The Fantastic Family Whipple

by Matthew Ward

  Beatrice was a champion competitive eater, but one would never have known it by her size. She was a petite girl with a shocking appetite who astounded bystanders and participants alike by winning every eating competition she entered. But unlike most competitive eaters her age, she had refined tastes well beyond her years. Though it was true she held the record for Most Frankfurters Eaten in One Minute, it was her filet-mignon and crème-brûlée trophies she cherished most.

  And then there was George—the youngest of the octuplets by two and a half minutes. Instead of gravitating toward one or two main interests, as most of his brothers and sisters had, George gravitated to whatever held his interest at any given moment. At that particular moment, it was finding out how long he could hang a spoon on his nose without aid from any other part of his body.

  The only Whipple child unaccounted for in the breakfast procession was Ivy, who, at twenty-three months, was not quite old enough to be left to her own devices. She had been collected a short while earlier and was now waiting outside for her brothers and sisters near the rear terrace of Neverfall Hall, the Whipples’ historic family home.

  The breakfast procession wound its way down the spiral staircase that led to the drawing room and then proceeded out through the huge garden doors that led to the east lawn. Mrs. Whipple was already seated at the outdoor breakfast table. She busied herself fastening a bib around the neck of little Ivy, who in turn—barely able to see over the tabletop—busied herself fastening a bib around the neck of the stuffed toy bear seated beside her, thus furthering the pair’s record for Highest Number of Matching Outfits Worn by a Stuffed Toy and Its Owner. Mr. Whipple stood behind his wife, chatting with Mrs. Waite, the housekeeper, and Mervyn McCleary, the world record certifier from Grazelby’s Guide to World Records and Fantastic Feats. All six of them, including the bear, were wearing safety goggles.

  Mr. McCleary, a tallish man with a short, grayish beard, had been certifying the Whipples’ world records for almost thirteen years. As a result of the Whipples being such prolific record setters, Mr. McCleary had found himself in the company of the Whipples nearly every day of his life since he had been assigned to document their achievements. There had been an instant kinship between them, and Mr. McCleary had soon become known to the Whipple children as Uncle Mervyn. He had since been made the children’s godfather and traveled with the Whipple family wherever they went.

  Mrs. Waite, on the other hand, had only worked for the Whipples a week and a half. A plump, silver-haired woman with aged but fiery eyes, she had been hired on as the new housekeeper after the prior position-holder, a Mrs. Scrubb, had been stricken with the World’s Rarest Strain of Malaria and forced to take an early retirement. The Whipple children did not object to the change in the least. Where Mrs. Scrubb had been fussy and ill-tempered, Mrs. Waite was warm and friendly and did not scold them for the many record-breaking messes they tended to leave about the house. Having never had children of her own, she was happy to care for the younger Whipples whenever needed, and had even begun serving unofficially as Ivy’s nanny.

  At present, Mrs. Waite turned to greet each of the Whipple children as they approached the table, handing each child a pair of his or her own safety goggles, shaking her head dubiously as she did so.

  “My my,” she murmured. “What ever will it be today?” After little more than a week, Mrs. Waite was still far from comfortable with the Whipples’ rather unconventional customs.

  When the children had all found their places, Mr. Whipple took his seat beside his wife. “Good morning, children,” he said. “A very fine Rueing Day to you all.”

  Arthur’s heart abruptly sank. In the morning’s confusion, he had completely forgotten it was Rueing Day. Of all the days he could have chosen to fail a week-long attempt, there was no worse one than this.

  “As you know,” continued his father, “today is the day we Whipples remind ourselves to squeeze every last ounce of success from every moment of our lives. And this particular Rueing Day is a most historic one indeed. It is twenty years today since your grandfather’s death. Sadly, his life was cut short in its prime, leaving, well—certain things never to be accomplished. To honor his memory, we must treat each day as though it is our last—and never settle for achieving anything less than the very best.”

  Arthur let out a melancholy sigh.

  Oblivious, Mr. Whipple gazed out at the horizon for an odd moment, then resumed. “Right,” he declared. “That’s the last bit of looking back we shall do all year. Now, to the present. Sadly, it has come to my attention we are a bit behind schedule in our current record tally. Would you be so kind as to clarify, Mr. McCleary?”

