Porridge the Tartan Cat Books 1 to 3 Page 5

  “I can’t see her anywhere,” said Isla, at the window.

  Gadget Grandad would have come too, but this morning he had to go on a secret mission. So secret that I’m not allowed to tell you about it, even in tiny letters.

  “Gran always arrives with the same old trolley, wearing the same old clothes,” said Ross.

  “Gran does everything the same old way,” groaned his sister. “She’s stuck in a groove. She’s stuck in a groove. She’s…”

  “Groovy Gran,” giggled Ross.

  At the end of their street and this sentence, Groovy Gran appeared, tugging her stubborn trolley. “It’s stuck in a groove!”

  The twins ran to help. (I would have lent a hand too, but as I don’t have any I leant on the gatepost instead and watched.)

  They yanked the trolley free, then Groovy Gran gave the twins a bony hug.

  As they arrived at the front gate, Groovy Gran’s bright eyes swept over my stripes like a barcode scanner. She bent down to give me a cuddle too, her joints cracking like fireworks.

  Me-help!

  Luckily for me, the front door opened and Mum and Dad came out, each carrying a big suitcase.

  “See you next week,” they cried, stuffing the suitcases into the car boot. “Have fun with Gran!”

  They jumped in and set off, waving out of the windows.

  Groovy Gran dragged her trolley to the front door, desperate for a cup of tea. “Kids, I’m making you something delicious later.”

  Ross and Isla looked at each other nervously.

  “But… er…” said Isla.

  “Aye, plenty of butter in your tattie scones.”

  The twins shuddered. Groovy Gran made tattie scones every time she came round. EVERY TIME!

  “I need one extra thing,” added Groovy Gran. “What’s the word now…? You put it on porridge…”

  “A collar?” joked Ross, looking at me.

  Nope! I knew the answer, because I’m officially the cleverest cat in this story. See?

  OK, I’m the only cat in this story… but I’m still clever. The answer was: salt. To show the others, I grabbed a shaker with my tartan tail and…

  Groovy Gran vanished in a cloud of black pepper.

  Me-oops.

  She sneezed —

  BLA-CHOOOOW!

  And her false teeth shot out!

  “Where are ma wallies?” she spluttered. (Groovy Gran calls false teeth ‘wallies’.)

  I couldn’t see them, but…

  …I could feel them biting ma bahookie!

  3

  The Number After 2

  Groovy Gran put the kettle on and settled into a chair.

  “It’s great to have a wee break because of the big hole in the school roof,” said Ross.

  “I wonder who did it?” said Groovy Gran.

  “Maybe a clumsy cat burglar,” joked Isla.

  Close. It was a clumsy cat. Just my rotten luck to fall through the rotten school roof, land on a trampoline and twang back out.

  “Och, when I was a lass that roof had more holes in it than this tea bag,” said Groovy Gran. She tossed the soggy tea bag at the bin, but it missed and plopped in her trolley. She reached in, rummaged around at the bottom, and pulled out half a black-and-white photograph. It had clearly been torn in two, many years ago.

  Groovy Gran gasped and gawped, her eyes wider than a surprised potato. “I haven’t seen this for thirty years! That’s me on the left, singing into a microphone. I was in a band, you know.”

  Isla tried to read the scribbled writing on the back of the torn photo, but it was covered with brown tea stains. “THE BATTY BONES?”

  “THE TATTIE SCONES!” corrected Groovy Gran, laughing. “That was the name of our band.”

  “Were you famous?” asked Ross.

  “Aye.” Groovy Gran’s eyes misted up. Then her glasses misted up too, so she switched off the kettle. “We had ten Number 1 albums, our own tour bus and a mixing desk where I mixed all my ingredients. During each show I’d bake a huge tattie scone tae share with our fans.”

  Ross studied the photo some more. “Who’s that on the drums?”

  “That’s Biff McBash. He was so good he could drum and knit at the same time!” chuckled Groovy Gran.

  “And who’s that?” asked Isla, pointing at a girl with wild hair.

