The Porridge of Knowledge

by Archie Kimpton

  At the last second, Malcolm Blanket’s hand shot out and grabbed the very end of the trailing string just as it floated up in front of him.

  ‘Phew! That was close,’ he teased.

  He arched his head back and gave them a little wave. ‘This is fun,’ he said, yanking the string. ‘It’s like flying a kite. Are you having fun up there?’

  ‘No. Pull us down. Now!’ demanded Milk. She stretched out an arm and tried to grab hold of the café roof.

  ‘Temper, temper,’ chided Malcolm Blanket. ‘Didn’t anybody tell you it’s not safe for little girls to be climbing about on roofs?’ With a quick tug of the string he jerked Milk’s outstretched arm away from the roof. ‘Actually, I never much saw the point of kites. I’d much rather read a good book. Expand the mind. You don’t have a book I can borrow, do you? What about … what’s it called, The Porridge of Knowledge? I saw it in the café. You don’t mind if I borrow it? I’ve heard it’s mind-blowing.’

  And with that he let go of the string.

  Milk, Jarvis and the table in between them drifted up and away, into the Slopp-on-Sea night sky.

  CHAPTER 30

  FISH FOOD

  ‘Don’t let go of the table, whatever you do,’ said Milk firmly. ‘Jarvis? Did you hear me?’

  Jarvis managed to nod his huge head, but his eyes remained tightly closed. Six steps up a stepladder was bad enough; floating over the village was, to put it mildly, very, very bad indeed.

  ‘If we let go of the table, we’ll float even higher. Just don’t let go.’ Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned the bit about going higher, because Jarvis began whimpering like a tuneless mouse.

  The wind seemed to come from all directions, buffeting them one way then the other. Wild gusts sent them plummeting towards the ground, then threw them back up again, higher than ever. Milk looked down. Spread out beneath her was a zigzag world of rooftops, broken tiles and chimney stacks. There were TV aerials sprouting up like spiky plants from another planet and across one flat roof, a playful cat chased after the trailing string, leaping up, trying to catch it with its paws.

  ‘Grab it!’ Milk yelled, without really thinking what she was saying. It was, after all, only a cat.

  The cat stopped and stared up at her with bright, curious eyes, as if to say, ‘Yeah right! I’m a cat. What am I supposed to do?’

  All of a sudden Milk realised they were floating over her street. And there was her house! She could see the bell hanging outside her front door and the windows of her bedroom.

  ‘Grandad!’ she roared at the top of her voice. ‘It’s Milk. Help! Anyone. Mrs Fozz. Mrs Farley. Mr Fub! Wake up!’

  She waited for a light to come on. She hoped and prayed for someone to open a window or step out into the street. But nobody did. It was the middle of the night and everyone was fast asleep. In desperation, Milk grabbed the plastic tomato off the table and flung it as hard as she could in the direction of the bell. If she hit it, surely the clang would wake someone up. But it missed by miles, splattering against a window some way down the street.

  Once again the wind changed direction. ‘Hold on!’ cried Milk as they rocked and rolled in the turbulent sky. Their massive heads acted like sails, catching the wind, driving them across the promenade and over the sea. Things were looking bad. She knew Jarvis couldn’t swim. If their heads started shrinking and they floated down into the water they would be in no end of trouble. In a gruesome way, it would be better if their heads exploded after all. At least it would be quick. They would become fish food.

  Despite the wind, the sea looked very calm. Along the shoreline, she saw hundreds of tiny, glimmering silver objects rolling back and forth in the surf. At first she thought it was the reflection of the promenade lights flickering on the water. But as she squinted down she realised they were fish: dead fish. Beyond them, a streak of yellow cut through the darkness of the sea, running in a current all the way back to the pier. That’s when she saw the lorry, with a hose sticking out of the side, spewing out vile, yellow muck. Even from this height, she could read the words on the side of the lorry:

  CLEAN YOUR TEETH WITH BLANKET’S TOOTHPASTE.

  So that was it! Malcolm Blanket was polluting the water. The people of Slopp would wake up in the morning and find their beach covered in dead fish all over again. Some time later Milk and Jarvis would be reported missing. And all because of Malcolm Blanket. Milk was furious. She beat her fist so hard on the table that Jarvis actually opened his eyes for the first time. He took one look around him and squealed, before quickly shutting them again.

