by Alan Dapré
“Aye, ’tis certainly covering Morag’s tracks,” said Archie, with a shiver of regret.
The Nessiemobile rolled forward and its green lamps scanned the snow for clues. But they were no match for my mega-super-well-OK-not-bad cat’s eyes: I honed in on half-hidden hoof prints ahead, which isn’t easy to do or say. Try it.
Honed in on half-hidden hoof prints ahead. Honed in on half-hidden hoof prints ahead.
So I just pointed them out with my tail.
“Nice one, Porridge,” said Ross.
We were thundering down a steep slope, following the hoof prints, when I spotted a toadstool, teetering on the edge of a deep gully. We were heading straight towards it! Gadget Grandad braked and his Nessiemobile skidded to a stop.
Hmmm. Now we were teetering on the edge of a deep gully too.
“Nobody move except me,” he warned, “I have an idea.”
Gadget Grandad inflated his bagpipes with gulps of air. Soon the Nessiemobile was filled with the tartan bag – and I was squashed against the window like a furry fly.
He pointed its pipes out of the window and got us to hug the blown-up bag.
WHOOSH-WAIL-OOSH!
Three jets of air blasted us backwards, away from the gully. A musical moan lingered in the air.
Me-phew!
“We must find Morag,” said Archie.
Suddenly a mournful moo came out of the icy whiteness across the gully.
“We have!” whooped Gadget Grandad.
“That’s ma girl!” Archie shouted, pointing to where they could just make out something stuck in a snowdrift on the other side of the steep drop. “Over there.”
“I get your drift,” said Gadget Grandad.
Poor Morag was udderly terrified and couldn’t moooove.
“There’s no bridge,” said Ross. “How can we save her?”
“Nae worries,” said Gadget Grandad. He jiggled a joystick and the Nessiemobile’s long-armed scoop swung up into the swirling snowflakes.
Seven heartbeats went by before we saw it again, swinging back towards us, holding a snow-covered coo.
“Ye managed tae scoop Morag up as if she was dairy ice cream! Och aye the coo,” said Archie, his heart leaping like a salmon on a pogo stick.
With Morag comfortably perched in the scooping arm at the front of the vehicle, Gadget Grandad threw the Nessiemobile into reverse and we slithered backwards, picking up speed.
We rumbled back down the rocky mountainside to the safety of Archie’s milking shed.
Mmmm. Milk.
15
The Milk Goes Off
Now the danger was over, all Archie had to do was:
a) milk Morag, and
b) leave lots of milk in a bucket for any cat who might happen to be passing. Which today just so happened to be me.
Sadly, neither a) nor b) was possible.
“We found ma coo too late,” he sighed. “I’m afraid Morag has already been milked by someone else. She’s empty.”
“So is your milk shed!” Gadget Grandad’s voice echoed from a bare room.
“What?” Archie yelped in shock.
We all ran in and saw nothing but nothing!
“This morning ma warehoose was bursting with delicious farm produce!” moaned Archie. “All ma butter and eggs are gone!”
I yowled in thirst.
“Hold on a second,” said Ross, kneeling down by a pointy toadstool lying on the floor, not daring to touch its pale blue skin. “What’s this?”
“Step away. That is a poisonous BlatFlurble,” warned Archie. “One touch and your fingers will turn orange and your hair go green with blue spots. It happened to me once and I was off-colour for a week.”
“It means Fergus has been here,” grumbled Gadget Grandad. “He’s gone too far this time. First he stole a page from the recipe book, then a massive cloth banner, and now masses of Morag’s milk, endless eggs and big boxes of butter.”
“If only we knew what was on that torn-out page,” said Isla.
“A recipe for disaster, I’m sure,” said Archie.
“Udder mayhem,” agreed Gadget Grandad. “My guess is Fergus still needs a shedload of other ingredients, and I know for a fact where he’ll be tomorrow.”
“Where?” said the twins.
