Thimble Monkey Superstar

by Jon Blake

  ‘He already can read! Thimble, pick up a book and show Mrs Timms how you can read.’

  Thimble picked up a copy of Whiteboards for Dummies, opened it and began looking at it quite intelligently.

  ‘See?’ Dad said. ‘He’s reading.’

  ‘The book is upside down,’ said Mrs Timms.

  ‘That’s the way monkeys read. You know, like people in China read backwards.’

  Mrs Timms was not impressed. ‘Think of the health risks.’

  ‘What health risks?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I can’t imagine what fleas and ticks he’s carrying,’ she replied. ‘We’ve already got a head lice outbreak in year one.’

  Dad’s eyes lit up. ‘A head lice outbreak?’

  ‘I send letters home, but I’m sure parents never read them,’ complained Mrs Timms.

  Dad rose dramatically. ‘Mrs Timms,’ he declared, ‘your head lice problems are over.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘May I present Thimble,’ proclaimed Dad, ‘the best nit nurse you’ll ever find.’ And before Mrs Timms could protest, off he went down the corridor, Thimble in hand, in search of the year one classroom. By the time Mrs Timms and I arrived, Thimble and Dad had already found their prey, who stared in goggle-eyed delight at the real live monkey in their midst.

  ‘Who’s got nits?’ demanded Dad.

  ‘It’s a monkey!’ cried a little girl.

  ‘Top of the class,’ said Dad. ‘Take a seat.’

  Before Mrs Timms or the class teacher could protest, the little girl took the chair Dad had offered and Thimble was sorting through her hair like a monkey possessed. One, two, three tasty morsels disappeared down Thimble’s gullet. Hands shot up all round the room and pupils cried out to be next in line. One volunteer followed another to the nitpicking chair, smiles as wide as watermelon slices, and soon even Mrs Timms was beginning to soften.

  ‘I think we can forget about the letters home, Miss Price,’ she said.

  ‘He does seem to be doing a good job,’ agreed the class teacher.

  ‘I suppose we could have him as a class pet,’ suggested Mrs Timms.

  ‘We did have a stick insect last year,’ replied the class teacher.

  ‘How do you feel about keeping Thimble, Class One?’ asked Mrs Timms.

  There was an enormous cheer.

  ‘Very well, Mr Dawson,’ said Mrs Timms. ‘I’ll put his name in the register.’

  Dad, needless to say, was delighted. I’d have been delighted too, if I could have stayed with Thimble. But I dutifully waved him goodbye, which came as a bit of a shock to him. Not that there was long to think about it, with twenty-four more pupils queuing up for grooming.

  Dad, at last, was ready for work. Pixie Pony Ballerina was up on screen and he was full of inspiration.

  ‘A full day to write, and no monkey!’ he purred. ‘What luxury!’

  ‘I don’t think he wanted to be left on his own,’ I said.

  ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do?’ I asked.

  ‘Make your mum’s sandwiches.’

  ‘That’s not schoolwork!’ I protested. ‘Can’t I help you?’

  ‘I,’ declared Dad, ‘do not need help.’

  With that, he rattled feverishly at the keyboard for about two minutes, before grinding to a halt, pondering for about ten minutes, then writing another word or two. His shoulders began to sag. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could just have a look at this for me’.

  I studied the screen:

  PIXIE PONY BALLERINA – IDEAS

  • Pixie Pony loads the dishwasher but it leaks and his hooves get wet.

  • Pixie Pony gets magic fairydust on the carpet and has to mend the vacuum cleaner.

  • Pixie Pony makes a fish pie but it boils over and makes a big mess in the oven.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Dad. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘It’s pathetic, Dad.’

  ‘Not that honest,’ said Dad.

  ‘You should ask me, Dad, I’ve got millions of ideas.’

  The conversation got no further as the phone rang. ‘Yes?’ snapped Dad.

  ‘Is that Thimble’s parent?’ said a voice.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You’d better get to school right away,’ said the voice. ‘Thimble’s had an accident.’

  My heart went through my boots. I pictured Thimble stone-still in the playground after falling off the school roof. Weak and pale in the medical room, having swallowed a bottle of glue. Grilled to a cinder in the school ovens.

