Thimble Holiday Havoc

by Jon Blake

  ‘You’ll fry!’ said Mum. ‘Haven’t you brought any shorts?’

  ‘I don’t have any shorts,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, make some. Cut down some of your trousers.’

  ‘What a ridiculous idea,’ said Dad.

  ‘Maybe I’ll find a nice French man to take me to the beach,’ said Mum. ‘They dress so well.’

  ‘I dress well!’ protested Dad.

  ‘They dress so well in shorts,’ said Mum.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ said Dad. ‘Where are the scissors?’

  Thimble was listening to this conversation with great interest, but when Dad appeared in his cut-off trousers it must have scared him because he promptly disappeared. To be fair, it was quite scary.

  ‘Wow, Dad,’ I said. ‘Your legs are so white! Have they ever been in the sun?’

  ‘Sun ages the skin,’ grunted Dad.

  ‘You’d better put on some sun cream,’ said Mum.

  ‘Nonsense. Now, will they do or won’t they?’

  Mum studied Dad closely. ‘Oh, Douglas,’ she said, ‘there’s a big stain down the front.’

  ‘I know,’ said Dad. ‘That’s where Thimble spilt the printing ink all over me.’

  ‘You can’t go out like that,’ said Mum.

  ‘I’m a writer!’ protested Dad. ‘I can go out like anything!’

  ‘Not with me you can’t,’ said Mum. ‘Go and make another pair.’

  ‘I’ll have no trousers left,’ moaned Dad. He trudged back up the stairs, muttering and spluttering – but suddenly the mutters and splutters were replaced by an almighty cry. ‘Thimble! You ... monkey devil!’

  I hurried up the stairs to find a scene of utter chaos. Dad’s trousers were spread all over his bed – or I should say, the remains of Dad’s trousers. Every pair had the legs cut off. Not at the knee or halfway up the thigh, but right at the top, higher than a pair of boxer shorts.

  ‘Dad! You shouldn’t have left the scissors out.’

  ‘Typical!’ railed Dad. ‘Blame me, not the monkey!’

  ‘He’s got an instinct to cut,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’ve got an instinct to…’

  Dad stopped short as Mum entered the room. ‘Oh, Thimble, you are naughty,’ she said. ‘But at least Dad’s got lots of shorts now.’

  ‘And no trousers,’ said Dad.

  ‘Let’s see what they look like,’ said Mum.

  Teeth grit hard, Dad pulled on the nearest pair of cut-offs. Mum tittered and Thimble gave a little whoop.

  ‘Wow, Dad,’ I said. ‘They look like hot pants.’

  ‘I can’t wear these!’ cried Dad.

  ‘But, Dad,’ I said. ‘You said you were a writer, so you could wear anything.’

  ‘Wear a long t-shirt,’ suggested Mum.

  Dad put on his longest t-shirt.

  ‘Now it looks like you’re wearing a minidress,’ I said.

  ‘And pregnant,’ added Mum, helpfully. Dad does have a bit of a beer belly.

  ‘Good,’ said Dad. ‘I’m glad I’ve given you a laugh. Fortunately I still have my Terry Pratchett hat. People will take me seriously as long as I’m wearing that.’

  Luckily there were lots of people in Blingville with shorts as short as Dad’s. Mind you, most of these were women, and most of these women had a little dog sitting on their hand, not a monkey trailing behind them. We did get a few funny looks when we reached the beach, but this may have been because of Thimble. There was a shower on the beach and this interested Thimble greatly. Several times he lolloped towards it, only to be called back by Mum. We tried to explain that it was a people shower, not a monkey shower, but to Thimble it was just a lovely little waterfall.

  It wasn’t long before I started to get bored, and so did Dad. We couldn’t see the point of just lying in the sun like Mum.

  ‘I want to see the boat,’ I moaned.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mum. ‘Why don’t just you and your dad go and look at the boat, so I can have some peace?’

  ‘What about Thimble?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea if Thimble goes near the boat,’ said Mum.

  ‘Why? We’re not going on it.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Mum. ‘But you must promise to keep Thimble well away.’

  ‘I swear,’ I said, ‘on my mother’s life.’

  ‘Let’s make it your father’s,’ said Mum.

