by Sam Hay
‘Gordon, you’ll never believe this. Guess what’s living on the roof of the factory?’
If she’d said the Loch Ness Monster, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid.
‘Jumping spiders!’ she gasped.
And we all sort of sagged. All, that is, apart from Dad.
Chapter Eight
Mum often does this sort of thing. Just when the world looks like it might be about to crumble, she suddenly appears and somehow manages to avert Armageddon. She should work for the UN really.
She gave me a wink, and I wondered how much she’d heard before making her grand entrance.
‘And it’s not just spiders, Gordon,’ gasped Mum breathlessly, ‘there are some amazing worms outside in the factory garden. It’s fabulous here – you must come and see.’
Dad grinned gratefully, like a drowning man thrown a life raft, and without another word, he took her hand and escaped.
I was left with Ernie and the Noodle crew.
Smedley Snoodle muttered something under his breath, and then withdrew to huddle near the door with his gang.
‘What was all that about?’ I whispered to Ernie, who was exchanging knowing looks with Margery, still busily knitting behind her desk.
He shrugged apologetically. ‘You’ll have to ask your dad, Albert. It’s Piddler family business.’
But I wasn’t about to be fobbed off.
‘Why does Mr Snoodle want to buy Piddler’s? You said he wasn’t interested in porridge.’
Ernie looked slightly uncomfortable and then shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t think he is – why would he be? But there’s obviously something in this factory that he wants.’
‘You said something about a spoon. What spoon? Come on! You’ve got to tell me. Dad won’t. I didn’t even know we were called Piddler until last night, let alone anything about the factory.’
Ernie sighed. And I could see he was weakening, so I carried on.
‘I don’t want him to sell your factory. Not now. Not ever.’
And I meant that – every word. You see, for some reason Piddler’s felt like a good place to be, and I wanted to be part of it. More than that, I wanted my parents to be part of it. I wanted them to stop playing with bugs, and work at Piddler’s instead. Maybe then I could put my slippers on without having to check whether something slimy had got there first. And I could kick a ball round the garden without endangering Dad’s worm world. (We don’t have a compost heap – we have a compost continent, with thousands of the blighters inside.)
There must have been something desperate in my eyes because Ernie suddenly took pity on me.
‘Come on, lad, let’s get a cuppa and I’ll tell you a bit – but your dad won’t like it.’
As he led me away, I tried not to look at the Noodle crew, still huddled by the doorway. But I could feel their eyes boring into my back.
We went to the staff canteen. Ernie said the shift was changing because one minute it was empty, the next it was full of moon-faced folk with thundering forearms and cheery smiles. Porridgers. That’s what Ernie called the workforce. And a strange-looking bunch they were, too.
Ernie got the tea (though I have to say it tasted like porridge), and sat me down at the back of the room, and then slowly, a bit like porridge coming to the boil, he told me the tale – all about my dad, Piddler’s Porridge and, most importantly, the spoon.
‘Your dad was orphaned as a baby,’ said Ernie. ‘Sad, it’s true, but I suppose it was better that he didn’t know his parents; after all, you don’t miss what you don’t know.’
I felt a lump in my throat. I’d never really noticed I didn’t have grandparents on Dad’s side. He never mentioned his family, and I never asked.
‘Your great uncle Percival took him in. He was a good man back then; full of ideas and energy. Business was booming and he was grooming your dad to take over the factory, but of course your dad had other ideas…’
‘Bugs?’ I guessed.
Ernie smiled. ‘Percy thought your dad would grow out of them…’
Fat chance.
‘…then the bottom fell out of the tinned porridge market,’ sighed Ernie. ‘And Piddler’s was in trouble. There was even talk of closing down the factory. Your uncle had to lay off half the workforce. They were terrible times.’ Ernie shook his head sadly. ‘But there was worse to come. Around then, your uncle found one of your dad’s old picture books. A fairy story – The Magic Porridge Pot. Do you know it?’
Of course I did. Every kid did – a little old lady gives a girl a magic porridge pot, which eventually goes haywire and floods a village with porridge.
