Lord Mustard



  LORD MUSTARD

  David Elvar

  Copyright 2009 David Elvar

  ~oOo~

  ONE

  It was a sunny Monday morning when Lord Mustard got his telephone bill.

  He sat at his breakfast table and glared at it over his breakfast egg. The bill was for £27.14p, which isn’t a lot of money to a lord but is an awful lot of money to a lord as broke as Lord Mustard.

  ‘It’s that Mrs. Wrinkle again,’ he muttered, picking up a little bell beside his plate and giving it a shake. ‘Cooks shouldn’t make phone calls or if they do then they should jolly well pay for them.’

  Mrs. Wrinkle appeared in the doorway of the dining-room, looking as miserable as ever.

  ‘Yes?’ she sighed rudely. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘It’s this bill,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘Have you been phoning your sister again?’

  ‘I had to!’ said Mrs. Wrinkle. ‘She’s not been well and the cat caused an accident chasing a bus. I had to make sure she was all right.’

  ‘Who, the cat or your sister?’

  ‘My sister, silly! The cat’s caused so many accidents, we don’t worry about it any more. Chase anything, that cat will.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry and all that,’ said Lord Mustard, ‘but you still can’t go making phone calls willy-nilly. We can’t afford it.’

  ‘We can’t afford anything!’ said Mrs. Wrinkle crossly.

  ‘That’s not my fault,’ said Lord Mustard just as crossly. ‘It’s not my fault the entire family fortune was spent before I even inherited it.’

  ‘I never said it was,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle, ‘but it is your fault that I haven’t been paid since last Christmas.’

  Lord Mustard groaned. No, she hadn’t been paid since last Christmas and it didn’t much look like she was going to be paid before next Christmas, either. It was something he really didn’t like thinking about.

  ‘Well, what are we going to do about this bill?’ he said, wanting to change the subject.

  ‘You could always sell something,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle.

  ‘Good idea! Sell the Rolls Royce!’

  ‘You sold it last week to pay the butcher,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle.

  ‘Sell the family silver, then!’

  ‘You sold it the week before to pay the baker,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle.

  ‘Well, sell the famous portrait of my great-great-great grandfather, then!’

  ‘You sold that a month ago to buy light bulbs for the bathroom,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle.

  That was another something he didn’t like thinking about. Mustard Manor was a big place, with a bathroom so huge that it needed a hundred light bulbs to light it, and that wasn’t counting the special one that lit up the Mustard family Coat of Arms every time someone pulled the flush. But if Mustard Manor was big then it was also falling apart, which was probably another reason why he didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘Well, what have we got left that we can sell?’ he said desperately.

  Mrs. Wrinkle thought for a moment. ‘Three things,’ she said. ‘An antique cast iron clothes peg, a box of rock-hard chocolates left over from your last birthday and a pair of extra-large earmuffs for keeping out the cold.’

  Not much use to anyone, really. He looked down again at his telephone bill for £27.14p. Another bill and no way of paying it…Mustard Manor falling apart around his ears…and if all that wasn’t enough, the Bank Manager kept writing to him to complain about his overdraft, which is where you owe the bank money, lots of money.

  He sighed and sat back in his breakfast chair. Money, thought Lord Mustard, is getting to be a bit of a problem.

  TWO

  It was a sunny Monday afternoon when Lord Mustard went into town.

  Monday is market-day in the town near Mustard Manor but he wasn’t there to buy anything. As he wandered up the High Street, clutching his telephone bill and the £27.14p he’d managed to scrape together by raiding Mrs. Wrinkle’s piggy bank, he was thinking. And he was thinking about ways of making money.

  He could try finding a job, he supposed, but he was probably too old and definitely too lazy. And anyway, he was a lord and lords shouldn’t have to do things like find jobs so that idea was out.

  He could try selling Mustard Manor, he supposed, but he probably wouldn’t get much for it and then he wouldn’t have anywhere to live. And anyway, he was a lord and lords are supposed to live in manors so that idea was also out.

