have absolute faith in the beach, proven by my willingness to put my own children, my very own flesh and blood, in one of our 100% safe Bywater-by-Sea pedalos. They’ll be out on the sea every day of the summer season …’
Mr Fogg nods in agreement, although he looks slightly less happy than the mayor.
‘He’s not sending them out in this – is he?’ says Eric, indicating the rain that has now moved on to torrential. ‘They’ll drown.’
‘That would be interesting,’ says Jacob.
We watch the two girls clamber into the pedalo and Albert Fogg push them towards the sea. The journalists are frantically snapping away and I’m wondering if we shouldn’t run to the rescue when a wave breaks over the front of the pedalo. The first girl leaps out of the boat and rushes back to the sand, shortly followed by the other.
The mayor argues with them, but they shake their heads in fury and stomp up the beach.
‘Phew,’ says Eric.
‘Pity,’ says Jacob.
The next day is sunny, actually warm, and most people run around outside.
‘Art Club?’ says Mrs Mawes.
‘Um,’ I say.
It turns out that Art Club is exactly what I feared. An hour of free time wrecked by cutting and sticking. Tilly’s there, with Milly and a bunch of friends.
I am the only boy over the age of seven.
‘Now, Tom – winner of the Sculpture on the Beach contest – I’m sure you don’t need any help from me. Here are some materials, let’s see what you can do.’
I stare dumbly at the pots of glue, paint and glitter, and wonder if life can actually get worse.
17
It Takes Twenty-three Coins
When I get home I go up to my bedroom. Some kind of hurricane must have hit it. And then I decide it must be a rabid dog. Or rats. Or a giant squirrel. Chunks of my duvet are missing. My pillow has a hole burrowed right through it. The lampshade is dangling, tattered and torn, and the window, which I closed before I left this morning, has a broken pane of glass.
‘What?’ I say aloud.
At first I think it must be something that’s come in from the outside. An invasion ofgiant hornets – or birds, or radioactive snakes.
Then I remember the deckchairs.
Frantically I search out the pirate tin. I find it under my bed. It’s been torn open from the inside, the metal lid curled back and savaged like a sardine tin. There are no deckchairs inside.
In fact, there are no deckchairs anywhere to be seen. I imagine them marauding and pillaging. Three vicious mousetraps pinching and snapping and tearing. I wonder what kind of damage they’d do.
It would look very much like this.
Eric’s dad opens the door. I rush past and race up the stairs to find Eric playing himself at chess.
‘What?’ he says.
‘The deckchairs,’ I say, and I explain what’s happened.
‘Oh, Tom,’ he says. He refrains from saying ‘You idiot’, but I know that’s what he means.
‘So I’ve no idea where they are,’ I say. ‘We need to find them before they get any bigger.’
‘How big do you suppose they are now?’ he asks.
I hold my hands out, measuring imaginary tiny deckchairs. ‘I guess they must be about a credit-card big.’
‘Really easy to find then,’ he says. ‘In a whole town.’
We start in the model village. I know if I was a miniature deckchair that’s exactly where I’d hide and I check for the first one I left by the cricket green. It’s not there any more. There’s no sign of it, not even any damage, and there’sno sign of the small ones either. Next, we try the crazy golf. I check all the holes. Eric checks all the Dingly Dell gnomes.
There are no actual deckchairs but something’s taken a bite out of one or two of the greens.
‘They’ve been here,’ I say.
‘But they’re not here any more,’ says Eric.
We drop down to the sea wall.
Today the sea is glassy and families have come out to enjoy the end of the afternoon sun. The mayor’s daughters are pedalling back and forth across the bay. Everything looks
Mr Fogg nods in agreement, although he looks slightly less happy than the mayor.
‘He’s not sending them out in this – is he?’ says Eric, indicating the rain that has now moved on to torrential. ‘They’ll drown.’
‘That would be interesting,’ says Jacob.
We watch the two girls clamber into the pedalo and Albert Fogg push them towards the sea. The journalists are frantically snapping away and I’m wondering if we shouldn’t run to the rescue when a wave breaks over the front of the pedalo. The first girl leaps out of the boat and rushes back to the sand, shortly followed by the other.
The mayor argues with them, but they shake their heads in fury and stomp up the beach.
‘Phew,’ says Eric.
‘Pity,’ says Jacob.
The next day is sunny, actually warm, and most people run around outside.
‘Art Club?’ says Mrs Mawes.
‘Um,’ I say.
It turns out that Art Club is exactly what I feared. An hour of free time wrecked by cutting and sticking. Tilly’s there, with Milly and a bunch of friends.
I am the only boy over the age of seven.
‘Now, Tom – winner of the Sculpture on the Beach contest – I’m sure you don’t need any help from me. Here are some materials, let’s see what you can do.’
I stare dumbly at the pots of glue, paint and glitter, and wonder if life can actually get worse.
17
It Takes Twenty-three Coins
When I get home I go up to my bedroom. Some kind of hurricane must have hit it. And then I decide it must be a rabid dog. Or rats. Or a giant squirrel. Chunks of my duvet are missing. My pillow has a hole burrowed right through it. The lampshade is dangling, tattered and torn, and the window, which I closed before I left this morning, has a broken pane of glass.
‘What?’ I say aloud.
At first I think it must be something that’s come in from the outside. An invasion ofgiant hornets – or birds, or radioactive snakes.
Then I remember the deckchairs.
Frantically I search out the pirate tin. I find it under my bed. It’s been torn open from the inside, the metal lid curled back and savaged like a sardine tin. There are no deckchairs inside.
In fact, there are no deckchairs anywhere to be seen. I imagine them marauding and pillaging. Three vicious mousetraps pinching and snapping and tearing. I wonder what kind of damage they’d do.
It would look very much like this.
Eric’s dad opens the door. I rush past and race up the stairs to find Eric playing himself at chess.
‘What?’ he says.
‘The deckchairs,’ I say, and I explain what’s happened.
‘Oh, Tom,’ he says. He refrains from saying ‘You idiot’, but I know that’s what he means.
‘So I’ve no idea where they are,’ I say. ‘We need to find them before they get any bigger.’
‘How big do you suppose they are now?’ he asks.
I hold my hands out, measuring imaginary tiny deckchairs. ‘I guess they must be about a credit-card big.’
‘Really easy to find then,’ he says. ‘In a whole town.’
We start in the model village. I know if I was a miniature deckchair that’s exactly where I’d hide and I check for the first one I left by the cricket green. It’s not there any more. There’s no sign of it, not even any damage, and there’sno sign of the small ones either. Next, we try the crazy golf. I check all the holes. Eric checks all the Dingly Dell gnomes.
There are no actual deckchairs but something’s taken a bite out of one or two of the greens.
‘They’ve been here,’ I say.
‘But they’re not here any more,’ says Eric.
We drop down to the sea wall.
Today the sea is glassy and families have come out to enjoy the end of the afternoon sun. The mayor’s daughters are pedalling back and forth across the bay. Everything looks
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