by Tara Basi
“Only one problem, young ’un. You see, I, sorry we, get an enormous monthly subsidy from the EU because we don’t get any investment and I might lose that.”
“How much?” Bobby asked, rather cheekily I thought, but Mr Crumb didn’t seem to mind.
“That’s top secret. Let’s just say it’s into two figures, ending in zero and starting with five, but that’s all I can tell you,” Mr Crumb whispered.
“Don’t you own twenty acres of Swamp-Bog?” Bobby asked, seemingly losing the plot. The name Swamp-Bog understated the utter smelly horribleness of the squishy mud lake sitting at the foot of the big mountain on the permanently damp side of the island.
“How do you know about that?” Mr Crumb asked in amazement.
“It’s on sale for twenty-five pounds fifty in your window.”
“God, I’d completely forgotten that was there. I should probably adjust for inflation.”
“It’d make a perfect site for a nuclear waste reprocessing plant, and we should throw in planning permission for a secret missile base to sweeten the deal. You’d probably get at least a thousand times what you’re asking. All you have to do is supply the official stationery and stamps,” Bobby suggested quite casually.
Bobby dictated a wonderful all-purpose letter and then I stayed up all night copying it out one hundred and ninety-three times; one hundred and ninety-two went to every head of state in the UN Assembly and one went to the Vatican. Bobby seemed convinced the Pope had a lot of toxic waste he needed to get rid of.
The next morning, before dragging my exhausted carcass to school, I dropped off the sack of letters to Mr Crumb for stamping and posting.
“How exactly does getting a nuclear waste reprocessing plant on the island give us long-term Global Warming?” I finally managed to ask Bobby before I fell asleep again on the cold playground asphalt.
“It’s the rays, Terry, the radioactive rays. They’ll pour out of the chimney and cut a whopping great permanent hole in the ozone right above the island, and some of the stuff’s bound to leach into the surrounding soil, always does, and create a sort of under-floor heating effect for the whole island. It can’t fail.”
“When do you think we’ll see the first signs of Global Warming heading our way?” I expectantly asked, barely able to stay awake.
“Soon. The Friday bean emissions need time to accumulate. I estimate that we shall see the first fruits of our labours in April.”
And he was right.
Much later we learned that Mr Crumb got a lot of replies, mostly about buying any excess processed waste we might have. A couple expressed particular interest in the missile base option and a number threatened the island with sanctions. Unfortunately, the EU stepped in and forbade any development, declaring the Swamp-Bog an area of outstanding natural ugliness but home to the endangered vampire rat, Europe’s only venomous rat. Mr Crumb didn’t mind; he was said to have been paid an enormous sum by the EU for the mud lake that was Swamp-Bog and he promptly left for the mainland via Big Island after selling the post office to Mr Singh. It was really only the ex-mayor who lost out: he ended up on Interpol’s most wanted for a while till he convinced them his signature had been forged. Well, as Bobby wisely said at the time, “We can’t sign the letter using your name; no one’s going to listen to a kid. It has to sound properly official.”
Chapter Two – Women’s Troubles
The weather still tormented us during breaks. Its tactics had changed though. Icy winds and sudden snow storms had been replaced by freezing sleet gales that somehow blew up my trouser legs and covered my poor knees in cold slush. Our only defence was to huddle in a sheltered corner of the schoolyard. There were only two problems with this highly effective defence: every other kid in the playground had exactly the same idea, and sometimes the wet, white slurry flew straight in past the iron railings, sparing no corner of the playground. Then, the only hiding place was behind the pair of big bins on wheels parked at the back of the playground. Though the bins were the only haven, Bobby and I knew it was pointless even trying. The big boys and the muscular Madge, otherwise known as the Power Three, would already be huddled safely out of the storm and not inviting company.
