Grandad Patches Greatest Adventure! 'Rescue the Ketterbys'

 

Grandad Patches Greatest Adventure! 'Rescue the Ketterbys'

 

When Faith rushed into the front room of number 36 Lumpslap Close, her six-year-old face was creased with disappointment like one of Grandad Biggert’s old newspapers.

Not that she was an old newspaper.

Hands up at the back which old newspaper she would be if she was one, which she wasn’t?

Anyway, you might be asking why she was a little distressed. After all, the sun was shining – a glorious summer afternoon in Purridgeton and the insects were busy making background music outside amongst the blooms. The news had been good on the radio, for once. It seemed all was well with the world.

“Grandad!” shouted Faith, in a tone that suggested an approaching tempest. “Grandad!”

You might expect her big sister, being called Patience, to put her head round the kitchen door and see what the problem might be. But no. She continued to study her homework at the kitchen table and scowled with…ah…impatience.

Morgan was similarly unimpressed - as though he might have seen or heard it all before - and continued to flick through some graphic novel or other, carefully hidden by the flyleaves of a large format Year 10 Physics book. ‘Physics for the Physical World’, it proclaimed loudly, and Morgan inwardly sniggered from behind.

“Where’s Grandad?” snapped Faith. She held something in her left hand, something big and bulky. And yellow. And limp.

“I think he’s in the garden, tending bees,” mumbled Morgan, disinterested.

“I’ll tell him,” Faith replied, pointing at the Physics book, knowing precisely what he was reading, irritated by his lack of attention and determined to have some satisfaction.

“No, you won’t, you little grass.”

“Grass?”

“Yes, on the grass, under the trees, by the peas, poking bees, now push off.”

“We don’t have bees.”

“We do now,” and Morgan turned his back and curled firmly into the deep shaggy old sofa with the deep saggy bottom.

“Huh.” Faith turned on her heels and marched through the kitchen, aiming a kick at Patience’s stool and thrusting her chin out.

“I’ll have you for that,” returned Patience, because she had slopped coffee all over her revision worksheets.

“Grandad! Grandad!”

The curtains at number 34 twitched briefly, as they always did when Grandad Biggert was at home, casting his baleful gaze on anything of interest. “Heh, heh, heh.”

Faith ignored it, still carrying whatever it was and scurried towards the yam-yam tree, against which she could see a ladder propped at a safe angle against the trunk and two boots perched on a medium to high rung. Obscured by leaves, Grandad Patches was engaged in something tricky, something that must, it could be assumed, require a great deal of care.

“Grandad!” squawked Faith, her voice a mixture of accusation and anger.

“Po, po, po, not now dear, I have my hand stuck up a bee’s nest,” Grandad Patches shouted back. “Earlier, I gave it several stout pokes with my bamboo cane. For some reason that seemed to irritate the little blighters. I’m trying to prevent them escaping and swarming around Grandad Biggert’s garden.”

Somewhere above them both, the window of number 34 was thrust back in a most violent manner. “Swarm around my garden, Patches, you bee boiler?” Grandad Biggert screamed, through his loud hailer. “If your bees so much as venture over my fence, I’ll be over there with my pesticides to spray them up your nose. You have been swarmed.” And he slammed the window shut, waving his fist very unhelpfully and doing what seemed to be some sort of war dance.

Ignoring him, Grandad Patches looked down at Faith. He didn’t look too happy, and the sweat was dripping from his forehead onto his nose; his upper teeth gripping his lower lip as if he was expecting something very unpleasant to happen.

As she got closer, she noticed he did indeed have his hand up the hole of what looked like a giant football. An angry buzz was emanating from it, which was only increasing in volume as the seconds ticked by.

“Now, er, what seems to be the problem?” Grandad Patches asked, looking down upon Faith’s little blonde head.

“It’s not fair, Grandad. Mrs Gridney said my model of a Mott and Bailey castle was pathetic.”

“Well, now, I do remember telling you not to make it from bananas, Faith my dear,” Grandad Patches replied, in a hurt tone. “Especially those brown ones from Mrs Patel’s corner shop.”

“No, you didn’t. You said they’d be ideal because they were cheap and my friends could eat them afterwards.”

“I didn’t say they were ideal, my dear. I said they were sustainable. What else did Mrs Gridney say?”

“She said my castle lacked realism and it was…a bodge job done in five minutes by squashing three or four bananas together into a smelly clump. Then she gave me detention. And everyone laughed at me and called me a banana bodger. Even Morgan.”

“Po, po, po, po, tiddly pom. Didn’t she even like my banana peel drawbridge and string?”

“She said that was the worst bit of all. Then it fell off and caused her to slip and get a bruised bottom. There was an ambulance and everything.”

“Oh dear, poor Mrs Gridney. That it is a terrible shame.” Grandad Patches looked down from the yam-yam tree. “I say, I hope they managed to push her gigantic bottom through those ambulance doors.”

“What are you doing, Grandad?”

“Well, er, po, po, po, pom, I’ve noticed an uptick in bees in our garden these last few days while you have been at school, Faith, my dear.”

Faith scratched her head, looking puzzled and had, it seemed, completely forgotten about her disappointing day. “Grandad. Grandad. Didn’t you say that bees were a good thing in a garden?”

“Normally, yes.” Grandad agreed, from somewhere above her. “They are a very good thing indeed, Faith, my dear. However, these bees seem to be the spawn of a mutant, vicious, stinging variety and what’s more, their nest seems to have become lodged in the tree, almost as though it had been kicked there from next door.”

“They don’t sound very nice bees, Grandad. I wonder where they came from? Why are they living in a football?”

“Well spotted. It does look rather like a football, what with that impression of a foot in its side. Lucky for me there is only this one exit hole, or we’d be in a terrible pickle. In fact, I wish I had not stuck my hand into the bees’ tunnel now. What we need is a kettle.”

“A kettle, Grandad? I remember Ma used a kettle on those ants last week. Shall we tip boiling water up their hole?”

Grandad Patches was outraged. “Boiling water up their hole?” he repeated. “Po, po, po, no, no, no, no, Faith my dear, that would be terribly cruel.” His voice paused, because the angry buzzing was definitely increasing in volume. “No, my dear, my plan is this. If we can entice the bees into the kettle, up the spout, so to speak, we will have a kettle of bees that we can later release into the wild.”

Faith seemed a tad disappointed with this plan, as though she preferred the boiling water. “Kettle of bees,” she repeated, as though her grumpy mood might return.

“Yes, and what’s even more jolly, is that we can use your banana castle to tempt them from the football into the kettle.”

“How will we do that?”

“By crunching up the bananas inside the kettle. Now, Faith, my dear, as soon as I free my fingers and thumb, the bees will come. So we must be kettle-ready. Run along to the kitchen with your castle and ask Morgan to put it inside.”

Frowning, because she remembered Patience was also in the kitchen, Faith replied, “Shall I ask Patience to do it?”

Grandad Patches spluttered hastily from his position up the yam-yam tree. “Tiddly pom, better not, she’s…very busy.”

