Britland Calling: 1. A Trip to another Earth – Opening Chapters

1

THE WRITER

HELLO. I’M ABOUT to write a story. What’s it about? Not too sure yet because it’s only this morning that it started to flood into my head like water from a bath tap that someone’s turned on to the full. I can’t turn it off, so I had better get my act together. I’m not sure where the story’s coming from. Could it really be from my own mind? It seems too alien and yet too real. Yes, much too colourful to be from my monochrome mind.

Many of the characters forming are not those I would ever have imagined. Fortunately some of them are. Which is just as well, as it will help me to write the story. I can write the story from their point of view. Maybe when I get to know the more outlandish characters, I might be able to write some of the story from their point of view. We shall see …

However, just before I begin to start typing the story, I feel obliged to mention an incident that I’ve just observed. Somehow I have a feeling in my gut that it might be important to the story.

Just a few minutes ago, I was in my tiny upstairs kitchen making a nice hot cup of tea. I always do that before I settle down to write a story. And, well …

You see, I usually get a perfect view of my back garden looking down out of the upstairs kitchen’s small window. Except that just a few minutes ago, the window had steamed up a little because my kettle poured out a lot of steam. I left it boiling for too long because my mind was occupied with the strange story flooding into it. Anyway, I was looking out of the steamed-up window at something odd that had landed in my back garden, and it puzzled me. It really puzzled me.

This odd thing I saw … Well, I thought for a minute it was a spaceship of some kind. Don’t worry; I know just how childish and ridiculous that sounds. But bear with me … It was the way that this odd thing moved through the air. A sort of anti-gravity movement as if a pilot was carefully flying it. Smoother than any helicopter or hovercraft. But if the movements of this odd thing were unearthly, its appearance was not. Don’t laugh, but it looked like a huge black box. A box with all its sides equal. That is to say, cube shaped. About the size of a garden shed.

Of course, spaceships just don’t land in streets where people live. Well, they don’t, do they? Except for maybe in films or TV shows. So I reckon it must have been a huge empty black-coloured cardboard box that found itself somehow carried away on the wings of a billowy breeze. There again, maybe it really was a spaceship. Still, perhaps the steamed-up window fooled my eyes. Landed right on my cabbage-patch, whatever it was.

You know, as I started to make my cup of tea, I thought for a moment that I saw that Tommy from next-door jump out from the huge funny-looking box, and then start banging on it with a peculiar shaped stick—a stick that looked like a hand. Just imagine hitting a box with a hand in your hand … That’s just plain daft, isn’t it? I mean, you might as well just use your own hand. Still, I’m sure the steamed-up window made the peculiar shaped stick just look like a hand.

Tommy’s always climbing over my fence to get his ball. Treads all over my flowers sometimes. A right little nuisance he is, that Tommy.

The box probably fell on his head when he was getting his ball back. Maybe that’s why he was hitting it?

That’ll teach him!

I can’t be sure it was Tommy, but I think it must have been because he’s the only boy where I live with bright-red spiky hair. Sometimes when you see Tommy running around the estate on a windy day, his hair looks like bright red flames, as if his head is on fire. It didn’t look so spiky through the heavy condensation on the window, but I definitely saw a boy with a mop of red hair on his head.

Then, as I dropped my teabag into the kitchen bin, I thought I saw through the window, Tommy disappear into the box again. But he couldn’t have because the wind lifted the box right up into the air and over my fence into his back garden. I say “the wind”, but it did seem such a controlled lift and floating motion … the same sort of anti-gravity movement it had moved in before. And well, that’s what puzzled me. What if Tommy was in the box and it wasn’t the wind that made it fly about?

Anyway, this huge black box seemed to lower itself as if it intended to land on Tommy’s funny-looking garden shed.

Tommy’s garden shed stands like a big white cube. Built it himself—clever little boy with his hands. Clever little boy with machines too. The noises I hear coming from his garden shed! Keeps me awake at night sometimes. A regular nuisance he is, that Tommy. Still, as clever as he is, I would have thought he could have come up with a better design for his shed than a simple cube shape. Not bad for a boy that’s just turned thirteen, though.

And d’you know what? I’m sure I saw the box fall ever so slowly right through the roof of his garden shed.

That’ll teach him!

Anyway, I’m back in my writing room now, you’ll be glad to know, with my cup of tea. Just a minute, I must have a sip …

Aah … mmm … lovely. You can’t beat a nice sip of piping hot Rosy Lee, if you’ll excuse my cockney rhyming slang.

I thought I had better mention that Tommy because no matter what story I write—he always seems to end up in it! Perhaps today will be the first story I write where he doesn’t somehow end up in it. Well, we’ll soon find out, I suppose. And I don’t know how, but I wouldn’t be surprised if that huge black box ends up in the story, too.

Erm … now let me see? Oh yes, on with starting the strange story.

