The It Doesn't Matter Suit and Other Stories, Page 2

  ‘Pong!’ said Toaster, and up popped two slices of golden toast. One for Mrs Cherry and one for Mr Cherry. Mrs Cherry put strawberry jam on her toast, and Mr Cherry spread clover-blossom honey on his.

  ‘Mmm!’ murmured Mr Cherry dreamily. ‘I do enjoy crisp toast in the morning.’

  ‘Thanks to our fine, shiny toaster,’ Mrs Cherry said. ‘It’s made us golden-brown toast each day without fail all these years.’ And at these words, Toaster fairly glistened with pride.

  ‘Blrip. Blrip,’ gurgled Coffee Percolator, not to be outdone, and winked on his red eye.

  Mrs Cherry poured out steaming coffee in two blue-bordered cups. ‘You know,’ she smiled at her husband, ‘this coffee percolator makes such uncommonly good coffee that I sometimes think it must be magic!’

  Mrs Cherry didn’t know how true her words were. Even as she spoke, the kitchen pixies poked each other and giggled behind the sugar tin. Now way back in Mrs Cherry’s great-grandmother’s day, there were special kitchen pixies to turn the churned milk into butter and to see that bread rose light and crusty in the old-fashioned ovens. Sometimes, when these pixies felt mischievous, they’d curdle the cream or unsettle the laying hens. But mostly they were good, reliable pixies. And often, at night, wise housewives set out saucers of porridge on the doorstep for them, with honey and raisins in it.

  Mrs Cherry had no idea that two descendants of these pixies lived right in her kitchen. These two pixies had long, unpronounceable names, handed down from father to son and from mother to daughter. But they called themselves Salt and Pepper for short. One pixie wore a white suit and slept in Mrs Cherry’s silver salt-shaker, while the other pixie wore a speckled brown suit and slept in Mrs Cherry’s silver pepper-shaker. It was their job to see that all the kitchen folk did their daily work and lived in harmony and content.

  After Mr Cherry had found his tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles which he claimed some imp hid away every morning just for fun, he kissed Mrs Cherry goodbye and left for work.

  Mrs Cherry hummed to herself, sitting at the sunny kitchen table and paring carrots for Mr Cherry’s favourite supper of beef stew. She flashed a bright, happy look around her kitchen: at the washing machine, and at the oven baking, and at the icebox rumbling gently as it kept the vanilla ice-cream cold for Mr Cherry’s dessert.

  ‘What a fortunate woman I am!’ Mrs Cherry said aloud to no one in particular.

  ‘Fortunate is right,’ murmured Icebox.

  ‘To be sure,’ whispered Oven.

  ‘Brumm,’ Washing Machine cleared her throat. ‘Exactly so.’

  But Mrs Cherry couldn’t understand their language, and so she didn’t answer.

  Now on this particular morning, the pixies received some complaints from the kitchen folk for the first time. Each one felt he could do his own work well enough, but each one of them cast longing looks at the jobs the other kitchen folk did.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like whipping eggs,’ explained Egg-Beater. ‘It’s just that Iron turns out such frilly white ruffled blouses for Mrs Cherry. I’m sure I could make lovely white ruffles on Mrs Cherry’s blouses too, if I were given the chance. Just look how beautiful and frothy my whipped cream is! I’d like a change of chores for a day.’

  ‘Ssss. So would I!’ sighed Iron. ‘I’d like to take over Cousin Waffle-Iron’s work. Mr Cherry smacks his lips over those waffly waffles. But I could make even better dents with my shiny tip. Do let me try!’

  Believe it or not, every electric appliance in Mrs Cherry’s kitchen had a similar request! Washing Machine wanted to bake a sponge cake. Oven wanted to iron Mr Cherry’s shirts crisp as piecrusts.

  Coffee Percolator longed to taste ice cream.

  ‘I’m sure I could be cold as Icebox,’ Coffee Percolator boasted, ‘if I just put my mind to it.’

  ‘And I,’ bragged Toaster, ‘could pop out bettershaped icecubes at the drop of a hat!’

  All this while Mrs Cherry was merrily cutting up potatoes and onions to toss into Mr Cherry’s stew without an inkling of the problem facing Salt and Pepper.

