The Porridge of Knowledge

by Archie Kimpton

  Jarvis re-checked the clock. Two forty-one. Only eight minutes had passed. Why was it that time moved so slowly in the middle of the night? With a noisy yawn and a bone clicking stretch, he clambered out of bed and crossed the room, taking a seat on his old toy trunk. On the windowsill he saw his donkey sweet dispenser; pull its plastic tail and with a noise that sounds nothing like a donkey, a boiled sweet pops out of its gaping mouth. Jarvis pulled the tail three times and put all three sweets in his mouth at the same time. His record was fourteen, but at this time of night he wasn’t in the mood for record breaking. For a while he just sat and sucked, boiled sweets clacking against his teeth, daydreaming in the middle of the night. Eventually, as the last slither of sweet trickled down his throat, he reached up and pulled open the curtains. Outside, the rain was hammering against his window and the sea roared furiously, like a wounded lion. Further down the promenade he could just make out the shape of a vehicle reversing onto the pier. Probably just a late delivery for Café Smoooth, he told himself. It was then he saw a lone figure wandering along the promenade, huddled under an umbrella. Who on earth would be out on a night like this? As the figure drew closer, he recognised the little green frogs that decorated the umbrella.

  ‘Milk!’ he exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

  Quickly, he pulled on his dressing gown and slippers and hurried downstairs.

  CHAPTER 16

  ALNITAK, ALNILAM AND MINTAKA

  Jarvis came through from the kitchen carrying his two best plates.

  ‘Which one would you like?’ he asked, holding them up for Milk’s inspection.

  On one plate was a goofy, gooey photo of a blobby royal baby. On the other was a painting of three overweight children sitting on a donkey at the beach. Milk chose the first plate; she liked the way the baby’s puffy eyes seemed to follow her wherever she moved.

  Ceremoniously, Jarvis laid the plates onto the table. Then, from his dressing gown pocket he took out two silver teaspoons. With the end of his dressing gown cord he gave them a thorough polish before putting them next to the plates. Every action was carried out with purpose and precision, as if to say, If we’re going to do this, then we’re going to do it properly.

  Milk felt it too. ‘Napkins?’ she suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ replied Jarvis.

  He opened a drawer and took out two napkins. Cloth napkins, no less; no paper rubbish on an occasion such as this.

  Like the queen’s butler, Jarvis fetched one of the Tupperware boxes and laid it on the café table. As he removed the lid, a familiar waft of mouldysweetness filled the air – it was definitely improving with age, thought Milk. Then he sliced two portions of porridge and put one on each plate.

  It was time to eat.

  Jarvis sat down opposite Milk. His hands were trembling – just a little. Nerves began to get the better of Milk too. She started giggling; her lump of porridge sat directly over the royal baby’s nose, making him look even blobbier than before.

  ‘You first,’ said Jarvis.

  ‘No. You first,’ replied Milk, trying to wipe the smile off her face.

  ‘All right then.’ He picked up his lump of porridge and shoved the whole thing into his mouth.

  ‘Your turn,’ he said in between chews.

  This is it. There’s no going back.

  Milk screwed up her eyes and chucked the porridge into her mouth.

  Surprisingly, it didn’t taste too bad. Not super-sweet, but certainly not disgusting. Though the outside was hard, the inside was quite soft and gooey, much like a meringue. Mechanically, her teeth crunched and chewed and minced until at last she was able to swallow.

  She opened her eyes. The blobby baby looked back at her.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Jarvis, wiping the corners of his mouth with the napkin. They had both forgotten to use their teaspoons.

  Milk looked around the café to see if anything was different, but everything seemed just the same. She didn’t really know what to do with herself.

  ‘Shall we put some music on?’ she suggested.

  ‘Good idea.’ Jarvis got up and switched on the radio. Grandiose opera music filled the café. Normally she would have asked Jarvis to change the radio station – opera was not her favourite – but now, the melodramatic warbling seemed just right for the occasion.

  She got up and looked out of the café window. It was still the middle of the night. The rain had stopped and some of the clouds had parted to reveal a handful of waterlogged stars. And then …

  Milk shuddered.