 

Ten minutes later, Morgan had joined Faith beneath Grandad Patches’ feet. He was holding Ma’s best kitchen kettle and, what’s more, it was completely smeared in brown banana, as requested - and because Faith had helped. “The old fool better not ask me to clean this later,” he muttered, careful that Grandad Patches should not hear him and aware that Grandad Biggert was often tuned in from across their dividing fence.

He squinted up the tree.

Morgan figured that Grandad Patches was putting a brave face on the situation. After all, it wasn’t often you deliberately shoved your hand inside a football shaped nest full of mutant bees. He wondered how many of the vicious, stinging mites had done their filthy business and, indeed, how swollen Grandad’s hand was becoming.

“Lower a line,” he called.

“Lower a line? I haven’t got a line,” replied Grandad Patches, in a voice that was something approaching desperation. “Come up here, Morgan, my boy.”

“Not a chance. I know how things like this work out. I’m not stupid.”

“Well, you’ll have to come up here to pass me a line so that I can lower a line.”

“Use your bootlaces.”

“OK, my boy. Good plan.”

There now followed the sounds of grunting and effort and fiddly businesses, whilst Morgan looked upwards beyond the leaf line, trying to determine the progress being made. “Yowch!” he screamed, as a hefty boot tumbled downwards, smacking him on the forehead.

Faith sniggered.

Moments later, a thick, mud coloured bootlace unravelled and fell towards him. Deftly, Morgan tied it to the sticky kettle, and, after shouting, watched as the metal ascended. “And don’t drop it, Grandad,” Morgan cried, rubbing his head.

The two legs above him jiggled indecisively, so, abandoning caution, Morgan shinnied up there. “What’s the beef?” he asked, his eyes widening when he saw where Grandad’s hand was. “Haven’t they stung you?”

“Po, pom, tiddly pom, I should say so. But back in the sixties, I developed an immunity to the pain of bee stings because I was a member of that famous troupe of fairground performers and roustabouts called ‘Mama Needle’s Nettle Nibblers’”.

“Mama Needle’s Nettle Noshers?” repeated Morgan, shaking his head, “You can’t be serious.”

“I am always serious about the sixties,” replied Grandad Patches, “And you, dear boy, would learn a lot from those far off days.”

Morgan snorted sarcastically. “Would I, indeed. Like how to put my hand inside a hive of vicious bees?”

 “It’s not so much the putting in, but the getting out that’s the tricky bit,” admitted Grandad Patches. “So, in order the lessen the risk, I will extract my hand at the same time as sticking the spout of this kettle up the hole. Fact is, though, my hand is swollen slightly from attacks by these wonders of nature.”

Morgan grabbed the kettle. “Got it, Grandad. You yank it out and I’ll shove it in.”

“Anytime you’re ready, my boy.”

“Now!”

Grandad Patches pulled out his hand, like some geriatric Little Jack Horner. I must say, it did look a bit purple and beastly – a giant plum of a hand.

At that precise point, the window of number 34 Lumpslap Close was thrust upwards with a mighty clatter of rattling frames and glass, causing Morgan to stay his upwards thrust. “Patches? Patches? I want a word with you, you overstuffed overripe bee botherer.”

“Oh no, it’s Grandad Biggert,” said Morgan, unnecessarily. “What does he want?”

“Never mind him,” shouted Grandad Patches, urgently. “Get that spout up the hole.”

“Spout up my nose?” screamed Grandad Biggert. “I warn you, Patches, the only person who ever put something up my nose and lived to tell the tale was me, and that was a cotton bud with mentholyptus on the end. On account of I had a stuffed up nose from those germs you blew across my garden last year during Covid.”

But his words fell on deaf ears, I’m afraid, because Grandad Patches, Morgan, the hive and the kettle had tumbled from the yam yam tree into an untidy heap on the grass below.

“Heh, heh, heh,” sniggered Grandad Biggert, who, having witnessed the carnage, slammed his window shut again.

The hive had split into two pieces. But, by some miracle, all the bees were safely inside the kettle, buzzing noisily, perhaps feasting on the banana mott and baileys. It was difficult to be sure, because lifting the lid would be extremely dangerous, wouldn’t it?

 

 

Now it was fair to say that Grandad Patches had a few lumps and bruises, and if you know anything about old people and the way they tick, you would know he was bound to be out of action for months.

Why only the other day, old Father Dibble had the most innocuous of falls outside Safeway Supermarket whilst out foraging for scrag end of lamb – he didn’t notice a discarded chicken bone, see? Over he went, onto those jaggedy tiles and they put him in a wheelchair, poor old fool.

However, you’ll be relieved to know that Grandad Patches wasn’t too bad, all things considered, and would only accept a purple spotted bandana wrapped around his swollen right hand as any sort of medical assistance from Patience, who had had quite enough of the old fool’s nonsense by now, hadn’t she?

Actually, it did go rather splendidly with his rainbow romper smock anyway.

In front of them, on the living room carpet, the stoppered-up kettle of bees buzzed malevolently. Patience shivered. It reminded her of a time bomb. She’d only ever seen a time bomb on vintage cartoons, usually chucked at a bird by a coyote. It was always painted black, with ‘bomb’ blazoned over it – in case the coyote forgot. Which he often did.

“I don’t think we should have it in here,” she pointed out, sensibly, in my opinion.

“No, no, no,” replied Grandad Patches. “I think it makes rather a feature.”

“Oh, yes,” Morgan smirked. “Ma will be delighted when she finds out you filled her kettle with bees. After all, no home is complete without a kettle of bees.”

“And bananas.”

Grandad Patches cleared his throat. “Po, po, po, po, yes, Faith. Tum ti tiddly tum ti pom. Actually, Morgan, I believe it was you that filled her kettle with Mrs Patel’s brown bananas. The bees simply followed them inside.”

“You old scoundrel. You can’t blame this on me. It’s you who’ll be getting one less fish on your plate tonight, not me. Don’t hang those bananas on me.”

Being rather partial to fish and chips with thick crunchy batter, Grandad Patches scratched his head. Perhaps he was secretly wondering who he could blame it on? Surely not.

At that precise moment, all of them heard a sharp rat-a-tat on the door.

Nobody moved because it was often the case that such a rapping was a harbinger of bad news, as you’ve probably noticed. Maybe Police Constable Muff, with a complaint or maybe Old Mrs Dander had misplaced her dog.

“I know,” said Morgan, “Why don’t we tie the kettle of bees to Mrs Dander’s dog? We could say he became entangled in your bootlaces and was swept over the weir.”

“No, no, no, a disgraceful idea,” replied Grandad Patches, although not as quickly as one might expect.

And sharp rat-a-tat was repeated. Reluctantly, Patience shifted herself out of the old beanbag, scowling at the other three, and making towards the front door.

Faith ignored the look and jumped straight onto the warmed bag.

The three strained their ears to hear as Patience opened the door. Alas, the only discernible sounds were some grunts. “Really?” they could hear Patience’s voice. “What an extraordinary coincidence.” Grunt, grunt, grunt.

Finally, Patience raised her voice. “Grandad? Grandad? There’s somebody here from the Government Bee Department.”

As quick as a lightning bolt, Grandad Patches jumped to his feet. “Quick. Hide the kettle of bees.”

