The Boy Who Preferred to Be Somebody Else

by Malcolm Moyes

As Mr Dashley had not received the official slip proposing Arry’s intended Community Project and it was getting close to the Wednesday deadline, he summoned him to his office.

  “Ah Mr Trumper, good of you to turn up on time for once. I was wondering about the small matter of your Community Project. Everyone but you has decided upon a project, it seems: are you having difficulties? If so, I can decide on one for you – there is an especially interesting opportunity – ”

  Mr Dashley’s voice trailed off somewhere into a hazy Southport sunset as Arry was more interested in the curious photographs on the wall than in a yet unspecified interesting opportunity. He recognised the people in the photographs as being Dirk Dashley’s two teenage children: he had seen them both in the middle of town most Saturdays doing the shopping with their parents. The photographs were hardly worth his attention, except that both of the Dashley children were wearing Biffa masks and were dressed in smart red trousers. Now, if you have ever been inside your Head’s office you will know that all them, without exception, have photographs of their family on the desk or on top of the filing cabinet or on the wall: maybe it’s to show their students that they are really human after all and live ordinary lives outside of school. This was evidently the intention of Mr Dashley who wanted to show that he too had an ordinary life outside the Privy: the photographs of his two fine teenage sons, who enjoyed dressing up as Biffa the Bear, were the evidence.

  You may disagree, but to my mind, the photographs of the two Dashley Juniors, aged somewhere between thirteen and sixteen, do not quite give an accurate and balanced impression of everyday Southport life: whilst the town does have its fair share of eccentrics, none of them, to be fair, dresses up in Biffa masks and smartly pressed trousers to re-enact scenes from the Official Privy Reading Scheme. Not even World Literacy Day could produce anything so bizarre, that’s for sure.

  Arry recognised the closest photograph to him as a scene from a story in the Red Trouser Series titled “Biffa gets a prize” (Level 2, sub-level 3c, part 8) in which Biffa entered a Bonny Bear competition and gained a very creditable Third Place. Arry remembered the story well as he had changed the ending by having the First and Second Place contestants disqualified for cheating, as they were not really bears at all, but two rather portly squirrels. The photograph, however, did not show the improved ending of the story, but rather, Dirk Dashley’s son in his Biffa mask sporting a Third Place ribbon and giving a cheery thumbs up to the camera.

  The photograph of the eldest of the Dashley children was also a scene from the Red Trouser Series. It was from “Biffa makes a terrible mistake” (Level 9, sub-level 4a, part 1) in which Biffa was given a parking ticket by Mr Lurch the Traffic Warden for being 2cm over the white line. In the original version of the story, Biffa apologised to Mr Lurch for having been so naughty and promised to pay the fine the next day. The much improved ending, made by either Jeffrey or Jeffrey, had Biffa explaining patiently that he had to pick up an urgent prescription for his elderly neighbour, and that the Chemist shop was about to close. Mr Lurch, after having carefully considered the merits of Biffa’s explanation, then tore up the ticket and promised to become a good person in future by getting a job as a Lollipop Man and helping people in the local community. Unfortunately, the improved happy ending had been ignored and the photograph of Dirk Dashley’s eldest son showed him with a cheesy grin, holding his parking ticket up in one hand and a receipt for the payment of a £100 fine in the other.

  “– to work at the Southport Beach Donkey Sanctuary, cleaning out the stables and finding out all about the work of this fine organisation.”

  “Unnecessary most revered leader, the bureaucratic processes have been put into motion already by my esteemed parents, who have consented to a placement in another equally fine local organisation, namely the Southport Branch of the National Home for Ofsted Survivors and Distressed Gentlefolk.”

  At which, Arry placed the consent form on Dirk Dashley’s desk, apparently signed by Carl and Tracey Trumper, and was gone.

  A last-minute placement meant additional work for Mr Dashley, quickly phoning round, doing the necessary checks and paperwork, but if that meant getting Arry Trumper off the premises for a day, so be it. Besides, a few of his former colleagues were residents there and it would be nice to catch up on how they were getting on.

