KipperTwonk
No 36 Lumpslap Close, is a
place where a great deal of odd things happen and it is my privilege to record
and relate to you, dear reader, some of the more commonplace escapades that
happen there from time to time.
Now, as you may imagine, I
am under strict Government instructions not to tell you everything I know,
because I had to sign the official secrets act. Well, we all did. But, by the
same token, it is also my duty to record certain events for the sake of
historical accuracy.
Whilst I may not, under
any circumstances, tell you about the Mountain Goat of Xibalba, I have been
allowed to let you know about the strange case of Benjamin Klipperton.
But where to begin? Well,
everything begins with breakfast, of course.
Now, there’s no better
time than breakfast on a weekday, before school.
The energy. The
enthusiasm. The sheer determination to get the day started on the right foot.
Was all somewhat lacking
at number 36, I’m afraid to say.
Ma had long since gone to
work, but no matter, here’s Grandad Patches at the stove, whistling a cheerful
sea shanty, as he often does. Occasionally there are snatches of words in
between the ‘tiddly-poms’ and ‘po,po,pos’.
Although, it’s fair to say
that lyrics are not his strong suit. “Oh, westering ho, there’s a nip in the
air, knees up Mother Brown, into the garden you must go, for weed and rake and
sow…” were about the best he could manage to the tune of ‘Blow the Man Down,
Billy’.
Whatever those might mean.
Grandad Patches frowned,
because there was shouting coming from upstairs.
An angry shouting,
followed by several frustrated thumps on a door. “Hurry up in the bathroom,
Faith.” It was Morgan, and he did not sound as though he was in a patient mood
at all. “If you don’t open that door, I’ll go and steal Grandad Biggert’s lock
picking tools.”
The reply was muffled, but
distinct. “No you won’t, because Grandad Biggert will hit you with his
newspaper, if you do. Then he’ll report you to the police.”
“Hah,” snapped Morgan. “He
hasn’t even bought the newspaper yet. That old fool will still be asleep.”
Now there was another
hammering, but this time from the wall that joined the two houses together –
number 34 and number 36. “Some old men seldom sleep, Munton.”
Morgan swivelled around
and did a double take. “How did you hear me? Have you got a glass up against
the wall again?”
“I expect the whole of
Lumpslap Close heard you, Morgan,” replied a voice. It was Patience, of course.
And as all this was going
on, Grandad Patches continued his rendition of old seafarer’s songs. “Why, back
in the 60s, I was often praised for my perfect pitch by Dame Nelly Melba
herself,” he mused to himself happily, stirring the boiling eggs and buttering
toast.
Then he shrieked in pain.
In a trice, Morgan, still
in his pyjamas, clattered down the twelve stairs, rounded the hall and sprinted
into the kitchen. “What’s the matter, Grandad?”
“Morgan, my boy, thank
goodness you’ve arrived,” cried Grandad Patches, hobbling up and down; waving
his index finger in the air. “The pain! The terrible pain!”
“What have you done?”
asked Morgan, admirably, in my opinion, avoiding the temptation to add ‘this
time, you silly old fool?'
“I was using my new
invention. ‘Grandad Patches’ Patent Pending Egg Glove’. It’s designed to test the
temperature of boiled egg water. If used correctly, the wearer may be confident
his eggs will never be undercooked again.”
“But, Grandad, you’re not
wearing any gloves.”
“Don’t you think I know
that?” Grandad Patches wailed, waggling his thick white digit in pain. “I
forgot to apply the superglue correctly.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed
suspiciously, zooming in on the injured finger. “Grandad? Have you glued a
boiled egg to your finger?”
“Yes, yes. Now I’ll have
to spend the entire day with it attached to my hand,” Grandad replied,
ruefully, hoping for sympathy.
He wasn’t getting any from
Morgan. “Yes, well don’t come anywhere near me.”
“Why not, my boy?”
“I don’t want any of my friends
thinking I’m related to a foolish old duffer who thinks it’s cool to glue an
egg to his finger.”
“It’s not cool, it’s hot.”
Grandad Patches retorted. “In any case, I will disguise it with an egg cosy.”
“Well, that makes it
worse, in my opinion,” Morgan smirked. “I can only hope that Grandad Biggert
doesn’t hear of this…little misfortune.” And he said this in quite a pointed
way, emphasising the word ‘hope’ as though it was, perhaps, only a matter of
time before he did hear about it.
“You wouldn’t tell him,
would you, my boy?” said Grandad Patches, in a plaintive, pleading tone.
“I wouldn’t, but I know
somebody who’d let it slip, if she found out. She’s in the bathroom right now.
Now, Grandad, wouldn’t it be just fine and dandy if you told her to get out?”
Nodding, Grandad Patches
made for the stairs. “I think it would, Morgan, my boy.”
After breakfast, our merry
band was crossing Purridgeton
Park, on their way to
school.
As you will remember, the
park is just across the road from the corner shop where Grandad Biggert buys
his newspaper in the morning. At a brisk pace, the hopeful traveller can reach
the school, situated on the other side, well before the bell signals lesson
time.
It was a typical British
summer morning. Cold, grey and with light flecks of drizzle making progress not
too unpleasant. A cool breeze played games with Faith’s hair as she skipped on
ahead, followed by a glowering Morgan, at a steady pace occasionally bouncing
his weathered football, behind him, Patience, the eldest, save for Grandad
Patches who wheezed and puffed his way alongside her in his orange romper smock
– all the while keeping his right hand behind his back.
“Why are you wearing a
woolly finger mitten, Grandad?” asked Faith, who had somehow skipped behind him
by executing an unexpected looping movement.
“Why, no reason, Faith, my
dear,” beamed Grandad Patches, ruffling her hair. “Except, upon looking out of
the window, I thought to myself, ‘why it looks dashed nippy, doesn’t it? I
better ensure my finger doesn’t catch a…um…finger cold.”
“Why haven’t I got one,
then,” asked Faith. “Nobody wants to catch a finger cold, do they?”
“Yes, Grandad, why hasn’t
Faith got one?” repeated Patience, snarkily. And Grandad Patches gave her a
look that smacked of hurt betrayal.
“Can I have your finger
glove, Grandad?” asked Faith, innocently. And as Grandad Patches blustered,
Patience snatched it and passed it over with a grin.
“There you are.”
Morgan snorted as the egg
was revealed, stuck stubbornly to Grandad Patches’ digit finger.
With a horrified gasp,
Faith noticed it straightaway. “Ewwww. Your fingers have grown an egg. Wait
until I tell all my friends and Mrs Gridney.”
“Do you think that’s
altogether a sensible idea, my dear? Po, po, po, po. Why, I think such a thing should be kept
a secret,” said Grandad Patches, placing a finger to his lips.
“Should it?”
“Why yes, of course.”
Pausing in mid skip, Faith
pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Has Grandad Biggert grown an egg on his finger?”
