‘Fat!’ Morag said, slapping her forehead. ‘Forgot the fat.’ She rifled through the cupboard and found a bottle of olive oil. ‘Perfecto.’ Morag carefully measured two tablespoonsful into the bowl and then, thinking it didn’t look right, tipped the bottle upside down and sloshed the rest in. ‘Now we’re motoring!’

  The oil wouldn’t mix in, and Morag couldn’t help but think the dough didn’t look quite right. For a start, it shouldn’t have the look of a six-week-dead pig skin, and secondly, Morag was sure she’d read somewhere that bread dough was supposed to rise. The thing in the mixing bowl wasn’t rising. She rubbed a bit of flour from her waistcoat and went into the front room.

  ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘I’m making bread and it isn’t rising. It’s kind of, well, sulking.’

  ‘Yeast?’ Carol said, in a mother-knows-best voice. Morag slouched back into the kitchen and wandered around, muttering ‘yeast’ in much the same way she wandered around muttering ‘string’ or ‘Sellotape’. The cupboard doors were flung open.

  ‘Yeast?’ she asked the shelves, expecting the jars or bottles or packets or whatever-it-came-in to leap foward playing trumpets, waving banners and squeaking, ‘Here we are, Morag.’

  All remained silent.

  Morag half-heartedly looked through the cupboard, and knocked a packet of cornflour over into a spilt puddle of marmalade. She wondered absently if that was how blancmange was invented. A small sachet of dried yeast came to light under the Marmite lid, and Morag, who couldn’t be bothered to look for the scissors, tried to open the packet with her teeth.

  Mistake.

  The packet stretched to an inordinate length and then snapped, showering yeast all over the floor. A small piece of plastic packet rebounded back into Morag’s mouth. She choked, and looked at the floor. Pity to let all that expensive yeast go to waste . . .

  She tucked her hair into her collar, got down on her hands and knees, and looked under the sink unit. The dustpan and brush were hiding behind a spinning top, a copy of Woman’s Weekly and a potato. Morag took the dustpan and brush out, taking care not to touch the potato, pulled a bit of chewing gum off the bristles and started to sweep up the yeast, and, for that matter, anything else that was on the floor.

  A hygiene imp who was sitting on top of the fridge shuddered and dissolved.

  When the dustpan was half-full, Morag emptied the varied contents into the bowl and gave it a cursory stir, stopping only to pick out a ‘We Love Bognor’ badge, give it a quick rub and pin it to her waistcoat.

  Many miles away, Queen Effervescentmilton-tablet was holding court and listening to the tale of one of her scout hygiene imps, Washyourhands-beforeyoustart. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  ‘She did what with a potato?’

  ‘L-l-left it there, your Royal Imperial Majestyness, ma’am.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘Y-y-yes, your Clean and Tidy Neatness, ma’am.’

  ‘Doesn’t she know,’ the Queen started, ‘that if you have a potato, and you leave it in the dark long enough, it’ll come to life? And if you have a potato and a Woman’s Weekly, you get—’ The Queen trailed off.

  ‘Yyyyy-you mean – your Royal Gargle with Undiluted Jeyes Fluid to Kill Every Single Germiness, ma’am?’ the imp stuttered in horror.

  ‘Yes. Another Barbara Cartland, I’m afraid,’ the Queen admitted. ‘I suppose, to avert this, I could summon a hero to go on a quest to warn Morag; solving riddles with mental dexterity, fasting in the Desert of a Thousand Seeds, that kind of thing, but—’

  ‘Yes, your Royal Always Flush Before you Leave and Never Wipe Your Hands on the Curtain or the Person in Frontiness, ma’am?’ the imp said eagerly.

  ‘I just can’t be bothered,’ the Queen said. ‘Sod Morag. Come on, let’s go down the Duck and Diarrhoea for a quick half. Anyone else want to come?’

  There was a general murmur of assent from her courtiers.

  Back to Morag. And the Dough. And the potato, tragically left in the dark, and slowly mutating, although we won’t dwell on it too long. Suffice to say it has just decided it likes Pink.

  She poked the dough with the dustpan and gave a little squeak as it shuddered.

  ‘This is definitely not good,’ she muttered. ‘Not good at all. I can’t see Helen of All Creatures Great and Small giving this to little Jimmy with a bowl of soup and a glass of milk. Not even as a table mat.’

