Magic Parcel (3 page)

“Wow!” was the only sound he could utter at first, when the trance had worn off. “Where
are
these places? We do a lot of geography at school, but I never saw these places in any of our geography books. Mind you, they're pretty old. Can't afford any more, Mr Bolam says, and ...”

“They are not on
this
world,” Reuben interrupted slowly, quite deliberately waiting to see Jimmy's reaction.

As if half-expecting that answer, Jimmy's voice continued to ramble on but gradually it slowed and tailed away to a complete silence, rather like one of those old gramophone machines running down. He stood for a moment or two, hands by his sides, looking into those deep, wise eyes of his Uncle Reuben, whose face had not changed one bit. Reuben took hold of Jimmy's hand in one of his own, which, compared with the rest of his body, was incongruously large. With a slight nod of the head, he led him towards the largest map of all, directly behind the desk. As they approached, the great flag-like map began to descend until it was the right height for a small boy to see. The roundness of his eyes betrayed the wonder he experienced as he examined the country more closely.

Bordered with the same intertwining leaves and flower stems as the great desk, there were hundreds of little pictures illustrating the different areas of the land - from mountain to river; from castle to village; from wild craggy sea's edge to soft flowing countryside, meadow and wood. All were so real, and the detail so finely picked out, the figures might have been ready to jump out into the room.

As Jimmy was watching the story of the land play before him, he was at first unaware of the almost imperceptible and melodic drone of his uncle's voice as it told of the land unfurling before his eyes. Consciously unaware he might have been, but subconsciously his mind took in every detail, every word, every description.

“Omni is the land you see before you,” Reuben started. “It is the country which is everywhere, and nowhere. Like many others, and yet different, it is wherever you want it to be. The people you see are the same as those in your own world but you may not recognise them as such. All the worlds you see on these walls are the same but set in different times and surroundings and ...”

 

Jimmy
thought
he understood what Reuben was talking about but for the most part he just stood and watched as the stories Reuben told brought to life the pictures before him. The stories went on and on, and took him further into different worlds. If it hadn't been for the panelling in front of him and desk's edge pressing into his back, he would have been there amongst the trees and animals, feeling the wind on his skin, and swallowing in great gulps the salty tang of the seaward breeze.

Lunchtime had turned into mid-afternoon before Jimmy realised that the uplifting voice of his uncle had stopped, letting him down gently from its pinnacles of excitement to the carpet of the lounge. The study had somehow slid away leaving him wondering if...

His uncle, by this time, was standing next to him, hand around his shoulder, and with a small brown-paper parcel under the other arm.

“Time's getting on, old man,” Reuben started, eyes dancing like the sparkle of light on a flowing river; “and I had clean forgotten that this parcel must be posted today. Post Office shuts in half an hour, and I was wondering...?”

“I'll take it uncle,” Jimmy butted in eagerly.

“I rather hoped you would,” his uncle replied with a broadening smile. “The stamps are on, so here's some money to call in at Mrs Timberley's shop to get yourself some of those caramel toffees you like.”

“Great! Thanks uncle,” Jimmy grinned as he skipped down the front steps, parcel tucked underneath his arm.

“Have fun, and don't forget to be back for tea!” Reuben's voice bounced down the path after him as Jimmy skipped through the gate and onto the pavement. He almost knocked over an old man, muffled in a grey overcoat and scarf even though it wasn't particularly cold; but he had no hat on to protect his shiny, bald, grey-rimmed head from the breeze.

“Hang on, boy!” he exclaimed in a curiously thin, reedy voice, rather like someone blowing across the edge of a taut blade of grass. “Careful now! Eh? It's young Scoggins, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Jimmy replied, apologising as he picked up the old man's umbrella from the gutter he had knocked it into. “Sorry, Mr Grainger, I didn't see you.”

Mr Grainger was a strange old man who lived across the road from his uncle. He had a tiny little wife who hardly ever spoke, and a small wire-haired terrier, which seemed to have two of its feet in the grave. His house had a neat little garden, complete with pond and fishing gnomes at the front, and miniature flowers and things at the back. He was often to be seen and heard shouting at the local lads for kicking their footballs over his rather small wall and fence. He had, on more than one occasion, threatened to call the police, but of course he never did. Grumblin' Grainger the boys called him, not to his face of course, but they pulled faces behind his back, which wasn't very polite. He had a large stock of confiscated footballs of all shapes and sizes, which he swore he would return one day. But the trouble was, he had had some of those balls for fifteen years or more, and their owners wouldn't necessarily want them returned - if he could remember whose they were!

He had a shed - a very nice potting shed - at the bottom of his garden where he spent most of his time, pottering about in the summer and spring, and snoozing in the colder months. He had a huge cast iron stove in that shed, which took up about a quarter of the available space inside. It had an enormous black pipe poking out of the shed's roof, belching out thick yellow smoke from its top. Everybody in the neighbourhood complained and tried to get him to take it down because it spoiled the look of the area (not to mention the smoke!), but he kept it and carried on in his own cantankerous way. His wife didn't seem to have much sway over his activities either, choosing to let him go his own sweet way to save arguments (anything for a quiet life, she always said).

“Now then, young Scoggins,” Mr Grainger went on, “are you behaving yourself?”

‘Oh my God, here he goes again', Jimmy thought groaning inwardly; ‘same old questions, same old conversation'. “Yes, Mr Grainger,” he replied politely, when in fact he wanted to say ‘mind your own business'. This was an exact replay of every occasion in the past when he had been confronted by Grumblin' Grainger, who didn't seem to know how to talk to people other than to complain.

