad Biggert pulled himself up to his full height, stroking his
beard authoritatively. “Arrest the lot of them and put them in cells for a
breach of the peace and arrest those mince pies. They are well past their ‘use
by’ date.”
“I will do no such thing,” replied P C Muff. “Put them in cells?
Feed them for the day? Don’t you know there’s a recession on?”
“Recession on?” snarled Grandad Biggert, suspecting he was onto a
losing wicket. “Don’t let that prevent you from prosecuting the full extent of
the law.” He could see Grandad Patches and the rest of them clearly grinning by
now.
“What I will do is take you down to the station. You and your tin
cans. And as for you, Grandad Patches, I’m confiscating these mince pies. The
whole bally lot of them. I want them delivered to the police station now.”
Two days later, Grandad Patches was reclining in Willie Wheels’ front
room. Outside the sun was shining, warming the cold streets of Purridgeton
somewhat weakly, but the icy puddles that remained were slowly evaporating and
the cold winds replaced by a spring breeze.
Grandad Patches was sipping a mug of tea, gleefully and as Willie
Wheels hobbled through, he slapped him on the back.
“I say, Willie Wheels, that was a result, wasn’t it?”
“I’ll say, Grandad Patches. Good will always triumph over evil.”
Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Grandad Patches looked at Willie
Wheels. “You know, you never did tell me just how you came across so many mince
pies. Or what you needed the space for.”
“No, I didn’t, did I? Well, I suppose there’s no harm in…”
But at that point, the doorbell rang, as it so often does towards
the end of stories. Grandad Patches leapt to his feet. “I’ll get it,” he said,
hurrying towards the front door.
As he opened it, he could hear an unpleasant growling, near his
feet.
“Why, Mrs Dander. What a lovely surprise,” he said, lying, “and
you’ve brought your dog, too.”
“Of course I’ve brought my dog,” snapped Mrs Dander, never one for
pleasantries. “Why are you here? And where’s that rogue, Willie Wheels? Have
you kidnapped him?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, that’s a relief. He promised to take care of my dog.”
“He did?”
“Yes. Willie Wheels has some rather large and impregnable kennels
round the back of his garden shed, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” admitted Grandad Patches, wondering if
that had been where Willie had been hoarding the mince pies all this time.
“You haven’t any mince pies, have you?”
“No, Mrs Dander,” Grandad Patches replied, truthfully, “Not anymore.”
“Good, because he hates them. They make him have funny turns. He
becomes extremely vicious. They make him snap at passing ankles. He took
against them after being enraged by endless commercials on my television. Kept
seeing elderly men dancing around dressed up as gnomes.”
“Yes. I could see why that might make anybody angry. Especially a
dog that’s notorious in the neighbourhood for being viciously bitey.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you going to let us in?”
Grandad Patches stood to one side, watching from a distance as
they both passed him by, keeping his ankles well out of reach of canine teeth.
He was about to follow them, when the doorbell rang again.
Waiting outside was a delivery driver, with one of those dockets
on a clipboard. He was tapping it impatiently with a chewed up pencil. “Does a
Mr Willie Wheels live here?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Well thank heavens for that. I’ve been tracking him down for two
days now.”
“I see. Well, what seems to be the problem?”
“I’ve come from the police station.”
“You have?” asked Grandad Patches, now totally mystified.
“Yes, I have. Willie Wheels. Also known as the smiling face and
fruity voice of one ‘Farmer Christmas’. It’s all here, on this docket. Well, I
have some of his property. A truck load
of mince pies. Past their ‘use-by’ date. Where do you want them?”
And from within the house Grandad Patches could hear an ominous
growl.