  It was a tiny shudder, almost unnoticeable.

  That’s all it was.

  The Porridge of Knowledge had begun its work.

  Milk squinted up at the night sky. Without thinking, she said, ‘Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka.’

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Jarvis.

  Milk pointed. ‘Those three stars. That’s their names: Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka. Together they’re known as Orion’s Belt.’

  ‘How do you know?’ quizzed Jarvis.

  ‘I just know,’ replied Milk, with absolute confidence.

  And then Jarvis shuddered.

  He stood next to Milk. ‘And there’s Betelgeuse and Rigel. They’re the two brightest stars in the Orion constellation.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Milk.

  They both stopped and looked at each other. Neither of them knew a thing about astronomy, yet here they were rattling off the names of the stars like experts.

  ‘Do you feel at all … different?’ asked Milk.

  ‘I don’t think so. I feel the same, I think.’

  ‘Are we clever?’

  ‘I don’t feel particularly clever,’ replied Jarvis.

  ‘Maybe we’re the cleverest people in the world,’ declared Milk. Her eyes were twinkling like Betelgeuse. ‘We need to test it.’

  ‘How? What do clever people do?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Milk, looking around the café for something to do. ‘What about a game?’

  ‘How about hide and seek?’

  ‘No!’ giggled Milk. ‘A clever game.’

  ‘I know!’ announced Jarvis, throwing his hands in the air. ‘Chess! It’s the cleverest game of all. I’ve got a set upstairs.’

  ‘But I don’t know how to play chess,’ said Milk.

  ‘Nor do I.’ And with that Jarvis scurried upstairs to get his chess set.

  Chess is a notoriously difficult game that can take years to master. Each piece moves in a number of different ways and with each move there are hundreds of possibilities and consequences. And yet, within minutes both Milk and Jarvis were playing with such speed and brilliance it would make a chess grandmaster blush. Their porridge-fuelled brains were like computers that fizzed and crackled and told them exactly what move to make next. The brainiest game in the world was as easy to them as snakes and ladders.

  They played for a long time; it must have been hours, because the next time Milk looked up, morning sun was streaming through the café window. Her body felt stiff and her stomach rumbled furiously, demanding attention.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she announced.

  ‘Me too,’ replied Jarvis, getting to his feet. ‘Jam sandwich?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  As Jarvis plodded into the kitchen, Milk pushed back her chair, stretched out her arms and let out a yawn so big it could have come from a person twice her size. Giant Milk. She ambled over to the café window and looked out onto the empty promenade. What a night it had been. Beyond her wildest expectations. And this, she said to herself, is just the beginning.

  Just then, a strange sound came from the kitchen – like a smash and a splodge at the same time.

  ‘Jarvis? Are you OK?’

  There was no answer. Milk hurried through the beaded curtain into the kitchen.

  In front of the open fridge stood Jarvis, motionless, holding a lid. At his feet was a smashed jar of strawberry jam.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Milk.

  Jarvis l
ooked up at her. His face was as white as a sheet. ‘The jam. I …’

  ‘You dropped it. It doesn’t matter. We can have something else in our sandwiches.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ insisted Jarvis. Tears began welling up in his eyes. ‘Milk. The strawberry jam. I smelt it. I actually smelt it.’

  Since the day he shoved all those peanuts up his nostrils in a playground dare, Jarvis hadn’t smelt a thing.

  ‘I took the lid off the jam and there was this incredible smell of strawberries.’

  ‘Can you smell it now?’ asked Milk. ‘Try again.’

  Jarvis brought the lid to his nose and inhaled deeply. His whole body seemed to inflate with pleasure.

  ‘It smells … beautiful!’

  ‘It’s the porridge,’ cried Milk happily. ‘You can smell because of the Porridge of Knowledge.’

  But Jarvis wasn’t listening. Already he was over by the spice rack, filling his nostrils. Cardamom, cinnamon, cumin, paprika, coriander; each new smell sent him into spirals of joy.