  He could try selling Mrs. Wrinkle, he supposed, but he’d probably get even less for her and then he wouldn’t have anyone to argue with. And anyway, he was a lord and lords were supposed to have someone to cook their meals and tidy up after them so that idea was definitely out.

  It was just as he was passing the second-hand fruit and vegetable stall that he noticed something. Sandwiched between Miserable Meg’s Megamarket and Smiling Sam’s Small Shop was a small crowd. Also sandwiched between them was music playing very loudly. And also sandwiched between them was something making loud clickety-click, clickety-click sounds on the pavement. Lord Mustard stopped to look.

  It was interesting. In fact, it was very interesting. For what Lord Mustard had stopped to look at was a tap-dancer. Now, a tap-dancer is not someone who prances around on those funny-shaped drippy things at the end of the bath but someone who wears special shoes and dances in a special way to make a sort of tapping sound, mostly on special floors but also sometimes on pavements.

  He stood and watched her. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and those special shoes, and she had a ghetto blaster and an upturned hat on the pavement, one for music and the other for collecting money. And in front of the hat was a small blackboard with a short poem chalked on it. It read:

  I may be singing, I may be dancing,

  I may be telling funnies,

  But underneath I’m stony broke

  So spare a little money-s. (Sorry!)

  And every time she came to the end of a dance, she would stop and bow and the crowd would toss money into her upturned hat. They seemed to be tossing in quite a lot.

  She came to the end of her last dance and gave a last bow, and the crowd tossed some last money into the hat and started drifting away. All except Lord Mustard. As she picked up the hat and began counting money, he sidled up to her.

  ‘Hullo,’ he said.

  ‘Hullo,’ she said, still counting.

  ‘Do you do this every day?’

  ‘Usually,’ she said, still counting. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you make much money doing it?’

  ‘Usually,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Usually how much?’

  She finished counting. ‘Today I made £27.14p. Why?’

  £27.14p! Lord Mustard could hardly believe his ears! Why, that was enough to pay the next telephone bill even with Mrs. Wrinkle phoning her sister to find out if the cat had caused another accident!

  ‘But I can make more on a good day,’ she added.

  But Lord Mustard wasn’t listening. Lord Mustard was having an idea.

  ‘I’m going to be a tap-dancer!’ he announced when he got back to Mustard Manor.

  ‘You’re going to be a what?’ said Mrs. Wrinkle, looking up from a stew she was trying to make from three mouldy carrots and a leftover chicken bone.

  ‘A tap-dancer!’ Lord Mustard said again. ‘I’m going to tap-dance in town on market-days and make loads of money.’

  ‘You!’ said Mrs. Wrinkle, looking him up and down and forgetting all about her stew. ‘You can’t tap-dance.’

  ‘I’ll take lessons.’

  ‘You haven’t got any special shoes.’

  ‘I’ll get some.’

  ‘And what are you going to use for music?’

  ‘I’ll get a gateau blaster,’ sai
d Lord Mustard, ‘just like the one that girl in town had.’

  ‘I think you mean ghetto blaster,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle quietly. ‘And just how do you think you’re going to pay for all this?’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to sell something,’

  ‘We haven’t got anything to sell, remember?’

  ‘What about that stuff you said we still had left?’

  ‘Are you serious! Who in their right mind is going to buy that?’

  ‘You could be right,’ Lord Mustard agreed glumly. ‘Are you sure we haven’t got anything else to sell?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Really, really sure?’

  She nodded again. ‘All you have left is an antique cast iron clothes peg, a box of rock-hard chocolates left over from your last birthday and a pair of extra-large earmuffs for keeping out the cold.’

  ‘Well,’ he sighed, ‘they’ll just have to do, won’t they…’

  THREE

  He was back in town the very next day. And with him, in an old shopping bag that Mrs. Wrinkle had grudgingly lent him, he had three things, three useless things that no one was likely to want to buy.