  Morag couldn’t find a red and white checked tea towel, which seemed to be a prerequisite in bread-making, and so settled for a pillowcase with Snoopy on. She was starting to leave the kitchen when Carol wandered in.

  ‘Tidying up are you, dear?’ she asked.

  ‘Uh, yes,’ Morag lied easily, grabbing the olive oil bottle and putting it back into the cupboard.

  ‘That’s what I like to see,’ Carol said, scooping the cat off the sideboard and dropping it gently on the floor. ‘Will we be having nice crusty bread for tea?’ she asked, going to lift the pillowcase off the mixing bowl.

  ‘Uh, I wouldn’t do that,’ Morag said, restraining her mother’s arm.

  ‘Why?’ Carol asked.

  ‘Uh, I just wouldn’t,’ Morag said, straightening the pillowcase. Carol seemed to sense the latent urgency in Morag’s voice, and didn’t question her.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ Carol said, leaving the kitchen with the cat trailing behind her.

  As soon as Carol had gone, Morag threw all the mess into the cupboard under the sink and took one sweep at the sideboard with her arm, sending drifts of flour to the floor.

  Then she threw on her coat and went for a very long walk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Trip to the Zoo, and the Strange Creatures

  It was a day in mid-February. The weather was fine enough to prompt thoughts of spring wardrobes, but too cold to actually wear them.

  The Narmos were eating Morag’s long-lived bread, which had been killed by severe toasting and buttering. This was breakfast, easily recognizable by the fact that no-one was talking. Bill was groaning, but this was because he’d had an Important Business Meeting in the Wheel and Clamp the night before.

  Carol was combing through her ancient copy of The Happy Hippy Guide to the Midlands, and inserting her fingers between various pages to mark certain places. She had one digit left.

  ‘We should go on an Educational Visit somewhere, Bill,’ she decided. ‘The children need to see new places, need to be infused with culture and alternative societies.’

  There was an uninterested silence. Josh broke it eventually, partially because he was sorry for Carol, but mainly because he broke just about anything he could. ‘Where should we go then, Mum?’ he asked.

  ‘Dudley Zoo!’ Carol said.

  There was an almost mutual familial rolling of eyes.

  ‘Morally questionable—’ Aggy started.

  ‘Boring—’ Lily continued.

  ‘Too much walking—’ Morag chipped in.

  ‘I don’t like it because they won’t let you in the cages,’ Josh complained.

  ‘And it’s too far away from the bathroom cabinet,’ Bill added, swallowing another Rennie.

  Carol turned to Poppy.

  ‘Me want a My Little Pony video,’ she said, by way of clarification.

  Bill opened one red, bleary eye. ‘So no-one wants to go,’ he confirmed.

  All the Gonks nodded in agreement.

  ‘Well then, we’ll just have to go,’ he said, standing up.

  ‘But you don’t want to go either,’ Carol said, puzzled.

  ‘No, course I don’t,’ Bill said, starting to look better. ‘But these Gonks have had weeks and weeks of doing what they want, being out of school. It’ll give them a bit of thingy fibre to do something they don’t want to. I can take the pain.’

  The Gonks stared at him.

  ‘Oh God,’ Morag sighed.

  *

  ‘—forks, spoons, Marmite, rugs, spare clothes for Poppy, dog bowls, potty-Potty? Potty, Lily?’

  ‘I can’t find it,’ Lily said breathlessly. ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’

  ‘But I have to tick it off my list,’ Morag said, waving the list at Lily. ‘The pot comes on every journey, that’s why it’s on my list of Essential Things. We’ve got to have it.’

  Josh ran past. ‘Peenie butter?’ Morag asked.

  ‘Check,’ answered Josh, dumping it in one of the four large cardboard boxes by the front door.

  ‘Coats?’ Morag asked Aggy. In answer, Aggy pointed at the small coat-mountain that was blocking the hallway.

  ‘I still can’t find the potty,’ Lily added.

  ‘We have to have the potty,’ Josh pushed in, ‘or else Poppy’ll have to wee in the Thermos cup.’

  ‘Oh, stuff it,’ Morag said wearily. ‘Poppy can squat in a clump of nettles like the rest of us. Josh,’ she added, grasping, him by the scruff of the neck as be ran past. ‘Start loading these boxes into the car.’