You could, if you looked,
see Grandad Patches brain racing, as a thousand ideas flashed across it. It was
an illuminating moment, if you were clever enough to spot the signs. Even the
egg was twitching vigorously as he explored possibilities. “Of course not,” he
answered, presumably dismissing the idea of gluing an ovulation to the
aforementioned gentleman. “Only very special, secret people have eggs on their
fingers.”
“Do they?”
“Why yes. Back in the
sixties, when I briefly worked for Her Majesty’s Secret Service, I was put on
the tail of a notorious and highly evil man. His name? Eggfinger.”
Upon hearing this, Morgan
snorted in derision. “Eggfinger?” He sniggered. “And what did he do? Steal
nuclear weapons and hold the world to ransom until governments paid him one
million eggs?”
Patience imitated Faith’s
voice perfectly. “Is Grandad Biggert Eggfinger?”
Looking astonished at
their scepticism, Grandad Patches waggled his egg at them in admonishment. “Oh,
you doubt me do you? Well, let me tell you, Eggfinger was a villainous
evil-doer. It was only by the purest stroke of luck that we secret agents captured
him and put a stop to his nefarious schemes.”
With as much sarcasm as he
could inject into his voice, Morgan replied. “Yes. No doubt you scrambled your agents
and cracked his codes.” And he looked as though he’d said something very
clever.
But before Grandad Patches
could reply, they all heard the terrified scream of a lady in distress. It was
unmistakable and the terror in the voice was palpable. “Help, help me, I’m
being attacked.”
Now coming towards them in
a flash of speeding fur, was a four legged beast hurtling down the path,
holding in his mouth what looked like a string of pork sausages. They flapped
behind him like a meaty streamer. The dog looked exultant, with madness in its
eyes, drooling as it passed them, bound for the other side of the park.
“It’s Mrs Dander’s dog,”
shouted Morgan, running in the opposite direction towards the sounds of
distress. And the others followed him as best they could.
What they found, as they
approached, was a truly piteous sight. An old lady, shaking in terror, was bent
double over one of those tartan patterned four wheeled shopping trolleys with a
pull-handle. Except – and this was the damndest thing – one of the wheels had
come off and had skittered across the path, where it lay, spinning forlornly on
the grass opposite.
The shopping trolley
itself, bereft of one of its wheels, slumped like a limp sack and some of the
contents had spilled out. “My purchases, my purchases,” she was sobbing, “oh, pity
my poor purchases that cost a pretty penny, pinched by that perfidious pooch.”
When they arrived at the
scene of carnage, Grandad Patches stiffened, somewhat amazed. “Why,” he
spluttered, “it’s Irene Adder.”
“We’re going to be late to
school again,” said Patience, ever the practical one. “Doctor Snaptor will give
us all tardy slips and detentions.”
Ignoring her, while
simultaneously disguising his finger-egg, Grandad Patches knelt down and helped
her repack the trolley. “My dear Ms Adder. What happened?” And having replaced
the items, he sat the old woman on a nearby park bench whilst the other three
watched impatiently.
Still trembling, Irene
Adder looked at those assembled there on that fateful morning, her voice
quavering. “Why, I was on my way to take Grandad Biggert’s morning sausage.”
“You don’t give me a
morning sausage.” interrupted Grandad Patches, then instantly he regretted
saying it.
Irene Adder’s blazed. “You
are a vegetarian,” she replied, in a snappy tone. Then she returned to being tragic.
“A young man. He approached from the west path.”
Jumping up and down
excitedly, Faith shouted, “It was Eggfinger! It was Eggfinger!”
Irene Adder frowned. “What
are you talking about, foolish girl. Eggfinger? I’ve never heard such
nonsense.” She paused in recollection. “No. This young man was in his late
teens to early twenties I’d say. He was whistling a happy tune. Do you know
what I think it was? I think it was ‘Three Wheels on my Wagon.’” She looked
crestfallen at the shopping trolley.
“Lucky that he hadn’t got
to the verse about one wheel being on his wagon,” Morgan pointed out. “Every
cloud has a silver lining.”
“We’re going to be very late for school.”
“What happened next?”
“Grandad. That old lady
called me ‘foolish girl’.”
As Grandad Patches ruffled
Faith’s hair, Irene finished her story. “You see, just as he finished
whistling, the wheel came off my wagon…I mean trolley. Grandad Biggert’s
sausage was all over the path. And that’s when Mrs Dander’s dog appeared. He snapped
at the boy like a pike and grabbed my spilled meat products.”
“Where’s the boy now?”
Grandad Patches was frowning, as if something had just started to tickle his
memory.
“How do I know?” snapped
Irene Adder. “What’s more important is what you are going to do about this,
Grandad Patches.” And she folded her arms in anger.
Still keeping his egg
finger firmly behind his back, Grandad Patches looked at Morgan. “Po, po, po, po. You see that seller of helium balloons?”
he asked. “I think we should go to him and purchase one. Then we will tie the
balloon to this damaged quadrant of your trolley. It should give it enough lift
to see you safely on three wheels as you make your way to number 34.”
Morgan sped away to do as
he was bid, as Grandad Patches continued. “Now, Ms Adder, don’t forget your
wheel. When you get to number 34, Grandad Biggert will help you repair it.
Probably.”
“Helium balloon?” snapped
Irene Adder. “That’ll never work, you crazy buffoon.”
But you know what? It did
work and Irene Adder was soon on her way.
But there was something
else. Grandad Patches was frowning and muttering gibberish to himself as they
finished making their way to school. “KipperTwonk, KipperTwonk.” he was quietly
repeating to himself, over and over again.
As they approached the
school gates, Patience looked at Morgan and hissed, “What on earth is worrying
Grandad?”
Because, as he glanced at
the sky, he did look very worried indeed.
Several more surprises
awaited the children that day, after Grandad Patches had dropped them to
school. The first was a bit of good fortune. Now, you don’t get much good
fortune in life, but when you do, celebrate it.
Seeing Doctor Snaptor at
the gate, Grandad Patches had beat a hasty retreat back in the direction of the
park. “Po, po, po, tiddly pom,” he had
mumbled, “I’d better just see how Irene Adder is getting on.”
“Yes, you better had,”
replied Morgan sarcastically, wondering what excuse he might summon up this
time.
“Well, who knows? Maybe I
can retrieve those sausages from Mrs Dander’s dog.” Grandad Patches had
continued.
“Retrieve the sausages?
That rancid cur will have eaten them by now. Gobbled them up,” muttered
Patience, also noticing the hovering and cloaked Doctor Snaptor, who was
tapping his hideous green teeth with a poised plastic stylus, skulking behind
the gates where he fondly imagined he was concealed from view.
“No, no, no, no. Not a bit
of it. Mrs Dander told me her dog was vegetarian the last time it bit me.
Denied the teeth marks belonged to him. See you all later.” And with that,
Grandad Patches was gone.
As the three children shuffled
through the iron gates, Doctor Snaptor had seized Patience by the shoulders.