  ‘If we don’t satisfy the kitchen folk,’ Salt whispered to Pepper, who was skating thoughtfully from cube to cube on the icecube tray, ‘they may go on strike and stop work altogether. And then where would Mrs Cherry be!’

  ‘Do you suppose,’ Pepper said, ‘we should let them try it?’

  ‘Try it!’ Salt’s eyes widened big as the big blue buttons on Mrs Cherry’s best dress. ‘Why, think of the mess they’d make!’

  ‘It would mean a lot of extra work for us, of course,’ Pepper admitted. ‘But it’s our job to keep the kitchen folk happy.’

  Salt considered, chewing a leaf of parsley. ‘As Mr Cherry remarks so often,’ Salt said at last, ‘experience is the best teacher.’

  Pepper nodded. ‘Once the kitchen folk experience how impossible it is to do each other’s work, they’ll be twice as happy tending to their own. But we mustn’t let on that we doubt their talent.’

  ‘No,’ Salt agreed. ‘Let them find out for themselves.’

  So the pixies shook hands on their secret.

  ‘Done!’ And they went out to calm the kitchen folk.

  ‘We say okay,’ Pepper sang, ‘to each one.’

  ‘Choose your day,’ sang Salt, ‘and have fun.’

  All the kitchen folk hummed and whirred and clicked with delight.

  ‘Let’s do it this very day!’ Egg-Beater cried. And everybody joined in. ‘Let’s make today the day for Operation Change-About!’

  They decided to wait for a moment when Mrs Cherry’s back was turned: when she was talking on the telephone, or visiting a neighbour’s, and then! Icebox purred with dreams of cooking an honest-to-goodness plum tart instead of merely keeping the milk and butter cold. Iron glided sizzling over damp sheets, picturing acres of artistically dented waffles.

  All the kitchen folk waited eagerly for Mrs Cherry to leave them alone. Just for five minutes! Then they could show her how versatile they were. But Mrs Cherry spent that whole Monday morning scouring and scurrying around the kitchen, whisking away invisible dust, polishing silver that gleamed to begin with, washing, mixing cake batter, ironing her best dirndl skirt with the daisies on it. She didn’t turn her back for a minute. The kitchen folk hummed and whirred and sizzled in impatience. When would they have a chance for their wonderful Change-About?

  But just before lunch-time, as they were all ready to give up their marvellous plan in despair, Sunny and Bunny, the Dimbleby twins, chorused from Mrs Cherry’s back porch:

  ‘Oh, Mrs Cherry! Come and see our new kittens! Fudge Ripple has five new kittens!’ Fudge Ripple was half Sunny’s cat, and half Bunny’s cat. She was mostly white, with long ripply black marks, and reminded the twins of their favourite ice cream.

  ‘Whew!’ breathed Icebox.

  ‘Ah,’ rejoiced Oven. ‘Here we go now!’

  Sure enough, Mrs Cherry was brushing the flour from her hands and untying her apron strings. Then she followed Sunny and Bunny down the back steps. Through the kitchen window, Coffee Percolator saw the three of them turning into the Dimbleby’s gate next-door with his bright red eye.

  ‘Quick!’ Salt cried, hopping out of the soup ladle in the silver drawer.

  ‘Ready!’ sneezed Pepper, skipping from behind an onion on the chopping board.

  And Whizz! Whirr! Bang! Clang! Doors opened and shut. Lids jumped off and on. All the kitchen folk rattled their cords in excitement as Salt and Pepper answered their wishes and changed their jobs about. Mr Cherry’s shirts rose from Washing Machine and flew over into Oven. Doughy unbaked plum tarts skimmed from Oven to Icebox. Coffee Percolator gulped down cold ice cream. Finally they were all set. Wouldn’t Mrs Cherry be surprised when she came back! How she would praise their talent!

  But what the kitchen folk didn’t know was that they were going to be surprised themselves sooner than they thought. Mr Cherry’s work finished earlier than he planned, and even now he was whistling home down App
leton Lane to surprise Mrs Cherry in time for lunch.

