away, it was like being in another world, a world of neatly manicured lawns, specimen trees and brightly painted curbing – so different from the bedraggled, overgrown, weed infested plot he had just left.
“Here,” said Jimmy, shoving the duffle bag under the fence, “take this.” Crouching down low, he also crept under the fence. When he was through, he said, “We’re like sitting ducks, out here… Come on.” With that, he darted across the lawn, across to a Lawson Cyprus, one of ever so many specimen trees dotted about the grounds.
Joining Jimmy behind the tree, Eric was going to ask him what to do next, when Jimmy said, “I don’t like it…”
“You don’t?”
“No, not at all,” he grumbled. “Someone has gone to an awful lot of effort, not to mention expense, making this place picture perfect.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Definitely!”
“Why?” Eric asked.
Giving him a most peculiar look, Jimmy said, “Street angel; house devil.”
Scratching his head, hoping for some inspiration, yet getting none, Eric was lost for answer. “I’m sorry, he said, “but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”
Giving him another peculiar look, Jimmy said, “Someone, a.k.a. Mr Viscous, wants the outside world to think this place is all wine and roses.”
“Wine and roses?”
“Yes, that it’s just tickety-boo!”
Eric stared blankly at him.
“That everything is as it should be, in good order?”
The penny having finally dropped, Eric said, “Oh, that, why didn’t you say so?”
“And you have the cheek to think that I’m the one who’s losing his marbles!”
Putting the matter of marbles, and who might or might not be losing them, to the back of his mind, Eric said, “Why do you think he wants to portray the picture perfect theme?”
“Horses!” Jimmy replied without any hesitation. “It’s because of those horses, of course.” His eyes scanning the factory, he said, “It’s to cover up what he’s doing with them!”
“Hmm,” Eric replied gloomily, “his secret ingredient…”
Jimmy nodded a yes. Darting away from the tree, he said, “Follow me.”
The second tree they hid behind was a cherry. Because it was wintertime, there was no foliage upon it. “I feel rather exposed here,” Eric grumbled.
“Come on,” Jimmy answered, darting off again.
The next tree Jimmy chose was another Lawson Cyprus, with plenty of greenery to offer them cover. “That’s more like it,” said Eric, gratefully relaxing. Leaning against the tree, he disappeared from sight. From somewhere deep within its lush foliage, he murmured, “Remind me never to plant a cherry tree.”
“But you don’t have a garden.”
“Well, yes, I know that,” he replied. “But when I grow up, when I do have a garden, remind me never to plant one. They’re altogether far too bare in winter for my liking.”
Tentatively poking his head out from behind the tree, looking, Jimmy said, “Pass me the prismatic viewer, will you?”
Emerging from the depths of the tree, Eric opened the duffle bag and took out the viewer. “Here you are,” he said, handing it to him, “and the best of British luck!”
Paying no heed to his ramblings, meanderings, or whatever he intended them to be, Jimmy inspected the prismatic viewer, remembering the day Eric had found it:
Eric’s mum had brought him to a jumble sale. Eric hated jumble sales. Giving him a sixpenny bit, she said, “There you are, Eric, a nice shiny sixpence. Go look at all of the wonderful things for sale. I am sure there are toys around here somewhere that you can buy.” Eric bought something all right, but it was not a toy. Spotting a table piled high with military surplus; he strolled across to it, to try his luck. Behind the table stood an incredibly old woman, “Hello,” she said welcomingly, invitingly.
“Mind if I take a look?” he asked.
“Be my guest,” she replied. “I have much to tempt the adventurous traveller.”
Although Jimmy considered her reply rather odd, he began rummaging through the items piled high upon it. Most of it, however, was clothing; hats, jumpers, jackets and so forth – rubbish as far as he was concerned. Digging deeper into the huge pile, Jimmy searched, hoping to find something of interest.
The first item he found was a jerry can, but having no interest in such a thing, he handed it to the woman behind the counter. Accepting it, she smiled beguilingly at him. Digging deeper into the pile, Eric felt something hard, cold – and incredibly sharp. “Ouch, that hurt!” he cried out, withdrawing his hand and the said item. His finger was bleeding. Licking the wound, a small yet deep cut, he screwed up his face at the taste of his own blood. It was salty. Inspecting the item, he stared wide-eyed at marvel he had found, a bayonet. He wanted it; he wanted to buy it, to bring it home, to show to all of his friends – he would have paid anything for it! “How much is this, please?” he asked, showing it to the wrinkly old woman behind the counter.
