Thimble Monkey Superstar

by Jon Blake

  ‘Because I am sleeping in the Red Tower,’ Dad replied.

  ‘You could put an air bed on the floor.’

  I could sense an argument brewing, but to my surprise, it didn’t come. A fishy look came onto Dad’s face, a look which told me he was planning something.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘And by the way, why don’t you put some earplugs in, in case he makes noise in the night?’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Mum.

  Dad smiled a small, self-satisfied smile as Mum retired for the night. ‘Now, Jams,’ he said, ‘you are to go to bed, and whatever you hear, you are not to get up, is that understood?’

  ‘But, Dad…’ I began.

  ‘No buts!’ snapped Dad. ‘I do not wish to see your face until breakfast-time! And if you put so much as a toe outside your room, you can forget about using the computer, or that funny thing by the telly, for a very long time!’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I mumbled. I was beginning to fear the worst for poor Thimble, and sure enough, I had hardly shut my bedroom door when I heard a loud monkey-cackle followed by the slamming of the back door. I peeked through my blind to see Dad dragging Thimble into the backyard to the former home of our dear departed Blyton, i.e. the dog kennel.

  ‘It’s perfectly dry,’ declared Dad.

  Thimble put on a rather pathetic face, but Dad was not in the mood for mercy.

  ‘Sleep tight,’ he trilled. ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite!’

  There were probably quite a few bugs in Blyton’s old kennel, and heavens knows what else. Thimble looked the saddest sight in the world as Dad disappeared back into the house. I so wanted to help him, but how could I without putting at least ten toes through my bedroom door? I sidled back to bed and tried to think of something else.

  Suddenly, there was a chilling noise from outside. Like a cry of fear. There it was again, even more distressed.

  My imagination began to take hold. Had a fox got into the grounds? Some kind of wild dog, a wolf even? I hurried back to the blind and looked outside. There was no sign of a dangerous animal – then Dad appeared.

  ‘OK, old boy,’ he asked, ‘what’s the problem?’

  Thimble crept out of the kennel and made a strange sign.

  ‘Fox?’ suggested Dad. ‘Badger?’

  Thimble held up three fingers.

  ‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘Three words.’

  Thimble held up two fingers.

  ‘Second word,’ said Dad.

  Thimble spread his arms wide, which, being a monkey, was very wide indeed.

  ‘Wide,’ suggested Dad.

  Thimble shook his head.

  ‘Long,’ suggested Dad.

  Thimble pointed at Dad and put a finger to his nose, indicating that he’d got it. Then he raised one finger.

  ‘First word,’ said Dad.

  Thimble cupped a hand round his ear.

  ‘Sounds like,’ said Dad.

  Thimble’s hand ducked up and down, rather like someone using a needle and thread.

  ‘Embroidery?’ suggested Dad.

  Thimble shook his head.

  ‘Sewing?’

  Thimble made the gesture for ‘shorter’.

  ‘Sew?’

  Thimble nodded vigorously, while Dad frowned, trying to imagine the creature he was describing. Thimble held up his second finger and made the gesture for long.

  ‘Long?’ said Dad. Thimble nodded.

  Thimble raised three fingers.

  ‘Third word,’ said Dad.

  Thimble pursed his lips and drew air into them.

  ‘Breathe?’ suggested Dad.

  Thimble shook his head.

  ‘Suck?’ suggested Dad.

  Thimble made the gesture for ‘longer’.

  ‘Sucking?’

  Thimble shook his head.

  ‘Sucker.’

  Thimble nodded.

  Dad recapped. ‘Sew … long … sucker. Sew long sucker. Eh?’

  Dad’s words were lost to the night as Thimble set off like a bullet, dodging past him and through the back door. Dad still wasn’t moving too well, after the gruesome injuries he had suffered at yoga, and it was some time before he reached the door himself, only to discover, to his obvious dismay, that this was not only shut but firmly locked.

  ‘Nora!’ he cried, at Mum’s bedroom window.

  No reply. Mum had obviously remembered to wear her earplugs, just as Dad had recommended.

  ‘Nora!’ bellowed Dad. Still no reply. Nothing but the sound of monkey feet pattering up the stairs towards the warm cosy bed in the Red Tower.