  ‘Come on, Dad!’ I cried.

  It’s fair to say we turned a few heads on our way back to Peterloo Primary. It had been a long time since Dad had run, or even walked fast. His face was lobster red and slobber gushed from his mouth as he blundered up the pavement behind me. Yes, behind me, because my walker was moving faster than a Ferrari.

  Thank heaven, my worst fears were not realised. The moment I reached the gate I saw Thimble, conscious, apparently unharmed, but wearing a strange pair of baggy shorts.

  ‘Is he okay?’ I gasped.

  Mrs Timms, standing stony-faced beside Thimble, held out a bulging plastic bag, tied securely at the top.

  ‘Thimble,’ she declared, ‘has soiled his pants.’

  Dad sat with his head in his hands as far as possible from the Bag of Shame. Thimble and I sat opposite, Thimble looking quite happy with the world.

  ‘Why, oh why, oh why?’ asked Dad. ‘He’s never pooed his pants once at home.’

  ‘Maybe he was distressed, Dad,’ I suggested.

  ‘Distressed? What did he have to be distressed about? He had it made at that school!’

  ‘Maybe he missed us, Dad.’

  Dad huffed. ‘This is all your fault, Jams,’ he declared. ‘You’ve made him needy. You should have kept him at arm’s length, like I do.’

  ‘But he’s my best friend,’ I protested.

  ‘Ha!’ said Dad. ‘What does that say about you, that your best friend is a monkey?’

  ‘It says I’ve got one more friend than you,’ I replied.

  Dad bristled. ‘The lone wolf,’ he declared, ‘is the strongest wolf.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be the saddest wolf?’

  Dad was clearly tiring of the conversation.

  ‘Okay, Smartypants,’ he replied. ‘As you’re Thimble’s best friend, you can clean his dirty pants.’

  With that, Dad left me to gaze upon the Bag of Shame and wonder what on earth to do with it. I couldn’t put Thimble’s pants in the washing machine without scraping out the poo, and there was no way I was doing that. Nor could I bury the bag in the castle grounds, because some cat was bound to dig it up, and anyway, Mum would wonder where Thimble’s trousers had gone, and I’d have to make up a story, which Mum was bound not to believe, because she never believes my stories any more than she believes Dad’s, even though mine have got much longer sentences, like this one.

  There was only one answer. I would have to put the bag inside another bag, or even better, a box, then hide it till I could save up enough pocket money to pay someone to get rid of it.

  I scoured the kitchens of Dawson Castle. Aha! A cupboard full of plastic storage boxes, one the perfect size. I squeezed the Bag of Shame into this box and secured the lid. No smell. Hallelujah!

  At this point Dad called me. ‘Where is Thimble?’

  ‘Er … not sure, Dad.’

  ‘I thought I could hear sawing,’ said Dad.

  ‘Haven’t noticed it,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m sure I heard it,’ said Dad.

  ‘You may be paranoid.’

  ‘Jams,’ replied Dad, ‘I’m sitting on an antique captain’s chair with two-inch legs. Does that make me paranoid?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ I said. ‘Just too old to know centimetres.’

  ‘I’m sure I hid all the saws,’ said Dad.

  ‘Go through them,’ I suggested.

  ‘Hand saw…’ began Dad. ‘Tenon saw
… panel saw … coping saw … mitre saw … I’ve got a feeling there’s another one, but I just can’t think what it is.’

  ‘Cold saw?’ I suggested.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know, the type you get on your mouth.’

  Dad viewed me wearily. ‘You’re not helping.’

  ‘See-saw?’ I suggested.

  Dad ushered me to the door. ‘Maybe you are well suited to having a monkey for a best friend,’ he said.

  Mum came home in a great mood, possibly because she was going straight out again. There seemed no point in telling her about Thimble’s little accident. She put on her cycling gear, and just as she was leaving, gave Dad a peck on the cheek.

  ‘What was that for?’ asked Dad, looking surprised and delighted.

  ‘You remembered,’ replied Mum.

  ‘Remembered what?’

  ‘To make my sandwiches.’

