We stamp leaflets for a while, and then Mr Fogg takes over, so we wander up to buy an ice cream. It’s sunny but not blazing. Perfect really.
‘We got the beach sorted,’ says Jacob.
‘Hmm,’ says Eric. ‘Just the small matter of the mayor then.’
Which is when the fire brigade appear outside the Royal Hotel and everyone pours out through the doors.
‘Awful … rodents everywhere … even the cereal.’
‘Look at my silk pyjamas – ruined …’
‘And rats in the wiring. It’s the last straw. I’m off!’
They trail out, suitcases and dressing gowns in hand, as the firemen trail in.
Eric’s cheeks flush red, his forehead remains white and his hair springs up and down. ‘Oh dear, what have we done?’
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, feeling 35% sick, and wondering if we haven’t done something totally dreadful. ‘It’ll be fine.’
‘What is it?’ asks Jacob. ‘What’s wrong?’
More people leave, and the manager comes out to remonstrate with a large woman who hits him with her wheelie suitcase, and everyone cheers.
‘Oh no,’ says Eric. ‘She should be hitting us.’
‘Hmm,’ I say – now feeling 55% sick.
‘Have you done something wrong, Snot Face?’ asks Jacob, a grin spreading across his face.
‘Um,’ says Eric in reply.
The revolving door at the front of the hotel whizzes into hyper spin and a man in cook’s overalls rushes out clutching the scrambled-egg tray – ‘Arghghghghgh!’ he screams, dropping it in the middle of the road. Even from this distance I can make out a little deckchair snapping and stirring in the egg. ‘It’s alive! It’s alive!’ he shouts.
The crowd recoils and a fireman rushes forward with a gigantic hose pouring a huge amount of water in a tiny amount of time. The water ricochets from the pan, spraying anyone anywhere nearby with wet globs of scrambled egg.
‘Oh dear,’ says Eric again as the mayor arrives on a bicycle, unslept and unwashed, his eyes wide, shouting, ‘Come back, come back. You must come back.’
Half-heartedly I try to convince Eric that it’s for the greater good as we turn our backs on the chaos outside the Royal Hotel.
‘It means that the hotel won’t be bought up and go all horrible,’ I say.
‘But the poor people,’ says Eric. ‘How awful to be attacked in your bed by a rampant deckchair.’
Jacob laughs. ‘Wish I’d seen it,’ he says, picking scrambled egg from his shorts.
‘NO, NO and thrice NO!’ comes a shout from along the harbour.
It’s Marigold, of Marigold Tours.
‘NO, I will not sell it to you for almost nothing.’ She’s shouting at a man in a black suit with a yellow sun hat. ‘That is an insult to the years I’ve spent building up the business. You can take a hike!’
I can’t hear what the man says, but Marigold looks thunderous. ‘There is nothing wrong with my boat – I have thousands of passengers every year!’
A small crowd gathers to watch.
‘I think they’ve found the other deckchairs,’ says Eric. ‘Poor Marigold.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, watching the ship’s captain shovelling a dustpan load of deckchairs over the side into the harbour.
‘Tom!’
I look round. Albert Fogg is hauling himself up the steps from the beach.
‘Here,’ I say.
‘Tom – have you seen the mayor? It’s just that the beach people want to talk to him.’ Mr Fogg looks very excited. ‘I think, between you and me, that it might be in the bag.’
But we can’t find the mayor. He was last seen outside the Royal Hotel. We go to knock on his front door, but the door’s open wide and everything’s gone.
‘He’s done a runner,’ says Jacob with great authority.
Which is probably exactly what he has done.
‘What?’ says Albert Fogg when we tell him. ‘He can’t have – they can’t present the prize without a mayor! Oh no, it’s a calamity.’ Mr Fogg sinks to the sand, plunging his head between his hands and a long tear escapes from his tiny hidden eyes.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Give us a minute. It’s not a calamity, it’s an opportunity.’