The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories

by George Layton

  ‘We are the boys and girls well known

  As Minors of the ABC,

  And every Saturday we line up

  To see the films we like

  And shout with glee . . .’

  Uncle Derek was telling everybody who was entering the competition to line up by the steps on the left-hand side of the stage.

  ‘Now, when I give the word, I want you to come up the steps, one by one, and walk slowly across the stage holding up your number. When you get to the middle, face the front so the Deputy Lord Mayor and the other judges can have a good look at you, then walk to the other side of the stage and go back to your seat. Music maestro, please!’

  The ones at the front started going up the steps. Norbert, Keith and Tony hadn’t bothered to enter and I could see them in their seats pointing and laughing at me in my Shirley Temple dress and wig.

  Norbert was stuffing his face with sweets. I wondered where he’d stolen them from now Major Creswell’s was closed. I couldn’t believe the Major’s shop had closed down. Norbert wasn’t bothered. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

  ‘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.’

  ‘Norbert’s goin’ to laugh his head off when he sees me.’

  I was standing in the kitchen on a stool with my mum and my Auntie Doreen admiring me in the gingham dress. I was dreading Norbert and that lot seeing me. I’d told them that I was going as Shirley Temple, I’d thought it best, but now I was in the curly wig and the dress . . . oh hell, I was dreading it.

  ‘He won’t be laughing when you’re going in for free every week.’

  I didn’t tell her that Norbert gets in for free every week anyway, I couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘I should have gone as Charlie Chaplin.’

  My mum fiddled with my wig a bit more.

  ‘You won’t be saying that when you win. And your Auntie Doreen’s right, there’ll be Charlie Chaplins queuing right round the picture house.’

  She picked up a carrier bag.

  ‘Now, we’ll take you down on the bus and here’s your clothes for you to change into after the competition. Come on, let’s get going, I’ll buy you some sweets from Major Creswell’s on the way.’

  My Auntie Doreen got hold of her arm.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t tell you, did I? He’s closed down, I went past this morning. There were police all over the place. He’s been arrested.’

  We both stopped at the door. He’d been arrested? The Major?

  ‘Why Auntie Doreen? Why’s he been arrested?’

  She gave my mum that funny look they always do when they don’t want me to hear something.

  ‘Go and put your coat on.’

  ‘But, Mum . . .’

  ‘Go on, love, we’ll be out in a sec.’

  I went out and she shut the door. But I could still hear them whispering.

  ‘What happened, Doreen?’

  ‘Police caught him in town – dressed up as a woman.’

  ‘Dressed up as a woman? That’s disgusting. What’s the matter with the man?’

  ‘Seems he’s done it before, lots of times. I was talking to a policeman outside the shop. They reckon he’ll be going to prison.’

  Going to prison? For wearing a dress? Why? I couldn’t understand it.

  ‘And I’ll tell you something else – there’s no Mrs Creswell. He lives there on his own.’

  ’Cos she died, didn’t she. A long time ago. That’s why he wears her dress, he misses her. That’s why he pretends to make her cups of tea. But I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t say anything, could I? I’d get into trouble for not saying anything last Sunday.

  ‘Now, boys and girls, remember what Uncle Derek said – when you get to the middle, turn and face the front.’

  I was standing on the steps, waiting to walk across the stage, thinking about everything that had happened. I just couldn’t stop thinking about Major Creswell.

  ‘Go on, it’s your turn.’

  It was the lad behind, pushing me on to the stage. He’d come as Charlie Chaplin. My Auntie Doreen had been right, Charlie Chaplins were ten a penny. So were Shirley Temples, there were tons of them. Uncle Derek was talking into his microphone.

  ‘And now, boys and girls, another Shirley Temple – but a Shirley Temple with a difference. Don’t forget to turn to the front and face the judges when you get to the middle.’

  I started walking and there was a bit of clapping. I could hear Norbert shouting out but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I was still thinking about the Major. Why did he go into town wearing the dress? I couldn’t understand.

