Not At All in a Good Cause
“Help! Help!”
A high pitched and shouty
voice sang like an emergency phone across otherwise calm streets. Not quite a
scream…but it was getting there. And beneath? Two frantic, bicycling, dangling
legs and a collapsed ladder.
“Mayday! Mayday!”
Mayday?
Well, of course. Spring
had sprung in Purridgeton, deep in the green acres of Devon, England, which
means, as you know, weather that can change from this to that and back again,
although some will insist to you that Spring days are always balmy.
Balmy? No, not that.
You know, balmy: mild,
warm, clement. That’s what they’d tell you. However, be warned – there are
unreliable storytellers who tell massive fibs and make-things-up.
Still, you can believe me
when I say that today was, as it happens, quite warm.
It was also the morning of
a school day, possibly Thursday, but I can’t be sure - so the town centre was
quite still. No children rollicking around, they were all safely locked up in
their classrooms, 35 at a time, suffering miserably while teachers put their
feet up, ate doughnuts and did the crossword crossly. Elsewhere, there was a
delivery truck here, a post van there and, of course (it being early), heaps of
ladders and hoses; council workers soaping down the glass frontages of shops,
prior to the arrival of the day’s shoppers.
“Mayday! Oh, I say,
Mayday!”
Do you know? I think the
voice had a slight edge of panic now.
“Mayday! This pole won’t
stay still!”
Another sound was becoming
more distinct, over and above the slooshing of water, the brushes and the
rubbing of cloths. The sound of a squeaky wheel.
‘Squeak.’ ‘Squeak.’ Ever
increasing in volume, it approached the dangling legs and crumpled aluminium
step ladder below them.
The shrill noise belonged
to a motorised wheelchair. It was on the small side, a bit battered, but two
customised stickers brightened up its panels, proudly proclaiming
‘MobilityShopWagon!’ A pennant fluttered gaily from two handles sticking up
from the back of the chair in maroon and white and the words ‘Willie Wheels’
were stencilled diagonally across the flapping flag as the chair sped on its
way.
Its occupant now manoeuvred
his transport beneath the flailing limbs. He rubbed his eyes and looked up - as
you do, when you see two legs flapping above you on a warm spring day. “Hey up
there! What’s the problem?”
“Willie!” called a voice,
familiar to the driver. “Is that you, Willie Wheels?”
“Grandad Patches? Now, how
the dash-dangly-doo did you get up there?”
“Po,
po, po, po, never mind that, Willie, never mind that, just get me down, will
you? I don’t think I can hold on to this barber’s pole much longer. It’s
slippery and the blighter keeps twisting around. See if you can reach the step
ladder.”
“Revolving, is it?”
“Yes. Well, you know, I
said I wanted a revolution, but this wasn’t what I had in mind…”
“Hang on, Patches. I’ll be
up there in a jiffy.”
Willie could see the
ladder doing the splits in front of his chair, however one problem remained.
“Er…Grandad Patches? There’s a pork chop of a difficulty, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Well…er…I’m stuck in this
wheelchair, isn’t it? How can I get the ladder back up?”
“I see. That is a poser.”
“Look, Patches, just let
go of the pole and I’ll catch you.”
“Catch me? I’m ten feet
up. However will you be able to catch me?”
“Don’t worry, Patches,
these deluxe MobilityShopWagons are fitted with extendable mandible safety
nets. I just press this button and it forms a strong canopy overhead; big
enough to see you securely down.”
From somewhere above,
Grandad Patches sounded relieved. “Do they? I say. The marvels of modern
technology. Let me know when it’s safe to drop, then!”
Willie Wheels fiddled with
a couple of buttons on his control panel. “Now!” he yelled.
But even if he hadn’t,
Grandad Patches was plummeting anyway, holding half a barber’s pole in his hand
and, with a shriek of pain, he smashed straight into the wheelchair,
accompanied by grisly sounds of splitting wood and twisting metals.
Willie Wheels expended a
quite ghastly scream, too: “Aye-yah! That hurt!”
Brushing himself down,
Grandad Patches extracted the maroon pennant from his boot and stood up.
“Sorry, Willie. Is this yours?”
“Yes it is. I say, you’ve
snapped it off, Grandad Patches. How will I be able to tell which way the wind
is blowing now?”
“Wind?”
“Of course, wind. Knowing
wind resistance factors can be vital when you’re in a supermarket trolley dash.”
“I see. Well, why don’t
you hold it as a temporary measure and we’ll see if I can repair it later?”
Willie didn’t look completely
convinced, but before he had time to reply, both detected an oncoming commotion
from the top of the street; it was that sixth sense that only Grandads possess,
a feeling of impending armageddon.
Willie was already
shifting the gear stick into ‘drive’. “Is that P.C. Muff over there?” he
muttered, anxiously, looking at the debris that surrounded his chair.
“It could be. Indeed, yes.
Po, po, po. Shall we…er...go for coffee?”
“That might be best,”
agreed Willie. “Let’s scarper.” And he was off like a whippet after a rabbit.
