Marvellous Mix-Ups Read online

  Reluctantly, John and Nicky crossed the street to stand before the waiter.

  “Where have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been on the lookout for you.”

  “We’ve been going home a different way,” explained John, without going on to tell him why this was.

  “I see,” said the waiter. “Anyway, the important thing is that I’ve found you.”

  The waiter drew them into the doorway.

  “I’ve got amazing news for you,” he confided. “The chef won the spaghetti competition. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  John glanced at Nicky. So the chef was the lucky person after all. If only he had given them his recipe and kept theirs!

  “And you’re pleased?” asked the waiter.

  “Of course,” said John bravely. “Please tell him we’re very happy for him.”

  The waiter laughed. “Happy for yourself, more likely. He can’t go.”

  John and Nicky looked puzzled.

  “He can’t visit the spaghetti factory,” said the waiter. “He’s far too busy. And so he wants you two to have his prize for him. He’s been in touch with Mr Pipelli, who says that that’s perfectly all right with him. All that you have to do is to arrange a time.”

  John clapped his hands together with delight. He could scarcely believe their good luck. They had resigned themselves to losing the competition, and now it was just as if they had won. He was already beginning to imagine what the factory would be like and what he would say to Mr Pipelli. And Nicky, although still astonished by their sudden stroke of good fortune, was thinking exactly the same thing.

  ~ 5 ~

  A Welcome from Mr Pipelli

  Aunt Rebecca was not at all pleased.

  “A spaghetti factory!” she exploded. “Did you say a SPAGHETTI factory?”

  “Yes,” said John. “Mr Pipelli’s Spaghetti Factory.”

  “You can’t go,” she said. “I won’t hear of it.”

  “But why not?” Nicky pleaded. “There’s nothing wrong with spaghetti.”

  “We’ve already discussed that,” said Aunt Rebecca. “And you know my views. No. And that’s all there is to it.”

  John thought quickly.

  “It is rude to turn down an invitation, isn’t it?” he asked. He knew very well Aunt Rebecca was most particular about manners.

  “Of course it is,” snapped his aunt. “It’s very rude, unless you’ve got a good reason.”

  “Well,” said John. “Mr Pipelli has invited us to have lunch with him in his factory. Surely it would be rude to say no.”

  Aunt Rebecca was cornered. Eventually, after a lot more grumbling, she had to accept that it would be impolite for John and Nicky not to go, and permission was given.

  “Well done!” Nicky whispered to her brother. “I can almost smell the spaghetti already!”

  “What was that?” asked Aunt Rebecca suspiciously. “What did you say?”

  But, from the kitchen, there came a squeak from the pressure cooker, and Aunt Rebecca had to dash off to attend to a pot of fresh seaweed, which was now done just to a turn.

  On the day of the visit, John and Nicky were ready well before the spaghetti factory car arrived. The driver settled them in their seats, and they began the long journey to the factory.

  “You’ll like Mr Pipelli,” the driver said. “Everybody likes him the moment they meet him. You just wait and see.”

  They drove for an hour or so before they arrived. It was a very large factory – much bigger than either of them had imagined – and over the front gate there was a great sign made out of metal letters: PIPELLI’S SPAGHETTI – THE KING OF SPAGHETTIS.

  The car swept into the driveway and came to a halt outside the main office. Ushered into the entrance hall by the driver, the two visitors were shown to a door which said, quite simply, THE BOSS.

  “Go on,” said the driver. “Knock.”

  And Nicky did.

  The door flew open the moment Nicky’s knuckle hit the wood. There, before them, stood a stout man in a checked suit. He had curly black hair, sparkling eyes and a smile that seemed to split his face in two.

  “Well, well,” he said. “My two guests! Please come in!”

  John and Nicky entered the room cautiously. It was a more splendid office than they had ever imagined. On the walls were large paintings of Italy, framed in heavy gold frames. On the mantlepiece, above the marble fireplace, there were cups and trophies, and at the far end was a great wooden desk, on which stood a large gold pen-stand.

