The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories

by George Layton

‘I said I don’t care. And it’s not true, Lightowler, I’d rather have no dad than one like yours, so you can sod off!’

  Once we’d got back Norbert was his same old self, laughing and joking and mucking about. By breaktime it all seemed to be forgotten. Things like that don’t bother him. He’s used to being in trouble, I suppose. He’s used to being hit as well. Me, it was all I could do to stop myself from crying all day. Well I wasn’t going to stick up for him any more, I knew that, and he could stop thinking I was his best friend, and I didn’t care what he said – I’d rather have no dad than one like his . . . But after a couple of days we were pals again and I forgot about it too. Until Sports Day.

  Arthur’s dad didn’t win the fathers’ race on Sports Day. Nor did Gordon’s dad. Norbert’s dad won it. Easily. I watched Norbert run up to him afterwards and give him a big hug.

  ‘You’re the best dad in the world, the best dad!’

  And, for a moment, I thought maybe Norbert was right. Maybe it is better to have a dad like that than no dad at all . . . But I only thought it for a moment.

  THE SWAP

  PART ONE

  I’d never seen Norbert cry before. Never. I’ve seen him nearly cry lots of times, like in the Easter holidays when we’d gone speedway riding up at Hockley quarry and he’d crashed into me on David Holdsworth’s bike and he’d had to have five stitches in his leg. He didn’t cry then. I’d cried and I was only bruised. And David Holdsworth had cried because the front wheel of his bike had got buckled. But Norbert hadn’t cried. Norbert never cries. Not even when Melrose picks on him. Melrose is always making fun of Norbert, making him look a fool in front of everybody, and we all laugh as if it’s all in good fun. I laugh as well but I don’t like it. It makes my stomach churn because you can see that Melrose isn’t doing it in fun. He does it ’cos he doesn’t like Norbert. You can see it in his eyes. Well, I can. Like that time at Green Lane swimming baths. That’s where we go once a fortnight for lessons. I hate it. It’s always freezing cold and the water makes your eyes sting and I’m scared stiff of swimming because I can’t swim. Anyway we were all getting into our trunks and Melrose was walking up and down, watching, like he always does, when suddenly his voice boomed out, echoing all round the swimming pool.

  ‘You could grow potatoes in between those toes, lad!’

  We all peeped out of our cubicles. I couldn’t see who Melrose was talking to but I didn’t need to.

  ‘When did you last wash those feet, Lightowler? They’re black bright. Come out here, lad, let everybody have a look. Gentlemen, come and look at Mr Lightowler’s feet.’

  Norbert came out of his cubicle and we all gathered round to look at his dirty feet. I felt ever so sorry for him, everybody staring while he stood there in his old-fashioned underpants. They didn’t look too clean either. They were more grey than white. Melrose was looking at Norbert with a sort of sarcastic sneer on his face.

  ‘Those underpants look like they could do with a wash as well.’

  Melrose laughed and turned to us and we all laughed. I laughed but only because the others laughed. Norbert didn’t, he just stared back at him.

  ‘No, sir, clean on this morning. They’re just old. They used to be my brother’s.’

  If it had been me I’d have been in tears by now, but not Norbert. He didn’t even cry when Melrose made him have a shower with everybody watching. Norbert never cries. Never.

  But he was crying now, sobbing his heart out. He was at the top end of the playground, in the shelter under the woodwork classroom. He didn’t know I was watching him. I wouldn’t have been if I hadn’t left my anorak behind. We’d been using it as a goalpost when we’d played football after school and I’d already got home before I’d remembered that I’d left it behind. Well I didn’t remember, my mum did. She’d bought it at the nearly-new shop for two pounds and she wanted my Auntie Doreen to see it.

  ‘Wait till you see it, Doreen. Two pounds and it looks brand new. Go put it on, love.’

  That’s when I remembered where it was.

  ‘Er . . . I left it at school.’

  ‘Where?’

  I didn’t dare tell her where it really was, rolled up in a bundle at the top end of the playground . . . if it was still there. It could have been taken by now.