**********
Once safely inside a
coffee shop, one of those American ones, Willie eyed the coffees that Grandad
Patches had brought over and placed on the table in front of them before easing
his sore back into the armchair.
Both kept glancing at the
door. Willie had, in the meantime, secreted the half-a-barber-pole underneath
the table. He took the mug and tasted the contents cautiously. “Urgh!” he
screeched, squirting the hot mouthful all over the table. “Are you trying to
poison as well as maim me, Patches?”
“No, indeed.” Patches
tasted his own coffee. “You’re right, this is as vile as a cobbler’s tongue,”
he agreed. And do you know what? He spat his back into the mug. Which you must
never, ever do, because it isn’t polite.
“It doesn’t taste like
coffee to me. Not even close.”
“No; shortages again. This
is extract of boiled broccoli with sprout flakes.”
“What are the lumpy bits?”
“I think they’re
croutons.”
“Whoa! You’re not supposed
to call them that anymore, Patches. French word.”
“Well, what do I call them,
then?”
Willie Wheels frowned and
looked into the murky depths of his mug, while an elderly male waiter with a
walking stick mopped up the spitterage all over his table. “What are these?” he
asked him, in a rude tone.
“Crumbly Tossy-Toasts.”
“What a stupid name.” He glanced
at the lampshade in the corner of the shop. “If we can’t call them croutons,
then how about crunchtons or something?”
The waiter glowered, squeezing
his cloth into a slop bucket. “Sorry, Willie, government policy.”
Grandad Patches wasn’t listening
anyway; instead he was rubbing his extremely sore back, knees and ankles. “Po, po, po,” he said, finally, “what happened to your
extendable mandible net anyway, Willie?”
“I don’t know.” admitted
Willie, “I pushed the right buttons and everything. It just didn’t extend like
the man said it would.”
“Which man?”
“The man who sold the
chair to me. I didn’t like him. As villainous as tinned corned beef for
Wednesday tea time.”
“Goodness me. What did he
look like?”
“I can’t remember now. Er…an
eye patch, dark glasses, a pork pie hat and a mask over his mouth. The sort
that surgeons wear. He was on the street corner. Selling magazines.”
“I see. Did he carry a bag
with ‘swag’ written on it?”
“No, but those magazines were
for homeless war veterans. You know. ‘The Large Question.”
“‘The Large Question’, eh?
Well, I’d say he owes us an apology. Was he standing or sitting in the chair?”
“Standing, Patches. He was
using the chair to transport his huge pile of unsold magazines.”
As Grandad Patches rubbed
his bristling chin (which he does when pondering a big issue), his thoughts
were rudely interrupted by some overloud noises off. “Pon my soul, what is that
racket?”
From a darkened corner of
the coffee shop, a mobile phone was screeching like chickens cornered by a fox.
Now both Willie and Grandad could see a shady looking elderly gentleman,
wearing a hat, hunched over a battered laptop stabbing keys eagerly with his
stubby fingers. Beside him was a huge stack of tatty magazines.
Willie Wheels trembled and
pointed a shaking finger in his direction.
“Is that him?” asked
Grandad Patches, in a most grave tone.
“No. Definitely not him.”
Oblivious to the fact he
was being pointed at, the man, who was wearing headphones with one of those
microphone attachments pressed against his thin, wrinkly lips, was shouting
very loudly into cyberspace, almost as though he was deaf. “Yes! Yes!” he kept
screaming, “I’ll talk to my Totterton connection. Connection! Totterton! I have
enough units. Send your attaché down here.”
Grandad Patches was not
usually one to get grumpy, as you know, but he did object to having his broccoli
coffee spoiled by what he reasoned was sound pollution and not at all
environmentally friendly. He glanced at Willie Wheels, who seemed similarly
irritated. “What a rude fellow. Leave this to me.” He got up and limped over in
a purposeful way.
Upon reaching the noise,
he snapped the laptop shut – without even asking for permission. “That’s enough
of that,” he said, firmly, “when I ran coffee shops, back in the sixties, they
were places for quiet debate and discussion.”
The snap-topped laptop man
protested. “What about my connection in Totterton?”
“Snotterton?” You can talk
to Snotterton when you back to the office,” replied Grandad Patches.
“Snotterton will still be there. Now leave us to…er…enjoy our coffee in peace.”
The laptop owner scratched
his head, “Well, you see, that’s the problem. I don’t actually have an office.
It was taken off me by the council. It was vital, they said. Something
hush-hush. Need to know and none of us needed to.”
“Us? Who do you mean? The
Snottertons?”
“No… office workers. We sell
whatever the country needs. I’m the leading supplier of extendable dustpan and
brush combination sets. Top notch quality.” He gestured at a pile of crumbling
plastic items behind his table. “Now we’ve been told to hunker down in coffee
shops and make free with their wifi. Our offices have been snatched.”
“Hunker down by office
snatchers? Po, po, po, po. I think you’d
better join me and Willie Wheels. I detect the cruel hand of bureaucratic
botherers at work here.”
Nodding solemnly, and abandoning
his clutter, the laptop man followed Grandad Patches across the coffee shop.
