Contents
Title Page
ALSO BY ARCHIE KIMPTON
Dedication
Map of Slopp-on-Sea
Chapter 1: Missing
Chapter 2: Barry the Milkman
Chapter 3: Jarvis C. Carp
Chapter 4: Pineapple Breath
Chapter 5: Elephant Stones
Chapter 6: The Invitation
Chapter 7: Dandruff
Chapter 8: The Most Terrible Smell in the World
Chapter 9: Launch
Chapter 10: Advanced Maths for Really Clever People
Chapter 11: Pink Mash and Parmesan
Chapter 12: Toy Town
Chapter 13: The Cows
Chapter 14: Jitterbugs
Chapter 15: Porridge on the Brain
Chapter 16: Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka
Chapter 17: Mermaid’s Flunge
Chapter 18: The Test
Chapter 19: Jarvis Finds His Flush
Chapter 20: Geniuses
Chapter 21: Queue
Chapter 22: Children Can Be Horrible
Chapter 23: Arthur Chood-Biskit
Chapter 24: The Luckiest Girl in the World
Chapter 25: Captain Grandmaaaarrrr
Chapter 26: Let’s Cook!
Chapter 27: Big-Headed
Chapter 28: Oliver and George
Chapter 29: A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
Chapter 30: Fish Food
Chapter 31: Unidentified Floating Object
Chapter 32: Mr Ferris
Chapter 33: The Wet Blanket
Chapter 34: Whirlpool
Chapter 35: Pipe and Slippers
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Copyright
ALSO BY ARCHIE KIMPTON
Jumblecat
For Rogs, who showed me how to skacz
CHAPTER 1
MISSING
Grandad was missing. It was the third time this month he’d gone missing; the fourth if you counted the time Milk found him snoozing in his armchair, buried under a pile of old newspapers. But that didn’t really count as missing, because on that occasion he hadn’t even left the house.
Milk put on her coat, went outside and looked up and down the road. Grandad had such a distinctive walk you could see him coming from a long way away. He had a long, lolloping, flat-footed stride, shoulders slightly hunched and his arms dangling by his sides. He always moved slowly and steadily like a creature from the swamp – well, that’s how a neighbour, Mrs Frat, once described him. And she meant to be unkind.
Seeing nothing, Milk reached up and rang the large brass bell that hung outside her front door – three hefty clangs.
A minute passed and then, one by one, her neighbours popped their heads out of their front doors.
‘Has he gone missing again?’ asked nice Mrs Farley. ‘I’ve had a quick look around. He’s not in my house.’
‘I looked through all my biscuit tins,’ wheezed old Mrs Fozz, who was a bit batty herself.
‘Was he there?’ asked Milk.
‘Not this time, dear.’ She waved a banana under Milk’s nose. ‘Do you want a banana? You look like you could do with a banana.’
‘No thanks, Mrs Fozz. Maybe later,’ smiled Milk. Mrs Fozz was always trying to fatten her up.
Mr Fub stuck his head out of his front door. ‘Not here.’ Mr Fub always sounded slightly annoyed, but it was just the way he spoke – gruff, like an old billy goat. ‘Have you checked the beach?’
‘Not yet. I’m going there now. Thanks, Mr Fub. Thanks, everybody.’
Milk started off down the hill towards the beach. After ten paces, she looked back over her shoulder. Mrs Farley and Mr Fub had gone back indoors, but as usual, Mrs Fozz was still standing on her doorstep, grinning from ear to ear and waving the banana high above her head. It didn’t mean anything; Mrs Fozz was just funny like that.
Not all of her neighbours were as helpful. Halfway down the hill, Milk crossed the road and began walking just a little bit quicker, ducking her head down behind parked cars. But it was too late. She’d been spotted. Mr Frat yanked open his front door and marched out onto the street.
‘Ringing that stupid bell at all hours,’ he yelled across the road. ‘I hate that bell. And you’ve interrupted Massive Vegetables. It’s my favourite programme.’
