Bad Dad

by David Walliams

  “We took it back to the shop,” said Frank.

  “Why?” asked the lady.

  “It was off,” replied Dad.

  “We should have guessed!” continued Frank. “It was on special offer. But I’m sure Raj could sell it as cheese.”

  Flip looked at them both quizzically. The lady knew something was up, but what exactly? She stuffed her handkerchief back up her sleeve and glanced at her watch.

  “Oh dear. Is that the time? We’d better get going.”

  “Where?” asked Dad.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve both forgotten!”

  Dad and Frank looked at each other. After the drama of the night they had indeed forgotten. But what exactly had they forgotten?

  “Sorry, yes, we have actually forgotten,” said Frank.

  “Church, of course!” exclaimed Flip.

  “Oh yes. Church!” said Dad, trying to sound a little bit excited and failing miserably.

  “Happy Father’s Day, Dad.”

  “Thank you, mate.”

  Auntie Flip looked on with a proud smile. “Beautiful! And don’t fret – I have written a special Father’s Day poem for you to read to the entire congregation.”

  Father and son shared a pained look.

  “Welcome, welcome and thrice welcome!” said Reverend Judith as Frank, Dad and Auntie Flip entered the church, soaked from the thunderstorm still raging outside. “I hope I will be able to find you three seats together. Do you want to sit together?”

  “If we possibly can,” said Auntie Flip.

  Frank looked around the church. It was bursting with… chairs. Empty chairs. Sadly, the ever-eager Reverend Judith had not been able to conjure up many worshippers, even though it was Father’s Day. There was just one old dear sitting halfway back, her faulty hearing aid letting off a high-pitched whistle.

  “This way, please,” said Reverend Judith as she guided the trio to the front of the church.

  As they passed the old dear, she shouted out, “When’s the tea and biscuits, Vicar? I was promised tea and biscuits.”

  “Tea and biscuits will be served straight after the service,” replied the vicar with a smile.

  “I’ll come back in an hour, then,” said the old dear, and she got up and walked out of the church.

  Poor Reverend Judith tried to hide her disappointment, and carried on guiding her congregation of three to their seats. “These three here all right for you?”

  “Perfect, thank you,” replied Flip. “And may I say you are looking lovely today.”

  “Why, thank you,” said the vicar, taken aback.

  “Have you done something to your hair?”

  “I just ran a comb through it,” shrugged the vicar.

  “Well, it looks delightful.”

  “How delightful of you to say so.”

  Auntie Flip and the vicar shared bashful grins. Frank had never witnessed his babysitter behave like this before.

  “Dad!” the boy whispered into his father’s ear.

  “Yes?”

  “What’s going on between those two?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Neither had ever given much thought to Auntie Flip’s love life before.

  “Shush!” shushed Auntie Flip. “Please be mindful of the rest of the congregation.”

  “There’s nobody here!” protested the boy.

  “This is a church! They are here in spirit,” replied Auntie Flip. “Carry on, Vicar!”

  “Thank you, Flip!” As soon as she began her welcome speech, rain poured from the roof on to her, as if someone had turned on a tap. Judith tried to avoid it by moving, but every time she did she managed to find an even worse spot. The vicar hadn’t been lying all these years: the roof was in dire need of repair.

  “Welcome, one and all, to this special Father’s Day service. It is super to see so many new faces here today.”

  Frank looked around to see if anyone else had come in. They hadn’t. By “so many” she must have meant “two”.

  “Now, to begin today I want to ask one particular father and son to join me at the altar to read their special Father’s Day poem to the rest of the congregation.”

  With heavy hearts, father and son went up to the altar, and turned round to face the sea of empty chairs.

  “‘Father’s Day’, by Auntie Flip,” began the boy.

  “I love you, Daddy, I really do.”

  Rain poured from the roof on to the boy’s head as Dad took over for his part.

  “And I love you, son, I really do.

