The Grunts In Trouble

by Philip Ardagh

  “How old is he?” asked Sunny.

  Jack stopped. He’d now reached the halfway point, about fifteen metres above the ground. “Er, I suppose he must be about your age,” he said.

  Sunny suddenly had a funny feeling in his tummy, and he was sure that it was nothing to do with the fir-cone soup this time. He simply stood there in silence, holding the ladder, while Jack reached the top and then somehow managed to knock the orange-and-white traffic cone off the statue’s stone hat – “Watch out below!” – and cut the blue nylon rope off the placard around the statue’s neck. This done, he tossed the placard to the ground.

  Caught in a tiny eddy of air, it spun over to the Grunts’ caravan and landed on its roof, before skittering to the ground with a thwack. As Jack made his way back down the ladder, Sunny spoke again. “What’s Lord Bigg’s son’s name?” he asked.

  “Horace,” said Jack.

  “You remember him?”

  “Course I do. My wife, Agnes, used to look after him sometimes. Wash him. Change him. Sing to him.”

  Just as Handyman Jack said the words “sing to him”, his shiny shoes had reached Sunny’s eye level again.

  “Sing to him?”

  “Oh yes, my Agnes has the voice of an angel. She could sing you the list of anti-allergy pills and medicines she has to take, and it would sound beautiful.”

  A man with shiny shoes.

  A woman with the voice of an angel.

  What if these memories weren’t of his actual mother and father, but memories of SERVANTS of his mother and father’s? What if he was the missing son of Lord and Lady Bigg!?!

  Just behind Sunny came a belch loud enough to frighten the beetles in the undergrowth. There was a familiar smell of pickling vinegar and open drains.

  “Pardon!” said Mrs Grunt with such glee that it was obvious she didn’t mean it. “Where did you get that ladder from, Sunny?” she asked. “It’s the longest I’ve ever seen.” She peered at it more closely. “Did you know that there’s a funny little white-haired man attached to it?”

  “This is Handyman Jack from Bigg Manor,” said Sunny. “Or Jack the handyman.”

  “Make your mind up!” snapped Mrs Grunt.

  “He’s both,” Sunny explained. “It’s his ladder.”

  “Pity,” said Mrs Grunt. “You can never go wrong with a good ladder.”

  Jack took the final few rungs to the ground. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet her?” bellowed Mr Grunt, emerging from the caravan. “Then you obviously don’t know her!” He snorted with delight at his witty repartee. “The woman is nothing but walking trouble.”

  Mrs Grunt went off foraging for food for breakfast (returning later with a basketful of what she called “mushrooms” but which Mr Grunt informed her were “highly poisonous toadstools”. She went on to insist that they were perfectly fine to eat and that her cousin Lil had regularly eaten mushrooms just like them. When Mr Grunt asked which one of her many cousins Cousin Lil was, Mrs Grunt replied, “The one who died from poisoning.”).

  Sunny, meanwhile, took the opportunity to ask Handyman Jack more about Horace.

  “What did he look like?” he asked.

  “Why the interest?” said Jack, who was busy gathering up the remaining BIGG AIN’T BEST placards.

  “Oh, I just wondered,” said Sunny unconvincingly.

  “He was little more than a baby,” said Jack. “And between you and me –” He lowered his voice and leaned in close – “all babies look pretty much alike to me.”

  “Oh,” said Sunny. “No birthmark or anything?”

  “Distinguishing features?” said Handyman Jack, rubbing his chin. “No, not really. Apart from his ears.”

  HIS EARS?!?

  “His ears?” asked Sunny.

  “Yup.” Jack nodded. “He had three of them.”

  Sunny’s jaw dropped.

  “Only jokin’!” said Jack with a loud guffaw. “He only had two of ’em and they were perfectly normal.”

  Sunny’s heart sank. “Unlike mine,” he said, barely above a whisper.

  “There’s nothing wrong with your ears, Sunny!” said the handyman cheerily.

  Sunny rather suspected he was just saying that to be nice.

  Soon the column and Handyman Jack were far behind Sunny, Mr and Mrs Grunt, and Clip and Clop as their journey in search of Fingers the elephant entered its final phase.