“Got you,” he hissed, unpleasantly. “Now, if you pleeeeeze, what are your
reazzzzons this time?” And his tongue flickered like that of a snake.
Excitedly, Faith
explained, but somehow got her eggs, dogs and shopping trolley all mixed up.
“And it was all Grandad Biggert’s sausage’s fault,” she concluded, out of
breath.
Clearly, Doctor Snaptor
did not believe a word. But, as he glared at the three children, ready to enter
names on his Tardy Tablet with the stylus, he shook it angrily. “It’s broken,”
he hissed, “but how?” And as he looked up in frustration, the three had safely
slipped his grasp and were heading for classes.
As Faith entered, Mrs
Gridney was on strike. She sat at her desk like a discontented hippopotamus,
doing the crossword.
Or maybe it was the
Sudoku.
“You’re late again,
child,” she snapped, but being on strike, she obviously didn’t bother to
register it. “Go to your desk and be silent.”
“How long for?” Faith asked,
smiling in a friendly way. There was a sharp intake of breath from the class,
as Mrs Gridney picked up her pointing pencil.
“Are you being impertinent
child? Wipe that smile from your face before I make you smile on the other side
of it.” And then, seeing Faith’s question forming involuntarily on her lips,
she added, “your face.” And she jabbed the air in front of her with the pencil.
“No, Mrs Gridney, I meant
how long must I be silent?” Faith asked, innocently, staring up at the red
giant which dwarfed her small white frame.
Mrs Gridney gripped both
sides of the desk, huffed herself up and loomed menacingly above Faith. “Until
I’m not on strike any more, child,” she snapped, like a crocodile. “Now, go!"
As Faith scuttled to the
old wooden desk that was hers, Mrs Gridney shuffled her backside into her
cushions, once more picking up the newspaper, with the contented sigh of a well
fed beast.
Now, next to Faith’s desk,
was her best school chum, Fenton. This was definitely an oversight on Doctor
Snaptor’s part, who (as you know) had strict rules about friends sitting next
to each other because ‘it dizzractzz them from their zzztudieeezzz’.
Or perhaps it was because
Faith and Fenton had sought Grandad Patches’ advice on the matter and had, as a
result, a cunning pact where they would always seem to argue and scrap out loud,
but whisper secrets when they thought nobody was looking. Indeed, despite being
friends, they often had to play by themselves, or with children they didn’t
like, in case anybody noticed.
Fenton winked and began
immediately. “Mrs Gridney? Faith just made me spill ink all over my paper, tell
her off Mrs Gridney. Mrs Gridney? Now I’ve got a huge mess on my dress, Mrs
Gridney.”
But Faith was no slouch
either. “Mrs Gridney? Fenton stabbed me with her nib in the eye. Ow. Ow. Ow.”
“Shut up, the pair of you.
I can do nothing about it. I’m on strike.”
The door of the classroom
opened and Doctor Snaptor, never far away, poked his hideous, grizzled beak
through it and looked down the few steps that led to the interior. “Conflict in
the clazzroom, Mrz Gridneeeey?” he hissed. “Exzzzellent.”
Now, Mrs Gridney did not
get up for anyone, and Doctor Snaptor was no exception to her rules. “Doctor
Snaptor. How may we help you?”
“We?” he replied, with a
hint of amusement. “There izzzz only one of you here, my dear Mrz Gridneeeey.”
Behind Doctor Snaptor,
framed in the doorway, was a tall, blonde and callow youngish man. Now I would
say, looking at him, that he was in his late teens to early twenties. He might
be the sort given to whistling in less stressful circumstances, but this
decidedly was not one of them. He hovered, uncertainly.
Hearing an expectant buzz
from the children in the classroom, Mrs Gridney folded her newspaper and picked
up her pointing pencil again. “Silent, the lot of you,” she screeched, like an
owl. “I will not have disruption from pipsqueaks in my classroom.” But, as she
stabbed the air in front of her, an extraordinary thing happened. It snapped
clean in two and fell to the floor with a clatter.
If anything, this inspired
even more noise from the children. If you listened carefully, you could make
out words like ‘Mrs Gridney’s pointing pencil’, ‘snapped’, ‘as if it was magic’
and even more mutinous phrases that I certainly will not relate here.
Mrs Gridney flushed. “I
have plenty more where that came from. And don’t forget my propelling pen or
needle compasses.”
Doctor Snaptor glared
until there was silence, and then his face relaxed. “Theezzzze children are…sooperztituozzzz
foolzzzz,” he hissed, malevolently. “I command zzzzilencezzzz.” And when he was
pleased to do so, he stopped staring and summoned the young man into the
classroom.
This, he explained, was
none other than Benjamin Klipperton. A new and improved classroom assistant,
designed for those times (and they were frequent) when Mrs Gridney was on
strike. “And you will learn to love him, Mrz Gridneeeey,” he added, in order to
avoid argument.
“Benjamin Kippertwonk?”
queried Mrs Gridney, her face a picture of disbelief. “Come here, Kippertwonk.”
“Actually, it’s
Klipperton,” returned the young man, hesitantly, hopping quickly down the steps.
And it was just then that one of the legs supporting Mrs Gridney’s chair
collapsed, tumbling the extremely large woman to the classroom floor.
The children howled with
delight.
“Did you do that,
Kippertwonk?” Mrs Gridney groaned, getting to her feet and eyeing her broken
chair confusedly. She picked up the detached wooden leg and waved it at the
children. “Silence. Get back to your studies. Come here, Kippertwonk.”
“It’s Klipperton. Benjamin
Klipperton,” repeated the young man, approaching the irate teacher with some
trepidation.
Pretending to work, the
children were straining to hear with every fibre of their young beings. Well,
you would, wouldn’t you?
“I’ve a good mind to cane
your backside, young Kippertwonk.” growled Mrs Gridney, thrusting the leg in
the direction of his chest, whilst simultaneously scanning her pupils in case
any dared to titter. “But, it’s illegal.”
“But, I didn’t do
anything,” Benjamin Klipperton protested.
“Shut up. I’ll be the
judge of that.” Mrs Gridney rubbed her rump and allowed herself one final,
hateful glare.
“Sorry, Mrs Gridney.”
“Sorry, indeed. I’ll make
you sorry on the other side of your face. Now get to work. You can start by
finding me a new chair. Better make it two new chairs, in case the first one disintegrates.”
Glowering, Mrs Gridney set
to screwing the wooden leg back to where it belonged, whilst Benjamin watched
as if frozen to the spot. When she had finished, Mrs Gridney perched herself
back on top, where she wobbled about due to a lack of stability. “Why are you
still here, Kippertwonk?” she shouted, noticing he seemed rooted to the spot.
Benjamin scurried off,
returning moments later with two perfectly good chairs. “Where shall I put
them, Mrs Gridney?” he asked, politely.
