The Chocopocalypse

by Chris Callaghan

  A whisper filled the classroom: “He’s got a wife! He’s got a wife?”

  “Yes…” Mr. Tatterly’s cheeks flushed beet red. “I do have a wife…and she is rather pretty and smart too.”

  All the class looked at him with faces that clearly said, “I don’t think so!”

  —

  Jelly made her way home slowly after school. Her shoulders dropped as she saw Mrs. Bunstable—or Mrs. Bum-stubble, as Dad called her—standing outside the rusty gate she shared with the Wellingtons. Her wiry black hair was held firmly in position with enough old-fashioned curlers for two bad hairstyles, let alone one, and as usual, she was just nosing around and waiting for someone to talk at.

  Mrs. Bunstable had various tactics to trap innocent victims so she could gossip at them for as long as possible. She kept a tin of beans in her apron pocket, for example. The tin would be “accidentally” dropped as a victim approached. She would reach down and let out an “ooohhh ahhhh” while rubbing her back. The kindhearted victim would be compelled to pick the tin up for her—and then she had them! The innocent fool would be left holding the tin out, but of course Mrs. Bunstable would not take the tin. To take the tin would only allow the poor wretch to run for freedom. As long as she ignored the existence of the tin, she had all the power. Men had even grown beards while holding that tin.

  It was impossible to avoid her—and Jelly had certainly tried! “Hello, Mrs. Bunstable,” she said quickly as she sprinted past her and up the path. She knew that even one word would be fatal—Mrs. Bunstable would leap on it, manage somehow to twist it into some kind of gossip or even a personal attack and gleefully take it to her next Knit and Natter meeting, delighted to have something to gossip or complain about with all her old-lady friends.

  “My, you’re growing up there fast, young Jennifer!” called Mrs. Bunstable.

  Why did grown-ups say things like that? Jelly was never sure what to say in return. A “thank you” didn’t seem to fit, and “I’m a kid, that’s what we do” seemed a bit rude.

  “Yeah,” said Jelly. “Too fast!” Which was something Mum would say.

  “Haven’t seen you for a while, treasure,” Mrs. Bunstable called after her. “I’ve a hospital appointment next week, you know!”

  Jelly glanced over her shoulder as she opened the front door, trying to look interested.

  “It’s my bladder again,” the old lady boomed. “I’ve had to wait six weeks for my operation. Six weeks! It’s a disgrace. But you know me, treasure, I don’t like to complain.”

  Jelly tried to close the door and nod sympathetically at the same time.

  “Is your dad still lazing about the house, eh? It’s all right for some,” Mrs. Bunstable yelled, sounding now like Minnie Mouse shouting through a megaphone.

  Jelly nodded quickly and shut the door with a sigh of relief—then listened to Mrs. Bunstable slam her door (she always slammed it!)—and threw herself on the couch to watch TV. After a little while, she thought she had better tidy up a bit before Mum came down. Once a few random cups and sweaty socks were picked up (Dad was such a slob!), she almost opened the curtains at the back of their living room, but saw the figure of Mrs. Bunstable loitering in their back garden and decided to keep them closed. Their neighbor had a habit of squeezing through a gap in the fence (which Dad kept meaning to repair) and peering in on them through the windows, tapping on the glass if spotted. She would always pretend she had something important to tell them, but they all knew the real reason: she was on the trail for gossip!

  A while later, Mum came downstairs dressed for work and yawning like a foghorn. Jelly couldn’t remember what Mum looked like when she wasn’t yawning.

  “Slide over, munchkin,” she said, and plonked herself down with a groan.

  Dad came in from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of porridge and a coffee.

  “Breakfast is served, m’lady,” he said with a flourish of a kitchen towel, which he placed over Mum’s lap to protect her clean work clothes from any stray dollops of porridge.

  “Just once,” said Mum. “Just once, I’d like to wake up to a sound that isn’t that pain-in-the-bum woman. Why does she always have to slam her front door?”

  “Tell me about it,” said Dad. “I’m the one who has to listen when her cronies come around for tea and cake and they all get to gossiping together. And as for all the trashy TV that she watches on full volume in the evening, well, you’re lucky enough to be at work!”

