‘Got you!’ she screamed, grabbing hold of Jarvis’s ankle.
Jarvis had never felt so relieved in all his life. Big, fat tears sprang from his eyes and rolled down his overinflated cheeks. ‘Oh thank you, thank you. Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.’
‘Don’t you worry,’ said Mrs Fozz, holding on tight. ‘You’re not going anywhere now.’
CHAPTER 33
THE WET BLANKET
There was a lot of explaining to do. Under the light of the Ferris wheel, Milk started at the beginning, from the day Grandad gave her the book, through the ants and the cows, right up to the moment Malcolm Blanket tricked them, releasing them into the sky.
‘But this is Slopp-on-Sea,’ insisted nice Mrs Farley. ‘Nothing like that ever happens around here. That’s why I live in Slopp. If I wanted excitement like that I’d move to Swindon.’
Mrs Fozz and Mr Fub both nodded their heads in agreement.
‘I never meant for any of this to happen,’ said Milk, touching her big head. ‘Thank you, everybody. If it wasn’t for all of you, Jarvis and I, well …’ She didn’t know what else to say, so she gave Grandad a big hug instead.
‘What about your heads? Will they stay like that?’ asked Fenella, pushing an exploratory finger into Milk’s puffy cheek.
But already Milk had noticed that Jarvis’s head wasn’t quite as big as before. It looked like it was slowly shrinking. Maybe their heads wouldn’t explode after all. Maybe they wouldn’t become fish food.
Suddenly Milk froze. ‘Fish!’ she exclaimed. ‘We know who’s been poisoning the fish. We saw a lorry pumping something horrible into the sea. It’s got something to do with Malcolm Blanket and his toothpaste company, I’m sure of it.’
‘Why, that good-for-nothing so-and-so,’ fumed Mrs Fozz. ‘If he was here right now I’d put him over my knee and give him a good spanking.’
‘Quick. If we hurry, the lorry might still be there. We can catch him in the act.’ Milk tried to set off back down the pier, but with her head still inflated she just hovered, legs scampering uselessly through the air.
‘Let me help,’ said Frank Frat, taking Milk’s hand. ‘I’ll pull you.’
Milk blushed, but accepted his hand nonetheless.
Just then, a voice came from beyond the pier. ‘Oh, you hussy! Not so long ago you were my Reecey’s little girlfriend.’
Lavinia Blanket stood on the deck of the Wet Blanket as it cruised slowly around the end of the pier. She wore a sailor’s cap with the words Captain’s Wife emblazoned across the front. ‘And look at your head. Malcolm said it was big, but that is something else! Reecey, quick! Come and look at her monstrous head!’
Reece Blanket came up on deck. He wore a sailor’s cap with the words Captain’s Son emblazoned across the front. He took one look at Milk and began sniggering like a hyena. ‘That’s disgusting,’ he said in between snorts. ‘You look funny. Where’s my camera, Mummy? I want to remember this when we’re in the Bahamas.’
‘It’ll take more than a Mermaid’s Flunge to cover that head,’ declared Lavinia Blanket. ‘You’ll need a proper wig. Oh, and look at the chubby chef,’ she added, noticing Jarvis. ‘And to think I thought you handsome when we first met. Now look at you. You look like a weather balloon!’
As the Wet Blanket eased around the pier, Malcolm Blanket came into view. He stood proudly behind the steering wheel wearing a sailor’s cap with the words Captain Blanket emblazoned across the front. He gestured up at the illuminated Ferris wheel. ‘A farewell party? How thoughtful of you.’
Mrs Fozz rushed over to the railings and yelled, ‘We know you’ve been poisoning the fish! Come back here now! You won’t get away with it!’
Malcolm Blanket looked genuinely irritated. ‘I wish everyone would stop bleating on about the fish. Ugly, bony things they are. Save the whale? What for?!’
‘You are a very nasty man indeed,’ said nice Mrs Farley, which was about as rude as she had ever been to anyone.
‘True, true,’ acknowledged Malcolm Blanket. ‘And soon I’ll be a very clever man as well. The cleverest in the world, didn’t you say?’ He picked up The Porridge of Knowledge and flicked through the pages. ‘Looks like an interesting read. Oh, and there’s a recipe in the back,’ he added, with mock surprise. ‘I’ll have to try it when I get to the Bahamas.’