“The Scottish Shed-Racing Championships,” he declared. “Fergus McFungus and I have been battling for the title for years! He wouldn’t miss it for the world, or for Scotland.”
“We didn’t know you raced sheds,” said Ross.
“Only on Thursdays,” said Gadget Grandad. “We cannot let Fergus be Champion. He will use the prize money to fund his evil plans!”
A silence fell over us, and I fell over it too.
“You look worried, Gadget Grandad,” said Ross.
“Aye, I am,” the old man replied wearily. “He’s very good at being bad. His powerful shed is as big as a barn. In fact it is a barn, made of larch. He’s my larch rival!”
They trudged back to the Nessiemobile in silence and shoes that squeaked a little (which was really annoying because it made me think there was a wee timorous mousie about).
Mmmm. Mouse.
16
Thrilling Thursday
There was still no mouse or milk the next morning so Gadget Grandad popped round to see his neighbour in his pajamas. Innis Pajamas had a spare carton, which was lucky. Tasty too. Thanks Innis!
Me-yum!
After an exhausting hundred laps of my milky bowl I was cat-tired and ready for a lie down.
BANG!
There was a terrifying noise. I shot in the air and landed in the sink, for the third time in this story.
“Poor Porridge,” Isla giggled as she dried my dripping fur with a tea towel. “What was that, I wonder?”
BANG! BANG!
“It’s coming from the shed at the bottom of the garden,” said Ross.
We dashed off to investigate.
“Hello,” said a faraway voice in faraway letters. Gadget Grandad slid from under the shed, wiping oil from his nose. “My shed won’t start. If I don’t fix it I can’t stop Fergus McFungus from winning the Scottish Shed-Racing Championships!”
“Has it run out of petrol?” asked Ross.
“No. The Green Machine runs on water to protect the planet from pollution,” explained Gadget Grandad.
I padded around the shed and spotted a deep puddle. I followed its wet trail to an empty barrel that was bolted on the back of the shed. A barrel with a big hole! I pointed out the problem with my tail.
“Clever Porridge,” said Ross. “No wonder the shed won’t start. It’s sprung a leak!”
“Sprung a leek, more like,” chuckled Gadget Grandad. “It’s always popping out.”
He plucked a soggy leek from the puddle and plugged the vegetable back in its hole. Then he refilled the barrel and they all hopped in. I’m hopeless at hopping so I catwalked in – showing off my terrific tartan coat to a jealous grey squirrel.
“This trusty rusty shovel is the brake,” explained Gadget Grandad, “and this round dustbin lid is for steering round corners.”
“What is this round biscuit tin for?” asked Isla.
“Fuelling us up, of course,” said Gadget Grandad, taking out a chunk of shortbread. “Off we go!”
One minute and fifteen chunks later, we arrived at:
“Where’s Fergus?” asked Isla.
“Right at the front,” said Gadget Grandad. “We need to track him closely today. He will definitely be up to no good (or yes bad, which is the same thing).”
***
We lined up behind nine rumbling sheds as Flora, who was 102 years old, swept the track with a broom and all the energy of a 101 year old.
“Fergus really wants to win,” said Isla, peering over at his giant larch shed.
“I bet there is something else around here he wants too,” said Ross.
And he was right. But I won’t tell you just yet because that would ruin the story.
/> Suddenly the air was full of cheers and crumbs as Flora shook her gingham tablecloth and signaled the start of the race.
“Hold tight,” shouted Gadget Grandad and we thundered away in a cloud of dust and dusty spiders.
17
Feeling Flat
What a great start. We rushed down the track and squeezed past three slower sheds. Then at Chicory Chicane we barrelled by two more competitors. It was all too easy.
“Five down, five to go,” whooped Gadget Grandad.
He swung the Green Machine around a corner and clipped a bush (into the shape of me – braw!).
Ahead of us, a shed with pink-and-white go-faster stripes ahead of us screeched, struck a pothole and tipped on its side, scattering cactuses cacti cactisuses, er, pointy plants in our path.
