Jacqueline Wilson's Happy Holidays

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘I really don’t think you ought to eat quite so much chocolate, dear,’ said Mum. ‘It’s really not very good for you. Hasn’t your mother tried to put you on a diet?’

  Biscuits’ eyes popped in horror.

  ‘My – mum – says – I – need – to – eat – lots – to – keep – my – strength – up!’ he gasped.

  ‘Yes, dear, but it’s being so heavy that makes you so out of breath,’ said Mum.

  ‘Now, now, leave the lad alone. It’s not really any of our business,’ said Dad. ‘Come and look at this fantastic view.’

  ‘I don’t want to go too near the edge, it makes me feel so dizzy,’ said Mum. ‘Don’t you go near the edge either, boys.’

  I didn’t want to go right to the edge of the parapet. I didn’t mind at all looking up but I knew exactly what it would feel like looking down. I went a bit wobbly just thinking about it.

  ‘It’s – perfectly – safe,’ said Biscuits, his voice stronger now. He pulled a face at my mum’s back. I hesitated. Then I pulled one too. We both giggled.

  ‘She doesn’t half flap, your mum,’ Biscuits whispered.

  ‘Yes, I know. Flap, flap, flap,’ I said.

  It felt such fun to whisper about my mum – but my heart had started to thump.

  Biscuits raised his big arms and flapped them. I flapped mine too.

  Mum turned round, hanging on to Dad.

  ‘What are you two up to?’ she called, looking at our rotating arms.

  ‘We’re just pretending to fly, Mum, that’s all,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Come on, let’s peer over,’ said Biscuits.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ I said.

  ‘Look, I didn’t want to clamber up all those millions and millions of steps so that I practically had a heart attack. But I did. Because you wanted to climb the castle. It’s stupid to get right up here and then not even look out. Come on. I want to. So it’s only fair that you come too.’

  I didn’t want to let him down. I knew he was still miffed at my mum. I didn’t want him to be miffed at me too. So I took his great plump paw and let him drag me towards the edge of the parapet. It came up to my chin but when I glimpsed the ground far below, the crumbling bricks seemed only ankle height. One small step and I’d be walking into thin air, tumbling down down down to the distant grey slabs below.

  I gave a little gasp and shut my eyes tight.

  ‘Wow!’ said Biscuits. ‘You can see for Mega-Miles, even in the rain. OK, so there’s the sea. Which little bay is Llanpistyll? And what about Abercoch? Is it that way – or that?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I mumbled, pretending to be peering. I had my hands up near my closed eyes so Biscuits wouldn’t suss anything.

  ‘And can you see that other castle? It’s huge! It’s got two towers! And a proper drawbridge and a real moat!’ said Biscuits.

  ‘Where?’ I said, opening my eyes. I held on to the edge of the parapet so hard my knuckles nearly sprang straight out of my skin. ‘I can’t see any castle!’

  ‘Funny! Neither can I, now,’ said Biscuits, grinning. ‘Must have been a mirage. Still – got you looking, didn’t it?’

  I stuck my tongue out at him. It wasn’t quite so scary now that I was getting used to looking. I liked seeing all the wiggly wavy edges of the coast, just like the maps you do at school. It was weird having an eagle-eye view of the world. I stared at the mustard and cress forests, the saucer-size lake, the pencil spire of the tiny toy church, the little matchbox caravan sites until my eyes watered.

  I started to enjoy looking across.

  I still wasn’t so keen on looking directly down. But old Biscuits was leaning right over.

  ‘Careful, Biscuits!’ I said, grabbing him.

  ‘I’m OK. Don’t you start flapping now. Here, what’s that jutting out bit with the hole? Is that where they poured boiling oil on the invading army?’

  I bent my head, my blood pounding. I saw what Biscuits was looking at and laughed wildly.

  ‘No, but it would work almost as well! That’s their toilet! They’d do it and it would splash right down so if you were walking about underneath it could land right on your head.’

  ‘Yuck!’

  We started miming the whole process.

  ‘What on earth are you two boys up to now?’ Mum called. ‘Why are you rubbing your hair like that, Tim?’

  ‘Oh, I’m just getting a bit wet, that’s all,’ I said.

  ‘Well, let’s go back down and get in the car,’ said Mum. ‘I wonder if there are any toilets nearby? Tim? Biscuits? What are you two boys laughing at now?’

  We found the public toilets – modern version – and then got back in the car and did another little scenic tour. Biscuits casually mentioned chocolate once or twice but Mum said it was too near lunchtime.