  Uncle Mervyn stepped forward and folded back a page of his notepad. “Indeed, Mr. Whipple. With the Unsafe Sports Showdown only a few weeks away and the World Records World Championships hardly two months after that, I’m afraid the time for casual record breaking has passed. According to my records, on this same day two years ago, during the prior championships season, you already had some forty-seven additional records on the books. As you know, the eligibility deadline for the championships’ top prize happens to fall on your birthday this year, so you’ll have to bring your two-year total up to the thousand-record minimum by the first of March if you’re to be eligible for this year’s championships. Of course, I’ve no doubt you’re more than up to the task. Your ability to rise to challenges has always been nothing short of astonishing, and I’m sure this’ll be no different!”

  “Yes—thank you, Mervyn,” Arthur’s father broke in. “So, children, you heard the man; unless we can double our efforts in the coming weeks, we are all clearly doomed.” Slowly, his scowl faded. “But let’s try to focus on the positive, shall we? Simon, I see your accordion playing is still going strong. Keep up the good work, Son. And Arthur, I’ve noticed you are hopping on one foot….”

  At the mention of his name, Arthur caught his father’s gaze—but promptly glanced away as the man continued.

  “What a fantastic idea to break two records at once! Surely the challenge of keeping one foot off the ground at all times will help you stay alert enough to break the record for Longest Time without Sleeping. And you’re only, what, two days away from that? Just the sort of boost we need during this critical time. I’ve got to tell you, Son—your mother and I are extremely proud of you. Sure, you’ve disappointed us in the past, but what really matters is that you’ve somehow managed to put all your failures behind you, however embarrassing, in order to finally achieve something. Son, you’re going to break your first world record! How does that feel?”

  Arthur felt sick. He didn’t want to speak, but he knew he had no choice. “Well, actually, Father—about that Longest Time without Sleeping record. Um…I don’t think I’m going to break it.”

  “What?!” gasped Mr. Whipple. “Son, you really mustn’t doubt yourself now—not when you’re so close to your first success. I’m sure you feel you’ll never achieve anything with the sort of track record you’ve got—I mean, I myself have wondered that about you for years—but Son, you’re almost there. Don’t give up now!”

  “Well, you see—the reason I don’t think I’ll be breaking the record for Longest Time without Sleeping is that, um, well…I’ve already fallen asleep. Last night, actually.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Whipple, the sparkle escaping his eyes. He tried to keep smiling, even though it was obvious he wanted to stop. The result was somewhat disturbing. “Well, that’s all right, Son. Better luck next time. At least you’ve still got the Hopping on One Foot record to shoot for. Well done. Yes, better luck next time….” Clearing his throat, he eagerly changed the subject. “Well then—enough business for now…. Who’s hungry?”

  The Whipple children all raised their hands.

  Beatrice gripped her fork and knife in either fist and sweetly snarled, “Bring it on.”

  Their father signaled for Mrs. Waite to fetch the chef—and soon everybody had forgotten about yet another of Arthur’s f
ailures.

  Arthur was glad the focus was off him and onto more important matters, like breakfast. But still, he couldn’t shake the dull, aching feeling in his heart that he would never be good enough for his family.

  His heart was instantly cheered, however, at the sight of the Whipple family chef emerging from the house.

  The chef, dressed in the traditional white, double-breasted jacket and tall, puffy hat, waved to the group, then proceeded to push a large serving cart toward the breakfast table. His face was clean shaven with a bright, childlike smile, but its deep grooves and thick, sinewy features suggested a somewhat rougher past than the man’s current position implied.

  In fact, Sammy “the Spatula” Smith had been a well-known London gangster before giving up his life of crime and coming to work for the Whipples. Though he had been born with exceptional skills in the culinary arts, he had also been born exceptionally poor. So in order to put himself through cooking school, he began dabbling in some less-than-legal business ventures. It started with changing the dates on a few bottles of Scotch in order to increase their value—and ended with half a ton of stolen caviar being seized by Scotland Yard. Sammy was sentenced to ten years in prison, but was released after serving only two. It was rumored he had bribed prison officials with a lifetime supply of his cinnamon caramel custard tarts. Though no one ever found solid proof of this claim, several postmen had reported mysterious packages regularly leaving the Whipple estate, all smelling suspiciously of cinnamon.

