The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories

by George Layton

  Contents

  Introduction

  The Fib

  The Swap

  The Trick

  About the Author

  Introduction

  In the early 1970s I was commissioned to write and read a short story for BBC radio that I had called The Fib, in which the unnamed narrator, a troubled boy from a single-parent family, who loathed football, told a lie that his uncle was Bobby Charlton. Understandably, the broadcast of The Fib was somewhat dependant on acquiring the great man’s blessing.

  As a matter of courtesy, I telephoned Mr Charlton (as he then was) at Preston North End Football Club, where he was the manager. After introducing myself and giving the reason for telephoning, the conversation went something like this:

  George: . . . Yes, it’s called The Fib and it’s going to be broadcast on the radio. On the BBC.

  Bobby Charlton: Oh aye?

  George: Yes, and honestly, Mr Charlton, you really do come out as quite a hero in it.

  Bobby Charlton: Oh aye?

  George: Yes, and I am really hoping that you will . . .

  Bobby Charlton: Give my permission?

  George: Erm . . .

  [Awkward pause. I had conveniently failed to mention that the story had already been recorded and would be listed in the forthcoming edition of Radio Times.]

  George: . . . Erm, yes, please.

  Bobby Charlton: Away you go, son!

  Now, I wasn’t sure if ‘Away you go, son!’ meant please go away, I’m a very busy man or away you go and write it. I chose it to mean the latter.

  Happily it has been an enduring friendship, culminating when Sir Bobby was guest of honour at a concert at Cadogan Hall, London, in 2011, where, accompanied by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, I read The Fib to music especially composed by the eminent composer Debbie Wiseman MBE.

  Although the earliest edition of my stories was published in 1975, The Fib was the last to be written. I wrote the first story, ‘The Gang Hut’, in 1960, during my first term at drama school in London. Returning home for the Christmas holidays I met a girl on the train also from Bradford and she kindly offered to type out my scribbled, handwritten copy. What I didn’t know was that she worked for the producer of the popular BBC radio programme Morning Story.

  With the kind of luck that I have been blessed with throughout my career, she gave the typed copy to her boss, Hazel Lewthwaite, who liked it, bought it and booked me to read it. After leaving drama school in 1962, I auditioned to be a reader on Woman’s Hour and I used ‘The Gang Hut’ as my audition piece. The producer, Virginia Browne-Wilkinson, liked it enough to commission four further stories, which I read as a Woman’s Hour serial under the title A Northern Childhood. These evocative period stories written for an adult audience proved so popular that five more A Northern Childhood stories were commissioned. A Northern Childhood was published as an educational book by Longman, now Pearson, and is still available today.

  Whilst hugely grateful that my books have found this ongoing younger audience, not least helped by the fact that The Fib and Other Stories has been on the national curriculum for over twenty-five years, I have to say that I am not a children’s writer. I write about childhood: the pain of childhood, the traumas, the day-to-day worries, bullying, guilt, peer pressure – all voiced through the thoughts of a young, troubled narrator with limited vocabulary.

  This narrator lives in a different age to the young reader of today. No internet, no computers, no mobile phones, no video games, no DVDs, no television. No central heating! So why do my stories resonate with today’s young readers? Because the bullying, guilt, peer pressure and prejudice that my narrator has to deal with are for them just as relevant today. The issues I write about based on my own 1950s childhood are timeless. For example, I am writing this introduction on the first day of the 2015 general election campaign. In The Swap and Other Stories, my second collection, there is a story called ‘The Pigeon’, which deals with immigration and prejudice in 1954.

  When I wrote these stories for radio, specifically for an adult audience, I never thought for one moment that any of them might ever be published. To be writing this introduction to the fortieth anniversary edition for Macmillan Children’s Books is for me nothing less than astonishing.

  Each book has a dedication, which was relevant at the time of publication and gave me much pleasure. I have not only been blessed with luck in my career, I have been blessed with the most wonderful family, not least my dear wife of nearly forty years.

