Glubbslyme Read online

  ‘That smell!’

  ‘Yes, it always smells a bit round here in the summer,’ Rebecca apologised.

  ‘That beauteous dank aroma is unmistakable!’ said Glubbslyme. ‘We are by the brook. My dear Rebecca dwelt beside the brook. I will see my own home!’

  He hopped up and down inside the carrier in his eagerness. Rebecca was scared he might hop right out, so she pierced his carrier with her hair slide, making him two little peepholes. Glubbslyme peeped and peeped, but to no avail.

  ‘I think it’s all changed now,’ said Rebecca. ‘There aren’t really any houses down this road. There’s just the shops and the Old Oak, that’s the pub on the corner.’

  ‘A fine young oak spread its boughs over our very cottage. My Rebecca used its oak-apples in many a magic potion,’ said Glubbslyme, abandoning his peepholes and peering round eagerly out of the top of the carrier bag. ‘But where is the oak tree now?’

  They walked along to the end of the road. There wasn’t so much as an acorn.

  ‘I think they must have chopped it down,’ said Rebecca. ‘And now they’ve built the pub in its place.’

  ‘Dastardly rogues!’ croaked Glubbslyme. ‘Then they have also chopped down the dear old cottage. Oh woe! Oh misery and anguish! I did so desire to visit it once more. I wished to erect another memorial tablet in honour of my dearest Rebecca.’

  He glared at the public house, eyes brimming with emotion. And then he blinked. His great gummy mouth smiled. He puffed up with pride, almost filling the carrier bag.

  ‘They have erected their own memorial tablet to the wise and wicked Rebecca Cockgoldde,’ he said, and he pointed to the Courage brewery’s pub sign. It was a golden cockerel.

  Rebecca unlocked her front door and carried Glubbslyme over the threshold.

  ‘Well. This is my house,’ she said.

  She laid the carrier bag gently on the hall carpet. Glubbslyme sat motionless, lurking under the plastic.

  ‘Glubbslyme, are you all right?’ said Rebecca anxiously, peering in at him.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Glubbslyme weakly. ‘The whole world is swinging backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.’ He hopped unsteadily out of the carrier, reeled down the carpet, and then froze by the stairs.

  ‘Pick me up!’ he commanded in a high-pitched croak. ‘Pick me up immediately!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Rebecca, obediently lifting him.

  It was strange how quickly she’d got used to handling him. She didn’t really mind the feel of him at all. In fact she wouldn’t have minded petting him properly, but didn’t dare try in case Glubbslyme thought it a liberty.

  ‘You said you were not allowed to keep pet animals,’ Glubbslyme hissed from her cupped hands.

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Is the bear cub prowling on the staircase not an animal – and exceeding dangerous?’

  Rebecca burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s Shabby Bear. My old teddy. He’s a toy, Glubbslyme, he’s not real. I always used to sit with him on the stairs when I was little, and now I keep him on the stairs most of the time.’

  Rebecca felt she was far too old for teddy bears, but when she had to come home to an empty house she liked to have Shabby there, waiting, ready for a cuddle if necessary.

  Glubbslyme did not seem to understand. Rebecca abandoned her explanation and politely offered to show him round the house. She carried him into the living room. Glubbslyme blinked a lot. She thought he might be impressed by the television so she switched it on. It was ‘Blue Peter’ but Glubbslyme reacted as if it was ‘Driller Killer’. He hopped several feet in the air and landed inelegantly on his bottom, his legs waving.

  ‘What occult trick is this?’ he cried.

  ‘It’s only television, Glubbslyme. It’s not frightening, honestly. Look, I’ll swop channels if you like.’

  Glubbslyme did not care for any of the channels. He croaked in terror at them all so Rebecca switched the television off. Glubbslyme lay on the furry rug, recovering. Then he sat up and flexed his feet several times.

  ‘Remove me from this dead sheep, if you please.’

  Rebecca put him on the best armchair instead but it was Dralon, and it tickled him even more. He scratched. He shuddered. He sighed.

  ‘How about a little paddle to soothe your skin?’ Rebecca suggested imaginatively. ‘Come with me.’

  She took him upstairs. Glubbslyme cowered as they passed silly old Shabby, mumbling about a performing bear that had once broken free from its chain and given his Rebecca a savage bite.

  ‘Well Shabby can’t bite you, Glubbslyme, he hasn’t got any teeth,’ said Rebecca.

  She took him up to the bathroom. It was a very poky little room and Rebecca and her Dad didn’t always remember to clean round the bath or wipe the toothpaste stains off the basin, but Rebecca suspected that it would still seem luxurious by seventeenth century standards.

  Glubbslyme wriggled free and scrabbled about the shabby floor tiles, exploring. He discovered an old plastic duck in a corner, left over from when Rebecca was a baby. He hopped around it, obviously puzzled by the shiny yellow plastic. He stuck out a leg and kicked it. The duck rocked crazily and fell on its beak.

  ‘It is dead,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘You seem inordinately fond of dead animals, Rebecca. Dead sheep, dead bears, dead water fowl.’

  Glubbslyme was very much alive. He was fascinated when Rebecca filled the basin and bath for him. He had a hot soak in the washbasin and then jumped into the cold bath and had an invigorating swim. He floated the flannels as if they were water lilies but spurned the soap after one suspicious sniff.

  He could not understand how the clean cold water and the piping hot were conjured at the mere turn of a tap.

  ‘It is sorcery of the highest sophistication,’ he said, sounding awed.

  ‘But it doesn’t scare you like the television?’

  ‘How could I be scared in my own element?’ said Glubbslyme. He jumped up onto the side of the bath and peered round at the lavatory. ‘I think I shall try the little pool now,’ he said, poised for a jump.

  ‘No! It’s not a pool,’ said Rebecca, hurriedly putting the lid down. ‘You can’t go paddling in there, Glubbslyme.’

  ‘Why? What is the purpose of the little pool?’

  ‘Well. It’s a loo. You know.’

  Glubbslyme obviously didn’t so she had to explain, going rather red in the face.

  ‘A privy!’ said Glubbslyme. ‘A privy inside the house!’ He sounded astonished at such an idea.

  Rebecca flushed the chain to show him how it worked and talked rather vaguely about cisterns and sewers. Glubbslyme asked intelligent questions that she couldn’t always answer.

  ‘I’ll get my Dad to tell you,’ said Rebecca. ‘Oh I can’t wait until you meet each other. I can’t wait until he hears you talk! I can’t wait!’

  ‘You will have to wait,’ said Glubbslyme. He sidled along the edge of the bath, looking serious. ‘I will not be talking to your father.’

  ‘What do you mean? Oh Glubbslyme, he’s ever so nice, really he is, you’ll really like him.’

  ‘I dare say, but that is not the point,’ said Glubbslyme. ‘The point is this: I may be a familiar but I am not familiar with all and sundry. I am only familiar with one chosen fortunate.’

  ‘But he’s my Dad. He’s my family.’

  ‘I am not even familiar with family.’

  ‘Oh please, Glubbslyme. Just talk to my Dad. Look, he’ll be home any minute. Oh dear, I should have started tea, I did promise. Still never mind, when he meets you he’ll forget to be cross. Oh Glubbslyme, please, please, do talk to my Dad. You needn’t say very much if you feel shy.’

  ‘I never feel shy,’ said Glubbslyme indignantly. ‘And I never talk to strangers.’

  ‘But he’s not a stranger, he’s my Dad.’

  ‘He is strange to me. You are the only person with whom I am intimate,’ Glubbslyme insisted.

  Rebecca couldn’t