by Jon Blake
‘Get that monkey out of the way!’ someone cried.
Thimble was going nowhere. Salmanella’s bodyguard moved towards him, but as soon as Thimble sensed a threat, his natural instinct kicked in and he went bonkers, baring his teeth and letting loose a fearful stream of high-pitched gibberish. That scared the bodyguard, but not half as much as it scared Salmanella, who leapt back into their limo and commanded the driver to get them the bejasus out of there. The limo went off in a screech of tyres and in a few seconds had disappeared, to a howl of dismay from the crowd.
‘Sorry, everyone,’ I said, working my walker through to the front and immediately being surrounded by paparazzi. ‘It was Dad’s fault.’
‘Uh?’ came the reply. ‘La faute de papa?’
‘Oui’, I said. ‘La faute de papa!’ I turned to Thimble. ‘Dad got it wrong, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Red means stop in Britain, but go in France! Understand, Thimble? RED MEANS GO!’
Thimble looked down at the carpet, then back at me, several times.
‘RED MEANS GO, Thimble!’ I repeated. ‘Go, now, quickly!’
Thimble took my hand and lolloped obediently off the carpet.
‘Good boy, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Now, never listen to Dad again. Have I said sorry, everybody? What’s sorry in French?’
‘Desolé,’ said the bodyguard.
‘Pleased to meet you, Des,’ I replied. ‘Jams Cogan. Now Thimble, where’s Mum?’
‘Lost,’ came the reply. Dad had arrived.
‘C’est papa!’ someone shouted. There was a chorus of deafening boos.
‘You’d better get out of here, Dad,’ I said, ‘before you get lynched.’
‘What have I done?’ protested Dad. The only answer was even louder boos, so Dad wisely chose to leave the scene of disaster as quickly as possible. But which way were we to go now? There was no sign of Mum anywhere.
‘Let’s try the night market,’ I suggested. ‘Mum likes shopping in the dark.’
The night market stretched down the side of the harbour. There were stalls selling everything from baby clothes to baby cheeses. A mass of colourful lights hung above the stalls, and above that a starless night awaited the firework display. We might have really enjoyed the atmosphere if we were not gripped by panic.
‘She must be somewhere,’ said Dad.
‘Everybody is somewhere,’ I replied.
‘Do you have anything useful to say?’ asked Dad.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘There’s a bandstand down there. We’re probably in the right place for the music.’
Dad shuddered. He didn’t like music, unless it was written five hundred years ago and played by gloomy-looking people in suits. Thimble, on the other hand, loved just about any music, and knew exactly what I was talking about. He took the lead, getting faster and faster, while Dad and I puffed and panted in his wake. As the bandstand approached, however, he stopped. Something had caught his eye.
‘What is it, Thimble?’ I asked, but his only reply was to shoot off for the bandstand like ten devils were after him.
‘Maybe he’s seen Mum,’ I said.
But it was not Mum that Thimble had seen. Up on the bandstand, a band was getting ready to play, and chatting to them was none other than our greatest enemy – well, Dad’s greatest enemy – le boucher!
Thimble and the butcher greeted each other like long-lost friends. The butcher gave Thimble a bear hug, a fireman’s lift and an aeroplane spin. Thimble showered the butcher with kisses and beat on his head like a bongo drum.
‘Dad!’ I said. ‘Do something!’
Dad seemed unable to do anything.
‘Right!’ I said. ‘I will!’
I ditched my walker and went up to the bandstand. But it was a big step up, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my foot that high. Watching me struggle must have finally stirred Dad into action, because next thing I knew, his hand was on my shoulder.
‘OK, Jams,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’
Dad leapt up onto the bandstand, but as he did so there was an enormous RIPPPP as the seam at the back of his hot pants gave way. Lesser men might have retreated, but Dad marched on, one arm outstretched towards Thimble, the other holding the back of his shorts together.
‘Excuse me, old boy!’ he cried. ‘That is my…’
No one got to hear the word monkey. That was because the air had suddenly been filled by deafening rock music. The band had kicked off, Thimble was back on the floor, and the butcher was releasing his ponytail and shaking out a massive mane of curly hair. Next second, the microphone was in his hands.