  ‘Milk,’ he stuttered. ‘We’re …’

  ‘I know,’ replied Milk.

  They were drifting out to sea.

  CHAPTER 31

  UNIDENTIFIED FLOATING OBJECT

  There was an almighty SPLAT against the window. Fenella Frat shot up in bed.

  ‘What was that?’ she whispered, turning on her bedside light. ‘Frank, did you hear that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ replied Frank. His frightened eyes were the size of conkers.

  ‘Open the curtains and have a look.’

  ‘Why me? You go.’

  ‘What if it’s vampires?’ asked Fenella.

  Frank wiped his nose on his pyjama sleeve. She had a point. ‘Let’s both go.’

  They got out of bed and tiptoed across the room. Slowly, Fenella pulled back the curtain just enough to peek through.

  ‘Blood!’ wailed Frank, staggering back.

  The windowpane was splattered with a thick, red pulp, which dribbled and glooped down the glass.

  ‘That’s not blood,’ said Fenella. ‘Look.’

  On the windowsill sat a large plastic tomato, lying on its side. The lid had come off and sauce oozed out of the opening.

  Fenella opened the window, bent down and took a sniff. ‘It’s ketchup.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’ asked Frank, braver now. He leant out of the window and peered up and down the street. It was empty. Across the road he saw a cat sitting on a roof, staring into the sky. Frank followed the cat’s gaze. That’s when he saw, well, something, floating towards the promenade.

  ‘Fen, look,’ he said, pointing up. ‘What is it?’

  Fenella stretched out of the window and squinted into the sky. ‘I dunno. Quick, get your telescope.’

  For his birthday, Mr and Mrs Frat had given Frank a telescope. Not a proper telescope for looking at the stars, but a small plastic toy with a skull and crossbones sticker peeling off the end, to give it a piratey feel. It was rubbish really, and if the truth be told, Mrs Frat had found it washed up on the beach.

  Frank opened the telescope and pointed it in the direction of the unidentified floating object.

  ‘I’m not really sure,’ he said, adjusting the focus. ‘It looks like a table and two balloons with legs and string hanging down. Maybe it’s a kite or something.’

  ‘Let me have a look,’ said Fenella, snatching the telescope off her brother.

  She was quiet for a moment as she stared into the toy. Then, turning to Frank, she whispered, ‘They’re massive!’

  ‘What’s massive?’

  ‘Their heads!’

  ‘Whose heads?’ asked Frank, thoroughly confused.

  ‘Come on,’ said Fenella. ‘We’d better hurry. Milk’s in trouble.’

  They didn’t bother getting dressed. Downstairs, the television was on, some programme about kittens that kill. In front of it, Mr and Mrs Frat were snoring, fast asleep on the sofa.

  Quiet as mice, Frank and Fenella tiptoed along the hallway, opened the front door and stepped out onto the street.

  ‘Maybe we should get some help,’ suggested Frank.

  Fenella agreed, so they pitter-pattered barefoot up the street and knocked on Grandad’s door. No one answered. Fenella pointed at the large brass bell that hung outside the house.

  ‘But you’ll wake everybody up,’ worried Frank.

  ‘That’s the point. It’s an emergency.’ And she reached
up and rang the bell – three hefty clangs.

  Grandad was the first to come out. He was in his pyjamas with his snoozing cat curled around his bald head like a Cossack’s hat.

  ‘Am I missing?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s Milk. She’s needs help. And Mr Carp too,’ explained Fenella hurriedly.

  Nice Mrs Farley popped her head out of the door. ‘Oh dear, is he missing?’ she asked, pulling her dressing gown around her.

  Grandad scratched his head, which was actually the cat’s head. ‘Yes, I’m missing. I don’t know where I am.’

  ‘But you’re there,’ said Mrs Farley, pointing at him.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief. I thought I was missing,’ replied Grandad, perfectly reasonably.

  Mr Fub stepped out onto the street, rubbing sleepy dust out of his eyes. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be missing?’ he said to Grandad.

  ‘I’m not sure. Shall I go?’

  Frank and Fenella tried to get everyone’s attention, but the three elderly people were having quite a debate. To add to the matter, Mrs Fozz came outside. She wore a long, flowing nightdress, with matching sleeping cap.

  ‘Oooh, isn’t this nice! Are we going rat catching?’ she asked. ‘Where’s Grandad?’

