The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories

by George Layton

  My mum shook her head.

  ‘Oh, you do. She had to wear a wig.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  We stood outside the medical clinic next to a woman with a ginger-headed lad. His face looked ever so sore, all flaky and red. My mum gave me another sharp tap. The woman got a packet of Woodbines out of her handbag.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, missus, he’s used to young ’uns staring, aren’t you, Eric?’

  Eric nodded while she lit a cigarette.

  ‘Eczema. Not infectious, love. Had it all his life, haven’t you, Eric?’

  He nodded again. My Auntie Doreen smiled at him.

  ‘Two weeks in Morecambe’ll be just what he needs, eh?’

  The woman coughed as she blew the smoke out.

  ‘Don’t know about him but it’ll do me a power of good. I need a break, I can tell you.’

  Just then a man came out of the clinic and shouted that we all had to go inside to be weighed.

  ‘Parents, foster parents and guardians – wait out here while the luggage is put on the charabanc. The children will return as soon as they’ve been weighed and measured.’

  Eric’s mum took another puff on her cigarette.

  ‘I don’t know why they bother. Last year he came back weighing less than when he went, didn’t you, Eric?’

  Eric nodded again.

  ‘And I swear he was half an inch shorter. Off you go then.’

  I followed him into the clinic, where the man was telling everybody to go up the main stairs and turn left.

  ‘Have you been before then, to Craig House?’

  He’d been for the last two years.

  ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘S’all right. Better than being at home.’

  At the top of the stairs we followed the ones in front into a big room where we were told to take our clothes off. We had to strip down to our vests and pants and sit on a stool until we heard our name called out. There were four weighing scales, with a number above each one. I sat next to Eric. He didn’t have a vest on and his pants had holes in them and whatever his mum had said he had, he had it all over, he looked horrible. I couldn’t help staring. He didn’t seem bothered though. He just sat there, scratching, staring at the floor.

  ‘Eric Braithwaite, weighing scale three! Eric Braithwaite, weighing scale three!’

  He didn’t say anything, just wandered off to be weighed and measured. I sat waiting for my name to be called out. The girl with iron things on her legs was on the other side of the room. Her mum and dad had been allowed to come in and were taking the iron things off and helping her get undressed.

  ‘Margaret Donoghue, weighing scale one! Margaret Donoghue, weighing scale one!’

  That was her. Her dad had to carry her, she couldn’t walk without her iron things. Eric came back, put his clothes back on and wandered off. He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word. They were going in alphabetical order so I had to wait quite a long time before I heard my name. When I did I had to go to weighing scale number four. A lady in a white coat told me to get on.

  ‘There’s nothing of you, is there? A couple of weeks at Craig House’ll do you no harm.’

  She wrote my weight down in a book.

  ‘Now, let’s see how small you are.’

  Couple of weeks? I wasn’t going to be there a couple of weeks. Not if I didn’t like it. And I wasn’t going to like it, I knew that much.

  ‘Right, get dressed and go back to your mum and dad.’

  ‘I haven’t got a dad.’

  ‘Ellis Roper! Weighing scale number four! Ellis Roper, weighing scale number four! You what, dear?’

  ‘I haven’t got a dad.’

  ‘Well, go back to whoever brought you. Ellis Roper, please! Weighing scale number four!’

  Craig House holiday home

  far far away,

  Where us poor children go

  for a holiday.

  Oh, how we run like hell

  when we hear the dinner bell,

  far far away.

  We were on our way to Morecambe and those that had been before were singing this stupid song. I was in an aisle seat next to the bald lad. He was singing, so I knew it wasn’t his first time. I’d wanted to get by the window so I could wave goodbye to my mum and my Auntie Doreen but by the time I’d been weighed and measured I was too late. Eric was next to me on the other side of the aisle. He wasn’t singing, just sitting there staring into space. Behind me a girl was crying. She hadn’t wanted to go. The driver and the man from the clinic had had to drag her away from her mum and force her on to the coach. Her mum had run off up the street crying, with her dad following. They didn’t even wave her off. My mum had had to get her hanky out ’cos she had tears in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t forget to write – your envelopes are in your suitcase under your pants.’