On those occasions we adopted a sleek aerodynamic formation Bobby had invented to minimise the impact of the snow-rain-ice cocktail on our thin little bodies. As he carefully explained, it would be impossible for both of us to be protected, so we would take turns, six months of acting as a windbreak and six months of sheltering, which seemed fair. I got April through September for sheltering and the other six I was a windbreak. It may have seemed slightly weighted in Bobby’s favour by a non-Masterminder, but as Bobby quite rightly said at the time, normal people wouldn’t have taken Global Warming and the shifting seasons into account. When the horrible wind howled directly at us though the railings I assumed the windbreak position, back to the gale, knees together, standing up straight, hands down by my side, palms facing forward, while Bobby huddled in front of me. It was very unpleasant and I usually lost all feeling in my bum and every other part facing the wind, but I knew my turn would come.
Fortunately, the wind blew straight into the playground from the street only a couple of times a month at the most. The rest of the time we could huddle in the left- or right-hand corner of playground, depending on the direction of the wind. During a corner gale the Power Three would always be warm; the rest of us, some twenty shivering wretches, formed a protective shield around them, pressing as close to the walls as possible to escape the sleet storm. It was similar to the arrangements I’d seen Emperor penguins adopting on one of Bobby’s Discovery DVDs, although we didn’t take turns at the cold outer perimeter of the huddle. The weakest got shoved to the outside edge. Puny but attractive girls always seemed to find a warm place between the Power Three and the rest of the pack. Bobby and I were sort of very near to the outside edge with only one or two midget kids to shield us from the cold, but it was still better than being a windbreak. Our weather was quite tricky: wind tended not to blow in any one direction for long. If we were very unlucky the huddled mass would end up dashing from one corner to another, mixed in with sprints to the bins for the privileged and a windbreak moment for me, all in one break.
The nuns had limits to their cruelty. If Sister Gunter could not open the door to the playground then we were allowed to stay in the lovely warm classroom. This sometimes happened if a twelve-foot snow drift had settled against the door or a giant block of ice many feet thick blocked the exit. It didn’t happen very often. Sister Gunter was huge. It was rumoured she was Arnold Schwarzenegger’s bigger stronger sister.
Today was a bin day. I was the windbreak and Bobby was sheltering. Others cowered in various exposed corners of the playground and stared longingly at the lovely bin shelter where the Power Three were comfortably settled.
“Dad’s been in touch with my mum. She told me last night. They’re sorting things out, she said. What does that mean, Bobby, sorting things out?” I asked, trying to keep my mind off the freezing wetness caking my backside.
“Sorry, Terry, I don’t do soaps. Shame you’re not a bit bigger. Ever thought of getting an afro?” was Bobby’s enigmatic response.
“There’s always the toilets,” I thought aloud and instantly regretted it. True, the two little chemical toilet cubicles at the back of the playground provided some shelter, but at a terrible cost. You would have to approach Sister Gunter for the key and she would insist on knowing why you wanted to go. If you said number ones she wouldn’t let you shut the door and would stand outside to make sure you didn’t exceed the twelve seconds allowed. If you said number twos then she would demand to know how many sheets of paper you would require. More than three was considered greedy and afterwards she’d want to see for herself that your stool was healthy. True, you did get to shut the door and even though the toilet had no roof it was marginally warmer than the exposed playground, but the smell, the unbearable smell, and worse, the indignity of having the whole
school watch while Sister Gunter made a great show of counting out the sheets, was truly horrible. Anybody in their right mind waited till the end of the break and went to the proper toilets inside the school.
“Terry, your brain is freezing up. We need another option; just wall scraping and huddling behind your stick-thin frame is not working. We need to get behind the bins.”
“Impossible, Bobby, impossible,” I chattered, feeling nothing now in my rear end.
“Madge, she’s the key. That fiendish girl is in with the big boys. We’ll offer her a half Masterminder membership, sort out all her problems, and then she’ll do anything we want. She’ll get us a place behind the bin,” Bobby mumbled, mostly to himself. I did like the idea of Madge being our new half. I had a bit of a thing about Madge. At least my front was feeling a bit warmer.
