Paul Jenning's Weirdest Stories

by Paul Jennings

  Well, the next morning I put some cod-liver oil on a spoon. Lovely, like honey it is. With a smooth fish taste. Then I dipped it in my home-made muesli. Nuts, seeds, fruit, dried vegies. A wonderful mixture.

  ‘Here,’ I said. ‘I’ve blended it with my special muesli. Delicious.’

  Anthony shook his head. Stubborn boy.

  ‘If you want the money for the movies today,’ I said, ‘you have to eat your muesli and cod-liver oil.’

  ‘Blackmail,’ said Anthony.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ I said.

  To my great surprise he just nodded and opened his mouth. But I knew what he was up to. I was a kid myself once. He couldn’t fool me. He was going to go outside and spit it out. I didn’t come down in the last shower.

  ‘Promise me you won’t spit it out,’ I said.

  He looked at me for ages without answering. ‘Okay,’ he said at last.

  I gave him the spoon and he put the muesli and cod-liver oil into his mouth. His eyes started to water. His face went red. He held his hands up to his mouth and rushed over to the sink.

  ‘You promised,’ I yelled.

  He looked at me with staring eyes. Anyone would think I had pulled his fingernails out. It was only muesli and cod-liver oil, for goodness sake. What a fuss over nothing.

  ‘Swallow,’ I said. ‘Get it over and done with.’

  Anthony grabbed a piece of paper. He scribbled a message.

  DISGUSTING. I CAN’T GET IT DOWN. I’LL BE SICK.

  I took out my wallet and gave him ten dollars. ‘Here’s the money for the movies,’ I said. ‘I’ve kept my word, now you keep yours. You promised not to spit it out.’

  His eyes were still watering. He had the muesli and cod-liver oil in his mouth. He just wouldn’t swallow it. Talk about stubborn. He snatched the ten-dollar note and headed for the door. His cheeks were bulging out like two balloons.

  ‘No you don’t,’ I said. ‘You’re going to spit it out on the way. I’m coming too. To keep an eye on you.’

  I grabbed my walking stick and hat and hobbled after him.

  Down the street he went with me following. He stopped at the bus stop. ‘Mmnn, mnn, mng, mng,’ he said.

  I couldn’t understand a word. I think he said something like, ‘Please go home, Gramps, it’s embarrassing.’

  Funny that. How kids get embarrassed by adults. I don’t think he liked me being with him in my old gardening boots.

  ‘No way,’ I said. ‘I’m staying until you swallow.’

  Lucky I did too. He never would have survived without me.

  The bus pulled up and we got on. Of course Anthony couldn’t talk. ‘Where to?’ asked the bus driver.

  ‘Mmm, nn, mng,’ said Anthony.

  The bus driver looked at him as if he was crazy. ‘Knox City Shopping Centre,’ I said. ‘One and a half, please.’

  We sat down and the bus started off. Passengers were staring at us. They were kindly old folk like me. Anthony was going red in the face. Kids get embarrassed about anything these days. He was ashamed of me. His own flesh and blood.

  ‘Won’t swallow his cod-liver oil,’ I said in a loud voice. ‘So I’m making sure he doesn’t spit it out.’

  The passengers nodded. ‘Kids these days are spoiled,’ said an elderly lady.

  Everyone ooh-ed and ah-ed. They were all on my side. ‘My mother couldn’t even afford cod-liver oil,’ said a bald man up the back.

  ‘Yes,’ said a mother with two children on her knee. ‘Stick with the little rascal. Don’t let him win. Make him swallow it.’

  I grinned. I knew I was right. Kids need discipline. There was no way I was going to let him spit out that muesli and cod-liver oil.

  And if he was embarrassed having his grandpa around, too bad.

  3

  Anthony jumped off the bus at Knox City. He tried to lose me in the crowd. Up the escalator, down the elevator. In one door, out of another. But I was too quick for him. He just couldn’t shake me off.

  Finally he went up to the ticket office at the cinema. ‘Which show, love?’ said the lady ticket seller.

  ‘Mnn, mmn, mng,’ he said.

  Fairies in the Dell, I said. ‘One and a half, please.’

  ‘Mmnn, mmnng,’ Anthony was shaking his head. He didn’t want to see Fairies in the Dell. He pointed to a sign which said, Blood of the Devil.

