The Bolds in Trouble Page 5

  At the back of Number 10, Mrs Bingham was getting quite upset. ‘He’s scratching the glass!’ she said. ‘Why is he doing this? Where did he come from? It’s the middle of the night!’

  Mr Bingham didn’t know what to do about the angry goose that was attacking his property. He tried shouting, ‘Boo! Boo! Go away!’ He jumped up and down in his lounge, mimicking the goose and barking. But with no success.

  Then suddenly, on hearing the whistle from Miss Paulina, Snappy stopped snapping. He did a big, wet goosey poo for good measure, then hurtled round the side of the house to the front door. So far everything was going according to plan. But his work wasn’t done yet. Now he jumped onto the front doorstep and began to pound on the front door with his beak.

  This was the signal for Craig, who had been hiding behind the hedge of Number 12. He no longer wore the pink slim-fit shirt or the inside-out trousers. He was on all fours and looked every inch the wild boar he really was. He strolled into the middle of the Binghams’ front garden and began to dig up the flower bed with his trotters.

  Alerted by the banging on the front door, Mr and Mrs Bingham had left their lounge and rushed fearfully to the bay window at the front of their property. Too scared to open their front door, they pulled back the fancy net curtains, peering round at their porch to see what on earth was happening now. But the first thing they saw was Craig, his muscular hairy grey back glistening in the rain, his big porky mouth full of marigolds, stomping on what was left of their summer flower display.

  ‘W-w-what is THAT?’ said Richard. ‘Something wild and prehistoric!’

  Zoe opened her mouth to scream in horror but no sound came out. Disappointed by the reaction and fearing that he maybe hadn’t been noticed, Craig moved to the perfectly manicured lawn and began to gouge the velvety green surface with his tusks.

  ‘Nooo!’ pleaded Mr Bingham. ‘Not my lawn too! What on earth is happening?’

  ‘We’re being invaded,’ croaked Zoe. ‘Call the police, Richard. Tell them we need an armed officer here right away! And hurry! I don’t think I can take much more. My knees are beginning to buckle...’

  Mr McNumpty had been watching the operation hidden between some parked cars on the other side of Fairfield Road with the remainder of his troops.

  ‘Right,’ he whispered urgently. ‘So far so good. Bobby and Betty, you’re next. Action!’

  The twins darted across the deserted road and hid themselves in the shadows at the side of the Binghams’ garage.

  ‘Ready, sis?’ asked Bobby breathlessly.

  ‘Roger that!’ said Betty. They both hunched down in preparation, counted: ‘One, two, three!’ in unison and leaped onto the garage roof. Then, tummies pressed to the tiles, they crept catlike to the far end and slid down into the cover of a hydrangea bush.

  ‘There he is!’ breathed Betty, pointing to the far end of the Binghams’ back garden. ‘By the compost heap!’

  ‘I see him. Poor Mossy!’ said Bobby. The fox, with nowhere to hide from the torrential rain, was sitting in a puddle, bedraggled and shivering. There looked to be very little fight left in him.

  ‘Won’t be long, Mossy!’ said Betty in a loud whisper. ‘We’re coming to get you out of there.’ Bobby went to run towards the fox, but Betty held him back.

  ‘Wait,’ she cautioned. ‘We have to make sure the Binghams haven’t come back to the lounge, remember?’ The two young hyenas then poked their heads cautiously out of the bush and peered towards the back of the house.

  ‘All clear,’ said Betty, and they scampered across the garden towards the cage.

  While all this was going on, inside the house Richard Bingham had discovered his phone wasn’t working.

  ‘The line’s dead, Zoe,’ he said in terror.

  ‘I told you we should have got one of those mobile ones, Richard,’ said his wife angrily. ‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ Outside they could hear the honking of a goose and the grunting of a wild boar. ‘This is madness. You’ll have to go out there and tackle that beast yourself.’

  ‘But I can’t go out THERE!’ shuddered Mr Bingham.

  ‘Be a man, Richard, for goodness’ sake,’ said Mrs Bingham. ‘Think of the marigolds.’

  Mr Bingham clenched his jaw. ‘Very well, Zoe. If that’s what you want. I will.’ He glanced around the hallway for a suitable weapon.