  CHAPTER 7

  Arry Meets Some Ofsted Survivors

  A few years after Arry had started school, Tracey Trumper got a job as a Care Home Assistant, in theory taking care of the elderly folk of Southport who could no longer take care of themselves. It would be an exaggeration to say that Tracey showed great promise in her chosen career path; in fact, it would be a complete pack of lies. It quickly became apparent to everyone, except Tracey, that she lacked all of the person specification skills necessary to be a top-notch Care Home Assistant.

  Her ability to make the elderly ladies and gentlemen feel like valued individuals, for example, was somewhat limited by her inability to remember their names and by her therefore resorting to getting their attention with a brisk, “Oi, fat head”, or with the more jolly, “Wake up bugger lugs!”

  Tracey’s memory concerning which resident required which food was also found wanting on a daily basis. She regularly confused who wanted a vegetarian dish with who ordered a meat dish, and if anyone pointed out the mistake, she either pretended not to hear or told the senile troublemaker to bog off to the chippy if they had a problem. Occasionally, Tracey met with more spirited resistance to her petty bullying, but that did not last very long. This is hardly surprising, as finding a slab of slimy pork or a decomposing parsnip under your pillow when you are tucked up in bed for the night can be a distressing experience.

  Now, you may think that I have been a little harsh on Tracey so far in this story, because all I seem to have told you about are the obnoxious things she got up to. She must have some good qualities, I hear you say, everybody has at least one good quality. I am very sorry to disappoint you, but Tracey Trumper had a good quality by-pass operation at a very early age. Unless, of course, you think that threatening to let go of a wheelchair at the top of a 1:7 incline to get the annoying passenger to hand over money is a good quality; or that using a toilet brush to get elderly ladies of the complaining variety that extra-bit clean when she bathed them is a good quality.

  You may be thinking also that if Tracey Trumper was so bad at her job and so unsuited to working in a Care Home, how come she wasn’t sacked? Well, Tracey may have been nasty, but she was not stupid. On a regular basis, she changed jobs, moving from Care Home to Care Home before her nastiness came to light. On the one occasion when it did come to light, she threatened to become a whistle-blower and report the Sunny Daze Care Home to the “Southport Evening Standard” for failing to spot any of her wrong-doing sooner. There had, after all, been plenty of warning signs which should have alerted someone, such as the more wealthy residents giving Tracey expensive presents in gratitude for the excellent standard of care she provided. Her employers did try confronting Tracey Trumper, but she merely stuck the Sunny Daze Care Home’s brochure in their faces, drawing attention to grand claims about “ensuring tip-top standards of care for the elderly” and “residents living in the comfort which befits senior citizens”.

  Tracey Trumper was not a nice person.

  Of course, it may just have been a remarkable co-incidence, but then again, it may have been something a lot more irregular than that, but the location of Arry’s Project in the Southport Branch of the National Home for Ofsted Survivors and Distressed Gentlefolk, just happened to be where Tracey Trumper was working at the time. She had only been there a few weeks, but already she had left her mark with a few accidental flicks of her elbow, directed with impressive accuracy towards the head of a man who reminded her of Carl Trumper. She had also head-butted the octogenarian gardener who looked like Tommy Trumper, recording the incident in the Accident Book as “an u
nfortunate clash of heads”.

  Tracey Trumper was not a very honest person.

  You may be slightly perplexed by Arry having chosen to work for an entire day in the same place as his mother. And you would be right to be puzzled: Arry was moving towards that age when walking down the street and being seen with your parents by some mates is a huge embarrassment; it’s that age when you walk ten, fifteen and then twenty metres behind mum or dad, pretending all the time that you have no idea who they are. But Arry did not see the situation this way at all: in fact, for some reason, he deliberately chose to do his Community Project where his mother worked, but without her knowing, of course.

  So, on the Thursday morning, Arry walked into the Care Home and introduced himself to the owner, Matron Vilshock, who was absolutely delighted to meet such a polite young man. Having said that, she was a little disconcerted by the bright orange wig perched upon Arry’s head, which resembled the unkempt plumage of an exotic bird, and also by his sporting of an equally bright orange, bushy beard. However, she was only too happy to have an extra pair of hands to help, as she was short staffed on a Thursday, and so did not ask too many questions concerning the remarkable maturity of an eleven-year-old in the facial hair department.