  One of the pictures on Mr Lippy the clown’s map-that-wasn’t-quite-a-map was what appeared to be a giant tomato at the side of the road. Ever since Sunny had first seen it, he’d been looking forward to finding out what it was for real and now here it was …

  … and it appeared to be just that: a giant tomato. Not big as in “Cor! That’s a big ’un! How did you grow that?” but big as in BIG ENOUGH TO LIVE IN.

  Sunny stopped the caravan and walked over to it. Even close up it looked incredibly lifelike. He gave it a tap; it sounded hollow.

  “Fibreglass,” said Mr Grunt, leaning out of an upstairs window. “I’ll bet it’s fibreglass.”

  “What do you reckon it’s for, Dad?” asked Sunny.

  “Dunno,” said Mr Grunt with a grunt. He came out of the caravan and gave the giant pretend fruit – tomatoes aren’t vegetables, you know – a good kick. (Or, I should say, a bad kick, because one shouldn’t go kicking things, apart from footballs and the like, and even then only when you’re supposed to.)

  The kick had an immediate effect. A very small man appeared from the other side of the tomato and without so much as a word kicked Mr Grunt very hard in the shins.

  This was so unexpected, and so painful, that Mr Grunt not only fell to the ground like a ton of turnips but he also burst into tears. This was enough to bring Mrs Grunt on to the scene to find out what all the fuss was about.

  “What’s this fuss all about?” she demanded.

  “He kicked me!” Mr Grunt managed to say between sobs and gulps of air.

  “He kicked my tomato first!” said the small man.

  “That’s true,” said Sunny, who was helping Mr Grunt to his feet.

  “Which is true?” asked Mrs Grunt.

  “They’re both telling the truth,” said Sunny.

  Mrs Grunt glared at her husband. “You can’t go kicking other people’s tomatoes and expect to get away with it,” she said, swinging back her leg and giving the giant fibreglass tomato an almighty kick. (See? I said she saved her kicks for special occasions, and what occasion could be more special than one where she could kick the tomato of someone who’d just kicked her lovely husband?)

  “Stop it!” cried the man. “Please stop it! You’ll break it!”

  “Oh, boo-hoo!” said Mrs Grunt. “You shouldn’t go kicking my husband then, should you?”

  “Why doesn’t everyone stop kicking everyone and everything else?” said Sunny. “Just a suggestion.”

  “And a good one,” said Mr Grunt, who’d stopped blubbing now. “And I wasn’t crying, by the way. I had something in my eye.”

  “Yeah,” said Mrs Grunt. “Tears from crying.”

  “Didn’t you just hear what I said, wife? I said—”

  “I’m Sunny,” said Sunny, putting his hand out for the little man to shake. The man shook it.

  “I’m Jeremy,” he said.

  “What’s this tomato doing here?” asked Sunny, who was dying to know. It was so big. And so shiny and red, glinting in the afternoon sunshine. It appeared to have been lovingly polished.

  “It was used in a TV advertisement for a tomato sauce a few years back,” said Jeremy, “and when they didn’t need it any more I offered to buy it from them.”

  “Wow,” said Sunny.

  “And in the end they actually gave it to me for nothing as long as I arranged to have it taken away,” said Jeremy.

  “What do you use it for?” asked Sunny.

  “Use it for?” asked Jeremy.

  “I mean, it looks great, but I wonder if you got it fo
r a particular purpose?” said Sunny.

  “I got it for a very particular purpose,” said Jeremy. “I live in it.”

  “Oh,” said Sunny. He hadn’t been expecting that.

  “It’s boiling hot in the summer and freezing cold in the winter,” said Jeremy.

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “No. That’s a terrible thing. And stuffy. Look.” Jeremy led Sunny round to the other side of the tomato, where there was a proper door. “I had this door put in, but decided that adding windows would stop it looking like a tomato, so I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t?”

  “Add any.”

  “Oh,” said Sunny. “Why do you live in a tomato?” he asked, trying to sound as polite as possible.

  Jeremy looked over to the Grunts’ caravan. “Is that your home?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Sunny nodded.

