Thimble Monkey Superstar

by Jon Blake

  The smart young man at the pay desk looked almost as worried as Thimble. He obviously wasn’t used to seeing monkeys queuing up to come in.

  ‘Good morning!’ said Dad, brightly. ‘May I see the zoo manager?’

  With a suspicious eye on both Dad and Thimble, the smart young man got on the phone.

  ‘Why are we seeing the zoo manager?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s part of your education.’

  The zoo manager was an older man with a beard, which made him look ever-so-slightly like a monkey himself. They say if you live with a dog long enough you grow to look like it, so maybe a similar thing happens to zoo managers and their animals. There were probably other people at the zoo who looked like aardvarks and hippos.

  Anyway, Dad engaged him in a bit of small talk, except Dad isn’t much good at small talk, so he moved quickly on to some bigger talk and finally the whopping great talk he had clearly been planning all along.

  ‘My monkey would like to join your zoo,’ he declared.

  ‘What?’ I cried. ‘No, he wouldn’t!’

  Ignoring my protests, Dad explained that Thimble had been pining for other monkeys, and how we didn’t want any money for him, just a little plaque with Dad’s name on it and the address of his website.

  ‘Hmm,’ replied the zoo manager. ‘We are actually looking for a monkey. What species is he?’

  ‘Um…’ dithered Dad. ‘A naughty monkey?’

  The zoo manager frowned. ‘A naughty monkey,’ he said, ‘is not a breed.’

  Dad thought again. ‘It’s a long shot,’ he began, ‘but is it possible he’s a hamster?’

  ‘What?’ said the zoo manager.

  ‘Hamster monkey, I mean,’ blabbed Dad, desperately trying to save face.

  ‘That,’ replied the zoo manager, ‘is something of which I’ve never heard.’

  ‘No.’ Dad was getting very pink around the ears. ‘They’re very rare. Nice grammar, by the way. Most people would have said “something I’ve never heard of”. I’m a writer, by the way.’

  The zoo manager checked his watch.

  ‘So how come you’re looking for a monkey?’ asked Dad, trying to change the subject.

  ‘We’ve had a death,’ replied the zoo manager.

  Thimble, who had been surprisingly quiet up till now, began to whimper again.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said Dad.

  ‘It’s very sad, seeing the empty cage,’ murmured the zoo manager.

  ‘Have you … been in it?’ asked Dad. It was a really stupid thing to say, especially with the zoo manager looking a bit like a monkey.

  The zoo manager did not reply. His eyes were resting on Thimble, whose own eyes were dashing from side to side looking for an exit.

  ‘Lovely little feller,’ mused the zoo manager.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ replied Dad. ‘And very well behaved.’

  ‘Apart from sawing up our furniture and blowing up the microwave,’ I added.

  Dad laughed. ‘My son lives in a fantasy world.’

  The zoo manager pondered a moment.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll take him.’

  My heart sank. Dad beamed. Thimble let out a stream of desperate gibberish. The zoo manager took us to an empty cage which still bore the name BOBO above a picture of the poor departed monkey. Bobo’s favourite tyre was still hanging inside and his last dollops were still on the straw.

  ‘Perhaps we could call the new monkey Bobo Two,’ said the zoo manager.

  ‘His name’s Thimble,’ I grunted.

  ‘Perhaps we could combine the two names,’ suggested the zoo manager. ‘That’s it, we’ll call him Bobble.’

  ‘Why can’t you just call him Thimble?’

  ‘Welcome to your new home, Bobble,’ said the zoo manager, opening the cage door.

  Thimble was not about to go in quietly. It took the zoo manager and Dad all their strength to force him through the door. Once inside, he looked about himself with dismay, then adopted the most pathetic face imaginable, as if pleading with us to spare him.

  Dad’s heart was as hard as stone.

  ‘Now, about this plaque…’ he began.

  There followed a tedious discussion about the exact size, colour and position of the plaque. The zoo manager did not seem that keen on the idea, doing all he could to put some distance between himself and Dad, and in the process backing quite close to the bars of Thimble’s cage. A large ring of keys hung from his belt, including the key which had just locked the cage. Not surprisingly, Thimble was taking an interest in these keys, and before long his clever monkey fingers were stretching through the bars to grasp them.

