The Porridge of Knowledge

by Archie Kimpton

  ELEPHANT STONES

  Milk never tried to get kicked out of Ms Cerise’s class, though every time it happened, she couldn’t help feeling an enormous sense of excitement. It was different to the normal days off school, like weekends and holidays, when the days merged leisurely into one another. On days like today she felt that every moment was tinged with possibility and that something magical was always just around the corner.

  She ran home and quickly changed out of her school uniform. In the kitchen, she opened a drawer and took out a penknife given to her by her grandma on her fifth birthday. It wasn’t a fancy penknife with nail files and turnip peelers, but one with a single blade that folded neatly into a wooden handle. In tiny handwriting, Grandma had engraved the words ‘To whittle the hours away’ along the length of the handle. It was Milk’s most treasured possession and every time she ran her finger across the wooden handle it reminded her of Grandma’s wicked laugh and warm, sparkly eyes.

  With the knife safely in her pocket, she went outside and started off down the hill. As she passed Mrs Fozz’s house, the old lady herself opened her front window.

  ‘In case you’re worrying, Milk, your grandad’s in here with me. We’re playing hide and seek. He’s very good at it. Goodness knows how he squeezed himself into my fridge. It took me twenty minutes to find him and only then because I needed a glass of prune juice. Almost gave me a heart attack when I opened the fridge door!’

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Fozz. He loves it at your house.’

  ‘It’s no trouble at all, dear. Better than watching Britain’s Ugliest Pets on the television.’ And with a giggle she closed the window.

  Further down the road, Mr Frat was standing outside his house smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Kicked out of school again?’ he sneered.

  Milk ignored him and kept walking.

  ‘If my Frank and Fenella get any ideas off you …’

  ‘Who are you talking to?’ boomed Mrs Frat’s voice from inside the house. ‘Get inside! Britain’s Ugliest Pets is starting.’

  Mr Frat flicked his cigarette into the street and slammed the door behind him.

  It was half an hour’s walk to the Elephant Stones, a series of massive, jagged boulders that millions of years ago had come away from the cliff and tumbled into the sea. When the tide was low, it was possible to climb up onto the first stone and jump from boulder to boulder, zigzagging your way quite some distance out to sea. It was fierce out here; the muscular wind always threatened to blow you off balance and toss you into the raging water.

  It was Grandad who first brought her out onto the Elephant Stones. She was just a little girl at the time, but together they skipped fearlessly from boulder to boulder.

  ‘Keep your head down,’ he used to shout over the din of the crashing waves. ‘That way the wind won’t blow you away.’

  And Milk would do as she was told, ducking down, following in his footsteps, memorising the best routes.

  That was some years ago now, when Grandma was still alive and Grandad was less befuddled. Things were different now.

  Lying down, curled over the edge of the furthest boulder, Milk stretched her arms towards a lumpet of limpets. In one hand she held her knife; around the other she had tied a plastic bag to put the limpets in. Below her, the sea roiled and roared as the endless waves smashed against the underside of the boulder, spraying seawater high up into the air. Milk’s face was already soaked and the salty seawater stung her eyes, but still she edged forward, her hands getting closer to the large limpets. There were smaller limpets that were much easier to reach, but Milk ignored those; the Porridge of Knowledge recipe specifically asked for limp limpets, and in her mind, only large limpets could ever be limp.

  ‘Large limp limpets. Large limp limpets,’ she repeated to herself, faster and faster, making up her own tongue twister. Somehow, it helped her concentrate.

  Inch by inch, Milk slid the tip of the knife down the rock face towards the first large limpet. She knew that if she accidently touched the shell before she was ready then the limpet would instinctively flinch and glue itself so tightly to the rock face that it would be almost impossible to prise off.

  ‘Large limp limpets. Large limp limpets …’

  Then, in one swift movement she thrust the tip of the knife under the edge of the shell.

  ‘Got it!’ she said, quickly twisting the knife.

  She peeled the limpet off the rock and dropped it into the plastic bag. One down, thirteen to go.

  After nine limpets, Milk shuffled back onto the top of the rock to inspect her haul. Her arms were getting tired and her wet hair clung to her face. She took the largest limpet out of the bag and, with the knife, scooped the gloopy flesh out of its shell. Then, turning the knife over, she rested the limpet flesh over the thick edge of the blade. In slow mollusc-motion, the limpet draped itself limply over the side of the knife.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said to herself. ‘As limp as lettuce.’