  And then a thought popped into his aroma-addled brain. A thought so ludicrous, so wonderful, he hardly dared say it.

  ‘Milk. If I can smell, do you think I might be able to … taste?’

  In all his life, Jarvis had never tasted a thing. Nothing. Not a banana, not vanilla ice cream, not a sausage. ‘If I can taste,’ he added, ‘what should I try first?’

  What do you give someone who has never tasted anything?

  Cheese? Bovril? Honey? Marmalade? Mashed potato? What about cabbage or Brussels sprouts?

  It had to be something special. Very special indeed. Milk racked her brain.

  And then she got it. Of course! Her favourite thing. Something she would quite happily have every day, with every meal.

  Ketchup.

  ‘Wait there,’ she said and hurried back into the café. There were large plastic tomatoes on every table, each one full of delicious, mouth-watering ketchup. Milk grabbed one from the nearest table and just to be sure, squirted a dollop straight into her gob. It tasted perfect; sharp and sweet. She couldn’t think of a better food for Jarvis’s first ever taste.

  In the kitchen, she squeezed a tiny blob onto a teaspoon and handed it to Jarvis.

  ‘I hope you like it.’

  ‘I hope I can taste it,’ replied Jarvis. His hand was shaking.

  ‘Go on then,’ encouraged Milk.

  And he did.

  Imagine, if you will, coming out of a cave and seeing the sun shining in the sky for the first time. That’s just how Jarvis felt as the tomato ketchup swilled around his mouth. His whole body shivered and his hair stood on end. If this was a cartoon, steam would have gushed out of his ears and his nose would have trumpeted a delirious fanfare.

  It was all too much. Like a baby giraffe, his legs gave way and he collapsed to the floor.

  ‘Jarvis!’ cried Milk. ‘What’s happened? Are you OK?’

  He lay there, totally still. Milk knelt over him. Honestly, she thought he was a goner.

  At last, he opened his eyes. ‘MORE!’ he roared. ‘GIVE ME SOME MORE!’

  Milk obliged. She squirted ketchup directly from the plastic tomato into his mouth. Jarvis’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. He was in heaven.

  ‘That’s magnificent,’ he purred. ‘What’s next?’

  It could only be one thing. Chocolate. Milk scurried around the kitchen looking for something chocolatey. At the back of a cupboard she found a packet of cocoa powder, the type you use to make hot chocolate. She flicked open the packet and held it out to him.

  ‘I can’t move. Pour it in!’ insisted Jarvis.

  She didn’t bother with a spoon. Instead, she held the packet over his face and tilted. An avalanche of cocoa powder exploded onto his face.

  ‘Sorry!’ giggled Milk. ‘I didn’t think it would come out so fast.’

  Jarvis didn’t mind one little bit. He sprung to his feet and did what would be forever remembered as his Chocolate Dance.

  There was no stopping him now. Jarvis skipped over to the fridge and began stuffing everything into his mouth: butter, cheese, mustard, ham, greeting each new flavour with ecstatic ooohs and ahhhs.

  Milk perched herself on the counter by the sink and watched his wild feeding frenzy. It went on and on: cucumber, blancmange, yogurt, salami, bananas, squirty cream; all met with hoots of delight. In fact, the only thing he didn’t like was cabbage. But then again, nobody likes cabbage, do they?

  After he had tried everything in the fridge two or three times, Jarvis slumped to the floor, happily rubbing his swollen belly.

  ‘How are you feeling, greedy guts?’ asked Milk, as she slipped down off the counter.

  ‘Wonderful,’ he replied. His eyes were glistening with joy. ‘Do you know what this means, Milk? If I can taste and smell, I might become a better chef. And if I become a better chef, then maybe people will start coming back to Carp’s Café. All I need is a little bit of porridge every day …’

  ‘And I could be brilliant at school,’ added Milk, considering the possibilities. ‘Ms Cerise wouldn’t know what was going on.’ The thought tickled her no end. In fact, it gave her a brilliant idea. ‘Jarvis, can you help me make two normal flapjacks and some chocolate topping?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, as he picked up the can of squirty cream off the floor. ‘Just as soon as I’ve tried this.’

