The Grunts All at Sea Page 3

  “That’s OK, Dad,” said Sunny, spitting a melon seed from his mouth and pulling another three from his ear.

  “Dad? What do you mean, ‘Dad’?” said Mr Grunt. He looked first at Sunny and then at Mimi and then back at Sunny again. “Who’s driving this thing?” he asked.

  “We’ve stopped, remember?” said Sunny. “Ginger Biscuit got caught in the spokes.”

  “A ginger what?” muttered Mr Grunt. “Where are we?”

  “Outside The Happy Pig,” said Mimi, peering out of the window at the pub sign. She liked the picture on the sign because the particularly happy-looking pig was so pink that it made her want to smile (so she did).

  “Then we’d better camp here for the night!” said Mr Grunt.

  “But we’ve only just left Bigg Manor, Dad,” said Sunny.

  “And it’s the middle of the morning, Mr Grunt,” Mimi added politely.

  “Don’t argue!” said Mrs Grunt, who’d just entered the room. “The idiot is always right.” She had Ginger Biscuit under her arm. The cat-shaped doorstop didn’t seem any the worse for wear.

  “Who the blazes are you?” demanded Mr Grunt, scowling at his wife, with a strange look in his eyes.

  “Who do you think I am?” she demanded. “The President of –” She paused while she frantically tried to think of a place with a president. “The President of Cheese!”

  “Someone get this … this billabong out of my house!” said Mr Grunt.

  “This is my house too,” snapped Mrs Grunt.

  Mr Grunt peered at her more closely this time. He genuinely seemed not to recognise her. The bonk on his head had clearly affected his memory.

  Just then, the POGI waddled through the doorway, to see what the fuss was all about. “POGI?” he asked.

  “Eek!” cried Mr Grunt, jumping up on to a chair. “Get that thing away from me!”

  In one swift movement, Mrs Grunt grabbed the POGI by his barrel and turned him around. He waddled through the doorway, back the way he came.

  Mr Grunt, meanwhile, jumped down off the chair, grabbed a broom and tried sweeping his wife out of the room after him. “Dustball!” he muttered.

  “Narwhal!” cried Mrs Grunt.

  “Blemish!”

  “Toucan-breath!”

  “Earmuff!”

  Mrs Grunt gasped. “Earmuff?” she said.

  Mr Grunt prodded her in the tummy with the sweepy end of the broom. “Earmuff!” he repeated emphatically, with a nod of the head.

  Mrs Grunt desperately tried to think of an equally offensive response. “Lamppost!” she bellowed.

  A sudden look of recognition appeared on Mr Grunt’s face. It was the kind of look that said, “I know you! How on earth could I forget?”

  “Wife!” he cried, throwing the broom aside – which Sunny caught without even meaning to – and throwing his arms around Mrs Grunt.

  “Mister!” cried Mrs Grunt, throwing her arms as far as they would go around him.

  She gave Mr Grunt such a big kiss on the cheek that they could all hear her jumble of green and yellow teeth rattling inside her mouth.

  Mimi felt a little queasy.

  Sunny turned away. There are few things more embarrassing than watching your parents kiss, even if they’re not your actual parents but just ones who took you from a washing line as a baby.

  “Shall we get going?” Mr Grunt asked, once all the lovey-dovey stuff was over. “We have a POGI to deliver.”

  “Let’s throw stuff at the pig sign first,” said Mrs Grunt, plunging her hands into the pockets of her dress and pulling out a fistful of nuts (as in “and bolts”) in one hand and a fistful of nuts (as in “to feed the elephant”) in the other.

  “Yeah, let’s!” said Mr Grunt, and a HUGE grin spread across his grubby face. He was clearly back to normal. (Well, normal for him, that is.)

  The Grunts dashed for the door at the same time with such eagerness that they became wedged in the doorway, until Mrs Grunt elbowed herself free and made it out first.

  Sunny and Mimi could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of both kinds of nuts missing their target and hitting anything and everything but the sign. When they too had made it out of the caravan, they found a very angry-looking Peach holding a tray of broken glasses in one hand, orange juice dribbling over the sides. He was removing a peanut from his hair.

