Andy Stanton - Mr Gum and the Dancing Bear

Well now. There is nothing quite as sad as the sight of a sobbing bear. It is sadder than a broken toy lying in the rain. It is sadder than a little white onion being bullied by a gang of tough courgettes in leather jackets. It is sadder than a grandma who no one comes to visit because her face is just too hairy. Believe me, children of all ages, a sobbing bear is not a happy sight.

The townsfolk looked on in astonishment. But did any of them go and comfort that poor beast in his hour of soggy need? No, they did not. Oh, they all said they liked bears. They all donated money to charities like ‘Bear Aid’, ‘Save The Bears’ and ‘Let’s Buy Some Bears a New Toothbrush’. But when it came to actually helping one out in real life, it was another story entirely. It was a story of the townsfolk looking on in astonishment – until a heroic young girl called Polly passed by, that is. Polly was nine years old, with lovely sandy hair and nice trainers, and she simply couldn’t stand to see another person in trouble, especially if that person happened to be a bear.

‘My goodnesses, that’s not right,’ she exclaimed, and without a thought for her own safety she approached the beast as he sat there, bawling away like a greengrocer.

‘Good morning, furry visitor,’ said Polly. ‘I’m sorry you’re so sad.’

‘Mmmmmph?’ said the bear, for the truth was that no human being had ever spoken so kindly to him before. Taking his tear-stained paws from his eyes, he peered at the little girl who stood unafraid before him in the bright autumn sunshine.

‘Eat her! Eat her! Eat her!’ chanted the townsfolk. Not really, but it would have been funny if they had.

‘My name’s Polly,’ said Polly, gazing into the creature’s doleful hazel eyes. Through his tears the bear gazed back at Polly, and in that moment something remarkable happened. In that moment the two of them became the best of friends, like Laurel & Hardy or Batman & Robin or Albert Einstein & Tarzan.

‘I’m a-gonna call you “Padlock”,’ Polly told the bear, ‘if that’s OK with you. Do you like crackers? I got loads in my skirt pocket, only some of them’s a bit broken, sorry.’

But Padlock didn’t mind at all, and together he and Polly sat in the town square eating broken crackers while all around them the leaves fell, soft and sad like autumn’s teardrops.

B ut where were those outrageous tinklers, Mr Gum and Billy William the Third, while all this was going on? Well, they were loafing around Billy William’s unhygienic butcher’s shop, scoffing rancid entrails by the bucketful and having a contest to see who could tell the most lies in one minute. Mr Gum was in the lead with eleven monstrous untruths but now it was Billy’s turn and he was raring to go.

‘On yer marks . . . get set . . . LIE YER FLIPPIN’ EYEBROWS OFF!’ shouted Mr Gum, starting up a stopwatch in his mean old hand – and Billy leapt into action.

‘Right,’ he began, screwing his ears up with concentration, ‘I’m the President of Space! I’m over six hundred years old! I . . . um . . . I once done a drawin’ of a crocodile so brilliant it came to life an’ bit me legs off . . . ’

‘SUPER-FIB BONUS!’ shouted Mr Gum, spitting entrails all over Billy’s face in his excitement. ‘Two lies in one!’

‘Um . . ., ’ said Billy, ‘I got a car what’s so fast it keeps drivin’ into the future! I got five arms! I don’t smell! There’s a secret world hidden under my cap! I once kissed a lady! I sell only the finest quality meats in my shop . . . um . . . ’

‘Time up!’ growled Mr Gum suddenly, which was a lie in itself as Billy still had fifteen seconds to go. ‘Unlucky, Billy me old nozzler, it was a good try but you only got ten lies. So I’m still the reignin’ World Champion Liar of the Butcher’s Shop!’

‘Here, let me see that stopwatch,’ said Billy William suspiciously but Mr Gum quickly smashed it to bits on the counter and ate the pieces.

‘What stopwatch?’ said Mr Gum innocently, a spring hanging out of his mouth.

Well, a fight might have broken out just then, but at that moment Mr Gum happened to glance out the fly-covered window. And when he saw what was going on outside in the town square, his eyes lit up like razor blades.

‘Hang on, Billy me boy,’ he exclaimed. ‘At long last our luck’s changin’ for the better. See that bear out there? Well, he’s our ticket to fame, fortune, glory, some more fame, riches, wealth an’ a bit more fortune.’

‘How’s that then?’ enquired Billy William, squashing a fly against the windowpane and drawing a big question mark on the glass with its blood. ‘He’s only a stinkin’ bear!’

‘Yeah, but wait ’til we get ’im dancin’ for us!’ scowled Mr Gum happily. ‘Everyone loves a dancin’ bear – an’ they’ll pay anythin’ to see it! The bear dances, you go ’round with a hat to collect up the cash an’ I sit back on a comfy chair shoutin’, “Oi, Billy! Bring me all that money or I’ll kick ya in the ribs!” Yes,’ laughed Mr Gum, ‘once we get our hands on that bear, it’s riches all the way for us, ’specially me. An’ that ain’t no lie!’

A nd so the days passed as autumn wore on in that gusty, blustery way that it does. In the butcher’s shop, Mr Gum and Billy William sat making their plans. In the cake shop, the baker sat making his flans. And in the town square, Polly sat with Padlock, wringing her hands.

‘Oh, Padlock,’ sighed Polly worriedly. ‘Every day I bring you crackers an’ tell you jokes to cheer you up, but nothin’s a-workin’. What’s wrong, boy?’

Padlock’s only answer was a tired little ‘mmph’. He seemed unhappier than ever. He was growing thinner by the day, and his big hazel eyes were empty and lifeless, like a boarded-up cinema in a town called Misery. Often he hardly even seemed to notice Polly, but just gazed mournfully off into the distance, rocking back and forth all the while.

Worst of all was his fur. Not only had it lost its lovely rich glossiness – it was actually starting to fall out. Every morning Polly would find more of Padlock’s fur on the ground and less of Padlock’s fur on Padlock, until one day she could take it no more.

‘I’m gonna visit Alan Taylor,’ Polly told Padlock as he sat there sobbing and not even bothering to wipe his runny nose with his paws. ‘He’s a brilliant headmaster what knows all ’bout the natural world. Maybe he can help you.’

‘Polly!’ beamed Alan Taylor when she turned up on the steps of Saint Pterodactyl’s School For The Poor later that afternoon. ‘What a delightful surprise!’

‘Hello,’ said Polly, bending down to give him a hug. She had to bend down because Alan Taylor was only 15.24 centimetres tall. He was probably the world’s smallest ever headmaster, and almost definitely the only one to be made out of gingerbread. His electric muscles sparked and whirred merrily as he led Polly along a long corridor lined with drawings done by the schoolchildren. Even the rubbish drawings were pinned up, because Alan Taylor wasn’t the kind of headmaster who says things like, ‘Blimey, this drawing’s pathetic, is that supposed to be a tree?’ He was the kind of headmaster who says things like, ‘Well done for trying, have a gold star and some sweets.’