The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories

by George Layton

  I put the lid back on the biscuit barrel. I’d better not have any more or I wouldn’t be able to eat my tea . . . They seemed to have been in there a long time. I thought about Mr Bastow sitting in there. In his favourite chair. Dead . . . This was boring, waiting here when I could have been up in the back bedroom playing on the model railway. I bet Mr Bastow wouldn’t have minded. I knew how to do it, all the switches and stuff. I bet he’d have been pleased. He was dead anyway, what did it matter? It was such a waste it not being used . . . I heard them coming down the hall. My mum sat Mrs Bastow down at the kitchen table.

  ‘What you need, dear, is a nice cup of tea. Put the kettle on, Doreen.’

  Oh no, not more tea. I wish I’d never come. So boring.

  ‘I’m going to have to sort all his stuff out, y’know. I don’t know where I’m going to start.’

  What ‘stuff’ is she going to have to sort out?

  ‘There’s no hurry. You just get this funeral out of the way, then you can start thinking about things like that.’

  Maybe she meant the railway. What was she going to do with it?

  ‘I’ll help you, Mrs Bastow.’

  She came over and gave me a hug. She held on for ages. Her cardigan smelt funny. Sort of cabbage smell.

  ‘He’s special, this lad of yours. He does you credit.’

  I set off for Mrs Bastow’s. It was the Saturday after the funeral and I was going to help her sort the stuff out like I’d promised.

  ‘And if she offers you any money you’re not to take it, right?’

  ‘’Course not, Mum.’

  I hadn’t even thought about that, I was just hoping she might let me have a go on the railway.

  ‘Come on in, love. This is ever so kind of you to give up your Saturday afternoon like this. You are a good lad. Now, what I want to do is make a start on that shed. You won’t believe the stuff in there. He was a right hoarder was Mr Bastow, God bless him.’

  I followed her into the hall, through the kitchen, out to the backyard.

  ‘I’ve filled up the biscuit barrel. You’ve got a sweet tooth, haven’t you? Nearly ate me out of house and home last time you were here, didn’t you?’

  She was laughing, I don’t think she minded that I’d eaten so many biscuits. Anyway, she’d told me to help myself, hadn’t she?

  ‘Now, where did he keep that key?’

  There was a big padlock on the shed door.

  ‘I know, back in a minute. Do you want a glass of squash?’

  She didn’t ask if I wanted a biscuit.

  ‘Please.’

  While I was waiting I looked in through the window. There was lots of stuff. Tins of paint, a lawnmower and a rake and shovel and things. And all these magazines. But they were all on shelves in neat piles. Mrs Bastow came back with the key and some orange squash.

  ‘It all looks quite tidy in there, Mrs Bastow.’

  She took the padlock off and opened the door.

  ‘Oh, it’s tidy enough. He was always a tidy man was Mr Bastow, but there’s a lot of junk in there. See all those paint pots? There’ll only be a dribble in most of them, you mark my words. He couldn’t throw anything away. And them magazines, they can all go.’

  There were tons of them.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Oh, train magazines mostly.’

  ‘He liked trains, didn’t he.’

  She sort of smiled.

  ‘Oh, he was train mad, love. Used to drive me up the wall sometimes.’

  She went quiet and shook her head. I was thinking that this’d be a good time to ask her. I was sure she wouldn’t mind.

  ‘Mrs Bastow . . . ?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘When I’ve finished, can I go and have a look at the model railway?’

  I didn’t ask her if I could play on it. I reckoned that if she let me have a look at it she’d be sure to say do you want to have a go. I mean, it wasn’t as if I didn’t know how it all worked.

  ‘Y’what, love?’

  ‘Can I go and have a look at the model railway when I’ve finished all the clearing out?’

  She didn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, just looked at me as if she didn’t know what I was talking about.

  ‘It’s gone, love. It’s not there . . .’

  Now it was me looking at her. What was she talking about, gone?

  ‘Mr Bastow got rid of it. About a week before he died.’

  Got rid of it? Why would he get rid of it? He loved that railway.

  ‘It took up the whole of that back bedroom, you couldn’t clean in there. Mind you, when you look at what’s happened it’s a good job he did get rid of it, bless him. How would I have managed on my own?’