Mrs Frat stepped outside and stood beside her husband. ‘Your grandad oughta be locked up,’ she growled, glaring at Milk. ‘He’s a menace, that’s what. A useless old menace. What have you got to say about that?’
Milk had learnt some time ago not to discuss things with the Frats. It only made them shout even louder. On the other hand, she wasn’t going to apologise either. ‘OK,’ she replied neutrally.
‘OK? OK!’ screamed Mr Frat. ‘You interrupt Massive Vegetables, and, I might add, this episode is about massive turnips, which happen to be my favourite massive vegetable. And all you’ve got to say is “OK”?’
Two Frat children nervously poked their heads out of the door to see what was going on. Milk knew them from school. They were called Frank and Fenella and they hardly ever said a word, neither in the classroom nor on the street. On top of that, they always looked terribly unwell; pale and sniffly, with trails of glistening snot on their sleeves as if slugs had been using them as a mollusc motorway.
Milk waved at the children. ‘Hi Frank. Hi Fenella.’
Hurriedly, Mrs Frat shovelled her children back indoors. ‘Get back inside, you two,’ she barked. ‘I won’t have you fraternising with the likes of her, whatever she’s called.’ She turned to her husband. ‘What is she called? Something stupid like Egg or Cheese?’
‘Milk. She’s called Milk,’ smirked Mr Frat.
‘Ha! Milk!’ Mrs Frat practically spat out the word. ‘Well, that proves it. They’re barking mad. Diseased! Brain diseased, the lot of them. No wonder her mother abandoned her. I would have done the same!’ And with that she and Mr Frat stomped back inside, slamming the door behind them.
It was soon after Grandma died that Grandad had begun behaving a bit oddly – silly little things like brushing his teeth with butter or wiping his nose on the cat. Then, one day, he started wandering off, just getting up out of his armchair and going out without saying a word. At first, Milk would worry terribly and follow him. In those early days she even kept a diary of everywhere he went.
April 5th – Found Grandad in Mrs Fozz’s house, sleeping behind her sofa. When Mrs Fozz came back from the shops she was a bit surprised, but she didn’t mind and gave us home-made chicken ice cream (not nice).
April 14th – Found Grandad dancing on the beach.
April 20th – Followed Grandad for ages. He stopped by the reservoir and talked to some cows. Seemed happy.
May 2nd – Mrs Fozz’s house. Again! He likes it there. When Mrs Fozz came out of the shower she was a bit surprised, but she didn’t mind and gave us home-made broccoli biscuits (not nice).
After a few weeks, Milk stopped following Grandad. There was no need. He never went too far and he never got into any trouble and he was perfectly safe when he crossed the road, so she didn’t worry. He just liked wandering about and talking to people or animals or trees or lamp posts or lawnmowers or bins. Only occasionally, like today, did Milk actually go out and look for him. It was getting late and besides, he’d probably be getting hungry for his dinner.
At the bottom of the hill, Milk crossed the road onto the promenade. As usual, it was a damp and windy day in Slopp-on-Sea; the kind of day when the sky and the sea coalesced into one great, grey, gloomy splodge. Milk put up her hood and went over to her telescope. Some years back, the Mayor of Slopp-on-Sea had installed f
ive of these coin-operated telescopes along the seafront wall. Nobody knew why. There was nothing to see; the pier, with its rusting Ferris wheel, had closed down a long time ago and the sea was always a dirty, sludgy colour.
Milk vividly remembered the excited crowd at the grand opening of the telescopes. She couldn’t have been much more than four years old, but perched on her grandad’s shoulders she felt ten feet tall.
‘What can you see?’ asked Grandma, looking up at Milk. ‘Can you see the new telescopes?’
‘Big ears,’ replied Milk, joyfully flicking Grandad’s ears.
‘One day your ears will be bigger than mine,’ teased Grandad.
‘Nooo!’ giggled Milk.
