The Bolds in Trouble

by Julian Clary

  ‘Oh well. I guess we’ll never know what happened to that sandwich,’ said Bobby. ‘Can I make another one?’

  ‘Certainly,’ said his mother. ‘Though I think I know who might have taken the first one.’

  ‘Who?’ asked her family.

  ‘Well, Craig, Miss Paulina and Snappy are in the front room with the dressing-up box, learning about clothes and how to wear them. Maybe one of them got hungry and took your sandwich? They haven’t had their manners lessons yet so perhaps they don’t know it’s wrong to take things without asking.’

  In the front room the three students were indeed getting to grips with the tricky business of dressing themselves. It’s not as easy as it looks when you haven’t done it before and you haven’t had a parent or helper to teach you how to do it.

  Craig the wild boar had squeezed his big barrel chest into a slim-fit coral pink shirt and several of the buttons had burst under the strain. He had a pair of trousers on, but they were inside out and back to front.

  Miss Paulina the religious otter had made herself a sort of wimple out of a pair of pastel green shorts, her face was peeking out of one leg and her hindquarters somehow out of the other. Her ensemble was finished off with a pair of white trainers, the laces of which were still tied together, causing her to fall over, and she lay wriggling on her back trying to get upright again, her big otter tail swishing about frantically.

  As for Snappy the goose – well, he’d clearly been pecking furiously at every item he could reach and was sitting in a torn, tattered nest of fabric while other scraps, threads and fragments floated down around him like confetti.

  The Bolds entered the lounge and tried not to laugh at the chaotic scene, but they couldn’t help themselves.

  ‘Er, how are you getting on?’ asked Mrs Bold, covering her snout with both paws.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve quite got the hang of things,’ huffed Craig.

  ‘No. You’re all... pants!’ quipped Mr Bold.

  ‘Clothes are stupid, in my opinion,’ snapped Snappy. ‘Feathers are far more sensible.’

  ‘But humans wear clothes, so you’ll have to persevere,’ said Mrs Bold.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ offered Betty.

  ‘Practice makes perfect,’ said Miss Paulina with a virtuous smile.

  ‘A good first attempt,’ said Mr Bold. ‘Now, do any of you know anything about a missing sandwich?’ he asked as he and his family helped the students out of what was left of their clothes. ‘Only, Bobby made one and then it vanished into thin air before he had a chance to eat it.’

  Snappy turned and glared at the Bolds, his beak wide with disbelief. ‘Are you calling us thieves?’ he said, his long neck jutting forward accusingly. ‘The nerve!’

  ‘No, we, er, just wondered, only—’

  ‘Wondered if we accidentally pinched a sandwich? I’ve never been so insulted in all my days!’

  ‘Please don’t get upset, Snappy!’ said Bobby. ‘We were just trying to solve the mystery.’

  ‘No sandwiches have been eaten by us, more’s the pity,’ said Craig, patting his stomach.

  ‘We are innocent of all charges,’ added Miss Paulina, nodding in agreement. ‘But I will pray for the safe return of your missing lunch.’

  The Bolds left them to it and went to the kitchen, where they began making sandwiches for everyone.

  As Mr Bold was cutting the cheese, his wife suddenly gripped his arm and sniffed the air.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ she said triumphantly.

  ‘Got what? My sandwich?’ asked a confused Bobby.

  ‘No. The culprit. I know who the sandwich thief is! I can smell him!’

  Mr Bold put the knife down and sniffed the air too, taking several big, noisy lungfuls.

  ‘Aha!’ he said. ‘Me too!’

  And together they said,

  We smell FOX!

  The Bolds’ animal instincts were right. It was indeed a fox who had stolen the sandwich and lemonade, before helping himself to a couple of home-made cupcakes left cooling in the kitchen at Number 45. He then jumped over the fence and took three old chop bones, which he found in a black sack at Number 47. But his daylight raids on the houses of Fairfield Road had not gone unnoticed and there was trouble brewing in that quiet tree-lined street.

  A few hours later, Tony was awake after his rest and the twins’ best friend Minnie had popped over with her little dog Walter. Everyone was sitting around the kitchen table enjoying some biscuits and lemon squash, when there was a polite tap on the back door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said Mr Bold.

