Bad Dad

by David Walliams

  “But, Dad—”

  “Please, mate, I know what I’m doing. You saw how I drove tonight.”

  “I had my eyes closed through a lot of it.”

  “Well, I can still drive just like the old days.”

  “I know. But whatever it is they want you to do, please don’t. I don’t want you to go to prison, or get killed. The accident was bad enough. I’m scared, Dad. Really scared.”

  Frank wrapped his arms round his father’s neck, and pressed his head into his chest. He couldn’t help but sob. The sobbing went from son to father in no time. Tears ran down the man’s face. He was in a terrible situation. Mr Big and his gang had threatened the person he loved more than anyone else in the whole world – his son. If Dad didn’t do what they said, goodness knows what they would do to Frank.

  “Come on, mate, don’t cry,” said Dad as he gently stroked his son’s hair like he had since Frank was a baby.

  “You’ve always been my hero, Dad. Please, please, I beg you. Don’t do it.” The boy lifted his chin and looked into his father’s eyes.

  The man couldn’t bear seeing his son like this.

  “Well, if that is how you feel, then I won’t do it.”

  “Really?” asked Frank.

  “Really,” replied Dad.

  A smile crept across the boy’s face. “Promise?”

  “Promise,” replied Dad. “I’ll find another way to pay off the money.”

  “You can always sell my Lilo, Dad,” offered the boy. “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

  Somehow this made Dad even sadder than before.

  “You are such a sweet boy,” replied the man, his eyes glistening with tears. “Now give us a huggle, and go to sleep.”

  They wrapped their arms round each other.

  “OK, Dad. I will,” said the boy.

  “Good lad.”

  With that Dad got up and turned to go. His son called after him.

  “Dad?”

  “Yep?”

  “Whatever happens, you’ll always be my hero.”

  The man said nothing, and closed the bedroom door behind him.

  BRRRING! went the doorbell.

  It was early the next morning, and Frank stumbled down the hallway still half asleep. Looking through the frosted glass in the door, the boy could make out a white flash of dog collar and a larger of teeth. It was Reverend Judith. A word you could use to describe her was “toothy”.

  The trick with the local vicar was not to let her into your home. If you did let the lady in, nice though she was, you would never be able to get rid of her. Most days the vicar could be found knocking on the doors of the flats, armed with posters she wanted you to put up in your window for jumble sales or cake mornings or Sunday school. Sometimes she would rattle a tin to collect coins for a new church roof, which was in dire need of replacing. Every day the vicar would stuff a new leaflet through the letterbox. She would dream up more and more bizarre ways to encourage people to come to church.

  “Lovely to see you again, young Frank,” said Reverend Judith with a big as Frank opened the front door to her.

  “I am sorry I bumped into you!” replied the boy.

  “It is I who should be apologising. I into you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry. May I come in?” asked the vicar. Her face settled into an expression of a dog begging for a bone.

  “In?” asked the boy.

  “Yes, in.”

  “As in… in here?”

  “Yes, as in in there.”

  “As in in the flat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, if it’s convenient.”

  Dad called out from his bedroom. “Who rang the bell?”

  “The vicar!” called back Frank.

  “Oh no!” replied Dad. “Whatever you do, don’t let that blasted woman in!”

  Reverend Judith’s face dropped. She now looked like a dog that had been abandoned on the side of a road.

  Frank attempted a supportive smile. “Dad, she’s standing at the door.”

  “Well, whatever you do, don’t open it!”

  “It’s already open.”

  There was an awkward silence for a moment.

  “Has she heard everything I just said?”

  Frank looked to Reverend Judith for confirmation. The lady nodded.

  “Yes,” replied the boy.

  Dad down the hallway in his vest and pants, attaching his wooden leg as he went.

  “Reverend Judith!” he announced cheerfully. “What a lovely surprise. How super to see you! What are you standing at the door for? Come in! Come in!”

