Mr Gum and the Secret Hideout (9 page)

S
HHHWWUFFF!

Friday was hurled to the ground as the factory exploded behind him. Something whizzed past his head. It was Old Granny, riding her cactus through the sky like a Mexican rocket. Alan Taylor and Jake came somersaulting along after her in a rain of broken bricks and rubble. And behind them came Surprising Ben, covered in soot and coal dust.

‘
Surprise! Surprise! I’m –
COUGH! –
everywhere!
’ he managed. And off he stumbled, wheezing like a flannel.

‘Wh-what happened?’ said Old Granny as she lay there on the stony ground. ‘Wha–’ But then she remembered, and looking back she saw one of the saddest sights of her long and drunken life. A sherry factory that would never make a single drop of sherry again.

‘No,’ she whispered, clutching at her heart. ‘It’s not fair! Why? Why? WHY?’

But Friday and Alan Taylor were scanning the wreckage with horrified expressions on their faces.

‘Where is she?’ breathed Alan Taylor.

‘I – I don’t know if she made it,’ said Friday, turning his head from the flames. ‘The truth is a lemon meringue,’ he said softly.

And there, on the scorched grass, Friday O’Leary closed his eyes and wept hot bitter tears. And Alan Taylor staggered on to his back and hugged a couple of his vertebrae, which is as much as he was able to get his little arms around. And Old Granny forgot about the sherry and joined them and Jake lay down and whimpered softly. And there they sat, weeping and whimpering, even as the flames grew higher and higher. Higher and higher and –

‘Hiya,’ said Polly. ‘What you all cryin’ ’bout?’

‘Oh, you know,’ sniffed Friday. ‘Because you died in that explosion.’

‘Oh,’ said Polly. ‘That’s well sad. Mind if I joins you?’

‘No, no,’ said Old Granny. ‘Be our guest.’

So Polly sat down on the grass and together they all sat there crying and hugging and holding one another in their grief.

And Friday said, ‘What’s it like being dead, Polly?’ and Polly said, ‘Well, to be honest, Frides, it don’t feel all that diff’rent from bein’ alive really, ’cept everyone’s cryin’ more than usual.’

And then Alan Taylor said, ‘Well, maybe you’re not dead after all.’

‘Well, maybe I’m not,’ said Polly in astonishment.

And then everyone realised at once, and their tears of grief turned to tears of joy and their sobs turned to laughter and Jake’s whimpers turned to barks of fun, and Friday turned to Polly and said, ‘Look, Mr Polly. The clouds are coming back!’

And it was true, for the flames from Finnegan’s Factory had reached high into the sky, licking the poisonous gases away with their soft orange tongues. And the first bits of blue were beginning to creep back overhead. And yes, the clouds were coming back, and with a sigh of relief they uncurled and began to make themselves into the fluffle-y little darlings they loved to be.

And somewhere on a high-flung branch a bluebird gave a joyful chirp and all the mosquitoes and tarantulas died because it wasn’t tropical any more, but the parrots stayed alive because everyone loves parrots. And the world could breathe again.

‘But hold on,’ said Friday suddenly. ‘What
about Mr Gum and Billy?’

Everyone turned to look at the charred remains of the factory. The villains were nowhere to be seen.

‘Nothing could have survived that,’ said Old Granny.

‘So that’s that then,’ said Polly quietly. ‘Mr Gum an’ Billy – gone forever. They were the worst crimers what I ever saw in my life, an’ they never meant no good for no one. But you knows what, Frides? It don’t make me feel no happiness, it don’t make me feel no happiness at all. No one deserves that, not even them two Johnny-Come-Latelys.’

Friday nodded wisely. ‘Little miss, I am proud of you and your kindness towards rotters,’ said he. ‘But what’s done is done and what’s not done is not done and what’s yet to be done is yet to be done and what can’t be done will never be done and look at my shoelace, it’s come undone.’

And as Alan Taylor said, ‘We did what was right, Polly. It is the way of my people.’ And as Old Granny said, ‘I still can’t believe the sherry factory’s gone. Oh, well. Never mind.’ And she took a sip of sherry from the emergency bottle she always kept hidden in Jake’s fur, and it didn’t taste of meat at all.

THE DEPARTMENT OF CLOUDS AND YOGURTS walked back into town and as they did so, the heavens opened and the clouds roared their approval with a torrent of lovely fresh rain to wash everyone’s worries clean away. Soon the heroes were splashing and skipping merrily through the puddles like a gang of carefree bellybuttons, and Friday took out his harmonica and blew a funky little number called
‘Butterscotch Betty on the Two Thirty-Nine’
, and Alan Taylor rode on his hat and turned somersaults and once he fell off and Jake caught him on his tail and flipped him halfway into space for a giggle.

