"I can't take another night of this," Captain Haddock complained. He was surrounded by noise and mess. Toys littered the drawing room at Marlinspike Hall, biscuit crumbs were ground into the antique rug, and a hyperactive six year old circled him with a model airplane. Even Snowy had had enough and taken to hiding under a table.
Distracted, Haddock went to the cabinet, stepping over paper and crayons, and poured himself a shot of whisky. He stopped suddenly when he realised he was sloshing the drink into a child sized, plastic tumbler.
What the blue blistering…
With a look of disgust for the camel decorated cup, Captain put it down and resorted to drinking whisky straight from the bottle. "It's nearly eleven o'clock in the evening!" he called to anybody who would listen. It certainly wouldn't be Abdullah, though. The Prince of Khemed ignored him and ran around the sofa, pretending to be a fighter plane pilot.
"I'm at a loss, Captain," Tintin replied, looking as worn down as Haddock felt. "We've tried just about everything."
"Doesn't the monster ever sleep?"
"He'll wear himself out soon."
"He'd better, otherwise I'll be forced to use chloroform!"
"Captain," Tintin chided him with disapproval.
"On myself!" Haddock added in defence. In the bid for a moment of peace there was nothing he wouldn't consider at this point.
Just then, Nestor entered the room. The presence of another rational human being was a temporary relief. Their ranks were swelling. Three against one now. With the addition of the butler, Haddock was certain they would soon have the Arabian nightmare under control.
"Master Haddock. I took the liberty of borrowing a children's book from the library this afternoon. I believe bedtime stories have a sleep inducing effect on children."
Haddock looked down at the book of fairy tales in Nestor's hand and a ray of hope shone through the cloud of gloom. "Well, that sounds good to me!"
He took the book and pushed it over to Tintin who caught it to his chest in surprise.
"Oh! Er, okay, I'll just find somewhere to…" Tintin glanced around for a comfortable reading spot.
Abdullah suddenly climbed onto the sofa and began jumping on the cushions like a jack in the box. "Blistering barnacles, Blistering barnacles! I want Blistering barnacles to read to me!"
Haddock's eyes widened in alarm. "Me? Oh no, Tintin is a better storyteller."
Abdullah continued to jump and pout. "Blistering barnacles! Blistering barnacles!"
Tintin smiled and passed the book back to his friend. "It seems his majesty has made up his mind."
"No, no," Haddock waved his hands and put the book at arms length. "You've a softer voice, lad. I insist."
"Oh no, I insist, Captain." Tintin placed the tome of fairy tales in the Captain's hands once and for all.
"Blistering barnacles! Blistering barnacles! Blistering barnacles!"
Haddock growled, then shouted in defeat. "All right! If that's what it takes to get some quiet around here!"
Tintin watched fondly as Haddock swept the toys from the sofa and took up a seat beside Abdullah. The reporter picked up his dog and found an easy chair beside the fireplace. Sitting down, he enjoyed the warmth and the smell of the crackling logs. The child prince moved close to the Captain, almost in his lap, as the storybook was opened.
"Now, let's see," Haddock said gruffly and fidgeted, getting comfortable next to Abdullah. "This is the tale of The Three Little Pigs. Once upon a time there were three little pigs. Thank you, Nestor," Haddock paused to accept a glass of whisky, then continued. "And they lived with their mother in a pretty cottage in the middle of the rambling woods. One day, mummy pig told her children it was time for them to go out into the big, wide world and make their fortunes…"
The corners of Tintin's mouth threatened to tug upwards while he listened to the Captain. The older man's voice was coarse from years of drinking and smoking, but as the whisky got to work, softening him, the timbre of his intonations took on a pleasant sort of husky sound. Tintin could listen to the enchanting lilt of Archibald Haddock's voice all night. He closed his eyes, lulled by the words he imagined drifting from a pair of warm lips within a soft beard.
"Do the voices!" Abdullah shouted, breaking the tranquillity.
"What?" Haddock snapped.
"Do the voices. The pigs need to talk like this." Abdullah demonstrated precisely how little pigs should talk; with dainty, high pitched voices that completely went against the Captain's grain.
"Oh ho, I don't think so." The Captain laughed with displeasure at the idea.
Abdullah's eyebrows slowly drew together. He pursed his lips and his eyes took on a steely glare of threat that seemed to wither the Captain where he sat. "Do. The. Voices, Blistering barnacles."
