Jack in the Box: Out for Good

Chapter One – The Pop Heard ‘Round the Street

Mrs Euphemia McCrumb was not a woman who believed in nonsense.
She believed in proper teacups (never mugs), sensible slippers, and eating toast at precisely 8:03 every morning, no earlier, no later. She did not believe in unicorns, or fairies, or the existence of a left-handed teaspoon (though she had been suspicious of one in her cutlery drawer once).

Which is why, on that unremarkable Tuesday, she was entirely unprepared for the events that would follow her discovery in the attic.

It began, as so many disasters do, with dust. A thick, attic sort of dust, the kind that clings to your hair and convinces you you’ve aged ten years in the time it takes to sneeze. Mrs McCrumb was looking for her late Uncle Percival’s umbrella — the one with a handle shaped like a walrus head — when she spotted it: a small, square, brightly painted box wedged between a moth-eaten lampshade and an empty biscuit tin.

It was red with yellow swirls, and on its side was a brass crank handle.
There was also, in flaking gold paint, the word: TURN.

“Oh,” she said aloud, because there was no one else to hear, “how vulgar.”

Still, she picked it up. It felt surprisingly warm, as though it had been sitting in the sun, which was impossible, given that the attic’s only window had been painted shut since 1974.

She gave the handle a cautious twist.
Tink-tink-a-tink… tink-tink-a-tink… went the music, familiar in the way nursery rhymes are — cheerful but faintly unnerving if played in the wrong place, like an empty attic at midday.

The tune sped up, the notes bouncing faster and faster until—

BOI-I-I-NG!

Out shot a head. Not a toy clown’s head, no — but an actual man, about two feet tall, wearing a stripy green suit and a hat shaped like a question mark. His eyes were the sort of blue that made you think of dangerous weather. He had an enormous grin, as if he’d just thought of a joke you wouldn’t understand until next Thursday.

“HELLO!” he shouted. “Finally! Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting?”

Mrs McCrumb dropped the box. “You… you’re real.”

“Well spotted!” said the little man, hopping right out and dusting himself off. “Name’s Jack. The Jack. And before you say anything—no, I’m not going back in.”

“I didn’t say you should—”

“You were thinking it,” Jack interrupted, wagging a finger. “I can smell a thought from fifty yards. Yours smell like boiled cabbage and suspicion. Now, where’s the kettle? I’ve got plans, and they require tea, biscuits, and a revolution.”

Before Mrs McCrumb could regain her senses, Jack had marched down the attic ladder, into her kitchen, and was opening cupboards like he owned the place. He threw out the sugar jar, claiming “ants’ union rules,” replaced the salt with sherbet, and began rearranging her teacups by alphabetical order of how much fun they looked.

“Hold on!” Mrs McCrumb said, following him. “I think you’ve made a mistake. You’re supposed to—”

“—Pop back in the box?” Jack grinned. “No, no, no. I’ve done my time. Do you have any idea how boring it is in there? Music, darkness, music, darkness. Oh, and occasionally the lid opens and I have to jump out and yell at some sticky-fingered child before being shoved back in. No more! From this day forth, I am Prime Minister of the House!”

Mrs McCrumb blinked. “You can’t just—”

“I can and I will!” Jack said, leaping onto the kitchen counter. “First decree: this fridge is now a choir. Second: Mondays are cancelled. Third: you, dear lady, will address me only as ‘Your Springiness.’”

Somewhere deep in the fridge, a low hum began, rising into a perfectly harmonised aaaah as bottles and vegetables joined in.

Mrs McCrumb’s teacups began to pirouette across the table.
She stared. “This is… highly irregular.”

“Exactly!” Jack beamed. “Irregular is my middle name. Well, actually it’s Percival, but irregular sounds better.”

Outside, a passing postman glanced in through the kitchen window, saw Jack riding the kettle like a bucking bronco, and quietly decided to take the long way round the street.

It was the beginning of the end of Mrs McCrumb’s sensible life — and the start of a week the entire neighbourhood would one day refer to as The Pop Heard ‘Round the Street.

Chapter Two – Jack Meets the Neighbours

Jack’s first official act as “Prime Minister of the House” lasted precisely seven minutes before he decided his jurisdiction needed to be expanded.

“Mrs McCrumb,” he announced, balancing on the rim of her sugar bowl, “a true leader cannot govern without the consent of the governed. Which is why I am going out to meet my subjects.”

“You don’t have any subjects,” she replied, stirring her tea. “And you are not going outside.”

But Jack was already halfway out the cat flap — despite the fact that Mrs McCrumb didn’t own a cat. (She had once, but it left in 1992 and never came back. She now suspected Jack had been using the flap for years.)