I don’t know how it will progress or end yet, of course … And I honestly have no idea where this story is coming from. I’m not making any effort to think it up. It really is just flooding into my head. Perhaps someone—or something—wants this story to be told.

Right, just to say, the story happens to begin in my own town of Basildon, which is another reason I suspect Tommy will definitely end up taking a part in it. This I have to see!

Oh well, make yourself comfortable, focus your eyes closer on the words because here we go …

 

2

LOGAN AND HIS MOTHER AND THE STRANGE SHOP

THE INTENSE SUMMER sunlight dazzled seven-year-old Logan’s eyes as it reflected off the glass and metal of passing shop and car windows. Logan was strolling down the small town centre of Basildon with his mother. He was dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt, just as his mother was. And he felt very happy because his mother had decided to take him shopping and buy him a present because she said he had been a very good boy lately.

Suddenly, Logan stopped on the High Street pavement outside a bank and looked up at his mother’s smiling face, a radiant face that made the late morning sun seem even more warming.

“Do I really deserve a present, Mum?” he asked, tugging at her wrist. “Are you sure?”

“Of course you do, my little prince.” His mother gently patted him on the shoulders before giving his blond hair a loving ruffle.

Logan smiled up at his mother with all the glee of his full seven years. Who was he to disagree with his mum? But he knew they struggled with money as there was no one else but them, so he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.

“There’s always a reward for being good,” said Logan’s mother. She bent down, pressed his nose, smiled and added, “Even if it’s just that other people will smile at you.”

Off they walked, hand in hand, deeper into the town centre.

Minutes later, Logan let go of his mother’s hand and stopped at a small comfortable-looking shop. It was fronted by a thick glass window and a glass door to the side, all of which was framed by purple-painted wood.

Logan pushed the flat of his hands up against the thick glass window. He squashed his nose up against it and peered intently at the shop’s interesting window display. It was a display full of remarkable-looking toys.

“Ooh,” he cried in delight. “Look at all these almost alive toys! Look at that toy horse … it’s got ‘Henry the Horse’ written on the saddle … See, Mum? Ooh, what twinkling brown eyes he has! He looks like a real horse, only much smaller. He’s sort of alive, only he’s not because he can’t be … because he’s completely still. You don’t think he’s a stuffed horse, do you, Mum?”

“Oh no. I don’t think it can be a stuffed horse. It’s far too small to be a stuffed horse.”

“But it might be a baby horse?” Logan turned from the shop’s display and looked up at his mother with his questioning pea-green eyes.

“No, I don’t think so. It looks like a small adult horse. I’ve been around horses when I was a girl. Where I grew up, in Brockenhurst, there were lots of horses and ponies. They even came into your garden trampling over the flowers, even eating them sometimes. Brockenhurst is a town in the New Forest, you see.”

“Are there really forests in England?”

“Yes, Logan. But not the sorts of forests you get in the rest of the world with wild animals like tigers and lions and giraffes and elephants and so on. The New Forest is a sort of civilised forest. Still, many of the animals that live there are wild, I suppose. But they’re not dangerous ones. At least not to humans!”

Logan turned his attention back to the shop’s display.

“Mum, do you think this shop is a sort of forest for toys? Look, even the floor is real ground with grass growing out of it. And there’s even a tree growing out of it, see!”

“You’re a very clever boy to think of such a thing like that, Logan. While you are not the best at maths and science at school, I have to admit you are the best when it comes to imagination. A forest for toys! Very clever.” Logan’s mother gave Logan a quick friendly ruffle of his hair.

“But the grass is blue, Mum. That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Well, grass is green unless it is dying or has been yellowed by the sun. I think this isn’t real grass, but fake grass. Why the factory has made blue blades instead of green ones, is beyond me?”

“They’ve made a mistake with the leaves of the tree too, Mum. See, its leaves are blue instead of green!”

“Well, I suppose at least who ever designed this display is consistent.”

“What does ‘consistent’ mean?”

“It means keeping things similar, even if it means keeping things similarly wrong.”

Logan didn’t quite understand what his mother had said, so he puffed out his cheeks and blew out a long steady spurt of air. Something he often did when he found himself struggling to understand something.

“At least the tree’s gnarly branches, trunk and roots are brown,” pointed out Logan’s mother. “It’s only the things that are meant to be green that are blue when you think about it. Everything else is the correct colour.”

“I see,” said Logan. But he didn’t really.

“Look at the tree’s roots!” said Logan’s mother. “They’re sticking out of the ground here, there and, everywhere. Twisting in and out of one another. I wonder what sort of tree it’s meant to be. I’ve never seen a tree like it—even if the leaves are the wrong colour.”

“Is it a spaghetti tree?” offered Logan jokingly. As to him, the tree’s roots looked very spaghetti like.