  “Thank you, thank you. I do like to pop around and see as many of my parishioners as possible,” said Reverend Judith as she followed the pair into the kitchen.

  “Cup of tea, Vicar?” asked Dad.

  “Yes, please. That is very kind. Milk and two sugars.”

  “Make our guest a cup of tea, will you, mate?”

  “Yes, Dad,” replied Frank.

  Making a cup of tea wasn’t an easy task in this household. The kettle had been taken away by the hard-faced men, and the family were too poor to afford tea bags or milk.

  “So, Vicar, what can we do for you this fine morning?” asked Dad.

  “Well, as I’m sure you know, it’s Father’s Day on Sunday, and I was planning something rather special at the church…”

  One used tea bag was kept on the side of the sink to be used again and again and again. Now it was looking rather pale, as the tea bag was all bag and no tea.

  “…and I wondered if you and your son might like to come up to the front of the church and perform something for the congregation.”

  Frank was listening to this as he placed the sorry-looking tea bag into a chipped and handle-less mug, and filled it with hot water from the tap.

  “What do you mean, ‘perform’?” asked Dad, a note of panic in his voice. He hadn’t been to church since he was a child, and the thought filled him with dread.

  “It could be anything, really. Doing a Bible reading, playing the church organ, singing a duet, performing a modern dance piece, reciting a poem.”

  Frank glanced back at his dad, who had now gone as pale as the tea Frank was making.

  “Well, I’m not much of a poet,” replied Dad. “My Auntie Flip is the poet in the family.”

  “Splendid!” exclaimed the vicar. “You can read one of hers.”

  “What?” Somehow Dad had agreed to something he’d not agreed to.

  Meanwhile, Frank had added some dried-up yoghurt that had been on the wall many years ago into the cup for the milk. As for the sugar, the boy had been forced to improvise with a half-chewed toffee that had been stuck to the kitchen floor for some time. He plopped it in, hoping the lukewarm water would dissolve it.

  It didn’t.

  With some trepidation, Frank handed the cup of tea (if indeed it could be called that) to the vicar. Reverend Judith peered down into the the boy had created. It looked like bath water left behind by an ogre. She took a sip. Her nostrils flared, her eyes and her face went a shocking shade of green. Somehow she managed to swallow a mouthful of the Foul liquid.

  Frank smiled to himself. He was rather enjoying this. “More tea, Vicar?”

  “Oh bother, is that the time?” announced

  Reverend Judith, pretending to check her watch, even though she wasn’t wearing one. “I must be going, so I’m sorry I won’t be able to finish my delicious tea. I look forward to seeing you both bright and early at the church on Sunday morning with your poem!”

  Dad nodded his head, and tried to force a smile that just wouldn’t come.

  As the front door closed, Dad looked down at the worst cup of tea that had ever been made in the history of the world ever.

  “Well done, mate – that cup of tea got rid of her.”

  “What about Sunday morning?” asked Frank.
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  “What about it?”

  “You said you were going to church to read a poem.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Well, you never said you weren’t going to church to read a poem.”

  “Well, no, but…”

  “No buts. You can’t let the vicar down.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, because, because… she’s a nice lady.”

  “If she’s so nice, why did you try to poison the old girl with that tea?” joked Dad.

  Frank was annoyed with his father, and didn’t want to laugh. But he couldn’t help himself.

  “Ha! Ha!”

  On seeing his son burst into laughter, Dad shouted, “GOTCHA!”

  “I thought those skiddy pants of yours would have been enough to frighten her away!” said Frank.

  The man did not look pleased that his underpants, which he’d washed only last month, had been described as skiddy. He sat up to inspect them.

  “Whose pants are you calling—? Oh dear.”

  “Look, Dad. Let’s go to church on Sunday. Just this once. It’s Father’s Day, after all. You aren’t doing anything, are you?”

  “Sunday morning. No, no, no. No plans.”

