Jacqueline Wilson's Happy Holidays

by Jacqueline Wilson

  ‘Keanu’s choking,’ said Kelly calmly, and she tipped him upside down and thumped him on the back.

  The brick came shooting out like a bullet. Keanu crowed happily, none the worse.

  ‘That’s some party trick, Kelly,’ I said. ‘Does he often swallow things?’

  ‘All the time,’ said Kelly. ‘Hey, I wonder what you were like as a baby, Biscuits! I bet you stuffed everything in your little gob. Bricks, rubber dollies, your own little booties . . .’

  ‘His dummy, yum yum, chew chew, swallow! His baby bottle, yum yum, crunch crunch, swallow! Hey, his pottie, yum yum OUCH!’

  Biscuits was doing his best to turn me upside down, but mercifully the pizzas arrived just at that moment. We all went yum yum, munch munch. We ate outdoors because the caravan was quite a squash with eight and a half people shut inside. Lots of other people were sitting outside their caravans chatting and eating and drinking. Kelly and her family had only arrived yesterday but already everyone knew them. Some kids came over and asked if Kelly was coming over to the swings with them.

  ‘Maybe later. I’ve got my friends here, see,’ said Kelly. ‘Isn’t that right, Tim?’

  ‘Sure, Kelly,’ I said, pleased to be singled out as Kelly’s special friend.

  Biscuits didn’t mind. He was busy with his second pizza. But then Dad went and spoilt it all.

  ‘Why don’t you all play together, eh? How about a game of French cricket? I’ll show you how to play if you like.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I mumbled. ‘Please don’t let’s play, Dad.’

  ‘I shall get hiccups if I have to play,’ said Biscuits, his mouth full.

  ‘I don’t want to play with those kids anyway, they’re boring,’ said Kelly.

  Dad didn’t listen to any of us. He started careering round looking for a bat and ball. He couldn’t find a bat at all and the only ball was a red and yellow stripy one belonging to Keanu. He’d just started the mammoth task of hugging it to his chest and licking it all over and he didn’t appreciate Dad taking it. Not one bit.

  ‘There must be an old cricket bat somewhere,’ said Dad.

  ‘Sorry, mate. Not my cup of tea, cricket,’ said Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave.

  ‘What about using my umbrella?’ said Kelly’s mum, hitching the howling Keanu onto her hip. ‘Oh do put a sock in it, young man! Kelly, find my brolly.’

  Kelly nipped inside the caravan and came out with a very fancy spotty umbrella. She aimed it at a stone with a nifty little swing.

  ‘Watch it, Kelly! Maybe that umbrella’s a bit fragile.’

  ‘Let’s play golf instead of cricket,’ said Kelly, giving another stone a whack. Then she squealed, her pony-tail waving like a flag as she jumped up and down.

  ‘I know! Let’s go and play Crazy Golf. Let’s, let’s, let’s!’

  ‘How can you play Crazy Golf now, dear? It’s nearly dark,’ said Mum, looking at her watch. ‘Oh my goodness, we’d better be getting back to the hotel.’

  ‘No, one of the kids on the site told me, you can play it by floodlight. Oh please!’

  ‘No, I don’t really think—’ Mum started.

  ‘Just one quick round. And it’s on us,’ said Dad.

  There’d been a lot of adult argy-bargy about who was paying for the pizzas. Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave had won. Mum was mega-fussed about it, so she couldn’t really back out of the Crazy Golf idea, seeing as it was now our treat.

  There was just one problem. One huge enormous disastrous drawback.

  ‘I’ve never played Crazy Golf!’ I said.

  ‘Neither have I – but it’s great,’ said Kelly.

  ‘Have you played Crazy Golf, Biscuits?’ I asked.

  ‘Nope. Like the sound of Crazy. Not too nuts about the Golf bit though,’ said Biscuits, easing the waistband on his straining tracksuit trousers.

  ‘We all need a bit of exercise,’ said Dad, patting his own tummy. He seized Kelly’s mum’s umbrella and did a fancy golf swing of his own.

  ‘Oooh, I can see we’ve got an expert here,’ said Kelly’s mum, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

  Dad gave a silly laugh and then patted baby Keanu on the head. Keanu howled harder.