  From his hideout on the street, Mr McNumpty saw the front door of Number 10 slowly open. A red tartan umbrella (rolled up) poked out, moving in circular movements, followed by Mr Bingham’s dressing-gown-clad arm.

  ‘Gerroutahere!’ he shouted bravely as his slippered feet stepped onto the doorstep.

  Craig, who was by now enjoying a luxurious mudbath in the flowerbed, raised his head and snorted derisively.

  ‘Go, Fred! Go, Amelia!’ said Mr McNumpty.

  At his command, Mr and Mrs Bold – unclothed and in full hyena cry – charged menacingly towards Mr Bingham, their teeth bared, jaws drooling, piercing eyes fixed on their prey.

  ‘Waaah!’ screamed Mr Bingham and he swiftly retreated back inside his front door. There was the sound of bolts being drawn and keys being turned.

  By this time the twins had got to the cage and after a moment or two had worked out how to unlock the door.

  ‘Come on, Mossy,’ they urged the hunched, broken fox. ‘Quickly. Come with us. You’re free.’

  Mossy was shivering now and too cold and tired to speak, but slowly, cautiously, he got to his feet.

  Mr and Mrs Bold, their work done at the front of Number 10, were now at the twins’ side, and with their encouragement Mossy was quickly ushered through the other gardens of Fairfield Road, to the back door and into the safety of the kitchen at Number 41.

  Mr McNumpty then gave the signal to Miss Paulina who whistled the ‘withdraw’ command to Craig and Snappy, and Fairfield Road was quiet and empty once again.

  By now it was almost dawn, and there was a lot of cleaning up to do. The kitchen floor at Number 41 was covered in mud and all of those involved in the rescue of Mossy were wet and cold and in need of a good clean-up. But no one seemed to care. Releasing their natural animal behaviour had been entirely enjoyable for everyone, and the steamy, muddy troop decided that for this night only, they should just go with the flow and revel in the dirty, smelly joy of it all. Besides, getting clean and presentable wasn’t their immediate priority. Mossy was.

  He was sat in front of the electric fire and given a bowl of water and some lamb chops. He stared into the distance while Sylvie sat by his side but he didn’t say much.

  ‘Well done, everyone,’ said Mr McNumpty, rubbing his head dry with a towel. ‘Top work! And in such terrible weather too!’

  What happens when it rains cats and dogs?

  You have to be careful not to step in a poodle!

  Mrs Bold glared at her husband.

  ‘Mossy?’ she asked. ‘Are you OK now?’

  ‘I’m very cross with myself,’ said Mossy after a pause.

  ‘You mustn’t be,’ said Mrs Bold. ‘Those traps are terrible things.’

  ‘Yes, but I knew that,’ said Mossy angrily. ‘How could I have been so stupid? It was the cheese. I was hungry and the smell of it just tempted me. It was Moose cheese... A rare delicacy. How could I resist? In my eagerness to taste it I was careless. I’ve stolen the bait out of those cage traps countless times before and always got away with it.’

  ‘Well not to worry. It’s a good job we came along when we did.’

  ‘Oh, I’d have got out of there, don’t you worry,’ said Mossy, not sounding in the least bit grateful.

  ‘Mossy,’ said Sylvie. ‘That’s not true. You were completely trapped in there and if it hadn’t been for these wonderful animals—’

  ‘Oh, shut your mouth, vixen,’ he snapped. ‘They’re not animals. They’re would-be humans and I owe them nothing.’

  Everyone was shocked.

  ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to sleep. I presume there’s a room
for me upstairs? Perhaps I can bunk in with the goose,’ he offered, licking his snout.

  ‘No, no,’ said Snappy, suddenly not as snappy as usual. ‘By all means have my room,’ he offered. ‘I’ll share with Craig.’

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Mossy. ‘Well goodnight, all. Sylvie, say goodnight.’

  And they went upstairs, leaving the rescuers open-mouthed below.

  The next day at 41 Fairfield Road there was an almighty clean-up operation. All the residents and guests had to be showered, dried and brushed, after which the kitchen, bathroom and more or less the whole house had to be scrubbed, mopped and hoovered. There were several buckets full of mud and fur and a few flower petals. Mrs Bold had an idea that these could all be recycled into some lovely hats, so they were kept outside the back door ready for when she was in a creative mood.

