So Grotty! Read online

  Just then, Baby Bare came forward and using his most polite-est of voices asked, ‘Excuse me, Princess Gladys, but what are you going to do about your foul feet?’

  Mama Bare gasped.

  Papa Bare gasped.

  And Princess Gladys broke down, crying a trillion and one tears. Er, two—a trillion and two. Better make that a three. Her tears were enough to fill a giant swimming pool.

  Baby Bare was mortified. He hadn’t meant to upset the princess. ‘Don’t worry, Princess Gladys,’ he said in his teeny weeny voice. ‘I know just how to fix them.’

  But Princess Gladys did not hear. By now, her tears were enough to fill a lake.

  ‘Don’t worry, Princess Gladys,’ said Mama Bare in her middle-sized voice. ‘Baby Bare knows just how to fix them.’

  Still, Princess Gladys did not hear. Her tears could fill an ocean.

  ‘We know how to fix ’em!’ roared Papa Bare in his enormous voice. And the princess stopped crying. Just like that. Which makes you wonder…

  ‘Tell me!’ begged the Princess. ‘Tell me how to stop my feet from smelling.’

  Papa Bare turned to Mama Bare and in his big booming voice said, ‘Tell her.’

  Mama Bare turned to Baby Bare and in her middle-sized voice said, ‘Tell her.’

  And Baby Bare turned…but there was no-one there. All palace subjects with any sense had nicked off for their compulsory fifteen minutes tea break.

  Baby Bare gulped. He took a deep breath. ‘Um,’ he squeaked.

  ‘Um?’ echoed Mama Bare, Papa Bare and the Princess in unison.

  ‘Um…’ repeated Baby Bare in his teeny weeny voice. ‘Umberto!’

  ‘Umberto?’ cried Mama, Papa and Princess Gladys.

  Umberto was a white rabbit who lived in the palace grounds. At least everyone thought he lived in the palace grounds, he had a dreadful habit of collecting stopwatches and disappearing under toadstools.

  ‘How can Umberto help smelly feet?’ roared Papa Bare.

  ‘Not just smelly, dear,’ said Mama Bare. ‘They’re stinky, smelly.’

  ‘You’ve both got it wrong,’ declared Baby Bare. ‘They’re stinky, smelly, pongy, putrid, foul, festering, crusty feet.’

  ‘Excuse me!’ exclaimed the Princess. ‘You are offending my sensibilities.’

  ‘Your sense abilities?’ said Baby Bare. ‘What about mine?’ And with that he gave a great sniff and keeled over—well, he only pretended to keel over because as everyone knows, when a body hits the floor an injury can occur and we can’t be hurting the main character in this story.

  Princess Gladys sniffed to show her own displeasure, keeling over and copping an almighty bruise on her backside for her efforts. Which started her crying again…

  ‘Stop!’ squealed Baby Bare. ‘Please don’t cry. Umberto really can fix this, um, er, odorama melodrama? He really can. The Wicked Witch of the West told me.’

  ‘You sure you don’t mean North?’ interrupted Princess Gladys.

  Baby Bare frowned. He stroked his beard (commonly referred to as bum fluff, which made sense because Baby Bare’s tush was just as furry as his chin). ‘North, south, east or west—what does it matter?’ asked Baby Bare. ‘She’s still wicked, isn’t she?’

  Princess Gladys stroked her beard, I mean chin, too. ‘I s’pose so,’ she finally conceded. Then asked eagerly, ‘What exactly did she tell you Umberto could do?’

  Baby Bare puffed with importance as he recited, ‘Smelly feet can be cured by the saliva of the white rabbit who collects stopwatches and disappears under toadstools.’

  ‘Spew!’ said Princess Gladys, wrinkling up her nose in disgust.

  ‘Saliva,’ corrected Baby Bare. ‘Not spew. Umberto’s saliva will fix your feet. Fumigate them, disinfect them, fragrance them, maybe.’

  ‘Bring me Umberto!’ cried Princess Gladys. ‘Before Friday, if you will.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Baby Bare.

  ‘I’ll help,’ said Mama Bare.

  ‘Me, too,’ added Papa Bare.

  Princess Gladys clapped her hands. ‘Search the grounds for the white rabbit who collects stopwatches and disappears under toadstools! Whoever brings him to me will claim a reward!’

  And with that the Bare Family took off.