I screeched too and dived for the brake, shoving the shovel into the ground as we skidded towards the spiky plants. Sparks flew. Too late!
There was a pop and a hiss.
(And another hiss from me.)
We had a puncture. The Green Machine flubbered to a halt.
“We’ve three fat tyres and one flat one,” sighed Isla.
“Aye, so we have tae lift the shed to change it,” groaned Gadget Grandad. “But how?”
I figured it out because I’m clever. You’re clever too. You must be, because you’re reading this book.
Fergus was racing further away and we were in a hurry so I gave Gadget Grandad a wee clue. I jumped on his bagpipes, which wailed. (I wailed too and hid in a bush, trembling like a tartan leaf.) (I can be such a scaredy-cat sometimes.)
“Nice one, Porridge,” said Gadget Grandad.
He slid his bagpipes under the shed and blew into them, deep and hard. They ballooned and the shed rose off the ground like a startled hippo. One sentence later, the flat tyre was fixed and we were back on track. A very bumpy track.
Gadget Grandad accelerated faster than I can typ…
“We’re over halfway round,” he said, “but here comes a tricky bamboo bend!”
I watched in astonishment as two bamboozled sheds lost control and clattered into a compost heap full of rotting vegetables. The air was filled with silence, then a-thousand-and-two rotten tomatoes SPLAT SPLAT SPLATTED onto our rocking roof.
“This race is ace,” whooped Isla.
“We’re second!” cried Ross as we excitedly bucketed about like an excited bucket.
Och, what a race this was. The thundering tyres. The shouting fans. The cat falling off his seat onto a cactus.
Me-OWCH!
That wasn’t funny. I’ve got more prickles in my bahookie than a porcupine.
18
Thrilling Thursday Thunders On
I’m OK. I just need a wee tickle under the chin and a fishy biscuit or ten, or however many you have in your hand.
Me-yum!
Back to the awesome action. Fergus McFungus stuck out a long smellyscope and swung it behind him. When he smelt how close we were, he frowned and yanked a yellow lever that opened a secret shed hatch. Pots and pots of pots smashed on the track, blocking our way once again!
The spectators couldn’t believe their eyes, so they watched a replay on a giant screen. Some even read about it in this book afterwards to make sure.
“That’s cheating,” said Herb McHerb sagely. “Fergus should have gone in for a pot stop if he wanted to lighten his load.”
“He’s breaking the rules,” said Mavis Muckle, speaking sense.
And the pots, said Basil, speaking Elephant. (By the way, I understand Elephant fluently. I can speak six-hundred-and-forty-three languages including Mouse. Actually I squeak that.)
There was only one way to get past potty old Fergus. Gadget Grandad swung his steering lid and cried, “Let’s cut him off at the parsley!”
The Green Machine took a shuddery short-cut through a shrubbery short-cut and hurtled across a herb garden. Herbs flew everywhere, except Herb McHerb who always took the bus. We whizzed past Rosemary and Basil and Clive who were picking rosemary and basil and some chives (which was close enough).
By the middle of this sentence we were back on track. There was nothing between us and Fergus in front. But then, a giant jet engine rose from his shed roof. Fergus hit a button marked FIRE and flames flew out the back of the engine.
FLAMBOOOOSSHHHH!
Now we were well and truly cooked! I felt the hairs on my head curling as Fergus McFungus’s shed shot away like a red rocket over some green rocket, which is a tasty salad. You should try it.
Somewhere in the distance, Flora was very slowly pegging a wet tablecloth on the finish line. She didn’t see Fergus McFungus approaching at a zillion scowls an hour…
“My larch rival has nearly won,” said Gadget Grandad with a heavy heart, in heavy gardening boots. His shed was heavy too, and that was the problem. We needed to go faster!
Luckily, the old man had something up his sleeve. A hairy wrist. And on the end of that hairy wrist was a handy fist that thumped on a button marked: Herbo-Boost.
