10.17am Samedi
‘Are they shooting a film here?’ Mr Stein wanted to know.
‘I don’t think so,’ said his wife. She stared around the car park. ‘I can’t see any cameras.’
At that moment, Mick Shah’s camera vaporised, film and all, inside the ball of orange flame that had once been the baby-blue van.
‘Because if they are,’ continued Mr Stein, stepping over a hose pipe and skirting a police car, ‘I think the whole thing’s in very bad taste. It’s nothing but video nasties, explosions and car chases nowadays. Thank goodness our kids aren’t into that sort of thing.’
‘I hope they’re here.’ Mrs Stein bit her lip.
‘Of course they are,’ said Mr Stein. ‘They’ve got their heads screwed on Gertie and Joe. Even,’ and here he dropped his voice, ‘even if poor Franklin hasn’t.’
Mrs Stein took his arm and patted it and together they walked towards the glass doors of the Conference building. ‘Peekaboo barmy sleeping beauties,’ a familiar voice hailed them.
Mrs Stein started to run. ‘There they are,’ she cried. ‘And all in one piece, thank God!’ She swept them up and hugged them. Then they were all talking at once.
The conversation went something like this:
Mrs Stein : Thank God you’re safe! Oh Lambkin what are you wearing?
Franklin: Pilfered goods.
Joe: That’s not true! The jacket’s paid for.
Mrs Stein: Gertie, love, where’s your coat?
Joe (sheepishly handing over the green wallet) : Mum, Dad… Actually, we seem to have spent most of your money. It all got rather expensive, what with the tickets and the croissants and everything.
Mr Stein: This wallet’s empty!
Mrs Stein (again): Gertie, love, where’s your coat?
Gertie (glancing guiltily towards the burnt-out van): Ah, well…
Franklin: I’m sure the nice lady doesn’t want to know.
Mrs Stein (insistently): But I do want to know. I want to hear all about it. It’s amazing! You put Franklin together again. How did you do it? There was a brief silence, during which Joe counted four fire engines and three police cars scattered across the car park.
Was his mother ready for the truth, he wondered. She might forgive the odd childish prank, the occasional reckless escapade, but as she frequently remarked, she did have her limits.
Right now, Joe reckoned that an exploding van and seven emergency vehicles would stretch those limits to breaking point.
‘Well, it’s a long story…’ he began, but got no further because his father butted in.
‘Listen to this.’ Mr Stein had just been talking to a passer-by and now he turned back to his family. ‘Are none of you in the least bit curious about what’s happening here with the fireworks and fire engines?’
He put his arms round Joe and Gertie. Poor kids, they were a bundle of nerves. ‘It’s nothing to get upset about,’ he reassured them. ‘It wasn’t a bomb or anything. It was some guy who thought he could pass off his pig as a singer just because it could do the oink oink bit in “Old MacDonald”. Apparently he was a bit of a heavy smoker – dropped a cigarette end and his van went up like a torch.’
Mrs Stein made the regulation tisking sound that parents reserve for this type of story. ‘What a dork,’ she said.
‘A gibbering dork,’ agreed Franklin and brought the conversation abruptly to a close by collapsing on the ground.
‘Will someone please give me a hand?’ he wailed.
So they all went to liberate his other hand from the car boot.
4.00pm Samedi
For the first time in forty-eight hours Gertie and Joe breathed freely: Franklin wasn’t going to have to stand on a stage in front of a load of language-learning boffins.
‘No way,’ said Mr Stein. ‘My wallet’s empty, my car’s virtually a write off and I spent the best part of last night in a police cell. I’m in no state to introduce the world to its first talking dummy.
‘Anyway, it was a stupid idea, as I think you’ve already pointed out.’
Nevertheless, it was agreed that they might as well go inside the conference building and look around, since they were there. Mr and Mrs Stein even attended one of the afternoon workshops, during which Mr Stein raised a very interesting point about meaning being the key that unlocks language.
As for Joe, Gertie and Franklin, they spent the rest of the day wandering round the main concourse, looking at the exhibitions. The animal videos were fascinating. There was one in particular that they kept coming back to.
‘Just look at that chimp,’ whispered Joe. ‘She’s not using her voice,’ said Gertie, ‘She’s using signs, but she can talk. She can really talk.’
Franklin scanned the overhead screen eagerly. He watched the chimp sitting on her trainer’s knee, he noted her expressive hand movements…. So that was talking. It was nothing to do with moving your gob.
Franklin had the feeling you get when you turn up to a fancy dress party in a Tarzan suit and everyone else is wearing jeans. No wonder Joe and Gertie thought he was a gibbering idiot dork.
‘Today we shall roll up our sleeves,’ he remembered. ‘Today we shall search for meaning…’ He rolled up his sleeves of his dinner jacket and gazed at his hands.
After a while he nudged Gertie. ‘See sugar plum.’ He made a fist, he wiggled his pinkie; he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Not exactly like the marvellous chimp but, well he was only a beginner.
‘Franklin can talk,’ he said. ‘I know,’ and here he placed his finger meaningfully to his forehead, ‘what the words mean.’
Joe and Gertie gaped at him. They stared at one another. ‘He does… he knows what the words mean,’ they cried and flung themselves on him. ‘Of course you do! Clever, clever sausage!’
With his chin resting on top of the sugar plums’ heads, Franklin beamed at the wonderful video chimp. He winked a perfect one-eyed wink just like Joe had taught him. ‘I said I spoke a little English,’ he confided. ‘I never said I’d eaten a dictionary.’
