by Alan Dapré
“Well done, Porridge!” yelled the twins together.
“I’ll find ‘Cat Bowl Crescent’ on the map,” said Ross, holding it up for all to see. “This pet shop is very close to Very Close, which is ever so close to Everso Close.”
“But where is Cat Bowl Crescent?” asked Biff.
“Somewhere in this Porridge-shaped hole,” sighed Ross, poking his head though the bit I twanged through earlier.
Me-whoops!
“If we’re going tae find this factory we need a sign,” said Scruff.
“There’s one,” grinned Groovy Gran, pointing out of the pet shop window.
The number 48 trundled…
…very close to Very Close
…and ever so close to Everso Close
…before it turned lazily into Cat Bowl Crescent. The curving road was lined with wrinkly old trees and wrinkly old pensioners at bus stops.
“There’s the wonky chimney!” whooped Groovy Gran.
We hopped off the bus by a big factory gate and Groovy Gran jangled a dangly bell.
We waited for ages and ages and… you’re probably better off going straight to Chapter 17 than hanging around here.
See you later.
17
Later
A plump, grey-faced lady ambled across the cobbled factory yard. She wore a long grey coat and her hair was pulled into a round bun that would taste horrible if you ate it.
“I’m Dawn McYawn, the manager,” she yawned. “Can I help you?”
“I do hope so,” trilled Groovy Gran. “We’re looking for Rab McDrab.”
The factory manager circled Groovy Gran slowly and gave her a long, thoughtful look. When Dawn McYawn spoke next, her words tumbled out like acrobats. “I know you! You were in Rab’s band! The Scatty Bones!”
Groovy Gran roared with laughter and bent over until she nearly snapped. “It was the Tattie Scones!”
Dawn McYawn reddened like a ripe tomato and probably wished the ground would swallow her up or at least nibble her toes.
I coughed loudly to remind everyone why we were here. (And to get rid of a furball!)
“We’re supposed to be re-forming the band for a Big Gig on Saturday,” said Scruff. “Do you know where we can find Rab?”
Dawn told them all she knew. “Aye, Rab worked here a long time ago when this was a dug-bowl factory. He used to walk about town advertising our dug bowls. Then the factory began making cat bowls instead, and Rab was made Chief Dinger. But something about the cat job chimed badly with him. One day, Rab slipped out of the factory never to return! Or say goodbye! Or shut the gate!”
Groovy Gran spluttered. “Rab always shut gates.”
“There’s more to the story. Come with me,” yawned Dawn. The manager led us into her grey office and opened a wardrobe full of grey coats hanging on hangers. Dawn McYawn picked one out. “This is my favourite.”
The twins giggled. It was grey just like all the other grey coats. I spun on my tail with boredom.
What did this have to do with Rab McDrab?
But as soon as Dawn lifted out the grey coat, its triangular hanger started to play a wee tune.
“Ooh, a musical coat hanger,” gushed Groovy Gran. “I’ve always wanted one.”
“So have we,” said the twins.
“They’re sold out everywhere,” said Biff.
“I need one!” added Scruff.
“Rab came up with the idea from his triangle-playing days,” explained Dawn. “He thought all triangle shapes should make music. And they should be able to do more than DING. Apparently his marvellous invention has made him so rich that he now lives in a whopping big mansion high on a hill, miles away, just over there.”
The factory manager waggled her pudgy fingers through the window at a whopping big mansion high on a hill, miles away, just over there.
“It is whopping,” said Isla.
“And big,” said Ross.
“And high on a hill, miles away, just over there,” added Groovy Gran, who knew such things because she was old and wise and had eyes. “I think we need tae pay it a visit.”
18
The Whopping Big Mansion High on a Hill, Miles Away, Just Over There
It was noon o’clock when we crunched up a gravel driveway in search of Rab McDrab.
“I’ve found a clue,” said Ross, eyeing something big and shiny with four glinting wheels. It looked more like a car to me.
Ross read out the polished registration plate.
“I know this car. Rab bought it after our first hit song,” said Groovy Gran. “He thought the bumper looked really smily.”
“It does,” said Isla, looking really smily too.
The Big Yins stood by a large oak door. Isla climbed on her brother’s shoulders and pressed a gold doorbell. Somewhere inside the whopping big mansion, high on a hill, not miles away but just over here, a bell tinkled.
Tinkle.
No one came.
We waited a long time.
We waited a very long time.
A time so long you could down put this book and play with your pal next door and have supper then go to bed and wake up the next day and still be waiting!
Scruff shouted, “IS ANYONE THERE?” in big letters through the big letterbox. “Not a sausage,” she sighed, turning to walk away.
There’s a sausage in Chapter 24, I meowed from inside the mansion.
Inside the mansion?
“Look – another tartan cat!” shouted Scruff, pressing her nose against the wee round window.
“No, it’s Porridge!” laughed Isla. “How did you get in there?”
Easy peasy Porridge squeezy, I purred and vanished from view.
The large letterbox flap swung open and I squeezed back outside with a folded Tattiebogle Bugle in my mouth.
“That’s a funny cat flap,” giggled Ross. He opened up the newspaper and read the headline.
