by Andy Stanton
‘Why, it’s Billy William the Third!’ she gasped. ‘But what in the name of Billy William the Third is he ups to? An’ who in the name of Greasy Ian is Greasy Ian?’
Suddenly a monstrous fellow covered in boils and chip fat jumped out of an alleyway and began issuing commands.
‘Turn the spit, Philip, ma hairy treasure! Turn the spit like ye’ve never turned it afore!’
‘CHATTER CHATTER CHEE!’ shrieked a stinky little monkey at his side. And leaping on top of a huge grey kebab the vile creature began cranking the handle for all he was worth.
SPLIP! Hot fat rained down upon the high street. Billy William yelped and went running for cover back to the butcher’s shop. But when he opened the door who was lying in wait but . . .
‘MR GUM!’ shouted Polly, rushing into the midst of the battle without a care for her own safety. ‘I knowed you’d be mixed up in all this! Jus’ you an’ Billy leave that bloke with the monkey alone, you troublemakers!’
‘What you on about, you stupid little girl?’ laughed Mr Gum as he swigged on a can of beer. ‘Greasy Ian an’ the monkey are on my side. It’s Billy I’m after!’
‘Billy?’ exclaimed Polly in astonishment. ‘But I done thought Billy was your friend, your only friend in the whole wide worlds!’
‘Times change, little girl,’ growled Mr Gum, brushing her aside like a horse flicking a raisin into space. ‘Me an’ Greasy Ian’s gonna mash Billy up good an’ proper.’
‘Say yer prayers, Billy me boy!’ Mr Gum cackled.
Billy gritted his teeth. There had to be a way out of it. Had to be! But no. It was the end of the line.
In front of him: Mr Gum in his hobnail boots.
Behind him: Greasy Ian with a heavy iron saucepan.
To his left: Philip the Horror with a ladle full of chilli sauce.
To his right: a quite scary ant sitting on the pavement.
Escape was impossible.
The sun had disappeared behind the clouds. The Kebab Shop Gang were closing in. The ant waved its front leg menacingly.
‘We have to stop them!’ cried Alan Taylor from Polly’s skirt pocket. But before they could think how, a pair of strong hairy monkey arms grabbed them from behind and pinned them tight.
‘CHATTER! CHATTER! CHATTER!’ shrieked Philip the Horror into Polly’s ear.
‘Friday! Friday! Help!’ shouted Polly, but it was no use. Friday had accidentally fallen asleep in a hedge.
And now Polly and Alan Taylor could only look on as Mr Gum and Greasy Ian advanced on the terrified butcher.
Greasy Ian rolled up his sleeve.
Mr Gum raised his fists.
Philip the Horror bared his yellow teeth.
The ant growled.
‘It’s all over,’ spluttered Alan Taylor, his words muffled beneath the monkey’s paw. ‘It’s the end of society as we know it!’
But no! Hold everything! Stop right there! Because suddenly, every molecule in Polly’s body began to tingle as if some marvellous mystical music was playing deep inside her intestines. And into the fray stepped a small boy, a small boy with a face so honest and true that everyone stopped what they were doing and stood rooted to the spot.
‘It’s the Spirit of the Rainbow!’ cried Polly when at last she could speak. ‘He’s come to end this terrible war onces an’ for all!’
Chapter 9
‘Only Love Can Save Us Now’
‘Warmongers,’ said the Spirit of the Rainbow, gazing upon the villains with his bright clear eyes. He didn’t speak loudly but nonetheless it seemed as if the whole world was hanging on every one of his words. ‘Warmongers,’ he said again. ‘Warmongers.’
Then he shook his head sadly and said ‘Warmongers’ a few more times. It was very dramatic. Also, once he said ‘Warmonkeys’ instead and he looked right at Philip the Horror that time and Philip the Horror fell silent.
‘Warmongers, you have brought fighting and destruction to the streets of this town,’ said the Spirit of the Rainbow. ‘But now you must turn from your madness. For War is a cruel and heartless mother and her only children are Misery and Bloodshed and Some Explosions. Turn from your madness while there is still a chance. Now leave this place!’
‘Shabba me whiskers!’ growled Mr Gum – but nonetheless he was afraid of the honesty in that young lad’s voice and for now all the fight had gone out of him. ‘Come on, Greasy Ian, let’s get out of here,’ he muttered. ‘Not cos I’m scared of that kid, jus’ cos I don’t feel like fightin’ any more, that’s all.’