  The Palace Grounds

  Baby Bare, Mama Bare and Papa Bare decided to separate to speed up the search for Umberto. Besides, Papa Bare had seen it on Lawless and knew it was the only way ‘to get your man’. Baby Bare chose to go to the royal vegetable patch—affectionately known as Chateau Pomme de Terre to the carbohydrate fans in the community. Mama Bare offered to check the laundry, although secretly Baby Bare thought she had the ulterior motive of getting her wedding guest outfit in order. Papa Bare chose to search the kitchens. No prizes for guessing his motive!

  On his way to Chateau Pomme de Terre Baby Bare passed a large pond where King Dom, Princess Gladys’s father, liked to throw a line. Here, the trout amused themselves by leaping out of the water saying the fish equivalent of ‘Nyah, nyah, nah, nah, nahhhhh’, but more like ‘Ah, ah, ah, ahh, ahhhh,’ because of their pathetically small tongues.

  Beside the pond was a large tree with a sign, ‘Kiss at your own risk’, and under the sign sat a frog. Now this was no ordinary frog. Not only could he speak but he wore a large red T-shirt saying, ‘Warning: Kissing Frogs is a Health Hazard’. Now, someone, Baby Bare did not know who, had crossed out the ‘H’ in health and added a ‘W’, immediately alerting Baby Bare to the fact that this particular frog had once been a Prince who’d been married to a Princess. He’d ended up divorced and had been taken to the cleaners and was now penniless.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Baby Bare to the Frog Pauper. ‘Have you seen Umberto the white rabbit anywhere?’

  ‘Ribbet,’ answered the frog.

  ‘Not ribbet—rabbit.’ Baby Bare tried again. ‘Umberto. You know. Floppy ears, whiskers and the cutest little cotton tail.’

  The frog paused, his lips curled into a cynical smile.

  Baby Bare snorted. ‘I’m not talking undies, you fool.’

  The smile disappeared. ‘Ribbet’ was all that the frog said.

  ‘Rabbit,’ corrected Baby Bare. ‘Umberto, the white rabbit who collects stopwatches and hides under toadstools.’

  ‘Toad stools!’ said the frog. ‘I never have anything to do with toadstools.’

  By now Baby Bare was losing his patience. He bowled up to the frog, grabbed it by its clammy webbed little hands and dangled it over his mouth saying, ‘Spill it, buster, or I’ll eat you,’ which wasn’t very nice of Baby Bare and could have got him charged with Cruelty to Green Animals in the kingdom’s Welfare Act: Article 59, Clause 18, Section 2B. Fortunately, there were no witnesses.

  The frog broke. ‘Last time I saw Umberto was at Chateau Pomme de Terre. He was squaffing baby carrots and strawberries.’ The frog released a build up of air, a cross between a belch and a farting sort of sound. Baby Bare flung his hands up in disgust, hurling the frog into the pond.

  As Baby Bare marched off in the direction of Chateau Pomme de Terre the frog called from his watery lily pad perch, ‘Touching frogs gives you warts.’

  Baby Bare did not reply. He was too busy worrying about which direction to go—North or West—but decided to leave it alone as he’d been down that road before.

  ‘I hope you get so many warts you look like a witch’s nose.’

  In impatience Baby Bare waved his hand at the frog saying, ‘Whatever!’

  ‘Touching frogs gives you halitosis!’ yelled the frog.

  Baby Bare walked on.

  ‘And makes you cross-eyed!’

  ‘Hah!’ cried Baby Bare increasing his stride.

  ‘Touching frogs makes your limbs fall off…’

  At this point Baby Bare tripped on a tree root, almost amputating his toe, but he wouldn’t give the frog the satisfaction of a response. He just kept on walking, er, limping.

  ‘And it kills your tastebuds so you’ll never be ab
le to taste porridge again!’

  At this Baby Bare stopped, but then he remembered that he didn’t even like porridge, it was that tiresome whingeing cousin of his, so he gave the frog his rude claw and kept walking.

  Just as he was passing the cabbage patch, Baby Bear heard a tremendous wail. It was the ear-piercing (the cartilage bit at the top), heart-stopping (what an exaggeration), head-splitting (here’s another one) sound of a rabbit being caught in a trap.

  ‘Umberto!’ cried Baby Bare, running up and down the rows of cabbages. ‘Umberto!’

  But it wasn’t Umberto. It was Peter, Umberto’s pathetic excuse for a cousin. Peter was madly overdressed in a Pierre Lapin blue jacket with shiny gold buttons and a smart braid trim. It was the gold trim that was causing the problem. It had caught in the sharp fishing wire and torn as Peter endeavoured to free himself. The braid trim now dangled from one lapel. Some strands were still stuck in the trap.

