And as she did so, pulling the door half-shut behind her, she heard a noise from the kitchen.
The soft spongy noise of a cake being purloined.
She leapt out, butterfly net slamming down on the big table, splatting the icing on one alien-planet-shaped cake and knocking a Swiss roll in the shape of a rocket over …
… but the thief was too quick for her.
A grey shape yelped and darted out the window, leaving a cloud of icing sugar, currants and crumbs behind it.
Greta ran for the back door, which was open, trailing cake debris behind her as the large hoop of the butterfly net banged into, and sent flying, more delicious articles of party food.4
And then she was out on the patio, and the thief was in front of her.
He was hunched underneath the garden table, nibbling the edge of a large hunk of Victoria sponge, jammy filling spurting out and crumbs flying everywhere.
He was definitely small and grey and hairy, just like the Space-Monkey-cum-elderly-circus-performer she’d seen earlier, and he had his back to her.
He was sat in the shadows under the table, but she could see that he was wearing the same strange-looking, loose-flapping furry backpack she’d seen the day before. This made her pause for a moment, since the old man hadn’t been wearing it when he arrived, but maybe, she thought, as her brain hurtled through possibilities, it was his lucky thieving backpack and he’d only just put it back on when he went for the cake. That made sense, sort of.
‘I’ve got you now, Rustle,’ Greta shouted as she swooped the hoop of the butterfly net between the table legs and over the thief’s head.
But he had already darted away.
Oh! His reactions were fast for an old man.
But it turned out Greta’s had actually been even quicker. She was yanked forwards as the cake thief ran off – she’d caught him!
He was writhing, tugging at the butterfly net, and it was all she could do to keep a grip on the handle. The grey fur of Rustle’s Space Monkey costume poked through the fine holes of the net in tiny fluffy patches as he wriggled and struggled.
Then, with a vigorous tug, Greta was pulled off the patio and hauled up the garden.
The thief was moving slowly, with great effort, huffing and puffing and squeaking and muttering, still wrapped up in the net, dragging Greta across the lawn behind him.
‘Grrr!’ said Greta, gripping hard on the handle. ‘Why don’t you just stop? There’s no point fighting! I’ve got you now!’
She fought to keep hold of the net as she slid across the grass on her belly.
And then something unexpected happened.
A large silvery shape descended from the sky, with a slow, quiet whoosh of unknown energy, and settled on the lawn beside her.
‘Are you The Great Zargo?’ the thing asked.
Greta grunted a ‘Yes, yes’. She wasn’t really paying attention to the silvery shape, and only half heard the words.
The handle of the butterfly net slipped out of her hand, but the thief was all tangled up. He began hopping and staggering across the lawn, towards the woods at the end of the garden. He made slow progress.
‘Grrr!’ she said again, climbing to her feet, burbling with frustration.
She went to chase after him, but the silvery robot floated in front of her.
‘Out of my way,’ she said, attempting to get past it.
‘Please may we have your planet?’ the thing said.
‘What?’ she snapped, leaning round and watching the struggling and slowly rolling shape in the net.
Rustle was getting away and this floating silver robot was asking her stupid questions.
And then she remembered what Jessica had said: Sophie Doodad was dressed as a robot with flashing lights.
‘Mind out, Sophie,’ Greta said, stepping round the robot, which hovered back into her way with a floaty movement. She added a quick ‘please’ to the ‘mind out’, because Sophie preferred people to be polite.
It was a good costume, she’d give Sophie that much.
‘Please may we have your planet?’
‘No, of course you can’t,’ Greta said distractedly. (The thief had almost reached the trees. She thought he was almost out of the net too. Her Big Scoop was getting away. She didn’t have time for this.) ‘Look, I’m sorry, Sophie, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’
And Greta pushed past the silvery, floating robot and ran towards the far end of the garden.
