Fizzlebert Stump and the Great Supermarket Showdown Read online

  ‘It’s good for you,’ his dad said, sensing Fizz’s culinary caution. ‘The Spam builds muscles and the bran keeps you –’

  There was a banging at their door and a voice shouted from outside, ‘Meeting in the Mess Tent! Ten minutes!’

  ‘Two days in a row?’ Mrs Stump said. ‘That’s not normal.’

  Normal or not, it was happening.

  Another meeting!

  Dun-duh-daaahhh! (See, it’s an exciting book this one, with music in.)

  Still it was ten minutes away, so Fizz had time to tuck into his Spam cake and branflake breakfast, which wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined it might be. (He didn’t find the branflake until the last spoonful, which helped.)

  As the Stumps trudged across to the Mess Tent they bumped into Dr Surprise.

  ‘Ah!’ he shouted in shock, since he’d been looking the other way.

  ‘Dr Surprise,’ Fizz said. ‘How is Flopples this morning?’

  ‘Oh, Fizzlebert,’ the doctor said. ‘What with this meeting being sprung on us unexpectedly I’ve not had time to get back to the caravan to give her her breakfast.’

  A wilting bunch of clover drooped in his hand.

  ‘I’ll take it, if you like?’ Fizz offered.

  (Although he was a member of the circus as much as the next person, he was also a boy and did find that meetings sometimes got a bit dull. He fidgeted and sometimes snored. It wouldn’t matter if he missed the beginning of this one, would it?)

  ‘Would you?’ Dr Surprise asked. ‘She likes you, you know. This’ll put you right up in her good books. But make sure she doesn’t gobble. Just a nibble at a time. Yes?’

  ‘Is that OK, Mum?’ Fizz asked.

  ‘If you’re quick,’ his mum said. ‘Then straight to the Mess Tent.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fizz said.

  He left the grown-ups and ran between wagons and past vehicles to Dr Surprise’s caravan, a beautiful silver house on wheels with his name painted on the side.

  Fizz mounted the steps and opened the door.

  ‘Flopples,’ he called. ‘Are you here?’

  There was a snuffling noise from inside Dr Surprise’s spare hat which was sat on the fold-down kitchen table.

  Fizz peered down at the rabbit, who looked up at him as if to say, ‘Where’s my breakfast?’

  ‘Here’s your clover,’ Fizz said, lowering a few leaves into the hat.

  Flopples snatched them, those great yellow-white teeth flashing scarily close to his fingers. But Fizz didn’t flinch. He wasn’t afraid of a rabbit, not when he’d faced crocodiles and saboteurs and headless ghosts and evil old people and Independent Truant Officers and bullies and swarms of clockwork locusts and a sad dolphin called Clive (important note: some, though not all, of these encounters happen in the other Fizzlebert Stump books).

  He bravely lowered another sprig of clover towards Flopples’s snapping, snatching jaws, and as he did so he heard someone say something.

  ‘I hate circuses,’ said a voice from just outside the caravan. (It sounded like a woman.) ‘They give me the shivers.’

  ‘Well then,’ said a second voice (a man’s voice, Fizz thought), ‘you’re going to love what happens next.’

  ‘I think it’s the sequins and the leotards,’ said the first voice. ‘I find them a bit weird. I mean, what sort of sensible person wears sequins? It can’t be safe.’

  ‘No more sequins,’ said the second voice. ‘That’s a promise.’

  Uh-oh, thought Fizz.

  He didn’t recognise either of the voices, but he recognised the gist of what they were saying. They were saying that something was going to happen to the circus. (And it wasn’t going to be a good thing. Not if there wouldn’t be sequins.)

  Fizz had dealt with people who wanted to put an end to his circus before. None of them had outwitted him, not in the end, but he knew that this first bit was always tricky. He couldn’t just run up to the Ringmaster and say, ‘I heard someone say they were going to ruin the circus,’ because the Ringmaster wouldn’t believe him. That was grown-ups for you, they never believed you, not until it was all over and the villains were tied up and confessing.

  What Fizz needed was evidence.