  Mum shot him a fierce look.

  “What’re we having for dinner, Dad?” asked Jelly, trying to change the subject.

  “Well,” said Dad, taking a deep breath, “it was supposed to be those crispy chicken things with fries, but we don’t have any of those chicken things left. But we do have some ravioli.”

  “Ravioli and fries sounds good to me.”

  “But we don’t have any fries left either,” said Dad with a frown. “It’s Mum’s payday next week. I’ll do some shopping then. Promise.”

  “Is there anything else?” inquired Jelly, already knowing the answer.

  “Not really,” confirmed Dad.

  “We’re fine, then,” said Jelly, and Mum silently nodded. Dad disappeared into the kitchen and Mum gave Jelly a nudge.

  “I hope you’re helping your dad out,” she whispered, leaning in close to her. “I don’t get to do as much as I should, so I’m expecting you to do my bit for me, okay?”

  Jelly nodded. “I promise, Mum. I do help.”

  Mum gave her a wink. “I know you do, munchkin.”

  Over the last year, since Mum had started her new job as a trainee deputy assistant junior manager, working nights at the supermarket, not getting home until after Jelly had left for school in the morning, then sleeping during the day, Jelly and her dad had become a good team together.

  He washed the dishes, while she dried them and put them away.

  She was in charge of folding the clothes after Dad had ironed them.

  General cleaning and tidying up was a bit more random. Dusting was usually done by blowing and running a finger along random surfaces, rather than using a duster. Although, Dad had become obsessed with the vacuuming lately—he’d spend ages trying to get lines on the living room carpet, just like on a Wimbledon tennis court.

  Before long Dad returned with two plates of ravioli on toast. On Jelly’s plate there was a special treat of a cheese slice draped across the top, melting deliciously into the ravioli. Dad had once told her that this was something the very top restaurants did, but Jelly wasn’t sure if she believed him.

  When they had finished dinner, the theme song to The Seven Show started. “They might mention that chocolaty-apocalaty thing again,” said Dad.

  “The Chocopocalypse?” corrected Jelly with a grin. “Yeah, they might.” She really hoped they would. Maybe then she could stop worrying about it.

  Dad reached for the remote and turned up the volume, and they all loudly sang along to the theme song.

  Alice was on the screen. “We now go live,” she announced, “to Easter Egg Island, where it has been predicted that chocolate will rain from the sky any day now. How’s it looking over there, Martin?” she chuckled. “Have you got your umbrella up?”

  The camera cut to a huge expanse of jungle, with a clear blue sky beautifully illuminating the now-familiar sight of the colossal egg-shaped rock monument.

  “No sign of any rain yet,” laughed Martin, flashing his wonky smile and white teeth, “but I can see a small cloud. That’s quite a rare thing here. I think it looks a bit like a rabbit. Look, you can just make out its fluffy white tail.”

  The camera focused on a small spindly cloud.

  “I think it looks more like a train,” said Alice. “You can see the smoke coming out.”

  “No,” disagreed Martin. “It’s definitely a rabbit.”

  “Okay, thanks again, Martin,” laughed Alice. “We’ll be back for a final word before the end of the show.” After a short film about a seagull being use
d to spy on the Nazis during the Second World War, and a piece about a man who had bumped his head and afterward could only read books upside down, Alice pressed her finger into her earpiece.

  “Er…I understand we now have a situation on Easter Egg Island,” she said, “so it’s over to you again, Martin.”

  This time the TV screen became a green blur, the speakers making a strange, deep gurgling noise.

  Jelly, her mum and her dad all leaned toward the screen.

  “What’s going on?” Mum said.

  “I think the cameraperson’s running,” said Jelly, frowning.

  Then came the sound of Martin breathing heavily, before the image focused on his frantic face. “Can you hear me, Alice? Are we on air?” he panted.

  “We can hear you, Martin,” Alice called. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll have to assume you can hear me….We’ve had to move because the ground started shaking like mad….Rocks and stones from the summit above the ancient egg rock were falling….A couple of huge boulders just missed us….It got a bit Indiana Jones there for a minute.”