The following day, with all preparations made and when the elements permitted us to move about the playground a little more freely, Bobby fearlessly approached Madge to discuss his proposal. Even though the weather didn’t really call for it and it wasn’t my turn, I sheltered behind Bobby.
“Madge, you’re a very, very lucky girl. You have been chosen to participate in a once in a lifetime opportunity,” was how Bobby began.
Madge was a small, compact girl, shorter than me, but containing more mass than Bobby and me put together. She had a lovely fatty face dotted with multi-coloured freckles, a cute piggy nose, sausage lips, green eyes and greasy blonde hair tied in severe pigtails that stuck out horizontally on either side of her head. Close study of the debris that collected in those gorgeous pigtails could tell you where Madge had been over the last few weeks. While her face might have been said (quietly and behind her back) to be pudgy, the rest of her was all squat muscle, a sort of body-building square shape. One of Madge’s biceps was bigger than my head; her calves made my thighs look like ankles. Her knees, covered in all sorts of scabs and rubble, were particularly frightening. She wasn’t all rough and tough. Permanently attached to her back was a bright pink satchel covered in pop princesses and boy band picture stickers. The contents were less benign; that innocent looking bag also held her ultimate weapon of choice, the cheese grater.
As Bobby finished his opening remarks, Madge stopped staring at something stuck to the end of her finger, recently removed from her nose, and turned slowly to look up at Bobby. She surveyed him curiously for a moment then thumped him in the gut. I felt the power of the blow through Bobby’s body and was knocked over. After we’d both recovered Bobby made another attempt at communication.
“Madge, Madge, Madge. You just can’t help it. It’s in your nature. Remember the story of the evil little froggy that dragged the poor hapless scorpion to the bottom of the river? Men can’t help being supremely mature and level-headed while women are genetically cursed with random bouts of madness brought on by punctuation. That’s just the way they are,” Bobby kindly explained to a now seething Madge.
“You stupid, stupid boy,” Madge shrieked.
Venturing to take a more lingering peek, I stuck my head out from my crouching position behind Bobby and gazed fondly on our new half replacement for the now legendary Doug. At that moment the lovely World Wide Webby Madge had a delightful glowing redness to her face, her delicious little balled fists and scuffed knuckles were held rigidly at her sides and her angelic fat face was lifted up to stare with seductively bulging eyes at Bobby, who towered over her. An adorable little trickle of spittle dribbled from the corner of her mouth through clenched, grinding teeth.
“Quick, Terry, throw her some red meat,” Bobby whispered. He had warned me that on those weeks with a full-ish moon, a shoe sale within ten miles or undue oxygen levels in the air, Madge would be in the grip of punctuation madness and only red meat would restore her sanity. It had proved difficult to source red meat and the little I had turned black and squishy in my pocket after a few hours, so I had improvised.
“Would you like a wine gum?” I gingerly asked, holding out a crumpled paper bag in trembling, mitten-covered fingers, still keeping the bulk of my anatomy hidden behind Bobby.
“My favourites!” Madge exclaimed, helping herself to a handful. Just as Bobby had predicted, a flood of quiet contentment washed over Madge, erasing the attractive redness, leaving behind a happy, calm pink.
With Madge subdued and contentedly chewing, Bobby decided it was safe to continue his discourse and even I felt emboldened enough to leave Bobby’s shadow.
“Madge, Madge, Madge, we only want to help! That’s why we’re going to devote all of our massive brainpower for the whole week to just solving women’s problems. True, it will be a challenge: women have so many problems. But all this week we will be Sticking Up for Women.”
“Anything you say, stupid boy, just keep the sweeties coming or I’ll do both of you,” Madge replied in angelic tones as she gently wrenched the bag of gums out of my shaking hands, almost taking my mittens as well.
Bobby took me to one side. “Good improvisation with the gums; well done, my worthy junior. But I think if we’re going to make some progress this week we’ll need a more powerful woman calmer.”
“Why don’t we just postpone Sticking Up for Women week till Madge is over her punctuation madness and in a better mood?” I queried.