As they approached, Willie
looked up from his mug, which he had, in the meantime, been poking miserably
with one of those cheap wooden stirring twigs that pass for spoons these days.
“Did you tell that rude fellow to shut up?” he demanded, upon seeing them
approach.
“I’ve asked him to join
us, Willie Wheels. It turns out there’s more to this than meets the eye. Much
more.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. What’s your
name, good fellow?”
“That’s right.”
“Sorry?”
“Goodfellow. That’s my
name.”
“Pom, pom, tiddly pom,
well that is a coincidence,” gasped Grandad Patches. “Hear that, Willie Wheels?
I knew his name without even being told it! Paranormal, that’s what it is. It
doesn’t come as a complete surprise, though. Back in the sixties, when I used
to work as a medium for the recently bereaved in Tarminster, I once possessed
an enchanted tarpaulin which….I say, what are you doing?”
Willie Wheels wasn’t
listening; instead he has jabbing Mr Goodfellow with the broken barber’s pole.
“I’ve cornered him, Patches. In case he cuts up rough. Leave it to me.”
“Cuts up rough? Goodness
gracious, he’s well over 70 years old. Put that down, Willie Wheels, in case you
draw attention to us. Mr Goodfellow, can we get you a coffee?”
“No, thank you, Grandad
Patches, the coffee here is foul. I’ll take a Thai chicken soup.”
While Grandad Patches
placed the order and watched the elderly waiter stir some gravy granules into a
mug of hot water, Mr Goodfellow was admiring Willie’s wheelchair with an expert
eye. “I say, that’s a beauty.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, quite magnificent.
Clearly a mark 1; not one of those flashy mark 2 jobs. I must say, I haven’t
seen one of these in working order for quite some time, don’t you know?”
“Well it doesn’t work that
well,” grumbled Willie Wheels, “its extendable mandible safety net is broken.
That’s why Grandad Patches is limping around this horrible coffee shop avoiding
P.C. Muff.”
As Grandad Patches returned
with a steaming mug of instant gravy, Mr Goodfellow was snorting in a most
amused fashion. “Safety net? These don’t come with safety nets, Willie. Whoever
heard of a wheelchair with safety nets?”
Scowling, Willie Wheels
retorted somewhat rudely, I’m afraid. “Well, of course they do, stupid. The man
who sold it to me said it used to belong to a circus trapeze artist, didn’t it?
In any case, what are these buttons supposed to be for? Tell me that, then!”
“Those buttons?” Mr
Goodfellow examined them with an expert eye.
“I think they’re just decorative. Probably included for pressing in
times of boredom. When you are waiting for a bus, perhaps. Haven’t you ever
felt like pressing them in the coach station?”
“No I haven’t,” lied
Willie Wheels, remembering times when he had done just that, lights had flashed
and they’d played a twinkly tune.
“Never mind, never mind,” grunted
Grandad Patches, “We’ll catch the blaggard responsible later, see if we don’t.
In the meantime, we have a campaign to mount. We want our coffee shops back and
you want your offices. Back in the sixties, when I was group coordinator for
‘plant a tree in 73’ we would audit all our resources before engaging in
battle. It was terrific fun. Now, cards on the table – what assets do we have
between us?”
Eagerly, the three men
began speaking: “Er…a broken barber’s pole…a huge stack of ‘The Large
Question’….a pile of plastic dustpans and brushes that extend…a motorised wheel
chair that doesn’t…”
Beaming, Grandad Patches
finished scribbling his list. “Excellent! Now what do they have?”
“Ah…the army…tear
gas…batons…riot shields…megaphones, electric and manual…surveillance…MI5 and
6…Special Branch…Police Constable Muff…”
Crestfallen, the three
elderly men stared gloomily at their three mugs. Do you know what? They just
left the shop. They didn’t even drink what remained of their beverages. Which
was quite a lot, actually.
**********
Well now, it was a few
hours later at number 36 Lumpslap Close and I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know
that schools had eagerly booted out their students onto the streets. Across the
town, the teachers had backslapped each other at crossing the line with the
minimum of fuss and were comparing answers to crosswords and suduko puzzles
over cups of government coffee with real milk powder.
As the heavy, scented
aroma of mung bean stew poured out of the kitchen, the door to the house was
flung open. First in was Patience, closely followed by Faith. Morgan slouched
in behind them, slinging his bag on the floor and, without removing his boots,
stomped up the stairs to his bedroom.
“Grandad! Grandad!” Faith’s
shrill voice called happily throughout the small house. “Grandad? Where are
you?”
Stumping in from the garden
where he’d been tending bamboo canes, Grandad Patches beamed proudly at Faith
(who was his favourite, even though you must never tell) and ruffled her hair.
“Here I am, my dear. How was your day at school?”
“It was brilliant! We had
‘Cleaning for Victory’ day.”
“Po,
po, po. Did you? What was that about, Faith, my dear?”
“Mrs Gridney gave us all
Victory cloths and Victory buckets. It was great! We had to count how many
classroom floor tiles we could clean for our Maths challenge.”