  ‘Rita,’ replied a deep voice.

  ‘Rita who?’

  Mr McNumpty with books ‘Rita lot of books!’ said the deep voice again. Then Mr McNumpty entered, carrying a big pile of books from Teddington library.

  ‘Ha ha!’ said Mr Bold. ‘That’s a good joke. I must remember that and use it in a cracker.’

  ‘Would you like some lemon squash and a biscuit?’ asked Mrs Bold.

  ‘Oh yes, rather!’ said Mr McNumpty, putting the books on the counter before washing his hands in the kitchen sink.

  Why was the biscuit sad?

  Because his mummy was a wafer so long!

  Once they were all settled and happily chomping on some home-made cookies, the Bolds told their neighbour about the missing cheese sandwich and lemonade, and the joke with the mustard that had gone horribly wrong.

  ‘And then we discovered who the real thief was,’ said Mrs Bold. ‘Bet you can’t guess who.’

  ‘Ah, well, maybe I can,’ teased Nigel. ‘Was it a fox?’

  ‘How did you know?’ said Mrs Bold.

  ‘Because I saw one of these in the library,’ said Mr McNumpty, pulling a leaflet from his jacket pocket. Betty immediately picked it up and started reading:

  ATTENTION

  Fairfield Road Residents’ Association are calling a meeting tonight at Number 10 Fairfield Road to discuss the alarming problem of urban foxes in our area.

  Foxes are entering our homes and gardens day and night in search of food. Something must be done to rid us of these wild, disease-ridden vermin before the problem gets more serious and someone is hurt.

  Please come along at 7 p.m. sharp. Soft drinks and nibbles will be provided.

  Richard and Zoe Bingham

  10 Fairfield Road

  ‘Gosh,’ said Mr Bold. ‘I don’t think the poor foxes are dangerous! Unless you’re a cheese sandwich.’

  ‘And I don’t think they’re disease-ridden, either!’ said Mrs Bold indignantly. ‘Why do humans always assume that animals are carrying diseases?’

  ‘I don’t,’ pointed out Minnie. ‘You’re the cleanest, loveliest friends in the world.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Betty. ‘I just don’t understand why people think the fox will hurt them. Surely it’s the other way round. My teacher says that in the old days people used to hunt foxes.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Minnie. ‘And there’s a stuffed fox in the pub in Broad Street. I saw it when we went out for Mum’s birthday. It had glass eyes and a really sad face.’

  Mrs Bold shuddered. ‘Sometimes I really don’t understand human beings. How cruel! Surely that’s far worse than a fox who steals the odd sandwich.’

  ‘When we lived in Africa,’ said Mr Bold, ‘your mother and I were always scavenging in the safari park.’

  ‘Fred...’ Mrs Bold gave him a warning look.

  ‘Well it’s true, my dear. It’s what hyenas are famous for – and laughing of course.’

  ‘We’ve left that life behind us now,’ Mrs Bold reminded him.

  ‘Yes I know, but it doesn’t mean I’m not sometimes tempted by the delicious smells coming out of dustbins.’

  Betty and Bobby giggled – and Minnie pushed her biscuit away, looking a little queasy.

  ‘What I mean,’ continued Mr Bold, ‘is that I would never condemn an animal for doing what comes naturally to it.’

  ‘But the Binghams seem very upset about t
he foxes’ natural behaviour,’ said Minnie.

  ‘They seem to be upset most of the time,’ pointed out Mr McNumpty.

  The Binghams were known to everyone in Fairfield Road as busybodies. They were a retired couple who seemed to spend most of their (considerable) spare time watching everyone else on the street to make sure they didn’t do anything they considered ‘wrong’. If your car wasn’t parked neatly, they put a note on your windscreen. If children played on the street outside their house, they knocked on the window. And if you didn’t trim your hedge, they put a terse letter through your door.

  ‘I think we need to go to this meeting and stick up for the foxes,’ said Mr Bold. ‘Goodness knows what the Binghams are proposing to do about the ‘problem’ but I think it’s our duty to defend the poor creatures and remind people that animals are not the dangerous ones around here. Why, only yesterday I saw a poor pigeon as flat as a pancake lying in the gutter where it had been squashed by a car. Surely careless driving is far more dangerous than a peckish fox who occasionally helps himself to a snack.’

