Mum was not keen to take the blame for the ruin of the pool. It was Dad’s fault Thimble had burgled the neighbours, and Dad’s fault Thimble hadn’t been supervised properly.
Dad begged to differ. That’s what you call it when someone argues back. Dad argued back a lot, begging to differ in a louder and louder voice, till Mum said, ‘DOUGLAS I’VE HAD ENOUGH I AM DETERMINED TO ENJOY THIS HOLIDAY AND IF I CAN’T ENJOY IT WITH YOU I SHALL ENJOY IT WITHOUT YOU.’
A few minutes later Dad arrived in my room looking very red in the face.
‘Jams, get your shoes on,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have a fight and I need a witness.’
‘Not with Mum?’
‘No, not with Mum...’
‘Who then?’ I asked.
‘The butcher.’
‘What?’
Dad sat on the edge of the bed and huffed out a few big breaths. ‘Your mother,’ he said, ‘is abandoning us.’
‘Never,’ I said.
‘There’s a do on tonight,’ said Dad. ‘Some kind of ridiculous music and fireworks thing. The butcher’s going to be there, and Nora’s going to...’
‘What?’
‘That’s bad.’
‘Except she won’t be seeing him,’ said Dad, ‘because I am going to see him first!’ Dad stood up to his full height and pounded his fist into his palm.
‘Dad,’ I said, ‘do you think it would be a good idea to get some trousers first? He might not take you seriously in hot pants.’
‘He’ll take me seriously enough when I knock his block off,’ said Dad.
‘Wow. That sounds violent, Dad.’
‘I feel violent,’ said Dad.
Dad was certainly talking a good fight, but I was relieved when he decided that Thimble should come too. The butcher would think twice before tangling with a monkey.
‘Can I get some bus fare off Mum?’ I asked. ‘It’s a long way to the butcher’s.’
Dad gave a tired sigh.
‘It’s ok, Dad,’ I said. ‘I won’t say we’re going to beat up her new boyfriend. I’ll say we’re going to the fair to play hook-a-duck.’
Fortunately Mum suspected nothing and we set off on our quest without incident. The sun shone, a few birds twittered, and the world seemed quite unaware that World War Three was about to start.
‘What’s French for “butcher”?’ I asked.
‘Boucher,’ replied Dad.
‘Hey, everyone!’ I cried. ‘Mon papa is going to have a fight avec le boucher!’
‘Zip it, Jams!’ hissed Dad.
‘I can’t help it! I’m excited! I’ve never seen you have a fight before! I bet you’ll marmalise him, Dad!’
Dad did not reply. He was starting to look a bit green around the gills.
‘Are you alright, Dad?’
‘Of course I’m not alright!’ snapped Dad.
‘You’ll marmalise him!’ I repeated.
‘Jams, just shut up about this fight!’
My natural optimism was beginning to fade. I did not sense that Dad was relishing the confrontation. As the butcher’s shop came into view, he became very stiff in his movements and started muttering under his breath.
‘Tis a far far better thing I do,’ he said, ‘than I have ever done.’
‘Wow, Dad,’ I replied. ‘That’s like poetry.’
‘Tale of Two Cities,’ said Dad. ‘Charles Dickens.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘I thought you’d written it.’
‘I might have written it,’ said Dad, ‘if he hadn’t written it first.’
We reached the shop. It was only now that we realised how many people were inside it.
‘Oh,’ said Dad. ‘There’s a queue.’
‘What are you going to do, Dad?’ I asked.
‘We can’t just barge in,’ said Dad. ‘We’re British.’
We joined the queue.
‘Seems a bit weird,’ I said, ‘queuing up to have a fight.’
Dad said nothing. His eyes were fixed on le boucher. The butcher was a tall man, with a mop of dark curls tied back in a ponytail, deep brown eyes and cheekbones like Elvis. He smiled readily at his customers as he doled out their treats with forearms like Popeye.
‘Look at those muscles, Dad,’ I said. ‘Do you think he works out?’
Dad could not resist a glance at his own spindly limbs, which never worked out on anything but a keyboard.
‘Gyms,’ he noted, ‘are for the vain and ignorant.’
Slowly the queue moved forward. Every customer departed happy, to a booming au revoir from the butcher.
‘He’s very popular, Dad.’
‘As long as the till’s ringing,’ grunted Dad.
‘Yeah, as long as the till’s ringing,’ I repeated, not quite sure what this meant. ‘Do you know what, Dad? I really hate him.’
There was a little growl from Thimble. He also understood that the big tall man was the enemy. But just then, the big tall man spotted him. His eyes lit up.
‘Un singe!’ he said. ‘Un petit singe!’
Everyone turned to us.
‘How do I know?’ snapped Dad.
Hell’s bells! The butcher was coming out from behind the counter!
‘What are you going to do, Dad?’ I asked.
Dad swallowed hard.
‘Slap him round the face with your glove, Dad,’ I said, ‘and challenge him to a duel!’
‘Jams, will you shut up!’ hissed Dad.
Entirely ignoring us, the butcher grabbed Thimble and hoisted him onto his shoulder.
‘Bonjour, mon petit!’ he said, with a wink.
‘Did you see that? He winked at Thimble! Maybe it is a tic, Dad. He can’t fancy Thimble.’
‘Qu-est-ce-que tu veux, mon petit?’ asked the butcher.
‘He doesn’t speak French,’ I said.
‘Ah!’ said the butcher. ‘I am so sorree! What would you like, my little one? I do not have the bananas!’
Everyone laughed. To my dismay, Thimble had been completely won over and now rested his head on the butcher’s shoulder.
‘Do something, Dad!’ I cried. ‘Now he’s got Thimble as well!’
Dad did not respond. The butcher turned to me. ‘And this must be your master!’ he said. ‘A good-looking master for a goodlooking monkey! What is your name, big man?’
‘Jams,’ I muttered.
‘Jams!’ repeated the butcher. ‘And what can I do for you today, Jams?’
‘Dad?’ I said.
For a moment the whole of time seemed to stop. Then, without warning, Dad’s hand shot out. Before the butcher knew what had hit him, Dad had grabbed a string of sausages and legged it. ‘That’s for winking at my partner!’ he cried, just before he disappeared from view.
No one seemed to understand what had just happened.
‘Er … how much do we owe you?’ I asked, opening Mum’s purse.
With a baffled shake of the head, the butcher lowered Thimble to the ground and fished in the purse for a few coins. Thimble gazed into the space Dad had occupied and made some sign language.
‘That’s right, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Bad man.’