  “Yes,” said Mr Pipelli, as if reading their thoughts. “It is a splendid room, and I have indeed made a great deal of money out of spaghetti.”

  “I didn’t mean to stare,” John said apologetically. “It’s just that I’ve never seen …”

  “But you are here to stare,” Mr Pipelli protested. “That’s why I invited you. Today you may stare and stare as much as you like, and nobody will think it the slightest bit odd!”

  The driver had been right. Both John and Nicky liked Mr Pipelli immediately. Whenever he spoke he smiled, and when he wasn’t speaking, his eyes twinkled with merriment. He was just the sort of person who would run a competition like this, and he was just the sort of person who would make sure that the winners had fun.

  “Well,” said Mr Pipelli, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s go and take a look at the works. I’ve been in the spaghetti business for twenty years, you know, and I feel as excited by what goes on here as I was the day I started. So let’s not wait any longer! Let’s go and take a look at how spaghetti is made!”

  They walked out of Mr Pipelli’s office and made their way along a passageway that led into the heart of the factory. At the end of the passageway there was a door, which Mr Pipelli opened with a flourish.

  “In this very room,” he said, his voice lowered in awe, “we see the very beginnings of spaghetti.”

  John and Nicky craned their necks to see beyond Mr Pipelli. They were standing in the entrance to a large room in the centre of which stood a gigantic mound of flour. From this mound, people in white overalls were taking heaped shovels to pour into great metal mixers. As the flour was shovelled in, white clouds rose like steam, making the faces of the workers seem as pale as if they had just seen ghosts.

  “A dusty business at this stage,” remarked Mr Pipelli, taking out a large silk handkerchief with which to remove the fine layer of flour that had already settled on the front of his suit.

  John and Nicky followed the spaghetti manufacturer as he led them across to the mixing machines. At the side of each bowl there was a woman with a watering can. As each spadeful of flour was put into the bowl, she tipped her can over the edge and poured in a stream of thick, greenish liquid.

  “Olive oil,” explained Mr Pipelli. “It’s very important in the making of spaghetti. And these ladies know exactly how much olive oil to put in each bowl. They all come from the same part of Italy – every one of them – where everybody, absolutely everybody, knows all there is to know about olive oil!”

  John looked at the woman beside the bowl, who smiled at him, winked, and before he knew what was happening had tossed back her head, opened her mouth, and poured a stream of olive oil right down her throat!

  John looked aghast, but Mr Pipelli just laughed.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “They live on olive oil. There’s nothing they like better.”

  He nodded to the woman as they began to move on.

  “Thank you, Olivia,” he said. “And do take the rest of the day off, if you wish!”

  As they went on, Mr Pipelli turned to the children and whispered.

  “She won’t take the day off,” he explained. “She loves her job so much that she’ll want to stay. This is a very happy factory, you see!”

  ~ 6 ~

  Things Go Wrong

  “Next,” said Mr Pipelli as they prepared to leave the room. “Next we shall see what happens to the dough. This is the really exciting part!”

  Wonder
ing what they were going to see next, John and Nicky followed their host through a door into another large room. This room was much noisier, as it was filled by a large machine, which was shuddering and shaking and making the most peculiar squelchy sound.

  “This,” said Mr Pipelli proudly, “is the actual spaghetti-making machine! This is the very heart of the factory.”

  John and Nicky gazed at the giant machine. At one end, there was an open bowl, almost the size of a swimming pool, into which the dough which had been mixed next door was being loaded in great sticky globules. From that, a number of thick pipes led into the machine itself, one side of which was covered with a variety of dials and levers. Then, at the far end of the machine, more people in white uniforms were bustling about, taking strands of finished spaghetti in their hands like bundles of wool.

  “This is the spaghetti spinner,” explained Mr Pipelli, proudly. “It is, in fact, the most advanced and expensive spaghetti spinner in the world. Not only can it make spaghetti, it can make macaroni, canelloni, tagliatelli and every other shape of pasta you could dream of!”

  Mr Pipelli’s expression had become dreamy.

