You're a Bad Man, Mr Gum!

by Andy Stanton

  How the chest ended up in Mr Gum’s house nobody knows. But there it had stood for over forty years, unloved and unopened. As a result Mr Gum had never discovered Nathaniel’s sugary treasure, which just goes to prove that angry people always miss out on their rewards. They are so busy sniping and griping that they never see the good things around them.

  As the famous song says:

  So it was that Mr Gum found himself sitting on a sailors’ fortune of what may have been magic chocolate in terrible ignorance, hatching evil.

  ‘How do I know these cow hearts are gonna be rotten enough?’ he asked himself presently. ‘I’d better try eating one myself. If it kills me then I’ll know it’s rotten enough to use on that big woofer.’

  He took out a cow’s heart and opened his mouth wide.

  ‘This is one of the craftiest things I’ve ever done,’ he chuckled, raising the smelly greenish-red meat to his lips. ‘I am a very clever man.’ Mr Gum was just about to take a bite when he realised this might not be such a clever idea after all.

  He put the heart back into the bag and thoughtfully scratched his beard, not the beard that grew on his chin but a spare one that grew on the wall that he used for scratching at from time to time.

  In the end he decided to soak the rotten hearts in rat poison just to be sure. ‘It can’t fail!’ he cackled. ‘Old dogger is in for a surprise he won’t like at all!’

  Chapter 4

  Mr Gum Has a Cup of Tea

  Mr Gum had a cup of tea.

  Chapter 5

  Jammy Grammy Lammy F’Huppa F’Huppa Berlin Stereo Eo Eo Lebb C’Yepp Nermonica Le Straypek De Grespin De Crespin De Spespin De Vespin De Whoop De Loop De Brunkle Merry Christmas Lenoir

  T he next morning Mr Gum inspected the cow hearts. They had been soaking all night in rat poison and they were good and proper dangerous to dogs now, and gave off a foul smell even worse than before.

  That blibberin’ dog’ll be smelling this bad smell and with the animal instincts of animals he’ll refuse to eat ’em! thought the crafty old man. I’d better disguise the smell with something nice.

  shabba me whiskers

  Mr Gum looked through his kitchen cupboards but was there anything nice in there? Course there wasn’t. All he could find was a rotten turnip, a dried-up mushroom and a sock full of stale crisps. So off he headed into town. He was in a filthy mood and as he walked along he muttered to himself. ‘Shabba me whiskers,’ he muttered. ‘Who’d’ve thought poisoning that stupid whopper dog could be such hard work? What a bother it all is.’

  There was a little girl playing in the hedge as Mr Gum walked by and she heard what he said and grew alarmed.

  ‘What’s old Mr Gum up to now with talk of poisoning whopper dogs?’ said the little girl to herself. ‘What whopper dog can he mean?’ She ran through a list of all the whopper dogs that she knew. It didn’t take long because she only knew one – Jake, that big loveable golden old hound.

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘No! I won’t let it happen! I loves that dog, watch out cos it’s true! I loves him and what’s more, that dog saved my life once and now I’m not gonna stand by playing in a hedge while that old grizzler flippin’ poisons him to death and destruction! No way, says I! I’ll stop him, that’s what I’ll do!’

  Now this little girl’s name was Jammy Grammy Lammy F’Huppa F’Huppa Berlin Stereo Eo Eo Lebb C’Yepp Nermonica Le Straypek De Grespin De Crespin De Spespin De Vespin De Whoop De Loop De Brunkle Merry Christmas Lenoir, but her friends just called her Polly.

  You will have to make up your mind now whether or not you are her friend. If you are, then you can call her Polly too.

  But if you are not, then every time you see the name ‘Polly’ in this story, in your head you will have to say ‘Jammy Grammy Lammy F’Huppa F’Huppa Berlin Stereo Eo Eo Lebb C’Yepp Nermonica Le Straypek De Grespin De Crespin De Spespin De Vespin De Whoop De Loop De Brunkle Merry Christmas Lenoir’ instead. For instance, she’s about to go running down a hill, like this:

  Polly went racing down the hill like a runaway marble.

