Snakes' Elbows Read online

  ‘It’s as if I’m turning to stone,’ Cannibal said. ‘There’s nothing we can do but wait for someone to come and help us,’ Bruiser replied.

  The night went on and the mad party finally came to an end. The last chocolate-crazed guest departed and Jasper went to his bed, tired but happy. By that time the chocolate coating on the two dogs had set solid and they couldn’t budge an inch. It was the following morning before some servants, cleaning up the terrible mess in the garden, came upon Cannibal and Bruiser and took pity on them. They carried the dogs into the kitchen and set them each in turn above a pot of warm water until the chocolate began to melt and drip off them, until each of them was standing in a pool of liquid chocolate and was free again. ‘That does it,’ Cannibal said as soon as he had recovered. ‘I’ve had enough of Jasper Jellit.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get our own back on him for this, in our own time, in our own way,’ Bruiser added. ‘Just see if we don’t!’

  The arrangement that Wilf should work for Barney went brilliantly right from the start. At the end of the first week, the men from the Woodford Trumpet came back and this time it wasn’t Barney who received them.

  Plooff! Wilf managed to cover his face just in time. The journalist tried to put his nicely shod foot in the door again, but Wilf was faster and stronger than Barney and slammed it closed.

  ‘Oi! That hurt!’ the man yelped out on the step, and then he began to hammer and bang angrily on the door. ‘Who do you think you are anyway? Open up. It’s Mr Barrington I want to talk to.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to talk to you. Go away.’ Wilf knelt down, lifted up the flap and peeped through the letterbox.

  Plooff!

  ‘I’m looking after Mr Barrington now. Go away,’ he said again. ‘You heard me. Hoppit.’

  Standing at the top of the stairs, Barney was listening to all of this. His heart was thumping, but he knew he was safe. He didn’t know what he was most grateful for: Wilf’s wonderful cooking or the way he protected him from people like the men from the Woodford Trumpet.

  *

  The following morning Wilf brought Barney his breakfast as usual. On the trolley he wheeled into the room was a pot of tea, toast (cut into triangles and not burnt), pats of butter and lemon marmalade. There were bread rolls and two kinds of jam, raspberry and apricot. There was freshly squeezed orange juice and under a round silver dome there were crisp rashers, plump sausages and two perfectly fried eggs.

  ‘This looks delicious!’ Barney said happily as he poured his tea.

  ‘I hope you enjoy it.’ Wilf looked extremely glum this morning. His eyes had lost their sparkle and his hair was completely flat. ‘I made a special effort because it’s the last meal I’ll be making for you. I’m leaving.’

  ‘What?!!’ Barney was so shocked he almost dropped the teapot. ‘Why, Wilf? What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy here with me?’

  ‘I love it. Never been happier in my life, but I have to go. You won’t want me to stay after you’ve read this.’ Wilf held out a copy of the Woodford Trumpet to Barney, who took it and unfolded it.

  ‘MAD MILLIONAIRE HIRES HOMELESS HOOLIGAN!’

  Below this were two odd photographs. One showed a face covered by an outspread hand and framed by wild, spiky hair. The other showed two small bright eyes peeping through a letterbox. ‘The Woodford Trumpet has DISCOVERED and can reveal exclusively to our readers that BATTY Barney Barrington’s new butler is a ROOFLESS RUFFIAN and a JAILBIRD! Before moving in with the mean millionaire, Wilf Wilson had NO JOB and NO HOUSE. He slept under BRIDGES and on PARK BENCHES. Wicked Wilf is no stranger to Woodford PRISON either where the violent villain was once locked up for a WHOLE YEAR.’

  ‘Is this true, Wilf?’ Barney asked.

  Wilf was staring at his shoes. ‘Sort of. I was in jail, but only for a month, not for a whole year. I punched a fellow on the nose. He said something horrible about my mum. It was a long time ago.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mean about your being in jail. Is it true that before you came to live with me you had no home?’

  Wilf looked up, surprised. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And did you really sleep under bridges and on park benches?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That must have been awful.’

  ‘Yes Barney, it was horrible.’

  ‘So if you left me, where would you go?’

  Wilf scratched his nose. ‘Dunno. Back to the park, I suppose. Or down to the river.’

