Thimble Holiday Havoc

by Jon Blake

  And what a meal it was! Sausages in red wine sauce. … oven chips … more oven chips … and not forgetting, a few more oven chips! Mum’s eyes were bulging as Thimble and I brought out the trays of food. Thimble obviously thought it looked appetising as well, since he drew up a third chair, sat himself on it, and tucked a napkin into his shirt.

  ‘Just Thimble’s idea of a joke,’ I said, dragging him back into the kitchen. But Thimble was not laughing as Dad made a little joke of his own and Mum patted his hand. They really were getting on! Mum once told me of a time when she quite liked Dad, before he became all bitter and twisted, so maybe the romantic meal had brought those days back.

  ‘It’s making me hungry watching them eat,’ I said.

  Thimble dug into his pocket and produced a sausage.

  ‘Wha – where did that come from?’ I asked.

  Thimble pointed at me.

  ‘I never gave you that sausage,’ I said. ‘You ate the sausage I gave you.’

  Thimble grinned.

  ‘Thimble,’ I said, ‘you did eat the sausage I gave you, didn’t you?’

  Thimble’s grin widened.

  ‘I saw it in your mouth!’ I said.

  Thimble mimed spitting something out.

  ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘But you were the guinea pig!’

  Anyone who has read Thimble, Monkey Superstar, in which Thimble was accused of being a hamster, will understand how confusing Thimble found this. But I was more concerned about Mum and Dad. They hadn’t dropped dead yet, but according to my favourite book, 1001 Gruesome Diseases, some forms of food poisoning took weeks to develop.

  I suppose I could have said something as we took out the sweet course, but the evening was going so well, and besides, I had to stop Thimble trying to make a threesome again. I practically had to carry him back to the kitchen, and as Mum and Dad started spoon-feeding each other ice cream, he was literally green with jealousy. Well, not literally green, because that would mean he had gone like the Incredible Hulk and actually was green, which would be quite a scary thought.

  Luckily Thimble seemed to calm down when Mum went off to the toilet, so I took the opportunity to search the cupboards for the coffee cups, but turning my back on Thimble proved to be a grave mistake. When I looked round he was back in the dining room, right behind Dad, though Dad was nodding his head to the Gypsy Kings and didn’t seem to be aware of this.

  Tentatively, Thimble put a hand on Dad’s shoulder.

  ‘That’s nice, darling,’ said Dad.

  Should I say something, I wondered?

  Dad put his own hand over Thimble’s and gently stroked his fingers.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said.

  I really should say something, I thought.

  ‘We’ve been together a long time,’ said Dad.

  I’ll just listen a little longer, I thought, then I’ll say something.

  ‘I think it’s about time,’ said Dad, ‘to put a ring on that finger.’

  At this point Mum reappeared from the toilet. After a moment of complete befuddlement, Dad’s head turned, slowly and fearfully, in search of who or what he had been petting.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ he cried. ‘Thimble!’ Dad’s hand shot back like a bolt, smashing a glass of wine all over the front of his perfect white suit. He leapt up, not realising he had tucked the tablecloth into his collar instead of the napkin, and brought the whole contents of the dinner table crashing to the floor. Then he rushed to the toilet, past a gobsmacked Mum, and started swilling great handfuls of liquid soap and water into his mouth.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Got to clean my mouth!’ garbled Dad. ‘I’ve just proposed to a monkey!’

  Mum laughed heartily. ‘Did he accept?’ she said.

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter!’ cried Dad.

  ‘Oh, Douglas,’ said Mum, ‘stop being so pompous.’

  Dad stamped his foot. ‘I am not being pompous!’

  ‘Now you’re being childish,’ said Mum.

  ‘Am not!’ said Dad.

  ‘You really are,’ said Mum.

  Dad clamped his hands over his ears. ‘La, la, la! Can’t hear you!’

  ‘Come on then, Thimble,’ said Mum. ‘I’ll have the coffee course with you.’

  ‘Will not!’ said Dad. He snatched the candle from the table, then stormed round the room, uprooting all the other candles before throwing the lot in the waste bin.

  ‘I’m afraid your dad’s had too much wine,’ said Mum.

  ‘I have not had too much wine!’ snapped Dad. ‘I’ve had too much of THAT MONKEY!’

  With those words Dad pulled on his coat and marched out into the night, slamming the door so hard the dining-room clock fell from the wall and smashed into pieces.

  ‘Not more damage,’ said Mum.

  Thimble picked up the biggest remaining bit of clock and offered it hopefully to her.

  ‘Thank you, Thimble,’ said Mum.

  ‘Do you still want coffee, Mum?’ I asked.

  Mum gave a deep sigh. ‘No, we’d better go after him,’ she said.

  ‘What about Thimble?’ I asked.

  ‘Perhaps Thimble could tidy up,’ suggested Mum.

  ‘Can you do that, Thimble?’ I asked.

  Thimble nodded eagerly.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I said.

  We found Dad a few hundred metres down the road. He was gazing into someone’s garden.

  ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘Gnomes. I never knew the French had gnomes.’

  ‘That’s the internet for you,’ I replied.