But it was too late, because even as Morgan tried to grab the kettle, in shuffled a mysterious looking, white coated fellow with thick set carpet eyebrows and a gigantic beard that covered most of his facial features.

He, of course, carried a briefcase. And not just any briefcase, either. This one looked as though it had been appropriated from the charity shop next to the High Street Cafe.

It had a touch of mildew about it.

He cast a glance at the three faces in front of him, looked at Patience who was in the doorway, then, he cleared his throat and spoke in a deep voice with a variable Eastern European accent. “Good day to you all. I am from ‘The Ministry of Bees’. There has been several complaints and phone calls appertaining to the misuse of bees at this address.”

Grandad Patches frowned, stood up and straightened his romper smock in a dignified fashion. “Indeed. And may I see your credentials?”

“No. I am not at liberty to produce any credentials until the matter of bees has been straightened out.”

“Well, how do we know you are who you claim to be?”

“Yes, and who made these complaints?” Morgan added, although he had a pretty good idea.

The man from the Bee Department looked at the nearest chair. “I may be seated?” he snapped but didn’t wait for a reply and lowered himself into it, adjusting his beard as he did so. Once comfortable, he spoke again. “Now if you…beehave, I won’t take up much of your time.” And he took out a dog-eared notebook and a chewed pencil stub, which he licked.

Faith, of course, couldn’t contain her excitement. “Grandad! He said ‘beehave’, that’s very funny, Grandad!”

Nobody else laughed. In fact, they looked rather snippy, as though it was quite the most pathetic joke ever told. 

“Well, how can we help you?” asked Morgan.

“Not so fast, not so fast,” replied Bee Department Man. He licked his pencil again. “The fact is, I have several rules here I have to go through and all of you must answer my questions.”

“Po, po, po. Well, we’ve nothing to hide here,” lied Grandad Patches, looking anxiously at the noisy kettle.

The Bee Department Man seemed just about ready. “I like bees.” He declared.

There followed one of those awkward silences, as those gathered looked from one to the other perplexed.

“I like bees,” repeated the Bee Department Man. When nobody answered a second time, he added, “You say, ‘strongly agree, quite agree, don’t agree, repeat the question’.”

Each answered in turn: “strongly agree, strongly agree, po, po, po, strongly agree, repeat the question.”

Morgan swiped Faith around the head with a cushion as the man dutifully repeated the question. “Ignore her. She makes banana castles. Is there much more of this?”

“I think bees should go down the toilet.”

“Strongly agree, strongly agree, po, po, po, quite agree, repeat the question.”

“Grandad? Are there bees in our toilet?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so, my dear. Unless they’re a swimming variety of bees.”

The Bee Department Man looked at them all accusingly. “So. You put bees in the toilet, do you?”

“No,” replied Patience, hastily, “I think we all got muddled up with strongly agree, quite agree and don’t agree.”

“Yes. Could you repeat the question?”

But the Bee Department Man seemed as though he’d had quite enough, thank you very much. He put his questions down, stood up and glanced at the noisy kettle. “That kettle sounds as though it’s seen more than its fair share of bees in my opinion,” he announced. “And it smells as though it has banana on it.”

“Yes,” admitted Grandad Patches. “It does sound rather like some bees, doesn’t it? However, you’ll be relieved to know, that there are no actual insects trapped within.”

“There aren’t?”

“Tiddly pom, pom, pom, indeed, no. This kettle is one of those new-fangled efforts from the…erm…computer shop which comes with free bee sound effects.”

“Bee sound effects?”

“Why yes. All our bees are safely in the garden, as nature intended. Why don’t you come and look?”

“I’ll give the orders round here, Patches, thank you. Mind your noise you old trout tickler,” snapped the Government official, pushing his beard up and closer to his nose. “Let’s repair to your garden.” And he seized his briefcase in a dignified way and marched off.

“Repair my garden?” protested Grandad Patches, following him, “But there’s nothing wrong with it.” And as he got to the kitchen door, he gestured urgently at Morgan and the kettle. Morgan nodded with understanding.

“Aha!” shouted the Bee Department Man. “What’s all this then? A case for my good friend Police Constable Muff, perhaps.”

Faith and Grandad Patches hurriedly caught up. “What’s all what?” he enquired, following the pointing fingers, and looking over the shoulder of the man. He was staring accusingly at half of the football beehive. The other half had rolled some distance away, rather like a watermelon that had been split in two.

“What’s this?”

“I don’t know. It appeared in the yam-yam tree overnight.”

“That’s right,” added Faith, unhelpfully. “Grandad Biggert kicked it there. I saw him. And then Mrs Gridney said my Mott and Bailly castle looked like it had been fished out of a particularly smelly dustbin.”

“Who is this Grandad Biggert of which you speak?”

Grandad Patches cleared his throat noisily and stared at the heavens. “He lives next door. Only the other day he said to me ‘I’ll stick some bees up your trumpet’.”

“Did he, indeed? We’ll see about that.” And the Bee Department Man marched off sternly in the direction of number 34.

Grandad Patches watched him departing for a while, then breathed a sigh of relief as Morgan appeared at the kitchen door. “He’s gone, Grandad.”

“Phew. That was a close call. Po, po, po, I’ve had some close calls in my time, but that was definitely one of the closest. Mind you, back in the sixties, when I…”

“He’s back, Grandad.”

Sure enough, the Bee Department Man was marching towards them, grim faced, from where he’d just disappeared to. “Nobody’s in.”

“Are you sure?” Grandad Patches looked up hopefully to where he felt certain a curtain should be twitching about now.

“You just made him up.”

“Made him up?” spluttered Grandad Patches, totally aggrieved. “But everybody’s heard of Grandad Biggert. He’s a notorious ne’er-do-well, who goes around the town swiping people with rolled up newspapers.”

“That’s as may be, or maybe not be.” Bee Department Man was fishing around in his briefcase. Pretty soon he had what he wanted and held the instrument up to the light where he examined it critically.

“I say, that looks like fun, doesn’t it my dear,” muttered Grandad Patches, doubtfully, but ruffling Faith’s hair, to be on the safe side.

“What is it, Grandad?”

As Grandad Patches didn’t immediately answer, the Bee Department Man told her. “It’s the latest in bespoke bee detector equipment,” he replied. “It will tell me whether or not you have the requisite amount of bees in you garden, or if the garden is bee deficient.”

By now, Morgan had joined them. He snatched the equipment off the man and looked at it carefully. “Not much ‘latest’ about this,” he exclaimed, “It looks like a mouldy old stick with some honey smeared on the end. What do you intend to do? Walk around waving it, shouting ‘come here, bees’?”

The man snatched it back. “Give it here.” And he placed some ancient looking headphones over his ears.

Gloomily, Morgan, Grandad and Faith watched as he walked up and down in straight lines, gesturing wildly with the stick above his head, or sometimes thrusting it into undergrowth. After ten minutes or so of concentrated effort, he returned, thrusting the stick beneath Grandad Patches’ nose.