  ‘Maman’s going to assassiner me,’ sobbed Peter. ‘She vill send me to my chambre à coucher vissout any tourte. Mon Dieu!’

  French phoney! thought Baby Bare.

  ‘Blast your tourte!’ snapped Baby Bare, a little too harshly if you ask me, because it was blueberry pie and I can understand why Peter didn’t want to miss blueberry. ‘Where’s Umberto?’

  At the mention of Umberto Peter moaned and hid his face in his hands. ‘Umberto? Vot do you vont vis ’im? ’E’s an embarrassment to ze Maison de Lapin.’

  ‘I need him to help Princess Gladys,’ said Baby Bare. ‘To get rid of her smelly feet.’ For emphasis he mimed a wafting motion, accompanied by frantic foot pointing and face pulling. ‘On Friday all the suitors in the land will come to request her hand. What will we do if they cop her foot instead and cark it? There would be no wedding.’ Baby Bare wrung his hands. ‘Oh it’s too, too terrible to even contemplate.’

  ‘Vy should I help vous?’ asked Peter. ‘Anything in it for moi?’ And he mimed rubbing money between his paws.

  Baby Bare was getting more and more fed up. ‘You’re wasting my time,’ he said. He grabbed Peter Rabbit by the collar and wrenched him close, so close he got a tickly whisker up his nose. ‘One second more and I’ll rip off that gold braid and wring your scrawny neck with it. D’you hear?’ (In today’s day and age one could say that Baby Bare had an anger management problem but I’m reluctant to apply labels). ‘Where is he?’ demanded Baby Bare. ‘Is he in the vegetable patch?’

  This was all the incentive Peter needed. ‘Légumes? Umberto eat légumes? He wouldn’t even manges une truffe! No, you’re best bet is to look in ze fields or ze forêt.’

  ‘But how will I know where to find him?’ cried Baby Bare.

  ‘Follow the path,’ said Peter.

  ‘Which path?’ asked Baby Bare. ‘There is no path.’ Looking out across the fields all he could see was…All he could see was…piles and piles of rabbit poo!

  ‘Exactly!’ said Peter, and with a twist and a squirm he was off.

  The Forest

  So Baby Bare set off. As he stepped over and round bundles of little brown turds he swore at the rabbit explosion problem in King Dom’s kingdom (but I’m not going to tell you what he said). ‘Umberto,’ he called. ‘Um-ber-r-r-to!’ Through the fields and meadows he went, cursing Peter when he could not find a trail.

  In the distance, on the outskirts of the forest, Baby Bare spotted something. It appeared to be moving. He couldn’t make out what it was. Baby Bare snuck closer, using all his powers of levitation to make as little noise as possible. He couldn’t afford to lose Umberto now. As Baby Bear drew near he could clearly make out the colour, white, against the browns of the tree trunks and the greens of the leaves (not the grass, for it was covered in rabbit poo).

  It’s white and round and floppy, thought Baby Bare excitedly as it came into view. It must be a tail.

  Closer and closer crept Baby Bear. The squelch was overpowering. At one point he had to stop and inspect his feet. Baby bear grimaced. He made a mental note to ask Princess Gladys for worker’s comp. He was sure there was something in the Act about ‘psychological trauma suffered when fresh rabbit poo collects between toes and matts the fur’. Gritting his teeth and trying to slide, not stride, Baby Bare set off. But the closer he got the more puzzled he got. The white ball was fluffy, but not terrifically fluffy. And it wobbled—far too much for an ordinary tail—unless, of course, it had an attachment problem.

  Holding his breath Baby Bare crouched behind a bush, readying himself to leap out and take Umberto by surprise. ‘Boo!’ he cried and was half-way out of the bush when shock reversed the rules of motion and he scrambled backwards.

  ‘Off with his head!’ came the cry from the other side of the bush.

  Baby Bare gulped. How was he to know that Queen Essie was into nude sunbathing? And how was he to know that this was her favourite little glade?

  ‘Off with his head!’ squawked the Queen.

  ‘Off with his head!’ echoed a particularly vicious-sounding male voice.

  ‘Get him!’ cried another.

  By concentrating so much on the white-patch-that-was-supposed-to-be-a-tail Baby Bare had failed to see the Queen’s guards—although the fact that they were propped against a tree having a midday zizz might have had something to do with it. Baby Bear flung himself onto all fours and scurried away—scuttled really, as the attempts to sidestep the more copious piles of rabbit poo made him look like a crab. On the way Baby Bare scooped up the Queen’s robes which were laid out on a rock. He took off thinking, That’ll slow her down.

