Jimmy,
The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous, chapter
eleven
Chapter
Eleven
The Glue Factory Grounds – Invaded
“Come on, Jim,” said Eric, “spit it out. I want to know what you’re planning to do with those things!”
“Things – what things?” said Jimmy, as nonchalantly as he was able, considering the fact that he was having such fun in winding him up.
“A bolt cutter, a hammer, a screwdriver, a fan and a prism!” Eric replied, totally missing the fact that his friend was winding him up.
“What about them?” Jimmy asked, trying not to burst into laughter.
Standing up, flapping his arms like a boy demented, Eric asked, “Am I missing something, here, or has the world gone completely bonkers?”
Ignoring his protests, Jimmy handed him the bolt cutters, saying, “Here, hold these.”
Realising that his protests were at nothing, that Jimmy, for some peculiar reason, did not intend to divulge his modus operandi, Eric accepted the bolt cutters and watched his supposedly best friend inspecting the base of fence.
“I’d keep an eye out for those guards, if I were you,” Jimmy warned. “You’re a prime target, standing up like that.”
Realising how foolish he had been, standing up and flapping his arms about like a lunatic, Eric dived to the ground.
Lifting an index finger, grinning, Jimmy said, “I think I’ve found the place, the weakest link. Now hand me those cutters – and please keep an eye out for guards!”
It was a tough fence, far tougher than the old, rickety one surrounding the coalmine, but Jimmy persisted, cutting, probing, nipping away at it until little by little, link after link, it succumbed to his efforts, and an opening appeared. When he was satisfied that enough of the fence had been breached, to offer them safe entry (and exit) to the grounds surrounding the glue factory, he said, “Done it!”
“And not a guard to be seen – anywhere,” Eric added thankfully.
Yanking up the bottom of the fence, Jimmy said, “Go on, Eric, you first. I’ll follow you in.”
Crouching low, on all fours, Eric crept through the opening, through to the sprawling grounds surrounding the factory. It was so different, in there. Despite being mere inches away, it was like being in another world, a world of neatly manicured lawns, specimen trees and brightly painted curbing – a world away from the bedraggled, overgrown, weed infested plot he had just left.
“Here,” Jimmy whispered, shoving their bags under the fence, “take these.” Crouching down low, he also crept under the fence. When he was through, he whispered, “We’re sitting ducks, out here… Come on.” With that, he darted across the expanse lawn, to a large Lawson Cyprus, one of ever so many specimen trees dotted about the grounds.
Joining his friend behind it, Eric was about to ask him what to do next, when Jimmy said, “I don’t like it…”
“You don’t?”
“No, not at all,” Jimmy grumbled. “Someone has gone to an awful lot of effort, not to mention expense, to make this place look picture perfect.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Definitely!”
“Ah – why?” Eric asked, feeling rather stupid for not knowing.
Giving him a most peculiar look, Jimmy said, “Street angel – house devil.”
Scratching his head, hoping for inspiration, but getting none, Eric was lost for an answer. “I’m sorry, he said, “but I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”
Giving him another peculiar look, Jimmy said, “Someone, a.k.a. Mr Viscous, wants the outside world to think this place is all wine and roses.”
“Wine and roses?”
“Yes, that it’s just tickety-boo!”
Eric stared at him blankly.
“That everything is as it should be, in good order?”
The penny having finally dropped, Eric said, “Oh, that, why didn’t you say so?”
“And you have the cheek to think that I’m the one who’s losing his marbles!”
Putting the matter of marbles, and who might or might not be losing them, to the back of his mind, Eric said, “Why do you think he wants to portray this ‘picture perfect’ theme?”
“Horses!” Jimmy replied without the slightest hesitation. “It’s because of those horses, of course.” His eyes began scanning the factory. “It’s to cover up what he’s doing with them!”
“Hmm,” Eric replied gloomily, “his secret ingredient…”
Jimmy nodded a yes, then darting away from the tree, he whispered, “Follow me.”
The second tree they hid behind was a cherry, and because it was wintertime, there was no foliage to conceal them. “I feel a bit exposed,” Eric grumbled.
“Come on,” Jimmy ordered, darting off yet again.
The next tree Jimmy chose to hide behind was another Lawson Cyprus, with plenty of greenery to conceal them. “That’s more like it,” said Eric, exhaling deeply. Leaning against the tree, deep into it, he disappeared from sight. From somewhere within the lush foliage, he murmured, “Remind me never to plant a cherry tree.”
“But you don’t have a garden.”
“Well, yes, I know that,” he replied. “But when I grow up, and when I have a garden, remind me never to plant one. They’re too bare in winter for my liking. I will plant Lawson Cyprus tree everywhere, hmm, they sure smell good...”
Cautiously peering out from behind the tree, towards the factory, Jimmy said, “Pass me that prism, will you?”