  The little man shrugged. “Well, we’ve all gotta live somewhere,” he said. He caught sight of Mr Lippy’s map in Sunny’s hand. “What’s that?” he asked.

  Mr Grunt, who’d obviously overheard the question, appeared at his side. “That,” he said, snatching the map from Sunny’s grasp, “is none of your business. That’s what that is. Put it away, Sunny,” he said, handing it back to the boy. “Keep it away from prying eyes.” He glared at Jeremy.

  Sunny folded the map and stuffed it in the pocket in his blue dress.

  “It looked like Mr Lippy’s writing, that’s all,” said Jeremy.

  “You know Mr Lippy?” asked Sunny.

  “We, on the other hand, have never heard of him,” said Mr Grunt. He gave Sunny a stare. “Who is he?”

  “Just some clown,” said Jeremy, “with handwriting just like that.” He pointed at the top of the map sticking out from Sunny’s pocket.

  “Well,” said Mr Grunt. “We must be going.” He appeared to be walking away, then suddenly turned and ran towards Jeremy to give him a get-his-own-back kick …

  … but Jeremy was too fast and neatly stepped to one side at the very last moment, like a matador teasing a bull.

  When Mr Grunt’s foot failed to come into contact with a person as planned, it kept on moving, causing him to fall to the ground a second time – not that anyone was counting – with an “UMPFF!”.

  Mrs Grunt simply stepped over him. “Stop lying around, mister,” she said. “We’ve an elephant to find.”

  “Keep your voice down, idiot wife!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  But if Jeremy had heard her mention an elephant, he didn’t let it show. He slammed the front door – the only door – of the tomato behind him as he went inside.

  “Charming!” said Mr Grunt, now upright. He turned to Mrs Grunt. “Wife, no more blabbering about a certain E-L-I-F-A-N-T.” Next, he turned to Sunny. “And you keep your lips closed about knowing Mr Lippy,” he reminded him.

  “Sorry, Dad,” said Sunny.

  Sunny gave him a slap on the back. “No harm done,” he said.

  The rest of the trek to reach Fingers was uneventful. Sunny led them to the right when he reached the crooked house; took the twisty, almost-back-on-yourself left at the rock shaped like a toad; and finally led them down the path to the barn.

  Not a barn. The barn. The barn where they’d started out from. Of course, this barn was drawn in a completely different place on the map because – remember – it wasn’t really a proper map with everything in its place relative to everything else. It was more an illustrated list of instructions, showing landmarks and where to turn. So on the piece of paper there were TWO barns. The one showing where to start from – where Mr Lippy and Sunny had met – and this barn, which was shown as being NOWHERE NEAR that one … Only, in real life, it was one and the same.

  Sunny had a sinking feeling as they approached.

  “Dad!” he called out. “Good news and bad news.”

  Mr Grunt opened the top of the stable-like door. “What is it?” he asked.

  “We’re nearly there.”

  “That’s the good news?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “What’s the bad news?” Mrs Grunt demanded, pushing Mr Grunt aside, and sitting her sawdust-filled doorstop, Ginger Biscuit, on the top of the bottom half of the door, for a better view.

  “We’re back at the barn we started from.”

  “That doesn’t matter so long as there’s an elephant inside,” said Mrs Grunt.

  “It might be bad news, if Mr Lippy brought along the elephant,” said Sunny.

  “Why’s that, Sunny?” asked Mr Grunt, elbowing his wife out of the way. Ginger Biscuit nearly toppled off, but Mrs Grunt managed to catch him by the tail.

  “Because you gave him a map that led him to something which – according to you – isn’t quite what you promised it would be.”

  “Oh, that,” said Mr Grunt. “Yes, that is bad news.” He didn’t sound too bothered.

  “So what do you want me to do?” asked Sunny.

  “Do? Keep going till we reach the barn,” said Mr Grunt.

  “Yes,” said Mrs Grunt. “Get on with it!” Now both of them were crammed in the doorway.

  “You never know,” said Mr Grunt. “We may have luck on our side!”

  Since when had the Grunts EVER had luck on their side, Sunny wondered, but he didn’t say anything.

  In next to no time he’d pulled up near the barn with a mixture of excitement and dread.

