Thimble Holiday Havoc

by Jon Blake

  ‘About the neighbours,’ added Mum.

  ‘Have you found out all about them, Mum?’

  ‘Yes. I should get down from that fence, if I were you, Douglas.’

  ‘Why?’ said Dad.

  ‘They’re criminals,’ replied Mum. ‘Dangerous criminals.’

  A large flock of butterflies took off in my stomach. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mum. ‘They are called the Viborgs. They rob jewellery stores.’

  ‘Then why aren’t they in jail?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ve bribed the chief of police,’ replied Mum.

  ‘Bribed the chief of police? Then why doesn’t the mayor sack the chief of police?’

  ‘They’ve bribed the mayor as well.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘these Viborgs sound like real big shots.’

  ‘Real big shots,’ replied Mum, ‘with real big shotguns.’

  Dad lowered his head below the top of the fence.

  ‘Where’s Thimble?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Hmm,’ I replied. ‘Where is Thimble, Dad?’

  Dad shrugged.

  ‘Why are you on that stepladder?’ asked Mum.

  Dad shrugged again.

  ‘Let me get up on there,’ said Mum.

  Dad seized the top of the stepladder and held on hard.

  ‘Douglas,’ said Mum, ‘you’re being ridiculously childish.’

  Dad held on even harder. Mum’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is Thimble next door?’ she asked.

  ‘It was Dad’s idea!’ I blurted.

  ‘It was Jams’ idea!’ blurted Dad.

  A big fat tear welled up in my eye. ‘Can you get him back, Mum?’ I pleaded.

  Mum thought for a moment. ‘Is there a drill anywhere?’ she asked.

  ‘No way!’ said Dad.

  ‘It’s in the garage, Mum,’ I said.

  If you’ve ever waved a piece of liver under a cat’s nose you will be able to picture Thimble when he saw the drill. His concentration on it was total. Out he came, as if hypnotised, all the way to the fence, which was where he seemed to smell a rat.

  ‘Here, Thimble,’ I prompted. ‘Here, Thimmy-thimmy-thimmy-thimmy-thimble!’

  Very cautiously, Thimble began to climb the fence. I almost had him when he saw Dad’s face and changed his mind.

  ‘Come on, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Nice electric drill to play with.’

  A great battle was going on in Thimble’s mind but neither side was winning.

  I tried another tack. ‘Listen, Thimble, you’ve got to get out of there! A bad man lives there!

  ‘Bad man, Thimble. Do you understand? Bad man.’

  Thimble pointed at Dad.

  ‘No, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Dad’s not a bad man! Well, sometimes maybe, but not bad like this man! This man is a criminal, Thimble – someone who takes things which don’t belong to him.’

  Thimble pointed at Dad.

  ‘No, Thimble, Dad’s not a criminal. OK, I know he took the boat, and told you to burgle the house…’

  ‘He did what?’ said Mum.

  ‘There was a good reason for it,’ said Dad. ‘Trust me.’ Mum gave Dad a look which suggested she would rather trust a scorpion.

  ‘Thimble,’ I said, ‘We absolutely promise that if you come over here, you can play with this lovely drill.’

  Thimble looked at Mum, who nodded. At last he climbed over the fence, landed at my feet and gave my splints a hug.

  ‘Put the drill back in the garage, Jams,’ said Dad.

  ‘Douglas, you can’t do that,’ said Mum.

  ‘Why not?’ said Dad.

  ‘Because he’ll never trust us again.’

  ‘I know,’ I suggested. ‘How about if we tell him he can just drill one hole? He can’t do much harm drilling one hole.’

  ‘That seems like a good idea,’ said Mum.

  ‘Crazy,’ said Dad.

  I explained the rule to Thimble, who, as usual, nodded eagerly. Mum went off to put some pork chops in the fridge and I duly handed the drill to Thimble. He lolloped off with it, as happy as a sand monkey, and I put my hands over my eyes.

  ‘Why are you covering your eyes?’ asked Dad.

  ‘It’s because the sun’s so bright,’ I replied.

  A few seconds later, I heard a distinct BRRRRRRR.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Dad.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m covering my eyes too.’