  As part of the Induction Programme for Young Volunteers, Matron Vilshock took Arry round the Care Home to meet some of the residents who were seated in the rather grand, but gloomy, late Victorian drawing room: some were snoring, some were reading old copies of “Teeth Weekly”, kindly donated by the local dentist, and some were just staring at the cobwebs which decorated the once beautiful ornate ceiling.

  “This is Mr, …‘er Mr…who has been with us two years now. He was a very popular Head of History in Accrington and came to us after Ofsted judged his lesson on the Poor Law to Require Improvement because a couple of boys could not say, when questioned, which monarch was on the throne in 1834,” Matron Vilshock confided.

  “This is…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Melvin de Chirico,” said Arry stroking his beard.

  “Ah yes, of course. Mr…’er Mr…say hello to our new volunteer. His name is Melvin and he’s going to spend the day with us.”

  Mr Mr peered at the bearded recruit over his copy of “Teeth Weekly” (5th Anniversary Issue, 1998, “Spotlight on Amalgam”), and said nothing.

  Arry nodded his head knowingly, like a hospital doctor doing his daily round, and wrote something in his Project notebook.

  Matron Vilshock, however, had moved on, and had become very animated and quite loud.

  “Mrs Smeers, how lovely to see you, and how are we today?”

  Mrs Smeers, a rather prim and lanky lady, was just about to give an account of her health when she was interrupted by Matron Vilshock, speaking in an even louder voice than before, as if Mrs Smeers had suddenly run out of the room and locked herself away in a cupboard.

  “Such a lovely lady. We were saying that you are a lovely lady Mrs Smeers. You are aren’t you dear? She’s such a chatterbox. We were saying that you are such a chatterbox once you get started!”

  Mrs Smeers was just about to get started and prove the point when Matron Vilshock moved rapidly across the room, pulling Arry with her and nearly dislodging his wig.

  “Very sad case. She was blamed by her Headmaster after Ofsted judged the school’s track record on integrating Romany children as lacking rapid and clear outcomes. I think that was the expression. Mrs Smeers was apparently speechless when she read the Report, poor thing: she had explained to the Inspector that they had no Romany children in the school nor had ever had any Romany children in the school. But the Inspector refused to listen. She never worked again.”

  Arry looked back at the alleged perpetrator of crimes against the Romany community of Southport and environs, tugged knowingly on his beard, and made further notes. He then followed Matron Vilshock across the room, who did not seem to notice that a couple of the residents were trying to attract her attention by frantically waving their hands.

  “And who do we have here? What a lovely surprise: it’s Nutty Nigel! Good morning Nigel and how the devil are we today?”

  Matron Vilshock was even louder than when she was in conversation with Mrs Smeers. She also rubbed Nigel’s head vigorously in a show of tender affection, laughing most heartily at the same time.

  Nutty Nigel said nothing: he just continued to stare ahead, peering into a distant world through the window.

  “He’s such a card. The life and soul of the party; keeps us all entertained from morning to night, don’t you Nigel? If any of us are feeling a bit down, we just go to Nigel and he tells us the most amusing stories. You’ve got such a wild imagination haven’t you Nigel?”

  Nutty Nigel said nothing whilst having his head scrub-rubbed for a second time.

  “Come on Nigel, tell our visitor some of your silly stories. I love the one about the Ofsted Inspector who observed a lesson in a particularly challenging school from under a desk! And what about the teacher whose lesson was judged to be Inadequate by an Ofsted Inspector who had fallen asleep at the back of the class!”

  Nutty Nigel did not seem to be in the mood for telling one of his silly stories.

  Matron Vilshock took Arry, aka Melvin, to one side, and whispered in his ear. “A very disturbed man. Completely bonkers. Thinks people are out to get him. Comes out with the most ridiculous stories about Ofsted inspections and claims they are true. If you think that the lesson observation from under a desk story is ludicrous, wait until you hear the one about the English lesson being judged Outstanding by an Inspector who thought he was in Physics. Priceless! He’s not called Nutty Nigel for nothing.”