  ‘Blrip! Blrip!’ exclaimed Coffee Percolator, trying to keep the ice cream cold. But try as he would, the ice cream melted and grew hotter and hotter, bubbling up under his lid and foaming out onto the table.

  ‘Oh dearr, dearrr!’ whirred Egg-Beater. ‘I beat and beat, but Mrs Cherry’s blouses only tie into knots with no frills at all. Look what knots I’ve got them into! Oh, dear!’

  ‘Bump! Bump!’ Iron hopped up and down on the ironing board, plunging his silver point into the waffle batter Mrs Cherry had mixed up for her lunch. ‘Bump!’ But the waffle batter only stood in a sticky puddle and every time Iron made a dent, the batter splattered onto his shiny face and all over the kitchen wall.

  ‘Brumm! Brummm! Brummmm!’

  *

  Washing Machine’s cake dough went whirling round and round in a soggy slush, no nearer to being an airy yellow sponge cake than it had been five minutes ago.

  Toaster wept tears and steamed instead of popping out beautifully shaped icecubes.

  ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ the kitchen folk chorused. ‘This is hard work! This is worse than we bargained for!’

  From their ringside seat in the kitchen matchbox, Salt and Pepper exchanged knowing winks.

  But then, right in the midst of these wails and groans, who should stalk into the kitchen but Mr Cherry, looking for his round, rosy-cheeked wife.

  Mr Cherry blinked. Mr Cherry gaped. A smell of roasting shirts rose from the oven. The coffee percolator burbled and foamed strangely. Waffle batter polka-dotted the walls. Mr Cherry staggered to the icebox and opened the door for a quietening snack of cheese and pickles and found a dozen doughy frost-bitten plum tarts staring him in the face.

  Salt and Pepper clutched each other in dismay, crouching down behind Mrs Cherry’s sweet-scented box of cloves. What an expression on Mr Cherry’s face! How would they ever clean up the terrible clutter the kitchen folk had made before Mrs Cherry came back?

  ‘Myrtle! Myrtle!’ Mr Cherry cried, running out onto the back porch waving his hands. At that same moment, Coffee Percolator’s red eye spotted Mrs Cherry coming up the back walk with Sunny and Bunny.

  ‘Quick!’ coughed Coffee Percolator. ‘Fill me up with my fragrant black coffee again!’

  ‘Please,’ begged Oven. ‘Give me back my sponge cake. And my plum tarts. These shirts taste terrible!’

  And from every corner Salt and Pepper heard the same cry: ‘Oh, let me do my own work once again!’

  Quicker than a wink and a blink, they jumped to work. Whizz! Whirr! Bang! Clang! Doors opened and shut Lids jumped off and on. Cords rattled. Salt and Pepper huffed and puffed, and scrimbled and scrambled, and rubbed and scrubbed. And in the nick of time, too.

  ‘J—just look!’ Mr Cherry’s trembling voice was saying outside the kitchen door. ‘Just see what’s happened to your kitchen, Myrtle!’

  Mrs Cherry sailed into the kitchen, followed by Sunny and Bunny, each twin holding a tiny kitten. Sunny’s kitten was all white, Bunny’s all black. Mr Cherry came in last, spectacles in his hand, huffing on them and polishing them with his best pocket handkerchief. He seemed very upset.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter?’ Mrs Cherry asked.

  ‘Did you smell something burning?’ Whisk! Mrs Cherry opened the oven door and took out a feathery gold sponge cake and a tray of hot plum tarts.

  ‘Mmmm!’ chorused the Dimbleby twins.

  Mr Cherry was too surprised for words.

  ‘Whoops!’ Up came Washing Machine’s lid. Mrs Cherry lifted out a pile of damp snow-white shirts to lay beside the frilly blouses Iron had finished. Click! Icebox produced a chunk of vanilla ice cream which Mrs Cherry ladled into two blue saucers, one for Sunny, one for Bunny, to celebrate Fudge Ripple’s five new kittens.

  ‘Waffles for lunch!’ Mrs Cherry announced, lifting the top of Waffle-Iron to show two crisp brown waffly waffles.

  ‘Mmm!’ Mr Cherry said, blinking behind his spectacles. ‘I must have been seeing things!’

