by Jon Blake
Mum said nothing.
‘Nora. You’re not thinking of smuggling Thimble through customs, are you?’
‘We can’t leave him here,’ said Mum.
‘Of course we can! We’ll put him in kennels or something!’
‘Monkey kennels?’ I said.
‘Or something,’ said Dad.
‘He’s coming,’ said Mum, ‘and that’s that.’
‘And how exactly do you propose getting a monkey past passport control?’ asked Dad.
‘You remember my friend in the passport office?’
‘What, the crook?’ said Dad.
‘She’s not a crook,’ protested Mum. ‘She just believes in the free movement of people. And monkeys.’
‘You’ll never get her to…’
Mum laid a passport on the table. Dad seized it. ‘Timothy Dawson?’ he cried. ‘Timothy Dawson? Hang on, what about the photo…? Hell’s bells, what did you do to him?’
‘Just a wig and some face paint,’ said Mum. ‘Then a bit of photoshopping.’
Dad was aghast. ‘Why did you give him my surname?’ he protested.
‘You’re always saying you’re the head of the household,’ said Mum.
‘Head of the human household!’ said Dad. ‘Not the monkey one!’
‘What about his tail, Mum?’ I asked.
‘We’ll roll that up and stick it in his trousers,’ said Mum. ‘It’ll just look like he’s got a big bum.’
‘I need to think about this,’ said Dad.
‘Think quickly,’ said Mum. ‘We leave tomorrow.’
CHAPTER THREE
A FAST MOUSTACHE AND A SUSPICIOUS DARK THING ON THE SOFA
Everything was going fine till we reached Passport Control. There were two booths in front of us, each manned by a sternlooking border guard. Thimble went right, I went left. The guard checked my passport, then my face, then showed the passport to a machine.
At this point I had a strange sensation. Something was tickling the side of my face. I raised my hand and grasped something woolly.
Yikes! Thimble’s tail! It must have broken free of his trousers!
There was no time to lose. Quick as a flash, I bent the tail over my top lip and tried to look as innocent as possible.
The guard’s eyes rose. A look of confusion came to his face. He checked the passport, then me, then the passport again.
‘You didn’t have that moustache a minute ago,’ he said.
‘It grows fast,’ I blabbed.
‘You’re not old enough to grow a moustache!’ he replied.
‘Run, Thimble!’ I cried.
In a trice the moustache had vanished from my face and I was following Thimble helter-skelter through the departure lounge. Sirens were going off all around us and men with guns were appearing everywhere.
‘Mum!’ I cried.
A distant voice replied, ‘Yes, love?’
‘Where are you, Mum?’ I cried.
‘Right here,’ said Mum, ‘with your milk.’
Sure enough, there was dear Mother, wearing her dressing gown, holding my even dearer morning milk.
‘Had a bad dream, Mum,’ I said.
‘Never mind,’ said Mum. ‘You’re back in real life now. Come and help me shave Thimble’s face.’
Two hours later, the keys to Dawson Castle were under the flowerpot, and we were on our way to 33, Rue de Fou, Blingville. I knew the address because it was my job to remember it, which was easy, as 44 was Mum’s age, and it was exactly eleven years less. It was hard to contain my excitement, and even harder to contain Thimble’s. He could not get used to having no tail and every few minutes did a sudden about turn in hope of taking it by surprise. Sadly, however, his tail was too smart for him, especially with ten strips of gaffer tape sealing it to his underpants.
Everything was going fine till we reached Passport Control. There were two booths in front of us, each manned by a stern-looking border guard. I went right and Thimble was about to go left when Mum swung him round in front of me.
‘Let’s all go through together,’ she said.
The border guard took Thimble’s passport, stared hard at it, then at Thimble. Then the passport again, then Thimble again. She frowned hard, as if dealing with some insurmountable problem.
‘We’re in luck,’ said Mum. ‘Prosopagnosia.’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘what’s that?’
‘Face blindness.’
