The Spoon of Doom Read Free Page B

swallowed hard. Because there, standing staring at us in all his old-boned glory, was Percival Piddler himself.

Chapter Six
    Of course it wasn’t
actually
him. After all, he’d been dead for some time. Can you imagine the smell?
    No. Probably best not to.
    It was his
portrait
. A life-sized picture of the man, taking up almost an entire wall of his office. Actually, he looked just like my dad – a well-ironed ancient version of Dad – as though Dad had finally grown out of bugs, had a decent haircut and taken up carpet bowls. Not that any of those things seemed to have made ‘Dad’ happy, because the man’s expression was exceedingly stern.
    It was quite unnerving, as though the old boy was watching us, judging us, and quickly deciding we weren’t up to the job of running his business. I quite expected him to step off the wall and shoo us all out of the factory.
    But of course he didn’t.
    Dad frowned. ‘Did Uncle Percy still come to work each day? I mean, right up until the end…’
    â€˜Never missed a day,’ said Ernie grimly. ‘Until he decided to go on that final holiday – mountain climbing in the Alps, it was. A strange choice for a man of his age … and then when we heard he’d fallen off a mountain and broken his neck. Well, it was a shock to say the least.’
    I gulped. I’d never met anyone who was dead before. I stared up at the scary old portrait and Uncle Percy’s eyes seemed to stare right back at me. I shivered and moved closer to Dad.
    Ernie sighed. ‘Until he died, he practically lived here at Piddler’s. That was his bed over there.’
    Sure enough, under the window was a rather uncomfortable-looking camp bed, still made up with corrugated-iron sheets.
    â€˜But why?’ I gasped. ‘Why would anyone want to sleep in their office? Was he too poor to have a house?’
    Ernie shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘No, lad, though you’re right in some ways. The business has fallen on very hard times. Half the factory is empty now. We don’t make as much porridge as we used to. But that’s not why your great uncle Percy slept here. He was a driven man. He was searching for something…’
    I wanted to ask
what
, but Dad coughed and askedErnie to show us the rest of the factory.
    I noticed Dad’s smile was missing again. And it wasn’t the only thing. Mum had also disappeared. But there was no time to mention it, because Ernie was off – leading us out of the office, down the corridor, across a landing, and down more stairs. And then suddenly I heard a distant rumble of thunder from beneath my feet.
    Ernie grinned. ‘Old Bertha’s awake.’
    What?
    â€˜The generator, Albert,’ said Dad managing a slight smile. ‘It powers the factory. She’s known by everyone as Old Bertha.’
    I eyed Dad suspiciously. He’d obviously hung out at Piddler’s a lot – so why hadn’t he told me anything about it?
    â€˜Now then, Albert,’ said Ernie. ‘Through here is the changing room. We’ll get you kitted up, and then you can come and see what we actually do.’
    I was bundled into overalls, a hairnet, white wellies and a ridiculous-looking hat. Thank God no one from school could see me. Dad looked even dafter than me, but I didn’t get a chance to tell him because now Ernie had heaved open another big door and suddenly I found myself being suffocated to death by the pungent perfume of porridge.
    It stinks. Honestly, it does. When you get up close and personal with an enormous pot of porridge, the smell knocks your spots off. For a few seconds I thought I might keel over and have to be carried out by a gang of porridge workers. But gradually my lungs started working again, and my nose began to acclimatise. I noticed Ernie and my dad breathing deeply; gulping in large gobfulls of the stuff.

    I looked around. The factory was weird.