  The day you were born I was so happy,

  Even though I had to change your nappy.”

  Dad had been looking smug that he’d not been getting soaked. However, suddenly the rain came through the roof with such force it was as if a bucket of water was being emptied over his head.

  “I always made sure I deposited a gift for you,

  A number one or a number two.”

  Just then the doors at the back of the church swung open.

  CREAK!

  In marched Sergeant Scoff, who took a seat at the front.

  Father and son looked at each other nervously. What was he doing here? They tried to carry on as if nothing was wrong. If they’d thought the poem couldn’t get any worse, they were mistaken.

  “Looking at you would always make me dotty,

  Your eyes, your toes, even your little botty,”

  continued Dad.

  The doors swung open again.

  CREAK!

  This time, in marched police officer after police officer after police officer. They took their helmets off because they were in a church, then instantly put them on again to avoid the water leaking from the roof.

  Frank glanced across to Reverend Judith, who was beaming to see her church filling up. With some hesitation the boy continued with the poem.

  “Darling Daddy, you are the best…”

  But before he could read the next line Sergeant Scoff jumped in with glee.

  “No, he’s not – he’s under arrest!”

  The police had found the getaway car in the field. The rain had washed most of the yellow paint off the Mini to reveal the Union Jack underneath. There was no doubt that the car was Queenie. This led the police to their prime suspect, the car’s owner, Gilbert Goodie. The man was arrested in church, charged at the police station and then locked up in prison. Weeks passed, until the day of the trial arrived. It came as no surprise that Dad was found…

  “GUILTY!” The head of the jury announced their verdict.

  All eyes in the courtroom then turned to Judge Pillar. The unsmiling old man was seated front and centre on what looked like a throne. He was draped in red robes with a strange old-fashioned wig plonked on his head. As he was the one on trial, Dad was standing in the dock. A smug-looking Sergeant Scoff was at his side, guarding him. Downstairs in the courtroom sat the jury, lawyers, court clerks and police officers. Upstairs in the gallery sat various onlookers, including Frank and Auntie Flip. A few rows behind them sat Fingers and Thumbs. Frank guessed Mr Big must have sent them to report back on everything.

  “Mr Goodie, the jury has found you guilty as charged. May I add that I am extremely disappointed in you,” continued Judge Pillar. “You have a young son, yet you involve yourself in the world of organised crime. Robbing a bank no less! Stealing half a million pounds! Money, I might add, that has never been recovered. You must know where the money is hidden, and yet, Mr Goodie, you refuse to inform the police. You must have had accomplices, but you will not name them. This no doubt is the criminals’ code of honour.”

  Frank looked over his shoulder at Fingers and Thumbs, who smiled at the boy menacingly.

  “For any decent, law-abiding citizen, there is no honour in this. None at all. You are a bad man, Mr Goodie. And, worst of all, a bad dad. A very bad dad.”

  That hit Gilbert like a ton of bricks. He looked over to his son with tears in his eyes, as the judge announced the sentence. “Gilbert Goodie, I
sentence you to ten years in prison!”

  “DAD!” shouted Frank as his father was led away in handcuffs by Sergeant Scoff. “NO!” The boy was sobbing. He would be a grown-up by the time his dad was let out of prison.

  “I’m so sorry, mate!” called Dad. “Please take care of him, Auntie Flip!”

  “I will!” called the lady as she took out her lace handkerchief from up her sleeve to dab the boy’s eyes. “Don’t cry, Frank. I will look after you.”

  “I just want my dad,” sniffed the boy.

  “I know. I know. I’m sorry I’m not your dad. But we’ll just have to make the best of it all somehow. Now come along.”

  Auntie Flip took Frank’s hand and led him out of the courtroom, but their path was blocked by Fingers and Thumbs.

  “Excuse us!” said the lady, but the pair wouldn’t budge.

  “It’s a good job your daddy didn’t squeal,” said Fingers. “Who knows what might have happened to you? Or to him, in prison.”