‘Hooray for THE DEPARTMENT OF CLOUDS AND YOGURTS!’ said Mayor Casserole as the heroes entered the town square. ‘You’ve saved us all from sinking into the sea!’

‘Hooray!’ said the little girl called Peter. ‘You’ve saved me and my doll!’

Then Jake ate her doll.

‘Never mind,’ said Peter. ‘I didn’t like that stupid doll anyway. She had a boy’s name.’

‘Hooray!’ said Jonathan Ripples. ‘I’m in such a good mood that I’m not even going to sit on Martin Launderette for calling me a beached whale!’

‘Hooray!’ said Martin Launderette.

‘But
I’m
going to,’ said a voice. And spinning around Martin Launderette saw a sight that made him quiver like a washing machine.

‘Hello,’ said the voice. ‘I’m Jessica. Have you been making fun of my little brother?’

‘Oh, no!’ trembled Martin Launderette. ‘You’re even fatter than Jonath-’

But the rest of his words were lost as he was squashed under the tremendous weight of Jessica Ripples, the fattest woman in town.

And after that the lovely fresh rain stopped, and the sun came out in a blaze of triumph and a magnificent rainbow arched over the entire town, and it even had an extra stripe of ‘bunch-paraka’, the new colour that Friday had invented. And gazing up at that rainbow, Polly thought she heard a voice whispering, whispering to her alone.

Well done, child
, the voice seemed to say, though it was no older than she.
Once again you have made the world glow with happy colours. See you around, tingler!

And when she looked down there was a fruit chew lying at her feet, and it was a strawberry one, the best flavour of all, or at least equal with blackcurrant. And way better than the green ones.

‘Well!’ cried Mayor Casserole. ‘What are we waiting for? Let’s have a feast!’ And soon the townsfolk were yibbing it up with the biggest and best feast of their lives. Roast ox and smoked salmon and strawberry jam, sausage rolls, Dover sole and green eggs and ham, and trifles as big as your head, my boy! Trifles as big as your head!

And Crazy Barry Fungus hopped up in his silver birdcage and everyone patted him and fed him birdseed and said what a remarkable creature he was, and they gave him the title
Birdus Magnificus
and presented him with the Order of the Golden Feather, which is the highest honour a chaffinch may be awarded.

And Old Granny announced that she was going to marry her cactus, because she had grown very fond of it, and everyone cheered and threw confetti in the air and the dancing went on all day and night, and you never did see such a thing in your life and the dish ran away with the piper’s son, hickory dickory dock.

It was late in the evening, and Polly was sitting on Boaster’s Hill with her friends. Jake was being Jake and Alan Taylor was being Alan Taylor, which was the way of his people. Old Granny was sipping from the bottle of sherry she always kept hidden in her cactus. And Friday – well, Friday was having a bit of a snuggle with Mrs Lovely, who had returned from an adventure of her own, battling robots in another dimension.

‘You knows,’ said Polly as she sat there gazing up at the soft night sky. ‘Before all this, I never really thought much ’bout them clouds up there in the heavens, but now I understands how important they truly are.’

‘Well said, little miss,’ said Friday, strumming a lonesome chord on his blue guitar. ‘You see, clouds are like people. They appear for no reason anyone can understand, they hang around for a while, and then they move on. And sometimes you don’t really appreciate them until after they’re gone.’

‘Oh, Friday,’ sighed Mrs Lovely affectionately. ‘You do talk an awful lot of nonsense sometimes.’

Well, everyone nodded at that, even Friday, and there they all sat, gazing up at the evening sky as if seeing it for the very first time. And there we shall leave them – Polly and Friday, and Mrs Lovely and Alan Taylor and Old Granny and Jake the dog and all the rest of them, gazing up at the great wide yonder and wondering at the shapes and the sights they see there. And there we shall leave them, happy in their dreams.

Portugal, one month later

L
ittle Carlos the shepherd and his faithful sheep Splinters stumbled along the windswept hilltop.

‘Come on, Splinters, you idiot,’ growled Little Carlos, kicking the sheep in the rear to hurry him up. ‘I gotta find a telly an’ quick – “Saco de Varas” is about to start.’

‘Saco de Varas’ was the Portuguese version of ‘Bag of Sticks’. It was a picture of a bag of sticks for half an hour, but with Portuguese subtitles. (Little Carlos was the only person in the country who ever watched ‘Saco de Varas’. Everyone else turned over to watch ‘Tempo de Diversão com Crispy’.)

‘Baaa! Baaaa!’ said Splinters as they reached the top of the hill. Spread out below them was the friendly-looking little town of Santa del Wisp.

‘Urrgh,’ said Little Carlos, his big ragged beard flapping in the wind. ‘What a friendly lookin’ little town. I hate it.’

But then his eyes lit up
.

‘Know what, Splinters, me old faithful sheep?’ grinned Little Carlos. ‘It looks like just the kind of place for us to get up to our evils.’