tie them down. I’ve never seen them go quiet like those ones you saw on the beach just now – it’s as if they’re alive.’
‘Shouldn’t be using them,’ says Eric. ‘I mean, someone’s going to get hurt sooner or later.’
‘I agree,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘I tried to say that to the mayor – I said, “Someone’s going to get hurt sooner or later” – and he said we had to keep it quiet.’
‘I get that it would be bad for trade,’ I say.
‘It’s not just that,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘It’s the Best Beach contest.’
‘I can see it would be nice to win it …’
‘No – you don’t understand. He’s desperate to win it. He’s attracted all these big businesses. Did you know that there’s a big burger chain from America sniffing around Marigold Tours? Or that the Royal Hotel could soon be known as the Royal Gogleplex Hotel? It’s already been sold. Also, he’s selling off the beach and the rights to sell deckchairs. He’s got a Chinese sofa company in mind – apparently peoplewant something more comfortable these days – AND, in order for those deals to go through, we need to win the Best Beach contest.’
‘Oh!’ says Eric.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Why are you keeping it a secret? If he’s selling it off, what would you be doing? Won’t it be the end of your job?’
‘Ah – thing is, they’d let me stop at last. Been trying to retire for the last few years. I’ve got me a little web-design company in Regis Bottom that I’d love to have more time with. But they keep on asking me back. Been Foggs doing the deckchairs since 1875, you know. Foggis Fogg was the very first, then it was his son, Foggit Fogg …’
‘But wouldn’t you be sad at seeing the deckchairs go after so many generations?’ asks Eric.
Mr Fogg stares into space. ‘Honestly – not much. I’m pretty fed up with it.’
Eric looks a little weepy-eyed.
‘Well,’ says Mr Fogg, relenting, ‘I’d miss it, of course I would, for about five minutes, but, imagine, I’ve almost never felt grass beneath my feet on a sunny day, always blasted sand between my toes. Plays merry hell with my corns.’
‘You must have had some pretty terrific summers on the beach?’ I say.
‘Seventy-six was good – and then we had a lovely time in eighty-two.’ He sips his tea. ‘Yes. I don’t want to do it, but I suppose it’s a tradition for the town.’
Jacob sits back down with a mug of steaming-hot chocolate. It smells divine. I think of Grandma’s promised tripe à la mode de Caen, and feel even hungrier.
‘And what about you?’ I ask Mr Fogg. ‘Do you want to win the Best Beach competition? Does it mean anything to you?’
Mr Fogg examines the back of his hand. ‘It would be the pinnacle of my career,’ he says carefully. ‘Yes – I would like to win it.’
‘So, if I’ve got this right – if the deckchairs behave themselves, we’ll win the Best Beach contest and end up with them replaced by sofas from some multinational company from Shanghai, and if they don’t …?’ I trail off.
Mr Fogg raises his eyebrow. ‘Who knows?
‘So,’ says Eric. ‘Can we have a look in the storage cave?’
21
Is That a Bad Thing?
Mr Fogg has a fantastic set of torches. Most of them must be left over from the Victorians. ‘Ready?’ he says, and he unlocks the padlock.
We stand in the doorway waiting to be attacked, our eyes acclimatising to the gloom.
‘What are we looking for?’ asks Jacob, stepping through the door.
‘Signs of life – anything odd really,’ says Eric.
‘Do you mind if I stay here?’ says Mr Fogg,loitering in the entrance with a broom. ‘Just in case any of the beggars make a run for it.’ He looks scared.
I put my tin down by the entrance. The four deckchairs inside have gone quite quiet. Perhaps they’re asleep. I’m conscious that I need to get rid of them soon, before they grow any more. I can’t handle four full-sized mad creatures in my bedroom.
I shine my torch
‘Shouldn’t be using them,’ says Eric. ‘I mean, someone’s going to get hurt sooner or later.’
‘I agree,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘I tried to say that to the mayor – I said, “Someone’s going to get hurt sooner or later” – and he said we had to keep it quiet.’
‘I get that it would be bad for trade,’ I say.
‘It’s not just that,’ says Mr Fogg. ‘It’s the Best Beach contest.’
‘I can see it would be nice to win it …’
‘No – you don’t understand. He’s desperate to win it. He’s attracted all these big businesses. Did you know that there’s a big burger chain from America sniffing around Marigold Tours? Or that the Royal Hotel could soon be known as the Royal Gogleplex Hotel? It’s already been sold. Also, he’s selling off the beach and the rights to sell deckchairs. He’s got a Chinese sofa company in mind – apparently peoplewant something more comfortable these days – AND, in order for those deals to go through, we need to win the Best Beach contest.’
‘Oh!’ says Eric.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘Why are you keeping it a secret? If he’s selling it off, what would you be doing? Won’t it be the end of your job?’
‘Ah – thing is, they’d let me stop at last. Been trying to retire for the last few years. I’ve got me a little web-design company in Regis Bottom that I’d love to have more time with. But they keep on asking me back. Been Foggs doing the deckchairs since 1875, you know. Foggis Fogg was the very first, then it was his son, Foggit Fogg …’
‘But wouldn’t you be sad at seeing the deckchairs go after so many generations?’ asks Eric.
Mr Fogg stares into space. ‘Honestly – not much. I’m pretty fed up with it.’
Eric looks a little weepy-eyed.
‘Well,’ says Mr Fogg, relenting, ‘I’d miss it, of course I would, for about five minutes, but, imagine, I’ve almost never felt grass beneath my feet on a sunny day, always blasted sand between my toes. Plays merry hell with my corns.’
‘You must have had some pretty terrific summers on the beach?’ I say.
‘Seventy-six was good – and then we had a lovely time in eighty-two.’ He sips his tea. ‘Yes. I don’t want to do it, but I suppose it’s a tradition for the town.’
Jacob sits back down with a mug of steaming-hot chocolate. It smells divine. I think of Grandma’s promised tripe à la mode de Caen, and feel even hungrier.
‘And what about you?’ I ask Mr Fogg. ‘Do you want to win the Best Beach competition? Does it mean anything to you?’
Mr Fogg examines the back of his hand. ‘It would be the pinnacle of my career,’ he says carefully. ‘Yes – I would like to win it.’
‘So, if I’ve got this right – if the deckchairs behave themselves, we’ll win the Best Beach contest and end up with them replaced by sofas from some multinational company from Shanghai, and if they don’t …?’ I trail off.
Mr Fogg raises his eyebrow. ‘Who knows?
‘So,’ says Eric. ‘Can we have a look in the storage cave?’
21
Is That a Bad Thing?
Mr Fogg has a fantastic set of torches. Most of them must be left over from the Victorians. ‘Ready?’ he says, and he unlocks the padlock.
We stand in the doorway waiting to be attacked, our eyes acclimatising to the gloom.
‘What are we looking for?’ asks Jacob, stepping through the door.
‘Signs of life – anything odd really,’ says Eric.
‘Do you mind if I stay here?’ says Mr Fogg,loitering in the entrance with a broom. ‘Just in case any of the beggars make a run for it.’ He looks scared.
I put my tin down by the entrance. The four deckchairs inside have gone quite quiet. Perhaps they’re asleep. I’m conscious that I need to get rid of them soon, before they grow any more. I can’t handle four full-sized mad creatures in my bedroom.
I shine my torch
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