Jack, Millie and Mable and the Midnight Soup

Jack lay snug in his attic bed. The sky was deep summer lilac and the stars were only just peeping out. Far, far away, a steam whistle blew — whoooooo!

Tap, tap, tap. Two pairs of bright eyes peeped over the windowsill — Millie and Mable, his secret fox friends. “Come on, Jack! She’ll be leaving without us!”

Jack pulled on his striped t-shirt and his shorts, slung his little olive rucksack over one shoulder, and slipped out into the warm hush of the garden.

Past rose-scented windows and softly humming lampposts they padded — the boy and the two foxes — all the way to the great city station.

King’s Cross was hushed and echoing under its huge glass roof. A clock chimed twelve. A few sleepy travellers stood waiting with their bags. “Wow,” whispered Jack.

Whoooooo! She came thundering in — green and gold, brass nameplate shining, soft white steam curling up to the lamps. “The Flying Scotsman!” gasped Mable.

A kind porter winked as Jack climbed the wooden step. Millie tucked into his rucksack. Mable scampered up his sleeve. “Tickets, please!”

With a long toot and a great breath of steam, the Scotsman pulled away. The city lights slid past, then dark fields, then a fat orange moon hanging low over the hills.

Inside the carriage, things were not happy. A weary soldier stared at his boots. An old lady tutted at her knitting. A glum baker held an empty basket. A small girl had lost her crayons.

Jack’s tummy growled. His pocket was quite empty — except for one shiny round pebble he had found by the garden gate. “Don’t worry, Jack,” Mable whispered. “We’ve got an idea.”

They tiptoed down the swaying corridor to the dark dining car. Millie heaved a great copper pot onto the stove. Mable turned the tap. Glug, glug, glug.

Jack carefully dropped his pebble into the pot. Plop. “It’s a magic pebble,” he said boldly. “It makes the finest soup in all of Britain — but it needs a little help.”

The old lady poked her head in. “Soup, you say?” She peered, she hummed, then she fished a long orange carrot from her bag. “Well — only one.” Plop.

The weary soldier wandered in next. He opened his pack. “I’ve been saving these beans for ages.” Plop, plop, plop. The pot began to bubble louder.

The glum baker unwrapped his basket. “Only a heel of yesterday’s loaf.” Mable carried it like treasure. Plop. The whole carriage began to smell of dinner.

The little girl tugged a paper bag from her dress pocket. “Granny gave me these from her window box.” Sage, thyme and a sprig of rosemary floated into the pot.

Word went down the train. A guard brought salt. A fisherman brought smoked haddock. A shy boy brought an onion. Millie and Mable trotted up and down, paws gentle, tails high.

Jack stirred. Mable ladled. Millie carried steaming bowls. Outside the windows the moors slipped by under a sky full of stars, and the carriage hummed with laughter.

The Flying Scotsman thundered over a great stone bridge. Pink light crept across misty blue hills. “Edinburgh!” cried the guard. The pot was empty. Everyone was full.

Back home in his attic bed, Jack slipped his shiny pebble safely under his pillow. Millie and Mable curled up at the foot of the quilt, nose to tail. “Goodnight, foxes.” “Goodnight, Jack.”