And I have to tell Grandma.
Who tells Eric’s dad, who, it turns out, is really good at scrubbing deckchairs.
‘Remind me why we’re doing this,’ says Jacob, managing a steady warm hand-dryer heat over the parasols that Eric and his dad have scrubbed ready for steaming.
‘Because we want to win the Best Beach contest,’ says Eric.
‘But I thought we didn’t want to win.’ Jacob’s eyes flash red as he adds heat to Eric’s fine spray of water and steams another pile of parasols.
‘Mr Fogg wants to win,’ says Eric patiently, ‘but we don’t want the big businesses to take over the town. We need to make the beach inspectors think that everything’s perfect, but make life uncomfortable for the international conglomerates.’
Which gives me a brilliant idea.
‘Have we washed everything?’ I say.
‘Well, apart from that lot over there.’ Eric points at a last pile of chairs, flexing under a large tarpaulin.
‘Fine, job well done,’ says Grandma, opening up a thermos and pouring everyone a slightly blobby paper cup of hot chocolate. ‘Almost there, chaps.’
‘I’ll clean up the last few,’ I say, ‘if Eric will stay. You take Mr Fogg home, Grandma – we’ll finish up.’
Grandma gives me a hard stare. ‘If you’re sure, Tom.’
‘I’m sure,’ I say.
‘I’m sure too,’ says Jacob. ‘Beddy-byes for meeeeee. Night, all.’ And he wanders off the beach up towards the town, sending little sparks from his feet as he walks.
Grandma takes Mr Fogg by the elbow. ‘Come on, Albert, get yourself a few hours’ sleep before the crowds arrive.’
‘What crowds?’ says Mr Fogg. ‘No one’ll come after all this chaos – will they?’
‘They’ll come,’ says Grandma reassuringly. ‘Don’t you worry.’
‘If you think so.’ Mr Fogg shakes his head. ‘And I can’t believe all that steam – how did we get all that steam?’ He looks puzzled.
‘Well, Albert …’ I hear Grandma making up stories to explain Jacob’s and Eric’s powers as she and Mr Fogg stagger over the sands towards the steps. ‘It’s like this …’
‘What are we doing with these, Tom?’ asks Eric, pointing at the chairs left in the heap.
‘This,’ I say, forming an O with my finger and thumb, and taking a sighting on them.
Click.
The tiny chairs and tarpaulin lie in the palm of my hand, snapping and wriggling.
Eric peers over my shoulder, looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. ‘What exactly do you have in mind?’
The first strip of dawn light hovers in the east as we scuttle along the promenade towards the Royal Hotel.
‘It was what you said about making life uncomfortable for the international conglomerates.’
‘Yes?’
We stop at the back of the hotel. ‘You were absolutely right. That’s what we need to do, so that’s what we are doing. Open the door.’
Eric tugs at the door handle as if he’s expecting it to bite him and we stand in the opening looking in at the kitchen. The lights are on, and pots and pans are simmering, but it appears to be empty.
‘Go on,’ I say, gripping the deckchairs tightly in my hands.
‘But aren’t we trespassing?’
‘This is an emergency. We’re allowed to trespass,’ I say, tiptoeing past him into the kitchen. We pause, listening by spitting pans full of bacon. ‘I can’t hear anyone – let’s go on to the hall.’
‘Really?’ Eric’s gone snot-pale.
The huge hallway is empty except for a vacuum cleaner and a radio playing quietly in the corner. There’s another sound, a kind of whispering, rubbing sound and I realise it’s Eric shaking, his springs of hair trembling against each other.
‘Bung one over there somewhere,’ I say, nodding towards the receptionist’s desk.
In the same way that you would pick up a crab, Eric takes a single deckchair from my hand and places it in the desk drawer.
He lets out a silly little giggle and clamps his fingers over his mouth. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Where next?’
We slip into the housekeeping room and drop three more in the trolleys that chambermaids use to clean up rooms.
‘And one in here,’ says Eric, dropping one in the umbrella stand.
Finally, as we sneak out of the kitchen, we slip one more in the scrambled eggs and another in the cereal.
