Grandad Patches’ Bedtime Fables:
Mr Winky Rides Again
Once upon a time, dear children, there was a ancient,
mysterious hump-backed leopard with sun-dyed skin as brown as tea stains on a
papyrus parchment.
His eyes once flamed as coals raked from fire, but so aged
was he that most of the heat had long been doused to leave a walnut skin
creased by smile on smile and anointed with strong sandalwood and oud perfume.
It was rumoured, when he had first appeared in the valleys,
that he was from some Eastern shore. But how had he got here? Nobody knew for
certain.
It was spread, by the less intelligent animals on those
smarter-than-them-phones that he had arrived on some small inflatable or other
or had been washed ashore with flotsam.
At the time this caused one of those little flurries: a gentle
gust of gormless wind, then nothing no more, as though he always had been.
So, here he was and here, inshallah, he would stay.
He had fashioned a travelling caravan from the driftwoods
and abandoned plastics that liberally littered the beach and put it to lively
use, whilst many of the other animals watched, open-mouthed in astonishment. He
was rich in the long-forgotten arts and crafts from olden days – woodwork,
metalwork, writing and…of course, storytelling.
In point of fact, Asrani - for that was his name - asked
for little.
He took nothing in payments except what he found and that
which would sustain him, and, in return, gave the most magnificent puppet
shows, travelling from town to town and following the great westward roads.
He soon gained a reputation as The Puppetmaster, his fame
travelling far and wide upon the ether.
If Asrani’s caravan was rumoured to be in the area, why,
all the children took fever in excitement. “The Puppetmaster is coming!” they
would cry, “The Puppetmaster is nearly here! We have been waiting too long!”
Some of the older animals were less thrilled, to be sure,
staring slack into ugly phones and muttering about ‘box set bingeing’, ‘waiting
for new seasons to drop’: a sort of nonsense that children had yet to be spoilt
by.
But as for Asrani, they could follow the smoke from his
campsites as he travelled ever closer to the western settlements such as Moose,
Cowbridge and Lumprick Major. If they strained keen ears from the top of Shetty
Mountains or by the banks of the River Munkmunter they might catch the strains
of his penny whistle.
Some of animals with stronger nostrils would scent the air
in delight at the shimmering scents.
The Puppetmaster was coming.
However, as with everything in life, dear children, it did
not take long before there were ripples. And not the sort you get in ice cream,
neither.
These ripples came from a jealous looking tumbledown
sentinel shed situated in the backstreets of Llanthickthistle Minor, a scruddy
little settlement that no one had ever heard of, somewhere to the left of the Cumfyddin
Hillocks.
Now, this shed may have been nought much more than some
corrugated tin sheets and clapboard, but something was approaching very fast
indeed, with a clipboard in one claw and a smartphone in the other.
This bristling grasshopper, whose given name was Monty
Pridd stopped at the door and pounded on it, with a sharp rat-a-tat-tat.
“Password, please,” replied an unseen voice in a thick
accent.
“Password? it’s me,” snapped Monty Pridd, in an outraged
sort of tone. “It’s my bloody shed, Ethel.”
“If you don’t know the password, you can’t come in.”
“Well, there wasn’t one last week, was there? If you don’t
tell me it, how will I know it?”
The voice on the other side of the door relented a little.
“Oh, OK, it’s ‘Secret Seven Adventure’.
“Well, let me in then.”
“You didn’t say it yet.”
Monty Pridd, who had a tendency towards impatient rages
anyway, had had enough by this time. He hopped through one of the numerous
holes in the clapboard, poised himself and quivered indignantly. “Am I chairman
of the ‘National Viewers and Listeners’ or not?” he demanded in a querulous
voice, rubbing legs together in a way that sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
“Well, I can’t help it,” replied Ethel Tydfill, a grim
looking frog of no fixed hairstyle. “Mr Lupus demanded we increase our security
after that Chinese cyberattack last week.”
“Fair enough, look you, so he did, so he did,” Monty Pridd
replied, checking his phone for confirmation. “So, what’s on the agenda today?
And where’s Dafyd Wrecsam?”
Ethel Tydfill consulted her notes, “He’s off today with an
oily foot,” she replied.
Now, I should explain at this point that Dafyd, one of
those carpet crawling slimy things that live under stones for the most part,
was a notorious thug who often picked on creatures smaller than himself and
thought it was pretty cool to introduce 20 mile an hour speed limits in town
centres.
Or anywhere that would inconvenience people.
Today, however, he was absent, which caused Monty to muse,
thoughtfully: “So, we can’t rely on the Wrecsam Wrecker today, then. Shame.
Never mind, never mind…er… this…what’s his name?”
“Er...Asrani.” Ethel Tydfill replied, checking her records.
“Yes. Asrani. He’s had it coming from a long time,
wandering our green and pleasant lands willy-nilly. Well. We’ll show him whose
boss, won’t we?”
