Exchange

by Paul Magrs

  ‘Ahh,’ said his gran, sitting down opposite. ‘That Kelly’s good to you, isn’t she? She must think a lot of you, popping little presents in the post.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Simon, quickly folding the note back into the book. ‘Look, I’d better get ready for school. I’m late already.’

  ‘Eat your eggs first,’ she warned.

  He nodded. ‘Kelly might come round tonight.’

  ‘Oh! I’ve got nothing in…’

  ‘It’s not a special occasion,’ he said, sounding terser than he meant to. ‘She’s just coming round to… hang out.’

  ‘Hang out, eh?’ Winnie laughed. ‘Is that what the kids are doing nowadays? Well — so long as it’s not hanging round the phone box, like that other rough lot. Though I know you and Kelly aren’t like that. You two are so sensible and grown up. I can’t believe how well behaved and considerate you both are…’

  Yeah, right, thought Simon unhappily, gobbling up his breakfast as quickly as he could. And here we are, preparing to rob my grandad blind.

  That day he felt like a stranger inside his own body. He was an alien in possession of this feeble human form and he was peering out of its eyes, mostly uninterested in the doings of these immature Homo sapiens.

  He sat as near to the back as he could in all his classes, forever hoping to escape notice. He breathed in that terrible school-smelling fug of bleached lino, sweat and unwashed hair, chewing gum, and fags and farts. The lessons passed in a blur — his pen stirring at the page in a pretence of making salient notes. It was like writing in mollasses. In his History class he read Ada Jones under his desk. He was careless enough to be caught and his teacher — a wiry young man with a whiney, nasal voice and sweat patches in his grey shirt — snatched the book off him and held it up, sneeringly, in front of the class.

  ‘What’s this? You’d rather read old ladies’ romantic books than listen to me, Jeffrey?’ (This particular teacher never got anybody’s name right.) ‘What kind of thing is this for a young man of sixteen to be reading?’

  Simon stared down at his desk, at all the graffiti scored deeply, angrily, into the varnished wood. He could feel the eyes of his classmates on him. They were starting to laugh — incredulous, disgusted, that a lad like him could be reading some old lady’s book. A book about love.

  ‘I don’t know, Jeffrey,’ the History teacher persisted. ‘You don’t really fit in here, do you?’

  Later that afternoon he was humiliated in front of his classmates all over again in his English lesson, as it became clear that the teachers must have been discussing his curious case in the staffroom at lunchtime.

  ‘Ada Jones, Simon?’ laughed his English teacher, a plump, ironic woman he usually found quite encouraging. ‘I wasn’t aware that the exam board had put her on our syllabus…?’

  ‘I was reading it for myself,’ he said quickly. He couldn’t look at the teacher. He looked out at the playing fields and the woods beyond, through the wall of plate glass. A mist was coming down, rolling over the frozen grass, bringing more frost. It was a deathly landscape. A haunted scene.

  ‘I’m all in favour of your reading novels for pleasure,’ smiled the teacher. She smiled at all of them, taking them all in with a lighthouse-like beam. ‘But really, I think you should all stick to literature. Don’t read trash. It’s a waste of your time. There’s nothing to be learned from that stuff. Stick to the classics, to the quality stuff. And if you need to know which is which, ask me. I’ll tell you. That’s what I’m here for.’ She gave one more grin, to close the subject.

  Simon continued to gaze out of the window, as the details of the view smudged and faded under the pressure of the mist.

  ‘Now,’ said the teacher. ‘If you fetch out your course handbooks and turn to the short extract on page twelve…’

  Today he was dragging his feet going home. Usually he would hurry. Usually he would get across that field, and down the cinder path, and up the hill past the row of shops to his grandparents’ street as soon as he could. He’d be deleting each chunk of his latest day at school as fully as he could: clicking and dragging each wearisome, torturous hour, and dumping them in the waste bin. Tonight he wasn’t as keen on getting home.

  Kelly was coming round and he wasn’t looking forward to it. She was going to arrive and they were going to do something decisive and — he thought — wrong. He felt he couldn’t back out of it now. He dawdled. He let all of the other kids brush past him, ignoring him. He stepped in every frozen puddle, just to hear the satisfying crack of ice. He counted the Christmas trees that had started to appear in neighbours’ windows. They looked innocently gaudy.