Eric beams as we step out into the street. ‘That’s the naughtiest thing I’ve ever done,’ he says, grinning and clapping his hands. ‘I loved it.’
I open my hand. ‘We’ve still got these,’ I say, looking at six more deckchairs and a parasol. ‘If you want to do some more?’
‘Marigold’s,’ he says. ‘Didn’t Mr Fogg say there was a burger chain interested?’
The streets are still empty and the seagulls are setting out for a day’s squawking as we head down the quay towards the boat-booking kiosk.
A fisherman nods to us as we saunter along the harbour wall. He doesn’t look at us for long – he’s too busy mending his nets – so we’re able to get really close to the Marigold Tours boats.
It takes no more than a minute to drop three deckchairs on each boat and the parasol into a cabin and then step away.
‘Right,’ says Eric. ‘Is that it then?’
‘Yes – let’s go home, get some sleep and meet again in a few hours.’
I don’t get anything like as much sleep as I need.
‘You are failing in your duty as a brother!’ Tilly bellows, slamming my bedroom door open and kicking my carefully constructed model of the International Space Station out of the window.
‘Hey!’ I shout, trying to wake up and protect myself against more damage.
‘Well, you are – you’re pathetic.’ Six months’ collection of bottle tops follows the ISS into the garden. ‘You haven’t made them stop!’
She stares at me, her hair wild, her hands on hips.
I can’t summon the words, so Tilly goes on.
‘They’re compounding it. They’re making it worse – she’s running with HIM!’ She points in the general direction of Eric’s house. ‘And Dad –’ Tilly pinches her face into a dismal on-the-edge-of-tears frown – ‘I can’t bear another day at school with him there.’ She sits on my bed and does a long drawn-out sob.
I think she’s forgotten that it’s me – that I don’t fall for this stuff.
‘Um,’ I say in the end.
‘Tom,’ she says pitifully. ‘Save me.’ She melts towards me, laying her head very close to mine. Snuggling up, her hair lying across my pillow. Our cheeks touch.
I open my mouth to say something profound and comforting, nearly say something mean and from the heart, and decide that probably the best policy is to say nothing at all.
Only then do I remember she still has head lice.
26
Good Old Jacob
Bleary-eyed and immediately itchy, I stumble through breakfast with Mum and Dad and then stagger on down to the beach.
I expect to meet Grandma on the way but there’s no sign of her.
The deckchairs are looking perfect. Well, almost perfect. There’s a faint aroma of charcoal and one or two darkened struts, but they’re pretty good all the same.
Mr Fogg is sitting under his parasol sipping tea, and a lone family has set up camp and is building the first sandcastle of the day.
It is the picture of happy beachness. Except that there’s hardly anyone there.
‘Mornin’, Tom,’ says Mr Fogg.
‘Morning, Mr Fogg – are the inspectors here yet?’
Mr Fogg looks at his watch. ‘Due any minute now.’ And right on cue three people dressed in a most unbeachy way arrive at the top of the steps. A pointy woman with pointy glasses and pointy shoes, flanked by two men in grey suits: one carrying a camera, the other a picnic hamper.
I sit with Mr Fogg under the umbrella and watch.
Another famil
y drifts onto the beach. I recognise them; they’re local.
‘It’ll be in the papers today,’ Mr Fogg mutters. ‘No one’ll come. You’ll see.’
For an agonising half hour, sun beats down on the sand and the inspectors sit in deckchairs surrounded by acres of space.
‘Perhaps it’s really good that it’s empty,’ I say.
Mr Fogg shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so.’
We watch the inspectors take samples of sand and water, examine the beach toilets, and then home in on the two families.
They’re just approaching the second family when Eric arrives and joins us under the brolly. ‘Not many people,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say, watching the embarrassing exchange between the inspectors and the people on the beach.
‘Never gonna win it – end of my career here and we’ll never win the prize.’ Mr Fogg lets out a long sad sigh.
And then something wonderful happens.
As if someone’s turned on a tap, family after family stream down the steps. Soon most of the available sand is replaced by towels and buckets and spades, and within minutes, the sea teems with splashing toddlers and children on inflatables.
