Grandad’s Bedtime Fables: ‘Just Chuck Coal’
Once there was an Arabian Oryx
who lived with a Marsh Toad. No, hold fast, dears, I got that wrong…she lived
with a Desert Frog.
And you’d be right.
If you don’t believe me, the next time you are in your garden and you spot an upturned bucket, walk over to it and see what’s within. If you tell me it’s a desert, I’d be astonished and will rewrite this opening almost immediately.
The thing is, you see, that this frog had unilaterally decided he was a desert dweller.
Now, he was at odds with his companion, Oryx, who actually had lived somewhere in the desert at one time, but now found herself whisked off to an urban setting, somewhere up North – you know, Tadcaster, Dronfield or Mansfield Woodhouse.
Mansfield Woodhouse, I’m pretty sure that’s where they lived, in a tumble down old cottage bordered by a neatly kept garden lined with flower beds full of crocus and gladioli and had great views of the disused colliery and slag heap from the kitchen window.
When Oryx had been younger, she had lived there alone and had always enjoyed the morning hubbub of the pit workers meandering to work, freshly scrubbed, from the nearby mining towns. She might exchange a few friendly words with the hard working pit-ponies and share a mug of builders’ tea or two.
That was many years ago now, and the pit head wheels had long since stopped revolving. She often wondered what passed for work these days.
Wondered, that is, until a young frog had come to stay. “Call me Desert Frog,” he’d announced grandly, that day she had met him and confirmed that he knew all about gainful employment.
Now Oryx, being a friendly Eastern sort of beast, hadn’t objected that time he’d kissed her and had not turned into a Prince as he’d claimed. She might have filed a harassment complaint to those same such creatures who were officious and loud about such things, but she put it down to youthful inexperience and left it there.
Instead, she’d smiled to herself, remembering her own younger days and foolish behaviours, and continued to read, all the while listening to some old LP or other.
Nor did she complain when he moved his stuff into the spare room. After all, it was unoccupied and a bit of company is good for the soul.
Although they never kissed again, they became friends of sorts and made for quite a peculiar couple on those days when they would take the air and trot around the grey environs of Mansfield Woodhouse, with its run down clinker heaps and disused collieries.
Well, to be more precise, she would trot and he would perambulate in a hoppier sort of way. “Oh do keep up, Frog,” she would complain, on those occasions she forgot good manners or had earache. Oryx often have earache – especially those who live with frogs, as you know.
“It’s Desert Frog,” he huffed, loudly, putting much stress on ‘desert’.
“Books, pah!” Frog spat, hopping manfully to catch up, whilst scrolling through his phone. “You should Google it; you’ll find there’s plenty of frogs and deserts all over the web.”
“I thought webs were for spiders. I don’t like spiders, Frog.”
“Desert Frog.”
Oryx often sighed on such occasions, but would offer sensible suggestions such as, “Look, hop onto my back, why don’t you, before the charity shops close.”
“Hop on your back?” Frog would reply, outraged. “Whoever heard of a Desert Frog hitching a lift on an Arabian Oryx? The way you trot I’ll get sea sick and turn green.”
“You’re green already,” she pointed out, in a reasonable tone.
“I’m more khaki than green,” he replied, peevishly. “Due to the fact I’m from the desert. I’m more of what you’d call a weaponised frog; camouflaged and ready for combat.”
“A combat frog?” asked Oryx, with a tiddly bit of scepticism.
“Of course I’m a combat frog. I can’t be spotted on your back hitching willy-nilly, can I? It would cause hue and cry. I’d make a perfect target. There might be drones.”
Oryx would smile and make jokes such as ‘hop on, I’m not deer’ or ‘the only drone around here is your voice’, but they would go over Frog’s head as firstly he was quite small and secondly he didn’t really understand puns.
Today, however, Oryx wasn’t in a very humorous mood. She stopped, pawed the ground in front of her with hooves and looked quite sad. “See here?” she announced, “these are tracks.”
“Of course these are tracks,” replied Frog. “You and I both make them. We’re animals.” He really was quite a literal creature.
But Oryx was one of those with poetry in her soul and a sadness for things passed. Secretly she would pine for what seemed to her an innocent, more noble time – whether that time actually existed was not really up for debate – it was how she felt, right or wrong and that’s that.
“Not those sort of tracks, Frog.”
“Desert Frog.”
She pointed to what had caught her eyes. “These are tram tracks.”
