by Sam Hay
I hadn’t thought of that.
The floor was now choked in slimy pink bodies. I’m pretty bug-hardened myself, but even my stomach heaved.
‘You’ve ruined everything,’ moaned Old Percy next to me. ‘How could you…’
And without another word, he reached over and stuck his own hands into that menacing pot of boiling porridge. His screams reverberated around the room as he wrestled with the spoon, and then finally pulled the thing out and threw it to the gantry floor.
I expected it to writhe or wiggle like a thing possessed. But it didn’t. It just lay there. Spoon-like.
After that things slowed down slightly. The porridge pot stopped, and so did the worm production. Ernie was able to wade over and rescue Mandy.
Meanwhile, Percy sank to his knees and clutched his chest. ‘I don’t feel well,’ he gasped.
I wasn’t surprised – his arms were red and shiny and starting to blister. But that didn’t stop him scowling at Ernie as he and Mandy clambered onto the gantry.
‘I tried to stop him…’ panted Ernie, his clothes sodden with porridge and great globules of wriggling gobbler worms. ‘But he’d locked the generator room, so I couldn’t turn it off. And by the time I got in here, he was already up to his ankles in porridge.’
Old Percy scowled. ‘You should have left me alone. Everything was working perfectly well without you.’
Mandy was peering at Percy’s arms. ‘You need a doctor,’ she said firmly, completely ignoring the worms hanging from her hair. ‘Grandad, can you give me a piggyback through to reception so we can call an ambulance?’
‘Will you be OK?’ Ernie asked me.
What could I say? There I was sitting on a metal gantry surrounded by a sea of grey gunk, being slowly scoffed by super-sized worms (or so I hoped), with a mad 98-year-old despot and a satanic spoon. What possible harm could come to me?
‘Yep!’ I squeaked. ‘I’ll be fine.’
After they’d gone, I tried not to look at Uncle Percy. His eyes were closed and he was groaning softly to himself. Instead, I stared at the spoon. It looked so ordinary. So … well … wooden. And yet this was Meg Muldoon’s spoon. A witch’s spoon. It had sunk a ship, smothered a village, and very nearly killed us all. I reached out to touch it.
‘Don’t!’ gasped Percy, suddenly grabbing my wrist. ‘That spoon has special powers. Once you’ve touched it, it takes you over.’
‘It didn’t take my dad over,’ I said, wriggling free of his grasp.
‘That’s because the skin he touched it with was blistered and peeled.’
I shuddered. Then Percy groaned again. And I couldn’t stop myself from asking, ‘Why did you do it?’
‘Why?’ he snapped, as if it was me who was doo-lally for not knowing. ‘Because I’m a porridge man, of course.’ (As if that explained everything.) ‘All my life I’ve been passionate about porridge,’ he croaked. ‘I was the man who invented lump-free tinned porridge – did you know that?’
I shook my head.
‘I invented pilchard porridge – and pineapple-pickle porridge, too – did you know that?’
I didn’t.
‘And sliced porridge – though that idea never quite took off…’
What could I say – I’d never owned the Guiness Book of Interesting Facts About Porridge. (Though I suddenly thought I’d quite like to.)
Percy shook his head. ‘Then one day porridge went out of fashion, and everyone wanted cornflakes. Cornflakes? Can you believe it?’
I could.
‘And then, to make matters worse, the price of oats rocketed. Piddler’s very nearly closed. Can you imagine it? A world without Piddler’s…’
Actually, I couldn’t. Not now.
‘Then I read that story about the magic porridge pot … and they all laughed at me,’ Percy growled, looking quite mad again. ‘But I had the last laugh, because I found the spoon. The Spoon of Doom – the very spoon that had inspired a thousand stories.’
I looked at the spoon, lying there. And it really didn’t look at all inspirational.
‘But your father stole it. He never let me see what it was capable of. All these years I’ve dreamed of seeing what it could do…’
‘But you could have flooded the town,’ I said, looking around at the current disaster that we were sitting in the middle of.
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Percy. ‘That spoon could have made me a fortune. I could have hired it out to all the other factories in town – dog biscuits, shoe polish, pork pies… Imagine!’
I imagined. I imagined being smothered to death by tins of shoe polish, or pulverised into pieces by a hail of pork pies…
‘I turned this place upside down looking for that spoon,’ said Percy grimly. ‘But I never found it.’
‘So you decided to trick my dad into finding it for you,’ I said, finally working it out. ‘You went on holiday, faked your own death and left everything to Dad, knowing he’d come and remove the spoon?’
Percy winced as the pain in his arms grew worse. ‘I knew your father would sell the place if he ever got his hands on it – he’s never been interested in the business. But he wouldn’t want anyone else to get the spoon. All I had to do was wait and watch…’
So it was Percy who had been boggling us this morning – not Smedley Snoodle. No wonder the noodle baron had thought I was mad, raving on about a spoon.