  I’m not sure . . .’ My mum gave me one of her looks. ‘I think it’s in the cloakroom . . . on my peg . . . I think . . .’

  I didn’t like lying to my mum, that’s why I kept saying ‘I think’. It sort of makes it less of a lie. I think.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll go back and get it.’

  My mum told me not to bother.

  ‘If it’s on your peg it’ll be safe. It’s got your name in.’

  Oh sure, it’d be safe if it was on my peg. But it wasn’t, was it.

  ‘I’ve got to go back anyway, Mum, ’cos I’ve left my maths homework at school. I think . . .’

  I ran back as fast as I could.

  When I got to school it was deserted but I could see my anorak up at the far end of the playground where I’d left it.

  Norbert and David Holdsworth had carried on playing after I’d gone. Trust them to leave it there like that. You’d think one of them could have looked after it for me, brought it in next day. Oh no, not them, they just go and leave it there in the middle of the playground. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could have stolen it. That’s what my mum’s always saying:

  ‘Don’t leave your bike out there. Any Tom, Dick or Harry could steal it.’

  Or:

  ‘Close the curtains, we don’t want every Tom, Dick or Harry peeping in.’

  When I was little I used to wonder who this Tom, Dick or Harry was. It used to worry me a bit because the man from the proo was called Tom. Why would he want to peep into our living room? Why would he want to steal my bike? And what was a proo? He used to come every Monday night and say, ‘Tell your mam it’s Tom from the proo.’ And my mum would give him some money and he’d write in a little book. He doesn’t come any more. It’s Mr McCracken from the Prudential who calls and I know what the money’s for now. You get it back when you’re old or if you fall under a bus. My mum explained it all to me. I know what Tom, Dick or Harry means too. But it’s funny how you don’t understand these things when you’re young.

  I was putting my anorak on and thinking what a good job it was that Norbert and David had left it there even though it was a selfish thing to do when I heard this funny noise. It made me jump. It was coming from the shelter. At first I thought it was a dog or something. It sounded like a puppy whimpering. I went towards where the noise was coming from and saw him sitting on the ground in the shelter, all huddled up, and he was crying. He didn’t see me. He had his head in his hands and was sobbing into his knees. He was mumbling something over and over but I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I’d never seen Norbert cry and I didn’t want him to see me watching him so I went back out into the playground. I leaned against the wall and listened. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to help him, ask him what the matter was, but then he’d know I’d seen him and he’d hate that. I couldn’t just go home though, could I? I couldn’t just leave him there, crying like that. He’d been all right when we’d been playing football and that was less than an hour ago. What had happened? Maybe he’d had a fight with Holdsworth? No, that wouldn’t make Norbert cry. Norbert never cries . . . Well, he was crying now. Sobbing his heart out.

  I was just about to go back into the shelter and ask him what had happened when I stopped and listened. I could make out what it was he’d been mumbling all this time.

  ‘Bloody Melrose . . . Bloody Melrose . . . Bloody Melrose!’

  What had Melrose done now? What had happened?

  ‘Bloody Melrose . . . Bloody exchange – he can stick his rotten blooming exchange!’

  I knew why he was crying now and there was nothing I could do. He was crying because he can’t go on the school exchange. We’re all going, all the boys in our year – except Norber
t. Melrose arranged it. We’d all got a letter to take home to our parents. I’d given it to my mum as soon as she’d got back from work.

  ‘What’s this? You’re not in trouble, are you?’

  ‘No!’

  Why does my mum always have to think I’m in trouble? Mind you, the last letter I’d brought home had been from Mr Bleasdale about me messing about in his Latin lesson. It hadn’t even been my fault. We’d been playing the game where something gets passed round the class and if you’ve got it when the bell goes you’re the loser. This time the grot was an old woolly hat that Norbert had found in the playground. I hadn’t wanted to play but you’ve got no choice if you get landed with the grot and I got landed with it right at the end of the lesson. I knew the bell was going to go any second. I had to get rid of it. Everybody was sniggering and a few of them, mainly Norbert and Arthur Boocock and Barraclough, were doing the chant.