  ‘This Shirley Temple, boys and girls, is – and you’ll never believe it – this Shirley Temple is a lad!’

  Everybody cheered and whistled – and I won third prize.

  When the Deputy Lord Mayor presented it to me he said, ‘Here you are, young lady,’ and everybody laughed. I think I laughed as well, I’m not sure. I was thinking about the Major. It wasn’t fair. Here I was getting a prize for wearing a dress and he was going to prison for wearing one. It didn’t seem right to me.

  THE AIR-RAID SHELTER

  I couldn’t stop crying and I was shaking. I couldn’t stop myself from shaking.

  ‘It was Mr Churchill’s fault. Him and that Mr Attlee. If it hadn’t been for them, none of it would have happened. We wouldn’t have had the day off. I’d have been at school . . .’

  I’d never even heard of Mr Attlee before that ginger-headed lad who goes to St Bede’s had stopped me in the park one afternoon on my way home from school. He and his mates are always hanging round the swings. They smoke and they have spitting competitions. They go as high as they can on the swings and see who can spit the furthest. It’s disgusting. A few of them were sitting on the roundabout going round slowly. He’d jumped off and stood in front of me. I’d been scared stiff. He’d put his face right close to mine.

  ‘Who are you for, Churchill or Attlee?’

  I hadn’t known what he was on about.

  ‘C’mon, who are you for, Churchill or Attlee?’

  I hadn’t known what to say. I wasn’t for either of them. He’d put his face even closer, our noses were nearly touching.

  ‘I’m only askin’ you once more, kid. Churchill or Attlee, who are you for?’

  ‘Churchill . . .’

  He’d smiled.

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  And he’d gone back to the roundabout.

  I dread to think what would have happened if I’d said Attlee. I’d only said Churchill ’cos he was the Prime Minister. Then, when I got home I found out he wasn’t.

  ‘Who’s Attlee, Mum?’

  ‘Lay a place for your Auntie Doreen, she’s coming round to set my hair.’

  I got another plate from the cupboard and a knife and fork out of the drawer.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you, fork on the left, knife on the right.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  She changed them all round, I’m always getting them wrong.

  ‘This lad asked me who I was for, Churchill or Attlee? I didn’t know what he was talking about. I’ve never heard of Attlee, who is he?’

  She looked at me.

  ‘You’ve never heard of Mr Attlee?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Mr Clement Attlee, you’ve never heard of him?’

  I shook my head again.

  ‘No. Who is he?’

  Now it was my mum’s turn to shake her head.

  ‘Well, I’ll go to Sheffield! I don’t know what they teach you at that school?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  I heard the key in the front door and then my Auntie Doreen coming down the hall.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, stocktaking at work. Couldn’t get away.’

  My mum took one of the forks off the table and went over to the cooker.


  ‘You’re all right, Doreen, these potatoes need a couple more minutes. Hey, you’ll never believe this. Ask his lordship here who the Prime Minister is.’

  I knew that.

  ‘He knows who the Prime Minister is, don’t you, love?’

  She bent down and gave me a kiss and ruffled my hair.

  ‘’Course I do. Mr Churchill.’

  They looked at each other and my Auntie Doreen started laughing.

  ‘No, love, Mr Attlee’s Prime Minister, he has been for the last six years, since 1945.’

  My mum wasn’t laughing.

  ‘It’s not funny, Doreen. It makes you wonder what they’re teaching them at school when they don’t even know the name of the Prime Minister.’

  I couldn’t understand it. I’d always thought it was Mr Churchill. My mum was always going on about him, what a great Prime Minister he was.

  ‘But, Mum, you’re always saying what a good Prime Minister he was and how we wouldn’t have got through the war if it hadn’t been for him. Him and that Tommy Handley off the wireless.’

  She started laughing as well. She gave me a hug.

  ‘He was – during the war. He was wonderful, wasn’t he, Doreen?’

  My Auntie Doreen was hanging her coat up and tutting to herself.