‘But what’s that got to do with Piddler’s?’ I asked impatiently.
Ernie looked embarrassed. ‘Your uncle became obsessed with that story. ‘Imagine,’ he’d say, ‘a pot that produces endless porridge with no ingredients, none at all. If only we had that pot, we’d be billionaires…”
‘But it’s just a story for little kids,’ I said.
‘Of course it is. But as I’ve learnt to my cost, Albert, in every fairy story there’s just a grain, or perhaps in this case a tiny oat, of truth.’
I didn’t believe a word.
‘Anyway,’ said Ernie, ‘your uncle started looking into it. He read every book he could find. He consulted historians. He even went to the British Museum – they thought he was barmy. And then, finally, he hired a man to travel the world and search out the truth of the tale.’
‘But that’s bonkers,’ I said.
‘You’re right,’ said Ernie, taking a slug of tea. ‘But I never said your great uncle Percy was sane… The smell of porridge gets to you after a while – we’re all a bit doo-lally at Piddler’s.’
Maybe that’s why I’d suddenly developed an interest in porridge. The smell had got to me. It had certainly got to Ernie. What a yarn he was spinning! ‘Then one day the man returned from his travels with a strange story.’ Ernie lowered his voice. ‘He said he’d found a village in Russia that had actually been flooded by porridge, just like in the book. High in the mountains, it was, in a big swampy gully – a sunken village where the roofs of the houses, submerged below, could still be seen from above.’
For no reason at all, I suddenly felt slightly cold. I hugged my porridgy tea closer.
Ernie took another slug of his and paused for a second. ‘According to legend, the villagers bought a magic spoon from a pedlar. He’d promised them that if they used it to stir their porridge pots, it would make more and more porridge. It was a godsend for a hungry village in the grip of winter. But then one day it went wrong. And it carried on making porridge until the whole village sank.’
I grinned. ‘You’re pulling my leg now, and anyway this was supposed to be a story about a magic porridge pot…’
‘Not a pot, Albert. A spoon – the Spoon of Doom, they called it.’ Ernie’s eyes darkened and his voice dropped to a breathy whisper. ‘Everyone in that village died, Albert – drowned in porridge. And I’ll tell you something else, lad, our own town very nearly suffered the same fate.’
I gasped. ‘How?’
‘Because Percy’s man brought back that spoon with him. And he gave it to your uncle. Percival Piddler got his hands on the Spoon of Doom.’
Chapter Nine
I felt like laughing. ‘But that’s ridiculous,’ I said. ‘If that village really existed, and it really was flooded by porridge, then the spoon would have been lost for ever.’
‘It was, lad. It had been lost in that swamp for hundreds of years, and that’s where it should have stayed, but unfortunately your uncle’s man hired a diver to find it.’
I shook my head. ‘But he could have found any old spoon. How did he know he’d found the Spoon of Doom?’
‘Because it was the only thing left in that sunken village that wasn’t cracked or crumbling or rusted or rotten. Piles of skulls and bones and one perfect wooden spoon, that’s all the diver found.’
I still wasn’t convinced. And I was beginning to think Er
nie was as doo-lally as Uncle Percy.
‘So what did Uncle Percy do with it?’
‘He used it, of course. The very next day he gathered us all together in the porridge room – your dad, too – and we watched him climb onto the gantry and start stirring the porridge pot with that big old spoon.’
I tried to picture the scene.
‘At first nothing happened. And I’ll admit, Albert, I laughed to myself at your uncle’s folly… Everything was working normally, you see. The porridge cooked, and when it was ready, it started squirting through the funnel into the cans below, just like it does now. Then, after a while, the porridge pot should have run dry. But it didn’t. It kept on squirting out porridge – hundreds and hundreds of tins of the stuff. And still it made more.’
I took another sip of tea. It definitely tasted like porridge.
‘Soon we ran out of tins, so we filled tubs, buckets – anything we could find – but we couldn’t keep up and the porridge started spilling onto the floor.’ Ernie shook his head. ‘And then a really strange thing happened - your uncle stepped away from the pot and the spoon carried on stirring all by itself.’