  The BRRRRRRR stopped. Thimble had been as good as his word. When I finally plucked up courage to open my eyes, there was no sign of him, or the drill.

  It was then I had a strange sensation.

  ‘Why are my feet wet, Dad?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Dad. ‘Have you weed yourself?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘It’s not warm.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Dad. ‘My feet are wet too.’

  ‘Have you weed yourself, Dad?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Maybe it’s rain,’ I said.

  ‘It hasn’t rained since we arrived,’ said Dad.

  ‘So where’s the water coming from?’

  We cast our eyes around for the solution.

  ‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!’ I cried.

  ‘The swimming pool!’ cried Dad.

  There was nothing we could do. The lovely blue pool was crumpling like a wounded elephant, water streaming from its side. Soon there was no water inside, and nothing but a heap of blue plastic where the pool used to be.

  ‘Let’s look at the positives,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘there’s always positives.’

  ‘The lawn needed watering,’ said Dad.

  The pool took up loads of space,’ I said.

  ‘Most importantly,’ said Dad, ‘it’s your mother’s fault.’

  ‘Let’s go and tell her now,’ I suggested.

  ‘Wait,’ said Dad. ‘We still don’t know where Thimble is.’

  ‘Or the drill,’ I added.

  We hurried into the house, only to realise that the garage was still open. By some miracle, however, Thimble was sitting outside the red door, still holding the drill.

  ‘Good boy, Thimble!’ I said. ‘Apart from destroying the swimming pool, which you must never do again, not that you’ll get the chance.’

  ‘See?’ said Dad, suddenly cheering up. ‘I’ve trained him. Red means stop!’

  Sure enough, Thimble made the hands sign for Red Means Stop.

  ‘Well done, Dad,’ I said. ‘I was sure that you teaching Thimble that would lead to disaster.’

  Somehow, however, I guessed that this was not the end of the story. Thimble looked far from happy when we took the drill from him, and made the saddest sound imaginable when we went into the garage without him. He knew it was a place of heavenly promise now. And I have to admit I glanced back more than once at that tempting treasure chest of whoknows- what poking out from beneath the workbench.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WARNING – MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF A NUT CALLED DAD

  Mum was not keen to take the blame for the ruin of the pool. It was Dad’s fault Thimble had burgled the neighbours, and Dad’s fault Thimble hadn’t been supervised properly.

  Dad begged to differ. That’s what you call it when someone argues back. Dad argued back a lot, begging to differ in a louder and louder voice, till Mum said, ‘DOUGLAS I’VE HAD ENOUGH I AM DETERMINED TO ENJOY THIS HOLIDAY AND IF I CAN’T ENJOY IT WITH YOU I SHALL ENJOY IT WITHOUT YOU.’

  A few minutes later Dad arrived in my room looking very red in the face.

  ‘Jams, get your shoes on,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a fight and I need a witness.’

  ‘Not with Mum?’

  ‘No, not with Mum...’

  ‘Who then?’ I asked.

  ‘The butcher.’

  ‘What?’

  Dad sat on the edge of the bed and huffed out a few big breaths. ‘Your mother,’
he said, ‘is abandoning us.’

  ‘Never,’ I said.

  ‘There’s a do on tonight,’ said Dad. ‘Some kind of ridiculous music and fireworks thing. The butcher’s going to be there, and Nora’s going to...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘…see him,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s bad.’

  ‘Except she won’t be seeing him,’ said Dad, ‘because I am going to see him first!’ Dad stood up to his full height and pounded his fist into his palm.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘do you think it would be a good idea to get some trousers first? He might not take you seriously in hot pants.’

  ‘He’ll take me seriously enough when I knock his block off,’ said Dad.

  ‘Wow. That sounds violent, Dad.’

  ‘I feel violent,’ said Dad.

  Dad was certainly talking a good fight, but I was relieved when he decided that Thimble should come too. The butcher would think twice before tangling with a monkey.

  ‘Can I get some bus fare off Mum?’ I asked. ‘It’s a long way to the butcher’s.’

  Dad gave a tired sigh.

  ‘It’s ok, Dad,’ I said. ‘I won’t say we’re going to beat up her new boyfriend. I’ll say we’re going to the fair to play hook-a-duck.’