“Where did you find it?” asked Isla. I pointed to the round window and she peered in to see a stack of unread newspapers next to a heap of ripped posters. “That’s where they went.”
Suddenly a hairy beast with fiery eyes peered back at her!
The Dug o Doom!
Groovy Gran and Biff quickly crouched behind Gran’s trolley. The twins and Scruff hid behind a tulip.
CRASH!
The thick oak door flew open and splintered against a marble pillar. Out stormed the Dug o Doom, prowling and scowling and growling and bowling.
Aye, bowling!
The horrible hound bowled an ornamental stone ball down the steps towards us. It smashed into the old car outside. The bumper fell off and landed upside-down with a frown.
Now for the scary part of my story.
The Dug o Doom bellowed and the Big Yins ran for their lives!
I ran for my lives too – all nine of them.
19
A Place To Play
At the end of the drive, the birds were tweeting happily on their phones and it was all very peaceful.
Until we thundered down the road like lightning and hailed a bus and stormed on board.
We nearly mist the bus! I joked, using up the last of my weather puns.
“Down boy!” cried Groovy Gran as the Dug o Doom snapped at the half-open bus door. She scattered a bag of Soor Sucker sweets under its paws. Down it went.
Me-phew!
Soon it was just a hairy dot in the distance.
***
Back at the house, Groovy Gran lit a cosy fire and the abominable nightmare we’d just experienced melted away like a not-very-nice snowman.
“That’s it then,” sighed Biff. “We couldn’t find him. No Rab, no Big Gig.”
And no fishy biscuits, sighed me.
I gave my bowl another sad DING!
“Och, thanks Porridge,” said Scruff. “Here’s an idea: if we don’t find Rab, we just get someone else to DING at the BIG GIG?”
“Porridge can DING his cat bowl!” blurted Groovy Gran. “Then the oven
will open and all the fans will go wild. Piece of cake, I mean, tattie scone. What do you think, Porridge?”
Great idea.
I gave my bowl another quick and Ross filled it with fishy biscuits, AT LAST!
Me-yum!
“We still need to tell people where and when the gig will be,” said Isla.
“Aye, so let’s check out the old venue first,” cried Scruff.
Groovy Gran leapt from her chair, crackling with excitement and arthritis. With no time to waste, and just days before the Big Gig, we hurried off. In the rush, a box of fishy biscuits was knocked over. I helpfully stayed behind a wee moment to sort out the mess.
Me-yum!
They can thank me later.
20
Dang. Dung. Ding!
Groovy Gran led us along a long winding path to the Tattie Scones’ favourite venue: the Crystal Cave at the foot of Ben Tankle. And no one got a bent ankle.
Me-phew!
By now, the evening sun was hovering outside the cave, but the light dared not go in as it was a wee bit dark and blocked by creepy creeping vine creepers.
Ross and Isla pulled them apart like lush green curtains, keen to see inside.
Safe in Ross’s rucksack, I peeked nervously into the cave and the darkness stared back, which was a bit rude.
“I’ll turn on the light,” said Groovy Gran. She grasped a long metal lever and yanked it down towards her whiskery chin.
Somewhere in the gloom, a noisy power generator rumbled into life.
Giant glass bulbs began to glow, spreading a warm light all over the Crystal Cave. It glittered like Santa’s grotto and everything was shiny and bright as Rudolph’s nose after a polish.
“What is that?” cried Ross. He scampered over to a huge metal cube in the centre of the cave.
“That, laddie, is the biggest tattie scone oven in the whole galaxiverse,” said Biff proudly. “I knitted it from 9,999 balls of wire wool. It’s looks a little rusty these days, but should still work.”
“How does it work?” asked Isla.
“It’s sound-operated,” said Groovy Gran. “Only a perfect DING can open it. Sadly Rab isn’t here and Porridge doesn’t have his food bowl.”
I guess you know what’s coming next. I had to save the day. I’m cool with that. It’s my job.
I searched the ground and found two crystals. When I bashed them together they unfortunately went DANG!
So I found two dung beetles. Och, you can guess what sound they would make. DUNG!
I was scratching the back of my ear for an answer when I caught my claw on the metal name tag on my collar. It’s under so much tartan fluff I’d forgotten it was there.
DING!
The sound echoed around the Crystal Cave and bounced against the huge oven. To my surprise, its rusty old door swung down like a castle drawbridge and struck the marble stage!
“You opened the oven!” whooped Ross, rushing inside.
Aye, I meant to do that. Sort of.
His heart skipped and his feet joined in when he saw the treasure trapped within. “Look Isla, it’s a tattie scone as big as a house!”
“It’s incredible!” spluttered Isla.
“It’s inedible,” said Groovy Gran, rapping it with her knuckles. “It’s been here since the night Rab left the band. Nae worries, we’ll drag it oot and make a fresh one at the Big Gig.”
Thanks to the magic of story-writing, it took just one sentence to shove the huge old tattie scone outside. Biff whipped out his knitting needles and began scraping and chipping and scratching and gouging (and other words ending in ing). No one could guess what he was doing-ing.
“Give us a sign,” said Ross.
