sat on it.
‘You bought that ?’ said Sam.
Dad nodded. ‘Of course, it needs a little work but you have to use a bit of imagination.’
Sam thought you’d need a whole lot of imagination.
Inside the hut there was a small puddle on the floor where the rain had got in. The floorboards were pebble-dashed with seagull droppings.
Oscar padded around, sniffing in all the corners. The hut had two rooms and in the back one they found a tall cupboard, a rusty cooker and a sink, which all looked like they had been there since Roman times.
Sam wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s a bit stinky,’ he complained.
‘I know, but we can clean it up. With the counter over here, a lick of paint and better lighting it’ll be the best cafe on the seafront,’ argued Dad.
‘The only cafe on the seafront,’ said Sam.
‘Exactly, which is why it can’t possibly fail,’ said Dad. ‘It’s just what this town needs. I don’t know why I’ve never thought of it before.’
‘I thought you wanted to make things – inventions,’ said Sam.
‘I’ll do that too, but this is kind of a reinvention,’ explained Dad. ‘I’m turning a neglected beach hut into a successful cafe.’
‘Right, so what are you going to call it?’ asked Sam.
‘I haven’t really thought. The Old Beach Cafe, I guess,’ replied Dad.
Sam wrinkled his nose. ‘Sounds a bit boring.’
‘Or maybe the Seaview Cafe?’
‘Deathly boring,’ said Sam. ‘What about Oscar’s ?’
Dad snorted. ‘You can’t have a cafe named after a dog!’
Oscar looked offended. In his opinion a lot of things could be named after dogs. Why have Henry Road when you could have Barkley Square or Oscar Avenue?
‘What about the food?’ Sam asked.
‘Ah that’s the really clever part,’ said Dad. ‘We won’t serve all the usual stuff like burgers, chips or ice cream.’
‘We won’t?’ said Sam.
‘No, my idea is beautifully simple,’ said Dad. ‘We’re going to serve TOAST.’
‘Toast?’ repeated Sam.
‘Well obviously not just toast,’ said Dad. ‘Cheese on toast, beans on toast, egg on toast – in fact pretty much anything on toast!’
Sam frowned. ‘But what if people don’t like toast?’ he asked.
‘Everyone likes toast!’ laughed Dad. ‘And the great thing is it’s simple, you can’t go wrong with making toast.’
‘You can if you burn it,’ said Sam.
He suspected that toast was the one thing his dad knew how to cook. Other dishes, like chilli con carne or lemon meringue pie for instance, he hadn’t the faintest clue. Still, the cafe would certainly be different.
‘So it’s really a toast cafe?’ he said.
‘I suppose it is,’ said Dad. ‘In fact that’s brilliant, Sam! The Toast Cafe – that’s what we’ll call it!’
‘Oh my great-grandmothers!’
A familiar voice interrupted them. It was Mr Trusscot, their busybody neighbour and Leader of the Town Council, whose bald head was poking round the door. Oscar gave a low growl. He’d come to regard Trusscot as a mortal enemy ever since he’d tried to turn large parts of town into ‘dog-free zones’.
Trusscot walked in and looked around, shaking his head.
‘I heard a rumour that some idiot had bought this dump,’ he said.
‘As it happens you’re looking at the idiot,’ replied Dad.
‘YOU?’ Trusscot stared. ‘What on earth for?’
‘If you must know, it’s going to be a beach cafe,’ Sam informed him.
Trusscot bent over. He shook, making strange squeaky noises like a rusty gate. Sam realised he was laughing.
‘A cafe? Oh hee hee hee! That’s a good one!’ he chortled.
‘It’s not a joke,’ scowled Dad.
Mr Trusscot took out a hanky and wiped his eyes.
‘Of course not, I mean just look at this place, it’s got everything,’ he said. ‘Broken windows, a leaking roof and bird wotsit on the floor!’
‘Very funny,’ said Dad. ‘You won’t be laughing when this place is a roaring success.’
‘A success? It’ll never happen,’ scoffed Mr Trusscot.
‘I bet you it will,’ replied Dad.
‘Not a chance,’ said Trusscot.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes it is right, actually! ’
Sam rolled his eyes. He’d heard better arguments than this in the school playground. Mr Trusscot produced his wallet and pulled out a note.
‘Twenty pounds says that you’ll never last a week,’ he said.
‘Twenty? Pah! Make it fifty,’ said Dad.
‘If you’re so sure, why not a hundred?’ replied Trusscot.
Sam looked alarmed. This was getting out of hand. Mum would go up the wall if she found out Dad had bet Mr Trusscot a hundred pounds!
‘If you’re going to bet, at least make it interesting,’ he said.
‘How do you mean “interesting”?’ asked Trusscot.
‘Well it’s a cafe, so why don’t you make the bet about food?’ asked Sam.
‘Oh I see, you mean the loser has to eat a plate of snails or something,’ said Trusscot.
‘Or a seaweed sandwich,’ said Dad.
Sam’s eye fell on Oscar. ‘How about a bowl of dog food?’ he suggested.
Mr Trusscot turned pale. He couldn’t stand dogs and just the smell of the gloopy, ghastly food they ate made him feel sick. There was no way he was ever going to eat it. Then again, he wouldn’t have to, because he’d make sure he won.