  ‘I’m not here. I’m missing.’

  ‘Oh dear, that’s a shame. Frank and Fenella, what are you doing up? Would you like a banana? I’ve got some inside. They’re a bit green though.’

  ‘Or some cake?’ added Mrs Farley.

  Suddenly, in a voice louder than she knew she had, Fenella Frat yelled, ‘Everybody! Please listen!’

  ‘There’s no need to shout,’ grumbled Mr Fub.

  Quickly, Fenella explained what she had seen out of her window.

  ‘They need our help,’ added Frank. ‘Right away.’

  ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ asked Mrs Fozz, waving her sleeping cap around her head. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Maybe we’ll find Grandad on the way,’ said Grandad hopefully.

  And so the raggle-taggle rescue party set off down the hill towards the promenade. They hadn’t got far when Mr and Mrs Frat marched onto the pavement, blocking their way.

  ‘Who’s been ringing that stupid bell? It’s three o’clock in the stupid morning,’ raged Mrs Frat.

  ‘I was trying to watch Kittens That Kill,’ added Mr Frat, scratching his bum.

  Just then Mrs Frat noticed her children. ‘Frank!’ she roared. ‘Fenella!’ she growled. ‘What are you doing out with this demented lot? Get back inside this instant.’

  Frank and Fenella Frat didn’t budge.

  ‘Did you hear what your mother said? Get back inside,’ fumed Mr Frat.

  ‘But Milk needs our help,’ said Frank. He could hear his voice shaking. He had never stood up to his parents before.

  ‘Well, I might have known,’ spat Mrs Frat. ‘Whenever there’s trouble that Milk girl’s name always comes up. Why she was never sent to an orphanage in the first place is beyond me.’

  ‘She might die,’ whispered Fenella.

  ‘I couldn’t care less. Now get in, the pair of you. Hanging about with a bunch of dribbling oldies in the middle of the night. It’s embarrassing. What will the neighbours think?’

  It had been years since Grandad had spoken much sense. No one expected much more than befuddled gobbledygook to come out of his mouth. However, as he pushed his way in between Frank and Fenella, he addressed Mr Frat in a cool, calm voice. ‘Milk is my granddaughter. Frank and Fenella tell me she’s in trouble. They’re coming with us to help. Now stand aside.’

  ‘Or what, you old fool?’ snarled Mr Frat, squaring up to Grandad.

  In one swift movement, Grandad whipped the plastic telescope out of Frank’s hand and whacked Mr Frat around the head.

  ‘Ow!’ he squealed. ‘What did you do that for?’

  Grandad whacked him again, this time on his freshly scratched bum.

  ‘Ow! Get off me.’

  ‘Good shot!’ giggled Mrs Fozz.

  ‘He’s gone barmy,’ wailed Mrs Frat.

  ‘I’m already barmy,’ warbled Grandad. ‘We’re all barmy. Come on, everyone.’ And with that, he marched off down the street with his barmy army following behind.

  ‘Frank! Fenella! Come back now,’ screeched Mrs Frat.

  But this time they didn’t listen.

  CHAPTER 32

  MR FERRIS

  Heads back, mouths open, the raggle-taggle-barmy-army stared up into the sky.

  ‘There they are!’ shrieked Mrs Fozz, who had forgotten to bring her glasses with her.

  ‘No, Mrs Fozz. That’s a lamppost,’ said Mr Fub.

  Fenella scanned the night sky with the plastic pirate telescope. There was no moon; out to sea was one giant expanse of darkness. They could be anywhere.

  ‘I can see them!’ yelped Mrs Fozz, jumping up and down with excitement.

  ‘No, Mrs Fozz. It’s a seagull,’ said Mr Fub patiently.

  ‘Maybe they floated down onto the beach,’ suggested Frank.

  He crossed the road and stood on the promenade wall. That’s when he saw the dead fish, rolling back and forth in the surf. ‘Everybody! Look!’ he called out.

  They all came to see. Mrs Farley could hardly hold back the tears. ‘It’s so sad. All those poor fish. Why’s it happening again?’

  But Grandad had other things on his mind. ‘Forget the fish,’ he pleaded. ‘Where’s Milk?’

  Just then, out of the corner of her fuzzy eye, Mrs Fozz saw something floating in the sky. ‘Look, Mr Fub! Over there.’