  As Lord Mustard wandered up that same High Street, he was thinking again, this time about three other things, three things he needed—special shoes, a ghetto blaster and tap-dancing lessons—and he knew that getting them was not going to be easy.

  He was still thinking this when he stopped in the middle of the pavement and looked up. Beside him was a shoe shop, just right for the first thing he needed. He looked in the window. There were shoes, hundreds of them, and it was only then that he realised that he didn’t have the faintest idea what special shoes for tap-dancing actually looked like. He went inside to find out.

  Inside were even more shoes. There were black shoes and brown shoes, red shoes and white shoes, trainers and wellies but not one single shoe that looked as though it might make even the faintest clickety-click sound on a pavement.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said a voice.

  Lord Mustard glanced round. The voice belonged to a rather proper-looking lady that he guessed must be the manager.

  ‘Um…I need some shoes,’ he said nervously.

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘And what kind of shoes was Sir looking for?’

  ‘Er…tap-dancing shoes,’ said Lord Mustard.

  There was a silence while she considered this. ‘Tap-dancing shoes,’ she repeated slowly.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘For Sir.’

  ‘That’s right’ said Lord Mustard. There was another silence.

  ‘We have a pair,’ she said carefully, ‘in Sir’s size. Perhaps Sir would care to try them on?’

  ‘Before we do that,’ said Lord Mustard just as carefully, ‘how much are they?’

  ‘£27.14p,’ came the reply.

  I think, thought Lord Mustard, I’ve heard that figure somewhere before. ‘Haven’t you got anything a little cheaper?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘I think Sir will find they are the cheapest in stock,’ came another reply.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lord Mustard. He glanced round. Tap-dancing shoes are really just ordinary shoes with hard bits on them for making that clickety-click sound so maybe there was something else he could use just as well. Even as he thought it, his gaze came to rest on a pair of big and clumsy-looking boots. They were shiny black with metal bits covering the toes and heels.

  ‘What are those?’ he asked.

  ‘Not one of our success stories, I’m afraid,’ the manager sighed. ‘They’re called Clodhompers and they’re for people at work who have to protect their feet from anything heavy being dropped on them. They haven’t sold very well. Everyone seems to want to wear trainers these days, even to work.’

  ‘Can I try them on?’

  ‘If Sir wishes.’

  Lord Mustard tried them on. They fitted perfectly. And when he tapped the toes and heels on the floor, they made a rather satisfying clickety-click sound.

  ‘I’ll take them!’ he cried. ‘How much are they?’

  ‘Since we can’t get rid of them, I can let Sir have them for £5.00.’

  ‘£5.00,’ said Lord Mustard hesitantly. ‘Haven’t you got any a little cheaper?’

  There was a third silence. This time, the manager was looking at him very curiously.

  ‘Just how much money does Sir have?’ she asked.

  ‘Er…48p,’ said Lord Mustard quietly. ‘But I need that for my bus fare home.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry but I can’t let Sir have them that cheaply.’

  Lord Mustard looked miserably at her. ‘I don’t suppose you’d swap them for something, would you?’

  ‘Exactly what did Sir have in mind?’

  Lord Mustard held his shopping bag upside down and gave it a shake. Out plopped three things: a pair of extra-large earmuffs for keeping out the cold, a box of rock-hard chocolates left over from his last birthday, and last of all…

  ‘My dear sir!’ cried the manager. Lord Mustard looked up.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s perfect!’ she cried. ‘Absolutely perfect!’

  Lord Mustard looked down at it, wondering what could possibly be absolutely perfect about an antique cast iron clothes peg.

  ‘You mean you like it?’ he said.

  ‘Of course I like it!’ she said, picking it up. ‘I’ve been looking for one of these for years.’

  ‘You have?’ said Lord Mustard. ‘Why?’

  ‘Let me explain. When people come into a shoe shop, they have to try shoes on to see if they fit.’

  ‘And?’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘And that means they have to take their own shoes off first.’