  Unfortunately, Sammy’s past habits still got him into trouble from time to time, and Arthur had heard whispers that the chef was actually in a fair bit of it now. Arthur had always done his best to offer encouraging words and friendly advice whenever Sammy’s old ways caught up to him, but it seemed the chef’s most recent troubles would require more than just moral support.

  Upon approaching the table, Sammy gave a cheerful nod to Arthur, and the boy wondered if the chef had received the anonymous gift he had left for him. The thought was promptly interrupted, however, by a loud rumble behind him, whirling Arthur and his family around to face the house.

  The noise grew louder and louder until two flying objects appeared over the rooftops of Neverfall Hall. The first was clearly a helicopter, but the other was harder to identify. Arthur soon recognized it, however, to be a giant piece of French toast, dangling from the helicopter on cables.

  It was not every day a helicopter was involved in the preparation of the Whipples’ breakfast. It was far more often a construction crane or a cement mixer or a team of elephants. Mrs. Waite couldn’t help but gasp.

  “My goodness!” the new housekeeper cried above the aircraft’s din. “Have we come to breakfast—or an air show?”

  Uncle Mervyn smiled. “You’ll get used to it, my dear.”

  “Yeah, this is nuffing, luv,” chuckled Sammy the Spatula. “Should’ve seen the crop duster we used for the Christmas gravy.”

  Soon, the gigantic piece of French toast was dangling directly overhead, and the helicopter began to lower its cargo. As the hunk of eggy bread came to rest on the table, the chef unhooked the cables and gave the all-clear signal to Wilhelm (World’s Strongest German, Mr. Whipple’s valet, butler, and now helicopter pilot), who winched up the cables and headed off over the treetops.

  The table itself was round and very large—about fifteen feet in diameter—but the piece of French toast was so enormous, its corners drooped over the table’s edge and nearly touched the ground.

  Arthur now recalled the smells he’d detected wafting out from the World’s Largest Bread Oven when he’d gone to the kitchen to leave a package for Sammy the day before. It seemed this was but one slice of the Largest Loaf of Bread Ever Baked.

  Patting the shoulder of Mrs. Waite, who looked on with eyes agog and mouth agape, the chef stepped forward to introduce the dish. Though Sammy the Spatula was known for his colossal cuisine, he prided himself not in its size, but in its quality.

  “Got the recipe off an old Canadian mate of mine—‘Syrupy’ Curtis Carmichael,” the chef explained, “but I like to fink it were me who perfected it. Not only is it the Largest Piece of French Toast Ever Made, this—it’s also the Tastiest.” Opening the doors on his steaming serving cart, he retrieved a spray nozzle attached to a thick rubber hose. “And ’ow else do you finish off the World’s Largest, Tastiest Piece of French Toast but wiv the World’s Creamiest Butter—and syrup from the World’s Oldest Living Maple Tree?”

  Sammy moved his safety goggles into position, lifted the hose, and began spraying melted butter over the face of the French toast. When he was satisfied with a generous golden coat, he retrieved a second hose and began dousing it with warm maple syrup.

  By the time he had finished, a mixture of maple syrup and butter was dripping over the edges and onto the ground. Returning the syrup hose to its receptacle, Sammy closed the serving cart doors.

  “And now,” he declared, “the finishing touch: a sprinkling of the Finest Ground Icing Sugar on the Planet.” Removing the lid from a large, long-handled pot, he grabbed the handle with both hands, then flung it forward like a massive lacrosse stick, emptying its contents into the air.

  When the cloud had settled, the Whipples raised their goggles, revealing large white circles around their eyes, and got their first look at the finished culinary work of art that lay before them.

  “Couldn’t have painted it better myself,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly.