  We drove to Abercoch. It was only drizzling now so we walked along the seafront and had fish and chips out of a packet, all of us sitting on the wet wall. Mum made us put newspaper down first so that we wouldn’t get piles. That made us remember this seriously awful sneery-jeery show-off at the adventure holiday place called Giles – only Biscuits called him Piles.

  Mum and Dad had take-away cups of tea and we had ice lollies, and then we went for a walk towards the old broken-down pier.

  There was a white wooden kiosk near the entrance with all sorts of painted magic symbols round the door and a sign that said GYPSY ROSE, FORTUNE-TELLER TO THE STARS.

  ‘Ooh look,’ said Mum. ‘I’ve always wanted to have my fortune told.’

  ‘Don’t be so wet,’ said Dad. ‘It’s all a complete con.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Mum. ‘You don’t know anything about it. Tim, shall I have my fortune told?’

  ‘Ooh yes, Mum! Can I have my fortune done too?’

  ‘No dear, it’s only for grown-ups.’

  ‘You don’t want to waste your money,’ said Dad.

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Mum.

  ‘She’ll just tell you some old rubbish about a romantic encounter with a handsome stranger,’ said Dad.

  ‘That sounds good to me,’ said Mum, knocking at the little wooden door. ‘Keep an eye on the boys while I’m in here.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, can’t we come and watch?’ I said.

  But we had to trail after Dad onto the pier. I hung back.

  ‘What’s up, Tim?’ said Biscuits. ‘Look, I’ll tell your fortune if you like.’ He pulled his T-shirt off and tied it round his head like a gypsy scarf. ‘Give me your hand, young man. Aah, what’s this I see? An encounter with an ugly stranger – one with prickly hair and big boots!’

  ‘I hope not!’ I said, snatching my hand away – even though I knew he was just larking around.

  ‘Come on, you two,’ Dad called to us. ‘Biscuits, put your T-shirt on, it’s hardly sunbathing weather. And what’s up with you, Tim?’

  ‘I don’t like the pier,’ I mumbled.

  ‘What?’ said Dad. ‘What are you on about? Let’s go and see if the lads fishing have caught anything.’

  ‘I don’t think much of this pier either,’ Biscuits said. ‘It’s all old and boring. Only one ice-cream stall. They haven’t got any doughnuts or rock or burger bars.’

  ‘Yes, rotten old pier,’ I said, though I didn’t care about the lack of food stalls.

  I didn’t like the pier itself. I worried about the way the wooden planks were seldom perfectly slotted together. You could see through the gaps down to the frothy grey sea underneath. Some of the planks looked really old, as if they’d splinter as soon as you stepped on them.

  I tried to work out the width of the plank and the width of me. It was fine for someone big like Biscuits. But I’m seriously skinny. I could quite possibly go plummeting downwards to my death. Well, I can swim a bit so maybe I wouldn’t drown immediately. But I knew there are all sorts of dangerous currents under piers. Even very strong swimmers could be sucked straight under.

  ‘Why are you walking in that funny way?’ asked Biscuits.

 
‘Oh, I – I’m just playing that don’t-step-on-the-cracks-game,’ I said quickly.

  I didn’t want to tell Biscuits I was scared of the pier. He’d start to think me the wimpiest wimp ever. He already knew I was scared of heights. And the boy with the prickly hair. (Well, we were both a bit scared of him.)

  Dad had hurried over to the boys fishing. Biscuits followed. I sidled over, stepping high, holding my breath.

  ‘Maybe we could try a bit of fishing, boys,’ Dad said eagerly.

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Biscuits. ‘Fishing is the sort of sport I like best. You don’t rush about. You just sit. And you can eat your fish after!’

  I wasn’t so sure. I didn’t like the idea of being on the pier for ages, especially not perched right at the edge, by the railings.

  One of the boys stiffened and hauled in his line.

  ‘He’s got one! A real whopper!’ said Dad. We edged nearer to watch. It was a big mistake. A great gasping wriggling pop-eyed fish flapped in the air as it was reeled in. The boy seized it and tore the bait from its mouth, ripping it horribly.

  ‘Oh!’ I whispered, covering my own lips.

  It got a lot worse. The fish was flopping about frantically, its poor torn mouth an O of agony. The boy held on hard and took aim. I thought he had taken pity on the fish and was going to throw it into the sea. No. He took the gasping fish and whacked its head hard on the wooden planks. The fish stopped flapping. It lay still, a grey slimy sad dead thing.

