by Jon Blake
Thanks to Jordi Blake for his enthusiasm, ideas and help with the chapter headings
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
THE LIST
CHAPTER ONE
WHAT HAPPENED WHEN THIMBLE GOT HOLD OF THE SUPERGLUE
CHAPTER TWO
STRANGERS IN THE CASTLE AND A BIT OF PHOTOSHOPPING
CHAPTER THREE
A FAST MOUSTACHE AND A SUSPICIOUS DARK THING ON THE SOFA
CHAPTER FOUR
THIMBLE’S IDEA OF HEAVEN AND RED MEANS STOP
CHAPTER FIVE
IN WHICH NOTHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN, EXCEPT IT DOES
CHAPTER SIX
A LARGE FLOCK OF BUTTERFLIES AND A WOUNDED ELEPHANT
CHAPTER SEVEN
WARNING – MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF A NUT CALLED DAD
CHAPTER EIGHT
RED MEANS GO AND DAD FINALLY PUNCHES SOMETHING
CHAPTER NINE
A DISAPPEARING SAUSAGE AND THIMBLE’S TREASURE TROVE
CHAPTER TEN
IN WHICH WE SAY GOODBYE TO THE HOLIDAY HOME, THAT’S FOR SURE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
PROLOGUE
THE LIST
Dad leaned back in the remains of his favourite chair and pressed the ends of his fingers together. That was the way he always sat when he was pretending to be intelligent.
‘Let’s go through the list one more time, Jams,’ he said.
‘Things Thimble must not get his hands on,’ I began. ‘Number one, the electric drill.’
Dad frowned. ‘The drill is in the reinforced strongbox ?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I replied wearily. It was the fifth time he’d asked me this.
‘With the double padlock?’
‘With the double padlock.’
‘Continue,’ said Dad.
‘Number two. The matches.’
Dad gave a little shudder then waved me on.
‘Number three,’ I said. ‘The saw.’
Dad shifted uncomfortably. It was not easy to sit in a chair whose legs were six inches long.
‘Number four. The microwave.’
Dad gave a weary groan.
‘Dad,’ I suggested, ‘why don’t we just put “Everything”?’
‘If we do that,’ replied Dad, ‘he will have won.’
‘OK. Number five...’ I paused. ‘Are you feeling strong, Dad?’
‘Just get on with it.’
‘The superglue,’ I said.
No response.
‘The superglue,’ I repeated.
‘Yes, I heard what you said,’ hissed Dad.
‘Dad, do you remember the time…’
‘Next!’ said Dad.
‘It would make a great story,’ I suggested.
Dad fixed me with his fiercest stare. ‘No, Jams. It would not make a great story. It would make an extremely embarrassing and humiliating story. No one must ever know what happened when Thimble got hold of the superglue!’
CHAPTER ONE
WHAT HAPPENED WHEN THIMBLE GOT HOLD OF THE SUPERGLUE
It was a rare day in Dawson Castle, our little bungalow home. Rare because Dad was happy. As you may know, Dad is the great children’s author Douglas Dawson, except not many people seem to have noticed how great he is. As a result he does not sell many books, or visit many schools, or do anything much, except moan about the fact that Mum has much more money. So you can imagine how delighted he was when a letter arrived asking him to be the guest speaker at the Lower Pugley Retired Ladies Embroidery Club annual dinner. I was a little suspicious about this, as there is a man on telly called Douglas Lawson who makes tapestries out of pasta and was voted Silver Fox of the Year. But I said nothing. How could I spoil it when Dad was marching round the house with his fist raised high, crying ‘They want me! They want me!’?
As the day approached Dad grew more and more nervous. He couldn’t decide whether to wear his green corduroy suit or his paisley shirt and cravat. He couldn’t decide whether to get a haircut or wear his Terry Pratchett hat. He stopped eating tea and started collecting pens, always a bad sign with Dad. Then, when the day arrived, he decided that fourteen pens simply weren’t enough.
‘Jams,’ he said. ‘Where is my lucky pen?’