  ‘How can you think of leaving me then? How can you even think of it?’

  ‘I was sure you’d throw me out as soon as you saw the newspaper.’

  ‘This is your home now,’ Barney said firmly, even sternly, which surprised Wilf for he was usually so timid and hesitant.

  ‘I really was in jail,’ Wilf reminded him.

  ‘It was a long time ago,’ said Barney.

  ‘I did punch someone. It’s true, you know.’

  ‘He said something horrible about your mum,’ replied Barney, and he added, ‘Let me hear no more talk of leaving. Now tell me, what are you planning for lunch?’

  And that was the end of that.

  *

  Two days later, Barney was out for a walk when he saw a little cat playing with some dandelions, patting their fluffy heads with her paw and then watching the seeds float off into the sky.

  ‘Puss puss!’ he called to her.

  The cat mewed, ran over to him, and started to rub against his ankles. Barney bent down and picked her up. She was a small thin cat and she was cold. ‘Poor little thing,’ he said. ‘Poor little Dandelion cat.’ He put her into the front of his cardigan to keep her warm, and fastened the buttons up so that her face peeped out above them. The cat started to purr and Barney could feel the heat of her fur now against his tummy. ‘Let’s go home, shall we?’ he said. ‘Let’s go and have something to eat.’

  And from that day on the cat was called Dandelion and she was Barney’s cat.

  Now when Wilf brought the trolley in the morning with Barney’s breakfast, he brought Dandelion’s too, on the lower shelf. After about a week, Wilf came in one morning looking grim. ‘It’s your turn this time, Pussens,’ and he nodded at the newspaper as he held it out to Barney.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Barney. ‘I suppose we’d better get it over with and see what they’re saying this time.’ On the front of the paper in large print it said:

  ‘MAD MILLIONAIRE IN STRAY CAT SHOCK! Full story and SENSATIONAL picture on page 7!’

  ‘I’ll read it aloud,’ Barney said. He knew the cat couldn’t read but he was too polite to say so.

  ‘Mad Millionaire Barney Barrington has done it AGAIN! The Woodford Trumpet can reveal today that he is now sharing his HOME with a black and white ALLEY CAT called Dandelion. Too MEAN to buy himself a BEAUTIFUL EXPENSIVE cat with LONG soft fur and BIG blue eyes, Barmy Barney has chosen instead a MISERABLE little stray with SHORT fur and THIN whiskers. Dandelion is seen above in our exclusive shock photo LICKING HER OWN BUM!’

  And sure enough, there at the top of the page was a big picture of Dandelion sitting in the garden, with her back leg in the air and her head down, having a jolly good lick. She went pink under her fur when she saw it. She hadn’t thought that anyone was watching her and she certainly hadn’t thought that anyone was taking photographs. Barney had never seen a cat blush before but he pretended not to notice.

  ‘Poor little Dandelion,’ he murmured, tickling her behind the ear. ‘Pay no heed. Everybody’ll have forgotten about it by tomorrow. Put it out of your mind.’

  ‘Yes, Barney’s right,’ Wilf said, and then he added, ‘All it means is that you’re one of us now.’

  Sitting on Barney’s plate was his morning post. There was only one letter today and he opened it as Wilf poured the coffee. It was from the bank.

  Dear Mr Barrington,

  Please find enclosed your annual bank statement. I am sure you will be delighted to see how much your money has grown during the p
ast year. As I was sending it I wanted to put in a note to say how very happy, in fact how completely thrilled we are to deal with someone who has such a lot of money is such a nice person.

  Yours oh so very sincerely, dear Mr Barrington,

  Sylvester Simkins

  Bank Manager

  ‘What a creep!’ Wilf said.

  Barney took the bank statement out of the envelope and unfolded it. And unfolded it and unfolded it and unfolded it. It was a huge sheet of paper: it had to be so that there would be room for all the noughts. ‘Goodness me, as much as that!’ Barney said, looking at the figure at the bottom of the page.