  He seemed to gradually calm down; his eyes weren’t quite as wide and jittery, and the camera stopped shaking.

  “Well, that was exciting,” he laughed. “That’s live TV, folks!”

  He stared into the distance suddenly, standing perfectly still. At first Jelly wasn’t sure whether it was the TV that had frozen or Martin himself.

  “Can you hear that?” he asked. “That rumbling sound? Is there going to be another quake? I think there’s going to be another quake!”

  The rumbling became clearer and louder. The TV image shook. This time, it was clear that the cameraperson was not running—it was the ground that was shaking!

  “Look…b-b-back at the stone egg…,” stuttered Martin. “It’s…it’s…”

  The camera swung round, revealing a shaky picture of the ancient monument. There seemed to be something spurting out of holes all over it. Jets of dark fluid were shooting up into the air and spraying all around the jungle.

  “It’s…it’s…chocolate!” shouted Martin over the roaring. “It’s raining chocolate!”

  Jelly, her mum and her dad stared at the TV.

  “Whoa,” gasped Jelly.

  “I hope that Martin guy packed an extra pair of shorts,” added Dad. “He looks pretty freaked out!”

  “You don’t think…,” said Mum, grasping Jelly’s hand for comfort, “that it could be…you know…true?”

  Jelly shook her head, but as the program ended in confusion, she wasn’t sure at all what to think.

  Even the man introducing the next program seemed surprised: “O-okay…,” he stuttered. “Well, next tonight we have…er…let’s see…where’s my bit of paper?…Ah yes…we have ‘Cheese and Toilet Paper’…oh, no, sorry…that’s my shopping list—” A clip of the next Doctor Who episode flashed on the screen, cutting him off.

  To cheer them all up, Dad tried to make hot chocolate with some of the real cocoa beans he’d been given after losing his job at the Big Choc Lot. He bashed them with a hammer and boiled them up with milk. Unfortunately, it just tasted like warm milk with bits in it.

  I bet Garibaldi Chocolati would know what to do with those beans, Jelly thought as she brushed her teeth for ages to get rid of the cocoa bits.

  But she’d never ask him—not in a million years.

  —

  “Did you just watch The Seven Show, Gran?” asked Jelly, climbing into the caravan later to help Gran charge her phone.

  “Heavens to Betsy, I don’t watch that junk,” Gran sniffed. “I was reading.” She hurriedly rolled up what looked suspiciously like a celebrity gossip magazine and stuffed it under the cushion she was sitting on.

  “It’s just that there might be something in this Chocopocalypse thing after all,” Jelly said as she looked around for Gran’s phone charger.

  She found it on the windowsill in a large bowl full of pens and receipts and Gran’s headphones. Moving the curtain to one side, she looked out and caught a glimpse of Mr. Walker on his lawn with Truffles beside him. He was too far away for Jelly to see how Truffles was doing, but the look on Mr. Walker’s face said that it was not going well.

  The curtains reminded Jelly of the horrible man from Chox. It made her shudder. “Why don’t you get some new curtains, Gran?” she asked.

  “What’s the matter with my curtains?” Gran looked offended.

  “Well, they’re…brown!”

  “They’re not brown, they are butterscotch,” Gran corrected.

  Jelly plugged the phone into the charger, which finally gave a satisfying “beep” after she had switched the socket on and off a few times.

  “Has Dad been messing around with your electricity again?” she asked.

  “He put some energy-saving bulbs in the other day, and I’ve had to use this ever since.” Gran waved a flashlight around and rolled her eyes.

  “Gran,” said Jelly, sitting back down, “from a scientist’s point of view, about this chocolate thing—what would be your…conclusion?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t make a conclusion. I couldn’t even make an assumption. There is no data. There is no evidence—”

  There was a sudden loud crashing noise just outside the caravan, making them both jump.

  Gran peeped behind the curtain. “It’s that woman! Putting her trash in our bin again. I don’t know how she has the nerve.”

