Bad Dad

by David Walliams

  On Frank’s eleventh birthday, Dad bought his son a huge race-car set. The boy loved it.

  It was the best toy ever. Dad even painted one of the miniature Minis with a Union Jack so it looked just like Queenie. Together they would play with it late into the night, re-enacting Dad’s famous victories on the track.

  However, as much as he loved it, Frank worried where his father, who’d been unemployed now for a couple of years, had got the money from to buy it. Frank knew that very few children had toys like these. Race-car sets cost hundreds of pounds. And Dad didn’t have hundreds of pounds.

  Soon after Frank’s birthday, groups of hard-faced men started banging on the door of the flat.

  THUD! THUD! THUD!

  They would wave pieces of paper and bark about “unpaid debts”. Then they would push past Frank and force their way in. Once inside, the men would pick up anything they thought might be worth something, and march out with it. First it was the TV, then it was the sofa, then it was the boy’s bunk bed.

  One time Frank wouldn’t answer the door and they simply smashed it off its hinges. That day they took the toy race-car track.

  After these visits, Dad would become full of sorrow. A look of despair would cross his face, and he would sit in silence. Frank would do his best to cheer up his sad dad.

  “Don’t be down, Dad,” the boy would say. “I will get all our stuff back one day. I promise. When I’m grown up, I will become a racing driver just like you.”

  “Come here, son, and give us a huggle.”

  The pair would embrace, and everything would feel all right again. They may have been poor, but Frank never felt poor in his heart. The boy didn’t mind that his jumpers had so many holes in them they were more hole than jumper. He never cared that he had to carry his books to school in a plastic bag that always broke. Soon it became normal that they had just one working light bulb in the flat and they had to move it from room to room at night.

  That is because the boy had the best dad in the world. Or so he thought.

  One night over a dinner of cold baked beans in their cold flat, Dad made an announcement.

  “Everything is about to change.”

  A concerned look crossed Frank’s face. Despite having nothing, the boy liked things just the way they were. Dad rested his hand on his son’s shoulder.

  “It’s nothing to worry about, mate. Everything is about to change for the better.”

  “But how?”

  “Our life is about to change. I’ve got a job.”

  “Brilliant, Dad! I’m so happy for you!”

  “I’m happy too,” replied the man, though somehow he didn’t look it.

  “What’s the job?”

  “Driving.”

  “Banger racing?” asked Frank excitedly.

  “No,” said Dad. He gathered his thoughts. “But I will be driving fast. Very fast.”

  “Wow!” The boy’s eyes lit up like headlights on a motor car.

  “Yeah! Wow! And I will be earning money. Lots of money. We can get the TV back.”

  “The TV is boring. I like listening to all your racing stories.”

  “All right, then, mate, we can get the sofa back!”

  The boy thought for a moment. It wasn’t comfortable eating dinner sitting on a wooden crate. “I don’t mind the splinters in my bottom!”

  “Really?” asked Dad with a chuckle. As the man laughed, he rocked back and forth on the crate. “Ouch! I’ve got another one!”

  “Ha! Ha!”

  “All right, all right. I know what you really want back.”

  “What?”

  “Your race-car set.”

  The boy fell silent. He did miss that toy very much. “I guess, Dad.”

  “I’m really sorry they took that away, mate.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad.”

  Frank could tell something was up with his father – he just couldn’t tell what. What was this mysterious job?

  “So what will you be driving, Dad? Race cars?”

  “No, this is driving just as fast but on real roads.”

  “Ambulances?”

  “No.”

  “FIRE ENGINES?”

  “No.”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Not for the police?”

  Dad managed to nod and shake his head at the same time. “That sort of thing, yeah.”

  The boy’s brain braked. “Dad, what do you mean ‘that sort of thing’?”

  “Well, it’s TOP SECRET.”

  “TELL ME!” demanded the boy.

  “It wouldn’t be TOP SECRET if I told you!”

  “Well, it would be very nearly TOP SECRET.”

  “I can’t, mate. Sorry. But I am going to get paid. Big money. Really big money. And we are going to have stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. New trainers, toys, computer games, whatever you want.”

  Frank watched with concern as his dad’s eyes widened. It all sounded too good to be true.

  “But I don’t need lots of stuff, Dad. All I need is you.”

  This burst Dad’s balloon. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t you worry. I’ll be here. I ain’t going anywhere.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I promise, mate.”

  “And you aren’t going to get hurt?” asked the boy. The last thing he wanted was for his dad to lose his left leg.

  “Promise!” said Dad. He held up three fingers on his right hand. “Scout’s honour! Ha! Ha!”

  “You were never a Scout!”

  “It don’t matter. Now finish up those baked beans. I need you to go to bed!”

  Like all children in the world, Frank knew exactly what time his bedtime was and it wasn’t now. “But it’s not my bedtime yet!” he protested.

  “By the time you are ready for bed, it will be.”

  That logic, although sound, was deeply annoying. “Not fair! Why do I have to go to bed now?”

  “Auntie Flip will be here any minute to look after you.”

