THE BOY WHO PREFERRED TO BE SOMEBODY ELSE

Malcolm Moyes

Copyright © 2016 Malcolm Moyes.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events

and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination

or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador®

9 Priory Business Park,

Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

Tel: 0116 279 2299

Email: books@troubador.co.uk

Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 9781785895753

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

For Betsy, Isla, Ralf and Stanley

I would like to thank the publisher for enabling this book to come to fruition, I would in particular like to thank Rosie Grindrod for her invaluable guidance, support and patience, especially during the Proof Reading stages.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 1

THE GAME OF THE NAME

If you have a younger brother or sister, plus a good memory, you will know that parents spend a lot of time choosing a perfect name for their baby. They will spend hours, amounting to days, amounting to weeks, amounting to…well, you get the picture, don’t you? Sometimes they will also spend money on rubbish books about names. I mean seriously good money, which might have been better spent on you. l bet you’ll have seen these books in Waterstones or W.H. Smith’s, or even in your own house, with absolutely cracking titles like: “How to name your baby” (Yawn) or “One hundred stunning facts you did not know about names” (Did I need to know them?) or “The history and meaning of names.” (Get a life).

These books are meant to help parents choose a name, but always seem to do just the opposite. This was certainly true of Mr Carl and Mrs Tracey Trumper, residents of Southport, who for nearly nine months, give or take a few days as they had Christmas, Easter and Bank Holidays off, seemed to bicker non-stop about what to call their child.

Round about February time, after weeks of snarling, sniping and scoffing, Mrs Trumper, at least, was pretty clear about the best sort of name. She wanted a good traditional name, a family name, and came up with Archibald if the baby was a boy or Petunia if the baby was a girl.

“They’ve both got what I call a good old-fashioned feel to them, and besides, that’s what my grandad and nan were called,” said Mrs Trumper: as usual, she had made a no questions asked, take-it-or-leave it, final decision.

Or so she thought.

Mr Trumper was not impressed and plucked up courage to express his opinion on the matter.

“Petunia? Archibald? Are you serious? One’s a soppy flower and the other’s a Scotsman with no hair. And what about my grandad and nan? What about them? Don’t they come into the reckoning?”

“They’re dead.”

“I know they’re dead and that’s precisely why we should name the baby after one of them, or both, if we have a twin boy and girl. To honour their memory, let’s say.”

“And they were called?”

One-nil to Mrs Trumper. Mr Trumper had scored an own goal, a careless, casual slice off the outside of the boot into the top corner: goalkeeper no chance.

“I’ve no idea, I can’t remember, I was young at the time…” Mr Trumper’s voice trailed off, as he realised the score. And Mrs Trumper was never more dangerous than when she had just taken the lead. Sensing that Mr Trumper’s defence was still unsettled and the possibility of taking a decisive two goal advantage, she started laughing her biggest, most vicious, of loud laughs: a laugh which rocked the building and made the neighbours shudder.

“Well that’s a great name for a child, isn’t it? I’ve No Idea Trumper. What a bonza name that would be!” – Mrs Trumper had been watching quite a lot of Australian soaps at the time.

But it was not quite the final killer move that Mrs Trumper thought it was going to be: more of a dangerous free kick, swerving awkwardly towards goal. Mr Trumper had been on his guard, parried the attempt and cleared his lines quickly, responding decisively with a devastating counter-attack: route one: big punt, cool control, back of the net.

“I’ve read in one of them books that choosing a relative’s name is not such a good thing as it leads to family arguments; unless, that is, all your relatives and mine are called Archibald and Petunia. And my grandad was definitely not a Petunia. I remember that much. “

It was a soft goal to concede, but Mrs Trumper’s advantage was cancelled out. And worse was to come, as Mr Trumper, impressed by the effectiveness of quoting from one of the books which they had bought on the subject of naming babies, then hit an unstoppable pile driver past an unsighted goalkeeper.

