‘Come on, move yourself, it’s ten to eight. If I have to come up there there’ll be trouble.’
‘Gower . . .’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Hopkinson . . .’
‘Sir.’
‘Hopwood . . .’
‘Yes, sir.’
Monday morning. English with Melrose. Then football, with Melrose. I hate Mondays.
‘Illingworth . . .’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lightowler . . .’
‘Sir.’
‘Stop slouching, Lightowler.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I couldn’t get the dream out of my head. It’d been so real. Boocock getting run over by that truck. It was like it had really happened. I looked over to his desk. I never thought I’d ever be pleased to see Arthur Boocock but I was today. He was messing about with a small mirror. Pollywashing. That’s getting the sun in the mirror and shining it into someone’s face. He was pollywashing Keith Hopwood, right in his eyes. Boocock kept shining the sun in his face, taunting him, and Hopwood was getting mad. He’d done the same thing to the Pigeon last week during history. He’d shone the sun into his eyes all during the lesson. But the Pigeon wasn’t like Hopwood. He didn’t go mad. He didn’t do anything. He just carried on working as if it wasn’t happening even though his left eye was watering like anything. He just didn’t seem to notice.
‘Rothman . . . Rothman.’
Melrose looked up and Boocock hid the mirror under his desk just in time.
‘Rothman . . .?’
A few of them sang-song it together:
‘Not here, sir.’
Melrose nodded and wrote in the register.
‘Oh, that’s right, Jewish holiday or some such nonsense. All right for some, eh lads?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Spencer . . .’
‘Sir.’
‘Tattersall . . .’
‘Yes, sir.’
All during English, whenever Melrose wasn’t looking, Boocock carried on pollywashing Hopwood, making his eyes water even more. When the sun went behind a cloud he stopped and started flicking paper pellets instead. One got him right inside his ear. Later on, in the cloakroom, while we were getting our stuff for football Hopwood was grumbling and showing me his sore ear.
‘I’ll be glad when the P-Pigeon gets back and B-B-Boocock can start p-p-picking on him again.’
And I thought to myself, not just Boocock, we’ll all be picking on him. You, me, everybody. ’Cos we’re all scared of Boocock.
We don’t have any playing fields at our school. We go on a special bus to Bankfield top, about two miles away. The bus was late and Melrose told us to wait inside the school gates.
‘McDougall, fetch me when the bus comes. I’ll be in the staff room. And be quiet! No messing about.’
Norbert made a face at Melrose behind his back.
‘S’all right for him. We wait here and he goes off and has a nice cup of tea.’
Boocock was leaning against the wall, a stupid sneer on his face.
‘Good. Gives me chance to have a fag.’
And he took a cigarette out of his top pocket. While he lit up the others looked around, nervous, in case anybody was at the classroom windows. Boocock wasn’t bothered. Nothing ever scares him. Big ’ead! I watched him, leaning against the wall, showing off, holding his cigarette between his thumb and his big finger with the lit end tucked inside his hand so nobody could see it. And blowing smoke down his nose. He thinks he’s so good, doesn’t he? He thinks he’s so tough. He is . . . Why doesn’t he ever cough? I wish the smoke would catch in his throat and make him cough. I wish he’d choke. Norbert was up on the school gates looking out for the bus.
‘Bloomin’ hummer – look at the Pigeon!’
We all looked through the gates. He was coming down the road with his mum and dad and they were all dressed up. They must have been on their way to their Jewish church.
His mum was wearing a big hat with cherries on it and round her shoulders she had this fur thing and it had an animal’s head at one end. It looked like a fox’s head. And his dad was wearing a bowler hat and the Pigeon was wearing a hat too. It wasn’t a bowler but it was the sort of hat grown-ups wear. He looked stupid. They got nearer and everybody started whistling and shouting. His mum waved at us.
‘Look, Villiam, all your nice schoolfriends are vaving to you.’
The Pigeon was blushing like anything. He sort of nodded and walked on, trying to get his mum and dad past as quick as he could, but she came over to us. Oh no, I didn’t want her to see me. I didn’t want her saying hello to me in front of all the others. I worked my way to the back and hid behind Duggie Bashforth and David Nunn.
‘Hello, boys. I vant to say sank you to you all . . .’
I knew what she was going to say. I peeped at the Pigeon. He was cringing. He knew what she was going to say as well.
‘You have made Villiam feel so velcome in his new school. He tells me every day vot good friends you are. His farzer and I really appreciate your kindness . . .’
She smiled. Nobody said anything. They all looked at each other. Someone laughed, I think it was Norbert, and that set some of the others off. The bus came and McDougall went off to fetch Melrose. I kept myself hidden behind Bashforth, crouching down a bit, making sure the Pigeon’s mum couldn’t see me.
‘Vell boys, ve must go. Have a good game of football. Come along, Villiam.’
