Mum did not ask about the tarantula when she came home, so Dad said nothing about it and nor did I. Dad was still sulking about their phone conversation, and I was trying to keep Thimble out of trouble. Since I’d helped him escape from the zoo, Thimble had become the bestest best friend I could ever have imagined. He even helped me take my splints off at night and put them back on in the morning. Dad didn’t complain about that, since it was one less job for him. He didn’t complain about Thimble sleeping in my room, either. Suddenly everything was perfect, but it was against the rules of Dawson Castle for everything to be perfect, so Dad soon had another plan to mess things up.
‘I’m taking Thimble to school today,’ he declared, next morning.
‘Eh?’ I said.
‘Is that a good idea?’ asked Mum.
‘It is an excellent idea. The teachers can take care of him while I get on with Pixie Pony Ballerina.’
‘Teachers don’t look after monkeys,’ said Mum.
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ replied Dad.
‘Please don’t ring me if things go wrong,’ warned Mum. ‘And don’t forget I’m going cycling after work. I’ll need some sandwiches.’
‘You really could do with a servant,’ said Dad.
‘A helpful partner would be fine,’ replied Mum.
‘Tarantula sandwich coming up,’ growled Dad, as the front door shut.
I put an arm round my hairy friend. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘you’re not really taking Thimble to school, are you?’
Thimble started whimpering horribly, just like when they were putting him in the cage.
‘School, Thimble, not zoo,’ I assured him. ‘It’s a place with teachers.’
Thimble whimpered again.
‘Teachers, Thimble, not keepers,’ I said.
‘You’re not helping,’ said Dad.
‘That’s a funny idea though, isn’t it, Dad? That school is a zoo, and teachers are keepers? We could write that as a story later.
‘Right, let’s go,’ said Dad, not bothering to respond to my great idea. ‘Come on, Thimble.’
Thimble seemed to misunderstand this entirely, taking it as an offer of friendship, and bounded across the room to plant himself on Dad’s lap. Dad froze. Thimble started enthusiastically picking through Dad’s hair.
‘What? What on earth are you…?’ Dad began, but his words dried as Thimble discovered something in Dad’s hair, which he happily popped into his mouth.
‘He’s found a nit!’ I cried.
‘There are no nits in my hair!’
But Thimble was on fire now, popping little somethings into his mouth like peanuts.
‘He’s grooming you, Dad,’ I declared. ‘It’s a sign of submission.’
‘I do not wish to be groomed!’ barked Dad. ‘And if he wants to show submission, he can put on his coat and follow me out of the front door!’
It was a strange feeling to be standing at the gates of Peterloo Primary, looking into its playground of trees, colourful murals and climbing frames. This was the place Dad swore I would never go to. Who knows how many friends I might have found there?
Dad pressed the intercom button and a voice said, ‘Hello?’
‘It’s Douglas Dawson,’ said Dad.
Silence.
‘The famous author,’ added Dad.
Hushed voices. I couldn’t be quite sure what they said, but it sounded like, ‘It’s him again.’ A louder voice said, ‘As I have repeatedly told you, Mr Dawson, we don’t have funds for an author visit this year.’
‘It’s not about that,’ snapped Dad. ‘I’ve come to enrol my son.’
‘You’d better come in,’ said the voice.
Mrs Timms had probably seen everything, being a headteacher, but she did not look entirely comfortable having a monkey in her room. She moved her mug and books well out of his reach and kept an anxious eye on him as she addressed me and Dad.
‘So,’ she said, ‘you’ve had a change of heart.’
‘Not entirely,’ said Dad.
‘But you want your son to enrol?’ said Mrs Timms.
‘Did I say “my son”?’ asked Dad. ‘I’m sorry, that was a slip of the tongue. I meant the monkey.’
This was a horrible disappointment to me, and even more to Mrs Timms. ‘The monkey?’ she repeated.
‘He’s very mature for his age,’ Dad assured her.
‘His maturity,’ declared Mrs Timms, ‘is not the issue.’
‘I see,’ said Dad, bristling. ‘And what exactly is the issue?’
‘The fact he is a monkey!’
Dad was obviously well prepared for this reaction. ‘I see,’ he countered. ‘And can you quote me the law which says schools must only teach humans?’
‘Of course we only teach humans!’ protested Mrs Timms.
‘I have studied all the Education Acts,’ replied Dad, ‘and I cannot find one which says school is not for monkeys.’
Mrs Timms was thrown for a moment, but came back strongly. ‘How are we supposed to teach him how to read?’ she asked.
‘He already can read! Thimble, pick up a book and show Mrs Timms how you can read.’
Thimble picked up a copy of Whiteboards for Dummies, opened it and began looking at it quite intelligently.
‘See?’ Dad said. ‘He’s reading.’