  ‘Grot! Grot! Grot! Grot . . .!’

  I threw the grot just as Bleasdale looked up with his good eye.

  ‘Who’s making that noise— Who threw that?’

  And then the bell had gone and Keith Hopwood had ended up with the grot. I was sorry it had landed on his desk ’cos he’s got a stammer. I’d got extra Latin, a letter to take home and a telling-off from my mum . . .

  ‘It’s from Mr Melrose. It’s about going on a school exchange.’

  She screwed up her eyes and held the letter a bit further away.

  ‘Get my glasses would you, love? They’re on the sideboard.’

  I could see it was in purple stencil, like our exam papers – sometimes the writing’s a bit smudged. I gave my mum her glasses and sat in the wicker chair while she read it through. Then she went ‘hmm’ and read the letter out loud.

  Dear Parents,

  The boys in the first year have the opportunity to share an exchange for one week with St Augustine’s Grammar School in Greenford, just outside London. At the moment the week suggested would be the first week in May and we are at the stage now where we need to know how many families would be interested. Whilst there will be many exciting trips, visits to Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London . . .

  The Tower of London. It sounded great.

  ‘The Tower of London? It sounds great. Can I go, Mum?’

  ‘Hang on, love, let me finish reading it.’

  . . . Whilst there will be many exciting trips, visits to Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London – She smiled at me. She was going to let me go, I could tell. She always smiles like that when she’s being nice – Madame Tussauds . . .

  ‘Madam Two Swords! That’s a waxworks, Mum, it’s famous!’

  My mum told me to calm down and carried on.

  . . . the Tower of London, Madame Tussauds and possibly a tour round the Lyons Tea Factory (Mr Bleasdale is waiting to hear from his brother-in-law who works there), it will be very much a working holiday with set projects and field work, and each boy will be expected to keep a daily diary . . .

  She took her glasses off and gave me one of her looks.

  ‘You see. It’s not a fancy holiday you’ll be going on. You’re going to have to work. You’ll be having set projects and field work and I’ll want to see this diary when you get back. I’ll want you to take it seriously.’

  I didn’t know what field work was but I didn’t care. I just knew I wanted to go on this exchange. I wanted to see Westminster Abbey and the Tower of London and Madam Two Swords.

  ‘’Course I will.’

  ‘Right. Well think on.’

  She put her glasses back on and carried on reading.

  . . . The cost—

  ‘Mum, if it’s a lot of money I’m not that bothered . . .’

  ‘Shut up and listen.’

  . . . I know that this is what will be uppermost in all your minds, especially in these stringent times. Apart from the fares to London (train or charabanc, still to be decided) and modest pocket money, the cost will be minimal because while our boys are down in London the boys from St Augustine’s will stay with you, the parents. Your own day-to-day arrangements will be unaffected since your visitors will keep the same school hours as your sons and vice versa.

  This will be an exchange in the true meaning of the word.

  If you would like your son to be included in the St Augustine School exchange would you please let me know by Friday of this week together with a two pound deposit. (Non-returnable.)

  Yours faithfully,

  Brian T. Melrose Cert. Ed.

  (Head of Sport)

  That’s when it dawned on me.

  I thought I’d be going to stay with a lad from this St Augustine’s school and then he’d come back and stay with me and my mum. But we were never going to see each other.

  ‘So I’ll never see the lad who stays here? We’ll just swap for a week.’

  My mum smiled.

  ‘That’s right – and with a bit of luck I’ll get a nice young man who’ll keep his room tidy and make his bed on a morning. That’d be a grand swap.’

  I didn’t go back and help Norbert, I set off for home. There was nothing I could do. Poor Norbert. But I couldn’t understand it. When Melrose had told him that morning that he wouldn’t be going on the exchange he hadn’t seemed bothered.

  ‘I don’t care. I’ve been to Fountains Abbey. I bet Westminster Abbey in’t half as good as that. And who wants to go round a boring tea factory with Bleasdale’s boring brother-in-law? Melrose can stick his blooming exchange. I’m not bothered.’