  ‘Wonderful. Inspiring. And how did we show our appreciation after the war? After he’d saved us from that madman Hitler? We kicked him out and voted Attlee and his lot in. Disgusting.’

  My mum took the pan of potatoes over to the kitchen sink and poured the water out.

  ‘He’s not done a bad job, Mr Attlee, he’s a good peacetime leader.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it! Makes my blood boil!’

  I’d never seen her so cross. She sat down at the table but she’d forgotten to take her hat off.

  ‘You’ve still got your hat on, Auntie Doreen.’

  She didn’t say anything, just sat there tapping her middle finger on the table.

  ‘Wait till next Thursday, we’ll see who’s Prime Minister then. And it won’t be your precious Clement Attlee, you mark my words.’

  I wondered what was happening next Thursday. My mum put the potatoes into a dish and brought them over to the table.

  ‘He’s not my “precious Clement Attlee”. I’m just saying he’s done a good job. I think he’s honest and honourable.’

  I didn’t like my mum and my Auntie Doreen arguing like this.

  ‘What’s happening next Thursday, Auntie Doreen?’

  She wasn’t listening to me.

  ‘Well, you voted for him, didn’t you? You’re just like our dad, Labour through and through.’

  My mum slammed the saucepan down on the table.

  ‘Who I vote for is my own private business. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  I didn’t like this. I wished I’d never asked who Attlee was now.

  ‘What’s happening next Thursday, Mum?’

  She wasn’t listening either, she was still going on at my Auntie Doreen.

  ‘And what was it our mother always used to say, Doreen? Never discuss politics or religion at the dinner table!’

  They both went quiet and we ate our tea. Sausage, potato and mashed-up turnip. I mashed my potato up as well and mixed it in with the turnip and some margarine. It was lovely. But nobody was talking. I didn’t like it.

  ‘What’s happening next Thursday?’

  Neither of them said anything, they just carried on with their tea. Then my Auntie Doreen got up and put her arm round my mum.

  ‘I’m sorry, Freda, you’re right, I spoke out of turn and I apologise. I just get very emotional when we talk about Winston Churchill.’

  My mum gave her a hug.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry I snapped at you. Go on, sit down and enjoy your tea.’

  And my mum gave her a kiss. I was glad. I didn’t like them arguing. Mind you, I couldn’t understand what it was all about. What does it matter who the Prime Minister is? What was ‘labour through and through’ and what did it have to do with my grandad? And what was happening next Thursday? I didn’t say anything though. I just asked my mum for some more sausage, potatoes and turnip.

  I found out what my Auntie Doreen had been talking about next morning when I got to school. Norbert and Keith Hopwood and a few of the others were in the playground talking to Albert, the school caretaker, and they let out this big cheer. I went over. Norbert was jumping up and down.

  ‘We’re gettin’ the day off next Thursday, we don’t have to come to school.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘General election.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Don’t know, but we’re gettin’ the day off, that’s all I’m bothered about.’

  It turned out that the next Thursday was voting day and the general election is when people over twenty-one have to choose who should be the next Prime Minister. Albert told us all about it.

  ‘So they’ll be using our school as a polling station and you lot’ll be having the day off, you lucky tykes. You’ll all be getting a letter to take home.’

  My mum wasn’t pleased when she saw it. The letter.

  ‘Well, it’s all right them saying there’s no school next Thursday but what are we supposed to do, us working mothers? Leave you at home on your own all day?’

  She put it on the kitchen table and folded her arms.

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘It says there’s no school next Thursday.’

  She picked it up again and read it out loud.

  ‘“Dear Parents,

  “This is to inform you that next Thursday, 25th October, the school will be one of the nominated polling stations for the forthcoming general election. As a result the school will be closed to pupils and I am writing to ask you to make alternative arrangements for your children . . .”’

  She screwed it up and threw it on the fire.

  ‘That’s nice, isn’t it? “Alternative arrangements”? What am I supposed to do? Take a day off work to look after you?’