“Another thing I read is that the name Petunia is Latin for horse manure and that the first recorded use of the name Archibald was in France in 1506 by (pause as if thinking) King Francis I, who named his pet chimpanzee Archibald. Let me tell you plain and simple, no daughter of mine is going to be named after horse poo and no son of mine is going to be named after a French chimp!”

Both of these stunning facts had been completely invented by Mr Trumper and he had also had the foresight to hide the useful book under a cushion, so that what he had said could not be easily checked. Mrs Trumper was now on the back foot and needed to clear her head.

It was a tactical triumph for Mr Trumper: he had broken the rules, conned the opposition and had got away with it.

“We’ll continue this conversation later. I need to sort out the tumble-dryer.”

Mrs Trumper stood up hurriedly and left the room. Mr Trumper sat back, pleased, wearing the smile of a man who has just come back from being one-nil down to take a shock, two-one lead at the break.

After a few more weeks of inconclusive stand-up skirmishes, further sit-down discussions resumed in March: this time, the difficulties of making a decision had been halved, as the Trumpers found out that in a few month’s time they would be having a lovely baby boy. This would save a good deal of time and at least the Petunia issue was now dead and buried, alongside both grandmothers. An agreement would be reached and an honourable score draw would be the probable outcome.

Well, that was the theory anyway, but in fact it proved to be not quite the case. Knowing that he would soon be the proud father of a boy, Mr Trumper saw an opportunity to celebrate his life-long support for Manchester United by naming his son after one of the greats from the past. He was spoilt for choice really: Nobby Stiles, George Best, Eric Cantona (okay a bit of a risk as he was French and a bit temperamental), Bobby Charlton, Bryan Robson, David Beckham, Rio Ferdinand, the choice seemed endless. The only problem, as far as Mr Trumper could see, which admittedly wasn’t very far, was one of whether to go for a first name or a second name: just using first names could be tricky as people might not recognise the United connection – after all, there were many boys in the world named George who were not named after the Belfast Wizard. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, for example, were not United fans as far as Mr Trumper knew, or at least, it had never been mentioned on “Match of the Day”. But then again, some of the names on his list, such as Robson and Ferdinand, had already been used as first names, which was a bit annoying. Perhaps he should go down the managerial route, he thought, in which case, the list of possible names would be cut down to two definites: either Matt Busby or Alex Ferguson: legends.

“Busby Trumper! Are you serious? How do you think that is going to sound if I’m stopped in the street and somebody looks into the buggy, says that he is lovely, just like his mother, and then asks me what we’ve called him? Busby! You can imagine the reaction can’t you? ‘Oh that’s nice,’ or even worse, making jokes behind my back about it sounding like an insect…Buzzzzzzzzzzzby.”

Evidently, Mrs Trumper was not keen. This was nothing to do with her not being a United fan, as Mr Trumper had suggested, but more to do with her now having set her heart on the kind of unusual name frequently used in Australian soaps. Two of the girls in “Home and Away” had recently given birth to a bouncing baby boy and both had named their child Earth; presumably, they would have gone for either Sky or Moon if they had given birth to a girl.

So Earth it was.

“Over my dead body,” said Mr Trumper, without even the smallest hint of having made a joke.

April arrived without any kind of agreement and April departed with the only decision being to consign both Busby Trumper and Earth Trumper to the dustbin.

“What about…what about…writing a few random names on bits of paper over the next few months, putting them in a sealed box and then looking at them together in July?” suggested Mrs Trumper in an unusual spirit of fair-play and friendliness.

Mr Trumper thought this a good idea: it was a bit of a novelty, it meant he no longer had to read books about names and would give him chance to work on a few plans of his own.

