The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories

by George Layton

  Now Tony had the best of both worlds. He got seven O Levels in one go, but then he had to leave. His mum and dad couldn’t afford to keep him on. I don’t think they realised how clever he was. Anyway, there’s all his brothers and sisters, three brothers and two sisters, all younger than him, so you can see why he had to leave school to bring a bit more money in. I remember, he left in July and we both went camping for a week in the Lake District. Then he started work the day after we got back. He went as an apprentice engineer to Bulmer’s.

  Bulmer’s is a big engineering works near us. His dad works there as well, and his mum goes in part-time, cleaning. Quite a family affair really. I sometimes kid him on about it.

  ‘Get a few more of your family at Bulmer’s, and you might as well move in.’

  ‘No need for that. There’s talk of them transferring the works to our house.’

  That’s not far off the truth either. It’s a right tip is their house. Thousands of kids running round with no clothes on, or perhaps just a vest or an odd sock. His mum shouting at everybody, mostly at his dad, who never takes any notice because he’s too busy working out which horses are going to lose that day. Oh, it’s a right blooming hole is that house. And Tony used to sit at the table amongst the bread and jam and condensed milk doing his homework. I used to wonder how he could do any work at all with that racket going on.

  ‘How the hell you can do your homework in that blooming row, I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t bother me. I just get on with it.’

  And every exam he’d come out in the top three. It’s a shame he had to leave school, he’d have done really well. Mind you, he’s doing all right now. He’ll be finishing his apprenticeship soon, and then, like Barry, he’ll be knocking up quite a good wage. He’s engaged and all, but she’s decided she wants to wait until he finishes his apprenticeship before they get married, and he’s agreed.

  ‘You see, once I’m qualified we’ll be able to save about ten or fifteen pounds a week for a deposit on a house.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you think you’re a bit young to get married?’

  ‘I’ll be going on for twenty. That’s not young these days.’

  You see, it seems daft. I’m still at school, and there’s Tony arranging to get married. I’ve agreed to be his best man.

  Oh, dear! Hey, come on, I’d better get started on this paper. Question number one: ‘Walpole was the first Prime Minister of this country. Comment!’

  What a daft question! ‘Walpole was the first Prime Minister of this country. Comment!’ So what? Walpole was the first Prime Minister of this country! Walpole was the first Prime Minister of this country!

  Good God! Norbert’s actually using a handkerchief. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.

  Norbert Lightowler is actually using a handkerchief! Comment! Poor old Norbert. You know, his dad makes him do the pools every week, and if he doesn’t win, he gets thumped. That’s what makes me feel guilty. I’m really the only one who’s got it easy. My mum’s perfect.

  At least, that’s what I used to think. I mean, what she did the other day shouldn’t make such a difference. It wasn’t stealing, it was harmless really. It was nothing.

  We’d been out shopping at Atkinson’s, where I do my grocery round, and when we got outside, my mum looked all pleased with herself.

  ‘Hey, Mr Atkinson gave me a pound too much in the change.’

  And that was it. She just put it in her purse and forgot about it. And all I could think was, if it had been me, she’d have sent me straight back. But she just dismissed it. I never said anything to her, but everything seemed different from then on.

  Suddenly, Mr Holdsworth shouted something out.

  ‘All right, boys, you can stop writing now.’

  I didn’t know what the hell was going on at first, and then it dawned on me – the exam was over! I looked at my watch. Blimey, I’d been daydreaming for three hours. Three hours! Mr Holdsworth came round, collecting up the papers. He nearly passed out when he saw mine.

  ‘Well, I’ll go to Sheffield!’ And he just stood there looking at me.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I mumbled something about it being a difficult paper, and that I’d been unlucky with the questions.

  When my mum asked me that night how I’d got on, I just told her I didn’t finish the paper.

  That didn’t bother her.

  ‘Oh, you’ll pass with flying colours, I know you will. You’ll be at the university soon . . .’

  I’ve been working at Bulmer’s for three months now. My mum was very upset at first when I didn’t get into university, but she was all right after a while. It’s not too bad at Bulmer’s; it’s a change from school, anyway. I don’t see much of Tony, though. You see, I’m in the office. I’m a white-collar worker. My mum’s very proud of me.

  The Swap

  In memory of my dear parents

  Edith and Freddie Layton

  and

  to the City of Bradford

  that made them so welcome

  Contents

  The Treehouse

  The Second Prize

  The Pigeon: Part One

  The Pigeon: Part Two

  The Pigeon: Part Three

  The Yo-Yo Champion

  The Best Dad

  The Swap: Part One

  The Swap: Part Two

  THE TREEHOUSE

  The first time I ever saw Mr Bleasdale take the register, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. That was because he didn’t take his eye off me. Yes – his eye. His left eye.

  It was on my first day at Grammar School and I’d never seen anything like it. I’d been put in 1B and Mr Bleasdale was our form master. He also taught Latin and he could look down with one eye to read, write or take the register and at the same time could keep his other eye on the class. And it never blinked. It just stared at us making sure nobody misbehaved while he was calling out our names.