  “But what about this ‘Positive in the Negative’ stuff you used to do?” continued Jelly, frowning. “Making conclusions out of things that don’t happen?”

  “Hmmm, well, yes, of course, you’re right, smarty-pants.” Gran smiled. She reached for a notepad and raked around in the windowsill bowl for a pen. “Okay, tell me exactly what you know.”

  Gran scribbled furiously as Jelly explained the Chocopocalypse. After Jelly had finished, Gran stared at the notepad for so long that Jelly wondered if she had fallen asleep. It wouldn’t have been the first time—last week Gran had ended up at the bus depot after missing her stop on a visit to a friend. She had said that she had been “concentrating on a thought too hard,” but they all suspected she had been snoozing.

  “Okay!” Gran’s sudden shout made Jelly jump. “You would need to set up an experiment.” Her eyes twinkled under the battery-powered reading lamp. “There is a very simple one that we can carry out to determine whether the Chocopocalypse is real or fake.”

  “Really?” asked Jelly, her brain bursting with curiosity. “What?”

  “Get some chocolate…” Gran rummaged around in her drawer. There was one Blocka Choca bar left. She held it out and Jelly took it solemnly.

  “Yes.”

  “Put it in a sealed container…”

  “Yes.”

  “Put it somewhere safe and don’t interfere with it…”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait until Sunday…”

  “Yes.”

  “And then open it. If there’s no chocolate—the Chocopocalypse has happened. If the chocolate is still there—it hasn’t!”

  “Really?” said Jelly, frowning.

  “Science isn’t all about explosions and…whizzy things, you know.”

  Jelly sat back and pondered. Question, experiment, results and conclusion—that was what Mr. Tatterly had said. At least here was a question, and a really important one: Was the Chocopocalypse real?

  Now all she had to do was prove it.

  Jelly loved being in the kitchen first thing in the morning when Mum was still at work and Dad was fast asleep. The sun shone directly into the room for only a short time before it moved behind the highway sign for Junction 43. As the traffic sped past behind the backyard fence, light glinted through the collection of glasses on the draining board. All the colors of the rainbow, refracted from the glasses, flickered and danced about the walls. When Jelly squinted—and ignored the toaster held together with duct tape, and the fridge door being kept shut by a badly scorched ironing board, and the crusted
remains of ravioli in a pan by the sink—she thought it was beautiful. Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up to the cupboard where they kept things that didn’t have a home anywhere else.

  There were pieces of an old barbecue, a box of screws, a mess of tangled wires, a sandwich maker and even one of Dad’s old cocoa beans, which Jelly sniffed and then put into her pocket.

  But right at the back of the cupboard was what she was looking for: a metal box. She had no idea what it had originally been used for, but its current job was to keep safe all those things that nobody was really sure what they were but looked too important to throw out.

  The crucial thing about this box was that it had a small padlock. It also had a very old and tattered sticker of a kitten wearing an eye patch, which Jelly knew was one of those stickers that would be there forever.

  She tipped the contents of the box into the garbage and gave the insides a quick wipe with a paper towel. Then she gave the Blocka Choca bar a deep, slow sniff. It smelled wonderful. She hesitated for a moment, wishing she could eat it. But no—if she did that, she wouldn’t have a science experiment.

  Her tablet wobbled as she placed it on top of the microwave and tapped the red button on its video camera.

  “Good morning,” she said into the camera. “My name is Jennifer Wellington, and this is my scientific experiment to determine”—Gran said that was a good scientific word—“whether the Chocopocalypse is real or fake.”

  She wrapped the chocolate in a plastic bag and placed it in the metal box, filled the gaps with paper towels for added protection, and closed the lid. The padlock with four rotating digits clicked firmly into place, and she gave the whole thing a good shake to test its security. Nobody is going to get into that, she thought, not without the secret code.

  Her experiment was ready.

  Jelly tiptoed out into the garden with the box in one hand and her still-recording tablet in the other. The dewy grass seeped into her fluffy “bunny feet” slippers, making them much less fluffy and much more soggy. Using her elbow, she awkwardly flipped the latch on the shed door.