  When Sunny and Bunny had gone home, Sunny holding a hot plum tart and a white kitten, Bunny holding a hot plum tart and a black kitten, Mr and Mrs Cherry sat down to lunch.

  ‘Yum,’ Mr Cherry said when he got to the plum tart. ‘What a fine lunch!’

  ‘It is good,’ admitted Mrs Cherry. ‘Thanks to my oven.’

  Salt and Pepper didn’t say anything. They had fallen sound asleep side by side in the flour tin after Mrs Cherry’s kitchen change-about and change-back-again!

  The Bed Book

  BEDS come in all sizes –

  Single or double,

  Cot-size or cradle,

  King-size or trundle.

  Most Beds are Beds

  For sleeping or resting,

  But the best Beds are much

  More interesting!

  Not just a white little

  Tucked-in-tight little

  Nighty-night little

  Turn-out-the-light little Bed –

  Instead

  A Bed for Fishing,

  A Bed for Cats,

  A Bed for a Troupe of Acrobats.

  The right sort of Bed

  (If you see what I mean)

  Is a Bed that might

  Be a Submarine

  Nosing through water

  Clear and green,

  Silver and glittery

  As a sardine

  Or a Jet-Propelled Bed

  For visiting Mars

  With mosquito nets

  For the shooting stars.

  If you get hungry

  In the middle of the night

  A Snack Bed is good

  For the appetite –

  With a pillow of bread

  To nibble at

  And up at the head

  An automat

  Where you need no shillings,

  Just a finger to stick in

  The slot, and out come

  Cakes and cold chicken.

  Or if the dog and the cat

  And the parakeet

  Dance on the covers

  With muddyish feet.

  In a Spottable Bed

  It never matters

  Where jam rambles

  And where paint splatters!

  On the other hand,

  If you want to move

  A Tank Bed’s the Bed

  Most movers approve.

  A Tank Bed’s got cranks

  And wheels and cogs

  And levers to pull

  If you’re stuck in bogs.

  A Tank Bed’s treads

  Go upstairs or down,

  Through duck ponds or through

  A cobbledy town.

  And you’re snug inside

  If it rains or hails.

  A Tank Bed’s got

  Everything but sails!

  Now a gentler Bed

  Is a good deal more

  The sort of Bed

  Bird-Watchers adore –

  A kind of hammock

  Between two tall trees

  Where you can swing

  In the leaves at ease

  And count all the birds –

  Wren, robin and rook –

  And write their names

  In a Naming Book.

  Around Bird-Watching Beds

  You hang nests of straw

  For hummingbirds, hoopoes

  And the great macaw.

  All the birds would flock

  (If I’m not mistaken)

  To your berries and cherries

  And bits of bacon.

  None of these Beds,

  Of course, is very

  Easy to fold up

  Or fetch and carry

  So a Pocket-size Bed

  Is a fine Bed to own.

  When you’re eating out

  With friend Jim or Aunt Joan

  And they say: It’s too bad

  You can’t stay overnight

  But there isn’t an extra


  Bed in sight

  You can take out your Bed

  Shrunk small as a pea

  And water it till

  It grows suitably.

  Yes, a Pocket-size Bed

  Works very well

  Only how can you tell,

  O how can you tell

  It won’t shrink back

  To the size of a pea

  While you’re asleep in it?

  Then where would you be!

  O here is a Bed

  Shrinkproofer than that,

  A floatier, boatier

  Bed than that!

  In an Elephant Bed

  You go where you please.

  You pick bananas

  Right out of the trees.

  If the tigers jump up

  When you happen to sneeze

  Why, they can’t jump higher

  Than the elephant’s knees.

  An Elephant Bed

  Is where kings ride.

  It’s cool as a pool

  In the shade inside.

  You can climb up the trunk

  And slide down behind.

  Everyone knows

  Elephants don’t mind! –

  When it’s even too hot

  For the Hottentot

  A trunk-spray shower’s

  There on the spot.

  But when it’s lots

  Of degrees below,

  A North-Pole Bed

  Is the best I know.

  It’s warm as toast

  Under ten feet of snow.

  It’s warm as the Bed