  ’Course I wouldn’t forget. I had it all planned. I was going to write as soon as I got there and post it straight away. My mum’d get the letter on the Tuesday morning, get on the train like she’d promised and I’d be home for Tuesday night. That’s why I wasn’t crying like the girl behind me. I was only going to be away for one day, wasn’t I?

  I was looking at the bald lad when he turned round. I made out I’d been looking out of the window but I reckon he knew I’d been staring at him.

  ‘I’ve got alopecia.’

  He smiled. He didn’t have any eyebrows neither.

  ‘Oh . . .’ I didn’t know what to say. ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘A few years. I went to bed one night and when I woke up it was lyin’ there on my pillow. My hair.’

  I felt sick.

  ‘It just fell out?’

  ‘Yeah. It was after my gran got a telegram tellin’ her that my dad had been killed at Dunkirk. I live with my gran. My mum died when I was two.’

  I told him that I lived with my mum and that my auntie lived two streets away.

  ‘Did your dad die in the war?’

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t think so. I’ve never known him.’

  He was all right, Paul, I quite liked him. He told me it wasn’t too bad at Craig House. This was his third year running.

  ‘It’s not bad. They’ve got table tennis and football and they take you on the beach. And you get a cooked breakfast every mornin’. You get a stick of rock when you leave. It’s all right.’

  Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. Maybe I’d like it. Maybe I wouldn’t want to go home.

  MUM, WHY HAVEN’T YOU COME? THIS IS THE THIRD TIME I’VE WRITTEN. I HATE IT HERE . . .

  ‘Look – the sea!’

  It was one of the big lads at the back shouting, the one who’d started the singing. Everybody leaned over to our side of the coach to get a look. Eric didn’t; he just sat there, staring and scratching his face. For some of them, like the girl behind me, it was the first time they’d seen the sea. She was all right now, laughing and giggling and talking away to the girl next to her. The man from the clinic stood up at the front and told us all to sit down.

  ‘We’ll be arriving at Craig House in five minutes. Do not leave this coach until I give the word. When you hear your name you will alight the charabanc, retrieve your luggage, which will be on the pavement, and proceed to the home.’

  The coach pulled round a corner and there it was. There was a big sign by the entrance:

  CRAIG HOUSE

  And underneath it said:

  Poor Children’s Holiday Home

  We all stood in the entrance hall holding our suitcases while our names were called out and we were told which dormitory we were in. There was this smell and it was horrible. Like school dinners and hospitals mixed together. It made me feel sick. There were four dormitories, two for the girls and two for the boys. I was in General Montgomery dormitory and I followed my group. We were going up the stairs when I saw it. A post box. I’d been worried that they wouldn’t let me out to find a post box and there was one right here in the entrance hall. I could post
my letter here in Craig House. It wasn’t like a normal post box that you see in the street; it was made of cardboard and painted red and the hole where you put the letters was a smiling mouth.

  I wasn’t able to write it until late that afternoon.

  When we’d been given our bed we were taken to the showers and scrubbed clean by these ladies and had our hair washed with nit shampoo. I tried to tell my lady that my mum had already done it but she didn’t want to know.

  ‘Best be safe than sorry, young man.’

  Then we were given a Craig House uniform (they’d taken our clothes off to be washed). Shirt, short trousers, jumper. They even gave us pyjamas. And on everything was a ribbon that said ‘Poor Children’s Holiday Home’. You couldn’t take it off, it was sewn on.

  At last, after our tea, I’d been able to write my letter. I licked the envelope, made sure it was stuck down properly and ran down the main stairs.

  ‘Walk, lad. Don’t run. Nobody runs at Craig House.’

  That was the warden. I walked across the entrance hall to the post box and put my letter into the smiling mouth. All I had to do now was wait for my mum to come and fetch me.

