The Boy Who Preferred to Be Somebody Else
Page 8
“Today’s about being honest.” This was Greg’s most well-known catch-phrase, used in every show, in every situation. He had a few others like “There’s two sides to a story”, “Let’s try to move forward quite rapidly” and “I find you quite repulsive”, but his best known was all about being honest.
“Welcome. My first guest today on “The Greg Pacey Spectacular” is an unusual one: he is only eleven years old and is our youngest ever guest. His name is Arry: please give him a big round of applause!”
Arry walked on to the stage smiling, gave Greg Pacey a high-five and sat himself down on one of the comfy red chairs.
The applause of the studio audience was punctuated by occasional remarks such as “Isn’t he lovely” and “What a sweetie” and “I want to take him home” – the kind of thing that Miss Flowerpot used to say about Biffa before he had the endings to his stories changed.
“Arry, you asked to come on the show tonight, can you tell us all why?”
“Mr Pacey, may I first of all thank you for being so generous as to allow me to come on your show. Sir, it is both a privilege and an honour. Thank you also to your splendid audience who I hope will be kind enough to listen to my most distressing story.”
Lots of approving noises from the audience and several offers to adopt him.
Greg Pacey sat himself down on the chair next to Arry, paused for a moment, and then spoke to him, but looking at the audience.
“Arry, I know that this is quite difficult for you. Please just take your time.”
Silence fell, as some of the audience were already dabbing their eyes.
“Mr Pacey, I will cut a long, sad story short: I believe that I was switched at birth.”
Gasps from the audience.
“After many years of extensive research into the archives of the Southport General Hospital, I have uncovered a plot most sinister, as Hercule Poirot might have said. I have, in a nutshell, incontrovertible evidence that my parents are not my true parents at all, but heartless imposters. It is my contention that Tracey and Carl Trumper did, on the day of my birth, exchange me for their son. I am not Arry Trumper at all, but Anthony St John Lucas III, son of Anthony St John Lucas II, Twenty Third Lord of the Wirral, who died in a tragic car accident shortly before my birth, and whose wife, Clarissa, my mother, died in childbirth!”
Further gasps from the audience, but even louder.
“So let me try and get my head round this. In the early years of the twenty-first century, in Southport no less, a place better known for its quiet walks and as a final resting place for the elderly, two babies were swapped on a hospital ward. One was of low birth and the other a member of the English aristocracy. It’s like something out of a Dickens novel!”
Many in the audience shook their heads in disbelief at the dastardly deed; others put up a hand in front of their mouth.
“And did your researches find out what happened to the real Arry Trumper? Is he still alive?
“It is a most remarkable and tragic tale Mr Pacey. According to family legend, the unfortunate child, blessed only with a remarkable mop of orange hair, was kidnapped by local brigands from the ambulance as it waited on the hospital concourse for a driver to arrive; alas, as far as is known, neither he nor the ambulance were ever seen again.”
An appalled hush descended on the television studio.
Greg Pacey stood up to face the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there are two sides to a story. We’ve heard from little Arry here, who is really Anthony St John Lucas III. He says that he has been robbed of his name, his title and his inheritance. It’s time to meet his so-called mother, Tracey Trumper.”
Tracey Trumper entered the stage boldly, as if she couldn’t wait to get on and let the world know what really happened. Even before she had reached the red chair, she was wagging her finger vigorously at Arry, aka Anthony St John Lucas III, and shouting the most foul abuse at him. When she got to the chair she was in full throttle.
Tracey Trumper was a not a shy person.
Her exact words were difficult to hear as they were drowned out by raucous booing and chanting of “off, off, off!!” from the audience, which went on for several minutes. The man at the bottom of the screen who was doing the signing was baffled and shrugged his shoulders.
Greg Pacey stood up and held up his hands – his usual signal to the audience for quiet.
“It doesn’t look good does it? What I’m saying here is that I’m horrified at what I have just heard. You gave away your own flesh and blood and stole an orphan from a Southport Hospital. You have ripped two families apart!”
Greg Pacey had knelt down close to Tracey and was so irate that with every word he punched his knee, which was slightly unlucky as it drew attention to a brown tea-stain on his yellow chinos.
Biffa would not have been impressed.
“You call yourself a mother? What have you got to say for yourself Tracey?”
“I’ve got plenty to say to you and to that little runt sat there. Swapped at birth my eye. He’s having a laugh. He’s been trouble ever since he was born, just like his father. Have you asked him about setting fire to the neighbourhood and various unexplained bogus phone calls? Have you heard about him and his gang vandalising over three hundred stories in an Official Reading Scheme? Has he told you about letting educational degenerates loose on Southport sea front and him spreading filthy lies about me on the Internet?”
Tracey was shrieking and waving her fist at the young offender next to her, the veins in her neck and forehead, it seems, about to pop out their place.
“Tracey, you seem to be angry about something. I wonder if it’s a guilty conscience which is making you so angry. Yes or no?”
Tracey did not have the chance to answer either in the affirmative or the negative, as from one side of the stage Carl Trumper, wearing a brand new Manchester United away shirt, bought especially for the occasion, entered. He seemed to be trying to calm Tracey Trumper down by addressing her as “my sweet”, but after that, his words were lost in the further mayhem caused by Tommy Trumper joining in the fracas, entering from the other side of the stage, shouting something about his grandson only being “irregular” and trying to grab Tracey by her baggy I Luv Braxton T-shirt.
The man doing the signing, no longer at the bottom of the screen, had given up and gone home after two security men jumped on the stage and tried, but failed, to separate the warring factions.
Emotions were running high as members of the audience also decided to get involved in the lively debate on stage.
Greg Pacey, well-experienced in this kind of situation, managed to detach himself from the rumpus, face the camera and sum up the troubled family with his usual words of wisdom to end the show.
“We will probably never know what really happened on that day, eleven years ago, in a Southport Hospital. We might have got to the truth using a lie-detector, but unfortunately it’s broken. Maybe the only way to move forward now is to forgive and forget.”
At this point, a chair leg thankfully missed Greg Pacey’s head, but only just.
“Tracey, Carl, Tommy and Arry must continue to work on their relationship. Show understanding towards one another, no matter what life may throw at them.”
At this point, a second chair leg travelled at high velocity through the air towards Tommy Trumper.
“Friends. Please give this troubled family a round of applause and join us next week for “The Greg Pacey Spectacular”. Goodnight.”
Before switching off the television, I checked to make sure that Arry was not hurt in the mêlée, and I am pleased to be able to tell you that he was quite safe. He managed to take refuge amongst those members of the audience who were not doing battle on stage. In fact, he was quite enjoying himself signing autographs, although I do not know whether he was signing hi
mself as Arry Trumper, Anthony St John Lucas III, Janice Uniparts, Ed Soft, Melvin de Chirico or simply as Jeffrey.
One thing is certain: Dirk Dashley, who had apparently been watching the show, was relieved that the boy Trumper would be starting Secondary school in September and would be someone else’s problem, not his.