  I felt like howling myself when we got to the Crazy Golf. It was brilliantly lit up by floodlight, with heaps of people playing. The course was huge, with little waterfalls trickling here and there, and all sorts of twisty bits and hidey holes and hillocks. There was a wide wall all the way round the course so that people could peer over and gawp at the golfers.

  Dad was a bit taken aback when he saw how much it was, but he said, swallowing hard, that he’d like tickets for seven players, him and Mum, Kelly’s mum and Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave, Kelly herself and Biscuits and me.

  ‘And me!’ Dean said, outraged. ‘Me play too! I can play, can’t I, Mum, can’t I?’

  ‘Of course you can play. Sorry, pal, I just didn’t realize you were big enough,’ said Dad.

  ‘I’m ever so big,’ said Dean, standing on tip-toe.

  I was huddling up in horror.

  ‘Dad, just get seven tickets. I won’t play,’ I said.

  ‘What? Of course you’re playing, Tim,’ said Dad.

  ‘But I don’t want to,’ I hissed. ‘I can’t play Crazy Golf. I’ll be useless.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Tim. It’s fun,’ said Dad. Everyone else thought it was fun. We were all given golf clubs, big ones for the grown-ups, middley ones for Biscuits and Kelly and me, and a little one for Dean. He waved it above his head excitedly. It caught me on the chin. It hurt a lot but Dad gave me a warning glance and I couldn’t say anything much.

  Kelly had first go and she hit the ball so hard it whizzed right across the first green, hit the wall at the end, and went socking straight back to where she’d started. I went bright red on her behalf but she just laughed.

  ‘That was just a practice shot!’ she said, and had another go.

  This time her aim was perfect. She hit the ball so that it whizzed up the little slope but slowed down in time so that it stopped almost on the edge of the hole.

  ‘Wow! I’m good at this!’ Kelly yelled immodestly.

  Her mum was even better. She passed Keanu over to my mum, hardly bothered to take aim, gave the ball a sharp little tap – and got a hole in one!

  ‘Well done, well done!’ said Dad, and patted her on the back.

  Dave gave her a great-big-kiss-on-the-lips – a very different sort of kiss from the kind Dad gives Mum.

  Mum didn’t look in a kissy mood at all. She thrust Keanu at Dad and took aim. She didn’t get a hole in one. Or two or three or four. Dad kept telling her to hold her club at a different angle and Mum’s lips got tighter and her knuckles whiter as she gripped the club and whacked. Her score was six.

  Dean scored six too. He did much better than I’d expect of a little kid his age.

  Then Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave had a go and he scored another hole in one. There was another great-big-kiss-on-the-lips. They even made noises. Biscuits imitated them delightedly. Mum nudged him and frowned. I’d have died of embarrassment if I was Kelly but she just laughed and said if they went on like that she’d have to tip them in the waterfall to cool them off.

  Then it was Dad’s turn. He still had Keanu. He tried to pass him over to Biscuits and me, but we backed away. Kelly rescued us and took him herself. Dad took a long time, bending his knees and peering at the hole and swinging his club around.

  ‘Come on, mate, get on with it,’ Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave said, wiping Kelly’s mum’s lipstick off his chin.

  Dad looked a little irritated and hit the ball. He didn’t get a hole in one. Or two. He scored three.

  ‘Here, I thought you were meant to be an ace golfer!’ said Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave, looking amused.

  ‘Yes, but no one can play properly on these little Mickey Mouse greens,’ Dad said quickly. ‘Come on, boys, get a move on. We’re holding up the next players.’

  I
turned round and saw to my horror there was a little queue of people waiting to start their game. They’d all be watching me.

  ‘I don’t want to play!’ I mumbled.

  ‘You might be good at golf,’ said Biscuits cheerily. ‘Shall I go next then?’

  Biscuits was brilliant! He very nearly got a hole in one himself, but it just bounced over it. He sank the ball with just one more quick putt.

  ‘Wowie! I’m good at golf!’ said Biscuits, doing a little joggy up and down dance, making everyone laugh.

  I was glad for him – and yet I wished he’d made a real muck-up of it. Then I wouldn’t be the worst.

  ‘Come on, Tim,’ Dad yelled at me. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’

  ‘Look, it’s OK, I won’t play,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind a bit. I don’t want to make all these people wait.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, Tim,’ said Dad, and he came striding over to me. He lowered his head. ‘Don’t show me up in front of all the others,’ he hissed. ‘Just get on with it.’