  “Me six brothers are all in the nick,” announced Thumbs.

  “You must be so proud,” said Auntie Flip. “Now, please get out of the way.”

  Still the pair blocked their path.

  “Who are you?” demanded Flip.

  “We are friends of the boy’s father,” replied Fingers.

  “They are not friends!” said Frank. “They are the ones who got him in this awful mess.”

  Fingers put one of his long, thin fingers to his lips. “Be careful what you say.”

  “Just let us go!” said the boy, trying and failing to push past the two henchmen.

  “Don’t be in such a rush, boy. We come bearing an invitation,” said Fingers. “Mr Big has a proposition for you. He would like you to come over to the house.”

  “I said never!” said the boy.

  “LET US PASS!” demanded Auntie Flip. “Or I will use force!” She raised her handbag, ready to whack the two men if need be.

  “No one, but no one, says no to Mr Big,” said Fingers. He stepped aside, and did a little mock bow to the pair as they passed. Just as they reached the door, the henchman called after them. “No one alive, that is!”

  That night at Auntie Flip’s house, Frank soaked his pillow with tears. Flip heard him from the kitchen downstairs, and brought him up a new pillow. She sat on the side of the little pink bed in her little pink spare room, and stroked the boy’s hair.

  “Right now, young Frank, it’s as if you are walking through a storm,” said Auntie Flip, “but I promise you in time the rain will lift a little.”

  It didn’t. Day after day Frank felt as if he was walking through thunder and lightning.

  The boy was bullied at school for having a father who was “banged up”. If anything went missing at school, he always got the blame. One particularly unpleasant girl in his class said, “Frank’s old man is a thief. It stands to reason he’s a dirty little thief and all.”

  But Frank knew in his heart that his father wasn’t a thief. He was a good man who had done a bad thing. Dad had got himself into a mountain of debt trying to do the best he could for his son. Now Frank had to do the best for his father. But how?

  Auntie Flip’s little house was overflowing with antique bits and pieces. There was barely enough room for Frank, as every chair or table or cupboard was piled up with thimbles, porcelain dolls, leather-bound books, animal figurines and old-fashioned teddy bears.

  Life with Auntie Flip couldn’t be more different from how life had been with his father. The lady would sit over him as he did his homework, making sure he dotted every “i” and crossed every “t”. Sometimes she would even correct the teacher’s spelling mistakes.

  “I am sorry to say your History teacher is an ignoramus! She can’t even spell ‘Bayeux’!”

  They never, ever had chips for tea. Instead the lady would cook him one of her quiches, which the boy always found disgusting. Auntie Flip was Queen of the Quiche. The savoury pastry was about the only thing she ate.

  Her quiche recipes were not to most people’s tastes:

  Pickled Onion and Beetroot

  Curried Egg and Cabbage

  Pongy Cheese and Turnip

  Partridge, Parsnip and Pear

  Spam, Spam, Spam and More Spam

  Eel and Artichoke

  Prawn and Seagull’s Egg

  Brussels Sprouts and Goat’s Curd

  After-dinner entertainment was always “poetry hour”, though this hour would often stretch to two or three.

  “This next one is called ‘Ode to a Tree’ by me,” she would announce grandly, before reading it out loud.

  “O tree, O tree,

  O lovely, lovely tree,

  As you dance in the breeze

  With perfect ease,

  I think if only I could be

  So wondrously free,

  But it’s plain to see

  I will never be a tree.”

  “ZZZZ! ZZZZ! ZZZZ! ZZZZ!”

  The boy would pretend to be asleep. It was the only way to make her stop.

  As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, the unlikely pair became close. Frank grew to love the lady. She had shown him kindness when he’d needed it most. When his father was sent to prison, Frank thought his mother might call him. But she never did. Auntie Flip was all he had.