Emerging from the greenery, Eric opened the duffle bag and carefully withdrew the prism that he handed it to Jimmy. “Here you are,” he said, “and the best of British luck!”
Paying no heed to his ramblings, meanderings, or whatever they happened to be, Jimmy inspected the prism in fine detail. He had to, because this prism, like the garden shed in Eric’s back yard, was something quite different from what its name implied. Yes, it was still a prism, but an altogether more complicated affair than simply that. Jimmy’s mind wandered back, back to the day Eric had found it:
Eric’s mum had brought him to a jumble sale, and he hated jumble sales, so giving him a sixpenny bit, she said, “There you are, Eric, a nice shiny sixpence. Go look around and find something nice to buy. I am sure there must be toys here, somewhere.” Eric bought something all right, as far removed from being toy as it was possible to get.
Spotting a counter with military surplus piled high upon it Eric strolled across, to get a better look. Most of it, however, was clothing; hats, jumpers, jackets and so forth – rubbish as far as he was concerned, but having never before seen military surplus before, it intrigued him no end. Digging deep into the huge pile, he searched, hoping to find something of interest.
The first item he found was a jerry can, but that did nothing for him, so he handed it back to the woman behind the counter. She smiled. Digging deeper into the pile, Eric felt something hard, cold – and incredibly sharp. “Ouch, that hurt!” he yelled, withdrawing both his hand and the item. His finger was bleeding. Licking the wound, a small yet deep cut, he screwed up his face at the taste of his blood. It was salty. Then staring down in sheer disbelief, he marvelled at what he had found. It was a bayonet no less! He wanted it; he wanted to buy it, to bring it home, to show to all of his friends. “How much is this, please?” he asked.
The woman, smiling again, said, “Its sixpence, but I’m afraid you’re far too young for such a thing. If I sold it to you, what on earth would your mother say?”
“Please, please sell it to me!” Eric implored. “I won’t tell her that it was you who sold it to me, I really and truly won’t!” but deep down he knew she would never allow him to keep it. So accepting defeat graciously, he delved his hands into the pile for a third time. That was when he found it, the prism. Feeling it under the huge pile of clothes, he thought it was only a box, but after pulling his hand out, and seeing it, he knew only too well how important it was. He inspected it in fine detail. It was beautiful; black Bakelite with clear crystal glass. He wanted it, he wanted it like there was no tomorrow, he wanted it, he wanted it, he wanted it.
“How, how much is this – thing?” he asked, holding it up to the woman.
She smiled at him again (Eric thought it a rather peculiar habit, to be smiling a people all the time), and she said, “It was supposed to be a shilling, but because I know you, you can have it for sixpence.”
Eric’s other hand, the one with the sixpence in, shot up lightning fast, offering her the money before she changed her mind, “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much!”
His mind returning to the present, Jimmy’s fingers ran along the smooth lines of the prism, marvelling how the black Bakelite and crystal glass sat together so well. Now, months later, knowing what it actually was, a prismatic viewer, a military-style super-doper kind of binoculars, he intended to use it to their full advantage. Raising it to his eyes, Jimmy looked through it, to see if there was any sign of the guards or, more importantly, the poor horses. Zooming in, focusing on the factory building, Jimmy could see that the coast was clear. Then panning across to the rear of it, to the gate the guard had checked, earlier, Jimmy felt, he somehow knew, that the horses were secreted somewhere behind it. “Come on,” he whispered, “We’re moving out.”
“Moving out?” said Eric, “It’s not a cowboy movie we’re in, Jim!”
Dashing across the neatly manicured lawns, Jimmy paid no heed of Eric’s ramblings. Hey!” wait for me!” Eric whispered. Darting this way and that, the two boys, one behind the other, made their way surreptitiously across to the gate…
Stopping mere feet from the gate, Jimmy waited patiently for Eric to catch up, and when he did, he pointed, whispering, “Look, there it is.”
“Yeh, I see it,” Eric replied. “But what do we do now? There could be any amount of guards on the other side of it.” He was right; their invasion of the factory grounds had gone flawlessly, but something was bound to happen, to spoil it all, wasn’t it?
“Don’t be such a wet blanket – we’re almost there,” Jimmy retorted. “What could possibly go wrong?” Using the prism, Jimmy scanned the area, to ensure that no guards were lucking anywhere near. “There’s no one – there’s no one at all,” he said confidently.
“And that’s what bothers me,” Eric grumbled, “because they must be somewhere!”
“Come on,” Jimmy ordered, setting off fast for the gate, “we don’t have time to be worrying about such things. By the time they are aware of us, we’ll be long gone.”
“Hmm, I hope so,” Eric grumbled, “I really do…”
Following close behind, Eric fixed his sights on the gate. If Jimmy was correct, the horses were behind it, the horses that the factory owner had every intention of turning into glue. A shiver ran down his spine at the very thought of it.
