Crummy Mummy and Me Read online

  And then, five minutes before opening time, he prised his winning raffle ticket out of his skin-tight leather cut-offs, and strode off down the pub in search of his prize.

  He came back a little later in a slightly better temper, clutching the bottle of whisky.

  ‘That old man hadn’t had time to drink much of it,’ he told us. ‘Not more than a couple of swigs, anyhow.’

  I left the room. I was disgusted. Sometimes I think I am the only person in our household who actually believes in germs.

  When I came back, Crusher was telling my mum off.

  ‘You ought to be ashamed,’ he was saying, ‘not remembering the name of your own boyfriend. You ought to take a proper interest.’

  Mum scowled.

  ‘I do.’ (I can’t say that she sounded very convincing.)

  ‘All right,’ Crusher Maggot challenged her. ‘I’ll test you. How many brothers do I have?’

  Mum wasn’t sure.

  ‘How many sisters?’

  Mum wasn’t sure about that, either.

  ‘Where was I born?’

  Mum knew the answer to that, of course, because he’s got it tattooed on his head – MADE IN BIRMINGHAM. But then Crusher claimed that question didn’t count, and asked another.

  ‘Where was I brought up?’

  Mum didn’t know.

  ‘See?’ Crusher triumphed. ‘You really don’t know the first thing about me!’

  ‘Gran’s always saying that,’ I reminded them both.

  Neither looked pleased.

  ‘All right!’ Mum said. ‘You win. I don’t know much about you. So instead of sitting there crowing about it, why don’t you just tell me?’

  ‘I’ll go one better than that,’ claimed Crusher. ‘I’ll show you.’

  And he went off to have a go at his new car.

  ‘Where is he planning on taking us?’ I asked.

  ‘How should I know?’ snapped Mum. ‘It’s Crusher Maggot I know. Not Harold Pollard!’

  I must say, I came to see what she meant as the day passed. We didn’t go in Crusher’s new car. It wouldn’t start. So Crusher swung Crummy Dummy up on his shoulders, and we strolled up to our end of the bypass to catch a bus.

  ‘Where are we going? Town or country?’ I asked Crusher. (You can never tell which way people at the bus stop are heading since it’s just before the roundabout.)

  ‘Country,’ said Crusher. ‘Just outside a small village.’

  ‘Oh, ho!’ cried Mum. ‘Pigpen Pollard, here we come!’

  You could tell she was still in a really bad mood.

  The bus took forever to turn up. And when it did, I wished it hadn’t.

  ‘Spindle Village, please,’ Crusher said to the driver.

  The driver looked us up and down.

  ‘Two one-pound seventies and an eighty-five,’ he said at last. ‘Babies are free.’

  Mum pointed at me.

  ‘She’s free, too,’ she said.

  I was appalled. Simply appalled. I haven’t been free on the buses for years.

  While Crusher fed three pounds forty into the ticket machine, the driver peered at me over his spectacles.

  ‘How old is she?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Even Mum couldn’t bring herself to say ‘five’. She just muttered something about me being rather big for my age, and poked me in the back. ‘Aren’t you, Minna?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, I’m not. I’m not at all big for my age. I’m quite normal. And children my age pay half on buses.’

  And I started to dig in my pockets for eighty-five pence.

  ‘I’m going to let you off the fare,’ the driver said to me. ‘Because you’re honest.’

  ‘Unlike some people,’ he added under his breath, as Mum moved past him down the bus.

  (Good job it was practically empty, or I’d have died.)

  All the way to Spindle, I questioned Crusher closely about the house he was brought up in.

  ‘How many rooms does it have?’

  ‘Two hundred and eight, not counting cellars.’

  ‘How many chimney pots?’

  ‘Hundreds.’

  ‘How big is the garden?’

  ‘What? In acres?’

  I’m not quite sure about acres, so I said:

  ‘Compared with that playground where Crummy Dummy likes the duck swings.’

  ‘Let me see…’ Crusher was thinking. ‘About a hundred times bigger.’

  I grinned. I could keep going as long as he could. ‘How far is it from the front gate to the front door?’