  Therefore I dedicate this fortieth anniversary edition to Moya, my four children, my brother and sister and their children, indeed all my extended family – and one in particular:

  For my dear grandson

  THEO

  George Layton

  March 2015

  The Fib

  For my children Tristan, Claudie, Daniel and Hannah

  Contents

  The Balaclava Story

  The Christmas Party

  The Long Walk

  The Holiday

  The Gang Hut

  The Fib

  The Firework Display

  The Mile

  The Foursome

  The Exam

  THE BALACLAVA STORY

  Tony and Barry both had one. I reckon half the kids in our class had one. But I didn’t. My mum wouldn’t even listen to me.

  ‘You’re not having a balaclava! What do you want a balaclava for in the middle of summer?’

  I must’ve told her about ten times why I wanted a balaclava.

  ‘I want one so’s I can join the Balaclava Boys . . .’

  ‘Go and wash your hands for tea, and don’t be so silly.’

  She turned away from me to lay the table, so I put the curse of the middle finger on her. This was pointing both your middle fingers at somebody when they weren’t looking. Tony had started it when Miss Taylor gave him a hundred lines for flicking paper pellets at Jennifer Greenwood. He had to write out a hundred times: ‘I must not fire missiles because it is dangerous and liable to cause damage to someone’s eye.’

  Tony tried to tell Miss Taylor that he hadn’t fired a missile, he’d just flicked a paper pellet, but she threw a piece of chalk at him and told him to shut up.

  ‘Don’t just stand there – wash your hands.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Don’t say “eh”, say “pardon”.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just hurry up, and make sure the dirt comes off in the water, and not on the towel, do you hear?’

  Ooh, my mum. She didn’t half go on sometimes.

  ‘I don’t know what you get up to at school. How do you get so dirty?’

  I knew exactly the kind of balaclava I wanted. One just like Tony’s, a sort of yellowy-brown. His dad had given it to him because of his earache. Mind you, he didn’t like wearing it at first. At school he’d given it to Barry to wear and got it back before home-time. But all the other lads started asking if they could have a wear of it, so Tony took it back and said from then on nobody but him could wear it, not even Barry. Barry told him he wasn’t bothered because he was going to get a balaclava of his own, and so did some of the other lads. And that’s how it started – the Balaclava Boys.

  It wasn’t a gang really. I mean they didn’t have meetings or anything like that. They just went around together wearing their balaclavas, and if you didn’t have one you couldn’t go around with them. Tony and Barry were my best friends, but because I didn’t have a balaclava, they wouldn’t let me go round with them. I tried.

  ‘Aw, go on, Barry, let us walk round with you.’

  ‘No, you can’t. You’re not
a Balaclava Boy.’

  ‘Aw, go on.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  I don’t know why I wanted to walk round with them anyway. All they did was wander up and down the playground dressed in their rotten balaclavas. It was daft.

  ‘Go on, Barry, be a sport.’

  ‘I’ve told you. You’re not a Balaclava Boy. You’ve got to have a balaclava. If you get one, you can join.’

  ‘But I can’t, Barry. My mum won’t let me have one.’

  ‘Hard luck.’

  ‘You’re rotten.’

  Then he went off with the others. I wasn’t half fed up. All my friends were in the Balaclava Boys. All the lads in my class except me. Wasn’t fair. The bell went for the next lesson – ooh heck, handicraft with the Miseryguts Garnett – then it was home-time. All the Balaclava Boys were going in and I followed them.

  ‘Hey, Tony, do you want to go down the woods after school?’

  ‘No, I’m going round with the Balaclava Boys.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Blooming Balaclava Boys. Why wouldn’t my mum buy me a balaclava? Didn’t she realize that I was losing all my friends, and just because she wouldn’t buy me one?

  ‘Eh, Tony, we can go goose-gogging – you know, by those great gooseberry bushes at the other end of the woods.’