‘Face blindness?’ I repeated. ‘What’s she doing working in passport control?’
‘Nepotism,’ said Mum.
‘How do you know?’ I asked.
‘I’m omniscient,’ said Mum.
I’ll leave a little break here so you can check a Glossary of Long Difficult Words. Mum has a degree in English Literature and likes to talk to me as if I have one too.
It was late and quite dark when we arrived in Blingville. You could tell we were in France because everyone was speaking French, even the taxi drivers. As usual in these situations, Dad took control. Dad was proud of his command of the French language. For some strange reason, however, the taxi drivers refused to understand a word he said and turned to Thimble instead, whose sign language is international. So it was Thimble who booked us a taxi, me who showed them the address scribbled in my notebook, and Mum who sat in the front chatting and, for some strange reason, being understood perfectly well.
Yes, everything was looking ticketyboo, especially when we arrived at 33, Rue de Fou and found a magnificent villa with a front garden bigger than the whole of Dawson Castle. Grapes were cascading over the front wall and, just as Serge and Colette had promised, there was a grey wheelie bin alongside the front door.
‘The keys should be taped inside the lid,’ said Mum.
Dad checked. ‘No keys here,’ he grunted.
‘Perhaps they’ve fallen inside?’ suggested Mum.
Dad checked inside increasingly frantically, finally turning the bin upside down and shaking it like a tambourine.
‘I knew this home swap was a mistake!’ he cried.
‘That is strange,’ said Mum. ‘Serge and Colette did not seem like the kind of people who would forget to leave the keys.’
‘We don’t even know them!’ railed Dad.
‘We’ve exchanged emails.’
‘That’s all we are going to exchange,’ said Dad.
‘Maybe there’s a way in round the back,’ said Mum.
We made our way down the drive, which seemed to go on forever, till we reached the back of the house. There we found a terrace with a huge outdoor table and fancy curly chairs. Beyond that was a garden of scorched grass in which there was a gigantic trampoline, a colossal swimming pool and a mammoth tree house. It was a garden beyond my wildest dreams.
‘Maybe we could just live here,’ I suggested.
Dad did not seem to hear me. He was rattling the shutters that covered the French windows and checking if there was any way to climb up to the first-floor balcony.
‘Wow,’ said Mum. ‘This really is swish. I hope they’re not disappointed with our bungalow.’
‘At least they can get into our bungalow!’ replied Dad.
‘Hang on,’ said Mum. ‘There’s an open window.’
I followed Mum’s pointy finger. Yes, there was an open window, at the very end of the house. But it was a very small window, probably the window to a toilet.
‘We can’t get through there,’ said Dad.
‘Thimble could,’ said Mum.
I called Thimble, who by now was dangling from the tree house.
‘Thimble,’ I said, ‘listen very carefully. We want you to climb through that window, then open one of those big windows and let us in. Do you understand?’
Thimble nodded enthusiastically.
‘He understands.’
‘He nods whatever we say,’ said Dad.
Thimble nodded enthusiastically.
‘Heaven help us,’ said Dad.
I gave Thimble a leg up, not that he needed it, and he scra
mbled through the window with the greatest of ease. A few seconds passed. Then a few more. Then a few minutes. Then a few minutes more.
‘Perhaps there aren’t any keys,’ I suggested.
‘This kind of window is usually locked with a handle,’ said Mum.
‘If we could just get … these … shutters…’ grunted Dad, heaving with all his might at the great wooden window guards.
‘Try lifting the catch,’ said Mum. She raised a metal catch and hey presto, the shutters folded back and we had our first glimpse of the interior of 33, Rue de Fou.
Wow. It really was plush. Chandeliers, marble floor, antique dressers and a luxurious pure white sofa on which sat Thimble, a slice of cake in his hand, watching telly.
‘Thimble!’ cried Dad. ‘Put that down and let us in!’
Thimble waved, let out a stream of monkey chatter, then went back to watching telly.
‘This is a disaster!’ cried Dad. ‘Can you imagine the havoc he’ll create if he’s left alone in there?’
