Eric.
‘The mayor. He’s been squandering the town’s money right, left and centre – biglunches, consultants, five-year plans, all that sort of thing. It’s awful. It really is just as well that we won the Best Beach contest – at least it’ll bring in the holidaymakers.’
‘And at least Mr Fogg is happy,’ I say. ‘He won the competition; he’s got the bucket and spade.’
‘But that’s exactly the point. He’s retired – as of tomorrow – off to run a web-design business, so the only thing that makes any money is likely to stop until we can find some poor mug prepared to lug all those chairs in and out every day.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Dad.
We turn to look at him.
‘I’m wondering if I’m cut out for school work – I mean, look at this.’ He waves airily over the beach and the sea. ‘I mean, who’d not want to be here all the time – renting outthe chairs, fixing the pedalos – a simple life, but a happy one.’
‘Are you saying you’d like to take on Albert Fogg’s job?’ says Mum.
After a long pause, Dad says, ‘Yes.’
30
Baby Otter Loses his Hair
Which leaves Tilly.
And twelve tiny, but slowly growing, vicious deckchairs.
And one parasol.
Oh and a hole in the rock.
The rock is comparatively simple. Grandma comes with us to have a look.
‘Ooh my,’ she says. ‘It must go all the way to the castle. So you think it’s the meteorite dust mixed with the water?’ she asks Eric.
He nods. ‘Yes, and it’s a steady flow, there must be water trickling through somewhere. If we drain it into the sea then it would dissolve harmlessly.’
Jacob stares at the crack. ‘Couldn’t I just melt the rock until it seals up?’
We all stare at him.
‘That’s almost a genius suggestion,’ says Eric. ‘Except the water needs to come out somewhere.’
‘We could drill another hole,’ says Jacob, ‘somewhere else in the rock, just not in the cave.’
‘O – K,’ I say. ‘How? Where?’
Jacob doesn’t answer, just swaggers down the beach and stops under the pier where the sea comes in closer to the shore.
He turns to Eric. ‘Ready, tap-fingered Snot Face?’
‘S’pect so.’ Eric looks bewildered.
Jacob fires a fireball at the rock, smashingit and heating it up until it smokes.
Eric sprays it. For a second the rock steams and then, shocked by the extreme temperatures, crumbles.
Again, Jacob fires sheets of flame.
Again, Eric shoots water.
This time, a tiny crack becomes a fissure, and quickly the fissure becomes a canyon, and before very long water begins to dribble from the hole, seeping into the sand and down to the sea.
‘Wow, Jacob,’ says Eric. ‘Thermal shock – excellent.’
‘Wow indeed,’ says Grandma.
So that’s one problem solved.
Then there are the remaining deckchairs.
‘You can’t leave them running about, Tom, you do know that, don’t you?’ says Grandma. ‘You boys will have to round them up.’
We find them roosting in the bird reserve. A line of little chairs and a single parasol snapping and chattering alongside the limpets.
‘Now what?’ says Jacob.
‘We can try to steam-clean them again,’ I say.
‘Or just burn them,’ says Jacob, sparks leaping from his fingers.
But perhaps they hear us, or perhaps they’re really turning into seabirds, because the moment we approach all twelve dive from their perch into the sea and swim off, leaving the parasol, which twirls once, puts itself up and floats onto the water before drifting seawards, squeaking and rustling in search of its friends.
‘What will happen to them?’ I ask, scratching my head.
‘Ultimately they’ll become waterlogged,’ says Eric.
‘And then sink?’ asks Jacob.
‘Or set up a colony somewhere,’ says Eric.
I gaze at the beach furniture until I can’t be sure if they’re what I’m seeing or simply part of the horizon.
‘Suppose they wash up in France and attack people there?’ I say.
‘Not our problem,’ says
‘The mayor. He’s been squandering the town’s money right, left and centre – biglunches, consultants, five-year plans, all that sort of thing. It’s awful. It really is just as well that we won the Best Beach contest – at least it’ll bring in the holidaymakers.’
‘And at least Mr Fogg is happy,’ I say. ‘He won the competition; he’s got the bucket and spade.’
‘But that’s exactly the point. He’s retired – as of tomorrow – off to run a web-design business, so the only thing that makes any money is likely to stop until we can find some poor mug prepared to lug all those chairs in and out every day.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ says Dad.
We turn to look at him.
‘I’m wondering if I’m cut out for school work – I mean, look at this.’ He waves airily over the beach and the sea. ‘I mean, who’d not want to be here all the time – renting outthe chairs, fixing the pedalos – a simple life, but a happy one.’
‘Are you saying you’d like to take on Albert Fogg’s job?’ says Mum.
After a long pause, Dad says, ‘Yes.’
30
Baby Otter Loses his Hair
Which leaves Tilly.
And twelve tiny, but slowly growing, vicious deckchairs.
And one parasol.
Oh and a hole in the rock.
The rock is comparatively simple. Grandma comes with us to have a look.
‘Ooh my,’ she says. ‘It must go all the way to the castle. So you think it’s the meteorite dust mixed with the water?’ she asks Eric.
He nods. ‘Yes, and it’s a steady flow, there must be water trickling through somewhere. If we drain it into the sea then it would dissolve harmlessly.’
Jacob stares at the crack. ‘Couldn’t I just melt the rock until it seals up?’
We all stare at him.
‘That’s almost a genius suggestion,’ says Eric. ‘Except the water needs to come out somewhere.’
‘We could drill another hole,’ says Jacob, ‘somewhere else in the rock, just not in the cave.’
‘O – K,’ I say. ‘How? Where?’
Jacob doesn’t answer, just swaggers down the beach and stops under the pier where the sea comes in closer to the shore.
He turns to Eric. ‘Ready, tap-fingered Snot Face?’
‘S’pect so.’ Eric looks bewildered.
Jacob fires a fireball at the rock, smashingit and heating it up until it smokes.
Eric sprays it. For a second the rock steams and then, shocked by the extreme temperatures, crumbles.
Again, Jacob fires sheets of flame.
Again, Eric shoots water.
This time, a tiny crack becomes a fissure, and quickly the fissure becomes a canyon, and before very long water begins to dribble from the hole, seeping into the sand and down to the sea.
‘Wow, Jacob,’ says Eric. ‘Thermal shock – excellent.’
‘Wow indeed,’ says Grandma.
So that’s one problem solved.
Then there are the remaining deckchairs.
‘You can’t leave them running about, Tom, you do know that, don’t you?’ says Grandma. ‘You boys will have to round them up.’
We find them roosting in the bird reserve. A line of little chairs and a single parasol snapping and chattering alongside the limpets.
‘Now what?’ says Jacob.
‘We can try to steam-clean them again,’ I say.
‘Or just burn them,’ says Jacob, sparks leaping from his fingers.
But perhaps they hear us, or perhaps they’re really turning into seabirds, because the moment we approach all twelve dive from their perch into the sea and swim off, leaving the parasol, which twirls once, puts itself up and floats onto the water before drifting seawards, squeaking and rustling in search of its friends.
‘What will happen to them?’ I ask, scratching my head.
‘Ultimately they’ll become waterlogged,’ says Eric.
‘And then sink?’ asks Jacob.
‘Or set up a colony somewhere,’ says Eric.
I gaze at the beach furniture until I can’t be sure if they’re what I’m seeing or simply part of the horizon.
‘Suppose they wash up in France and attack people there?’ I say.
‘Not our problem,’ says
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