  “Scruff McDuff, the fastest guitarist in the West… Highlands. Scruff played songs so fast they were over before they even began.”

  “Cool!” said Isla.

  “Is that everyone in the band?” asked Ross.

  “Och no. The other half of the photograph is missing so you cannae see Rab McDrab on the triangle. He chose the triangle because he didnae like loud noises.”

  “Were you loud?” asked Ross.

  “Aye, I could sing so loud I raised the roof,” chuckled Groovy Gran.

  Isla had an idea. “Maybe you could raise money to fix our school roof?”

  “You could get the band back together for one night!” blurted Ross.

  “We always used to raise money for good causes,” said Groovy Gran, dreamily. “But there’s a wee problem. Thirty years ago, Rab McDrab left the band in a terrible huff and horrible slippers – we’ve nae seen each other since!”

  At that very moment, a white flash of lightning lit up the kitchen.

  I sprang back like a startled cat (because I was startled and a cat). Thunder rolled in the sky – and I rolled into the sink! Isla dried my fur with a towel, and… whumf!

  I became a fluffy furry round ball. A pesky robin twittered with laughter on the window ledge.

  “I do miss ma old band mates,” sniffed Groovy Gran, slipping the torn photograph into her pocket. “It’s been so long… I’ve no idea how tae get in touch with any of them now.”

  “We’ll help you find them, and get the Tattie Scones back on stage for one big gig to raise funds for the school roof,” said Ross. “We’ll put up posters all over Tattiebogle Town, and get you in the newspaper and on the telly.”

  “And then we can let the whole town know about it by sending a big hot-air balloon up into the sky!” said Isla airily.

  “If only we could play this Saturday. It’ll be thirty years tae the day since our last gig,” muttered Groovy Gran.

  “Great idea,” said Isla. “Where would you play?”

  “Our usual venue,” answered Groovy Gran. “The Crystal Cave, at the foot of Ben Tankle.”

  “There’s no time to waste!” said Ross.

  The old lady beamed and her white hair glowed like a sunlit cloud. “When do we start?”

  “As soon as we get that poor robin out of Porridge’s food bowl,” said Isla.

  Oops, I wonder how that got in there?

  4

  Poster Posters

  Later that day, I sat on the computer keyboard.

  (It’s a cat thing.)

  “Thanks, Porridge,” said Isla, as ma bahookie pressed PRINT. A colourful poster slid out of the printer.

  Hundreds of posters later, the twins scooped up a pile each and dashed outside, taping them to everything that didn’t move: a lamp post, a fence, a lamp post, a bus stop, a lamp post, a stopped bus. They even taped one to Mavis Muckle and Basil the Elephant, who were waiting at a zebra crossing, wondering if it was for elephants too.

  Soon posters were all over Tattiebogle Town, except in puddles because that would be silly. When it began to rain, the twins splashed home, and then wished they hadn’t taken a shortcut through a swimming pool.

  Up ahead, Anita the Postie found a poster plastered on her bike. She read it and trilled, “Och, I love the Tattie Scones! ‘Whoops, There Goes Ma Sporran’ was the first song I ever bought – I know all the words!”

  Before you could say ‘terrific tattie scones’, she was singing in the rain and dancing round a lamp post.

  Whoops, there goes ma sporran.

  Ma sporran did a jig.

  It landed on the postie’s heid…

  Now it’s a braw n
ew wig!

  The twins giggled. Groovy Gran came out and hummed along. A passing elephant trump trump trumped along too, which sounds rude but isn’t really.

  “I hope Biff, Scruff and Rab see the posters and get in touch,” said Isla.

  “Aye,” said Groovy Gran, and she crossed her fingers for good luck.

  I don’t have fingers so I pretended I was a black cat and crossed the road instead.

  5

  Good News!

  The rain poured all afternoon because it was rather good at it and liked showing off. So instead of putting up more posters, Isla rang a newspaper reporter and told him about the hunt for Biff, Scruff and Rab. He promised to put the story on the front page of the Tattiebogle Bugle. He loved a good scoop.

  I love a good scoop too. A good scoop of fishy biscuits in my bowl!