‘Can we hire a pedalo?’ Petra Boyle rushes up to me holding out a five-pound note.
‘Er – yes,’ I say, pulling one from against the wall and heaving it down to the sea.
Eric hires out another one, and soon we’ve run out.
As the last beach volleyball set goes, Jacob arrives, ice cream in hand. ‘Wotcha – how’s it going?’
‘See for yourself,’ I say, scratching my head. ‘Have a good night’s sleep?’
‘Yes and no – your gran had me busy from six this morning.’ Jacob pulls a smug face. He knows something I don’t and he knows it’s annoying.
‘What did she have you busy doing, may I ask?’ says Eric, asking the question I want to ask, but don’t want Jacob to know that I want to ask – if you see what I mean.
‘Leafleting,’ he says. ‘An ordinary job for someone with such superior powers as myself, but, as she said – vital to the well-being of the town.’ The smugness is almost suffocating.
‘Oh?’ says Eric. ‘What were the leaflets for?’
‘Here’s one,’ says Jacob, pulling a scrumpled piece of paper from his pocket.
FREE ENTRY TO THE MODEL VILLAGE AND A FREE ROUND OF CRAZY GOLF FOR EVERYONE WHO GETS THIS STAMPED ON THE BEACH ON SATURDAY – AMALTHEA PERKS.
‘Flip!’ I say.
‘Wow,’ says Eric. ‘Wow and wow to the wow squared.’
‘Good old Grandma,’ I say, and feel about 100% good. And then I remember Dad and Mum and Tilly and feel about 78% good.
‘And good old me,’ says Jacob.
‘Of course,’ says Eric. ‘Good old Jacob.’
27
Scrambled Egg (2)
We stamp leaflets for a while, and then Mr Fogg takes over, so we wander up to buy an ice cream. It’s sunny but not blazing. Perfect really.
‘We got the beach sorted,’ says Jacob.
‘Hmm,’ says Eric. ‘Just the small matter of the mayor then.’
Which is when the fire brigade appear outside the Royal Hotel and everyone pours out through the doors.
‘Awful … rodents everywhere … even the cereal.’
‘Look at my silk pyjamas – ruined …’
‘And rats in the wiring. It’s the last straw. I’m off!’
They trail out, suitcases and dressing gowns in hand, as the firemen trail in.
Eric’s cheeks flush red, his forehead remains white and his hair springs up and down. ‘Oh dear, what have we done?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, feeling 35% sick, and wondering if we haven’t done something totally dreadful. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘What is it?’ asks Jacob. ‘What’s wrong?’
More people leave, and the manager comes out to remonstrate with a large woman who hits him with her wheelie suitcase, and everyone cheers.
‘Oh no,’ says Eric. ‘She should be hitting us.’
‘Hmm,’ I say – now feeling 55% sick.
‘Have you done something wrong, Snot Face?’ asks Jacob, a grin spreading across his face.
‘Um,’ says Eric in reply.
The revolving door at the front of the hotel whizzes into hyper spin and a man in cook’s overalls rushes out clutching the scrambled-egg tray – ‘Arghghghghgh!’ he screams, dropping it in the middle of the road. Even from this distance I can make out a little deckchair snapping and stirring in the egg. ‘It’s alive! It’s alive!’ he shouts.
The crowd recoils and a fireman rushes forward with a gigantic hose pouring a huge amount of water in a tiny amount of time. The water ricochets from the pan, spraying anyone anywhere nearby with wet globs of scrambled egg.
‘Oh dear,’ says Eric again as the mayor arrives on a bicycle, unslept and unwashed, his eyes wide, shouting, ‘Come back, come back. You must come back.’
Half-heartedly I try to convince Eric that it’s for the greater good as we turn our backs on the chaos outside the Royal Hotel.
‘It means that the hotel won’t be bought up and go all horrible,’ I say.
‘But the poor people,’ says Eric. ‘How awful to be attacked in your bed by a rampant deckchair.’
Jacob laughs. ‘Wish I’d seen it,’ he says, picking scrambled egg from his shorts.
‘NO, NO and thrice NO!’ comes a shout from along the harbour.
