Thimble Monkey Superstar

by Jon Blake

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN WHICH A SO-CALLED HAMSTER FORCES DAD TO DO YOGA

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN WHICH THIMBLE TRAPS A HEFFALUMP IN A DEAD DOG’S KENNEL

  CHAPTER THREE

  A HAIL OF SHOES AND A CHAIR FIT FOR A CAT

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MEN THAT LOOK LIKE HIPPOS AND SOMETHING LETHAL ON DAD’S FACE

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NITS GALORE AND UNFORGETTABLE SARNIES

  CHAPTER SIX

  WOW, THIS REALLY IS GETTING TO BE LIKE A PROPER NOVEL

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A CRAZY MOBILE AND TWO CRAZY APES

  EPILOGUE

  (THAT’S THE END BIT)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN WHICH A SO-CALLED HAMSTER FORCES DAD TO DO YOGA

  My name is Jams Cogan. You won’t have heard of me. But everyone will hear of me one day, because I am going to be the world’s greatest author.

  My dad is an author. His name is Douglas Dawson. No, he doesn’t have the same name as me, because he is not married to my mum. Mum is wise not to be married to Dad, because he has about 20p and lives in a fantasy world. Mum has a proper job, a job which involves going out in the morning, coming back at teatime, and getting paid a lot more than Dad. Dad is always asking her what she actually does, but she’s a bit vague about it – it’s something to do with the wind, or a farm, or possibly a combination of the two.

  Our home is called Dawson Castle. It’s not actually a castle. Most people would call it a bungalow. But most people do not live in a fantasy world like my dad.

  Not many people visit Dawson Castle. Most are put off by the moat, portcullis, dancing bears and other figments of my dad’s imagination. So imagine our surprise one evening when there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Not the Jehovah’s Witnesses again!’ grumbled Dad.

  ‘When did the Jehovah’s Witnesses ever visit?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Five years ago. I made a note in my diary.’

  ‘Haven’t you got better things to write about?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Shall I get it?’ I suggested.

  I got up, seized my walker, and hurried to the West Door at full speed. Imagine my surprise to discover our neighbours standing outside. Nothing unusual about that, you might think, except our neighbours had lived next door my entire life, and had never once spoken to us. But there they were, as clear as day, wearing forced smiles and accompanied by a small, neatly dressed monkey.

  ‘I wonder if you could do us a great favour and look after our hamster while we are away?’ enquired the female neighbour, who was not interesting enough to describe in detail.

  By now Dad had arrived at the door. He adopted his most unwelcoming face.

  ‘We’d need to see this hamster,’ he replied, hoping to stall them while he plucked up the courage to say no.

  ‘Why, it’s right here,’ said the male neighbour, who looked vaguely like the female. He pointed at the monkey.

  Dad’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you sure that’s a hamster?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ they both replied, rather quickly, in fact slightly before Dad had finished the question.

  ‘It looks like a monkey to me,’ Dad said.

  ‘It’s funny you should say that,’ said the man.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ replied the man. ‘It’s just funny.’

  As if to show how funny, they both laughed. I may have been mistaken, but I had the distinct impression that there was a third snigger, coming from the direction of the monkey.

  This was surely the time to send our two neighbours packing. But no, Dad was too polite for this.

  ‘Is the hamster well behaved?’ he asked, making it very plain he did not for one moment believe it to be a hamster.

  ‘Ninety per cent of the time, yes,’ replied the woman.

  ‘What about the other ten per cent?’

  Suddenly the man pointed dramatically upwards. ‘Good heavens!’ he cried. ‘Isn’t that a UFO?’

  Dad and I looked at the sky.

  ‘There’s nothing…’ I began, but when I looked back, my two neighbours, and their so-called hamster, had vanished into thin air.

  ‘Nutters,’ grumbled Dad. ‘Wind down the portcullis, Jams, just in case they come back.’

  I ignored him, as usual, and we went back to the Great Hall for a cup of Horlicks.

  ‘You’ll never believe what’s just happened,’ Dad said to Mum.

  ‘Has it really happened,’ asked Mum, wearily, ‘or is it something you’ve made up?’

