‘Is the test finished, Miss?’ asked Milk.
‘No, no, no,’ Ms Cerise stammered. ‘I’m sure I can think of one more question. There must, I must … there must be something … just give me a minute and I’ll …’
But she had nothing left. She slumped onto her desk, head in hands.
‘Are you going to apologise?’ asked Frank Frat.
‘For calling us cheats,’ added Fenella Frat.
‘Say sorry,’ demanded Melanie Spoons.
‘Apologise,’ ordered Milk.
Ms Cerise raised her head. She was whiter than a ghost’s sheet. ‘I’m … I’m …’
But she just couldn’t say it.
She leapt up, grabbed her coat, the one she’d stolen from the charity shop, and stormed out of the classroom.
CHAPTER 21
QUEUE
The Great Fish Clear-up was well under way. As Milk strolled along the promenade she counted at least forty volunteers, armed with buckets and rubber gloves, clearing the beach of dead fish. It wasn’t unusual for the people of Slopp-on-Sea to pull together in a crisis like this. It was in their blood. Their history was littered with stories of great courage and camaraderie. For example, there was the time, over a thousand years ago, when Viking ships were spotted near the coastline. Fearing an attack, a ragtag army of Sloppites stood guard on the beach, armed with nothing more than rolled-up wet towels and mouthfuls of spit, ready to whip-spit-away any Viking who dared come ashore to pillage their village. For three days and three nights they stood guard as the enemy ships drew closer. On the fourth day the Vikings raided the neighbouring village of Pifflemundon, razing it to the ground. The people of Slopp celebrated wildly. Not only had their village been spared, but Pifflemundon was destroyed, which was a bonus because nobody liked them anyhow.1
Further down the beach Milk saw Grandad and Mrs Fozz helping out. Cheerful as ever, Mrs Fozz loaded up a bucket with fish carcasses. Then Grandad carried the bucket up the steps onto the promenade and emptied it into a large wheelie bin. Despite the stinkiness of the job, Grandad seemed to be enjoying himself, singing a made-up song as he worked.
‘Mussels and cod went to the gym.
Haddock and plaice fell into the bin.
Sardine and salmon sat on the beach,
Tuna and herring squashed a fat peach.’
All nonsense, but it had Mrs Fozz in fits of giggles. Milk liked watching them work together. They were a good team.
Despite the clean-up, the smell around Slopp was getting worse, lingering like a pungent fog. A coach drove past. Milk looked up at the rows of holidaymakers peering out of the windows. Some of them were holding their noses. All of them looked very unhappy.
Milk decided to go home, get changed into her wellies and help with the clean-up. She didn’t get far. As she passed Carp’s Café she saw something that took her breath away.
It was incredible.
Remarkable.
Unbelievable!
Outside Carp’s Café was a line of people, some locals, some holidaymakers, queuing to get in. Queuing! Nobody queued to get into Carp’s Café. The food was disgusting; everybody knew that. In the bestselling guidebook Cafés of England, the question was asked:
Is this worst café in all of England? The answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes again! The food at Carp’s Café is so terrible, be sure to bring your own sick bucket.
Yet here it was, clear as day; a queue! Milk was gobsmacked. She ducked down and forced her way through the crowd into the café. Inside it was rammed; jam-packed; standing room only. Every table was full of happy customers, chatting away, tucking into plates of amazing-looking food. Across the café Milk spotted Irene, clearing plates off a table.
‘What’s going on?’ yelled Milk over the din.
‘Thank goodness you’re here, Milk. I’m too old to be doing this by myself! We only came in for a cup of tea!’
‘Where’s Alfred?’
‘He’s over there, the lazy so-and-so.’ She nodded in the direction of the counter. ‘He’s sat on his bum, sorting out the bills, and I’m doing everything else. Typical Alfred. Here, be a love, take these plates to the kitchen for me.’
Milk picked up the stack of plates and weaved her way through the café towards the counter.
‘Did you see that?’ cried Alfred.
‘What?’ asked Milk.
‘That man. He just left a ten-pound tip. Said it was the best meal he’s ever eaten. I tell you, Milk, it’s gone barmy. Utterly barmy! And we only came in for a cup of tea!’
‘That’s what Irene said,’ grinned Milk. ‘Is Jarvis in the kitchen?’