A mighty explosion of mega-hot mustard power erupted from our shed and we thundered towards Flora so fast she dropped her pegs in amazement and a puddle.
Now the two old school rivals were level pegging, racing their sheds side by side.
“You’re super-doomed,” snarled Fergus. With one twist of his joystick he slammed us sideways.
“Super-zoomed more like,” roared Gadget Grandad. The herbo-boosted shed roared too. So did the excited crowd.
I somersaulted onto Gadget Grandad’s baldy head and clung on like a bad wig.
Whoooooosshhhh!
That was the sound of the Green Machine as it flew over the finish line in first place!
“We did it!” cried the twins.
“Very jammy,” I heard Fergus shouting as he swerved around Flora into a stack of very jammy scones.
And that was that –
19
Scone Or Gone?
(Fergus’s crash spattered jam and scones everywhere, so I apologise if a few pages stick together when you’re reading this.)
“Fergus McFungus sure came to a sticky end,” said Isla, licking some jam off her nose.
“I’m not so sure,” said Gadget Grandad, spying a trail of smashed scones that led all the way to the next paragraph.
I didn’t need my mega-super-well-OK-not-bad cat vision to spot what fiendish trickery Fergus McFungus had been up to. His sticky fingerprints were all over Flora’s now-bare café. He must have tossed sacks and sacks of sacks into his big shed and vanished in a cloud of flour and mixed fruit.
“Och, all my sultanas and raisins and flour and soda have gone!” Flora spluttered, nibbling on her last scone. She spluttered again because it was a wee bit dry.
Me-yuck!
Gadget Grandad paced up and down the empty room, deep in thought and jam. “Tomorrow we must stop Fergus once and for all! I fear he now has all the ingredients to bake something so earth-shatteringly awful that it will destroy THE WORLD AND VOLCANOES AND FISHY BISCUITS.”
And elephants. Never forget elephants because they never forget you.
He bundled us into the Green Machine and drove home in time for supper. There’s always time for supper in my book. (And this is my book, I’m only lending it to you. Check at the front if you don’t believe me.)
Plus, I needed more fishy biscuits. After all, I’d only eaten that handful you snuck me ages and pages ago.
Sleepy now, I lay on the windowsill, bathed in blue moonlight and saw a shooting star in the sky. Oddly, it shot up, not down, and blazed a fiery trail across the sky.
I yawned.
Friday beckoned.
Fergus McFungus was about to stir up Trouble with a capital T. He was going to need a very big bowl!
20
Far-out Friday
Early Friday morning, the twins heard a loud squeaking on the landing and sprang out of bed to investigate. I did too.
“Sounds like a giant mouse,” said Isla.
Mmmm. Mouse.
Ross crept onto the landing with a rolled-up comic in his hand.
“Are you going to teach it to read?” giggled Isla.
“Very funny,” he said, swishing the comic under the bookcase. “Nothing down there.”
“It might be in the loft,” said Isla, pointing to a trapdoor in the ceiling.
As they looked up, it slowly and squeakily began lowering like a ramp on an alien spaceship. Ross stumbled back in surprise, landing on the landing.
“I’ve been expecting you,” boomed a mysterious figure in a shiny silver spacesuit. He slid up his gold face visor to reveal a one-eyed alien called Frank.
Just kidding.
“It’s only me,” said Gadget Grandad, who wasn’t a one-eyed alien called Frank after all. We clambered into the loft, and I curled up on a comfy sofa made from the back seat of an old car.
Around us, funky bulbs swirled and chunky dials whirled, and in the middle of all this computerised chaos Gadget Grandad flitted about like a moth at a twinkling funfair.
“Nearly ready,” he said, bending a coat hanger to make an aerial for his spacesuit.
“Where did you get your intergalactic gear?” asked Isla.
“I made it,” Gadget Grandad called back, “but first I sent a smaller suit into space. It worked perfectly with its wee jam-jar helmet.”
He held up the silver test suit. It was no bigger than me and it looked warm and cosy, so I climbed in.