  ‘Jams!’ cried Dad.

  I ducked back behind the blind. I had not forgotten Dad’s terrible warning to stay in my room. If he thought he could tempt me to leave it, he was very much mistaken.

  And anyway, there was a perfectly dry kennel in the backyard.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A HAIL OF SHOES AND A CHAIR FIT FOR A CAT

  I woke early next morning, because it felt like Christmas, knowing I had a new special friend in the house. No sign of Mum or Dad, so I crept up to the Red Tower where I found Thimble sitting up in Dad’s bed eating a banana from the fruit bowl marked DAD’S.

  ‘Come on, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and have some proper breakfast.’

  I led Thimble to the kitchen where I introduced him to the microwave. ‘This is what you cook things in,’ I said. ‘Now, let’s find some food.’

  I ferreted in the cupboard and brought out a bag of porridge oats, a packet of cornflakes, a tin of beans and a tray of eggs. I put some oats in a bowl, poured on some milk and placed the bowl in the microwave.

  ‘Watch closely, Thimble!’ I started the microwave. Thimble cocked his head curiously as the microwave hummed and the bowl turned. His eyes opened wide as I removed the now steaming bowl.

  ‘You can eat this if you like,’ I told him. ‘I’m just going for a wee.’

  We have two toilets in Dawson Castle: the throne room (upstairs) and the dungeon. I prefer the dungeon as it contains the word dung, one of my favourites. It also includes the word eon, which means a very, very long time. So it could mean that dung has been there a very, very long time, or that someone takes a very, very long time to make dung. Like me, for instance. If I get my face in a book I come off the toilet with a seat mark like a cattle brand.

  Today, however, I had hardly read the front cover of Chockoman Returns when the most almighty KABLAMM filled the house, like a bomb had blown a door off its hinges. If I could have leapt from the toilet I would have done, but I don’t move quite as easily as that, and when I did get back into the hallway there was a thick cloud of smoke coming from the kitchen.

  ‘Thimble!’ I cried.

  Rushing to the kitchen, I found Thimble cowering in the corner, chattering manically. Smoke was billowing from the microwave, the inside of which looked like a mini battlefield.

  My eyes scanned the kitchen top: bowl of porridge … bag of oats … packet of cornflakes … tin of beans…

  ‘Thimble,’ I asked, ‘where is the tray of eggs?’

  Thimble looked furtive.

  ‘Thimble,’ I pressed, ‘you didn’t put the tray of eggs in the microwave, did you?’

  Thimble smiled weakly.

  Mum burst through the door. ‘What on earth is going on?’ Her eyes fell on the microwave and she said something else, something quite forceful, something which would not be allowed in a book for children.

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I blurted, as she opened the microwave door to reveal an apocalypse of eggs.

  ‘Did you do this, Jams?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ I was scared that if Thimble did anything wrong, Mum and Dad would get rid of him.

  ‘What in heaven were you thinking?’ cried Mum. ‘And where is your father?’

  As if in reply, there was a frenzied rap on the back door. There stood Dad, or rather a cross between Dad and a hermit crab. His face stuck out of the door of Blyton’s old home and the rest of the kennel covered his back like a turtle
shell. He did not look happy. When we finally managed to separate him from his night shelter, he gave us a full account of his terrible ordeal, sparing no detail, including the tom cat who decided that Dad’s head was part of his territory and marked it accordingly.

  ‘But what were you doing out there?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Research,’ grunted Dad, who obviously didn’t want to admit he’d been outwitted by a monkey.

  ‘I wish you’d warned me. Then the microwave might not have exploded.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Dad.

  ‘Now,’ said Mum. ‘What is Jams doing today?’

  ‘Woodwork,’ replied Dad.

  ‘Not woodwork again,’ I groaned.

  ‘Woodwork is a very important skill,’ said Dad.

  ‘Shouldn’t I do some maths or something?’

  ‘Sounds like a good idea to me,’ chirped Mum.

  ‘You’re not his teacher,’ snapped Dad.