“There and there. We can
have a two level system where I may move my buttocks with a minimum effort of
maximum scrutiny.” she ordered, pointing to either side. But as he did so, the
handle of Mrs Gridney’s coffee mug somehow detached itself, causing thick brown
sugary goo to slosh all over her newspaper. “Damn.”
Once more, the children
shrieked with laughter.
“It must be one of those
days.” Benjamin ventured, in a consoling tone, offering her some blotting paper
from one of the children’s desks.
“One of what days?”
“One of those sort of extraordinary days, when everything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”
“Pah and gah,” snapped Mrs
Gridney, as she looked for her telescope, perhaps secretly wondering if
Kippertwonk had a lot of ‘those sort of days’.
Grandad Patches had
scuttled across the park as quickly as his old legs would allow, wishing, as he
often did on these occasions, that he was one of those who used a stick. But,
he reasoned sensibly to himself, using a stick today would be difficult with an
egg stuck to his finger.
As he passed the shop,
turning into Lumpslap Close, he had further reason to wish for such a prop.
For there, blocking his
path, was none other than Grandad Biggert. He was dressed in his high collared
black jacket, doom monger's cloak and he was not alone. Beside him was the grim spectre of the elderly tobacconist who kept a shop on Purridgeton High Street.
“Patches,” he snarled,
“you dreary sixties bean gobbler, I have been waiting for you. And I don’t like
to be kept waiting.” In one hand he had a rolled up newspaper, and in the
other, the wheel from Irene Adder’s shopping trolley.
“Waiting for me?” answered
Grandad Patches. “Now why would you bother yourself to do a thing as that? Why,
I’m a free spirit. I come and go as I will; carried as gossamer on a summer breeze.”
“Well you’ve certainly got
wind about you, that’s for sure.” Grandad Biggert beckoned his sidekick
forwards. “Scrynge? Use this spiky swordstick and accost Patches with it in a most
violent fashion.”
“Yes, Master,” replied the
elderly tobacconist, taking the newspaper.
“Hah. Got someone to do
your dirty work for you now, have you?”
“Yes, I have, Patches,
thank you very much. Heh, heh, heh.” Grandad Biggert replied, smirking. His
grin soon turned to irritation when he observed that Scrynge hadn’t moved. “Well?
What are you waiting for?”
The elderly tobacconist
coughed. “Well, Master, I be wondering how many tickles I should administer
with Tommy here. Would it be a maximum intensity you’d be wanting, or just a tittival?”
Rubbing his beard, Grandad
Biggert frowned. “A very good question, young Scrynge. Now let’s see. It was
due to him that I had sausage disappointment this morning. Also, because of his
meddling ways, I have to waste my time repairing a stupid tartan shopping trolley,
instead of plotting my escape from this pitiful planet…”
But, while all this was
going on, Grandad Patches had already sneaked past and was well on his way to
the sanctuary of number 36.
“He’s getting away!”
yelled Grandad Biggert, angrily snatching the newspaper back. “Quick, Scrynge,
you spineless poltroon. I don’t want to spend the morning with grease up to my
elbows, do I?”
“He be as cunning as a
rabbit in a bramble bush, that one,” answered the tobacconist, ducking as the
newspaper was swung in his direction.
“Hurry, Scrynge, we can head
him off at the path.”
Perhaps it was because
Grandad Patches was encumbered by the egg on his finger offering wind
resistance, or unbalancing his steps, but by the time he’d got to the garden
path of number 36, he was surprised to find a large yellow sign blocking the
gate.
“Po,
po, po. ‘Pon my soul, I’m fairly certain that wasn’t there this morning,” he
muttered. “Now, what on earth does this sign say?”
Bending down and
scrutinising it more closely with his better eye, Grandad Patches formed the
words he read with his lips. “Warning, Do not proceed. Men at work. Deadly
dagger. Use alternative route. Follow the arrows marked ‘DIVERSION’.”
Frowning, Grandad Patches,
straightened his back. “Deadly dagger?” he pondered out loud. “Well, I suppose
I had better do what the sign tells me to do. Some caring soul obviously wants
to keep me from harm’s way. What was that?”
From the other side of the
hedge, he thought he heard some whispering and a loud snort that was quickly
stifled.
There were chalk arrows on
the path that appeared to be hastily drawn there, and as Grandad Patches
followed them, they pointed straight into number 34.
Grandad Patches looked up
the path. Above his head, a string had been rigged the entire length of the
path, and from this were hung several newspapers, swinging gently in the wind.
“Blast,” he muttered. “If I am to follow this diversion, I must surely traverse
this path, and will hit my head on every one of those dangling newspapers, one
after the next.” Sighing and accepting the inevitable, Grandad Patches
proceeded.
Paper after paper swotted
his head in a most irritating fashion, incommoding his passage. And by the time
he was half way through, Grandad Biggert and Scrynge jumped out behind him,
triumphantly.
Well, I’m not sure the
verb ‘jumped’ could be applied to the elderly tobacconist. Hobbled was probably
nearer the mark. Nevertheless, Grandad Patches started and was assaulted by several
‘heh, heh, hehs’.
“Heh, heh, heh,” gloated
Grandad Biggert. “You walked straight into my trap, Patches, you gullible
idiot. Now fix this, or you most certainly will never escape.” He lobbed Irene
Adder’s wheel straight at him.
“Youch,” complained Grandad
Patches, because it bounced off his head, and trundled into the weedy
flowerbeds. “Trap? I was by no means fooled by your tomfoolery. It was the most
obvious snare since Mr and Mrs Bush decided to name their child ‘Ham’, then
called him in because it was teatime.”
Grandad Biggert knitted
his brows. “You hear that, Scrynge? I blame you for poor spelling.”
“B’aint my fault, Master,
I told you it were spelt with ‘n’”
“Shut up, Scrynge, you
alphabetically challenged buffoon, the whole town knows you spell tobacco with
a ‘k’. I don’t know why I even employ you.”
“Tokacco?”
During this minor
altercation, Grandad Patches had shrugged his shoulders, turned and was
trundling slowly back the way he came.
“By the horns of Hades,
he’s getting away again, Scrynge,” yelled Grandad Biggert. “Stop him!”
But there was no need.
Grandad Patches merely bent down, muttered something, retrieved the Irene
Adder’s wheel, turned back and spoke. “Grandad Biggert? I have something to say
to you. A message of great import.”
“Hah.” scoffed Grandad Biggert.
“Hear that, Scrynge? This wibbly wobbly soft sixties celery muncher thinks he
knows something that could affect my great plan. I’ll none of it, Patches, you
parsnip peeler.” And he turned to go, but then he hesitated, possibly seeing a
certain steel in Grandad Patches’ eyes. Who can say?
Puffing out his chest,
Grandad Patches announced. “I have reason to believe that Nephew Kippertwonk is
back in Purridgeton.”
“Nephew Kippertwonk?”
repeated Grandad Biggert.
“Just so. Nephew
Kippertwonk.”
