Lord Mustard Read online

  ‘What have you done!’ cried the instructor.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘I think the box must have been as old as the chocolates.’

  ‘Don’t apologise!’ said the instructor. ‘It’s brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!’

  ‘What’s brilliant?’ said Lord Mustard, puzzled.

  ‘Your idea! You see, the first thing you need before you can dance is poise and balance. Rolling rock-hard chocolates under someone’s feet will force them to learn it.’

  ‘Is it hard teaching poise and balance, then?’

  ‘You don’t know what I have to put up with!’ cried the instructor. ‘People come here expecting to leap and twirl and spin, and most of them can’t even walk to the loo without falling over on the way.’

  As if to make his point, he leapt across the floor in a whole series of twirls and spins, managing to miss every chocolate on the way.

  ‘See?’ he said as he spun back. ‘All poise and balance. And your marvellous idea with rock-hard chocolates will help them to learn it. You wouldn’t consider parting with them, would you…?’

  Lord Mustard considered it.

  ‘…in return for a hint on learning tap-dancing that really works?’

  Lord Mustard stopped considering it. ‘What sort of hint?’ he asked.

  ‘Take an old tin bath with no water in it, turn it upside down and light a fire under it. Then you take your shoes and socks off and jump on.’

  ‘And that will teach me how to tap-dance?’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘Believe me,’ said the instructor, ‘when you’re standing on something hot with no shoes and socks on, you’ll soon pick it up.’

  That, thought Lord Mustard, is a step in the right direction.

  FIVE

  Out in the street again, Lord Mustard could hardly believe his luck for a second time. Shoes for tap-dancing and a way of learning the steps! But he wasn’t finished yet. He still needed a ghetto blaster, and he knew that getting that was not going to be easy at all.

  He was just thinking this when he heard the sound of loud music spilling out onto the pavement, and he turned to see a music shop right next to the dance studio. It was called Dave the Rave’s Musical Cave and seemed to be just what he was looking for. Again. He went inside.

  As he walked in, the music hit him like a brick wall. There was only one person there, standing behind the counter and not looking very happy, and Lord Mustard guessed he must be Dave the Rave. That one person looked up.

  ‘Yo, dude!’ he cried. ‘How’s it hangin’?’

  ‘How’s what hanging?’ said Lord Mustard.

  Then Dave the Rave looked more closely at him. ‘Sorry, you’re not as young as the usual crowd we get in here.’

  He reached down under the counter and flicked a switch. The music stopped.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now, what gives, grandad?’

  ‘I’m looking for a spaghetti blaster,’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘I think you mean a ghetto blaster,’ said Dave the Rave. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve just got the new FONY Earbasher in, the latest in hi-tech lo-cost multi-function digital-display music-making. Here, take a look.’

  Lord Mustard took a look. He also took a look at the price.

  ‘Haven’t you got anything cheaper?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s about the cheapest you’ll find,’ said Dave the Rave. ‘If money’s a problem, you can always pay it off weekly.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘£27.14p a week, right?’

  ‘Got it in one!’ said Dave the Rave. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Just a lucky guess,’ said Lord Mustard. He looked round at the shop. What he needed was something that would make music so he could tap-dance. It didn’t have to be a ghetto blaster so maybe there was something else that would do the job just as well. Even as he was thinking this, his gaze came to rest on an old record player, with a handle to wind it up and a horn for the sound to come out.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘That?’ said Dave the Rave. ‘That was here when I took the shop over. It works but it’s so old no one wants it.’

  ‘How much do you want for it?’ said Lord Mustard. ‘No, don’t tell me. £5.00, right?’

  ‘Got it in one!’ said Dave the Rave. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Another lucky guess,’ said Lord Mustard. He looked miserably at him. ‘I don’t suppose you’d swap it for something, would you?’

  ‘I might. What did you have in mind?’

  This, thought Lord Mustard, is getting to be a bit of a habit. He held his shopping bag upside down one last time and gave it a shake. Out plopped a pair of extra-large earmuffs for keeping out the cold. Then he just stood there and waited.