  MUM, WHY HAVEN’T YOU COME? THIS IS THE THIRD TIME I’VE WRITTEN. I HATE IT HERE. THERE ARE TWO LADS THAT BULLY ME. THEY HAVE TAKEN ALL MY SWEETS . . .

  I hated it. I hated it. I couldn’t see why Paul thought it was all right. Or Eric. Not that I saw much of them. They were in General Alanbrooke dormitory. I think I was the youngest in General Montgomery. I was the smallest anyway – they were all bigger than me. My bed was between the two who had started the singing at the back of the coach and at night after the matron had switched off the lights they said things to frighten me and they made these scary noises. I thought they might be nicer to me if I gave them each a Nuttall’s Mintoe. When they saw all my other sweets in my suitcase they made me hand them all over. I hated them. I dreaded going to bed ’cos I was so scared. I was too scared to go to sleep. I was too scared to get up and go to the lavatory. Then in the morning I’d find I’d wet the bed and I’d get told off in front of everybody and have to stand out on the balcony as a punishment.

  And I hated my mum. She’d broken her promise. You can never trust grown-ups.

  DEAR MUM, YOU PROMISED. YOU SAID IF I WAS UNHAPY YOU WOULD TAKE ME HOME. YOU HAVEN’T COME. I AM SO UNHAPY. PLEASE FETCH ME AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS . . .

  I licked the envelope and stuck it down like I’d done with all the others. I walked downstairs to the entrance hall and went over to the post box. I was just about to put it in the smiling mouth when I heard Eric.

  ‘What you doin’?’

  ‘Sendin’ a letter to my mum.’

  Eric laughed. Well, it wasn’t a laugh, more of a snort.

  ‘It’s not a proper post box. They don’t post ’em.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘They say they post ’em but they don’t. They don’t want us pestering ’em at home.’

  I still had the letter in my hand.

  ‘I won’t bother then.’

  I tore it up and went back to the dormitory. The second week went quicker and I didn’t wet the bed.

  ‘You didn’t send one letter, you little monkey.’

  My mum wasn’t really cross that I hadn’t written.

  ‘It shows he had a good time, doesn’t it, Doreen? See, I told you you’d like it.’

  She was annoyed at how much weight I’d lost.

  THE MAJOR

  I should never have told my mum. I wish I’d never mentioned it. I felt stupid standing in my vest and underpants in the middle of the kitchen with a curly wig stuck on my head.

  ‘Stand up straight while I fix your hair and keep still for goodness sake.’

  You could hardly tell what she was saying ’cos she was holding these hairgrips in her mouth. She got hold of the wig and pulled the back of it.

  ‘Doreen, just hold the front in place while I stick these bobby pins in, will you?’

  Bobby pins, that’s what they’re called, not hairgrips, she had about six of them between her lips.

  ‘Ow! That hurts!’

  ‘Oh stop mithering, you’ll thank me when you win, keep still.’

  And she stuck another one in, right into my neck.

  ‘Freda, you’re going to swallow one of those if you keep talking, give them to me and I’ll pass them to you as and when.’

  My mum spat the bobby pins out into my Auntie Doreen’s hand, took one and stuck it in the wig.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Stand still.’

  ‘I don’t want to go.’

  ‘Don’t start that again, not now, not after the effort me and your Auntie Doreen have put in.’

  I wish I’d never mentioned it. I should never have told her about the fancy-dress competition.

  ‘Happy Birthday to you

  Happy Birthday to you

  Happy Birthday dear . . .’

  We all took a deep breath: ‘David – Raymond – Christine . . .’

  The cinema manager held his hand over their heads and shouted their names into his microphone as he walked behind them on the stage. We all sang along, trying to keep up with him.

  ‘Trevor – Margaret – and another David!’

  ‘. . . Trevor – Margaret – and Da-v-id . . .’

  Except Norbert sang ‘and another Da-v-id’.

  ‘Happy Birthday to you!’

  We tried to make the final ‘you’ last as long as we could, we do it every week, and Norbert went on longer than the rest of us and slid off his seat on to the floor, still singing and running out of breath. One of the usherettes pointed at him and pointed to the door.