“You are a one,” said his mother, placing her hand firmly on the top of his head and patting it down playfully.

“Hey, gerroff, Mum!” mumbled Logan between laughs.

When Logan repositioned his face to peer once again into the shop’s display, he suddenly noticed something more unusual than most about it.

“Ooh!” he exclaimed loudly. “The tree, Mum?”

“What about it?”

“It’s got a face!”

Logan’s mother looked carefully at the tree …

Sure enough, three quarters of the way up its trunk, the gnarly bark almost disguised a smiling face.

“Ah, oh yes. So it does.” Logan’s mother looked just as fascinated as he did. “And if you look closely, the words ‘Tweetygum the Tree’ are carved above the tree’s small twinkling black eyes.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Logan. “That word’s definitely ‘Tweetygum’, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s not a word or name I’ve seen before. But I think that’s how it’s pronounced.”

“Tweetygum,” said Logan, as he felt repeating the word would help him remember to recognise it in the future. If it came up in a school word-voice test (a test where a pupil has to read aloud words they are shown) he would be the only pupil to get it right. “Tweetygum. Eee by gum!” he said jokingly. “There, that will help me remember the word, Mum.”

His mother smiled.

Logan’s eyes followed a thick white braided rope dangling down from one of the branches of Tweetygum the Tree. And hanging on this rope was a monkey wearing big red-spotted white pyjamas. And on one particularly big red spot on the monkey’s chest was written the words “Martin the Monkey”. Martin had quite a cheeky grin on his face. One arm was straining on the rope, and the other holding a wooden craved banana. Logan thought the monkey was about to let go of the rope and jump down to the floor. But he never did, of course.

The monkey, like the horse, was so lifelike that to Logan he looked more lifelike than any stuffed monkey could ever look. In fact, all the toys he spied through the window were looking as real as real can be. Including, in a strange sort of way, the non-animal ones! Dolls, teddy bears, trains, boats, cars; oh, all kinds of things were grinning out of the window display. Whenever Logan looked at one, they always seemed to stare right back at him with a twinkle in their “living” eyes.

Suddenly, Logan’s chest heaved as he drew in a huge breath …

“Look! Look, Mum! On the floor in front of Henry the Horse. Look! There’s a football with a face drawn on it!” Logan loved playing football, and this particular toy had an emotional effect on him. It somehow tugged at his heartstrings. “See the football, Mum? And look, it’s got ‘Freddy the Football’ written above its eyes. He’s called Freddy. Freddy is very happy, isn’t he, Mum?”

“Well, he looks very happy, all right—but I’m not sure a toy can actually be happy. But it can definitely look happy.”

“But all these toys look sort of alive, so maybe they really are happy,” insisted Logan, looking around at the smiling toys gathered around the shop’s display. “Maybe they are alive and have been frozen in time.”

“Hmm … Logan, that sounds quite an imaginative thing to say. I mean, I like the way you said that. But somehow I don’t think toys can be alive or frozen in time.”

“They can in my story books,” said Logan, looking away from the shop window and up at his mother’s smiling sea-blue eyes.

“True,” agreed his mother, looking down thoughtfully at Logan. “And even in the real world, I suppose some of them might come alive at night when their owners are asleep.”

“D’you think so?” said Logan enthusiastically.

“You never know,” said Logan’s mother with one of her biggest, most radiant smiles.

Logan turned his attention back through the shop’s fronted glass window.

He looked at a fluffy white tabby cat with big green eyes, wearing a beautiful blue coat. A label on the coat carried the words “Camelia the Tabby Cat”. Was it really only a toy? Just sitting there staring at him with a big grin on its face as if it had just polished off a large bowl of cream. Logan’s eyes then drew themselves once more to Freddy the Football.

“Mum?” he said, tearing his gaze from Freddy for a moment and looking to the side at his mother with a hopeful look. “Can we buy my present from this shop, please?”

“Surely you don’t want your present from here,” answered Logan’s mother. “I think this is a charity shop, Logan. All these toys are very glittery, colourful, alluring and lifelike, but they are, after all, only second hand. I can see these toys are incredibly likeable—just look at that sleepy-eyed furry little red-haired elephant leaning snugly against Tweetygum with its name ‘Ethelred the Elephant’ engraved on its stately golden crown—but don’t you want a new toy?”

“I like charity shops, Mum,” said Logan, “They have … erm … What’s the word … ah yes … They have interesting toys in them sometimes, and lots of good books. You get great bargains too. And all the money goes to help people. That’s what you told me. And that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, it is very good to help people, Logan,” she said, looking proudly down to meet Logan’s concerned eyes.

“And it might not be a charity shop,” said Logan. But he didn’t hold out much hope.

Logan’s mother stepped back a pace on the pavement and looked around at the front of the shop, searching for a name.

