Welcome to Northern Wordsmiths

It had all kicked off earlier this morning, when Pip’s two cousins arrived. Pip was thrilled they were coming to Newcastle for the summer. All the way from Cumbria. 

Whenever they’re together, Jacko always sounds like he’s well-in-charge giving orders to the other two. He’s seven, going on twenty-seven – like a proper cocky teenager. His often-deadpan look never cuts it with his Auntie. Far as she’s concerned, he’s as inscrutable as a spring cabbage – and just as green. Nevertheless, his four-year-old sister, Sukie, clings onto him like a limpet. Such a cute, strait-laced kid. Pip, their Geordie six-year-old cousin, is full of fun. He, too, is in Jacko’s thrall.

Pip ran to Jacko for a hug but was fobbed off with a high-five. Jacko didn’t seem to care, though Pip looked like he’d sucked an all-hole, no-mint Polo. Jacko clearly expected the younger element to toe the line. 

‘C’mon, Jacko. Be nice. Give him a hug.’

‘It’s OK, Mam. Me n Jacko are like “that”.’ Pip crossed his fingers, one over the other, to prove his point. ‘Aren’t we, Jacko?’

‘What’s for dinner?’ Jacko asked Pip.

‘Sausage-n-beans. Good eh?”

‘Not the way Auntie does them.’ Scathing. Sullen. One big Elvis-sneer.

‘Yeah,’ said Sukie, joining the fray, ‘’orrible.’

‘Right-o,’ Auntie/Mam looked vexed. ‘You wanna be rebels, do ya? I can play that game. Sausage-n-beans going in the bin.’

‘What else is there to eat?’ Jacko wanted to know.

‘Nothing,’ she responded. ‘Go hungry for all I care.’

The three were miffed, obviously. One up for Auntie/Mam.

Pip sauntered away and set up a recorded video of Playschool. The three kids started jumping around the floor, like blue-arsed flies, tripping the light fantastic. Jacko took the lead, Sukie and Pip joining in, bouncing, knees bent, yelling Playschool’s rhyming song:

‘Bouncy-Bouncy-Wheee! Bounce Around the Room

Bouncy-Bouncy-Wheee! Jump up to the Moon’

‘Where’s Hop-Along?’ Jacko scanned the living room.

‘There he is,’ Sukie answered, ‘in the corner.’

Hop-Along is a vivid-red Space Hopper, a special friend to all three kids. Jacko ran, picked him up by his pointy, sticky-up ears and bounced about, singing the Playschool favourite. 

Then, Jacko jumped up, kicked the Hopper full in the face, shouting, ‘He’s gone littler. My knees are up to my ears. Bloody useless thing.’ His face was as red as the Hopper’s. But Jacko was crimson-angry and Hop-Along was red-dejected.

‘Hey, stop that. He’s not “littler”; you’re bigger. Poor Hop-Along. He’s upset. And stop your swearing.’

‘Bugger you! Swear if I like. You swear. You swear one hell of a lot.’ Jacko smirked, trying for the upper hand.

Sweary-Mary Mammy.’ Pip laughed a cheeky grin, chanting the words like a jingle.

The kids giggled. ‘He’s a toy. We gonna say sorry to a toy? No way.’

‘You rebellious little tow-rags. I’m off to count to ten. If that doesn’t work, I’ll count another ten. Then you’d better behave. Or else …’ 

*

I took a deep breath, determined to cool it. Ignore those wannabe rebels as best I could. Who did those whippersnappers think they were? 

I conjured up a plan. Son, nephew, niece – beware. This is war.

‘You know,’ I said, as I washed out the dirty saucepan, ‘I’m getting a brand-new mattress delivered to replace the one with the knackered springs. It’s due for delivery today.’

‘So?’ said Jacko, all haughty, ‘What’s that to me?’

‘Listen, smartarse. Ever heard of a trampoline? A newly sprung mattress would make a grand trampoline to play Bouncy.’

Jacko grinned with a gleaming glow of sarcasm. “Smart-arse, yourself Auntie.’ 

Pip laughed like a drain. Sukie tittered like a bright sparrow.

Just then, there was a rat-a-tat on the kitchen door. A gruff, deep voice bellowed. ‘Delivery!’

‘Wow, bet it’s the trampoline!’ 

And it was. The mattress. Off came the polythene. 

‘Wait for Hop-Along. Don’t leave him out,’ I shrieked.

‘Huh!’ Jack gave the Hopper an almighty kick.

‘Just a toy.’ Sukie followed suit, showing dimples. 

Pip punched out at Hopper’s turned-up mouth.

‘Not fair. We’ll show them, Hop-Along,’ I growled. 

Upstairs they ran, mattress/trampoline in tow, toward the big bedroom. I hauled up the big red unhappy hopper, who drooped, sagged, slouched behind the kids. 

‘Me first.’ Jacko addressed his gang of rebels, beaming a belligerent sneer.

‘C’mon. Move it, gang.’

*

‘OK, guys,’ I piped up. ‘It’s a competition. The Grouch,’ I pointed at Jacko. ‘The Slouch – that’s Hop-Along. The Rabble – that’s you, Pip and Sukie. And I’m the judge – the Rabble Rouser. The game’s called “Rebellion versus Imagination”. See how well you can jump. Five minutes. Time starts … NOW.

At last. No niggles. No squabbles. Three amigos bounced on the double-bed with its brand-new springy mattress, singing, 

‘Bouncy-Bouncy-Whee! If You Jump up High

Bouncy-Bouncy-Whee! You’ll Nearly Reach the Sky’

They were off, bouncing like beachballs. Up, down, clawing at each other, scratching at shoulders, pushing elbows into midriffs, shouting and bawling, hair-pulling. Rebellious or what? 

Meantime, I winked at Hop-Along, my brand-new big red hero. I let my imagination run riot, enabling “Big-Red” to scoot up the mattress, grab Jacko’s foot, flinging the lad upward and out through the open sash window. Ooops! Jacko went hurtling up into the air and back down with a flailing flourish toward the hard yard concrete. Hop-Along couldn’t bear it – and jumped. Higher, lower, faster than Jacko, he flew. Jacko bounced onto Big-Red’s head, clutching two rubbery ears. Hop-Along gazed up, jumped as high as any Hopper could, hurling them back through the window.

‘And the winner is …’

‘Me’ ‘Me’ ‘Me’ – Three Rebel Yells!

‘… Hop-Along.’ 

Three mouths opened wide. Like three big zeros.

‘Resounding applause please?’

‘Nah!’

‘How come?’

‘What for?’

Jacko huffed and puffed. ‘We’ve been conned, gang.’

‘Nope,’ I said. ‘Hop-Along was fantastic. Higher, faster, stronger. A show stopper.’

‘Hop-Along, my arse. How do you figure that?’

‘Wild Imaginings,’ I hollered. ‘You’re well and truly BOUNCED. All three of you. And stop your swearing.’

‘Yeah, stop swearing Jacko. It’s rude.’ 

Job done.