  ‘But you’ve already tried that. I saw you.’

  ‘Did I? Oh well. One more try can’t hurt.’ And he flipped off the lid and aimed the nozzle into his mouth.

  CHAPTER 17

  MERMAID’S FLUNGE

  Curiously, when Milk opened her eyes it was still dark; not pitch black, but a strange, murky, yellowy darkness. She had no idea where she was. Whatever she was lying on was cold and hard – certainly not her own bed – and her whole body ached from top to toe. Still half asleep, she reached up and felt something damp draped across her face, like the tentacle of a baby octopus. Slowly, tentatively, she peeled it away, squinting as her eyes grew accustomed to the daylight, until at last she realised she was holding nothing more sinister than a soggy banana skin.

  With great effort she pushed herself up. A startled cockroach shot out from an empty yoghurt pot and scuttled off under the fridge. She saw Jarvis, lying on his side, with his head resting on the bottom shelf of the fridge. A dollop of blancmange clung to his cheek and he was snoring peacefully. Scattered around him was the debris of his feeding frenzy: broken eggs, spilt milk, spinach leaves, olive stones, half-eaten carrots, splashes of mayonnaise; he had really gone to town.

  Milk looked at her watch. It was eight o’clock. In the morning! Monday morning! She’d slept all night on the kitchen floor. School started in an hour!

  She leapt up, scattering a pile of empty crisp packets. If she hurried she could run home, wash, change into her school uniform and be at school just on time. She darted out of the kitchen and through the café. As she flung open the café door, she suddenly remembered the Tupperware she had carefully prepared the previous evening. She rushed back across the café, retrieved the Tupperware from the counter by the till and ran outside.

  It was quite a surprise to see so many people on the promenade – there were never this many people out on a Monday morning – all of them looking out towards the sea. Perhaps a dolphin was swimming close to the shore or a pod of seals was frolicking in the surf. It sometimes happened and when it did, it would cause considerable excitement, especially amongst the holidaymakers. The further she went, the crowds got bigger, and at one point, there were people standing on the wall to get a better view. At last, curiosity got the better of her and she crossed the road to see what all the fuss was about.

  She pushed through the crowd of people and peered over the promenade wall. What she saw took her breath away.

  Dead fish, thousands of them, scattered across the beach as far as the eye could see. In some places the pebbles were completely obscured by silvery carcasses glistening in the m
orning light. There were bigger fish too. Some way along Milk thought she could see a dolphin washed up onto the beach. More fish bobbed pathetically in the water, drifting back and forth in the waves.

  Already rumours were flying through the crowd.

  ‘Maybe an oil tanker ran aground and spilt its cargo,’ said one.

  ‘No, they’re diseased,’ said another.

  A third voice caught Milk’s attention.

  ‘I can’t see what all the fuss is about. They’re only fish, for goodness’ sake.’

  Milk turned to see she was standing next to Malcolm Blanket, the odious owner of Café Smoooth. He wore a suit that was at least three sizes too big, with pointy shoulder pads that jutted right out.

  ‘In my mind,’ he continued, ‘fish are only good for one thing and that’s caviar. Makes me hungry just looking at this lot.’ That strange gargling noise came from the back of his throat, like a weasel being strangled. He was trying to laugh.

  Next to him stood Mrs Blanket, holding her nose. ‘And what a terrible smell. I do hope someone cleans it up soon or all my clothes will stink.’ With her free hand she pulled a bottle of expensive-looking perfume out of her handbag and sprayed it all around her. A fine mist floated down over Milk. It smelt of toilets.

  Just then Mrs Blanket spotted Milk. ‘Oh look, Malcolm, it’s Reecey’s little girlfriend.’ She reached out and grabbed a handful of Milk’s hair. ‘Oh dear, your hair looks worse than last time. I do wish you’d let me sort it out. Reecey would be so happy and you do want to please him, don’t you?’ She jerked Milk’s head from side to side as she spoke. ‘You know, I do my hair especially for Malcolm every morning, don’t I Malky-Moo?’