  But at last he was home again.

  ‘Your friend’s coming round again, isn’t she?’ Winnie smiled. ‘Well, listen. Your grandad’s going out, as usual, down the Legion. Don’t tell him, but why don’t I let the two of you “hang out” in your room, eh? Have a little privacy. Your grandad wouldn’t like it, but I think you can be trusted.’ She looked embarrassed. ‘All right, Simon?’

  He wished Kelly would whisper more quietly.

  She was standing on the arm of Grandad’s chair, with her head poking up into the rafters of the garage. She was telling him a tale, hissing it through her teeth, all indignant, as he weighed down the armchair so it couldn’t tip. He was hoping that they wouldn’t be heard. He was sure he would start sneezing or coughing, in all the dust that Kelly was dislodging.

  ‘So there they were, soon as I got off the bus,’ she was telling him, wrestling with the corner of the box. ‘I’d forgotten all about them, of course. But they hadn’t forgotten about me. Specially the one I smacked in the face last time. Anyway, straight away, they start yelling at me, just like they yell at you. Well, no offence, Simon, but if you get shouted at in the street and do nothing about it, everyone’s gonna think you’re soft.’ She grunted loudly as she heaved at the box (how come she was taking so long?) and Simon winced. ‘So I went over to them and their precious phone box and I asked them if they had a problem. They were really mouthy again, calling me a witch and everything and slagging you off’, calling you a puff and all that, except that their leader didn’t say much. He was a bit more… circumspect.’ She let out a cry of triumph as the box came free of the rafters and she swayed backwards and almost fell. Simon grabbed one of her legs. ‘It’s OK,’ she laughed. ‘Anyway, they wouldn’t stop shouting, so I punched him again.’ She dropped the heavy box into Simon’s waiting arms. He staggered a bit and the dust stung his eves.

  ‘You what? You punched him again?’

  ‘Exactly the same as before.’ Kelly dusted her hands. ‘These people never listen, you see, Simon. And they never learn.’

  ‘So you’ve just got to keep punching them in the face?’

  Kelly nodded. ‘It always works. For some silly, sexist reason, they don’t expea it from a girl. So, down he went, all his brainless mates clustered round him, and off I skipped, merrily on my way, and here I am. Voilà’

  Simon opened the box to check it was the right one. All the while he was thinking: she’s marvellous. And: I wish I was more like her. Now, this was a novel thought. He’d have to go over it, later. No time now.

  ‘We have to get this lot out of here.’

  ‘There must be about fifty mags in that box. Terrance will definitely give us enough cash…’

  Simon grimaced, hating to be reminded of what they were doing. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘That’s some collection your grandad’s got,’ said Kelly. ‘He must have had them for years.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in,’ Simon snapped.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Kelly. ‘I think he should get rid of them. For his own sake, as well as Winnie’s. It’s the ethos of the Great Big Book Exchange, isn’t it? Don’t hang on to stuff. Return it to the Exchange. Let other people share…’

  ‘Hmm’ murmured Simon. He knew they were bending those benign rules somewhat.

  Suddenly they bo
th froze. At precisely the same moment, just as they were both crouching and holding the heavy box between them, they heard the noise. They stared at each other.

  They had heard the sound of the garden gate clattering open. They heard the crash and tinkle of the milk bottles and one of them getting haphazardly smashed as Grandad came home, the worse for wear.

  ‘It’s not closing time,’ Simon hissed. ‘He’s early.’ He found he couldn’t move. He was weighted down to the cement floor, as if by the box of glamour mags and Kelly’s frantic stare.

  ‘Will he come straight in here?’ she asked.

  ‘He might do. If he doesn’t want to talk to Gran…’

  Kelly cursed.

  They heard the kitchen door slam; the metallic rattling of the Venetian blinds. They heard the falsely jolly warbling of Winnie, greeting her husband. She’s giving us time, Simon thought, amazed. Good old Gran! She thinks she’s buying us time and giving us fair warning that Grandad’s home early. Just because she thinks we’re in my room, kissing or something. Gran doesn’t know we’re in here… stealing stuff.

  ‘Quick!’ said Simon. ‘My room. Now! She’s holding him off.’

