Jimmy,
The Glue Factory and Mad Mr Viscous, chapter
seven
Chapter Seven
That Little Errand
“Okay,” said Eric, holding his hands up, in surrender, “Okay I accept that some witches are good… But that old woman – both of those old women, at the circus – were bad!”
Mr Smith was a patient man, a tolerant man who knew only too well how peoples’ minds and opinions are formed, moulded, by people less open – to other ways. He knew that children, even ones as young as Jimmy and Eric, are all too easily influenced by such closed thinking, so folding his arms, having no intention of forcing the issue, he simply asked, “Why?”
That stumped them; neither Jimmy nor Eric had any idea, any real, concrete idea why they had labelled the two women as witches. Yes, they tried to make excuses, like they were ugly, thin, old, had beady eyes, creaky voices, and other such nonsense (including one or more of them owning a black cat), but both boys had to finally admit that they had no idea why they had labelled the two women, so.
“Thank you,” said Mr Smith triumphantly.
“Thank you?” said Jimmy and Eric, repeating his words like two lame parrots.
Having overcome the hurdle of their own ignorance, the boys found it plain sailing from there on, and the more they talked with the wise old man, the more they embraced what he said, what he believed in, including the notion that witches were not bad. They came to see how their beliefs, the beliefs imposed upon them, by others, had blinded them to the true, the full reality of life, a life far different from anything they had ever imagined.
Finishing the last vestiges of his liquorice shoelace, but still looking somewhat puzzled, Eric said, “I still don’t understand why she gave me that note, why she wanted us to do the errand…”
Smiling sagely, the old man said, “You will understand, Eric, but only when you are ready.”
“Hmm”, said Eric, following Jimmy out from the shop. “You don’t happen to know what he meant by that, when he said, ‘I’ll know, when I’m ready’?”
“If you don’t mind, can I pass on that?” said Jimmy, struggling under the weight of the sack of flour perched high upon his shoulder. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now!”
Laughing, Eric said, “Yeh, including a whole lot of flour, because that sack has a hole in it!”
“What!” Jimmy yelled, making a beeline back into the shop, to tell Mr Smith that he wanted another one.
“What took you so long?” Eric asked, when Jimmy returned from the shop, looking ever so worried.
“Transferring the sack to his other shoulder, Jimmy said, “Oh, it’s nothing…”
“Nothing?” said Eric, an eyebrow rising, with interest.
“Well, it’s just that...when I went back in there...to his shop, he, Mr Smith, said, he warned me, that we must be on our guard, lest we fall into disrepair…”
“Lest we fall into disrepair! What on earth is that supposed to mean,” Eric asked. “We’re not cars, you know!”
“I KNOW! I’m as confused as you!”
“Didn’t you ask him what it meant?”
“Yes, I did, but he said the same thing that he said to you, ‘That I will understand when I am ready…’”
“Oh.”
Heaving the sack to a more comfortable position, Jimmy said, “Come on, let’s get this thing delivered.”
It was a good distance to the address on the note, to a part of town that neither of the two boys had ventured into before, an industrial area, which had in earlier times (by the look of the few houses still standing) been a rich and fashionable neighbourhood. Following religiously behind Jimmy, as if his life depended on it, Eric glanced suspiciously at the many warehouses, stores and depots straddling the street. They were all deserted. There was not one person to be seen anywhere. “It’s awfully quiet,” he whispered. “Methinks, too quiet.”
“Look,” said Jimmy, pointing across the street with his free hand. “There it is, number twenty-three.” And it was, standing proudly between a vacant plot on one side and a huge factory spewing acrid black smoke on the other, a grand mansion – number twenty-three Spooks Street – before them.
Cawk, cawk.
“W, what was that?” Eric stammered, with fright.
“It’s only an old crow,” said Jimmy, “Look, up there, see it, on the roof?”
“Phew,” said Eric, relieved that that was all that it was.”
As the gate creaked slowly open a cold wind blew into the boys’ faces. They shuddered. Picking their steps carefully along frost-coated path, Jimmy and Eric made their way up to the front door, the black painted front door that, like the house, was huge.
“This has all the hallmarks of a horror movie,” Eric whispered. Then he asked, “Where’s the bell?”
Looking, trying to see where the bell was located, Jimmy finally admitted that there was none.