  I tried. My hands were slippy as I seized the club. I took a wild swing. And missed completely.

  ‘Hey, hey, careful!’ said Dad. ‘No, you’ve got to keep your eye on the ball. Have another go.’

  I tried. I did hit the ball this time. About a centimetre.

  ‘Hit it a bit harder, Tim,’ said Dad, sighing. ‘And hold the club with your hands together. No wonder you’re so useless.’

  I tried again. I could hear giggling behind me. Kelly and Biscuits were talking together, looking at me.

  It was cold in the moonlight, with a sharp breeze off the sea, but I was burning hot. I took another swing and the ball went careering off in totally the wrong direction.

  There was a great scornful whoop. Not from behind. Not from in front. From above. I looked up. It was Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face!

  ‘Oh no. Oh Dad, please. I can’t play any more. Don’t make me,’ I begged.

  ‘Just do your best,’ Dad said.

  ‘But those boys, they’re watching me.’

  ‘Take no notice.’

  I took another swing. How can you take no notice when your worst enemies in the world are cracking up laughing because you’re so hopeless?

  Mum started walking towards me, looking cross. Oh no. It was getting worse.

  ‘You boys up there! You mind your own business!’ she shouted.

  They hooted even harder. I took one last desperate shot and missed again.

  ‘What a load of rubbish!’ yelled Prickle-Head, and then he took his Coke can and threw it at me. ‘Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish! Throw your rubbish at the rubbish!’

  ‘Right!’ said Dad. Kelly’s mum’s boyfriend Dave was coming over too.

  Prickle-Head and Pinch-Face decided to make a run for it.

  ‘But we’re still going to get you,’ Prickle-Head yelled. ‘You just w-a-i-t!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I WENT UP and up and up the tower steps, gasping for breath. There was someone behind me. I could hear them getting nearer and nearer.

  I kept craning back fearfully but it was so dark and I couldn’t see anything. But there was a faint glimmer ahead. I was nearly at the top.

  I made one last desperate effort and stepped out onto the castle battlements, my hands ready to clasp the wall . . . but it wasn’t there!

  I was standing on a tiny parapet, the wind whistling around me. If I took just one step forward I’d be treading thin air!

  ‘Where’s the wall?’

  There was a horrible laugh from behind me. I turned my head stiffly, not daring to move any more in case I toppled over.

  Prickle-Head was grinning at me from the doorway. He stamped his huge boots.

  ‘These are great for kicking. A few kicks at that wall and it crumbled. You’re the one that’s going to crumble now, Mummy’s Boy. You like cissy pretend games, don’t you? Well, you can play at being a weathercock now. Have fun!’

  He dodged back and slammed the door shut. I heard the thud and rattle as he bolted it from the inside.

  ‘Please! Come back! You can’t do this!’ I screamed.

  ‘I said I was going to get you,’ Prickle-Head shouted from behind the door.

  I heard the clump of his boots down and down and down the steps.

  I was left, unable to move, my head spinning, eyes streaming, mouth screaming. It was so windy I could barely keep my balance. I had to keep still, it was my only chance, but I was being buffeted from side to side, and I felt so sick and dizzy I couldn’t keep my legs stiff. I staggered forward, arms flailing wildly – and then I fell.

  Down, down, down . . .

  and landed with a bump.

  ‘Tim?’

  ‘Oooh!’

  ‘What’re you doing on the floor?’

  ‘I fell out of bed. I think I was having a nightmare.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Night then,’ said Biscuits.

  Walter Bear had fallen with me. I clutched him tight against my chest.

  ‘Tim?’ said Biscuits.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why aren’t you getting back into bed?’

  ‘Because – because I don’t want to go back to sleep. In case the nightmare comes back.’

  ‘Was it a really awful maniac-killer-with-a-machine-gun nightmare?’ said Biscuits.

  ‘Worse!’

  ‘Wow. Well. Do you want to get in my bed for a bit?’

  ‘Yes please,’ I said.

  It wasn’t very comfortable in Biscuits’ bed. Biscuits himself took up a great deal of room, and his sheets were all prickly with crumbs. But it was much much cosier squashed up with him than my own cold bed where the Prickle-Head dream was still lurking, ready to flash on the screen in my head the minute I closed my eyes.

  Walter Bear had also crept in with me. He cuddled up with Dog Hog.