“Jam tracks? What flavour of jam?” asked Frog, who was partial to a bit of apricot on his toast of a morning.
Oryx ignored him. “Many years ago, before they closed it all, this was a place of work. In the morning, dozens of workers, on trams pulled by ponies, would arrive here of a morning and go down that pit.”
“Eyeful of grit?” replied Frog, pulling a face, because he was less partial to toast spread with gravel. “Well, what’s so good about that?”
“No you don’t understand, you foolish Frog.”
“Foolish Desert Frog.”
“They would come here to dig for coal. Before it was all destroyed. Nowadays, there doesn’t seem to be much work at all for anybody.”
“Oh, get over yourself, Oryx. Of course there’s work. For a start everyone goes to school for much, much longer. That’s working, isn’t it? And when they’ve done that, there’s loads of employment out there – why, you can be a barista, go on reality TV, get into hip hop or, even better, do what I do.”
“What’s that, Frog?”
“Why, be a social media influencer, of course. There’s loads of openings for that. It’s a growth industry.” Suddenly, Frog stopped talking, looked Oryx square in the eye and raised a webbed finger, to indicate deep contemplation.
Oryx looked alarmed. “What’s wrong, Frog?”
“Did you say ‘dig for coal’?” And he looked so thoughtful, that Oryx quite shivered, despite herself.
Over the next few days,
Frog became invisible; he barely came out of his room and, I’m afraid to say,
it was starting to smell a bit swampy. Why he was not even eating any of the
food Oryx had prepared, so busy a frog was he.
“Frog?”
“What?”
“There’s someone at the door. Asking for workers to pick daffodils in the fields. We could do with a little extra coming in, my dear.”
“Daffodils? Fields? Pah! That sort of work is only fit for immigrants. Nobody picks daffodils, Oryx.”
“We are immigrants, Frog.”
“Desert Frog. Look, will you please stop bothering me? I’m doing vital work.”
“Well, what are you doing, Frog?” Oryx would call. He seldom answered, but if he did, it was always a cryptic statement along the lines of being an influencer or sending out messages and tweets.
For her part, Oryx would shrug her shoulders and busy herself with whatever work had arrived that morning. Did I mention she was a self-employed seamstress? No, I don’t think I did.
Then, one morning, as she was repairing some leggings that had been left on the doorstep with a note, Frog appeared in the living room in what could only be described as a blaze of glory.
Oryx tried not to snigger, settled her glasses upon her muzzle and politely enquired what in the name of Sam Hill he was up to.
Excitedly, Frog stabbed at his phone. “Look at this,” he cried. “Just look at what I’ve discovered. They’ve been covering this up for decades, Oryx.” He was so breathless, he could scarcely get his words out.
“What is it, Frog?” asked Oryx, who was interested, so she put her sewing down.
“Desert Frog,” he snapped, and then forgetting to be piqued continued, “Look, Oryx. Global warming. This planet is heating up hotter than a great, big…er…very hot heater. And they’ve tried to deny it!”
“Well, I’m not sure they have, Frog,” replied Oryx. “Cover it up, I mean. I studied Science at university and the environment was one of those topics covered in some depth, my dear. After all, that’s why I mend clothes. To do my bit. Small steps with a needle and thread.”
“Don’t patronize me, Oryx,” returned Frog, angrily. “Science? Pah! I majored in ‘Social Gender Studies and Urban Dance’. This is clearly an instance of the patriarchy disguising the truth. But we won’t be deceived this time. We won’t. This planet is burning, turning into an inflamed…er…boiling planet, and, what’s more, if we don’t do something about it, it’ll all become a vast desert.”
Oryx rarely got heated, but she bristled a little at Frog’s proclamation. Still, she bit her tongue, as you do. “But wouldn’t that suit you just fine? You are a desert frog, after all.”
“No it won’t suit me just fine, thank you very much. It won’t suit me just fine at all, not one little bit. I’m going to make a stand. Me…and my homies.”
“How?”
“We’re going to just stop coal.”
“I see. Well, good luck with that,” said Oryx, picking up her work and deciding to let him get on with it. She was a little mystified, because she thought coal had been stopped when they’d closed all the pits down. Still, what did she know?
However, Frog was pausing at the threshold, wavering a little, as if he wasn’t quite certain how to proceed. “There’s a problem,” he admitted, finally and a little crestfallen. “A big, big, big problem. Massive. As big as a…vast setback.”