  ‘Reminds me of the house I grew up in,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘From the outside, maybe,’ said Dad.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I whispered to Mum. ‘He’s going off on one again.’

  ‘Isn’t it strange,’ said Dad, ‘how enticing and homely houses look, from the outside.’

  ‘Which reminds me,’ I said. ‘We’d better be getting back. Thimble will be getting anxious.’

  ‘You’ve left Thimble on his own?’ said Dad, suddenly snapping out of his dream world.

  ‘Relax, Dad,’ I replied. ‘Everything that could go wrong on this holiday has already happened.’

  ‘With any luck,’ said Mum, ‘Thimble will have tidied up by now, so we can go back and finish our lovely meal.’

  ‘Just us?’ asked Dad. ‘No monkey?’

  ‘Just us, Douglas,’ said Mum.

  Mum offered her elbow and Dad dutifully linked into it. We wandered back up the road, feeling pleasantly calm. As we approached the house, we could see Thimble through the window, busily preparing the room for Dad’s return.

  ‘Oh, isn’t that sweet?’ said Mum. ‘He’s put out candles again.’

  ‘Candles?’ replied Dad. ‘But there were no more candles.’

  ‘Look,’ said Mum. ‘The room’s full of them.’

  I looked. Every table, dresser, sideboard and shelf was decorated. Big, reddybrown candles. Big, reddy-brown candles, gathered into bunches of seven, with one long wick to each bunch.

  Yikes!

  I can run pretty fast when I need to, and at this moment I sure did need to. My hope was that Thimble had not lit any of the fuses, but sadly Thimble saw my arrival as the signal to do just that. He looked on in delight as the fuse fizzed like a sparkler.

  ‘Blow it out, Thimble!’ I cried.

  Thimble grinned amiably, thinking this was a little joke.

  ‘Forget it, Thimble!’ I cried. ‘RUN!’

  I grabbed Thimble’s arm and legged it, arriving panic-stricken in the garden and encouraging Mum and Dad also to run at their earliest convenience. Fortunately they were convinced by the cold sweat on my face and together we fled the garden and threw ourselves flat to the ground. There was the most almighty KER-BOOM, followed by what sounded like a hundred more KER-BOOMS, and finally the sound of tinkling glass and falling masonry. When at last all was quiet I plucked up the courage to view
what was left of 33, Rue de Fou, only to discover that the answer, basically, was a pile of rubble.

  Mum and Dad appeared alongside me. Mum had a look of extreme weariness while Dad didn’t really have any expression at all. He picked up two pieces of drainpipe and half-heartedly tried to fit them together.

  ‘Let’s look at the positives,’ I suggested.

  ‘Positives?’ mumbled Dad.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, brightly. ‘For example, we’re still alive.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Dad, ‘even though life is no longer worth living.’

  ‘Maybe we could rebuild it.’

  ‘Life?’ said Dad.

  ‘The house,’ I replied. ‘Well, maybe not the whole house, but at least a bit of it. Like … a shed! Yes, that’s it, a shed! Somewhere for them to come in out of the rain.’

  ‘It hardly ever rains here,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s true,’ I replied. ‘Maybe they don’t need a shed. Or even a house.’

  Mum’s phone made a noise. ‘I’ve had a text,’ she said. ‘From Serge and Colette.’

  Mum read the text. ‘They’ve broken a mug,’ she said. ‘They want to know if they should replace it or just leave the money.’

  ‘I hope it’s not World’s Best Dad,’ said Dad.

  ‘Maybe you could text them back,’ I suggested, ‘and break to them gently what’s happened.’

  ‘And how do you suggest I do that?’ said Mum.

  ‘You could say, that we’ve got some good news and some bad news. Er … what could be the good news?’

  ‘We’ve had a lovely holiday?’ suggested Mum.

  ‘That’s it,’ I replied. ‘The good news is, we’ve had a lovely holiday in your house. But the bad news is, we won’t be having another one … because there is no house.’

  Mum and Dad did not look impressed.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘We’ll get Thimble to break it to them. It won’t seem so bad coming from a monkey. What’s “we’ve blown your home to kingdom come” in sign language?’

  ‘Jams,’ said Mum, ‘be quiet. People are coming.’

  It was true. Folk were emerging from every house on Rue de Fou. Something like a lynch mob was heading towards us.

  ‘We’ll just tell them the monkey did it,’ said Dad.

  ‘No!’ I cried. ‘They’ll skin him alive!’

  ‘Better than skinning us alive,’ said Dad.

  I seized Thimble and hid him behind my back. ‘I’ll protect you, Thimbs,’ I said.

  The mob arrived at the gates. As they stood and stared, Dad’s fear was replaced by annoyance.

  ‘Seen enough?’ he cried. ‘Why don’t you take a picture?’

  Clearly most of the neighbours could speak English, because they immediately took out their mobiles and began snapping away.

  ‘Did you do this?’ asked a red-faced woman.

  ‘It was the monkey,’ replied Dad.

  ‘The monkey!’ cried the English-speaking people.

  ‘Le singe!’ cried the others.

