Mr Gum and the Biscuit Billionaire

by Andy Stanton

  ‘Leave me be!’ he shouted when he saw them and fiercely he grabbed the covers and pulled them back up over his little head.

  ‘But we’re your friends,’ said Polly in confusion. ‘We’re here to help you.’

  ‘Friends?’ squealed Alan Taylor. ‘That’s a laugh! You’re just like all the others. You only like me when I’ve got money! The rest of the time you laugh behind my back. And you call me names like “Cake Face Alan” and “Crumb Boy”, just like they did at school!’

  ‘But we don’t likes you for your money,’ pleaded Polly. ‘We likes you for who you really are.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ snorted Alan Taylor. ‘Just like the servants. Oh, they were friendly enough when I was rich. They laughed at my jokes and tickled me for my amusement. But all the time they were just after my cash, my antiques and my valuable golden peanut.’

  ‘But we’re not like them, can’t you see?’ protested Polly. ‘Plus we’re gonna catch the robbers into prison an’ gets back all your money for you!’

  ‘Yeah, and once I’m rich again you’ll pretend to be my friends again, I suppose,’ replied the unhappy biscuit. ‘Well, I’m not having it. I’m sick and tired of being made fun of and I’m going to stay in bed FOREVER. I don’t need any so-called “friends”. I don’t need anybody!’

  ‘But Alan Taylo–’

  ‘GET OUT!’ he squealed. ‘I never want to see either of you again!’

  ‘Come on, little miss,’ said Friday solemnly. ‘Let’s leave him be.’

  And he took Polly’s hand and led her towards the door. But at the last moment Polly ran back to the bed, hot tears rolling down her pretty face.

  ‘Alan Taylor, I d-dunno what’s got into you,’ sobbed Polly. ‘But I knows you d-don’t mean it. An’ I b-brought you a present, only you was so angry I nearly forgot ’bout it.’

  She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a fifty pence piece.

  ‘There,’ she said, pressing the coin into his weeny brown hand. ‘It’s everythin’ what I got in my piggy bank. I was savin’ it towards a computer but I w-wants you to have it, just in case we can’t finds your riches.’

  Alan Taylor just stared at the coin. He didn’t even say ‘thank you’. It was more than Polly could bear. With one final sob she turned and fled from the room, her face buried in her hands.

  Friday stood there for a moment longer, gazing down at the ungrateful biscuit in his enormous white bed. ‘The truth is a lemon meringue,’ said Friday very quietly and he shook his head. ‘That’s all I’ve got to say to you, my friend.’

  Chapter 7

  On the Trail of the Money

  Friday twirled his imaginary detective’s moustache wearily.

  ‘I admit it,’ he said as he and Polly sat eating lunch in the Chapter 7 Café. ‘This case is too tough even for me.’

  They had been searching all morning but they hadn’t found any robbers, not even one.

  ‘Oh, Friday,’ said Polly, looking despondently at her jacket potato. It wasn’t the jacket potato’s fault, she just felt despondent anyway.

  ‘Oh, Polly,’ said Friday, looking despondently at his jacket potato because he wished he’d ordered the pasta instead. And together they sat there, looking despondently at jacket potatoes.

  But suddenly Polly sat bolt upright.

  ‘Hey!’ she exclaimed. ‘What’s that a-flutterin’ outside the window?’

  ‘It’s just a twenty pound note,’ said Friday despondently. ‘I wish I’d ordered the pasta.’

  ‘But don’t you gets it?’ explained Polly. ‘It must be the trail of the robbers at last!’

  ‘Hot wigwams, you’re right!’ shouted Friday. ‘To the Alancopter! I mean, to the motorbike!’

  And leaving their lunches untouched, they ran outside.

  At the next table Jonathan Ripples and Martin Launderette watched them go.

  ‘I wonder what that’s all about,’ said Jonathan Ripples.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Martin eagerly. ‘Try your pea soup.’

  ‘Urgh!’ said Jonathan R., swallowing down a spoonful. ‘Someone’s put torn-up pieces of newspaper in it!’

  ‘Who’d do a thing like that?’ said Martin Launderette innocently, taking out his red notebook.

  Another victory, he wrote. The pea soup joke was HILARIOUS.

  Friday’s motorbike was parked outside on the high street.