Early July arrived on time and the Name Box, as it was labelled, made out of a large size Corn Flakes package, was bulging with bits of paper which had been stuffed through the narrow cut-out section on the stuck down lid. Mrs Trumper was looking forward to opening the box as she felt confident that one of her suggestions would be the winner, having studied several books and having kept a log of new babies arriving on “Home and Away” and “Neighbours”. Mr Trumper was equally confident that he would get his way, quite simply because he had spent the last two months secretly removing, as best he could, his wife’s pieces of paper or re-writing them with minor alterations in order to make them sound totally ludicrous. Mr Trumper had always fancied himself as a bit of a secret agent and, okay tampering with bits of paper in a Corn Flakes box when his wife wasn’t looking was hardly the same as killing dangerous criminal masterminds or jumping out of helicopters, but hey, even James Bond had to start somewhere: after all, it was probably him who named M’s secretary Mish Moneypenny.

At first, the secret removal of, or tampering with, vital documents from the Name Box had felt exciting. He would get up at around four-thirty in the morning, pretending to go to the toilet and then go downstairs for a drink. The plan was well thought out as he went through the routine of going to the toilet, flushing it, washing his hands and then slowly taking his time to get downstairs, listening for sounds of loud snoring and snorting – tell-tale signs that Mrs Trumper was fast sleep. He would pour himself a glass of Coca-Cola, leave it on the kitchen work top and then make his way carefully into the living room where the Name Box was kept. This top secret, covert operation was done entirely in the dark, just in case Mrs Trumper had got spies out in the garden, on the lookout for any unusual activity around the living room area in the early hours of the morning. This heightened the tension, as did his dramatic diving to the floor and crawling along the carpet when he heard an unexpected noise, usually a floorboard creaking or cats scrapping in the street. It also unintentionally created dangerous situations when he clumsily knocked into a lamp or banged into the table, forcing him to freeze and listen nervously in the dark. He would stand there for several minutes, hardly daring to breath, immobilised by the fear of being caught in the act, listening to his own panicked heartbeats and waiting for the dreaded sound: Mrs Trumper bounding down the stairs, three at a time, in her fluffy, pink nightie and waving a big stick with which to beat any intruder unfortunate enough to be found on the premises.

At other times, during the day, when Mrs Trumper had gone off into town to do some shopping, he got out the Name Box and did further undercover work, always being careful to make a note of what angle the box was at when he picked it up and equally careful in returning it to the very same position. So professional was Mr Trumper in his work that he even took account of the dust lines: even James Bond wouldn’t have thought of that!

There came a time, however, towards the middle of July, when his undercover activities had to stop. He one day discovered that the Name Box had been removed to a secret location by Mrs Trumper: had she noticed what he had been up to or had she merely moved it whilst doing the dusting? Was she doing some counter-espionage work whilst he was out of the house? All these vital questions, and more, racked his brain: what would James Bond have done in this situation? In the end, he did nothing because he did want not raise suspicions by asking where the box had been taken. Besides, it was nearly time to open the box and his work had been done. He would say nothing and play a clever waiting game.

“Right let’s get down to business,” said Mrs Trumper. “We’ll pull the names out of the box, one at a time, until we find a name we both like. If after three names we cannot agree, then we just randomly pull out one more and that will have to do, whether we agree with it or not.”

Mr Trumper had mixed feelings about this command dressed up as a proposal: it left too much to chance. What if they got down to the fourth name and it was a late addition to the Name Box by Mrs Trumper, or even worse, an early suggestion made by Mrs Trumper which he had altered to make it sound ridiculous? He was trapped: he wished that James Bond could have helped him with a smart plan. On reflection, James would probably have had his gun at the ready to eliminate the opposition or have had the foresight to have fixed a tiny explosive device to the Name Box, in the form of a barcode, to destroy the evidence, should things go wrong. Too late, as Mrs Trumper was already dipping her fingers into the box to pull out the first name; Mr Trumper just had to trust that his plans would work. He sat back in his chair trying not to look concerned, holding a glass of Martini to steady his nerves, but his hand shook.