  It probably comes as no great surprise for you to learn that Mr and Mrs Grunt decided Sunny should be the one to go into the barn. There was no sign of life outside so, if there was going to be any elephant action, or funny business – there was potential clown involvement here, remember – it was likely to occur behind those two mighty closed doors.

  Mr Grunt insisted that they hide the caravan behind the trees as before, though it being broad daylight and their having had to cross an open field, it was unlikely that anyone on the lookout would have failed to spot them.

  “Good luck, Sunny,” said Mr Grunt.

  “Be brave,” said Mrs Grunt, “and leave your shoes behind, will you? It’d be a shame to waste them.”

  “Waste them?”

  “Your mother means in case you don’t come back,” Mr Grunt explained.

  Sunny didn’t bother arguing. He kicked off his non-matching shoes – one slip-on and one blue-laced lace-up – and felt the grass between his toes. “What is it exactly that you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Be friendly. If it’s Mr Lippy, smile as though you haven’t a care in the world. If it’s someone else, simply say that you’re here for the – er – elephant.”

  “And if whoever-it-may-be asks about the stuff you gave him not being the stuff you promised?”

  “Protest your innocence!” said Mr Grunt, using the very piece of advice his lawyer had given him the time he was arrested for stealing a statue carved from Cheddar cheese. (Fortunately for him, some hungry mice ate the evidence before there could be a trial. Mrs Grunt had bribed the mice to do it. She’d promised them as much cheese as they could eat.)

  “Stand firm!” said Mrs Grunt.

  “And if things turn nasty?” asked Sunny.

  “Then run like Billy-o!” said Mrs Grunt.

  “Billy-o?” asked Sunny.

  Mrs Grunt shrugged. “I think Billy-o must have been a really fast runner,” she said. (“Running like Billy-o” was simply a phrase her own mother had used and – like you and Sunny – she had no idea what it really meant.)

  “Did he run in bare feet?” asked Sunny.

  Neither Mr nor Mrs Grunt said anything. Mrs Grunt had spotted a dead crow and her thoughts were turning to an early supper.

  Sunny had a quiet word with Clip and Clop, patting their muzzles and scratching them between the ears, then headed off to the barn.

  Though huge, the right-hand door to the barn was unlocked, and swung open surprisingly easily. Sunny stepped nervously inside. Sunlight poured through some of the gaps between the planks in the walls, or the holes wher
e there had once been knots in the wood, but much of the inside of the barn was in shadow.

  Fingers, however, was easy enough to spot.

  It’s hard to hide an elephant, even in a big barn.

  “You!” said a surprised voice.

  It was a familiar voice too. But it didn’t belong to Mr Lippy. It was a voice that Sunny was more used to hearing say, “BIGG AIN’T BEST.”

  “Mr Smalls!” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Sitting on an elephant,” said Larry Smalls.

  Now that Sunny had become more accustomed to the light, he could indeed see Mr Smalls astride the elephant. And what a lovely-looking elephant he was too. All friendly.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me, Mr Smalls?”

  “What are YOU doing here?”

  “I’ve come to collect the elephant,” said Sunny.

  Larry Smalls smiled. He actually smiled. This was probably the first time Sunny had seen Larry Smalls smile and the transformation was amazing. He looked like a different man. He didn’t look like a man with a grudge who spent his time writing placards and throwing rocks and being all bitter about Lord Bigg. He looked happy.

  “You? You’re the mystery buyer?”

  “Kind of,” said Sunny.

  “It makes perfect sense, I suppose,” said Larry Smalls, sliding off the side of Fingers on to one of a number of bales of hay that had been lined up in rows to form seats (for an upcoming play).

  “It does?” said Sunny, surprised.

  “Of course!” said Mr Smalls. “I was wondering who’d want to buy an elephant, apart from a circus or zoo or wildlife park, I mean. Having seen the size of your – er – caravan, though, it makes perfect sense!”

  “You think Dad’s bought him to take over from Clip and Clop?”

  “The two donkeys?” asked Larry Smalls. Sunny nodded.

  “An elephant would find the job a whole lot easier!” said Smalls.