of fright and jumped about two feet in the air, landing with a crash on some boxes of Styrofoam cups. The box burst and the squeaky cups scattered on to the floor.
“Shush,” said Darius, coming out of his hiding place, “you’ll attract attention. If we were escaping from a prisoner of war camp, you’d have been shot by now.”
Nat grabbed him by the hair. “It’s not a machine-gun tower you need to worry about,” she said. “It’s being strangled by me.”
They rolled around on the squeaky cups for a while, Nat getting in some good pinches and a fair amount of strangling, until the Dog jumped between them, licking them both into submission. Finally Nat let go and sat there, panting. “Do not creep up on me again,” she said, chucking a pack of dishcloths at his head. “Anyway, how did you escape without being seen?”
“It was easy,” he replied, rubbing his bruises. “I’m pretty good at getting out of small dark places. I’ve had tons of practice.” Not for the first time, Nat suddenly felt sorry for her friend, and went from wanting to murder him to wanting to hug him. She HATED the way he did that to her, so she bashed him with a mop.
Before she could say anything more, Dad popped his head round the door. “You in here, love?” he said. “There are loads of people outside who want to meet the famous cow-tamer.”
The Dog bounded out to him, and then Dad noticed Darius. “Oh, we wondered where you’d got to,” he said cheerfully. “Come on, the canteen’s open. Last chance for pork pies and pickled eggs before Paris.” He looked the boy up and down briefly, making sure he was in one piece, then they all trundled off for something to eat and that was that.
One of the few things Nat ever admitted she liked about her idiot dad was that he wasn’t one of those ‘asking-loads-of-difficult-questions’ dads. He just got on with it. And went to buy a pork pie and a pickled egg.
“They don’t sell these in Europe!” said Dad defensively, as Nat told him off for coming back with his THIRD pork pie slice from the ferry canteen. The Dog was now safely hidden in their van, giving them all a chance to relax and enjoy the ‘delicious and delightful’ canteen food.
There is a rule everyone should know which says that the nicer the words in a menu are, the more horrid the food will be. For example, if you read something which says:
‘Delicious tender fish gently coaxed from the sea and enrobed in mouth-tingling crispy crumb batter, served sizzling on an enticing bed of fluffy petits pois, encircled by gorgeously ruffled hand-carved wedges of majestic potato …’
… it’ll be rank.
“These fish and chips are rank, Dad,” moaned Nat, “and it said on the menu they would be delicious.” There was a huge burp. “Oh, I see you’ve finished,” she said to Darius primly.
“Don’t you want the rest of yours?” said Darius, wiping tomato ketchup from his chin with his sleeve. Nat pushed her plate over to him.
“OK, so here’s the plan,” said Dad. Nat looked at him, puzzled. Dad never planned anything. But now he unfolded a huge map across the table, along with lots of bits of paper. And pens. And bits of string, receipts, bus tickets, packets of sugar, some lego bricks, pocket fluff and paper clips.
Some French kids on the next table started pointing. Nat tried to ignore them.
“We should get back to our cabin and get some sleep now,” said Dad, as Darius scraped tomato sauce off the map with a knife and sucked it clean. “Tomorrow we get into France …”
“Unless we get caught smuggli—ah ha hoo ha nothing,” burbled Nat, who out of the corner of her eye had spotted Suspicious Mick, walking past with a tray of rank fish and chips. Nat grabbed the map and held it over her face.
“I’ve worked out a route to the farmhouse,” Dad continued, putting the map down on to the table and into a splodge of tomato ketchup. Nat looked at the map and saw that he had just taken a red felt tip and drawn a straight line from the ferry terminal all the way to where Posh Barry’s rubbish damp haunted house was.
“The quickest distance between two points is a straight line,” Dad explained. “So we’ll just go on the roads that are nearest the line. It’ll save time.”
“Stupid idea,” said a voice over his shoulder. Nat froze.
It was Suspicious Mick. “Why’s that then?” asked Dad. Mick pulled up a chair and sat down without being asked. Darius slid under the table. Nat watched as a grubby hand came up, grabbed the rest of her freshly battered fish and disappeared under the table again.
Dad did not like people in uniform. He often told Nat that they made him feel like he had something to hide, even when he didn’t. Obviously this time he DID have something to hide. But did that mean that Dad would keep a low profile? Oh no, nothing that sensible. Nat guessed what was coming: an argument. She was right.
“It’s not ridiculous, it’s genius,” argued Dad.
Suspicious Mick snorted. “I can tell you’re not a REAL driver. A REAL driver would take the road from …”
Nat listened to the man drone on endlessly about roads and roundabouts and routes and, not for the first time, wished she could press a ‘fast-forward’ button on bits of her life.
Dad obviously felt the same. He had a very short attention span at the best of times. Finally he’d had enough. He stood up. “Right,” said Dad. “I’ll show you who’s the better driver. Come to the video arcade. If you’re not too scared.” Nat put her head on the table and tried not to cry.
Suspicious Mick realised he was being watched by a bunch of bored French kids so now he could not back down.
When they reached the arcade, trailed by the now not-bored French kids (and with Darius following at a safe distance), they found two big racing car machines, side by side.
“This won’t prove anything,” said Suspicious Mick. “It’s childish.”
That’s my Dad! thought Nat. Took you long enough.
“Bwark bwark bwark,” said Dad, making chicken noises, and doing that thing with his head and elbows. The French kids laughed.
Nat tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “Don’t upset him,” she whispered. “He might get us into trouble.”
But Dad was enjoying himself now. “Come on, Mick, get in,” he said. “Or should I call you MICK NUGGET?”
“McNUGGET!” laughed the French kids. One nudged Nat. “Eet’s funny becawse ’is name is Mick and ’e’s ze chicken,” he explained.
“Yes, I know,” she said crossly. “I get le joke. It’s just a bad one. Like all Dad’s jokes. Stop encouraging him.”
Now the two men were in their cars. They put their money in and the race clock counted down. FIVE … FOUR …
“Last one to finish has to run through the ship with their pants on their head!” shouted Dad.
Nat froze. Dad was a REALLY SLOW driver. And he always got lost. He was bound to lose.
THREE