And with that, our brave, fearsome grasshopper and frog left
for the distant town of Panscruber.
Now, it just so happened, that half an hour before Monty
Pridd and Ethel Tydfill had set off, The Puppetmaster himself had arrived in
that aforementioned dim and distant town.
“People of Panscruber,” he had announced grandly, “It is I,
Ashrani, traveller from the East, former dweller of those hot and burning
lands, master storyteller of miracles and magic. Gather round, gather round.”
And he had tooted on his penny whistle, a gay and winsome tune.
As children of all ages, creeds, sizes and hues began to
settle on the straw in excitement, they beheld a thrilling sight indeed. A
large, intricately carved miniature theatre, the same shape and size as a
widescreen television set, but with a hole, covered by silken drapes.
Why, the whole kit and kaboodle had been gathered from
those things found discarded on his travels; shaped and fashioned into a
miracle, mystery box and, inside, Ashrani chuckled to himself, preparing his
puppets, imagining the awed faces of his audience waiting with impatience for
the show to begin.
A chant began at the back, swelled in noise and pushed its
way towards the puppet theatre: “Winky, Winky, Winky.”
Inside his little playhouse, Ashrani nodded to himself, put
a sharp brass needle on a shellac 78, wound-up the gramophone, watched the
plate spin and sang along to his signature tune. It was a cheerful ditty he had
composed himself - that went something like this:
‘Winky Woo, Winky Woo,
Winky Woo, Winky Woo,
Winky Woo, Winky Woo,
Winky Woo, Winky Woo,
Winky
Wooooooooooooooo…’
Very electronic and happening and somewhat full of eastern
promise and, oh, those small viewers were as wound up as the gramophone,
believe me, pinching each other, nudging, whispering and waiting, waiting for
the curtains to swish back.
And swish they did.
A cry arose from the audience: “It’s Winky! Winky the
Elephant!”
So it was. A magnificent stuffed beast, boasting the most
enormous trunk you ever did see, which he swished imperiously as, underneath,
Ashrani worked his magic clawfingers. Winky turned towards his many admirers.
“Hello, children!”
“Hello, Winky!” they chanted, in unison, “Winky? Winky
Woo!”
Winky seemed right pleased with that response, and let out
a mighty trumpet, tossing his magnificent trunk high above his head in delight.
Then he looked worried. “But wait. Have you seen my
assistant, Susie-Jo Gadfly? Oh, I suppose she’s lost again. Always goes
wandering off, whenever we visit a strange place, doesn’t she. I do hope she
isn’t in some sort of danger, like last week.”
Immediately, there was worried whispering amongst the
gathered children who were hissing in each other’s ears about danger, rescue
and escape. “What happened last week? Did you see it? Was it Winky’s arch
enemy…again?” That sort of thing.
Winky looked sternly at his audience. “If you do see her,
be sure to tell me, children.” And with those words he began to search amongst
the rocks and bushes. “Susie-Jo? Susie-Jo? Where are you? Be careful. There are
the most terrible dangers out there…”
And it looked, for all the world, as though it was to be
another exciting adventure for Winky.
But then, dear children, something extraordinary happened.
What was it, you ask? Well, let me tell you.
Winky was suddenly and abruptly pulled from sight. The
curtains swished shut, well beyond the scheduled end of the episode. And a card
was placed in front of the theatre that read: ‘We apologise for technical
difficulties. Please stand by.’
And the theatre began to rock, to and fro, as though an
earthquake was happening right underneath.
Well, not an earthquake exactly, that would be a lie.
What actually happened was that Ethel Tydfill and Monty
Pridd had arrived and had brought with them all the force of the law that they
could wield.
Ethel Tydfill has squeezed herself underneath the back
entrance of the theatre, whilst Monty Pridd, being a grasshopper of some
leaping ability, had simply hopped over the top.
Ashrani was cornered and looked somewhere in between
bewildered and irritated.
He was about to reach for a stout looking truncheon, when
Monty Pridd stopped him by waving a rather large looking book in front of him.
“No time for that now,” he chirruped and rubbed his legs together, making a
vile noise that caused Ashrani to clap his paws over his ears.
In the meantime, Ethel Tydfill had produced a large and
nasty looking pair of scissors which she waved in front of the leopard’s face.
“Where’s that wicked Winky?” she demanded, in a threatening tone.
Although he had been taken aback temporarily by the
invasion, Ashrani had recovered his wits by now. “And who the devil are you,
sir?” he inquired, looking none too pleased that his broadcast had been
cancelled, and poking Monty Pridd in the chest with his bony clawfinger.
“Unhand me, you devil,” Monty Pridd replied, defiantly, but
hopping onto the nearest grass stalk, nonetheless. “You, sir, are in violation
of the latest broadcasting regulations.”
“Indeed? And how do you come to that conclusion?”