  “His fault,” said Mrs Grunt, pointing at Mr Grunt.

  “She made me do it,” said Mr Grunt.

  “Sorry, Peach,” said Mimi.

  “Yes. Sorry,” added Sunny.

  Peach looked at the children. “Not your fault,” he said stiffly, before turning and going back inside.

  A couple, who’d been about to be served their drinks at one of the small tables in front of the pub, slowly emerged from under their table. Sunny hadn’t noticed them before.

  “Is it over?” asked a rather nervous-looking man, with an equally nervous-looking jet-black moustache. “Have you stopped throwing things?”

  “Yes, they have,” said Sunny firmly.

  “I was aiming at the sign,” said Mr Grunt. “Anyway, you shouldn’t have got in the way.”

  “I see,” said the woman. She too smiled nervously. “Is … Is that your elephant?”

  “He’s mine,” said Sunny.

  “Very handsome,” said the woman. She picked up the chair she’d knocked over when she’d dived for cover.

  “He is, isn’t he?” said Sunny proudly.

  Now they were out of ammunition and the fun was over, Mr Grunt was already shuffling back towards the caravan, with Mrs Grunt (and Ginger Biscuit) just a few paces behind.

  “Lovely,” said the black-moustached man. It was a moustache that any walrus would have been proud to own. The man was wearing knee-length shorts and a short-sleeved, blue-and-white checked shirt. He had the hairiest arms and legs Sunny had seen in his life. In fact, he looked positively furry.

  The woman was also small and also thin, and also in shorts but her legs weren’t hairy. As for the hair on her head, it was so thin and so lank and so colourless that it looked less like hair and more like she was wearing an old dishcloth on her head.

  “Are you with the circus?” she asked Sunny and Mimi.

  “No,” said Sunny, sounding a little surprised.

  “A carnival?”

  “No,” said Sunny. “Why?”

  “Oh,” said the man, a little hurriedly. “What with the elephant and birds, and the caravan, and your –” he paused to look at Mimi’s overall pinkness before turning to Sunny in his blue dress, “colourful costumes.”

  Mimi laughed. “I see,” she said. “No, we’re simply with Mr and Mrs Grunt—”

  “The ones who were throwing things?” asked the woman, looking a little nervous again, and tilting her head in the direction of the caravan.

  Sunny nodded.

  “Where are you headed?” asked the woman.

  Fingers had been getting a little bored throughout this, and, seeing a few peanuts scattered here and there where the Grunts had thrown them, he began snuffling around with his trunk. He stepped forward a few paces to reach them; still attached to the caravan, it came too.

  Outside The Happy Pig, they heard the muffled “UMPH!” of Mr Grunt falling over on to Mrs Grunt.

  At that moment, Peach reappeared with a clean tray and a fresh supply of orange juice. The man with the moustache and the lank-haired woman sat back down at their table.

  “It was nice meeting you,” said Mimi, politely.

  “Sorry about the nut-throwing,” said Sunny.

  “G’bye, Peach,” said Mimi.

  “Good day, Mimi. Good day, Sunny,” said the ex-butler.

  The man and woman raised their glasses of juice as Mimi scrambled back up on to the caravan and Sunny on to Fingers’ back.

  “I’m Martha, by the way,” said the woman.

  “And I’m Max,” said the man. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers!” called Sunny and Mimi.

  The carava
n pulled away, narrowly avoiding a woman on a red bicycle. She swerved, and her single lemon-drop earring waggled like a ripe fruit hanging from a branch.

  “Sorry!” Sunny called out after her.

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

  Now that they’d gone, there were no clues that the Grunts had ever even stopped at The Happy Pig, except for the broken glasses, splodges of spilled orange juice, a smattering of nuts (of both the edible and non-edible variety) and – oh yes – a nice, fresh, gently steaming pile of elephant dung.

  Max looked at Martha. Martha looked at Max. They both smiled a little tight-lipped smile as they watched the caravan go.

  The Grunts’ plan, if you can call it a plan, was to reach a place called Isaac’s Port by nightfall on Day Four. They didn’t have to worry about exactly what time they’d arrive or about finding a place to stay because, of course, they could sleep in the caravan. But they did have to get there.