“Ah, there’s the name of the shop,” she said. “See above the window?” She pointed upwards at the shop’s sign. It was written in gold lettered words on a purple-painted wooden background.

“Read it out, Mum, please,” said Logan. “I’m not sure of all the words. You know my reading’s bad.”

“It says, in its big gold lettered words: ‘Tomboli’s Britland Toys’, and then it says beneath that, in the very small words: ‘We are not a charity shop, but we do support them and aim to help people. All toys are free (one toy per person only). Opening Times: 20 minutes per month.’”

“Hmm … ‘Britland’. Oh yes, that’s a word I’ve tried to learn before. I looked it up in the dictionary. Do you remember, Mum? It wasn’t in the dictionary, was it?”

“I can’t remember all that. But the word ‘Britland’ does ring a bell …”

“And Mum, did you say all the toys are free? Did you?” Logan tugged at his mother’s wrist excitedly.

“Well, it does say so,” said Logan’s mother, looking rather puzzled. “But only one toy per person. Hmm … There’s something very peculiar about this shop.” She stroked her chin a few times, shrugged her shoulders and sighed. “All right, let’s go into the shop—there’s no harm in that, I suppose.”

Bring! Bring-ity bring!

The shop door’s old-fashioned shop bell sounded loudly as Logan’s mother pushed open the door …

 

 3

THE MOST PECULIAR MR TOMBOLI

NO SOONER HAD Logan and his mother plunged into the shop when, as quick as a flash, a strange-looking man jumped out from behind a female showroom dummy. The dummy was dressed in a gorgeous silvery evening dress with the words “Debbie the Dummy” colourfully tattooed on one of her finely sculptured oak wood arms. The man was wearing a many-buttoned waistcoat, jacket and trousered dinner suit of all the colours of a rainbow, looking for all the world as if he was born at the end of one. He had a thick head of bright-yellow spiky hair, which Logan thought looked like an exploding sun. But if his clothes were strange and colourful, then his voice was even more so …

“Welcome to my shop,” he said, in a many-coloured voice that sounded like at least ten very different people talking at the same time. “Mr Tomboli, at your service.” He then bowed so low that the bright-yellow hair on his head swept a sweet-wrapper along the carpet of the shop floor between his feet. And he sprang up so quickly that he almost lost his footing.

Logan pulled at his mother’s wrist and gave her a knowing smile as if to say, “Mum, this man is as mad as a hatter.”

Logan sniffed in the smell of the peculiarly fitted out shop. It didn’t smell like other shops. There was no smell of perfumes, air fresheners or disinfectants. If anything, the smell reminded him of his flat’s living room. A place for living. And he couldn’t help thinking all the lifelike toys would jump into life without warning.

“You’re lucky to find me open,” grinned Mr Tomboli. “I only open for twenty minutes at eleven o’clock in the morning on the last day of the month. I usually manage three or four customers a year. Most people don’t even notice my shop. I suppose those that do must be special in some sort of deserving way.”

“I’m special,” said Logan. “At least my mum keeps telling me I am.”

Logan’s mother smiled at Logan and patted him lovingly on the head. “Of course you’re special, Logan.” Then she looked up at Mr Tomboli, who was grinning from ear to ear, like most of his toys, and she asked a little tentatively, “Everything’s free, is it?”

“Of course,” said Mr Tomboli in his chorus of colourful voices. “Britland Toys are always free. Remember though, one toy, one boy—or is it the other way around?”

Mr Tomboli then, for some unfathomable reason, took a number of quick pigeon steps backwards and sidled himself up beside Debbie the Dummy.

Logan looked at the pair of them, him in his resplendent multi-coloured dinner suit and her in her beautiful silvery evening dress, and he thought they looked like a couple waiting to be invited to a fairyland evening dinner party.

“That’s right,” said a smooth female voice that sounded and looked as if it came from the moving flesh-like red lips of Debbie the Dummy.

“Mum!” exclaimed Logan with his eyebrows arched high with surprise on his stunned face. “That dummy spoke. I saw its lips moving.”

“I am not an it!” roared a sweet voice from the dummy’s lips. “I am a she. Debbie is my name. Debbie the Dummy by rights. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Debbie the Dummy then bent forwards in a rather creaky mechanical bow. And there she stayed until Mr Tomboli appeared to yank her upright, where she remained as still as … as a showroom dummy.

“Mum,” said a puzzled Logan, tugging at his mother’s wrist, “I don’t understand. How did that dummy come alive?”

“It’s a trick, my little prince. Mr Tomboli must be an expert ventriloquist. He stepped back to the dummy to control it. There’s some way that he can put his hand in the back of the Debbie the Dummy to control the opening and closing of her lips. Then, being a ventriloquist, he throws his voice to her lips while keeping his own lips almost closed. I think his huge cheesy grin allows him to talk behind his shiny teeth.”