  ‘It does sound like something I’ve made up,’ Dad agreed, ‘but despite that, it really is real.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Mum, even more wearily.

  ‘Well,’ said Dad, ‘our two neighbours came round, and asked if I’d look after their hamster, but – here’s the bit you probably won’t believe – it was actually a monkey.’

  ‘What, like that monkey?’ Mum pointed at the armchair by the fire – Dad’s armchair – where, much to our surprise, the said monkey was sitting.

  ‘It’s like that story you wrote,’ Mum said. ‘You know, where the girl finds a cat in her garden, and brings it in, and…’

  ‘Nora, this is not a cat,’ Dad snapped. ‘It’s a monkey. And it’s sitting in my chair.’

  ‘It’s kind of cute,’ observed Mum.

  ‘Cute?’ rasped Dad. ‘It’s plain ugly!’

  ‘It’s better looking than you,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, why don’t you marry it then?’ Dad snapped. It was a stupid and dangerous thing to say. Mum had a habit of doing things just to annoy Dad, and there was a small but distinct possibility this could include marrying an animal.

  ‘We don’t even know if we can house-train a monkey,’ said Dad, lamely.

  ‘I think it’ll be fun,’ countered Mum.

  ‘We could do with some fun,’ I added.

  ‘We have fun all the time!’ Dad protested.

  ‘Name the last time we had fun,’ said Mum.

  ‘Last Thursday! Remember, we played Scrabble, and I made a seven-letter word!’

  Mum shook her head sadly, as if she felt sorry for Dad, or maybe for herself.

  ‘I’m going up to my office,’ said Dad. ‘When I come back, I want that monkey gone!’

  Dad’s office is in the Red Tower. Most people, people without imagination, would call it an attic. Dad has a bed in the Red Tower, an antique captain’s chair, a computer, and a window which looks out over the grounds of Dawson Castle, which people without imagination might call a backyard. Dad likes to sit and stare at the computer, sometimes for hours, often without actually switching it on. Sometimes, when his eyes have glazed over, I switch it on myself and write a few stories. If Dad looks particularly depressed I tell him he wrote one of the stories himself, just to see a weak smile come to his face.

  This particular evening, Dad ignored the computer and paced the Red Tower, muttering. I sat and looked thoughtful, which seemed the safest thing to do. An hour ticked by, although, strictly speaking, as my watch is digital, an hour went by completely silently. Then Dad and I went back downstairs.

  Nothing could have prepared us for the sight which greeted us. Mum sat at the far end of the Great Hall, eyes closed, very still, in a half lotus position. The monkey sat a couple of metres away, facing her, in exactly the same pose.

  ‘What on Earth are you doing?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Yoga,’ replied Mum.

  ‘With a monkey?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You can’t do yoga with a monkey!’ declared Dad.

  ‘He’s
very bendy,’ said Mum.

  ‘He’s a monkey!’ cried Dad. ‘Of course he’s bendy!’

  ‘And he listens when I talk.’

  ‘He’s just trying to get round you!’

  ‘Stop being so jealous,’ said Mum.

  ‘Jealous!’ snorted Dad. ‘Of a monkey?’

  ‘Just because you can’t do a half lotus.’

  ‘We’ll see about that!’ Dad stormed into the centre of the room, cast off his cardigan, and began lowering himself into a seated position on the floor.

  ‘Dad!’ I warned. ‘You know what happened last time you…’

  ‘AAAAAAAAARRRRGH!’ screamed Dad.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I sighed.

  ‘Call 999!’ cried Dad.

  The monkey reached for the phone.

  ‘Not you!’ yelled Dad. ‘Nora, call 999!’

  Mum wearily rang for an ambulance. ‘By the way, Douglas,’ she said. ‘I’ve got quiz night tonight. You’ll have to take Jams with you to hospital. And Thimble.’

  ‘Thimble?’ Dad blurted. ‘Who’s Thimble?’

  ‘The monkey.’

  ‘Why did you call him Thimble?’

  ‘It’s his name.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘How did he tell you?’