“‘Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello,” came a deep rumble from just behind them, rescuing Jimmy from a long, drawn-out history of how good children were in Mr Grainger's day. It was PC Jamieson, an amiable and rather large policeman from the local station.

“Hello, PC Jamieson,” Jimmy said, smiling broadly and heaving a huge sigh of relief. The policeman recognised Jimmy's relief and, winking, offered to walk along with them.

He was a well-liked man, was PC Jamieson, particularly by the children of all ages in the neighbourhood. He was the sort who would tell you off after a complaint from an adult but not before giving you a private behind-the-back wink and afterwards a don't-worry-too-much grin. Not that PC Jamieson didn't tell people off in earnest - he did, but only when he considered you had done something really wrong or worth telling you off for. Consequently he stood no nonsense, and everyone respected him for it.

“Well, Jim,” the policeman went on, a big grin spreading half way across his face, “holiday again next week, eh? Tell you what, if you want to come to visit your uncle in the week, I'll take you up to have a look around the station. How's that?”

“Would you really?” Jimmy said, a look of excitement crossing his face at the prospect. “That would be excellent.”

“Make it Wednesday,” the PC went on, tossing his head back as if ready to let out one of his great guffaws of pleasure, “and I'll pick you up here. Can't stop now, so I'll see you then. Bye for now, and mind how you go.”

He turned away from Jimmy and Mr Grainger, who through all of that had been strangely silent, and took his enormous frame down the next side road where he had parked his bike. The last Jimmy saw of him was his great body, black cape flying out behind in the breeze, on top of that black regulation police bicycle, rounding the next corner down.

As soon as the PC was out of sight, Grumblin' Grainger started up again exactly where he had left off, into the same long history of childhood behaviour he had given out, on many occasions before. Jimmy groaned inwardly again, and his head began to shrink into his anorak hood, which he had put on to escape the incessant drone of his earnest companion. He clutched his uncle's parcel even more tightly under his arm, as they headed, at Mr Grainger's snail pace, towards the post office.

Unfortunately for Jimmy, he would have to share his journey all the way because it was pension day for Mr Grainger, and that meant
post office.

“Oh dear! Oh dear!” thought Jimmy. “I
wish
I hadn't bumped into Mr Grainger. I
wish
I was on my own. I wish ... I wish ... like anything I was in ... in ...
Omni!”

 

Thoughts of the country he shared with his uncle - that beautiful, unexpected, far off place - flooded his mind as he clamped his eyelids fast shut in his attempt to escape. For a second nothing happened and all was still, and then thousands of tiny white dots started dashing about on a black velvet backdrop in his head as his eye lids squeezed together even tighter, as if by order. Quickly the white dots grew until there was something, which rather resembled a dense snow blizzard, or a television screen when the aerial's not right or tuning's not on station.

He tried several times to open his eyes again, feeling like someone who had walked into a feather pillow factory and couldn't find the exit, but he couldn't; they were tight shut. Now, feeling that this state of affairs - being unable to open one's own eyes - was not quite as it should be, he began to get just a little afraid that his eye lid motors had jammed or something, when he was suddenly thrust out into the open again. His eyes automatically squinted as the glare of the brilliant sun hit him across his face, making him feel rather like a person coming from a darkened room into intense light.

It took his vision several minutes to accustom itself to the glare, and when it did, Jimmy could do nothing but stand as he was, and stare in utter disbelief and astonishment. To his intense relief, Grumblin' Grainger had disappeared (which could only have been a blessing), but so had everything else - no road, no terraces, no cars - only trees, grass, and ... that enormous red sun!

He blinked. He blinked again, harder this time, and rubbed his eyes, almost dropping the parcel, forgetting it was still under his arm.

“This isn't Victoria Road,” he observed, his voice ringing out in the clear, clean air of the countryside, with nothing to stop or drown it. He clapped his hand to his mouth, taken aback by the loudness of his words, even though he had intended it simply as a mumble. The sweat was by now beginning to collect on his forehead in small beads, and the rest of his body felt sticky and hot under his quilty anorak, as the sun's heat bore down on him, trying to press him in to the ground.

He put down the parcel between his feet, so he would not lose it, and took off his coat before he melted and, fastening it around his waist by its arms, he turned completely around, scanning the area he found himself in.

An uneasy, panicky feeling started to creep up inside; that feeling you get when you realise you are lost in a place you don't know, and, much as you look around for a friendly face, you don't find one. He was entirely alone, with only the trees and birds for company.

 

Mr Grainger received many rather strange looks from passers-by as he maintained his continuous stream of advice and comment to his audience. It wasn't until he had almost reached the post office that he stopped for breath and turned towards his young listener to find he was ... alone!

“Well, blast me! The little b...,” he gasped, face colouring to a bright crimson. “He's taken himself off!” His voice became squeakier than ever, and a slight wheeze could be heard rattling in his throat as his temperature soared, and he threatened to explode.

He did manage to calm down, however, shortly after a young woman stopped and asked if he was all right. He shambled off, threatening dark things to that young rascal when he saw him again.

 

 

 

As the clock hands drew on to six o'clock in the evening - Jimmy's usual return time - and past, his mother became increasingly agitated.

Half past six had arrived, then hastily departed, and she could stand it no longer. She was convinced he had had an accident, been spirited away, or, even worse, missed the bus. When it got to seven o'clock, and the first heralds of dusk were stealing in and paving the way for the dark armies of night, she was convinced that the worst had happened.

“Oh, that dratted boy!” she muttered to herself as she tidied the kitchen for the third time. “Where on earth can he be? He ought to consider my feelings, making me worry like this.”