‘Give that back,’ shouted Milk. ‘It’s mine.’
‘Finders keepers,’ he said, steering the boat out to sea. ‘Well, we must be off now. We won’t be back for a very long time. I’ll instruct my staff at Café Smoooth to give you all half-price cupcakes any time you drop by. My little parting gesture. Lavinia, Reece, wave goodbye to the nice people.’
‘Bye bye, Milk,’ snorted Reece. ‘I’ll send you a postcard.’
‘And sort your hair out. Please!’ added Lavinia Blanket. ‘You could be so pretty if only you tried. Byeeeeee.’
And with that, Malcolm Blanket revved the powerful engine and the Wet Blanket glided away into the night sea.
CHAPTER 34
WHIRLPOOL
They all went back to Carp’s Café for a cup of fishy tea. It was Mrs Fozz’s idea, ‘to celebrate the successful rescue of Milk and Jarvis’, though no one particularly felt like celebrating. The mood was sombre. Malcolm Blanket had got away with it and there was nothing they could do.
Nobody paid much attention when Grandad came through from the kitchen munching a flapjack. He sat down at the table, dunked it into his fishy tea and took another bite, chewing methodically like a dozy cow.
‘Grandad?’ asked Milk suspiciously. ‘Where did you get that flapjack?’
‘What jackflap?’ asked Grandad.
‘The one you’re eating.’
Grandad held the flapjack up to his face and studied it for a moment. He was about to say something when he shuddered, just a little, but it was a definite shudder.
In crystal-clear, unbefuddled words, he answered, ‘I found it in a Tupperware box in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. It was the last one. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Grandad,’ said Milk as calmly as she could, ‘that wasn’t a flapjack. It was porridge. You’re eating the Porridge of Knowledge!’
Everyone looked up from their cups of tea and stared at Grandad.
‘I thought it tasted a bit funny,’ he said, grinning wildly. ‘How exciting! Does this mean I’m clever?’
‘You’re very clever,’ said Jarvis.
‘Fancy that! I’ve always wanted to be clever.’
‘Don’t eat any more,’ said Milk, quickly whisking the last mouthful out of his hand. ‘I don’t want your head exploding.’
With the cat still snoozing on his head, Grandad got to his feet and rubbed his hands together. ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Frank Frat.
‘While we sit here drinking Jarvis’s fine tea, Malcolm Blanket is getting away.’
‘He’s long gone,’ grumbled Mr Fub. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’
‘Nothing?’ asked Grandad, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Are you sure?’
‘But we don’t have a boat,’ added Fenella. ‘And even if we did, we’d never be able to catch him.’
‘Who said anything about a boat?’
Milk looked up at him. It was strange but wonderful seeing him like this. He was his old playful self once again. She felt like she was five years old.
‘Grandad, you’re teasing us. Have you got an idea?’
‘Of course I have!’ he giggled. ‘I’m clever, remember!’
Under Grandad’s instruction, they all went through to the kitchen and tried lifting the enormous pot of porridge off the cooker. But it was no good. Five strong men would have struggled to lift it, let alone the assembled crew of geriatrics, children and bigheads. It was just too heavy.
Grandad had a think. All eyes were on him to come up with a solution. It didn’t take long.
He picked up a fork off the kitchen counter and pointed i
t at the big heads. ‘Milk, Jarvis, you two float up and hold the pot by the handles. The rest of you lift from underneath.’
Everyone got into position.
‘Ready? OK. Heave!’
This time, with Milk and Jarvis acting like overhead cranes, the pot slid off the cooker and onto the others’ shoulders. Knees buckled and elderly bones creaked, but still they held on.
‘What now?’ wheezed Mr Fub.
‘To the beach,’ declared Grandad.
‘The beach?’
‘Yup. I fancy a swim.’
With tiny steps, they shuffled through the beaded curtains, across the café and out onto the street. The porridge pot swayed and wobbled but somehow didn’t fall, even when Mrs Farley’s dressing gown blew open, revealing a remarkable pair of bedtime bloomers.
‘Nearly there,’ encouraged Grandad, as they negotiated the steps down onto the pebbled beach. ‘Just a bit further now. There. Now, put it down.’