“What’s that, Frog?”
“Desert Frog. Well, the trouble is I don’t know what we should call our new movement. We need a name. Something to inspire the population to stand with us, Oryx. Something that will trip off the tongue and become an emblem of our new stand against pollution and all who pollute.”
Oryx put her work down again, scratching her head. “How about ‘Just Stop Coal’?” she offered, after a few seconds.
“Don’t be stupid, Oryx. That’s crass, that is,” answered Frog. Then he grinned as something flashed across his lightning mind. “Got it!” he cried. “We will call ourselves ‘Just Chuck Coal’.” And he raised his fist as if expecting a drum roll and round of applause.
He got neither. “Chuck coal?”
“Yes. Of course, ‘chuck’. Chuck it. As in give it up. You know, like when you dump your girlfriend. Boyfriend. Significant other of no fixed gender. You chuck her. In the bin.”
“I wish I could chuck you, Frog,” answered Oryx.
Over the next week, there followed a few unfortunate incidents, and I will tell you about one or two of those that were less scandalous.
Because, I think it’s fair to say at this point, that Frog didn’t really cover himself in glory.
What do I mean?
Well, despite many attempts to become celebrated as some sort of hero, none of these really succeeded.
For a start, there was the small matter of his band of brothers (and sisters). They came to the house and Oryx looked them over. In no particular order they consisted of a couple of earwigs, a centipede missing a dozen legs, one or two cockroaches and a stick insect with defective twigs called Kipper.
And, somewhat shamefully, she noticed Frog licking his lips a couple of times as he inspected them on parade.
However, he overcame his initial hunger pangs to sally forth. “We’ll form a marching band,” he had announced.
But, alas, no one had remembered to bring any trumpets, snare drums or those portable xylophones on a Y. “Paper and combs are the very fellows for us,” snapped Frog, determined to be optimistic.
So they had wandered up and down Mansfield Woodhouse high street a couple of times, blowing into toilet paper, sounding a bit like mournful geese, to little or no applause. Indeed, one or two of the shopkeepers had looked rather irritated as they had passed by that third time, chanting ‘just chuck coal’.
They did look a dreary bunch.
“You’re putting our customers off,” grumbled one or two, pointedly. And others were less tactful, telling Frog just what he could do with his toilet paper and combs if he didn’t knock it off.
That night, at Oryx’s cottage, a rather large and unfriendly police dog came to visit.
“Good evening, Constable Truncheon,” Oryx said, answering the door. “How can I help you?”
“It’s not you I’ve come to see,” growled the police dog. “Is your friend at home?”
“Why yes,” smiled Oryx, helpfully. “I believe he’s in his room. I’m afraid he’s terribly busy, planning some covert operation or other. He’s tweeting fit to burst.”
“Is he, indeed? May I see him?”
“Well, you might disturb his work. But, if you insist.”
“Work? That’s rich. I know a layabout when I smell one.” Constable Truncheon shoved past Oryx and went straight through into Frog’s room.
Now Oryx wasn’t into tittle-tattle by any means, nor did she listen at keyholes or spread gossip. There was a lot of that about, these days, she would say to her friends, and it does nobody any good. But, it was impossible not to hear something of what was going on inside Frog’s room. She raised a hoof to her mouth and tried not to laugh.
She only got snatches. A bit like this:
‘…It’s my democratic right to play whatever I like on a comb…if I, or any of my fellow officers see or hear your stinking comb again, you won’t need it for your hair…frogs don’t have hair…in that case we’ll stick it up your insect…don’t try to threaten me…I’m not trying, Frog… Desert Frog…I expect you’ve always wanted to visit the bottom of a coal pit, haven’t you…no, I chuck coal, actually…I warn you, I am not a merry old soul…’
And so it continued for some time, with Constable Truncheon’s voice getting harder and Frog’s getting softer.
Oryx stopped tittering to herself when she heard Mr Lupus mentioned. And it was at that point that Constable Truncheon reappeared. “Goodnight, Ms Oryx,” he said. “I think I’ve made Mr Lupus' position on this ‘Just Chuck Coal’ nonsense clear. But in case I haven’t, try to make him see some sense, will you?”
And Oryx assured Constable Truncheon that she would, at least, try.
But it wasn’t long before something else occurred.
