The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories

by George Layton

  Art is the last lesson we have on a Thursday morning and when the dinner bell went Mr Clegg told us to leave our homework on his desk on the way out.

  ‘And make sure you’ve put your name on the back, otherwise I’ll not know which of these works of art belongs to which genius. Lightowler, name on the back, lad.’

  Norbert came back and signed his picture. Mr Carpenter had rolled mine up and put a rubber band round it which was good because it meant nobody could see it. Norbert had wanted to have a look but I’d told him I couldn’t be bothered to unroll it.

  ‘I bet it’s not as good as mine.’

  Norbert took his out of a folder to show me and David Holdsworth.

  ‘Look at that. A Woodland Scene by Norbert Lightowler. Good, innit?’

  It was quite good. A bit messy but then Norbert’s work always is. And he’d put in monkeys and tigers. Holdsworth started laughing.

  ‘You don’t get tigers and monkeys in a wood, that’s more like a jungle scene.’

  Norbert had just sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve.

  ‘Well, there are monkeys and tigers in this wood, so tough!’ And he put it back in his folder.

  As Norbert was writing his name I put my picture on Mr Clegg’s desk. I’d signed it on the back the night before. We went off into the playground and I didn’t think much more about it.

  The next time we had art Mr Clegg picked out a few of the pictures and told us what was right and what was wrong.

  ‘You see, look at Hopkinson’s – this chap here is taller than the Belisha beacon.’

  Everybody laughed and Hopkinson went all red. He’s always going red.

  ‘Now Lightowler’s isn’t bad at all . . .’

  Everybody turned round and looked at Norbert. He licked his thumb and wiped it on his chest, all cocky.

  ‘It’s a bit messy,’ – everybody laughed and Norbert screwed up his nose – ‘but the perspective is good. Mind you, Lightowler, I did say a woodland scene, not a jungle scene.’

  We all laughed again and that was it. We went on to something else. I was a bit annoyed. My picture was much better than Norbert’s but Mr Clegg never mentioned it. Not then anyway. He did a few weeks later. Well, he didn’t, the headmaster did.

  We were in the middle of a Latin lesson with Mr Bleasdale when the headmaster and Mr Clegg came in. The headmaster whispered something to Bleasdale then all three looked at the class. I thought they were looking at me . . . They were! Bleasdale told me to stand up. I didn’t know what was going on. The headmaster took a pace forward and the whole class was staring at me. I couldn’t think what I’d done wrong.

  ‘This boy has brought great honour to the school.’

  I couldn’t think what I’d done right.

  ‘Some weeks ago you were set some work by Mr Clegg. You were asked to draw a street scene. One of these drawings was quite outstanding and Mr Clegg showed it to me . . .’

  I could feel myself going red. My legs felt like jelly.

  ‘ . . . and I agreed with him. It was outstanding and I sent this drawing up to London to be considered in this year’s National Road Safety Art Competition . . .’

  My heart was pounding. I tried to swallow but my mouth had gone all dry.

  ‘I am delighted to say that this drawing has won a Regional second prize in the under-12 category, which means that this lad has come second in the whole county.’

  Mr Clegg started clapping and the headmaster joined in, then Bleasdale and then the whole class. I thought I was going to be sick. My stomach started to churn . . .

  It was churning now in the back of the taxi.

  I looked out of the window. We were on the main road heading for the city centre. The driver was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the lights to change.

  ‘So, what’s going on at the Town Hall today?’

  My mum looked at me. She put on her posh voice again. She put it on every time she told someone.

  ‘The National Road Safety Art Competition. Regional prize-giving. My son’s won second prize in the under-12s. Second in the whole county!’

  I was sitting in the middle, between my mum and my Auntie Doreen, and I could see the driver looking at me in his mirror. He smiled.

  ‘Second in the whole county, eh? You must be a good artist.’

  I just about managed to smile back.

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Not bad? You must be a lot better than “not bad” to come second in the whole county. He’s too modest, your young lad.’

  My mum put her arm through mine. We turned right into Delius Street. We were nearly at the Town Hall.