“Well, that changes
things, Patches. Well, well, well, Scrynge? Nephew Kippertwonk be back.”
The elderly tobacconist
rubbed his chin, thoughtfully, “Is back, Master. Nephew Kippertwonk is back.”
“Silence, Scrynge, you
dog.” Grandad Biggert resisted the temptation to swot him, then walked up the
path towards Grandad Patches, looking at him square in the eye. “You are
proposing an alliance?”
Grandad Patches extended
his hand, with an expression of extreme distaste. “An alliance.”
“Heh, heh, heh,” chuckled
Grandad Biggert, seizing the offering with his black glove and shaking it. “We
can begin by repairing this shopping trolley. Then he frowned. “I say, Patches,
is that an egg glued to your finger?”
Back at school,
Kippertwonk was trying to inveigle himself into Mrs Gridney’s good books. Once
he had overcome his initial awkwardness, he was ready to spring into action,
using all his teaching assistant powers. Even now, he was pursing his lips,
looking for ways to be more helpful than a boy scout on ‘old people crossing
the road day’.
“Shall I pass you a
dictionary from this shelf, Mrs Gridney?” he asked her, his extra perception
powers determining that this might be just the very fellow needed at this point
of the day.
“No, this is a Maths
lesson,” she replied, testily, because such a thing had not even crossed her
mind.
“Put a dress on?” frowned
Kippertwonk, reaching towards the bookshelf.
It collapsed, scattering
weighty tomes all over the floor and generating a huge cloud of dust which
billowed into the air, almost as though the books had sat there untouched since
the chalk ages.
“Ewwwww,” screamed Fenton.
“Mrs Gridney? That went in my mouth. I can’t do my sums now.”
Faith sniggered, “Hah,
hah, Fenton’s got a dirty mouth, Mrs Gridney, send her to the bathroom.”
“Shut up, Faith, it’s
chalk in the mouth, actually. Is chalk poisonous? Ewww. I need to go to sick
bay, Mrs Gridney.”
“No she doesn’t, it’s just
an excuse to switch all the coats around on the hanging pegs, Mrs Gridney, I’ve
seen her do it before.”
Mrs Gridney raised herself
off chair two and shifted down to three, where she could glare more effectively
at the class, telescope clapped to her eye. “If you two don’t stop squawking,
you’ll both have your mouths washed out. With carbolic soap which Kippertwonk
will be more than happy to administer. But it’s illegal. So shut up and do more
sums.”
As Mrs Gridney scoped the
exercise books, she could see that most of the children had done very little in
the way of Maths. One particular wretch quickly caught her eye. “What’s that,
Biggins?” she snapped, zooming in.
The child who had been
singled out, squirmed in his seat, looking as though he might burst into tears
at any moment.
Faith swivelled around in
her seat, because she was in front of him, took her nib and jabbed Biggins’
book. “Why, Mrs Gridney, it’s a picture, not a sum. It’s a piece of feeble
minded art from feeble minded Boy Biggins. Heh, heh, heh.”
“What? That sounds like
something Grandad Biggert would say. Have you been near that wretched rogue?”
Kippertwonk was soon by
her side, “May I, Mrs Gridney?” And he took the telescope from her. But as he
did so, the brass instrument came apart in his hands. The eyeglasses dislodged
themselves and tumbled like dice to the floor, and the two metal sections
parted. Kippertwonk was left holding each piece with a look of pure horror. He
held them out to Mrs Gridney, fearing the worst.
She was apoplectic. “Kippertwonk,
you blithering idiot. Why, if it wasn’t illegal, I’d have you thrashed with the
cat o nine tails. That telescope has been in the Gridney family since before
the war. Grandad Gridney passed that on to me when he retired from teaching.
You’ll pay for this, Kippertwonk, you classroom clown.”
Of course, the pupils were
hooting with delight. Even Biggins managed a snotty smile.
“Not to worry, Mrs
Gridney,” Kippertwonk blurted with more optimism than he felt, “I’ll have this
repaired in a jiffy. But first, let me check in on young Biggins here.” And he
scooped up the various pieces of telescope into a floral handkerchief before
scuttling across to check the book. Kippertwonk smiled. “It’s OK, Mrs Gridney.
It’s a picture of a rather nice looking pork chop. With legs.”
“Pork chop with legs?” Mrs
Gridney repeated from her seat, momentarily confused.
“Yes, indeed. Biggins has
written something underneath it, too, in crayons. It’s all rather splendid.
Well done, Biggins, my boy.” And Kippertwonk beamed, riffling the lad’s greasy
black hair.
“Thank you, Mr
Kippertwonk.”
“It’s Klipperton,
actually.”
But Mrs Gridney was
scowling. “What’s he written, Kippertwonk? You read that out to me this
instance.”
Kippertwonk looked more
closely, his face contorted in the effort to read. “I think it says ‘Mrs
Gridney has her morning walk. Er…the spelling’s none too clever…it could say
pork. Mrs Gridney has her morning pork.”
“Well, what is it? Pork or
walk? Actually, that’s immaterial. It’s pure defiance!” Mrs Gridney spluttered,
rooted to her seat. “You know what this means, Biggins, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs Gridney.”
“It’s six of the best for
you, Biggins, with the botty slipper, you malignant malingerer. But that’s
illegal. So you’ll have a break time detention instead.”
Kippertwonk pulled out a
small pocket book and consulted it. “I think that’s illegal too, Mrs Gridney,”
he announced.
Boy Biggins also put his
pipes to good use: “Actually, also, Mrs Gridney, Kippertwonk ruffled my hair
and I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“Yes, I’m afraid he’s
right, Mrs Gridney. Well. We are in a pretty pickle, aren’t we class?” grinned
Kippertwonk, watching as several small heads nodded their agreement. “Shall we
just start the day over? I say, who’s got some sellotape to mend this
telescope?”
A couple of cautious hands
were raised, the odd tacky role of well used tape offered as well as some well
squashed tubes of glue.
But wouldn’t you know it?
As Kippertwonk hurriedly began his task, somehow the tape slipped and entangled
itself around the mouth of young Timmy Sharples, the quietest boy in Faith’s
class. In a matter of moments, not only was his face completely wrapped in
tape, but, even worse, a piece of telescope had attached itself to the poor
boy’s forehead.
“That’s illegal, Mrs
Gridney,” shouted Fenton, “Kippertwonk has turned Timmy into a periscope.”
“Jolly useful if he was a
submarine,” announced Kippertwonk, hopefully.
Mrs Gridney raised her
buttocks reluctantly and shuffled to the dusks. “But he’s not a submarine is
he, Kippertwonk? You’re a walking disaster. A classroom menace. Top dunce of the bottom table. Why on earth did
Doctor Snaptor inflict you on me?”
Poor old Kippertwonk
looked at his feet, sadly. “Well, I suppose I’d better come clean.”
“Well? Let’s have the
truth.” Mrs Gridney replied.
