The Boy Who Preferred to Be Somebody Else

by Malcolm Moyes

  “Yes, yes, that’s right, Arry Trumper.”

  Dirk Dashley listened, slightly irritated at not quite being fully able to grasp the story he was being told.

  “I’m sorry Matron, but there must be some kind of misunderstanding. We do not have a student by the name of Melvin de Chirico. What did he look like?”

  Dirk Dashley’s smile now ceased to exist at all, quite eclipsed it seems by the voice on the other end of the line getting more and more raucous.

  “Matron may I respectfully point out that most eleven-year-old children do not have a bushy beard. And yes, as a Head, I do know young people like to express their individuality, but when I last spoke to Arry Trumper he had neither a beard nor bright orange hair.”

  Dirk Dashley started to feel more and more uncomfortable: he tugged at his tie, twiddled his moustache and searched his computer for any sign of the elusive Melvin.

  “He did what?!”

  Dirk Dashley slumped down into his chair, now oppressed by grim visions of an unannounced Ofsted visit and lurid headlines in the “Southport Evening Standard”.

  “Mobility madness mayhem!”

  Or,

  “Local woman in broom cupboard ordeal.”

  Or,

  “Catch us if you can!”

  Or even worse,

  “Privy Street School Community Project horror!”

  In his worst un-ironed trouser nightmare, surely even Biffa the Bear never had to face a crisis like this!

  Dirk Dashley listened to a comprehensive catalogue of distressing details from Matron Vilshock concerning the carnage on the sea-front, as unsupervised Ofsted Survivors had run amok and enjoyed themselves. At the same time, he was weighing up his options. Should he immediately prepare a Critical Incident statement for the press? Should he contact Arry Trumper’s parents? (Plan rejected). Should he put Arry in the tumble-dryer for the rest of the term? (Tempting, but both illegal and expensive). Should he resign? (Definitely not). Or should he simply pretend nothing had happened?

  Whatever masterplan Dirk Dashley decided to put into action became irrelevant when he spotted none other than Arry Trumper himself entering the school gates with a pronounced limp, holding his hand to his left ear and wearing a pained expression on his face.

  “Matron Vilshock I must go. I apologise most sincerely for any inconvenience caused to you and your Staff. The matter will be fully investigated.”

  Dirk Dashley slammed down the phone and rushed out his office to begin the investigation immediately.

  “Ah Mr Trumper, have you had a good day out in the community? Step forward into my office please and tell me all about it.”

  A clean shaven Arry Trumper, with a distinct lack of orange hair, limped into Dirk Dashley’s office. The only change to the room from his previous visit was a framed certificate on the wall to verify that Privy Street School had raised £13.94 pence for Comic Relief and a photograph next to it of the entire school of two hundred students and eight teachers and teaching assistants, dressed in smart green, red and blue short trousers, and all wearing Biffa the Bear flashing masks. Arry had been absent that day with a particularly painful bout of gout.

  “I won’t pretend that we have got on particularly well over the years Trumper; in fact, to be blunt, I would like to put it on record that I find you the most obnoxious and repulsive little boy I have ever met. However, I am a professional and I have to put aside my personal likes and dislikes. Having said that, what you have done today makes it extremely difficult to avoid the conclusion that you have gone out of your way to let me, the school, your parents, Ofsted and the whole of Southport down.”

  Dirk Dashley paused to make an impression, but could not help thinking that the reference to Tracey and Carl Trumper might have been an error of judgment.

  “I have just spent the last hour on the phone listening to a very frightened and shaken Matron Vilshock, the lady, I will remind you, who was kind enough to give you the chance to make a contribution to the community.”

  Arry’s face suggested that he had no idea what Dirk Dashley was talking about.

  “Revered leader, I fear that we may have a Child Protection issue in need of urgent action,” uttered the small community volunteer, as he slumped dramatically down into a chair, whilst still holding his left ear.

  “A what? It’s the community that needs protection from you Trumper!!”

  Arry shuffled slightly and winced as he moved his left leg.

  “Do you understand Trumper? Am I getting through to you? Re-writing the endings of an entire Official Reading Scheme was bad enough, but this!”

  Arry looked up to make a silent, polite enquiry as to what “this” might be.

  “Don’t look at me like that. You exactly know what I am talking about!”

  Dirk Dashley moved into sarcastic mode.

  “Does imprisoning an innocent lady in a broom cupboard for hours on end ring any bells? Do we not recall locking an office door with a major component still in it?”

  Dirk Dashley moved into angry mode.

  “Good God Trumper, these people are the life-blood of the community, the people that matter, the people who give service to the most vulnerable and are awarded medals and given honours by her Majesty!”

  Dirk Dashley was just about to move into ugly incidents of the past mode, as he remembered how he had lost his knighthood, but thought better of it.

  In the brief silence which ensued, Arry took the opportunity to stand up and present the case for the defence.

  “Most revered leader, I have a most grievous and lamentable narrative to communicate. That I was en route to the pre-arranged destination cannot be denied. That I entered the premises of the aforesaid destination, however, is a subject for debate: it is my contention that any potentially meaningful contribution to community relations was curtailed in a most peremptory fashion.”

