I love hospitals. They have ramps and lifts and great long corridors with smooth shiny floors. I can bomb down the corridors in my walker like a Japanese bullet train. My walker’s like a frame on wheels, by the way. I can run without it, just not as fast. Once I couldn’t run at all, then I had an operation to snip my tendons so I wasn’t on tiptoes. I was in a wheelchair for a while, then I recovered, and kazam! I could beat Dad! That’s another reason I love hospitals.
Dad hates hospitals. He thinks the lights are too bright and the waiting areas too clogged up with sick people. That means he has to wait for ages, reading the posters about various illnesses and imagining he’s got them all.
And now, on top of this, Dad had Thimble to deal with. Normally, of course, animals are not allowed in hospitals, but Dad had managed to convince the receptionist that Thimble was actually his second son, who had a rare hairy face disorder. Fortunately nurses have seen everything and are therefore prepared to believe almost anything.
Luckily, Thimble was being quite calm and peaceful, possibly because of the yoga. Dad, on the other hand, was shuffling and shifting and moaning and groaning, until I just had to say something to shut him up.
‘Why don’t we go down to the children’s wards after, Dad?’ I suggested.
‘Children?’ grumbled Dad. ‘Why on earth would I want to see children?’
‘You’re a children’s author,’ I reminded him.
‘So?’
‘You could do autographs and cheer them up.’
A glimmer of light came to Dad’s eyes. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Their mums and dads might buy my books.’
‘Yes. Although that wouldn’t be the main reason you’d be doing it, would it?’
‘Er…’ said Dad.
Dad hobbled over to the nearest nurse and explained our plan to him. The nurse put it to a senior staff nurse, who put it to a ward manager, who put it to a senior ward manager, who came up to Dad with a look on her face which was the opposite of trusting. I piped up and explained just how famous Dad was and eventually she caved in. Dad would be allowed half an hour in the children’s ward just as soon as he’d had his spine reattached to his legs.
‘Excellent idea, Jams,’ he said. ‘It’s good to feel someone again.’
I glowed with pride. It was great to see Dad looking happy for once. He looked even happier after he’d seen the doctor and was no longer bent double like a wall bracket.
‘Showtime!’ he declared. ‘Where’s Thimble?’
I glanced around. ‘Er…’
‘Jams!’ barked Dad. ‘You were supposed to be looking after Thimble!’
‘I was looking after him!’ I protested. ‘He must have gone while I was sneezing!’
‘I’ll sneeze you!’ rasped Dad. It’s just the kind of thing parents say, and doesn’t have to mean anything.
‘He can’t be far,’ I said, unconvincingly.
‘Do you realise how big this hospital is?’ ranted Dad. ‘He could be anywhere! He could be in an operating theatre, for heaven’s sake!’
I pictured Thimble in a green gown and hat, scalpel in his hairy hand. It was kind of funny, and kind of not funny.
‘I’ll find him,’ I said, but Dad held me back. A new look had come into his eyes, not a particularly nice one.
‘Hold your horses, son,’ he said. ‘I can’t be late for my engagement at the children’s ward. Thimble will just have to find his own way home.’
‘But Thimble will never find his way home!’ I protested.
‘He made his bed,’ said Dad. ‘Now he must lie on it.’
‘Er?’
There was no time for explanations. Dad was already striding purposefully towards the children’s wards, ferreting in his pocket for his best autograph-signing pen.
‘But, Dad!’ I cried. ‘We can’t just abandon him!’
My words fell on deaf ears. Dad was hunting down those sick kids like a heat-seeking missile. We passed the Caring Owl Daycare Centre and the Unity Sheep Sleep Unit. Then, just as we were about to throw open the doors to the children’s wards, Dad stopped dead.
There was an unexpected sound coming from the other side of those doors.
Laughter.
‘Do you think they’re reading one of your books, Dad?’ I asked.
Dad seized on this idea. ‘Yes, of course. The nurses are obviously preparing them for my visit.’