In response, a grinning Mr Tomboli swivelled Debbie the Dummy around to show that there was no opening on her back or any signs of any other controls—just the back of her silvery evening dress.

“Look, Mum,” observed Logan, “there’s no little door or anything for Mr Tomboli to put his hand in, is there?”

“She must have the opening underneath the back of her dress. Mr Tomboli must have slid his hand under her dress.”

“How very dare you!” roared a not so sweet feminine voice, sounding like it came from the backward facing Debbie the Dummy. “Mr Tomboli may be a touch eccentric, but he is nevertheless a gentleman!”

All through this angry outburst, Mr Tomboli stood motionless. Just stood there, grinning the cheesiest of grins.

Logan scratched his head.

His mother moved forwards determinedly and twisted Debbie the Dummy so she was facing forwards again towards Logan.

“All right then, Mr Tomboli,” she said confidently. “You step well to the side, keeping your hands well away from Debbie the Dummy, and we’ll see if you can make her lips move. Go on. Try it.”

Mr Tomboli took an exaggerated step to the side, kept his hands well away from Debbie the Dummy and carried on grinning.

Logan wondered what would happen next … if anything …

Suddenly, after a brief moment of complete silence, a familiar sweet feminine voice came not from the lips of Debbie the Dummy, but from behind Mr Tomboli’s grinning teeth. “Your mistake, Mrs Smarty Pants, is in thinking that Mr Tomboli is the ventriloquist and not me—Debbie the Dummy. A president must have all kinds of communication skills.”

Debbie the Dummy was completely motionless as all this was said; though to Logan she still looked alive, especially as her lively navy-blue eyes seemed to be smiling much the same way as his mother’s often did.

Logan shrugged. He puffed out his cheeks and blew out a long steady spurt of air. He was completely befuddled by all this peculiar ventriloquism.

“Very amusing, Mr Tomboli,” said Logan’s mother. “You are not only a masterful ventriloquist but a top class comedian. Claiming, I think, that Debbie the Dummy is not just a living creature, but a president.”

Mr Tomboli shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Debbie the Dummy is not just any president, she’s President of Britland.”

Logan tugged at his mother’s hand. “Oh, I get it now, Mum,” he said triumphantly. “Mr Tomboli has used ven-ven-tribilism, or whatever that word is, for his own mouth, pretending Debbie the Dummy is the ventribilist.”

“Yes,” agreed his mother. “That’s the ticket, Logan. Well done!”

Logan smiled, swelling with pride, as he felt sure he had understood what had happened.

Suddenly, Mr Tomboli whipped out a highly ornate super-sized pocket-watch from one of his colourful waistcoat’s many pockets. He flicked the pocket-watch in his hand and its lid flipped open. He looked quizzically at the object, and said, “Well, come on Logan, young man, make up your mind. I close in just three minutes. If you hadn’t spent ten minutes looking at the display outside the shop, then you would have had more time in the shop.” And Mr Tomboli seemed in an awful hurry because, as he spoke, his chorus of voices had grown faster and higher in tone. He now sounded almost like a classroom of chatterbox six-year-old schoolgirls.

Logan found all this very amusing, and he had to quickly hide his mouth with his hand and pretend he was coughing because he couldn’t stop himself from laughing and he didn’t want to offend Mr Tomboli. And he knew his mother would tell him off for being rude to strangers. However, his wide-eyed look gave him away.

Logan’s mother bent down and whispered into Logan’s ear, “Look, I know you can’t help but laugh at Mr Tomboli, so don’t worry about it. I’m struggling not to laugh at him myself. He’s as bonkers as a pack of disco dancing zombies. I think he must be an actor or something from the entertainment industry. I think he is using this shop to practise his skills. He probably rents this shop once a month to practise his craft. I have to admit, I’ve never noticed this shop before.”

“Are all these toys part of his act, d’you think?” whispered Logan back to his mother.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” whispered his mother. “They’re too well made to just be simple stage ornaments.”

“Two and a half minutes to closing!” snapped Mr Tomboli urgently. His voices sounded like ten little Scottish baby girls who had just learnt to talk. He shoved his super-sized pocket-watch in front of the faces of Logan and his mother. There were no hands on the huge pocket-watch, or numbers of any kind—just stars, moons and planets, with the moons slowly orbiting around slowly spinning planets. And these planets were slowly moving out of view to be replaced by other planets. And they had faces!

“Huh!” muttered Logan. He thought he could hear voices coming from the pocket-watch. Then he gasped in surprise when a moving planet slowly revealed a sun—a sun, wearing sunglasses!

“What a strange pocket-watch,” said Logan’s mother.

“Time is measured in many ways, ma’am,” said Mr Tomboli, his ten little Scottish baby chorus of voices sounding more shrill than ever.