  The last five limpets were the hardest to reach, each one a little further down the rock face than the last. She worked quickly, stretching her body so far down she worried she might slide head first into the sea. Just as she prised off the last limpet she felt someone grab hold of her ankles. She arched her head back to see who it was.

  ‘Saved you,’ smirked Reece Blanket. ‘Saved your life.’ He was grinning like an idiot.

  Milk ignored him. Cool as you like, she dropped the last limpet into the plastic bag and wiped her hair out of her eyes. ‘Let go of me, Reece,’ she said, calmly.

  ‘When you’re like this, I don’t have to smell your breath,’ giggled Reece. Now he was getting annoying.

  ‘Get off me, Grease.’

  ‘What did you call me?’ snarled Reece, tightening his grip on her ankles.

  Considering she was lying over the side of a boulder with her head just inches from the sea, Milk realised it probably wasn’t a good idea to call him Grease again. Instead, she asked, ‘Why aren’t you in school? Did you get sent out as well?’

  ‘Me?’ Reece scoffed. ‘As if! Ms Cerise sent us all home. She wasn’t feeling well after you breathed on her. Now, let’s see. What would happen if I lowered you over the edge? Just a little bit. Like this.’

  Now Milk was dangling and the only thing stopping her falling into the water was Reece, holding onto her ankles.

  ‘Reece,’ yelled Milk, furiously. ‘Pull me up. Now!’

  A wave collided against the boulder, soaking Milk up to her waist. The plastic bag hanging from her wrist filled with seawater, dragging her down even further. It felt like her arm was being pulled out of its socket. All she could hear was the roar of the sea and Reece hooting with laughter.

  ‘Say “I love Reece” or I’ll drop you.’

  Milk said nothing.

  ‘You’re getting heavy,’ he trilled in a sing-song voice. ‘I can’t hold on much longer. You’d better say it, “I love Reece”.’

  He let her slide down even further. Milk could feel her hair touching the water. And then, disaster. The next wave smashed against her arm, knocking the knife out of her hand. Helplessly, she watched as it fell into the water and sank beneath the waves.

  She’d had enough. ‘I love Reece,’ she growled through gritted teeth.

  ‘What was that? I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘I LOVE REECE!’ roared Milk furiously.

  ‘There,’ said Reece, pulling her up, ‘that wasn’t so hard, was it? I love you too. Let’s kiss.’ He puckered his lips in readiness.

  Milk scrambled to her feet and barged past him.

  Reece pulled a sad face. ‘No kissy-wissy for Reecey? I only want to be your friend. It’s not as though you have any friends at school.’

  Milk hated to admit it, but Reece was right. At school she kept herself to herself. Nor did she ever ask anyone back to her house. These days her priority was to look after Grandad. That said, she wasn’t desperate; it was better to have no friends than have Reece as a friend.

>   ‘Oh, by the way,’ he called out after her. ‘I wanted to invite you to my daddy’s new café. It opens tonight on the pier. It’s called Café Smoooth.’

  Milk pretended not to hear …

  ‘You should come.’

  … but she did.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE INVITATION

  Carp’s Café had just two regulars. Their names were Alfred and Irene and they’d been coming to Carp’s for as long as anyone could remember. Every day after lunch, they hobbled in, tucked their walking sticks under a table and sat down opposite each other. Then they’d order one cup of fishy tea, which they shared throughout the afternoon. For most of this time, unless they were sulking, they argued.

  Today was no different. When Milk pushed open the café door she walked right into the middle of a real humdinger.

  ‘Tell her, Milk,’ fumed Alfred, pointing a shaky finger at Irene. ‘Tell her she’s wrong.’

  ‘Oh, you’re a miserable old fool,’ hissed Irene.

  Though they were the nicest of people, Milk never got involved in their quarrels. ‘Hello you two,’ she said breezily. ‘Is Jarvis out back?’

  ‘He’s gone out, love,’ replied Irene. ‘He asked us to keep an eye on the place. Well, he asked me. Alfred here’s as blind as a bat.’

  ‘I am not,’ insisted Alfred. ‘I don’t even wear glasses.’

  ‘That’s why you can’t see, you old dingbat.’