“My, my, that does sound
exciting. Much more exciting than when I was at school back in the sixties. Do
you know…”
“Yes, Grandad. Then we had
door knob orienteering. I was in the ‘door knob south’ team. We nearly won.”
“Goodness me. Door knob
orienteering, eh? Pom, pom, pom. What was the prize?”
“I don’t know, Grandad.
Mrs Gridney said we could all polish door knobs east tomorrow, though. How long
is it till tea? I’m starving.”
Grandad Patches began to
answer but he was interrupted by the most blood curdling scream from upstairs. Patience,
Faith and Grandad scuttled to the foot of the stairs (which didn’t take long)
and stared upwards anxiously. It was Patience who spoke first. “Morgan? What’s
wrong? Is everything OK?”
“That old fart has tidied
my bedroom again! And why is there a broken barber’s pole shoved under my bed?”
Grimly, Patience looked at
Grandad Patches squarely and levelly. “Did you? Did you tidy his bedroom?”
“What’s an old fart,
Grandad?”
“Po,
po, po, Faith, pon my soul, I’m not sure what he can mean. It sounds like
something Grandad Biggert would say.”
When she put her hands on
her hips, Patience looked quite threatening, a bit like Ma after a tough day at
the factory. “Now, both Ma and I have told you not to clean Morgan’s room,
Grandad. You know he likes his privacy.”
“But I thought it was
‘Cleaning for Victory’ day,” mumbled Grandad.
“It was, Grandad!” laughed
Faith.
“I think the hoover is
blocked. I’ll need to get in there with one of those excellent extendable
dustpan and brush combination sets.”
Before there could be any
further argument or dissent, the door knocker spoke a rat-a-tat and Grandad
Patches gratefully answered it. He swung open the door to be greeted by Willie
Wheels and Mr Goodfellow.
“Evening, Grandad
Patches.” Willie was first to speak. “I say. Manoeuvring my wagon up your crazy
paving was a mixed grill of a task. Are we in time for tea?”
“Yes, you are,” said
Grandad, ignoring the groaning and stage whispers behind him, “I’ve just set
the table.”
“Good. Is it mixed grill?”
“Indeed, no, Willie
Wheels, mixed meats are difficult to come by these days and, even if they were
not, this household is vegan. Why, back in the sixties, I co-founded ‘vegetable
lovers’ with my friend and mentor…”
Morgan snorted. “Vegan? If
Ma was cooking, he’d be tucking into sausage, same as the rest of us.”
“No, I wouldn’t, I never
touch my sausage.”
Patience had heard enough
of Morgan’s rudeness. “Go and sit at the table,” she snapped, “and stop
giggling, Faith. Honestly, I sometimes wonder what this family is coming to.”
Negotiating their way carefully
through the house, Grandad’s guests and the rest of the family carefully sat
down – well, you know, there were the usual polite comments about where would
be best to sit and what lovely paper napkins – but, by the time Grandad had smuggled
the pot of stew to the table, all were in attendance.
As it was ladled into
bowls, along with hunks of gritty brown bread, Willie Wheels spoke first. “I
say, that smells lovely, Grandad Patches.”
“No, it smells like puke,”
Morgan corrected him, “why can’t we have a proper tea?”
“Po,
po, po, when I was your age, all we had were jam sandwiches and ginger cake.”
“Oh, jam sandwiches,
that’d be a dream come true. I love jam sandwiches…ouch!”
Patience had kicked him
under the table. Before there was any more awkwardness, Mr Goodfellow, in
between the rapid spooning of stew to mouth, waved a piece of paper at his
fellow diners. “Look, Grandad Patches. I found this on your doormat. You’ve won
the lottery…you lucky fellow.”
Faith flung her spoon stew-wards
in excitement, splashing both Morgan and Patience. “Grandad! We’ve won the
lottery, we’ve won!”
“Well, goodness me, have
we, my dear? Well, what a stroke of fortune.”
“I say, Patches, that’s a
huge, wobbly chicken liver pate portion of good luck, that is! Think what all
that dosh could do for our campaign!”
Morgan and Patience were
not sharing the glee spreading across the table. “That makes the fourth time
this week,” grunted Morgan, “let me see that.” He snatched the ticket from Mr
Goodfellow. “Thought so. I’ll put it with the others, shall I?”
“That’d be best,” agreed
Patience. “Stop jumping up and down, Faith. I’ve explained it to you three
times already.”
“Not to me, you haven’t”
grumbled Willie Wheels, “what seems to be the problem? Grandad Patches and I
need those winnings if we are to mount a full frontal assault against the
pitiless forces of uncaring bureaucracy.”
Sniggering, Morgan waved
the ticket at Willie. “Look at the prizes,” he smirked. “Number one is a ten
week lawn mowing course supervised by Grandad Biggert.”
“You mean to say this is a
fraudulent ticket?”
“Of course. Grandad
Biggert makes them while we’re at school. Only an idiot would fall for it.”
His face reddening,
Grandad Patches coughed loudly. “Well, I only spent two weeks cleaning his
kitchen.”
Willie patted his friend
on the back. “It’s a pretty decent mock up, though. Anyone might have done the
same.”