Dad rubbed his hands vigorously in some antiseptic gel, took a deep breath, and whammed open the doors. ‘Good evening, children!’ he cried. ‘I am Douglas Dawson, the famous…’
He got no further.
All of the children were out of their beds, looking wildly excited, while a hospital trolley raced this way and that down the ward. Behind this trolley, occasionally doing handstands on top of it while tooting a kazoo, was none other than our new hairy housemate.
‘Thimble!’ I cried.
Dad fixed me with a fierce stare. ‘What on earth…’ he muttered, as Thimble vaulted onto an overhanging beam, swung round it five or six times, dropped onto the nearest bed, bounced, landed in the toy area and began juggling with a bunch of plastic balls.
‘Maybe he’s a circus monkey,’ I suggested.
‘This is not a circus,’ growled Dad. ‘This is a serious building full of sick people.’
‘More!’ cried the nurses. They were enjoying the show as much as the children.
Dad cleared his throat loudly. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘I have an appointment to sign autographs for these children.’
The nurses did not seem impressed. ‘But they’re having so much fun,’ said one.
‘We don’t want to spoil it,’ said another.
‘I’ll put it to the vote,’ declared Dad. He called for silence and took centre stage. ‘Now listen here, children,’ he announced. ‘We’re going to have a vote. You can decide whether you want an autograph from the famous writer, Douglas Dawson – that’s me – or some more stupid tricks from the silly monkey. Jams, you count the votes. OK, hands up who wants more stupid tricks from the silly monkey?’
A forest of hands shot up. Dad glowered impatiently as I began counting.
‘And who wants..?’ he began.
‘Hang on, Dad,’ I interrupted. ‘I haven’t finished counting yet.’
‘Come on, come on.’
‘Fifty-six, Dad,’ I declared. ‘Or it may be fifty-seven, because I think the boy with the broken arm was trying to lift it.’
‘Fifty-six, that’ll do,’ grunted Dad. ‘Now, who wants a fantastic autograph from the world-famous writer, Douglas Dawson?’
No hands.
‘Nil, Dad,’ I informed him.
‘I think I saw a few at the back.’
‘No, Dad. Definitely nil.’
‘Can the monkey get on with the show now?’ asked one of the nurses.
‘No,’ snapped Dad. ‘The monkey’s show is over. It is past the monkey’s bedtime.’ Quite pink around the ears, Dad rounded on the children. ‘Now listen here, you lot,’ he growled. ‘You play too many video games and watch too much telly and obviously don’t read enough books. That is why you are growing up to be losers.’
Dad seized Thimble with one hand and me with the other. We headed for the exit doors in an atmosphere as bleak as Pluto.
‘Come back soon!’ said a little voice.
‘I’ll have to check my diary,’ grunted Dad.
‘Not you,’ said the voice. ‘The monkey.’
It was quite late when we got home. Mum was already on her way to bed.
‘How’s Thimble?’ she asked.
‘Thimble is fine, thank you,’ snapped Dad.
‘Don’t bother asking about my injury.’
‘OK. Now, where is Thimble going to sleep?’
‘He can sleep on the floor here.’ Dad pointed at the grand flagstones of the Great Hall.
‘You can’t put him there,’ said Mum. ‘He’s in a strange home and he might panic.’
‘He can sleep in my room,’ I suggested.
‘Out of the question,’ said Dad.
‘Why doesn’t he sleep in the attic?’ asked Mum.
‘The what?’ snapped Dad.
‘Why doesn’t he sleep in the Red Tower?’ asked Mum, with a wink to me.
‘Because I am sleeping in the Red Tower,’ Dad replied.
‘You could put an air bed on the floor.’
I could sense an argument brewing, but to my surprise, it didn’t come. A fishy look came onto Dad’s face, a look which told me he was planning something.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘And by the way, why don’t you put some earplugs in, in case he makes noise in the night?’
