Jimmy,
The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous,
chapter ten
Jimmy,
the Glue Factory
and Mad Mr. Viscous
Chapter
Ten
The Glue Factory Revisited
When they returned to the industrial area, where the glue factory was located, the boys, Jimmy and Eric, were shocked to see that the witch’s mansion was gone. The only sign that anything had been there, in the now overgrown, weed infested plot, were the crumbling ruins of a house.
“Where is it?” Eric asked confused by what he was seeing – or not seeing. Stumbling upon a broken brick poking out from the ground, he said, “It can’t have simply disappeared into thin air!”
“By the look of it,” Jimmy mumbled, “that’s exactly what it has done.” Picking a brick, one of ever so many scattered across the plot, he inspected it, and then casually tossing it aside, he said, “Witches, you know...”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, never mind,” he mumbled. Making his way further into the derelict plot, he said, “Keep your head down – we don’t want to be spotted by the security guards next door!”
Crouching low, Eric followed his friend to the rear the plot. “I don’t like it,” he grumbled, “I don’t like it at all. An hour ago this was a lovely garden – but now?”
“I told you to forget about it, at least until later,” said Jimmy. Then catching a hand on a bramble he hissed, “Now look what you’ve made me do! There’s blood – everywhere!”
Eric looked, but all that he saw was a small scratch, with just a hint of blood. “Baby,” he joked. Then throwing himself to the ground, he shouted, “Duck!”
Jimmy ducked so fast he hit the ground like a brick. “What is it?” he asked, spitting out a mouthful of grass.
Pointing to the factory, Eric whispered, “A guard, I saw a guard!”
“Where?”
“There, close to that gate.”
Jimmy saw him, a guard patrolling the rear of the factory, checking a gate. “How many do you think there are?” he asked.
“Gates?”
“No, no!” Jimmy snapped. “Guards!”
Shrugging, Eric said, “Sorry, I have absolutely no idea.”
Acting on the side of caution, the boys assumed there was more than one guard – possibly several. Edging, creeping furtively towards the chain link fence dividing the two plots, Jimmy and Eric felt more akin to commandos than children, and when they reached it, lying flat on their stomachs, reconnoitring the scene before them, they watched the guard with eagle eyes until he disappeared round the back of the factory.
Rattling the fence (it was much sturdier than the one surrounding the coalmine), Eric said, “Well, no holes in this one.”
“Yet,” Jimmy replied with a mischievous grin. “There are no holes in it – yet! Creeping away, he called out, “Come on, follow me, we need some supplies.” With that, he disappeared into the greenery.
Back home, Jimmy began searching through the garden shed, looking for something. Garden shed is perhaps a rather complimentary term for the structure, considering their garden was only a small back yard, and the shed an outside toilet, albeit abandoned.
Sauntering into the toilet – the shed, yawning, scratching his head, Jimmy’s brother, Jack, asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” Jimmy lied.
“What kind of a nothing? I might know where it is…”
“If you must know, I’m looking for the wire cutters.”
“It’s up there, on the shelf,” Jack replied. “Look!” he said, pointing to a rickety shelf.
Picking it up, Jimmy inspected the wire cutters, a miserably small affair more akin to a pairs of pliers than the object he was seeking. “No, not this one,” he said, “I’m looking for the other, the big one.”
“Oh,” Jack mumbled sleepily. “You mean the bolt cutters. It’s not here.” Mulling it over, adding one and one together, but getting three, he said, “You’re cutting a new hole in the fence at the coal mine, aren’t you?” You know mum doesn’t like you doing that.” He was right, their mother had no qualms about them collecting coal that was just lying about, going to waste, but she drew the line at damaging private property.
“I’m going to tell her!” Jack warned.
Darting out from the shed, grabbing hold of him by the scruff of the neck, Jimmy yanked Jack back inside, asking, “Do you want a knuckle sandwich, or are you going to behave?”
“Stop it!” Jack yelled. “Stop it! I’ll behave!”
Tightening his grip around his distressed brother’s neck, Jimmy said, “Now where is that bolt cutter?”
“I’ll tell you where the crumby thing is!” Jack yelled. “Just let me go!”
Squeezing even more, cutting off his air supply, “Jimmy said, “Do you mean it, do you really mean it?”
“Yes!” he squeaked. “Yes, let me go! I can’t breathe!”
Releasing his grip, Jimmy watched as a bright red ring welled up around his brother’s neck. Perhaps, he thought, he had been a bit too hard on him. Then remembering the plight of the poor horses, he said, “Well? Where is it, the bolt cutter?”