  ‘I would start to spend some of that if I was you,’ Wilf said. ‘I know what! Why don’t you buy yourself a BEAUTIFUL EXPENSIVE cat with LONG soft fur and BIG blue eyes. Only joking, Pussens,’ he added as Dandelion looked up, worried. ‘Anyway, I’m off. Enjoy your breakfast. You’re getting an omelette for your lunch today and the cat’s getting a kipper. I’ll bring it up at one o’clock. If you need anything else before then, give me a shout.’

  It was lovely living with Wilf, Barney thought after he’d gone. He was so direct, you always knew exactly where you stood.

  There was nothing Jasper liked more than money. He thought about it all the time and no matter how much of it he had, still he wanted more. If you had crept into his bedroom in the middle of the night when he was fast asleep and lifted up his eyelid, you would have seen a little pound sign there, as Jasper dreamt about coins and banknotes and gold.

  Nobody knew how he made his money. When people asked him what he did he would look them in the eye and say, ‘Actually, I’m a specialist in the area of material supplies concerning international conflict.’

  Of course nobody had the foggiest notion what he meant by this. However, because people don’t like to admit not knowing things in case it makes them look foolish, they pretended they did.

  ‘Are you really?’ people would reply. ‘My goodness, how interesting.’

  Sometimes Jasper would even say, ‘You do know what I mean by the area of material supplies concerning international conflict, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course! Of course!’ they cried.

  And by this Jasper knew for sure that they didn’t.

  The day Dandelion’s photograph was in the newspaper was to be a busy one for Jasper. He hated getting up early and so he was in a foul temper at breakfast, even worse than usual. ‘You didn’t put my milk on my cornflakes for me!’ he shouted at his maid.

  ‘I thought it best to wait,’ she said. ‘I thought they would get all soggy on the way up from the kitchen.’

  ‘They’re nice like that!’ Jasper bellowed. ‘I like ’em soggy! Don’t you even know that by now?’

  But the woman didn’t know because she had only been working for him for a week, and there were so many things he did and didn’t like that it was impossible to remember them all in such a short time. The toast had to be buttered while it was still hot. The milk had to go into the cup before the tea. All the crusts had to be cut off the bread before it got to the table because he hated crusts. Jasper had a million little whims and when he didn’t get exactly what he wanted he went wild. It took about two months to learn all his ways, but by that stage the servants had usually had enough. Some of them gave in their notice, but some of them were so afraid of him they simply climbed out of the window in the night and ran away.

  Cannibal and Bruiser did nothing to stop them. ‘Lucky thing,’ they thought wistfully as they watched the latest maid or butler or valet climb over the gates at midnight and race off up the street to freedom. ‘Wish it was us.’

  Breakfast over, Jasper hopped out of bed and put on a sharp pinstriped suit, and slapped lashings of eau de cologne around his chops. It smelt quite delightfully of lemons and pinecones. Jasper had it specially made, for him alone, at mind-boggling expense. In the car on the way to the factory this morning he remembered that the head groundsman, whose job it was to feed the dogs, had done a bunk the day before and Jasper had forgotten to tell any of the other members of staff to look after the animals. ‘None of them will think of it,’ he said to himself. ‘They’re all too stupid. Oh well, Cannibal and Bruiser are big lads. I’m sure they can look out for themselves.’

  The factory was buried deep in the heart of the dark forest at the edge of the town and was surrounded by a series of high fences, each one topped with coils of razor wire. At each of three different gates Jasper had to give a password and show a special card with his photograph on it, to prove that he was who he said he was. At last his car rumbled to a halt in front of the dark windowless façade of the factory. Even Jasper had to admit it looked a bit sinister.

  A glum-looking man was slumped in a little cabin at the front door. ‘Tell Mr Smith I’m here to see him,’ Jasper said briskly.

  ‘He expecting you?’

  ‘You know as well as I do Mr Smith sees no one unless they make an appointment.’

  ‘Trick question,’ said the glum-looking man. He made a brief telephone call and in no time at all Jasper was sitting in Mr Smith’s office.

  Mr Smith was as ordinary-looking and unremarkable as his name suggested (although it was rumoured that Mr Smith wasn’t his real name). He wore a grey suit with a neat white shirt and a blue tie. The only unusual thing about him was that he had a little gold tooth that could be seen when he smiled (which he didn’t often do). He and Jasper greeted each other warmly. ‘How’s business?’ Jasper said.