‘Very well. Sorry to have bothered you,’ the robot said calmly, smoothly, as it drifted up into the sky behind her with a slow, quiet whoosh of unknown energy.5
1Don’t Mind Me, I’m Your Mother (2008), Don’t Mind Me, I’m Your Mother Too (2011), Remind Me, Who’s Your Mother? (2012), Return of the Son of Your Mother (2015), Whose Mother Am I Anyway? (2016), I’m Your Mother VI: This Time It’s Your Dad (2018), and Don’t Mind Me, I’m Not Your Mother, But I Knew Her Well, Once, Several Years Ago (2023).
2The party was fancy dress and the cakes were too. There were cakes shaped like rockets and planets and aliens and amusingly shaped asteroids. In the centre of the table was the largest cake of all, made to look like an exact model of the Boudica 8’s landing module, The Henry, the module that had taken Bernice Wickett and Graham Stump to the surface of the moon all those years ago.
3Except for the stollen, which was almost stolen. (This is a spelling-related joke, regarding a rich fruit-and-nut loaf of German origin, the English word ‘stolen’ and the letter ‘l’.)
4Crisps, peanuts, cakes, two truckles of cheese, strudel, cakes, various dips, various cakes, sausage rolls, carrot sticks, pickled dormice, unpickled cakes, chocolate buttons, dried apricots, cakes and juicy pineapple cubes, to be precise.
5Greta Zargo just saved the world. In case you missed it. That was it. Sometimes it doesn’t take much, just someone to say no, but still she deserves our thanks. She saved us all. Well done, Greta.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
High Earth Orbit
LAST FRIDAY, SEVENTEEN MINUTES LATER
THE THING ABOUT robots, as has been mentioned several times before, is that they’re very literal-minded.
They’d asked for the planet, and the leader of the people of the planet had said no.
So that was that.
Fair enough.
Simple.
The silvery robot approached the Huge Space-Going Robot and informed it of the Earthlings’ leader’s decision.
The Huge Space-Going Robot examined its databanks for instructions. Computers whirred and computed deep inside its enormous electronic brain and fourteen seconds later a new course of action was plotted and shared between the two robots.
Vast engines glowed with unknown energy at the rear of the Huge Space-Going one and its sweeping sensors scanned the sky for a nearby star to set course for.
(The much smaller silvery robot quickly got out of its way with its usual quiet whoosh.)
Slowly the Huge Space-Going Robot left the Earth, and the rest of the solar system, behind.
Onward and outward it flew on its ongoing mission of exploration.
The small silvery robot placed itself into an unobtrusive orbit, tilted one of its antennae in the direction of Cestrypip, 965 light years away towards the constellation of Cygnus, and began to retransmit a continuous stream of Earthling television.
Episodes of Babies Break Antiques and Marry My Mother, Maybe and Dance, Baker, Dance travelled out across the galaxy, to be deciphered, analysed and entered into the chapter on Earth in the Harknow-Bumfurly-Histlock Big Book of Galactic Facts™.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Upper Lowerbridge, England, Earth
STILL LAST FRIDAY
GRETA LANDED ON the handle of the butterfly net with a clatter.
It was a spectacular dive.
She dragged it towards her, the wriggling shape of the grey-haired contortionist inside still not quite free of the netting.
‘Got you!’ she shouted triumphantly.
She pulled it nearer.
Now that she’d got a bit closer she noticed that the wriggling shape seemed a bit small, even for an elderly contortionist, but it was grey and furry, and it did look a bit like a Space Monkey, so who else could it be?
Oh, she thought, disappointedly.
Between the cake crumbs and fluttering fur she saw she’d actually caught a squirrel. A very large squirrel, but a squirrel nonetheless.
As Greta Zargo approached the house, the giant squirrel still bundled up in the net but not struggling so much now, she thought about how she’d tell the story, how she’d describe the way the clues had added up, how she’d tracked the villain, how she’d saved the day and saved the cakes of Upper Lowerbridge forever.
(She didn’t need to say how she’d got it wrong and almost accused an innocent old man; she could pretend she’d suspected a squirrel all along and no one would know any different.)
It was going to be a brilliant article. It would make the front page of The Local Newspaper for sure, if only … Well, the library’s photocopier would have to do … It would still be brilliant, however she got the story out there.
The lunar landing re-enactment out in the street had finished and people were milling on the patio, eating sausage rolls and drinking cold drinks with a bright chink of ice cubes.
