CHAPTER THREE
Raspberry Surprise
Rachel took a deep breath and immediately regretted it. Her nose turned up in disgust at the stench of rotting food in the midday sun. By the overflowing dustbins, seagulls pulled rubbish bags apart and squabbled over scant sizzling scraps like petulant children.
Then, another scent got up her nose. The overwhelming pong of greasy fat overpowered the foul smell all around her. Heavy footsteps, intermingled with bouts of coughing, wheezing and panting, made her turn around and face the bearded runner with the unsightly string vest.
With a smouldering cigarette still attached to his lower lip, Bobby Growler hacked up a lung as he caught his breath. Leaning against the Maypole, he ignored the seagull squawking in the crown nest and brushed the colourful streamers aside as they lashed about in the fitful wind that threatening to knock his cigarette out of his mouth.
‘Now, that’s a nasty habit you’ve got there, Mr Growler,’ said Rachel reprovingly, folding her arms defiantly to add to her displeasure.
Bobby wiped his sweaty arm against his sweaty fringe. Not that it did him any good, but he did it again and gave her a wide grin. ‘Now, now, Rachel – don’t go telling my misses about me smoking,’ he pleaded. ‘Mavis thinks I’ve cut down to five a day.’
‘Well, at least you’re exercising,’ she retorted.
Bobby looked mortified. ‘Exercising b-be d-dammed,’ he spluttered. ‘I’m giving chase – that’s what I’m a doing,’ he added sourly.
‘Chasing what, Mr Growler?’
‘I’m chasing down a sausage napper,’ he seethed. ‘Have you seen a tubby white bulldog? That dratted dog has taken off with me special sausages. Mavis took days to make them, and I have customers waiting back at the van for them. I’m in a right pickle if I don’t find them soon.’
Rachel’s warts smarted. ‘That dog tried to nab my mother’s present,’ she told him. ‘I’m sure I saw it heading down towards The Red Herring.’
Bobby’s eyes lit up. ‘Thanks, Rachel – I owe you one,’ he said brightly and flicked his cigarette stub into an upturned dustbin lid. ‘We’re looking forward to your parents’ wedding anniversary bash. Mavis and I will be there in our Sunday best,’ he added with a merry wave and waddled along the sandy footpath in all haste taking a cloud of buzzing flies with him.
Rachel glanced over at the candyfloss machine. Stewart, Bella and her mother were there, but also the owners of the tubby white bulldog that had caused so much trouble. As she approached them, she could tell things were not going well…
‘Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with the flipping machine,’ Stewart bemoaned. ‘I’ve checked the gaskets that put us out of action last week.’
‘Have you checked the right piston?’ Bella suggested, sounding a bit tearful. ‘You know that side’s always been a bit temperamental.’
‘I’ve double-checked everything, and then I double-checked it all again,’ said Stewart exasperatedly. ‘I’m going to have to take it all apart again – oh, hullo, Rachel – I could do with a second pair of eyes.’
Rachel gave him a reassuring smile and asked, ‘No luck then, Stew?’
‘Nope, but I haven’t given the candyfloss machine a jolly good kick yet,’ he grumbled and wiped his greasy arm across his frustrated face.
Rachel gave the candyfloss machine the once over. Dented from top to tail, its bashed outer casing looked similar in appearance to Mr Bumble’s metal medical tin (but the candyfloss machine looked like it had been through some horrible experience like falling off a cliff).
With its raised pistons sticking out of its scoured bulbous casing, it reminded her of Christmas past and the plump turkey her father had accidentally overcooked into a smouldering charcoaled mess.
‘Want me to take a look?’ Rachel asked Stewart.
‘Sure – maybe your eyes will spot something I’ve missed,’ he replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Here, I’ll show you what’s under the cover.’
Rachel watched as Stewart twisted the bolt handle and removed the maintenance plate. He stepped aside and said glumly, ‘I would strongly advise taking a deep breath before you stick your nose in there.’
