Little Porkies (part 2)

CHAPTER ONE
part 2

Changes had been made at school. Mr. Pygg's trick with the lunchboxes
had almost made the school cook obsolete. Nobody wanted her lumpy
potatoes, watery gravy or slimey rhubarb crumble. She was removed and
replaced by a new, highly qualified, 'no lumps in the potato or
custard' chef. Monsieur Jambon tried to lure the children back into the
dining hall with 'bacon a la buttie', savoury sausages dished up in all
manner of exotic ways, and sometimes some ordinary ways with chips and
beans. But still the children brought their sandwiches. Enraged by this
insult to his cullinary skills, Monsieur Jambon decided that there was
only one thing to do.

Every day for a fortnight, while everyone was safely occupied with
lessons, in the bit of time between morning assembly, when Mr. Pygg
would perform 'name that sandwich', and lunchtime, when everyone would
be attempting to eat those (sometimes quite revolting) sandwiches,
Monsieur Jambon carried out his plan. He emptied all of the lunchboxes
over the school wall, which was conveniently positioned only a short
distance from the kitchen door. The food fell into a pigs' trough,
which again, just happened to be on the other side of the high
flint-stone wall. Pigs will eat virtually anything, and were used to
the regular shower of school dinner left-overs at about 1.30p.m. each
day. This early morning treat of delicious packed lunches had them
crowding around the trough in anticipation of some rather interesting
grub. Naturally, pigs being what they are, the food was gobbled up in
no time, and the farmer who owned them knew nothing of their recent
change in diet. All he could see was his pigs getting fatter and
fatter. Lovely!

The daily discovery of the lunchless boxes brought great benefit to
Monsieur Jambon. He would grill up the bacon and sausages and waft the
smell out through the kitchen door into the school. Sometimes he'd
throw in a few onions as well, and maybe a steamed treacle pudding ....
and as a result the poor hungry mites would come drifting in to see if
they could have a dinner 'on tick' (which means 'pay for it later').
The chef was happy. He was in his element. The headmaster was in a
depression.

There were two, no three, problems. Firstly, Mr. Pygg didn't like
things disappearing in his school. The parents didn't like it either,
and at their insistence he was obliged to bring in the police.
Secondly, he would sniff the lunchboxes at assembly time, looking
forward to a taste of somebody's sardine and custard sandwiches later,
only to be disappointed by lunchtime because they had vanished. And
thirdly, he couldn't stand the smell of bacon and sausages cooking, and
it wafted about almost constantly. This was really the last
straw.

--ooOoo--

The police arrived and questioned the children - they liked bringing
peculiar sandwiches for Mr. Pygg to sniff. They questioned Mr. Pygg -
he liked sniffing and eating their sandwiches (although what was
peculiar about them he couldn't say), and had no idea where they might
be disappearing. They questioned Monsieur Jambon - he lied. He said he
knew nothing about the lunchboxes - perhaps there were 'ze mice in ze
school'. He just liked to see the children enjoying his cuisine. With
that he put another fifty rashers on the griddle and turned it on
'high'. Naturally, the police sniffer dogs were driven mad by the
appetizing aroma and could smell nothing but bacon. They drooled and
yowled and made big eyes at the chef in the hope they might get a
tit-bit themselves.

The Headmaster could see this was getting nowhere. He had a school
that stank of bacon and sausages, a canteen full of policemen and their
dogs tucking into 'butties', and no lunchtime snacks to look forward
to. He went outside for some fresh air ... and that's when he noticed
the other smell. Not the bacon, no ... but that delicious combination
that had wet his appetite only this morning in assembly - peanut
butter, scrambled egg and a dash of strawberry. He called into the
kitchen and got the Chief Inspector out to join him. Mr. Pygg invited
him to sniff the air. The Chief Inspector did, but all he could detect
was bacon from one direction and a rather less than pleasant odour of
pigsty coming from the other.
"That'll be the farmyard." Mr. Pygg reassured him. "No it's not that,
it's the smell of somebody's lunchbox." He stuck his nose in the air,
and those rather too obvious nostrils twitched, and as if his nose was
being dragged by some invisible force, Mr. Pygg lurched towards the
school wall, clearly 'on the scent' of something. The Chief Inspector
followed in disbelief. The headmaster lifted his head and strode
purposefully on, and almost without breaking his stride, grabed the top
of the wall, placed his feet on two conveniently protruding bits of
flint and pulled himself up to peer over into the sty beyond. He stared
in utter amazement.
"Piggin' 'eck!" he spluttered. The policeman thought that wasn't very
nice, coming from a professional man, but he let it pass. There on the
ground in the sty were the remnants of one hundred and twenty-six
packed lunches. In the midst of it all lay a solitary pig, groaning and
heaving, having stuffed himself to a standstill in his attempts to eat
all the evidence of the increased rations. The Chief Inspector had not
yet managed to scale the wall, and was unable to see what the
headmaster was so astounded by. However, he thought he heard him
talking to someone, but could not make out the reply. When asked, Mr.
Pygg said he had been talking to himself. What had actually happened
was this. He had asked himself a rhetorical question. "Who in the world
could have done this?, and he thought he heard an answer ... "It was
the chef. Help us ... other pigs ... fat .. extra food .. taken to
market .. save them.." The headmaster was so startled he slipped from
his footholds on the wall. The Chief Inspector took advantage of the
situation and grabbed the wall where Mr. Pygg had previously been. He
stepped up on the same protruding stones and hauled himself up to
survey the scene. He even issued the same sort of exclamation.
"My word!", and then after a moments more scrutiny, "What sort of
person would eat chocolate spread and gherkin sandwiches, with, if I'm
not mistaken, a smattering of curry sauce?".
"Where?", Mr. Pygg was up like a shot, scrambling up the wall as though
his life depended upon it, eager to at least savour the aroma.
"Steady on, old chap", the startled policeman responded, "that's a
rather disgusting combination if you ask me ... gherkins .. ugh, can't
stand 'em. Now a dash of piccalilli .. that's more like it ... or those
little silver skinned onions .. I'm rather parial to them ..." His
train of thought was suddenly interrupted as the heaving pig mustered
an urgent sounding squeal, and tried to rally himself round. He was
unable to get onto his feet, but his struggle caught the attention of
the onlookers, and his eyes met those of Mr. Pygg. Somehow, Mr. Pygg
knew that he had no time to lose.
"It's obvious, if you ask me,"he said, "it was that new chef, trying to
make everyone eat his rotten dinners."
" ... and who wouldn't? All that lovely bacon ... " the Chief Inspector
was just drifting off into a daydream about bacon butties, when the
headmaster's impassioned response brought him back to his senses with a
jolt.
"Well I wouldn't, for one. I loathe the smell of bacon, I hate the
smell of sausages, and that seems to be all he ever cooks. I've had
enough." Mr. Pygg had worked himself into a frenzy, "I quit!" With that
he turned from the sight of the pig in the sty and headed for his
office. On the wind he was sure he picked up the faint words .... "help
us..."

--ooOoo--

Section 3 coming up later.