‘The book is upside down,’ said Mrs Timms.
‘That’s the way monkeys read. You know, like people in China read backwards.’
Mrs Timms was not impressed. ‘Think of the health risks.’
‘What health risks?’ asked Dad.
‘I can’t imagine what fleas and ticks he’s carrying,’ she replied. ‘We’ve already got a head lice outbreak in year one.’
Dad’s eyes lit up. ‘A head lice outbreak?’
‘I send letters home, but I’m sure parents never read them,’ complained Mrs Timms.
Dad rose dramatically. ‘Mrs Timms,’ he declared, ‘your head lice problems are over.’
‘May I present Thimble,’ proclaimed Dad, ‘the best nit nurse you’ll ever find.’ And before Mrs Timms could protest, off he went down the corridor, Thimble in hand, in search of the year one classroom. By the time Mrs Timms and I arrived, Thimble and Dad had already found their prey, who stared in goggle-eyed delight at the real live monkey in their midst.
‘Who’s got nits?’ demanded Dad.
‘It’s a monkey!’ cried a little girl.
‘Top of the class,’ said Dad. ‘Take a seat.’
Before Mrs Timms or the class teacher could protest, the little girl took the chair Dad had offered and Thimble was sorting through her hair like a monkey possessed. One, two, three tasty morsels disappeared down Thimble’s gullet. Hands shot up all round the room and pupils cried out to be next in line. One volunteer followed another to the nitpicking chair, smiles as wide as watermelon slices, and soon even Mrs Timms was beginning to soften.
‘I think we can forget about the letters home, Miss Price,’ she said.
‘He does seem to be doing a good job,’ agreed the class teacher.
‘I suppose we could have him as a class pet,’ suggested Mrs Timms.
‘We did have a stick insect last year,’ replied the class teacher.
‘How do you feel about keeping Thimble, Class One?’ asked Mrs Timms.
There was an enormous cheer.
‘Very well, Mr Dawson,’ said Mrs Timms. ‘I’ll put his name in the register.’
Dad, needless to say, was delighted. I’d have been delighted too, if I could have stayed with Thimble. But I dutifully waved him goodbye, which came as a bit of a shock to him. Not that there was long to think about it, with twenty-four more pupils queuing up for grooming.
Dad, at last, was ready for work. Pixie Pony Ballerina was up on screen and he was full of inspiration.
‘A full day to write, and no monkey!’ he purred. ‘What luxury!’
‘I don’t think he wanted to be left on his own,’ I said.
‘He’ll be fine.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ I asked.
‘Make your mum’s sandwiches.’
‘That’s not schoolwork!’ I protested. ‘Can’t I help you?’
‘I,’ declared Dad, ‘do not need help.’
With that, he rattled feverishly at the keyboard for about two minutes, before grinding to a halt, pondering for about ten minutes, then writing another word or two. His shoulders began to sag. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could just have a look at this for me’.
I studied the screen:
PIXIE PONY BALLERINA – IDEAS
• Pixie Pony loads the dishwasher but it leaks and his hooves get wet.
• Pixie Pony gets magic fairydust on the carpet and has to mend the vacuum cleaner.
• Pixie Pony makes a fish pie but it boils over and makes a big mess in the oven.
‘What do you think?’ asked Dad. ‘Be honest.’
‘It’s pathetic, Dad.’
‘Not that honest,’ said Dad.
‘You should ask me, Dad, I’ve got millions of ideas.’
The conversation got no further as the phone rang. ‘Yes?’ snapped Dad.
‘Is that Thimble’s parent?’ said a voice.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’d better get to school right away,’ said the voice. ‘Thimble’s had an accident.’
My heart went through my boots. I pictured Thimble stone-still in the playground after falling off the school roof. Weak and pale in the medical room, having swallowed a bottle of glue. Grilled to a cinder in the school ovens.
‘Come on, Dad!’ I cried.
It’s fair to say we turned a few heads on our way back to Peterloo Primary. It had been a long time since Dad had run, or even walked fast. His face was lobster red and slobber gushed from his mouth as he blundered up the pavement behind me. Yes, behind me, because my walker was moving faster than a Ferrari.
Thank heaven, my worst fears were not realised. The moment I reached the gate I saw Thimble, conscious, apparently unharmed, but wearing a strange pair of baggy shorts.
‘Is he okay?’ I gasped.
Mrs Timms, standing stony-faced beside Thimble, held out a bulging plastic bag, tied securely at the top.
‘Thimble,’ she declared, ‘has soiled his pants.’
Dad sat with his head in his hands as far as possible from the Bag of Shame. Thimble and I sat opposite, Thimble looking quite happy with the world.
‘Why, oh why, oh why?’ asked Dad. ‘He’s never pooed his pants once at home.’
