The Clumsies Make a Mess of the Big Show

by Sorrel Anderson

  ‘Get off,’ said the girl.

  ‘We can’t. We’re all caught up,’ said Purvis. He wriggled to demonstrate and the tree lurched suddenly sideways.

  ‘Oh, I’m going to be sick, I’m going to be sick,’ groaned Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Not on here you don’t,’ said the girl, grabbing him. ‘It’s against the rules.

  ‘Can we have a look at these rules?’ asked Purvis.

  ‘No,’ said the girl. ‘It’s against—’

  ‘Please,’ said Purvis, ‘we could be stuck on here for ages so—’

  ‘WHAT?’ squawked the girl and Mickey Thompson together.

  ‘So if we could read them we’d know what not to do,’ said Purvis. ‘Which would mean less trouble for you.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said the girl. ‘Wait here.’ She let go of Mickey Thompson and started to clamber back up the branches.

  ‘What are you on about?’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘We don’t want to read the rules.’

  ‘I know,’ giggled Purvis, ‘but it got rid of her, didn’t it?’

  ‘No giggling,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘No sicking,’ spluttered Purvis.

  ‘Ooh, now you come to mention it,’ said Mickey Thompson, ‘I still feel. . . ’

  PING! went the lift doors opening and Howard came out.

  ‘Howard!’ called Purvis. ‘Help! We’re stuck!’

  ‘SAVE US!’ yelled Mickey Thompson, theatrically.

  Howard went over to the tree and regarded them.

  ‘Explanation?’ he said.

  ‘The trolley upset the lift and we got shot out on to here,’ said Purvis. ‘We’d only wanted a look. And it’s sharp.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mickey Thompson, ‘and then a girl with wings came and told us off and it wasn’t even our fault. And I feel sick. And I want to get off.’

  ‘It seems a pity to move you,’ said Howard. ‘You look so festive.’

  ‘HOWARD!’ shouted the mice.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Howard. ‘Give me a chance.’

  He found a chair, stood on it, and fumbled about.

  ‘Ouch,’ he said.

  ‘I did say,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Careful, you’re making everything sway.’

  ‘OUCH!’ shouted Howard, untangling them, and stuffing them in his pocket.

  ‘Err, Howard,’ said Purvis, peeping out.

  ‘Shush,’ said Howard.

  ‘Behind you,’ whispered Purvis.

  ‘Yes, very funny,’ said Howard.

  ‘Ah-hem,’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘AgH!’ said Howard, falling off the chair.

  ‘Well?’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘And what is it this time?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Howard. ‘Hello! I was just having a look at the beautiful tree.’

  ‘And why the chair?’ enquired Mr Bullerton.

  ‘I wanted to get very high up,’ said Howard, ‘and close, so I could. . . err. . . ’

  ‘Steal the tinsel?’ suggested Mr Bullerton.

  ‘No, no,’ said Howard, backing towards the lift. ‘I wasn’t stealing it. I was. . . err. . . ’

  ‘Do tell,’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘Smelling it,’ said Howard, backing into the lift.

  ‘What?’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘Feeling it,’ said Howard, pressing the button. ‘The Christmas spirit; like you said I should.’

  ‘COME BACK HERE,’ shouted Mr Bullerton. ‘I. . . wait. What’s that noise?’

  CLATTER! went the trolley, hurtling into the foyer.

  ‘TIMBER!’ hooted the trolley, bashing into the tree.

  CRASH! went the tree, toppling onto Mr Bullerton.

  ‘ARMITAGE!’ roared Mr Bullerton, as the lift doors shut and Howard and the Clumsies whooshed away.

  ‘Phew,’ said Howard. ‘That was close.’

  ‘Yes, phew,’ said Purvis. ‘Err, Howard. . . ’

  ‘And he can’t blame it on me,’ said Howard. ‘I wasn’t anywhere near that tree when it fell over.’