It was a warm, fresh summer’s evening and everyone was laughing and smiling, except for Mr Cohen, who was shouting something or other about a frightful mess in the kitchen.
‘Jonathon!’ shouted Aunt Tabitha, rushing over to Greta.
‘No, Auntie,’ Greta said, slightly confused. ‘I’m Greta.’
‘No, silly,’ her aunt said, at the purring netted bundle in Greta’s hands.1 ‘That’s Jonathon. You found him.’
Greta knew this big squirrel had seemed familiar; now everything fell into place.
‘I didn’t really find him,’ she said. ‘I caught him. You see … he’s been responsible for all the cake thefts.’
‘Not so loud, darling,’ her aunt said, taking her by the elbow and leading her to one side.
They edged over to the ornamental pond.
‘What do you mean, Jonathon’s responsible?’
‘Just that. All these thefts. It’s been him every time.’
‘Darling,’ Aunt Tabitha said, concern in her hushed voice, ‘how can you be sure? It really doesn’t sound like him. He’s allergic to peanuts, you know.’
Greta ran through the clues she’d found: the grey hairs, the scratchy, muddy marks on the table (that she now saw had been squirrel footprints), the small windows the thief had climbed through, the bouncy scampering she’d witnessed in her garden. Plus, and most damningly, she’d caught him red-handedly stealing a cake not five minutes earlier.
Aunt Tabitha couldn’t deny that flood of evidence.
‘Hello, hello, hello, what’s all this then?’ said Wilf Inglebath, coming over to where they were talking. ‘Gossip, gossip, gossip. Folk talking where they can’t be heard by a man of the press? Looks suspicious. Oh, hello, Greta.’
He hadn’t realised who Tabitha was talking to when he came over, and so he blushed and blustered as he said Greta’s name.
‘Do you fancy a nut?’ he said, and held out the little bowl of peanuts he’d been carrying.
‘Mr Inglebath,’ Greta said, ignoring the nuts, ‘I’ve just caught the Great Upper Lowerbridge Cake Thief and I’m going to write up the story and it’s going to be brilliant and every newspaper in the county’s going to want to publish it.’
Aunt Tabitha tried to shush her, but Greta was carried away, the excitement of the moment and her achievement overtaking her.
‘Oh,’ said Mr Inglebath. ‘Hmm. Er …’
‘Go on,’ Greta said. ‘Imagine this story on your front page. You’ve gotta take me back.’
‘Well,’ he said, obviously thinking about it.
Last week’s headline had been: DOG CHASES STICK. And it hadn’t even been an amusingly shaped stick.
‘I’d love to, Greta,’ he said. ‘You were always my best reporter, ever since you first turned up with that story about the Lower Upperbridge High School Marching Band’s off-key rendition of the theme tune to the popular kids’ show Doughnuts & Dimples a fortnight ago … but if Lucy ever found out, I’d never hear the end of it.’
(Lucy was another name for Mrs Hummock.)
Greta’s aunt, who was holding the giant vegetarian squirrel in her arms and absent-mindedly stroking it, looked at her niece and at the sparkle in her eyes, and felt something in her own heart shiver happily. The joy Greta had got from solving the mystery was just the same as when Tabitha invented something new and wondrous. She understood that that sparkle deserved to be shared, front page and all.
‘Wilf,’ she said, turning to face the newspaperman. ‘How would it be if Greta apologised to Mrs Hummock? Do you think you’d be able to take her back then?’
Mr Inglebath looked from the scientist to the schoolgirl and back again.
‘Have you met Greta?’ he said, suggesting with this simple phrase that the words ‘Greta’ and ‘apology’ were unlikely to be found in the same sentence in the wild.
Greta looked at her old editor’s face. She looked at her aunt. She understood what needed to be done. She had to be the grown up. She had to suck in her pride and go and apologise to the rotten old trout. She could keep her fingers crossed when she did it and as long as Mrs Hummock didn’t see … what would it matter?
‘I could …’ she said. ‘I suppose I could apologise to Mrs Hummock. Is she here, Mr Inglebath?’