  Thimble, Dad and I made our way round the harbour. There sure were a lot of boats, huge, shiny expensive ones. But nothing compared to the boat at berth number C492.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘that is awesome.’

  ‘Flashy, I call it,’ said Dad.

  Awesome and flashy. Yes, that did describe the monstrous vessel before us. Serge and Colette must have robbed a bank to buy it.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great to have just one little tour round the harbour?’ I said.

  ‘Control yourself, Jams,’ said Dad.

  At this point I became aware that we were being watched by a group of teenagers. I am used to people looking at me because I use a walker and walk a bit different. But these teenagers were not interested in me. They were interested in Dad, or more particularly, his shorts, which were obviously a style they had never seen before. They pointed, called out a few things in French, then laughed loudly, also in French.

  Dad’s blood began to boil. ‘Don’t they know who I am?’ he grunted.

  ‘Maybe they can’t read,’ I replied, humouring him.

  The teenagers were not getting any less interested. Some of them were pulling up their own shorts and sticking out their bellies. Then one of them said something about Dad’s Terry Pratchett hat.

  That was the final straw for Dad. ‘Get on the boat, Jams,’ he ordered.

  ‘Wha…’ I began.

  ‘Just get on the boat!’ hissed Dad.

  Dad grabbed my walker, and with a bit of help from Thimble I clambered onto Le Superb. Thimble and Dad followed.

  The teenagers were now silent.

  ‘What’s the matter, kids?’ cried Dad. ‘Haven’t you got a boat? No, because you’re a bunch of nobodies, not the world’s greatest author. Start her up, Jams!’

  ‘Eh? I said.

  ‘You’ve got the keys!’ cried Dad. ‘Start her up!’

  ‘If you say so, Dad,’ I replied. I turned the key in the ignition and there was a powerful THRUM.

  ‘Now,’ said Dad, ‘what’s the form here?’

  Dad studied the controls, and after a few moments of trying to look intelligent, engaged the engine. The boat set off, backwards, and almost immediately came to a sudden violent stop.

  ‘Did we hit something?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe the engine stalled,’ said Dad.

  ‘Engine’s still going, Dad.’

  I looked around and saw we were still tied to the jetty.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have untied those ropes, Dad?’ I said.

  ‘It’s called casting off,’ grunted Dad, as if knowing the right words made him look less stupid.

  We cast off, forgetting the engine was still in gear. As a result the boat leapt backwards like a rodeo bull. There was a loud CRUNCH.

  ‘Now we have hit something,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ said Dad. He really was in a bad mood, possibly because the teenagers were laughing harder than ever. Dad’s answer to this was to set the speed to max and leave them in a trail of spray. Soon they were no more than specks in the distance and we were halfway across the bay, looking like world champion speedboaters, apart from the fact that we were still going backwards.

  Maybe Thimble sensed we needed help. Two small hairy hands came up alongside Dad’s and attempted to take control of the steering.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Dad. ‘Jams, take Thimble down into the hold.’

  I didn’t actually know what the hold was, and I suspect Dad didn’t either, but there were steps going below deck and I duly took Thimble down them. We found a bedroom there, a very plush one, full of int
eresting-looking cupboards which would no doubt keep Thimble amused for hours. I ordered him to remain there and hurried back to help Dad, who by now was halfway across the harbour, still going backwards. By now lots of other boats were taking a keen interest in us. Hooters were going off all over the place.

  ‘What do you think that means, Dad?’ I asked.

  ‘Must be some kind of salute,’ replied Dad.

  ‘Do you think they recognise you?’

  ‘Possible,’ said Dad.

  ‘Dad…’ I began.

  ‘Yes?’ said Dad.

  ‘Can we stop now?’

  ‘Aren’t you enjoying it?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I think I’d enjoy it more,’ I replied, ‘if we were going forwards.’

  ‘I like to do things differently,’ said Dad.

  There was another BANG.

  ‘What was that?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a buoy,’ said Dad.

  ‘A boy?’ I repeated. ‘Dad, I really think we should stop!’

  Reluctantly, Dad stopped the boat, and just to be sure it wouldn’t start again, switched off the engine. Which was strange, because there was still a steady BRRRRR sound.