Rubbing his soreness, Jack replied, “You’re mad, you do know that? You’re barking mad! You should be locked up. I’ve a good mind to-”
Taking a step forward, Jimmy reminded his brother of the dangerous position he was in. “Stop!” he protested. “I’ll tell you! It’s at Mrs Alibonkers, she borrowed it, to fix a widget.”
“A widget?”
“Yes a thingamajig, in her kitchen… on her gas cooker.”
Thirty minutes later, after Mrs Alibonkers’s widget and gas cooker were fixed, and the bolt cutters thus secured, Jimmy was making his way down the street, to Eric’s house. Knocking on the door, checking his bag to see that he had all the necessary bits and pieces for the little job he had planned, he waited for a reply. When the door opened, Eric’s mother greeted him. “Hello, Jim,” she said cheerily. Seeing his duffle bag, and the bolt cutters sticking out from it, she said, “What’s that you have there, tools for a bank raid?”
“Yeh, something like that,” Jimmy replied, thinking no more of it.
Eyeballing the bolt cutters with a growing concern, she said, “I hope you’re not planning what it looks like you’re planning!”
“No, no,” Jimmy replied, worried their adventure might be over before it had even begun. “We’re not going anyway near the coalmine – I promise!” Seemingly satisfied, she invited him in, telling him to wait in the parlour.
“Watcha,” said Eric when he finally entered the parlour. “What’s that you got there?” he asked, seeing Jimmy reading a book.
“I am learning how to crochet, if you must know,” he replied, returning the book to where he had he had found it, the arm of the sofa.
“You are?”
His eyes rolling up to the heavens, Jimmy said, “I got bored waiting! I had to read something! What on earth have you been doing?”
Staring at Jimmy’s bag, he said, “Supplies, I had to get some, too.”
“How long can it take to get one item?”
Shrugging, Eric said, “As long as it takes me to find it? I had absolutely no idea where it was!”
“Where is it?”
Opening the door, Eric reached up to the coat stand, and grabbing hold of his satchel, he patted it, saying, “In here, it’s in here…Do you want to see it?”
No, no, we have wasted too much time already. Let’s get out of here.”
“Bye mum,” said Eric, pulling the door closed behind him.
Making their way down the street, the two best friends, buttoning their coats against the bitter cold, headed off in the direction of the glue factory…
Nothing had changed at the industrial area, nothing that is except from the extreme cold that was growing by the minute.
The witch’s house was still gone despite Eric having wished that it returned. Heaving a sigh, he followed Jimmy through the weed-infested plot, to the same position from which they had watched the guard, earlier, and he wondered what he best friend had planned, what nasty deed he had concocted, to save the poor, unfortunate horses. Although he had brought the item that Jimmy had asked him for, he was totally in the dark as to what he had planned, but that was Jimmy’s way of doing things, and who was he to try to change him?
Lying on his stomach, eye-balling the factory yet hidden from view, safe from the gaze of any guard who might happen to pass by, Jimmy opened his duffle bag and removed the items within it. “One, two, three, four,” he said. “I have the first four. You have the fifth one, Eric. Will you pass it to me?”
Undoing the buckles on his satchel, Eric peered inside.
“Come on”! Jimmy badgered. “We haven’t got all day!”
Delving a hand in, Eric carefully took hold of the item, a small electric fan, and withdrew it. Handing it to him, he said, “Here you are,” Pointing at one of the items that Jimmy had produced, he asked, “Can I see that one?”
“No, no you cannot!” he snapped. “These are delicate instruments; we can’t risk anything happening to them!”
Almost choking with laughter, Eric spluttered, “Delicate instruments? You can’t be serious?”
“I don’t see anything funny,” Jimmy replied, in all seriousness.
Still chortling, Eric said, “How can a bolt cutter, a hammer, a screwdriver, a fan and a prism, by any stretch of the imagination be delicate instruments?”
“There’re as good as,” Jimmy replied defensively. “And as for that prism, the item that you brought, it’s far more than a mere prism – and well you know it!”
This time it was Eric’s turn to be defensive, and he said, “Okay, yes, I know that it’s far more than a simple prism – but I still can’t understand what you want with it, let alone mum’s electric fan!”
Tapping the side of his nose, Jimmy smiled, saying, “Now wouldn’t you like to know?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, when it’s at home?” Eric complained, thinking that a few marbles might be on the loose, again.