Removing the headphones, the Bee Department spoke sternly. “After an extensive exploration with my equipment, Patches, I have to tell you that your garden is in breach of the Ministry’s Bee Regulation 101. Due to possible malfeasance on your part, the required amount of bees are not frequenting your garden. Such a contravention might merit our highest possible punishments – a hefty fine or two weeks imprisonment.”

Grandad Patches gasped in horror. “Oh no. What can I do?”

“I will return in three days’ time. When I come back, I expect to see more bees in attendance. Or I will have no alternative but to refer this case to a higher authority.”

 

 

Only a few minutes had passed since the man from the Ministry had departed in the direction of number 34, but you should find Patience, Morgan and Faith clustered anxiously underneath the extendable ladder that led to the attic.

Actually, that’s a slight fib, because Patience ‘had quite enough of this rubbish, thank you’ and was back in the kitchen trying to finish her homework, wincing every time she was interrupted by large, overhead noises.

Irritably she swotted at her face as the occasional bee passed by, but for the most part her pen was busy while she sipped a glass of water.

Still, notwithstanding that, Morgan and Faith were peering upwards through the large square hole into which Grandad Patches had disappeared. Suddenly, his beaming face filled the space. “Got it, by Jove!” he cried, and lowered a mysterious looking cardboard box towards Morgan, who took it without difficulty.

Now, it was about the same shape and size as a Monopoly box. You know? The game, Monopoly, with money and do not pass go and collect 200 pounds. That sort of box.

However, upon closer inspection, it wasn’t Monopoly at all. It was that mysterious and deadly game ‘Pujamgi’. There was a picture of well-known movie comedian Bobbin Trilliam instead of the usual cartoon of a man in a top hat with a fistful of fake money.

What do you mean? He’s been in loads of films, like ‘Good Morning Dead Poet’ and ‘Society Somewhat Near Vietnam’. Probably some others, too. He was really famous, back in the day. What about ‘Sock and Sindy’?

Ah, yes. He decided to become an ‘actor to be taken seriously’ and his career died. That’s probably why. Oh well.

Anyway, he is not important to the story. I doubt he will ever be mentioned again.

“Who’s Bobbin Trilliam, Grandad?” asked Faith, excitedly, as he placed the box on the carpet, in amongst the chairs. The three of them sat on the carpet by the ironing basket and the game was in the centre.

Morgan lifted the battered cardboard lid with a critical look. “Hmm,” he read, “Pujamgi. Own it all.” He scratched his chin where there was stubble growing. “You know what? This looks like a very old set of that dull board game, Monopoly. You can see here that the word ‘Monopoly’ has been scratched out, and somebody’s written ‘Pujamgi’ instead. I’ve seen that handwriting before, too.”

Spluttering, Grandad Patches shook his finger at Morgan and picked up a cup and dice. “Dull board game? Why, back in the sixties, when I was a game designer for Mr Shabwell himself, we all sat around the table, rolling and tossing and chuckling and eating many a bakewell finger. Many a bakewell finger, young man.”

As Morgan rarely saw Grandad Patches this worked up, he thought it best not to argue, and instead satisfied himself with a nod and a smirk at Faith. “Well, what are we going to do?”

“There’s nothing else for it,” Grandad Patches answered, profoundly. “We must rescue The Ketterbys.”

“What ARE The Ketterbys, Grandad?” shouted Faith, over and over jumping up and down until Morgan put a pillow slip over her head.

Frowning, Grandad Patches whipped the pillowcase off and chucked it back into the ironing basket. “I’m glad you asked me, my dear,” he beamed, lifting her onto his knee, “It came to me as that nasty man was leaving. Kettle of bees. Ketterbys.”

“Of course,” sniggered Morgan. “It all makes sense now, stupid old duffer.” He said that last bit under his breath, but Faith heard and pinched Morgan on his arm.

“Don’t be rude to Grandad,” she shouted.

“No time for that now,” whispered Grandad. Gingerly he reached into the box, pulled out the decrepit wooden board and unfolded it in front of them. And, as each side of the board thudded into the carpet, clouds of dust were released.

Both Morgan and Faith sneezed, the latter somewhat messily, grabbing a handful of romper smock to clean the detritus. Grandpa patches did not notice. “Behold,” he breathed, almost too quietly to be heard. “Pujamgi.”

As ordered, Faith and Morgan beheld. Faith had never seen anything so thrilling in her entire life. Upon the playing surface were clowns, jugglers, fearsome looking animals, a jungle – each upon playing squares – and dice, tatty bits of fake money. Cheap silver metal playing counters…a boat, a dog, a top hat, an iron and others.

Morgan noticed that some of the surface was peeling away in one corner, so he gently pulled it upwards to read what was underneath. “A-ha.” he muttered, “Free parking. Well, that’s handy. If we had a car.”

Grandad Patches ignored him. “I warn you, my children, this board has magical properties. Once you roll the dice, who knows what happens? It was a tragedy. That’s why I locked this evil game in the attic, never to be used again…until today.”

Faith’s head was filled to bursting with questions to ask; so full, it was hard to determine which would come out first. So, Morgan, erring on the side of caution, put his hand over her mouth, knowing she would be quiet until biting herself free. “What tragedy?” he asked, sceptically, before sucking his bitten palm.

Speaking portentously, Grandad Patches fixed Morgan with what might have been a horrified stare. “The Ketterbys were sucked…into the game.”

“Sucked into the game?” repeated Faith and Morgan – but in two entirely different tones of voice.

“Yes. Sucked into the game. Yes, they dared. They dared to enter and tamper with the elemental forces of creation and we must dare…dare to enter also…to get them back. We must rescue…The Ketterbys.”

“Rescue The Ketterbys?”

Ruffling Faith’s hair, Grandad Patches nodded grimly. “Yes. We must rescue The Ketterbys. This could be our greatest adventure…ever.”

Refusing to be entirely drawn into this web of mystery just yet (unlike Faith, who was beside herself with anticipation), Morgan’s forehead creased, almost as though he was going to regret hearing the answer before he asked the question. “Erm…Grandad. Who, exactly are the Ketterbys?”

Stroking his chin, Grandad Patches replied, “Po, po, po, pom, tiddly pom. Glad you asked me that. Back in the sixties, there was a genius, a man of great intelligence. And his family? No less renowned for their sharp insights into the mysteries of life. Why, Professor Kimbo Ketterby was a great inventor, a seer, a soothsayer and, what’s more…the world’s greatest expert on bees. His wife and two children were repositories of his great wisdom – literal walking encyclopaedias, their heads crammed with the widest possible knowledge of bees.”

“A hive mind, you could say?”

“Indeed so, my boy. And I was their friend and mentor.”

“Really?” replied Morgan, who had had some experience of his Grandad’s friends by this time.

“Yes. Until that disastrous day I walked out of Mr Shabwell’s office with two editions of this beastly game. One for me and one for…The Ketterbys.”

Morgan snorted. “And just where exactly did they go?”

“It’s hard to be sure. I walked around to their house, one March afternoon with a batch of mung bean cookies and my harp, determined to recite some of my poetry to them. It was my tradition to do so of an evening - oh they enjoyed it so. When I got there, to my horror, there was no answer. Only a note tacked to the door, which read ‘moved to Daventry’.”

“Daventry?”