  ‘Talking of snacks, I wonder what the nibbles will be at this meeting?’ pondered Bobby, licking his lips.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said his mother, ‘but you won’t be trying any. You’ll be in bed.’

  ‘Cheesy balls?’ said Bobby.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be cheesy balls? I love them!’

  ‘Then you’ll love my new cheese jokes,’ said Mr Bold.

  How do you approach an angry Welsh cheese?

  Caerphilly!

  How do you hide a little horse?

  Mascarpone!

  ‘I’ve got one!’ said Bobby, who had inherited his father’s love of jokes.

  ‘Go on then, son!’ said Mr Bold proudly.

  What did the cheese say to himself when he looked in the mirror?

  ‘I know!’ jumped in Mr Bold.

  ‘Halloumi!’

  Everyone was enjoying the cheesy jokes and had almost forgotten about the foxes.

  ‘It’s such fun to have a jolly good laugh,’ said Uncle Tony, wiping tears from his bristly cheeks.

  ‘The best things in life are Brie!’ said Mr Bold.

  So that evening Mrs Bold brushed her ears and put on a nice hat, and Mr Bold checked himself for fleas while Uncle Tony got Betty and Bobby ready for bed. Then when the twins were tucked up, their parents went next door to call for Mr McNumpty.

  ‘Now remember,’ said their neighbour, ‘we need to defend these poor foxes without arousing the local residents’suspicions to the fact that we too are animals. A lovely hat, by the way, Amelia, it covers your ears beautifully.’

  ‘Why thank you,’ said Mrs Bold, blushing a little. ‘I’ve gone for a smart but casual look.’

  When they arrived at Number 10 they found the house positively heaving. Another neighbour opened the door to them because Mr Bingham was busy trying to find more chairs and Mrs Bingham was repeating for the sixth time the terrifying story of finding a fox peering in through her French windows.

  ‘And I said to myself, there and then, Zoe Bingham, it’s up to you to do something about this problem before someone really gets hurt.’

  The Bolds and Mr McNumpty were ushered into the front room. Mrs Bold found a stool to sit on but Mr Bold and Mr McNumpty had to stand at the back. Mr Bold looked round for the promised nibbles but was rather disappointed: just a single bowl of crisps of indeterminate flavour and some rubbery carrot crudités with a beige dip that might have been hummus (but not from one of the better supermarkets) served on a chipped saucer. Furthermore, the meeting was so well attended, these sparse offerings were gobbled up in no time. Mr Bold thought about licking the bowl the crisps had been in, but decided he’d better not and made do with his watery beaker of squash. But the poor standard of the refreshments was soon forgotten once the heated debate got under way.

  ‘Foxes are everywhere. We must do something!’ declared Mr Bingham ominously, before Mrs Bingham told again the story of the fox peering in at her French windows.

  And the rest of the neighbours seemed to be in agreement that the foxes were a nuisance.

  My vegetable patch has been ripped to shreds!

  My bins are turned over every night!

  I can’t sleep for the worry!

  My back passage smells most peculiar!

  I’m woken up by high-pitched squealing every night!

  I heard a noise in the night. I came downstairs and I think I saw a flash of ginger disappearing through the cat flap!

  I saw a fox walking across my lawn in broad daylight!

  They must be stopped!

  Shoot them, I say!

  Vermin!

  It was all getting very animated and the neighbours were clearly all of one mind: the foxes must be got rid of. Mr and Mrs Bold were conspicuous by their silence. Eventually Zoe Bingham turned to Amelia Bold.

  ‘Well, what do you think? Have you been invaded yet?

  ‘Well, I rather like foxes,’ said Mrs Bold.

  The room suddenly fell silent.

  ‘You like them?!’

  ‘Er, yes. Beautiful creatures,’ continued Amelia. ‘And I don’t see why we can’t all get along together perfectly well.’

  There was a collective gasp. Mrs Bold looked to her husband for support. Mr Bold looked rather blank for a moment, and then his eyes lit up.

  What did the grape say when the fox trod on it?