  Alas, just too far away.

  Hmm, I thought. Maybe I could help a little…

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, brightly, ‘but would it be possible for me to take a photo as a keepsake?’

  The zoo manager leapt at the chance to end his conversation with Dad. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to move out of the way?’

  ‘No, I’d like you and Dad in it, please,’ I replied. ‘If you stand by the cage, I can get both you and Thimble in the shot.’

  The zoo manager was very obliging. I think sometimes people are more obliging to me because I’ve got a walker. It makes them think I’m a little angel.

  Snigger, snigger.

  ‘Just a bit closer to the cage,’ I advised.

  ‘Should we say Cheese?’ asked the zoo manager.

  ‘Whatever,’ I replied, as Thimble’s skilful fingers released the ring of keys and drew them into the cage.

  ‘Just a couple more shots,’ I said.

  A couple of shots was all it took for Thimble to unlock the cage and run for it. It was only now that the zoo manager cottoned on to what was happening.

  ‘The monkey’s free!’ he cried, reaching for his non-existent key ring. ‘And … he’s got my keys!’

  ‘How did that happen?’ said Dad.

  I shrugged.

  ‘He won’t do anything silly with those keys, will he?’ asked the zoo manager.

  ‘Er…’ said Dad.

  ‘For Pete’s sake!’ cried the zoo manager. ‘After him!’ He set off with impressive speed, Dad struggling to keep up due to his many injuries and big wobbly gut. By now, however, Thimble was completely out of sight. I watched the zoo manager, then Dad, disappearing round the corner and wondered if I should look a bit more keen to give chase.

  Much to my surprise, however, the zoo manager was soon back in sight, running in the opposite direction, yelling at the top of his voice, ‘Run for your life! The rhino’s out!’

  I didn’t much fancy my chances of outrunning a rhino, so I ducked behind a nearby map of the zoo, using my walker as a shield. Dad appeared first, looking amazingly scared. Hearing my yells, he dodged into my hidey-hole to heave for breath. Next up, as promised, came the rhino, not exactly charging, more jogging. It was still a fearsome sight, especially when followed by two giraffes, a giant panda and a small pack of meerkats. Three keepers came next, driving something like a golf buggy and armed with dart guns. It was all very exciting, the kind of excitement which makes you wish you’d brought a spare pair of pants.

  In time, order was restored. The cafe and toilets were a bit of a mess, but the animals were back in their cages. Then, finally, two keepers turned up, with Thimble in handcuffs.

  ‘I believe this is your monkey,’ one said.

  ‘Er … is that our monkey?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ I confirmed.

  ‘We found him in the tropical house,’ added the keeper.

  ‘He does like warm places,’ said Dad.

  ‘In that case,’ replied the keeper, ‘make sure the fire’s on when you take him home.’

  Dad faced Thimble across the refectory table, glowering. ‘Do you realise what a stupid and dangerous thing you did today?’ he asked.

  Thimble nodded eagerly.

  ‘Those animals could have killed us!’

  Thimble gave a toothy smile.

/>   ‘Thank heaven you didn’t bring any of them home with you,’ added Dad.

  Thimble’s eyes went from side to side in a decidedly shifty way.

  ‘Thimble,’ said Dad, sternly. ‘You didn’t bring any of them home with you, did you?’

  Thimble shot a glance at his shirt pocket.

  ‘Thimble,’ Dad said, even more sternly, ‘what is in your pocket?’

  Thimble’s hand rummaged in his pocket, then lowered to the table. There were a few seconds of suspense, then, like a conjuror, he lifted it to reveal…

  If anything, Dad screamed louder than I did. The noise must have alarmed the tarantula, which bolted straight towards him. Before Dad could say Jack Robinson, which was probably not what he felt like saying, the eight-legged horror had scurried up his arm and settled, like a hairy nightmare, right on his face.