Rachel took a step forward and peered through the opening. He’s not kidding, she thought. The strong smell of burnt syrup and other odorous pongs and whiffs wafted up from the egg-shaped engine. Blackened with age, the insalubrious engine compartment contained a staggering array of gears, cogs, valves, pipes and a mishmash of coloured copper wiring.
Rachel’s bulging eyes couldn’t see anything amiss inside the engine compartment; however, she spied something that most certainly didn’t belong. ‘You have a spanner in the works,’ she added with a straight face.
Crestfallen, Stewart’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she handed his rusted spanner back into his grubby hands. ‘Thanks, Rachel – I was wondering where that had gotten too,’ he chuckled. ‘I take it you can’t see anything obviously wrong with the engine?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ she replied. ‘Where’s the fuel cap?’
‘Against your left knee – but I’ve already checked the fuel level.’
Rachel grimaced. With some effort, she pulled her knee away from the fuel cap, but the long sticky strands of syrup still clung to her skin. Giving Stewart a smirk, she grabbed the oily rag from his outstretched hand, bent over and wiped her kneecap as clean as she could.
Almost immediately, she spotted the embossed letters that poked through the thick layer of caked-on syrup and grease. With a bit of spit and polish, she rubbed the antiquated brass plaque until it almost shined:
The Most Scrumptious Sweet Award
For outstanding flavour and fluffiness, we hereby award second prize to M J Nettlebed.
Just above the fuel cap, her eagle eyes noticed something else; she wiped the rag across the rough and tough riveted panelling. As Stewart replaced the maintenance plate, she read the dire warning chiselled beside it:
DANGER: ONLY USE GRUBBINS’ HONEY!
There’s that name Grubbins again, Rachel thought, but as she returned Stewart’s rag to him, she asked him sheepishly, ‘Are you telling me this candyfloss machine uses honey for fuel?’
Stewart’s eyes widened. He bent down on one knee and hissed, ‘Not so loud – everyone thinks it runs on vegetable oil – you know – biofuel.’
Rachel couldn’t get the words out of her mouth quickly enough. ‘But this candyfloss machine is donkey’s years old,’ she said heatedly, ‘and you must use a fair bit of Grubbins’ honey to keep up with demand?’ she added thoughtfully, glancing over her shoulder at the steady queue of Bumble’s customers who were still simmering away under the perpetual sunshine that had brought so many shoppers into town that morning.
‘Two barrels a week during the summer months,’ Stewart grinned.
Rachel opened the fuel cap. Bubbling up from the bowels of the tank, the overpowering smell of honey assailed her senses. As she replaced the fuel cap, she asked, ‘So, what’s so special about Grubbins’ honey, Stew?’
‘Dunno,’ he replied, ‘and my supplier hasn’t a clue, either.’
Rachel gave him an attentive gaze. ‘You know, your supplier could be fobbing you off with any old honey,’ she pronounced. ‘That could explain why the candyfloss machine keeps on playing up.’
Stewart looked horrified. ‘Well, of course, it’s Grubbins’ honey – they charge me enough money for it,’ he harrumphed, slightly irked at her accusation, but an annoying niggling sensation told him that she had a point. ‘I can assure you that my supplier is as honest as the day is long,’ he added unconvincingly and averted his shifty eyes.
Rachel, however, felt a glimmer of recognition rush into her mind, and she fought hard to recollect one of the newspaper articles she had read in Flocks’ Hairdressers (one of the poshest hairstylist along Upper Inkcome’s Victorian High Street). ‘Um, I think your supplier’s been busy these past few months – busy scrumping honey,’ she told him outright.
‘T-they – they wouldn’t dare,’ Stewart replied, sounding aloof, but the frog in his throat didn’t believe him, either.
Rachel rubbed her throbbing temple; her numbing headache eased as she managed to remember the reporter’s words. Composing herself, she said, ‘Maybe an article from The Weekly Wrap will help prove my point…
Bee Farmers Stung Over Thefts
Bee farmers are furious at the spate of beehive thefts in the area. Bob Jones told The Weekly Wrap: “It’s the second theft from my farm this week, and the police still don’t have any leads – and neither do I, as the perpetrators stole my guard dog, Finkle and her new toy, Snowdrop.”