  ‘Barraclough . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Boocock . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Cawthra . . .’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  Everybody answered when they heard their name called out. Nobody dared to look round to see what the lad shouting out looked like.

  We were all nervous anyway, it being our first day at the Grammar, but none of us had seen anything like this. We just sat staring straight ahead at Mr Bleasdale’s eye.

  ‘Edwards . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Emmott . . .’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘Gower . . .’

  ‘Sir . . .’

  How did he do it? How could anyone look down with one eye and stare straight ahead with the other? It was impossible. I tried it. I looked down at my desk with my right eye, just like Mr Bleasdale, and tried to keep my left eye up. It was impossible.

  But it wasn’t. Mr Bleasdale could do it. Perhaps all Grammar School teachers could do it . . . Oh dear . . .

  ‘Holdsworth . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Hopkinson . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir . . .’

  ‘Hopwood . . .’

  ‘Sir.’

  Oh dear. At High Moor Primary we used to get away with murder when the teacher wasn’t looking. Especially in Miss Dixon’s classes. Here we wouldn’t be able to do anything – except work. Certainly with Mr Bleasdale ’cos he’d always be looking.

  ‘Lightowler . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Even Norbert Lightowler was behaving himself. And he was dressed smartly for once. Well, for him. He hadn’t got a brand new blazer like everyone else – his mum couldn’t afford it, but she’d managed to get hold of a second-hand one from somewhere. It was miles too big for him but Norbert didn’t seem to mind. Norbert was the only other lad I knew in 1B. We’d been at High Moor together and everybody was surprised when he’d got into Grammar School – especially Norbert. His mum wasn’t very pleased
because it meant him staying on at school till he was sixteen. She’d have rather he left as soon as possible and get a job and bring some money in like the rest of his brothers and sisters. That’s what my mum said anyway.

  At Primary School I’d always found Norbert a bit of a nuisance, always telling me I was his best friend, forever hanging round trying to get into our gang. But today I was glad he was sitting next to me. At least I knew somebody, had somebody to talk to. Tony, my best friend, had come to the Grammar as well but he’d been put into 1 Alpha. I couldn’t wait to ask him if his teacher could watch the class with one eye while he looked down with the other.

  ‘McDougall . . .’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Mudd . . .’

  ‘Sir.’

  Mudd. Fancy having a name like that, Mudd. Everybody giggled and a few including me and Norbert looked round to see what he looked like. He was a big lad, probably the biggest in the class. I wouldn’t be laughing at his name again.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen, you’ve got this next five years to get to know each other so I’d be grateful if I could have your undivided attention for the next few minutes.’

  I turned back to the front as Mr Bleasdale carried on calling out our names, his right eye on the register, his left eye on us.

  ‘Nunn . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  That was the first time I’d seen Mr Bleasdale. It was the last time our class would be so well behaved for him.

  By the end of morning break on that first day I’d found out the truth. Or at least Norbert had. I was in the playground telling Tony about Mr Bleasdale’s trick when Norbert came up to me. He’d already torn one of his blazer pockets.

  ‘Hey, you’ll never guess what I’ve just found out.’

  ‘Shurrup a minute will you, I’m just telling Tony about Mr Bleasdale. Honest, Tony, he can look down and write with his one eye, and watch the class with his other. Both at the same time.’

  I could tell Tony didn’t believe me, the way he was looking.

  ‘Honestly, it’s true. It’s a fantastic trick, isn’t it, Norbert?’

  Nobert wiped his nose with his sleeve and nodded.

  ‘Yeah . . . It’d be even better if he could see out of the eye he’s watching with.’

  I looked at Norbert. He wiped his nose again, with his other sleeve this time.

  ‘Y’what?’

  ‘It’s a glass eye. It’s not real. It’s made of glass . . .’

  I sat at my desk staring at the glass eye. I still found it hard to believe he couldn’t see me, even now, nine months later. It looked so real – except that it never blinked.

  Norbert had no doubts – he was mucking about as usual and Bleasdale looked up just in time to see him flicking a paper pellet at David Holdsworth.

  ‘I saw that, Lightowler. I’m not blind, you know. Get on with your revision. You got exams in three days.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Norbert shoved his head into his Latin textbook and sniggered at the lads around him. When Bleasdale looked down – with his one eye – Norbert made a funny face at him, putting his fingers to his ears and waggling them, and sticking his tongue out. He’s not bothered about school work and exams, Norbert. I had to do well or I’d be in big trouble with my mum. If I didn’t do well – very well – not only would I be in big trouble but I wouldn’t be allowed to go on the school trip to London to see the Festival of Britain.

  Mr Bleasdale and Mr Melrose were organising it. It was a day trip and it was going to cost fifteen pounds. I was dead lucky to have my name down because when I’d asked my mum if I could go, she’d said no. In fact she’d said no, no, no!

  ‘No, no, no! Where do you think I’m going to get fifteen pounds from? You must be living in cloud-cuckoo-land, young man.’

  ‘We can pay in instalments, Mr Bleasdale says so.’

  She gave me one of her looks.

  ‘Oh, does he? Well you can tell Mr Bleasdale that I’m still paying for your school uniform in instalments, and your satchel, and your bike . . .’