Who’d have believed it? The popular, likeable, well-built, good-looking butcher was also a rock star!
Thimble, not surprisingly, was now going bananas. I had taught Thimble many dances, from head-shoulders-knees-andtoes to the macarena, and Thimble was now trying the whole lot out, in random order, to whoops and hollers from the crowd.
Dad, however, was determined to put a stop to this. He did his best to grab Thimble, but Thimble was too fast for him and he wound up clutching thin air. When Dad did finally lay a hand on Thimble there was a massive boo from the crowd, and possibly because of his bad experience at the movie theatre, Dad suddenly changed tack and made out the whole thing was a funny act. He deliberately missed Thimble a couple more times, which got a laugh, possibly the worst thing that could have happened as it inspired Dad to do something even more stupid, something so stupid I had to cover my eyes.
‘Please, Dad,’ I muttered, ‘not that.’
Fearfully, I opened my fingers a crack. No, it was not a bad dream. Dad had fallen in step with Thimble and was lamely attempting to copy his dance moves.
The crowd was laughing a lot now. Dad obviously did not know whether they were laughing with him or at him, and maybe he didn’t care. His dancing got more and more extreme, until even Thimble started to hide his face in his hands. Having no new moves to copy, Dad turned his attention to the butcher.
Like a true pro, the butcher had ignored all the goings-on and was striding about the stage shaking his mighty mane.
Dad watched for a few seconds, then gave his own head a little shake, causing his comb-over to flop limply from one side to the other.
‘Just get off the stage, Dad,’ I muttered, but it was not to be. Dad was now hell-bent on showing the butcher that anything he could do, Dad could do better.
The butcher kicked a leg in the air. Dad kicked a leg in the air.
The butcher punched the air with a fist. Dad punched the air with a fist.
The butcher leapt like a gazelle and came down in the splits.
Dad leapt like a gazelle and…
Dad’s cry of pain did not need a microphone. I can’t easily describe how he had landed, other than to say it was not how the butcher had landed, and certainly not better than the butcher had landed. The best word I can think of for Dad’s landing is WRONG.
At this point I felt a hand on my shoulder.
‘Mum. Thank God you’re here! Quick, phone for an ambulance!’
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ replied Mum. ‘I rang as soon as your dad started dancing.’
CHAPTER NINE
A DISAPPEARING SAUSAGE AND THIMBLE’S TREASURE TROVE
It was a lovely hospital, the one in Blingville. I sat on a bed chatting to Dad while Thimble busily gobbled all Dad’s grapes and Mum rang the travel insurance people to check if we were covered for destroying a window, a vase, a swimming pool, a luxury boat and the bottom half of Dad’s body.
‘So how is the, er … what was it you hurt?’ I asked.
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ Dad replied.
‘At least we got Mum away from the butcher.’
‘None of this would have happened,’ said Dad, ‘if Nora had explained she was just going to see him play.’
‘He was very good though,’ I said.
‘It wasn’t proper music,’ said Dad, by which he meant music from five hundred years ago played by gloomy
people in suits.
I didn’t bother to argue. Dad was in need of support, and not just from that contraption above the bed.
‘Maybe you should give Mum a special evening out.’
‘How can I do that?’ replied Dad. ‘My back is toast! Besides, I can’t leave you and Thimble in the house on your own.’
‘A special evening in then,’ I suggested.
‘Sounds expensive.’
‘Oh come on, Dad!’ I said. ‘You’re Douglas Dawson, the great author! You can find a way!’
My words clearly struck a chord. ‘You’re right, Jams. No matter what ill fortune I suffer, I must never lose my selfrespect. Now have a look in Mum’s purse and see if she’s left any change.’
‘She’s taken it with her, Dad.’
Dad sank back into the pillow.
‘What about the sausages?’ I suggested.
‘What sausages?’
‘The ones you left hanging on a bush,’ I said. ‘They might make a good meal, in a red wine sauce.’