Police Constable Simon Taylor added: “We’d like to assure the public that we’re doing everything in our power to locate these rascals. We’ve combed the countryside for the stolen beehives, but so far we’ve come up with nothing – not even a sausage.” ’
Stewart shifted uneasily on the spot: the truth of the matter dawned on him, and he avoided her accusing eyes by staring at his fidgeting feet.
‘Ring any bells now, Stew?’ Rachel goaded.
Stewart faced her full on. ‘Well, I didn’t know the brothers would go out and steal the farmers’ beehives – now did I?’ he replied defensively.
Rachel sighed and asked, ‘Please tell me it wasn’t the Grimhalls?’
Stewart stared at her in utter amazement. ‘Look, we were desperate, right? Bumbles were going out of business,’ he said confrontationally. ‘I found the candyfloss machine in their scrapyard – it was a bargain – and they told me getting Grubbins’ honey for it wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘But the Grimhall brothers,’ Rachel blustered. ‘Stewart – they stole their grandfather’s coffin and sold it back to the undertakers!’
‘Yes, but their grandfather wasn’t in it at the time – now was he?’ he argued with steely-eyed resolve. The pregnant pause lingered until he broke the silence. ‘OK, OK, I’ll have a word with them. I’ll get them to return the farmers’ beehives,’ he added sullenly. ‘Anyway, I’m sure we have enough honey to get us through to the end of the season.’
‘What about the dog, Finkle?’ Rachel demanded.
‘The Grimhalls told me they gave her to the Gribbles,’ said Stewart. ‘She’s guarding their scrapyard at the moment. I’ll go and see Mr Jones tomorrow and tell him where he can find his dog.’
‘Don’t forget her toy, Snowdrop,’ Rachel smirked.
‘I’ll suggest he alarms his beehives from now on,’ said Stewart. ‘I think two thousand volts should do the trick,’ he added slyly.
Rachel grinned at his shocking suggestion and said, ‘You won’t need any more honey unless the candyfloss machine gets back onto its feet.’
‘Well, the machine’s been a bit jittery over the past week,’ Stewart informed her, ‘and it all started when some dratted rodent got inside the main compartment and gnawed through some of the electrical cables.’
Rachel paused for thought. ‘You’re probably right, Stew – but I would still like to look underneath?’ she pressed him.
‘Be my guest.’
In for a penny, Rachel mused and took off her backpack. She eased herself onto a couple of old sacks and wriggled herself along the uneven ground, and she soon found herself laying directly beneath the oily drum.
(Lorraine, Bella and the dog owners were far too busy asking people about the missing dog to notice she had all but disappeared.)
There wasn’t much natural daylight illuminating the underneath of the machine’s casting and adding to her annoyance, the torch beside her had died as soon as she had switched it on, so she asked Stewart to look in her backpack for her grandmother’s torch. With the flip of its Bakelite switch, the torch emitted an amber beam that fell across the imposing drum, which gave the unsettling impression of a coiled snake.
Making herself as comfortable as possible lying on the lumpy grass, she reached up and attempted to turn the drum, but after a couple of times, she finally gave up in frustration, as the sticky heat had drained her resolve. Breathlessly, she ran the torchlight over its scaly surface.
Rachel grinned. Wedged between the drum and the scorched casing, a hexagonal object glistened in the amber light. With renewed vigour, she reached up, clasped her fingers around the object and tried to force it free, but to her chagrin, it wasn’t coming that easily.
She reached up again and pulled with all her might, and with a loud scraping sound, the object came away, but her triumph ended with a yell of pain and a dull thud as she fell against the sacks – jarring her spine.
Bill’s blood-soaked plaster hung limply from the palm of her hand.
‘Rachel – what’s going on down there?’ Stewart called out.
Rachel didn’t answer as a most peculiar feeling had come over her.
The pain from her warts and spine vanished in an instant. The hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention – and she sensed danger.
CLUNK! CLICK!