  ‘Why is the engine still making a noise?’ I asked.

  ‘Is that the engine?’ said Dad.

  ‘What else could it be?’ I asked.

  Suddenly a look of alarm came over Dad. ‘Thimble!’ he cried.

  Nothing could have prepared us for the sight which greeted us below deck. Thimble was standing in the corner of the bedroom, having a lovely shower, except there had been no shower the last time I’d been there. With mounting horror I spotted an open cupboard, a cordless electric drill and a row of neat holes in the boat’s hull, through which came the refreshing jets of water Thimble was so enjoying.

  ‘No-o-o-o-o-o!’ I cried.

  ‘Plug them up!’ cried Dad.

  I looked around in desperation and saw a small fridge. Inside was a pack of sausages. With fumbling fingers I broke the sausages apart and stuffed the squishy meat into the holes. But the strength of the water was too great, and I ended up having my own shower of sausage blobs.

  ‘It’s hopeless, Dad,’ I cried. By now the bedroom was a foot deep in water.

  ‘Abandon ship!’ cried Dad. Dad was easily panicked, and Thimble was quick to pick up on the atmosphere of fear. We scrabbled up on deck, located the boat’s dinghy and, after an age of panicky kerfuffling, got it onto the water, along with my walker and the three of us. Dad laid back panting with his hand on his heart while Thimble and I took an oar each. Meanwhile Le Superb began to list heavily and by the time we reached shore had become a new adventure playground for the crabs.

  ‘Could things get any worse?’ said Dad, flopping onto a harbourside bench.

  ‘Oh look,’ I replied. ‘Here comes Mum.’

  Mum was sauntering up towards us, a broad smile on her face. She gave me a kiss, Thimble a hug, and Dad a pat on the back.

  ‘For the first time in ages,’ she said, ‘I actually feel relaxed.’

  ‘That’s good, Mum,’ I replied.

  ‘There’s nothing better,’ she said, ‘than to lie back with the sun on your face and forget about all your cares. Now, where’s this boat?’

  ‘Er,’ I began.

  ‘C492, wasn’t that the number?’ said Mum.

  ‘We’ve moved it,’ said Dad.

  The trace of a frown came back to Mum’s face. ‘Moved it?’ she repeated. ‘Where?’

  ‘Out there,’ said Dad, with a vague sweep of his arm.

  Mum stared out into the great expanse of the bay. ‘Where out there?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dad, ‘round about the middle.’

  Mum looked again. ‘I can’t see a boat in the middle.’

  ‘No,’ said Dad, ‘it’s in the, er…’

  ‘Underground car park,’ I babbled.

  Mum’s frown deepened. ‘Underground car park?’ she repeated.

  ‘No, what’s that thing that boats have?’ I blabbed. ‘Underwater boat park.’

  Dad put a hand to his head. Mum’s face, by now, was back to its normal expression.

  ‘Are you telling me,’ she said, ‘that you have sunk Serge and Colette’s boat?’

  ‘No,’ said Dad, suddenly defiant, ‘we have not sunk anything.’ He pointed a shaky finger at Thimble. ‘That thing has.’

  ‘Don’t blame Thimble,’ said Mum. ‘You’re the responsible adult.’

  ‘Yes, I am a responsible adult,’ said Dad, ‘which is why I didn’t want to take in that monkey in the first place! If there’s anyone to blame for the boat sinking, it’s you!’

  ‘Don’t be childish,’ said Mum.

  ‘Oh, childish am I?’ railed Dad. He folded his arms and stamped his foot. ‘Well, maybe you should just find yourself another boyfriend!’

  ‘Maybe I should,’ muttered Mum.

  CHAPTER SIX

  A LARGE FLOCK OF BUTTERFLIES AND A WOUNDED ELEPHANT

  ‘So, Jams,’ said Dad. ‘We’ve worked out the cost of the boat, and we’ve worked out how much I earn a year. Now all we have to do is to work out how many years it will take me to afford a new one.’

  I tapped the numbers into the calculator on Mum’s phone. ‘Hmm,’ I said.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Nine hundred and fifty-seven years, Dad.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘It’s the phone I don’t trust,’ said Dad.

  ‘Let’s face it, Dad,’ I said, ‘we’ll never be able to buy them a new boat.’