  Fortunately Mum suspected nothing and we set off on our quest without incident. The sun shone, a few birds twittered, and the world seemed quite unaware that World War Three was about to start.

  ‘What’s French for “butcher”?’ I asked.

  ‘Boucher,’ replied Dad.

  ‘Hey, everyone!’ I cried. ‘Mon papa is going to have a fight avec le boucher!’

  ‘Zip it, Jams!’ hissed Dad.

  ‘I can’t help it! I’m excited! I’ve never seen you have a fight before! I bet you’ll marmalise him, Dad!’

  Dad did not reply. He was starting to look a bit green around the gills.

  ‘Are you alright, Dad?’

  ‘Of course I’m not alright!’ snapped Dad.

  ‘You’ll marmalise him!’ I repeated.

  ‘Jams, just shut up about this fight!’

  My natural optimism was beginning to fade. I did not sense that Dad was relishing the confrontation. As the butcher’s shop came into view, he became very stiff in his movements and started muttering under his breath.

  ‘Tis a far far better thing I do,’ he said, ‘than I have ever done.’

  ‘Wow, Dad,’ I replied. ‘That’s like poetry.’

  ‘Tale of Two Cities,’ said Dad. ‘Charles Dickens.’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘I thought you’d written it.’

  ‘I might have written it,’ said Dad, ‘if he hadn’t written it first.’

  We reached the shop. It was only now that we realised how many people were inside it.

  ‘Oh,’ said Dad. ‘There’s a queue.’

  ‘What are you going to do, Dad?’ I asked.

  ‘We can’t just barge in,’ said Dad. ‘We’re British.’

  We joined the queue.

  ‘Seems a bit weird,’ I said, ‘queuing up to have a fight.’

  Dad said nothing. His eyes were fixed on le boucher. The butcher was a tall man, with a mop of dark curls tied back in a ponytail, deep brown eyes and cheekbones like Elvis. He smiled readily at his customers as he doled out their treats with forearms like Popeye.

  ‘Look at those muscles, Dad,’ I said. ‘Do you think he works out?’

  Dad could not resist a glance at his own spindly limbs, which never worked out on anything but a keyboard.

  ‘Gyms,’ he noted, ‘are for the vain and ignorant.’

  Slowly the queue moved forward. Every customer departed happy, to a booming au revoir from the butcher.

  ‘He’s very popular, Dad.’

  ‘As long as the till’s ringing,’ grunted Dad.

  ‘Yeah, as long as the till’s ringing,’ I repeated, not quite sure what this meant. ‘Do you know what, Dad? I really hate him.’

  There was a little growl from Thimble. He also understood that the big tall man was the enemy. But just then, the big tall man spotted him. His eyes lit up.

  ‘Un singe!’ he said. ‘Un petit singe!’

  Everyone turned to us.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked.

  ‘How do I know?’ snapped Dad.

  Hell’s bells! The butcher was coming out from behind the counter!

  ‘What are you going to do, Dad?’ I asked.

  Dad swallowed hard.

  ‘Slap him round the face with your glove, Dad,’ I said, ‘and challenge him to a duel!’

  ‘Jams, will you shut up!’ hissed Dad.

  Entirely ignoring us, the butcher grabbed Thimble and hoisted him onto his shoulder.

  ‘Bonjour, mon petit!’ he said, with a wink.

  ‘Did you see that? He winked at Thimble! Maybe it is a tic, Dad. He can’t fancy Thimble.’

  ‘Qu-est-ce-que tu veux, mon petit?’ asked the butcher.

  ‘He doesn’t speak French,’ I said.

  ‘Ah!’ said the butcher. ‘I am so sorree! What would you like, my little one? I do not have the bananas!’

  Everyone laughed. To my dismay, Thimble had been completely won over and now rested his head on the butcher’s shoulder.

  ‘Do something, Dad!’ I cried. ‘Now he’s got Thimble as well!’

  Dad did not respond. The butcher turned to me. ‘And this must be your master!’ he said. ‘A good-looking master for a goodlooking monkey! What is your name, big man?’

  ‘Jams,’ I muttered.

  ‘Jams!’ repeated the butcher. ‘And what can I do for you today, Jams?’

