SUNK (9 page)

Bleary-eyed and immediately itchy, I stumble through breakfast with Mum and Dad and then stagger on down to the beach.

I expect to meet Grandma on the way but there’s no sign of her.

The deckchairs are looking perfect. Well, almost perfect. There’s a faint aroma of charcoal and one or two darkened struts, but they’re pretty good all the same.

Mr Fogg is sitting under his parasol sipping tea, and a lone family has set up camp and is
building the first sandcastle of the day.

It is the picture of happy beachness. Except that there’s hardly anyone there.

‘Mornin’, Tom,’ says Mr Fogg.

‘Morning, Mr Fogg – are the inspectors here yet?’

Mr Fogg looks at his watch. ‘Due any minute now.’ And right on cue three people dressed in a most unbeachy way arrive at the top of the steps. A pointy woman with pointy glasses and pointy shoes, flanked by two men in grey suits: one carrying a camera, the other a picnic hamper.

I sit with Mr Fogg under the umbrella and watch.

Another family drifts onto the beach. I recognise them; they’re local.

‘It’ll be in the papers today,’ Mr Fogg mutters. ‘No one’ll come. You’ll see.’

For an agonising half hour, sun beats down on the sand and the inspectors sit in deckchairs surrounded by acres of space.

‘Perhaps it’s really good that it’s empty,’ I say.

Mr Fogg shakes his head. ‘Don’t think so.’

We watch the inspectors take samples of sand and water, examine the beach toilets, and then home in on the two families.

They’re just approaching the second family when Eric arrives and joins us under the brolly. ‘Not many people,’ he says.

‘No,’ I say, watching the embarrassing exchange between the inspectors and the people on the beach.

‘Never gonna win it – end of my career here and we’ll never win the prize.’ Mr Fogg lets out a long sad sigh.

And then something wonderful happens.

As if someone’s turned on a tap, family after family stream down the steps. Soon most of the available sand is replaced by towels and buckets and spades, and within minutes, the sea teems with splashing toddlers and children on inflatables.

‘Can we hire a pedalo?’ Petra Boyle rushes up to me holding out a five-pound note.

‘Er – yes,’ I say, pulling one from against the wall and heaving it down to the sea.

Eric hires out another one, and soon we’ve run out.

As the last beach volleyball set goes, Jacob arrives, ice cream in hand. ‘Wotcha – how’s it going?’

‘See for yourself,’ I say, scratching my head. ‘Have a good night’s sleep?’

‘Yes and no – your gran had me busy from six this morning.’ Jacob pulls a smug face.
He knows something I don’t and he knows it’s annoying.

‘What did she have you busy doing, may I ask?’ says Eric, asking the question I want to ask, but don’t want Jacob to know that I want to ask – if you see what I mean.

‘Leafleting,’ he says. ‘An ordinary job for someone with such superior powers as myself, but, as she said – vital to the well-being of the town.’ The smugness is almost suffocating.

‘Oh?’ says Eric. ‘What were the leaflets for?’

‘Here’s one,’ says Jacob, pulling a scrumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

F
REE ENTRY TO THE MODEL VILLAGE AND A FREE ROUND OF CRAZY GOLF FOR EVERYONE WHO GETS THIS STAMPED ON THE BEACH ON
S
ATURDAY –
A
MALTHEA
P
ERKS.

‘Flip!’ I say.

‘Wow,’ says Eric. ‘Wow and wow to the wow squared.’

‘Good old Grandma,’ I say, and feel about 100% good. And then I remember Dad and Mum and Tilly and feel about 78% good.

‘And good old me,’ says Jacob.

‘Of course,’ says Eric. ‘Good old Jacob.’

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.’

We convince Cheerful Charlie to entertain the judges with a slap-up lunch in the café.

‘Just for an hour or two – please? For Mr Fogg?’

‘I can’t make it last that long – I do fast food.’

‘Try doing slow food,’ says Eric. ‘It’s healthier.’

‘Right,’ I say outside the café, ‘we’ve got to run an election in two hours.’