  Nothing. He just let out a little wine!

  Several neighbours tutted disapprovingly and exchanged glances with each other.

  ‘My husband works in the Christmas cracker factory,’ explained Mrs Bold. ‘He writes the jokes...’

  ‘Good for him,’ sniffed Richard Bingham. ‘But I find it hard to believe that your house is the only one that hasn’t been affected by these wretched foxes. Something must be done!’

  ‘Well there are natural ways to deter foxes,’ said Mrs Bold.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr McNumpty. ‘I read in the library that they don’t like male urine. Perhaps you could wee round your garden to stop the foxes coming in.’

  ‘Do what round our garden?’ fumed Mr Bingham. ‘I’ve never heard anything so disgusting.’

  ‘Lion poo,’ shouted someone else.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Lion poo. Apparently foxes hate lion poo. Let’s get some of that.’

  (That’s actually true, by the way. I know it sounds crazy but look it up if you don’t believe me!)

  ‘Where on earth are we going to get lion poo from?’ laughed Mrs Bingham in an unpleasant way. ‘This is Teddington, not Africa.’

  ‘You could try London Zoo,’ suggested Mr Bold.

  Mrs Bingham shuddered. ‘Really. If that’s the best solution you can come up with, then I think it’s probably better if you keep your solutions to yourself. These foxes need to be got rid of – we’re not going to achieve that by weeing and pooing in our back gardens!’

  ‘Animals and humans can live together perfectly well, so long as we are considerate and respectful,’ stated Mr McNumpty. ‘I expect the foxes have lived here a lot longer than we have.’

  ‘But they should live in the countryside. Not here in Teddington.’

  ‘Why should they?’ said Mr McNumpty. ‘Who says?’

  ‘I say!’ said Richard Bingham, getting rather red in the face.

  This set everyone off again and the room was very quickly in uproar.

  They breed like rabbits. Soon we’ll be overrun by them!

  They’re covered in fleas!

  They might bite our children!

  Bring back fox hunting!

  Mrs Bold and Mr McNumpty tried to argue that no children had been bitten, nor would they be, and that foxes are generally clean animals. But no one could hear them. Mr Bold had several more foxy jokes up his sleeve but he couldn’t be heard either.

  In the end there was nothing Mr and Mrs Bold or Mr McNumpty could say to change any
one’s opinion and it was decided that a private pest control company called ‘POW TO PESTS!’ should be contacted. They would catch the foxes in a trap and then drive them out to the middle of nowhere and let them go.

  ‘But won’t they just find their way back?’ asked one lady. ‘My dog found his way back from Guildford when we left him at my mother’s.’

  ‘Well that’s why I’m suggesting we use Pow,’ said Mr Bingham. ‘I have it on good authority (although they’ll never admit it) that the foxes aren’t really “let go”. They’re “dealt with” in the countryside.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Mrs Bold.

  ‘I mean they go to fox heaven!’

  Mrs Bold looked confused.

  ‘They kill them,’ said Mrs Bingham bluntly. ‘In a very humane way,’ she added. ‘I don’t suppose they feel a thing.’

  ‘Well we don’t know that for certain,’ said Mr Bingham. ‘But suffice to say this company gives a one hundred per cent guarantee that the foxes won’t return.’

  ‘But that’s murder,’ said Mr Bold. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘We can and we will. All those in favour of using Pow to rid us of this problem, raise your hands.’

  Every hand in the room went up, except the paws of Mr Bold, Mrs Bold and Mr McNumpty.

  By the time they got home, Mrs Bold was crying and Mr Bold had lost the desire to tell any jokes.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Uncle Tony when he saw everyone’s faces. ‘It didn’t go well then?’

  ‘It was awful,’ said Mrs Bold, blowing her snout loudly into a handkerchief. ‘They want to catch those poor foxes in a cage and take them away...’

  ‘To be killed,’ added Mr McNumpty.

  ‘Oh, poor foxy!’ cried Miranda. ‘They no deservey that.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Mr Bold. He was feeling rather guilty. ‘I have to admit I’ve been down the odd bin myself when no one was looking. Found half a pizza the other week, in the one at Number 15. I could smell it from here. Still warm, it was!’