  Me-yum!

  Next, Ross rang the local television studio. Afterwards, he had good news for Groovy Gran.

  “Heather McBlether, the presenter of Tattiebogle Tittletattle, wants to interview you! We’re going to be on the telly tomorrow night!”

  “Porridge was on the telly last night,” joked Isla.

  (Aye, I was, until I fell off.)

  Groovy Gran whooped for joy and did a wee jig with a jug. “I’ll make us something special for tea while you two go off and play!”

  The twins splashed outside and played soccer with a plastic ball. I don’t know why. A woolly one is far more fun.

  I helped Groovy Gran in the kitchen by whisking up some eggs and flour with my tail. Next time I’ll use my whiskers!

  Just after five o’clock, the twins came inside, covered in mud.

  “It’s raining again,” grumbled Isla.

  “Raining mud?” chuckled Groovy Gran.

  “And I lost my football up a tree,” grumbled Ross.

  “Well, this will cheer you up.” Groovy Gran made a plate appear as if by magic (rubbish magic where you just hide something behind your back). On the plate sat two fat tattie scones. “Surprise!”

  “Not really,” giggled Isla.

  “I did try tae cook you both some eggs, but I accidentally made tattie scones instead,” sighed Groovy Gran. “Och, this wee one’s for you, Porridge.”

  She dropped a tasty tattie scone with extra fish into my dish. It was gone quicker than you can say tatti—

  ***

  Just before midnight the rain got bored and went to bed. Groovy Gran let me out into the cold night, but I was still warm because I had my furry coat on.

  I was padding along when I heard a loud RRRRRIP!

  That’s when I saw a large shadowy creature at the far end of the street.

  RRRRRIP!

  It was tearing down our posters!

  As it came closer, I spotted razor-sharp teeth and claws, and a blunt wet nose.

  Me-woah!

  It was a scary hairy Dog of Doom! Or as we say in Tattiebogle Town, Dug o Doom! And – gulp – it was looking at me!

  Just after this comma, a tremendous chase began. I sprinted over prickly hedges and prickly hedgehogs and not very prickly puddles. All the while, two shiny yellow eyes followed me like evil car headlights. I zigzagged down the road then scrabbled up a tall oak tree.

  Somewhere near the top, I bumped into Ross’s lost ball and it fell past me, down on the Dug o Doom waiting below.

  I turned and hissed at the hairy menace, and it hissed back!

  No, wait – the ball was hissing, firmly stuck in the gnashing hound’s gnashers!

  The dug chewed feverishly on its football-flavoured gum, then snarled and ran into the darkness – THWUMP! – and a tree.

  Dugs are so dozy.

  I waited until the end of this chapter then dropped on the grass, all alone. (Except for you. Thanks for reading this book by the way.)

  Keen to get home, I ran towards the cat flap —

  THWUMP!

  Me-OWCH!

  (STILL no cat flap.)

  6

  The Dug o Doom Strikes Again

  Cats don’t do mornings. Especially after a night sleeping in the shed.

  I had a very long cat stretch, then twanged out of the window. I needed to warn the Big Yins about the horrid hound who tore down the posters last night.

  Sadly people aren’t smart enough to speak Cat, even though I understand Human perfectly, so I found a torn poster in the street and scampered home to show them the evidence.

  The postie was standing at the front door.

  KNOCK KNOCK.

  “Who’s there?” said Groovy Gran, on the other side of the door.

  “Anita.”

  “Anita who?”

  “Anita tell you something,” laughed the postie. “The lamp posts are bare! Your posters are gone!”

  Gran swung open the door, I showed her the ripped poster in my mouth and her face clouded over like, um, a cloud.

  “Och, Porridge, you wee rascal,” she tutted. “Fancy tearing down our posters!”

  It wasn’t me, I mewed, but nobody understood me.

  The twins arrived at the door and tutted too. Even the postie tutted – and the pesky robin from Chapter 3. I was well and truly in the dughouse.

  That’s a really bad place for a cat to be.