“The first one is…”

She looks and sounds far too confident, thought Mr Trumper, who found himself reaching inside his jacket pocket for a revolver that wasn’t there to take that sickening smirk off her face.

“Is…”

She was playing games with him.

Mrs Trumper slowly took the piece of paper out of the box, held it in the air like a trophy and recognised the first two visible letters as her own handwriting. She waved the precious piece of paper in front of Mr Trumper’s worried eyes and announced the first name for discussion:

“Toad.”

There was a ghastly silence as Mrs Trumper’s face changed rapidly from joyful triumph to bewilderment.

She looked at the piece of paper again, checking the handwriting and the letters: yes, it was her handwriting all right; the first two and the fourth letters of the name were correct, but where had the new third one come from? She even turned the piece of paper upside down and put on her most powerful reading glasses, but the word refused to change.

Mr Trumper did not say anything: he wanted to squeeze the last sweet drops of discomfort he could out of his wife, with minimal effort.

“But I wrote Todd! I found it in a book of famous film stars! Todd Lumbum it said!”

Mr Trumper put on his most pleasant, his most calm and his most soothing voice, the one reserved for those few, special moments of triumph over his wife.

“It seems not, my sweet, it definitely says Toad. Are you sure that the film star wasn’t called Toad Lumbum and that you just misread it? Shall we double-check in the book or the Internet? You are usually so good at spelling difficult words, so it would seem unlikely that you are wrong.”

Mrs Trumper, for once, was lost for words. She was tempted to rifle through the Name Box in search of the lost Todd, but thought better of it.

“So, let’s discuss Toad then,” suggested Mr Trumper in his most amiable Sunday-best voice. ”It’s unusual, I admit, even for a film star, but if that’s the one you want, I am very willing to listen, my sweet.”

Two “my sweets” in the space of two minutes should have alerted Mrs Trumper to the fact that something fishy was going on, but she was so annoyed, so frustrated, that Todd was about to meet the same fate as Petunia, Archibald and Earth, that she could not think clearly. Instead, she feebly retreated, claiming that she had put the name Toad in the box as a joke.

Mr Trumper went along with the story and laughed his loudest laugh in acknowledgement of the apparent joke: revenge.

“Would you like me to pick out the next name in the box?” asked Mr Trumper, keen to be of assistance to his wife.

“No, I can manage!” said Mrs Trumper, perhaps a little too sharply, perhaps a little too quickly, to disguise her annoyance.

Mr Trumper smiled good-naturedly at his wife.

In the interest of apparent fairness, Mrs Trumper vigorously jumbled up the pieces of paper like balls in the National Lottery Draw.

“There, let’s draw the next one.”

By which, Mrs Trumper meant let me draw the next one: she didn’t want any more unexpected accidents.

“Good luck everyone,” said Mr Trumper, looking at his feet.

She pulled out the piece of paper and noticed the distinctive curly stem of her capital letter B, confirming that another one of her suggestions had been drawn out: that would wipe the smirk off his face, that’s for sure. She had liked the name Braxton so much that she had written it on seven different pieces of paper, purely in the interests of her child’s well-being, of course, who she knew would just love being called Braxton: well, who wouldn’t? Braxton. It was distinctive; it would also remind her every day of one of her most favourite “Home and Away” characters, and even if it was abbreviated, as often happened when Brax was hanging with his mates on the beach with his surfboard, she wouldn’t mind. “Brax Trumper: respect mate!”

Mrs Trumper was confident: Todd had been an unfortunate failure, but Braxton looked a hot contender. Her husband would just roll over: end of. She handed over the winning piece of paper to Mr Trumper so that she could enjoy listening to him saying the name out loud.

“Bingo.”

“Bingo!!”

“That’s what it says here, Bingo.”