“Well, the truth is…if I’m
being honest…I’m not really a classroom assistant at all.”
Mrs Gridney nodded grimly,
“Hah. I thought so. I thought so.”
Now, you could hear the
sound of astonished whispers from classroom as each young mouth whispered into
the nearest ear to their lips – ‘not an assistant’, ‘never was one’, ‘slippery
as a botty slipper, ‘that’s illegal’ – and the murmurs started to build towards
a crescendo that might summon Doctor Snaptor at any time.
“Silence,” glowered Mrs
Gridney. “Explain yourself, Kippertwonk.”
Placing the fingertips of
both hands together in a thoughtful pose, Kippertwonk lowered himself onto one
of the small yellow plastic chairs, reserved for the pupils. It collapsed, all
four legs splaying outwards like a rotary washing line, within which he became
entangled.
With his blonde hair, he
looked rather like a gigantic, mutant daisy.
Prone on the classroom
floor, he spoke. “Well, you see, class and Mrs Gridney, I am actually a first
rate entertainer on ocean going cruise ships. A singer, dancer and comedian by trade.”
“Rubbish.”
“No, no, it’s true. I can
do a pretty decent impression of Mike Yarwood singing ‘Underneath the Arches’.
Would you like me to…”
“No, we certainly would
not. Mike Yarwood? Please. In any case, that does not explain your presence
here in my classroom.”
“Well, as you know, I was
sent to entertain our brave boys… on the ‘Comedy Light Funtastic World Revue Tour’, held on that
barge, ‘Bibble Stockton’ and…erm…well HMS Tadcaster caught fire and the ‘Bibble
Stockton’ sank off the coast of Portchester.”
Hearing a few of the
pupils starting to titter at this unlikely tale, Mrs Gridney banged her fist on
the table. “No. I did not know that, Kippertwonk, I was not briefed prior to
your unwelcome arrival. Now, don’t let me hinder your departure.” And, with
that, she pointed her quivering finger at the classroom door.
But Kippertwonk didn’t
move. In fact he still looked remarkably thoughtful and poised, from where he
sat amongst the chair rubble.
Mrs Gridney’s eyes
narrowed and she frowned from her vantage point. “Why are your fingers still
together, Kippertwonk?”
“I think I might have
accidentally super-glued them together, Mrs Gridney.”
“Faith? Fenton? Help him
to the sink and run his hands under warm water while I summon Doctor Snaptor.”
And with that, she shuffled her bulk towards the door, slowly walking up the
three or four steps.
But then disaster struck.
As Faith turned on the
tap, and Fenton helped Kippertwonk with his hands, a hole appeared in one of
the pipes that fed the classroom sink with cold water. Simultaneously, as Mrs
Gridney reached for the classroom door handle, it came away in her hand and
clattered down the steps.
Water dribbled from the
pierced pipe and started to form puddles all over the floor. As it did so, I’m
afraid to say there were one or two shouts from the pupils, possibly even a
frightened cry from little Timmy Sharples. “Mrs Gridney. The classroom is
flooding. We’re all going to drown!”
And, as she looked at the
small hole in the door where a handle used to be, Mrs Gridney realised there
was no way to open it, either. “Kippertwonk!” she screamed. “We’re trapped. In
a flooding classroom. You blundering dunderhead. What have you done?”
Back at number 36, the
alliance had got off to an uneasy start, as you might suppose. Grandad Biggert
was being somewhat awkward.
“I’m hungry, Patches, you
vegan ninnyhammer. What have you got to eat in your paltry pantry?”
“Poultry? You’ll find none
of that here, Grandad Biggert. The very idea,” replied Grandad Patches, shaking
his head and tut-tutting.
“I want my sausage and I
want it now.”
“Po,
po, po. You’ll find some sausage over there,” replied Grandad Patches, pointing
at his kitchen table. “Now, Mr Scrynge. We have no time to lose. We must act
now. I suspect some terrible catastrophe afoot.”
Scrynge nodded, “You mean
them children be in some sort of danger, requiring us to be quick, Grandad
Patches? Maybe them be drowning in that old classroom due to some rising Spring
tides?”
Grandad Patches nodded
vigorously, “I rather think so. That, or a burst pipe.”
“Rubbish!” screamed
Grandad Biggert.
“You don’t agree?”
“No, these sausages.
They’re filthy, Patches. Are you trying to poison me?” And he spat a big
mouthful all over the table. “I suspect they’re made of sprouts.”
“Po,
po, tiddly pom. We haven’t time to discuss the ingredients of sausages. Even
now, those children are in the most deadly danger. It’s Nephew Kippertwonk.
Remember?”
Pulling a face, Grandad
Biggert grudgingly agreed. “Well, what do we do, Patches?”
“First I will have to
clean the mess you’ve made in the kitchen, before Ma gets back.”
“An unnecessary delay, if
I may point out. Scrynge can do it. Scrynge? Get cleaning. And make sure that
you put Patches’ mouldy sausage in the toxic waste bin. Heh, heh, heh.”
While Scrynge set to work,
Grandad Patches looked thoughtfully at Irene Adder’s shopping trolley. The
helium balloon he had tied to it earlier, had deflated and looked rather sad,
like a tatty rag on a string. “First, we should repair this I think, Grandad
Biggert.”
“No we shouldn’t, Patches,
you mindless marrow.”
“But it could be
incredibly useful, Grandad Biggert, in our current predicament.”
“Yes,” agreed Grandad
Biggert. “But we shouldn’t mend it. You should.” And he folded his arms and
waited.
Grandad Patches sighed and
pondered the problem for some time as the minutes ticked by.
At last, Scrynge, having
finished his task and scraped the last of the sausage into the dustbin, looked
in from the door that led from the kitchen into the garden. “Here. Why don’t
Grandad Biggert use his sonic spanner?”
“Excellent plan, Scrynge,
first rate,” agreed Grandad Biggert, producing what looked like a plastic wand
from his pocket. You know. The sort you often see magicians use on television;
tapping tables firmly with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. No? Well, I’ve often
seen that. Usually followed by a rabbit out of a top hat, or a fake bunch of
flowers from the sleeve.
“No,” said Grandad
Patches, firmly.
“Why not, Patches?”
“Because it doesn’t
actually work, does it, Grandad Biggert?”
“Well, no, not really,”
replied Grandad Biggert, removing his triumphant grin, replacing it with a
scowl and putting the wand back in his capacious pockets. “But you’ve not
bested me yet, Patches, you peeled pair of dandy pants.” Then he snapped his
fingers. “Got it. Put it in the microwave. Those mighty electric waves will
soon melt the wheel back on to the axle. Heh, heh, heh. There are no flies on
me.”
But that was also a time
waster, because no matter how hard they tried, the trolley wouldn’t fit inside.
By now, a couple of hours
had passed and the three allies were still looking at the trolley, hoping for
inspiration, an idea, anything.
