"If he agrees to take our doughnuts and sell them in his shops, our problem will be solved," said Jim. "What a marvelous idea!"
Katie blushed. Everybody was so used to Jim having brilliant ideas, so it was nice to have one herself—just for a change! And anyway, look where his brilliant ideas had landed them—in the middle of a mountain of doughnuts, that's where!
Mr. Windram, Supermarket King
Everybody knew where Mr. Windram lived, but it seemed that nobody had ever met him or knew of anybody who had.
"I've seen his picture in the newspapers," said Mark. "He's usually opening things or presenting prizes."
"I know," said Katie. "But how can we actually get to see him?"
"Call him," said Jim, in the voice that he used to express his brilliant ideas.
"But will he be in the phone book?" asked Mark. "Very important people sometimes don't have their numbers listed."
"We can always look," said Jim, as he went to get a copy of the book.
They looked through the phone book until they reached the place in the Ws where Mr. Windram's name should be. And there it was, with an ordinary number, just like anybody else's. They voted to decide who should make the call, and both Katie and Mark voted for Jim. So, his heart in his mouth, Jim picked up the receiver and dialed the number.
An unfriendly voice answered on the other end. "Mr. Windram's residence," it said.
"Could I speak to Mr. Windram?" asked Jim, trying to make his voice sound as grownup as he could. But all it did was make him sound as if he had a cold.
"Why do you want to speak to Mr. Windram?" the voice asked icily. "Does he know you?"
"Not exactly," said Jim. "In fact, not at all. It's about . . . er, a business matter."
"Then you can speak to me," cut in the voice. "I handle that kind of thing."
Jim paused. He was sure that this person, whoever he was, would not be the slightest bit interested in doughnuts. And he was right. The unfriendly voice said no, and then repeated his no, and that was it. Jim heard the telephone reverberate as the receiver was slammed down on the other end.
"No luck," he said to the others. "I don't think it's going to be easy to speak to Mr. Windram."
Jim pondered the problem of how he could see Mr. Windram. It was clearly going to be impossible to speak to him on the telephone, and somebody else was sure to open his letters for him. So the only thing to do was to see him in person—if he spoke to him, Jim was sure that he could persuade Mr. Windram to buy all the doughnuts from him. Homemade doughnuts were way more delicious than any doughnuts you could buy at the store. And for some reason, Mr. Windram's stores never sold doughnuts.
There was not a moment to lose. Every day, with every delivery of the mail, more boxes of doughnuts arrived at the house. Jim's mother was becoming desperate. The garbage-men refused to take them, the neighbors couldn't stand the sight of another doughnut, and even a farmer, who was a friend of Jim's mother and had taken some to feed to his pigs, had reported that the pigs were unwilling to eat any more.
"The doughnuts get stuck on their snouts," he said. "They don't like them at all!"
That afternoon, Jim packed a small box of the very best doughnuts he could find. Then, studying a map of the town, he set out for the street where Mr. Windram lived. It was a long bike ride, and he was tired by the time he reached it, but at last he reached the high wall surrounding Mr. Windram's house. Now all he had to do was get inside.
He left his bicycle at the end of the street and began to walk toward Mr. Windram's gate. It was a very impressive gate—tall and ornate—not the kind of gate one could walk up to and open by oneself. As he got closer, Jim saw that something was going on.
Cars were driving up toward the gate and being ushered in by a uniformed butler. It was difficult for Jim to know exactly what was happening, but it seemed as though Mr. Windram was having some kind of party. All the people in the cars were nicely dressed, and faintly, from the other side of the wall, Jim thought he could hear the sounds of a band playing.
Jim's heart sank. He had chosen the worst possible afternoon to try to see Mr. Windram. How could he possibly see him if he was in the middle of holding a large party for all his important friends? His spirits lowered, Jim walked past the gates. He imagined what was happening at home now. More deliveries of doughnuts would be coming, and his poor mother would be frantically searching for somewhere to put them. It was a nightmare.
Then, just as he was about to turn around and head back to his bicycle, Jim saw the branch of a tree. The tree itself was inside Mr. Windram's yard but the branch hung over the wall. Another brilliant idea was about to come!
Crashing the Party
Jim looked over his shoulder. A large car had just driven through the gate, which had swung shut behind it with a clang. Now there was nobody around, and, without waiting, Jim tucked his box of doughnuts under his arm and leaped up and grabbed the hanging branch. For a moment or so his fingers scrabbled for a good grip, but he soon managed a firm hold and succeeded in hauling himself up onto the branch. After that it was a matter of inching slowly forward until he had crossed the top of the wall and could drop down on the other side.