  ‘Hop on, Polly!’ he shouted, starting the bike up with a roar.

  ‘Don’t roar like that,’ said Polly. ‘It scares me.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Friday and stopped roaring. He revved the engine and off they zoomed. Before too long they came across another banknote blowing on the wind. Soon after that they saw one stuck in a hedge and soon after that they saw one stuck in a pop star’s haircut.

  ‘We’s on the right track!’ cried Polly. On, on they went, and all the while they saw money. Money, money, money, flapping on the wind or stuck in bushes or being eaten by magpies and tramps.

  Soon they had left the town far behind and Polly began to get a little worried. They were riding through strange fields with twisted up trees and scarecrows with no heads. Sinister sounds like ‘YIM!’,‘KOOBLES!’ and ‘BEEF!’ rang out from the undergrowth and who knew what creatures lurked therein? Storm clouds were gathering and the day had grown dark and threatening.

  ‘Where is we, Frides?’ Polly whispered.

  ‘I’m not sure, little miss,’ replied Friday. ‘But have faith. The Universe is a mysterious place, and everything happens for a reason. Except for stinging nettles. They’re just a nuisance. But not to worry, there’s none ’round here!’

  Now, Friday had barely said these knowledgeable words when the motorbike broke down in the middle of a great big patch of stinging nettles. Huge ones they were, towering higher than Polly’s head and full of bad pains for anyone who tried to mess with them.

  ‘Brummigans!’ exclaimed Friday. ‘We’ll have to walk from here.’

  ‘Look at all them nettlers,’ trembled Polly. ‘Just a-waitin’ to sting us to bits though we done nothin’ to them!’

  ‘Fear not, little miss,’ said Friday, heaving her on to his shoulders. ‘Though I am old, my legs are as strong as – OUCH! OOH! OW!’

  ‘You brave, brave man,’ said Polly from her position of safety above the treacherous plants. It was a bit unlucky that Friday had chosen to wear shorts that day and no shoes or socks, but there you go. That’s life.

  ‘OUCH! OOH! BLIMEY! FLAN! EEK! MOOO! FLURTLE!’ grimaced Friday as he picked his way through the nettles. They seemed to go on forever but he kept at it, because he was a force for good and his heart was true and his feet were bare. At last they reached the edge of the field and there Friday collapsed like a broken gypsy in the scrubby grass.

  ‘Go on without me,’ he gasped, his legs covered in painful white blisters. ‘I’ll . . . be . . . all right . . .’

  ‘I won’t leaves you, Friday!’ said Polly, cradling his head in her arms. ‘I’ll stay with you forev–’

  Just then they heard a voice coming from somewhere below.

  ‘Oi! Caterpillar Joe! I can’t wait to escape to France with all that money what we stole,’ someone cackled.

  ‘It’s the robbers!’ whispered Friday urgently. ‘Now go, Polly. Go and save the day with your Pollyness!’

  Chapter 8

  Smuggler’s Cove

  With one last glance back at Friday, Polly pushed through the long tall grass and found herself on a windswept cliff top. It was Hangman’s Leap and, lordy, it was a more wretched place than ever. Remember those rocks that looked a bit like nasty faces? Well, they were still there. In fact, there were even more of them than before, don’t ask me how, but there were. And those manky seagulls with one eye and stuff? There were more of them too, because they’d been up all night breeding new and even more disgusting ones. Some of the new seagulls smoked cigarettes and had tattoos on their wings.

  Altogether it was a frightful scene, m
ade even worse by the rain and the dark thundery skies above but Polly had work to do. She peered over the cliff edge and could just make out two tiny figures on the beach below, striking evil poses.

  ‘Those flippin’ roo-de-lallies!’ she muttered and without further thought she started down the cliff.

  Down on the rocks Mr Gum was looking out to sea with a powerful telescope he’d made from a jar of mustard, a rolled-up magazine and a powerful telescope.

  ‘There he is!’ he shouted gleefully as a small wooden fishing boat appeared on the horizon. ‘It’s Monsieur Bellybutton!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Billy William, but at that moment the wind changed direction and the most horrendous stench came to their noses. It smelt like a zoo had married a gigantic fart. Only it was even worse than that.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Gum, his eyebrows curling up and turning crispy with the pong. ‘It’s him all right!’