“No it isn’t. He’s used
tracing paper and crayons.”
Patience sighed then
looked at Grandad Patches who squirmed a little uncomfortably in his seat.
“Does Ma know about this, Grandad?”
“What?”
“Your plan to attack
council offices?”
“Attack? Dear me no,
child, we’re not going to attack. Not by any measure. No, no, no. We’re going
to march with placards, waving our bunches of wild flowers, singing protest
songs. Then we’ll stage a sit in until Mr Goodfellow and his chums get their
offices back.”
Looking at the three elderly
men nodding vigorously around the table, I think Patience might have felt a
little sympathy when Morgan sniggered. “All three of you? There will be some
knocking of terrified council knees when they learn of your plans, Grandad.” He
stressed the word ‘will’ to show he was being terribly sarcastic, too.
“Yes!” agreed Willie,
“especially when we implement stage two. Ha-ha! They’ll have to take us
seriously then, won’t they, Grandad Patches?”
“Shut up, Willie! Don’t
mention stage two,” hissed Mr Goodfellow, “we agreed never to speak of it.”
“Stage two?” Patience’s
voice was like a judge’s gavel. Even Morgan’s grin lost some sparkle. As
Grandad made to clear away some of the finished plates, her voice cracked like
a whip, “Grandad. Stay where you are. What is stage two?”
“Po, pom, tiddly, po,”
spluttered Grandad Patches, “nothing much, my dear, nothing whatsoever to
concern you…we thought we might erect a gigantic tent to accommodate our poor,
downtrodden and displaced workforce on the grass outside the council building,
just until they return our offices. What’s the problem with that?”
I’m afraid to report that
Morgan had started to howl with laughter at Grandad’s words and was pointing a
shaking finger at the three men who were visibly starting to deflate. “Gigantic
tent?” he shrieked, “where do you hope to get one of those?”
“I’ll phone my friend,
Robert Brothers. He has one to put his circus in. It’s the off-season for
circuses. Probably.”
But Patience had heard
enough. “Stop laughing, Morgan; get in the kitchen and sort the dishes. Faith,
do your homework and you three…” she pointed, with her finger, “sit over there so
I can I talk some sense into you. Gigantic tent indeed.”
“You have a nagging tongue
like your mother. We will do no such thing.” Grandad Patches blustered, without
much confidence. “To think that I nursed two such vipers to my bosom. Why,
during the sixties, when I worked at ‘MacFisheries Nurseries’ as a ward supervisor,
I was often pressed into service to nurture halibut…”
Willie Wheels coughed, “I
say, Patches. Shall we make a dash for it? If we all pile onto my wagon, I can
use the ‘turbo-power’ button to get us safely away until she’s simmered down.”
“Po,
po, po, turbo power button, eh? Does it work?”
“I can’t be sure. The man
who sold the wagon to me said it was only to be pressed in emergencies.”
“Oh, him again. Let’s not
gamble, Willie Wheels. I say, what’s that frightful noise?”
A terrible, amplified howl
was booming in through the front windows. It really was quite fearsome, I
promise you, loud but at the same time quite spooky. Temporarily abandoning any
thoughts of talking sternly to Grandad Patches, Patience ran to the front door,
closely followed by Mr Goodfellow and Grandad himself. What they saw there
quite made them start with shock.
“Patches! You feeble,
has-been, mung bean muncher! Patches, I say! Yes, you there!”
Poking above the tall,
green hedge between numbers 36 and 34 was a periscope and a large, tin
loudhailer. Both were wobbling rather unsteadily as though whoever owned them
was having difficulty juggling both at the same time, but persevering
nevertheless. “Patches. I know you can hear me. You have won the lottery. It’s
you,” the voice continued, “send the lucky winner round here this instance.”
“No!” retorted Grandad
Patches, “we’re not falling for your villainous chicanery ever again. Cut your
own grass.”
“Cut my own grass? Send
someone over or I’ll be round to slap you with my newspaper.”
“No. I will not spend even
one more minute cultivating your malignant idleness. Why, back in the sixties…”
“Shut up, Patches! Idle?
How dare you? I’ve been out all day doing charity work, raising money for the
homeless. Now send the small one round or it will be the worse for you, believe
me.”
Willie Wheel’s face poked
nervously from behind the front door. “Grandad Patches,” he called in a reedy
voice, “I could hurl the mung bean stew pot over the hedge. That’d take the
wind out his sails.”
The loudhailer swivelled
unerringly towards the direction of Willie’s voice. “Yes!” it boomed, “throw
the stew over the hedge. I’m hungry.”
But before any such thing
could occur – fortunately, you might think - Patience intervened. “You say you
want to help office workers? Well, Grandad Biggert has just given me an
excellent idea.”
“I have?” boomed the
loudhailer, “darn and blast!”
“You have,” repeated
Patience, firmly. “No more of this marching nonsense – the three of you can
organise a charity event. Now what could possibly go wrong with that?”
**********
On the far side of
Purridgeton, on those occasional days when the sun agrees to shine kindly, the
sapphire skies above the river look rather lovely. You’ll know that it gently
twists and tangles its way around the edges of some splendid green wooded parkland
and, in those far away better off days, the council had decided that this land
should be given over for families to have picnics, play football and fly kites.