  Dad stayed very still. ‘Jams,’ he whispered. ‘Would you be so kind as to hand me the phone?’

  I did as asked, switching on the speakerphone in case there was anything that Thimble and I needed to hear. As calmly as possible, Dad tapped out Mum’s work phone number, and after a few anxious rings, we heard her familiar tones. ‘I hope you’re not dumping some problem on me,’ she said, ‘because I’ve got enough problems of my own.’

  ‘OK,’ replied Dad, as calmly as possible. ‘You tell me your problem, then I’ll tell you mine.’

  ‘We’ve had a fire in a wind turbine,’ said Mum.

  ‘Wow,’ replied Dad.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘Good,’ said Dad. ‘Now can I tell you my problem?’

  ‘Hurry up then,’ said Mum.

  ‘There’s a tarantula on my face.’

  Silence.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to understand,’ added Dad.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Dad. ‘And so’s the tarantula.’

  ‘How did it get there?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Up my arm and across my neck.’

  ‘Don’t panic. Tarantulas aren’t as bad as people think.’

  ‘Try saying that with one on your face.’

  ‘It’s probably more scared of you than you are of it,’ said Mum.

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ replied Dad. ‘Do you have any useful suggestions?’

  ‘You can use smoke to make them drowsy,’ suggested Mum. ‘Or is that bees?’

  ‘You’re helping so much.’

  ‘I don’t know!’ snapped Mum. ‘Just knock it off with something!’

  ‘Like what?’

  There was no reply. I noticed at this point that Thimble was no longer sitting at the table. No, he was right there beside me, holding a cricket bat, which he offered up to me.

  ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘look what Thimble’s got.’

  Dad switched off the phone and, keeping his head very still, examined the bat. Could Dad hit the spider hard enough to kill it, but soft enough not to smash his own face in? A delicate task, but Dad had often told me how brilliant he used to be at cricket.

  Keeping his face rock steady, he tried a few practice swings.

  ‘OK, Jams,’ he whispered, ‘I need you to help me. I need to know exactly when to stop the bat, do you understand? So the very second I make contact with the spider, I want you to shout STOP, do you understand?’

  It was a daunting responsibility. ‘Can’t Thimble do it?’ I asked.

  ‘That,’ said Dad, ‘would be sheer idiocy.’

  ‘But his reactions are faster than mine.’

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ said Dad.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘It’s not your face,’ said Dad.

  ‘I can’t do it, Dad.’

  ‘OK! OK!’ Dad attempted to compose himself. ‘Now listen, Thimble,’ he whispered. ‘I need to know exactly when to stop the bat, OK? So the very second I make contact with the spider, I want you to make that HOO noise that monkeys make, do you understand?’

  Thimble nodded. Dad steadied his arm.

  ‘One…’

  ‘Two…’

  ‘THREE!’

  The tarantula bolted.

  By now, however, the bat was already on its way, and what a shot it was! If that bat had struck a cricket ball, it would have cleared the ground, let alone the boundary. Unfortunately, however, the bat did not strike a cricket ball. It hit the centre of Dad’s face. His proud nose, which had stuck out from his face all his life, suddenly did not stick out any more, and Dad dropped to the floor, rolling around and crying out in some language he had never spoken before.

  ‘Hoo,’ said Thimble.

  Dad struggled into a sitting position and grabbed a tea towel to staunch the bleeding.

  ‘Did you … see where … the spider … went?’ he gasped.

  Oh dear. Now we had a tarantula loose in Dawson Castle, a place with so many dark corners it could hide a yak.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NITS GALORE AND UNFORGETTABLE SARNIES

  Mum did not ask about the tarantula when she came home, so Dad said nothing about it and nor did I. Dad was still sulking about their phone conversation, and I was trying to keep Thimble out of trouble. Since I’d helped him escape from the zoo, Thimble had become the bestest best friend I could ever have imagined. He even helped me take my splints off at night and put them back on in the morning. Dad didn’t complain about that, since it was one less job for him. He didn’t complain about Thimble sleeping in my room, either. Suddenly everything was perfect, but it was against the rules of Dawson Castle for everything to be perfect, so Dad soon had another plan to mess things up.