With a collective sigh of relief they lowered the pot onto the pebbles.
The beach was like a battlefield. There were dead and dying fish everywhere, some floating in the sea, others on the pebbles, mouths opening and closing. On top of this Milk saw turtles and crabs and jellyfish and even one or two seabirds washing back and forth in the surf. It was carnage.
Grandad put his plan into action. To the blushes of Mrs Farley (and the giggles of Mrs Fozz) he stripped down to his underpants and carefully removed the cat from his head, passing it to Mr Fub. Then, he took hold of the pot and dragged it over the pebbles towards the sea.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked Frank.
Milk shrugged, though not for a moment did she doubt him. She knew all too well the power of the porridge.
Dawn was breaking over Slopp-on-Sea. The black, starless sky turned charcoal, shifting through shades of grey, before settling on a less-than-thrilling sludgey colour. By Slopp standards, it was going to be a beautiful day.
Grandad stood waist-deep in the water, pointing with the fork towards a boat-like speck on the horizon. ‘I see them,’ he growled in his best pirate burr. ‘If all goes to plan, the Blankets are going to get quite a surprise.’ He turned and grinned at his raggle-taggle-barmy-army on the beach. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘sit back, relax and enjoy the show.’
With a mighty heave, he tipped the porridge pot over into the water. It lay there, submerged like a shipwreck, with just the side curving above the waves. Clumps of porridge began floating up to the surface, mingling with the dying fish. Grandad dived down and swam inside the pot. Using the fork, he scratched at the porridge stuck to the bottom, swishing it out into the sea behind him.
At last, his age-speckled bald head emerged from the water. ‘Come on, fishy fish,’ he said under his breath. ‘Eat up your porridge.’
He wiped the salt water out of his eyes and waited.
It’s hard to see fish shudder. But they did.
Fenella was the first to notice it; around Grandad’s head, a small shoal of fish began swimming in a tight circle, mouth to tail.
‘What are they doing?’ she asked, getting to her feet. ‘Why are they swimming like that?’
As the porridge drifted further out into the water, more and more fish joined the shoal, swimming in the same circular pattern. It grew bigger by the second, quickly expanding into one gigantic spiral of fish. Soon it was as wide as a house.
Grandad watched with glee. ‘Come on, my beauties. That’s it, swim! Swim! SWIM!’
The fish responded. They swam faster and faster around his head, spinning at such ferocious speed they formed a whirlpool, sucking the water up off the seabed. Slowly but surely, the sea drew back until Grandad, the old man of the sea, was completely surrounded by a revolving wall of water.
It was then Milk realised what was happening. ‘They know!’ she squealed. ‘The fish know who poisoned them.’
‘How do they know?’ asked Frank.
‘Because of the porridge!’
Suddenly, Grandad leapt up and pointed out towards the open sea. ‘GO!’ he roared, holding the fork aloft like a bald-headed Neptune. And they did! On his command, millions of fish shot out into the sea towards the Wet Blanket on the horizon.
‘I’ve got to see this,’ said Milk, getting to her feet. Her head was almost back to a normal size, but she wasn’t about to take any chances. ‘Frank, Fenella, take my hands.’
‘Where are we going?’ asked Fenella.
‘To watch the show.’
With Milk bobbing gently in between them, the three children hurried back up the steps and along the promenade.
‘This is the one,’ said Milk, stopping in front of her coin-operated telescope. She felt beneath the tube of the telescope and found her 20p, as ever, stuck there with old chewing gum. She peeled the gum off the coin and dropped it into the slot. There was a gentle click as the telescope activated.
It didn’t take long to find the shoal of fish. Even from a distance it was huge, shooting through the water like a dark shadow. Further on the horizon Milk could see the outline of the Wet Blanket. It wouldn’t be long now.
‘Can I see?’ asked Frank.
Milk stepped aside.
‘Wow!’ he cried. ‘They’re moving fast. They’re getting closer. They’re nearly there.’
‘My turn, my turn,’ pleaded Fenella, who was jumping up and down with excitement. Frank stepped aside and let his sister have a look. ‘I can see them! They’ve caught up with the boat. They’re swimming around it. Fast! Really fast! The boat’s turning. Milk, you’ve got to see this.’