Thoughtfully they had provided benches, a few huts, some toilets for those
caught short and a rather grand bandstand – which was seldom used these days. On
a Saturday afternoon such as this, families would take the air, walk dogs and
generally relax after their stressful week.
Not today, however. Today
three elderly figures owned the bandstand.
The first was busy with a
microphone linked by old fashioned wiring to a ring of loudspeakers that had
been pressed into service.
The second was sitting in
his electric wagon, before a trestle table which had a huge pile of magazines
on it.
The third was proudly strutting
amongst a selection of plastic cleaning implements. Even now he was extending
and folding a cheaply made dustpan and brush combination set.
And I’m sure you don’t
need me to tell you just who these three men were, do you? You’ll have deduced
by now.
And in front of them? Sitting
on a large and possibly magical tarpaulin (well, that’s what was written on it)
were quite a few elderly gentlemen, some children and one or two bored looking
mothers. On the outskirts of the cloth, a few other interested parties were
sauntering nonchalantly.
“Bums on seats! Bums on
seats!” Grandad Patches was shouting, as we join him towards the climax of his
charity show. Well honestly, you didn’t miss much, I promise. Highlights
included Mrs Gruppler attempting some plate spinning, Mrs Dander’s dog in a
pork chop eating race, the Leroy Williams Beatbox Combo performing Beethoven’s
Fifth for paper and comb…and all in the name of charity to a smattering of
polite applause and some heckling from Grandad Biggert, who’d decided to turn
up for his own reasons.
And I don’t think we
should examine those too closely, should we?
“There aren’t any seats,
you foul smelling broccoli boiler!” he was screaming, from somewhere at the
back.
Grandad Patches scowled
from his platform. “We know who you are!”
“Don’t sink to his level,
ignore him,” muttered Willie Wheels, “he’s just jealous he didn’t come up with
the plan.”
“No, I’m not,” shouted
Grandad Biggert, “if I’d wanted too, I could have hosted a much bigger event
than this. Pah. Call this a charity gala? I raised more money than you standing
on street corners, anyway.”
Wisely heeding Willie’s
advice, Grandad Patches puffed out his chest like a mighty bullfrog ready to
make what he hoped would be a climactic croak. “Bums on seats!” Placing his
hand over the microphone, he turned conspiratorially to his two comrades. “Po, po, po. This will raise enough money for the cause.”
Willie Wheels prodded
Grandad Patches with the half-a-barber’s-pole from where he was seated and
smirked in a way that was not entirely pleasant. “Yes, Grandad Patches. I’d say
you’ve outfoxed them all this time - like a fox strips a hen house of hens.”
“I do wish you wouldn’t
say things like that, Willie,” muttered Grandad Patches, turning back to those
seated in front of him, preparing another puff of the chest.
“Excuse me,” interrupted
Mr Goodfellow, “may I take the microphone? I have an important announcement to
make to the multitude before we proceed.”
“It’s more like a
minitude,” scoffed Morgan, who had reluctantly agreed to help carry heavier
items and, unknown to Grandad Patches, been instructed to keep an eye on things
by Patience. Still, he snatched the microphone anyway and passed it across.
“Ladies and gentlemen.
Ladies and gentlemen. I must draw your attention to these fine, high quality
extendable dustpan and brush combination sets, retailing at a low, low, price
and available from me to you directly after the final…event. Don’t be shy, buy
and try. I’ll now pass you back to our host…a warm hand for your own, your very
own…Grandad Patches!”
Grandad Patches glowered
at both Morgan and Mr Goodfellow before snatching the microphone back. “Po, po, po…this is not a commercial venture, Mr
Goodfellow.”
“All proceeds to the fund,
dear boy, all proceeds to the fund.”
“Thank you, Mr
Goodfellow,” boomed Grandad Patches, across the park, “we come now to the
highlight of our afternoon. Magazine bingo! In order to play this exciting
game, please proceed to Willie Wheel’s table and purchase your copy of ‘The
Large Question’.
In next to no time, those
previously seated on the tarpaulin were pushing forwards and squabbling amongst
themselves around Willie Wheels’ trestle table. “That’s right,” he was
gabbling, passing out magazines hand over fist and snatching notes, “five
pounds only. Not only the chance of today’s star prize, you can keep the
magazine to read later…all in a good cause…chock full of interesting articles
and tasty titbits…don’t be shy, win and buy…” And when the purchasing throng
became over feisty, he prodded them away with the barber’s pole.
“Give me that,” snapped
Grandad Biggert, snatching the pole and swiping Willie around his head with a
rolled up ‘Large Question’ which he’d grabbed in something of a suspicious
flurry, “If there’s any prodding to be done, I’ll do it.”
“Give it back!”
“I most certainly will
not.” Grandad Biggert was off and away, chuckling, with the pole, a magazine
and a pen. And I didn’t like his conquering look either, did you?
