The Grunts All at Sea

by Philip Ardagh

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you any further,” he explained. “I’ve taken up too much of your time already. We’ll go our separate ways when we reach wherever it is you’re going.”

  Wherever-it-was-that-they-were-going (also known as Isaac’s Port) turned out to be a very pretty little fishing village, with lanterns strung around the curved harbour wall. The tide was high and a variety of boats, from fishing smacks to yachts, bobbed around on their moorings.

  The light was fading fast when they finally arrived and Sunny folded away the map, but it was still bright enough to see that the place where Mrs Grunt insisted they park up for the night was wholly unsuitable.

  “I still think we should stop just outside the village, Mum,” said Sunny. “There are plenty of open spaces.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs Grunt. “Here’s much better. Look. We even have running water to wash with.” On the word “wash” she glared at Mr Grunt with a you-could-do-with-a-good-wash stare.

  The running water she was referring to was a great big fountain, shaped like a mermaid with water spouting from her mouth.

  “I don’t wash in mermaid drool, wife,” said Mr Grunt.

  “You don’t wash at all,” said Mrs Grunt.

  “Then how come I don’t smell?” demanded Mr Grunt.

  “You don’t smell because you STINK,” said Mrs Grunt.

  “You’re the stinking one!” said Mr Grunt. “Stinkhorn!”

  “Cheese-breath––”

  “There’s running water here because we’re in the middle of the market square, Mrs Grunt,” said Mimi, boldly. “I’m sure there must be laws against us camping here.”

  Mr and Mrs Grunt both fell silent for a moment. They weren’t used to being interrupted mid-name-calling, especially not by a child. And there was something different about her. Oh, yes. Where were those little flappy birds that were usually hovering above her head?

  “I know you mean well, Moomoo––”

  “Mimi,” Mimi corrected Mrs Grunt.

  “POGI!” said the POGI.

  “I beg your pardon?” said a confused Rodders Lasenby. “None of you is making the slightest sense! What a refreshing change from my daily life! I love it! Lend me a hand, will you, please?” He’d jumped down from the wooden seat and was now trying to pull his very expensive, very heavy suitcase out from beneath it.

  “I’d love to help, but I’m too lazy,” said Mr Grunt.

  “Here,” said Sunny. “Let me.”

  Mimi took the other end of the suitcase and they heaved it to the cobbled ground of Isaac’s Port town square.

  “Bring it over here, would you?” asked Rodders Lasenby, straightening his salmon-pink tie, adjusting the salmon-pink silk kerchief in the breast pocket of his pinstripe jacket, pulling down on the bottom of his yellow waistcoat with one swift tug, and striding across the square in the direction of somewhere called O’Neill’s Hotel. Sunny and Mimi half carried and half dragged the case across the cobbles, behind him.

  “I’ll need a place to sleep tonight,” said Rodders Lasenby over his shoulder. “I can have Betsy retrieved in the morning.”

  The lobby of O’Neill’s Hotel was small and inviting. There was a staircase made of old, dark wood to one side and a reception counter made of old, dark wood to the other. Running across the middle of the low ceiling was a very long and wide beam made of – you’ve guessed it – old dark wood.

  There was a well-worn brass bell on the counter. Rodders Lasenby rang it.

  “Ting,” it went. “Ting.”

  A woman with blonde hair piled high into a beehive appeared through a low doorway, the other side of the counter. She was dressed in a black jacket and matching skirt with worn, shiny patches, and looked bored and tired. But when she saw Rodders Lasenby in his expensive-looking clothes, she stood to her full height and fixed a welcoming smile on her face.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said. “How may I help you?”

  “What a poky little lobby,” he said. “So small and so dark … Charming! I love it … I’d like a room, please.”

  The woman – whose name badge said she was called Tammy Hoot – asked him if he’d booked one.

  Rodders Lasenby shook his bald head, sending out subtle wafts of expensive aftershave in her direction.

  “Alas, no, Ms Hoot,” he said. “I didn’t know I’d be here. Betsy broke down, you see––”

  “Your good lady wife?” asked Tammy Hoot.

  “My car,” said Rodders Lasenby. “I’m not married.”

  A flicker of something – hope? opportunity? indigestion? – passed across the receptionist’s face.