‘He’s been in there all day,’ replied Alfred. ‘Here, allow me.’ And like a doorman at a fancy hotel, he held back the beaded curtain and ushered Milk through.
The kitchen was alive! Pots and pans bubbled on the cooker. On every surface were neat piles of ingredients; nuts, grated cheese, freshly chopped herbs, each one rising up like a tiny colourful pyramid. In the oven, a roast chicken sweated out succulent juices and under the grill, a dozen plump sausages hissed and crackled, spitting out hot fat into the flames.
And in the middle of it all was Jarvis, chef extraordinaire. With one hand he whisked a bowl of cream, fluffing it into soft, white peaks, while the other chopped carrots at breathtaking speed. At the same time, he flicked open a cupboard with his foot and kicked a sieve up into the air. As it flew in a perfect arc over his head, he spun around, snatched a saucepan of boiling spaghetti off the cooker, caught the sieve and drained the spaghetti into the sink, all in one fluid movement. Then, without even looking, his hand shot out and grabbed two crumpets just as they popped out of the toaster. Seconds later, they were buttered, topped with smoked salmon, squirted with lemon and sprinkled with cracked black pepper. It was quite a performance.
Normally, when Jarvis cooked, he would drop things, trip over things, burn things. Now he moved through his kitchen with grace and elegance. He was like a ballet dancer, in complete control. Over his chef’s whites he wore the ‘World’s Greatest Cook’ apron and, for once, it was true.
‘There you are, Milk!’ beamed Jarvis as he pirouetted over to the fridge and took out an enormous jelly. ‘Could you take these crumpets out to table two? And then please, please, please, could you wash up? I’m running out of clean glasses.’
Milk put her pile of plates down next to the sink and picked up the smoked salmon crumpets. ‘How did you get all these people to come here?’
‘Cupcakes!’ cried Jarvis. ‘This morning I baked dozens of cupcakes. They were delicious, if I say so myself.’ He kissed his fingers, just to show how delicious they were. ‘I took them up the promenade and handed them out to the holidaymakers as they got off the coaches. And they loved them! I told them that if they wanted the best meal of their lives they should come to Carp’s Café. And here they all are!’
‘You’re brilliant!’ exclaimed Milk.
‘I know,’ replied Jarvis without a hint of modesty.
‘They won’t be happy at Café Smoooth.’
‘I know,’ said Jarvis again. ‘Isn’t it wonderful! Now where were we? Crumpets! Oh yes. If you could, Milk. Table two. Thank you.’
And he waltzed back to the cooker to stir his gravy.
1 If you want to read more about Slopp-on-Sea’s colourful history, ask your librarian for a copy of Slopp! Our History in Black and White. It’s a delightful read and every one of its sixteen pages is quite good. Well, it’s not bad; just check you’re not missing anything on TV first.
CHAPTER 22
CHILDREN CAN BE HORRIBLE
Malcolm Blanket smelt a rat. There was something going on and he didn’t like it one little bit. Normally, at this time of day, his café was full of holidaymakers drinking coffee, nibbling cakes, spending money. But this afternoon, Café Smoooth was empty – a giant, red-and-white-striped ghost café.
Behind the glistening, stainless-steel counter, five uniformed staff pretended to be b
usy, all the while watching their boss as he paced up and down in between the empty tables. Even the sad-looking red-and-white-striped dolphin stopped swimming around in its tank, pushing its nose up against the glass to see what was going on.
Just then, the door flew open and a gangly young man scampered into the café. He was dressed just like the other staff members, in a red-and-white-striped apron and matching hat. He skidded to a stop in front of Malcolm Blanket and blabbered, ‘Sorryitooksolongmrblanketsiriranalltheway.’ (Which translates as, ‘Sorry I took so long, Mr Blanket, sir. I ran all the way,’ but he always spoke quickly when he was nervous. And his boss, Mr Blanket, made him very nervous indeed.)
There was something reptilian in the way Malcolm Blanket slowly rotated his head in the direction of the young man – like a lizard being disturbed by an irritating fly. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What did you find out? Where are all my customers? And this time, speak s l o w l y.’
The young man took off his hat and stood to attention in front of his boss. ‘Well, Mr Blanket, sir, erm, I found out that …’
‘Too close,’ interrupted Malcolm Blanket, closing his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘You’re standing too close to me. I can smell you.’