  It was truly a masterpiece of French toast. Its dark, golden-brown edges stood in stark contrast to the snow-white sugar that had settled on its summit. Giant crannies on its upper face formed tide pools of butter and syrup. Steam curled off its surface as the hot glaze met with the crisp morning air.

  “Incredible…” gasped Mrs. Waite.

  “Indeed,” Uncle Mervyn replied, glancing affectionately at the new housekeeper. As he extracted a tape measure from his jacket pocket, he added, “I’d—er—I’d be happy to give you a tour of the estate’s other wonders sometime—away from all these young whippersnappers—I mean, if you’d like, of course.”

  “Why, Mr. McCleary,” grinned Mrs. Waite, “I’d be delighted.”

  Uncle Mervyn gave a blushing smile, then flashed a thumbs-up to Arthur—and set about obtaining French toast measurements and marking them down on his clipboard. He then snapped several photographs of the Whipple family and their giant breakfast, to be used for publication exclusively in the Grazelby Guide, as per the Whipples’ long-standing and highly lucrative sponsorship contract.

  With all the official business completed, Sammy cut off the bread’s crust with a machete, then simply said, “Enjoy.”

  The Whipples moved their chairs up to the table—and proceeded to follow the chef’s orders.

  Despite his past criminal leanings, Sammy the Spatula had never lied to them about food. This truly was the best French toast they had ever tasted.

  In twenty minutes’ time, most of the Whipple family had eaten all they could, which left the giant piece of French toast still looking relatively untouched, apart from having lost maybe three inches on each side. The only Whipples still actively eating were Simon, Arthur, and Beatrice.

  As Simon could not feed himself, on account of his hands being unable to leave his accordion during his record attempt, Arthur had been assigned to cut Simon’s food for him and raise it to his mouth. Arthur, still balancing on one foot, alternated between serving a bite of French toast to his brother and serving a bite of French toast to himself, which meant it took them nearly twice as long to eat their breakfast. Beatrice, on the other hand, had already eaten twice as much as both the boys put together, and was showing no signs of slowing down.

  “Very good, dear,” coached her father, “but pace yourself. It’s only a training session. The last thing you need is a hyperextended stomach before the competitive eating season has even begun.”

  As Beatrice grunted her acknowledgement through bulging cheeks, Sammy the Spatula app
roached Mr. Whipple and said, “I trust your breakfast was satisfactory, sir?”

  “More than satisfactory,” smiled his boss. “Truly excellent. You’ve really outdone yourself, Sammy.”

  “Why, fank you, Mr. Whipple,” Sammy smiled back. “Plenty more bread where that came from, of course. The loaf’s the size of a bloomin’ railway carriage, it is. ’Ope you’ll not mind ’aving the World’s Largest Sandwich for lunch and the World’s Largest Bread Pudding tonight for dessert?”

  “Not at all, Sammy. That’ll do nicely.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The chef hesitated a moment. His smile faded away, then he lowered his voice and added, “Sir—I was wondering if you’d given it any more thought, what we talked about the uvver day.”

  Mr. Whipple exhaled slowly then looked up. “Yes—I’m afraid I have, Sammy,” he said. His voice was nearly a whisper, but Arthur, hopping on one foot between Simon and his father, could just make out the words over his brother’s accordion. “I’m afraid we just can’t do it this time,” Mr. Whipple continued. “We’ve been happy to help you in the past, but I worry if we keep bailing you out whenever you get in over your head, you’ll never learn from your mistakes. I’m sorry, Sammy—really, I am.”

  The chef nodded and gave a sad smile. “It’s all right, guv. I understand. I’m sorry to come to you like this at all—it’s just when I get round the lads from the old days, I start acting a bit like me old self, I’m afraid. But I am trying to do better. If only I might’ve stayed away from the drink this time, I’m sure I’d never have set that record for Largest Losing Bet on a Backroom Game of Hangman. Ravver ironic the word were ‘whisky’ in the end, weren’t it? Serves me right, though, I reckon. Just hope I can convince ‘Meat Cleaver’ Mike to agree to a long-term payment plan.”

  Mr. Whipple smiled warmly. “You’re a good man, Sammy. When you’re ready to get help, we’ll be happy to assist you.”