  ‘Well, at least I don’t think Italians use toothpasta to clean their teeth. That’s what she said this morning! Toothpasta!’ shrieked Alfred triumphantly. He swept his long, unwashed hair away from his face and took a tiny slurp of fishy tea. ‘I tell you, Milk, I should have her sent to the nuthouse.’

  ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes without me,’ shot back Irene. This, they both knew, was true. Alfred and Irene were inseparable.

  Only now did Irene notice that Milk was soaked. ‘Oh dear, look at you. Come here. Sit down. What happened? Been wrestling whales again?’

  ‘Something like that,’ smiled Milk, taking a seat next to Irene.

  ‘Well, I bet the whale came off worse,’ chuckled Alfred. ‘Here, put my coat on. Get yourself warmed up.’

  Irene looked appalled. ‘She doesn’t want to be wearing that old rag. It’s covered in dandruff. Here, put mine on.’

  Just then the café door crashed open and Jarvis C. Carp stormed in, carrying a cardboard box under his arm. Without saying a word he dropped the box onto the floor and threw a screwed-up ball of paper on the table.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Milk.

  Jarvis didn’t answer. Whatever it was, he was very upset.

  Milk unscrewed the paper and read out loud:

  ‘PEOPLE OF SLOPP,

  YOU ARE INVITED TO THE GRAND OPENING OF CAFÉ SMOOOTH

  TONIGHT AT 6 P.M. ON THE SLOPP-ON-SEA PIER.

  FREE COCKTAILS (FOR THE FIRST THREE GUESTS),

  FREE SAUSAGES (STRICTLY HALF A SAUSAGE PER PERSON)

  AND FREE CAFÉ SMOOOTH PARTY HATS FOR ALL CHILDREN UNDER TWO (PROOF OF AGE REQUIRED, I.E. PASSPORT, DRIVING LICENCE, ETC.).

  SO …

  GET OUT FROM UNDER YOUR DUVET

  AND COME TO CAFÉ SMOOOTH.

  EH!

  (COACH PARTIES WELCOME)’

  Jarvis collapsed onto the chair next to Alfred and buried his head in his hands. ‘Ruined. I’m ruined,’ he wailed over and over. ‘Nobody will come here ever again.’

  ‘We’ll still come,’ said Alfred, putting an arm around Jarvis. ‘We love it here. Your tea is …’

  ‘Fishy!’ interrupted Jarvis. ‘I know my tea is fishy. I heard you say so.’

  ‘But that’s how we like it,’ insisted Irene, unconvincingly. ‘I was just saying this morning how I’d love a cup of fishy tea, wasn’t I, Alfred.’

  Alfred nodded enthusiastically. ‘And Jarvis, you mustn’t forget about the holidaymakers. They’ll still come.’

  ‘You had a coach party today, didn’t you?’ asked Milk. ‘How did they like your pineapple menu?’

  Jarvis looked up at her. ‘Three of them were sick, one couple refused to pay the bill and all of them left before I had a chance to serve the Happy Pineapple Surprise pudding. It was a disaster. It’s always a disaster. I’m a terrible chef. They only eat here because there’s nowhere else to go.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ insisted Milk.

  But it was true and they all knew it.

  ‘What will I do? Maybe I’ll have to close the café. Four hundred years of Carp’s Café and it ends with me,’ he sobbed.

  Milk hated seeing her friend like this. She wished there was something she could do to make things better. On the floor, next to her bag of limpets, she noticed the cardboard box that Jarvis had dropped. In it, amongst other things, were oats, grapes, white blackberries and a piece of bloodied paper that probably contained a small pig’s kidney; all ingredients for the Porridge of Knowledge.

  ‘Right,’ she said decisively, ‘there’s nothing else for it.’

  She stood up, fetched a clean apron and pulled it over her head. It had ‘World’s Greatest Cook’ written across the front.

  ‘Are you coming?’ she asked, standing over Jarvis.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the kitchen. We cook.’

  CHAPTER 7

  DANDRUFF

  When he was a little boy, Jarvis dreamed of becoming an architect. While his mother and father ran the café downstairs, young Jarvis sat in his bedroom, sucking boiled sweets and reading his favourite book, Great Buildings of the World. They were all in there: the Taj Mahal, the pyramids of Giza, the Acropolis, the leaning tower of Pisa and his all-time favourite, the Eiffel Tower. They were his colourful world beyond the greyness of Slopp.