Eventually, Grandad
Patches gave up. “Let’s do what we always do,” he muttered. “Tie a roller skate
to it.”
“Well, if that’s the best
we can come up with,” replied Grandad Biggert, similarly disappointed.
Fetching the requisite
item from the attic, Grandad Patches quickly fastened the skate to the trolley,
which wasn’t as easy as it sounds, given he had an egg on his finger. But,
eventually they were ready to set off.
Feeling a little more
cheerful, Grandad Patches placed the trolley outside the front door. “Po, po, tiddly, pom,” he chuckled, “let the rescue
mission commence. Kippertwonk? We’re coming to get you.” But just as he was
about to set off, there was yet another problem; another delay.
“Wait, Patches, you limpid
lentil bolognese.”
“What is it this time,
Grandad Biggert?”
“Surely, you don’t intend
to walk all the way to that school, do you? People might see us together. Bad
for my image. In any case, what about all our rescue equipment? We can’t tug
that all the way there.”
Rubbing his chin
thoughtfully, Grandad Patches answered, “Well, what do you suggest?
International Rescue? Launch Thunderbird One?”
“Better than that. We will
travel in my Biggert Mobile. Heh, heh, heh.”
Now, I have to tell you
that the Biggert Mobile was extremely tricky to assemble. It didn’t just fly
out from a hidden cave behind a waterfall, dear me no. It was, in fact, a
tricycle, tied to which was Irene Adder’s newly repaired trolley and a wooden
cart with a screwed down seat.
When it was (finally)
ready to leave, Scrynge was perched on the tricycle with a heavy bag of
equipment strapped to his back. Grandad Biggert was sitting rather grandly
behind him on the seat, like a king on his throne and, despite his
protestations, Grandad Patches was shoved into the shopping trolley, bringing
up the rear.
“To the school,” snapped
Grandad Biggert. “And don’t spare the horses.”
Peddling as hard as possible,
the ungainly procession set off towards the park. It was a very slow progress
indeed.
“Faster Scrynge, faster.
Those children are depending on us.”
“Yes, Master.”
“I say, can I just get out
and walk?”
“You’re never happy,
Patches, are you. No wonder I despise you.” grumbled Grandad Biggert. And I’m
afraid he reached in his pockets, lit a cigar, puffed on it and waved grandly
to the several old people who had started to follow them.
As they attained the park,
they were joined by Mrs Dander’s dog, which, presumably sated on sausage,
gambolled along beside them in a frisky fashion, nipping at the shopping
trolley stuffed with Grandad Patches.
“I think he can smell some
meat,” said Grandad Patches, trying to avoid a dog bite or two.
“No, no, no, he be after
that egg finger,” puffed Scrynge, pausing to glance back at the waving arms of
the desperate passenger.
Grandad Biggert sniggered.
“I’ve always thought that dogs are naturally attracted to your foul odours,
Patches, you dog bag.”
“Dog bag?”
“Yes. You will henceforth
enjoy your spare time sport known only as ‘Dog Bag’.” Which was, no doubt, a
deadly insult where he was concerned – but I’ve no idea what he was driving at.
However, it was precisely
as Grandad Biggert made this witty, well crafted quip that the unkempt wagon
train halted in its tracks, halfway to school. The elderly tobacconist stopped
cycling. Was he tired? Had he spotted the cavalry riding over the hill?
“Continue peddling,
Scrynge, you malingerer,” Grandad Biggert ordered, jabbing the air with his
cigar, “Me and Dog Bag have a rescue to effect.”
“I can’t, Master. My way
be impeded.”
And impeded it was. In
front of our party was the stern figure of Police Constable Muff, and behind her,
a rag-tag group of people including Irene Adder and Mrs Dander. PC Muff’s right
hand was raised in front of her, ordering an all-stop. She had a whistle to her
lips and the fingers of her left hand were tapping the truncheon strapped to
her leg very lightly. Tap, tap, tap.
“What is the meaning of
this rogue’s procession?” she asked in an imperative tone. “Don’t you know it
is an offense to smoke cigars in the municipal park, Grandad Biggert?”
“Stand aside, you puny
wielder of archaic law,” commanded Grandad Biggert. “In any case, I’m not in the
park, I’m over it. You can’t get me there.”
Momentarily confused and
searching for an answer, PC Muff scowled. But Irene Adder was having none of
it. “Robert Biggert?” she screeched, “Why is Grandad Patches shoved in my
trolley?”
“He’s an unexpected item
in the bagging area,” replied Grandad Biggert with a winning smirk, and then
yelped as she walloped him with her umbrella. “No need for that, sweetmeats.”
Whether Grandad Patches
could see any of this from his position, I do not know. In any case, Mrs
Dander’s dog was still being exceptionally overfriendly, jumping at the trolley
and snapping at his face. “Mrs Dander? I say, could you call your dog off?”
But by this time, PC Muff
had recovered her senses. Ignoring both Grandad Patches and Grandad Biggert,
she stalked back to Scrynge, still mounted on the tricycle, bending down to
speak into his ear. “I’ll talk to the sensible one. You. What is going on
here?”
“Well, your honour, we be
rescuing them poor little children.”
“Children? What do you
mean? Be more precise.”
“It be Kippertwonk. He be
back.”
PC Muff raised herself, as
Grandad Patches nodded slowly. “Yes, officer, indeed. Po,
po, po, po. Nephew Kippertwonk, returned from his overseas posting and, we suspect,
working in our very school, in the heart of our community. Who knows what
damage he might cause?”
“Kippertwonk? Then that
changes things,” replied PC Muff firmly. “No time to lose in settling old
scores and broken laws.” She paused, allowing herself a tiny smile. “Hmm. Old
scores and broken laws. I like that. Must remember to write it down.”
“Very apposite, Muff,”
declared Grandad Biggert, waving his cigar grandly.
“Po,
po, po, po, yes, indeed. Why, back in the sixties, I was, as you know, a poet
of some repute, and…”
“Shut up, the pair of
you,” snapped PC Muff. “Scrynge. Get off that tricycle. This ‘Biggert Mobile’
requires somebody with a modicum of fitness to power it up.” And with that, she
pulled our elderly tobacconist aside, threw him to the floor, jumped into the
saddle and began to pedal furiously in the direction of the school.
The last thing Scrynge saw
was Grandad Patches’ face looking somewhat scared as it disappeared at top
speed over the hill. He slowly raised his old bones from the soft grass and
pushed Mrs Dander’s dog off his face. “Stop licking me, boy.”
The wind whistled past
Grandad Patches’ ears as they hurtled towards the school. It snatched Grandad
Biggert’s cigar, extinguished it and hurled it into the grass. Before long, the
Biggert Mobile was at the school gates. Behind it, a crowd was beginning to
gather.
PC Muff leapt off the seat
and rattled the ironwork in front of her. “Doctor Snaptor,” she cried. “Open
these gates at once.”
