We found Dad halfway home, slumped on a bench with the sausages hanging round his neck. He looked gloomy.
‘What happened, Dad?’
‘Too many people.’
‘I paid for the sausages,’ I said.
‘What sausages?’
‘The ones hanging round your neck.’
Dad glanced down, removed the porky necklace and draped it over a nearby bush. ‘You should have given him Thimble instead,’ he said.
I covered Thimble’s ears. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘He obviously preferred the butcher to me,’ said Dad.
‘You should try being nicer to him.’
‘Now you sound like Nora,’ said Dad. A hand came up to his head. The thought of Mum had made him even gloomier.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked.
Dad shrugged.
‘It’ll be awful if she goes off with the butcher,’ I said. ‘Well, not awful, because he’ll probably take us swimming which you don’t do, and I expect he’s got a car which you haven’t, and obviously he’s nicer to Thimble…’
‘Jams,’ said Dad.
‘Yes, Dad?’
‘Do us a favour,’ said Dad, ‘and stop talking.’
But not for long.
‘You might still beat him in a fight,’ I said, ‘if you got a gang together, say with the criminals next door…’
‘Jams!’ snapped Dad. ‘It’s not going to happen!’
‘But, Dad!’ I protested. ‘She’s still going to see him tonight! We’ve got to do something!’
‘What do you suggest?’ said Dad.
I thought for a moment, which is how long it takes for the first thing to come into my head. ‘We should follow her, Dad,’ I said. ‘Like private eyes! Then if it looks like she’s going to kiss him, we’ll send Thimble in to break it up!’
The thought of Mum kissing the butcher was enough to make Dad surrender all common sense and take me seriously.
‘What if she sees us?’ he asked.
‘She won’t see us. We’ll be very careful.’
‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘But remember, this was your idea.’
Night had fallen when Mum finally set off. In Blingville that meant bright lights and lots of hustle and bustle. Hustle and bustle always made Thimble excitable, so it was going to be hard to keep control of him. We explained that we were playing a game, a bit like Grandma’s Footsteps, where we had to tiptoe very softly and stop dead if Mum turned round. Thimble was very good at this at first, but as we got closer to town, I could sense him starting to get edgy. Town really was very crowded, cars bumper-to-bumper, people shoulder-to-shoulder, dogs nose-to-tail and mosquitoes cheek-by-jowl.
‘Does it have to be this busy?’ said Dad, who didn’t much like cars, or people, or dogs, or mosquitoes.
‘It must be because of the fireworks,’ I said, but just then I noticed a big crowd of paparazzi at the movie theatre, with an even bigger crowd of people penned behind them. A plush limo was arriving and the excitement was intense.
‘Hold steady now, Thimble,’ I warned.
The limo doors opened. Holy Moly! It was only Salman Carr and Louella Parker, the most famous film star couple in the world!
‘It’s Salmanella!’ I cried, using the name by which they were known in the celeb mags.
‘Means nothing to me,’ said Dad.
‘I’ve got to get their autographs, Dad!’ I cried.
My enthusiasm was fatal. The moment I started running, Thimble raced on ahead of me, having obviously decided he needed their autographs as well. Being a small and tricky monkey, he managed to slip right through the crowd, past the paparazzi, the bodyguards and the barriers, right on to the red carpet which was waiting for Salmanella.
At this point he looked down, and immediately froze.
‘Get that monkey out of the way!’ someone cried.
Thimble was going nowhere. Salmanella’s bodyguard moved towards him, but as soon as Thimble sensed a threat, his natural instinct kicked in and he went bonkers, baring his teeth and letting loose a fearful stream of high-pitched gibberish. That scared the bodyguard, but not half as much as it scared Salmanella, who leapt back into their limo and commanded the driver to get them the bejasus out of there. The limo went off in a screech of tyres and in a few seconds had disappeared, to a howl of dismay from the crowd.
‘Sorry, everyone,’ I said, working my walker through to the front and immediately being surrounded by paparazzi. ‘It was Dad’s fault.’
‘Uh?’ came the reply. ‘La faute de papa?’
‘Oui’, I said. ‘La faute de papa!’ I turned to Thimble. ‘Dad got it wrong, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Red means stop in Britain, but go in France! Understand, Thimble? RED MEANS GO!’
Thimble looked down at the carpet, then back at me, several times.
‘RED MEANS GO, Thimble!’ I repeated. ‘Go, now, quickly!’
Thimble took my hand and lolloped obediently off the carpet.
‘Good boy, Thimble,’ I said. ‘Now, never listen to Dad again. Have I said sorry, everybody? What’s sorry in French?’
‘Desolé,’ said the bodyguard.
‘Pleased to meet you, Des,’ I replied. ‘Jams Cogan. Now Thimble, where’s Mum?’
‘Lost,’ came the reply. Dad had arrived.
