Crummy Mummy and Me

by Anne Fine

  ‘The thief must look just like that hill,’ I said. ‘That’s what Crummy Dummy is trying to tell us. She got a good look at him through the cot bars.’

  ‘She’d not forget anyone who feeds her chocolate,’ Crusher said. ‘Crummy Dummy has a passion for chocolate.’

  ‘She shouldn’t even know what it tastes like,’ I scolded. (Sometimes I think I’m fighting a losing battle.)

  ‘I’m driving straight back into town,’ Crusher said. ‘And if I see anyone who looks like that hill over there, carrying a telly or a video, he’d better watch out for his ears.’

  He sounded as if he meant it, too.

  He turned the car around – a neat, nine-point turn – and we went back, Crummy Dummy all twisted round in her car seat, screeching loudly in my ears, flapping her arms desperately towards the hill we were leaving behind.

  Almost as soon as we got back to town we spotted him, staggering down the great long strip of wasteland beside the ring road. We all guessed it was him straight away, except for Crummy Dummy who had fallen asleep. He had patches of thick pine-green hair and patches of stubble stuck anyhow all over his head, together with zig-zag partings. And he was carrying two enormous cardboard boxes, one on top of the other. They must have been terribly heavy. Every few yards he put them down to rest his arms.

  Crusher pulled up the car and he and Mum both jumped out. I followed a bit more slowly because I was carrying Crummy Dummy and didn’t want to wake her in case she went back to screeching again.

  Crusher stood right in front of the fellow, and tapped the cardboard boxes with his fingers.

  ‘What have you got in there, mate?’ he asked. ‘Mind if I take a butcher’s?’

  The man said something rude. I shan’t repeat it.

  Crusher Maggot said darkly:

  ‘I think that what you’ve got in there is my video and –’, pointing at Mum, ‘this good lady’s television.’

  ‘Prove it,’ the man said.

  ‘You’re on,’ Crusher said. ‘The telly has redcurrant juice smeared all over the screen, and the buttons on the video are sticky with sherbert.’

  ‘You’ve never been giving her sherbert!’ I cried. (Now I was really angry.)

  The man looked a bit desperate.

  ‘I might have spilled redcurrant down my own screen,’ he argued.

  ‘And sherbert on your buttons?’ Crusher scoffed.

  The fellow blushed, and fell silent.

  Just then, Crummy Dummy woke up. Recognizing the man who fed her chocolate, she tried to throw herself out of my arms into his, squealing with pleasure. I very nearly dropped her.

  ‘That settles it,’ said Mum. ‘She knows who you are.’

  There was a squeal of brakes behind us. The two policemen we met earlier had drawn up at the kerb in their car. Mum thought she heard the young one say, ‘Evening, Boots,’ as he wound down the window. She was just going to step over and tell him off when Crusher whispered something about his tax disc, and she decided not to bother.

  ‘Anything wrong?’ the older policeman asked curiously.

  ‘I don’t think so, thank you very much, officer,’ Crusher returned politely ‘This gentleman here is just helping me load a couple of boxes into my car.’ He turned to the thief. ‘Aren’t you?’ he asked, equally politely.

  ‘Yes,’ said the thief hastily ‘Yes, I am. Sir.’

  The young policeman got out and opened the top box.

  ‘You can’t last long without a telly, can you?’ he said. Then he winked at Mum, got back in the car, and they drove off.

  Crusher said to the thief:

  ‘Hurry up. We’ll be missing the snooker.’

  The thief packed the two boxes as neatly as he could into the boot of Crusher’s car.

  ‘Going our way?’ Mum offered, forgetting.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ Crusher said, not forgetting.

  We drove off home, in good time for the snooker in spite of being in third gear. Mum made a special tea, and though the cake was stuffed with colourants and additives, I didn’t say a word, not even when they gave some to Crummy Dummy.

  I reckoned she’d earned it, really I did.

  3

  Our Pet

  This story’s not a pleasant one, but I think that it should be told. Those of you with a nervous disposition (that means all the ones who end up face down on the bed sobbing their hearts out after watching something really sad on the telly) should miss this story out. So should the very squeamish. You lot can leave now, and join us again at the beginning of the next chapter.