As soon as the crowd had
retired back to the tarpaulin, Grandad Patches looked serious. “Let’s begin!”
he announced importantly, “the game is very simple. All you have to do is guess
which of the interesting articles from ‘The Large Question’ I’m reading and
shout out the page number.”
Placing the microphone
down, Grandad Patches closed his eyes and flipped open his copy of the magazine.
When he opened them he quickly read the headline at the top of the page and the
page number. ‘Winter Warmer Library Visiting Hours’, he read, in his head,
‘page 43’. “Po, po, po,” he declared, “who’d
like to guess?”
Immediately, the restless crowd
started shouting in a terribly unruly manner.
“’My Friend Cocoa’, page
27!”
“’Timmy’s Week in a Bird
Cage’, page 53!”
“’Down and Out in Norwich’, page 72!”
As Willie Wheels trundled
amongst the gathered, shaking his head and Grandad Patches called out, “No…not
correct…dear me, I’m afraid that’s quite wrong,” there was a triumphant holler
from the very, very back.
“Page 43,” a familiar
voice called, “some rubbish about keeping warm in libraries by mislaying your
Thomas Hardy book.”
“That’s correct,”
announced Grandad Patches, “we have a winner.”
“Give me the prize, then,
you beetroot pickler.”
Grandad Patches stiffened
and the hairs on the nape of his neck prickled.
“It’s Grandad Biggert,” Morgan
remarked, unnecessarily, “If the crowd find out, they’ll suspect that you
cheated, in order to share the winnings.”
“Where’s my prize? I want
my fiver!” yelled Grandad Biggert, rushing the bandstand.
Horribly, whispers started
to circulate – from one to the next, to the next…ugly words, nasty rumours.
Willie Wheels zapped over to the bandstand, as quickly as his wagon would
permit. “You’d better do something, Grandad Patches. They think there’s been
some sort of…cheating.”
“Cheating? Po, po, po, how can anybody cheat?” Grandad Patches waved
his arms above his head. “Ladies, gentlemen…please remain seated while we have
a steward’s enquiry.”
But there was no time for
that. Grandad Biggert was hobbling at high speed towards the trestle table,
like a runaway wheelbarrow, using the barber’s pole to clear away any of the
angry crowd who dared get in his way.
And, in any case, people
were massing like threatening thunder clouds, and some of them were even
tearing their magazines up and chucking handfuls of pages at Willie Wheels,
Grandad and Mr Goodfellow. It was all a bit of a mess, I’m afraid.
“Po,
po, po, don’t do that, wait, steward’s enquiry underway…”
“Don’t worry, Grandad
Patches,” squawked Willie, “I can use Mr Goodfellow’s extendable dustpan and
brush combination sets to fend them off.”
“Ha, ha!” yelled Grandad
Biggert, triumphantly snatching a fistful of coins from the table and swotting
Grandad Patches with a magazine. He waved the pole as if it were some magic
wand or other at the rumbling people in front of him, “I’ll have these, thank
you very much. What’s more, I couldn’t care less if you get your offices back
or not, you pallid poltroons. Take that!” And he took the nearest copy of ‘The
Large Question’ he could find and tore it into smithereens.
“You cheated.”
“Prove it.” Grandad
Biggert smirked from the bandstand as the hostile crowd continued tearing
magazines and began chanting ominously, pointing accusingly at our three
heroes.
“Wait, wait,” shouted
Morgan, “I think I can!”
“Can what?” snorted
Grandad Biggert, still enjoying his moment of victory.
“Prove you cheated, of
course, you old duffer. These pages…” and Grandad Biggert’s smile began to
slip, ever so slightly as he started to edge away from the bandstand, step by
step…”these pages are glued together! Glued so they would open at page 43. Look
everyone…” Morgan waved the magazine Grandad Patches had used for the bingo at
the crowd.
There was a gasp of
astonishment. Fingers were now pointing at Grandad Biggert.
“The villain must have
switched copies when he snatched the pole.” said Willie Wheels, angrily.
“You cheating cheater,”
cried Grandad Patches, “you… swindling swine. Give me those coins back!”
“Never!” Grandad Biggert
grasped the barber’s pole firmly, as if he meant to vault over the gathered
crowd, but did no such thing. Instead he darted to the nearest hut and slammed
the door with a menacing chuckle. “Heh, heh, heh.”
Grandad Patches scratched
his head. “Po, po, tiddly tum. Now why did he
go in there? There’s no way out. Let’s go and have a look, shall we?”
Beckoning the crowd with
his finger, Grandad Patches tiptoed over, until he was by the door. He tapped
on it. “Come out, Grandad Biggert,” he called, “We know you’re in there.” But
there was no answer. Pursing his lips, he turned to the people behind him.
“Does anybody want to look?” he asked. Not that he was scared to open it
himself, you understand, but even so.
Finally one of the mothers
pushed forwards. “Oh, get out of the way,” she muttered, “honestly, you men.
Grandad Biggert? I’m opening the door. Don’t you dare try anything.” She flexed
her muscles and pushed it open. She looked inside and gasped. “He’s not in
there.”
“Not in there? How can he
not be there?”
