Muddle Earth

by Chris Riddell

‘He did,’ came a gruff voice. ‘He definitely said destroy.’

  ‘But that would be marvellous,’ said another. ‘Maybe we should let them go after all.’

  Randalf stopped rolling on the ground, moaning, and looked up. With a shuffling, rustling, grunting sort of a noise, the trees were moving slowly out of the way. Little by little, a narrow avenue was opening up, along which, when it was wide enough, Randalf and the others could walk. Randalf picked up his hat and staff and puffed out his chest.

  ‘I told you it was just a misunderstanding,’ he said to Brenda. Veronica flapped down and landed on his hat. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Randalf,’ she said, ‘you’ve certainly weaved some sort of spell on these trees.’

  ‘Come on Norbert, Joe,’ Randalf called, striding forward. ‘Don’t dilly-dally. We’ve got important business to attend to in Giggle Glade!’

  ‘Go on!’ yelled a loud voice excitedly. ‘Go on!’

  Others joined in. ‘Throw it!’ ‘Go on, throw it!’ And a chorus of, ‘In his face! In his face!’ broke out, followed by whoops and cheers and cries of encouragement.

  ‘I’m waiting!’ shouted a voice above all the rest. ‘Let me have it!’

  There was a brief silence, followed by a loud, squelchy SPLAT! And, with a huge cheer, the crowd roared its approval.

  The Horned Baron, who was listening from outside, turned to his manservant. ‘Sounds like a lively crowd tonight, Benson,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed, sir,’ said Benson, seizing his arm. ‘But as I was saying, the latest ransom note, sir. You really should read it. Here, look . . . This time, it says they intend doing something utterly dastardly if you don’t answer their demands at once. They’re going to start with her toenails, then move up to her fingernails, and then . . .’

  ‘Not now, Benson,’ said the Horned Baron distractedly as a second SPLAT! and a roar of laughter exploded from the other side of the door. He twirled his moustache, straightened his gleaming horned helmet and adjusted his sparkly tights. ‘Mucky Maud’s, here I come!’ he announced as he shoved the swing doors open.

  The heat, the noise and the heady pungent aroma of sweet, creamy desserts all combined to create an atmosphere that made Goblintown’s infamous Lumpy Custard Club unique. The Horned Baron went weak at the knees as he looked round the great terraced chamber.

  ‘Marvellous,’ he whispered.

  There were goblins everywhere – customers seated on stools at innumerable overladen tables; waiters and waitresses with trayfuls of phlegm pies, sneezed-on treacle tarts and bowls of multi-coloured gloop balanced on their upraised hands; a conga-line, dripping with lumpy custard and stinky rice pudding, weaving its way around the club. The place was seething.

  At the crowded bar, a scrum of goblins struggled to gain the attention of the barkeeper – a surly looking character wearing a white shirt and black bow tie – bellowing out their orders and jostling for position. In the corner, a lone goblin with a long face and a lugubrious expression cranked the handle of a barrel organ round and round, filling Mucky Maud’s with the sound of swirling hurdy-gurdy music. Above their heads, a glitter ball slowly turned, sending darts of light flying through the air.

  ‘Absolutely first rate!’ the Horned Baron exclaimed, a huge grin plastered across his face. ‘It’s all so deliciously . . . mucky.’ He sighed. ‘Ingrid would never approve.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Benson shouted above the din and waved the ransom note under his nose. ‘And with the Baroness in mind, if we could . . .’

  Just then, a slightly stooped gnome wearing a long, stained black jacket and grubby striped trousers appeared before them. ‘Good evening!’ he said warmly. ‘And welcome to Mucky Maud’s Lumpy Custard Club and a night to remember! I don’t believe we’ve seen sir here before.’

  ‘This is my first time,’ the Horned Baron admitted.

  ‘I knew it,’ said the goblin. ‘As head waiter, I pride myself on never forgetting a face – or so magnificent a helmet. It looks freshly buffed.’

  The Horned Baron nodded. ‘And I’ve just had the horns repointed,’ he said.

  ‘Splendid,’ said the head waiter. ‘Perhaps sir would like me to put it away safely in the cloakroom?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said the Horned Baron, shaking his head. ‘I never go anywhere without my helmet,’ he said. ‘I am, after all, the Horned Baron.’