Eventually, with a scowl and a resigned huff of breath, Haddock cleared his throat and attempted to make his weathered old vocal cords stretch to uncharted heights. "No, no, not by the hair on my chinny chin chin."
The resulting sound earned a chuckle from Nestor who was lurking in the corridor outside the room.
Haddock heard the laugh and slammed the book shut indignantly, propelled to his feet. "Oh, you think that's funny do you, Nestor? That's it. Off to bed with you all. Story time's over."
Abdullah folded his arms and sulkily slammed himself into the corner of the sofa. "Well, I don't want to hear that baby story anyway. It was so boring it made me want to sleep."
"That's the idea," the Captain replied.
Abdullah continued to fix Haddock with a challenging stare. "You are the worst storyteller I ever heard!"
"Why, you little whippersnapper-"
The Emir's son further provoked the Captain by sticking out his tongue, hard. "Boring old Blistering barnacles! In my country, men tell stories with their heart and with passion. You are a bad storyteller, Blistering barnacles. Boring, boring, boring!"
Haddock snarled and gripped the book, knuckles turning white and fingers shaking. Tintin worried for a moment that the Captain would rip the library book in half with his bare hands. He put Snowy down and crossed the floor to the older man, placing a soothing hand on his arm.
"Calm down, Captain. It's just a story. Here, why don't I read to him?"
Haddock was pacified somewhat by his friend's touch and level-headed words, but he declined the offer. "No, no, Tintin. That won't be necessary. Nobody calls Captain Haddock boring! A bad storyteller, am I? Oh, just you wait and see, you little rapscallion."
Abdullah, unperturbed by the Captain's short temper, bounced eagerly, his eyes alight with anticipation. "Story! Story!"
"You'll get your story, all right." Haddock returned to his seat and opened the book once more, but this time he used it only for reference, pouring his own personal brand of passion into the tale. "Once upon a time there were three little pigs who lived with their mother in the woods. Now, these little pigs didn't talk with namby pamby baby voices. Oh no. They were tough talking, hard fighting, tobacco smoking, larynx abused pigs. And they liked nothing better than drinking beer and arm wrestling."
"Oh good lord." Tintin sat down and buried his face in his hand. This was hardly suitable, but once the Captain set a course...
"But then came the day when their mother told them all to pack their things and get out. It was time for them to make their way in the world. But it was going to be dangerous. Very dangerous, indeed. You see, there was a monstrous beast running loose in the countryside. A certifiable pest. A miserable, pilfering bandit that went by the name of The Big Bad Wolf….
"….'Little pig, little pig, let me come in,' chanted the wolf outside the first little pig's house made of straw. But the little pig had heard all about that gangster of a wolf, so he picked up his Beretta automatic pistol and replied, 'Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin, you septic son of a sea-gherkin….'
A soft yawn caught Tintin's attention and he found Abdullah's eyes drifting shut. It was working. The captain hadn't noticed, too caught up in his earthy narration. With the Arabian prince dozing soundly with his head on a cushion, Tintin relaxed and listened to Haddock. The words weren't important, the simple sound of that familiar voice captivated him. That endearing voice. How could he frown on Haddock for peppering a children's fairy tale with cursing and vices when that voice worked its way inside his heart?
"…. To save themselves, they ran as fast as they could to the safety of the third little pig's brick house. 'We need a plan,' they said. The third little pig raised a bottle of Loch Lomond in the air. 'Thundering typhoons in a blistering fairy tale! I've got it!' he exclaimed. 'We'll get the megalomaniac blind drunk, then hand him over to the authorities….' "
Haddock stopped when he became aware of gentle snoring. Looking down, he found Abdullah fast asleep. Relief coupled with joy swept over him.
"Thank heavens for that," he whispered to Tintin. "It's over."
"Indeed. Although, not quite over, Captain. You haven't finished the story."
Haddock chuckled quietly and reached for Tintin as he carefully stood up. "Ah, you know how the story ends, my boy."
Tintin allowed the Captain to draw him away from the sofa. "Happily ever after, I suppose?"
"Of course." Haddock slipped an arm around his shoulders and steered him leisurely towards the door. "Now that his little majesty is sound asleep, and leaving in the morning, things are looking brighter already. I think I'll go up to bed to enjoy my own happy ending, eh?"
Tintin smiled affectionately. "I think I'll join you, Captain."