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing. Art has never been his strong point, has it, love . . .?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘But he’s just started at the grammar school and his new art teacher must have brought out hidden talents, eh love?’

  I nodded. I felt sick. My mum carried on chatting to the driver.

  ‘I haven’t seen it yet, you know. Me and my sister were away in Blackpool when he did it. We’ll be seeing it for the first time today. We’re ever so proud of him, aren’t we, Doreen?’

  My Auntie Doreen took hold of my other arm and I sat between them as they held me close.

  Yes, they were so proud of me. Everybody was so proud of me. Mr Clegg, the headmaster, my mum, my Auntie Doreen. That’s why I hadn’t said anything right at the start. I’d planned to go to the headmaster the day after he’d told me in class, explain to him what had happened, how it had happened, but he announced it in assembly. I’d even had to go up on the stage and shake his hand while the whole school applauded.

  We pulled up outside the Town Hall. We were there. While my mum was paying him the driver asked me what the prize was.

  ‘Fifteen pounds in National Savings stamps.’

  He nodded and said very nice and told my mum he wouldn’t be charging waiting time.

  ‘I should think not, we were waiting for you.’ And we went up the steps into the Town Hall.

  There were lots of other prize-winners going in, girls as well as boys, and most had their mums and dads with them. Some had their grandparents. On the invitation it had said we were allowed ‘four per family’. I never knew my grandma – she died when I was two – and my grandad died a couple of years ago. My mum had invited Mr and Mrs Carpenter but thank goodness they couldn’t come, they’d had to go to a wedding in Doncaster. When my mum had told them about me coming second Mr Carpenter didn’t ask me if it was for the picture I’d done at his house – and I didn’t tell him. He must have known, though. He knew I wasn’t good enough to win a prize.

  We were walking through this big entrance hall with stone pillars and marble floors. Quite a few of the prize-winners were wearing their school uniforms but my mum had wanted me to wear my best suit. Norbert Lightowler had torn my blazer trying to get ahead of me in the dinner queue and even though my mum had mended it, it was still a bit scruffy.

  Everybody was talking in whispers and our footsteps echoed everywhere. It reminded me of when we went into the church at Uncle Matty’s funeral. At the far end a commissionaire was directing people.

  ‘National Road Safety – main chamber at the top of the stairs. Main chamber at the top of the stairs for the National Road Safety prize-giving.’

  My stomach churned even more when I heard him saying ‘prize-giving’. Soon I was going to be presented with a prize that I had no right to. A prize for something I hadn’t done. I felt sick. I had to go to the toilet. I whispered to my mum.

  ‘All right, love, we’ll ask at the top of the stairs.’

  We went up this wide staircase and on the walls on either side were old-fashioned pictures of old men. This lad’s mother was telling him that they were portraits of previous Lord Mayors and that maybe one day his portrait would be up there and they both laughed. She talked loudly so that everybody around could hear and she put on a posh voice like my mum, only I think she was posh
because he called her ‘mummy’ not ‘mum’ and I heard her saying how bad the traffic had been coming from Harrogate and Harrogate’s a very posh place.

  Another commissionaire explained where the toilets were and my mum told me to wait for her and Auntie Doreen outside the ladies and I went into the gents. There was nobody in there, thank goodness. I just wanted to be on my own for a minute. I felt terrible. All the other winners were smiling and laughing and were so excited. I felt like a cheat. I was a cheat. I hadn’t won the second prize, Mr Carpenter had. I didn’t want this rotten prize but what could I do about it? I’d been awarded it and I’d have to accept it. Thank goodness I hadn’t won first prize otherwise I would have had to go to London. All the top Regional winners had to go for the National prize-giving. At least after today it’d all be over with. I splashed some water on my face, had a drink and went to meet my mum. I had to use my hanky to dry myself because there was no towel.

  To get into the main chamber we had to show our invitation to the commissionaire and my mum got into a panic because she thought she’d forgotten it. She couldn’t find it in her handbag.

  ‘Eh, Doreen, I think I left it on the hall table when I was looking for the camera . . .’