  ‘And?’ Lord Mustard said again.

  ‘And…well…’ said the manager, now looking embarrassed as well as proper. Then Lord Mustard understood.

  ‘You mean their feet smell,’ he said simply.

  ‘You don’t know what I have to put up with!’ cried the manager. ‘Some days, one doesn’t dare breathe in here!’

  ‘And that’s why you want the clothes peg,’ said Lord Mustard, ‘to put on your nose.’

  ‘If Sir is willing to part with it. I mean, plastic ones look so tacky and wooden ones leave splinters in one’s nose and this one is solid iron and so elegant. Perhaps Sir would consider parting with it…?’

  Lord Mustard considered it.

  ‘…in return for the best pair of Clodhompers in stock?’

  Lord Mustard stopped considering it. That, he thought, is the sweet smell of success.

  FOUR

  Out in the street again, Lord Mustard could hardly believe his luck. They might not be proper tap-dancing shoes but they were probably just as good. But he wasn’t finished yet. He still needed a ghetto blaster and some tap-dancing lessons, and he knew that getting those was not going to be quite so easy.

  He was just thinking this when he noticed a shop next to the shoe shop. On its front window were the words:

  DANCING LESSONS

  Special rates for beginners

  This might be what I’m looking for, he thought. He went inside to find out.

  Inside were lots of people dancing around to music. They didn’t seem to be very good at it. In fact, they looked positively clumsy, all except one man who spun and twirled and leapt around so gracefully that Lord Mustard guessed he must be the instructor. Then the man was leaping and spinning towards him, stopping with a final twirl just in front of him.

  ‘There!’ he said with a bow. ‘Wasn’t that impressive?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lord Mustard, wondering if he wasn’t in fact a bit old to be doing things like twirls and spins and leaping around.

  ‘Now,’ said the instructor, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘Er…I’d like to learn to tap-dance,’ said Lord Mustard.

  There was a silence for a moment, just like the one in the shoe shop.

  ‘You’d like to learn to tap-dance,’ the instructor repeat
ed carefully.

  ‘Um…yes,’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘Well,’ said the instructor, ‘we can certainly teach you to do that. Lessons start next Wednesday.’

  ‘Great!’ said Lord Mustard. ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘£27.14p,’ came the reply.

  ‘£27.14p,’ Lord Mustard repeated slowly, thinking he’d definitely heard that figure somewhere before.

  ‘Per lesson,’ came another reply.

  ‘Per lesson,’ Lord Mustard repeated again. ‘Haven’t you got anything cheaper?’

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s just about the cheapest lesson we do,’ said the instructor.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lord Mustard. He looked round at the students still leaping clumsily around. Tap-dancing is really just standing in the same place and moving your feet in a certain way to make a certain sound so maybe he didn’t need proper lessons at all.

  ‘What if you just teach me the few steps I’m actually going to need?’ he asked.

  ‘I can do that,’ said the instructor, ‘but you’d still have to pay me for my time.’

  ‘And how much would that be?’

  ‘£5.00 an hour.’

  ‘£5.00 an hour,’ said Lord Mustard hesitantly. ‘Couldn’t you do it any cheaper?’

  There was another silence. ‘Just how much money have you got?’ said the instructor.

  ‘Er…48p,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘But your window said you did special rates for beginners.’

  ‘I know,’ said the instructor, ‘but not that special.’

  Lord Mustard looked miserably at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d swap some lessons for something, would you?’

  ‘What did you have in mind?’

  Lord Mustard held his shopping bag upside down and gave it a shake. Out plopped a pair of extra-large earmuffs for keeping out the cold but nothing else. He gave it another shake. Still nothing. Lord Mustard gave it one more shake, a good one, and the box of rock-hard chocolates left over from his last birthday fell out and burst open. Suddenly, there were rock-hard chocolates rolling across the floor and under the feet of the students still dancing clumsily around. And just as suddenly, those same clumsy students were rocking and rolling everywhere.