Oh, No, It’s Grenville Bile!
It is time we talked about Grenville Bile.
To be honest, I’ve been putting it off for as long as possible, because no one really wants to talk about Grenville Bile. But he’s about to play a bigger role in Hamish’s life, so let’s just bite the Bile bullet.
Deep down, like all bullies, Grenville Bilious Bile was lonely.
He had no brothers or sisters. His dad was quiet as a mouse and spent most of his days reading the paper in the Queen’s Leg, trying to keep out of the way of Grenville’s mum, the Postmaster.
The rumour was Mrs Bile hadn’t always been fearsome. Some of the grown-ups claimed they could remember when she seemed quite a kindly soul, organising raffles to raise money for new school footballs, or making sandwiches for old people who’d already eaten.
That certainly wasn’t the case any more.
Tubitha Bile was awful.
Hamish had noticed that every single weekend of the year so far, Grenville had been trailing after his mother and doing all the chores she couldn’t be bothered with.
Like:
- Polishing her peanuts so that each one was as smooth and peanutty as possible.
- Using a very tiny comb to brush all the wiry hair on her moles.
And worst of all . . .
- Degreasing the chairs where her oily, boily bottom had been.
But Grenville was greatly rewarded for such tireless work. He would always show off about all the things his mum had bought him. All you had to do was mention a new toy you had and up he’d pop, from behind a bush, to say: ‘Yeah? Well, I’ve got the whole set at home!’
Grenville had the whole set of Super Action Rascals.
He was allowed to download any film he wanted.
He had all the latest video games, even the ones you had to be eighteen to play. He had every single football kit of every single football club in the land. He had a PlayStation, an Xbox, an iPad, a laptop, six walkie-talkies, two radio-controlled cars and a life-sized model of a raccoon. Grenville certainly seemed to have it all. But would he share any of it? Not on your nelly. And no one ever went round to his house to play with any of it either. Not even Robin, who loved raccoons.
The Postmaster was very firm:
NO KIDS ALLOWED.
Everyone in Starkley feared the Postmaster. It wasn’t just the way she lunked around, scowling at everybody. Nor was it her deep, gargly voice, or the way she tossed her cigar butts at cats.
No. People were scared of her, because she was the gatekeeper to the post office – and she ran it exactly as she pleased.
The Postmaster had no time for other people’s rules. It was down to how she was feeling as to whether or not you got your post every day. Which meant that she decided whether you got your birthday money from your Auntie Freda, or that parcel from your grandma in Australia, or anything anyone sent you at all.
If she decided to be kind, you might – might! – get your presents.
But if she’d seen you walking too close to her car, or throwing sticks at a tree to get your frisbee out, or pulling your sister’s hair, or standing on a chair to reach the biscuits your mum puts in the very top cupboard . . . then forget about it. You’ll never see those presents. They’ll mysteriously disappear. ‘LOST IN THE POST!’ she’ll shout at your mum and dad, slamming down the iron grill and retreating to the cup of coffee that’s turned her teeth dark brown all these years.
(Incidentally, the Postmaster makes a lot of money selling things on eBay, although no one knows where she gets all that stuff from.)
Even the grown-ups of Starkley would find their post was ‘lost’ if they angered her. Poor old Mr Picklelips hadn’t had a letter since Christmas, and all because his nose sometimes did a little whistle the Postmaster found annoying.
Well, all this had quite an effect on Grenville.
His mum’s bad moods transferred straight to him. And so did a lot of her power in town. People didn’t want to annoy Grenville for fear of annoying the Postmaster and this made him feel untouchable.
The butcher gave him free sausages.
The funny little man in the supermarket let him choose any comics he wanted.
Madame Cous Cous never once hit him with a stick.
He was allowed to wear his Mexican wrestling mask to school any time he liked.
And Scratch and Mole would do anything he asked of them.
And that, of course, was the problem. Now that Scratch and Mole were off school, Grenville found himself lonelier than ever.
Maybe that makes you feel sorry for him.
Well, don’t! Stop that right now!
Grenville Bile is the biggest jackwagon in Starkley! Thundering about the place in his ‘Too Cool For School’ T-shirt, knocking over bins and switching signs around so that people who want to go to the supermarket end up in the swimming pool and people who want to go to the swimming pool end up walking around the supermarket in their swimming trunks!
But, like a gangster without any ‘associates’ to distract him, Grenville was bored.
Before the girls had gone, they’d told him that Hamish had knocked them over. They were running at him, they said, and he managed to get behind them. They had no idea how. They said they thought he was magic.
Grenville didn’t believe in magic. And he didn’t appreciate his associates being disrespected.
You don’t disrespect associates of Grenville Bile.
He knew he had to put Hamish Smellerby back in his place.