  The Grunts didn’t have a map but Mr Grunt said he knew a woman who did. And going-to-the-woman-who-did’s house was the first (planned) stop on their journey on Day One. Her name was Speedy McGinty.

  They were quite a sight, heading off down the country lanes because as well as the elephant at the front and the grotesquely strange thing in the middle which could be loosely termed a caravan, there was also the trailer on the back, carrying Clip and Clop (one with her ears pointing to eleven o’clock and the other with his pointing to one o’clock). Then, of course, there was the matter of the small-man-in-a-barrel sitting up front. Apart from saying the occasional “POGI!” he seemed to keep himself amused by quietly humming the theme tunes of old children’s TV shows. (The shows were old, not the children.)

  Sunny had a rough idea of the way to Speedy McGinty’s house. He and Mr Grunt had discussed the route the evening before they set off. The Grunts had been sitting outside having supper. It was a warm, bright summer’s evening. The POGI was sitting in their little group, with Mr Grunt using the top of his barrel to put his drinks on.

  Mr Grunt looked up from the bowl of squirrel and beetle stew resting on his knees and said, “You see that hill in the distance with a carving of a kettle cut into the side?”

  “No,” replied Sunny, following the direction his dad was pointing.

  “Me neither,” said Mrs Grunt.

  “Of course you can’t,” Mr Grunt said, “because all those trees are in the way!” He gave a strange snort of satisfaction, as though he’d planted them there himself, just to block their view. “But you know the hill I mean?”

  “Kettle Hill.” Sunny nodded.

  “Right,” grunted Mr Grunt. “Kettle Hill. And you know how to get there?”

  “By hovercraft? Hang-glider? Eel?” Mrs Grunt suggested.

  Mr Grunt had given her one of his stares, which would be enough to stun a bank-robbing raccoon. (It would be nice to have an illustration of one of those somewhere here, wouldn’t it? Let’s see what happens if I ask nicely.)

  Perfect.

  “Sorry, mister,” said Mrs Grunt, turning away from Mr Grunt’s withering stare. “This adventure is getting me all excited.” She then whooped like an excited schoolgirl as if to prove the point.

  There was an embarrassed silence, finally broken by Mr Grunt saying, “You know how to get to Kettle Hill, Sunny?”

  “As if we were going to the Ridge, then going west instead of east?” Sunny asked.

  “Which ridge?”

  “The one on the way to Kettle Hill, Dad.”

  “Oh, that one,” Mr Grunt said. “Well, head for Kettle Hill but before you get there, go to Hutton’s Vale.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Should be signposted.”

  “And what will we find there, Dad?”

  “A woman with maps and charts,” Mr Grunt said. “Speedy McGinty.”

  “OK,” Sunny replied. He was about to ask who Speedy McGinty was, when he took a spoonful of the stew and bit on something which shouldn’t have been there. He pulled it out of his mouth. It was a washer on a twisted paperclip: in other words, it was one of Mrs Grunt’s earrings.

  “I was wondering what had happened to that,” Mrs Grunt said, snatching it from him and hooking it back through her earlobe before you could say, “Watch out for the gravy!”

  And that had been that. End of conversation.

  Now they were heading in the direction of Kettle Hill, with Sunny and Mimi on the lookout for the signpost to Hutton’s Vale. And, sure enough, there it was.

  Speedy McGinty turned out to live in a bright, modern bungalow surrounded by a very pretty garden and with a mildly sloping ramp up to the front door. This was just the kind of garden that Clip and Clop loved to eat – yes, e-a-t – so Sunny double-checked that the bolt on the back of their trailer was firmly fixed in the closed position before ringing the doorbell.

  The door was opened by Speedy McGinty herself. She was in a dazzling wheelchair. Much of it was coated in gleaming chrome, that more-silvery-than-silver metal that can make just about anything look really cool.

  “Hello,” said Sunny. “Are you – er – Speedy McGinty?”

  Ms McGinty – who was dressed in black from head to toe – grinned, showing off a set of perfect, white teeth. “Well, that’s what folks call me on account of the way I can handle this.” She slapped the arms of her amazing-looking wheelchair.