  ‘About three-quarters of a mile.’

  I thought he was joking.

  I thought he was joking until the bus stopped just before Spindle Village, and we got off outside the largest pair of wrought-iron gates I’ve ever seen in my life. They towered over me, and I’m no midget, I can tell you. Only my mother could look at me and still try to get me a free ride on a bus.

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Is this it?’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  But Crusher couldn’t have been kidding because he walked straight up to the stone wall that fringed the huge, high, curvy gates, and carefully prised a little slab of stone out from where it was sitting, neat and unnoticed, among all the others.

  Behind it, hidden in the old wall, was a key. No one who hadn’t known it was there could ever have found it.

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said, unlocking the padlock that held the gates closed. ‘Let’s go and meet my dad.’

  I must say I felt a bit nervous about meeting Crusher’s – sorry, Harold’s – father if this was where he lived. I wished we could turn back and forget it. I didn’t think we looked right. I thought that Crusher should have warned us earlier. Because Mum was wearing her sequinned bikini top with the gold tassels and her baggy pink-spotted bloomer trousers, and she had spent the boring bus ride brushing up Crummy Dummy’s hair into fresh spikes. She looked just like a circus clown with a punk baby.

  Mind you, Crusher looked just as outlandish with his enormous rainbow Mohican, and chains all over, and one of his black skin-tight leather trouser legs cut off a good half-metre above the other.

  But he’s not my mother, or my baby sister.

  Crusher swung Crummy Dummy back on his shoulders, and we set off along the wooded drive. It was cool and dark, like an airy green tunnel, and so quiet you could hear the birds flap away as we walked round each lazy curve. The flickering specks of light between the trees grew larger and fiercer, till suddenly we stepped out on a stretch of road heaped high on either side with glorious red bushes.

  ‘Rhododendrons,’ said Crusher.

  I’m glad he told us. I was quite interested to see a rhododendron. Gran says she was always having to spell them at school.

  And then, coming round the last bend, we saw the house. Mum and I stopped to stare. It was the most enormous mansion, with rows and rows and rows of windows, standing behind a huge green lawn. I’ve never seen a lawn that big before. Miles and miles of flat, unbroken green. And not a speck of litter. Not one. Our old headmaster would have burst into tears if he’d seen it.

  We weren’t alone, though. Standing right on the edge of the lawn was someone peering closely into a flowerbed. The sun sailed behind a sliver of cloud and he lifted his head. Spotting Crusher, who had moved out of the shadows, he suddenly started walking towards us.

  He looked dead posh. I felt quite frightened. Mum did too, I think. At least, she hung back out of sight with me, among the rhododendrons. But Crusher kept on striding forward with Crummy Dummy on his shoulders, getting closer and closer to the man who was walking towards him – to throw him out, I thought, until I heard him booming across the lawn:

  ‘Good Lord! Is that young Harry Pollard? Fancy your rolling home like this, out of the blue!’ The man stopped and took a proper look at Crusher. ‘Still stamping around looking like an
Apache, I see.’

  Gran says the same. Quite often. But whereas Gran says it rather rudely, I always think, this man clearly didn’t mean a thing by it. He was just being friendly.

  ‘Fine baby you’ve got there, Harry,’ he added admiringly, as he came close. ‘Chip off the old block?’

  Crusher gave him a big wide grin, and let go of one of Crummy Dummy’s ankles to wave a hand about expansively.

  Crummy Dummy toppled sideways.

  I rushed out of the shadows. (To do her credit, so did Mum.)

  The posh man stared. He did try not to, you could tell. But he just couldn’t help it. Perhaps he was used to young Harry Pollard turning up looking like an Apache. He could even handle one little, lookalike Apache baby. But he couldn’t quite manage Mum, with her sequinned bikini top with gold tassels and her baggy pink-spotted bloomer trousers.

  He swallowed a bit.

  Then,

  ‘How do you do, Madam?’ he asked Mum, offering her his hand to shake. ‘A lovely day.

  Most clement. Mmm?’ (He seemed to want to get safely on to the weather, I thought.)