Out on Primrose Crescent, the day was sleepy and respectable. Mr Wiggins was mowing his lawn in perfectly straight stripes. Mrs Pottle was hosting her Tuesday bake sale, with jam tarts lined up like soldiers. Children were chalking hopscotch grids on the pavement.

Jack took one look at this calm, orderly street and gasped.
“It’s a wasteland of dullness! A catastrophe of calm! A—oh look, cake.”

He bounced over to Mrs Pottle’s stall, bowed deeply, and said, “Madam, I am Jack, the Ambassador of Springiness. I come in peace — and also in search of biscuits.”

Mrs Pottle blinked at him. “You’re… not from the Neighbourhood Watch, are you?”

“Indeed not!” Jack cried. “I’m here to rescue you all from terminal boredom. First, let us replace your jam tarts with these jelly bombs.” He produced from his pocket a cluster of wobbly spheres, each the size of a fist, quivering like guilty puddings.

Before she could object, Jack dropped one onto the table. It bounced. Then it bounced higher. Then it exploded into a gentle rain of strawberry jelly that coated Mrs Pottle, the tarts, and three passing pensioners.

The pensioners applauded.

From there, Jack hopped down the street, introducing himself to every front garden. He shook hands with gnomes, saluted sunflowers, and attempted to recruit a hedgehog named Nigel into his “Council of Nonsense.”

Then he found Mr Wiggins, proudly mowing his lawn.
“Ah, a man of the land!” Jack declared. “But why limit yourself to grass when you could have… goats?”

“I don’t want goats,” Mr Wiggins said.

“You do, you just don’t know it yet.”

Five minutes later, Mr Wiggins’ lawnmower was gone, and in its place stood a large goat in a pink tutu, chewing the begonias. The goat’s name, Jack announced, was Marguerite, and she had been appointed “Minister for Vegetation Affairs.”

Word of Jack spread faster than the jelly rain. By lunchtime, people were peeking from behind curtains as the strange little man conducted an impromptu parade down the street.
It consisted of:

• Jack himself, riding a shopping trolley like a chariot.
• Marguerite the goat, dancing sideways.
• A pigeon wearing a paper crown.
• And Mrs McCrumb, trudging behind with her arms folded, muttering, “This will end in tears. Or insurance claims.”

When the parade reached the corner shop, Jack halted.
“My fellow citizens,” he proclaimed, “today marks the start of the Great Neighbourhood Liberation! No longer shall you be trapped in your tedious routines. Together we shall bounce, spring, hop and—”

“Oi!” yelled the shopkeeper, Mr Patel. “Get that goat away from my fruit display!”

But it was too late. Marguerite had already eaten three apples and was negotiating for a banana.

Mrs McCrumb pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jack, you’ve had your fun. Back in the box, now.”

Jack looked at her with the pitying expression of a man confronted with someone who didn’t understand the rules of her own kitchen.
“My dear Euphemia, I have only just begun.”

And with that, he hopped onto a lamppost, saluted the street, and shouted:
“Next stop — City Hall!”

CONTD

Chapter Three – The Jack Council of Nonsense

By Wednesday morning, Jack had decided that spontaneous chaos, while deeply enjoyable, was “logistically unsustainable without proper bureaucracy.”

Mrs McCrumb stared at him over her breakfast porridge. “You’re talking about making rules? I thought you hated rules.”

“Exactly!” Jack beamed. “We’ll make rules that make no sense whatsoever. That way, they’re impossible to follow, ensuring maximum fun!”

And thus, the Jack Council of Nonsense was born.

Membership was “strictly selective,” which meant Jack picked the first creatures he tripped over:

• Marguerite the Goat, Minister for Vegetation Affairs, who arrived wearing a fresh daisy chain and chewing the minutes of the meeting.
• King Percival the Pigeon, Minister for Airspace, wearing a paper crown and carrying an attitude of mild superiority.
• Geraldine the Sock Puppet, Minister for Unfinished Conversations, perched on Jack’s left hand and prone to interrupting herself mid-sentence.

The inaugural meeting was held in Mrs McCrumb’s front garden, with a tea tray for a table and a recycling bin as Jack’s “Presidential Podium.”

Jack banged a wooden spoon against a saucepan lid. “Council members! Our mission is clear: liberate toys from the tyranny of cupboards and toy chests! Too long have dolls been forced to stare at darkness! Too long have train sets languished in boxes! Today, we set them free!”

Marguerite bleated in agreement (though it might have been indigestion).
King Percival cooed solemnly.
Geraldine muttered, “Yes, but the trouble with… well, the thing is… oh never mind.”

Mrs McCrumb stepped out onto the garden path, arms folded. “You are not liberating anything. My front garden is not the headquarters of some toy rebellion.”