“I say, can someone free
me from this trolley?” asked Grandad Patches, plaintively.
Ignoring him, Grandad
Biggert sidled slickly up to where PC Muff continued to shout. He passed her a
plastic spork. “Use this, Officer. It will free the lock.”
Grandad Patches, who had
now extricated himself with the help of several pensioners, also joined PC
Muff. “Yes, indeed. Grandad Biggert is renowned for his incredible inventions,
which look, on the face of it, useless…and yet…they somehow…”
“…are useless,” replied PC
Muff as the spork splintered unhelpfully in the lock. “Did nobody bring any
proper rescue equipment?”
“Scrynge had it in a bag,
but you threw him off the bike,” snapped Grandad Biggert. “It included a high
impact step ladder which would have been just the thing for these gates, don’t
you know.”
The crowd was getting
restless as minutes ticked by.
Scratching his chin,
whilst eyeing the iron gates, an idea occurred to Grandad Patches. “Got it, by
jove. If one of us was to find a large branch in the park, that had fallen from
a tree, lying on the ground…why, then I could use it to pole vault over the
top.”
“Pole vault over the top?”
repeated PC Muff, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
Luckily, however, no doubt
seeing the gathered pensioners and hearing the commotion from his office,
Doctor Snaptor glided into view, wearing an unpleasant, oily smile upon his
face. “Polizzzze Constable Muff, what an honour,” he said, greeting her, and
opening the gate with his electronic widget. “To what do I owe thizzzz
pleazzzzure?”
The gates glided back and
snapped open. Doctor Snaptor beckoned them all forth and listened curiously.
“Mrs Gridneeeey in danger, you say?” he answered, incredulously, “Well, let’s
go and zzzzee.”
Our party hurried down the
steps towards Faith’s classroom, which, as you know, was located in a sub
surface thermal cellar. Grandad Patches looked through the skylights, but could
see nothing. Skylights are usually useless for looking through, have you
noticed that?
They approached the door.
From within, the sound of
cries for help could be clearly heard, such as ‘Get off my table, Mrs Gridney,’
and ‘I can’t swim’, as well as, ‘this ballast could be used as a trampoline
life jacket’.
Although, I couldn’t
really explain the last one.
“Stand back,” snapped PC
Muff. She seized a large, red fire extinguisher, used all her might to lift it
and smashed it straight into the door.
It splintered like
matchwood, revealing a piteous scene within.
The leaking pipe had done
its worst, and I would estimate that there was maybe two feet of water sloshing
about down there. The children were using desks like rescue boats, floating
about on top of them. Mrs Gridney had lashed herself to what looked like three
stools and had fashioned a rather nifty raft, using her skirt as a sail
Doctor Snaptor was outraged.
“Mrs Gridneeeey. This is completely illegal. The children can see your bloomerzzzz.”
But Grandad Patches
ignored him. “Po, po, po, po. I will save the
day!” he cried, valiantly. He leapt down the steps, waded through the water
which came up to his ankles at least (if not further), located the leaking hole
in the pipe and, with no regard for his personal safety, stuck his egg finger
straight inside.
It was completely blocked.
The assembled crowd cheered as Grandad Patches beamed and looked round at the
gathered children. Now that the leak had been tackled, the water soon drained
away and all was back to normal.
“I think it’s safe to
dismount your desks,” announced Grandad Patches, grandly.
Now, everybody looked
pleased, except Grandad Biggert. “Damn you, Patches. I wish I’d thought of
that,” he snapped, bitterly, pointing at the egg.
Grandad Patches nodded sagely. "Yes, indeed. I knew my egg finger would be...eggzactly what was required when I glued it on this morning."
Faith leapt off her desk,
aiming a kick at Fenton’s shin as she did so. She ran over and hugged Grandad
Patches’ legs. “So you were Eggfinger all the time,” she said, proudly.
“Was I?” replied Grandad
Patches, mysteriously, “Po, po, po, po. Well,
I couldn’t possibly reveal that. Secrets, you know.”
“Pah!” snapped Grandad
Biggert, seizing Kippertwonk by his ear, who winced in pain. “And you, young
man, can come with me back to Biggert Mansions.”
A day or two later, all
normality had been restored.
Grandad Patches had
managed to remove the egg, the classroom had been repaired, Grandad Biggert had
formally dissolved the alliance by chucking a lump of concrete over the fence, claiming he was experimenting with meteorites made of dark matter. The concrete had narrowly missed Mrs Dander’s dog foraging for bones
And, as for Kippertwonk, he was living in the attic until his new posting abroad came up.
He wasn’t terribly popular
with the family because he kept breaking things, as you might imagine.
“Kippertwonk has put his
foot through my bedroom ceiling,” complained Morgan, that night, before tea.
Grandad Patches had tried
to explain Kippertwonk's constant bad luck. “You see, Faith, my dear, it is rumoured that he was terribly
infected magnetism, when, as only a small child, he fell to the bottom of a very
dark, deep well and it was full of bats.”
“A well full of bats?
What’s a bat, Grandad?”
Scratching his chin,
Grandad Patches replied, “Tiddly, po, pom, well they use them to play cricket,
you know. I wonder how they got there?”
“Yes, Grandad, that is a
mystery,” replied Morgan, shaking his head. “It’s certainly got me stumped.”
And he waggled his eyebrows smugly.
At this point, Nephew
Klipperton, clattered down the stairs, in a state of high excitement, waving an
official looking letter in one hand and some rags in the other. “I say, Uncle
Patches, guess what?”
“Po,
po, po.” replied Grandad Patches, in a grumpy way (for him). “Is that the
carpet from the stairs?”
“Yes, Uncle Patches. It
came off in my hands.”
“Did it,” snapped Morgan,
who could see a future where he and his Grandad were laying stair carpets
instead of playing football. “Well, what’s your news, Kippertwonk?”
“I have my new government
assignment, Morgan. I’m very excited indeed.”
“Po,
pom, tiddly, pom, well, don’t keep us in suspense, Benjamin. What is it?”
“I’m to be a care giver.
For old people.”
“I see,” replied Grandad
Patches. “Do you have…um…any experience of this profession? Care giving?”
“Well, no, but the letter
says I can learn it on the job, pick it up as I go along, be an apprentice, so
to speak.”
Morgan feared the worst.
“I say, you’re not going to do your training here, here you, Kippertwonk? By
looking after Grandad?”
“No, no, no, don’t be
silly, I don’t think that would work.” Kippertwonk studied his letter
carefully. “No, I have to move into Uncle Biggert’s house immediately. Number
34.”
Now, from next door, there
was an audible cry of something that sounded a lot like pain.
“He’s got that glass up
against the wall again,” stated Morgan, in a matter of fact sort of way.
Grandad Patches smiled –
and was that a glint in his eye? “Yes, indeed. Well, Kippertwonk, you’d better
pack your things. Oh and don’t forget to return that lump of concrete. I
believe you’ll find it amongst the begonias.”
