3. Owls and Saucepans

Mrs Quince-Porage sings like an owl!

Question: Can owls sing?

Answer: NO!

I’ll tell you what happened. Dad was getting us all together for a rehearsal. Dad’s the guitarist and he sings. (At least, he would have sung if Mrs Quince-Porage hadn’t turned up and insisted on singing herself.) Mum plays drums. (At least she would have played them if she had any, but she only had some saucepans and wooden spoons.) I played the recorder. (At least I would have but I can only tootle ‘Three Blind Mice’.)

We were about to start when who should come to the door? Mrs Quince-Porage herself, and she was very excited.

‘I have just had the most WONDERFUL idea. I was thinking that we REALLY need a SPECIAL PERSON to crown the oldest couple on the street. Now then, I have the most DARLING little niece. She lives right HERE in town and she’s GORGEOUS. Sharon Blenkinsop, that’s her name and she’s fifteen, so JUST the right age. The young shall crown the old. How about THAT! What do you think?!’

Mum nodded. ‘It sounds good, but shouldn’t the committee be making those decisions?’

Mrs Quince-Porage was astonished. ‘But I’M the chairwoman. I AM the committee!’ she declared.

‘I’m sure Mr Tugg will agree,’ Mum murmured and Mrs Q-P rewarded her with such an intense smile I thought her teeth must be made of diamonds.

‘And now I see you’re ready to rehearse, so I shall SING – tra la la!’

Oh no! Mrs Q-P screeched like an owl!

We were rehearsing in the back room. We had an audience of two, Cheese and Tomato, but even they didn’t stay long. The moment they heard us banging and crashing and Mrs Q-P hooting and squawking they fled in search of safety. Even the animals in our back garden were scared silly. I haven’t mentioned our animals yet, have I? Here’s a list of them:

One tortoise called Schumacher.

One goat called Rubbish.

Captain Birdseye, the cockerel.

Four hens called Mavis Moppet, Beaky, Leaky and Poop.

Two rabbits called Saucepan and Nibblewibble.

We’ve also got beans and lettuce and cabbages and broccoli and courgettes and strawberries – but none of those make any noise. Even so, I bet they were scared too.

Mrs Quince-Porage was DREADFUL! When she sang it was like listening to a million saucepans falling out of her mouth. Not only that but her whole body shook like a jelly on a train. She stood there with her mouth wide open and all those saucepans falling out of it and her gigantic false eyelashes fluttered up and down so fast I thought they might actually take off and zoom across the room like a pair of big bats.

Phew! It was such a relief when she stopped.

Mrs Q-P opened her eyes wide and gazed around the room. ‘What DO you think?’ she asked.

Mum was pressing her wooden spoons over her ears. Dad was lying flat on his back as if he was dead. I was on the sofa with a cushion over my head.

Mum lowered the spoons. ‘I think we’ll stop there for today. We’ll let you know when the next practice is.’

‘LOVELY,’ beamed Mrs Q-P. ‘I enjoyed that. I don’t often get the chance to SING.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ muttered Dad.

‘I BEG your pardon?’

‘I said I was surprised,’ Dad said, choking. ‘By your voice. It’s quite – something.’

‘Thank you!’ Mrs Quince-Porage was delighted and went marching out of the house humming a tune tunelessly. Mum and Dad stared after her.

‘What are we going to do?’ asked Dad. ‘That was the worst singing I have ever heard. That woman could sink ships with a voice like that.’

‘She was very bad,’ agreed Mum. ‘And, to tell you the truth, Ron, we weren’t all that good either. Banging pots and pans is ridiculous.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get you a proper set of drums,’ Dad told her. ‘I’ll make one.’

Mum looked at Dad for a moment and then burst into hysterical laughter. ‘YOU! MAKE a set of DRUMS!?’

‘Funny Daddy!’ shouted Tomato, who had come creeping back into the room with Cheese, now that the singing saucepan factory (Mrs Q-P!) had gone home.

Mum heaved a sigh. ‘Listen, if we are going to make this band work we need help. For a start we need proper instruments and proper musicians. What with my pots and pans, Mrs Q-P’s singing and Nicholas’s ‘Three Blind Mice’, we were totally hopeless. If we play like that at the coronation we’ll probably have rotten eggs thrown at us.’

My brain suddenly lit up. ‘Maybe Granny and Lancelot can help? Lancelot used to play the saxophone and I know he’s still got it because he showed me and he played a tune and it wasn’t ‘Three Blind Mice’, it had loads of notes in it. Maybe Granny used to play something too.’

‘Yes, she plays the fool,’ grumbled Dad.

‘You can talk!’ declared Mum. ‘I think Nicholas’s suggestion is very sensible. Thank heavens there are two sensible people in this family.’

‘Two?’ repeated Dad.

‘Yes, me and Nicholas. Don’t ever think you’re one of them. The hens have got more sense than you.’

‘Pwarrk!’ clucked Dad. ‘Pwark-pwark-pwarrrrkkk!’ He began strutting round the room doing a chicken impression until we had tears rolling down our cheeks.

‘Silly sausage poo hen!’ yelled Tomato, and we all joined Dad, elbows out, strutting and clucking. Pwarrkkk! Pwark! Up and over the sofa, bouncing on the armchairs. Pwaarrrkk!

Dad suddenly came to a dead stop and he whirled round. ‘Nicholas, you know what you said about Granny playing an instrument? You could be on to something. You’d better nip round to their house and see what they have to say. I think you might be in for a surprise.’

Then he stuck his fists into his armpits and off he went once more. ‘Come on, my chicken-army! Left – pwarrkkk! Right – pwarrkkk!’