‘In the Useful Drawer?’ I suggested.
‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘That’s where it’ll be.’
The Useful Drawer was in the castle refectory (kitchen), just under the Utensils We Don’t Understand Drawer. We hurried there with all possible speed, only to find the drawer suspiciously open and Thimble lurking even more suspiciously nearby. To Thimble, the Useful Drawer was a place of endless fascination, perhaps because I had once unwisely hidden a banana there.
‘Thimble,’ asked Dad, ‘have you just taken something from that drawer?’
Thimble’s only answer was to back further away.
‘He’s got something behind his back, Dad.’
‘What have you got behind your back,
Thimble?’ asked Dad.
Thimble let out a stream of meaningless monkey chatter.
‘You’re making him feel threatened, Dad.’
‘He is threatened,’ said Dad.
‘What is it, Thimble?’ I asked. ‘Is it drawing pins? Is it sellotape? Is it corn-onthe- cob holders?’
‘The corn-on-the-cob holders are in the cutlery drawer,’ said Dad.
‘Not any more, Dad. Mum moved them.’
‘What in heaven’s name for?’
‘It was when she was de-cluttering,’ I replied.
‘That is not an answer,’ said Dad.
The discussion had only lasted half a minute, but as we all know, you can’t take your eyes off Thimble for two seconds. He was gone.
‘Get the pen, Jams,’ said Dad. ‘I’m more nervous than ever now. You’ll find me in the dungeon.’
The dungeon is Dad’s name for the toilet in Dawson Castle. Mum sometimes spends half a day in there, possibly to get away from Dad, but Dad prides himself in taking as little time as possible, so it was a surprise when he did not reappear for several minutes. Anxiously I knocked on the dungeon door.
‘Are you alright, Dad?’
‘No, something is very wrong.’
‘In what sense?’ I asked.
‘In the sense,’ replied Dad, ‘that I cannot get off the toilet.’
‘Oh dear. How do you think that’s happened?’
‘When you looked in the Useful Drawer,’ said Dad, ‘did you notice if the superglue was there?’
‘Come to think of it,’ I said, ‘it wasn’t in its usual place.’
‘Bring me the phone. I need to ring your mother.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’ I asked. ‘You know how Mum hates…’
‘Bring me the phone NOW!’ yelled Dad.
I brought Dad the phone, secretly switching on the speakerphone in case they had a row and I had to give evidence in court.
‘Nora?’ said Dad.
‘Douglas?’ said Mum.
‘You have to come home this minute!’ said Dad.
Mum laughed.
‘I mean it. The taxi’s coming in twenty minutes and I’m stuck to the toilet!’
Mum laughed louder. ‘What are you stuck by?’
‘Well, I’m not stuck by my face, am I?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mum.
‘I don’t eat from the toilet!’
‘What’s sticking you?’
‘Superglue,’ said Dad.
‘Superglue? How did that get there?’
‘Thimble got hold of it.’
Mum laughed again.
‘Nora, this is no laughing matter!’
&n
bsp; ‘They can get it off in A and E,’ said Mum.
‘A and E?’ said Dad. ‘How am I going to get to A and E? I’m stuck to the toilet!’
‘Just take the seat off.’
‘What, and walk down the road with it stuck to my backside?’
‘Listen,’ said Mum, ‘the Abermouth wind farm is running at half power and I’m up to my eyeballs. You’ll have to sort it out yourself.’
‘But it’s your fault!’ said Dad.
‘Why?’ said Mum.
‘You invited the monkey to live with us!’
No reply.
Mum was gone.
‘Jams!’ cried Dad. ‘Get a spanner and a screwdriver and a crowbar and remove this seat from the toilet!’
It was actually quite easy to get the seat off the toilet as it was just fixed with two wingnuts.
But getting the seat off Dad was another matter.
‘Shall I give it a yank, Dad?’ I suggested.
‘No way!’ said Dad. ‘You’ll pull the skin off my bottom!’
‘But if we leave it you’ll never get your trousers on.’
‘Unless they’re very big trousers,’ said Dad.