  Dirk Dashley reached for a bottle of whiskey located in the bottom drawer of his desk: he had labelled the bottle: To be opened in emergencies only.

  “In close proximity to the establishment, I fell into the hands of desperate brigands who, without express permission, removed my letter of introduction and sundry supplies of nourishment. Further indescribable outrages to my person followed whose conclusion was a forced incarceration in the confines of an out-building in the grounds of the aforementioned establishment.”

  “Oh God, I don’t believe it.”

  Dirk Dashley, seemingly without access to a drinking receptacle, took a big, long gulp of whiskey, closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “The revered leader of the brigands proposed to his comrades that he impersonate his captive, namely myself, so that he might without hindrance access the establishment, as a part of a daring enterprise to liberate the poor unfortunates detained within.”

  Dirk Dashley shook his head again, which by now was starting to spin round and round and round.

  “Don’t tell me Trumper, just let me guess.”

  Dirk Dashley prefaced his guesswork with another extended decanting of the emergency bottle.

  “The leader of these brigands had orange hair and a big, bushy beard. No, please let me continue…would I be right in conjecturing that he went by the name of Melvin de Chirico?”

  “Affirmative most revered leader. He had the appearance of the most desperate of desperadoes who, despite his lack of stature, commanded great respect and communicated his dread intentions with a natural authority.”

  Dirk Dashley stood up, a little wobbly at first, but managed to secure his balance by holding on to the corner of his desk. He gazed out the window for a couple of minutes, and then looked back into the room, hoping that he would find it empty. Unfortunately, the room still contained the traumatised victim of an attack by desperate brigands, who was still holding his left e
ar with one hand and rubbing his leg with the other.

  What was the Ofsted advice on this kind of situation? Risk Assessment was one thing, but anticipating child abduction, the impersonation of a minor on a Community Project and the consequent liberation of undesirables on to the streets of Southport, all in one day, quite another.

  The revered leader resumed his solitary vigil at the window.

  “What on Earth am I going to do Trumper?”

  “Revered leader, may I be so bold as to proffer a solution to this unforeseen catastrophe which may be agreeable to all concerned parties?”

  Silence equalled assent.

  “During my brief sojourn in the company of the brigands, I experienced what is described in the text books of abnormal clinical psychology as the Southport Syndrome, a fascinating condition whereby an intellectually superior imprisoned person can make his gaoler believe anything he tells him, no matter how improbable. The Syndrome is well-documented, of course, as you will know. ”

  Dirk Dashley had no idea what Arry Trumper was talking about, but he was prepared to listen to anything as long as it gave him a way out.

  “This condition persists even after the release of the captive and enables him to change fact to fiction and fiction to fact in the mind of his former captor. The solution to our conundrum therefore is quite simple: I shall make contact with the redoubtable Melvin de Chirico and suggest that it was not he who carried out the daring rescue operation, but rather a fraudulent operative disguised as him who was acting in cahoots with a dastardly Care Home Assistant, who had merely pretended to be locked in a broom cupboard for five hours.”

  Dirk Dashley, his mind befuddled by whiskey and Ofsted, was ready to agree to the most convoluted and unlikely re-writing of history, as long as it did not implicate him. However, his mind was just about clear enough to work out that the dastardly Care Home Assistant might take great exception to Arry’s new version of events.

  “Do not fear, most revered leader, only convenient truths will be revealed.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Community Project Video Blog

  If you visit YouTube and search for a video titled “How to blow a whistle quite quietly”, you will find the outcome of Arry’s Community Project. Visually, I have to warn you, it is slightly disappointing, as it consists entirely of a person of small stature sitting in his bedroom, in semi-darkness, who I presume is Melvin de Chirico, the leader of the brigands whom Arry mentioned in the last chapter. I also must tell you that if you were hoping to get some top tips on polite refereeing from the clip, you will be sorely disappointed.

  But at least Dirk Dashley was quite pleased with it.

  However, it is not absolutely certain who is actually on the screen, as the credits at the end of the video seem a little confused and a bit random. As well as thanking Melvin de Chirico, the video also pays great tribute to Janice Uniparts, Edward Soft and someone referred to as Jeffrey, for their support. The figure in the video certainly looks like the person described by Arry to Dirk Dashley, with bright orange hair and sporting a bushy beard, but why would the feared leader of desperate Southport brigands have pictures of Biffa the Bear pasted all around the walls of his bedroom? Having said that, the pictures are not the regular pictures you might have seen in the Blue, Red and Green Trouser Series. They are all quite scary, even in semi-darkness, or maybe even because they are in semi-darkness. In all of them, Biffa seems to have turned into somebody quite nasty, certainly not someone you would like to meet sitting in a deck chair on Southport’s sea front, or even in an Official Reading Scheme.