  Soon she and Frank had settled into a cosy routine. Friday evenings the pair would visit the local library where Flip worked, and the boy would forget his troubles for a while as he lost himself in the pages of books. He even learned to love poetry.

  Saturday mornings they would take a walk in the park. Flip would give the boy a coin to make a wish, but the wish never came true. His father stayed locked up in prison.

  Sunday mornings Flip would take Frank to church, which was just as well as they would be the only people there. Each night Flip would shake out her lace tablecloth and set her little wooden dining table for two. When, one night, a third place setting was laid, the boy was naturally intrigued.

  “Super to see you again, young Frank!” said the lady as the boy opened the front door for her. She was carrying a bouquet of wild flowers.

  “Hello, Vicar,” said the boy. They stood there looking at each other for a moment.

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “If that is the vicar, please let her in at once!” called Flip from the kitchen.

  “That makes a nice change,” said Reverend Judith.

  Flip wafted towards them wearing her floatiest, floweriest dress. She became quite emotional upon seeing the flowers.

  “For me?” she asked.

  “Yes!” said Judith. “I picked them myself.”

  “No one has ever brought me flowers before. Thank you so, so much.” Flip sniffed the flowers and then instantly sneezed on them.

  “ATCHOO!”

  “Are you all right?” asked the vicar.

  “Yes, yes. I am very slightly allergic to flowers but I love them.” Flip arranged them in a vase on the dining table. “ATCHOOOOO!” she sneezed again, louder this time.

  “So you’ve never been married?” asked the vicar.

  “Married?” scoffed Flip. “I’ve never been kissed!”

  “Really?” said the vicar.

  “Yes. Not once. All that romance nonsense passed me by years ago.”

  It was such a sad thought, to have lived a whole life without love, that neither Frank nor Judith knew what to say.

  Fortunately Flip broke the silence. “Let’s all sit down for dinner,” she announced.

  The three took their places at the table.

  “I hope you like rabbit and dandelion quiche!” said Flip.

  The boy grimaced.

  The vicar replied, “I have never tried it, but I’m sure it will be delicious. Let me say grace.”

  Flip closed her eyes in prayer, so the boy did the same.

  “Dear Lord, may you bless this quiche this night. And bless the special parishioner who cooked it. Amen.”

 
; “Amen.”

  “Amen,” copied Frank, though he didn’t know what “amen” meant.

  The vicar took a bite of her food and grimaced.

  “How is the quiche?” asked Flip.

  “Delicious!” lied the lady. Somehow Flip’s quiches were always rubbery and hard to bite into.

  “Wonderful. So how was church on Sunday, Reverend?”

  “Judith is fine.”

  The pair giggled. The boy felt like a gooseberry, sitting between them.

  “How was church on Sunday, Judith? “ATCHOO!” The sneeze was much louder this time. “Apologies, Judith. I think some of my sneeze juice sprayed over you.”

  “No matter,” said Judith, wiping snot from her eye.

  “Frank and I are so sorry we missed Sunday service. Tell Judith where we were, Frankie.”

  “At a poetry society competition,” sighed the boy, still bored at the memory of the weekend.

  “Oh, how did you do?” asked the vicar.

  “Very well,” replied Auntie Flip. “I came ninety-seventh!”

  “Congratulations. Ninety-seventh!”

  “Thank you.” Flip blushed with pride.

  “How many entrants were there?”

  “Ninety-eight,” replied Frank.

  “Well, that’s not bad,” said Judith, trying to look on the bright side.

  “One poetess got disqualified for biting another competitor,” added Flip. “She said she’d stolen a rhyme. She rhymed gherkin with twerkin’.”

  “Oh dear,” said Judith, who suddenly seemed put off her quiche.

  “That was the only good bit,” said Frank with a smirk.

  “No, it wasn’t!” snapped Flip. “As you can imagine, the poetry society has a zero-tolerance policy for biting.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “ATCHOO!”

  Another noseful of snot flew across the dining table, drenching the vicar.