Jimmy, The
Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous, chapter
six
Chapter
Six
Mr Smith’s Wonderful Emporium
Well, are we going to keep walking along this path – like forever, or are you going to stop and tell me what is in that note?” said Eric, in frustration at Jimmy’s increasingly erratic behaviour. “Ever since you met that old woman, the witch, you’ve been acting mightily strange…”
Stopping, gazing out to sea, at one of the huge ships heading out from port, Jimmy, said, “That note,” he took it out from his pocket, “is a plea for help.”
“A plea for help! What on earth are you talking about?”
Waving it high, Jimmy said, “This is a cry for help. GO ON, READ IT!”
Taking the note, Eric began reading the words, the scribbles written upon it, and there weren’t many, just a few short words, asking them to do an errand… To go to the shop, the grocery-cum-hardware store, in John Street, to collect a sack of flour, and then deliver it to an address recorded upon the same piece of paper.
“This is not a cry for help,” said Eric, “It’s just a note from a nutty old woman, who wants you – us – to run an errand for her, and she probably wants it done for free. Not a single penny for either of us, I should hazard a guess.”
Snatching the note, Jimmy mumbled something under his breath, before saying, “Well, I’m going to do it, the errand. If you don’t want to help, that’s fine with me.” With that, he returned the note to his pocket and began walking away from his ‘best’ friend.
Left alone, Eric once again felt like a cad, raining on their party. “Wait, I’ve changed my mind,” he shouted.
Next morning, Jimmy got up earlier than usual, at five a.m. It was going to be a very busy day so he wanted to have as much time as possible for all the things he had to do. Dressing hurriedly, his head stuck inside his pullover. Hissing his annoyance, he pulled harder, and then it shot through the opening, to freedom. “Phew, that’s better!” he whispered. After throwing a few splashes of water onto his face Jimmy picked up his shoes and crept silently out of the room, and all without awakening either of his two brothers.
Pouring some oat flakes into his bowl, and then dripping a smidgeon of milk across them, Jimmy scoffed the unappetising mixture with his usual gusto. Having finished breakfast, he grabbed hold of his duffle coat, gloves and the battered old bucket, and then slipped out from the house, into the darkness.
“Morning,” a voice called out from somewhere across the road. He saw him, Jimmy saw his best friend, Eric, emerging from out of the inky blackness. “Morning,” he replied. “Got your bucket?” Tapping it (the bucket banged and clattered noisily), Eric signalled that he had.
Arriving at the fence bordering the coalmine, the two boys were stunned to see the opening repaired, a whole section replaced. No one would be entering or leaving from this point, today. “Don’t worry,” said Jimmy, “we’ll soon find another opening. There are always one or two others on the go, somewhere along it. It’s just a matter of finding them.”
They found another opening all right, but only after searching for almost an hour. Eric, holding his breath, squeezing his way through (it was even smaller than their usual one), forced his way under the fence.
“Here’s your bucket,” said Jimmy. “We’ve lost a whole lot of time, so we must hurry!” Nodding, Eric began sliding his way down the slagheap.
Arriving home, Jimmy plonked his bucket of coal next to the fireplace. His mother who was kneeling in front of the grate, cleaning it, said, “Thanks, Jim. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Seeing him making a bolt for the door, she asked, “Where are you off to, now?”
Rushing out, pulling the door closed behind him, Jimmy shouted, “I’m off to do an errand, another sack of flour to be delivered…” With that, the door banged shut behind him.
“Who was that?” asked Jack, sauntering down the stairs, looking ever so sleepy.
Laughing (crying?), the mother said, “It was Jim, your brother, Jim. Oh how I do wish that you and your brother, Bill, were more like him, oh how I so wish…” With tears in her eyes, the mother returned to her grate cleaning duties.
“Psst,”
“Who’s there?” Jimmy asked, in fright.
A head, peering round the corner of the street, round the gable end of the red brick terrace house, said, “It’s me! Who did you think it was the witch – or her twin sister?”
“Now stop that!” Jimmy warned. “Or I’ll leave you behind!”
“That’s fine with me,” said Eric. Then he added, “Sorry, I didn’t mean it…”
Giving him a pretend cross look, Jimmy hurried across the street as he said, “Come on, and let’s get this over with…” With that, the two boys set off for John Street.
“I still don’t understand why you think it’s so important, doing this errand,” said Eric. Jimmy, however, remained silent.
Turning the corner, they saw him, Mr Smith, the shop owner, standing so proudly in his brown, shop coat, outside his emporium. Like a guard on duty, no one was entering without him knowing so, first. “Morning, boys,” he said cheerily. “And what delights are you in search of today?” The reason Mr Smith asked this was simple; his shop had a sweet counter. It was huge. It was famous. It was also exceptionally well stocked. Children dragged their mothers from far and wide, to spend what little money they had, there. The old man, Mr Smith, knew every child by name. Jimmy oftentimes wondered how he was able to do this, to remember them all, because he was so incredibly old – and hundreds of children shopped there, but he did, he remembered every last one of them without exception. He even remembered those who visited his shop occasionally, and those who had shopped there only the once. He also remembered the individual likes and dislikes of every child. He knew those who liked liquorice, those who liked aniseed balls, and those who hated them. He was a mine of information, Jimmy thought, and most surely the world’s most wonderful man.