‘They’ll be so big you’ll be able to fly to the moon.’
‘Nooooooo!’ she squealed, giving Grandad’s lughole a hefty yank.
Just then the Mayor of Slopp-on-Sea tapped on the microphone. ‘Good people of Slopp,’ he announced pompously, ‘it is with great pride that I declare these telescopes open.’
There was a slightly awkward moment as the blunt mayoral scissors refused to cut through the ribbon and the Mayor’s assistant had to use her teeth to tear through it. Then, typically, nobody had remembered to bring 20p, so the Mayor couldn’t even demonstrate how wonderfully telescopic the telescope was. Soon after, everybody went home and the telescopes were quickly forgotten.
These days, of the five telescopes, only one still worked, and apart from the occasional holidaymaker, Milk was the only person to use it. She felt beneath the tube of the telescope and found her 20p coin stuck there with old chewing gum. She peeled the gum off the coin and put it in the slot. There was a gentle click as the telescope activated. Milk put her eye up to the telescope and scanned the beach. Normally Grandad was quite easy to find. He had his favourite spots. Sometimes he liked to sit on the pebbles and stare out to sea. Other times he danced, jiggling about like an electrified chicken, conducting the grey skies with his hands. Nor was it unknown for Grandad to strip off all his clothes and go skinny-dipping. He was still a strong swimmer and sometimes Milk would spot his age-speckled bald head bobbing around in the water. But not today.
After two minutes there was another gentle click and the view through the telescope went black. Time was up. Milk opened the coin box underneath the telescope and retrieved her 20p. A little spit, a roll and a squidge between her fingers and the chewing gum was as sticky as ever. She squished the coin back into the gum and stuck it back underneath the telescope, ready for next time.
She followed her usual route along the promenade; past the public tennis court, long since overgrown with weeds, and past Carp’s Café, which had shut for the evening. That’s when she saw him – the familiar lolloping figure heading towards her along the seafront. As ever, Grandad moved slowly and steadily, never in a hurry. Even from a distance Milk could hear him chattering to himself.
‘Who were you talking to?’ she asked, when they finally met up.
‘Pirates. They wanted stamps. I was directing them to the post office.’
‘But the post office closed down last year. Don’t you remember?’
‘Oh fiddlesticks,’ replied Grandad. ‘Well, it’s too late now. They’ll be halfway there already.’
‘Anyhow, why would pirates want stamps?’
‘Well, that’s what I thought, but I didn’t like to ask. Maybe they want to send a letter,’ he said, scratching his head. ‘Come to think of it, maybe they didn’t want stamps at all. Maybe they said pants. Do they sell pants at the post office?’
‘Maybe they wanted planks?’ suggested Milk.
‘That’s the daisy!’ yelped Grandad. ‘Planks! They were looking for planks. New planks. For walking on. That’d be it. Pirates are always walking the plank.’
‘Well, I’m happy I found you and not the pirates,’ said Milk, giving him a little hug.
‘No, I found you,’ replied the tall, old man. ‘What were you looking for?’
‘I was looking for you, Grandad. Are you coming home?’
‘That depends on you. Are you going home?’
‘Yes, Grandad.’
‘Well, good. So am I then,’ he said, beaming down at her. He set off at his slow, steady pace, Milk at his side.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ he said, reaching into his coat pocket. ‘This is for you.’
He handed her a thin red book, the size of a postcard. It had a hard cover and was rather tatty, as if it had been left out in all weathers. Milk turned it over in her hands. Along the spine of the book, in faded gold letters, was written:
THE PORRIDGE OF KNOWLEDGE.
‘Where did you get it from?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘This!’ cried Milk, waving the book in his face.
‘Oh, that. I was given it.’
‘Who gave it to you?’
‘What?’
‘The book!’
‘Oh, that,’ replied Grandad. ‘I found it on the beach.’
Grandad often found things, picked them up and then forgot where he found them in the first place. A couple of weeks ago he came home with a small pancake draped over the top of his head. He didn’t know how it had got there, but he couldn’t stop giggling when Milk put him in front of a mirror.
