The Fourth Bear

perhaps a half second for him to appear, and when he didn’t, she screamed “HUS- BAAAAND!” so loudly that Jack felt his ears pop, and one of the flowerpots in the garden shattered. Presently, and with the slow, almost reptilian movement of the worst kind of loafer, Mr. Punch appeared, dressed in his traditional red tunic and hat. His features were more exaggerated than his wife’s, his complexion more florid, shinier and uglier. He had a large hooked nose that curved down to almost touch his upwardly hooked chin, and his long, thin mouth was curled into a permanent leer. He wore a small pointed hat and had heaped upon his back a hump that was as pointed as his chin, nose or hat. He also had several bruises on his face, and one eye was puffy and black. He had an infant clasped to his chest in a typical crossed-arms Punch pose and was rocking the baby back and forth in an aggressive manner. Jack stood and stared at Punch and Judy, trying to figure out which one he disliked least—it was a tricky contest.

“Bloody hell!” said Punch in an annoying, high-pitched voice. He opened his glassy eyes wide in shock and grinned even more broadly to reveal two long rows of perfectly varnished teeth. “The pig-bastard baby snatcher! What the ****ing hell do you want?”

“I live next door,” said Jack, “and keep your voice down. If I ever hear you swear without asterisk substitution, I’ll arrest you for offensive and threatening language.”

“Like I g*ve a shit!” screamed Mr. Punch, tossing the sleeping baby into a pram and picking up a handy baseball bat.

Jack stood his ground. “Drop the bat or you’re under arrest.”

“It’s not for you!” screeched Mr. Punch. “It’s for my lazy scumbag of a wife. Where’s my dinner, trout- lips?”

Judy expertly ducked the baseball bat that quickly followed. Mr. Punch, thrown off balance by her quick maneuver, left his flank unguarded, an opportunity quickly grasped by Judy, who thumped him painfully in his already badly bruised eye. Mr. Punch gave a scream of pain, but Judy hadn’t finished. She grabbed his arm, twisted it around so hard he had to drop the bat, which fell with a clatter to the floor, then stamped on his knee from the side. He collapsed in a groaning heap near the still-sleeping baby.

“I’ll get your bloody dinner when I bloody feel like it!” she screamed, and trod on his hand as she stepped over him.

“Are you okay?” asked Jack.

“Never better!” he gasped, his painted grin not for one second leaving his face. “Terrific lass, Judy. Very… spirited.”

“Very,” said Jack, thinking that if Judy hadn’t ducked the baseball bat, she would be unconscious, or worse. Still, this was what they did. What they had always done. For over three hundred years, they had beaten the living blue blazes out of each other for the joyous edification of the masses. Of course, what with the changing attitudes to marriage, women and respect for the law, Punch couldn’t actually kill anyone anymore, but the violent slapstick remained. He had for centuries been a source of lighthearted entertainment, but his star was now low on the horizon, and he was seen more as a misogynistic social pariah than an icon of antiestablishment dissent—especially in any neighborhood in which he lived. It wasn’t his fault the world had moved on; today’s Punch was a fly in amber, a fossilized pop-culture relic from a bygone era.

“I’m too old for this endless fighting crap,” he said mournfully, wincing as he struggled to his feet. “Want to come in for a beer? We could chat about the good old days—do you still do your ‘Jack Sprat / eat no fat’ routine?”

Jack’s heart nearly bounced out of his chest. He’d hidden it for so long that he’d almost forgotten that he was himself a PDR—a Person of Dubious Reality.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said defensively. “I’m as real as the next man. Besides, that Jack Sprat is spelled with one t—I have two.”

“Oh, right,” said Mr. Punch with a smirk. “In denial, are we? Got anything against PDRs?”

“No,” said Jack hurriedly. “Some of my best friends are PDRs. But I’m not and never have been—okay?”

“Okay, okay,” said Punch, winking. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“There’s no secret. I don’t know what you mean, really I don’t,” responded Jack, complaining perhaps a little too forcefully. “Maybe another time for the beer—and keep the fighting down, yes?”

“I’ll try,” said Mr. Punch, with all the conviction of a weak-willed recovering alcoholic being offered a shot of Jack Daniel’s, “but you know how it is.”

“Look what I’ve just found,” said Judy, returning to the door as though nothing had happened and holding a broken dinner plate.

“It’s the first piece of crockery I ever threw at you. See, I wrote the date on the back.”

They smiled and then hugged, gingerly trying to avoid the bruised areas on each other’s bodies.

“Fish pie, sweetheart?” said Judy.

“Sounds perfect, my cherub.”

And she picked up the baby and walked back inside the house.

“Well then,” said Jack, still firmly rattled by Punch’s comments over his PDRness. If Punch knew, how many others? His first wife knew because she’d been one, too—the “wife who could eat no lean”—but his second wife, Madeleine, had no idea, which on reflection was a big mistake. You can’t and shouldn’t keep those sorts of secrets from loved ones.

“So,” he added, swallowing a rising feeling of panic, “enjoy your… um… evening.”

“Th-thank you,” said Punch, gently closing the front door behind him. Jack walked back down the garden path to the sound of breaking crockery and a scream from Judy that transformed mid-wail into a lascivious giggle.

Jack took a deep breath to calm himself, opened his own kitchen door and walked in. “Honey,” he said, “I’m home!”

“Wotcha, Dad,” said Ben, his nose firmly wedged into a copy of Conspiracy Theorist magazine, something in which he had a particular interest. He had been overwhelmed when he learned that his dad had an alien working for him, but underwhelmed when he actually met him. Instead of talking about faster-than- light travel and wormholes, Ash had droned on at length about seventies Datsun motorcars, collectible plates and who he thought was the best Cartwright on Bonanza.

“Hi, Ben,” replied Jack. “Yeti populations holding steady?”

“Pretty much. Hear about the explosion up at Obscurity?”

“Let me guess,” said Jack, leaning backward to avoid being struck by a spoon that little Stevie had hurled across the room. “A government cover-up?”

However bad it got at the NCD and no matter how many times Briggs suspended him, Jack’s home life more than compensated for it. His wife of five years was Madeleine, and they had each brought two children to the home: Jack’s Pandora and Ben, and Madeleine’s Jerome and Megan. To cement the union still further, they’d also had Stevie, who was now eighteen months.

“This spoon hurling is getting stronger and more accurate,” said Jack, selecting another spoon from the drain board and sitting down at the table. Stevie gave a broad grin, took the new spoon and stared at it thoughtfully for a moment.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Madeleine, who was in the process of making a pot of tea, “the Olympic Ladle-Flinging Team wants to train him up for the 2020 Olympics.”

Jack smiled and looked at Megan, who was busy coloring at the other end of the table. “What’s that, princess?”

“It’s the Blue Baboon.”

“I never knew the Blue Baboon was green.”

“Can’t find the right crayon,” she said, and carried on coloring.

Madeleine and Jack were both on the second time around, marriage-wise. Unlike Jack, who was a widower, Madeleine had an ex-husband, Neville, who just turned out to be something of a dud. He had an eye for the ladies, too—a habit that Madeleine couldn’t overlook during their marriage, much to the surprise of her ex-husband, who thought his roguish charm would have her forgiving anything. It didn’t.

Jack loved Madeleine dearly, and he suddenly felt guilty that he’d not told her about his PDRness. But he would, this instant—it was the right and proper thing to do.