  I was hoping she wouldn’t find it. Auntie Doreen was helping her look.

  ‘Freda, I said “Have you got the invitation?” Twice I reminded you.’

  ‘I know, I know!’

  My mum was getting into a right state and I felt sorry for her. But I felt more sorry for myself and I was praying like mad.

  ‘Please God, don’t let her find it, don’t let her find it, then they won’t let us in and we can go home and I won’t get presented with the prize.’

  My mum didn’t find it. But we didn’t go home.

  ‘You’re all right . . .’ The commissionaire winked at me. ‘He looks like an honest lad. We don’t want him going home without his prize, do we?’

  No, I wanted to shout, I’m not an honest lad, I didn’t do the picture, Mr Carpenter did it and I do want to go home without my prize. But I just said thank you and we went into the main chamber.

  The seats were in rows with a gangway down the middle. My mum wanted to be near the front so she could get a good photo of me receiving my prize so we sat in the third row. The main chamber was ever so big and around the room were more portraits of previous Lord Mayors. On the wall facing us, in gold lettering, were the names of every Lord Mayor since 1874 and there was a scroll of honour like we’ve got at school with a list of people who had been killed in both world wars. At the front was a stage with three pictures on easels marked first, second and third. There was a little lad in front of us getting all excited because one of them was his and his mum and dad told him to calm down. At the side on the floor were all the winning pictures stacked up. I sat between my mum and my Auntie Doreen reading the names of the Lord Mayors, wishing the whole thing was over.

  I could hear the lady from Harrogate in the row behind.

  ‘Yes, Jeremy’s won first prize in the under-12s. Of course what he’s most excited about is the trip to London.’

  My mum smiled at me and squeezed my hand. I suppose she thought I was wishing I’d come first so that I’d be going to London. I smiled back and started reading the names of the people who’d been killed in the First World War.

  ‘Albert Bartholomew . . . Douglas Briggs . . . Maurice Clarkson . . .’

  Then it started, the prize-giving.

  One of the officials blew into a microphone and a man from London welcomed everybody and said the standard had been extremely high and that the judges had found it extremely difficult to decide on the three winners in each category and he was extremely pleased to introduce the editor of the Yorkshire Post to present the prizes. Then he asked for the under-10 winners to come up on the stage.

  They stood in front of their own easel and as their name was called out and the editor presented the prizes everybody clapped. The little lad who’d got excited was Graham Duckworth from Otley and he’d come third. The lady from Harrogate tapped my mum on the shoulder and asked if she’d mind taking her hat off because people behind couldn’t see. My mum went a bit red and looked quite cross but she and my Auntie Doreen took them off and put them under their seats. The under-10 pictures were taken away and the under-11s were called up. As they were going up on the stage their pictures were put on the easels. They were really good and everybody clapped again as each name was called out.

  Then it was my turn.

  ‘Can I have the winners from the under-12 category, please?’

  My mum and my Auntie Doreen turned towards me with great big grins on their faces. I stood up and slowly squeezed past the other people sitting in our row. A man at the end patted me on the back and said ‘Well done, lad.’ Jeremy from Harrogate was already walking up the gangway and I followed him. We watched them take away the under-11 pictures and went on the stage and stood in front of our easels. The third winner was a tall lad with ginger hair and a birthmark on his cheek who did a thumbs-up to the audience. I stared ahead, trying not to look at my mum, but out of the corner of my eye I saw her taking a photo. There was a flash and when I looked at her she signalled at me to smile. I could hear them behind me putting our pictures on the easels but I didn’t look round. I didn’t want to see mine. I just kept on looking at the back of the room. I concentrated on this coat of arms above the door. I felt as if I was going to cry. How had I got myself into this mess? Why hadn’t I told the truth right at the beginning? I could hear the man from London tapping the microphone.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, we come to the under-12 category. Once again the standard has been extremely high and third place is awarded to Trevor Hainsworth from Driffield.’

  Everybody clapped him as he got his prize and he did another thumbs-up to the audience.