‘But that’s impossible!’
Ernie shrugged. ‘Your uncle was mesmerised. So was your dad. He’d climbed up onto the gantry to get a better look and was horrified at what he saw. The spoon was turning faster and faster, round and round like a twister, and the faster it spun, the more porridge it made. And then I realised there was a real danger that the factory would flood. ‘Everyone out!’ I shouted – and the porridgers ran for their lives.’
‘What did you do?’ I gasped, completely caught up in the story now.
‘There was nothing I could do, lad, because at that point I felt my feet stick. The porridge wrapped around my legs and tried to suck me under, like quicksand. I shouted to your uncle to stop the spoon, but I don’t think he could, even if he’d wanted to.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well, the porridge was up to my armpits. It was all I could do to stop myself from sinking. I was clinging onto a pallet, and more and more porridge was pumping out.
And then your dad did the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. Just when I thought I was going to drown, he reached into that cauldron and pulled out the spoon with his bare hands.’
‘But wasn’t it hot?’ I gasped.
‘Burning hot, lad. But it did the trick. Your dad broke the spell. He got the spoon out and suddenly the porridge stopped flowing.’
Ernie looked worn out. He sighed deeply and drained the last of his tea. ‘You should have seen the factory, Albert. What a mess. It took weeks to clean up.’
‘But what about Dad? Was he OK?’
‘He had burns up both arms, poor lad. But that didn’t stop him making off with that spoon.’
‘He stole it?’
‘Not exactly. The trouble was your uncle wanted to try again. He was bewitched by that spoon. But your dad had seen how close we’d come to disaster, so he ran off with it and hid it somewhere in the factory. Your uncle blew his top. He demanded your dad give it back, but he didn’t.
‘Percy turned this place upside down looking for the spoon. But he never found it. He was so cross with your dad, he packed him off to boarding school and we never saw him again.’
I felt a surge of anger. What a bully. No wonder Dad changed his name.
Ernie sighed. ‘Percy wrote to your dad and said he could come back if he told him where the spoon was, but your dad never did. And I’m glad. Though I did miss Timmy very much.’
‘And I missed you, too,’ said a familiar voice.
It was Dad. (True bug men are always stealthy.)
Ernie went red. ‘I’m sorry, Timmy – I shouldn’t have told him.’
But Dad just smiled. He sat down next to us and patted Ernie on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said gently. ‘He’d have found out sooner or later.’
For the first time, I saw the faint scars on the inside of my dad’s arms – his porridge burns. I’m embarrassed to say I’d never noticed them before. I looked at him with new eyes. To me, he’d always been a bit of a clown. A silly old bloke in brown cords who spent too much time with slugs. Now I realised he was actually a hero.
Ernie grinned. ‘Did you find anything interesting in the gardens?’
‘Loads. Some really good worms. They’re quite rare. I’ll bring some specimen jars with me tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ I said.
Dad nodded. ‘I want to come back and have a proper look round the place, and go through the books with Ernie.’
‘Does that mean you’re not selling Piddler’s?’ I suddenly felt a spark of hope.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ sighed Dad. ‘Mr Snoodle knows more about business than I do. If he thinks he can turn a profit at Piddler’s, well, maybe he can.’
Ernie’s lips tightened. ‘He certainly knows how to cut jobs. I’ve seen him cut his own factory back to the bone.’
I looked around at the cheery-faced porridgers and felt a sick feeling in my stomach. I didn’t want them to lose their jobs. I didn’t want Piddler’s to change. And then another thought burst into my brain. If Snoodle did buy the factory, then he’d get his hands on the Spoon of Doom. And if he used it, and it all went haywire like the last time, well, we could all end up drowning in noodles…
I gulped. I liked Snoodle’s Noodles. But not that much. Suddenly, I was scanning the canteen and wondering where it was. Where had Dad put it? Somewhere in this dark crumbly old factory was a potential weapon of mass destruction. Heck! It had almost turned my uncle Percy into a ‘cereal killer’.