  “Oh no,” replied Frank.

  “Don’t be like that. She’s the only family we’ve got. And, best of all, she is always up for babysitting.”

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “I know that, mate.”

  “And why is it called ‘babysitting’? You mustn’t sit on a baby.”

  “Ha! Ha!” Dad laughed. “I dunno!”

  “Where are you going anyway?”

  “I just have to pop out for a meeting at the boozer.”

  “Can I come, Dad?”

  “NO!”

  “PLEASE?” pleaded the boy.

  “No! This is grown-ups’ stuff. Kids aren’t allowed down the boozer anyhow.”

  “But I want to come.”

  “Sorry, mate, you can’t. Now come on, give us a huggle.”

  Tonight the huggle was tighter than usual. Dad always held his son a little tighter when he was feeling worried about something. Frank wasn’t stupid. The boy knew something was up. He just didn’t know what. Yet.

  Auntie Flip wasn’t Frank’s aunt. She was Dad’s aunt. “Flip” was short for Philippa, and she prided herself on being from the posh side of the family, even though there wasn’t one. The lady had the smell of old books about her. That was probably because she was a librarian. Auntie Flip wore glasses with glass thicker than in a shark’s tank. Her idea of an evening’s entertainment was to bring a stack of her own unpublished poetry books over, and read them out loud to the boy.

  Auntie Flip had written many volumes of poetry:

  Frank hated poetry. Flip would read him her poems about clouds and gooseberries and rainy days and birdsong and talcum powder. For Frank, listening to them was torture.

  That night the boy was annoyed that he was left alone with the woman while his dad went out for his really exciting top-secret, couldn’t-even-tell-his-own-son meeting. Doing what he was told, Frank put his pyjamas on, and then popped his head round the door of the living room.

  “Goodnight, Auntie Flip!” he said quickly, before
turning to go.

  “Not yet it isn’t!” chirped the lady.

  “Sorry?”

  “As a very special treat, young man, I’m going to let you stay up late.”

  “COOL!” exclaimed the boy.

  “Yes! You can stay up late so I can read you some of my poetry.”

  This was definitely not cool.

  “I know how much you like it,” she said.

  “I’m really tired,” lied Frank, pretending to yawn, and he stretched his arms out for good measure.

  “You won’t be in a moment, young man, because I have a surprise for you! Do you like surprises?”

  “It depends. What is it?”

  “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise!” replied Auntie Flip.

  The boy thought for a moment. “Is it a poetry-based surprise?”

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “It was just a wild guess,” sighed Frank.

  The lady clicked open her handbag, and took out her leather-bound notebook. She held it in her hands as if it was a holy relic. Carefully she turned the first page.

  “The first one this evening is a poem I wrote about you, Frank.”

  Somehow the thought of a poem about himself made Frank squirm. It was a similar feeling of unease as the time when Frank ate some sausages in the school canteen that hadn’t been cooked properly and he had to run to the toilet as he could feel his bottom was about to explode.

  Auntie Flip started making strange sounds with her mouth. It was like the noise of a braying horse.

  Next she began making humming noises in an ear-achingly high-pitched tone. It was like someone running their fingers along the rim of a glass.

  Frank put his fingers in his ears. “Is this the poem?” he shouted over the din.

  Flip looked at the boy as if he was bonkers.

  “No! I am just warming up the voice! Right. I am ready. This one is entitled simply ‘Frank’, and it is by me.

  “My lovely little Frank,

  I want to say thank

  You for being you,

  The super-duper son

  Of my only nephew.

  You are a boy,

  Who spreads joy,

  Like a butterfly who dances on the breeze,

  Or a hummingbird singing in the trees,

  Or a dolphin leaping through the sea,

  Or a bee buzzing with another bee.

  You bring happiness to my heart,

  Like a freshly baked apple tart

  With lashings of piping-hot custard,

  Much nicer than adding some mustard.

  I know it is strange to mention mustard,

  But it is the only thing that rhymes with custard.

  Please, O Frank, don’t ever get old –

  Stay forever young and bold!

  So my poem draws to a close.

  One last thing: don’t pick your nose.”

  The lady’s eyes were glistening with tears at the sheer beauty of her own poem.

  “Well?” she asked, through sniffs. Her eyes searched Frank’s face for approval.

  “Well, what?” asked the boy.

  “Well, what did you think of your special poem?”

  “Mmm. I thought the poem was very…”

  “Yes?”

  Frank was old enough to know sometimes you have to tell a little lie to save other people’s feelings.

  “Poetic! It was a very poetic poem.”

  The lady was overjoyed. “Thank you so much! That is high praise. Any poet wants their poems to be poetic. So one down, ninety-nine to go.”

  “I need to go to bed!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I need to go to bed right now!”

  “How about I read to you ‘A Love of Mauve’?”

  “I would love to hear it, but…”

  “Or ‘Some Lines on My Foot Cheese’?”

  “I really couldn’t…”

  “You are going to adore ‘Ode to a Puddle’! Plop, plop, plop, the rain goes plop…”

  “NO! I mean… no.”