‘What about Grandad’s enormous dungarees?’ I suggested.
It was a stroke of genius. Dad’s dad had been a gigantic man and when he died Mum kept his dungarees for me to use as a beach tent. They would easily fit over Dad and the toilet seat as well.
‘But I’ll look ridiculous!’ said Dad.
I checked my watch. ‘Fifteen minutes till taxi time,’ I said.
Dad groaned. ‘Fetch the dungarees,’ he said.
As predicted, Grandad’s enormous dungarees went on easily. You could probably have fitted the whole toilet into them. Unfortunately, however, they hung down like limp folds of skin and you could still clearly see the outline of the toilet seat.
‘We need to bulk them out, Dad,’ I said.
‘What with?’
‘Plastic bags?’ I suggested.
‘They’ll rustle,’ said Dad.
‘Old socks?’
‘Be very heavy,’ said Dad.
‘Bubble wrap?’
‘We haven’t got any.’
‘I know!’ I said. ‘Balloons!’
It was another stroke of genius. But there was one problem. Blowing up twenty balloons would take me half an hour. Unless, of course, I did what I saw on YouTube: fixed them over the nozzle of a tap, and filled them with water!
It worked a treat. I didn’t actually tell Dad what I’d done, in case he panicked, but the dungarees filled up nicely, and there was no danger of the balloons escaping thanks to the cycle clips I fitted round Dad’s ankles.
‘How do I look?’ asked Dad.
‘Good,’ I replied. ‘No sign of the toilet seat.’
‘Showtime,’ said Dad. He picked up his briefcase and headed for the North Gate, which is what Dad calls the front door. But just as he was passing down the hallway something caught his eye.
‘What on earth is that doing there?’
There on the sideboard lay an axe – the long-handled axe Dad used for chopping firewood.
‘Thimble must have been using it,’ I said.
‘What on earth for?’ asked Dad, much alarmed.
‘He was probably just playing,’ I said. ‘If he’d been chopping up the furniture we’d have heard it.’
‘We’d better put it somewhere he’ll never find it again,’ said Dad. He seized the axe in his right hand, but as he did so a new look of alarm came over his face.
‘What is it, Dad?’
‘Hell’s bells!’ cried Dad. ‘More superglue!’
I went to wrench the axe from Dad’s grasp but he furiously waved me away. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Jams!’ he cried. ‘You’ll be stuck to it as well!’
Dad flung his arm one way then the other but there was no moving the axe.
‘I can’t go outside like this!’ he cried. ‘The neighbours will think I’ve gone bonkers!’
‘Maybe you should wear a disguise, Dad.’
‘What could I wear?’ asked Dad.
I was thrown for a moment as I hadn’t expected Dad to agree. But Dad was sure the taxi could still take him to A and E where both the axe and the toilet seat could be removed. He might be late for his talk but it was better late than never.
‘I’ve got that clown mask I made at summer camp,’ I suggested.
‘Get it,’ said Dad.
This was a proud moment for me. Dad never took much notice of things I made, and he’d certainly never worn one of them. But the clown mask fitted perfectly.
‘How do I look?’ asked Dad, his voice rather muffled.
‘To be honest,’ I replied, ‘a little bit scary.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Dad. ‘Will anyone recognise me?’
‘Er … no,’ I replied.
Dad checked his watch, forgetting that the axe was attached to his arm, and completely demolished Mum’s favourite table lamp. ‘Taxi’s due,’ he said, ignoring the devastation.
We exited Dawson Castle.
‘Let’s try not to attract attention,’ said Dad.
‘OK, Dad,’ I replied. Unfortunately however, we had barely got onto the pavement when we were approached by a bull mastiff. My Observers Book of Dogs says that, statistically, the bull mastiff is the fifth most likely dog to bite, and this one certainly did not look like it wanted to play fetch. Its ears were back, its teeth were bared and it was emitting a low, sinister growl.
‘I don’t think it likes you, Dad,’ I said.