  Carol appeared in the doorway, vaguely waving a box of marked-down Kipling Mince Pies left over from Christmas.

  ‘We could have a picnic,’ she said, gesturing with them hopefully.

  The Narmos sat in the car as Bill rooted around for the car keys – in his jeans and jacket pockets, fore, aft, left, right—

  ‘Bill?’ Carol said.

  ‘Shush, Carol, please.’

  —the little pocket in his T-shirt, the secret compartment in his coat, the un-secret compartment in his coat—

  ‘Bill,’ Carol said, a little more urgently.

  ‘Carol!’ Bill growled.

  —the zip on his hat, the turn-up of his jeans, the slot on his trainers where the leather hadn’t stuck down, and all the various segments of his wallet.

  He gave a bellow of frustration.

  The Gonks shifted uncomfortably in the back of the car. One of the dogs started whining.

  Bill slammed his hands down on the dashboard and followed suit with his head. He gave a roar of rage.

  ‘Agggghhhhh, this is what I have come to expect from this family – one bloody cock-up after another! I mean, you do want to come out, don’t you? So why is it left to me to run around like a blue-arsed fly, trying to pull heaven and earth together while you stand around like a bunch of lemons? I don’t know why I bother, I really don’t. I feel like calling the whole thing off. You do want to come, don’t you?’ he demanded of Josh.

  ‘No, actually, no, we’re here under protest,’ Josh bawled back.

  Bill sat for a minute. ‘Carol, where are my keys?’

  Carol got out of the car, walked around to Bill’s door and took the keys out of the car-door keyhole. She dropped them through the window. ‘Here, my love,’ she said.

  Bill wordlessly took the bunch, selected the right one, put it in the ignition, started to turn it, and—

  ‘Me want a pee,’ Poppy said. ‘Me want potty.’

  Morag looked at Lily. Lily looked at Morag.

  Three-quarters of an hour later. A sullen, tearstained silence has taken over all the occupants of the car, save Morag. Her cheeks are bright pink from the stupendous argument she has just had with her father. It has involved several passers-by, a taxi-driver and a postman. The inquiry date is next Thursday.

  Bill is now outside the car, fiddling with the aerial, head on his arm which is resting on the roof of the car. The car is a 1972 Ford Cortina Estate. It is hand-painted dark green, with acne scabs of Polyfilla. Everyone save Bill hates the car; but that will soon change.

  The potty, now found, has been thrown into the next-door neighbours’ front garden, where it resides lopsidedly on the head of a gnome.

  Poppy is, very wisely, asleep.

  Bill took a deep breath, kicked a piece of harmless gravel into the middle of the road where it could get hurt, and got into the car. One of the dogs tried to lick Bill; Josh restrained it, and went back to playing noughts and crosses on the steamed-up window.

  Bill shut the car door, and the window fell down inside the framework.

  *

  Two hours later. The sun has now moved into Aquarius. Not that this influences anything.

  Bill took a deep breath, the carbon monoxide from the bus over the road killing a few more brain cells. He gritted his teeth, snapped the aerial off, and got back into the car. He shut the door daintily, and sat quietly for a minute. Then he gave a weary smile, peered through the Sellotape holding the window in, brushed his hair back and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. He gave a nervous laugh, and tried again. Nothing. He gave a little sob, and tried for the last time.

  Nothing.

  Bill gave a Wakaheiti death cry, kicked his shoe off, wacked the speedometer with it, got out of the car, banging the door as he did so. With a ripping sound the Sellotape divorced itself from the glass, and the window slammed back into the framework. Bill smiled a smile last seen on a piranha with toothache that has just eaten the last dentist in the Amazon, and kicked the car right in the hubcaps.

  ‘That’s it! That’s definitely it! I hate this bloody car. No more!’

  Josh poked his head out of the window. ‘We’re not going, then?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Bill said shortly. ‘We are not. I never wanted to take you out anyway. Go on, sod off back in the house.’

  Bill threw the keys across the road, and Carol watched with an air of futility as they fell down the drain. The Gonks started to filter out of the car, carrying coats and cutlery. Morag dumped Poppy on a rug on the lawn. Bill opened the bonnet and stared morosely at the confusion of wires and tubes that dwelt there.