Obediently, the gangly youth took a step back. ‘Is that better, sir?’
Malcolm Blanket opened his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said, though somehow he still managed to sound quite disgusted. ‘Continue.’
‘Well, sir, one of the coach drivers told me that this morning, a chubby man dressed as a chef was giving away cupcakes to all the holidaymakers. He said he had one himself and they were delicious, best he’d ever had. Light and fluffy on the inside with a lemon icing that melted in the mouth, sir. And then, Mr Blanket, sir, further along the promenade I saw …’ Anxiously, he scrunched his hat in his hands, wishing it wasn’t him who had to break the bad news. ‘… I saw a queue.’
‘A queue?’
‘Yes, sir. A queue. Outside Carp’s Café. They’ve all gone to Carp’s Café.’
You might think, at a time like this, that Malcolm Blanket would get angry. That he would stamp his foot in fury and rant and rave that Carp’s Café was stealing his customers. But he didn’t. He just stood there, staring.
‘I see,’ he said with disturbing calmness. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin and gave it to his employee. ‘For your good work.’
‘I saw that!’ screeched Mrs Blanket, bursting into the café. ‘Malcolm Blanket, you are the most generous man I know. Giving away our money like that.’ Like a blustering elephant in a bright orange dress, she galumphed over to the gangly young man. ‘Come on, don’t be shy. How much did my hubby give you?’
‘1p,’ he replied, holding up the miserable coin for her inspection.
‘Oh, you lucky thing!’ she shrieked. ‘I tell you, if I didn’t keep an eye on the Blanket purse strings, he’d give the lot away. He’s a true philatelist, my Malcolm. Always thinking about others.’ She grabbed the young man’s cheek and waggled it vigorously. ‘You must have made my Malcolm very happy. Are you very happy, Malky-Moo?’
‘No,’ answered Malcolm, monosyllabically.
‘A happy Malky-Moo is a happy Vinnie-Winnie,’ tittered Mrs Blanket before finally releasing the young man’s bruised cheek. ‘Now stop fiddling with your hat and go and get me some cakey-wake. I’m starving. And set a table. We’ve got company. I bumped into Reecey’s adorable little teacher, Ms Cerise, and she’s coming for tea. She’ll be here in a minute. She’s carrying my shopping for me. You won’t believe how heavy it is.’
On cue, Ms Cerise pushed her way through the café door dragging dozens of boutique shopping bags behind her.
‘Don’t drag them, Ms Cerise,’ barked Mrs Blanket. ‘They’re not dogs on a lead, they’re designer clothes, you know. That’s right, pick them up and bring them here.’ Then, with a sad sigh, she turned to her husband. ‘Poor Ms Cerise, she tells me she’s had a terrible day.’
‘Oh?’ replied Malcolm Blanket, though he couldn’t have been less interested.
‘She told me that all her pupils – apart from Reece of course, dear little Reecey, he’s such a good boy – all the other pupils ganged up on her. Apparently that girl Milk, Reecey’s girlfriend, you know, the one who’s friends with the chef from Carp’s Café, well she was the ringleader. Poor Ms Cerise.’
At the mention of Carp’s Café, Malcolm Blanket’s ears pricked up. It was the second time in five minutes that Carp’s Café had been mentioned. Alarm bells went off in his suspicious mind. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Now he really smelt a rat.
‘Let me help you with those bags,’ he said with sudden courteousness to Ms Cerise. ‘Come and sit down and tell me all about it. I’ll get us some tea.’
‘And cake,’ bellowed Mrs Blanket. ‘Don’t forget the cake!’
Over tea and mountains of cake, Ms Cerise told Mr and Mrs Blanket exactly what had happened that day. She didn’t leave out a thing; from Milk’s apology and the chocolate flapjacks to the whole class answering every question correctly.
‘I couldn’t believe it,’ sobbed Ms Cerise. ‘They knew everything. Really difficult things too. It was … impossible.’
‘There, there, Ms Cerise,’ comforted Mrs Blanket. ‘Children can be horrible, can’t they?’
Ms Cerise nodded and slurped from her cup of tea. ‘I hate them. Especially Milk.’
‘And she’s got awful hair,’ added Mrs Blanket. ‘Anyhow, enough about you, look at all my shopping! Isn’t it exciting!’