  I couldn’t believe it. He loved that model railway. Why would he get rid of it? You didn’t have to clean in there. There was nothing to clean. It was all railway, wasn’t it? There was no need to clean in there! I couldn’t understand it.

  ‘Shall we get started, love? Throw everything into these rubbish bags. I’ve got somebody coming round later to take ’em away. Only keep the paint pots that are heavy – there won’t be more than a couple – otherwise get rid. Oh, and if you want to keep any of those train magazines for yourself, take as many as you like. I’ll be glad to see the back of them.’

  She went back into the house humming to herself. I started throwing the magazines into the rubbish bags. I didn’t keep any for myself. I didn’t want them. They were Mr Bastow’s.

  THE WHITE ROSE

  Part One

  A hundred and seventeen. A hundred and eighteen. I wish I’d never offered to clear out the shed for Mrs Bastow. A hundred and nineteen. I’d only done it ’cos I was hoping I might get a go on the model railway. A hundred and twenty, the last one! A hundred and twenty train magazines. I don’t know why I counted them, I just did. And now they were all in the rubbish bags. Gone. Like the model railway. Mrs Bastow was surprised that I didn’t keep any for myself. She didn’t want them, so why should I? She didn’t even care about the model railway. If Mr Bastow had said to me, ‘Take as many as you like,’ I would have. I’d have taken as many as I could have carried. But now I knew that before he’d died he’d got rid of the model railway – I don’t know, I just thought, well, that’s what Mr Bastow would have wanted me to do. Get rid of the magazines as well.

  I went back into the shed and started clearing out all the old tins of paint. She was right, most of them were empty, there was hardly anything in any of them. One tin was heavier than the rest; it felt full so I put it on one side with the lawnmower and tools and other things that were going back in the shed. It looked like it had never been opened.

  ‘Are you sure it’s worth keeping, love? I don’t want it if it’s empty.’

  She was coming down the garden with more rubbish bags.

  ‘It’s full, Mrs Bastow, I don’t think it’s even been opened.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I handed her the tin of paint. She screwed up her eyes.

  ‘I can’t read without my glasses. Does it say the colour? Read it out to me, love.’

  ‘“Parkinson’s Quality Paint”.’

  ‘No, the colour, love. I know it’s Parkinson’s, Mr Bastow always got his paint from there, they used to give him a good discount. What colour is it?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  I looked.

  ‘Er . . . “Emulsion”.’

  ‘No, that’s not the colour. What does it say on the label?’

  I couldn’t see a label.

  ‘Er . . .’

  Oh yes I could.

  ‘“Lilac Heaven”.’

  She took it off me.

  ‘Oh, I like lilac. That’ll look good in the back bedroom.’

  The model railway looked good in the back bedroom. Why did she make Mr Bastow get rid of it? That’s what I wanted to say. But I didn’t. I carried on clearing out the shed and she went back into the house with the tin of paint. It took me ages. I filled six bags with rubb
ish, empty paint tins mostly and a lot of old newspapers and broken plant pots. Then I started putting things back, the lawnmower and tools, a watering can and other stuff.

  ‘Hang on, love, I just want you to give it a sweep. You can use that broom there.’

  She came up the garden.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you, love?’

  ‘No, ’course not, Mrs Bastow.’

  ’Course I minded. I wanted to go home, I’d had enough. It wasn’t as if I was going to get a look at the railway now, never mind have a go on it.

  ‘What about that cupboard? Did you clear it out?’

  Opposite the shelves that the train magazines had been stacked on, there was a rickety old wooden cupboard with double doors. I hadn’t even looked in it. I didn’t know I was supposed to.

  ‘No, Mrs Bastow, I didn’t know I was—’

  ‘It’ll want clearing out, love, I’ll bet you a pound to a penny.’

  She opened the doors and it was full of rusty tins and smaller paint pots and old jam jars, some with paintbrushes in.

  ‘This lot can go, it’s all rubbish. Look, most of these brushes are brick hard, they’re not worth keeping. Chuck the lot, then give the shed a good sweeping, there’s a good lad. I’ll go and get the dustpan and brush.’