Ethel Tydfill inched her unpleasant way across to Ashrani,
leaving something like slime in her wake. “This theatre has been deemed
seditious. Your glove puppets are not fully representative. And that is why
Winky’s trunk has to go.”
“Go? Go where?” Ashrani replied, perplexed.
Ethel held up her scissors. “Oh, I think you know.” she
croaked, malevolently.
“But whoever heard of an elephant without a trunk?”
“If you do not comply, we will have no option but to close
this theatre down, Mr Ashrani. Now pass that puppet over here.”
“I will do no such thing. I created Winky with my own hands
from those things you people had thrown away, tossed out like so much rubbish.”
However, Monty Pridd cleared his throat imperiously. “And
just how did you get to these shores in the first place, Mr Ashrani? Did you
wish me to telephone Mr Lupus at the Home Office?”
Ashrani shrugged. He passed Winky over to Ethel Tydfill.
And she, malicious light bouncing off her oily skin like blackfly, performed
the operation. With a mighty snip, Winky was detrunked. He now resembled
nothing so much as an oven glove.
Which, of course, dear reader, he now was.
Ashrani snatched Winky back and examined the puppet. “He
looks stupid now. The children will spot it a mile off.”
“Him?” replied Ethel, officiously. “You’d assume that
pronoun?”
Clicking his tongue, Ashrani glared at the two insects.
“Can I resume the performance?” he asked, coldly.
“Not so fast, not so fast.” Monty Pridd replied, passing
Ashrani some papers he had been carrying in his back pocket. “Here is your updated
script. It explains Winky’s lifestyle choices and introduces Winky’s brand new
assistants, Jackie Irnbrw and her partner Glenda Haggis.”
“Glenda Haggis?” snapped Ashrani. “Which third rate hack
wrote that?”
The grasshopper ignored him with a supercilious snort. “And
here are two new puppets that more properly fit our brave new world. The show must
go on, after all.”
“Must it, indeed?” replied Ashrani, aiming a boot in the
direction of the frog and propelling Ethel firmly in the direction of a nearby
pond, “Well, maybe so, Mr Prick…”
“It’s Pridd.”
“…but not here. And not now. But, yes. One day.”
Some time later, after Ashrani had packed his kitbag and
set off for some far distant shore, leaving the corrugated hills and valleys
behind forever, Ethel Tydfill was perched upon a stool in Mr Lupus’ study,
having brought her report on the Ashrani incident.
Mr Lupus himself (or maybe one of his sons, they all look
alike, don’t they?) was shaking a cocktail, which he poured into one of those
tiny thick glasses, that very stupid animals drink in quantity before slamming
them on tables and snorting pre-licked salt. He held the glass up to the light.
“Excellent. Irish frog.”
“That’s the crack, that’s the crack,” croaked Ethel. I have
no idea why she croaked that, dear children, but she did and in a way that
suggested she thought she was being rather witty.
“Shut up, frog,” snapped Lupus, in his most contemptuous and
vulpine way, raising his glass and staring darkly through it as though
contemplating which might taste better.
Dismissing whatever vile thoughts we can never be privy to,
he scanned the report, then tossed it aside. “National Viewers and Listeners,” he
muttered, for reasons unknown. “Hah.” And then he, once more, fixed Ethel
Tydfill with his steely gaze. “And the children? What about the children? Did
they…protest?”
“Not after we gave them the repurposed Lupufone smartphones,
Mr Lupus.”
“Satisfactory, I suppose. We will recoup the loss with a
universal 10% increase of tuition fees.”
Ethel hopped up and down in a way that would have made
Monty Pridd proud, had he been there. “Genius, Mr Lupus. It is such a pleasure
to work for a mastermind such as yours.”
Lupus snorted. “It did not play out in the way I hoped. You
and that Grasshopper messed it up.”
“Messed it up? How?”
“How? That wretched leopard escaped.”
Somehow, but she knew not how, Ethel Tydfill felt somewhat cautioned.
As she left the study and hopped down the street, she could feel eyes like
sharpened knives at her back. She shivered…and then stopped.
Just to the left, in her peripheral vision, she could see a
light.
It was only small, a glimmer, like a torch underneath
bedclothes or a candle-lantern swinging from the ceiling of the smallest cave
that abutted an ancient beach, glinting like a pirates’ treasure map or X marks
the spot perhaps.
It drew her. She was the moth she had eaten for breakfast
this morning.
And so, she approached, ever-so-slowly, hop on hop.
What she saw, astonished and shook her to the very core.
Underneath the light was a young cat and in front of him a
small audience of six or seven kittens. The cat had, upon his paw, something…was
it? No, surely, it could not be.
“And now,” the cat was saying, dramatically, “The brand-new
adventures of Mr Winky the Elephant.”
And there was a cheer from the assembled audience.
“Yes,” the cat continued. “Mr Winky rides again!”