‘Thimble,’ said Mum, ‘be a good monkey and open this window.’
As usual, Thimble was more inclined to listen to Mum. He got off the sofa, came towards us and began examining the window. Then, just as it seemed our wait was over, something distracted his attention and he disappeared from view.
‘Lord give me patience,’ said Dad, which seemed unlikely.
At this point I spotted something. Something very suspicious.
‘What’s that on the sofa?’ I asked.
‘Where?’ asked Mum.
‘Where Thimble was sitting.’.
‘The dark thing?’ asked Mum.
‘Hell’s bells!’ I cried. ‘It’s a poo!’
Next thing I knew, Dad had seized one of the garden chairs.
‘Move aside, Jams,’ he commanded.
‘Dad!’ I cried. ‘You’re not going to…’
Either the chair was very strong, or the window very weak, but all that was left was a metal frame with a few shards of glass hanging. The rest of the glass was spread randomly over the pristine marble floor, while the chair had gone on to demolish a coffee table and the vase which had been on it, spilling dirty green water over a pile of nearby books. Thimble could be heard gibbering frantically in the nearby kitchen, while Mum simply stood with her head in her hands.
‘I never realised you were so strong, Dad,’ I said.
Dad did not reply. He was in a kind of trance, panting heavily. I made my way carefully through the devastation and inspected the dark object on the sofa.
‘Would you believe it?’ I said. ‘It’s a TV remote.’
CHAPTER FOUR
THIMBLE’S IDEA OF HEAVEN AND RED MEANS STOP
The glazier did his best with the window next morning, but it totally didn’t match the others, and when he handed the bill to Mum her face dropped.
‘So much for the free holiday,’ she said.
‘I told you not to bring Thimble,’ said Dad.
‘Thimble didn’t break the window,’ said Mum.
‘Or the vase,’ I added helpfully.
‘This place is chock full of valuables,’ said Dad. ‘It’s going to be a nightmare keeping Thimble away from them.’
‘Maybe we should make another list,’ I suggested.
‘Good idea,’ said Dad.
I opened my notebook and wrote:
THINGS THIMBLE MUST NOT GET HIS HANDS ON IN THE HOLIDAY HOME.
We progressed round the house, noting the ornaments, the tablecloths, the rugs, the stereos, the lamps, the lead crystal wine glasses and the framed photographs. There was one wall which was covered in pictures of speedboats, except on closer inspection it turned out to be just one boat, Le Superb. The boat sure lived up to its name.
‘Do you think that’s their boat?’ I asked.
‘Who cares,’ said Dad.
‘Maybe we could go on it!’
‘It’s a house swap,’ said Dad. ‘Not a boat swap.’
‘Just imagine though!’ I said.
‘What, Thimble getting his hands on it?’ said Dad. ‘I’d rather not.’
We moved on. There was one door we hadn’t tried yet, a locked door in the kitchen. The door was painted bright red, which I thought might be a warning, but no, it was just an enormous garage, full of tellies and stereos and enough tinned food to keep an army. There was also a workbench on which we found a saw, a box of matches, an electric drill and a tube of superglue.
‘Wow!’ I said. ‘This would be Thimble’s idea of heaven!’
Dad picked up the superglue and winced. ‘Thimble,’ he said, ‘must never get into this room.’
‘What’s that under the bench?’ I asked. I could see the edge of a large chest, like a pirate’s treasure chest.
‘I think we’ve seen enough.’
‘Let’s just look inside, Dad!’ I replied.
‘No, let’s go,’ said Dad. ‘This place is making me nervous.’
Dad locked the red door, checked the locked door three times, then placed the key under a tray of cutlery in a kitchen drawer. Just as he closed the drawer, however, he became aware that someone, besides me, was watching him.
‘Thimble!’ he cried. ‘What are you doing here?’
It was a rather stupid question. As usual, Thimble wanted to join in with whatever we were doing, which always looked like some kind of game to him.