Jacob blows a bubblegum bubble that pops all over his face. ‘Easy-peasy, not,’ he says.

‘It was going to happen anyway,’ I say. ‘On Tuesday. We’ve just got to get the polling booths open and the people into them.’

‘Do you think Mr Fogg has a megaphone?’ asks Eric.

‘You ask, and I’ll run and get Mum,’ I say.

‘What shall I do?’ asks Jacob, picking bubblegum from his eyebrow.

I look at him. ‘I don’t know. Whatever you feel you could do most helpfully.’

Jacob stares at me. Slow tumbleweed thoughts roll across behind his eyes.

‘I’ll go and buy some sweets,’ he says.

‘This is all very exciting,’ says Mum.

‘Yes,’ says Eric’s dad, who is wearing his best Hawaiian shirt and mismatched lime-green trousers. ‘It is.’ He doesn’t actually look as if it’s very exciting. He looks as if he’d rather be
digging a deep hole somewhere.

‘And,’ says Mum, ‘you’re bound to win, Colin.’

‘Am I?’ He looks round in astonishment.

‘Well, yes,’ says Mum. ‘I was running against you, and now I’m your vice mayor, and the old mayor has gone. So you’re the only candidate.’

‘We still have to get enough votes to make it legal though,’ I say, repeating something Eric said, which makes me sound wiser than I feel.

‘I’ll get on the phone to the town clerk,’ says Mum. ‘Come on, Colin, let’s get down to the town hall and get it going. Tom, you and your friends get the voters out.’

I run faster than I can down towards the beach, where Eric’s voice is booming from the sand and echoing along the seafront.

‘
Ladies, gentlemen and offspring
,’ he announces through Mr Fogg’s megaphone.
‘
Bywater-by-Sea may possibly have won the Best Beach award – BUT we cannot claim it without an incumbent mayor so we need your votes – go to the town hall, please, now! Was that all right, Tom?
’

He startles the seagulls into flight and makes toddlers cry.

‘Yes, fine,’ I say, watching the first people leaving their families on the beach to trail up to the town hall. ‘Let’s try it in the harbour too.’

Dogs bark at us, and a small boy tries to stick an orange in the front of the megaphone as we announce the election in the harbour.

‘
Could you go and vote please today, if it’s not too much trouble, so that we can win the Best Beach contest? That would be really helpful
.’

In the centre of town, it’s easier to tell each shopkeeper in turn, although this time I have a go on the megaphone – ‘
Please, everybody
,
could you go and cast your vote so that we’ve got a mayor so that we can win the Best Beach contest and make Mr Fogg really happy – did I say please?
’ – and shock someone into dropping a tray of coffees.

Lastly we run up to the castle and shout it from the castle battlements but the battery’s giving out so it comes out a little mangled:

‘
Vote now … town hall … immediately … mayor … please … beach … thanks
.’

The ladies in the tea shop agree to go and vote in a rota and so within an hour we’ve covered the whole town.

‘I think we’d better go to the town hall now,’ says Eric, jamming the megaphone in the back of his shorts and breaking into a lolloping jog.

We race down from the castle and cross back into the harbour, peering in at the door of the Trusty Tramper.

‘Oh and I must tell you about the year a hot-air balloon got stuck in the castle – oh how we laughed.’ Cheerful Charlie flashes me a desperate smile and points at the three judges, who are yawning and looking at their watches. ‘Won’t take a moment,’ she says.

We charge away from the café and up the hill to the town hall. Eric heaves and puffs behind me as we crash in through the doors.

‘Sssshhhh!’ says Mum. ‘They’re counting. It’s very exciting.’

‘Yes, shhh, Tom,’ says Jacob, appearing by my side.

‘But you know the result,’ I say. ‘Eric’s dad is the only candidate.’

‘Yes, but there’s still the thrill of the chase,’ she whispers.

‘And the result of the count is: Colin Threepwood, 882 votes.’ The town clerk beams
at Eric’s dad, who smiles and looks desperately towards Mum.