‘But how did you get back from the Alps without anyone spotting you?’ I asked.
Percy rolled his eyes as if I was simple.
‘Because I didn’t go to the Alps. I don’t like holidays. I like porridge. I stayed in the factory – there are loads of empty rooms here. I actually slept in my office. No one noticed. And there was plenty of porridge to eat.’
‘But what about the lawyer?’ I said. ‘How did you fool him?’
Percy grinned. ‘Cyril Saltman’s not really a lawyer, he’s an actor. He’s also one of my best customers. I offered him a life-time’s supply of Piddler’s Pride in return for him playing the part of my lawyer. All he had to do was tell my staff that I’d died on holiday. Then take my will to your father.’
I frowned. ‘But how did you find us?’
‘Because your father still sends me a Christmas card every year.’
What?
Percy grinned that horrible grin of his. ‘Blood is thicker than porridge, Albert. I’m still his uncle.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. After everything the old goat had done to him, my dad still sent him a Christmas card. (Blimey – bug men are sentimental.) Then suddenly I noticed Percy’s face had changed colour. It looked like prune porridge. Then he let out a strangled gurgle. And died. Honestly. Right there in front of me, he just keeled over and died.
Chapter Sixteen
Thankfully, the ambulance men arrived just then. And after much chest thumping, and loads of mouth to mouth (rather them than me – Percy had the most awful bad breath and no teeth), they managed to get his heart working again. And, for the second time that day, Percy came back from the dead.
For some reason, I was glad. I even held his hand as we waded through the porridge plant and carried him out to the waiting ambulance.
‘What a mess,’ said Ernie, as he and Mandy and I watched the blue lights disappear down the hill.
He wasn’t wrong. There was porridge everywhere. A big grey puddle of the stuff swept around the front of the factory and oozed down the road, with hundreds of wriggling gobbler worms mingled amongst it.
‘At least it didn’t reach the town,’ said Mandy, casually wiping worms off her collar.
I grinned at Mandy. I was almost starting to like her. (The porridge smell really must have addled my brain.) Then she went and spoilt it all…
‘But what a daft idea, Albert,’ she frowned. ‘I mean, what were you thinking about with that worm trick? Did you really think they’d instantly gobble up all the porridge?’
I scowled back at her. When she put it like that, it did sound silly.
Then I grinned. Actually, I knew exactly what he’d say: ‘Fantastic!’ He loved bugs. Now he had a factory full of them.
And I was sort of right.
Two days later, Dad returned to Piddler’s (his head covered by an enormous invisible-man bandage). And he’s barely left the place since.
Neither have I.
I quit school and took over the running of Piddler’s and within six months got porridge back on the supermarket shelves. And now every kid in the country tucks into a tin of Piddler’s Pride for breakfast. (Actually that bit’s not true. But it’s what I dream about in the bath sometimes.)
But Piddler’s did become famous. Not for porridge. But as a site of scientific interest. Bug-botherers came from all over the world to study the gobbler worms. But unfortunately they weren’t the only ones who came. A dozen or so white-suited environmental health honchos also turned up – and closed us down. Apparently porridge and worms don’t mix.
Piddler’s was finally allowed to reopen. But the clean-up operation – plus the heavy fine it received for having worms in the works – soaked up every penny the business had left in the bank.
Not that Uncle Percy cared. He was a changed man. The fight had finally gone out of him. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was his dicky ticker, or the fact he’d lost most of the skin off his hands (the skin that had touched the spoon). But as soon as he’d recovered, he handed over the porridge plant to Dad and retired. He moved into the Sweet Apple Rest Home, where he was welcomed with open arms, not because of his cheery personality and sunny smile, but because he brought with him trunkfuls of porridge. And as none of the residents had a complete set of gnashers between them, it was a big hit.
Dad’s still not sure whether he wants to keep the factory. ‘Too many bad memories,’ he says. And it’s not as if the place makes much money. Our roof is still leaking and we still can’t afford a holiday. But I’ve made him promise not to sell it, at least not for a bit.
And strangely Mum is on my side. She and Ernie have actually been working on some ideas to expand the Piddler’s product range. You see, the moment Mum saw that lake of porridge with the worms wiggling around inside, she had a big idea – breakfast cereals with bugs in them. Or Grub’s Grub as she calls it.
Don’t laugh. I think she’s onto something. Bug-botherers will buy anything, so why not a breakfast cereal made just for them?
So far she and Ernie have come up with three ideas:
Grub’s Gruel – a tinned porridge with chocolate worms mixed in. They’re still having a few technical troubles trying to stop the worms from melting in the tins, but it tastes lovely.
Then there are Beetle-bites – flakes of corn mixed with bug-shaped raisins. Ernie’s not overly keen on that one, mostly because it’s got nothing to do with porridge.
And my personal favourite, Weeta-bugs – wheat biscuits with jelly ants in the middle.