  The gnome gasped with surprise. ‘The Horned Baron, I should have known!’ he said. ‘The Horned Baron. My word, sir, but we are honoured.’ He extended a sticky hand. ‘Smarm at your service, sir.’

  The Horned Baron nodded.

  Smarm giggled. ‘The Horned Baron!’ he said. ‘I can hardly believe it! And you’ve got such a treat in store this evening. Now, if sir would like to take a bib and follow me, I shall show you to the best table in the house.’ He winked conspiratorially. ‘It’s right in the firing line.’ He turned on his heels. ‘Walk this way.’

  ‘If I could walk that way, I’d be seriously worried,’ Benson muttered under his breath as he followed Smarm and the Horned Baron down the steps from the doorway and on to the club floor.

  The music grew louder; the crowd more uproarious. As Smarm led him past the bar, the Horned Baron – bib secured around his neck – watched with interest as a tall ogre in messy dungarees pushed his way to the front.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ demanded the barkeeper gruffly.

  ‘Get me a double meringue cream-pie,’ said the ogre.

  ‘Coming right up,’ said the barkeeper as he ladled a thick, sticky mixture into a large glass, topped it off with two meringues and a cherry, and tossed the whole lot into the waiting ogre’s face.

  SPLAT!

  ‘Lovely!’ said the ogre, his voice slightly muffled. He slammed a gold piece down on the counter. ‘And one for yourself!’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the surly barkeeper. He looked up and down the bar. ‘Next!’ he bellowed.

  Voices shouted out insistently.‘Me! Me! Me!’ ‘I was here first!’ ‘Stop pushing in!’ ‘A sneezed-on treacle tart with all the trimmings!’

  ‘Would sir like something from the bar?’ asked Smarm.

  ‘Yes,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Barman,’ he called out imperiously. ‘A couple of the finest custard pies known to Goblinkind, if you please.’

  ‘You’ll have what you’re given and like it,’ the barkeeper growled, causing a ripple of laughter to run the length of the bar.

  ‘Send them over to the upper table,’ said the head waiter. He turned to the Horned Baron. ‘This way, sir.’

  He led them up a short flight of stairs to a jutting platform. The table there was occupied, the six seats taken up with half a dozen brightly made-up goblin matrons in stained ball gowns and dripping tiaras. Smarm quickly ushered them away and wiped a dirty cloth over the table top.

  ‘Take a seat, your Baron-ness,’ he said, holding the back of a chair and pushing it in as the Horned Baron sat down. ‘The evening’s entertainment will soon be getting under way.’

  Benson took the chair opposite – just as two rice puddings with yellow toe-jam sailed over his head. In the corner close by, two goblins squealed with delight as they were abruptly splattered with strawberry and garlic blancmange.

  ‘Looks like it’s already started,’ observed the Horned Baron.

  ‘That’s nothing, sir’ said the head waiter. ‘You just wait till the heavyweight trifles start flying.’

  Just then, a waiter – dripping with rice pudding and chocolate sauce – arrived from the bar with the two large custard pies on a tray. He set them down in front of Benson and the Horned Baron.

  ‘Compliments of the house,’ said Smarm.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Horned Baron, picking up his pie. He turned to Benson. ‘Here’s custard in your eye!’ he cried, and shoved the custard pie into his manservant’s face.

  ‘Blobberly bloof!’ Benson spluttered, wiping his mouth on his bib. ‘You’re too kind, sir. Allow me!’ He picked up his own pie and
pushed it into the Horned Baron’s eagerly awaiting face.

  ‘Yum!’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Outstanding! Two more custard pies,’ he called out to the departing waiter. ‘And keep them coming!’

  With the head waiter gone, the Horned Baron turned to Benson, his eyes gleaming excitedly.‘My word, this makes me feel young again!’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I’d quite forgotten what it was like on a Saturday night in Goblintown,’ he said. ‘In the old days, I really used to let my hair down.’

  Benson frowned. ‘You did, sir?’

  ‘Or course, that was when I still had hair to let down,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘You wouldn’t think it to see me now, Benson, but in the past – when I was young – I was quite the ladies’ man.’

  ‘You’re right, sir,’ said Benson. ‘You wouldn’t think it!’

  ‘Oh, yes, Benson,’ the Horned Baron went on, ‘there wasn’t a goblin maiden in all Goblintown who could resist my charms, I can tell you.’

  Benson nodded. ‘This would be before you met Baroness Ingrid,’ he said.