  Now if you’re her friend, then don’t worry about it. But if you’re not her friend you will have to read it like this:

  Jammy Grammy Lammy F’Huppa F’Huppa Berlin Stereo Eo Eo Lebb C’Yepp Nermonica Le Straypek De Grespin De Crespin De Spespin De Vespin De Whoop De Loop De Brunkle Merry Christmas Lenoir went racing down the hill like a runaway marble.

  Most people in Lamonic Bibber chose to be Polly’s friend for the sake of time and convenience.

  Luckily though, Polly was a girl worth liking. She was nine years old, with lovely sandy hair like a cat’s daydream and a smile as happy as the Bank of England. And when she laughed the sunlight went splashing off her pretty teeth like diamonds in search of adventure.

  So Polly went racing down the hill like a runaway marble, determined to find Jake the dog before he fell victim to Mr Gum’s evil scheme. She didn’t know exactly what the old man had in mind, but she knew her big friend was in trouble. She ran past the Olde Curiosity shoppe and then ran back because she was curious to see what was inside. Then she remembered the danger Jake was in and continued on her way. She ran past a dustbin filled with rubbish and then another one filled with rubbish and then another one filled with rubbish and then another one filled with princesses. Hmm, there was something unusual about one of those dustbins, she had time to think, but she had to keep on running. She ran past big trees, little trees, tiny little trees, and tiny tiny little trees so small they were more like pebbles, in fact they were pebbles. She ran past a cat’s ears which were lying on the pavement and a cat’s nose and whiskers which were lying on the pavement and a cat’s body and tail and legs and eyes and claws which were lying on the paveme– in fact it was all just one cat, lying on the pavement. She ran like the wind and then got tired and just walked like a breeze. But she soon sped up again because she was determined to save that tremendous dog.

  It was only after she’d been running for about half an hour that she remembered something quite important: she had absolutely no idea where Jake lived. And what’s more, she was no longer in Lamonic Bibber.

  She had come to the woods on the edge of town and they were big and scary and full of shadows. The ancient trees looked down from on high, stern and forbidding. ‘We are the trees,’ they seemed to whisper. ‘You are not welcome in this place. We are the trees.’ A cold wind blew, making Polly shiver, and she was certain one of the flowers was snarling at her.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she cried, sitting down on one of those massive toadstools you sometimes get in spooky woods.

  ‘I dunno where I am, an’ that old Jake’s facing the biggest challenge of his doggy life an’ I doesn’t know wheres to find him an’ that flower’s probbly gonna eat me!’ And with that she burst into tears.

  Just then an old man peered out the window of a secret cottage, half-hidden in the bushes behind her. Polly hadn’t noticed the cottage and I’m sure you wouldn’t have either. That’s the thing about secret cottages – they’re secret.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said the old man. ‘What have we here? A little girl in trouble.’

  And here this chapter ends, leaving you to wonder if the old man was Mr Gum or if it was a different old man who was going to be nasty to Polly and laugh at her and stuff. Or maybe he was a good man. Yes, this chapter ends here with me not telling you that Polly was sitting outside the cottage of Friday O’Leary, a fantastic old fellow who knew the mysteries of time and space and things of that nature. And with me not telling you that he is one of the heroes of this tale. Ha ha, I am keeping that information to myself and you will have to wait till Chapter 7 to find it out. That is what is known as suspense.

  Chapter 6

  Mr Gum Lays Down

  His Hearts

  Meanwhile, Mr Gum was a-mumblin’ and a-grumblin’ his way into town. He made his way past Billy William the Third’s Right Royal Meats and while he was tempted to go in, he knew that it would be a waste of tim
e. He would never find anything nice-smelling in Billy William’s butcher’s shop. That was one of the reasons Mr Gum liked him. Because he was a stinker.

  There were no customers with Billy William at that hour and Mr Gum could see him through the dirty window. He was playing a game of Butcher’s Darts, which is exactly the same as normal darts except that the board is a pig’s head and the darts are old sheep’s bones. Billy William had invented it one day when he was drunk. Mr Gum loved Butcher’s Darts but there was no time to pop in and challenge Billy William to a match. He had more important fish to fry. Or rather, to poison. Or rather, dog, not fish. He had more important dog to poison.