  Fun as it had been to be ‘wild’ again for a few hours, it was not to be repeated. The antics of the night before had been necessary to rescue Mossy but tails must be hidden again, clothes must be worn and everyone had to be reminded to walk and talk like humans. And no one could suppose that Mr and Mrs Bingham would let the matter lie. There was (what was left of) the flowerbed in their front garden for a start. Evidence of the terror they had been subjected to was there for all to see.

  Uncle Tony went for a casual stroll past Number 10 mid-morning, with Miranda in her pushchair, and sure enough, a police car was parked outside and a reporter and a photographer were in the front garden taking pictures of Craig’s muddy trotter prints. The journalist asked Uncle Tony if he lived locally and if he’d heard ‘anything unusual’ the night before.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Er, a goose? A wild boar? Couple of wild dogs with frothing mouths, a bit like hyenas?’ asked the reporter hopefully.

  ‘No. But I did see a herd of elephants. And a flying saucer,’ replied Tony. ‘Never heard such nonsense!’ And then he walked away chuckling to himself.

  It was generally thought amongst the residents of Fairfield Road that the Binghams had been the victims of youthful high jinks. Some over-refreshed chaps from Kingston University had maybe dressed up in costumes as a prank. Or, it was whispered, maybe too much cheese at bedtime?

  So you might think this story is almost finished: Mossy had learned his lesson and would steal from the houses of Fairfield Road no more, and life could return to normal.

  But you’d be wrong. You can generally work out when you’re coming to the end of a book because there aren’t many pages left. As you can tell, we’re far from done with this tale. Barely halfway through, in fact. There’s going to be what is known in literary circles as a plot development. Stand by.

  Mr and Mrs Bold thought it wise for Mossy and Sylvie to lay low at Number 41 for a few days while everything calmed down.

  ‘Too much fuss in Fairfield Road!’ said Mr Bold.

  Mossy grudgingly agreed. Sylvie seemed pleased to have other animals to talk to, although as the days went by she began to miss living in the park. She was a shy fox, but she got on very well with Mrs Bold and they often had a nice chat together while Mossy was having an afternoon nap. Bit by bit she began to tell Mrs Bold about her life in the park – and how she had ended up with the bad-tempered Mossy.

  ‘He wasn’t always like he is now,’ she said apologetically. ‘But he’s angry, you see. You’ll understand why when I explain. Mossy had – well, still has – a brother. Bert. They were always very close. Inseparable. Two handsome, intelligent foxes. Strong and fit. Much admired and respected by all the other foxes. They would hunt together in the park, flirt with us vixens – me in particular. In fact Bert was my first true love. I always believed we’d end up together. But Bert was ambitious. He wanted more out of life. Like yourselves. Bert thought his best chance of doing that was as a human. He tried to persuade me and Mossy that we could live a different life but we didn’t feel like him and I don’t think we believed he would ever do it.

  ‘Then one day he did. He left. Mossy and I were broken-hearted. Mossy took it badly. He was grief-stricken and very angry.’

  ‘So that’s why he’s so rude about our way of life!’ exclaimed Mrs Bold.

  ‘Exactly.’ Sylvie nodded sadly. ‘Mossy and I became closer in our grief. And when I realised Bert wouldn’t be coming back, I agreed to be Mossy’s vixen. But he’s different from Bert. Maybe it’s because he’s so angry. I feel disloyal saying this but he’s cruel at times, unkind and cold. And particularly when it comes to humans and their way of life.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Mossy won’t let me out of his sight. He’s afraid that I’ll follow Bert one day. But I’ll never do that. No offence, but I don’t want to be a human.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why do you stay with Mossy?’ said Mrs Bold. ‘He does seem rather unkind.’

  ‘I’ve asked myself that many a time, Mrs Bold, and when I see how happy you are with Mr Bold I do wish things could be different. But deep down I know Mossy is just upset, that he can change, and that if I leave him too he’ll feel even worse.’

  Mrs Bold gave the vixen a sad smile. ‘So you never saw Bert again?’

  ‘Just once. He came back about a year later. He was dressed in overalls, said he had a job nearby. That life was good. He begged Mossy and I to join him. But Mossy wouldn’t talk about it. Accused Bert of betrayal.’