  ‘Obviously, Benson,’ said the Horned Baron wistfully, a faraway look in his eye. ‘I knew when I met Ingrid that my custard pie throwing days were over.’

  Just then, a second waiter appeared. ‘Two custard pies,’ he announced.

  ‘That’s us,’ said the Horned Baron.

  With the organ-grinder cranking the handle of his barrel organ round faster and faster, the thumping music grew increasingly frantic. All round the vast room, tables of goblins, trolls and ogres bellowed out their orders. ‘More stinky-toffee pudding.’ ‘Stiltmouse milk mousse all round!’ ‘Gob pie!’ And, as the air filled with volley after volley of lumpy custard pies flying across the room, yells of delight and shrieks of pleasure echoed round the walls.

  A stray custard pie struck the side of the Horned Baron’s helmet and dangled from one of the pointy horns. ‘My goodness!’ he exclaimed with a chuckle. ‘The place really is beginning to jump!’ He turned his attention to the lumpy custard pie in front of him. He smacked his lips. ‘Would you care to do the honours, Benson?’

  Suddenly, all the lights went out, plunging the club into darkness. The Horned Baron drew back from the custard pie and peered round. The next moment, a spotlight came on at the far end of the room and shone down on a set of red satin curtains at the top of a grand, sweeping staircase.

  The crowd, as one, held its breath. All at once, the curtains trembled, parted and a portly troll appeared at the top of the staircase. A great cheer went up.

  ‘It’s her!’ someone shouted.

  ‘It’s Mucky Maud!’

  Resplendent in a tight, sparkly cocktail dress (with a particularly magnificent blancmange stain down one side), her thick hair, decorated with lazybird plumes, piled up high on her head, Mucky Maud cut an impressive figure. And as the barrel organ music struck up a tune, she made her way slowly, slinkily, down the flight of stairs.

  When she reached the bottom, Mucky Maud turned to the lugubrious goblin at the barrel organ. ‘Play it again, Spam!’ she whispered.

  The organ-grinder pulled a lever and turned the handle. A loud, pounding beat burst forth – Oom-pah-pah! Oom-pah-pah! – and the Horned Baron smiled as the strains of a familiar tune started up. Mucky Maud raised her head and started singing.

  ‘You put the lumps in my custard,

  You put the wobble in my jelly,

  You really curdle my caramel, baby,

  When you trifle with me!’

  Her voice growing louder, Mucky Maud sauntered through the club, in amongst her adoring audience. Every so often, she would pause for a moment at a table – to ruffle goblin hair, tickle goblin chins, and push eager goblin faces down into waiting custard pies. Whatever she did, the crowd cheered. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand – literally!

  As the song approached its soaring finale, the organ-grinder cranked up his barrel organ. Mucky Maud’s strident voice soared over the deafening accompaniment.

  ‘And so I say . . .’

  The Horned Baron held his breath. She was coming towards him.

  ‘And so I say to you . . .’

  She was approaching his table. He turned away, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. It was as though Mucky Maud was singing to him; as if the words of the song were meant for him, and him alone . . .

  ‘And so I say-i-yaaaaaay . . .’ As she held the note, she came up behind the Horned Baron and trailed her long fingers across his shoulders and over his shiny helmet. All at once, she fell still, took a breath and completed the song in a low, husky whisper. ‘Don’t you ever trifle with me.’

  ‘Bravo!’ roared the Horned Baron, clapping enthusiastically. ‘Bravo!’

  Mucky Maud moved round to face him. The Horned Baron looked up. Their eyes met.

  ‘You!’ he gasped.

  It was gone four in the morning. Already, pink stinky hogs were stirring in the Perfumed Bog as the first batbirds flapped across the sky above their heads. The sky was cloudless. The air was still. It promised to be a beautiful day.

  In Mucky Maud’s Lumpy Custard Club, the night was finally coming to an end. Most of the customers had already gone home, and the waiters and waitresses were busy clearing up the mess they’d left – hosing down the tables and stacking the chairs. An ogre and a couple of goblins were still propping up the bar.

  ‘Sixsh more cushtard piesh,’ one of them demanded groggily.

  ‘You’ve had enough,’ said the barkeeper gruffly as he rubbed a filthy cloth over the glasses, making sure they’d be nice and dirty for the evening.

  ‘Oh, go on, me old mate,’ pleaded the ogre.