  ‘Sign language.’

  ‘He’s not done any sign language to me.’

  ‘You should try being nice to him.’

  As Dad was reflecting on this, the ambulance arrived. Dad sat on one side, wincing with pain, and Thimble and I sat on the other, a bit like the opposing team. It seemed like a great adventure, and unlike Dad, I was starting to enjoy having a new and unpredictable companion.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IN WHICH THIMBLE TRAPS A HEFFALUMP IN A DEAD DOG’S KENNEL

  I love hospitals. They have ramps and lifts and great long corridors with smooth shiny floors. I can bomb down the corridors in my walker like a Japanese bullet train. My walker’s like a frame on wheels, by the way. I can run without it, just not as fast. Once I couldn’t run at all, then I had an operation to snip my tendons so I wasn’t on tiptoes. I was in a wheelchair for a while, then I recovered, and kazam! I could beat Dad! That’s another reason I love hospitals.

  Dad hates hospitals. He thinks the lights are too bright and the waiting areas too clogged up with sick people. That means he has to wait for ages, reading the posters about various illnesses and imagining he’s got them all.

  And now, on top of this, Dad had Thimble to deal with. Normally, of course, animals are not allowed in hospitals, but Dad had managed to convince the receptionist that Thimble was actually his second son, who had a rare hairy face disorder. Fortunately nurses have seen everything and are therefore prepared to believe almost anything.

  Luckily, Thimble was being quite calm and peaceful, possibly because of the yoga. Dad, on the other hand, was shuffling and shifting and moaning and groaning, until I just had to say something to shut him up.

  ‘Why don’t we go down to the children’s wards after, Dad?’ I suggested.

  ‘Children?’ grumbled Dad. ‘Why on earth would I want to see children?’

  ‘You’re a children’s author,’ I reminded him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘You could do autographs and cheer them up.’

  A glimmer of light came to Dad’s eyes. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Their mums and dads might buy my books.’

  ‘Yes. Although that wouldn’t be the main reason you’d be doing it, would it?’

  ‘Er…’ said Dad.

  Dad hobbled over to the nearest nurse and explained our plan to him. The nurse put it to a senior staff nurse, who put it to a ward manager, who put it to a senior ward manager, who came up to Dad with a look on her face which was the opposite of trusting. I piped up and explained just how famous Dad was and eventually she caved in. Dad would be allowed half an hour in the children’s ward just as soon as he’d had his spine reattached to his legs.

  ‘Excellent idea, Jams,’ he said. ‘It’s good to feel someone again.’

  I glowed with pride. It was great to see Dad looking happy for once. He looked even happier after he’d seen the doctor and was no longer bent double like a wall bracket.

  ‘Showtime!’ he declared. ‘Where’s Thimble?’

  I glanced around. ‘Er…’

  ‘Jams!’ barked Dad. ‘You were supposed to be looking after Thimble!’

  ‘I was looking after him!’ I protested. ‘He must have gone while I was sneezing!’

  ‘I’ll sneeze you!’ rasped Dad. It’s just the kind of thing parents say, and doesn’t have to mean anything.

  ‘He can’t be far,’ I said, unconvincingly.

  ‘Do you realise how big this hospital is?’ ranted Dad. ‘He could be anywhere! He could be in an operating theatre, for heaven’s sake!’

  I pictured Thimble in a green gown and hat, scalpel in his hairy hand. It was kind of funny, and kind of not funny.

  ‘I’ll find him,’ I said, but Dad held me back. A new look had come into his eyes, not a particularly nice one.

  ‘Hold your horses, son,’ he said. ‘I can’t be late for my engagement at the children’s ward. Thimble will just have to find his own way home.’

  ‘But Thimble will never find his way home!’ I protested.

  ‘He made his bed,’ said Dad. ‘Now he must lie on it.’

  ‘Er?’

  There was no time for explanations. Dad was already striding purposefully towards the children’s wards, ferreting in his pocket for his best autograph-signing pen.

  ‘But, Dad!’ I cried. ‘We can’t just abandon him!’