The bell over the door tinkled as the two boys entered the shop.
“So,” said Mr Smith, following them in, “What sweets would you like today?”
“Maybe after we have done our errand,” Jimmy replied. “When we have our penny wages.”
“Okay, I see,” said Mr Smith. “You’re on a penny errand,”
“If we are so lucky,” Eric grumbled under his breath.
“I’m sorry, Eric, did you say something?” the old man asked.
“No, nothing,” Eric lied.
In that case,” Mr Smith continued, “What can I do for you?”
Withdrawing the note from out his trouser pocket, Jimmy said, “We are here because of this.” He handed Mr Smith the note.
Taking it, Mr Smith put on his spectacles, a dusty old pair, and began reading the scribbles. When he had finished, he looked over the top of his spectacle lenses, studying the two boys with some interest.
Sensing a change in the shopkeeper’s mood, Eric asked, “Is everything all right?”
Gazing at them, still over the top of his spectacles lenses, Mr Smith, strangely, said nothing. When he finally, eventually, he began speaking again, he said, “Where did you get this?” He waved the piece of paper in front of the boys’ startled faces as if it was something they might have stolen.
“We got it from an old woman, at the circus,” said Jimmy, in angst.
“The sister of the witch,” Eric added, just for good measure, to be sure Mr Smith fully understood the situation they found themselves in.
“We didn’t steal it!” Jimmy cried out, fearing he might call the police.
The old man’s appearance, his demeanour, relaxed somewhat, and he said, “It’s all right, Jimmy. I don’t for one minute think you have stolen it.” He waved the note again, though this time in a less articulated manner.
Rubbing his chin through his thick, snowy white beard, Mr Smith mulled over the situation, then pulling up a couple of biscuit tins, he asked the boys to sit down. Ambling across to the sweet counter, he began sifting his way through the many offerings on display.
“What does he want?” Eric whispered.
Raising his hands, showing his utter ignorance on the matter, Jimmy said, “I dunno…”
“Here,” said the shopkeeper. “Take these – your favourites…”
“Wow!” said Jimmy, when he saw what he was being offered – most surely the biggest gobstopper in the whole, wide world! “Thanks, thanks a lot,” he said, hardly believing his luck. The gobstopper was so big, Jimmy was unable to fit it in his mouth, and so holding it in hands he licked it like that.
“Crikey! Thanks, Mr Smith!” said Eric, accepting the huge liquorice shoelace he was offering. Holding it, guarding it jealously, Eric marvelled at its wondrous size, for it was most surely twice as big as the one their friend, George Rupniak, had brought to school last Christmas, the one that had amazed – everyone.
Pulling up an empty crate, Mr Smith stroked his bead for a second time, and he said, “Boys…I have something that I want to tell you…”
Listening, watching, licking his giant gobstopper, Jimmy thought the old man, the shopkeeper, had an uncanny resemblance to Father Christmas, and he let out a little laugh.
Taking a bite from his giant shoelace, Eric said, “Shush, Mr Smith wants to speak to us.” He took another bite from his liquorice shoelace.
“Thank you, Eric,” said Mr Smith. “Now where was I?”
“You wanted to tell us something,” said Eric, wiping away some liquorice coloured dribbles from his chin.
Nodding, the old man said, “Yes, I did, so I did…” Like before, he said nothing else, he just sat there on his crate, deep in his thoughts.
Munching away happily on the huge shoelace, Eric was unperturbed, but Jimmy, being Jimmy, wanted to know why, he wanted to know why the old man, who always had something to say, had suddenly become reticent to speak. “Mr Smith,” he said. “What is it that you wanted to tell us?”
Scratching his beard, the shopkeeper, brushing his thinning white hair back with the palm of his hand, took off his spectacles and after placing then carefully in his shop coat top pocket, said, “Boys, this note is indeed from a witch.”
“WHAT?” Jimmy cried out, almost falling off his tin, with fright.
“I told you so; I told you she was a witch!” Eric chortled, forgetting to be scared.
“You said the first one was a witch, not the second!”
Lifting his hand, feigning ignorance, Eric replied, “They are sisters. If one is a witch, so too is the other. Everyone knows that!”
“Everyone – who?” said Jimmy, mystified by his friend’s logic, and where he had found it.
“Calm down – both of you,” said Mr Smith. “There’s nothing to be alarmed about. Witches are everywhere – and they’re good.”
“Everywhere?” Eric replied, in his confusion.
“Good?” said Jimmy, equally confused.
“Yes, and before you say anything else, let me explain...”
By the time the old man had finished explaining, the boys’ minds were reeling, shocked to hear that witches, albeit good ones, were everywhere, and even more shocked to hear that Mr Smith, the friendly, happy go lucky shopkeeper that everyone liked, was one.
“You’re telling us…you want us to believe that all witches are good?” said Eric, aghast by what he had just heard.
“And don’t forget what else I have told you...” the old man replied.
“That warlocks are bad?”
Smiling sanguinely, Mr Smith said, “What do you think I am? Good or bad, witch or warlock?”
“You are a good person, of course,” said Eric, “I – we know you are… But…”