She said something to the Pigeon’s dad in German or whatever language they talk and walked off. The Pigeon didn’t follow, he stood there looking at us all. Then I realised, it wasn’t the others he was looking at – it was me. He knew why I’d been hiding behind Duggie Bashforth and he was looking right at me like . . . well, like I was a piece of muck. All right, Pigeon, I’m not like you, I’m a coward, I don’t want your mum to see me. She might say hello and the others would know I’ve been talking to you. You know what would happen then, don’t you? Nobody would talk to me. I want to be friends with you but I daren’t . . . Stop looking at me like that . . . Bloody bus. If it hadn’t been late none of this would have happened . . . Stop looking at me, it’s not my fault.
‘Villiam, come now, ve are late . . .’
Go on, go, your mum’s calling you. It’s not my fault you’re a Jew! He stayed looking at me a bit longer, then he shook his head and followed his mum and dad.
The others all burst out laughing and Barraclough started taking off his mum.
‘Sank you for looking after my Villiam. You have made him feel so velcome in his new school . . .!’
They all laughed and Norbert and a few others took her off as well.
‘Come on, Villiam, ve are late . . .’
‘Vell boys, have a good game of football . . .’
‘I vant to say sank you, you have made Villiam feel so velcome . . .’
‘Shut up!’
I couldn’t help it. It was like it was someone else shouting, not me.
‘Shut up!’
They were all looking at me. My stomach was churning. Why had I shouted like that? Why hadn’t I kept quiet? Boocock was looking at me. He came over. He put his face close to mine.
‘Who are you telling to shut up?’
I could smell the cigarette on his breath. I wish someone had seen him smoking. I wish he’d got taken to the headmaster. I wish he’d got the cane. I wish he’d get expelled. I wish he’d leave me alone. It’s not fair. Oh God!
‘Well, it’s not fair, Arthur, she can’t help talking like that, she’s not English.’
‘That’s right . . .’
He starting punching me in the chest, pushing me backwards.
‘ . . . and I’ve told you before, you want to make up your mind whose side you’re on, the Jews or the Christians.’
He got hold of my shirt and twisted his hand round, choking me. I could hear Barraclough and a few others laughing.
‘Come on, whose side are you on, theirs or mine?’
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It’s stupid, this, Boocock. The Pigeon’s all right. His mum and dad are all right. Why do we have to choose sides? Why are you such a bully? I wish you’d die, Boocock.
‘Yours, Arthur . . .’
He let me go. I don’t know if it was ’cos I’d said I was on his side or ’cos he’d seen Melrose coming.
‘Right, on the bus – and keep the talking down! Lightowler, what’ve you got in your mouth?’
‘Chewing gum, sir.’
‘Get rid of it.’
He spat it out.
‘Not there, lad – in the bin!’
Nobody sat next to me on the bus. We were on the top deck while Melrose sat downstairs reading his paper like he always does. They were all talking and laughing and taking off the Pigeon’s mum again. Well, let them. I wasn’t going to say anything this time. It was nothing to do with me. Why should I worry about the Pigeon?
‘W-w-what I c-can’t understand is w-w-why he told h-his mum w-w-we’re all his f-f-friends?’
’Cos he’s not soft like you, Keith Hopwood, or me, or any of you. He doesn’t want his mum to worry so he hasn’t told her that we don’t talk to him ’cos the Jews killed Jesus. And he’s not scared of Boocock neither. I’d love to have said it, but I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to end up like him with no friends, with nobody talking to me.
Nobody did talk to me for the next sixty minutes. They shouted at me. I was in goal. We lost.
On the way back though everything was all right. It all seemed forgotten. Boocock and Barraclough were busy teasing Hopwood. They’d pinched one of his football boots and were hanging it out of the window pretending to drop it. I sat at the back with Norbert and David Holdsworth playing I-Spy. Hopwood was going mad, he looked like he was going to cry.
‘G-g-give it b-back, give it b-back or I’ll tell. I’ll r-report you . . .’
The more he shouted the more Boocock teased him. I heard Melrose coming up the stairs.
‘Hey, Arthur – Melrose!’
He pulled the boot back through the window, gave it back to Keith and turned to the front. Melrose looked around for a few seconds, told us all to keep the noise down and went back downstairs. After he’d gone Boocock turned round and gave me the thumbs-up.
‘Ta.’
I gave him the thumbs-up back and smiled.
‘That’s all right, Arthur.’
Yeah, everything was all right now. I was on Arthur’s side and the Pigeon could look after himself. I wasn’t going to stick up for him any more. I was going to keep my mouth shut. And I would have done if I hadn’t met those Galsworthy Road lads on my way home from school.
Monday afternoons aren’t so bad. Double woodwork, boring ’cos I’m no good at it, history which is my best subject – I got 48% in the test – and the last lesson is RI with Reverend Dutton. That’s boring as well and we all mess about but he never seems to notice and we make fun of him ’cos he wears a wig. Even when he does get mad with any of us he always says sorry afterwards. He’s not like a proper teacher, Reverend Dutton, he’s too nice. When the bell goes everybody makes a mad rush for the cloakrooms even if he’s in the middle of a sentence. You wouldn’t dare do that with Melrose or Bleasdale or any of them.
‘And so, boys, we read in St Luke 20 “that Jesus went into the Temple and began to cast out them that sold therein, and them that bought, saying unto them . . .” ’
The bell went and we could hear Reverend Dutton still talking to us while we were running down the corridor.