  He dropped the last of the clover into the hat, picked a small grey metal thing up off the side and tiptoed over to the caravan window. (He had to climb up and perch on the edge of the sink to reach it, but that was easy enough.)

  He parted the net curtain a couple of centimetres and peered out.

  In the alley between Dr Surprise’s caravan and the next one over (an orange campervan owned by Fred and Kurt Berkson, The Tattooed Triplets (Sam, their brother, had left the circus years earlier to become an abacus salesman)) were two people.

  One was a short man with big sideburns and a white suit.

  The other was a tall woman with no sideburns and a nervous expression.

  It was probably she who distrusted sequins.

  He willed them to say more. To outline their plan and to do so clearly and loudly.

  He lifted the small grey metal thing he’d picked up and pressed the button labelled record.

  (Dr Surprise used this little tape recorder to jot down ideas for tricks and illusions when they came to him. He sometimes stopped in the middle of the history lessons he gave Fizz to click the red button and say something like, ‘Item: flags of all nations, but with breeds of dog?’)

  The woman in the alley said, ‘Do you promise, Mr P? No more sequins?’

  ‘When have I ever told you a lie?’ the man replied. ‘This time tomorrow there won’t be no circus no more. They’ll all be in uniform and stacking shelves for me. This was the best five hundred quid I ever spent.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money for a few pictures, Mr P.’

  ‘Yeah, but look where they’ve got us. This ex-circus is all mine now. Mine, I tell you!’

  Then he laughed the sort-of laugh and it sounded like the sort of laugh a villain in a black and white film would laugh, possibly while twirling a moustache.

  Except … the man had no moustache.

  Fizz’s brain was whirling.

  Mr P?

  Was this Mr Pinkbottle, the supermarket man? What did he mean: they’d all be stacking shelves? In uniform? No circus no more? What? What? WHAT!?

  Fizz panicked. The Ringmaster had been fooled into doing something rash, something wrong! Fizz had to save the day. He had the evidence, now all he had to do was run and find the Ringmaster and play him the tape and then they could cancel the deal, give Mr Pinkbottle back whatever he’d paid for the circus and things could simply get back to normal.

  He pressed stop on the tape recorder and reached out backwards with his foot to find the ground.

  As he did so, not being an expert acrobat, he slipped, stumbled, fell and, despite his circus training in safe-falling, banged his head on either the floor or the way down.

  The caravan went black.

  Fizz woke up and opened his eyes.

  It was dark.

  And furry.

  Had he knocked himself out and been asleep so long that night had fallen?

  If that was the case, why had no one found him?

  And why was the night furry?

  He went to rub his eyes and found there was a black top hat in the way.

  Underneath the hat was a dozing rabbit, which he pushed off his face quickly, with an apology.

  It all came flooding back.

  ‘Sorry, Flopples,’ he said, climbing to his feet, ‘I’ve got to go warn the Ringmaster. I’ve got to find my mum and dad. We’re all in great danger!’

  He glanced at the clock on the wall.

  He’d only been unconscious for ten minutes, maybe even less. He still had time.

  With the tape recorder in his hand he ran out of the caravan and wound his way through the circus to the Mess Tent.

  It was lucky the Ringmaster had called a second meeting, Fizz told himself, because it meant that everyone would be in the same place
at the same time and that made his raising the alarm about the devious supermarketeers threatening their circus that much easier.

  Almost out of breath and with a sea lion flolloping behind him (in Fish’s brain the sight of a running boy meant: fish?) Fizz burst through the Mess Tent’s flapway and pushed his way through the assembled crowd shouting, ‘Ringmaster! Ringmaster! Pinkbottle’s not interested in the circus, he wants us to wear uniforms and work for him. Supermarket! Not Super circus!’

  He stopped shouting when he realised he had reached the front. Also when he realised everyone was staring at him. Also when he realised the Ringmaster was stood beside the two people he’d overheard scheming their plans. Also when he realised he’d obviously interrupted something.

  ‘Fizzlebert Stump,’ the Ringmaster said. ‘What’s wrong with you? You burst in here shouting your lungs out when Mr Pinkbottle is speaking … I’ve never known you to be so rude before.’