“Yes, Daventry, a small town just off the M45. Oh, I was not fooled.”

“You weren’t?”

“No, my boy, because nobody in their right mind would move to Daventry. They’d been sucked into the game, and there they remain to this day.”

Shaking his head, Morgan stood up and sauntered over to the kitchen. “Patience? Would you like to join us in rescuing the Ketterbys?”

“Who are they, then?”

“Apparently an expert family of bee keeping nitwits who got sucked into a knock-off Monopoly game that Grandad invented in the sixties.”

“Go away, Morgan.” And Patience firmly shut the kitchen door.

 

A hush had descended over number 36 Lumpslap Close. For, on some days, the air can be so still you can feel it pressing in on the shoulders. Strange metaphysical forces, that sit outside of space and time, gather brows together to ponder the knitting pattern of the universe. Their claws waiting to shred into pieces the paper blue sky and the gossamer cotton candy clouds.

It was as though the residents of number 36 were being watched by malevolent entities that defied christening.

Those self-same peoples were, even now, looking worriedly at the Pujamgi board from the safety of underneath a table. Grandad Patches had fashioned a shelter, by draping one of Ma’s largest sheets upon the top of the table, so it hung, like a curtain, screening them from the evil game. Within the interior looking out, Grandad Patches and Faith watched as Morgan, still by the laundry basket, took up a cup within which rattled dice and shook it carefully.

“Wait,” called Grandad Patches. “We should tell the Ketterbys we’re on our way.”

A cloud scudded across Morgan’s face. “And how do we do that? Phone them?” But he stayed his hand and the dice remained within the cup. You could tell, even he, was concerned by the enormity of the occasion.

“Do we know the number of the Ketterbys, Grandad?” asked Faith, who was quite enjoying playing tents.

“Po, po, po, Faith my dear, we do not need the number. I shall recite one of my verse and this will be sucked into the game, where, it must be supposed, the Ketterbys are now living.”

“Should I plug a microphone into the game, Grandad?” Morgan asked, somewhat bemused.

“Dear me no. No need for that. They will hear. The spirits will take these mystical words into the domain of the game.” And he spoke:

 

‘Ketterbys, Ketterbys, one-two-three,

where you went is a mystery,

some people say you went to Daventry

but into the game you flew like a bee,

I saw you from my yam-yam tree,

And now the bee man from the ministry,

came to complain about my lack of bees,

so where are you Kimbo Ketterby?

If you are inside this evil game,

you cannot in the evil game remain,

So, let’s not go to Daventry,

for nothing interesting goes to Daventry,

not even bees in my kettle of bees.

Return! Return!’

 

And with that last command, Grandad Patches clapped his hands triumphantly, watching in expectation.

But all that happened was Faith jumped up and down, clapping her hands and screaming, “That was a great poem, Grandad!”

Morgan snorted and shook the cup once more. “Shut up, Faith.” And surprisingly, for once, she did. Mainly because she had banged her head on the tabletop and began to howl

“There, there, don’t make a fuss,” said Grandad Patches, placatingly. “Remember the Ketterbys.”

But, to his dismay, Faith continued to yowl. “I hate the Ketterbys.” she wailed. “They’re old, smelly bee people. Grandad Biggert said they look like greasy boiled spots on turnips clients pass under tables to dogs with spots.”

Spluttering, Grandad Patches, shook his finger, “Now, you don’t mean that, my dear. Kimbo Ketterby is a splendid fellow and always willing to pass round the boiled sweets on a long car journey.”

Now, I have to tell you that Morgan was getting bored. It reminded him of those long delays you often get in football when a player goes down with cramp and the team scurry off to get water bottles. So, do you know hat he did? He rolled the dice. Just like that.

Tossed from the cup, they span, twisted and skittered across the playing surface, landing as a three and a two. Five.

“No!” shouted Grandad Patches, in horror, gesturing to Morgan. “Quick! Get under the table!”

Alarmed by the panic in his voice, Morgan scuttled underneath, and without waiting, Grandad Patches hurled a large sheet over them. And there they sat.

After five minutes had passed without event, Morgan dared a whisper. “What’s happening? What do we do now?”

Even Faith had forgotten to cry. “Grandad? Is the monster coming?”

“Po, po, po, tiddley-tee, tiddly pom, pom, pom.” replied Grandad Patches. “Well, the last time we played, gigantic killer vines emerged from the fireplace and tried to drag us within, wrapping their thrashing tendrils about our necks and our torsos. It was a tight squeeze.”

“But, nothing’s happening.” Morgan poked his head out of the sheet, because he was curious and it was getting a bit smelly. After thirty seconds he crawled back out from under the table. “Grandad? There are no killer vines. No Ketterbys. Nothing.”

Grandad Patches’ head appeared. “Hmm. Maybe you’d better move your counter five spaces. Yes, that’ll trigger the killer vines, dear boy. Do you have a machete handy?”

“Machete?”

“Well, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Curling his lip and ignoring him, Morgan moved the tin dog, counting the squares carefully. His eyes widened when he saw where he’d landed. “Chance. Oh, my word. Should I chance it Grandad, and…take a chance.”

“That’s all I ask of you, honey,” replied Grandad Patches, who then wondered just why those words had come out of his mouth.

Gingerly, Morgan snatched at a pile of cards, turned one over and read aloud. “It is your birthday. Collect ten pounds from each player.”

Indignantly, Faith jabbed Grandad Patches in the ribs. “He’s lying, Grandad. It’s not his birthday.”

“Oh, this is stupid,” snapped Morgan, standing up. “Patience is right. Rescue the Ketterbys? I’ve better things to do.”

“Wait my boy,” replied Grandad Patches, coming out from under the table. “I just don’t understand it. Why, last time we tried this game, it was full of the most terrible dangers. We must be doing something wrong. Pass me the rules.”

But before he could do so, Faith, who had scuttled to the window that overlooked the back garden, screamed loudly.

“What is it, Faith? What’s wrong?”

Faith was pointing with her quivering fingers. “Grandad! Grandad! There’s a lion in our Garden!” she shrieked.

 

 

Outside, in the garden of number 36, something large, yellow and deadly was making its way towards the door, shrubbing a way through the undergrowth in a menacing fashion and making the most blood curdling growls imaginable. You might almost swear that same underbrush had grown somewhat, since Morgan had shaken the dice in so reckless a fashion.

Fearfully, Grandad Patches had gathered his charges back underneath the table and had pulled the curtains.

“We are in the most deadly danger,” he insisted. “No one must even look at that savage beast in the garden.”

“But why, Grandad? It can’t get us here, under the table, can it?” Faith asked, but her voice was trembling a little.

“It took the Ketterbys, didn’t it? That lion is possessed of the most magical of properties. If even it sniffs our feet, it will bound through the walls and savage us.” Grandad Patches replied, grimly. “Oh, my prophetic soul. How I wish I had never set eyes upon that beastly, evil game.”

“Morgan’s feet smell bad, Grandad.”

As usual, Morgan was more practical, even though it was he who had caused their predicament. “What about Patience? Won’t it savage her?”