Instinctively, she snapped her head to one side just as the drum dropped down from the casting, thundering by her ear with a whooshing noise. Moments later, the skewered sack ripped apart as the rumbling drum instantly retracted, rattling loudly as it flew by her ear again.
CLUNK! CLICK!
The drum quivered and plunged towards her, but before she had time to react, a pair of strong hands grabbed her ankles, and she groaned as her back bounced over the rough ground.
Stewart dropped beside her. ‘Are you all right, Rachel?’ he demanded.
The candyfloss machine fell still and silent.
Rachel got up and onto her elbows. ‘Well, apart from a sore spine – I’m just peachy,’ she grinned. ‘Pull me up, Stew.’
‘But – but why was the machine running at all!’ Stewart exclaimed, utterly dumbfounded as he carefully pulled her off the ground. ‘It isn’t even switched on,’ he added puzzlingly. ‘So, what was wrong with it?’
‘I found a piece of metal jamming up the works,’ Rachel answered, realising she had left the hexagonal object behind.
‘Right, I’ll fire her up and see if that was the problem,’ said Stewart excitedly, bending down to retrieve the machine’s starting handle that lay amongst a messy pile of mechanical knickknacks. Wiping the sweat from his glistening brow with the back of his hand, he slotted the handle into the side of the machine and began to turn it over. ‘I’d stand back from the exhausts if I were you, Rachel,’ he added quickly, and as if on cue, the machine coughed a couple of times and then spluttered into life.
Rachel jumped back and watched the pistons pound furiously up and down. As the candyfloss machine chugged along at an alarming rate, a thick veil of scarlet smoke belched out of its twin exhausts. The ground rumbled as the rasping engine spun even faster. On hearing the almighty din, Lorraine, Bella and the missing dog owners trotted towards them.
‘RACHEL’S FIXED IT, GRAN,’ Stewart bellowed.
Bella beamed out and clapped her hands with glee. ‘Oh, thank you, Rachel – you’re a miracle worker,’ she said, giving her an affectionate embrace. ‘We’ll keep our customers because of you.’
‘Here, take a look at this,’ Stewart called over his shoulder. ‘I do believe we’re all in for a treat,’ he added enthusiastically, whisking a wooden stick inside the candyfloss machine’s drum. Bella drew close, and as she pecked him affectionately on his grubby cheek, he handed the brightly coloured candyfloss into her willing hand.
‘Oooh!’ she said giddily. ‘We’ve never been able to make raspberry before. Now, this will definitely be a firm favourite with our customers.’
‘Rachel should be the one to taste her creation,’ Stewart chortled.
‘Thanks for the offer, Stew,’ she said sourly, shouldering her sagging backpack, ‘but I can’t stand raspberries.’
‘And they make her come out in lumps and bumps,’ added Lorraine. ‘I remember last summer when she’d eaten far too many of them. We had to take her to the doctors, as her face puffed up like a bag of popcorn.’
Rachel glowered back at her mother, but she spotted something shiny poking out from beneath a half-chewed ham sandwich.
Ignoring the gabbling conversation going on all around her, she bent down, picked it up and studied the hexagonal metal object that had undoubtedly been the cause of the candyfloss machine’s malfunction.
The odd object reminded her of a mariner’s astrolabe, as she had seen a couple of them on display in Upper Inkcome’s only museum. Using a handkerchief and a bit of spit, she rubbed its pitted surface and scrubbed the bloody muck and grease from out of its deep grooves.
‘Mrs Cook, would you like a candyfloss?’ Stewart asked, offering a raspberry candyfloss to her.
‘Oh, not for me thank you, Stewart,’ Lorraine replied. ‘I’d like to be able to fit into my wedding dress on my anniversary.’
‘Mr and Mrs Higgins – can I tempt you two?’ Stewart began.
‘Not for us, Stewart,’ said Mrs Higgins. ‘We need to find –’
‘Wilberforce,’ said Rachel and read the rest of the engraved inscription on the dog tag she had just cleaned. ‘Owners, Diana and Harold Higgins.’