  At this point I need to explain something. I do not go to school. Dad thinks he can teach me much better than any teacher, and besides, you can pick up all kinds of bad influences and filthy parasites at school, according to Dad. You can also pick up friends, of course, but Dad doesn’t think that’s important. Dad has managed perfectly well all his life without friends, apart from the fact he is totally miserable.

  ‘How about if I help you with your writing?’ I suggested.

  ‘I don’t need help.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve read the first chapter of Pixie Pony Ballerina, and I think you do.’

  ‘Does everyone here think I’m a complete idiot?’ asked Dad.

  Mum hummed a little tune and I looked at my shoes.

  It was probably a mistake to mention Pixie Pony Ballerina. The Pixie Pony series had sold about twelvety million, unlike Dad’s books, so Dad’s publishers had suggested he might like to write one. Dad reluctantly agreed. However, the publishers had already rejected his first offering, Pixie Pony Accidentally Strays into a Space Rocket and Gets Blasted out of the Earth’s Orbit Forever. Since then Dad had lost heart and run out of ideas. I had loads of ideas, if only Dad would listen to them.

  ‘You’ll find some wood in the storehouse and tools in the Bob the Builder cabinet,’ growled Dad. ‘You can start by making a shelf.’

  ‘Not a shelf again, Dad!’

  ‘With bevelled edges this time.’

  My heart sank. ‘Can Thimble make one too?’

  Dad made no reply. Since he’d appeared at the back door, he hadn’t so much as looked at Thimble. Mum, however, thought it would be a very good idea if Thimble joined in, and as she’d paid for the wood, Dad couldn’t argue. Mum went off to work, Dad went out to buy a paper, and my new friend and I collected the wood and opened the Bob the Builder cabinet.

  Thimble seemed quite excited at the sight of the tools, and when I took out a saw and began cutting through a plank, his eyes opened as wide as saucers.

  ‘Would you like a go, Thimble?’

  Thimble seized the saw with eager hands. He proved to be surprisingly expert at cutting wood. It wasn’t long before he had sawn his way through five planks and was looking hungrily for more.

  ‘Don’t you think we should bevel the edges before cutting any more shelves?’ I suggested.

  Thimble shook his head vigorously.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll go to the storehouse for some more wood while you brush up the sawdust.’ I handed Thimble a dustpan and brush, which he viewed with a distinct lack of interest. I was not entirely surprised when the sawdust was still there upon my return.

  Of Thimble, however, or the saw, there was no sign.

  ‘Thimble?’

  I went through to the Great Hall. Still no sign of Thimble. I dropped the wood onto the Round Table and sat down to get my breath back.

  That’s funny, I thought. The Round Table never rested on my knees before. Had my chair got higher?

  Or had the table got lower?

  ‘Thimble!’ I cried.

  No reply. But wait… Wasn’t that the sound of sawing, coming from the Red Tower?

  No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!

  At this point Dad arrived home.

  ‘Done your shelves?’ he asked.

  I nodded nervously.

  ‘Where’s the monkey?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. Dad went to lay his paper on the table and stopped. His face became confused. When he finally put his paper down, it was with a slow, deliberate movement, followed by a curious examination, first of the table, then of me.

  ‘Have you done something to this table?’ he asked.

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘I feel … bigger,’ said Dad.

  ‘I think maybe you are.’

  ‘How can I be bigger?’

  ‘New shoes?’ I suggested.

  Dad cocked his head. ‘What’s that noise?’

  ‘What noise?’ I asked.

  ‘Sounds like … sawing,’ said Dad.

  ‘Bees?’ I suggested.

  ‘Has the monkey got the saw?’ asked Dad, with a look of alarm.

  ‘Er…’ I replied.

  ‘For Pete’s sake!’ cried Dad. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Um…’

  Dad rushed from the room, only to fall over a pair of stools. ‘What the…?’ he began. ‘Where did they come from?’

  I remembered the two tall barstools that used to stand in roughly the same place. Yes, we were definitely on the right trail.

  ‘That sawing noise!’ cried Dad. ‘It’s coming from my room!’

  Dad thundered up the stairs, me in hot pursuit. We arrived at the Red Tower just in time to see Thimble sever the last leg of Dad’s bed and send it crashing to the floor.

