racing?” asked Frank excitedly.
“No,” said Dad. He gathered his thoughts. “But I will be driving fast. Very fast.”
“Wow!” The boy’s eyes lit up like headlights on a motor car.
“Yeah! Wow! And I will be earning money. Lots of money. We can get the TV back.”
“The TV is boring. I like listening to all your racing stories.”
“All right, then, mate, we can get the sofa back!”
The boy thought for a moment. It wasn’t comfortable eating dinner sitting on a wooden crate. “I don’t mind the splinters in my bottom!”
“Really?” asked Dad with a chuckle. As the man laughed, he rocked back and forth on the crate. “Ouch! I’ve got another one!”
“Ha! Ha!”
“All right, all right. I know what you really want back.”
“What?”
“Your race-car set.”
The boy fell silent. He did miss that toy very much. “I guess, Dad.”
“I’m really sorry they took that away, mate.”
“Don’t worry, Dad.”
Frank could tell something was up with his father – he just couldn’t tell what. What was this mysterious job?
“So what will you be driving, Dad? Race cars?”
“No, this is driving just as fast but on real roads.”
“Ambulances?”
“No.”
“FIRE ENGINES?”
“No.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Not for the police?”
Dad managed to nod and shake his head at the same time. “That sort of thing, yeah.”
The boy’s brain braked. “Dad, what do you mean ‘that sort of thing’?”
“Well, it’s TOP SECRET.”
“TELL ME!” demanded the boy.
“It wouldn’t be TOP SECRET if I told you!”
“Well, it would be very nearly TOP SECRET.”
“I can’t, mate. Sorry. But I am going to get paid. Big money. Really big money. And we are going to have stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. New trainers, toys, computer games, whatever you want.”
Frank watched with concern as his dad’s eyes widened. It all sounded too good to be true.
“But I don’t need lots of stuff, Dad. All I need is you.”
This burst Dad’s balloon. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t you worry. I’ll be here. I ain’t going anywhere.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah, yeah. I promise, mate.”
“And you aren’t going to get hurt?” asked the boy. The last thing he wanted was for his dad to lose his left leg.
“Promise!” said Dad. He held up three fingers on his right hand. “Scout’s honour! Ha! Ha!”
“You were never a Scout!”
“It don’t matter. Now finish up those baked beans. I need you to go to bed!”
Like all children in the world, Frank knew exactly what time his bedtime was and it wasn’t now. “But it’s not my bedtime yet!” he protested.
“By the time you are ready for bed, it will be.”
That logic, although sound, was deeply annoying. “Not fair! Why do I have to go to bed now?”
“Auntie Flip will be here any minute to look after you.”
“Oh no,” replied Frank.
“Don’t be like that. She’s the only family we’ve got. And, best of all, she is always up for babysitting.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“I know that, mate.”
“And why is it called ‘babysitting’? You mustn’t sit on a baby.”
“Ha! Ha!” Dad laughed. “I dunno!”
“Where are you going anyway?”
“I just have to pop out for a meeting at the boozer.”
“Can I come, Dad?”
“NO!”
“PLEASE?” pleaded the boy.
“No! This is grown-ups’ stuff. Kids aren’t allowed down the boozer anyhow.”
“But I want to come.”
“Sorry, mate, you can’t. Now come on, give us a huggle.”
Tonight the huggle was tighter than usual. Dad always held his son a little tighter when he was feeling worried about something. Frank wasn’t stupid. The boy knew something was up. He just didn’t know what. Yet.
Auntie Flip wasn’t Frank’s aunt. She was Dad’s aunt. “Flip” was short for Philippa, and she prided herself on being from the posh side of the family, even though there wasn’t one. The lady had the smell of old books about her. That was probably because she was a librarian. Auntie Flip wore glasses with glass thicker than in a shark’s tank. Her idea of an evening’s entertainment was to bring a stack of her own unpublished poetry books over, and read them out loud to the boy.
Auntie Flip had written many volumes of poetry:
Frank hated poetry. Flip would read him her poems about clouds and gooseberries and rainy days and birdsong and talcum powder. For Frank, listening to them was torture.