  So he continued on and crossed over to Mrs Lovely’s Wonderful Land of Sweets which was a sweetshop at the other end of the road. As you might guess, Mr Gum didn’t enjoy going in there at all because it was a wonderland of sweets and goodness, and Mr Gum was a filthy old devil who hated good things like sweets and birthday parties and kittens dressed as clowns. He would much rather hear a piano being demolished by illegal bulldozers than a Mozart concerto. He didn’t even like pop music, not even the Beatles. The only thing he liked about the Beatles was their name because they sounded like insects and you could scare people with insects.

  So he stepped into the sweetshop as cautiously as a paper hat in a storm. Immediately the air was full of marvellous scents. The powdery smell of sherbet lemons mingled with the odours of strawberry bombs and liquorice whips. Mr Gum felt sick. He felt as if he were being attacked by the forces of good. When he was a boy he had loved eating sweets, but that was before he turned into a bad man. Yet now he seemed to hear the voice of the boy he had once been, calling to him down the years.

  ‘Where did it go, all the good? Where, oh where? Turn again! Turn again! You can be good again, I know it. There is still time. Turn again, Mr Gum!’ said the voice in his head.

  He looked down and saw that the voice was not in his head after all, but belonged to a young boy who was standing next to him.

  ‘Turn again, Mr Gum! You can be good again,’ said the boy, offering him a fruit chew.

  For some strange reason, the boy’s honest face frightened Mr Gum more than anything else in that sweetshop.

  ‘All this talk of turning again,’ he snarled, shoving the boy out of the door. ‘I don’t like it, I tell ya. It makes me feel sick!’

  At that moment Mrs Lovely came tumbling out of the back room with her kindly eyes and kindly nose and kindly ears.

  How can noses and ears be kindly? wondered Mr Gum, but it was true. Everything about Mrs Lovely was kindly. She was even kindly to disgraces like Mr Gum and he could not bear this. It made him want to break down inside and cry all the bad things away.

  ‘Hello, you old witch,’ he sneered. ‘Give me some lemonade powder!’

  Mrs Lovely’s eyes sparkled. ‘Yes, it is a beautiful day, Mr Gum. Yes, indeed,’ she smiled as she measured out a bag of lemonade powder.

  ‘I don’t know what’s so lovely about it, you old menace,’ snarled Mr Gum, handing over some potatoes he had painted to look like pound coins to save money. He was annoyed to see that as soon as the potatoes touched Mrs Lovely’s hands they turned into real money.

  One of them turned into a jewel with a laughing face on it.

  ‘Shabba me whiskers,’ he growled, turning on his heel in disgust.

  ‘A pleasure to see you as always, Mr Gum,’ beamed Mrs Lovely as the old man stormed out with the little bag of lemonade powder clutched between his elbows. ‘I do hope you come again soon.’

  Mr Gum hardly noticed the walk home, mainly because he took a taxi. He couldn’t wait to get his plan into action. Very soon he was back in his smelly kitchen. He rubbed his hands together gleefully and danced a cruel jig, like a spiteful imp who’d snotted over all the presents on Christmas morning. He opened the little bag and sprinkled its contents over the rotten and poisoned cow hearts. Then he gave them a quick sniff.

  ‘Jibbers!’ he gasped, clutching his throat. ‘They smell of lemons and sunshine and friendship - I can hardly breathe!’

  Holding it at arm’s length, Mr Gum took the plate of doom out into his very neat and tidy garden. He placed it right in the middle of the lawn where Jake was sure to see it.

  The day was very still. Not a single blade of grass was moving. Somewhere in the distance a chicken barked. Mr Gum settled back in his favourite broken chair and waited to see what would happen.

  Chapter 7

  Friday O’Leary

  So now we head back to Polly, who is just where we left her, having a good old cry outside the secret cottage. Who, though, is that old man watching her from the window? You’ve probably been going crazy from all the suspense, haven’t you? Well, you can breathe a sigh of relief because it is none other than Friday O’Leary, who is one of the heroes of this story. The next time somebody says to you, ‘I hate old men. All old men are unpleasant and wicked,’ don’t be too quick to agree with them.