  The rest can carry on reading, secure in the knowledge that I have asked Mr Higham to act as responsibly as possible about the illustrations.

  Here we go, then.

  One day, we were all sitting in the garden – well, my half of it. Nobody sane would want to sit in Mum’s half. It’s a pit. Old cans, bus tickets, empty bottles and torn crisp packets. Bits of old newspapers and one of Crusher’s cast-off car tyres. Weeds. Stones. Two halves of a smashed sink. The whole patch is disgusting. (And she’s at home all day. You might think, out of the two of us, she’d be the one to find the time to keep her half tidy. You’d be mistaken.)

  My half’s quite nice, I think. I have grass in the middle, and grow petunias and pansies around my edges. I’m not particularly struck on either flower, but they came up well the first year I tried them, so I’ve kept on with them. If you sit in my bit, and keep your back to the rest, it can be pleasant in the garden, unless the wind is blowing old sweet wrappers across from Mum’s side into your face and hair.

  I could clear her half up, I suppose. I have thought about it. But part of me believes she’ll never learn to take responsibility for her own messes if other people are forever picking up after her. She should be forced to face the consequences of her behaviour. She has to learn the hard way that if she doesn’t bother to tend her half of the garden, it will become a rubbish dump.

  And it has.

  The only problem is, she doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Isn’t it nice?’ she said, stretching out half on my patch and half on hers. ‘I love gardens in summer.’

  Her sprawled-out body took up most of my carefully tended pocket-handkerchief lawn, and her head rested comfortably just on the edge of her patch, pillowed by Crusher’s abandoned car tyre.

  Crummy Dummy’s pram was taking up most of the rest of my half, so Crusher and I squatted rather uncomfortably round the edges. He had his foot on one of my striped petunias, but I couldn’t blame him. There was almost no room, unless he wanted to back into Mum’s half, and take his chances among the old tin cans and bits of broken glass.

  He was restless, anyhow. He kept stretching up and peering over the gate.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s someone coming round to see the car today,’ said Crusher. ‘A Mr Willoughby. I don’t want to miss him. I’m hoping he’ll buy it.’

  ‘It doesn’t go,’ I pointed out. ‘Not since you left the bonnet up through that great thunderstorm. Why should this Mr Willoughby pay for a car that doesn’t go?’

  ‘I’ve fixed it,’ Crusher said. ‘It goes.’

  ‘Once round the block,’ scoffed Mum. ‘If you’re lucky.’

  ‘He’s not expecting a Mercedes Benz,’ Crusher said coldly. ‘He’s only paying seventy pounds.’

  ‘Seventy pounds?’ Mum lifted her head and started peering over the gate as well. ‘Just think what we could do with seventy pounds!’

  And it was because we were all peering over the gate in search of this saviour who was going to bring us seventy pounds that none of us noticed the horrible, mangy, disgusting old dog sneaking through a hole in the hedge behind us, and starting to do its business in our garden.

  I saw it first. I was livid. I ran towards the foul, revolting thing, clapping and shouting and flapping my arms. But it didn’t stop. It just kept squatting there, the scruffy, loathsome creature, and carried on till it was quite fini
shed.

  I lost my temper.

  ‘Get out!’ I shrieked. ‘Get out! Get out! GET OUT!’

  ‘You really can’t blame it,’ Crusher pointed out. ‘In all fairness, that half of the garden does look like a corporation tip. The poor creature probably believes he’s chosen a socially acceptable place to perform.’

  ‘I think he’s sweet,’ said Mum. ‘Is he stray?’

  And she reached out for his scabby, tufty, twisted old neck. He had no collar, of course, and so no tag.

  ‘He must be stray,’ she said. ‘He’s terribly thin.’

  ‘I hope you’re going to wash your hands very thoroughly indeed now,’ I said to Mum.

  She wasn’t listening.

  ‘Can we keep him?’ she was asking.

  ‘Keep him!’ I was beside myself. ‘Keep him? That mangy, ancient thing! He ought to be put down!’

  Mum was shocked, I could tell.

