It takes me until break to remember that I want to tell Eric about yesterday’s deckchair-on-the-beach episode. And when I finally find him feeding the Mongolian hawk-moth caterpillars in Mr Bell’s classroom, I have walked past Dad handing out juice in the playground three times.
‘Hi, Tom,’ Dad shouts with enthusiasm. ‘Great working here. Lovely to be with you all day.’
All of Year 1 turn and stare as I bolt across the playground.
‘How’s it going?’ asks Eric, tempting a particularly large and repulsive orange caterpillar with a nettle.
‘With Dad? Awful,’ I say. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that something happened on the beach yesterday.’
‘Oh?’
‘It sounds really silly, but a deckchair attacked Mr Bissell.’
‘Attacked how?’ Eric puts down the first nettle and picks up a second. They look exactly the same.
I think back to what I saw. ‘It folded round him. It sort of pinched him inside.’
Eric drops the second nettle in the tank and turns to face me. ‘Fascinating. Just the one?’
‘Yes – only one.’
‘Did anyone else see?’
Once again I try to remember the scene exactly as it happened. ‘Mum was reading the paper. Dad was building a sandcastle. Mr Bissell’s wife must have seen, although she might have been asleep. Oh and Mr Fogg –’
‘Albert Fogg – the longshoreman?’
‘Yes, him, the one with the beard. The man who hires out the deckchairs and eats crab sandwiches under an umbrella. He must have seen.’
Eric looks wise for a long time before saying, ‘Why’s your dad taken a job here? I thought he was going to be a magician?’
At lunch, I have to hide behind the bins in the rain.
‘Tom, Tom!’ Dad’s wandering around the playground looking for me. He’s wearing a checked pair of trousers, an apron and rubber gloves. ‘Tom, love, I thought we could eat lunch together. We could share a bag of crisps.’
‘Hiding from Daddy?’ says Jacob, rolling round the corner and settling next to the bins. He pulls an enormous greasy package from his pocket.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘Yesterday’s chips,’ he says. ‘Want one?’
I shake my head. ‘I thought they’d banned chips,’ I say.
‘They have,’ he says. ‘That’s why I’m round here hiding with a loser like you. No way am I eating salad – so I’ve brought my own packed lunch.’
He prises a long, soggy, flaccid chip from the pile and dangles it into his mouth. Not only is it cold but it has ketchup embedded between it and the greasy polystyrene box. Jacob’s lips close round it and he begins to chew. ‘So,’ he says. ‘Where’s Snot Face? Thought you two were always together?’
Snot Face is what Jacob calls Eric. It’s unkind, but then Jacob is unkind.
‘I’m here,’ says Eric. ‘And do stop calling me “Snot Face”, please, Jacob.’
‘As you like, Snot Face,’ says Jacob, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
Eric ignores him. ‘So, Tom, what we need is a closer look at that deckchair.’
‘What deckchair?’ says Jacob.
‘The one that attacked Mr Bissell on the beach,’ says Eric.
‘Sounds exciting,’ says Jacob. ‘Did it kill him?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘And would it be better if it had?’ Eric asks Jacob.
‘Yes,’ says Jacob.
We both stare at him.
‘Was that the wrong thing to say?’ says Jacob, polishing off another chip.
‘Anyway.’ Eric turns back to me. ‘Do you think you can get a sample?’
But before I manage to answer, we’re interrupted by Dad. ‘Tom, darling – there you are. What on earth are you doing here in the rain? Now, boys, come and join me, and I can show you how the potato-peeling machine works. It’s absolutely thrilling.’