  ‘Off with his head!’ bellowed the Queen, grabbing a branch to hide behind (but what she thought one leaf and a few twigs were going to hide is beyond me).

  Baby Bare grunted as he ran. Those nimble-footed nincompoops would soon be upon him!

  Baby Bare ran deeper and deeper into the forest, only stopping when the thudding of his heart had replaced the thudding of the guards’ feet. Leaning against a boulder to catch his breath he thought of what had just happened. Baby Bear shuddered. He shook. Memories of the Queen’s horrified face were bad enough but not as bad as memories of that mountainous white bum. Using a paw Baby Bare tried to fan himself from his hot sweat.

  But no matter how hard he fanned the back of his neck felt hotter and hotter. Like I’m next to a jet of steam, he thought. Turning slowly he…

  ‘Aaagh!’

  …screamed and whirled around.

  ‘Lost are ya?’

  Baby Bare took in fangs as long as tusks, eyes like lasers, and a nose that hooked like a snout.

  ‘Which witch are you?’ asked Baby Bare in a voice so teeny weeny that it could barely be heard. ‘From the north, south, east or west?’

  At this the witch threw back her great hooter and cackled (for witches don’t laugh, they only cackle). ‘What’s it to you, my pretty?’ she asked. (And they have a stupid habit of calling everyone My Pretty, even the dead ugly ones.)

  Leaning over, the witch grabbed Baby Bare’s finger and started kneading it, feeling for meat on the bones. Using her arms she measured his waist, hips and chest in quick succession. ‘Definitely an endomorph,’ she said with a rattle. ‘Destined for high blood pressure and heart disease.’ At this she started to grin, ‘Which is why you can thank me for putting you out of your misery. You are coming with me.’ Clawed fingers clamped on Baby Bare’s wrist as the witch started to pull him further into the darkness. ‘Time for a cook-up.’

  By now Baby Bare had had enough. He’d been heckled. He’d been jostled. He’d been jeered at. And he’d taken his last poke.

  With a thousand generations of bears behind him Baby Bare growled. The sound took him by surprise. He paused, then tried again. This time Baby Bare snarled. He roared. ‘No-o-o-o!’ His voice bounced off tree trunks and hurtled through the dense foliage. It glided across rock-pools and slid up and over mountains. It traversed the deepest valleys and…Better stop, now, I’m exaggerating.

  Baby Bare jerked with shock. W
hat a voice! He thought of his father, Papa Bare, with his great deep voice. He thought of his mother, Mama Bare, with her middle-sized voice. He thought of his own teeny weeny voice, which was now quite magnificent. How he wished they’d heard him.

  Meanwhile, the witch stumbled and released him. With hands clamped to her ears and mumbling, ‘He’s no Hansel or Gretel, that’s for sure!’ she took off.

  Baby Bare pulled himself up to his full height. Taking great care he picked the twigs and leaves from his fur. Using his claws he combed his coat until it glistened. He cleared his throat, trying his new voice on for size. The sound made him jump. He opened his mouth and out came, ‘I was asked to find Umberto for Princess Gladys.’ His voice pounded in his ears. ‘And find him I will!’ Both eardrums nearly collapsed. Remembering the rudiments of bush lore, Baby Bare inspected a tree trunk for moss, found it grew on only one side, and proceeded to march in the opposite direction.

  The Palace Again

  Meanwhile, the palace was having its fair share of action. It was now Thursday evening.

  Queen Essie (short for Esther Susanne Sally India Eve) had arrived back dressed in borrowed hose and some cardboard armour proclaiming she had ‘cheek chafe’ and that she ‘would get that thief if it’s the last thing I do!’

  Princess Gladys was running around wringing her hands as both Mama Bare and Papa Bare had returned empty-handed.

  All my hopes rest on Baby Bare, she thought in despair. Wee Willie Winky. How pathetic!

  Princess Gladys rushed to the top of the highest turret to scan the horizon. All she could see was the growing crowd outside the palace walls. Since yesterday’s announcement men had begun queuing outside the drawbridge waiting for the big moment, when they would meet Princess Gladys and hopefully sweep her off her feet. (Maybe ‘off her’ should have been omitted in the last sentence). From her vantage point Princess Gladys was none too pleased with what she saw. They were a scraggly lot, unkempt and unwashed. The perfect foil, really, for smelly feet.