  ‘I’ve told you, I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I thought you might want to go goose-gogging.’

  ‘Well, I would, but I can’t.’

  I wondered if Barry would be going as well.

  ‘Is Barry going round with the Balaclava Boys an’ all?’

  ‘Course he is.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Blooming balaclavas. I wish they’d never been invented.

  ‘Why won’t your mum get you one?’

  ‘I don’t know. She says it’s daft wearing a balaclava in the middle of summer. She won’t let me have one.’

  ‘I found mine at home up in our attic.’

  Tony unwrapped some chewing gum and asked me if I wanted a piece.

  ‘No thanks.’ I’d’ve only had to wrap it in my handkerchief once we got in the classroom. You couldn’t get away with anything with Mr Garnett.

  ‘Hey, maybe you could find one in your attic.’

  For a minute I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

  ‘Find what?’

  ‘A balaclava.’

  ‘No, we haven’t even got an attic.’

  I didn’t half find handicraft class boring. All that mucking about with compasses and rulers. Or else it was weaving, and you got all tangled up with balls of wool. I was just no good at handicraft and Mr Garnett agreed with me. Today was worse than ever. We were painting pictures and we had to call it ‘My Favourite Story’. Tony was painting Noddy in Toyland. I told him he’d get into trouble.

  ‘Garnett’ll do you.’

  ‘Why? It’s my favourite story.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think he’ll believe you.’

  Tony looked ever so hurt.

  ‘But honest. It’s my favourite story. Anyway what are you doing?’

  He leaned over to have a look at my favourite story.

  ‘Have you read it, Tony?’

  ‘I don’t know. What is it?’

  ‘It’s Robinson Crusoe, what do you think it is?’

  He just looked at my painting.

  ‘Oh, I see it now. Oh yes, I get it now. I couldn’t make it out for a minute. Oh yes, there’s Man Friday behind him.’

  ‘Get your finger off, it’s still wet. And that isn’t Man Friday, it’s a coconut tree. And you’ve smudged it.’

  We were using some stuff called poster paint, and I got covered in it. I was getting it everywhere, so I asked Mr Garnett if I could go for a wash. He gets annoyed when you ask to be excused, but he could see I’d got it all over my hands, so he said I could go, but told me to be quick.

  The washbasins were in the boys’ cloakroom just outside the main hall. I got most of the paint off and as I was drying my hands, that’s when it happened. I don’t know what came over me. As soon as I saw that balaclava lying there on the floor, I decided to pinch it. I couldn’t help it. I just knew that this was my only chance. I’ve never pinched anything before – I don’t think I have – but I didn’t think of this as . . . well . . . I don’t even like saying it, but . . . well, stealing. I just did it.

  I picked it up, went to my coat, and put it in the pocket. At least I tried to put it in the pocket but it bulged out, so I pushed it down the inside of the sleeve. My head was throbbing, and even though I’d just dried my hands, they were all wet from sweating. If only I’d thought a bit first. But it all happened so quickly. I went back to the classroom, and as I was going in I began to realize what I’d done. I’d stolen a balaclava. I didn’t even know whose it was, but as I stood in the doorway I couldn’t believe I’d done it. If only I could go back. In fact I thought I would but then Mr Garnett told me to hurry up and sit down. As I was going back to my desk I felt as if all the lads knew what I’d done. How could they? Maybe somebody had seen me. No! Yes! How could they? They could. Of course they couldn’t. No, course not. What if they did though? Oh heck.

  I thought home-time would never come but when the bell did ring I got out as quick as I could. I was going to put the balaclava back before anybody noticed; but as I got to the cloakroom I heard Norbert Lightowler shout out that someone had pinched his balaclava. Nobody took much notice, thank goodness, and I heard Tony say to him that he’d most likely lost it. Norbert said he hadn’t but he went off to make sure it wasn’t in the classroom.