‘Get away!’ cried Dad. ‘Get away you stupid –
Yikes! The horrible hound had bitten Dad right on the dungarees! There was a loud then suddenly a big wet patch spread across the front of them.
‘There’s something … wet … going down my leg,’ gasped Dad.
I said nothing.
‘Do you think it’s blood?’ asked Dad.
There was no time to reply. The taxi had turned into the street and was heading towards us. Just as it should have slowed down, however, the driver caught sight of Dad and started to speed up again.
‘It’s not going to stop,’ said Dad.
‘Flag him down with your axe.’
‘Oy!’ cried Dad, doing as I suggested, but unfortunately the taxi was already past us and Dad merely succeeded in slicing off the wing mirror. We watched helplessly as the mirror clattered into the gutter and the taxi disappeared from view.
A few neighbours appeared at their windows.
‘Seen enough?’ cried Dad. ‘Happy now?’
‘Don’t make it worse, Dad,’ I advised.
‘Worse? How could things possibly get worse?’
Dad sank into the gutter, his clown face in his hands. At this point a police car came screaming round the corner, siren blaring. Two burly policewomen leapt from the car and demanded that Dad drop the weapon. Needless to say he did not comply, leaving them with no option but to arrest him.
CHAPTER TWO
STRANGERS IN THE CASTLE AND A BIT OF PHOTOSHOPPING
Thimble, as you might have gathered, creates a lot of havoc. But he is also my best friend. He sleeps on my bed at night and helps me on with my splints in the morning. My splints are plastic things which I wear round my calves and feet. They keep my feet flat to the ground and stop me from walking on tiptoes, which might be great for ballet but is useless for football. I have taught Thimble to play football. He is a brilliant goalie, really bendy, like Gordon Banks in his prime, except Gordon Banks never stuffed the ball down his shorts and ran off with it.
Anyway, on with the story.
It was a wild windy night at Dawson Castle. The rain lashed at the castle defences. Mum looked glum and Dad looked glummer.
‘I’m sure the weather was better before that monkey came,’ he said.
‘Don’t talk about Thimble as if he isn’t here,’ said Mum. ‘He understands everything.’
‘He can’t speak,’ said Dad.
‘How many times must we tell you,’ I replied. ‘He speaks in sign language and everyone understands it except you.’
Dad turned to Thimble. ‘What’s the sign for “Dad”?’ he asked.
Thimble blew a raspberry.
‘See? He doesn’t know.’
We said nothing.
Outside, the rain was getting heavier.
‘What a miserable summer,’ said Dad.
‘We need a holiday,’ said Mum.
‘We can’t afford it,’ said Dad.
‘Actually,’ said Mum, ‘there is a way we can afford a holiday.’
‘How, Mum?’ I asked.
‘Just leave it to me’, said Mum.
Next day it was still raining, Dad was still glum, but Mum said she had some great news.
‘Holiday’s sorted,’ she said.
‘Brilliant!’ I cried.
‘Hang on,’ said Dad. ‘How much?’
‘Not one penny,’ said Mum.
‘Explain,’ said Dad.
‘You remember that site I found on the web?’
‘Not … nestswap.com?’ said Dad.
‘That’s the one. Remember, you said it was the height of lunacy to let total strangers stay in your house while you stay in theirs?’
‘Tell me you haven’t arranged a home swap!’
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Mum.
‘It will not be fine!’ railed Dad. ‘A man’s home is his castle! You don’t let total strangers into your castle!’
‘This is a woman’s home,’ said Mum. ‘I paid for it.’
‘I’m paying you back!’ cried Dad.
‘When you write a bestseller,’ replied Mum, ‘i.e. never.’
‘Don’t say that!’ said Dad.
‘Where are we going, Mum? I asked.
‘Blingville. Where they hold the film festival.’
‘Wicked!’ I said. ‘Isn’t that in France?’
‘The south of France. Guaranteed sunshine.’
‘At least that rules out Thimble coming,’ grunted Dad.
‘Why?’ I replied.
‘I can hardly see us getting a monkey through customs,’ said Dad.