  ‘Smashing,’ said Mum. ‘No rain at all.’

  The man shook his head sadly.

  ‘A poor look-out for the crops, though…’

  Mum stared. She’s got no sympathy for farmers, my mum. Like Gran, she reckons they all make sure they do all right for themselves. Whenever the newsreaders on the telly look serious and mention the farmers, my mum’s lips curl and she sings the chorus to that song,

  ‘Oi’ve never seen a farmer on a boike;

  No, Oi’ve never seen a farmer on a boike…’

  She didn’t even hum it this time, though. She just kept quiet.

  Then the man noticed me, hiding behind Mum. He held out his hand. I wiped mine, and shook it.

  ‘And this young lady.’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Your rhododendrons are quite lovely,’ I told him.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘Thank you so much. I am rather proud of my rhododendrons.’

  And then, you could just tell, he’d had enough of us, and wanted to get back to his flowerbeds. His eyes glazed over.

  ‘I’ll let you all get on now, shall I?’ he murmured. Then, turning to Crusher: ‘You don’t happen to be going along by the greenhouses, do you, Harry?’

  ‘We-ell…’ Crusher looked doubtful. ‘I was just going to pop inside and see my dad.’

  ‘Of course! Of course!’ The man tried not to look too disappointed. ‘Naturally. So you’d better go straight in by the front.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ Crusher said. ‘Sir.’

  (I’ve only ever heard Crusher say ‘Sir’ once before, and that was to the policeman who stopped him after his exhaust pipe fell off, and was wondering whether to bother to charge him.)

  ‘Lovely to see you,’ the man said. ‘Mustn’t leave it so long next time.’

  He smiled politely and shook hands with everyone all over again – even with Crummy Dummy on top of Crusher’s shoulders. She chortled away when he reached up and shook her fingers. She was delighted.

  ‘He was nice,’ Mum said as we traipsed over the lawn towards the mansion. ‘Who was he, then?’

  ‘Lord Harbinger,’ said Crusher. ‘He’s all right, he is. Not a bad stick.’

  Mum fell silent at that. She was thinking. So was I. If she was thinking what I was thinking, it was this: if Crusher’s home was so incredibly posh that even the man who looked after the flowerbeds had a title, then who might we meet behind the front door? Viscount Pollard? The Marquis of Spindle? Even King Harold? Maybe my mum’s boyfriend was actually a Prince in Disguise. It didn’t seem likely. (I peered at Crusher Maggot sideways: no, it didn’t seem likely.) But you never know… And if his dad lived in this house…

  You’ve never seen a front door like it. I bet you they nicked it off a cathedral. It was so large it had whole doors set into it, in case you couldn’t be bothered to open the entire thing. It was so enormous it made me feel small enough to go free on the buses.

  But Crusher just waltzed straight on up to it as though it were any old front door, and laid his hand on one of the great brass bell pulls.

  Mum got even more nervous.

  ‘Are you sure this is right?’ she asked, reaching up to lift Crummy Dummy off Crusher’s shoulders.

  ‘I lived here, didn’t I?’ Crusher said haughtily. ‘I ought to know.’

  And he tugged at the great brass bell pull.

  From deep inside the mansion, we heard the low, throaty jangle of a far-off, echoing bell. I’m sorry to turn all poetic, but that’s the sort of noise it was.

  A minute passed. And then another. I thought I could hear footsteps, but I was just imagining it. I got more and more apprehensive. And so did Mum. But Crusher just stood there muttering about not having all day, and the time of the last bus home, and his father pretending he had rheumatism.

  Suddenly I did hear something. A heavy, grinding noise, like someone pulling back a rusty bolt. And then metallic clinks and rattlings, as if a huge key were being pushed inside a lock, and turned. Then a creak. Then a squeaking.

  And then there was a sudden rush of cold air, and, standing in front of us blinking at the daylight he had let in on himself was a man in a black uniform with gold braid on his sleeves, and gold buttons, and a black cap with gold along its peak.

  ‘Harold!’ the man cried.

  ‘Dad!’ shouted Crusher.