  ‘Bonjour Monsieur Gum, bonjour Monsieur Billy!’ shouted Bellybutton as he rowed into Smuggler’s Cove.

  You know in cartoons when they do wavy lines to show that something smells bad? Like there’ll be a rotten fish head or something and they’ll do wavy lines coming off of it? Well, I’m not lying but Monsieur Bellybutton actually had those wavy lines coming off of him IN REAL LIFE. He had never once taken a bath and he was quite an old man so just think about it.

  ‘Bonjour,’ the two villains cried in pleasure. You see, incredible as it was, they actually liked the smell of Monsieur Bellybutton.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Mr Gum, inhaling long and hard. ‘He’s smellin’ even riper than last year. Lovely!’

  Polly was nearly at the bottom of the cliff when the smell of Bellybutton hit her like invisible boxing gloves filled with gorgonzola. She fell to her knees, clutching her nose in agony, but even so the smell found a way in, bringing tears to her eyes and clouding her thoughts.

  ‘I dunno what that’s about,’ said Polly through gritted teeth. ‘But them robbers needs sortin’ out!’

  Determinedly she stuffed a bunch of daisies up her nostrils and continued on. The further down she climbed, the stronger the smell became. The daisies shrivelled up and went brown. Seagulls fell out of the sky, landing with thumps all around her, but still she did not falter. And that’s what Pollyness is all about.

  Finally she reached the bottom of the cliff. The wind changed direction once more and she could breathe again, which is very helpful for living.

  And now she saw where the stink was coming from. A smellster Frenchman with wavy lines coming off of him IN REAL LIFE was helping Mr Gum into a mucky fishing boat encrusted with barnacles. Billy William was already on board, the biscuit tin clutched to his scrawny chest.

  ‘Hey! Robbers!’ shouted Polly. ‘I’m arrestin’ you in the name of the Laws!’

  ‘You!’ spat Mr Gum, spinning round in fury. ‘How’d you find us, you meddler? We never left no tracks to follow!’

  But even as he spoke, a tenner flew into the air and Mr Gum knew the truth of Billy William’s laziness at putting lids on biscuit tins properly.

  ‘You MUNCHER!’ shouted Mr Gum, slapping the careless butcher round the chops. ‘I TOLD you to sort out that lid!’

  ‘Robbers, your games is up,’ said Polly sternly. ‘An’ don’t you think you can float off to France and muck everything up over there too. I’m not havin’ it!’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ sneered Mr Gum. ‘What you gonna do? You’re just a stupid little girl an’ you can’t do nothin’ against powerful kings like me an’ Billy.’

  Like lightning Mr Gum reached down and grabbed a heavy fishing net dripping with slime and dead lobsters. Running up the beach, he chucked it at Polly and before she knew what was happening she was down on the sands, buried under its filthy weight. Struggling against it was no good. It was just one of those nets you can’t beat with struggling.

  ‘Au revoir!’ shouted Mr Gum as Monsieur Bellybutton started to row away.

  ‘Au revoir,’ replied Polly politely. ‘I mean – Hey! Come back here, you crimers!’

  But the boat was soon just a tiny speck on the horizon and the day was lost.

  How long Polly lay under that net she didn’t know. Was it minutes? Hours? Years? Probably not years. Anyway, there she lay – helpless and crying with rage.

  ‘Friday could be dead up on that cliff an’ them robbers has escaped an’ I hates it!’ she sobbed. ‘It ain’t fair an’ the world’s rubbish an’ I don’t care ’bout nothin’ no more so shut up!’

  Eventually she had no more tears left to shed. She lay there, exhausted, and her eyes they did close, and soon she was dreaming the strangest dream . . .

  Alan Taylor was there and he was nibbling away at the net with his little sharp teeth, nibbling, nibbling, nibbling.

  A dead lobster fell on his head but he just pushed it off and went on nibbling. Polly could hear his electric muscles whirring away and she could see his kind brave face full of concentration and raisins . . .

  Nibble, nibble, nibble. Whirr, whirr, whirr.

  Nibble, nibble, nibble. Whirr, whirr, whirr.

  Nibble! Whirr!

  Nibble! Whirr!

  Nibble, nibble, nibble. Whirr, whirr, whirr . . .