  That’s when she saw the tear in my blazer.

  ‘Just come here a minute.’

  Oh no, it was that stupid Norbert’s fault when he’d been trying to get ahead of me in the dinner queue. He’d got hold my pocket and swung me round. That’s how it had ripped. Stupid idiot.

  ‘Look at your new blazer. What on earth have you been up to?’

  I don’t know why she keeps calling it my ‘new’ blazer. I got it last September.

  ‘That’s a brand new blazer – look at your pocket. Take it off!’

  I tried to tell her it was Norbert’s fault but she wouldn’t listen. She just yanked the blazer off my back and got her sewing machine out. She’s paying for that in instalments too.

  ‘You’re lucky it’s torn on the seam.’

  I didn’t say anything else about the school trip to London. I didn’t dare.

  ‘And don’t you dare talk to me about school trips to London . . .’

  I didn’t have to. I was dead lucky. I got given the money. All fifteen pounds. In fact I had over fifteen pounds in my Post Office Saving Book. Sixteen pounds, four and fourpence to be exact. I’d put the one pound four and fourpence in last Saturday. One pound from my Auntie Doreen for clearing out her garden shed, and four and fourpence for the empty Guinness and Lucozade bottles I’d found in there. I’d taken them to the corner off-licence on my way to Youth Club. My mum had told me off for taking the one pound.

  ‘It’s far too much. Your Auntie Doreen can’t afford that kind of money. How long did it take you to clean the shed out?’

  ‘Nearly an hour! I was late for Youth Club.’

  It hadn’t really taken me that long. I was there for the best part of an hour but I’d spend a lot of the time looking at these old magazines. They were called ‘National Geo-something’ and they were ever so interesting. Pictures of natives with darts through their lips, that sort of thing. I’d asked my Auntie Doreen if I could have them but she wouldn’t let me.

  ‘No, they belonged to your Uncle Norman and it wouldn’t be right to give them away. Put them back in the shed.’

  So back they’d gone under the old deckchairs and watering-cans and paint pots. And fishing tackle! Ooh, I’d love to have had a go with that fishing tackle. I’d asked my Auntie Doreen even though I knew what she’d say.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t be right, it were your Uncle Norman’s.’

  I don’t know how long ago my Uncle Norman had died – I mean I’d never even known him – but it seemed daft to me shoving all these good things to the back of the shed.

  ‘Nearly an hour! A pound for less than an hour! That’s more than I get from Mrs Jerome.’

  My mum goes cleaning for Mrs Jerome three mornings a week. It’s a great big house on the other side of the park. It’s where the rich people live. They’ve got a treehouse in their garden and Mrs Jerome lets me play in it sometimes. She’s ever so nice. It’s thanks to her I’m going on the school trip because she gave me the money.

  I’d been over there playing in the treehouse one Saturday morning while my mum was cleaning and Mrs Jerome had brought out some orange squash and some chocolate biscuits for me. Not just on one side. Chocolate on both sides. They were lovely. I think Mrs Jerome likes me coming to play in the treehouse because all her children are grown-up. Except one, he got killed in the war. Anyway she’d started asking me how I was enjoying Grammar School and I’d said all right and what did I want to be when I grew up and I’d said I didn’t know and who was my favourite film star and so on. And then she’d asked me what was happening in the school holidays, was I going anywhere? And I’d told her we’d probably be doing the same as usual, going on the odd day trip to Morecambe and Scarborough with my mum and my Auntie Doreen and she’d said she and Mr Jerome would be doing the same as usual, a cruise to the Canary Islands. She’d said that I could play in the treehouse while she was away.

  ‘Actually, I’m ever so excite
d because Mr Jerome has arranged for us to stop off in London for a few days to visit the Festival of Britain.’

  And I’d told her about the school trip to London to see the Festival of Britain too, and how it cost fifteen pounds and how I couldn’t go because my mum couldn’t afford it.

  Well, the following Tuesday I’d come home from school and my mum was sitting at the kitchen table holding a small book. She’d looked as though she’d been crying.

  ‘What’s the matter, Mum? Are you all right?’

  She hadn’t said anything, she’d just given me the little book. It was a Post Office Savings Book. I’d opened it and it had my name written inside and there was fifteen pounds in the account.

  I’d looked at my mum and I couldn’t tell whether she was pleased or cross.

  ‘You’re not going to London if you do badly in your exams. If you don’t do well – very well – that money’s going straight back to Mrs Jerome!’

  I stared at my Latin textbook.

  ‘Amo, Amas, Amat . . .’

  It was all Greek to me. The bell went for home-time and everybody started packing up.

  Bleasdale was tapping on his desk to get our attention. Norbert was practically out of the door.

  ‘One minute, gentlemen, and that includes you, Lightowler – homework!’

  Everybody groaned. I had tons already. French revision, an English essay, Maths.

  ‘I’m not setting any homework tonight . . .’

  Everybody cheered.

  ‘But I want you to do some extensive revision.’

  Everybody groaned again.

  ‘I shall be giving you a written vocabulary test tomorrow . . .’

  More groans.

  ‘It’ll be your last test before the exams. Now go home, you horrible lot, and do some work!’