  Take a minute to think about this tale.

  ‘All old men are unpleasant and wicked? That’s nonsense,’ you will say.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ says this somebody, whose name is Anthony. ‘Mr Gum’s an old man and he’s a dreadful old shocker!’

  ‘That’s true, Anthony,’ you say.

  ‘And what about Billy William the Third?’ says Anthony, smugly. ‘He’s as horrible as Brussels sprouts!’

  ‘Well, you’ve got me there,’ you say. ‘But, Anthony, you are forgetting about Friday O’Leary. He’s an old man too and he’s an absolute winner!’

  ‘Oh, I am so stupid! I forgot about Friday O’Leary!’ says Anthony. ‘I am going away now to pay two hundred pounds to see a glass of water balanced on a horse’s back, that is how stupid I am.’

  And you will never be bothered by the likes of Anthony again.

  Just who was this O’Leary character, anyway? Not a lot was known about him because he was a mysterious sort of a fellow. But I will tell you what I know based on rumours, half-truths, and downright fibs:

  Friday O’Leary was as old as the hills and as wise as the hills but not quite as tall as the hills. His bald head was covered in thick, curly hair and he had the normal number of legs. He was the only person ever to have found a needle in a haystack, although to be fair it was a very large needle and a tiny haystack. His favourite number was green and his favourite colour was twenty-six. He sometimes got his numbers and colours mixed up and he owned the world’s smallest collection of stamps (none at all). Oh, and one last thing. Occasionally, for reasons known only to himself, Friday O’Leary shouted ‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ at the end of his sentences.

  Anyway, earlier that day Friday had been sitting in his front room, playing the piano.

  He was playing a song he had written himself called ‘He Was Playing a Song He Had Written Himself’, all about how he was playing a song he had written himself. (He had also written a song called ‘But He Wasn’t Playing That at the Moment’ but he wasn’t playing that at the moment.)

  He had just come to the final lines when the telephone rang. Friday ran to get it but he was too late because it wasn’t ringing in his cottage, it was ringing in Ethel Frumpton’s house a hundred miles away. It was her friend Mavis on the line.

  ‘Hello, Ethel,’ said Mavis. ‘How’s things?’

  Back at the secret cottage there came the sound of crying and sobbing and general unhappy little girl noises. Friday rushed to the window and uttered those famous, suspense-filled words I mentioned before:

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘What have we here? A little girl in trouble.’

  Then he opened the front door and stepped outside.

  ‘Hello,’ he said to Polly. ‘Are you all right? THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Polly. She was a little bit nervous because her mother had told her never to talk to strangers. Her mother was full of this sort of advice: Brush your teeth twice a day; Wash your hands before meals; Don’t
cut your legs off with a breadknife. But most of all it was Never talk to strangers which was blummin’ good advice, especially with a stranger as strange as the stranger before her now.

  ‘They call me Mungo Bubbles,’ said the stranger, ‘but I don’t know why, because my name is Friday O’Leary,’ and then Polly knew it was all right because her mother had told her all about this remarkable man one stormy night. This is what her mother had said:

  Friday O’Leary is a mysterious old man who lives in a secret cottage near the woods. No one knows exactly where it is, not even the Prime Minister. But if you are in dire need, you may find yourself there and he will help you with your problems. Friday O’Leary I mean, not the Prime Minister.

  Then Polly had a thought. What if it wasn’t really Friday O’Leary? What if it was a bad man pretending to be him? She remembered something else her mother had told her:

  Friday O’Leary can juggle five ping pong balls and a banana, and he hardly ever drops them.

  So Polly asked the old man if he would mind juggling five ping pong balls and a banana for her. (Luckily she had five ping pong balls and a banana in her skirt pocket.) So Friday juggled them and he hardly ever dropped them and then Polly was convinced. Suddenly the woods looked friendly and welcoming and Polly saw how beautiful all the nature was and how she probably wasn’t going to be eaten by a flower or anything.