  Polly opened one eye and there was the Biscuit Billionaire himself. It wasn’t no dream after all! He was standing proudly on the sands with bits of net in his teeth, his doughy body protected from the rain by a miniature Superman cape which made him look like Batman.

  ‘A.T.!’ gasped Polly, climbing out of the net. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘It’s me, all right,’ said he. ‘I’ve come to my senses and got out of bed. And now to catch those robbers!’

  ‘But how we gonna gets ’em?’ asked Polly. ‘For we haven’t no boat an’ we can’t just swim out there, you insaner!’

  ‘No,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘But I know someone who can.’

  He gave a high-pitched whistle and suddenly a face Polly knew well appeared from behind a rock. Not just a face on its own though, that would be horrible. It was attached to a body Polly knew well too.

  ‘I can’t believes it!’ she cried, running up to hug her fat golden friend. For it was Jake, that massive whopper of a dog, come to the rescue at last.

  Chapter 9

  Hooray for Friendship!

  Jake gave a happy bark and slobbered all over Polly with joy and together they had a bit of a romp on the rocks, with tickling and rolling around and woofing and suchlike.

  ‘You know each other?’ asked Alan Taylor.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ said Polly. ‘Me an’ Jake, we’re friends of old!’

  ‘How extraordinary,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘He followed me all the way here, almost as if he wanted to help.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Polly, stroking Jake’s tongue. ‘Cos he’s the cleverest hero dog ever, an’ he knew we was in troubles!’

  Actually, Jake had just been wandering along looking for insects to eat but never mind. The important thing was that he was there. Alan Taylor hopped on to his great broad head and Polly hopped on to his massive whopper back.

  ‘Rinky-dink-dink!’ she cried, and with that the magnificent canine flopped into the sea and started up his Doggy Paddler 2000s, otherwise known as his legs. Alan Taylor tugged at Jake’s ears to steer him, and Polly was in charge of fuel, which meant cramming dog biscuits into his mouth. (She’d been carrying around dozens of them in her skirt pocket all summer, in case Jake showed up. To be honest, it was a relief to finally get rid of them.)

  Meanwhile, back on the boat the robbers were just lazing around doing nothing much. They weren’t even rowing, they were just letting the boat drift off to France of its own accord. Billy William was impressing Monsieur Bellybutton by eating a fifty pound note and Mr Gum was looking for dolphins to scowl at.

  ‘Aha!’ he said, spying a great big one on the starboard side. ‘Now for some quality scowlin’!’

  But as it came closer Mr Gum saw that it wasn’t a dolphin after all. It was Jake, carr
ying his cargo of heroes.

  And the next moment the glorious beast erupted from the waters like a furry referee and landed in the boat with an enormous wet crash. His whopper paws went scrabbling about all over the place and got Billy William right in the never-you-minds.

  ‘Ooof,’ yipped Billy, and that was him out of the action.

  ‘MEDDLERS!’ screamed Mr Gum, grabbing the biscuit tin and reaching for a bashing stick, but Alan Taylor jumped at him in a heroic frenzy, his Superman cape streaming out behind him. He landed on the biscuit tin and sunk his teeth into Mr Gum’s right hand.

  ‘Shabba me whiskers!’ wailed Mr Gum. ‘That hurts like a rascal!’ He waved his hand about, trying to dislodge Alan Taylor, but when it came down to it he was just a lame-o coward and he had to let go.

  ‘Whimper!’ he remarked, retreating to the end of the boat. But there was no place to run and he couldn’t swim, and why? Because he couldn’t be bothered.

  Working fast, Polly and Alan Taylor tied up Mr Gum and Billy William. Then Polly turned to their evil-smelling accomplice.

  ‘You a bad one, all right,’ she said, looking Monsieur Bellybutton up and down. ‘But maybe there’s hopes for you yet. Get in this thing,’ she commanded, pointing to a medieval catapult that stood in one corner of the boat.

  Monsieur Bellybutton took one look at Jake’s big teeth and climbed inside, sobbing in terror.

  ‘Stand back!’ said Polly and –

  S S P L L L A N N N N G !

  Monsieur Bellybutton shot out of the catapult and over the waves.

  ‘NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNON!’ he screamed in slow-motion, which is the French for ‘NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNO!’

  Because for the first time in his grubulent life, Monsieur Bellybutton was about to have a bath.