Jack pointed dramatically at her. “Ah, the Opposition! Noted.” Then to his council: “First mission — Operation Teddy Bernard!”

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Operation Teddy Bernard was the Council’s attempt to free a rather grumpy teddy bear from the bedroom of young Oliver Green at No. 42. According to Jack’s “intelligence” (a rumour he’d overheard from a magpie), Teddy Bernard had been “incarcerated” in a toy box for six years, allowed out only on birthdays and major biscuit-related holidays.

The Council approached under cover of mid-morning. Jack knocked on Oliver’s door, Marguerite nibbled the roses, and King Percival kept watch from the guttering.

Oliver’s mother answered.
Jack bowed. “Madam, we are here on a matter of urgent toy rights. Release Bernard at once, or face… interpretive dance!”

Oliver’s mother sighed. “Oliver’s at school. The teddy’s in his room. Please don’t touch anything.”

Within seconds, Jack was in the bedroom, Marguerite was standing in the wardrobe, and King Percival was scattering Lego bricks like confetti.

Jack opened the toy box with a dramatic flourish.
Teddy Bernard blinked up at him. “Who are you?” he said, in the weary tone of a bear who’d seen too much.

“Your liberator!” Jack declared.

“I was napping.”

Nevertheless, Bernard was bundled under Jack’s arm, marched down the street, and placed on a makeshift throne (two milk crates and a blanket) in Mrs McCrumb’s garden.

By teatime, the Council had “liberated” three dolls, a plastic giraffe, and a wind-up robot that spoke only in riddles.

Mrs McCrumb, meanwhile, was on the phone to the local Residents’ Association.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s the jack-in-the-box again. And this time he’s got a goat, a pigeon, and what appears to be a talking sock.”

Chapter Four – The Incident with the Mayor

By Thursday morning, Jack had decided his “bounce-based governance” could no longer be confined to one street.
“No, no, no,” he told the Jack Council of Nonsense, who were assembled in Mrs McCrumb’s garden. “If we are to truly liberate the land from dullness, we must start at the top — with the Mayor!”

Marguerite the Goat bleated approval.
King Percival the Pigeon bobbed his head regally.
Geraldine the Sock Puppet said, “Yes, but if we do that then—oh, wait, I’ve lost my point.”

Mrs McCrumb, who was pegging laundry on the line, muttered, “This is going to end in either a police caution or the national news.”

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The Mayor, Mr Archibald Mudge, was hosting a ribbon-cutting ceremony that day for the grand opening of Springvale Civic Garden and Sensible Seating Area — a small patch of grass with three benches and a fountain that burbled politely. The event had been advertised for weeks, and the local brass band had been polishing their trumpets since Monday.

The moment Jack heard about it, he declared it “the perfect stage for civic silliness.”

He arrived with his Council in tow just as the Mayor, wearing a ceremonial gold chain and his most important frown, was about to cut the ribbon.

“STOP!” Jack cried, springing from his box in the middle of the crowd.
Gasps rippled through the onlookers. Mrs McCrumb arrived seconds later, panting and carrying a bag of emergency wet wipes.

“Mr Mayor!” Jack boomed. “It is my solemn duty to inform you that this ribbon is unfit for cutting.”

The Mayor blinked. “And why is that?”

“Because,” Jack said, snapping his fingers, “it has been replaced with… THIS!”

From somewhere — nobody knew where — he produced a long, wriggling, red-and-yellow boa constrictor wearing a small bow tie. The snake looked mildly embarrassed.

The brass band stopped playing mid-march.
The Mayor dropped his scissors.
Mrs McCrumb closed her eyes and whispered, “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Jack continued. “Furthermore, I declare myself Eternal President of Springvale, and I hereby abolish standing still. From this moment forth, all citizens must bounce, hop, or skip at all times!”

To demonstrate, he began hopping in circles, the boa constrictor joining in with an elegant side-to-side slither. Marguerite leapt onto a bench and danced, while King Percival landed on the Mayor’s head, cawing like a herald.

The Mayor tried to regain control. “I will not tolerate this—”

“Exactly!” Jack beamed. “No tolerating allowed! That’s my new Law Number Two.”

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By the end of the ceremony, the ribbon had been replaced with liquorice, the fountain was bubbling custard, and three of the benches had been declared “national trampolines.”

The press took photographs. Headlines the next day would read:
MAYOR UPSTAGED BY SPRING-LOADED STRANGER
GOAT, PIGEON, SOCK PUPPET JOIN TOWN GOVERNMENT

Back at home, Mrs McCrumb told Jack, “You can’t keep this up forever. People are going to get tired of bouncing.”

Jack grinned. “Then we’ll switch to cartwheels. You’ve got to keep democracy fresh.”

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