  Mr Fub was about to tell her to go home and get her glasses when he too saw what she was pointing at. ‘Fenella, take a look over there.’

  Fenella swung the telescope in the direction of the pier. ‘It’s them!’ she squealed. ‘Quick, hurry!’

  Despite their age, the four oldies moved surprisingly fast. It was quite a sight. In a flurry of dressing gowns and pyjamas and cat hats they dawdleflipped along the promenade, reaching the entrance to the pier in no time at all.

  ‘Come on,’ cried Frank, leading the way. He ran through the open gates and started up the pier.

  They weaved their way past the long-abandoned attractions: the rusty old bumper cars, the not-so-scary ghost train and the merry-go-round that hadn’t gone round, neither merrily nor miserably, in over fifty years. At the end of the pier stood the enormous, three-hundred-foot-tall Ferris wheel. It was once the pride of Slopp-on-Sea (and the envy of Pifflemundon), but now the empty carriages swung back and forth in the wind, creaking like an old man’s bones.

  ‘Can you see them?’ asked a breathless Mrs Fozz. Her nightcap flapped about in the wind, slapping her cheeks.

  They all stared into the darkness, straining to catch a glimpse of Milk and Jarvis.

  ‘There they are,’ pointed Frank.

  There they were indeed, some way out to sea. The wind hurled them one way then another. In the blink of an eye they plummeted towards the frothing water, skimming the waves, before shooting up again, dangerously high.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Fenella.

  ‘We should spread out,’ suggested Mr Fub. ‘We’ll have a better chance of catching them if they come close to the pier.’

  It was a good idea. They all scattered themselves around the end of the pier, all, that is, except for Grandad, who stayed where he was, fiddling about at the base of the Ferris wheel. He opened a large wooden lid and leant so far in that his legs dangled up in the air.

  ‘What he’s doing?’ yelled Frank to his sister.

  Fenella shrugged her shoulders.

  But Mrs Fozz knew exactly what Grandad was doing. She remembered as a young girl visiting the pier and riding the Ferris wheel with her mother and father. She remembered the young man who helped operate it. He wasn’t called Grandad then – everyone knew him as Mr Ferris.

  ‘He’s trying to fix it! Mr Ferris is trying to fix it!’ she squealed.

  ‘But it’s impossible. It hasn’t worked for f
ifty years,’ said Mr Fub.

  ‘If anyone can do it, he can.’

  Suddenly, a magnificent rumble shook the pier and, like a giant waking up after a long sleep, the Ferris wheel began turning.

  ‘It’s going!’ screeched Mrs Fozz over the creaks and groans of the wheel. ‘You’re a genius, Mr Ferris. A genius!’

  Grandad stepped back and watched the Ferris wheel turning. Then, with an enormous smile, he flicked a switch and a thousand lights spluttered to life all around the wheel.

  ‘Jarvis,’ cried Milk. ‘Look!’

  ‘I can’t,’ shivered Jarvis, keeping his eyes screwed up tight.

  ‘No. It’s something good. It’s wonderful. Look!’

  Reluctantly, Jarvis opened one eye. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Over there! The Ferris wheel.’

  For a moment, Jarvis forgot where he was. The Ferris wheel lit up the night sky like a glorious multicoloured sun.

  ‘And there are people on it. I can see them, Jarvis. They’re waving at us. They’re trying to help us.’

  ‘But how can we get to them? We haven’t got a sail. We’ve got nothing.’

  Of course! It was obvious! ‘Jarvis, you’re brilliant!’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Quick, tilt the table. We can use it as a sail. It might just work.’

  The moment they tilted the table, the wind caught behind it, blasting them towards the pier.

  ‘It’s working!’ screeched Milk. ‘Hold it steady!’

  They raced through the sky at terrific speed, twisting the table to adjust their course. The turbulence pummelled their huge rubbery faces.

  Now Milk could see their rescuers. On the Ferris wheel were Mr Fub, Frank and Mrs Fozz, while Fenella, Mrs Farley and Grandad waited on the pier.

  ‘Jarvis! Listen to me. On three, we’re going to let go of the table. Are you ready? One, two, three!’

  The table dropped away into the sea. Instantly, their speed decreased and they glided effortlessly towards the top of the Ferris wheel. Mrs Fozz stood up in her seat and stretched out towards them.