  The dogs leapt out of the car and began to bark, very loudly, at nothing. Poppy, having found an irritating ant and eaten it, was now pulling the wings off a moth, and laughing.

  Bill used every swear word he could think of to describe the car, and ran out of abuse after five minutes. He wondered where the thesaurus was.

  Then he started in French.

  Mrs Vernon and Mr Gurney parked their car on the corner of Talcott Road and Rope Street, and walked around the corner. Mrs Vernon adjusted her brown wool skirt and looked at her clipboard.

  ‘We’re looking for number twenty-seven Rope Street,’ she said. ‘They were taken out of school last month, and this is our first visit ever. We have to assess the level of tuition, personal supervision, number of toilets per head, if they do projects about Romans, and if they know the names of three vegetable-eating dinosaurs. We need to know if there are any plans for school outings, if they intend to teach Islam in the dinner break, and whether they will give us any nice chocolate biscuits.’

  ‘I do know, you know,’ Mr Gurney sighed. ‘I’ve been doing this for twelve years. After a bit the routine starts to sink in. You remember little things, like “Have they all got a pumpbag?” etcetera.’

  ‘Yes, but Richard, don’t you feel excited?’ Mrs Vernon asked. ‘It’s the Midlands’ first out-of-school experience, and we are the ones to see them first! We are making history! Up till now, all we’ve ever had to inspect are schools. Now we’ll get an insight into a whole new way of life! Don’t you have a little shiver going up and down your spine, like when Placido Domingo sings?’

  ‘I can’t say the overweight Italian has ever rendered my spinal cord wobbly,’ Mr Gurney said, ‘but I do agree this new project has certain, interesting, elements. Ah, what’s this? Street theatre?’

  Mrs Vernon looked up from her clipboard, and stopped dead. Outside the last house in the street, a man was hitting a dark green Ford Cortina with a spanner and screaming ‘Merde!’ Three girls were unsuccessfully trying to catch two dogs, who were trying to chase one cat through a flowerbed. A skinny little boy was running up and down the path with boxes full of junk and dumping them on the front door step.

  In fact, the only person acting normally was a small, angelic-looking two year old with a halo of golden curls, who was playing on the lawn and chuckling.

  Mary Vernon pulled her brown wool hat down low over her ears, and approached the three girls.

  ‘Uh, hello, dears,’ she said genially. ‘I was wondering, could you tell me where number twenty-seven Rope Street is, please?’ Morag stopped shouting ‘Heel!’ and pushed her hair off her face.

  ‘Are you from the rent?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Mrs Vernon said, slightly surprised.

  Morag screwed her eyes up. ‘The Gas then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘’leccy? Phone?’ Morag asked. ‘TV licence? Give us a clue.’

  ‘No, none of those, dear,’ Mrs Vernon said. ‘We’re from the Local Education Authority. We’ve come to see the Narmos. Could you tell me where number twenty-seven is please?’

  ‘Here,’ Morag said simply, gesturing towards the house with its air of a permanent cringe, and heartily despised Roland Rat curtains billowing from Morag’s open window.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mr Gurney asked, figuring the amount of biscuits inside must be very small indeed.

  ‘Yes,’ Morag said. ‘I’m Morag Narmo.’

  Mary Vernon stepped forward. ‘I’m Mrs Vernon, and this is Mr Gurney; we are your Inspectors. We thought we’d pop in and surprise you but, um . . . Where is your mother?’

  ‘Um, looking down the drain. Don’t ask me why.’ Morag pointed over the road to where her mother was on her hands and knees, looking for the keys.

  ‘Your father then?’ Mr Gurney said, a trifle desperately.

  Josh pointed at Bill, who was pulling the windscreen wipers off the car and had reverted to swearing in English. Morag winced. There would be trouble.

  ‘Um, well, then,’ said Mary Vernon, and marched resolutely over to Bill.

  ‘Mr Narmo?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, straightening up, with small bits of floppy rubber in his hands.

  ‘I’m Mary Vernon, from the LEA. We understand that you are educating your children. at home. We have come to see how they are getting along, and whether you have any drinking fountains.’

  Bill stared at her.

  ‘Oh,’ added Richard Gurney, ‘and I don’t suppose you have any chocolate biscuits? You know the ones. In the blue packets. “One nibble and you’ll be nobbled?”’

  Bill stared at him, too.