The Fourth Bear

“Your offer is very generous,” he replied, and went several different shades of blue in rapid succession, “I accept.”

“You know what?” asked Mary as they walked toward the main road and the bus stop.

“What?”

“That was the best date I’ve ever had.”

“All of it?” asked Ashley in surprise. “Even my dopey parents? And the wig and the Binary Scrabble and exploding Travelator and stuff?”

“All of it.”

“I’m very glad,” he said at last. “Do you want to come on another date sometime? Somewhere better and classier and more fun?”

“I’d like that a lot,” replied Mary. “Where are we going? The moon? Venus?”

“Somewhere much better,” replied Ashley happily. “Some of the original members of the Stylistics are re-forming, and my dopey sister reckons she can get tickets.”

30. The Punches Make Peace

Most successful tooth fairy: The most active fairy ever in the Berkshire regional milk- tooth-harvesting department was Grundle Arturo Pipsqueak VIII (license number 6382/6Y), who collected a grand total of 6,732 milk teeth during 1996, at a total cost of ?2,201.36p (less expenses), an average unit cost of 32.7p. The record remains unlikely to be beaten due to (1) the declining demand for maracas, the chief end-use product of milk teeth, and (2) stiff competition from Far Eastern tooth fairies, who can procure the same quantity for almost one-fiftieth the cost.

The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

Before Jack had even had a chance to recover from the blow with the rolling pin, the back door opened again and Madeleine came out, her face crimson with anger.

“You miserable, unreal piece of crap!” she screamed at the top of her voice, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I trusted you!”

Jack tried to say something, but she cut him short.

“Don’t try to explain yourself. If I were you, I’d start looking for a good divorce lawyer!” She went back inside and banged the door shut after her.

“Phew!” said Caliban as he hopped down from the trash can.

“Kind of serves you right. I mean, swapping Madeleine for Agatha Diesel? You must be nuts.”

“I didn’t.”

“What the sodding hell is going on out there?” said Mr. Punch, who had just come out of his house. “Judy and I can barely hear ourselves shout.”

“Nothing,” said Jack.

“He screwed the boss’s wife,” piped up Caliban.

“I did no such thing—and who asked you?”

“Hang on,” said Punch, “I’m coming around.”

In a couple of minutes, he had reappeared, dressed in pajamas and a nightcap and still grinning crazily with his varnished leer, which Jack thought even more galling in the present situation.

“Well,” he said, “infidelity, Mr. Sprat? That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“It’s not me. And it’s none of your business. And it’s two t’s in Spratt, not one.”

“But it is my business,” retorted Punch. “I’m your neighbor, and we PDRs have to stick together.”

“Huzzah!” said Caliban in enthusiastic agreement.

“You’re a Person of Dubious Reality?” asked Jack of the little ape. “From where?”

“The Tempest,” replied Caliban with a twinge of pride, adding,

“You know, Shakespeare?” when Jack didn’t seem to understand.

“Oh,” he said, “right.”

“Your problem is our problem,” said Punch kindly.

But Jack was still angry.

“What makes you think Punch and Judy—of all people—are qualified to give advice on marriage?” sneered Jack.

“Nothing really,” explained Punch in a calm and patient voice,

“but we’ve been married three hundred and twenty-eight years next Wednesday, and not a single day goes by without us arguing and fighting. But despite all that, we find it in our hearts to forgive, because the bottom line is that we love each other dearly, and it is that love which binds our relationship together, regardless of the violence and the quarreling.”

Jack sat on the garden wall. He ran a hand through his hair. His head was tender where Madeleine had hit him and was starting to come up in a bump. He looked at Punch and Caliban, who were staring at him with quiet concern.

“Madeleine found out I was a nursery-rhyme character,” said Jack at last, sighing deeply.

“You never told her?” asked Punch. “How can you keep that a secret from her?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to lose her. Perhaps it was because I want to be a real person.”

“I’m told it’s overrated,” replied Punch. “Think you could do what you do and help the people you help if you were real? You’d never have found out who killed Humpty Dumpty, and Bluebeard would still be killing his brides. And what about Red Riding-Hood and her gran?”

“Yeah—what about them?” Jack retorted.

“Okay,” Punch conceded, “that was a bad example. But you see what I mean. You’re good at this weird NCD shit precisely because you’re not real. Besides, what’s so great about ‘real’ these days anyway?”

“It’s all right for you,” said Jack after a pause. “At least you’ve got a long, performance-based traditional backing to your existence.”

“More of a curse than a blessing,” replied Punch with a sigh.

“We’d love to retire back home to Italy, but they keep on updating the act and dragging us out again. We bought a house in Tuscany a few years ago, when we thought political correctness would end the show, but it didn’t. The Punchinistas think they’re doing us a favor, restoring the tradition, but they’re not.”

“Tuscany,” mused Jack, who had never been out of Berkshire in his life, “that could be nice.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Punch dreamily. “Judy and I were going to spend our twilight years beating each other senseless under the the warm Mediterranean sun. We’d sip Chianti through broken teeth and grapple at one another’s throats as the orange orb of the sun set on another perfect day. Then, after a truly excellent spaghetti alle vongole, I would jam my thumb in her eye and she would kick me hard in the gonads—and we would go to bed, tired, but happy.”

They all fell wistfully silent for a while until Jack said, “Yes, but that doesn’t help me right now.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Punch, “but we can probably do something. Who was this woman you slept with?”

“I didn’t,” insisted Jack. “Briggs’s wife has had her eye on me since a fling about twenty-five years ago.”

“Agatha Diesel?” asked Punch.

“You know her?”

He didn’t answer and instead knocked on the back door. It was opened by Prometheus.