‘Thank you, boys, we’ll pick up from there next time . . .’
I felt a smack on the back of my head.
‘Where’s the fire?’
It was Melrose.
‘Nowhere, sir.’
‘Then walk!’
He gave me another crack on the head and I walked the rest of the way. I could hear Hopwood shouting in the cloakroom.
‘G-give it b-back, it’s not f-fair, give it b-back.’
Boocock had pinched one of his boots again and him, Barraclough and Norbert were throwing it to each other.
‘Come on L-Lightowler, g-give it ’ere.’
He tried to grab it but Norbert threw the boot to me. Oh, what was I supposed to do with it?
‘Go on, g-give it to us. B-be a sp-sp-sport.’
I felt sorry for Hopwood but if I gave it to him they’d all have a go at me, wouldn’t they? Same as sticking up for the Pigeon. All that happens is that I get picked on.
‘Catch, Arthur!’
I lobbed it over his head. Stupid Hopwood tried to get it, fell over and caught his chin on one of the pegs.
‘Aahh, bloody ’ell! Aahh!!’
He really hurt himself. He was rolling about on the floor screaming.
‘My chin! My bloody chin! I’m gonna report you.’
The funny thing was he wasn’t stammering. It was the first time I’d heard him talk without stammering.
‘Aw my chin!’
‘What’s all the shouting about?’
Melrose! We looked at Hopwood. He was sitting on the floor still rubbing his chin.
‘What are you doing down there, Hopwood? What’s going on?’
‘I f-f-fell, sir. I c-caught my ch-ch-chin o-o-on one of the pegs, sir . . .’
He looked at Boocock.
‘It w-w-was an accident, sir.’
‘Well get up and get off home. You shouldn’t be mucking about in here. Come on, all of you, out!’
He went marching up the corridor shouting that if any of us were still there when he came back in three minutes we’d be there till six o’clock! Boocock kicked the football boot over to Keith.
‘We was only havin’ a bit of fun. You can’t take a joke, you.’
Barraclough started taking him off.
‘Yeah, we w-w-was only havin’ a bit of f-f-fun.’
They went, laughing their heads off. I picked it up for him.
‘Here you are, Keith.’
‘S-s-sod off!’
My boots were tied together hanging on my peg, so I put them over my shoulder, got my bag and I went.
He asks for it, does Keith, screaming and shouting like that. He shouldn’t take any notice of Boocock. He should just ignore him, he’d soon stop. Who am I to talk, mind? Why do I open my big mouth? So Arthur Boocock can thump me? Well not any more. I’ll just go along with all the others. Keep out of trouble. Yes, once I’d made up my mind that I was on Boocock’s side, that I was going to keep quiet, I felt much better. The Pigeon can fight his own battles, I’m gonna keep my mouth shut from now on.
I turned up St Paul’s Terrace and that’s when I saw them. These two lads sitting on a wall at the top of the road. They must have been about twelve or thirteen. They were bigger than me anyway. At first I thought they were feeding pigeons but when I got nearer I could see it wasn’t bread they were throwing, it was gravel. They were looking at me so I crossed over.
‘Grammar School ponce!’
I didn’t look up. St Paul’s Terrace goes into my road so I just kept walking. I wanted to get home as fast as I could.
‘Yeah, Grammar School tart!’
Oh no, I bet they go to Galsworthy Road Secondary Modern. Please don’t let them be Galsworthy Road lads.
‘Not good enough for you, are we? Just ’cos we go to Galsworthy Road . . .’
Oh heck. They carry knives, Norbert had told me. And they hate Grammar School lads. I shouldn’t have worn my blazer. I should have put it in my bag. I started walking a bit quicker. Not too quick, I didn’t want them to see that I was scared. Oh no, they’re crossing over. They’re following me!
‘You think you’re good, don’t yer, just ’cos you go to the Grammar School?’
They were behind me. I kept walking. I turned into my road. I could hear them following.
‘Well you’re not. We can lick you at anything. I could take you on one arm behind my back.’
The other one laughed.
‘I could take him on both arms behind my
back.’
It’s a long road, ours, and we live right at the other end. All I had to do was reach home, then I’d run in and I’d be all right. I felt my trouser pocket to make sure I’d got my keys. Yeah, they were there. All I had to do was keep walking for a few minutes and I’d be all right.
‘You’re all soft, you Grammar School lot, you’re all jessies.’
One of them kicked my heel and tried to trip me up. I didn’t look round. I kept going. I just wanted to get home.
‘Look, he daren’t even look at us. He’s soft.’
They caught me up and started shouldering me, one on each side, pushing me from one to the other. Why were they picking on me? ’Cos I’m at Grammar School? It’s stupid. Same as picking on the Pigeon ’cos he’s a Jew or picking on Reverend Dutton ’cos he wears a wig or Keith Hopwood ’cos he’s got a stammer. It’s stupid.
‘Look at him, he’s gonna cry. He’s a big cry-baby . . .!’
The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories Page 15