  ‘It’s all right, Mum, you don’t have to look after me, some of us are gettin’ together. It’s all arranged.’

  She looked at me.

  ‘What’s arranged?’

  ‘We’re going to play.’

  ‘Where? Not in the street.’

  ‘No, ’course not, we’ll go to the park.’

  She frowned at me.

  ‘And what happens if it rains?’

  It wouldn’t bother us if it rained, we’d be all right.

  ‘We’ll be all right, we’ll go into Arkwright Hall till it stops.’

  Arkwright Hall’s great. It’s a museum and you can get in for free. A lot of it’s boring, just pictures and statues and stuff. But there’s one room with machines in that show you how the steam engine and electricity and the telephone work and you can go on them. We often go in there. We usually get thrown out though, specially when you go with Norbert, he’s always messing about.

  ‘Arkwright Hall? And what happens when you get thrown out?’

  ‘We won’t.’

  ‘You usually do.’

  ‘We don’t. Anyway, Keith Hopwood says we can go to his house, his gran lives with them. And we thought we could go to the pictures in the afternoon, those who get the money. Canyon Raiders is on at the Essoldo. It’s a U, we can go in on our own.’

  ‘And what about your dinner? Have you thought about that?’

  We had.

  ‘Fish and chips from Pearson’s.’

  She didn’t say anything. Just looked at me.

  ‘Who’s “we” anyway? Who’s in this little gang who’ve decided what they’re going to do on election day?’

  I told her. Me, Tony, Keith Hopwood, David Holdsworth, Alan McDougall maybe, if his mum let him. I didn’t tell her that Norbert would be with us, she doesn’t like him.

  ‘Well, as long as it doesn’t include that Norbert Lightowler, you always get into trouble when he’s around.’


  I shrugged my shoulders.

  ‘Not sure what he’s doin’.’

  ‘W-w-what shall we d-d-do then?’

  It must’ve been about the third or fourth time Keith had asked and every time one of us had said the same thing back: ‘Don’t know, what do you want to do?’ This time it was David Holdsworth.

  ‘Don’t know, what do you want to do?’

  We were sitting on the wall in Keith’s back garden. Me, Keith, David Holdsworth and Norbert. Alan McDougall’s mum hadn’t let him come and Tony had gone with his big sister to his gran’s in Wakefield. I couldn’t see what was wrong with going to the park like we’d said we were going to, but none of the others wanted to, specially Norbert.

  ‘Park’s borin’, we’re always goin’ t’park, let’s do summat different.’

  All the others agreed but nobody could think of anything – except Norbert.

  ‘Hang on, I’ve got an idea . . .’

  I’d told my mum we were going to the park.

  ‘I’ve got a great idea . . .’

  I’d told her that I didn’t know what Norbert would be doing.

  ‘What about this . . . ?’

  She’d said I always get into trouble when he’s around.

  ‘Let’s go and play on the bombsite!’

  They all thought it was a great idea. No! I wanted to go to the park like I’d told my mum. Go to Arkwright Hall if it rained. Have fish ’n’ chips from Pearson’s. Go and see Canyon Raiders in the afternoon. That’s what I’d told my mum we were going to do. All of us. I’d got the money in my pocket.

  ‘No, I think we should go to the park. We can go into Arkwright Hall if it rains.’

  Norbert said Arkwright Hall was boring as well.

  ‘It’s all statues and old paintings. Anyway, I’m banned from there, I broke that machine that shows you how electricity works. I wor only playin’ on it.’

  David Holdsworth said the bombsite was better than the park.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll play there till dinner-time then go to Pearson’s for us fish and chips, then go and see Canyon Raiders. It starts at quarter past one.’

  I didn’t want to go to the bombsite, my mum’d go mad. She was always telling me to keep away from there.

  ‘You’ve got a lovely park you can go and play in and what do you lot do? Go and hang around that horrible bombsite. Why do you have to play there?’