‘Was that wise?’ asks Jacob. ‘Shouldn’t we have elected someone else – someone not bonkers, someone with more … charisma – like me?’

‘You have to be over eighteen,’ says Eric. ‘And Dad isn’t bonkers – he’s just different.’

‘You’ve got to come with us,’ I say, grabbing Eric’s dad from Mum and a scary-looking woman with a huge brass necklace that she’s trying to put over his head.

‘What? Where are we going?’ he asks, reaching for Eric’s hand.

‘Your first official duty,’ says Eric. ‘Winning the Best Beach contest for Albert Fogg. C’mon, Dad.’

We’ve managed to make Eric’s dad look almost normal, arranging him casually against a bollard on the seafront, his Hawaiian shirt blending with the brightly coloured beachgoers, his socks and sandals quickly replaced by bare sandy feet. He doesn’t exactly look like someone from Miami, but he looks less like someone from planet Zog than he did ten minutes ago.

‘Ah – Mayor Threepwood,’ says the pointy woman, wiping a moustache of coffee foam
from her top lip. ‘How excellent – now we’d like to make a presentation to you and Mr Frog if possible.’

‘Fogg,’ says Eric.

‘Fog?’ says the woman.

‘Mr Fogg,’ says Eric. ‘He’s called Mr Fogg.’

‘Oh,’ says the woman. ‘What a coincidence – so there’s Mr Frog and Mr Fog, how funny – ha, ha, ha.’ She laughs hard and high. I do hope she doesn’t have any children. No one needs a parent with a laugh like that.

‘Er – thank you,’ says Eric’s dad, holding tight to the bollard. ‘I’m sure Albert deserves it.’

The woman looks confused. ‘Albert?’

‘Mr Frog,’ I say quickly.

Jacob brings Mr Fogg up the steps and they stand solidly, waiting.

‘So – we’d like to present you, Mr Fog and
Mr Frog, with this, the Best Beach award golden bucket and spade – hurrah! Ha, ha, ha.’ She holds the bucket out towards Eric’s dad.

Mr Fogg grabs it and gazes at it. It looks suspiciously like a plastic bucket and spade sprayed with gold spray paint but from the look on Mr Fogg’s face he’s seeing real twenty-four-carat gold. ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Ah. That’s lovely that is. Ah …’

‘Good,’ says Eric’s dad, curling his toes into the sand. ‘Good.’

‘Is that it?’ says Jacob. ‘Is that what all the fuss has been about?’

The following morning, we sit on the sea wall, our legs dangling over the front. It’s a beautiful late spring day, with sunlight dipping on and off the water, seagulls wheeling over
our heads and a gentle breeze playing over our toes.

It would all be perfect except Mum and Dad are with us, beaming and sharing out slightly stale chocolate that I recognise from Grandma’s larder.

‘It seems,’ says Mum, handing me a square of whitish chocolate, ‘that the hotel deal broke down. Something to do with mice.’

I go bright red. ‘Oh!’ I say.

‘Goodness,’ says Eric, turning redder than I’ve ever seen him. ‘Mice, did you say? We wouldn’t know anything about that – would we, Tom?’

I kick Eric. Sometimes you have to kick nice people just to stop them digging holes for themselves.

Mum doesn’t appear to notice. ‘And without the mayor to hold the negotiations together,
Gogleplex walked away from the table, and so did the burger chain and the sofa people. They’ve all gone as fast as they arrived.’

‘Were they all sitting at one table?’ asks Jacob.

‘It’s a figure of speech,’ says Mum, just as Eric opens his mouth to say the same thing.

‘So,’ I say, ‘no multi-million-pound company is going to come to Bywater-by-Sea? Not even the sofas?’

‘Seems not,’ says Mum. ‘I mean, in one way it’s marvellous of course, but in another it’s a bit of a tragedy. Without the money they would have brought – the town’s in a pretty poor way.’

‘Mr Fogg did say something about that – but how come?’ asks Eric.

‘The mayor. He’s been squandering the town’s money right, left and centre – big
lunches, 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 out
the 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.’