  ‘But,’ Fizz sputtered, ‘he’s going to stop the circus being a circus!’

  ‘We know, Fizz,’ his dad said, stepping out of the crowd and putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘That’s what we’ve been talking about for the last ten minutes.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Fizz.

  That had rather ruined his surprise. They already knew. And they were already discussing it.

  ‘Oh,’ he said again.

  Fortunately he was saved from being any more embarrassed as Fish, like a guided fish-seeking missile homing in on a non-existent fish, came bursting into the Mess Tent, knocking circus performers over like skittles and landing on top of Fizz with a great mackerel-flavoured belch that ruffled the Ringmaster’s hair and soured the atmosphere.

  ‘Maybe we should take a break?’ Mr Pinkbottle said, riffling a wad of papers in his hand and peering down at Fizzlebert. ‘Everyone back here in fifteen minutes. Yes?’

  The tent emptied out, with grumbling and foot shuffling. Even from underneath a sea lion, and with his nose full of coconut matting, Fizz could tell the atmosphere had been unhappy before Fish had added his aromas to it.

  ‘Come on, Fizz,’ his dad said, lifting the wriggling Fish from off his back. ‘Let’s go get some fresh air.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Mr Pinkbottle, ‘I’d like to have a word with you three.’

  Fizz clambered to his feet and looked around at his mum and dad.

  ‘What do you want?’ his mum said, not in a jolly clowny way, but in a jolly frowny way. (She didn’t have her make-up on and was, therefore, being serious.)

  ‘You three are Stumps, yes?’

  They nodded.

  ‘I have been looking through these contracts,’ Mr Pinkbottle said, waving the pile of papers in his hand.

  Fizz didn’t remember signing any contract. He hadn’t joined the circus, he’d been born into it. His mum and dad were already there when he was born and they’d just stayed.

  Mr Pinkbottle looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘Your parents,’ he said, not in the most pleasant tone of voice, hardly sounding friendly or kind or warm or welcoming or charitable at all, ‘signed good old-fashioned British Board of Circuses’ Classic Twenty-One-Year Tour-of-Duty Contracts. As you know these contracts are watertight, unbreakable and have eleven more years to run. So it looks like we’re stuck together.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Stump. ‘I knew we should have –’

  Let me, your author, interrupt here for a moment …

  Look, I know and you know that discussing contracts is boring and this is supposed to be an exciting and funny novel telling you about the zany adventures Fizz has in his crazy circus life, but it’s important, just quickly, that these contracts get discussed.

  So, instead of listening to the conversation the Stumps are having with Mr Pinkbottle, which has a lot of this way and that way, back and forth, arguing and discussing, I’ll give you a quick rundown of what’s going on. OK?

  Most people in Mr Pinkbottle’s brave new circus are being ‘let go’ (which really means ‘asked to leave’ or ‘sacked’ or ‘fired’). The supermarket man has no use for them and is waving them goodbye.

  Some people though, including the Stumps, have signed special contracts that mean they can’t be sacked. With a British Board of Circuses’ Classic Twenty-One-Year Tour-of-Duty Contract they were always guaranteed work, but also they couldn’t resign. (Or rather they could, but when it was printed in the BBC Newsletter that they’d reneged on a BBC contract they’d never be invited to sign another contract with a circus again, classic or not.)

  And it didn’t matter whether your contract was owned by a Ringmaster or a Supermarket-master, a contract is a contract and simply says (the BBC keep their wording simple) ‘do the work’ (if they printed a different contract for each different act saying ‘juggle three balls at the same time’ or ‘teach fleas to sing popular tunes from Gilbert and Sullivan operettas’ or ‘pour custard down your trousers’, it would take ages). So that was what the Stumps had to do: the work Mr Pinkbottle told them to do, since he was the one who owned the contracts now.

  Now, back to the Mess Tent …

  ‘You belong to me now!’ the be-sideburned supermarketeer shouted, ending the argument.

  As he did so, Fish, the sea lion who’d been nosing through the breakfast washing-up and whose whiskers were dripping with very un-fishy porridge, was lifted up by six burly men with fluffy white walrus moustaches and little hats with anchors on the front.