  Dad frowned deeply. ‘The trouble with me,’ he said, ‘is that I’m too honest.’

  ‘How do you mean, Dad?’ I replied.

  ‘Well,’ said Dad, ‘a dishonest person would just stage a burglary and tell Serge and Paulette the burglars took the boat keys.’

  ‘Tell Serge and Colette the burglars took the boat keys,’ I said.

  Dad looked shocked. ‘What are you suggesting, Jams?’ he said.

  ‘It’s what you said, Dad!’ I protested.

  ‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘We’ll do it. But remember it was your idea.’

  Before we go any further, I would like to put it on record that it was not my idea to burgle the house we were living in, and nor was it my idea to dress Thimble as a burglar. For a start I have no idea how burglars dress. Dad does, but I think this may have come from the comics he read when he was six. Frankly Thimble looked ridiculous in a hooped t-shirt and bandit mask, but at least the bag on his back didn’t have SWAG written across it.

  ‘Mum isn’t going to like this.’

  ‘Mum’s not here,’ Dad grunted.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘According to the note she left,’ replied Dad, ‘she’s down the butcher’s again.’

  ‘She’s been three times since yesterday,’ I said. ‘That seems a lot of times, especially for a vegetarian.’

  ‘I don’t like the way that butcher winks at her,’ growled Dad.

  ‘She says he’s got a tic,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Dad. ‘Well, how come he doesn’t have this tic when he looks at me?’

  ‘Thimble’s getting impatient, Dad,’ I said, changing the subject.

  Dad focussed on Thimble, who knew something important was expected of him, and was anxious to find out what.

  ‘Thimble,’ said Dad, ‘we need you to be a burglar. Do you understand what a burglar is?’

  Thimble nodded eagerly.

  ‘He doesn’t, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘A burglar,’ said Dad, ‘is someone who goes somewhere they’re not supposed to go.’

  Thimble’s interest grew.

  ‘A burglar,’ said Dad, ‘is someone who goes into a house which is not their house, and takes things they shouldn’t take. Do you understand?’

  Thimble nodded eagerly.

  ‘Does he?’ asked Dad.

  ‘I think so this time,’ I replied.

  ‘Good,’ said Dad. ‘Now we’re
all going to go outside the house, and I am going to make a video of you being a burglar. Just be natural, and don’t smile for the camera.’

  We exited the front door and I gave Dad Mum’s phone.

  ‘What’s that for?’ said Dad.

  ‘Shooting the video,’ I replied.

  ‘I thought that was a calculator,’ said Dad.

  ‘Maybe I should do it,’ I replied, retrieving the phone. ‘All set, Thimble?’

  Thimble nodded in the usual way.

  ‘On your marks … get set … GO!’

  Thimble shot off round the side of the house.

  ‘Where’s he going?’ said Dad.

  ‘Must be going round the back,’ I replied.

  We hurried after Thimble, just in time to see him scaling the garden fence.

  ‘No, Thimble!’ I cried. ‘This house! Not the neighbours!’

  Dad stamped his foot. ‘What is wrong with that monkey?’

  ‘It was your instructions, Dad,’ I replied. ‘You shouldn’t have said he had to go into ahouse which wasn’t his house.’

  ‘This house isn’t his house!’ stormed Dad.

  ‘Thimble doesn’t know that,’ I replied. ‘As far as he is concerned, this is where we live now.’

  ‘We’ll be living in jail if we don’t get him out of there!’ said Dad. He fetched a small stepladder and climbed up to look over the fence.

  ‘Where is he, Dad?’

  ‘Inside.’

  ‘Wow, that’s clever,’ I said. ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Sitting on the sofa,’ replied Dad, ‘eating a slice of cake.’

  ‘You did tell him to take things he shouldn’t take.’

  ‘For Pete’s sake!’ said Dad. ‘What’s he going to take next?’

  There was a creak. We looked anxiously at next door’s gate, only to realise it was ours that was open. Mum had come home.

  ‘What are you doing up there, Douglas?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s my business,’ said Dad.

  ‘Did you have a nice time at the butchers?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mum. ‘We had a very interesting chat.’

  ‘I bet,’ said Dad.