It was a lovely hospital, the one in Blingville. I sat on a bed chatting to Dad while Thimble busily gobbled all Dad’s grapes and Mum rang the travel insurance people to check if we were covered for destroying a window, a vase, a swimming pool, a luxury boat and the bottom half of Dad’s body.

‘So how is the, er … what was it you hurt?’ I asked.

‘Let’s not talk about it,’ Dad replied.

‘At least we got Mum away from the butcher.’

‘None of this would have happened,’ said Dad, ‘if Nora had explained she was just going to see him play.’

‘He was very good though,’ I said.

‘It wasn’t proper music,’ said Dad, by which he meant music from five hundred years ago played by gloomy people in suits.

I didn’t bother to argue. Dad was in need of support, and not just from that contraption above the bed.

‘Maybe you should give Mum a special evening out.’

‘How can I do that?’ replied Dad. ‘My back is toast! Besides, I can’t leave you and Thimble in the house on your own.’

‘A special evening in then,’ I suggested.

‘Sounds expensive.’

‘Oh come on, Dad!’ I said. ‘You’re Douglas Dawson, the great author! You can find a way!’

My words clearly struck a chord. ‘You’re right, Jams. No matter what ill fortune I suffer, I must never lose my selfrespect. Now have a look in Mum’s purse and see if she’s left any change.’

‘She’s taken it with her, Dad.’

Dad sank back into the pillow.

‘What about the sausages?’ I suggested.

‘What sausages?’

‘The ones you left hanging on a bush,’ I said. ‘They might make a good meal, in a red wine sauce.’

‘They’ve been there over a day!’ replied Dad. ‘If the dogs haven’t had them, the sun will have turned them rotten!’

‘It might improve them,’ I said, ‘like sundried tomatoes.’

‘Some hope,’ said Dad.

‘OK,’ I replied. ‘We’ll give one to Thimble and if he’s not sick we’ll save this holiday by cooking Mum the best meal of her life!’

 

Luckily the dogs hadn’t had the sausages. They were still hanging on the bush, exactly as Dad had left them, except they were no longer smooth and pink, but black and knobbly.

‘Is it my imagination, Thimble,’ I asked, ‘or are they moving?’

Thimble approached the sausages cautiously and tested one with a finger. As he did so a huge swarm of flies rose into the air, and hey presto, the sausages were pink again.

‘Oh, that’s alright then!’ I said. ‘Get ’em down, Thimbs.’

Thimble lifted the sausages off the bush and handed them to me. I gave them a  sniff. ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘Did they smell that strong before?’

Thimble shrugged.

‘They do make sausages differently over here.’

Thimble nodded eagerly.

‘Let’s take ’em home,’ I said, and take them home we did. Mum wasn’t to know, of course, so we waited till she went to pick Dad up from the hospital then took out the frying pan.

‘Now, Thimble,’ I said, ‘I am going to cook just one sausage as a special treat for you.’

Thimble looked a little doubtful, but I pressed on with the plan. I have to point out that Thimble, being a wild animal, has a very good instinct for what is edible. Many times I have found him rooting through the bins for food, quite often scoffing things which looked utterly foul, yet no harm has ever come of this. So there was no danger I could poison Thimble, even though there was a faint green tinge to the pink sausage which grew steadily greener as it cooked. The smell got rather stronger as well, and I must admit I was holding my nose as I handed a small plate containing the delicacy to Thimble.

‘A little ketchup?’ I suggested. ‘Or you might try mayonnaise. The French prefer mayonnaise.’

I’d hardly finished the sentence when the entire sausage disappeared into Thimble’s mouth. Cooking the thing had made me feel sick enough, and the sight of it bulging from Thimble’s cheek just about did for me. I rushed into the toilet and thought very seriously about retching into the sink, but luckily the feeling passed. When I returned to the kitchen there was no sign of the sausage, just one happy and healthy monkey.

‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘Now let’s look at the rest of Dad’s list.’

We did so:

‘OK, Thimble,’ I said. ‘You go into the garden and gather some flowers. I’ll find some wine.’

I knew I was taking a risk sending Thimble into the garden, but the wine was in the garage, and since I’d taught Thimble that Red Means Go, I didn’t want to risk him going anywhere near the red door.

 

There was a whole rack of wine in the garage, so you might think it would be difficult to choose one. However, Dad had said that any old wine would do, so I simply checked the labels to see which one was oldest. That turned out to be Chateau Posheau 1954. Well, if no one had bothered to drink it since 1954, they surely wouldn’t mind if we used it for sausage sauce. I dusted it off and was about to transport it to the kitchen when my eyes once again fell on the enticing treasure chest peeking out from beneath the workbench.

My heart began to thump. At last my chance to unearth its hidden secrets! I checked the window to make sure Thimble was still busy in the garden, then grabbed the chest and gave it a yank. Whatever was in there was very heavy! It took all my strength to edge the chest bit by bit into the open.

Now for the lid. It was sealed by two weighty straps, like giant trouser belts. Again it was no easy task to move the things, but my arms are strong from all the years of lugging my walker about. At last they came apart, and I was able to prise open the heavy wooden lid, to reveal ... what, exactly?

At first I thought I had luckily chanced upon a stash of candles, except they were taped together in bunches, with just one long string coming from the middle stick. I’d seen pictures of sticks like this somewhere. Maybe in a comic? With a bad guy setting light to the long string?

Yikes! That’s what they were! DYNAMITE!

I quickly closed the lid, but at the last second remembered not to bang it down, because dynamite is VERY UNSTABLE, and LIKELY TO BLOW YOU TO KINGDOM COME AT ANY SECOND. What on earth were Serge and Colette doing with it in their garage? Had the dangerous criminals next door maybe threatened them? Were they planning a bank job to become dangerous criminals themselves? My imagination was running wild, or should I say, even wilder than usual.

But there was no time to think. Thimble was on his way back from the garden, and I had to head him off before he reached the red door.

‘Found some wine, Thimble!’ I said. ‘Oh, what’s that you’ve got there?’

Thimble proudly laid his own treasure trove onto the kitchen table.

‘Ok, let’s see. Grapes … figs … almonds … tomatoes … oranges. Well, Thimble, this would make a very good Show and Tell table for a Mediterranean food project. But if you remember, the key word I uttered before sending you to the garden was flowers.’

Thimble looked gutted.

‘It’s all right, Thimble,’ I said. ‘We’ll put it all in the red wine sauce.’

Thimble beamed happily. Dad’s romantic meal was certainly going to be something special.