downstairs, checked that Dad’s study door was closed, went into the front room and put the television on quietly. Then he sat and
channel-hopped until he found what he was looking for – Fireman Sam , baby television, the kind of stuff he always liked to watch when he was ill.
There was a tap on the front room window which made Gil leap off the sofa as if something had bitten him. It was Mum, peering through the glass, smiling and waving. He went to the front door and
let her in.
‘I locked myself out,’ she said. ‘Silly of me, wasn’t it? Have you eaten?’
Dad was there instantly. Gil didn’t even hear the study door open. It was as if Dad had beamed himself down out of the Starship Enterprise.
‘I was getting worried,’ he said to Mum. ‘I’ve just tried to phone you.’
Mum smiled, but she looked cold and tired. ‘I left my phone here somewhere. And my keys. Sorry.’
The Fireman Sam theme tune drifted out of the front room, and Mum looked at Dad. ‘Did you say Gil could . . .?’
‘Forget it,’ said Dad. ‘The television doesn’t matter, in the scale of things. Let me make you some lunch.’
They both went into the kitchen, and Gil went back to Fireman Sam . He watched him rescue Bella’s cat Rosa from the top of a tree while he weighed up the choice he needed to
make.
Dad or Jude?
It was simple, really, Gil realised – as simple as Fireman Sam plucking the cat out of the tree. He didn’t need to know whether animal experiments were right or wrong. He
didn’t need to know anything about them at all. The only thing that mattered was that Jude had pushed Dad to the limit. They’d gone head to head, and it had taken Jude less than five
minutes to defeat him completely.
It was suddenly clear to Gil that he had found the thing he was looking for, the secret power that could make your enemy crumble into a pile of dust. Animal rights – this was the issue
that made Dad froth and fall apart like a piece of chalk dropped in acid. If Gil joined Jude’s campaign against the labs it would drive Dad crazy. It was even better than taking up smoking,
because it wasn’t illegal for a thirteen-year-old and it wasn’t likely to kill him.
Gil’s first step came at lunch on Sunday. Dad had roasted the venison he’d bought from the market. It smelt good, but Gil had already decided what he was going to do. He watched Dad
carve slices of meat and pile them up on the dish, while steam rose from the bowls of roast potatoes and parsnips and peas and broccoli and carrots. Gil waited until Dad was about to put the meat
on his plate before he made his announcement.
‘Actually, you know what?’ he said. ‘I really don’t want any meat.’
‘What?’
Dad stopped with the meat in mid-air.
‘I’ve been thinking about becoming a vegetarian,’ Gil went on. ‘I might as well start now.’
‘Gil, are you sure?’ said Mum anxiously. ‘You’re growing like mad at the moment. It might not be good for you.’
Dad didn’t move.
‘Is this a result of all that animal rights nonsense yesterday?’ he said at last.
‘No, of course not,’ Gil said, innocently. ‘Actually it’s a result of what you said, Dad.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When we were at the market you said you shouldn’t eat any animal unless you were prepared to kill it yourself. Well, I agree with you. I wouldn’t be prepared to kill the deer
this venison came from. So I’d better not eat it, had I?’
‘It’s organic,’ said Mum. ‘And RSPCA-monitored.’
‘You mean it was happy before it was murdered? No thanks. I’ll just have the veg.’
Gil went to help himself to roast potatoes, but Dad moved the dish before he could get to it.
‘Sorry, Gil,’ he said. ‘You’d better not have those. They’ve been cooked in the meat juice, I’m afraid. And that means you can’t have the parsnips,
either. Or the gravy.’
As Dad whisked away the potatoes, a gorgeous meaty smell wafted up Gil’s
channel-hopped until he found what he was looking for – Fireman Sam , baby television, the kind of stuff he always liked to watch when he was ill.
There was a tap on the front room window which made Gil leap off the sofa as if something had bitten him. It was Mum, peering through the glass, smiling and waving. He went to the front door and
let her in.
‘I locked myself out,’ she said. ‘Silly of me, wasn’t it? Have you eaten?’
Dad was there instantly. Gil didn’t even hear the study door open. It was as if Dad had beamed himself down out of the Starship Enterprise.
‘I was getting worried,’ he said to Mum. ‘I’ve just tried to phone you.’
Mum smiled, but she looked cold and tired. ‘I left my phone here somewhere. And my keys. Sorry.’
The Fireman Sam theme tune drifted out of the front room, and Mum looked at Dad. ‘Did you say Gil could . . .?’
‘Forget it,’ said Dad. ‘The television doesn’t matter, in the scale of things. Let me make you some lunch.’
They both went into the kitchen, and Gil went back to Fireman Sam . He watched him rescue Bella’s cat Rosa from the top of a tree while he weighed up the choice he needed to
make.
Dad or Jude?
It was simple, really, Gil realised – as simple as Fireman Sam plucking the cat out of the tree. He didn’t need to know whether animal experiments were right or wrong. He
didn’t need to know anything about them at all. The only thing that mattered was that Jude had pushed Dad to the limit. They’d gone head to head, and it had taken Jude less than five
minutes to defeat him completely.
It was suddenly clear to Gil that he had found the thing he was looking for, the secret power that could make your enemy crumble into a pile of dust. Animal rights – this was the issue
that made Dad froth and fall apart like a piece of chalk dropped in acid. If Gil joined Jude’s campaign against the labs it would drive Dad crazy. It was even better than taking up smoking,
because it wasn’t illegal for a thirteen-year-old and it wasn’t likely to kill him.
Gil’s first step came at lunch on Sunday. Dad had roasted the venison he’d bought from the market. It smelt good, but Gil had already decided what he was going to do. He watched Dad
carve slices of meat and pile them up on the dish, while steam rose from the bowls of roast potatoes and parsnips and peas and broccoli and carrots. Gil waited until Dad was about to put the meat
on his plate before he made his announcement.
‘Actually, you know what?’ he said. ‘I really don’t want any meat.’
‘What?’
Dad stopped with the meat in mid-air.
‘I’ve been thinking about becoming a vegetarian,’ Gil went on. ‘I might as well start now.’
‘Gil, are you sure?’ said Mum anxiously. ‘You’re growing like mad at the moment. It might not be good for you.’
Dad didn’t move.
‘Is this a result of all that animal rights nonsense yesterday?’ he said at last.
‘No, of course not,’ Gil said, innocently. ‘Actually it’s a result of what you said, Dad.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When we were at the market you said you shouldn’t eat any animal unless you were prepared to kill it yourself. Well, I agree with you. I wouldn’t be prepared to kill the deer
this venison came from. So I’d better not eat it, had I?’
‘It’s organic,’ said Mum. ‘And RSPCA-monitored.’
‘You mean it was happy before it was murdered? No thanks. I’ll just have the veg.’
Gil went to help himself to roast potatoes, but Dad moved the dish before he could get to it.
‘Sorry, Gil,’ he said. ‘You’d better not have those. They’ve been cooked in the meat juice, I’m afraid. And that means you can’t have the parsnips,
either. Or the gravy.’
As Dad whisked away the potatoes, a gorgeous meaty smell wafted up Gil’s
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