At the fairground entrance we find the Worthys. Mrs Worthy is painting something on a piece of bent cardboard sticky-taped to a plastic mop. Mr Worthy is holding it still.
‘Ah – Eric, Tom, Colin – would you like to join our protest?’
I look at the Worthys’ half-painted placards. ‘No fun here’, ‘Beware of the grass’ and ‘Make it Fair for Nature’. And one that says: ‘Save Fresh Air and Badges’. I assume she means badgers.
‘We can’t, we’ve got to re-home this.’ Eric points at the snake. I lift the corner of the lid and Eric’s dad and Mr and Mrs Worthy all peer into the box.
‘Why’s it in a knot?’ asks Mrs Worthy.
‘Long story,’ I say, glancing at Eric.
‘Goodness! It’s a Venomous Polar Sea Snake – terribly rare,’ says Eric’s dad. ‘I’ve never seen one in the flesh. Where did you get it?’
‘Long story,’ says Eric, glancing at me.
‘Put it back in the sea, then,’ says Mr Worthy. ‘Perhaps it can swim home.’
Two men from the fairground walk past; they’ve got oily hands and oily hair. One of them is carrying a huge spanner. He looks scary.
‘Keep off our grass. Up with Nature,’ calls Mrs Worthy. ‘Please.’
‘Yes, please don’t damage the wildlife, there are toads here,’ says Mr Worthy, faintly. ‘Rare ones.’
I look at the ground, wondering just how fast I can run if things turn nasty. Spanner man examines the Worthys’ grass placard. He glances up at Mr Worthy, who looks as if he might like to run even faster than me.
Spanner man lets out a long, pained sigh. ‘That sticky tape’s doing a rubbish job. I’ve got a staple gun that’ll fix that sign. Be back in a mo.’ He rests the enormous spanner on his shoulder, and strides off towards a van.
‘Gosh – thanks,’ says Mr Worthy. ‘That’d be nice.’
‘Thank you – just remember to walk carefully on the grass while you’re getting it,’ says Mrs Worthy. ‘Please.’
With Eric and his dad, I run for the sea.
We lay the snake on the pebbles and Eric’s dad uses an ancient snake-charming technique to pacify it. Between the three of us, and with the help of a damp tissue from Eric’s pocket, we manage to unknot it. The snake looks at the land, and then at the water.
‘Go on, snake, swim away,’ Eric’s dad says.
It looks back at us, completely without fear, as if being knotted was a slight inconvenience, lifts its head in the air and plunges into the water, swimming fast and purposefully towards the open sea.
‘And don’t come back,’ I say, remembering its fangs hanging over Tilly.
Eric’s dad stares at the water as if he’s remembering something himself. ‘I’m sure at some point recently I was the Mad Hatter, surfing in toothpaste-blue water.’
‘Really, Dad?’ says Eric. ‘I don’t think I remember you being the Mad Hatter, but – I was wondering – what would you like to eat, now you’re back? I could cook sausages? Or cheesy baked potatoes? Or a pizza?’
Eric’s dad looks up towards the sky. The stars are beginning to show and the music of the funfair grinds into action. ‘I feel like I’ve travelled great distances, visited faraway seashores … is that possible, do you suppose?’ He turns back towards us; he might almost be in tears. ‘Have I really been away somewhere?’
Eric blinks and takes off his glasses. ‘I don’t know, Dad. I don’t know where you’ve been or where you think you’ve been.’ He rubs his eyes. ‘I just thought we could have an evening together, comfort food. You know the kind of thing.’
‘A roast, Eric; a roast would be very nice,’ his dad says quietly. ‘Chicken or lamb, with gravy – lots of gravy.’
I look up at Eric’s dad, his glasses reflecting the fairground lights in the oncoming night. A tiny blip whisks across from one lens to the other. A shooting star. For a moment I panic, but I see it plummet into the sea. No one can get anywhere near it. It’s not dangerous.
Another whizzes past, landing well inland.
‘A meteor shower,’ says Eric. ‘Hmmm.’