  I felt the fish I’d eaten for lunch flapping inside my tummy. There was a Gents near the end of the pier. I made a run for it, forgetting about the creaking planks in this new emergency. I made it into a cubicle – just. I was very very sick. It was horrible – but it made me feel better too. I didn’t want any fish inside me ever again.

  Biscuits was waiting for me when I came out.

  ‘Have you been sick?’ he asked rather unnecessarily.

  ‘Mmm,’ I said, and rinsed my mouth out.

  ‘I’m hardly ever sick,’ said Biscuits. ‘You must feel horribly empty now. Would you like a biscuit?’ He felt in his pocket.

  ‘No thanks!’ I said quickly.

  ‘Come and get a bit of fresh air. It’s all pongy in here,’ said Biscuits.

  I must have looked as grey as the poor fish because Biscuits put his arm round me.

  ‘You’ll feel better in a minute,’ he said, very kindly.

  Then we heard a horrible noise from the very end of the pier. Jeering. And then silly juicy kissy noises.

  ‘Ooh! Look at the little Mummy’s boys have a cuddle-wuddle!’

  It was Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face, sitting up on the railing at the end of the pier, right beside a sign saying DANGER. The sign was Dead Accurate.

  Biscuits sprang away from me as if I was red hot. I certainly felt fiery, blood bubbling in my head like a jacuzzi.

  ‘Let’s go, Biscuits,’ I said urgently, starting to back away.

  ‘Biscuits! What sort of a daft poncey name is that?’ said Prickle-Head.

  ‘It’s a nickname, right?’ said Biscuits. He added, bravely but unwisely, ‘Yours is a lot dafter.’

  ‘So what’s my nickname, eh?’ said Prickle-Head, jumping off the railing and standing in front of Biscuits. Pinch-Face copied him, hands on hips, legs wide apart.

  I looked round desperately. Dad was still halfway down the pier, talking to the fishermen.

  ‘Looking for Mumsie-Wumsie to come rushing to the rescue?’ said Prickle-Head.

  ‘Ooooh dear. She’s not around this time, is she? Shame! So, Fatso Big-Bum Biscuits – what’s my nickname, eh?’

  Biscuits opened his mouth. I knew he was going to come straight out with it. Prickle-Head. Prickle-Head would not be amused. He had his great Doc Martens on. Biscuits was as round as a football. It looked like he was going to get kicked.

  ‘Your nickname’s The Boss,’ I blurted out. Biscuits blinked, astonished.

  Prickle-Head looked surprised too.

  ‘The Boss?’ he repeated slowly, seeking out hidden insulting meanings.

  ‘Yes, we call you The Boss because you’re obviously boss of all the beach,’ I said.

  Prickle-Head sniggered, obviously dead chuffed with his new nickname.

  ‘OK, OK, so I’m The Boss,’ he said. ‘Check that out, Ricky.’

  ‘Right, Carl,’ said Pinch-Face.

  ‘Right, Boss,’ said Prickle-Head. Then he turned to me. ‘What’s your nickname then, if your tubby pal is Biscuits? Are you Little Squirt?’

  Pinch-Face snorted.

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘Yes, that’s me. I’m Little Squirt.’

  ‘Little Squirt and Biscuits,’ Prickle-Head repeated. Pinch-Face snorted so enthusiastically that a bubble blew out of his nose.

  ‘So, Biscuits,’ said Prickle-Head. ‘You like them, do you? Biscuits?’

  ‘Yeah, I like them,’ said Biscuits.

  ‘Got any biscuits on you, then? How about sharing them round?’ said Prickle-Head.

  ‘Sorry. I’ve eaten my last one,’ said Biscuits. Then he added, so stupidly, ‘And I wouldn’t share them with you anyway.’

  ‘You don’t want to share your yummy Yoyos and wicked Wagon Wheels and heavenly Hob Nobs?’ said Prickle-Head, tutting in a very ominous way. ‘Well, we’ll see about that. Go through the Fat Boy’s pockets, Ricky. They’re bulging with biscuits.’

  ‘You keep your dirty hands off me,’ said Biscuits, clenching his fists.

  ‘Give them your biscuits, Biscuits. We’ll get you some more later,’ I hissed urgently. ‘Don’t try to fight them. You won’t win.’

  I was right. Biscuits hit out but he didn’t manage to connect with anything. Prickle-Head kicked out and Biscuits doubled up, Pinch-Face pinioned his arms behind his back and pulled him upright.

  I wanted to help him. I really did. But I didn’t know how.