  ‘Hot dog!’ cried Dave the Rave. ‘The grandad dude’s hit the jackpot!’

  ‘Don’t tell me. You like them,’ said Lord Mustard.

  Dave the Rave didn’t answer. He just picked them up, put them on and turned the music on loud again. Really loud.

  ‘Do you like them?’ shouted Lord Mustard.

  ‘What?’ shouted Dave the Rave.

  ‘Take the earmuffs off,’ shouted Lord Mustard.

  ‘I can’t hear you because of the earmuffs,’ shouted Dave the Rave. Lord Mustard gave up.

  But then Dave the Rave turned the music off again and took the earmuffs off. He stood there looking very pleased about something.

  ‘Man, I’ve been looking for something like these for years.’

  ‘Really?’ said Lord Mustard. ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can’t hear the music.’

  ‘But isn’t that what you’re supposed to do in a music shop, listen to the music?’

  ‘Depends on the music.’

  ‘Don’t you like the music you sell, then?’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘You don’t know what I have to put up with!’ cried Dave the Rave. ‘When kids come in here, all they want to hear is Grunge, Gunge, Plunge, Splunge, Jungle, Grumble, Grizzle, Sizzle and all kinds of Rock I’ve never even heard of. And they want me to play it loud. Really loud. And if I don’t, no one comes in. I hate it.’

  ‘What kind of music do you like, then?’ said Lord Mustard. Dave the Rave looked embarrassed.

  ‘Er…Max O’Connor,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Max O’Connor,’ Lord Mustard repeated. Dave the Rave nodded ruefully.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t do for the kids to know that their fave knave Dave the Rave listens to the same music as their parents.’

  Lord Mustard nodded. No, it probably wouldn’t.

  ‘And you can see why I need these earmuffs so badly,’ he went on. ‘You wouldn’t consider parting with them, would you…?’

  This time, Lord Mustard didn’t bother considering it. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘…in return for that old wind-up record player?’

  That, thought Lord Mustard, is music to my ears.

  SIX

  Back at Mustard Manor, Lord Mustard got down to the serious business of learning how to tap-dance.

  First, he put on his new Clodhompers and tried them out on his best antique wooden floor, and he discovered they made a rather satisfying clickety-click sound.

  Then he wound up his old wind-up record player and waited to hear what sort of sound it made…and waited…and waited. Then he noticed there was no record on it and even he knew that that would probably make a difference. He remembered he had some records buried somewhere in Mustard Manor, but when he went to look for them, all he could find were some old and scratchy things with titles like Cocktail Party Smash Hits 1932 and The National Anthem (Extended Disco Remix). Hardly the latest in modern music but they would have to do.

  Next, he needed a tin bath. He didn’t have one of his own since he was a lord and lords are supposed to have shiny white baths so big they can almost swim in them but he knew Mrs. Wrinkle had one so he borrowed that instead, which was a
bit unfortunate because she happened to be using it at the time. Then, out in the garden, he turned it upside down, lit a fire under it and waited for it to warm up. And when he thought it was just hot enough, he took his shoes and socks off and jumped on. The dance instructor was right. Very soon, he was jiggling his feet around so fast he could hardly see them moving.

  It wasn’t long before he thought he was ready. But just to make sure, he went back inside to his best antique wooden floor, put on his Clodhompers, wound up his record player and started tap-dancing. Mrs. Wrinkle appeared in the doorway, still wrapped in a towel and looking miserable again.

  ‘What do you think?’ cried Lord Mustard.

  ‘I think you look silly,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle. ‘Can I have my bath back now?’

  ‘I’ll make loads of money!’ cried Lord Mustard.

  ‘You’ll be lucky if you make your bus fare home,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle. ‘Can I have my bath back now?’

  ‘I will!’ cried Lord Mustard. ‘You’ll see!’

  Yes, thought Mrs. Wrinkle, we will indeed see—and she went off to look for her bath herself.