  With that, Mum was gone, leaving Dad baffled. ‘Did you make sandwiches for your mother?’ he asked me.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot.’

  Dad’s eyes narrowed. ‘Thimble couldn’t have made them, could he?’

  ‘Maybe that was the sawing sound,’ I suggested.

  Equally puzzled, we made our way back to the kitchen. Here I made a disturbing discovery.

  The plastic storage box, which I’d left by the fridge, was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Dad,’ I asked, anxiously, ‘have you moved a plastic storage box?’

  ‘I haven’t seen a plastic storage box.’

  ‘That’s strange,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe your mum picked it up,’ said Dad.

  Mum?

  Hang on…

  NO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!

  ‘Mum!’ I cried, hurrying to the front door.

  ‘Mum, wait!’

  Gone!

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Dad.

  ‘The pooey pants!’ I gasped. ‘Mum’s got the pooey pants!’

  ‘What?’ said Dad.

  ‘She … thinks they’re her … sandwiches!’ I blurted.

  ‘What?’ cried Dad. ‘I’ll get the blame for this!’

  He rushed back inside Dawson Castle.

  ‘Where are you going, Dad?’

  ‘To get my bike!’

  Dad often told me what a great cyclist he’d been back in the day, and here was his chance to prove it. We hurried to the storehouse, where the back wheel of his trusty steed was just visible amongst the junk. Dad and I grabbed the saddle and gave the great beast a yank, only to crash onto our backs as it shot out easier than a knife through butter.

  There was a good reason for this. We were holding slightly less than half a bike. It was only now that we saw the rest of the bike, arranged in pieces in a neat pile, and behind that Thimble, holding the hacksaw that Dad had unfortunately forgotten to hide.

  CHAPTER SIX

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

  As we know, Dad was familiar with kennels, but now he really was in the doghouse. Mum was barely speaking to him.

  ‘Nora, I keep telling you!’ he pleaded. ‘Jams put the pants in the sandwich box!’

  ‘Jams would never do such a thing.’

  ‘Tell her, Jams!’ demanded Dad.

  ‘What, Dad?’ I replied, cunningly. ‘The whole story?’

  That fixed Dad. Mum would not be pleased to hear about Thimble being taken to a school and left there.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Dad, ‘I tried to catch you, except…’

  ‘What was that?’ Mum exclaimed, interrupting him.

  ‘What?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Something just ran under the fridge,’ said Mum.

  ‘It did?’

  ‘I think it was a mouse.’

  ‘Did it have eight legs?’ I asked, like an idiot.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Mum.

  I had to think quickly. ‘A while ago I stapled two mice together,’ I blustered.

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘No, not stapled,’ I blabbed ‘What’s the word for when you fix two things together with a hair bobble?’

  ‘Jams,’ said Mum, sternly, ‘you’ve been spending too much time with your dad.’

  ‘I know, Mum,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, how about if you spend more time with Jams?’ suggested Dad. ‘You could take him to work with you, and, come to that, you could take Thimble too.’

  Mum left without even bothering to respond to this idea.

  ‘Maybe we should get Thimble a job,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Dad, thoughtfully.

  ‘It’s a joke, Dad,’ I explained.

  ‘Let’s think,’ said Dad. ‘What kind of job could a monkey do?’

  ‘No one’s going to employ a monkey!’

  ‘There’s a night club round the corner,’ Dad said. ‘They must have dozens of jobs there.’

  ‘Dad,’ I pleaded, ‘no one wants a monkey DJ.’

  ‘Why not? They could call him the Funkymonkey.’

  ‘Dad, you’re losing it!’ I said. ‘Why don’t you just buy him a guitar and call him the Punkymonkey!’

  ‘Do try to be serious, Jams.’

  There was no arguing with Dad when he’d got his mind fixed on something. Twenty minutes later, we were on our way to Jackals Nightclub accompanied by a puzzled-looking Thimble, his hair combed, his teeth brushed and his baggy shorts straightened.

  A surprise awaited us. Around the nightclub was a tall plywood fence and a lot of men in hard hats looking busy. Through a gap in the fence we could see bulldozers and excavators. Jackals Night Club was about to be demolished.