  “Well, I’d love to help you, but I’m very sorry, Mister –?”

  “Lasenby … Rodders Lasenby.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr Lasenby, but we don’t appear to have any rooms available at the moment.” Tammy Hoot was flipping through a big, red, leather-bound ledger resting on the counter.

  “Oh dear,” said Rodders Lasenby, not sounding in the least bit concerned at the news. “Your hairstyle is most unusual, Ms Hoot. Odd doesn’t even go halfway to describing it. Most becoming. Uniquely attractive.”

  Tammy Hoot smiled a lovely smile.

  Rodders Lasenby took out his wallet and pulled out a huge wad – I want to say “wodge”, so I’m going to – a huge WODGE of notes, and held them out in front of him.

  From the hotel entrance, where they were now resting with the heavy suitcase at their feet, Sunny’s and Mimi’s eyes widened.

  “Would you mind taking this ridiculously large sum of money for me, please, Ms Hoot? It’s weighing down my wallet, and leaving an unsightly bulge in my jacket.”

  “But, Mr Lasenby …” said Tammy Hoot.

  “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to spend it on yourself, too. I have so little time. You’d be doing me a real favour.” Rodders Lasenby pulled himself to his full height. “Now, would you be kind enough to check again for a free room? Just in case you missed something.”

  Sunny and Mimi looked on with wide-eyed amazement from the doorway.

  Tammy Hoot took the wodge – yes, WODGE – of banknotes and slipped them into a pocket of her black jacket. She then went through the ledger a second time, and snapped it shut.

  “Oh, silly me,” she said. “I’d quite forgotten. The Portview Suite is available … I don’t know how I missed it …” She was a terrible actress. “It’s a lovely suite. Bedroom, separate sitting room and bathroom.”

  She turned, beehive hairdo bobbing, to a series of pigeon holes behind her, made of old, dark wood, and pulled out a gold key on a large maroon key-fob on which was written: “PORTVIEW” in bold, gold letters. She handed it to Rodders Lasenby.

  “Would you like to go straight up to your suite?” she asked. “We can sort out the – er – paperwork later.”

  “Thank you,” said Rodders Lasenby.

  “And would you like some help with your luggage?”

  At this point, Tammy Hoot noticed that Rodders Lasenby didn’t appear to have any luggage. Then she spotted Sunny and Mimi with the suitcase at the door.

  “No, I’m fine, thank you, Ms Hoot,” he said. “I have two very able helpers.”

  And it was the two very able helpers who lugged the suitcase right to the top of O’Neill’s Hotel, because that’s where the Portview Suite was, and the hotel didn’t appear to have a lift.

  “Thank you,” said Rodders Lasenby when they finally reached the door to his suite. “I can take it from here.”

  He dug his hand into the pocket of his pinstripe trousers and pulled out two sweets wrapped in foil. He handed one to Mimi and the other to Sunny.

  “They taste extraordinary. Most strange.

  Rather like old dishcloths,” he said. “What could be more delicious?”

  “Quite,” Mimi panted.

  “Absolutely,” panted Sunny.

  “Goodbye,” said Rodders Lasenby. “Thank you for all your help.”

  When Sunny and Mimi h
ad walked all the way back down the old, dark wood stairs (with aching arms) and were crossing the lobby, they overheard Tammy Hoot in conversation with a rather upset-sounding couple.

  “But I booked the Portview Suite this morning,” the man protested. “I recognise your voice. It was you I spoke to on the phone!”

  “He did!” insisted the woman. “He did.”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Tammy Hoot, “but there appears to have been some kind of mix-up. The suite is already occupied and I can’t possibly let you have it––”

  Mimi tugged at Sunny’s arm. “It’s them,” she whispered.

  “Who?” said Sunny.

  “Them,” whispered Mimi. “Max and Martha. The couple we met outside The Happy Pig. The ones hiding under the table.”

  Sunny peered at them across the dingy lobby. “You’re right!” he whispered excitedly. “Only this time, SHE’S the one with the walrus moustache! It must be fake!”

