‘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.
‘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.
‘About the neighbours,’ added Mum.
‘Have you found out all about them, Mum?’
‘Yes. I should get down from that fence, if I were you, Douglas.’
‘Why?’ said Dad.
‘They’re criminals,’ replied Mum. ‘Dangerous criminals.’
A large flock of butterflies took off in my stomach. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Mum. ‘They are called the Viborgs. They rob jewellery stores.’
‘Then why aren’t they in jail?’ I asked.
‘They’ve bribed the chief of police,’ replied Mum.
‘Bribed the chief of police? Then why doesn’t the mayor sack the chief of police?’
‘They’ve bribed the mayor as well.’
‘Wow,’ I said, ‘these Viborgs sound like real big shots.’
‘Real big shots,’ replied Mum, ‘with real big shotguns.’
Dad lowered his head below the top of the fence.
‘Where’s Thimble?’ asked Mum.
‘Hmm,’ I replied. ‘Where is Thimble, Dad?’
‘Why are you on that stepladder?’ asked Mum.
Dad shrugged again.
‘Let me get up on there,’ said Mum.
Dad seized the top of the stepladder and held on hard.
‘Douglas,’ said Mum, ‘you’re being ridiculously childish.’
Dad held on even harder. Mum’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is Thimble next door?’ she asked.
‘It was Dad’s idea!’ I blurted.
‘It was Jams’ idea!’ blurted Dad.
A big fat tear welled up in my eye. ‘Can you get him back, Mum?’ I pleaded.
Mum thought for a moment. ‘Is there a drill anywhere?’ she asked.
‘No way!’ said Dad.
‘It’s in the garage, Mum,’ I said.
If you’ve ever waved a piece of liver under a cat’s nose you will be able to picture Thimble when he saw the drill. His concentration on it was total. Out he came, as if hypnotised, all the way to the fence, which was where he seemed to smell a rat.
‘Here, Thimble,’ I prompted. ‘Here, Thimmy-thimmy-thimmy-thimmy-thimble!’
Very cautiously, Thimble began to climb the fence. I almost had him when he saw Dad’s face and changed his mind.
‘Come on, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Nice electric drill to play with.’
A great battle was going on in Thimble’s mind but neither side was winning.
I tried another tack. ‘Listen, Thimble, you’ve got to get out of there! A bad man lives there!
‘Bad man, Thimble. Do you understand? Bad man.’
Thimble pointed at Dad.
‘No, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Dad’s not a bad man! Well, sometimes maybe, but not bad like this man! This man is a criminal, Thimble – someone who takes things which don’t belong to him.’
Thimble pointed at Dad.
‘No, Thimble, Dad’s not a criminal. OK, I know he took the boat, and told you to burgle the house…’
‘He did what?’ said Mum.
‘There was a good reason for it,’ said Dad. ‘Trust me.’ Mum gave Dad a look which suggested she would rather trust a scorpion.
‘Thimble,’ I said, ‘We absolutely promise that if you come over here, you can play with this lovely drill.’
Thimble looked at Mum, who nodded. At last he climbed over the fence, landed at my feet and gave my splints a hug.
‘Put the drill back in the garage, Jams,’ said Dad.
‘Douglas, you can’t do that,’ said Mum.
‘Why not?’ said Dad.
‘Because he’ll never trust us again.’
‘I know,’ I suggested. ‘How about if we tell him he can just drill one hole? He can’t do much harm drilling one hole.’
‘That seems like a good idea,’ said Mum.
‘Crazy,’ said Dad.
I explained the rule to Thimble, who, as usual, nodded eagerly. Mum went off to put some pork chops in the fridge and I duly handed the drill to Thimble. He lolloped off with it, as happy as a sand monkey, and I put my hands over my eyes.
‘Why are you covering your eyes?’ asked Dad.
‘It’s because the sun’s so bright,’ I replied.
A few seconds later, I heard a distinct BRRRRRRR.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Dad.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m covering my eyes too.’
The BRRRRRRR stopped. Thimble had been as good as his word. When I finally plucked up courage to open my eyes, there was no sign of him, or the drill.
It was then I had a strange sensation.
‘Why are my feet wet, Dad?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Dad. ‘Have you weed yourself?’
‘Don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘It’s not warm.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Dad. ‘My feet are wet too.’
‘Have you weed yourself, Dad?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Maybe it’s rain,’ I said.
‘It hasn’t rained since we arrived,’ said Dad.
‘So where’s the water coming from?’
We cast our eyes around for the solution.
‘No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!’ I cried.
‘The swimming pool!’ cried Dad.
There was nothing we could do. The lovely blue pool was crumpling like a wounded elephant, water streaming from its side. Soon there was no water inside, and nothing but a heap of blue plastic where the pool used to be.
‘Let’s look at the positives,’ said Dad.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘there’s always positives.’
‘The lawn needed watering,’ said Dad.
The pool took up loads of space,’ I said.
‘Most importantly,’ said Dad, ‘it’s your mother’s fault.’
‘Let’s go and tell her now,’ I suggested.
‘Wait,’ said Dad. ‘We still don’t know where Thimble is.’
‘Or the drill,’ I added.
We hurried into the house, only to realise that the garage was still open. By some miracle, however, Thimble was sitting outside the red door, still holding the drill.
‘Good boy, Thimble!’ I said. ‘Apart from destroying the swimming pool, which you must never do again, not that you’ll get the chance.’
‘See?’ said Dad, suddenly cheering up. ‘I’ve trained him. Red means stop!’
Sure enough, Thimble made the hands sign for Red Means Stop.
‘Well done, Dad,’ I said. ‘I was sure that you teaching Thimble that would lead to disaster.’
Somehow, however, I guessed that this was not the end of the story. Thimble looked far from happy when we took the drill from him, and made the saddest sound imaginable when we went into the garage without him. He knew it was a place of heavenly promise now. And I have to admit I glanced back more than once at that tempting treasure chest of whoknows- what poking out from beneath the workbench.