  ‘Any more and you’re out. I’ve been watching you, lad.’

  Uncle Derek, that’s the cinema manager, gave them their ABC Minors birthday cards and we all clapped while they went back to their seats. I’d gone up on the stage the week of my birthday and it’s not just a birthday card you get, it’s a pass that gets you in for free the next week with pictures of film stars on it, like Lassie and Laurel and Hardy and Roy Rogers and that girl in The Wizard of Oz – I didn’t like that film, it gave me nightmares – and Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck, but best of all it says: ‘PLEASE ADMIT BEARER AS MY GUEST’ and it’s signed by Uncle Derek.

  The usherette was still watching Norbert. He got up off the floor and scrambled back into his seat.

  ‘I haven’t done nothin’, missus. Honest. I were just singin’.’

  ‘And messin’ about. Don’t think I don’t remember you, lad, I do. I ejected you two weeks back for throwin Butterkist.’

  She went off to separate two lads near the front who were fighting. She got hold of them both by their collars and marched them up the aisle.

  ‘If she chucks me out, you’ll have to let me back in at the side door when the lights go down.’

  ‘Me?’

  I wasn’t going to risk getting thrown out just to let him in again.

  ‘I’ll give you three sherbet lemons.’

  I gave him the sort of look my mum gives me when I’ve said something stupid.

  ‘Get lost, ask Keith.’

  ‘He’s gone to the lav.’

  ‘Well, make sure he’s back before you get chucked out.’

  That’s how he’d got in without paying earlier on. It’s how he gets in every week, he never pays to go to the Saturday morning matinee, doesn’t Norbert. He goes round the back of the picture house, up Shadwell Street, and gets Keith Hopwood to push down the bar on the inside of the side door. He gives Keith some of his sweets for doing it. Mind you, he never pays for them neither, he nicks them. We all do, every Saturday, me, Tony, Norbert and Keith Hopwood. But we’re not going to any more, Keith, Tony and me anyway, we’d decided that morning.

  ‘Now, boys and girls, we’ve got a wonderful selection of films for you today starting with the Bowery Boys . . .’

  Everybody cheered and there were the usual boos.

  ‘A Mighty Mouse cartoon
. . .’

  More cheers and boos.

  ‘Shh, shush, listen to Uncle Derek now . . .’

  We meet by the park gates every Saturday at around half past nine to get the bus into town, but we always go across the road to Major Creswell’s first to buy our sweets. Well, to steal them. We pay for some, a few. But even if we had the money we couldn’t buy more than a few, ’cos we never have enough coupons. Why do they have to have sweets on rationing anyway? It’s not fair.

  ‘And – the final episode of Flash Gordon!’

  No boos this time. Cheering and shouting and whistling and everybody stamping their feet. It was deafening.

  ‘And the big picture today, boys and girls . . .’

  It’s easy nicking sweets and stuff in the Major’s shop, always has been, ever since he took it over from old Mrs Jesmond last year. Norbert always asks for something off the top shelf and while the Major’s moving the ladder and going up it, Norbert just helps himself to whatever he wants. One time he even went round the counter and pretended to serve us.

  ‘The big picture today, girls and boys . . . Shush, now listen, don’t you want to know . . . ?’

  ‘YES!’

  Everybody shouted as loud as they could.

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘YES, PLEASE!’

  ‘The big picture is . . .’

  I feel a bit sorry for the Major but I still do it with all the others. I never take as much as Norbert. The week before last he’d come out with a whole box of pear drops. I just take a few of the loose things that the Major has on the counter. A couple of Poor Bens or a Vimto bar or maybe a few sherbet lemons, hardly anything. You can’t really call it stealing.

  ‘The big picture is – Tarzan!’

  Cheers, shouts, boos, stamping. We all went mad, specially Norbert. He stood on his seat and did Tarzan’s jungle call. He was lucky the usherette didn’t see him, she was too busy trying to catch these lads who were running up and down the aisle. I think they were from St Cuthbert’s. They always go a bit mad, St Cuthbert’s lads.