  ‘Bar’s shut,’ said the barkeeper sharply. ‘And I am not your “old mate”. Go on, push off. Haven’t you got homes to go to?’

  ‘Shp’oe sho,’ said the ogre and the two goblins in unison, and they turned and shuffled reluctantly away.

  ‘Shtill, it’sh been a good night,’ one of them muttered as he fell with a splat into a soggy heap of trifle and blancmange. He licked his fingers. ‘A very good night.’

  In the corner, the barrel organ was still pumping out music, but slowly now, and softly, as the lugubrious goblin grew wearier and wearier. He eyed the upper table sleepily, where Mucky Maud was sitting on the Horned Baron’s knee. Until she decided to leave, Spam had no option but to keep playing – and judging by the giggles and guffaws of laughter coming from her direction, there was no saying when that might be.

  ‘I still can’t get over it,’ the Horned Baron sighed, his face turning serious. ‘After all this time . . .’

  ‘I know,’ said Mucky Maud.

  ‘Oh, Fifi!’ he said suddenly, and grasped her hand. ‘How could I ever have been so stupid?’

  Mucky Maud shook her head. ‘It was fated never to be, Walter,’ she said. ‘After all, you were wealthy, well-to-do, with the whole of Muddle Earth at your feet.’ She paused. ‘While I . . . a young troll from the wrong side of Trollbridge . . .’

  ‘But Fifi, you had such dreams back then. Whatever happened to the troll I once knew who said she would never rest until she had made her fortune in the Muddle Earth turnip market? Eh? What happened to those dreams, Fifi?’

  ‘Oh, Walter, I tried, believe me,’ said Mucky Maud. ‘Gave it my best shot. But in the end, I had to concede that I wasn’t good enough. I simply didn’t have what it took!’

  ‘But, Fifi . . .’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like in the turnip business,’ she went on. ‘It’s a cut-throat, troll-eat-troll world, believe me. The endless contests and shows. The constant pressure . . . Too much rain. Not enough. The blight, the canker, the root rot. Not to mention the purple turnip weevils . . .’

  ‘The purple turnip weevils?’ said the Horned Baron.

  ‘I told you not to mention them,’ said Mucky Maud. She sighed. ‘Anyway, that’s all in the past now. When I finally admitted to myself that I’d never make it big in turnips, I came to Goblintown – to start a n
ew life. I got into custard and never looked back.’

  From the opposite side of the table there came a low gurgle as Benson – fast asleep and head down in a bowl of custard – burped. The Horned Baron snorted. ‘I told him not to have that third rancid butter surprise,’ he muttered.

  ‘Of course, I had to change my name,’ she continued without a break. ‘If it ever got out, it would have caused an absolute scandal. I’d never have been able to show my face in Trollbridge again. And so Mucky Maud was born.’

  ‘You’ll always be Fifi to me,’ said the Horned Baron, squeezing her hand affectionately. He shook his head sadly at the thought of what could have been; what should have been. ‘But, Fifi!’ he groaned. ‘Why didn’t you come to me?’

  Mucky Maud sniffed. ‘Look at it from my point of view. You, the Horned Baron, ruler of Muddle Earth and me, a mere custard-club singer. It would never have worked out. We both knew that!’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And now it’s too late!’ she wailed.

  ‘But it doesn’t have to be too late,’ the Horned Baron said gently. ‘I’ve got a little vegetable garden back at my castle. We can grow turnips! I’ll take you away from all this. We can start again . . .’

  ‘Oh, Horny,’ said Mucky Maud. ‘Could we? Dare we? This is all a dream!’

  ‘A dream that together, we shall make come true,’ the Horned Baron told her. He looked round. ‘Benson!’

  The manservant started, looked up and wiped the custard from his face. ‘Sir?’ he mumbled sleepily.

  ‘We’re leaving, Benson,’ said the Horned Baron. ‘Take Mucky M . . .’ He turned to her. Their eyes met and they smiled at one another. ‘I mean, take Miss Fifi’s cape,’ he said.

  Benson looked puzzled. ‘But sir . . .’ he began.

  ‘No “buts”, Benson,’ the Horned Baron snapped. ‘Just do it!’

  ‘Put the kettle on, mother, it goes with your eyes. The moon’s a baboon . . .’

  Randalf spun round and stared at the ogre, aghast. ‘Norbert!’ he said. ‘You haven’t . . . You didn’t . . .’