On a cold and rainy afternoon, Oryx had just finished darning a rather nice shirt with some of her best needlework, and was trotting along to the grocer’s shop to collect her payment. Perhaps (who knows?) a few vegetables or a nice hock of ham.
But the road was blocked. Several vehicles were queuing to get past something. What was it? Oryx screwed up her eyes to see and could just about make out seven or eight individuals sat on the road in front of all the traffic.
The drivers were getting impatient – there was a great deal of shouting, punctuated with the angry parping of horns. “Get out of the way, you brainless idiots,” some were screaming.
Hurrying to the front of the line, Oryx put her bundle of needlework down to see if she could help. What she saw quite made her eyes roll.
Frog and his cronies (as you’ve probably guessed) were dressed in orange high visibility jackets. They were blocking the road by sitting in a line across the tarmac. In front of them was a large heap of coal which they had mined from one of the disused collieries.
And facing our eco-warriors? A huge juggernaut, revving its engine menacingly.
“Coal not dole, coal not dole,” Kipper the Stick Insect was chanting, looking pleased with himself for remembering.
Pleased with himself, that is, until Frog gave him a short, sharp and swift clip about the ear. “Shut up, Kipper, you brain dead twig. That was in the 80s. It’s ‘Just chuck coal, just chuck coal’.”
Holding his ear with one of his good limbs, Kipper stood up, to make a stand. “I don’t care,“ he snivelled, “I’ve had enough clips about the ear from you, Frog. I’m going home. And, in any case, it’s wet and we’re freezing, sitting here. I’m going to warm myself by the fire. Give me that coal. Are you lot coming?”
“You traitor,” croaked Frog. “That coal is for chucking, not burning.”
And, as his former band of revolutionaries were scuttling away in retreat to whatever abode they had come from, he took his catapult and fired a huge chunk of black coal in their direction.
It missed by a mile.
However, it did bounce off the head of a spectator and, in a spectacular ricochet, smashed straight through the windscreen of the juggernaut. The driver, who was a burly brown grizzly, removed the coal from where it had embedded itself into his forehead, opened the door and descended from the cabin with a rather large baseball bat.
“Just chuck coal,” croaked Frog, waving his cardboard placard and doing his best not to look alarmed at that which was towering above him.
Now several of the onlookers took Frog at his word, advancing slowly to join the enraged driver clenching large jagged pieces of coal in their fists, grabbed from the inviting pile in front of him.
It looked like things were going to get very nasty indeed.
However, in a bizarre twist of fate, it was at this point that a second band of protestors arrived, from the other end of the High Street. They marched down towards where Frog was surrounded by would be assailants, also bearing placards.
“Just fling frogs, just fling frogs,” they were chanting, in time to the beating of drums, until they were confronting the first mob, eyeball to eyeball.
Frog was completely surrounded. “What do you lot want?” he squawked, raising himself to his full height and trying his best not to look intimidated, but failing.
“Get out of our way,” snarled the burly driver, “I want revenge on the green eyed, catapulting chunk chucker. He hurt my head and smashed my cab.”
The opposition was unmoved. “So do we. Too many of these frogs are moving in to steal our jobs.”
Both parties began to advance towards the other, either staring with furious intent or reaching hands towards our flinching frog beneath. “Help me, Oryx,” cried he, “I won’t chuck coal anymore!”
But before Oryx could in any way intervene, a loud voice was clearly heard from a loudhailer. “Step away from the frog,” it cried, with authority. “Citizens. Go about your business. And you, Frog, report to me, immediately.”
“Desert Frog.”
It was Mr Lupus.
And, after that, Oryx did not see much of Frog anymore.
Two days later, he returned from Mr Lupus, doing his best to look dignified. He collected his things, moved out of her spare room muttering something about serving the community.
She later found out that
Mr Lupus was not too fond of Frogs, especially noisy ones, and had offered him
the chance to move to
Instead, while sewing, she occasionally spots him, with the rest of his insect band, doing a very nice job of re-greening the slag and clinker heap in front of her kitchen window, supervised by Constable Truncheon. They do get the occasional tea break and the rest of the Mansfield Woodhouse folk are very pleased with them, because it looks so much nicer.
As for that coal heap they had mined? Well, fortunately Mr Lupus had a use for that and will occasionally send Frog and his cronies down the pit to get more. And if they drop any coal on the street on the way back, there’s a burly brown grizzly truck driver who is more than happy to chuck it back at them. With interest.
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