  The ticket seller gave him a ticket and Anthony rushed off. I quickly bought a ticket and followed. Blood of the Devil. That was no show for a child.

  I hobbled after him into the dark cinema. It was all I could do to find him. I plonked myself down in the next seat. It was so dark that I could hardly see. I had to make sure that he didn’t spit the cod-liver oil under the seat.

  I didn’t look at the screen. I just kept staring at Anthony’s lips. My eyes became used to the dark and I could see that his cheeks were still swollen with the muesli and cod-liver oil.

  On the screen, worms were coming out of a grave. It was a terrible movie. Disgusting.

  Just then something happened. Something that I found hard to believe. Something that you will find hard to believe. A little tubular shape like a worm wriggled out between Anthony’s lips.

  ‘Aagh,’ I screamed. ‘A worm.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said someone behind.

  ‘Quiet,’ barked another voice. ‘If you’re frightened, don’t go to horror movies.’

  ‘Quick, Anthony,’ I whispered fiercely. ‘Spit it out. It’s okay about the cod-liver oil. Spit it out.’

  The worm thing was wriggling further and further out of his mouth. It sort of snaked its way up past Anthony’s eye.

  He shook his head. Talk about stubborn. It was just like when he was three. Once he made up his mind, that was it.

  The worm thing grew longer and longer. It oozed out of his mouth and wrapped itself around his head. What could it be? Terrible, terrible.

  ‘Spit,’ I yelled. ‘For heaven’s sake, Anthony. Spit.’

  ‘Shut up, you old fool,’ said a voice behind us in the darkness.

  I had to save Anthony. Had to get this wretched thing out of the boy’s mouth. I reached up and touched the writhing worm.

  It wasn’t a worm. It was a plant. A long tendril grew out of his mouth and twirled around his head.

  My mind started to spin. What had I done to the poor boy? What was going on?

  And then I realised.

  The muesli was growing. One of the seeds had sprouted in the cod-liver oil. It was growing so fast that I could see it move. Like a snake stretching itself. Out and around.

  Then something else happened. Two more shoots erupted. One out of each nostril. It looked as if he needed to wipe his nose. Badly.

  ‘Spit it out, Anthony,’ I shrieked. ‘For heaven’s sake, boy, you’ve got a noseweed.’

  Growls and loud whispers came from the audience around.

  ‘Shut up, Pops.’

  ‘Get the manager.’

  ‘Chuck the old fool out.’

  Anthony just sat there staring at the screen. He didn’t even care that the muesli in his mouth was growing. Nothing would make him open his mouth. He was teaching me a lesson. He was as stubborn as Gran, bless her heart. If only she were here. She would know what to do.

  ‘Come on, boy. Let’s go,’ I said.

  Anthony shook his head. I tried to pull him out of his seat but he was too strong.

  ‘Shut up,’ came a voice.

  ‘Keep still,’ said another.

  I let go. If I made any more fuss they would kick me out of the place. I buried my head in my hands and closed my eyes. I just couldn’t look at Anthony’s sprouting mouth.

  The other people settled down for a bit. I kept my eyes closed and sat still. No one complained. Not at first anyway.

  Suddenly a voice said, ‘Take off that hat.’

  ‘Yes, we can’t see.’

  ‘What a nerve, wearing a hat like that at the pictures.’

  ‘I’m getting the manage
r.’

  I opened my eyes and screamed. Anthony’s head was covered in branches and leaves. Stems snaked out of his mouth and nose and twisted upwards. Instead of hair, he had a mass of leaves wrapped around his skull. He looked like he was wearing a ridiculous hat made of bushes. The people behind couldn’t see the screen.

  Just then a man with a torch arrived down the aisle. It was the manager. He grabbed me firmly by the arm. ‘Come with me, you two,’ he said. ‘You can’t carry on like that in here.’

  He led us both down the dark aisle and out into the bright light of the foyer.

  4

  The manager glared at Anthony. ‘Very funny,’ he said. ‘Dressing up like that and spoiling the movie for everyone else.’

  ‘He’s not dressing up,’ I gasped. ‘It’s growing out of his mouth. Muesli and cod-liver oil.’

  The manager shook his head at me angrily. ‘Practical jokes. At your age you should know better.’ He turned around and stomped off.