“What, no bell?”
“No, only a knocker,” said Jimmy. “Go on, give it a go!”
Lifting the knocker, a heavy brass ring in a lion’s mouth, Eric knocked the door. It boomed, resonating both inside and outside the house.
“Why don’t you give it another, louder knock!” said Jimmy, in angst at his friend’s sudden desire to show how strong he was.
“I didn’t mean to knock it so hard,” Eric replied. “It just happened.”
“The weather happens. Doors getting knocked like there’s no tomorrow, don’t happen,” said Jimmy, giving him a most peculiar look.
“But…” The sound of the door creaking open, exactly like in a horror movie, cut Eric off. The two boys, staring into the house, almost expected to see Boris Karloff waiting inside to greet them, but they didn’t, no, there was no one there, no one apart from a strangely familiar black cat. It meowed.
“Anyone here?” Jimmy called into the hallway. The cat meowed a second time, and then turning round it darted away, down the long, dimly lit hallway.
“Come on,” said Jimmy, “follow that cat.” As he dashed down the hallway, the sack of flour, perched high upon his shoulder, shuddered and quaked, releasing a trail of white powder across the black and white tiled floor, behind him.
“Wait!” Eric cried out, “There’s a hole in the sack!” However, Jimmy had gone, disappeared down the hallway almost as fast as the cat. Running after them, friend and cat, Eric heard the door bang shut behind him.
Following the cat into the kitchen, Jimmy’s jaw dropped in sheer disbelief when he saw it, for the kitchen, like everything in this house, was HUGE.
Puffing and panting, Eric also entered the kitchen. Pointing to the sack of flour, he said, “Look, look at it, will you?”
“What are you jabbering on about?” Jimmy asked, looking around, but seeing nothing.
“The floor, look at the floor!”
Staring down at his feet, Jimmy was mortified to see the mess he was standing in. Lifting a foot, he shook it, trying to release the powder from his shoe, but it clung to it like glue. Lowering the sack, trying to stop any more flour from escaping, Jimmy followed the white trail, mortified to see that it led all the way back to the entrance hall. The situation was bad, very bad. “She’ll kill me,” he cried out, “She’ll never pay me that penny, and on top of that she’ll want a full bag! Eric, what am I going to do?”
“What are you going to do about what?” a creaky old voice suddenly asked.
“Where did you come from?” said Jimmy, retreating a few steps.
“That is not important,” she creakily replied. “Is that my sack of flour?”
Gulping hard, he admitted that it was, and then biting the bullet he began to explain what had happened to it, “Unfortunately,” he said, “I had a bit of an acc…”
“And a nice full one, I see.”
“What?”
“I said it’s a nice full sack, the last one had a dreadful hole in it. It was no more than half full by the time I got my hands on it.”
Inspecting the sack, Jimmy was amazed to see there was no hole in it, not even a sign of one. Then looking down the hallway, at the floor, he was as equally puzzled to see no flour there, not even one tiny speck. “But…” he said, scratching his head. “But…”
“Thank you,” she said. “And here are your pennies, one for each of you.”
The front door banged shut as the two boys made their way down the steps, along the frost-coated path. “Two pennies, no less,” said a jubilant Eric. “I knew she’s turn up trumps!”
“You did?”
“Yes, well, sort of…”
Pulling the gate closed, Eric said, “I still don’t understand why she wanted us to do that errand. There must have been loads of people working in the circus who could have done it for her.”
“Yes,” Jimmy agreed, “almost as strange as Mr Smith telling me – us – not to fall into disrepair…”
“Yeh, that was strange,” Eric laughed, thinking nothing more of it. “Come on, race you to the shop, there are sweets there waiting to be purchased.”
“Yeh, I suppose you’re right,” Jimmy replied. “Hey, wait for me!”
Running, galloping past the factory next to the old woman’s’ house, Jimmy suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
“Why are you stopping?” Eric asked, running on the spot, trying to urge him on, “I’m dying for some sweets.”
“Did you hear that?” Jimmy whispered.
“Hear what?”
“Horses.”
“Horses?”
“Yes, listen.”
Cocking his head over to one side, Eric listened, and sure enough he heard horses, whinnying horse, frightened horse – ever so scared horses.”