  Grandad’s voice, coarsened and thickened with drink, seemed to reverberate through the plasterboard walls of the bungalow. He was drunkenly arguing the toss with Winnie. This was becoming a nightly occurrence. Simon didn’t have time to listen and figure out what they were quarrelling over. He and Kelly were shuffling sideways to the interior door and lugging their stolen goods with them.

  ‘He’s coming ..Kelly gasped, as they hauled the box into Simon’s room. They shut the garage door, heaved the box out of the way, and Simon flung his candlewick bedspread and his and Kelly’s coats messily on top for camouflage.

  ‘He has to come through my room to get to his garage,’ said Simon. ‘He never uses the front door.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kelly. ‘I figured that out.’

  From deeper in the bungalow they could hear doors clashing and Grandad yelling something incoherent at Winnie as he stomped away from her. He was heading in their direction, no doubt about it. They had only a matter of seconds.

  ‘Get down on the bed,’ Kelly commanded Simon.

  ‘What?’ He couldn’t believe it. This was the absolute-worst thing she could suggest. Before he could kick up a fuss, though, she had pounced on him and pinned him to his own mattress. He lay crumpled up in the sheets and half smothered by his pillows and Kelly was somehow, suddenly, sitting astride him and then her mouth was clamped down on his.

  She was kissing him. Swiftly, expertly, and this time it worked. The surprise of it worked: leaving him helpless and open to this; to her tongue thrust incredibly, probingly, into his mouth. Oh, he thought, what if I bit it off out of shock?

  Then his bedroom door flew open.

  ‘What’s this?’ cried his grandad and Kelly withdrew her tongue before Simon’s fears came true. She looked up at Grandad Ray and Simon craned his neck to watch upside down, sheepishly, as his grandad surveyed the chaos of the ransacked room.

  He caught me on my bed with a girl, Simon groaned. Now I’ll really pay for this.

  ‘Whoops,’ said Kelly mildly.

  Simon’s grandad’s voice in reply was surprisingly measured and quiet. ‘You might very well say “whoops”, young lady. What’s the meaning of all this?’

  Kelly was up on her feet now, smoothing down her complicated layers of black clothing. She was putting on an extremely good act of looking penitent, Simon thought, as he sat up on the bed.

  ‘Sorry, Grandad,’ Simon stammered. ‘It will never happen again.’

  ‘I’m afraid we… got carried away, Mr Thompson,’ said Kelly boldly.

  Grandad Ray’s eyes widened slightly. Simon couldn’t be sure, but he thought maybe a smile was twitching at the corner of the old man’s mouth. ‘Carried away, eh?’ he said, and glared at them both severely. ‘You both know I won’t have this kind of carry-on under my roof. Your gran trusted you, Simon, to behave properly. She tells me you gave her your word.’

  Simon hung his head. He was aware of Kelly smirking at him. He was being treated like a child. But he was also aware of something gloating and pleased-sounding in his grandad’s tone, even as he was berating him. Of course. That was it. Through all of this, even though he felt he had to behave crossly. Grandad Ray was actually delighted. He had caught Simon snogging a girl in his room. There was nothing wrong with Ray’s grandson! Nothing at all! And, secretly. Grandad Ray was cock-a-hoop. This was cause for celebration! It was a rite of passage! Simon couldn’t bring himself to look at either Kelly or Ray. He felt he’d turn purple with either embarrassment or contusion.

  ‘Now, this isn’t the kind of behaviour that Simon’s gran or I appreciate,’ Ray told Kelly sternly. ‘I hope you will both be more responsible in future. I suggest you catch your next bus home, Kelly. I think you’ve seen quite enough of Simon as it is, tor this evening.’

  She smiled sweetly at Simon’s grandad. ‘Yes, Mr Thompson.’

  The old man even chuckled at her — her demure cheekiness — and he nodded and went back to the kitchen to tell Winnie what he had discovered.

  Simon groaned. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ He sighed heavily. It was odd. He could still taste her kiss. Peppermints and patchouli oil.

  Kelly picked up her coat. ‘Oh, never mind. This will improve your reputation no end.’

  ‘Reputation! They’ll think I’m some kind of… sex beast.’

  ‘Ha!’ Kelly yanked the bedspread off the box of magazines. ‘Some chance.’ Then she hefted up the box. ‘Aren’t you going to help me onto the bus with these?’

  ‘You’ll never get them out of the house,’ he said. ‘You’ll never get past the two of them.’