  ‘No,’ said Purvis. ‘Err, Howard. . . ’

  ‘What now?’ said Howard.

  ‘Too late,’ said Purvis.

  ‘I’ve just been sick in your pocket, Howard,’ said Mickey Thompson, cheerfully.

  ‘Oh, marvellous,’ said Howard.

  Uncle Gillian

  hey’ve propped it up again,’ said Howard, when he arrived the next morning. ‘The tree, I mean.’

  ‘How does it look?’ asked Purvis.

  ‘Wonky,’ said Howard.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Purvis.

  ‘And scraggy,’ said Howard. ‘A lot of the needles have fallen off.’

  ‘Gggd,’ said Mickey Thompson, shovelling porridge into his mouth.

  ‘Careful,’ said Howard. ‘I don’t want—’

  ‘LOOK OUT!’ shouted Purvis.

  ‘AAGH!’ squawked Howard, leaping.

  There was a clacketty rattley noise in the corridor and the Clumsies dived under the desk.

  ‘Delivery for Howard Armitage!’ announced the postman, coming in with a small envelope.

  ‘What’s up, Howard?’

  ‘I thought he was going to be sick again,’ said Howard.

  ‘Eh?’ said the postman.

  ‘Mic—’ coughed Howard. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Mick? Who’s Mick?’ said the postman.

  ‘No one,’ said Howard.

  ‘But you said. . . ’

  ‘TEA?’ shouted Howard.

  ‘Best leave it till later,’ said the postman, ‘what with all the you know what with the thing and the you know who.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Howard.

  ‘Still in a fury, he is,’ said the postman. ‘He said to say have you finished the work in those boxes yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Howard. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘And did you take something he’s lost, or something.’

  ‘No,’ said Howard. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Right then,’ said the postman, waving the envelope. ‘Funny one this: “Care Of” it says.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Howard.

  ‘You,’ said the postman. ‘Care of you, for someone called Purvis. Any ideas?’

  ‘NO!’ shouted Howard. ‘I’ll take it.’

  ‘Long as you’re sure,’ said the postman, handing it over and leaving.

  ‘What is it?’ said Purvis, rushing out.

  ‘Just wait,’ said Howard. ‘I’m looking.’

  ‘Let me see!’ said Purvis. ‘It’s for me!’

  ‘Care of me,’ said Howard. ‘Expecting something, were you?’

  ‘No,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Howard. ‘Odd.’

  He turned the envelope over, and held it up to the light.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Howard. ‘Stop jabbing.’

  ‘But Howard,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right,’ said Howard. ‘Here, take it.’

  Purvis took it, and opened it.

  ‘Oh,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Well?’ said Howard.

  ‘Err,’ said Purvis.

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Uncle Gillian’scoming to visit,’said Purvis.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Who?’ said Howard.

  ‘Our uncle,’ said Purvis. ‘Mickey Thompson’s, and mine.’

  ‘But what did you say the name was?’ said Howard.

  ‘Uncle Gillian,’ said Purvis.

  ‘No, no,’ said Howard. ‘Aunty, surely.’

  ‘No,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Or uncle something-or-other-else.’

  ‘No,’ said Purvis. ‘It’s definitely Uncle Gillian.’

  ‘Uncle Gillian,’ echoed Mickey Thompson.

  ‘But. . . surely,’ said Howard, rubbing his head. ‘And anyway. . . how. . . ’

  ‘LOOK OUT!’ shouted Purvis. There was a whizzing noise and something small and round hurtled into the room. It had a big hat and a long scarf and a large bag.
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  ‘IT’S ME!’ boomed Uncle Gillian.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Howard.

  ‘So, here we all are,’ said Uncle Gillian, looking around. ‘Nice elephant.’

  ‘Toot,’ went Ortrud, in agreement.

  ‘Kettle, Purvis,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Yes, Uncle Gillian,’ said Purvis.