  It must have all been an act. He’d brought his non-returnable two pounds in along with everybody else. He’d wanted to go on the exchange. Everybody wanted to go. But then we’d got another letter to take home.

  Dear Parents,

  School Exchange – Sleeping Arrangements

  Please note it will be expected that each boy visiting from St Augustine’s will have a bedroom to himself during his week’s stay in your home. Likewise our lads will be shown the same courtesy whilst staying with the St Augustine families. This is a condition of the exchange and is non-negotiable. I am aware that a number of our boys share with their siblings but I am sure that suitable arrangements can be made for one week in order to accommodate our guests.

  If any parents have any questions or worries please do not hesitate to contact me at the school.

  I would like to take this opportunity to remind all parents that the rest of the money must be handed in by next Monday.

  Yours faithfully,

  Brian T. Melrose Cert. Ed.

  (Head of Sport)

  ‘What are siblings, Mum?’

  ‘Brothers and sisters.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Well I was all right. I haven’t got any brothers or sisters, I sleep in my own room. So does David Holdsworth. He’s got an older brother but he’s married and lives in Doncaster. Keith Hopwood shares with his little brother and his mum and dad are going to move him in with his sister while Keith is on the exchange. That’s what most people are doing, just moving everybody around for the week. Except Norbert. He’s got so many brothers and sisters that he doesn’t just share a bedroom, he shares a bed. Norbert had told Melrose that his mum could arrange for the guest to have his own bed but he’d have to share the room with two of his brothers.

  ‘And my mum says my little sister can go in with her for the week.’

  Melrose had just sucked in his breath and shaken his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lightowler, it’s not on. I’ll have to take your name off the list. I’m sorry, lad.’

  I don’t think he was sorry. Melrose doesn’t like Norbert. I reckon he’s glad Norbert’s not going.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Lightowler?’

  ‘My mum says can she have her two pound back?’

  Melrose had said it was supposed to be non-returnable but muttered something about ‘in the circumstances’ and he got it back. And Norbert hadn’t seemed bothered at all.<
br />
  But he was bothered because there he was, sitting in the playground, crying his eyes out. Poor Norbert.

  When I got home my mum made me stand in the middle of the living room while she and my Auntie Doreen admired my nearly new anorak.

  ‘Now look at that, Doreen, two pounds. It looks brand new. It’ll be ideal for this school trip.’

  If my mum had known that half an hour before it had been lying in the playground being used as a goalpost, she wouldn’t have been too pleased. I was still thinking about Norbert.

  ‘Norbert’s not going on the exchange now.’

  She saw something on the sleeve and brushed it off with her hand.

  ‘Oh, what’s that, love?’

  I took my anorak off and hung it in the hall. I didn’t want my mum to look too closely in case there were any more dirty marks.

  ‘Well, you know that letter we got from Melrose—’

  ‘Mr Melrose!’

  ‘Yeah, all right. Well, you know he said that everybody has to have their own bedroom? Well Norbert shares with two of his brothers. That’s why he can’t go.’

  My mum looked at my Auntie Doreen.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to be uncharitable but I think it’s a blessing in disguise. I wouldn’t like to think of a son of mine spending a week in a house like that. And I wouldn’t want someone like Norbert Lightowler spending a week in my house either. I’m sorry, I know it’s not his fault, I feel sorry for the lad having a family like that, but . . . well, I think it’s for the best. Do you fancy another cup, Doreen?’

  They went into the kitchen and I could hear my mum telling my Auntie Doreen all about the Lightowlers. How mucky their house is, how the kids are always in trouble with the police, how he’s in and out of prison. I suppose she meant Norbert’s dad. My mum was right though. I mean it’s not Norbert’s fault but his house is horrible. You couldn’t expect anybody coming on the exchange to stay there. I wouldn’t . . .

  Dear Peter,

  Thanks for your letter which I got yesterday. It was very nice to get your letter. I am looking forward to coming to stay at your house and meeting all your family. They all sound very nice. I hope you will enjoy staying at my house . . .