  ***

  “At least people will still read about the band because of Groovy Gran’s story in the Tattiebogle Bugle,” said Isla, full of hope.

  “Let’s go and buy a copy,” said Ross, full of tattie scones. Groovy Gran had made breakfast again.

  I sneakily followed them to our local shop and waited outside. As I sunned myself on the kerb, a delivery lorry trundled up, dropped off a stack of newspapers and rumbled away. I was just about to pad over and settle on the papery pile (it’s a cat thing) when a grubby grey van swerved straight at me and screeched to a halt. I screeched straight back and leapt for my life! Och, I’ve only got nine!

  Two huge paws reached out of the van and snatched the papery pile!

  The sight gave me catbumps, which is like goosebumps but with more whiskers and fewer feathers. The dastardly Dug o Doom had struck again!

  As the van sped away, one loose copy of the Tattiebogle Bugle fluttered about like a rare butterfly. I made a frantic grab for it, but my scrabbling claws chopped it to bits by accident. Wee scraps of white newspaper fell from the sky, like snow with writing on.

  “Och, Porridge, you scamp!” Groovy Gran tutted, stepping outside. “We wanted tae read that. There are no papers in the shop!”

  “Now no one can read about the Big Gig,” groaned Ross.

  It wasn’t me, I yowled back. It was that dastardly Dug o Doom. But they didn’t understand. I began to bark like a dog, but nobody got a single woof I said.

  I’m rubbish at impressions.

  7

  Up, Up and Away

  My whiskers quivered and tingled all day. I was sure the Dug o Doom would strike again during Groovy Gran’s TV interview that afternoon.

  The Big Yins still thought it was me who tore the posters down and ripped the papers up, so there was no way they were going to let me tag along. That’s why, when a really long car with a really long name arrived to pick them up, I jumped inside and pretended to be a fluffy tartan cushion.

  Soon the limousine stopped outside the TV studio. A gruff doorman let everyone in. I ever-so-nearly, almost-not-quite got in too.

  “No cats!” the studio doorman snorted when I tried to tiptoe through his legs.

  In the blink of an eye I became a furry cushion again. The puzzled doorman picked up the cushion and went inside.

  He left the cushion on a sofa in the entrance hall, next to a big window and a flickering TV screen.

  Thanks to my mega-super-well-OK-not-bad cat vision, I just made out the Big Yins stepping into the lift at the end of the corridor and pressing a button that said Floor 4: Studio.

  “Welcome to Tattiebogle Tittletattle,” purred Heather McBlether on the screen above me. The camera turned to a packed TV audience full of excited
old ladies, who clapped gloved hands and stomped fluffy slippers and hardly made any noise at all.

  I sat upright, eager to see Groovy Gran on TV. Instead I saw something scarily hairy appear from the bushes outside!

  It was the dreaded Dug o Doom!

  The creature threw a rubber bone up at the TV studio roof. My mega-super-well-OK-not-bad ears heard it bounce around as if it was in a big round dish. It sounded like a fishy biscuit in my food bowl.

  Suddenly the picture on the TV above me flickered and fuzzed as the station signal broke up. Groovy Gran’s interview wasn’t on – nothing was on – the screen was blank. The dastardly Dug o Doom had done a devious deed indeed!

  Try saying that one fast…

  The dastardly Dug o Doom had done a devious deed indeed. The dastardly Dug O Doom had done a devious deed indeed.

  The television hissed like a tartan cat! SSSSSSSSSSSS.

  Hearing the din, the doorman ran in and my luck ran out.

  “No animals allowed!” he roared, unaware of the Dug o Doom slinking in behind him, and sneakily taking the lift to the 13th floor.

  I had to get past the doorman, fast!

  “You’re nae cushion,” he grunted, prodding my belly. “Where’s your zip?”

  Here, I yowled, zipping after the dastardly dug. I turned a corner and darted up the stairs.

  The doorman soon gave up the chase – too puffed to go on. I ran up and up until I ran out of stairs and tumbled through a door marked Floor 13: Roof. NO ENTRY.

  I stumbled across a flat roof and toppled into a huge shiny dish.