“Quick, Mum!” said Logan urgently. He wasn’t interested in the pocket-watch anymore. “We better ask for Freddy the Football before it’s too late! He’s the toy I want.”

“I can see from your yearning eyes that you have set your heart on that Freddy the Football,” said Logan’s mother. She turned to Mr Tomboli, and said, “We would like to have Freddy the Football. Can we take him, please?” Logan’s mother looked and sounded as if she doubted whether Mr Tomboli would just hand over the toy free of charge.

However …

Mr Tomboli waddled ever so quickly in short little steps over to the window display, looking like a giant rainbow-coloured sprinting penguin. And as he did so, he whistled to himself, sounding like a chorus of wild tropical birds.

He bent down swiftly and scooped up Freddy the Football. “Excuse me, Freddy,” he said, with his colourful voices sounding so high-pitched now that they were barely human, like a squeaky rusty row of gates might speak—if only they could, “there’s a boy who wants you. Don’t overstay your welcome.”

Clutching Freddy the Football, Mr Tomboli waddled hurriedly back to Logan.

Suddenly, Logan let out a little gasp of shock because he thought for a moment that he saw Freddy the Football wink at him! But he knew a drawn-on eye can’t move, and he wondered how Mr Tomboli must have managed this trick. It seemed an impossible trick to pull off. However, he also knew magic tricks always seemed infuriatingly impossible—until you’re explained how they’re done!

“There you go, Logan,” began Mr Tomboli. Logan could hardly understand Mr Tomboli because he was speaking so incredibly fast and in a strange collection of high-pitched voices. “One toy—one Freddy the Football.” Mr Tomboli handed over Freddy the Football to Logan.

“Thank you,” said Logan, hardly believing his luck.

“Enjoy your new friend!” said Mr Tomboli. And looking at Freddy the Football, which was held firmly in Logan’s arms, he added, “And, Freddy, you enjoy your new friend!” And by the time he had finished speaking, he sounded very much like a collection of busy screaming power saws slicing their way through piles of iron poles.

Mr Tomboli then shoved his super-sized pocket-watch once again in front of the faces of Logan and his mother, and shouted in a chorus of voices, now sounding like a set of overworked screeching power drills, “Look! Quickly! You have less than fifteen seconds to leave the shop!”

Mr Tomboli tucked away his huge pocket-watch hastily into a pocket of his colourful waistcoat. He opened his arms wide so that he looked like a smartly dressed scarecrow. Then he quickly swept up Logan and his mother without actually touching them and ushered them backwards towards the shop’s door.

Bring! Bring-ity bring!

The old-fashioned shop bell rang out as Mr Tomboli somehow pulled the door open with a skilfully flailing foot.

Mr Tomboli then shoved Logan and his mother out of the shop with so much force that he sent them sprawling onto the High Street pavement floor. It was as if an angry barman had just thrown a couple of drunks out of a pub for drinking well past closing hours.

Logan thought he could hear Mr Tomboli shout, “Sorry about that. Goodbye!” However, Mr Tomboli’s chorus of voices was so fast and high-pitched that he could have been saying anything.

Mr Tomboli slammed the shop door closed, causing all the smiling toys in the display to shake. To Logan, it looked as if they were laughing. And he wondered how Debbie the Dummy had found herself in the display area sitting astride Henry the Horse! And when he thought of all that had happened in the shop, he decided that Mr Tomboli must be a very clever man.

Logan carefully put Freddy the Football down onto the pavement, jumped to his feet and turned his attention to his mother.

“Come on, Mum. Let me help you up.”

“Thank you,” said his mother, “but I can get up easily enough. I’m all right.”

“Ooooh! Look!” cried Logan as he finished dusting himself down, copying his mother. “The shop has changed!”

Sure enough, where once stood Tomboli’s Britland Toys with its glass front and glass-paned door framed by purple-painted wood, there now stood just a regular charity shop called Help the Children. It still had a glass front and glass-paned door—but was framed by aluminium! It was empty and looked boring now. And there was a large notice taped inside the window that read: “CLOSED FOR STOCKTAKING.”

“Come on, Logan, it must be a trick of some kind. Mr Tomboli must be a brilliant ventriloquist, comedian and magician, all rolled into one, or something of the kind. We can only hope he hasn’t secretly videoed the whole thing. We don’t want to get home this afternoon and find ourselves the laughing stock of the internet, do we, Logan? Come on, let’s get on to the town centre mall.” Logan’s mother was smiling again.

“Is Mr Tomboli a genius?” asked Logan, not quite ready to leave the shop yet.

“I’ll tell you what he isn’t,” replied his mother.

“What?”

“Normal!” blurted Logan’s mother, breaking into fits of raucous laughter. Logan joined her.

“At least we’ve saved some money, Mum,” said Logan, recovering from his laughter. “Maybe you can buy yourself a nice dress or some ladies shoes.” He knew his mother loved buying clothes and shoes for herself, but could rarely afford to.