  ‘The room’s smaller than I expected,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Howard, ‘I’m—’

  ‘And what are all these boxes?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Yes, excuse me,’ said Howard, ‘I’m—’

  ‘And where are the biscuits?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Yes, excuse me,’ said Howard. ‘I am Howard Armitage, and—’

  ‘Whatty Whatterdidge?’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

  ‘It is my name,’ said Howard, ‘and this is my office.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Unfortunately, yes,’ said Howard.

  ‘It belongs to my nephews,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘TEA!’ shouted Purvis.

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ said Howard.

  ‘If it’s yours as you claim, you should tidy it up,’ said Uncle Gillian, flinging the bag and hat. ‘It’s disorganised. What are you doing?’ he asked, looking at Howard.

  ‘He’s groaning,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Why?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Sometimes he does,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘It’s not normal,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Hoy. You.’

  ‘Youch,’ squawked Howard. ‘That hurt.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Where are the—’

  ‘LOOK OUT!’ yelled Purvis, and the Clumsies dived under the desk.

  ‘What are you doing?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Hiding,’ whispered Purvis. ‘Quick, come under.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘I don’t like the look of it.’

  ‘Get under,’ hissed Howard.

  ‘I shan’t,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘You’ve all taken leave of your senses.’

  ‘GET UNDERNEATH!’ shouted Howard, shoving Uncle Gillian under the desk just in time as the door crashed open and Mr Bullerton

  stomped in.

  ‘What?’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘Hello, Mr Bullerton,’ said Howard.

  ‘What did you just shout?’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘HELLO MR BULLERTON,’ shouted Howard.

  ‘Not that,’ tutted Mr Bullerton. ‘You were shouting something before the hello Mr Bullerton bit.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ said Howard.

  ‘Oh, yes you were,’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘Err, no I wasn’t,’ said Howard.

  ‘WHAT?’ roared Mr Bullerton. ‘Don’t try and be funny with me, matey.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ said Howard, ‘I—’

  ‘This is not a PANTOMIME.’

  ‘No, Mr Bullerton,’ said Howard.

  ‘It is AN OFFICE.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Bullerton,’ said Howard.

  ‘It is a PLACE OF WORK,’ continued Mr Bullerton, ‘where we undertake useful activities in an appropriate manner.’

  ‘Indeed it is we do, Mr Bullerton,’ said Howard.

  ‘So why were you shouting in an empty room?’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘Just for the joy of it all,’ muttered Howard.

  ‘What?’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘Speak up.’

  ‘I was just singing a joyful carol,’ said Howard.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mr Bullerton, sounding thoughtful.

  ‘Anyway the room wasn’t empty,’ said Howard. ‘I was in it.’

  ‘That amounts to the same thing,’ said Mr Bullerton, unpleasantly. ‘And you know what else is empty, don’t you?’

  ‘No, Mr Bullerton,’ said Howard.

  ‘THE TOP OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE,’ bellowed Mr Bullerton.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Howard.

  ‘You will be if you don’t put that fairy back on sharpish,’ said Mr Bullerton.

  ‘But I haven’t got it,’ said Howard.

  ‘You were on a chair, by the tree, fiddling about,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘Don’t try and deny it.’

  ‘But I didn’t take it,’ said Howard.

  ‘PAH,’ said Mr Bullerton. ‘Put the fairy back where the fairy ought to be or I shall have you arrested.’

  ‘Surely not?’ said Howard.

  ‘You’ve got ONE HOUR,’ said Mr Bullerton, stomping off.

  ‘What are we going to do? What are we going to do?’ said Purvis, rushing out and running around in circles.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do,’ said Howard, leaping up and running around in other circles.

  ‘Toot toot. Toot toot,’ went Ortrud, joining in.

  ‘If I were you,’ said Uncle Gillian, ‘I’d put the fairy back, like the man told you to.’