  ‘Put down?’

  ‘Yes, put down.’ I was furious. ‘He’s absolutely repellent. He’s probably crawling with germs and bristling with fleas. He’s sure to be carrying all manner of diseases. You can practically see him festering. He’s horrible. Horrible!’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like a nice pet?’ asked Mum.

  (Sometimes, I don’t believe she hears a word I say.) So then, of course, we ended up in one of those great arguments you get into about pets. I don’t need to give you all the details, do I? You’ve all been through it, haven’t you? You’ve heard it all a million times, I’m sure. I started sensibly enough by giving Mum about a hundred good reasons why we don’t want a pet, and couldn’t manage one if we did, and even if we could, this dog would be the worst pet we could get. I know you can work out most of the hundred reasons yourself, but I’ll start you off with the first ten:

  1. Mum would be bored with him within a week.

  2. Dogs spread diseases. They are dirty.

  3. Injections cost the earth.

  4. He’d be alone too much in the daytime.

  5. We live right by a busy road.

  6. We can barely feed us; we can’t feed him, too.

  7. He’d tear up my half of the garden.

  8. We couldn’t go away on trips.

  9. No one has time to walk him every day

  10. No one would want to clear up his mess.

  etc… etc… etc…

  ‘I’ll walk him every day,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll clear up any mess. Promise!’

  (Honestly! Are you subjected to this sort of rubbish?)

  ‘How can you say that?’ I practically screamed. ‘How can you? When did you last clear out the goldfish bowl? Look at this garden you were so keen on at the start! Remember the yoga classes? You spent all that money on that orange and pink leotard, and stopped going after only two weeks! How can you look me in the eye and promise you’ll care for this dog as long as he lives?’

  ‘He won’t live long,’ said Crusher. ‘Look at him. He’s on his last legs.’

  We all looked at the dog. Crusher was right. He was practically a basket case already with his great drooping mildewed tail and his scraggy body, his chewed-up ears and his pathetic look.

  ‘No,’ Crusher said, shaking his head gravely. That dog won’t live long.’

  (We were to remind him of this prediction of his some time later.)

  We were still staring at the dog when the catch on the gate rattled. We all swung round. It was the man who had come round to see Crusher’s car.

  Crusher was all over him in an instant. He was desperate to sell the car. It had been nothing but trouble from the day he bought it.

  ‘Come in, Mr Willoughby,’ he cried. ‘No trouble finding us, I hope? Come in and have a cup of coffee.’

  He shepherded Mr Willoughby into the house. Mum followed them. I looked around. The dog was digging a great hole among my petunias.

  ‘Clear off!’ I yelled. ‘Go home! Disappear!’ But the old mange-ball just curled up in one of Mum’s two halves of smashed sink, and fell asleep.

  I went inside.

  Crusher was standing in the middle of the kitchen, fussing about the car keys. He couldn’t find them. And Mr Willoughby was beginning to look just a little impatient.

  ‘I haven’t got very long,’ he warned.

  ‘I had them only a few minutes ago,’ cried Crusher, mystified. ‘They were right here, in my pocket!’

  Mr Willoughby glanced at his watch.

  ‘They’re somewhere here!’ said Crusher. ‘They must be!’

  ‘Can’t buy a car without a little test drive,’ said Mr Willoughby.

  Crusher was desperate. He was whirling about, looking on all the shelves and table-tops, patting his body in search of a telltale bulge.

  ‘Minna!’ he said. ‘Look round the garden, will you, in case I happened to drop them there.’

  Now I’ll give Crusher Maggot his due. He doesn’t order me about much. (A lot less than I order him about, anyhow.) He doesn’t take advantage of the fact that he’s grown-up and I’m not, and he’s with my mum. He doesn’t tell me to do things as if he were my own father, which he’s not. He doesn’t push his luck.

  So when he does ask me to do something, I usually try to cooperate.

  ‘Just car keys, is it?’ I asked.

  That’s right,’ said Crusher. ‘On that plastic key ring – the one that looks like a bone.’

  Looks like a bone? Looks like a bone!