  “Just the names of all the pastas make my mouth water,” he said. “Just think of them! Capellini! Quadretinni! Nastrini! Farfallette!”

  He closed his eyes in ecstasy before he remembered that he had visitors and came back to earth. With a look of pride, he pointed to the other side of the room.

  “And that’s the finished product being hung up to dry,” he said. “That’s only a week’s output of spaghetti – enough to supply an entire city for at least a year!”

  John and Nicky gazed at the towering white racks on which the spaghetti had been hung up to dry. You could get lost in that, John thought; and if you did, it would be like being in a spaghetti forest.

  Mr Pipelli made his way towards the machine, beckoning the children to follow him.

  “These dials control the shape,” he said, pointing to a line of the buttons and wheels along the side of the machine.

  He turned and whispered in Nicky’s ear.

  “Have you ever seen twisty spaghetti?” he asked.

  Nicky shook her head.

  “Then watch,” said Mr Pipelli, fiddling with one of the dials.

  As the dials turned, the noise inside the machine seemed to change briefly and within a few seconds the most amazing twisty spaghetti began to emerge at the other end.

  Mr Pipelli turned to John, beaming with pride.

  “I’m the only person in the world who makes that,” he said. “Now, what about you? Would you like to try a special shape?”

  John reached forward to the dial and began to turn it gingerly.

  “A little bit more to the left,” prompted Mr Pipelli. “Now to the right.”

  Nicky watched with fascination as the machine began to respond to her brother’s instructions.

  “It’s round!” she cried out. “Round spaghetti!”

  Mr Pipelli cast a glance at the place where the spaghetti was emerging.

  “Well!” he exclaimed. “What an interesting shape. Perhaps we’ll have to make more of that.”

  John craned his neck to see the results of his adjustment. The round spaghetti was certainly very interesting, and tasty-looking too, but perhaps it was a little bit too short.

  “Can I make it longer?” he asked.

  “Anything you wish,” said Mr Pipelli. “Just pull that lever over there.”

  John gave the lever a tug.

  “Not so far!” shouted Mr Pipelli, but it was too late. The machine gave a shudder and started to whine. Almost immediately, from the other end, immensely long strands of spaghetti began to shoot out. In fact, they were so long that they appeared to have no end at all.

  “Cable spaghetti!” moaned Mr Pipelli, rushing around and throwing his hands in the air. “Exactly what every spaghetti manufacturer dreads more than anything else!”

  It took Mr Pipelli a minute or two to recover himself. During this time, the machine continued to spew out the strands of endless spaghetti. At the other end, the spaghetti workers frantically tried to pick up the growing mounds of spaghetti strands, but no sooner did they manage to shift some of them than the machine produced more than they had taken away. It was a hopeless task.

  Then, when at last he began to calm down, Mr Pipelli managed to find the switch which turned the machine off. With a last heave and gurgle, the giant spaghetti-making device squeezed out the last few feet of spaghetti and became silent.

  Mr Pipelli mopped his brow.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to John. “That wasn’t your fault. This machine’s been faulty for a good few months. It was bound to do that sooner or later.”

  John was relieved to hear this. He had been certain it was all his fault.

  “We’ll have to try and deal with all that spaghetti,” said Mr Pipelli. “Then I intend to do something about fixing this machine.”

  Mr Pipelli now took John and Nicky to stand beside the vast mountain of spaghetti.

  “It’s going to be rather difficult,” he said despondently. “We’ll have to find the ends of the strands – then we’ll have to roll this all up. That’s the only way to do it.”

  John and Nicky looked at the spaghetti. It seemed like an impossible task to sort out the muddle of strands, and yet, as John looked, he saw what looked like an end. Cautiously he reached down and picked it up.

  “Well done!” said Mr Pipelli. “Now just pull on it.”

  John did as he was told and gradually drew out a long strand of spaghetti. It seemed to go on forever and soon he was standing at the other end of the room, linked to the pile of spaghetti by a long, slithery strand.