  I got another rubbish bag and started chucking everything in. I just wanted to get home now. She hadn’t even given me a biscuit. I didn’t like Mrs Bastow any more.

  I thought some of the stuff was worth keeping, jars full of screws and rubber bands. But she’d told me to get rid of it all, so I did. There was another pile of magazines. I thought they were more train magazines and I was just about to throw them into the rubbish when I saw the one on the top was called The Wrestler. It had a photo of this wrestler on the front. He was holding this big belt up in the air and it said:

  The White Rose

  Yorkshire’s Own Champion

  That’s when I saw it.

  Exclusive Interview with Eric Shackleton

  Eric Shackleton? Eric Shackleton! That was the old man my mum and my Auntie Doreen had stopped to say hello to the day we went to pay our respects to Mrs Bastow. The day Mr Bastow had died. The old man in the wheelchair, sitting in his front room, staring out of the window. I’m sure my mum had said his name was Eric Shackleton. But she’d said he was a roof mender. I opened the magazine and inside there were more pictures spread across two pages. In one photo he had his arm round this other wrestler’s head, he looked like he was yanking it off. In another he had him pinned on the floor. The biggest photo showed him holding his arms up in the air, with a big grin on his face, wearing the big belt. Underneath it said:

  The White Rose Wins Fight of the Century

  Shackleton Is New Yorkshire Champion

  I looked at the photograph. Maybe this was another Eric Shackleton. It must be. Maybe she’d said Eddie Shackleton. Yeah, that was it, she’d said Eddie Shackleton not Eric Shackleton. I mean, why would my mum say he mended roofs when he was a champion wrestler? Anyway, I still asked Mrs Bastow if I could keep the magazines.

  ‘Well, you do surprise me, young man, I’d have thought it’d be the train magazines you’d want, not these. Do you like wrestling then?’

  ‘Yeah –’ I didn’t tell her why I wanted them in case it wasn’t the man in the wheelchair. ‘I love it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She asked me if I wanted a carrier bag to take them home in.

  ‘Yes, please, Mrs Bastow.’

  I didn’t go straight home, I went through the park and stopped off in the playground. It was deserted. I sat on one of the swings and got the magazines out of the carrier bag. The Wrestler was the only one with anything about Eric Shackleton in it, the others were old gardening magazines and there was one Woman’s Weekly. I put The Wrestler back in the carrier bag and threw the rest into the bin. I still didn’t go home, I wanted to see if ‘The White Rose’ was the man in the wheelchair, so I went round to St Barnabas Street.

  I didn’t know what number house it was, all I remembered was that it was about halfway up on the right. It turned out to be forty-seven and there he was in his wheelchair staring out of the window. I smiled and gave him a little wave. He didn’t seem to see me, he was just staring ahead like before. I opened the carrier bag, peeped inside at the photograph on the front of The Wrestler and looked back at him. He was lifting his hand and waving at me like last time, moving his fingers really slowly. And I’m sure he was smiling. It could be him. He could be ‘The White Rose’. I hoped it was.

  ‘Mum, you know that man in the wheelchair that you said hello to the other day?’

  She was getting our tea ready, cauliflower cheese. I don’t know why we’re always having cauliflower cheese, my mum knows I don’t like it.

  ‘Y’what, love?’

  ‘That man in the wheelchair you said hello to the other day, what was his name?’

  ‘What man’s that? Be a love and get the knives and forks out.’

  I started setting the table.

  ‘That man in the wheelchair in St Barnabas Street, Mr Shackleton. You said hello to him when we went to pay our respects to Mrs Bastow. What was his first name?’

  She told me. Eric. Eric Shackleton. I wondered if he really was ‘The White Rose’.

  ‘Why on earth do you want to know?’

  I got The Wrestler out of the carrier bag and showed it to her. She looked at it for a minute. I waited for her to say something. It wasn’t him, was it? ’Course it wasn’t.

  ‘Where did you get this?’

  I told her I’d found it in Mrs Bastow’s shed.

  ‘You didn’t just take it, did you? I hope you asked her.’

  ‘’Course I did. She was throwin’ it out anyway. We threw out tons of stuff. Is that him, Mum, is that the same Eric Shackleton?’