  Sadly, Matron Vilshock’s fascinating and informative Induction tour was interrupted by Tracey Trumper, whose less than graceful entrance into the room to announce an afternoon session of Bingo Marathon was received in despondent silence.

  “Ah Tracey, we have a little helper with us today. His name is Melvin de Chirico. Perhaps you would like to show him how to set up our famous Bingo Marathon for later.”

  Matron Vilshock looked at her watch and walked off without waiting for Tracey to respond.

  Tracey looked at Melvin, aka Arry, and took an instant dislike to him. She did not like people with orange hair; she did not like beards; and she certainly did not like anyone with a fancy name like Melvin.

  Tracey did not disguise her dislike of the small, bearded helper.

  “What do you look like? If I was your mother, I’d give you a good haircut and get rid of that big beard for starters. I’d also give you a decent name like Braxton or Todd. What did you say you were called? De Cheesico? Todd de Cheesico: now that’s classy.”

  Arry, aka Melvin, and now potentially aka Todd, did not reply; he just frowned and made a few quick notes in his book.

  At that point, Tracey flounced off to enjoy some nicotine-based recreation, leaving Arry to work out what to do next. Looking around, it felt like being stuck in the middle of a lightless, wax museum: there were people in the room, but there weren’t people in the room. The only movement, besides barely detectable breathing, was from the incompetent Head of History from Accrington, Mr Mr, who was still wincing from a painful encounter with Tracey Trumper’s hand as she had walked past him. It was unlikely, however, that the smart clip across the ear would ever be referred to in the Accident Book, even as “unintentional hand to head”.

  Outside there was a glorious English summer sun gently warming the walled garden; inside, there was the gloomy cool of shadows. Outside were the whirrs, buzzes and hums of life in motion, in and out, amongst the flowers and shrubs; inside were the painful, looped, background sounds of a CD which had come free with “Teeth Weekly” (6th Anniversary Issue, 1999, “Spotlight on Drilling”). Outside were the heady scents of buddleia, thickening the air; inside, the sickening smell of hopelessness s
prayed liberally around the room.

  It was time for Arry to polish his Irregular Badge.

  First, Arry tracked down Tracey Trumper, and with the speed of an orange-headed demon with a big bushy beard, he locked her in the broom cupboard where she was quietly puffing on a nicotine stick whilst sorting through a new gift box, generously provided by the residents.

  Tracey sounded in great pain as she shouted and banged on the broom cupboard door: but nobody took any notice of great pain in the National Care Homes for Ofsted Survivors and Distressed Gentlefolk.

  Next, Arry wheeled out the residents, one by one, into the sun shined garden, where they blinked, looked around and slowly came back to life. Mrs Smeers smiled for the first time in years, Mr Mr mouthed passionate outrage about the brutality of the Poor Law and Nutty Nigel nodded, knowing that all of his stories were true.

  Next, mobility scooters were mobilised for the growing throng of liberated residents, free from fear, free from failure and free from Matron Vilshock.

  The squadron of scooters took off into the streets of Southport, led by a small figure with orange hair and bushy beard, flying down the pavements at high velocity towards the sand, towards the sea, towards the best fish and chip shop in town.

  Tracey Trumper continued to thump on the broom cupboard door; Matron Vilshock, who had been busy counting up costs, discovered that she had been locked in her office; and the final track of the “Teeth Weekly” CD, an excruciatingly bad version of “I want to break free” by a Queen tribute band, came to an end.

  CHAPTER 8

  Just a Little Misunderstanding

  “Matron Vilshock? Just a courtesy call; yes, hello, it’s Dashley from Privy Street School. I believe that you had Arry Trumper with you today, one of our students.”

  The voice at the other end of the phone seemed unusually loud even by Matron Vilshock’s loud standards. Dirk Dashley’s toothy smile, like a slowly setting sun, started to fade back into the darkness beneath his black moustache, as the conversation became more and more irregular.