  From her accent, Sunny guessed that she wasn’t from around those parts. “Er … Then what should I call you?” he asked.

  “You can call me Speedy,” she said. “How can I help you?” She looked over his shoulder at the extraordinary caravan.

  “My father – Mr Grunt – sent me.”

  Speedy McGinty seemed to be taking in the boy’s blue dress for the first time. “You’re Sunny?” she asked.

  “That’s me,” said Sunny.

  “Is he in there?” she asked, pointing at the caravan.

  “Yup. And Mum.”

  “That … That sure is some … home,” said Speedy.

  “Dad has to deliver a POGI––”

  “A POGI?”

  “A Person of Great Importance.”

  “Oh,” said Speedy McGinty. “Who for?”

  Sunny shrugged. “He didn’t say … but he did say that you’d have some maps and charts we could borrow––”

  “Did he now?” said Speedy McGinty. She laughed.

  “Oh,” said Sunny. He had that sinking feeling.

  “He ain’t exactly lying,” said Speedy McGinty. “Just presuming. He’s always been that way.” She held on to both wheels then leaned back in her chair, causing the front to tilt up, and she somehow swivelled it around to face the other way, all in one fluid movement, at lightning speed. “Follow me.”

  Sunny followed her down her narrow hallway, the walls on either side lined with shelves absolutely covered in trophies of all shapes and sizes, glinting almost as much as her wheelchair.

  “Wow!” said Sunny. “Did you use to be an athlete, Speedy?”

  “Use to be?” asked Speedy McGinty. She sounded puzzled. “Oh, I see what you mean.” They’d reached the room she’d been heading for and, using the same swift manoeuvre as before, she turned herself to face him. “I’ve been like this all of my life, Sunny.” She prodded both her legs. “These are as useless as bags of walnuts. I got all these cups and gongs and gizmos without any help from these here legs.”

  Sunny’s face reddened. “Sorry,” he said.

  Speedy McGinty smiled her fabulous smile again. “Nothing to be sorry about or to feel sorry for,” she said. “Now, take your pick.”

  Sunny didn’t have to ask what she meant by that because, like the hallway, the walls of the room were lined with shelves. Unlike those in the hallway, though, these were lined with hundreds – no, thousands – of neatly folded maps and charts.

  “Wow!” said Sunny, a second time. “You have a lot of maps.”

  “I’ve been to a who
le lotta places.”

  Sunny looked at her chair.

  She laughed. “I don’t go everywhere by chair, you know. I can drive just about anything on wheels … I can fly a plane too. But I’m real fast on this thing.” She tilted back and spun herself around in her chair three times, spinning like a coin. Sunny felt dizzy just watching her.

  “Lightweight aluminum frame, coated in chrome,” she said. “This chair is a racer.” (She said the word “aluminium” as though she’d left out a letter or two.)

  “Dad needs a map to get us to Isaac’s Port,” Sunny explained. “And then here.” He took a piece of folded-up paper out of his dress pocket and unfolded it. There were a number of place names scrawled on it in pencil, in Mr Grunt’s untidy handwriting. Sunny read them out. “I don’t know why he doesn’t just come inside and ask you himself.”

  Speedy McGinty smiled. “Because he’s frightened.”

  “What of?” asked Sunny. “Not you?”

  “Not of me, no,” Speedy McGinty explained. “Of the dog.”

  Sunny looked around the room. He couldn’t see any sign of a dog anywhere.

  Speedy smiled. “Look again,” she said. “Her name’s Petal.”

  So Sunny looked again, his eyes slowly scanning the room as he turned in a circle. There! This time he did see her. Over in the corner was a white baby-grand piano on which was a cluster of photographs in chrome frames, and curled up at the bottom of what looked like a glass, chrome-rimmed bowl was a tiny, brown-and-white dog. To call Petal “teeny weenie” would be to make her sound far bigger than she really was.

  Sunny went over and peered down at her from the top. “That’s Petal?” he asked.

  “Sure is.” Speedy McGinty grinned.

  “That’s the dog Dad is so frightened of?”

  “The very same.”