Free Aunt Effie and Mrs Grizzle by Jack Lasenby Page B

and rolled our eyes, and Alwyn spluttered, “Kerosene good burning.… Wasteful how!”
    Upstairs, Aunt Effie snored so loudly that the pots and saucepans jiggled on their hooks in the kitchen. We fed the chooks, collected the eggs, had a quick look round the farm, fed out hay to the stock, and tore back up to the house through the orchard.
    “Why do we have to run?” moaned the little ones.
    “We’ve got to cook Aunt Effie’s breakfast,” Peter told them, “before she wakes up. If she gets out of bed, we’re done for. She’ll remember we’re supposed to go to school on Monday morning.”
    “She’s still snoring,” said Casey. “I can hear her.”
    “I pulled her blind,” said Marie, “and drew the heavy curtains.”
    “Please don’t let her wake up till we get there!” said Lizzie.
    “You mustn’t pray for selfish reasons,” Daisy puffed at her, but she was mumbling something herself as we rushed towards the back door.
    We tore inside, and got Aunt Effie’s breakfast ready. Porridge, steak and eggs, bacon and black pudding, kidneys and fried onions, and lots of salt and pepper and Colman’s mustard and Lee and Perrin’s Worcester Sauce on the trays. Pigs’ trotters, lamb shanks, cow hocks, tripe, and pickled onions, of course. Aunt Effie loved tripe re-heated for breakfast – with pickled onions, strong tea with lashings of condensed milk, and toast and bitter marmalade.
    We put her enormous breakfast on trays, and carried them upstairs on our heads. “Like twenty-six tall black Nubian slaves bearing breakfast on their heads,” Jazz said.
    “You’re being romantic again,” Ann said.
    “You’re being racist again,” Daisy told him.
    “Like twenty-six short fat white European slaves bearing breakfast on their heads. Is that better?” Jazz asked.
    “Huff!” said Daisy, and tipped her tray so porridge slopped down the back of her neck. “You did that on purpose!” she squawked.
    Just as we got to the top of the stairs, Aunt Effie’s resounding snore stopped. Before she could call all our names, we ran: “Coming! Here’s your breakfast, Aunt Effie.” We pulled back the curtains and let up the blind. On the foot of her enormous bed, the dogs lifted their heads, sniffed, and stared at the twenty-six trays.
    “My runny nose kept me awake all night,” said Aunt Effie. “I heard one o’clock strike. And two o’clock strike. And all the quarter hours in between. Three o’clock. Quarter past three. Half past three. Quarter to four. Four o’clock.
    “I had a terrible night, I didn’t close my eyes for a second; not a wink of sleep did I get; but it’s no use complaining. Nobody cares about poor old me.”
    “Never old mind!” the little ones shouted. “We care about poor old you, Aunt Effie!” We plumped up her pillows. We surrounded her with trays of breakfast. And we gave her a knife and fork, and tied a tea-towel around her neck because she could be a pretty messy eater, Aunt Effie.
    “How can I sit up? You never give me enough pillows.” Peter put another three pillows behind her back.
    “You’ve forgotten my porridge!”
    “Here it is, Aunt Effie!” Daisy rushed in.
    We stood around smiling and watching her gobble.
    “You’ve forgotten the salt,” said Aunt Effie, tasting her bacon and eggs. “Nobody cares –”
    “We care!” cried the little ones. “The salt’s on the side of your plate.”
    “Then where’s the mustard?”
    “On the opposite side.”
    We rushed the empty dishes downstairs, washed and dried them, gave Aunt Effie time to clean her teeth and brush her hair and go to the dunny, and ran upstairs again, just as she called, “Daisy-Mabel-Johnny-Flossie-Lynda-Stan-Howard-Marge-Stuart-Peter-Marie-Colleen-Alwyn-Bryce-Jack-Ann-Jazz-Beck-Jane-Isaac-David-Victor-Casey-Lizzie-Jared-Jessie!
    “Well, do you want to hear the rest of this story or not? Of course, if you’re not interested in hearing about how Mrs Grizzle cured my mother of the sleeping