The Great Brain Robbery (2 page)

BOOK: The Great Brain Robbery
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Marvella’s was a new addition to the village of Cramley-on-the-Crump. When the news broke that a Marvella’s was opening the local children gasped with joy. And when
they heard that this Marvella’s would be the biggest in the country, the children gasped so deeply they almost turned themselves inside-out. You see, Marvella Brand’s Happyland was more
than your regular toy emporium. It was an enchanted kingdom, a magical realm where all your dreams came true – dreams you hadn’t even had yet, dreams of things you didn’t even
know were possible.

Frankie stopped on the pavement outside the shop and gazed up at this magical dream castle. Brightly-coloured flags flew from masts, turrets sparkled like candied fruit, and two red-cheeked toy
soldiers stood guard at the entrance. Above the door, ‘Marvella’s’ was spelt out in glittering letters and, perched on top of these was the store’s famous mascot, Teddy
Manywishes, waving and smiling mechanically. The shop wasn’t yet open so the golden doors were still tightly shut. But peering through the window, Frankie could see boxes being stacked on the
shelves in preparation for the grand opening. Pride of place, of course, went to the store’s star toys: the Mechanimals. Row upon gleaming row of them, like a miniature army, and leading the
charge was Frankie’s favourite – a smart blue Gadget the Rabbit.

Now you’ve probably been wondering what’s so special about Mechanimals. Well let me tell you. A Mechanimal is not just any robotic pet. It is much much more. Each and every
Mechanimal is specially programmed to recognise you, its owner. From the moment it sets its electronic eyes on your beaming face, your Mechanimal becomes your most devoted friend. It doesn’t
tease you, or ignore you, or sulk when you don’t share your crisps. It doesn’t tip your schoolbag out on the floor or snitch to the teacher. No, your Mechanimal thinks you are the best
thing since stripy pyjamas. It will follow you to the ends of the earth and love you for as long as its batteries last – guaranteed.

Frankie pressed his head against the cold glass of the window and sighed. He really needed a friend. Even a mechanical one would have done just fine.

With all the teasing and trouble and grazing of knees, Frankie had almost forgotten that the next day was his tenth birthday. He closed his eyes and imagined how brilliant it would be to come
downstairs and see a Gadget-the-Rabbit-shaped present on the kitchen table. But he knew it was impossible. Marvella Brand’s Happyland could make all your dreams come true, but not if you were
skint. Frankie pushed his nose down into his scarf and trudged slowly home.

Frankie Blewitt hadn’t always been skint. In fact, his parents, Mr and Mrs Blewitt, had been jolly well-off indeed. So well-off in fact that Frankie used to slurp his
choco pops from a solid silver spoon. But if you know Frankie as well as I do, then you will know that, the year before, Mr and Mrs Blewitt got mixed up in some rather dodgy business that landed
them both in jail. Frankie hadn’t heard from them since. Not a word. Not so much as a Christmas card. Mr and Mrs Blewitt were not exactly the nicest of parents and, as far as I’m
concerned, they can stay in prison for a while longer. But with his parents gone, Frankie’s pocket money soon dried up. Mr Blewitt had taken care to stash his millions in far-flung places and
Frankie did not receive a bean. Luckily for him, his old French nanny, Alphonsine, took him under her wing and Frankie had lived with her, her husband Eddie and their fluffy French poodle Colette
ever since.

Alphonsine and Eddie did not have a penny-chew between them. But being broke didn’t bother them much. After all they had seen worse – much worse – during the war many years
ago.

‘Pffff!’ Alphonsine would splutter as she whisked her pancake mixture. ‘Do not worry about such things, little cabbage. There is worse things in life than not having the newest
wotsit on the telly-box. Pffffff!’ Indeed, Alphonsine did not see the point in
buying
new wotsits when she could make them herself. She had spent most of the war working as a secret
agent in the French Resistance and had spent much of that time sabotaging tanks and fixing bicycles. As a result she was an extremely skilled mechanic who could do pretty much anything with her
spanner. If Eddie, Frankie or Colette ever needed something, Alphonsine would jump on her motorbike and head down to the local dump. There, she would scavenge for bits and bobs – a bolt here,
a nut there – and
hey presto
! New kettle! New armchair! New bike for Frankie! But Alphonsine wouldn’t just fix things. No. She would improve them by adding special features of
her own. So the kettle whistled the French national anthem when the water boiled and Frankie’s bike blew out lovely big bubbles when he turned the pedals.

Frankie loved Alphonsine and Eddie and by the time dinner was on the table his tears had dried and he was already feeling much better. Then, as they were eating, a news report on the
soon-to-be-open Marvella store flashed up on the telly.

‘Look!’ said Frankie. ‘There’s going to be a new Marvella’s, just down the road. How great is that!’ Eddie removed his spectacles and blinked his misty
eyes.