“Po, po, po, goodness gracious, you are right, Morgan my boy.” Grandad Patches poked his face through the curtains around the table. “Patience? Patience? Where are you, my dear?” But, there was no answer.

“Has she been sucked into the game?” asked Faith, grabbing her Grandad’s shoulder with a small fist.

He grimaced. “Now, I told you to cut your nails last night, didn’t I?” Then, forgetting the pain, he answered. “Of course. That must be it. The alternative is too terrible to contemplate, Faith, my dear.”

“Well maybe she can rescue the Ketterbys, then, if she’s in the game. Probably half way to Daventry by now.” Morgan’s tone was reasonable and, in any case, his back was getting stiff from crouching under the table. And, he had to admit to himself, Faith was right about his feet.

Morgan made as if he would leave the safety of the shelter. But Grandad Patches grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. “No, my boy.”

“Well, what are we going to do, then? We can’t just sit under a table for the rest of the day.”

“But there’s a lion in the garden.”

“Exactly. If we don’t do something, it could eat Ma. And our fish and chips.” Morgan snapped his fingers, decisively. “Got it. You can go out there with a chair and whip to tame it.”

Grandad Patches spluttered. “Tame it? Tame a lion?”

“Sure. Remember back in the sixties, you used to work for Robert Brothers at his circus? You’ve told us dozens of times. Didn’t you win a top dollar lion taming award and rescue an old lady from being menaced?”

Biting his lip, Grandad Patches replied, “Yes, but I had lots of specialist equipment in those days.”

“No, you didn’t. You told us all you had was a stout pole and a chair. Like Sir Lancelot, you said.”

“Yes Grandad, yes!” yelled Faith, bouncing up and down around the lounge. “Tame the lion, like you used to.”

Morgan scuttled out from under the table and found the sweeping broom. He unscrewed the brush head from the pole and coughed. “There you go, Grandad.”

Somewhat sulkily, Grandad Patches came out from under the table, brushing down his romper smock, muttering something about ‘lessons from Grandad Biggert’ and ‘betrayed by own flesh and blood’. He reluctantly took the pole from Morgan and picked up the nearest chair, advancing towards the kitchen door that led into the garden.

Morgan and Faith followed behind him.

They descended the two or three red brick steps that led to the lawn. Somewhere towards the bottom of the garden, where Grandad Patches grew beans, you would notice a tremendous thrashing in amongst the lettuce. Thrash, thrash, thrash, to and fro, and the tomato plants were taking a tremendous pummeling.

The lion. No doubt about it.

Grandad Patches gripped his broom handle and chair ever more tightly, advancing hesitantly towards the whipping vegetation, Faith gripping his smock with her small fist.

Now the lion swung it’s growling, gigantic yellow football shaped head towards the oncoming trio. It paused. Looked about ready to pounce.

“Er…bit of a small lion, Grandad.” Morgan announced, unimpressed by what he was witnessing.

“Yes, Grandad,” Faith added. I think it’s got its head stuck in half-a-beehive. And she tittered.

Frowning, Grandad Patches put the chair firmly upon the lawn, but maintained his grip on the broom handle. “By Jove, Morgan, I think you’re right. It must a mutant lion, who mutated until he was very small and was inevitably attracted to the mutant beehive. What shall we do?”

“Poke it with the stick and see what happens.”

“Poke it with a stick, you say?” Grandad Patches nodded. You would think he might have learned from the last time he gave an unknown quantity a stout poking. But no. With all the precision of a snooker player he shoved his stick into the lion’s midriff.

That did it. With a mighty yelp, the beast shook its head and freed itself from the beehive. Now that it could see, it bared its teeth, it’s four paws planted firmly into the ground as it sized up the opposition.

It looked as though it was deciding which one to bite first.

“Oh no,” screamed Morgan. “It’s Mrs Dander’s dog!”

The dog leapt for the pole in Grandad Patches’ hand. “Quick! Up the yam-yam tree!” shrieked Grandad Patches. But he didn’t need to shout because Faith and Morgan were already clambering aloft.

 

 

Some time later, our three heroes were looking down gloomily from the safety of the large horizontal branch. Beneath them, Mrs Dander’s dog was staring fixedly back. Every so often he would gather legs together and attempt a mighty leap, hurling himself at Grandad Patches, teeth bared. He would miss, chop them together with an unpleasant snap then plummet to the ground beneath the tree.

“What will we do now?” asked Faith, as the dog made another unsuccessful leap. “How can we rescue the Ketterbys from here?”

Morgan looked across the fence to number 34. “Maybe we should ask Grandad Biggert for help.”

“That jackanapes?” replied Grandad Patches, in a voice quite unlike the one he usually uses. “All he ever does is cause trouble.”

Indeed, at that precise moment, the kitchen door of number 34 opened and out strolled an unruffled looking fellow in a black nehru jacket, carrying a tray upon which was a cold collation of titbits and several pork chops.

He sat nonchalantly in his deck chair, underneath a large umbrella designed to shade him from the summer sun and placed the tray on a small table beside him, sizing up which chop to eat first – almost as though he was oblivious to the three adventurers above him in the tree.

“My, my, my…what a lovely day it is. I think I will enjoy my lunch. But, oh no. I appear to have bought too much food for just one person. Whatever will I do with all this leftover fancy fare?”

“That looks nice,” whispered Morgan, hungrily.

“Hush, my boy. He does not know we are up here. Maybe we can eavesdrop on his latest evil plan.”

Grandad Biggert picked up a chop, held it to the sunlight and examined it critically. “I think this one looks the best,” he proclaimed, in slightly too loud a voice. “Why, I have no time to conjure up an evil plan today. It’s far too nice a day.” And he chomped noisily on the cold, roasted meat.

Morgan could contain himself no longer. “Grandfather,” he called, plaintively.

Grandad Biggert looked above him, in the direction of the voice. “Why, bless my soul. It’s Munton, isn’t it? Munton, my boy, what are you doing up in that tree?”

“Don’t trust him,” hissed Grandad Patches.

“Patches? Is that you as well? And my dear Granddaughter Flobadob, too. Heh, heh, heh. Now, why on earth are you all up there?”

“We’re trapped, Grandad Biggert,” Faith answered.

“Trapped, eh?”

“Yes. We’ve been rescuing the Ketterbys for ages, now, and we’re all hungry.”

“Rescuing the Ketterbys. How nice for you all. A noble plan indeed. No doubt you would like some of my picnic, to give you sustenance, eh?”

“Yes please, Grandad Biggert,” answered Morgan, amazed by the conciliatory tone coming from beneath him.

“Maybe I should go inside and bring some turkey, mashed potatoes and peas with giblet gravy?”

“That would be terrific, Grandad Biggert. No need for the peas, actually.”

“Well, hard cheese,” snorted Grandad Biggert. “This is all you’re getting.’ And with a mighty throw he chucked the half-gnawed pork bone over the fence, where it danced in the sunlight before falling to the grass beneath the tree. “Heh, heh, heh. and tomorrow you’ll go to school carrying lace doilies for handkerchiefs.”

“Chiz,” replied Morgan, annoyed he’d been so easily caught out.