  Kelly thought quickly. ‘Give me that big bag,’ she said, pointing at the bag where Simon kept the grungiest and nastiest of his dirty linen. Oh. Now she was going to see all of that as well. This was just about the most nerve-wracking and humiliating evening of his life.

  Like a Gothic Santa Claus carrying her sack the colour of blackest night, Kelly left their bungalow waving a friendly goodnight. Poor Grandad Ray didn’t have a clue she was taking a good number of his favourite, vintage magazines with her. She couldn’t carry them all. Simon would have to return some to the garage. They would just have to hope this sackful would raise enough cash for their tickets. And they would have to hope that the bag wouldn’t rip and disgorge its shocking contents.

  Simon, still blushing from Kelly’s emptying out the bag and seeing his pants and socks and T-shirts, had their cover story ready for when they carried the bag through the kitchen. There, Winnie was serving hot black coffee to sober Grandad up. He was still chuckling and there was a relaxed truce between the oldies. Both were enjoying the tale of Grandad walking in on Simon and Kelly as they kissed. There was a sense of relief to their pleasure — he’s growing up properly. He isn’t damaged or traumatised. Nothing has gone wrong with the boy.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Grandad Ray asked, nodding at the black bag they were carrying between them.

  ‘It’s… books,’ Simon huffed and puffed, opening the back door. ‘Kelly’s offered to take away a whole load of paperbacks I don’t really want any more. I’m clearing some space, and getting rid of books I don’t need. Grandad. Like you said we should.’

  ‘What?’ cried Winnie, whirling round with the coffee pot. ‘But you must have dozens of them in that great big bag!’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Kelly has to catch her bus now…’

  ‘Bye, Mr and Mrs T,’ Kelly said, shuffling along.

  ‘Let me have a look first,’ Winnie said. ‘Before you take them all to the Exchange. Let me check there’s nothing I’d like to keep…’ She’d put down the pot and was hurrying over.

  ‘Leave them be, Winnie,’ snapped Grandad Ray. ‘The boy obviously knows his own mind. And he’s made it up, to do what his Grandad Ray has told him. He’s doing the right thing. He’s getti
ng rid of some of that old rubbish.’

  As Grandad’s words sank in, Simon and Kelly exchanged a glance. Ray was more correct than he knew. Meanwhile Winnie was standing there helpless, in the middle of the kitchen, wringing a tea towel in frustration.

  ‘I’d better catch my bus,’ Kelly said, and they went out. On their way to the bus stop the two of them didn’t get any hassle at all from the kids at the phone box. The leader had gone home early and the gang’s remnants were muted and looked away from Kelly and Simon as the two of them went by, hauling their contraband to the bus stop.

  When the bus came Simon helped lug the bag aboard. ‘That looks like you’ve got a dead body in there,’ said the driver cheerfully. ‘I shall have to charge you double.’

  Kelly scowled at him and flashed her student bus pass. ‘Look, Simon, I’ll text you before Saturday,’ she said. ‘I’ll let you know how much I get for this lot.’

  ‘Kidnappers!’ laughed the bus driver. ‘That’s what you two are. What’s in the bag?’

  Kelly shrugged. ‘Just some old rubbish. OK. See you soon, sunshine.’

  She went to sit down and Simon stepped back onto the pavement, and it was only when the bus was gone that he realised that they hadn’t kissed goodbye. He was surprised to find that he wished they had.

  Fourteen

  He had to wait a couple of days until Kelly texted him. Simon was on tenterhooks thinking: how did we imagine we’d get away with it? Grandad is bound to go looking up in the ratters for his magazines. We didn’t even bother making it look like a burglary. We dropped that complicated part of the plan. So now, when he discovers their loss, he’s bound to realise it’s me who’s been in and taken his private things.

  What would he say?

  Yet Grandad Ray didn’t say anything. After his initial ribald glee over disturbing ‘the young lovers’ as he called them, he let his black mood roll over him once again. He gave up speaking to Winnie and Simon altogether.

  Simon watched him going about his business — from garage to living room and out to the pub — and he waited for the inevitable storm to break. Grandad would burst out eventually, he was sure. He would accuse his grandson of theft. His own grandson — whom he’d taken in and given shelter and food. Simon had betrayed him. And the worst thing about it was that it was all true.