It’s Marigold, of Marigold Tours.
‘NO, I will not sell it to you for almost nothing.’ She’s shouting at a man in a black suit with a yellow sun hat. ‘That is an insult to the years I’ve spent building up the business. You can take a hike!’
I can’t hear what the man says, but Marigold looks thunderous. ‘There is nothing wrong with my boat – I have thousands of passengers every year!’
A small crowd gathers to watch.
‘I think they’ve found the other deckchairs,’ says Eric. ‘Poor Marigold.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, watching the ship’s captain shovelling a dustpan load of deckchairs over the side into the harbour.
‘Tom!’
I look round. Albert Fogg is hauling himself up the steps from the beach.
‘Here,’ I say.
‘Tom – have you seen the mayor? It’s just that the beach people want to talk to him.’ Mr Fogg looks very excited. ‘I think, between you and me, that it might be in the bag.’
But we can’t find the mayor. He was last seen outside the Royal Hotel. We go to knock on his front door, but the door’s open wide and everything’s gone.
‘He’s done a runner,’ says Jacob with great authority.
Which is probably exactly what he has done.
‘What?’ says Albert Fogg when we tell him. ‘He can’t have – they can’t present the prize without a mayor! Oh no, it’s a calamity.’ Mr Fogg sinks to the sand, plunging his head between his hands and a long tear escapes from his tiny hidden eyes.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Give us a minute. It’s not a calamity, it’s an opportunity.’
28
VOTE!
We convince Cheerful Charlie to entertain the judges with a slap-up lunch in the café.
‘Just for an hour or two – please? For Mr Fogg?’
‘I can’t make it last that long – I do fast food.’
‘Try doing slow food,’ says Eric. ‘It’s healthier.’
‘Right,’ I say outside the café, ‘we’ve got to run an election in two hours.’
Jacob blows a bubblegum bubble that pops all over his face. ‘Easy-peasy, not,’ he says.
‘It was going to happen anyway,’ I say. ‘On Tuesday. We’ve just got to get the polling booths open and the people into them.’
‘Do you think Mr Fogg has a megaphone?’ asks Eric.
‘You ask, and I’ll run and get Mum,’ I say.
‘What shall I do?’ asks Jacob, picking bubblegum from his eyebrow.
I look at hi
m. ‘I don’t know. Whatever you feel you could do most helpfully.’
Jacob stares at me. Slow tumbleweed thoughts roll across behind his eyes.
‘I’ll go and buy some sweets,’ he says.
‘This is all very exciting,’ says Mum.
‘Yes,’ says Eric’s dad, who is wearing his best Hawaiian shirt and mismatched lime-green trousers. ‘It is.’ He doesn’t actually look as if it’s very exciting. He looks as if he’d rather be digging a deep hole somewhere.
‘And,’ says Mum, ‘you’re bound to win, Colin.’
‘Am I?’ He looks round in astonishment.
‘Well, yes,’ says Mum. ‘I was running against you, and now I’m your vice mayor, and the old mayor has gone. So you’re the only candidate.’
‘We still have to get enough votes to make it legal though,’ I say, repeating something Eric said, which makes me sound wiser than I feel.
‘I’ll get on the phone to the town clerk,’ says Mum. ‘Come on, Colin, let’s get down to the town hall and get it going. Tom, you and your friends get the voters out.’
I run faster than I can down towards the beach, where Eric’s voice is booming from the sand and echoing along the seafront.
‘Ladies, gentlemen and offspring,’ he announces through Mr Fogg’s megaphone. ‘Bywater-by-Sea may possibly have won the Best Beach award – BUT we cannot claim it without an incumbent mayor so we need your votes – go to the town hall, please, now! Was that all right, Tom?’
He startles the seagulls into flight and makes toddlers cry.
‘Yes, fine,’ I say, watching the first people leaving their families on the beach to trail up to the town hall. ‘Let’s try it in the harbour too.’
Dogs bark at us, and a small boy tries to stick an orange in the front of the megaphone as we announce the election in the harbour.
‘Could you go and vote please today, if it’s not too much trouble, so that we can win the Best Beach contest? That would be really helpful.’
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