  Early next morning, Sunny was woken by Mr Grunt who’d been woken by a trumpeting Fingers, who had, in turn, been woken by a band of angry fishermen. As usual when they were on the road, Sunny was sleeping on the landing outside Mr and Mrs Grunt’s bedroom, so when Mr Grunt threw open the bedroom door and tripped over the sleeping boy, the sleeping boy became a wide-awake boy and Mr Grunt became a man tumbling down the stairs.

  When Mr Grunt reached the foot of the stairs (with a crumpled “Argh!”), he stood up and fumbled for the nearest melon. Having rubbed his sleepy eyes and grunted (twice), he then broke the melon in two by hitting it against the wooden back of a kitchen chair a few times, and pulled it apart. Pressing the soothing, flesh-end of one piece against a sore elbow, he yanked open the back door of the caravan and stumbled out, blinking, into Isaac’s Port’s market square.

  “You can’t camp here!” said the largest of the fishermen, before the door had even had a chance to swing shut behind Mr Grunt. The fisherman was a real hulk of a man who seemed to be more grey beard, blue cable-knit sweater and black wellington boots than anything else.

  “S’right. You tell ’im, Wellum!” muttered a smaller version of the man. He was dressed identically to Wellum, but his beard wasn’t as grey, and the tops of his wellies were turned down.

  The other assembled fishermen added their support to what Wellum had just said with a variety of grunts and noises worthy of Mr Grunt himself.

  “Who says we can’t camp here?” Mr Grunt demanded.

  “Perhaps you set down after dark,” said Wellum, giving Mr Grunt the benefit of the doubt. “Perhaps you didn’t realise you was camping right in the middle of our market where we sells our fish.”

  “Dead fish?” asked Mr Grunt.

  “Course they’s dead!” said the mini-Wellum with the turned-down boots, who went by the name of Mollusc.

  “So,” said Mr Grunt, plonking himself down on the top back step of the caravan, “let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that dead fish are more important than my family and animals? More important than living, breathing me?”

  “Course not,” said Mollusc.

  “I was goin’ to ask you about the elephant,” said Wellum, lifting his booted foot, the bottom of which was covered in elephant dung. (Yup, it’s d-u-n-g time again.) “But first, I’m askin’ you – real polite – if you’d move your … yourselves elsewhere. This is our fish market. There are stalls to get put up, and fish to sell.”

  “I see,” said Mr Grunt.

  “What is it, mister?” asked Mrs Grunt, sticking her head out of the top of the stable-like door. “It’s too early. Come back to bed.” She really wished he would. She’d stuck Sharpie, her stuffed hedgehog, under the blankets on Mr Grunt’s side and couldn’t WAIT to see his reaction when he rolled over on to all those prickles.

  “These people care more about their dead fish than they do about us,” Mr Grunt explained over his shoulder.

  Mrs Grunt seemed to think for a moment, which is almost as unusual as seeing a duck carrying an umbrella. (Almost.) “Well, we are at the seaside,” she said, at last.

  Mr Grunt got up off the step and turned to her. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he asked.

  “Well, if I lived on a toad farm, I’d probably care a lot more about toads than I do now,” she said with an isn’t-it-obvious tone to her voice. “Maybe it’s the same for these men, living so close to the little fishes.”

  Mr Grunt was impressed. What Mrs Grunt was saying made perfect sense (to him, at least). He suspected he must be dreaming, so he pinched her as she came down the steps of the caravan. He knew full well that it was traditional for people to pinch themselves to see if they were dreaming but, just in case he was awake, he didn’t want to hurt himself.

  “OUCH!” said Mrs Grunt. “You guillemot!”

  “Tumbleweed!”

  “Plughole!”

  “Snapdragon … I’m not dreaming, am I?”

  “No, you’re not dreaming,” said Mrs Grunt.

  “Thought not,” said Mr Grunt. He glared at Wellum. He glared at Mollusc. He glared at all the other fishermen. “Then I suppose we’d better move, hadn’t we?”

  By now, Sunny had also emerged, and had been joined by Mimi. She’d been woken up by the fishermen’s arrival and Fingers’ trumpeting, further disturbed by Mr Grunt tripping over Sunny and falling down the stairs, and made wide awake by his breaking open a melon on the chair right by her head, before dropping the unwanted piece of the fruit splatteringly close to her head.