‘It’s OK, Dad,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t know what the key is for.’
‘Don’t mention the key!’ said Dad.
‘He probably saw it,’ I replied. ‘Did you see the key, Thimble?’
Thimble nodded eagerly.
‘And did you see Dad lock the garage with it?’
‘Don’t say that!’ said Dad.
Thimble looked from Dad to me and back again several times. This was starting to look like a particularly good game.
Dad gave a great sigh. ‘Well done, Jams!’ he said, retrieving the key. ‘Now you can find somewhere to hide it!’
I took the key and set off. Thimble bounded after me.
‘Not you, Thimble!’ cried Dad.
‘Distract him, Dad,’ I said.
Dad mimed hitting himself in the face with a cricket bat. This may not mean much to you if you have not read Thimble Monkey Superstar, but it meant an awful lot to Thimble, who could not relive this memory often enough.
I took my chance and hurried upstairs. I was immediately drawn to the room with the photos of Le Superb. There was an antique desk in this room with a set of drawers above it, higher than Thimble could reach. I opened the first drawer, only to find another set of keys already there. Beneath these was a book: Le Superb: Manuel D’instruction.
If only I could read French!
I flicked through the pages. Hang on a minute … could this maybe be the superboat’s instruction manual? And this being the case, could that set of keys be the keys to the boat?
‘Dad!’ I cried, racing downstairs.
‘Ssh,’ said Dad. ‘I’m teaching Thimble
something.’
‘But Dad,’ I said. ‘I’ve found…’
‘RED MEANS STOP’, said Dad. ‘Do you understand, Thimble?’ Dad pointed at the red door.
‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Dad’, I said.
‘Just like a RED TRAFFIC LIGHT.’ continued Dad. ‘RED MEANS STOP. Now show you understand.’
Thimble did the hand signals for Red Means Stop.
‘Does he understand?’ said Dad.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I said, ‘but don’t forget he always does the opposite of everything you say.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Dad. ‘Now what on earth is your mother doing?’
I glanced through the window to see Mum standing on a chair, trying to look over the garden fence. Thinking I might get more sense out of her than Dad, I went outside with the boat keys.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’ I asked.
‘Trying to see the neighbours.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because, unlike your dad,’ said Mum, ‘I like to meet people. And besides, what if there’s an emergency?’
‘We’ll be alright,’ I said.
‘They’re not there anyway,’ said Mum. ‘No signs of life at all. We’ll just have to be very careful not to do anything risky.’
‘Right, Mum,’ I replied. ‘Guess what, Mum – they’ve got a speedboat, and I’ve just found the keys!’
CHAPTER FIVE
IN WHICH NOTHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN, EXCEPT IT DOES
Mum was most surprised to find out about the speedboat. Serge and Colette had never mentioned a boat.
‘But, Mum,’ I said. ‘You said they said we were welcome to use anything we found.’
‘I think they were talking about saucepans,’ said Mum.
‘Oh, Mum, please!’ I pleaded.
‘I want to have a relaxing time on this holiday,’ said Mum. ‘That means lying on the beach sunning myself, not worrying about you and Thimble. You know nothing about boats and nor do I.’
‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ I asked.
‘Nothing is going to happen’, said Mum, ‘because we are all going to the beach.’
I groaned. ‘Can’t we just look at the boat? Look, it says on the keys, C492. That must be where it’s parked.’
‘Berthed,’ said Mum.
‘See?’ I said. ‘You do know about boats.’
I put on my most appealing face and kissed Mum all over her hand. She weakened. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in looking at it,’ she said.
It was as if she had fired a starting pistol. I was dressed for the beach in five minutes flat. I even helped Thimble on with his bathers and applied my own sun cream. Dad didn’t put on sun cream because he said it was just an excuse for chemists to make money out of us.
‘Douglas,’ said Mum, ‘this is the South of France. It’s very hot out there.’
‘I’ll keep my corduroy suit on,’ said Dad,
‘And my Terry Pratchett hat.’