His mother just smiled and stroked the back of her hand lovingly on his cheek.

And with that, the pair of them set off for the town centre mall under the sun’s slowly building midday balmy heat.

 

4

PARRY GREEN

LATER THAT DAY in the early afternoon, Logan and his mother were strolling home from the town centre …

Logan was very happy because he had Freddy the Football in his arms and his mother was carrying some bags that, amongst other things, contained a train-set and some sweets for him. She had spent his present money on him, after all! She had told him, “Seeing you happy is worth more to me than any dress or pair of shoes, no matter how beautiful they are! It’s your day, Logan. Not mine.”

As he skipped along, keeping up with his mother, Logan stole yet another quick peek at Freddy …

Nothing.

Ever since leaving Mr Tomboli’s shop, Logan wondered if Freddy the Football might wink at him. But as much as he peeked at Freddy, Freddy’s face showed no sign of life whatsoever. Perhaps, Logan thought, he had imagined Freddy the Football winking at him earlier in the shop. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help thinking that Freddy might still wink at him just the same because his face somehow looked as if it was about to.

Logan and his mother took an alleyway through their housing estate and soon found themselves approaching a welcoming Parry Green, the street where they lived.

Wonderful Parry Green! Home sweet home. And as far as Logan was concerned, the centre of the universe.

Parry Green didn’t have a road running through it like most streets; but as its name suggests, it was a set of homes surrounding a green.

The green was flat and rectangular, and bordered by a wide path. It was the shape and size of Logan’s school’s junior football pitch, which was only a quarter the size of Basildon Town’s football pitch. There was a row of terraced houses along one of the long sides of the green, and along the other three sides were rows of flats arranged in blocks of four. Each block had two floors, so you lived either downstairs or upstairs. Logan and his mother lived in a flat. They lived upstairs at number 16 Parry Green. And just behind some of the flats was a pool of garages that belonged to some of the Parry Green residents.

The green was not simply a flat plain of grass. There were four lampposts at each of its corners. These acted as floodlights for the green as far as the children were concerned, even if Basildon Council designed them for the safety of people walking along the green’s surrounding path. In addition, there was a scattering of genetically modified young elm trees on the green. The council had fitted the trees with tight fitting wire-mesh trunk-protectors. The trees were known by the adults of Parry Green as children-proof genetically modified trees, and by the children as Nature’s goalposts. These young elm trees had long thin trunks with a head of branches that tapered to the sky like a leafy green flame.

By chance, three of the trees (out of the four that would be needed) were ideally positioned to help form two opposing goals on the green. The remaining trees were spread mainly around the edges of the green, with the few on the main playing area simply seen as interesting obstacles when it came to playing team ball games like hockey, rugby and the ever-popular football.

But what did the children do for a fourth goalpost? Well, the adult residents of Parry Green were nothing if not industrious and caring. They loved to keep their children happy. So they were all too ready to help Bill Henderson (37 Parry Green), a fireman, put into place a steel pole as the fourth needed goalpost. And not just any steel pole, but a zebra crossing (pedestrian crossing) street pole, with its distinctive black and white-painted hoops and its big amber-coloured globe lamp sitting atop (its Belisha beacon). And it was Mrs Singh (2 Parry Green) who wired the zebra crossing street pole, using underground wires, to the lampposts so the big globe lamp would come on at night and its amber-coloured glow would serve as a beacon for the green. Bill Henderson came in to possession of the pole after it had been uprooted from a traffic accident involving a swerving London double-decker bus (the 189 to Oxford Circus) and an escaped runaway circus elephant (Gorgeous George) on London’s famous Abbey Road zebra crossing.

Basildon council did not take too kindly to the Parry Green residents erecting such an illegal, outrageous development on one of their street greens. But it was Mr Alavi (43 Parry Green) and Mrs Zhou (8 Parry Green) who argued through the courts that the council could not take any action against such illegal activity. They argued that the zebra crossing street pole gave the green a uniquely British quirky character and that both Bill Henderson and Mrs Singh were correctly qualified to lead the efforts to safely install it. They also exposed a loophole in local bylaws that meant because there was no road in the street, and because the council did not own all of the houses and flats that they had every right to install and keep the pole. Of course, the council could have successfully appealed and had the pole removed, but ten-year-old Kelly Hanson (45 Parry Green) started a Keep The Parry Green Pole campaign, which went viral on the internet. The council was bombarded by a hail of criticism from all over the world for attempting to ruin the lives of the children of Parry Green. And so, the council buckled and allowed the zebra crossing pole to forever remain.

The goal with the tree and the zebra crossing street pole as its goalposts was called the Home goal, and the goal on the other end of the green with its two trees as goalposts was called the Away goal.

