Mr Gum and the Goblins (2 page)

‘But hold on,' frowned Polly. ‘We haven't been messin' around in no pyramids lately. That can't be a mummy after all. Why,' she exclaimed, ‘it's Mrs Lovely! An' she's been all duffed up an' mangled!'

‘NO!' cried Friday in distress, for Mrs Lovely was his wife and he loved her like a barbecue.
‘
NO!
'
he cried into the cold, cold night.
‘
NOOOO!
'

B
ut alas, it was indeed Mrs Lovely, owner of the sweetshop and general all-round goodie. Onwards she came, stumbling half-blind over empty pizza boxes and wailing miserably all the while. At once, Friday ran up to offer her aid and comfort and some hazelnuts – and she
collapsed unconscious in his arms. It was very dramatic and everything.

‘What happened to thee?' Friday sobbed, clutching Mrs Lovely to his ear. ‘What badness has befallen thee, oh darling wife?'

‘Save your questions, Friday,' advised Alan Taylor. ‘Mrs Lovely is in shock and it will take more than hazelnuts before she can tell us her terrible story. Come, let us get her to a place of rest.'

So together the heroes carried Mrs Lovely to a nearby inn. A sign over the door read:

Polly pushed open the heavy wooden door and in they went. It was warm and cosy inside and they were glad to be out of the cold – but upon their entry everything went suddenly quiet. The men folk stopped singing their merry songs and looked afraid.

‘DEMONS!' cried one, starting up and pointing with a trembling finger towards the visitors. ‘'Tis a horde of demons come to eat our bones!'

‘You're right, Jack!' shrieked another. ‘'Tis demons for sure!'

And at that, the men folk flew into a panic, hiding under chairs, under tables, in pints of beer – anywhere they could. One man disguised himself as a fruit machine and stood there in the corner covered in cherries and coughing up pound coins.

‘Blimey, you men folk is well ignorant,' said Polly indignantly. ‘We're not demons.'

‘Not even slightly?' asked one of the men folk anxiously.

‘No,' said Polly firmly. ‘You lot's drunk too much beer an' it's turned your brains all fuzzy an' full of bad 'maginations. Now go home, men folk, an' get some sleep. An' don't blame me if you all gots terrible headaches in the mornin', I shouldn't wonder.'

‘OK, nine-year-old girl,' said the men folk, ‘you're the boss, for some reason.' And off home they went.

‘I do apologise about all that demon talk,' said the Innkeeper, as he led Polly and her friends upstairs. ‘But though they were drunk, the men folk were right to be afraid. You never know WHO's going to come through the door in this terrible season, when spirits and ghouls are at large. Why, only last week an evil skeleton came in and did a poo on the carpet. How I hate the Dead Of Winter!' he exclaimed. And the Innkeeper showed the heroes to a cosy little
bedroom with wooden floorboards, bowed once and disappeared back downstairs.

With great care, Friday dumped Mrs Lovely down on the little bed. Polly fetched a flannel and gently she scrubbed the slime from Mrs Lovely's goodly face. And Alan Taylor hopped up on to her chin and gently he flossed her goodly teeth.

‘I shall take first watch,' said Friday, pulling up a chair. ‘If she wakes I will wake you too. But until then, she must not be disturbed.
THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!' he yelled at the top of his lungs, as he sometimes liked to do.

At once Mrs Lovely's eyes snapped open and she sat bolt upright in bed like a startled panda caught shoplifting bamboo.

‘Whaa? Eh? Boing?!' she gabbled, looking around in confusion. ‘Where am I?'

‘Fear not, Mrs L,' exclaimed Friday, ‘For 'tis I, your beloved husband, me.'

‘Oh, hello, Friday,' said Mrs Lovely weakly. ‘What's going on?'

But suddenly she caught her breath and drew the bedcover to her cheek in terror.

‘Goblin Mountain!' she murmured in the flickering candlelight. ‘Now I remember!'

‘Tell us your tale, dearest wife-face,' said Friday, tenderly clasping her nose to his. ‘But will you do it as a song?' he asked eagerly.

‘Now is not the time for songs, my love,'
replied Mrs Lovely. ‘Besides, I'm all weak and feeble. I'm just going to say it normally.'

‘Bah,' sulked Friday – but Mrs Lovely was determined to tell her tale her own way.

‘It was like this,' she began. ‘You know how I'm always after unusual herbs to make my sweets? Well, the best ones grow up on Goblin Mountain. So, early this morning, up I did climb to get at those herbs. But soon a blizzard whipped up. I couldn't see a thing – and then,
suddenly, I found myself under attack from creatures unknown! They bit and scratched and I thought I was doomed, but somehow I fought my way loose and escaped. After that I don't remember anything and now here I am safe and sound, hooray.'

‘What do you thinks them creatures was?' asked Polly.

‘I'm not sure,' said Mrs Lovely. ‘That's why they were creatures unknown. But like I say, it happened on Goblin Mountain, just outside the Goblin Cave, where the Goblin River runs swift and blue.'

‘Hmm,' said Friday thoughtfully, twirling his famous imaginary detective's moustache . . .
‘Goblin
Mountain . . .
Goblin
Cave . . . Hmm . . . Goblins . . . Goblins . . . It all points to one thing. Mrs Lovely,' he announced triumphantly, ‘it was badgers who attacked you. A gang of wild badgers driven mad by the cold winter and too much sugar!'

‘We'll gets 'em!' cried Polly, sticking her head out of the window towards Goblin Mountain.
‘Oi! Badgers!'
she shouted, just in case they could hear over long distances like whales or telephones.
‘You gone too far this time, you stripy rascals! We gonna come an' sort you out!'

During all this Alan Taylor had been sitting in an ashtray on the bedside table, listening carefully. And now it was his turn to speak.
For he knew all about the natural world, and that was why he was the headmaster of
Saint Pterodactyl's School For The Poor
.

‘I don't think it was badgers,' he said. ‘You see, badgers mainly come out at night and Mrs Lovely was attacked by day. Also, badgers tend to attack small mammals such as stoats, voles and marmots (a type of large ground squirrel). They hardly ever attack Mrs Lovely. You know what I think it was?'

‘Badgers?' asked Friday, who hadn't really been listening properly.

‘No,' said Alan Taylor, ‘I think it was goblins.'

‘Goblins?!' whispered Polly in fright.

‘Goblins?!' moaned Mrs Lovely fearfully.

‘Goblins,' nodded Alan Taylor gravely, and the moon slid out from behind a cloud and its light spilled into the room like a long skeletal finger. And from up high on Goblin Mountain,
they seemed to hear horrible laughter, it was probably just their imagination but it gave 'em goosebumps all the same.