  ‘Dad?’ I said.

  For a moment the whole of time seemed to stop. Then, without warning, Dad’s hand shot out. Before the butcher knew what had hit him, Dad had grabbed a string of sausages and legged it. ‘That’s for winking at my partner!’ he cried, just before he disappeared from view.

  No one seemed to understand what had just happened.

  ‘Er … how much do we owe you?’ I asked, opening Mum’s purse.

  With a baffled shake of the head, the butcher lowered Thimble to the ground and fished in the purse for a few coins. Thimble gazed into the space Dad had occupied and made some sign language.

  ‘That’s right, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Bad man.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  RED MEANS GO AND DAD FINALLY PUNCHES SOMETHING

  We found Dad halfway home, slumped on a bench with the sausages hanging round his neck. He looked gloomy.

  ‘What happened, Dad?’

  ‘Too many people.’

  ‘I paid for the sausages,’ I said.

  ‘What sausages?’

  ‘The ones hanging round your neck.’

  Dad glanced down, removed the porky necklace and draped it over a nearby bush. ‘You should have given him Thimble instead,’ he said.

  I covered Thimble’s ears. ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘He obviously preferred the butcher to me,’ said Dad.

  ‘You should try being nicer to him.’

  ‘Now you sound like Nora,’ said Dad. A hand came up to his head. The thought of Mum had made him even gloomier.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ I asked.

  Dad shrugged.

  ‘It’ll be awful if she goes off with the butcher,’ I said. ‘Well, not awful, because he’ll probably take us swimming which you don’t do, and I expect he’s got a car which you haven’t, and obviously he’s nicer to Thimble…’

  ‘Jams,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes, Dad?’

  ‘Do us a favour,’ said Dad, ‘and stop talking.’

  I stopped talking.

  But not for long.

  ‘You might still beat him in a fight,’ I said, ‘if you got a gang together, say with the criminals next door…’

  ‘Jams!’ snapped Dad. ‘It’s not going to happen!’

  ‘But, Dad!’ I protested. ‘She’s still going to see him tonight! We’ve got to do something!�
��

  ‘What do you suggest?’ said Dad.

  I thought for a moment, which is how long it takes for the first thing to come into my head. ‘We should follow her, Dad,’ I said. ‘Like private eyes! Then if it looks like she’s going to kiss him, we’ll send Thimble in to break it up!’

  The thought of Mum kissing the butcher was enough to make Dad surrender all common sense and take me seriously.

  ‘What if she sees us?’ he asked.

  ‘She won’t see us. We’ll be very careful.’

  ‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘But remember, this was your idea.’

  Night had fallen when Mum finally set off. In Blingville that meant bright lights and lots of hustle and bustle. Hustle and bustle always made Thimble excitable, so it was going to be hard to keep control of him. We explained that we were playing a game, a bit like Grandma’s Footsteps, where we had to tiptoe very softly and stop dead if Mum turned round. Thimble was very good at this at first, but as we got closer to town, I could sense him starting to get edgy. Town really was very crowded, cars bumper-to-bumper, people shoulder-to-shoulder, dogs nose-to-tail and mosquitoes cheek-by-jowl.

  ‘Does it have to be this busy?’ said Dad, who didn’t much like cars, or people, or dogs, or mosquitoes.

  ‘It must be because of the fireworks,’ I said, but just then I noticed a big crowd of paparazzi at the movie theatre, with an even bigger crowd of people penned behind them. A plush limo was arriving and the excitement was intense.

  ‘Hold steady now, Thimble,’ I warned.

  The limo doors opened. Holy Moly! It was only Salman Carr and Louella Parker, the most famous film star couple in the world!

  ‘It’s Salmanella!’ I cried, using the name by which they were known in the celeb mags.

  ‘Means nothing to me,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’ve got to get their autographs, Dad!’ I cried.

  My enthusiasm was fatal. The moment I started running, Thimble raced on ahead of me, having obviously decided he needed their autographs as well. Being a small and tricky monkey, he managed to slip right through the crowd, past the paparazzi, the bodyguards and the barriers, right on to the red carpet which was waiting for Salmanella.

  At this point he looked down, and immediately froze.