And so the villains began collecting up their weapons for another day. The Kebab Shop Gang disappeared back to Greasy Ian’s by the canal and Billy and his magic unicorn Elizabeth returned to his butcher’s shop to sulk like a rabbit for the rest of the afternoon. The town was silent once more.
‘Oh, Spirit, you done it, you done stopped the war!’ said Polly, tears of gratitude spilling from her eyes.
‘No, child,’ said the Spirit of the Rainbow, though he was no older than she. ‘The warmongers will be back at it tomorrow – I cannot hold them off forever. War is too strong even for me and my remarkable powers. But there is one force which is stronger still, and that force is called love.’
‘But how can love stop this war?’ asked Friday O’Leary, scratching the Spirit of the Rainbow’s head in puzzlement. ‘There’s no way I’m kissing Mr Gum, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘No,’ said the boy solemnly. ‘Though I do have a task for you and your friends. You see, Mr Gum and Greasy Ian will never be stopped, for badness flows deep inside their veins. But Billy? I believe Billy can still be turned from this wickedness.’
‘But how, Spirit, how?’ said Polly.
‘Billy is only fighting because he is lonely and jealous,’ replied the Spirit of the Rainbow. ‘If we can turn his mind to thoughts of love, the fighting will stop and the world will once again glow with happy colours.’
‘I sees,’ said Polly, nodding slowly. ‘So we gots to find Billy a wife.’
‘Not just any wife,’ said the Spirit of the Rainbow. ‘For long ago Billy William pledged his heart to a lady. And ever since that day Billy has lived in hope and now it is time to make that hope come true.’
‘But who could Billy William possibly ever love?’ asked Friday.
The Spirit of the Rainbow handed Polly a photo.
‘Her? That’s the woman Billy loves?’ said Polly in disbelief.
‘Billy is a proud man and a smelly one,’ replied the boy. ‘He could only ever love a butcher as skilful as he. Thora Gruntwinkle is her name. She is the Butcher Queen of Olde London Town.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Alan Taylor, who hadn’t said anything for a while.
‘Some of it is written in the stars,’ replied the young lad, gazing into the distance as if seeing things there that mere mortals could not. ‘Some of it has been foretold in the mighty Prophecies of Bastos. And some of it I just make up as I go along. Enough questions! You must travel to London and do not tarry!’
‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come with us?’ said Friday hopefully.
‘No, my friend Colin’s having a bowling party tonight,’ said the strange boy. ‘Now go! The next train leaves on the hour. Bring back Thora Gruntwinkle – before it is too late!’
And throwing them a handful of fruit chews he was gone.
Chapter 1
Meet Mr Flamingo
Hello. Do you know who I am? I do, because I’m me. I’m Mr Flamingo and I’m absolutely splendid. Guess how many fish I can catch in one day? LOADS. Also, look at my beak, it’s tremendous. And if that weren’t already enough look how brilliant I am at standing on one leg. It’s no wonder everyone around here thinks I’m superb – I am. The other thing is, I’m very pink and what do you think of that? I think it’s marvellous. Do you know why I’m so pink? It’s because of all the little shrimps I’m eating all day. The little shrimps have got strange chemicals in them which make them pink and those strang
e chemicals make my feathers pink too. Isn’t that something?
Also, have you met my wife? Her name is Mrs Flamingo and she is very attractive. All the other flamingos totally wanted to marry her but I soon put a stop to that by kicking them into the water and jumping up and down on them until they knew who was the boss. Then, after everyone knew who was the boss (me), I went up to Mrs Flamingo and I said, ‘See who is the strongest and the most attractive? It is me.’ And Mrs Flamingo (who was just called Miss Flamingo back then) agreed and soon we were married in the Church of the Golden Hippopotamus down by the mudflats. It’s great being married, you should try it some time. We’ve been married for nearly nine years now and in all that time we’ve hardly ever argued. And we’ve got two lovely children, Michael and Penny.
So anyway, now you’ve met my family it’s time to tell you of the time the rhino came to town. It was a lazy Saturday afternoon and I was idly preening my beautiful feathers when
Chapter 11
Olde London Town
‘I never done beened in a big city before,’ said Polly as they stepped off the platform into the crowded railway station. ‘Look at all the shops! There must be at leasts six of them.’