“I will,” said Biff.
True to his word, he did. And what a mighty marvellous sign it was too.
“Our fans will see those letters from miles away,” cheered a delighted Scruff.
21
A Lot of Hot Air
With so little time until the big gig, the Big Yins were busy as bees and other letters of the alphabet.
Scruff made notes about the notes she had to strum, and Biff knitted himself a new drum kit. The twins created cool dance routines and hired a huge hot-air balloon to advertise the gig! Meanwhile, Groovy Gran practised her old songs until she knew them backwards, but they sounded a bit silly, so she practised them forwards instead.
As for me?
I dozed the whole time, so I would be fresh as a daisy. Not Daisy who stands in a muddy field and goes moo. The other one.
***
When I awoke on the morning of the Big Gig, the house was quiet as a mouse.
Mmmm. Mouse.
Where was everyone? Surely they wouldn’t have gone without me? I crawled out of the chimney and padded along the roof, quiet as that mouse you keep reading about.
Mmmm. Mouse.
No one was about, so I started looking for that pesky mouse. Suddenly there was a loud squeak above my head.
Mmmm. Mouse.
I licked my lips and looked up.
“Hi Porridge!” called Ross. He and the others were bobbing above the roof in a wicker basket. It hung from a hot-air balloon that was pushed along by a squeaky propeller.
The great gasbag circled lower and lower and Biff scooped me up in his chunky arms.
“Welcome aboard,” cried Groovy Gran. Then she tossed out a plump sandbag and the tartan balloon soared away from the house, trailing down some guy ropes (named after some guy).
I was worried that the Dug o Doom would try to stop us from telling people about the gig like he had every other time, but there was no sign of him.
Me-phew!
Every once in a while, Groovy Gran pulled a wee lever and heated the gasbag with a jet of flame. Each jet sent the balloon higher over Tattiebogle Town.
“I see ma old field,” said Scruff. On the ground below us, we could make out a circle of speakers, tumbled over like dominoes. Biff cranked a handle and the squeaky propeller picked up speed.
A crowd had begun to gather in the High Street. They marvelled at the sight of something plump, round and tartan filling the sky.
Not me, the balloon!
Just then, Isla released our giant message so the whole town could see:
22
Mission Impussible
The big gasbag advertised the Big Gig all day long! We watched from above as eager fans flocked to the Crystal Cave. Evening came and the clumsy sun slipped on a waxed moon and it all went dark.
“If only Rab McDrab was here to perform with us tonight.” Groovy Gran sighed. She turned down the flame and let the balloon sink slowly towards the venue, while she serenaded us with a delicious song about salmon.
Mmmm. Salmon.
Scruff strummed along and my tummy rumbled along.
Then, without warning, a heavy metal claw hooked the side of the basket and we were all tossed about like a salad!
A long rope dangled from the claw. My sharp eyes followed it downwards and spied – Me-gulp! – the dreaded Dug o Doom! The pesky pooch was looping the far end of the rope around the pointed peak of Ben Tankle! The balloon was going nowhere stuck to a mountain!
But I was going somewhere.
I was going on a mission, to slide down the rope and yank the loop free and release the balloon!
Me-WHOOSH!
As I neared the ground, I yanked the loop at the end of the rope. The loop flew off Ben Tankle peak – and accidentally lassoed the Dug o Doom’s tail!
Me-oops!
The rising balloon lifted the pooch off its paws. Desperate to hold onto something, it grabbed my collar –
Me-help!
– and pulled me off the rope! I dangled below the Dug o Doom, above a deadly drop!
Me-AAAAAAAARGH!
Lucky for me, the twins knew what to do.
“Quick, rock the basket!” they cried. Everyone ran side to side.
The more they rocked, the more the rope swung! It was all too much for the wea
ry Dug o Doom. On a big swing upwards, it finally let go!
Me-WHOOSH!
“Is it a bird? Is it a plane?” said Scruff, as I flew towards the basket.
“No, it’s Porridge, of course,” cried Groovy Gran, catching me in her long-handled trolley.
Isla plucked me out and hugged me until I squeaked like a rubber mouse.
Mmmm. Mouse.
23
Guess Who?
Now the Dug o Doom was safely lassoed below us, there was no time to lose. The Tattie Scones were already late for their Big Gig!
“Time to drop in on our fans,” said Groovy Gran. She let out some air from the giant gasbag and we quickly lost height.
A big “OOOOH” went up from the crowd as the balloon spiralled down toward the Crystal Cave.
“We’re landing too fast,” gasped Groovy Gran. “That dangling dug is weighing us down.”
“Hold on to your hats!” shouted Biff.
And cats! I yowled.
With a howl of rage, the Dug o Doom climbed up the rope like a big hairy spider. He came up over the basket, leapt higher and tore a hole in the balloon, which let out a rude raspberry (the kind that would get you into trouble if you did it at school). FLURRRRRPLURPLURPLURRRPPPP!
With no air inside, the balloon fell to Earth like a clumsy hippo. The basket hurtled into the cave, bounced off the oven, skated across the smooth marble stage, and scored nine 6’s from the crowd for artistic impression (which is really good).