“Ah, the question men have tried to answer since the dawn of time: when will it be safe? There is no easy answer. Punctuation rage itself has many forms: the comma, the exclamation and, of course, the full-stop. Then there is the hysteria only cured by its removal, and one of the most dreaded conditions of all, the black and white pause – a bizarre condition that can last for years and has no cure. Though some say the sacrifice of a male offering can alleviate the symptoms. So you see, my worthy junior Masterminder, there is no good time when it comes to women and it’s not getting any warmer.”
“Poor Madge,” was all I could say.
“If we’re to tackle everything, including the most heinous condition that all women eventually face...” Bobby paused and looked back over his shoulder to make sure Madge was still happily occupied and then continued in a low whisper, “... erectile dysfunction, then we must prepare to face Madge’s demons and tame them.”
“What will we need?” I timorously asked.
“Perfume and lots of it,” Bobby whispered.
“Perfume? Where are we going to get perfume from?” I asked, bewildered by Bobby’s sudden change in direction.
“Your mum must have some. My mum uses Dad’s aftershave. Probably not ideal for Madge,” Bobby answered.
“If Mum does, she keeps it locked up with her jewellery in the little metal box at the back of her underwear drawer. I guess, maybe,” I replied as my face turned tomato.
“Then we’ll make our own and it’ll be top end stuff guaranteed to calm Madge and get her on our side. Soon we’ll be behind the bins, Terry, all cosy, no windbreak necessary,” Bobby decided after puzzling over my answer for a few seconds.
After school we went to see Mr McTater, the village butcher. He had a particularly efficient setup with the island’s only official abattoir at the bottom of his garden. His butcher’s shop was off the main village square, directly opposite the post office and easy to spot because of the gull curse. Mr McTater had one of those cars that seagulls don’t like, particularly after he’d just washed it. So he’d stop washing it a few years before. It sat outside his shop encrusted in lumpy yellow-whiteness. No one was really sure whether there was any bodywork left under the muck but it drove okay. Their other great debate was which came first, the car bombing or the seagull sausages.
“You want what?” Mr McTater asked, obviously confused by Bobby’s request. He was a big, brawny, bald man in a floor-length, brown leather apron splattered in red bits. In one hand he clutched a giant dead seagull by the throat, in the other a blood-stained machete.
“Please let me explain, again. We’re going to make top quality French perfume. You give us a bit of ewe colon and a tin of curry powder and we’ll give y
ou a pint of the stuff, gratis.”
“What about gull guts? I’ve got lots of them, still warm.”
“Mr McTater, do you really think your lovely wife would be happy with a perfume made from gull guts? We’re aiming for a sophisticated French odour, not a Mongolian yak pong.”
“Okay. Out the back is a big bucket of quality offal, stuff that goes into my mail order authentic Scotch haggis eggs. Help yourself; there’s bound to be some ewe bits in there. Don’t forget my pint of the stuff – wife’s birthday’s coming up faster than a gull fritter.”
Discerning any kind of organ let alone one belonging to a particular species in Mr McTater’s bucket of horror was impossible. Bobby advised me to select four or five of the most colourful and pungent bits while he kept a look out from the front of the shop.
“What now?” I mumbled, holding one hand over my mouth and nose with the carrier bag of bits at arm’s length and downwind.
“McTater gave me this huge tin of ancient curry powder; apparently curried gull tastes worse than raw gull. We’ll go down to the beach and mix it all up.”
We found an old oil drum, which Bobby insisted we should not rinse out.
“Essential oils, Terry,” Bobby explained.
I poured in the sloppy bits from my carrier bag, the ewe colon; emptied in the curry powder, for a touch of oriental spice; added gallons of sea water, for freshness; and, finally, copious amounts of greasy mud, to give a natural balance.
“Bobby, it still smells worse than puke. That can’t be right.”
“Terry, this is only step two of four. Now you’ll boil it down from four gallons to a pint and a bit of pure perfume essence. I’m off to the dump to fetch the most important ingredient of all, the packaging.”