  ‘That dog,’ I said, ‘was digging a hole in my petunias a few minutes ago.’

  And I went out to have a look.

  I was right. We found the keys in no time at all. The dog hadn’t buried them very far down. Perhaps he got bored, or maybe he was simply too lazy to bother to dig very deep. But there they were, anyway, a couple of inches under the surface, and still attached to the plastic bone key ring.

  Crusher was delighted. He said to Mr Willoughby:

  ‘I’ll start the car up for you, and we’ll go for a spin round the estate.’

  ‘I’ll start the car,’ said Mr Willoughby. (Clearly he was no slouch when it came to buying secondhand cars.)

  ‘I’ll start it,’ insisted Crusher. (Clearly he was no slouch at selling them, either.) ‘Backing out into this street is rather tricky.’

  Mr Willoughby was polite. He looked suspicious, but he didn’t press the matter.

  So that was how it came about that it was Crusher in the driving seat when the car backed out. Mr Willoughby stood beside Mum and me, watching, as Crusher slid in the car and pulled the safety belt over his shoulders. He switched on the ignition and started the engine.

  It coughed straight into life. (Only Crusher can do it, and not all that often.)

  ‘It starts well, doesn’t it?’ Mum said to Mr Willoughby, chattily.

  Crusher pushed the gearstick into reverse and released the handbrake. He looked in the mirror to check there was no traffic coming down the street, and then checked once again over his shoulder. He let the clutch up a little, and slowly, steadily, the car reversed.

  Straight over the dog.

  It had been lying curled up fast asleep behind the back wheel.

  I’m not going to describe the scene. (I know you wouldn’t want it.) Suffice it to say that, for the very first time since I had given it him, Crusher had well and truly lived up to his nickname.

  Mum always knows exactly what to do in an emergency. She covered her face with her spread hands.

  ‘Crusher,’ she said. ‘Fetch the coal-shovel right away’

  ‘Minna,’ she said. ‘Run in the house and find one of those nice big plastic rubbish bags for Crusher.’

  ‘Mr Willoughby,’ she said. ‘Come in the house with me and finish your coffee.’

  And, keeping her hands firmly over her face, she turned away, and Mr Willoughby obediently followed. As she strode to the back door, Crusher and I distinctly heard her saying:

  ‘Fancy that poor old dog choosing a spot like that to lie down and die so naturally and peacefully in its sle
ep. We’ll just bury it nicely. It won’t take a moment. And then you can take the car out again.’

  Mr Willoughby was clearly too shaken to argue. Crusher wielded the coal-shovel like a maniac. He was quite desperate not to lose his sale. Within three minutes he had dug a hole at least two feet deep. My poor petunias flew off the shovel in clumps.

  ‘Why can’t you bury the thing in Mum’s patch?’ I grumbled.

  ‘You wait,’ he consoled me. ‘This is a natural fertilizer, this is. Next year your pansies will come up like sunflowers. You ought to plant a vine here, really.’

  I wasn’t impressed.

  As soon as Mum saw through the window that we were all cleared up, she ushered Mr Willoughby outside again, and Crusher ushered him inside the car. He was still dazed. He didn’t even seem to notice how long it took him to start up the engine, and if he realized that awful clunking noise was coming from under the bonnet, he didn’t say so.

  In fact, he can’t have been himself at all. He bought the car. He counted five ten-pound notes into Crusher’s spread hand.

  ‘I’m not paying a penny more than fifty,’ he warned.

  ‘Done,’ Crusher agreed. ‘I’m really far too upset to argue.’

  And Mr Willoughby drove off in the car.

  Crusher spun me round and round in his arms. (I knew he was ecstatic. Usually he says I’m far too big for that now, and I’ll put his back out.)

  ‘Good old Minna!’ he cried. ‘Finding those keys! Fetching the rubbish bag! Letting me bury the dog among your petunias! We’re fifty pounds richer today because of your help. Anything you want, Minna! Anything! Just name it!’

  I thought. There’s lots of things I want. But one thing I wanted more than anything else.

  ‘Anything, Crusher?’

  ‘Anything!’

  ‘Anything at all?’

  He was adamant.