And as Mrs Blanket showed off her purchases, Malcolm Blanket got thinking. His empty café, queues outside Carp’s Café, Ms Cerise’s genius pupils … it was all too strange. Somehow, they were all connected and he was determined to find out how.
CHAPTER 23
ARTHUR CHOOD-BISKIT
Word travelled fast. The following day, a small article appeared on page seven of the local newspaper, the Slopp Gazette. Beneath a picture of the Slopp Scouts showing off their award-winning collection of string, the newspaper wrote:
QUEUES AT CARP’S CAFÉ
We have eyewitness reports of up to fifty people queuing outside Carp’s Café yesterday afternoon. Norwegian holidaymaker Anders Andersen said, ‘I heard the food is incredible, so that is why I am doing the queuing.’ Another, Katarzyna Fartuszek from Poland, commented, ‘Café? I thought this was queue for toilets. Where are toilets, please?’ There were unconfirmed reports of a minor scuffle breaking out when a Frenchman attempted to jump the queue and was given a dead leg. Proprietor Jarvis C. Carp was unavailable for comment.
And this was just the beginning. Over the following weeks, as the queues got longer, Jarvis’s reputation spread like wildfire. Celebrity chef Arthur Chood-Biskit was spotted in Carp’s Café tucking into a beef Wellington and a Japanese film crew travelled six thousand miles to interview Jarvis about his overnight success. To top it all, the latest edition of Cafés of England gave Carp’s Café five stars out of five, asking the question:
Is this the best café in all of England? The answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes again! The food at Carp’s Café is so delicious, be sure to bring all your friends.
Jarvis loved the attention. He regularly came out of the kitchen in the middle of lunch to wild applause from the customers. Wearing his ‘World’s Greatest Cook’ apron he would bow deeply and sign autographs and share recipe tips with enthusiastic fans. There was even talk of a book deal (Cook with Carp) and the possibility of a TV cookery show alongside Arthur Chood-Biskit (Chood-Biskit and Carp). It was all going bananas.
Of course neither Milk nor Jarvis told a soul about the Porridge of Knowledge. It was their secret. Milk knew it was selfish not to share, but she was having far too much fun. And besides, if everybody was as clever as she was, then what would be the point of that? She didn’t want to be the same as everyone else. Being special was, well, special.
And so she fell into a rout
ine. Every morning before school she visited Jarvis at Carp’s Café. Together they drank tea and talked about all the wonderful things that were happening to them. Then Jarvis would slice two portions of the Porridge of Knowledge and serve them on the same best plates: the goofy, gooey, royal baby plate for Milk and the donkey plate for Jarvis. As soon as they felt the shudder, Jarvis would disappear into the kitchen and Milk headed off to school.
Ms Cerise was a changed woman. No longer did she make cruel comments about Melanie Spoons’s size, nor did she pick on Frank and Fenella Frat for being shy and snotty. Best of all, she didn’t give the class any homework. None at all. She didn’t dare after the whole Syd Thicke maths test fiasco.
But what Milk didn’t know was that Ms Cerise was watching her. She had become Malcolm Blanket’s spy. Every day, after school, Ms Cerise hurried over to Café Smoooth and reported to Malcolm Blanket what she had seen. ‘In my thirty-six years as a teacher I’ve never seen anything like it. I tell you, Mr Blanket …’
‘Malcolm. Pleeease, call me Malcolm.’
‘Ooooh, thank you, Mr Blanket. I mean, Malcolm. Where was I? Oh yes. That horrible Milk girl. She makes my blood boil. I tell you, Mr Blanket, there’s something going on. Whatever I ask her, she knows the answer. She knows everything. It’s just not natural. She wasn’t always like this. Yes, she was a cocky little madam, but I used to have the measure of her. She would do what I told her. But now! Ooooh, I’d like to burst her little bubble so that she disappears into thin air and I never have to see her again. Then I can concentrate on teaching nice children like your wonderful son, Mr Blanket.’
And all the while, Malcolm Blanket would sit quietly, nodding his head, topping up her teacup, taking it all in.
‘And remind me, Ms Cerise, when did this all start?’ he asked, pushing his glasses up his beaky nose.
The Porridge of Knowledge Page 9