  ‘What’s the chances of that?’ groaned Dad.

  ‘Nice vehicles,’ I muttered. In my mind I was climbing into one of those mighty machines, pulling the levers, feeling the power. Maybe I wouldn’t be a writer after all. Who wanted to sit at a PC when they could be smashing down a wall?

  ‘Hang on, Dad,’ I suggested. ‘Why can’t Thimble be a demolition worker? He’s already demolished half of Dawson Castle.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Dad. ‘You have a point there.’

  We sought out a big beardy man who seemed to be in charge of things. ‘Excuse me,’ said Dad. ‘Do you have any jobs?’

  The beardy man looked Dad up and down. As usual, Dad was wearing his cravat and his Terry Pratchett hat. These showed people that Dad was an Author. Or a nerd. You can guess which the beardy man thought.

  ‘For you?’ he asked, dourly.

  ‘For the monkey,’ replied Dad.

  The man turned his gaze on Thimble. When he looked back there was a strange grin on his face which I could not quite read. ‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said. ‘There’s ten thousand people looking for work in this town and you want me to give a job to a monkey?’

  ‘He’s very good with heights,’ said Dad.

  ‘Shaun!’ yelled the man. ‘Any work for a monkey?’

  Another man came over, then a couple of others. Thimble was quite the centre of attention. There was much laughter and a few more of those grins I couldn’t quite read. The men took Thimble off and to Dad’s great delight put him in the cab of the excavator. The excavator driver let Thimble play with some levers while the others took pictures with their mobiles. It really was a happy scene, but just as we were about to head for home Thimble was brought back down and they all turned to Dad.

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ said the beardy man. ‘You’ve made our day. Now, could you get something for me?’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Lost,’ replied the beardy man. There was much laughter.

  ‘Get … lost?’ repeated Dad. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Nice hat,’ said one of the other men, with a wink to me.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Dad. ‘Come along, Thimble, we know when we’re not wanted.’

  Summoning up as much dignity as possible, Dad took Thimble by the hand and we departed the scene. ‘By the way,’ Dad called back. ‘I’m a famous author. How many books hav
e you written?’ It was amazing how brave Dad felt when he wore Terry Pratchett’s hat.

  Back at Dawson Castle, Dad made a list of other jobs Thimble might apply for. Dad says it is good to make lists, because it feels like you have done something, even if you don’t actually do anything. Meanwhile, I searched half-heartedly for the tarantula and Thimble just sat around. He seemed quite miserable, which was not like Thimble at all. I wondered if he was pining for something, a mate maybe, or a tree he used to swing about in.

  Time wore on, then on a bit more. I did some dumb odd jobs like putting the rubbish out. More time wore on till it was time for afternoon tea. I thought it might cheer Thimble up to have a custard cream, but when I offered him one he wasn’t there. I wandered through the castle calling his name, but no reply. Then I noticed that the portcullis was raised and the front gate left open, possibly by me when I took out the rubbish. Had Thimble left the castle? Why? And where would he have gone?

  ‘Dad!’ I cried. ‘Thimble’s gone a bit missing.’

  Dad appeared, looking weary. ‘And?’ he said.

  ‘And hadn’t we better find him?’

  ‘Hmm…’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, I’m going to find him!’ I grabbed my coat and walker.

  Dad followed. He knew how much trouble he’d be in if I got lost. We retraced the steps of our morning walk, in case the hard hats had caught sight of Thimble, who they were sure to remember. When we reached the demolition site, however, everything was shut and there was no sign of any one.

  ‘Must have clocked off for the day,’ said Dad.

  ‘Hang on.’ I pointed. ‘One of the diggers is still moving.’

  Dad turned to see a vast yellow excavator looming over the plywood fence like a giant metal giraffe. ‘I say!’ he yelled, but there was no reply. The driver was busy at his controls. I say ‘his’ controls, but it was hard to tell at that distance whether it was a man. It could have been a woman, or even a child, because he or she did look rather small. And hairy. Remarkably hairy. Almost like a … a…

  NO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!

  ‘Thimble!’ I cried. ‘Get out of there!’