  I’ll give you a few examples, so that you can make a decision, if you are one of our younger readers, on whether or not to watch the video. Alternatively, you might get mum or dad to check it out first. In several pictures, a very aggressive Biffa is dressed in a pretty, floral nightie, standing over a body, and holding a big stick in the air. In another, a smirking Biffa in a smart, grey suit is wagging his finger at several distraught children and a teacher who are all cowering behind a big pile of files. In the most frightening one, in my opinion, a sneering Biffa appears to have locked up lots of people in a gloomy room and is dropping the key down a deep drain.

  Now that you have been warned about these horrific images of Biffa and just in case you have decided not to watch the video, I have taken the trouble to make a transcription of what is spoken on screen. To help you out, I have also included a few notes about what is happening as the small person speaks to the camera.

  Information for all those readers who

  do not want to watch the video or

  their parents won’t let them

  The small figure is seated on his bed and is staring directly into the camera, stroking his beard. He is speaking in English, but with a strange foreign accent – a sort of bizarre cross between Russian and German. I won’t try to copy the accent, so you will just have to imagine that bit.

  “Today comrades, we have struck a mighty blow against the most evil of evil empires; the chains of oppression have been cut; the doors of tyranny unhinged: freedom in Southport today; revolution in Lytham St Anne’s tomorrow!”

  At this point, the small bearded figure stands up on his bed and waves a placard with his left hand saying one word only: Freedom.

  “Today, the oppressed have a seen a great light, called the sun; this day, forever to be remembered by generations to come, the persecuted have shared the greatest of great riches on Southport’s pier, called fresh fish and chips.”

  The speaker now picks up a large photograph.

  “And who must we thank for lighting this great bonfire of hope which will burn for all time? Who is it who unbolted the locked doors of freedom to Southport’s sea front?”

  The speaker now holds a large photograph triumphantly aloft in his right hand.

  “Comrade Sister Trumper!”

  I am going to pause the action at this point to say that your decision not to watch Arry’s Community Project video was probably the right one. The photograph of Comrade Sister Trumper, it has to be said, is not a good one; in fact, it is really quite alarming. Our worthy revolutionary is wearing a huge, black “I’m a Pheasant Plucker” hat and is baring her teeth at the camera whilst making the V for Victory sign.

  Tracey Trumper was not a very subtle person.

  “Almost single-handedly Comrade Sister Trumper fought valiantly against impossible odds, risking her life to liberate victims of the most shocking brutality. Armed only with her quick wit and compassion for those less fortunate than herself, our beloved Comrade Sister put her plan into action. Working alongside an unknown operative disguised as a desperate brigand, Comrade Sister Trumper conferred freedom on so many incarcerated unfortunates. And then, in these most dangerous circumstances and with no thought for her personal comfort, she endured hours choking in a smoke-filled, broom cupboard to avoid suspicion.

  Comrade Sister Trumper, freedom fighter, Southport salutes you.”

  At this point, the light fades and a song plays. Personally I have never heard the song before, as it is a rather obscure one from the 1960’s, aptly titled, I suppose, “Tracy”. I hope that you have spotted the different spelling.

  On seeing the video, Comrade Sister Trumper was not a happy person; she was also no longer an employed person.

  CHAPTER 10

  “The Greg Pacey Spectacular”

  I have only watched “The Greg Pacey Spectacular” a few times on television, and I must say that I do not like it very much; however, when I discovered that Arry was appearing on it, I made a point of tuning in. The format of the show is always the same: a troubled family is interviewed by the host, Greg Pacey, who tries to sort out their problems. The show usually starts off calmly enough, but very quickly it turns into a free for all when the troubled family become quite annoyed with each other. Sometimes fights break out between me
mbers of the troubled family and Greg Pacey has to referee a shouting and wrestling match all rolled into one. This makes it very difficult for the man at the bottom of the screen who is signing the show in order to help anyone with hearing problems follow what is happening: with so many voices coming at him, his hands and arms are severely overworked as he turns into a kind of manic windmill. In the end, he just shrugs his shoulders, which I think is sign language for “I’ve no idea what’s happening”, or something like that.

  Just in case you missed the episode with Arry in it, this is what happened.

  The studio television audience clapped, whooped and cheered loudly as the one and only Greg Pacey pranced out on to the stage with its strategically placed comfy red chairs. He was wearing his usual checked, open-necked shirt, his usual bright yellow chino trousers and his usual expensive trainers. He was all smiles, a bit like a very hungry crocodile, ready to meet and greet his guests to sort out their troubling problems.

  “Morning guys,” Greg held up his hands.

  “Thank you my friends,” Greg held up his hands again, even higher, to reveal wet patches under his arms.

  Greg Pacey is a household name, of course, especially in Belgium. He is also a bit sweaty, but the audience couldn’t tell, as they were seated at some distance from him; and besides, most of the audience also had damp patches under their arms and other places as well because many of these people were astonishingly obese. I mean so obese that if they had been made of bricks they could have been knocked down and converted into retirement homes for the elderly. I’ve just read that sentence back to myself and it sounds rather unkind and insensitive: so I’m really sorry if I have offended you or one of your relatives. If you were not offended or have no relatives, I’m happy to continue writing and not bother with an apology.