  While this was happening, Nicky had spotted another end which she took hold of and began to draw out. Soon she was standing by John’s side while Mr Pipelli went off to a storeroom to look for something to wind it round. After a few minutes he came back, carrying an empty barrel. Then, closely supervised by Mr Pipelli, the children began the slippery task of winding the still-wet spaghetti on to the barrel. It was slow work, as the spaghetti kept getting twisted and knotted up, but at last it was finished and the mountain of spaghetti began to look much smaller.

  “We shall let the spaghetti workers do all the rest,” said Mr Pipelli, who was beginning to look very much more cheerful. “Now, let’s take a look at this machine. Does either of you know anything about machinery?”

  John and Nicky shook their heads. They could put the chain back on a bicycle – but you would have to know a great deal more than that to be able to fix something as complicated as a spaghetti-making machine.

  Mr Pipelli looked slightly disappointed.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “I don’t know much about it myself. Still, we can have a go!”

  ~ 7 ~

  Tangled Up

  John and Nicky watched quietly as Mr Pipelli picked up a screwdriver and began to unscrew a metal plate on the side of the machine.

  “This is the inspection hatch,” he explained cheerfully. “It allows us to get inside the works.”

  John looked doubtfully at Nicky and gulped. What would be inside that great, gleaming machine? And what could they possibly do inside it? Was Mr Pipelli quite sure that it was turned off completely?

  Mr Pipelli unscrewed the last screw and put the screwdriver down. Then, carefully taking hold of the edges of the plate, he took it off and laid it down on the floor.

  John and Nicky peered through the hatch.

  “It’s very dark inside,” ventured John. “Perhaps we should call a mechanic. He might know where everything is.”

  Mr Pipelli chuckled. “Why go to all that trouble and expense?” he said breezily. “Most machines are quite simple once you work out what’s what. And as for the darkness, there’s a torch here. So let’s go in.”

  Mr Pipelli led the way, and he was followed by Nicky. John brought up the rear.

  “I’m scared,” whispered Nicky. “What if somebody t
urned the machine on while we were in here?”

  John did not try to answer her question. Yet there was no doubt in his mind that they would be in very serious trouble if that happened. All about them there were rollers, sifters, crushers and squeezers. The squeezers looked particularly dangerous, and John thought that anybody who got caught up in one of those would stand a very good chance of looking rather like a piece of spaghetti when they eventually got him out.

  “You’ve no need to worry about that,” said Mr Pipelli jovially. “It’s impossible to turn the machine on when the inspection hatch is open. Now, we’ve got to locate the bit that controls the length. Can anybody see it?”

  John looked up and at that precise moment a large blob of unsqueezed spaghetti dough fell down the back of his neck.

  “Perhaps we should be wearing overalls,” said Mr Pipelli, noticing what had happened. “Still, one can’t expect to visit a spaghetti factory and not get a little bit of spaghetti here and there!”

  Mr Pipelli flashed his torch about him. Suddenly he let out a cry of triumph.

  “That’s it,” he said. “That’s where the problem is.”

  The children looked at the place where the beam of light was resting. High up at the top of the machine, the spaghetti had become hopelessly tangled. It was like a giant ball of knitting that had gone terribly wrong.

  Mr Pipelli passed the torch to John to hold while he tried to pull down the tangle, but try as he might he could not quite reach high enough. After he had failed three times he stood back and scratched his head.

  “I know what we’ll do,” he said, after a while. “You climb on my shoulders, John, and we’ll do it that way.”

  Nicky held the torch while John clambered on to Mr Pipelli’s shoulders. Then, as Mr Pipelli moved into position, John began to tug at the mess of spaghetti.

  It was not easy work. The spaghetti was sticky and had wound itself round and round in a maze of loops and knots. John tugged and pulled, only pausing to wipe strands of spaghetti off his face. And all the time, he heard Mr Pipelli huffing and puffing beneath him, trying to keep him in the right position. Then, just as he had pulled off the last strand, Mr Pipelli’s legs gave out from underneath him and John found himself tumbling down, closely followed by the great ball of spaghetti he had just dislodged.