Mrs Trumper snatched back the piece of paper and stared at it. No sign of Braxton, who seemed to have done a runner with Todd, leaving the unfortunate Bingo behind in his place. Bingo? She hadn’t written Bingo on any piece of paper: the only name which even faintly resembled Bingo was…and then, finally, the penny dropped… Ringo. She looked at the piece of paper again: as a big fan of The Beatles, she had gone for Ringo as an outside possibility for a name, and there it was in front of her eyes, and yet not there in front of her eyes, as the letter R had mysteriously turned into her distinctive letter B with a curly stem.

Mrs Trumper looked at Mr Trumper; Mr Trumper looked at Mrs Trumper.

“What a wonderful choice of name, my dear, unique. Bingo Trumper…inspired: how did you come up with such a novel name? Is he a character in “Home and Away”? Or does it just evoke memories of rainy days on the sea front at Blackpool?”

It was now dawning on Mrs Trumper that something had gone most horribly wrong with her plan for world name domination. She was beginning to realise that there had been some tampering with the Name Box and was outraged that her husband could have stooped so low. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she had, at least, managed to remove all his suggestions during the last few weeks and that one of her ideas was bound to have slipped through Mr Trumper’s illegal fishing in the Name Box. Mrs Trumper put on a brave, yet still unpleasant face, in difficult circumstances.

“I like Bingo, but I’ve gone off it now as I’ve never had any luck playing bingo: I don’t want to put a jinx on the child. Let’s forget that one and try again. Let’s hope that one of your ideas comes up.” Mrs Trumper looked up at her husband to see if he reacted: a smile, a grin, a little chuckle at the very least, but he withheld all of those guilty pleasures from his wife.

One last chance left, she switched tactics and suggested that it should be Mr Trumper who pulled out a name from the box. For her to draw out the winning idea would have been very enjoyable, but to watch Mr Trumper pull out the lucky piece of paper, hoping beyond hope that he would be successful, whilst not knowing that all his pieces of paper had been removed, was doubly pleasurable.

Without a word, with neither agreement nor disagreement, Mr Trumper dipped his hand into the box, retrieved a piece of paper from the bottom corner which had been folded and refolded until it was very small indeed. For a few seconds, panic and discomfort set in as he tried, and failed, to recall changing what appeared to be a throw-out from an Origami competition. It must have got lodged in a corner at the bottom of the box, he thought, or she threw it in that morning when he wasn’t looking.

Mr Trumper tried to stall for time to formulate a strategy by pretending to sneeze (ten times) and then by loudly blowing his nose (also ten times).

“You sound like an elephant who hasn’t been to the toilet for several days,” remarked Mrs Trumper in an unusually jovial voice.

Despite his astonishing display of tip-top sneezing and an equally impressive display of tip-top constipated elephant impersonations, Mr Trumper could not think of an effective plan to deal with the crisis: in his hand lay a tiny piece of paper which, incredibly, had evaded capture over the previous weeks and months, and was going to be his undoing. Defeat, disgrace and despair stared him in the face; he was surely finished.

“I’m sorry 007, but being outwitted by a woman with an IQ the size of a toddler’s first pair of football boots leaves me with little option other than to relieve you of your mission. Leave your revolver and any unusual gadgets for outwitting criminal masterminds with Mish Moneypenny on your way out.”

M was not pleased.

What terrible fate awaited him and his son hidden in that screwed up bit of paper? Surely not another idiot name from “Home and Away”? Perhaps she had switched her taste in television soaps? Was he going to have to deal with a smooth Ken or a rough Lloyd, or a nasty Phil, or an even nastier Cain? Even more horrific, was he about to be confronted with a name from the Liverpool FC Hall of Fame? Bill or Stevie he could explain away to the world by pretending that his son was named after United heroes Bill Foulkes or Stevie Coppell , but how could he possibly explain away a son called Ian Street John?

“Well, let’s have it,” demanded Mrs Trumper, growing impatient with her husband.