‘Good idea,’ said Mum.
Dad smiled a small, self-satisfied smile as Mum retired for the night. ‘Now, Jams,’ he said, ‘you are to go to bed, and whatever you hear, you are not to get up, is that understood?’
‘But, Dad…’ I began.
‘No buts!’ snapped Dad. ‘I do not wish to see your face until breakfast-time! And if you put so much as a toe outside your room, you can forget about using the computer, or that funny thing by the telly, for a very long time!’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I mumbled. I was beginning to fear the worst for poor Thimble, and sure enough, I had hardly shut my bedroom door when I heard a loud monkey-cackle followed by the slamming of the back door. I peeked through my blind to see Dad dragging Thimble into the backyard to the former home of our dear departed Blyton, i.e. the dog kennel.
‘It’s perfectly dry,’ declared Dad.
Thimble put on a rather pathetic face, but Dad was not in the mood for mercy.
‘Sleep tight,’ he trilled. ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite!’
There were probably quite a few bugs in Blyton’s old kennel, and heavens knows what else. Thimble looked the saddest sight in the world as Dad disappeared back into the house. I so wanted to help him, but how could I without putting at least ten toes through my bedroom door? I sidled back to bed and tried to think of something else.
Suddenly, there was a chilling noise from outside. Like a cry of fear. There it was again, even more distressed.
My imagination began to take hold. Had a fox got into the grounds? Some kind of wild dog, a wolf even? I hurried back to the blind and looked outside. There was no sign of a dangerous animal – then Dad appeared.
‘OK, old boy,’ he asked, ‘what’s the problem?’
Thimble crept out of the kennel and made a strange sign.
‘Fox?’ suggested Dad. ‘Badger?’
Thimble held up three fingers.
‘OK,’ said Dad. ‘Three words.’
‘Second word,’ said Dad.
Thimble spread his arms wide, which, being a monkey, was very wide indeed.
‘Wide,’ suggested Dad.
Thimble shook his head.
‘Long,’ suggested Dad.
Thimble pointed at Dad and put a finger to his nose, indicating that he’d got it. Then he raised one finger.
‘First word,’ said Dad.
Thimble cupped a hand round his ear.
‘Sounds like,’ said Dad.
Thimble’s hand ducked up and down, rather like someone using a needle and thread.
‘Embroidery?’ suggested Dad.
Thimble shook his head.
‘Sewing?’
Thimble made the gesture for ‘shorter’.
‘Sew?’
Thimble nodded vigorously, while Dad frowned, trying to imagine the creature he was describing. Thimble held up his second finger and made the gesture for long.
‘Long?’ said Dad. Thimble nodded.
Thimble raised three fingers.
‘Third word,’ said Dad.
Thimble pursed his lips and drew air into them.
‘Breathe?’ suggested Dad.
Thimble shook his head.
‘Suck?’ suggested Dad.
Thimble made the gesture for ‘longer’.
‘Sucking?’
Thimble shook his head.
‘Sucker.’
Thimble nodded.
Dad recapped. ‘Sew … long … sucker. Sew long sucker. Eh?’
Dad’s words were lost to the night as Thimble set off like a bullet, dodging past him and through the back door. Dad still wasn’t moving too well, after the gruesome injuries he had suffered at yoga, and it was some time before he reached the door himself, only to discover, to his obvious dismay, that this was not only shut but firmly locked.
‘Nora!’ he cried, at Mum’s bedroom window.
No reply. Mum had obviously remembered to wear her earplugs, just as Dad had recommended.
‘Nora!’ bellowed Dad. Still no reply. Nothing but the sound of monkey feet pattering up the stairs towards the warm cosy bed in the Red Tower.
‘Jams!’ cried Dad.
I ducked back behind the blind. I had not forgotten Dad’s terrible warning to stay in my room. If he thought he could tempt me to leave it, he was very much mistaken.
And anyway, there was a perfectly dry kennel in the backyard.