So all in all, Parry Green was like a living sports stadium, with the green the centre of play; the bordering path, a running track; and the surrounding housing, the terraces.

When Logan and his mother reached Parry Green, it was a riot of colour and play.

“Ah,” sighed Logan’s mother, “Parry Green is certainly a jar labelled ‘FUN’. And the jar is once again opened, and it most definitely does what it says on its label.”

Logan looked up at his mother, trying to understand exactly what she meant by such words. “I didn’t know jars could be made so big,” he said, showing he didn’t quite understand his mother’s metaphor.

His mother simply smiled, and said, “Jars can be made of any size if they are jars of comparison. Give me a jar, and I’ll give you the universe.”

Logan gave his mother a goofy smile. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. In return, his mother lovingly ruffled his hair.

Happy children of all ages were playing games of all sorts, or simply just playing. It was chock-a-block. On such a beautiful hot summer’s early afternoon, the children were never going to be indoors reading books, watching televisions or playing with their laptops and computer pads.

Happy, vibrant, fun-packed Parry Green!

“Look, Mum!” exclaimed Logan, pointing onto the green. “There’s a rugby match going on. I don’t like rugby. I’m too small. I like football.”

“You’ll be big one day,” said his mother encouragingly.

“But I will still like football more than rugby.”

“You never know, my little prince. You never know.”

“Look at the Andersons, Mum! See them, at the far end of the green, just behind the Home goal?”

“Yes, I see them.” Logan’s mother saw in the distance the four identical three-year-old blonde-haired girls (the Anderson quadruplets, 52 Parry Green) cavorting about with a huge colourful bed-sheet just behind the zebra crossing street pole goalpost.

“They’re playing their new game,” said Logan. “I think they’re very funny. There’s just no way to tell them apart. They insist on wearing exactly the same clothes too. And if one of them decides to wear something different, the others quickly follow. So it’s no good—they just end up looking exactly the same again.”

“I’ve heard they call their new game the Caterpillar to Butterfly game. Is that right?”

“Yes, Mum.”

Often, the children would invent their own games, games no one in the whole world had ever played before. Parry Green games. And the Andersons were playing their recently invented Caterpillar to Butterfly game. A game best viewed from an upstairs window.

First, they would get in a line and run around the green with a large brightly coloured bed-sheet held high above their heads. Two of the separated quadruplet girls would bob up and down, while the other two would bob down and up. This was the caterpillar. Then after a while, they would suddenly collapse and spend some time trying to wrap themselves up under the bed-sheet. After which they would spill out from under the bed-sheet giggling, screaming with laughter and rolling about. Then they would quickly each grab a corner of the bed-sheet, wait for a favourable gust of wind, and release the sheet high above their heads so that it flew away on the breeze. This was the Butterfly. Then they would do the same thing over and over again.

And, of course, they sang an accompanying song that their mother had taught them as they played this game:

 

(Form line beneath bed-sheet held high above heads)

 

Caterpillar,

Caterpillar,

Coming out to play.

Caterpillar,

Caterpillar,

What a lovely day!

 

(Bob up and down beneath bed-sheet, running about wildly)

 

Up and down,

Down and up,

Oh caterpillar play.

Up and down,

Down and up,

A caterpillar day!

 

(Weave in and out of people and objects)

 

Caterpillar,

Caterpillar,

Oh how we clown.

Caterpillar,

Caterpillar,

We all fall down!

 

(Drop to the ground beneath bed-sheet.

Laugh, scream, giggle and roll out from under the bed-sheet.

Lift up bed-sheet by four corners.)

 

Butterfly,

Butterfly,

Wait for some gust.

Butterfly,

Butterfly,

Fly if you must!

 

(Finally victoriously let go of bed-sheet!)

 

Keeping away from the rough older children playing rugby, many of the younger children had taken to racing around the green’s surrounding path on all kinds of transportation: mechanical toy cars, electric-motorised toy trucks, scooters, bikes, tricycles, roller-skates, skateboards, and the like. There was one occasion last Christmas when a car door was used as a sleigh, dragged along the snowy path by a herd of Alsatians dressed up as Christmas reindeers. But this was summer. Glorious summer!

Logan watched the moving melee from close quarters as he and his mother picked their way carefully along the green’s bordering path. It was fun to watch the occasional crash, even better than watching racing cars crash on television—provided he and his mother took enough care to make sure they did not become part of any crash!

“I don’t think I will use Freddy the Football as a football, Mum,” said Logan as they walked off the green’s bordering path and on to the short garden path that led to their flat. “I don’t really want to wear his face away, see?”

“Well, it’s your present, Logan, so do with it as you please.”

“Okay.”

“Home at last,” said Logan’s mother as she opened the door to 16 Parry Green.

Up their pink-carpeted stairs, Logan and his mother climbed towards the living area of their upper floor flat.