Grandad Patches clutched Morgan’s arm. “Wait, my boy. This could be just the break we’ve been hoping for.” And he pointed at the pork bone which lay enticingly in the grass, just downwind of the dog’s nose.

Sure enough, Mrs Dander’s dog found himself distracted by the temptation of semi-chewed meat and with one bound, forgot the tree and his prisoners, instead seizing the bone and tearing off with it into the shrubbery. He was temporarily hidden from view.

“Not a minute to lose,” said Grandad Patches, in an urgent tone. “We must head for my potting shed. There we can find and deploy our shrimping nets to capture that vicious blighter and remove it to a place of safety.” And he began shinning down the ladder.

“On the other hand, we could make a break for it and get to the kitchen,” Morgan whispered, more sensibly, joining Grandad Patches on the lawn and waiting for his sister.

“But our shrimping nets have been in the potting shed since last Winter,” replied Grandad Patches. “We put them there for just such a contingency as this.”

Morgan ignored him. “No sudden moves or noises,” he muttered, creeping surreptitiously and quickly towards the kitchen door. “We don’t want to alert that brute, do we?”

Morgan had almost made the path when Faith squawked loudly. “Look Grandad. It’s the Ketterbys!”

With a savage and blood curdling roar, Mrs Dander’s dog abandoned the chop and, like a speeding bullet, hurtled towards them.

“Run!” screamed Morgan, in horror. But the way to the kitchen was blocked by huge chunks of hot, bristling, savage fur, teeth and claw. After several laps of the garden, Grandad Patches, Faith and Morgan were back up the tree, panting.

“Pickled onion, Munton?” asked Grandad Biggert, “Heh, heh, heh.”

Morgan ignored him and wished he had a newspaper to swipe Faith around the head with. “That wasn’t the Ketterbys, you muffin-truffler,” he snapped, “It was an empty carton of Radion Soap Suds nailed to a bamboo pole.”

“Yes,” Grandad Patches agreed. “I use it as a scarecrow, to keep the sparrows off my leeks.”

“Grandad? He called me a muffin-scuffler.” Faith began to cry as the dog hurled himself once more at their branch, over and over, accompanied by the clip-clopping of teeth snapping together.

All seemed lost. But at that moment, at the far end of the garden from the yam-yam tree, the kitchen door opened. It was Patience. She held something in her hand which she waved in their direction. “Grandad? Grandad? There’s someone on the phone for you.”

Grandad Patches clutched Morgan’s shoulder. “A miracle. Patience escaped from the game.”

Patience was scowling, looking a tad angry as though she had been bothered enough for one day. She walked down the garden with the phone until she was beneath the tree and shook her finger at the dog. “You again? How did you escape this time. Go home, now.”

If it were possible, the dog looked a little crestfallen at the sound of Patience’s stern voice. His tail drooped a little and the brown eyes looked almost beseechingly back.

“Now.” repeated Patience, “before I call Mrs Dander.” As the dog walked away, downcast, the way naughty dogs often do, Patience retrieved the pork bone, with a distasteful grimace, and chucked it back over the fence.

There was a yelp of pain.

“Now, you three, get down from that tree. Put the ladder away and get in the house.”

Morgan was first down. “Well done, sister,”

“Shut up.”

Then Faith.

“Stop snivelling and start walking.”

Finally, Grandad Patches.

“And as for you…just you wait until Ma gets home.”

And, with a haughty snap of the fingers, she followed our woebegone trio back up the path, still clutching the telephone.

 

 

Once they were inside, Patience tossed it at Grandad Patches. “It’s the Ketterbys,” she announced, grimly. Then, without waiting to hear the conversation, she stalked into the sitting room, slamming the door behind her.

Grandad Patches had fumbled the catch, but just about stopped the phone falling to the floor. “The Ketterbys? Po, po, po, ‘pon my soul, well, that’s a turn up for the books, isn’t it? They must be telephoning from inside the game.” Then, he held it to his ear. “Hello? Hello? Is that the Ketterbys?”

As Morgan and Faith looked on dumfounded, Grandad Patches shook the phone. “There’s nobody there.” he announced. “That benighted game must have snatched the phone off them.”

“You’re holding it upside down,” replied Morgan, taking the phone off him and swivelling it round. “Try now.”

“Is that the Ketterbys? It is? Splendid.” There was a pause. “Yes, that’s right. Patches. Grandad Patches. We’ve been trying to rescue you all day, but we were chased up a tree by Mrs Dander’s dog. Then Robert Biggert threw a pork chop at us.”

There was silence as he listened to the response, with just a little backchanneling: “Aha…uhuh…mmm…po,po,po…back in the sixties, I…yes, yes…I see…”

Trembling a little from all the excitement, Grandad Patches lowered the phone from his ears. “Astonishing.”

“What is?” Morgan replied, urgently.

“He’s hung up.”

Morgan snatched the phone from Grandad Patches. “Give that here.” And he pressed quickly with his fingers, then listened. “Hello? Is that the Ketterbys? To whom am I speaking? Professor Kimbo Ketterby. Excellent.”

Morgan lowered the handset and grinned in triumph, then began to speak again.  “Can you tell me, were you ever sucked into a game back in the sixties?”

“What did he say?” asked Faith, in anticipation.

“He’s hung up on me, too.”

Scratching his bristly chin, Grandad Patches frowned. “I just don’t understand it.”

At that point, Patience flung the door of the sitting room open. In her right hand, she held a large, black trash sack and in her left a dustpan. “Move out of the way, Grandad.”

“But, what have you got there?”

“Your stupid game of Pujamgi, that’s what. I’m going to throw it in the trash. All afternoon, I’ve been trying to work, and all afternoon you three have been behaving like idiots.”

Grandad Patches looked outraged. “You’re going to throw Kimbo Ketterby into the trash? He’s a living, breathing human being. And a world expert on bees. I forbid it, young lady. Hand that game over, now.”

“I will not. In fact, I’ve a good mind to give it to Grandad Biggert.”

“But what possible use would he have for the Ketterbys?”

Patience looked as if she was going to snap. “Let me tell you something about your precious Ketterbys. I took the liberty of speaking to Marjorie on the phone while you were up the tree. She told me they had moved to Daventry in 1969 on account of you organising a ‘poetry jam and honey sit-in for peace’ in their back garden.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. Furthermore, Professor Kimbo Ketterby told me the obvious solution to a lack of bees in the garden. A solution which, if you had thought of it, might have saved a great deal of bother, Grandad.”

Grandad Patches snapped his fingers. “Of course. We should hire a car and drive to Daventry.”

“No, we shouldn’t. All we have to do is remove the stopper from the kettle of bees and release them into the garden.”

Morgan looked at Faith, who looked at Grandad Patches, open mouthed. “Grandad. That’s a very good plan. Then, that nasty man would find lots of bees in our garden. You wouldn’t have to go to prison.”

Scratching his face thoughtfully, Grandad Patches nodded. “A very good plan indeed. I can see how you might be tempted…however, going to Daventry is an even better plan. We can consult the world’s greatest Beekeeper. It’s time to open the garage and fire up the Patchmaster! Next stop…Daventry!”