‘That’s right, my dear – have you seen our dog?’ Diana asked.
Rachel smiled. Sitting on its haunches and munching on half a ham sandwich, Wilberforce sat between its owners. ‘Er – he’s sitting right beside you,’ she chuckled, pointing at their tubby white bulldog that wagged its tail, but it looked very docile and didn’t look like the same brutish dog that had attacked her bundle back Bumble’s Beehive stall.
Diana let out a sudden cry of relief and threw her arms around the dog’s rotund neck. Harold ruffled the dog’s head and said, ‘Good, boy – I knew you would turn up sooner or later.’
Rachel handed Diana’s dog tag back to her. ‘Um – thank you, Rachel,’ Diana said, thoroughly bemused as she showed it to her husband.
The Higgins huddled together. They whispered to one another in surprised tones; they turned the dog tag over repeatedly as if they hadn’t seen it before and gave Rachel a curious gaze as she joined Stewart by the candyfloss machine that chugged away.
‘Thanks for mending the candyfloss machine,’ Stewart told Rachel, patting its uneven metal surface affectionately. ‘I owe you one.’
‘You know I’m going to remember that –’ she began.
‘HEY – WHAT’S GOING ON OVER THERE?’
From the back of Bumble’s Beehive stall, Bill waved at them and bellowed, ‘HAVE YOU FIXED THE CANDYFLOSS MACHINE?’
‘WE’RE BACK IN BUSINESS, LOVE – BE WITH YOU IN A MO,’ Bella shouted back, holding up her raspberry candyfloss like a prized trophy.
Bill gave her the thumbs up, turned around, clicked his heels together and disappeared back into his stall.
‘I think it’s time we were getting back home, Rachel,’ said Lorraine. ‘I’ve got the cooking to prepare, and we’re meeting your father at work – what’s that blood on your hand?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing – I just knocked my warts,’ Rachel fibbed, but her mother still took hold of her hand with lightning speed. ‘It isn’t that bad – it’s just dried blood,’ she added dismissively, as she knew if her mother found out the truth, she would be back to see their doctor in a flash.
‘Now, I’ll be the judge of that,’ Lorraine coddled and inspected her daughter’s hand. ‘Right, I need something to wipe that dried blood off.’
As Lorraine spat on a handkerchief and slowly wiped the blood away, Rachel felt like a small child much to Stewart’s amusement as he gave her a furtive glance and sniggered at her embarrassment.
‘Nearly done,’ said Lorraine sweetly.
‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said, rubbing the skin near her nagging warts.
‘Does it still hurt?’
‘Only a little bit.’
‘Here, let Mummy kiss it better,’ said Lorraine cooingly, and before Rachel could object, she had bent down and kissed her hand, but her mother’s head suddenly snapped back, and she let out a muffled scream and staggered sideways in shock.
Lorraine almost keeled over in a dazed stupor, but Rachel grabbed her arms and steadied her swaying as she muttered words of nonsense.
With rising fear and growing concern, Rachel stared up into her mother’s deathly white face and shrieked, ‘Mum – what’s wrong?’
At first, her mother didn’t seem to know she was even there, let alone answer her desperate question, but after a moment or two, Lorraine’s soft hands cupped her daughter’s face, and she smiled down at her.
‘I’ve – I’ve forgotten so much,’ Lorraine choked, her moist eyes welling up again. ‘I’d forgotten how much I loved you, Rachel,’ she added tearfully and hugged her so tightly, she thought she heard a rib crack.
‘I love you too, Mum,’ Rachel replied, returning her mother’s warm embrace, trying not to sound overawed by her public show of affection.
As her mother held her even tighter, Rachel couldn’t fathom out why she was acting so strange and completely out of character.
Eventually, Lorraine released Rachel from her tender clutches and reached hurriedly into her glittering turquoise handbag; she pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed at her damp face and then blew her nose so loud it scared the neighbouring seagulls half to death.
Drawing herself up to her full height, Lorraine composed herself and said, ‘Now, Rachel – how would you like a trip to the park?’