Milk put her eye against the telescope. ‘It’s a whirlpool! It’s incredible. The boat’s spinning so fast …’
Suddenly the telescope clicked and the view through the telescope went black.
Quick as she could, Milk opened the coin box underneath the telescope, retrieved her 20p and put it back in the slot.
‘What can you see?’ asked Frank hurriedly.
Milk squinted into the telescope and scanned the horizon. But there was nothing to see. The boat was gone. The fish had gone. The sea was calm.
‘It’s gone,’ said Milk, turning to Frank and Fenella.
‘What do you mean, gone?’ asked Frank.
‘I mean it’s gone. There’s no boat.’
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Fenella, wiping her nose on her pyjama sleeve.
‘Who cares! Good riddance, is what I say,’ said Frank firmly.
Milk and Fenella nodded in agreement.
‘Come on,’ said Milk. ‘Let’s go and tell the others.’
And hand in hand in hand they set off back towards the beach.
CHAPTER 35
PIPE AND SLIPPERS
With long, lolloping, flat-footed strides, shoulders slightly hunched and arms dangling by his sides, Grandad wandered along the promenade. He stopped to talk to a wheelie bin, remarking that yes, it was unusually warm for this time of year, before wishing it a good afternoon and continuing his walk. Outside Carp’s Café he lingered for a moment, peering in through the window. As usual, it was empty apart from Alfred and Irene who shared a single cup of fishy tea. They appeared to be bickering about something – Alfred, looking cross, waving his arms above his head and Irene poking him in his ribs with her walking stick.
Further along the promenade, Grandad sat down on a bench. Next to him was a discarded copy of the Slopp Gazette. If he had looked at it he would have seen the headline:
POLICE ARREST LOCAL TEACHER CAUGHT STEALING FROM CHARITY SHOP,
but he was far too busy, enthralled by an ant that was crawling along the top of the bench carrying a breadcrumb twice its size.
‘Hello, ant,’ said Grandad.
‘Hello, Grandad,’ replied the ant, who was somewhat out of breath.
They chit-chatted for a while about the weather, football, colony overpopulation, that kind of thing, before Grandad got up, wished the ant a good afternoon and went on his way.
It sta
rted to rain, so Grandad decided to walk along the beach. The smooth pebbles felt good under his slippers. He remembered the day Grandma had given them to him. She had joked that he was an old man now and next birthday she’d give him a pipe to go with the slippers. But she didn’t live long enough to give him the pipe.
‘I’ll buy myself a pipe,’ he said out loud. ‘That’s what I’ll do.’
He missed her terribly, but tried not to think about it too much; besides, he still had Milk to look after. Dear, wonderful Milk.
He found two things on the beach that afternoon. The first was a large piece of driftwood that would be perfect for the next bonfire he had in his garden. Thanking his lucky stars, he picked up one end of the driftwood and began dragging it along the beach.
The other thing he found was much less exciting. Rolling back and forth in the surf was a thin red book, the size of a postcard. Along the spine of the book, in faded gold letters, was written:
THE PORRIDGE OF KNOWLEDGE.
Its hard cover had gone soft from the seawater, and the pages were all stuck together in one great clump, but, he supposed, with a little care, it would dry out well enough. He had a thought to show it to Milk. Perhaps she would find some use for it.
He tucked the book into his coat pocket and headed home.
Acknowledgements
A gigantic and heartfelt thank you to all my family, especially Mum, in whose house huge dollops of Porridge were conceived and written. You made it all possible.
Also, special thanks to Ian, Andy, Elliott and Mellie Mel for all the years of porridge we’ve shared.
RIP Doonican, the original Jumblecat.
About the Author
Ever since reading 'sodium monofluorophosphate' on the side of a toothpaste tube, Archie Kimpton has enjoyed putting words together and seeing what comes out. He graduated from Manchester University in 1991 and spent the next twenty years in preparation for his moment of authordom – flogging salami, script writing, book binding and care working in the interim. The Porridge of Knowledge is his second novel. His debut, Jumblecat, was published in 2014. He lives in South London with his wife and kids. Follow Archie at www.archiekimpton.wordpress.com or on Twitter: @ArchieKimpton.
The Porridge of Knowledge Page 13