  Back in town, Lord Mustard found the same stretch of pavement where he’d seen the tap-dancing girl, put on his Clodhompers and set up his record player.

  He’d remembered she had a hat for people to throw money into but the only one he could find was an old top hat of the kind that lords are supposed to wear from time to time. It was a bit squashed after a horse sat on it during Ascot Week but he’d brought it along anyway.

  He’d also remembered she had a blackboard with a poem chalked on it but all he could find was a spare piece of antique wooden floor like the one he’d practised on. There was probably an undiscovered hole somewhere back at Mustard Manor just waiting for Mrs. Wrinkle to fall through but he’d also brought that along anyway. He’d even made up a little poem of his own. It read:

  I won’t be singing, only dancing,

  I’m new and I’m Lord Mustard.

  And like that girl here before,

  I’m not just broke, I’m busted. (Sorry!)

  Then he wound up his record player, put a record on it and started tap-dancing. At first, people just stopped to stare at him. After all, you don’t often see a lord close up, still less a lord tap-dancing in Clodhompers to an old wind-up record player. But when he’d come to the end of his first dance and taken his first bow, they did something very strange: they clapped. And they did something even stranger: they started tossing money into his upturned top hat, not just pennies but pound coins and five pound notes as well.

  Lord Mustard could hardly believe his eyes so he shut them and believed his ears as they listened to large amounts of money making a rather satisfying clickety-click sound as it landed in his hat. Then when the people had stopped tossing money in, he changed records, wound up his record player and started again.

  It went on like that all afternoon, Lord Mustard tap-dancing and bowing, and people clapping and tossing money into his upturned hat, until he came to the end of his last dance and gave a last bow, and the people tossed in some last money and started drifting away. All except one man. As Lord Mustard picked up his hat and started counting money, the man sidled up to him.

  ‘Do you do this every day?’ he said.

  ‘I plan to,’ said Lord Mustard, not looking up at him and still counting. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you think you’ll make much money doing it?’

  ‘I plan to,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘Why?’

  ‘How much did you make today?’

  Lord Mustard finished counting. ‘Today I made £270.14p,’ he said, thinking that figure sounded oddly familiar. Then he did look up. ‘Why?’

  ‘How,’ said the man, ‘would you like to make even more?’

  SEVEN

  ‘Make even more money!’ said Lord Mustard. ‘Of course I’d like to make even more money! Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘Then I think I can help,’ said the man. ‘Tell me, have you got an agent?’

  ‘An agent?’ said Lord Mustard, not knowing what an agent actually was. ‘What, you mean secret agent? Like that James Bomb who goes round blowing people up?’

  ‘No, no!’ said the man. ‘I mean someone who organises where you’re going to appear and who you’re going to appear in front of and things like that. That sort of agent.’

  ‘Well…no,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘I didn’t think you needed things like agents to do things like this. I thought all you did was just grab a bit of pavement and got on with it.’

  ‘I’m not talking about bits of pavement,’ said the agent. ‘I’m talking about appearing in theatres and on television and in front of the queen.’

  ‘The queen?’ said Lord Mustard hesitantly. ‘You mean the queen?’

  ‘Well, there is only one, isn’t there?’ said the agent. ‘How would you like to appear in front of her?’

  Lord Mustard wasn’t sure about that one. He’d only met the queen once before and that was during the Ascot Week when that horse had sat on his top hat, and he’d felt a bit silly meeting her with a squashed hat on his head. If he did perform in front of her, he hoped she wouldn’t recognise him.

  ‘So what do you think?’ said the agent.

  ‘If I’m going to be appearing on television and places like that,’ said Lord Mustard, ‘shouldn’t I be getting myself a proper yoghurt blaster?’

  ‘I think you mean ghetto blaster,’ said the agent. ‘Ghetto blasters are ten-a-penny in this business. People want something different. Trust me, I’m an agent.’

  ‘What about proper tap-dancing shoes, then?’

  The agent looked down at Lord Mustard’s Clodhompers. ‘No, they’re fine. Not quite the thing for tap-dancing, I’ll grant you, but they’re different and people want something different. Trust me, I’m an agent.’