  They fell into each other’s arms. They hugged each other. They patted one another’s backs. They stroked each other’s hair. They clapped one another on the shoulders.

  ‘What a surprise!’

  ‘Good to see you, Dad.’

  ‘You should have said.’

  ‘Spur of the moment, Dad.’

  ‘I could have bought cake!’

  Then the old man noticed the rest of us.

  First he saw Mum, so he stopped patting Crusher.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he told her, though he looked just a little bit doubtful.

  Mum smiled. I think she was simply glad that Crusher’s dad hadn’t turned out to be even posher than Lord Harbinger. But it came out as one of her radiant, winning, sunshine smiles (the kind she turns on our headmaster when she’s missed four PTA meetings in a row) and Crusher’s dad was lost at once.

  Then he saw Crummy Dummy, and tears welled in his eyes. (You could tell straight away he was one of those grandpa-style softies.)

  ‘Is this your baby, lad?’ he asked. His voice choked up so fast he could barely speak.

  ‘Sort of,’ said Crusher.

  The old man reached out. Crummy Dummy’s not so daft. She knows when she is on to a good thing. Squealing with joy, she threw herself into his arms. She likes older people. They remind her of Gran.

  The old man patted her on her wet nappy, and turned to me.

  ‘And this young lady?’ he enquired.

  ‘This is Minna,’ said Crusher. ‘She tries to keep me and her mum in order.’

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Crusher’s father said. ‘And certainly in respect of Harold here, I hope your efforts are crowned with more conspicuous success than my own.’

  ‘What?’ Crusher said, all suspicious.

  I got it, though.

  We all trooped through the door. Along one corridor, and then another. Round a few corners. Down a passage or two. Through the odd half-open doorway, I caught quick glimpses of the most fabulous rooms, rich with rhododendron-coloured drapes and patterned rugs, all chock-a-block with polished tables and precious china and bowls of flowers. Then we followed Crusher’s father down a short flight of steps, and then another. Along one more corridor, round one last corner, and into Crusher’s dad’s part of the mansion. (No wonder it took him so long to answer the door.)

  There wasn’t anything worth having for tea. And even if there had been, I bet he wouldn’t have been able to find it. He seemed in a real dither, what with making sure everyone had a com
fortable chair, and checking he’d got all our names off pat, and telling Mum and me about his job.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he claimed over his cup of tea. ‘It’s a very good position. Doorman to Lord Harbinger. It’s suited me for twenty-five years. It’ll suit me until I turn up my toes.’

  But we couldn’t stay that long. Crusher kept saying we ought to be making our way back to the bus stop, or we’d be stranded overnight.

  Mr Pollard turned all wistful when he realized we were really going, and taking Crummy Dummy with us. Those two had really taken a shine to one another. She’d spent the afternoon on his lap, practically purring, while he made a point of referring to her as ‘Miranda’, and brushing her hair spikes down with the palm of his hand.

  ‘You must come and see us,’ Mum consoled him at the door. ‘You’re Crusher’s family, so you’re always welcome.’

  ‘Right.’ Crusher tried to tempt his dad. ‘I won a bottle of whisky in a raffle today. You come and visit us, and we’ll drink it.’

  And Crummy Dummy blew him a lovely, farewell bubble.

  We walked back over the wide, green lawns. Lord Harbinger nodded at us politely as we passed by the flowerbed. He gave a special wave to Crummy Dummy, and looked quite disappointed to see her hair all soft and flat.

  Mum coughed up my half fare on the bus without arguing. I was glad about that. It had been a long day.

  6

  ‘All Right’

  Meeting Crusher’s old father that day set me off wondering about my own dad. It’s not as if I’ve ever seen that much of him. In fact, there were times I could barely recall what he looked like. I knew he worked in a big garage about a hundred and fifty miles down the motorway, but whenever I asked Mum anything more about him, she only said:

  ‘Oh, he’s all right.’

  It isn’t much to build on, is it?

  ‘Well, is he good-looking?’

  ‘He looks all right.’

  ‘Is he intelligent?’

  ‘His brain works all right.’

  ‘Is he amusing?’

  ‘He made me laugh all right, I suppose.’