  ‘Is Tim feeling better now?’ said Dog Hog.

  ‘Much better, thank you,’ said Walter.

  ‘He doesn’t sound much better. Tell him not to worry. It was only a nightmare. It can’t come true,’ said Dog Hog.

  ‘It can,’ said Walter. ‘He says it’s about Prickle-Head.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dog Hog. ‘Him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Walter Bear. ‘He’s going to get Tim.’

  ‘And Biscuits,’ said Dog Hog.

  ‘He’s going to get me more,’ I said in my ordinary voice, forgetting to be Walter Bear. ‘He chased me up this castle and then left me right at the top and there was nothing to hold on to and it was so awful—’

  ‘But he couldn’t really do that,’ said Biscuits.

  ‘Well, all right. But he could . . .’ I paused, thinking of 1001 possibilities.

  ‘He can’t do anything really,’ said Biscuits firmly. ‘Not with your mum and dad around. Especially not your mum.’ He chuckled.

  I started laughing too, but a little uneasily.

  ‘I suppose he can’t actually kill me,’ I said. ‘But – but he can still call me horrible names.’

  ‘We can call him horrible names back,’ said Biscuits. ‘I know! Let’s have a Horrible Names for Prickle-Head contest!’

  This was enormous fun. We started off mildly enough:

  Pea-brain Prickle-Head. Pig-manure Prickle-Head. Pukey Prickle-Head.

  Then the names got longer and fancier and much much ruder.

  We were soon shaking with laughter, so that we were both in danger of tumbling right out of bed.

  Then I suddenly heard a bedroom door slam. Footsteps, rapidly approaching!

  ‘Help!’ I hissed, and I shot out of Biscuits’ bed and into my own.

  ‘What on earth are you two boys playing at!’ Mum whispered fiercely, bursting into our room. ‘It’s four o’clock in the morning and you’re waking the whole hotel!’

  I kept my eyes shut and tried to breathe evenly, though my heart was thudding. Biscuits gave a very realistic little snore.

  ‘You can’t fool me,’ said Mum – but she sounded uncertain.

  She waited . . .
and then we heard her tip-toeing out.

  I felt the most desperate giggle shaking my whole body. I had to go down under the sheets to muffle it. Biscuits was snorting too. A little too loudly.

  ‘Sh! She’ll come back! We’d better go to sleep now,’ I said.

  ‘But I’m wide awake,’ said Biscuits. ‘And I’m starving. I’m going to ask for double sausages at breakfast. Triple.’

  He did too. Mrs Jones laughed delightedly and called him Little Lord Greedyguts.

  ‘Anything to oblige and fill the Royal Tum,’ she said, bustling off to the kitchen.

  Biscuits and I laughed too, but Mum frowned. She wasn’t in a good mood anyway because of her disturbed night.

  ‘Really, Biscuits! It’s very rude of you to keep asking Mrs Jones for more food. She gives you very generous portions as it is. You mustn’t do it.’

  ‘But she likes it when I ask for more. She thinks it’s funny,’ Biscuits protested.

  ‘Well, I don’t think it’s funny at all,’ said Mum. ‘And you can’t possibly want any more sausages. You’ll be sick.’

  ‘I’m never sick,’ said Biscuits. ‘Even on the day I had a Christmas dinner with my mum and dad and then we went to my auntie’s and we had another whole Christmas dinner with her and then we went to my gran’s in the evening and we had a big buffet and I ate all the sausages on sticks, every single one. I wasn’t sick then. And I wasn’t even sick on my birthday when—’

  ‘I’m getting sick of this subject,’ said Mum.

  Mrs Jones was coming back with a plate of sizzling sausages, so Mum was forced to smile and be extra grateful.

  Biscuits tucked into the sausages. He ate them all. The whole plateful. And then he smacked his lips happily.

  ‘When you die they’ll pickle your stomach and doctors will come and look at it and marvel,’ I said.

  Biscuits still looked hopefully at the ice-cream stall as we went on the beach, but after one glance at Mum he could see there was no point asking.

  Dad made a great to-do of getting the deckchairs positioned and the windbreak up.

  ‘You’re probably wasting your time. It looks as if it’s going to start raining,’ said Mum, eyeing the grey sky.

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Dad. ‘The sun’s just about to break through, you’ll see.’