  ‘And is that when the stealing started?’ asked Mrs Bold.

  ‘Correct,’ said Sylvie. ‘It seems to give Mossy great pleasure to invade human homes and steal food and belongings. As if this is revenge on Bert, in some way.’

  Mrs Bold gave Sylvie a comforting rub on her shoulder.

  ‘Poor Mossy. And poor Sylvie. It can’t be much fun living with someone who is so miserable all the time.’

  Sylvie shook her head. ‘Well, no it isn’t. But I remember the old Mossy,’ she said. ‘He’s missing his brother, that’s all. Maybe one day he can be happy again. Maybe we both can. I really hope so. But it’s not the same without Bert. He had a loud, joyful laugh. I can’t bear to think I’ll never hear that sound again.’ Sylvie stared into the distance, lost in her memories.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ smiled Mrs Bold. ‘Laughter is so important in life. As a hyena I’d have to say that it is the most important thing.’

  ‘I’m going to make a hat today!’ announced Mrs Bold the next morning, placing the buckets of dried mud and fur on the draining board. ‘The twins have gone round to Minnie’s house so do you fancy giving me a hand, Sylvie?’

  Sylvie looked a little nervous, Mossy was asleep upstairs. In fact since he arrived, he spent most of his time eating, sleeping or teasing poor Snappy.

  ‘Come on, Sylvie,’ urged Mrs Bold. ‘It’ll be fun. Take your mind off missing the park so much.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’m not sure I’ll be any good. What sort of hat?’

  ‘A very unusual one! Now, my dear, could you run some water from the tap into that bucket full of mud? Not too much – just enough to turn it into clay again.’

  Sylvie – a wild fox with no training about how to act like a human – jumped up onto the kitchen counter and turned on the tap with her teeth.

  Mrs Bold took a wooden spoon and stirred the earth with the water until it was a lovely grey gooey mess.

  ‘Perfect!’ she announced. ‘Now you see that round mixing bowl? Could you pop it on your head for me please? Upside down?’

  ‘Er, like this?’ asked Sylvie, unsure. Her head was completely inside the bowl.

  ‘Excellent! Hold still!’ Mrs Bold then got a soup ladle from the kitchen drawer and poured some mud gently over the upside-down bowl and patted it into place with her paws.

  ‘Coming along nicely,’ she told Sylvie, and then got some of the fur, feathers and squashed flowers she’d collected from Craig and Snappy and arranged them tastefully on the top. The whole creation was then gently removed from Sylvie’s head and placed on a baking tray to set.

  ‘One hat completed!’ said Amelia
looking admiringly at her handiwork. ‘And there’s enough mud here for at least two more! These will go down very well with my customers at the market.’

  Half an hour later there were three mud bonnets sitting proudly in a row. Balanced on the draining board still, Sylvie cocked her head to one side. ‘Pretty. But what if it rains? Won’t the mud melt?’

  ‘Um.’ Mrs Bold clearly hadn’t thought of this. ‘So glad you think they’re pretty...’ she said brightly.

  Just then they heard Mossy calling for Sylvie from the spare bedroom upstairs.

  ‘I’d better go,’ said Sylvie, a rather worried tone to her voice. ‘He’s woken up. Might be hungry again.’

  ‘Can’t he make his own snack?’ asked Mrs Bold innocently.

  But Sylvie had jumped down onto the kitchen floor and hurried upstairs. She was back in thirty seconds. ‘He wants sausage and mash and three chocolate éclairs,’ she said. ‘And he wants it now!’

  Very demanding! thought Mrs Bold to herself. But at least he’s safe here, and not stealing food from anywhere.

  Mossy was certainly a hungry fox. When Mr Bold was trying to persuade him to stay in the safety of Number 41 for a while, and not risk encountering the pest control people outside, Mossy had asked what sort of food would be provided.

  ‘We’ll feed you anything you want!’ said Mr Bold.

  ‘Anything?’ repeated Mossy suspiciously.

  ‘Yes,’ pleaded Fred. ‘Your lives are at stake!’

  ‘Right. Then talking of steak, that is what I’d like. Three of them for my tea. Sirloin. Large. Organic. And then rhubarb and custard for pudding.’