‘They’ve been there over a day!’ replied Dad. ‘If the dogs haven’t had them, the sun will have turned them rotten!’
‘It might improve them,’ I said, ‘like sundried tomatoes.’
‘Some hope,’ said Dad.
‘OK,’ I replied. ‘We’ll give one to Thimble and if he’s not sick we’ll save this holiday by cooking Mum the best meal of her life!’
Luckily the dogs hadn’t had the sausages. They were still hanging on the bush, exactly as Dad had left them, except they were no longer smooth and pink, but black and knobbly.
‘Is it my imagination, Thimble,’ I asked, ‘or are they moving?’
Thimble approached the sausages cautiously and tested one with a finger. As he did so a huge swarm of flies rose into the air, and hey presto, the sausages were pink again.
‘Oh, that’s alright then!’ I said. ‘Get ’em down, Thimbs.’
Thimble lifted the sausages off the bush and handed them to me. I gave them a sniff. ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Did they smell that strong before?’
Thimble shrugged.
‘They do make sausages differently over here.’
Thimble nodded eagerly.
‘Let’s take ’em home,’ I said, and take them home we did. Mum wasn’t to know, of course, so we waited till she went to pick Dad up from the hospital then took out the frying pan.
‘Now, Thimble,’ I said, ‘I am going to cook just one sausage as a special treat for you.’
Thimble looked a little doubtful, but I pressed on with the plan. I have to point out that Thimble, being a wild animal, has a very good instinct for what is edible. Many times I have found him rooting through the bins for food, quite often scoffing things which looked utterly foul, yet no harm has ever come of this. So there was no danger I could poison Thimble, even though there was a faint green tinge to the pink sausage which grew steadily greener as it cooked. The smell got rather stronger as well, and I must admit I was holding my nose as I handed a small plate containing the delicacy to Thimble.
‘A little ketchup?’ I suggested. ‘Or you might try mayonnaise. The French prefer mayonnaise.’
I’d hardly finished the sentence when the entire sausage disappeared into Thimble’s mouth. Cooking the thing had made me feel sick enough, and the sight of it bulging from Thimble’s cheek just about did for me. I rushed into the toilet and thought very seriously about retching into the sink, but luckily the feeling passed. When I returned to the kitchen there was no sign of the sausage, just one happy and healthy monkey.
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Now let’s look at the rest of Dad’s list.’
We did so:
Red wine sauce
Candles
Flowers
Gentle music
Other romantic stuff
‘OK, Thimble,’ I said. ‘You go into the garden and gather some flowers. I’ll find some wine.’
I knew I was taking a risk sending Thimble into the garden, but the wine was in the garage, and since I’d taught Thimble that Red Means Go, I didn’t want to risk him going anywhere near the red door.
There was a whole rack of wine in the garage, so you might think it would be difficult to choose one. However, Dad had said that any old wine would do, so I simply checked the labels to see which one was oldest. That turned out to be Chateau Posheau 1954. Well, if no one had bothered to drink it since 1954, they surely wouldn’t mind if we used it for sausage sauce. I dusted it off and was about to transport it to the kitchen when my eyes once again fell on the enticing treasure chest peeking out from beneath the workbench.
My heart began to thump. At last my chance to unearth its hidden secrets! I checked the window to make sure Thimble was still busy in the garden, then grabbed the chest and gave it a yank. Whatever was in there was very heavy! It took all my strength to edge the chest bit by bit into the open.
Now for the lid. It was sealed by two weighty straps, like giant trouser belts. Again it was no easy task to move the things, but my arms are strong from all the years of lugging my walker about. At last they came apart, and I was able to prise open the heavy wooden lid, to reveal ... what, exactly?
At first I thought I had luckily chanced upon a stash of candles, except they were taped together in bunches, with just one long string coming from the middle stick. I’d seen pictures of sticks like this somewhere. Maybe in a comic? With a bad guy setting light to the long string?
Yikes! That’s what they were! DYNAMITE!