‘And that’s just in the station,’ replied Friday, who was a great traveller. ‘In actual fact, there are over THIRTY shops in the whole of London and that is why it is known as “The Shopper’s Paradise”. You can buy anything in London, Polly. Anything you want! Anything you can imagine! Anything at all!’
‘But can you buy happiness?’ said Alan Taylor quietly and that made them all think for a moment.
‘WELCOME TO LONDON!’ yelled the Queen as Polly and her friends stepped out of the station and straight on to a busy street crowded with pedestrians, pigeons, punks, parking meters, policemen, policewomen, pussycats, ponies, pubs, pushbikes, pushchairs, prams, payphones, pickpockets, pop stars, paparazzi, postmen, pies, puppies, paupers, pavement artists, potholes, puddles, priests, poodles and just to ruin everything, an onion.
‘What a marveller it all is,’ said Polly, her eyes goggling as she gazed upon the many sights and sounds, even though you can’t really gaze upon sounds. ‘Can we goes to Piccalilli Circus an’ see the clowns?’
‘There’s no time for that,’ said Alan Taylor, who was sitting in Polly’s hair so he wouldn’t be trodden on by a businessman or eaten by a Beefeater for dessert. ‘We’ve got to find Thora Gruntwinkle and I think I know where she might be.’
‘You do?’ said Friday O’Leary in surprise.
‘I certainly do,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘Do you remember what I was like when you first met me?’
‘I remembers,’ said Polly. ‘You was a horrid little richie with far too much money for your own goods. You was always splashin’ it about an’ showin’ off like nobody’s fat business.’
‘That’s right, Polly,’ said Alan Taylor. ‘But have you ever wondered just how I came to have all that money in the first place?’
‘No,’ said Friday.
‘You see,’ explained Alan Taylor, ‘I used to work right here in Olde London Town! I was a taxi driver and I know this city like the back of my tasty little hand. Now, if we’re very lucky . . .’ he said, scanning the street with his bright raisin eyes. ‘Yes! There it is!’
Suddenly, to Polly’s astonishment Alan Taylor somersaulted from her hair and began running pell mell down Pall Mall, dodging amongst the legs of the pedestrians and chortling with glee.
‘What’s got into him?’ said Friday. But it wasn’t what had got into Alan Taylor, it was what had Alan Taylor got into – a dusty old black taxi cab with a crumpled bonnet, a couple of flat tyres and hundreds of parking tickets plastered all over the windscreen.
‘My old taxi!’ cried Alan Taylor, bouncing up and down on the front seat with such gusto that the whole street stopped to stare. ‘Right where I left it three years ago – parked in front of this “NO PARKING” sign. What a stroke of luck! Hop in!’ he called. ‘Hop in!’
Polly and Friday hopped in.
‘To the Butcher’s District!’ proclaimed Alan Taylor. He turned the ignition key and – SMUNF! – they were off!
Of course, a London taxi cab is very big and Alan Taylor was very small so he kept having to jump down from the steering wheel to press the pedals. And then, every now and again when he remembered, he’d jump back up to turn the steering wheel by dancing on it, his little legs whizzing up and down and his electric muscles buzzing like a toaster about to explode. He seemed to be having so much fun that Polly couldn’t help but laugh through her terror.
‘He’s a-goin’ to kill us!’ she giggled as the oncoming traffic swerved to get out of their way. ‘He’s a-goin’ to kill us all!’ The other drivers honked their horns or shouted ‘BEEP BEEP!’ Crowds of shoppers ducked for cover as the cab skidded on to the pavement, knocking over an ice-cream stand and one of those stalls that sell useless souvenirs of London like plastic Big Bens and postcards of idiotic-looking punks.
‘LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!’ the cry went up. ‘ALAN TAYLOR’S BACK IN TOWN!’
‘How on earth did you become rich driving like this?’ yelled Friday as Alan Taylor accidentally ran over Sherlock Holmes and hurt his foot.
‘My passengers used to pay me double to let them out of the cab almost as soon as they’d got in,’ replied Alan Taylor, bouncing happily up and down on the accelerator. ‘I made lots of money that way.’