  “Then I better call Auntie Flip, so she can get to work on a special poem for Father’s Day.”

  “Yes. I can’t wait,” replied Dad in a tone that suggested he’d be more than happy to wait for all eternity.

  There was no telephone in the flat. The line had been cut off years ago because the bill hadn’t been paid. Dad was too poor to own a mobile phone, so if they needed to make a call they had to go to a telephone box. The only problem was they didn’t have any coins in the house. Fortunately, Frank knew where they could get some.

  In the local park stood an old well. People used it as a wishing well, throwing coins down in the hope of a dream coming true. Frank and his father had thrown coins down there many times before. The boy had wished for lots of different things over the years. When he was little, he would wish for toys for his birthday. It was cars mainly, model cars, wind-up cars, pedal cars, Lego cars, remote-controlled cars. Once he even wished for his own life-size car. That was a wish too far. However, since the accident, Frank only wished for things for his father.

  These days Frank and his dad used the wishing well a little like a bank. They’d put coins in over the years (a deposit); now they needed to take some out (a withdrawal). It was just a shame no one ever put bank notes down. Still, there would be enough money in there to make a phone call, and if Frank was lucky he might even have a few coins left over to buy sweets.

  As father and son entered the park, they saw that the Rolls-Royce-sized hole in the fence was being examined by a bemused-looking park-keeper.

  “Morning!” called out Dad in his chirpiest voice.

  The pair hurried on to the middle of the park where the wishing well stood. First they both took a good look around to check that the coast was clear. It was early on Saturday morning, and the town was still waking up, so there weren’t many people about. Next Dad unscrewed his leg, and leaned over, upside down, into the well, hooking himself in place with his remaining foot. Frank then clambered down his dad as if he was a climbing frame, and from the wooden leg that Dad gripped tight in his hand. That way they could reach the bottom of the well.

  “Are you low enough, mate?” called down Dad. His words echoed in the blackness.

  “Yes, Dad!”

  The boy rolled up his shirtsleeve and skimmed his hand across the bottom of the well. When he was sure he had a large handful of coins, he called, “OK, Dad. I got some. Hoist me up!”

  “I am sorry we have to get money this way.”

  “I don’t mind, Dad.”

  “This is the last time, mate.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the boy.

  But before the man could reply, the pair heard a booming voice shouting down the well.

  “WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING DOWN THERE?!”

  The shock meant Dad lost his grip, and he and the boy tumbled down into the cold water below.

  “ARGH!”

  “Huh! Huh! Huh!” came the voice from the top of the well.

  At the bottom stood Frank and his father, both knee-deep in well-water. Dad knew who it was without looking up. He’d’ve recognised that snigger anywhere. It was the local policeman, Sergeant Scoff.

  “Well, well, well.

  Who have we here?”

  The policeman knew exactly who he had here. He’d been making Dad’s life a misery for years. Scoff had it in for the man, and was always accusing him of petty crimes on the estate just because he was unemployed.

  “Oh, hello, Constable,” called up Dad.

  “It’s Sergeant!” bellowed the policeman. His rank was very important to him. Not being the smartest officer on the beat, he’d waited ten long years to progress from constable to sergeant, and he wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from him. “Sergeant! Sergeant Scoff! Got it?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” replied Dad.

  “That’s better. Gilbert Goodie! I should have known it was you. The one-legged layabout. The uni-ped idler. The stumpy skiver. Stealing coins from a wishing well now, are we? You couldn’t make it up!”

  The policeman puffed out his chest, and patted down his hair, which he wore in an outrageous comb-over. Scoff wanted to look his absolute best for the golden moment when he got to arrest someone. The man cleared his throat, like an actor about to walk on to a stage. “I hereby arrest thee for thy crime of coin theft from the aforementioned well of wishes.”

  “No,” said Dad. “You can’t arrest me! That’s not what I was doing at all.”

  “Huh! Huh! Huh!”

  There was that irritating laugh again.