  She helped Sunny hitch up Fingers, who seemed pleased to see her. As did Frizzle and Twist, who came humming out of the early morning sky and assumed their position hovering just above her head, their tiny wings a blur. Mimi smiled. “You’re back!” she said. (She’d been worried she might never see them again when they hadn’t reappeared after she’d left Rodders Lasenby back at the hotel.)

  Mollusc turned to Wellum and faced his stomach. (Wellum was huge, remember.)

  “This just gets weirder and weirder,” he said.

  “And weirder,” Wellum added, thinking just two “weirder”s didn’t express just HOW weird things had become.

  “Anyone seen the POGI?” asked Sunny. He let out a big yawn, and stretched.

  “No,” said Mimi, surprised that she’d forgotten all about him.

  Sunny saw an expression of even more surprise on Wellum’s face and followed his gaze. Across the market square strode the POGI, swinging a string bag containing what appeared to be two pints of milk and a very large selection of cheeses.

  “Oh, there you are!” said Mimi.

  The POGI said “POGI!”, and gave a cheery wave.

  Mimi gave a cheery wave back, causing a woman passing by on a red bike to swerve. Her single lemon-drop earring waggled like a boxer’s punch-bag.

  “Sorry!” Sunny called out after her.

  The lady on the bike looked back, her earring catching the light. “No worries,” she said.

  Mollusc sighed. “How long will you be campin’ in town?”

  “We’re not camping,” Mr Grunt interrupted.

  “We’re stamping!” said Mrs Grunt, stomping down the back steps in her bunny slippers. She cackled.

  “Not that either, wife!” said Mr Grunt. “We’ll be taking a boat along the coast.” (He was a man on an adventure with a Person of Great Importance to safely deliver, remember. And soon-ish.)

  “All of you?” asked Wellum, raising a very bushy eyebrow, and fixing an eye on the elephant.

  “All of us,” said Mr Grunt. “Where we go, the caravan goes, the elephant, the donkeys––”

  “Barrel boy?” asked Mollusc.

  “– and all,” said Mr Grunt.

  “Then you’ll be needing a very big boat,” said Mollusc.

  “No I won’t,” said Mr Grunt. “HA!”

  “No he won’t!” said Mrs Grunt triumphantly. Then she turned to Mr Grunt. “Why not, mister?” she asked.

  “Because we’ve already got a very big boat,” said Mr Grunt.
He fumbled in a trouser pocket and pulled out a sweet wrapper with some writing on it. (He’d gone to bed without undressing, so was fully clothed.) “The Merry Dance,” he read aloud.

  Wellum’s eyes widened. “Ma Brackenbury’s old tub!” he said.

  There was a murmuring among the fishermen.

  “It’ll be big enough, I grant you that,” said Wellum. “You should all fit aboard––”

  “If it don’t sink first!” laughed a wiry sailor at the back.

  “Ignore ’im,” said Mollusc. “I’ll shows you where to find Ma Brackenbury.”

  While he led the Grunts away in the caravan, the others started setting up the market stalls with the skill and precision of those who’d carried out the task a thousand times before. There was the clank of metal poles, and the rustle of red-and-white striped awnings, as the market took shape and, in next to no time, the place was piled high with white boxes full of a rainbow array of different types of fish, packed in ice.

  Watching moustachelessly from the doorway of O’Neill’s Hotel were Martha and Max. Both very crumpled-looking. After their hotel suite had been “stolen” by Rodders Lasenby, they’d had to sleep in – or on – their motorbike-and-sidecar. Martha had slept, seated, in the sidecar. Max had slept – or tried to – lying on the motorbike itself. Both had found the whole experience lumpy. And, although silent, their silence spoke volumes. It was if they had invisible rays coming off them like steam. Rays which said “Angry!” and “Up to No Good!”

  Sunny and Mimi had tried to speak to Mr and Mrs Grunt about this moustache-swapping couple the previous evening – to warn them – but the Grunts hadn’t been in the slightest bit interested.

  “So the woman is wearing the moustache that the man was wearing when you first saw them at The Happy Pig?” asked Mr Grunt. “So what? Perhaps they take it in turns.”

  “There isn’t a law against swapping moustaches, you know!” said Mrs Grunt, holding up Ginger Biscuit’s rigid, stuffed tail to her upper lip. “It ain’t illegal!”