Patience prodded Grandad Patches sharply in his chest with her propelling pencil. “If I hear Daventry mentioned one more time this afternoon, I’ll post the kettle there myself.” she snapped. “Morgan? Go and get it from wherever you hid it.”

Looking rather sulky, Morgan slouched out of the sitting room.

Grandad Patches rubbed his wound with rueful fingers. “Daventry, Kettering…oh, what’s the use,” he muttered. Then, he remembered something. “Those are mutant bees. Released from dark depths by scientists from Kidderminster Research Centre. They could cause untold damage.”

“No, they’re not. Sit down and stop causing drama.”

But, just as he was about to comply, there was an officious ring of the doorbell, accompanied by the hard ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ of the door knocker.

“It’s the Ketterbys!” shouted Grandad Patches, as Faith jumped up and down in excitement. “Kimbo Ketterby has come to save the day. I knew old Kimbo wouldn’t let me down.”

With a ‘hmph’ Patience folded her arms and marched in the direction of the front door. As she opened it, both Grandad Patches and Faith scuttered over to listen at the latch.

“Another extraordinary coincidence,” they heard her saying. “Well, you’d better come in then.”

Grandad Patches leapt for the sofa, dragging Faith with him, and sat looking innocently as the door opened.

Patience was followed by a strange looking fellow, dressed from head to foot in what looked like a tatty old carpet – a bit like the one Ma had chucked out the day before. It smelt bad too and two or three flies were circling noisily around the old fellow’s face.

It was hard to describe exactly what he looked like, as he wore a long, black polyester hairpiece and an eye patch and red plastic spectacles, attached to which was one of those cutout carboard beards you can get in cheap joke shops.

“Who the devil are you, sir? What have you done with Professor Ketterby?” asked Grandad Patches, a little abruptly, and leaping to his feet.

Patience, pursing her lips, replied, “This, Grandad, is Sir Derek Swankerton.”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” The man announced unnecessarily in a variable clipped Scottish accent. He extended his hand, in which he held a pork chop. “My name is Sir David Snobberton.”

“Snotterton, eh? Well, just what exactly do you want?” replied Grandad Patches, emphasising the ‘you’ in a hostile fashion.

“I may be seated?” replied Sir David, who, without waiting for a reply, attempted to sit but was prevented from doing so by the carpet. “I am from the Ministry of Defective Detectorists.”

“Indeed. And may I see your credentials?”

“No Patches, you may not until this matter has been sorted out.”

“What matter?”

Sir David hastily adjusted his beard and spectacles which had slipped down his face a little. “We have been given cast iron evidence of a crime committed at this address.”

“Cast iron evidence?”

“Yes, that’s a bit of a running joke with us at the Ministry of Defective Detectorists.” sniggered Sir David, in a way that wasn’t at all befitting of his status. “Now, hand it over, if you please.”

“Po, po, po, hand what over?” Grandad Patches blustered, although he had a pretty good idea.

“A piece of premeditated and supreme cruelty, committed against a harmless, antique metal kettle.”

“You’ll find no metal kettles here.” Grandad Patches lied, “We always boil our water in a tupperware pan.”

Sir David ignored him and rummaged about in his briefcase. Satisfied, he pulled out what he’d been looking for. It was a fragile looking piece of equipment that bore an uncanny resemblance to two or three coat hangers, twisted together. He shook it triumphantly. “See this, Patches, you meddling concealer of innocent metals?”

“What is it?”

“It’s my kettle detector. Out of the way!” Sir David began a most strange ritual, shaking his detector up and down, high and low, whilst all the while chanting ‘hi-ya-ya-ya, hi-ya-ya-ya, hi-ya-ya-ya, ho’, over and over, thrusting his wires in every nook and cranny possible, under chairs, behind curtains…his every fibre bristling with potency: ‘hi-ya-ya-ya, hi-ya-ya-ya, hi-ya-ya-ya, ho!’

He needn’t have bothered.

“Found it Grandad,” announced Morgan, walking in with the kettle of bees that was still buzzing in a most hideous fashion.

“Give that here,” snapped Sir David, grabbing at the kettle, “This time I’ve got you bang to rights, Patches.” He seized the handle with both hands.

“Give it back,” shouted Grandad Patches, also seizing the handle.

There began a most unusual tug of war, neither man willing to let go. Back and forth it went, both men puffing and panting and, as it did so, the buzzing within became more and more enraged.

Morgan and Faith had retreated behind the sofa, neither of them unable to tear their eyes from the titanic struggle. Sir David’s beard and spectacles began to slip. He would have to adjust them before long…and one of his hands moved indecisively.

Patience watched, hands on hips and then, with an imperative tone, said, “Oh, give him the wretched kettle, Grandad. If you don’t, I’m calling Ma right now.”

Grandad bit his lip and let go, a hurt expression upon his face.

“Ha ha!” screamed Sir David, in triumph, running for the door, “The kettle is mine! Freedom! Liberty!” And he hurtled down the path towards the gate, waving the kettle above his head.

Grandad Patches watched gloomily from the window, his arm upon Faith’s shoulder.

“Will they put you in prison, now?” she asked, her lip wobbling a little.

Morgan was also watching the kettle bobbing around in the air. “Oh, look. The man’s fallen over. Tripped on the wobbly step.”

Patience joined them. “The bees have escaped,” she observed. “And now they’re attacking Sir David. I think you’re right, Grandad. Judging from the way he’s screaming and running up the close, they must be mutant bees after all.”

 

 

A couple of hours later, an ambulance had turned up mysteriously at number 34.  Grandad Patches had no time to notice it, however, he was back in the garden, humming sea shanties and po-po-poing to himself in a contented fashion.

“I say, Faith,” he called. “Look, my dear. There are plenty of bees in the garden now. Who would have thought it?”

Faith smiled and came trotting over with her little trowel. “That’s good, Grandad. Now the Ministry of Bees won’t arrest you.”

Grandad Patches nodded, sagely. “Do you know what I think?”

“No, Grandad.”

“I think that while we were in the house, the Ketterbys escaped from the game and put all the bees back where they belonged.”

“So we did rescue the Ketterbys after all.”

“Indeed we did, my dear. Indeed we did.”

“So we can have a jolly good rest after all that excitement.”

“I think we deserve it, don’t you?”

But at the kitchen door, Morgan appeared, looking a little testy. “Grandad? Come here.”

Smiling, Grandad Patches, sauntered up the garden path, with not a care in the world. “Yes, my boy?”

“Patience says we’re to go to the High Street and buy a new kettle. With my savings. After that, we’ll write to apologise to Professor Ketterby and his family, finish her Maths homework and build faith a brand-new Mott and Bailley castle for Faith. If not, there’ll be no fish for tea.”

“What? I’m going to have a few words with that Granddaughter of mine. She’s getting far too much like her mother.”

Morgan continued, grumpily. “And this evening, after tea, you’re to go to the accident and emergency ward of the hospital, to bring grapes for Grandad Biggert and Mrs Gridney.”

“Grapes for Grandad Biggert? Indeed? Well, we’ll see about that.”

But, I have to tell you, dear reader, that as dusk fell, three forlorn figures were making their way towards the hospital.

But they did pop in to Mrs Patel’s shop first.