  And I didn’t want to get hurt.

  Prickle-Head started poking in Biscuits’ pockets. He found biscuits, sweets, chocolate, even a few crushed crisps.

  ‘You greedy pig! You’ve got a whole corner shop stuffed down your trousers!’ Prickle-Head yelled. He gave a last rootle and pulled out something squashed down right at the bottom of Biscuits’ pocket. Something woolly.

  ‘What on earth . . .? Is this your little woolly cardi, Mummy’s boy?’ said Prickle-Head, shaking the strange pinky-grey object.

  It sprouted floppy arms and legs. We were all looking at Dog Hog.

  ‘It’s a cuddly toy!’ Prickle-Head shouted, hardly able to believe his luck.

  Pinch-Face shrieked with glee.

  Biscuits turned lobster red, as if he were being painfully boiled.

  He tried to snatch Dog Hog back but Pinch-Face held him helpless.

  I dithered on the edge, desperate. I craned round. Dad was still with the fishermen, examining their bait.

  ‘Dad!’ I yelled. ‘Dad, come here!’

  But it was windy on the pier. My voice only carried a few metres. Dad didn’t hear me.

  ‘Shut up, Little Squirt,’ said Prickle-Head. ‘Daddy’s not coming and old Mumsie’s gone missing. Oh boohoo, they want Mummy! Do you need a cuddle with your woolly whatsit, Fat-Bum?’

  Prickle-Head dangled Dog Hog in front of Biscuits.

  ‘What is it, anyway? It’s all long and pink. Hey, is it a woolly willy?’

  Pinch-Face squealed.

  ‘Yes, tut, tut, a woolly willy. You don’t want to play with a dirty old thing like that,’ said Prickle-Head. He suddenly darted to the railings. He leaned over, holding Dog Hog between his finger and thumb.

  ‘Don’t!’ Biscuits yelled.

  ‘He’s only pretending, Biscuits,’ I said. ‘Dad! Dad! Look, I’ll run for Dad, right?’

  ‘Too late, Little Squirt,’ said Prickle-Head, and he dropped Dog Hog over the side.

  ‘Wheeeeee – splosh!’ said Prickle-Head, and then he ran off laughing, his big boots thundering on the wooden planks. Pinch-Face ran after him, punching the air. />
  Biscuits and I rushed to the railings. He’d really dropped Dog Hog but not in the sea. There was a rotting landing stage directly below, and poor Dog Hog lay spread-eagled on it, splashed by the lapping sea.

  Biscuits didn’t hesitate. He seized the railings and swung his leg over.

  ‘Biscuits! Don’t be crazy! You can’t! It’s far too dangerous!’ I yelled.

  ‘I’ve got to get Dog Hog. I’ve had him since I was a baby. My nan knitted him.’

  ‘Then she could knit you another one, Biscuits. Oh please, don’t!’

  ‘She can’t knit another one. She’s dead now. I have to get him, Tim,’ said Biscuits, and he started climbing down determinedly.

  ‘Biscuits! You might fall! Please don’t. Wait for my dad,’ I begged.

  ‘I can’t wait,’ Biscuits gasped, and then his foot slipped on the wet railing and he was left hanging by his hands.

  ‘Biscuits!’

  Biscuits held on, got his feet back on the bar below, gave himself a second’s breather, and then started feeling for the next bar – and the next – and the next. I hung over the pier, not daring to talk to him any more in case I distracted him. He went down and down – nearly slipped again, hung on – down and down – and then he jumped for it. He was there, on the landing stage!

  It creaked ominously as he bounded onto it, as if it might break up altogether under his weight.

  ‘Oh, be careful, Biscuits!’ I whispered. Biscuits seized Dog Hog, held him briefly for one moment, and then stuffed him very firmly far down into his trouser pocket.

  ‘There, I’ve got him!’ said Biscuits. ‘Now all I’ve got to do is get back.’

  He looked up. He blinked.

  ‘Ah. The thing is . . . how am I going to get back?’ Biscuits said.

  ‘I’ll have to get Dad!’ I shouted.

  ‘Are you calling me, Tim?’ It was Dad, suddenly right beside me. ‘What is it? Where’s Biscuits?’

  ‘Down there!’ I said, pointing.

  ‘What?’ Dad peered. ‘Oh my goodness! Hang on, son. I’ll come down.’

  ‘No. I’ll come up,’ said Biscuits, and he spat on his palms determinedly. He seized the first bar and hauled.

  ‘That’s it!’ said Dad. ‘Now the next!’