Andy Stanton - Mr Gum and the Cherry Tree

‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ shouted Friday O’Leary, as he sometimes liked to do. ‘What’s all this then?’

‘Shh,’ said Polly. ‘Old Granny’s ’bout to speak.’

The townsfolk fell silent as Old Granny regarded them with a mysterious gaze. Then she fell asleep. Then she woke up and regarded them with another mysterious gaze. Then she fell asleep again.

‘Told you she was drunk,’ whispered Jonathan Ripples.

‘LIES!’ cried Old Granny, her eyes flying open into her most mysterious gaze yet. ‘Now, here is my incredible news. The Old Ways have come back from before the days of Science! Ancient spirits have awoken! Strange wisps and fancies are amongst us! ’Tis the truth, ’tis the truth, ’tis the truth I tell, now come with me and I will show you well!’

‘Ooooh,’ went the little girl called Peter.

‘Aaaah,’ went Jonathan Ripples.

‘CHIRP!’ went Crazy Barry Fungus, who thought he was a chaffinch.

‘The Old Ways are back!’ cried the crowd – and they all set off after Old Granny, chanting for all they were worth.

‘What does you reckons, Frides?’ said Polly. ‘Shall we follow them?’

‘I think we’d better,’ replied Friday, stroking his toes thoughtfully. ‘They all seem to have gone a bit mad, and that is what is called “Spring Fever”. Or as it is known in France, “Les Crazies de la Brains de la Boing-Boing.’”

U p at the top of Boaster’s Hill, where the air is fresh and clean, and it’s a lovely place to fly a kite and the stars come out and twinkle at night and I once saw a tramp there having a fight, with a cat dressed up as the Queen – yes, up at the top of Boaster’s Hill, a school lesson was taking place in the bright morning sunshine. And who was giving that lesson but Alan Taylor, the tiny gingerbread headmaster.

‘. . . So as I have just demonstrated, children,’ he was saying now, ‘grass is very nice to sit on, but be careful because it can tickle. Now, can anyone tell me the name of this handsome creature over here?’

‘Is it a rhino, sir?’ said a girl called Caroline.

‘Very close, Caroline,’ said Alan Taylor kindly. ‘Actually it is known as an “ant”. Now, who can tell me –’

But just then there was an almighty ruckus and a rickus and a buckus and a bickus as over the hill came the crowd of townsfolk, with Old Granny leading the way. And each and every one of those townsfolk – whether young or old, rich or poor, tall or short, thin or Jonathan Ripples – each and every one of them was chanting ‘The Old Ways are back!’

‘Hoi! What’s going on?!’ demanded Alan Taylor as the crowd stampeded through his lesson, scattering children and daisies in all directions. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’

‘They all done gone mad with the Spring Fevers, Alan Taylor!’ said Polly, rushing up with Friday O’Leary at her side. ‘They’re followin’ Old Granny into adventures unknown!’

‘Then we must follow them and keep them from harm!’ said Alan Taylor. ‘For they are but simple folk with simple legs and who knows what peril those legs could be marching them into? Children – get in line, single file!’

‘Alan Taylor, you gots that class so well-behaved it’s a marvel,’ said Polly, as the schoolchildren jumped into formation.

‘Yes,’ replied the gingerbread headmaster, blowing on his silver Teaching Whistle to start the children marching in time. ‘And when I think they used to be rowdy little goblins who loved misbehaving and pinching each other, it makes me especially proud. I have tamed them,’ he proclaimed, ‘through the power of education and sometimes blowing a whistle at them.’

And so it went. Old Granny marched on. And the crowd of townsfolk marched behind her. And Polly and her friends marched behind them. And the schoolchildren marched behind them. Yes, there was certainly a lot of marching going on that morning, and actually it was even the month of March, so that counts as another one, kind of.

Onwards, onwards they marched. Over the fields and far away they marched. Up hill and down dale they marched. Over a glistening lake they marched –

‘How did they march over a lake?’ said Friday.

But somehow they just did, it was that sort of a day. Until eventually the crowd disappeared into a thick clump of trees.

‘THE TRUTH IS A LEMON MERINGUE!’ whispered Friday at the top of his voice. ‘Look – Old Granny’s leading them into the Forest of Runtus. Where the trees grow thick and plenty and they say ancient spirits do dwell.’

‘Well, there’s no goin’ back now,’ said Polly.

And so, Friday uttered the traditional words for entering forests that are said in that part of the world:

‘Boo! Boo! Flappy flappy!

Boo! Boo! Flappy flappy!’

And they entered the Forest of Runtus.

‘Ooh,’ said the schoolchildren, ‘it’s scary in here.’

‘That’s because of the ancient spirits,’ whispered Friday. ‘This place is full of them. Enormous phantoms as small as your finger! And a phone that rings and when you answer it’s ghosts! And a witch who lives in a pine cone and –’

Alan Taylor blew his silver Teaching Whistle sharply. ‘Settle down, children,’ he said. ‘And enough of your tall tales, Friday. It’s only a forest.’

But even so, it was a pretty spooky place. The only sounds were the rustling of the leaves and the soft sighing of the wind. The glooming trees crowded all around, making Polly shiver and Friday’s hat whimper in fear. And the schoolchildren clutched at each other, half in terror and half in glee as they remembered Friday’s stories of ancient spirits and forest folk.

Deeper they went into that forest, listening to the sounds. The sounds of the forest.

Whooooooosh.

Swiiiiishhhhhh

Sooooounnnds.

The woodpeckers pecked and the wouldn’tpeckers didn’t. A ladybird sang a mournful song on her guitar. A dandelion chased a dandezebra through the undergrowth. And the path before them twisted and turned through the haunting trees like some sort of big curly superfinger, beckoning, beckoning them on.

At last they rounded a bend and came to an archway formed by two low branches. Two low branches all covered in roses. And beneath those curving branches stood Old Granny and her crowd, as solemn as calculators.

‘Here we are,’ whispered Old Granny, and the leaves and trees seemed to whisper it back –

Here we are, here we are, here we are . . .

‘Our journey is at an end,’ she whispered, and the leaves and trees seemed to whisper it back –