  ‘You… you…’ began Dad, but he didn’t go any closer. Thankfully he had realised that we were unarmed and Thimble had a very sharp saw.

  ‘Thimble,’ Dad said, in a calmer voice, ‘hand me that saw.’

  Thimble made no move.

  ‘Thimble,’ Dad warned, ‘it’s not a game, now be a good monkey and hand me that saw.’

  Thimble stood his ground.

  ‘Thimble, give me the saw!’ Dad yelled, leaping towards him with what he hoped was terrifying fury.

  With a neat sidestep, Thimble was past both of us and through the door. We chased after him, but with a lightning turn he shot through Dad’s legs, back into the Red Tower, slamming and bolting the door behind him.

  For a moment, silence. Then the sinister sound of steady sawing.

  ‘My … my…’ Dad was lost for words.

  ‘Antique captain’s chair?’ I suggested.

  ‘Thimble!’ cried Dad. ‘If you don’t open this door…’

  His words, needless to say, fell on deaf ears.

  ‘We need a battering ram!’ said Dad.

  ‘What about the microwave?’ I suggested.

  ‘The microwave?’

  ‘It’s heavy. And already broken.’

  In truth I didn’t know if the microwave was completely broken, but by the time Dad had taken up my suggestion and smashed the door with it, we could safely say it would not be heating up any more porridge. Half a dozen more smashes and the door gave way, revealing a captain’s chair now more fitted to a ship’s cat. To add insult to injury, Thimble looked most pleased with his work.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ cried Dad, but once again Thimble dodged past him and scampered down the stairs, still grasping the saw. Dad gave chase, murder in mind, and I chased Dad, desperate to stop him. We were both met by a hail of shoes, books, vases and cabinets as the manic monkey fled for his life, cackling. He got as far as the Great Hall, where Dad cornered him behind an armchair.

  ‘There’s no escape this time, you demon!’ rasped Dad.

  Dad had clearly underestimated Thimble, who leapt onto the top of the chair, up to the nearest chandelier, then across to the next one.

  ‘Better leave him for a bit, Dad,’ I suggested.

  ‘Ha!’ said Dad. ‘Didn’t you know
I was a gymnast in my youth?’

  ‘You’re not in your youth now, Dad,’ I warned.

  ‘The rings were my speciality,’ said Dad, climbing onto the armchair.

  ‘Dad! Aren’t you a bit big for..?’

  Too late. Dad leapt like a very fat gazelle. To my amazement, he made the chandelier. Unfortunately, the chandelier, light cable, ceiling rose and a fair portion of the ceiling then plummeted to the ground with an almighty crash, Dad somewhere beneath it.

  ‘Are you OK, Dad?’

  ‘Must … ring … hospital,’ he mumbled. He scrabbled in his pocket, only to realise that the force of the fall had sent his mobile flying halfway across the room.

  ‘Jams,’ he muttered. Too late. Thimble was already down from the chandelier and lolloping towards it. Soon he was sitting a short distance away from us, saw in one hand, mobile in the other.

  ‘Thimble,’ groaned Dad. ‘Please…’

  Seemingly happy with his little victory, Thimble crept over to Dad, and handed him the saw.

  CHAPTER FOUR

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

  Dad didn’t much enjoy his second trip to the hospital, or having to hide every saw in the house, or getting a telling-off from Mum for wrecking the microwave. According to Mum, it was also Dad’s fault the furniture got pruned, as he had not properly supervised Thimble. Thimble was not really naughty, just a monkey who acted on instinct, who needed to be taught – patiently – how to behave.

  Dad, however, was getting less patient by the hour. As soon as Mum had left for work the next day, he informed me that school was off for the day. We were going on a field trip to the zoo.

  ‘Is Thimble coming?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Careful, Dad!’ I joked. ‘They might try to put him in a cage!’

  Dad laughed gently.

  We didn’t tell Thimble where we were going. Dad said he wanted it to be a nice surprise. However, Thimble seemed unusually nervous. As we passed the sign saying ‘Cheerful Captives Zoo’, he began to whimper rather pathetically. It was almost as if he could read, but that of course would be ridiculous. No monkeys can read, and not many children either, judging by Dad’s book sales.