‘C’est papa!’ someone shouted. There was a chorus of deafening boos.
‘You’d better get out of here, Dad,’ I said, ‘before you get lynched.’
‘What have I done?’ protested Dad. The only answer was even louder boos, so Dad wisely chose to leave the scene of disaster as quickly as possible. But which way were we to go now? There was no sign of Mum anywhere.
‘Let’s try the night market,’ I suggested. ‘Mum likes shopping in the dark.’
The night market stretched down the side of the harbour. There were stalls selling everything from baby clothes to baby cheeses. A mass of colourful lights hung above the stalls, and above that a starless night awaited the firework display. We might have really enjoyed the atmosphere if we were not gripped by panic.
‘She must be somewhere,’ said Dad.
‘Everybody is somewhere,’ I replied.
‘Do you have anything useful to say?’ asked Dad.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘There’s a bandstand down there. We’re probably in the right place for the music.’
Dad shuddered. He didn’t like music, unless it was written five hundred years ago and played by gloomy-looking people in suits. Thimble, on the other hand, loved just about any music, and knew exactly what I was talking about. He took the lead, getting faster and faster, while Dad and I puffed and panted in his wake. As the bandstand approached, however, he stopped. Something had caught his eye.
‘What is it, Thimble?’ I asked, but his only reply was to shoot off for the bandstand like ten devils were after him.
‘Maybe he’s seen Mum,’ I said.
But it was not Mum that Thimble had seen. Up on the bandstand, a band was getting ready to play, and chatting to them was none other than our greatest enemy – well, Dad’s greatest enemy – le boucher!
Thimble and the butcher greeted each other like long-lost friends. The butcher gave Thimble a bear hug, a fireman’s lift and an aeroplane spin. Thimble showered the butcher with kisses and beat on his head like a bongo drum.
‘Dad!’ I said. ‘Do something!’
Dad seemed unable to do anything.
I ditched my walker and went up to the bandstand. But it was a big step up, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my foot that high. Watching me struggle must have finally stirred Dad into action, because next thing I knew, his hand was on my shoulder.
‘OK, Jams,’ he said. ‘Leave it to me.’
Dad leapt up onto the bandstand, but as he did so there was an enormous RIPPPP as the seam at the back of his hot pants gave way. Lesser men might have retreated, but Dad marched on, one arm outstretched towards Thimble, the other holding the back of his shorts together.
‘Excuse me, old boy!’ he cried. ‘That is my…’
No one got to hear the word monkey. That was because the air had suddenly been filled by deafening rock music. The band had kicked off, Thimble was back on the floor, and the butcher was releasing his ponytail and shaking out a massive mane of curly hair. Next second, the microphone was in his hands.
Who’d have believed it? The popular, likeable, well-built, good-looking butcher was also a rock star!
Thimble, not surprisingly, was now going bananas. I had taught Thimble many dances, from head-shoulders-knees-andtoes to the macarena, and Thimble was now trying the whole lot out, in random order, to whoops and hollers from the crowd.
Dad, however, was determined to put a stop to this. He did his best to grab Thimble, but Thimble was too fast for him and he wound up clutching thin air. When Dad did finally lay a hand on Thimble there was a massive boo from the crowd, and possibly because of his bad experience at the movie theatre, Dad suddenly changed tack and made out the whole thing was a funny act. He deliberately missed Thimble a couple more times, which got a laugh, possibly the worst thing that could have happened as it inspired Dad to do something even more stupid, something so stupid I had to cover my eyes.
‘Please, Dad,’ I muttered, ‘not that.’
Fearfully, I opened my fingers a crack. No, it was not a bad dream. Dad had fallen in step with Thimble and was lamely attempting to copy his dance moves.
The crowd was laughing a lot now. Dad obviously did not know whether they were laughing with him or at him, and maybe he didn’t care. His dancing got more and more extreme, until even Thimble started to hide his face in his hands. Having no new moves to copy, Dad turned his attention to the butcher.
Like a true pro, the butcher had ignored all the goings-on and was striding about the stage shaking his mighty mane.
Dad watched for a few seconds, then gave his own head a little shake, causing his comb-over to flop limply from one side to the other.
‘Just get off the stage, Dad,’ I muttered, but it was not to be. Dad was now hell-bent on showing the butcher that anything he could do, Dad could do better.
The butcher kicked a leg in the air. Dad kicked a leg in the air.
The butcher punched the air with a fist. Dad punched the air with a fist.
The butcher leapt like a gazelle and came down in the splits.
Dad’s cry of pain did not need a microphone. I can’t easily describe how he had landed, other than to say it was not how the butcher had landed, and certainly not better than the butcher had landed. The best word I can think of for Dad’s landing is WRONG.
At this point I felt a hand on my shoulder.
‘Mum. Thank God you’re here! Quick, phone for an ambulance!’
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ replied Mum. ‘I rang as soon as your dad started dancing.’