‘Maybe he was distressed, Dad,’ I suggested.
‘Distressed? What did he have to be distressed about? He had it made at that school!’
‘Maybe he missed us, Dad.’
Dad huffed. ‘This is all your fault, Jams,’ he declared. ‘You’ve made him needy. You should have kept him at arm’s length, like I do.’
‘But he’s my best friend,’ I protested.
‘Ha!’ said Dad. ‘What does that say about you, that your best friend is a monkey?’
‘It says I’ve got one more friend than you,’ I replied.
Dad bristled. ‘The lone wolf,’ he declared, ‘is the strongest wolf.’
‘Shouldn’t that be the saddest wolf?’
Dad was clearly tiring of the conversation.
‘Okay, Smartypants,’ he replied. ‘As you’re Thimble’s best friend, you can clean his dirty pants.’
With that, Dad left me to gaze upon the Bag of Shame and wonder what on earth to do with it. I couldn’t put Thimble’s pants in the washing machine without scraping out the poo, and there was no way I was doing that. Nor could I bury the bag in the castle grounds, because some cat was bound to dig it up, and anyway, Mum would wonder where Thimble’s trousers had gone, and I’d have to make up a story, which Mum was bound not to believe, because she never believes my stories any more than she believes Dad’s, even though mine have got much longer sentences, like this one.
There was only one answer. I would have to put the bag inside another bag, or even better, a box, then hide it till I could save up enough pocket money to pay someone to get rid of it.
I scoured the kitchens of Dawson Castle. Aha! A cupboard full of plastic storage boxes, one the perfect size. I squeezed the Bag of Shame into this box and secured the lid. No smell. Hallelujah!
At this point Dad called me. ‘Where is Thimble?’
‘Er … not sure, Dad.’
‘I thought I could hear sawing,’ said Dad.
‘Haven’t noticed it,’ I replied.
‘I’m sure I heard it,’ said Dad.
‘You may be paranoid.’
‘Jams,’ replied Dad, ‘I’m sitting on an antique captain’s chair with two-inch legs. Does that make me paranoid?’
‘No, Dad,’ I said. ‘Just too old to know centimetres.’
‘I’m sure I hid all the saws,’ said Dad.
‘Go through them,’ I suggested.
‘Hand saw…’ began Dad. ‘Tenon saw … panel saw … coping saw … mitre saw … I’ve got a feeling there’s another one, but I just can’t think what it is.’
‘Cold saw?’ I suggested.
‘What?’
‘You know, the type you get on your mouth.’
Dad viewed me wearily. ‘You’re not helping.’
‘See-saw?’ I suggested.
Dad ushered me to the door. ‘Maybe you are well suited to having a monkey for a best friend,’ he said.
Mum came home in a great mood, possibly because she was going straight out again. There seemed no point in telling her about Thimble’s little accident. She put on her cycling gear, and just as she was leaving, gave Dad a peck on the cheek.
‘What was that for?’ asked Dad, looking surprised and delighted.
‘You remembered,’ replied Mum.
‘Remembered what?’
‘To make my sandwiches.’
With that, Mum was gone, leaving Dad baffled. ‘Did you make sandwiches for your mother?’ he asked me.
‘Sorry, I forgot.’
Dad’s eyes narrowed. ‘Thimble couldn’t have made them, could he?’
‘Maybe that was the sawing sound,’ I suggested.
Equally puzzled, we made our way back to the kitchen. Here I made a disturbing discovery.
The plastic storage box, which I’d left by the fridge, was nowhere to be seen.
‘Dad,’ I asked, anxiously, ‘have you moved a plastic storage box?’
‘I haven’t seen a plastic storage box.’
‘That’s strange,’ I said.
‘Maybe your mum picked it up,’ said Dad.
Mum?
Hang on…
NO-O-O-O-O-O-O-O!
‘Mum!’ I cried, hurrying to the front door.
‘Mum, wait!’
Gone!
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Dad.
‘The pooey pants!’ I gasped. ‘Mum’s got the pooey pants!’
‘She … thinks they’re her … sandwiches!’ I blurted.
‘What?’ cried Dad. ‘I’ll get the blame for this!’
He rushed back inside Dawson Castle.
‘Where are you going, Dad?’
‘To get my bike!’
Dad often told me what a great cyclist he’d been back in the day, and here was his chance to prove it. We hurried to the storehouse, where the back wheel of his trusty steed was just visible amongst the junk. Dad and I grabbed the saddle and gave the great beast a yank, only to crash onto our backs as it shot out easier than a knife through butter.
There was a good reason for this. We were holding slightly less than half a bike. It was only now that we saw the rest of the bike, arranged in pieces in a neat pile, and behind that Thimble, holding the hacksaw that Dad had unfortunately forgotten to hide.