The woman, smiling peculiarly at him again, said, “Its sixpence, but I’m afraid you’re far too young for such a thing. If I sold it to you, what on earth would your mother say?”
“Please, please sell it to me!” Eric implored. “I won’t tell her it was you who sold it to me, I really and truly won’t!” However, deep down he knew that his mother would never allow him to keep such a thing. Accepting defeat graciously, he handed the bayonet to her, delving both hands into the pile for a third time. That was when he found it, the prismatic viewer. Feeling something under the huge pile of clothes, he at first thought it was only a box, but after pulling his hand out, realising it was much more than a boring old box, he inspected it in fine detail. It was beautiful; black Bakelite and clear crystal glass. He wanted it, he wanted it so badly, he wanted it, he wanted it, he wanted it.
“How much is this – thing?” he asked, holding it up to the woman.
Smiled at him (Eric thought it a rather peculiar habit, to be smiling, so), she said, “It was supposed to be a shilling, but because I know you, you can have it for sixpence.”
Eric’s free hand shot up lightning fast, offering her the money before she could change her mind, “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so very much!”
“Take good care of it,” the old woman told him. “You might need it sooner than you think.”
His mind returning to the present, Jimmy’s fingers ran along the smooth lines of the prismatic viewer, admiring how well the jet-black Bakelite and clear crystal glass sat together, also the neat, half-hidden little catch to unlock the focusing mechanism. Now, knowing what it actually was, a military-style super-doper kind of binoculars, he intended to use it to their full advantage. Raising it to his eyes, Jimmy looked through it, to see if there was any sign of guards or, more importantly, horses.
Zooming in, focusing on the factory, Jimmy could see that the coast was clear. Panning across to the rear of the factory, to the gate the guard had checked earlier, Jimmy felt, somehow knew the horses were secreted somewhere behind it.
“Come on,” he said, “We’re moving out.”
“Moving out?” Eric asked. “It’s not a cowboy movie we’re in, Jim.”
Dashing across the neatly manicured lawns, Jimmy paid no attention to Eric’s ramblings. Darting this way and that, the two boys made their way surreptitiously across to the gate…
Puffing, out of breath, Eric caught up with Jimmy mere yards from the gate. Pointing to it, Jimmy said, “Look, there it is.”
“Yes, I see it,” Eric replied. “But what do we do now? There could be any amount of guards on the other side of it.” Moreover, he was right; their invasion of the factory grounds had gone flawlessly up until then. Something was bound to happen, to go spoil it.
“Don’t be such a wet blanket,” Jimmy retorted. “We’re almost there. What could possibly go wrong?” Using the prismatic viewer, Jimmy scanned the area for guards. “There�
�s no one there,” he said, lowering the viewer.
“And that’s what bothers me,” Eric grumbled, “because they must be somewhere!”
Setting off the last few yards to the gate, Jimmy said, “Come on, we don’t have the time to be worrying about such things. By the time they are aware of us, we’ll be long gone.”
“Hmm, I hope so,” Eric grumbled, “I really do…” Following close behind, Eric fixed his sights on the gate. If Jimmy was correct, the horses were behind it, the horses that the factory owner intended to render into glue. A shiver ran down his spine, at the thought of it.
Horses!
The razor sharp edges of the bolt cutter cut deep into the cold steel of the padlock securing the gate. Thus broken, it fell useless to the ground. Pushing the gate open, Jimmy and Eric made their way covertly along the walkway behind it. Passing beneath a number of windows in the factory building, Jimmy warned, “Shush, we don’t want to be spotted, not now.” In silence, the boys inched their way further along it until they heard the sound of horses whinnying.
“Eric,” said Jimmy, ecstatic they had actually made it, “we’ve done it! We have found the horses! Look,” he said, pointing along the walkway, “I can see one of them!” Moreover, he was right, no more than twenty yards in front of them, the unmistakable sight of a horse’s head, peering over the fence, beckoned them on. Breaking into a canter, they hurried towards the awaiting equine. Whinnying excitedly, the animal greeted its would-be liberators.
“Ah, look at
Jimmy, The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous Page 11