  Fish struggled, but they held him firm and hauled him out of the Mess Tent.

  ‘Stop! Come back! Put that sea lion down!’ Fizz shouted, running after them.

  ‘Stump!’ shouted Mr Pinkbottle. ‘Get back here!’

  Fizz turned on his heel in the flapway.

  ‘But they’re Fish-napping … I mean sea lion-napping Fish! We’ve got to –’

  ‘They’re doing nothing of the sort,’ Mr Pinkbottle’s companion said, making notes on her clipboard. ‘That animal now belongs to Old Hempleford Aquarium. Those men have come to take him away.’

  ‘Um,’ said the Ringmaster, interrupting with a tiny cough. ‘I really must put my foot down, Mr Pinkbottle. Breaking the circus up and selling our friends off to various zoos and aquaria was never part of the deal.’

  Mr Pinkbottle looked the Ringmaster up and down (mainly ‘up’, being a head shorter than him) with a pitiless eye, and said, ‘I have altered the deal, Your Highness. Pray I don’t alter it any further.’

  The Ringmaster blushed and gabbled but, really, that was all there was to it. Nothing he said made any difference, and if the Ringmaster couldn’t change the man’s mind what chance did Fizz have?

  He pushed past the woman with the clipboard and ran outside.

  All around him the circus was fading away.

  The Big Top, which had been half put up, had been half taken down (the half that had been put up, of course, not the other half (which would have also needed putting up before they could take it down (and after that they’d still have the other half (the first half) to take down too, which would’ve all been rather a lot of effort))).

  Some caravans had already been hauled away, by acts who had been sacked, leaving gaps in the circus-town.

  There was a woman wrapping sticky tape around the snout of Kate the crocodile. Captain Fox-Dingle stood idly by, his tiny toothbrush moustache twitching on his top lip. Kate had been sold, like Fish had. (Fizz didn’t know who had bought the crocodile, but I can tell you it was Duck’n’Gooseland, a duck and goose-themed wildlife park just outside West Qualmsworth whose owner wanted to add some excitement to the place.)

  No one was rehearsing.

  Even the clowns were just stood around, in a gaggle, without falling over or saying anything stupid. One of them, Dick Turnip, was eating custard (a great clown comfort food) from a bowl without spilling a drop.

  Fizz had never seen the circus so depressed. After all it had been through, after all the things he’d saved it from, it was ending like this. Not with a b
ang, but a shrug.

  His mum and dad walked with him back to their caravan and awaited instructions.

  * * *

  I think there are two good ways to end chapters. One is to stop in the middle of something really exciting or dangerous so that the reader goes, ‘Oh! Golly! I’ve got to find out what happens next!’ and then turns the page eagerly, breathlessly and without hesitation or having dinner.

  The other way is to just let a fog of gloominess and defeat linger like an unpleasant smell, in the hope that the reader will think, ‘Well, maybe something more interesting will happen in the next bit.’

  Can you tell what sort of ending this chapter has?

  CHAPTER THREE

  In which something more interesting happens and in which punishments are dealt out

  The next morning Fizz woke up early.

  There was a banging on the outside of the caravan.

  It was what had woken him up.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  It was still dark. It was that early.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  He struggled out of bed in the gloom and bumped into his mum and dad, who were also miserably bumping around in the caravan.

  ‘No time for home breakfast today, Fizz,’ his dad said. ‘We’ve got to report to Mr Pinkbottle. You’d best get dressed.’

  The day before they’d driven their caravan out of the park where they’d been parked and into the small private ‘deliveries only’ car park at the back of Pinkbottle’s Supermarket.

  It hadn’t just been Fizz and his mum and dad, there were a handful of other acts who had also been retained by the new regime. Most people had been let go and had gone. It had been sad to see so many friends thinking about what to put in their ‘Act In Need of a Circus’ advert in the next issue of the British Board of Circuses’ Newsletter.

  Fizz and the other remaining ex-circus acts had been given plastic bags containing supermarket uniforms and told to be ready for six the next morning.