  “Well, then I would love to know what you are doing down there.”

  Dad looked to his son. His mind was blank.

  “Dad’s leg fell off,” Frank called up, thinking fast.

  “Did it?” whispered Dad.

  “Yes. It fell off. We were across the park and Dad’s wooden leg just fell off.”

  The policeman was far from convinced.

  “Huh! Huh! Huh!” So the leg just fell off, and then, as if by magic, flew through the air and happened to plunge down a well, did it? A likely story! Huh! Huh! Huh!”

  The way Sergeant Scoff put it, the story did seem highly unlikely.

  “No, of course not,” agreed the boy.

  “Where are you going with this, mate?” whispered Dad.

  “A dog ran off with the leg!” continued Frank.

  “It must have thought it was a stick. They’re both made of wood. And then the dog dropped it down here.”

  “Did it really?” called the policeman.

  “Yes,” agreed Dad. “And I hope you can find the owner and give them and that pesky dog a stern ticking-off. Now, for goodness’ sake, Sergeant Scoff, please can you help us out of here?”

  The policeman sighed wearily, and reached his arm down the well.

  Frank climbed on to his father’s shoulders, and Sergeant Scoff pulled the boy up. Getting Dad and his leg out was going to be a great deal harder, but the boy had a smart idea.

  “Sergeant Scoff, sir?” said Frank.

  “Yes, child?”

  “We could use your trousers as a rope.”

  “MY TROUSERS?” thundered the policeman.

  “Yes, sir. If you would be kind enough to whip them off, I can lower them down.”

  “But then everyone in the park would see me in my pants!” the policeman shouted. This was madness!

  “If they did, they’d see you as a hero, sir, who rescued a one-legged man from drowning in a well!”

  “You might even get a promotion!” shouted up Dad, filling his pockets with coins.

  The policeman pondered for a moment. He gazed into the distance, a look of pride on his face. “Will you make me a promise?” asked Sergeant Scoff.

  “Yes,” replied the boy
.

  “Will you promise to tell absolutely everyone about this? Get a petition going around the town to award me a medal of bravery, and give it to the chief superintendent?”

  “You might get a whole chestful!” said the boy.

  Without hesitation, the man began unbuttoning his trousers and slipped them off.

  “DON’T WORRY, SIR!” shouted the policeman in the hope that people in the park would hear him. “I, Sergeant Scoff, Will Save Thy Life With The Help Of Mine Own Trousers!”

  Together he and Frank lowered the trousers down the well to pull the man out.

  “There I, A Humble Police Sergeant, Have Saved A Uni-Ped From Certain Death!” announced the policeman.

  “Thank you,” said Dad, smiling sideways at his son for persuading this man, who’d made his life a misery, to help them.

  Sitting in their wet clothes on the side of the well, Dad began reattaching his wooden leg.

  Sergeant Scoff studied the false limb closely, like a master detective. “Mmm. I can’t see any bite marks.”

  “No,” replied Frank, thinking fast. “The dog didn’t have any teeth.”

  “A dog with no teeth?” asked the man, incredulous.

  “It should make it easier for you to track the animal down,” added Dad. “You don’t want any more incidents in this town of a dog making off with people’s false legs. Could become a crime wave.”

  “No,” replied the policeman. “We certainly don’t want any more incidents of canine-based prosthetic-limb theft,” he added, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

  “If you don’t mind, we have a very important date with a sweet shop,” said Dad. “Come along, mate.” The man put his arm round his son’s shoulders and led him off.

  After a few steps, the policeman called after them: “I will be watching you, Gilbert Goodie!”

  Without breaking his stride, Dad threw a reply over his shoulder. “That is nice to know, Constable.”

  “SERGEANT!” bellowed the policeman, standing in the middle of the park in his underpants.

  Father and son shared a secret smile as they headed out of the gate. Frank noticed that, apart from his jingling pockets, Dad also had something stuffed up his jumper.