The Spoon of Doom (5 page)

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'.

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 at 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.

We were all up on Piddler's roof. Me, Mum, Ernie and Mandy. (Dad was burrowing for gobbler worms in the factory gardens down below.) What a mess – a big crumbly jungle of rubble, moss and
weeds. Obviously just the sort of place a rare spider would choose to set up home.

Mum was crouched down next to a pile of bricks, halfway through telling us a hundred and forty-two things she felt we really needed to know about rare arachnids ... when Mandy suddenly said she felt sick.

I tried not to laugh. You see, Mandy often does this at school. Usually when it's gym. Or maths. Or anything else she'd really rather not do. Whenever she gets the slightest bit bored, she clutches her belly, sticks out her tongue, and starts moaning. Mrs Cooper, our teacher, says she's got a bright future ahead of her … on the stage.

For once I was grateful, because I was bored, too.

Luckily, Mum was far too interested in the spiders to see through Mandy's little act. And nor did Ernie (though I suspect he was secretly quite glad to escape the spiders as well). He suggested Mandy have a lie down in Uncle Percy's office.

As sick bays go, it wouldn't be my first choice. Not with that whopping great picture of sternfaced old Uncle Percy peering down at you from the wall. But Mandy was keen. So that was settled.

‘You go with them,' Mum said to me. ‘I won't be long – I just need to take a few more specimens.'

Bugs always come before bodies in our house.

So me and Ernie carted off poor pink moaning Mandy. (Really, she could win an Oscar and she's only ten.)

As we approached Uncle Percy's office, Mandy's moaning increased in volume and dropped in tone. To be honest, she was beginning to sound alarmingly like an old bloke … when suddenly I realised it
was
an old bloke.

‘Dad!'

Mandy was instantly forgotten. Because lying sprawled on the floor of Uncle Percy's office was my dad, and he had a giant gash across his forehead. Next to him was that ugly old picture of Percy, its frame slightly broken down one edge.

I don't like blood. And I very nearly did a ‘Mandy'.

‘Albert!' gasped Dad, his eyes flickering open briefly. ‘It's gone. The Spoon of Doom has gone!'

Dad passed out fairly quickly after we arrived, but not before explaining what had happened.

He told us how he'd sneaked back to the office to make sure the spoon was where he'd left it, all those years ago, taped to the inside of that giant old picture frame.

‘I thought I could reach it without a chair,' whispered Dad, ‘but the picture fixings were rusty – the blooming thing fell on my head.' He grimaced as a fat finger of blood oozed from his forehead.

I tried not to look, but Ernie was obviously made of stronger stuff (
Piddler's Pride
, no doubt), because he took out his hanky (porridge grey) and pressed it firmly onto the wound.

Dad winced and bit his lip, then seemed to recover a bit. ‘The spoon was there, Albert, I saw it, exactly where I'd left it. I reached out and touched it, but then everything went black. And when I woke up, it was gone.'

Gone?

Dad grimaced again. ‘I think someone took it.' Ernie gasped. ‘Who was it, Timmy?'

Dad shook his head. ‘I don't know – I was probably dreaming, but I think I saw that noodle man.'

‘Smedley Snoodle?' I gasped.

But Dad didn't answer. He'd conked out.

Ernie shook his head angrily. ‘So Snoodle
did
know about the spoon!' he growled. ‘I thought as much. He obviously followed your dad in here and swiped it when the picture fell on his head.'

I felt an angry knot growing in my tummy. I
knew
someone had been watching us. It must have been him. He must have broken into Piddler's and waited for us to come back – knowing that my dad would try and retrieve the spoon…

It was Mandy who dialled 999. Me and Ernie were still too shocked to move. But Mandy suddenly seemed to have morphed into Wonder Woman. (Wonder Woman wearing a pink fluffy skirt, pink top and matching boots.) Her sickness stunt forgotten, she not only called the ambulance, she also covered Dad with one of Percy's old bed blankets and then went to get Mum.

Meanwhile, I was seething. (I must admit I am a
bit of a hothead sometimes. Mum says I look like a stag beetle when I'm cross because I've got short black hair that stands up on end. It was certainly standing up now.) I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. That spoon belonged to us. Whether we used it or not was
our
business – Piddler's business. It had nothing to do with that Snoodle man. And what if
he
decided to use it? Anything could happen…

I wished I had a pair of thundering forearms to go and shake at him. Then I made up my mind – big arms or not, I was going to get our spoon back. By whatever means necessary.