  ‘Spit,’ I said to Anthony. ‘Get rid of it. Quick.’

  He just shook his head. He was still trying to teach me a lesson. And it was working.

  ‘We’re going home,’ I said. I grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowds. More leaves and twigs were growing in front of my eyes. And Anthony’s eyes too. I couldn’t even see his face any more.

  A crowd of little kids and their mothers started to follow us.

  ‘Look at that, Mum.’

  ‘How do they do it?’

  ‘It’s one of those in-store promotions, dear. It’s probably advertising a plant nursery.’

  I whispered fiercely to Anthony. ‘Pull it out, boy. Quickly. This is embarrassing. Everyone is looking at us.’

  Anthony nodded his branches at me. ‘Mnn, nmng, nn,’ he said.

  I didn’t know what it meant. Probably something like, ‘You embarrassed me. Now it’s your turn.’

  I was tempted to pull the whole thing out myself. But what if the roots grew into his tongue? I might damage his mouth.

  A huge throng followed us through the shopping mall.

  ‘Cabbage head,’ yelled a little kid.

  ‘Treemendous,’ said someone else.

  This was turning into a nightmare. I was most embarrassed. What if someone from my bowls club was watching? How humiliating.

  Finally we struggled out of the shopping centre and climbed onto the bus. ‘One and a half,’ I said.

  The driver looked at Anthony for quite a bit. Then he said, ‘Trees are full fare.’

  I threw the money at him and we sat at the back of the bus. Anthony’s tree head was growing all the time.

  ‘You’ll have to move,’ shouted the driver. ‘I can’t see out of the back window.’

  Passengers were staring at us. Whispering and pointing.

  I was just about to tell Anthony that this had gone far enough when I spotted something. On one of the branches. A small berry thing about the size of a marble. It was gold in colour.

  ‘An apple,’ I shrieked. ‘You’re growing an apple.’

  I parted Anthony’s branches and looked into his eyes. Then I examined the tiny fruit. ‘You’ve done it,’ I yelled. ‘You’ve done it. It’s a Golden Gran. My new species. One of the seeds has sprouted in the cod-liver oil.’

  We both had tears in our eyes. Now Gran would be remembered forever, bless her heart. Anthony nodded his tree and the little apple shook about dangerously.

  ‘No,’ I yelled. ‘Keep still. It’s only small. It won’t have any seeds yet. Don’t move in case it falls off.’

  Anthony froze. He knew how important this was to both of us. He had loved his Gran, bless her heart. She was his favourite. ‘Mmn, mnng, mnff,’ was all he said.

  ‘Now listen,’ I whispered. ‘The way this thing is growing, the apple should be ripe in about an hour. Then we can weed your mouth and nose. And keep the apple seeds. Then we can plant them and grow more Golden Grans. In memory of Gran, bless her heart.’

  ‘Mmnff,’ said Anthony. I knew that he agreed with my plan.

  The bus came to a halt outside my front gate. ‘Walk carefully,’ I said. ‘If the apple drops off before it has grown we are finished. It might be the only one.’

  Anthony stood and inched along the aisle of the bus.

  ‘Hurry up,’ said the driver.

  ‘This is an emergency,’ I said. ‘We have to save the apple.’

  ‘Get moving,’ ordered a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform.

  ‘We haven’t got all day,’ said someone else.

  I looked at Anthony. ‘Don’t take any notice,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’

  Anthony moved forward at a snail’s pace. There was no way he was going to dislodge that apple. Time passed slowly. The passengers grew restless.

  In the end the driver couldn’t take it any longer. He jumped out of his seat and grabbed Anthony by a lower branch. He dragged him along the bus and threw him onto the street. Then he looked at me angrily. ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ I said.

  I jumped off and examined Anthony. ‘Are you hurt?’ I yelled.

  He shook his branches slowly. ‘Mmple,’ he said urgently.

  ‘Apple,’ I cried. ‘Yes, where’s the apple?’ I began searching through the branches. It was still there. And it was nearly full grown.

  Cameo looked on from a distance. Even the horse was interested in the apple tree.

  We walked slowly into the front yard. ‘Five minutes more,’ I said. ‘Then we can pick the apple and weed you.’

  Anthony crept forward into the garden. He edged his way towards the front door. Five minutes passed. ‘The apple is ripe,’ I yelled. ‘Quick. Inside and I’ll get some cutters.’