‘Look!’ shouted Polly as they whizzed past the famous sights of the nation’s capital. ‘An old chestnut-seller dyin’ of the plague! Mary Poppins beatin’ up a tramp! Chimney sweeps a-dancin’ all over Nelson’s Column! Dr Jekyll turnin’ into a pigeon! Isn’t it grand, Friday, isn’t it grand!’
‘CROPPER IN THE FLOPPER!’ agreed Friday, who occasionally liked to say ‘CROPPER IN THE FLOPPER!’ instead of ‘yes’.
Suddenly Alan Taylor jumped down on the brake as hard as he could. With an awful smell of burning rubber and gingerbread, the taxi spun round and round in the middle of the road. The front wheel bounced off, flew into the Houses of Parliament and accidentally became Prime Minister for the next ten years. The engine fell out and rolled into the River Thames . . . And then all was still.
‘B-b-where are we?’ said Polly, looking dazedly around.
‘We’re lost,’ said Friday.
‘No, we’re not,’ smiled Alan Taylor, pointing to the old-fashioned street sign on the corner:
‘All of London’s butchers live and work on Carver’s Row,’ he explained. ‘If Thora Gruntwinkle’s anywhere in this crazy city then this is where we’ll find her.’
What a horrible street of meat Carver’s Row turned out to be. It was a place of unwashed windows and broken doorways. It was a place of plucked geese and wild-eyed hares dangling from hooks of cruel black steel.
It was a place of surly fat men sitting on wooden crates drinking beer, huge meat cleavers dangling from their aprons and smaller meat cleavers dangling from their socks. It was a place of butchers.
‘I’m scared,’ whispered Polly, but Alan Taylor took her hand and that gave her the courage to go forward. And Friday took her foot and that gave her the courage to trip over and say, ‘Friday, please stop taking my foot.’
‘Keep your eyes straight ahead, Polly,’ muttered Friday. ‘And keep smiling. Butchers can smell fear, you know. It’s one of their powers.’
‘Spare some change for a cuppa tea?’ whined a wretched beggar at Polly’s feet – but Alan Taylor pulled Polly briskly away.
‘Don’t give him any money,’ he warned. ‘He’ll only spend it on kidneys and mince.’
Strange eyes watched the heroes from dark doorways. Sharp silver blades flashed and flickered in the shadows. A miserable butcher’s dog snuffled for scraps in the gutters.
‘MEEAATT! FREESSHH MEEAAAT!’ bubbled a low-pitched voice from behind a boarded-up window.
‘BEEF BRISKET! GET YER BEEF BRISKET!’ growled another.
‘CANDYFLOSS AN’ TOFFEE APPLES!’ cried a
third. ‘CANDYFLOSS AN’ – oops, sorry. I think I’m in the wrong street.’
At last the heroes came to the very last shop on Carver’s Row.
GRUNTWINKLE’S QUALITY CUTS
Fine meats and poultry, whatever poultry is
The sun was going down behind the sooty brick buildings, sinking like a great bloody eye into the blackness. The evening had grown cold. From one of the neighbouring buildings there came the dull sound of a meat cleaver coming down, over and over again.
‘Well,’ Polly said softly. The door loomed over her, tall and dark and ominous. ‘Here we goes then.’
Polly glanced round at her friends. She took a deep breath. And then she stepped through the doorway.
Chapter 12
Thora Gruntwinkle
‘Good evening!’ called a lovely musical voice, and Thora Gruntwinkle stepped out from behind the counter to greet them.
‘My goodness,’ marvelled Friday. ‘She’s even more beautiful in real life than in her photo!’
And so she was. No photograph could ever do justice to the beauty of Thora Gruntwinkle for she was one of the most gorgeous ladies who ever was born, like an angel who wasn’t looking where it was going, tripped over a comet and plummeted to Earth to walk prettily amongst us for the rest of its days. Her auburn hair, her emerald eyes, her radiant smile – she was breathtaking.
‘Pity about her name though,’ whispered Friday.
Thora Gruntwinkle’s shop was just as beautiful as she, with a spotless white counter and a pretty display of plump pheasants and partridges hanging above.
Gleaming pink cuts of gammon and ham sat side by side in a sparkling glass case and indeed, wherever you looked, there were fabulous meats to behold. Lamb cutlets, rich dark venison, thick juicy slabs of sirloin steak . . . All in all it was a splendid place, and it just goes to show: Never judge a butcher by the cover.