  ‘He didn’t mean it!’ I cried. ‘He found this dynamite, and thought it was candles, and…’

  My voice was drowned out in a sea of cheers. ‘Three cheers for the monkey!’ cried the English-speaking people. ‘Vive le singe!’ cried the others.

  ‘Eh?’ said Dad.

  The crowd broke through the gates, moved me aside, and lifted Thimble onto their shoulders.

  ‘This monkey,’ said the red-faced woman, ‘is a hero!’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Mum.

  ‘For years we have lived in fear of this family,’ said the woman. ‘Now we will be rid of them forever!’

  ‘You’ve lived in fear of Serge and Colette?’ asked Mum.

  The woman looked blank. ‘This is not the house of Serge and Colette,’ she said. ‘This is the house of notorious criminals, the Viborgs!’

  ‘Eh?’ said Dad.

  The woman pointed next door. ‘That is the house of Serge and Colette,’ she said.

  Mum looked at me. ‘Whose job was it to remember the right number, Jams?’ she asked.

  ‘Er … how old are you, Mum?’ I asked. Those with a long memory may realise how I’d messed up, but what did that matter now? Serge and Colette’s house was in perfect order, and we were the toast of Blingville!

  ‘And now,’ said the red-faced woman, ‘we shall take you all to town and buy you the biggest feast you can eat!’

  The crowd cheered, but Dad suddenly held his stomach. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I feel a bit…’

  Uh-oh. Was this the revenge of the sausages?

  ‘BLE-U-RRRRRCH!’ went Dad, and up came the dinner I’d lovingly cooked, in chunky soup form, all down his front. There was a gasp from the crowd, but Dad actually started laughing. ‘This,’ he burbled, ‘is Mr Viborg’s best suit!’

  The crowd went wild. ‘You are a funny man!’ someone shouted.

  Dad looked delighted. ‘That’s right! I am funny! You must read my books!’

  Needless to say everyone was fascinated to hear about Dad’s books and insisted he sent over a crate of them when we got back to Britain, so that they could make him as famous in France as he claimed to be back home. So I mentioned that I was also a writer, and they were even more interested in me, and lifted me up on their shoulders alongside my greatest pal. Someone found Dad some nice clean clothes, then Mum and Dad lined up on either side and together we set off down the street, heading for the feast of our lives. All our trials were forgotten, and once again life was a wonderful place, thanks to the one and only Thimble Monkey Superstar.

  Praise for Thimble Monkey Superstar

  ‘An absolutely hilarious story, deservedly shortlisted for the Lollies, Laugh Out Loud Book Awards. This is an imaginative tale,with sharp one liners and a truly batty adventure which is still making me giggle!’

  Zoe James-Williams, South Wales Evening Post

  ‘Madcap humour, corny one-liners and ludicrous situations abound in this light-hearted chapter book… The illustrations are suitably wild and wacky and the short, snappy text make this an accessible and fast-paced adventure.’

  BookTrust

  ‘It’s very funny and the text positively bristles with jokes and snappy one-liners, the butt of most of them being Jams’ hapless dad. Nicely divided into satisfying chapters and full of Martin Chatterton’s wonderful bug-eyed illustrations, this is easy and addictive reading.’

  Andrea Reece, Lovereading4kids

  ‘A charming and funny book. We really enjoyed the exploits of the mischievous and fiendishly clever monkey.’

  Toppsta review

  ‘This book is a must.’

  Toppsta review

  ‘A funny, delightful book.’

  Boyd Clack

  ‘It was really refreshing to have a main character with a disability – doesn’t happen very often. I think it’ s a great book for all children!’

  Toppsta review

  ‘Jams is awesome – he’s smart, he’s strong and he’s funny. We loved Thimble – my son has told me he would love to have a pet monkey too!’

  Toppsta review

  ‘Thimble Monkey Superstar is hilarious … this is a truly engaging book, full of hilarious slapstick episodes which invariably end with egg on Dad’s face.’

  Family Bookworms

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jon Blake lives in Cardiff with his partner and two young children. He qualified as a teacher in 1979. His first story was published in 1984; since then he has earned his living as a writer of books, TV and radio scripts, and as a teacher of creative writing. Previous books include the bestselling You’re a Hero Daley B, Stinky Fingers’ House of Fun and The Last Free Cat. His first Thimble book, Thimble Monkey Superstar was published in 2016. It was selected for the Summer Reading Challenge and shortlisted for the Lollies 2017 Laugh out Loud Book Awards.

  Martin Chatterton’s own books include Monster and Chips (OUP) and some of the Middle School books with James Patterson, a
nd he has illustrated many, many books in the UK and Australia, including stories by Julia Donaldson and Tony Bradman.

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in 2017

  by Firefly Press

  25 Gabalfa Road, Llandaff North,

  Cardiff, CF14 2JJ

  www.fireflypress.co.uk

  Text © Jon Blake

  Illustrations © Martin Chatterton

  The author and illustrator assert their moral right to be identified as author and illustrator in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781910080665

  ebook ISBN 9781910080672

  This book has been published with the support of the Welsh Books Council.

  Design by: Claire Brisley

  Printed and bound by: PULSIO SARL