I quickly closed the lid, but at the last second remembered not to bang it down, because dynamite is VERY UNSTABLE, and LIKELY TO BLOW YOU TO KINGDOM COME AT ANY SECOND. What on earth were Serge and Colette doing with it in their garage? Had the dangerous criminals next door maybe threatened them? Were they planning a bank job to become dangerous criminals themselves? My imagination was running wild, or should I say, even wilder than usual.
But there was no time to think. Thimble was on his way back from the garden, and I had to head him off before he reached the red door.
‘Found some wine, Thimble!’ I said. ‘Oh, what’s that you’ve got there?’
Thimble proudly laid his own treasure trove onto the kitchen table.
‘Ok, let’s see. Grapes … figs … almonds … tomatoes … oranges. Well, Thimble, this would make a very good Show and Tell table for a Mediterranean food project. But if you remember, the key word I uttered before sending you to the garden was flowers.’
Thimble looked gutted.
‘It’s all right, Thimble,’ I said. ‘We’ll put it all in the red wine sauce.’
Thimble beamed happily. Dad’s romantic meal was certainly going to be something special.
CHAPTER TEN
IN WHICH WE SAY GOODBYE TO THE HOLIDAY HOME, THAT’S FOR SURE
I didn’t tell Dad about the dynamite in the garage. It wouldn’t have got him in the right mood for his romantic evening with Mum. I didn’t tell Mum either, because she didn’t seem fantastically keen on this romantic evening, and I didn’t want to give her any excuse to flee the house.
To be fair to Mum, once she saw us putting out the candles, she did agree to get dressed up. Dad was still hobbling around in his hospital pyjamas, till I persuaded him to look through Serge’s wardrobe for something a bit more impressive.
Wow. That Serge certainly had expensive taste in clothes. Everything had a designer label, even the shoelaces. I pulled out a pure white suit by Emporio Milani and held it up to Dad.
‘Cool!’ I said. ‘You’d look wicked in this, Dad!’
‘I have no desire to look anything of the sort,’ said Dad, but as he held the suit in front of his Zimmer frame a little light seemed to come on in his head.
‘I’ve seen a photo of the great author Mark Twain wearing a suit this colour,’ he said.
‘He’s not likely to come by, is he? It wouldn’t look good if you were wearing the same thing.’
‘Hardly likely,’ said Dad. ‘He died over a hundred years ago
.’ He began to laugh, and even though I didn’t find it the least bit funny, I joined in. Dad laughed louder, so I laughed louder, then Dad laughed louder still, so I laughed louder still, until it started getting a bit scary, at which point, thankfully, Dad threw his Zimmer frame aside and cried, ‘Damn it! I will wear it!’
Everything was perfect as Dad prepared to make his entrance. The living room was festooned with candles, and I really do mean festooned, because Mum had just taught me the word and I knew exactly what it meant. The Gypsy Kings seeped from the hi-fi, a bunch of roses (picked by me) decorated the dining table, while grapes, figs, almonds, tomatoes and oranges (picked by Thimble) bubbled away in the sausage sauce on the cooker.
With due ceremony, Dad descended the stairs into Mum’s line of vision.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘You look different, Douglas.’
‘It’s the new me,’ said Dad.
‘Very smart.’
‘You’re worth it,’ said Dad.
‘Do you think it’s a good idea to wear Serge’s suit?’
‘Don’t spoil it, darling,’ said Dad.
‘It’s just that … so many things have gone wrong on this holiday,’ said Mum.
‘Oh ye of little faith!’ cried Dad. ‘Nothing will go wrong tonight!’
‘Hmm,’ said Mum, ‘just make sure you wear a napkin.’
I gave a thumbs up to Thimble. ‘It’s going well, Thimbs,’ I said.
Thimble did not nod eagerly.
‘What’s the matter, Thimbs?’ I asked.
Thimble gave his head a little shake and withdrew his chin into his neck.
‘You’re not jealous, are you, Thimbs?’ I said.
Clearly I had hit the nail on the head. Thimble was so used to getting all the attention from Mum, while Dad was ignored, that this little romantic meal was a new experience to him. Ah well, I thought. He would have to get used to it. We had a meal to deliver.