  ‘Oh,YES!’ said Howard. ‘Oh, what a WONDERFUL idea. Oh, why didn’t I think of THAT?’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Well, how can I put it BACK WHEN I HAVEN’T GOT IT?’ shouted Howard.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Uncle Gillian, narrowing his eyes at Howard.

  ‘What do mean hmm?’ said Howard.

  ‘It seemed to me the man knew what he was talking about,’ said Uncle Gillian, ‘and I have to say I found his argument convincing.’

  ‘AGGHGGGGGHHHHH AGH,’ went Howard.

  ‘Now what’s he doing?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Banging the floor with his head,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Sometimes he does.’

  ‘No, it’s a new one,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘He’s upset,’ explained Purvis.

  ‘Is he?’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Well, we can’t have that, can we? Somebody put the kettle on.’

  ‘Please,’ croaked Howard. ‘Somebody do.’

  So Purvis put the kettle on and they all had a cup of tea and calmed down.

  ‘Right then,’ said Howard, draining his cup. ‘I’d better go and see if I can find this wretched tree ornament.’

  ‘We’ll help,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘But first we must draw up a plan of action.’

  ‘Why must we?’ said Howard.

  ‘So we know what we have to do,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘We do know,’ said Howard.

  ‘That isn’t the point,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘There isn’t the time,’ said Howard.

  ‘Fetch me some paper and a pencil, Purvis,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Fine,’ said Howard. ‘You do that, and I’ll go and find the fairy.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Fine,’ said Howard.

  ‘I thought you’d gone,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Harrumph,’ said Howard, leaving.

  ‘Good,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Now we can get on. Name?’

  ‘Purvis,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Not you,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘The fairy.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Purvis. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We didn’t ask,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘That was impolite,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘But there wasn’t the chance,’ said Purvis, ‘we—’

  ‘And foolish,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘How can we look for something if we don’t know what it’s called?’

  ‘But we know what she looks like,’ said Purvis.

  ‘First things first,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Step one: name the target. We need something catchy and distinctive. Ideas!’

  ‘Err,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Um,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Think!’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Give me your best.’

  ‘Um,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Err,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Tut,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Wait.�
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  He rummaged in his bag, brought out a newspaper and turned to the back pages.

  ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Banana Tart.’

  ‘Where? Where?’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘In the 2:50 at Chepstow,’ said Uncle Gillian, tapping the paper.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mickey Thompson, disappointedly.

  ‘Don’t like it?’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘How about Zanzibar Lad?’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s suitable,’ said Purvis.

  ‘Brumpton’s Muffler?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘No,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Needs something frillier, you think, for a fairy?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Purvis.

  ‘She wasn’t a real fairy,’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘I could tell by the wings.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Tree Girl,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘What girl?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Tree Girl,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘I can’t tempt you to Moonlight Melody in the 3:15?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Tree Girl,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘If you must,’ sighed Uncle Gillian. ‘It’s accurate, I suppose, if sadly lacking in romance.’

  ‘That’s settled then,’ said Purvis. ‘And now we’d better get going.’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Uncle Gillian. ‘Step two: describe the target.’

  ‘But Uncle Gillian. . . ’ said Purvis.

  ‘And step two and a half is have another cup of tea,’ said Uncle Gillian, ‘so stick the

  ‘I’m worried we’ll run out of time,’ said Purvis, sticking it on. ‘We don’t want Howard to be arrested, do we?’

  ‘Don’t we?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘No,’ said Purvis, firmly.

  ‘You’d better hurry up with that tea then,’ said Uncle Gillian, ‘while Mickey Thompson tells me what Tree Girl looks like.’

  ‘There’s a face bit and a dress bit and some wing bits at the back,’ said Mickey Thompson. ‘Pretend ones.’

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mickey Thompson.

  ‘Well, it isn’t very good,’ said Uncle Gillian.

  ‘Sorry, Uncle Gillian,’ said Mickey Thompson.