Chapter Ten
You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just ask Dad where it was. Well, I did. In the car on the way back home. But he said it was such a long time ago that he couldn’t actually remember what he’d done with it.
I didn’t believe a word. But I knew better than to try to winkle it out of him. (Bug men are exceptionally stubborn.)
None of us said much more on the subject when we got home, and after a quick tea (fish fingers), I was happy to head for bed.
But I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about that spoon. What would have happened if Dad hadn’t stopped it? Maybe he and Ernie would have drowned – and Uncle Percy and the porridgers, too – and then eventually a tidal wave of grey gunge would have burst out of the factory and thundered down onto the town below, smothering people as they slept; a lethal helping of ‘breakfast in bed’.
I shuddered. What a way to go. I imagined divers visiting our town years later, finding bones and skulls and one perfect spoon…
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep, but I still dreamed of Piddler’s – the clanking din of the bobbing tins and the throat-choking pong of porridge.
As a result, Sunday started long before I was ready to face it. In fact, I was still sound asleep when the sun’s long fingers poked me sharply in the eye. I winced and pulled the duvet over my head, and would happily have stayed there all morning if Mum hadn’t appeared.
‘Get out of bed, beetle head!’ she said throwing back the covers. ‘It’s a beautiful sunny day, and I’m dying to show you the spiders at Piddler’s.’
As if that would entice me out of bed. But I knew it was pointless arguing. And after a quick breakfast (toast and jam, not porridge, thank goodness), we were back at the factory.
But this time Dad was a different man. He strode through the gate like he owned the place – heck! He did own the place.
Mum was cheery, too. She and Dad were both hoping to do a spot of bug-bothering before they got down to the serious stuff of looking at the books.
I spotted Ernie waving to us from the car park. Then I noticed he wasn’t alone.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, striding over swinging his enormous arms, ‘but I brought my granddaughter with me. I thought she’d be company for Albert.’
I groaned. It was Mandy Moon from school. (You’ll remember Mandy – she was the girl a
t school who threw a wobbly when the marsh slug appeared on my cheese-and-pickle roll.) I hadn’t twigged that she was Ernie’s granddaughter.
To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t overly thrilled to see her. Don’t get me wrong – I’ve nothing against girls. Some of my best friends are girls. (Actually they’re not. They’re called Colin and Barry, and they’d both punch me on the nose if I called them girls.) But Mandy is a real girly girl. All fluff-puff and sparkle dust. Everything about her is pink. Even her pencils have pink fluffy tops on them. And she’s a real moan-athon, too.
We eyed each other dubiously. But my parents didn’t notice. They were too busy unpacking their bug kits – specimen jars, magnifying glasses, small shiny trowels…
Dad was especially excited. ‘I think I spotted a gobbler worm yesterday,’ he said, grinning. ‘They’re amazing, Albert. They can demolish food faster than me.’
(Actually, that did sound impressive. Dad’s appetite was legendary – especially for doughnuts.)
‘It’s just a shame they don’t breed well, because they’d make brilliant composters…’
Then I glazed over like I always do when Dad starts talking about bugs. And I was glad when Mum suggested the rest of us head indoors. I was desperate to do some searching, too.
But not for bugs.
You see, in the car on the way to Piddler’s I’d made a decision – I had to find that spoon. I just couldn’t help myself. I had to see it. Hold it. (And definitely keep it out of Smedley Snoodle’s sticky fingers.) But as I looked up at the crumbly old factory, wondering where to start searching, I suddenly felt a shiver run down my back. I had the distinct feeling we were being watched.
I scanned the windows, but saw nothing. Then I cursed myself. Piddler’s wasn’t open on a Sunday. And Smedley Snoodle wasn’t likely to have a key. Still, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that somewhere inside the walls of Piddler’s was someone, or something, that was keeping a close eye on everything we were doing.
Distinguished jumping spiders don’t jump. Actually, that’s a fib. They do jump – otherwise they’d have an even sillier name than me. But the spiders Mum took us to see didn’t jump. I think it was the shock of four pairs of eyes peering down at them that put them off.