‘Yes, she’s over by the beehives,’ he said, pointing at a woman dressed as a satellite. She was standing with another woman, her gossip partner, Mrs Wedlock, who was dressed as Mrs Wedlock.2
‘Come on then,’ said Greta.
Aunt Tabitha and Wilf Inglebath followed her across the lawn.
‘Mrs Hummock,’ said Greta when she arrived. ‘I’d like to apologise for having said whatever it was I said to you the other day that upset you.’
‘Um, Greta,’ Aunt Tabitha said quietly. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have said it. Whatever it was.’
Mrs Hummock stared open-mouthed and confused.
Mrs Wedlock tutted.
Once she’d gathered her wits and recognised exactly which little girl was talking to her, Mrs Hummock said, ‘What are you on about?’
‘It’s an apology,’ Greta said. ‘I’m very sorry I said things when I was asking you about your cake.’
‘Oh yes, the cake,’ said Mrs Hummock.
Mrs Wedlock tutted.
Neither of them looked very impressed with the apology.
‘Is that enough, Mr Inglebath?’ Greta asked.
‘Lucy,’ Mr Inglebath said. ‘Do say you forgive the girl. Then we can put it all behind us and get on with our lives, eh?’
‘I remember now!’ Mrs Hummock said, pulling her space-satellite-suited self up to her full height. ‘She accused me of having stolen my own cake. I will not forgive this … child.’
Mrs Wedlock tutted.
Greta looked from Mrs Hummock to Mr Inglebath to her aunt to Mrs Hummock to Mrs Wedlock to her aunt to Mrs Hummock to her aunt to Mr Inglebath to Mrs Hummock and finally just shrugged her shoulders.
‘I tried,’ she said.
There was an awkward silence as they all stood there, not sure who should speak next.
‘Peanut?’ said Mr Inglebath after a moment, once again proffering the little bowl he’d been carrying with him.
This time Greta took one and popped it in her mouth.
‘Hang on!’ she spurted, spitting peanut crumbs into the air.
She waved her finger and pointed it, accusingly, in Mrs Hummock’s direction.
She’d just remembered something. Something that changed everything.
‘I’m going to ask you a very simple question, Mrs H, and I want the truth. I want the facts.’
�
��Young lady, how dare you demand anything of me?’ warbled Mrs Hummock.
Mrs Wedlock tutted.
‘Greta, simmer down now,’ said Mr Inglebath, trying to smooth the waters. ‘We’re all a bit tired and –’
‘Look, I know who stole the cakes, Mrs Hummock. I know who stole them all. But Mr Socket’s cake and Mr Teachbaddly’s cake and my cake and the Cohens’ cakes in there: they’ve all got something in common … something that makes your cake the odd one out.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Mrs Hummock, flustering.
‘This is the squirrel that stole the cakes,’ Greta said, pointing at the giant fluffy-tailed rodent in Aunt Tabitha’s arms. ‘Mrs Hummock,’ she went on, ‘tell us what sort of cake the cake you lost was?’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Mrs Hummock said and turned to walk away.
Mrs Wedlock tutted, and then turned to follow her friend.
Greta reached up to the lapel of her BASA Mission Control Operative’s shirt and pressed the button on the badge labelled ‘Press’ that was pinned there.
There was a buzz and a crackle and then Mrs Hummock’s voice rang out clearly from the badge’s tiny speaker: ‘It was a sponge,’ the voice said, ‘with peanut butter fondant icing. You see, Mrs Wedlock likes –’
Aunt Tabitha gasped.
Mrs Hummock and Mrs Wedlock stopped walking and turned to face the voice from the badge, which repeated itself several times on a loop.
‘What is it, Tabs?’ said Mr Inglebath.
‘Tell him, Auntie.’
‘Jonathon …’ Aunt Tabitha nodded at the squirrel that she was carrying (he was asleep and purring). ‘He’s mine,’ she said. ‘And he … he’s allergic to peanuts, the poor thing.’
‘Aha!’ shouted Greta, waving her finger in the air triumphantly.
Greta Zargo and the Death Robots from Outer Space Page 6