  ‘Excellent, oh excellent,’ exclaimed Mr Smith. ‘We have some wonderful new products that I’m sure you’ll be very excited about. Let’s begin shall we?’

  From the drawer of his desk he took a little thing no bigger than a hazelnut. It was olive green and he set it in the palm of Jasper’s hand so that he could inspect it.

  ‘This is our latest invention,’ he said. ‘It’s a hand grenade. A hundred times smaller than a conventional grenade, but every bit as powerful. It means that soldiers can carry more of them into battle.’

  ‘Gosh, that’s clever!’ Jasper said. ‘What genius thought that one up?’

  ‘Me, actually,’ said Mr Smith. He blushed modestly and gave one of his rare smiles, showing for a moment his little gold tooth. ‘It was my idea but the boys in the backroom have been working for years now to make it a reality.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ Jasper said. ‘How much are they?’

  Mr Smith named his price. ‘I’ll take four hundred to begin with.’

  ‘Knew you’d like ’em.’ Mr Smith took an invoice form from his desk and started to fill it in. He offered all kinds of guns and bombs, landmines and rockets and explosives to Jasper, who placed his order, saying that he would take the grenades with him, and that everything else could be delivered at a later date.

  ‘A pleasure to do business with you, as always,’ Mr Smith said, showing his little gold tooth again briefly as he carefully poured the hand grenades into the open maw of Jasper’s black leather briefcase.

  From the factory, Jasper drove straight to the airport. At the top of the flight of steps leading into his plane a stewardess was standing smiling at the passengers. She stopped smiling when she recognised Jasper. ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ he said, smacking her hard on the bum as he passed. ‘Hope you’ve got loads of nice grub on board today or I’ll want to know the reason why.’ He was laughing as he said it but it was a strange, unfunny sort of laugh. The stewardess shivered.

  By the time he arrived at his destination he was burping and farting from all the free champagne he had drunk during the flight.

  ‘Good riddance,’ murmured the stewardess as he went down the steps of the plane.

  Jasper jumped into a taxi. ‘Take me to The Villa,’ he said.

  The Villa was a big pink house on the edge of the city, and when he arrived there he found it surrounded by police and security men, trying to hold back a huge crowd of journalists and cameramen and photographers.

  Jasper paid them no heed and went round to th
e back, where he found a hole in the fence. Slipping through, he hurried across the gardens towards The Villa itself, crept up to a window and peeped in.

  The room Jasper saw was a grand one, with a high painted ceiling, crystal chandeliers and many mirrors. Two angry-looking men sat opposite each other at a big shiny table. One of them wore a military uniform with oodles of gold braid on his hat, his shoulders and his chest. The other was a middle-aged man in a grey suit who looked rather like Mr Smith except that he had no gold tooth. Between them sat an anxious-looking woman, wringing her hands. Suddenly, the man in the suit banged the table hard with his fists and jumped up.

  ‘Our lot are going to kill your lot!’ he shouted.

  The man in the uniform banged his fists on the table and jumped up too. ‘Just you try it!’ he roared. ‘Just you try it!’

  The two men were now eyeball to eyeball, glaring at each other.

  ‘Gentlemen, please, this is getting us nowhere,’ said the anxious woman in the middle. She turned to the man in the uniform, ‘General, please calm yourself.’ And to the man in the suit, ‘Mr President, I ask you, please don’t shout like that. I think we ought to break now and have a cup of tea and a rest. We can meet again in an hour and by that time I hope your tempers will have cooled.’

  Dragging their feet and scowling, The President and The General left the room. Jasper, whom no one had noticed, melted away from the window.

  About twenty minutes later, he came upon The General sitting alone on a bench in the garden in a deep sulk. ‘I heard all that,’ Jasper said softly, sidling up to him. ‘I heard what he said to you, that other man. I wouldn’t put up with it if I were you.’

  The General turned to look at him. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m a specialist,’ Jasper said, ‘in the area of material supplies concerning international conflict.’

  ‘Are you?’ said The General. ‘Are you indeed?’

  And unlike most people Jasper knew, he clearly understood exactly what was meant by this.