  My words fell on deaf ears. Dad was hunting down those sick kids like a heat-seeking missile. We passed the Caring Owl Daycare Centre and the Unity Sheep Sleep Unit. Then, just as we were about to throw open the doors to the children’s wards, Dad stopped dead.

  There was an unexpected sound coming from the other side of those doors.

  Laughter.

  ‘Do you think they’re reading one of your books, Dad?’ I asked.

  Dad seized on this idea. ‘Yes, of course. The nurses are obviously preparing them for my visit.’

  Dad rubbed his hands vigorously in some antiseptic gel, took a deep breath, and whammed open the doors. ‘Good evening, children!’ he cried. ‘I am Douglas Dawson, the famous…’

  He got no further.

  All of the children were out of their beds, looking wildly excited, while a hospital trolley raced this way and that down the ward. Behind this trolley, occasionally doing handstands on top of it while tooting a kazoo, was none other than our new hairy housemate.

  ‘Thimble!’ I cried.

  Dad fixed me with a fierce stare. ‘What on earth…’ he muttered, as Thimble vaulted onto an overhanging beam, swung round it five or six times, dropped onto the nearest bed, bounced, landed in the toy area and began juggling with a bunch of plastic balls.

  ‘Maybe he’s a circus monkey,’ I suggested.

  ‘This is not a circus,’ growled Dad. ‘This is a serious building full of sick people.’

  ‘More!’ cried the nurses. They were enjoying the show as much as the children.

  Dad cleared his throat loudly. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I have an appointment to sign autographs for these children.’

  The nurses did not seem impressed. ‘But they’re having so much fun,’ said one.

  ‘We don’t want to spoil it,’ said another.

  ‘I’ll put it to the vote,’ declared Dad. He called for silence and took centre stage. ‘Now listen here, children,’ he announced. ‘We’re going to have a vote. You can decide whether you want an autograph from the famous writer, Douglas Dawson – that’s me – or some more stupid tricks from the silly monkey. Jams, you count the votes. OK, hands up who wants more stupid tricks from the silly monkey?’

  A forest of hands shot up. Dad glowered impatiently as I began counting.

  ‘And w
ho wants..?’ he began.

  ‘Hang on, Dad,’ I interrupted. ‘I haven’t finished counting yet.’

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  ‘Fifty-six, Dad,’ I declared. ‘Or it may be fifty-seven, because I think the boy with the broken arm was trying to lift it.’

  ‘Fifty-six, that’ll do,’ grunted Dad. ‘Now, who wants a fantastic autograph from the world-famous writer, Douglas Dawson?’

  No hands.

  ‘Nil, Dad,’ I informed him.

  ‘I think I saw a few at the back.’

  ‘No, Dad. Definitely nil.’

  ‘Can the monkey get on with the show now?’ asked one of the nurses.

  ‘No,’ snapped Dad. ‘The monkey’s show is over. It is past the monkey’s bedtime.’ Quite pink around the ears, Dad rounded on the children. ‘Now listen here, you lot,’ he growled. ‘You play too many video games and watch too much telly and obviously don’t read enough books. That is why you are growing up to be losers.’

  Dad seized Thimble with one hand and me with the other. We headed for the exit doors in an atmosphere as bleak as Pluto.

  ‘Come back soon!’ said a little voice.

  ‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ grunted Dad.

  ‘Not you,’ said the voice. ‘The monkey.’

  It was quite late when we got home. Mum was already on her way to bed.

  ‘How’s Thimble?’ she asked.

  ‘Thimble is fine, thank you,’ snapped Dad.

  ‘Don’t bother asking about my injury.’

  ‘OK. Now, where is Thimble going to sleep?’

  ‘He can sleep on the floor here.’ Dad pointed at the grand flagstones of the Great Hall.

  ‘You can’t put him there,’ said Mum. ‘He’s in a strange home and he might panic.’

  ‘He can sleep in my room,’ I suggested.

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Dad.

  ‘Why doesn’t he sleep in the attic?’ asked Mum.

  ‘The what?’ snapped Dad.

  ‘Why doesn’t he sleep in the Red Tower?’ asked Mum, with a wink to me.