  Neither of us heard the footsteps behind until it was too late. Well, not footsteps. Hoofsteps.

  As quick as a flash, Cameo chomped on the apple. Swallowed it in one go. Then she tossed her head and ripped the whole tree out of Anthony’s head.

  ‘Ow,’ shrieked Anthony.

  Cameo trotted to the other side of the garden, still munching on the remains of the tree.

  ‘Are you all right? Are you all right?’ I called.

  ‘Yes,’ Anthony screamed. ‘Quick, grab Cameo.’

  We raced across the grass but we were too late. Cameo had eaten every leaf. Every twig. Not one bit of the tree was left.

  5

  Well, Anthony and I just sat and stared at the floor. After all that. So near and yet so far. We had almost developed a new apple type. A Golden Gran. But Cameo had swallowed it.

  ‘Never mind, Grandpa,’ said Anthony. ‘You’ll crack it one day.’

  He was a great kid. He was just trying to cheer me up. But I knew it was no good. I was getting old. I didn’t have much time left on earth. I knew that I would never develop the Golden Gran now. My heart was heavy.

  Excuse me if I wipe a little tear from my cheek. But I always get so sad when I think of Gran, bless her heart.

  Suddenly Anthony jumped up. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ll do it again. Mix up muesli and cod-liver oil. And put it in our mouths. Another tree might grow.’

  ‘You’d do that for me?’ I said. ‘Even though you hate cod-liver oil?’

  Anthony nodded. ‘We both will,’ he yelled. ‘One of us is bound to sprout.’

  So that is what we did. I mixed up a new lot and we sat there with our cheeks bulging. It was lovely, was that muesli and cod-liver oil mix. Or that’s what I thought. Poor Anthony sat there with tears streaming from his eyes. He thought the taste was terrible.

  For two days we sat there. Waiting and waiting and waiting. We couldn’t talk. We dared not move. The phone rang but neither of us could answer it. We didn’t even go outside.

  Two days and two nights. Sitting there with our mouths full of muesli and cod-liver oil. But nothing grew. Not a leaf. Not a twig. Nothing.

  Finally Anthony got up and spat into the sink. ‘It’s no good, Grandpa,’ he said. ‘I can’t go on. It’s not going to work.’

/>   He was right, of course. I spat my lot into the bin and went off and had a shower. It was the worst day of my life. I had nothing left to look forward to.

  I dried myself and dressed. Then I went out into the kitchen. Just then Anthony rushed in. He was carrying something. Something wonderful.

  Two golden apples. ‘Golden Grans,’ he shouted. ‘Look.’

  He pointed outside. I ran over to the window and stared out. And there it was. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A magnificent apple tree growing in the backyard. Covered in Golden Grans.

  The tree was sprouting out of a pile of horse manure. Cameo had done a good job.

  ‘Whoopee,’ I yelled. I had never been happier in my whole life.

  Anthony grinned and held out an apple. ‘You be the first to taste one,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘That honour is yours.’

  Anthony took a bite. He pulled a face and spat. ‘Ugh,’ he yelled. ‘Sorry, Grandpa, but it’s terrible. Disgusting.’

  I grabbed the other apple and munched. ‘Delicious,’ I shouted. ‘Absolutely delicious. The first apple in the world that tastes like cod-liver oil.’

  I am not happy standing here in front of the magnolia tree. I play my guitar and peer at my hat on the ground. There’s not much money in it. Not much at all. There are only about fifty people in this town and they don’t have any spare cash. Still, the buses might be good for a dollar. The tourists have plenty of money. They might throw a cent or two to a poor girl. Until they find out that the tree is dead.

  My fingers strum the guitar and I sing a sad song. It’s called ‘The Ballad of Mrs Hardbristle’.

  Now here’s something. A young bloke crosses the street. He comes over to listen. He has a ponytail and a headband. He doesn’t look like he’s worth much. He probably hasn’t got twenty cents to his name. Still, I keep on playing. Just in case. He puts his hand in his pocket. Maybe he has a twenty-dollar note for me.

  The young bloke pulls out his hand. In it he holds a mouth organ. My heart grows heavy. No money. Not a cent. Just a mouth organ. I stop playing and sit down under the tree with a sigh.