Jim found himself at the very edge of a long, rolling lawn. In the distance was Mr. Windram's mansion—a great white building with soaring pillars at the front. Along the side of the house, there had been pitched two massive striped tents with open sides. A band was playing in one of the tents and the other was filled with a long table. This was where the party was taking place.
Jim crouched down and ran for the cover of a cluster of bushes. From the safety of his hiding place, he was able to think about what he should do. It was one thing to drop into Mr. Windram's backyard uninvited; it was another thing completely to get to speak to Mr. Windram, wherever he was. Jim imagined that he would be in the second tent, with all of his guests, somewhere at the table. But where?
As Jim was studying the scene, something happened that gave him his chance. One of the waiters who was bringing large silver platters out of the house slipped on something and dropped a tray of desserts all over one of the members of the band. There was a shout and a general kerfuffle as the bandsman stood up and tried to wipe cream and custard off his suit. A large dish of strawberries had fallen into his trombone, and pudding was trickling down his sheets of music.
While everybody's attention was focused on this unfortunate scene, Jim ran forward. Nobody saw him as he darted from bush to bush, nor when he stopped, and hid in a lavender bush right next to the tent. From the bush it was only a lurch and a wiggle to slip under the table.
Underneath the table, there was a forest of legs, all dressed in expensive clothes. Jim squeezed himself past a pair of gold shoes with tiny, sparkling gems. Then, taking care not to touch anybody, he crept over a pair of ankles dressed in bright pink socks and a pair of legs in fancy white silk. Here and there, bits of food had been dropped: a grilled shrimp skewer, half an egg stuffed with caviar, a piece of thin green asparagus on a stick. There were also some very strange things to be seen. He saw an ankle with a large gold watch on it (how on Earth could they tell the time?). He saw a pair of false teeth that somebody must have dropped and then been too shy to look for. It was all very interesting.
But Jim had not come for the sights. He had come to find Mr. Windram, and he realized that he must be somewhere very close. But which of these legs belonged to Mr. Windram?
Jim studied the legs. All of them looked as if they could belong to a supermarket king. All of them looked like rich legs. Then a thought occurred to him. Surely the host would be sitting at the head of a long table of guests. Mr. Windram was sure to have the best seat, where he could look out at all of his guests, and that must be at the head.
Inch by inch, clutching his precious box of doughnuts to his chest, Jim crawled up toward the head of the table. When he eventually reached it, he stopped. There were six legs there, which all looked roughly the same. There were three people se
ated at the head, and any one of them could be Mr. Windram.
For a few minutes, Jim had no idea what to do. If he spoke to the wrong set of legs, then he would be discovered and thrown out before he had the chance to plead his case to Mr. Windram. So he had to choose the right legs.
Jim edged forward again until he was only a few inches away from the legs. He stared hard at them, trying to decide which pair of shoes looked more expensive than the others. But the shoes all looked pretty much the same.
Then Jim noticed the tag. One of the socks on one of the legs was showing a tag. Jim stretched his neck forward and scrunched up his eyes to see what the tag said. Wind . . . the legs moved, and Jim had to crane his neck to read the tag again. Wind . . . Yes! Windram's Famous Striped Socks, the tag said. Jim had heard of them. They were sold at bargain prices near the counters of every Windram's supermarket. No rich person would wear such cheap socks unless he was the person who made them in the first place. Jim knew then that he was looking at the legs of the supermarket king!
The Doughnut Deal
Now came the moment of greatest danger. Very carefully, and very quietly, Jim opened his small box of doughnuts. Then, taking the utmost care, he took out the best doughnut available. It was a large one, with a caramel and whipped cream filling, and it would have melted the heart of the sternest person.
With the doughnut held gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, Jim very cautiously pushed aside part of the tablecloth at the side of Mr. Windram's legs. Then, reaching up, he slipped the doughnut up onto the table, leaving it where he thought it would be at the side of Mr. Windram's plate.
Nothing happened. Jim sat still, his heart thumping with excitement. Surely Mr. Windram could not fail to notice it. But there was nothing—not a single sign to suggest that anything unusual was happening. Then, very suddenly, there came a strange noise from above. It was a snort of some kind, and it was followed by a surprised-sounding voice.
"What on Earth is this?" the voice said. "And where did it come from?"
Another voice, belonging to one of the other pairs of legs, replied.
"It looks like a doughnut," this voice said. "I haven't eaten one of those in years."
"Well," said Mr. Windram's voice. "It looks tasty. I might as well try it."