  It wasn’t going to be him, I knew it. How could it be? An old man in a wheelchair like that, how could he be a champion wrestler?

  ‘Do you know, I’d forgotten he was a wrestler.’

  It was him. He was ‘The White Rose’ and he lived two streets away. How could she forget?

  ‘He wasn’t just a wrestler, Mum, he was the Yorkshire champion. He was ‘The White Rose’. Yorkshire’s own champion. Look!’

  I pointed at the front of the magazine.

  ‘You said he was a roofer. You said he mended roofs. How could you forget?’

  She explained to me that he was a wrestler in his spare time, mending roofs was what he did for a living.

  ‘He was semi-professional, love, he got paid a bit but not enough to live on.’

  ‘But he was the champion, wasn’t he? “The White Rose”. It says so, look!’

  I pointed at the photo of him holding up the belt. She didn’t say anything for ages.

  ‘He was. That was the name he used to fight under, “The White Rose”. Do you know, I’d quite forgotten.’

  She carried on staring at his picture.

  ‘“The White Rose”. ’Course he was. It must have been not long after that that he fell off that roof and broke his back. Yes, look.’

  She read out the date on the top.

  ‘October 1947. There you are, just before Christmas 1947, I remember now. The snow was terrible and he slipped. It was all in the papers.’

  And then it happened. I’d been hoping like anything that the Mr Shackleton in St Barnabas Street would be the Eric Shackleton on the front of the magazine. And now my mum had told me it was, I wished it wasn’t. I didn’t want ‘The White Rose’ to be an old man in a wheelchair. I wanted him to be like he was in the photograph.

  ‘He must’ve been a good wrestler, Mum.’

  She nodded and held out the magazine for me to take back.

  ‘He was . . . he was a good roofer too.’

  I took The Wrestler and ran up to my bedroom.

  ‘Don’t be hanging round up there, your tea’ll be ready in a minute and wash your hands!’

  I wasn’t bothered about him being a
good roofer. I was wishing he’d never been a roofer. If he hadn’t been a roofer he might still be the champion. I sat on my bed and looked at his picture and I started to cry.

  On the Sunday we were getting ready to go to church, my mum, my Auntie Doreen and me. While we were in the hall getting our coats on my mum told her about the magazine I’d got from Mrs Bastow. My Auntie Doreen remembered him.

  ‘Yes, he did a bit of wrestling, I think he was quite good.’

  Did a bit of wrestling? Quite good? Didn’t she remember he was the Yorkshire champion? I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘He wrestled under another name, what was it now? White Fang, White Flash. I know it was something funny.’

  ‘He was “The White Rose”, Auntie Doreen, what’s funny about that? He was the Yorkshire champion!’

  I didn’t mean to shout, it just came out. I wanted them to stop talking about him like that. My mum turned on me.

  ‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’

  ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘How dare you shout at your Auntie Doreen like that?’

  ‘He’s all right, Freda—’

  ‘No he’s not!’

  And she made me take my windcheater off.

  ‘I won’t have you talking to your Auntie Doreen like that. You’ll stay here till we get back.’

  ‘He’s all right, Freda.’

  ‘I’ll not have him shouting at you like that. Come on, Doreen.’

  ‘Sorry, Auntie Doreen—’

  SLAM! They’d gone.

  I could hear my Auntie Doreen telling my mum that I wasn’t a bad lad, that I didn’t mean anything by it, but I knew my mum wouldn’t come back for me. Not when she’s in a mood like that.

  I wasn’t bothered. Church is boring anyway. And I hadn’t meant to shout at her. I was just fed up with nobody remembering who he really was. I couldn’t understand it. You’d have thought that day we saw him, the day we went to pay our respects to Mrs Bastow, you’d have thought my mum would have said, ‘You see that man there, he was the Yorkshire wrestling champion. “The White Rose” they called him, he was famous.’ No, all she remembered was that he was a roofer. And my Auntie Doreen, she wasn’t much better. ‘Did a bit of wrestling.’ He was only the champion of bloody Yorkshire! And what did she call him? White Fang. What the bloody hell is White Fang? He was ‘The White Rose’.