  The very day Jarvis took over Carp’s Café from his parents, he covered the kitchen walls with pictures of all his favourite buildings. It meant he could marvel at the Eiffel Tower as he washed up; he could gaze at the pyramids of Giza as he chopped onions, and as he waited for the toaster to pop, he could meander through the glorious arches of the Taj Mahal that glowed pink in the evening sun. These pictures inspired him and though they didn’t improve his cooking one jot, he never stopped trying.

  But now the kitchen was in total chaos. Spiky pineapple tops were all over the floor, piles of dirty plates lurked in the sink and somehow, three large chunks of pineapple had stuck to the picture of the Eiffel Tower. Milk got to work, washing, sweeping and cleaning. Meanwhile, Jarvis unpacked the contents of the box and laid them out in a neat row. Then he put a large saucepan onto the cooker and turned on the gas.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked Milk, taking off her rubber gloves.

  ‘Ready,’ replied Jarvis.

  They followed the recipe to the letter. First, the three basic ingredients of porridge: water, oatmeal and salt. Milk stirred as Jarvis prepared the other more unusual ingredients. Under the grill, he burnt eight slices of toast, cut off the crusts then slung them in the pot.

  ‘Do I need to chop this up?’ he asked, holding up the pig’s kidney.

  Milk consulted the recipe. There was no mention of slicing or chopping. ‘Nope, just chuck it in.’

  The kidney plopped in, settling comfortably on a bed of blackened toast.

  Jarvis scooped the limp limpets out of their shells and dropped them into the pot. Then came the cabbage soap, two grapes and the thirty-three white blackberries, which he’d found growing in brambles near the Slopp-on-Sea reservoir.

  It wasn’t so easy to quarter a pea, but on his third attempt, having sharpened his best knife, Jarvis managed it.

  ‘Voila!’ he said with a flourish, tossing the quartered pea into the pot.

  Stirring was hard work. Milk leant in and dragged the spoon around the bottom of the pot. ‘Is that all the ingredients?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, chef!’ grinned Jarvis, clicking his heels together. ‘Everything except the dandruff. I thought you could supply that.’

  ‘I haven’t got da
ndruff,’ protested Milk.

  ‘Well, don’t look at me. I washed my hair last night.’ It was true; Jarvis’s hair was looking particularly fluffy, much like an Eighties pop star.

  Milk touched her hair. ‘Well, I’ll try. But I’m sure I don’t have dandruff.’

  On the shelf by the beaded curtain was a pile of black paper napkins. Milk took one down and laid it flat on the kitchen table. Then, she leant over it and got ruffling.

  Like the first snow of winter, a light dusting of dandruff floated down onto the napkin.

  ‘Go on, scratch it!’ encouraged Jarvis. ‘Get behind the ears.’

  Milk dug her nails in and scratched as hard as she could, but still there was nowhere near enough.

  ‘Here. Let me have a go,’ said Jarvis, leaning over the napkin.

  He ruffled and fluffled but not a single flake fell out. It was a dandruff desert.

  Milk picked up two corners of the napkin and tipped what they had into a tablespoon. It was less than half full.

  ‘Where are we going to get six tablespoons of dandruff from?’ asked Jarvis, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Can you get it at the supermarket? It would be in the organic section, wouldn’t it?’

  Milk wasn’t sure if Jarvis was joking, but she shook her head anyhow. Through the beaded curtain she could hear Alfred and Irene bickering – something about the time Alfred got his head stuck in a cat flap …

  And then it came to her. Of course! It was obvious! ‘Alfred?’ she called out. ‘Could you come into the kitchen please? We need your help.’

  ‘Wee-hee!’ cried Alfred, ruffling his dirty hair. ‘It’s snowing! A blizzard!’

  Dandruff gushed down, turning the black napkin white.

  ‘It’s like Christmas,’ said Jarvis, gleefully.

  Irene was less than impressed. ‘It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.’

  By now, a healthy mound of dandruff rose up from the centre of the napkin. Milk tipped the contents into a bowl. There was more than enough.

  ‘What do you need it for, anyway?’ asked Alfred, putting his coat back on.

  ‘It’s nothing really,’ replied Milk. ‘Just a silly experiment.’