‘Do you see this, Alphonsine?’ he asked, turning up the volume. Alphonsine craned her wrinkly old neck towards the television.

‘A Marvella’s?’ she said. ‘In Cramley-on-ze-Crump?’ Eddie nodded and Alphonsine raised her bristly white eyebrows. Frankie couldn’t work out why they were
acting so strangely.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

‘Marvella’s has a long and curious history, you know,’ added Eddie.

‘Really?’ said Frankie, intrigued.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Alphonsine. ‘It all started many yonks ago when we were just tiny tiddlers. Tell him ze story, Eddie.’ Eddie turned off the TV and began.

 

‘When I was a small boy, there was a gentleman in the next village called Mr Crispin Whittle.’ Eddie spoke with the same precision and care that he used to spoon
sugar into his tea. ‘Mr Whittle was a carpenter. He earned his living making door frames, crates and tables. But Mr Whittle found all that rather dull. So, once the day’s work was over,
he would gather together the leftover wood, take it to his workshop in the forest and sit up all night long crafting the most
exquisite
toys imaginable.’ Eddie’s eyes shone
like polished buttons. ‘Sometimes, my friends and I would go there late in the evening to see what he was making.’

‘What sorts of toys did he make?’ asked Frankie.

‘Oh, the most fabulous things you can think of: splendid castles with moats full of mechanical fish; wind-up dragons that puffed out jets of green fire; painted clockwork unicorns big
enough for small princesses to ride. At first he made gifts for his nieces and nephews, but Mr Whittle couldn’t bear to see other children left out, so he was soon making gifts for
everyone.’

‘Did he make anything for you?’ asked Frankie.

‘But of course!’ said Alphonsine. ‘Show him, Eddie.’ Eddie hobbled over to a dresser in the next room, rummaged around and came back holding what looked like a walnut.
Frankie took it out of Eddie’s hand and inspected it. It
was
a walnut.

‘Open it,’ prompted Eddie. Frankie saw that there was a small, golden clasp at the join of the shell. He nudged it gently with his fingernail and, as the nut popped open, a tinkling
waltz began to play. Frankie looked closer and saw, carved into the inside of the shell, a dozen miniature mechanical dancers sweeping around a tiny, Viennese ballroom. He was completely
spellbound.

‘But it was not always hunky-monkey for Mr Crispin,’ said Alphonsine, taking over the story. ‘It was not long before every king and queen in Europe was wanting Mr Whittler to
make toys for their little princelings. But princelings, as you know, is generally rotten eggs.’

‘Do you mean spoiled rotten?’ asked Frankie, trying not to giggle.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Alphonsine impatiently, ‘spoiled eggrot. And the most rottenest egg of all was His Royal Highness the Prince of Valkrania.’

Eddie nodded and rolled his eyes in agreement. ‘Well this royal princeling,’ Alphonsine continued, ‘wants to impress all his royal friends. So he orders his mother to get him a
pair of wings, made of real feathers, so that he can swoop about the sky like an eagle. Now, Mr Whittler is a toymaker, but he is not a magician. The queen, she is saying, “
Do
this
”, “
Do that
”, and “
I command you!
” But Mr Whittler tells her, “
You can command me all you like, Your Majesty, but I cannot change
the laws of gravity.

‘So Mr Whittler is working night after night, but no amount of cleverness will do the trick. The big day arrives and Prince Vladimir is given a most beauteous pair of eagle wings, but Mr
Whittler tells him they is just for play. They is toys. The prince can flap about all he likes, he can even glide a bit, but he should not do anything knuckle-brained like jump out of his bedroom
window, because gravity will get the better of him, no doubts about it! But of course the Royal Doughnut doesn’t listen. He huffs and puffs and he says to himself, “
If I want to go
jumping out of the window then I jolly well shall! Who does this gravity fellow think he is?
” And that very afternoon, he invites all his friends to the palace, jumps out of the royal
window and breaks his royal schnozz.’ Alphonsine demonstrated the prince’s crash landing with her spoon as Frankie spluttered with laughter.

‘Straight away,’ Alphonsine went on, her eyes sparkling, ‘everyone is saying that the prince is a butt.’

‘Eh?’ said Frankie, confused.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Alphonsine, ‘he is the butt of all jokes, the stock of laughing.’

‘A
laughing stock
, dear,’ said Eddie.

‘Zat is what I said,’ puffed Alphonsine. ‘He is the laughing butt, the biggest laughing butt in all the kingdom!’ Frankie chortled with delight. ‘So he sends out
his army to catch this rascally Mr Gravity, but of course Gravity is a most tricksy fellow to catch. So what does the great nincombooby do but arrest poor Mr Whittler instead.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Frankie, ‘what happened to him?’

BOOK: The Great Brain Robbery
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