  ‘What about proper tap-dancing lessons, then?’

  ‘What’s wrong with what you’re doing now?’

  ‘Well, nothing,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘It’s just that I sort of made it up as I went along.’

  ‘Proves you’re a natural, then,’ said the agent. ‘No, don’t change a thing. Like I say, you’re different and people want something different. Trust me, I’m an agent.’

  ‘You’re not having my bath again!’ said Mrs. Wrinkle when he got back to Mustard Manor.

  ‘I won’t need it again,’ Lord Mustard said proudly. ‘I won’t ever need it again. I’ve made £270.14p.’

  ‘You haven’t!’ said Mrs. Wrinkle.

  ‘I have!’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘Well, where is it, then?’

  ‘Um…well…actually, I haven’t got it with me,’ Lord Mustard said sheepishly.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve already spent it!’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. It’s just that I had to give it to an agent.’

  ‘An agent! He’s not going to blow you up, is he?’ said Mrs. Wrinkle hopefully.

  ‘No, I mean a proper agent,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘Someone who organises where I’m going to appear and who I’m going to appear in front of. That sort of agent.’

  ‘And you gave him all the money you made,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle.

  ‘I had to,’ said Lord Mustard. ‘It takes money to start organising things, you know.’

  ‘He told you that, I suppose,’ said Mrs. Wrinkle dryly. ‘I suppose he also told you to trust him.’

  ‘Um…well…yes,’ said Lord Mustard.

  ‘They always do,’ sighed Mrs. Wrinkle. ‘Well, you’ll just have to go back again tomorrow and make some more.’

  EIGHT

  But Lord Mustard didn’t have to go back again tomorrow, nor the next day, nor even the day after that. In fact, he never had to go back at all because the agent he’d met started organising where he was going to appear.

  The first thing he organised was a show in front of The Worshipful Order Of Distressed Ironmongers, who were distressed because everything seems to be made of plastic these days and nobody wants things made out of
iron any more, things like cast iron water-wings to help you learn to swim and solid iron carrier bags for taking your shopping home in, which is probably just as well, actually.

  Lord Mustard felt a bit nervous about going on stage for the first time, but when he’d wound up his record player and started tap-dancing and taken his first bow, and they’d clapped and started throwing money at him, he felt a bit better.

  The Worshipful Order Of Distressed Ironmongers liked him. More than that, they loved him, just like the agent said they would. And when he’d finished, they said they didn’t feel quite so distressed any more and presented him with a cast iron top hat to replace the one the horse had sat on. It was a bit heavy but Lord Mustard was a lord and lords are supposed to be polite so he said thank you and that he would wear it always.

  The next thing the agent organised was to get Lord Mustard on television, on the Max O’Connor Show. Lord Mustard felt even more nervous about being on television for the first time, but he thought about how things had gone on the pavement in town and on stage and he felt a bit better, though he did wonder how people at home were going to be able to throw money at him.

  First on the show was Max O’Connor himself who sang a couple of old songs. He finished and took a bow and the studio audience sort of clapped and gave a half-hearted cheer. Next was a band playing Splunge music who then went on to play some Grizzle then some kind of Rock no one had ever heard of. They finished and took a bow and the studio audience sort of clapped and gave a half-hearted cheer again. Then it was Lord Mustard’s turn. He walked on stage, wound up his old record player and started tap-dancing.

  Being on television, of course, no watching at home could throw money at him but the studio audience could, and they did, which was just as good. They loved him, just like the agent said they would, and when he came to the end of his last dance and had taken his last bow, they clapped and cheered and threw even more money at him.

  Then it was Max O’Connor’s turn to bring the show to a close with another song, but as he walked onto the stage, a strange thing happened: the audience booed and shouted for Lord Mustard to come back. Not only that, every phone in the BBC was jammed with people phoning in to boo and shout for Lord Mustard to come back. So he did. He only hoped Dave the Rave wasn’t watching, that’s all.