  The lady looked hurt. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

  “I mean thank you, but no. I just feel so emotional after listening to that beautiful one you wrote about me.”

  Auntie Flip nodded her head. “Of course! Of course. I forget the raw power of my verse. I bid you goodnight.” The lady opened her arms to give the boy a hug. Reluctantly the boy paced towards her. She always squeezed him too tight.

  “URGH!” said Frank, as he could feel the air being squashed out of him.

  “Sorry,” said Auntie Flip. “I am not good with hugs.”

  The lady had never been married, nor to Frank’s knowledge ever had a romance. He guessed she hadn’t had many hugs in her life.

  “Goodnight,” said the boy. “I am off to sleep now.”

  That was another lie.

  A big lie.

  Escaping from the flat was something Frank had done many times before. Years ago Frank would sneak past his mum every Saturday night to watch his father race.

  Back then it was easy. Frank would prop up his pillows on his bed under the duvet. That way if Mum bothered to get off the phone and poke her head round the door she would think her son was lying there fast asleep. Now there were no pillows, duvet or, indeed, bed.

  Since the hard-faced men had come, the boy had slept on an old Lilo that always deflated during the night like a long, slow trump.

  Frank had to come up with a new plan, and fast. If he was forced to listen to one more of Auntie Flip’s poems, there was a very real danger that he would spontaneously combust.

  The boy made a life-sized dummy of himself by stuffing scrunched-up newspapers into some old pyjamas. Next he placed the dummy on top of his Lilo.

  Finally, Frank had to pick his moment to make his escape out through the front door. From his bedroom he could hear that – surprise, surprise – Auntie Flip was composing a new poem in the living room. She was reciting it out loud as she wrote.

  “O tall proud tree,

  I see much of you in me,

  Although I don’t have leaves

  Or branches for that matter,

  And I am not made of wood,

  But other than that I could

  Be a tree. And, oh yes, I don’t have bark…

  “Oh dear, no, let me start again.

  “O tall proud tree…”

  The living room was at the end of the hall, so there was every chance Auntie Flip would see Frank if he tried to make a dash for the front door. After a short while, the boy could hear the lady shuffle down the corridor. This was his chance! Frank opened his bedroom door a tiny bit and put his eyeball up to the crack. Auntie Flip was closing the toilet door behind her.

  “Oh no! The debt collectors have taken the loo seat too!” Frank heard her exclaim. “I will have to hover.”

  There was no way of Frank knowing if it was a number one or a number two. How could he know? Such a thing was a private matter between Auntie Flip and Auntie Flip’s bottom.

  A number two could take a long time (for some people hours, even days*) whereas a number one could be over in seconds. So Frank scuttled across the floorboards as quickly as he could (the hard-faced men had taken the carpet too) towards the front door. There he planned to wait for the noise of the flush to cover his escape.

  DISASTER!

  The toilet door opened again.

  “I don’t believe it! No loo roll!” muttered Auntie Flip to herself.

  Frank was crouched in the hallway, but scuttled back to his bedroom just in time. With her bloomers still round her ankles Auntie Flip scampered sideways like a crab back to the living room.

  “Now, which poem can I sacrifice?” she asked herself. “They are all masterpieces. Let me see. Oh yes, can go!”

  The boy then heard a page being torn out of a book.

  Flip then scuttled back to the toilet and closed the door.

  Frank crawled back to the front door and waited f
or the sound of the toilet flush.

  Flip pulled the chain. But nothing happened.

  Again. Nothing.

  “Oh, goodness me! The chain’s snapped!” she exclaimed.

  The boy then heard effort noises coming from behind the toilet door. “I’ll just have to hook my bloomers over the lever.”

  Success!

  Frank opened the front door, and shut it behind him as quietly as he could.

  The lift was always broken in the block of flats, which was a pain when you lived on the ninety-ninth floor. Fortunately, Frank had devised a cool way of getting down the seemingly endless staircase. He’d found an old laundry basket, and with felt-tip pens had painted it with the colours of Queenie – red, white and blue. All he had to do was sit at the top of the staircase, and then let gravity take its course.

  In no time at all, Frank was speeding down the staircase, and pretending he was a real-life racing driver.

  The washing basket juddered as it hit each step. Frank had to hold on tight or he might be thrown out.

  Just as in a banger race, there were plenty of things to bash into. It was hard to steer a basket, but Frank did his best to lean left and right, narrowly missing:

  a broken-down washing machine…

  an uptured shopping trolley…

  a flock of pigeons…

  a TV that had been in…

  a delivery driver carrying a of pizzas…

  a crate of empty bottles…

  and a tiny old lady who was being dragged up the stairs by three little dogs

  One person was not so lucky. That was the local vicar, Reverend Judith. Unfortunately for her, Frank took a bend far too fast, and bashed slap-bang into the lady.

  “ARGH!” she cried as she shot up into the air.

  Look! A flying vicar!

  The lady did a somersault (her first) and landed on her bottom.