Milk put the book back in Grandad’s coat pocket, took hold of his hand and headed for home.
CHAPTER 2
BARRY THE MILKMAN
It was never a secret. Milk had always known what had happened to her when she was a baby. At the time it was front-page news:
BABY FOUND ON MILK FLOAT,
screamed the Slopp-on-Sea Gazette, adding,
MOTHER’S WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN.
(The same front page also asked,
ARE MUSHROOMS MORE INTELLIGENT THAN PEOPLE? A GAZETTE EXCLUSIVE,
but that really wasn’t so important. And by the way, the answer is no, mushrooms are not more intelligent than people.)
For the first few months of her life, the abandoned baby was cared for by nurses in the hospital. For obvious reasons they called her Milk (well, they could hardly call her Barry, which was the name of the milkman who’d found her). It was Grandma, the senior nurse at the hospital, who suggested she look after the baby at home until a more suitable family could be found. So baby Milk went to live with Grandma and Grandad, and the days rolled into weeks and the weeks rolled into months and the months slipped by until one day, to everybody’s delight, it was decided that Milk should stay with them forever.
They kept that front page of the Slopp-on-Sea Gazette. It was put in a frame and hung over the kitchen fireplace at home. Milk loved looking at it. It reminded her how lucky she was to end up living with her adopted grandparents.
You could say it was her destiny.
Grandad put another log on the fire and stepped back, brushing away a cobweb stuck to his fingers. Gradually, the kitchen filled with warmth and the soporific smell of burning wood.
‘You could boil a blister in there,’ he said, staring proudly at the fire.
‘It’s a beauty, Grandad. A proper blanket-blazer,’ replied Milk, using one of his made-up expressions.
She cleared the dinner plates from the kitchen table and put them in the sink. This was their routine: Milk cooked then Grandad washed up and tidied away, though recently his tidying had become increasingly haphazard – clean plates sometimes ended up in the fridge and the butter dish might be left on the floor next to the cat’s bowl. But still, he insisted on doing it and besides, the cat loved butter.
Grandad wheeled his armchair close to the fire, sat down and opened the newspaper: the Slopp-on-Sea Gazette. He never read it, he just liked to doodle, drawing donkey’s ears on the mayor’s head or scribbling moustaches onto the happy faces of the victorious ladies’ wrestling team – that kind of thing. At the same time, Milk settled down at the kitchen table and took out her homework book, You Love Maths, Maths Loves You. She opened it at Chapter 6: Number Hugs: Let long division fill your h
eart.
Despite the heat from the kitchen fire, Milk shivered. Already, her brain was beginning to freeze over. This was perfectly normal. Homework, particularly maths homework, was one big brain-freeze.
Absent-mindedly, her eyes began to wander across the table, searching for something less mind-numbingly dull. There were piles of old comics, empty crisp packets, a takeaway menu for Carp’s Café and there, next to a shrivelled banana skin, was the little red book that Grandad had found earlier today. Milk had forgotten all about it, but now, compared with her homework, it suddenly became more intriguing.
She opened the book and began to read.
It was a short story, written entirely in rhyme, about a medieval vagrant called Jim, who spent his days traipsing through villages, begging and stealing from whoever crossed his path. One day, Jim stumbled into a village, which was celebrating its annual Porridge of Knowledge festival. Looking for something to steal, Jim slipped into a tent and found a cauldron full of porridge. What he didn’t know was that this was no ordinary porridge; whoever ate it, temporarily developed extraordinary powers. Greedily, he ate the whole lot before being caught in the act by the angry villagers …
The Porridge of Knowledge rolled down Jim’s chin,
And carved a white trail on wine-cratered skin.
A thick yellow tongue then wormed from his mouth,
Went north, licked the top lip and then headed south.
But porridge still hung from his jaw and his whiskers,
The Porridge of Knowledge Page 1