  I tried to be all casual and took my coat, but I didn’t dare put it on in case the balaclava popped out of the sleeve. I said tarah to Tony.

  ‘Tarah, Tony, see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeh, tarah.’

  Oh, it was good to get out in the open air. I couldn’t wait to get home and get rid of that blooming balaclava. Why had I gone and done a stupid thing like that? Norbert Lightowler was sure to report it to the Headmaster, and there’d be an announcement about it at morning assembly and the culprit would be asked to own up. I was running home as fast as I could. I wanted to stop and take out the balaclava and chuck it away, but I didn’t dare. The faster I ran, the faster my head was filled with thoughts. I could give it back to Norbert. You know, say I’d taken it by mistake. No, he’d never believe me. None of the lads would believe me. Everybody knew how much I wanted to be a Balaclava Boy. I’d have to get rid of the blooming thing as fast as I could.

  My mum wasn’t back from work when I got home, thank goodness, so as soon as I shut the front door, I put my hand down the sleeve of my coat for the balaclava. There was nothing there. That was funny, I was sure I’d put it down that sleeve. I tried down the other sleeve, and there was still nothing there. Maybe I’d got the wrong coat. No, it was my coat all right. Oh, blimey, I must’ve lost it while I was running home. I was glad in a way. I was going to have to get rid of it, now it was gone. I only hoped nobody had seen it drop out, but, oh, I was glad to be rid of it. Mind you, I was dreading going to school next morning. Norbert’ll probably have reported it by now. Well, I wasn’t going to own up. I didn’t mind the cane, it wasn’t that, but if you owned up, you had to go up on the stage in front of the whole school. Well, I was going to forget about it now and nobody would ever know that I’d pinched that blooming lousy balaclava.

  I started to do my homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about assembly next morning. What if I went all red and everybody else noticed? They’d know I’d pinched it then. I tried to think about other things, nice things. I thought about bed. I just wanted to go to sleep. To go to bed and sleep. Then I thought about my mum; what she’d say if she knew I’d been stealing. But I still couldn’t forget about assembly next day. I went into the kitchen and peeled some potatoes for my mum. She was ever so pleased when she came in from work and said I must’ve known she’d brought me a present.

&nbs
p; ‘Oh, thanks. What’ve you got me?’

  She gave me a paper bag and when I opened it I couldn’t believe my eyes – a blooming balaclava.

  ‘There you are, now you won’t be left out and you can stop making my life a misery.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  If only my mum knew she was making my life a misery. The balaclava she’d bought me was just like the one I’d pinched. I felt sick. I didn’t want it. I couldn’t wear it now. If I did, everybody would say it was Norbert Lightowler’s. Even if they didn’t, I just couldn’t wear it. I wouldn’t feel it was mine. I had to get rid of it. I went outside and put it down the lavatory. I had to pull the chain three times before it went away. It’s a good job we’ve got an outside lavatory or else my mum would have wondered what was wrong with me.

  I could hardly eat my tea.

  ‘What’s wrong with you? Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘No, not much.’

  ‘What’ve you been eating? You’ve been eating sweets, haven’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t feel hungry.’

  ‘Don’t you feel well?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  I wasn’t, I felt terrible. I told my mum I was going upstairs to work on my model aeroplane.

  ‘Well, it’s my bingo night, so make yourself some cocoa before you go to bed.’

  I went upstairs to bed, and after a while I fell asleep. The last thing I remember was a big balaclava, with a smiling face, and it was the Headmaster’s face.

  I was scared stiff when I went to school next morning. In assembly it seemed different. All the boys were looking at me. Norbert Lightowler pushed past and didn’t say anything. When prayers finished I just stood there waiting for the Headmaster to ask for the culprit to own up, but he was talking about the school fete. And then he said he had something very important to announce and I could feel myself going red. My ears were burning like anything and I was going hot and cold both at the same time.

  ‘I’m very pleased to announce that the school football team has won the inter-league cup . . .’