But the mother only
frowned then nodded in confusion. “He’s gone. The only person here is a gloomy
looking, feeble war veteran.”
Sure enough, an elderly
man, limping slightly and coughing from ill health, exited the hut. He was a
sad and pathetic sight to see. A pork pie hat covered what remained of his
greying hair. He wore dark glasses over an eye patch and a surgeon’s mask
concealed his nose and mouth. He was supporting his frail body with a walking
cane that might have resembled half a barber’s pole. “’Large Question’!” he was
shouting, “’Large Question’!”
Willie Wheels gasped in
surprise. “I don’t believe it. That’s him, Grandad Patches. The man that sold
me my wagon and lied about the extendable mandible safety net.”
“Is it, indeed?” said
Morgan, grinning. “Well, I think I can solve this mystery for you.” He strode
over to the frail man.
“Back, back, young fellow,”
croaked the veteran, “if you touch me you might catch my terrible diseases.”
But Morgan did no such
thing. Instead, with a flourish, he seized the hat, glasses, mask and eye patch
with one hand and whipped them off.
“Grandad Biggert!” All
moved towards him as one and even Mrs Dander’s dog looked up from his pork
chop, hairs bristling on the nape of his neck. But before anything unpleasant
might have occurred, there was a stern clearing of the throat from behind
Grandad Patches, Willie Wheels and Mr Goodfellow accompanied by a familiar tap,
tap, tap.
“I’m glad you’ve arrived,
Officer Muff,” rapped Grandad Biggert, seeing an opportunity and pointing with
the barber’s pole. “Move this crowd of riff raff on and seize these criminals
at once. I’ve been looking after them until you arrived. Citizen’s arrest.
Villainous scum.”
“Indeed?” P.C. Muff was
expertly sizing up the situation and she tapped her truncheon lightly with her
fingertips. “What is this appalling mess? Which of you is responsible for
tearing up all these magazines and littering the park?” She did not need to
raise her voice, of course. “I suggest that you respectable citizens get off
home now before I decide to make enquiries.”
Then she turned to the
three gentlemen behind her. “Grandad Patches, I might have known. And you,
Willie Wheels…why are you mixed up with this revolutionary nitwit?”
“Revolutionary nitwit?”
spluttered Grandad Patches, “Po, po, po, back
in the sixties, when I was the Beatles floor manager…”
“Shut up.”
“Quite right, Officer
Muff,” gloated Grandad Biggert, “they’re up to no good as usual. First they
organise a charity event to overthrow the council without a license, if you
please. Then they accuse me of fixing their pathetic magazine bingo. Me. And they were just
about to throw me to the crowd - have me savaged by Mrs Dander’s dog. Arrest
them at once. I’ll press charges.”
“What have you to say for
yourselves?”
All three looked a little
shamefaced and Willie fiddled with the controls on his chair before blurting, “he
told me my wagon had an extendable mandible safety net.”
“Yes. I nearly broke my
back!”
“And I have to supply
quality goods from coffee shops where they pretend gravy is an exotic drink.”
P.C. Muff looked like a
primary school Headteacher about to cane three children – well, back when that
was allowed – it isn’t nowadays, of course. “It’s all a bit pathetic, isn’t it?”
she said, cuttingly.
The three of them nodded.
“I’ll tell you what. If
you promise never to do this again and clear up all the mess by teatime, I’ll
overlook your criminal activities…just this once.” She stressed her final three
words very carefully indeed.
“Clear all this up? How
the dash-dangly-doo are we supposed to do that?”
“Well, I’d say Mr
Goodfellow has the perfect solution,” snapped P.C. Muff, pointing at the pile
of unsold dustpan and brush combination sets, grimly.
“Right, you are, officer,”
agreed Mr Goodfellow.
“Well, I’m not helping,
anyway, none of this was my fault,” sniggered Grandad Biggert, turning to
leave. “See, Patches? Look what I have here.” He tauntingly jingled the coins
he’d snatched earlier, which were now in his pocket. “Enjoy your…ahem…brush
with the law. Heh, heh, heh.”
“Just a minute, Grandad
Biggert. What’s that in your hand?” P.C. Muff’s voice had a cold, spine
tingling tone to it, and Grandad Biggert’s smile faded away like the sun in
winter.
“My hand?”
“Yes. It looks very much
like half a barber’s pole. For two days now, I’ve been investigating a serious
act of vandalism on the high street. Several hundreds of pounds worth of
damage. And that disguise you were wearing. It fits the description of a
homeless war veteran that several people have complained to me about - someone
who’s been pestering innocent shoppers by forcing them to purchase overpriced,
out of date copies of ‘The Large Question’.
“That’s wasn’t me,”
blustered Grandad Biggert, “I don’t even know where the high street is.”
“I’m sorry, Grandad
Biggert, I’m afraid you’re going to have to help after all, if you’d like to
come with me.”
she replied.
And with that, she marched
him all the way to the police station.
Oh, do you know what?
Something that might surprise you all. I was told later that Willie Wheels was
wrong, you know. Grandad Biggert did have a bag with ‘swag’ written on it. I’m
not sure what it was for, though.