Look out for them on the supermarket shelves and please buy them. If you don’t, Piddler’s will probably be flattened to make way for Smedley Snoodle’s new noodle plant. (He still comes round regularly to see if Dad’s ready to sell. I keep my beady eye on him. Secretly, I think he’s just after more gobbler worms for his fishing.)
So that’s the story so far. Well, apart from one thing, that is – whatever happened to the Spoon of Doom?
Chapter Seventeen
As soon as Uncle Percy’s ambulance left the factory, I went back to get it. You see, I realised almost immediately that I had a very small pocket of time to get the spoon and remove it, before someone official appeared at Piddler’s demanding an explanation as to what exactly had happened that night.
After all, it’s not every day that porridge plants explode into a sea of gruel and grubs. So, while Ernie went to phone Mum, Mandy and me made for the porridge room.
‘Don’t touch it,’ I warned, as we waded through the gunge. ‘Percy says that if you touch the spoon it takes you over.’
Mandy frowned. ‘But what exactly are we going to do with it?’
I wasn’t sure.
‘Put it back where my dad hid it?’ I suggested.
That seemed the sensible solution.
‘Can’t,’ said Mandy. ‘The picture frame’s ruined. And, anyway, what if your dad does decide to sell Piddler’s – Snoodle will get his hands on it.’
I clambered onto the gantry and peered at the thing (still lying spoon-like where Percy had thrown it).
‘So what should I do with it?’
‘Hide it until we can think of something better.’
That didn’t sound much of a solution. And anyway, where do you hide a wooden spoon?
‘With other wooden spoons of course,’ said Mandy, as if I was silly for not knowing. ‘Stick it in your kitchen utensils pot.’
‘My what?’
‘The place you stick your spatulas and slatted spoons,’ said Mandy, raising her eyebrow.
She’d obviously never been to tea at the Grub house. We don’t have spatulas and slotted spoons. But Mum did have one single wooden spoon that she used for baking.
‘I can’t put it next to that,’ I said. ‘What if Mum used it by mistake? She’d be cursed for ever. And our town would be smothered to death by her rock cakes. Trust me, that would be even worse than porridge.’
Mandy shrugged. ‘Well, stick it in a box of knick-knacks somewhere. Haven’t you got a loft? Or an understairs cupboard, or something? Put it in the box with your Christmas decorations, or inside an old suitcase, that sort of thing.’
It didn’t sound very scientific.
‘Maybe I could sell it to a museum?’ I said. ‘We could do with the cash.’
Mandy shook her head. ‘Someone will steal it, Albert.’
And somehow I knew she was right.
‘Some things are better lost for ever,’ she said wisely.
For someone so pink, Mandy can certainly make you stop and think.
So I did as she suggested. I wrapped it in my coat, and took it home. Then I packed it up along with that smelly old book that Ernie had given me, and a brief account of my own experiences of the spoon (just in case I got hit by a bus and someone needed to know how dangerous the thing really was), and stuck the lot inside an old box of knick-knacks in our loft.
Dad never asked me what I’d done with it. And I’m glad he didn’t. (I don’t think he’d sleep quite so soundly at night if he knew that evil spoon was sitting just a metre above his head.) It was enough for him that it was no longer in Piddler’s.
And there the story should have ended. Pretty happily ever after. Except I’d forgotten about the annual bug-botherers car-boot sale. My parents do it every year. They choose some poor unfortunate creepy crawly somewhere in the world, and raise money to protect its home. Lovely.
Not really.
Because while I was up at Piddler’s having my daily after-school porridge-pounding lessons from Ernie (I can proudly report that my forearms have now grown by two centimetres since I started two months ago), Mum and Dad had a clear out. They emptied the entire attic and carted everything off to the car-boot sale. The spoon and the book were gone. And I’ve no idea who bought them. What I do know is that Uncle Percy was at the sale. Dad had wheeled him there for an outing. And Smedley Snoodle also put in an appearance. (He and Dad are now firm friends – though I’m sure it’s just worm love.) But whether or not they bought the spoon, I can’t say.
All I can do is watch and wait. And scan the newspapers. Because, sooner or later I know someone somewhere will come a cropper at the hands of the Spoon of Doom. I just hope it’s not you.
Also by Sam Hay…
“It was the eve of my eleventh birthday and life
was about to go down the pan. Completely!”
Billy doesn’t want to Dream the Dream and
spend the rest of his life as a plumber. He wants
to be a professional
footballer. So imagine his
surprise when he wakes up to find a hoodie-angel
in his room. And when he learns that he has been
given a mission – to protect Thelma Potts, the
meanest girl in the school, from danger…
First published 2010 by
A & C Black Publishers Ltd
36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY
www.acblack.com
Text copyright © 2010 Sam Hay
Illustrations copyright © 2010 Hannah Shaw
The rights of Sam Hay and Hannah Shaw to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Print ISBN: 978-1-40812-399-7
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-40815-344-4
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.