There was silence for a minute. Jim crossed his fingers, praying that it would work. If it didn't, then it would be the end of all his hopes.
"Mmm," said Mr. Windram. "Not bad!"
Then a fist thumped down on the table, making Jim jump.
"Very good!" roared the voice. "Waiter! Another of these . . . doughnut things, please!"
Jim saw a pair of waiter's legs hovering behind Mr. Windram.
"I'm afraid we don't have any, sir," he said timidly. "In fact, I have no idea at all where that one came from."
"Well, it didn't fall out of the sky!" snapped Mr. Windram. "You must have given it to me."
"I'm sorry," said the waiter. "I didn't."
"I wonder who did?" said Mr. Windram.
Listening to this made Jim realize that it was time for him to act. Summoning up all of his courage, he leaned forward and tapped one of Mr. Windram's legs.
"I gave it to you, Mr. Windram," he said. "And I have some more down here!"
After that, everything happened very quickly. There was a big fuss when Jim was discovered under the table, and one of the waiters wanted to throw him out immediately, but he was stopped by Mr. Windram.
"If this young man wants to speak to me,"said Mr. Windram, "then let him. Come on, young man, what's all this doughnut business? You certainly have delicious doughnuts, if I may say so!"
So Jim sat down next to Mr. Windram and told him the whole story. At the end, when he was telling everyone about how he crawled along under the table, Mr. Windram began to laugh.
"You must have seen some very odd sights down there," he guffawed. "Did you see my brother-in-law's teeth, by the way? He's always losing them at parties."
Jim nodded, which made Mr. Windram laugh even more. Then, wiping the tears of laughter away with a large silk handkerchief, he returned to the serious question of all the doughnuts.
"So you want me to take these doughnuts off your hands and sell them in my supermarkets?" he asked.
"Yes," said Jim. "I'd be very grateful if you could do that."
Mr. Windram narrowed his eyes and stared at Jim.
"And all the money would go to this old janitor . . . Mr. Pride?" he asked.
"Yes," said Jim. "It would."
For a minute or two Mr. Windram said nothing. Then he smiled and patted Jim on the shoulder.
"Do you want to know what I think?" he asked. "I think . . . I think it's a very good idea. Yes, a very good idea indeed. Doughnuts? Let's have lots and lots of doughnuts."
Jim heaved a sigh of relief as Mr. Windram went on to say how he would send some of his men to Jim's house immediately to collect the doughnuts and put them in cold storage.
"Of course, you probably won't get them for much longer," said Mr. Windram. "Sooner or later these e-mail chains stop. But that won't matter. Maybe then you and your mother can make some for me. And I'll pay you well."
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, Mr. Windram."
Mr. Windram chuckled.
"What about another doughnut?" he said, pointing to a jelly-filled one that he had spotted in Jim's box. "That one will do."
Mr. Windram ate all the rest of the doughnuts in the box. Then, since the guests were starting to leave, he accompanied Jim to the front gate.
"Come back and see me soon," he said. As Jim hurried down the road, eager to tell Katie and Mark the wonderful news, the supermarket king yelled out to him. "And bring some doughnuts with you!"
"All right," shouted Jim. "I will!"
And Jim did. Mr. Windram liked the doughnuts, of course, and asked for more, which Jim gave to him. Eventually people stopped sending Jim doughnuts, but that didn't really matter. The doughnuts had sold so well in the supermarkets that enough money had been raised to buy Mr. Pride a new car—and a very nice one at that. Jim still saw Mr. Windram, though, since they had become very good friends. Mr. Windram asked Jim whether he would like to come with him on his inspections of his supermarkets, which Jim agreed 182 to do. And after they had finished inspecting a supermarket, they would return to Mr. Windram's house for something to eat.
And what did they have to eat? That's right! Doughnuts.
A Note on the Author
Alexander McCall Smith has written more than fifty books, including the New York Times bestselling No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency mysteries and The Sunday Philosophy Club. A professor of medical law at Edinburgh University, he was born in what is now Zimbabwe and taught law at the University of Botswana. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland.
Visit him at www.alexandermccallsmith.com.
A Note on the Illustrator
Laura Rankin is the illustrator of Alexander McCall Smith's Harriet Bean mysteries in addition to the picture books Ruthie and the (Not So) Teeny Tiny Lie (which she also wrote), Rabbit Ears, Swan Harbor, and The Handmade Alphabet. She lives in Maine.
Table of Contents
The Perfect Hamburger
The Spaghetti Tangle
The Doughnut Ring
Alexander Mccall Smith Page 8