  ‘And the second prize goes to . . .’ And as I heard my name being called out I felt a pain in my stomach and to stop myself from bursting into tears I just made myself keep looking at the coat of arms at the back. It was a blue and red and gold shield and standing on their hind legs on either side of the shield were a golden stag and a silver ram and on top of the shield was a knight’s helmet. That was in gold too. Then the editor was shaking my hand.

  ‘Congratulations. Well done, young man.’

  I think I said ‘thank you’, I can’t remember now. I could hear my mum saying ‘smile’ and there was another flash but I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.

  ‘And the first prize in the under-12s goes to Jeremy Collins from Harrogate for this magnificent drawing . . .’

  Underneath the coat of arms in gold lettering was written ‘Honesty – Toil – Honour’.

  ‘And of course Jeremy will go forward and represent this county at the National awards early next year.’

  ‘Honesty – Toil – Honour.’ I kept looking at the coat of arms as Jeremy got his prize from the editor. Twenty-five pounds in National Savings stamps. ‘Honesty – Toil – Honour.’

  Nobody heard me at first because of all the clapping and when it died down I said it again, quietly. The man from London wasn’t sure if he’d heard me properly.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s not my picture. I didn’t do it.’

  I don’t think most people in the audience knew what was going on because I said it so softly but they knew something was wrong because they started whispering to each other and all the officials on the stage were in a huddle. I could hear them saying that these were the winning pictures and that they were definitely in the right order. One of them took me on one side.

  ‘What are you talking about, lad?’

  ‘My picture – it’s not mine. I didn’t do it!’

  And I turned round and pointed.

  And it wasn’t mine. I mean it wasn’t the one Mr Carpenter did. It was a different picture altogether. It wasn’t as good as Mr Carpenter’s. I could see Jeremy staring at me. He looked strange, sort of fr
ightened.

  Then I saw why – Mr Carpenter’s picture was on his easel. Mr Carpenter had won first prize, not Jeremy – but he hadn’t said anything. The man from London was tapping the microphone again.

  ‘I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, we seem to have a little confusion. If you could . . . er . . . bear with us for a moment we’d be most grateful. Thank you.’

  Then he turned back to me.

  ‘Are any of these drawings yours?’

  The tall lad with ginger hair got quite cross.

  ‘Well, he didn’t do this one. It’s mine!’

  The audience was getting fidgety. I couldn’t understand why Jeremy hadn’t said anything yet but I suppose it was still dawning on him that he hadn’t won the first prize after all. He looked stunned. I felt happier than I had done for weeks.

  ‘No, I didn’t do any of these.’

  I knew that when it came round to Jeremy telling them that he hadn’t done the picture on his easel either, they’d probably take the frame off to check and they’d see my name on the back. I didn’t care. I’d tell them the truth. But they didn’t check. Jeremy didn’t say anything and they gave him first prize.

  I don’t know how he could accept a prize for something he hadn’t done. I couldn’t.

  THE PIGEON

  PART ONE

  It was on the Thursday, during Latin with Mr Bleasdale, that Arthur Boocock sent the note round. Three days after the new boy had started. Latin’s the last lesson before our dinner break and we were doing translation while Bleasdale was marking. We always muck about in his lessons ’cos you can with his glass eye. You just have to make sure that his good eye is looking down. Duggie Bashforth read the note, checked that only the glass eye was looking, nodded at Arthur Boocock, and passed it on. Kenny Spencer read it, nodded at Arthur and gave it to Duncan Cawthra. Cawthra read it, gave Arthur a nod and passed it to David Holdsworth. I wondered what it said. Usually it was something to try and make you laugh and get you into trouble. Or sometimes we played ‘the grot’, when we passed anything round, somebody’s cap or an exercise book, anything, and you had to get rid of it before the bell went. Once it was a dead mouse that Norbert had found down by the Mucky Beck. The Mucky Beck is a small stream in Horton Woods. It’s great for frogspawn. Well it used to be. My mum doesn’t let me go there any more. Not since that lad from Galsworthy Road Secondary Modern had got attacked. She’d read it in my Auntie Doreen’s paper.