  ‘I’m taking Thimble to school today,’ he declared, next morning.

  ‘Eh?’ I said.

  ‘Is that a good idea?’ asked Mum.

  ‘It is an excellent idea. The teachers can take care of him while I get on with Pixie Pony Ballerina.’

  ‘Teachers don’t look after monkeys,’ said Mum.

  ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ replied Dad.

  ‘Please don’t ring me if things go wrong,’ warned Mum. ‘And don’t forget I’m going cycling after work. I’ll need some sandwiches.’

  ‘You really could do with a servant,’ said Dad.

  ‘A helpful partner would be fine,’ replied Mum.

  ‘Tarantula sandwich coming up,’ growled Dad, as the front door shut.

  I put an arm round my hairy friend. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘you’re not really taking Thimble to school, are you?’

  Thimble started whimpering horribly, just like when they were putting him in the cage.

  ‘School, Thimble, not zoo,’ I assured him. ‘It’s a place with teachers.’

  Thimble whimpered again.

  ‘Teachers, Thimble, not keepers,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not helping,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s a funny idea though, isn’t it, Dad? That school is a zoo, and teachers are keepers? We could write that as a story later.

  ‘Right, let’s go,’ said Dad, not bothering to respond to my great idea. ‘Come on, Thimble.’

  Thimble seemed to misunderstand this entirely, taking it as an offer of friendship, and bounded across the room to plant himself on Dad’s lap. Dad froze. Thimble started enthusiastically picking through Dad’s hair.

  ‘What? What on earth are you…?’ Dad began, but his words dried as Thimble discovered something in Dad’s hair, which he happily popped into his mouth.

  ‘He’s found a nit!’ I cried.

  ‘There are no nits in my hair!’

  But Thimble was on fire now, popping little somethings into his mouth like peanuts.

  ‘He’s grooming you, Dad,’ I declared. ‘It’s a sign of submission.’

  ‘I do not wish to be groomed!’ barked Dad. ‘And if he wants to show submission, he can put on his coat and follow me out of the front door!’

  It was a strange feeling to be standing at the gates of Peterloo Primary, looking into its playground of trees, colourful murals and climbing f
rames. This was the place Dad swore I would never go to. Who knows how many friends I might have found there?

  Dad pressed the intercom button and a voice said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Douglas Dawson,’ said Dad.

  Silence.

  ‘The famous author,’ added Dad.

  Hushed voices. I couldn’t be quite sure what they said, but it sounded like, ‘It’s him again.’ A louder voice said, ‘As I have repeatedly told you, Mr Dawson, we don’t have funds for an author visit this year.’

  ‘It’s not about that,’ snapped Dad. ‘I’ve come to enrol my son.’

  What?

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said the voice.

  Mrs Timms had probably seen everything, being a headteacher, but she did not look entirely comfortable having a monkey in her room. She moved her mug and books well out of his reach and kept an anxious eye on him as she addressed me and Dad.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘you’ve had a change of heart.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ said Dad.

  ‘But you want your son to enrol?’ said Mrs Timms.

  ‘Did I say “my son”?’ asked Dad. ‘I’m sorry, that was a slip of the tongue. I meant the monkey.’

  This was a horrible disappointment to me, and even more to Mrs Timms. ‘The monkey?’ she repeated.

  ‘He’s very mature for his age,’ Dad assured her.

  ‘His maturity,’ declared Mrs Timms, ‘is not the issue.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dad, bristling. ‘And what exactly is the issue?’

  ‘The fact he is a monkey!’

  Dad was obviously well prepared for this reaction. ‘I see,’ he countered. ‘And can you quote me the law which says schools must only teach humans?’

  ‘Of course we only teach humans!’ protested Mrs Timms.

  ‘I have studied all the Education Acts,’ replied Dad, ‘and I cannot find one which says school is not for monkeys.’

  Mrs Timms was thrown for a moment, but came back strongly. ‘How are we supposed to teach him how to read?’ she asked.