With no place to hide, Mr Trumper unfolded the piece of paper, hardly daring to look at what was being slowly revealed; Mrs Trumper merely sat back secure in the knowledge that she would have the last word in this hard fought contest, although she could not remember folding up a piece of paper that much. She stared into Mr Trumper’s face, enjoying his frowns, his quivering lips, his twitching nose. Todd, Ringo and Brax were about to exact a terrible revenge.

“Tesco,” Mr Trumper mouthed, hardly audible.

“What? Speak up man, I can’t hear you.”

Mr Trumper did not repeat the word for his wife’s benefit, but just continued to unfold the piece of paper, his face cautiously changing from puzzled to pleased to very pleased indeed.

“Tell me my sweet (oh no, the dreaded words, thought Mrs Trumper) were you entirely serious in wanting to name our son after a supermarket? If that was the route which we were going down, my personal preference would have been Waitrose: it sounds so much classier. Unless, my sweet (oh God, not twice, thought Mrs Trumper, growing more and more uncomfortable), unless I have misunderstood the matter. You seem to have at least two other words written down on the same piece of paper. I’m not accusing you of cheating, but do you seriously wish to discuss the possibility of naming our son Clubcard or even Bonus?”

Mrs Trumper attempted to snatch the piece of paper, unable to find the words to express her anger and her huge disappointment, whilst Mr Trumper continued to speak most eloquently – he was always at his best when Mrs Trumper was reduced to spluttering silence.

“All right, I accept that Tesco is memorable. After all, there cannot be many boys with that name and it does open up the real possibility of sponsorship deals, does it not? Free nappies, free powdered milk, free clothes et cetera, not to mention getting our picture in the paper. So yes, I can see the merits of your suggestion. However, I have to strongly disagree, my sweet – Mr Trumper had gone for the hat-trick – with the possibility of either Bonus or Clubcard. They are both just too unusual for my taste, and besides, they would considerably reduce the possibility of a sponsorship deal. I rest my c…”

The final word spoken by Mr Trumper never made it in one piece, having been killed off by Mrs Trumper successfully grabbing the 200 Extra Points voucher (unfortunately now out of date) and reducing it to a mere sprinkle of confetti launched towards her husband, which reminded him, uncomfortably, of their wedding day.

Silence and endgame fast approaching.

Perhaps M would now re-consider his earlier harsh words. Mr Trumper had triumphed over one of the most dangerous women in Southport, responsible for untold misery and outrages over the years and probably top of the Most Wanted List of many European Law Enforcement Agencies.

The fate of son of Trumper would now be decided by Chance, a game of Lucky Dip, a mere Lottery, a vital decision reduced to a choiceless Raffle.

Mrs Trumper, tense, closed her eyes; well, one of them, as she kept one on Mr Trumper to make sure that there was no funny business. Mr Trumper, equally tense, kept both of his eyes wide open to check that Mrs Trumper did not quickly pull out a piece of paper that she had hidden in her dungaree pocket.

This was it, the moment when the Boy with No Name would be labelled for life: for good, bad or ugly.

Mrs Trumper, squinting horribly, took out the life-deciding piece of paper, fearing the worst after the tragic demise of Todd, Brax and Ringo, and the not so tragic demise of Tesco, Bonus and Clubcard.

With the piece of paper in her trembling little hand, Mrs Trumper revealed the name to Mr Trumper who knew that the fate of 007 hung in the balance: M still needed to be convinced that he was the right man for the job.

“Arry?” It was a question, rather than a statement.

“Harry?”

“No, Arry.”

This was not one of Mr Trumper’s choices: how could it be? Mrs Trumper had removed them all. But then again, it was not exactly one of Mrs Trumper’s choices either, as she had certainly not written Arry down: there was no such name in “Home and Away”, “Neighbours”, “Emmerdale”, “Eastenders” or “Coronation Street”; and she was quite definite that none of The Beatles went by that name.

In the awkward silence that often follows not having a plausible explanation when confronted by awkward facts – like the empty page of your exercise book containing the homework you handed in weeks ago – Mr and Mrs Trumper wondered what had gone wrong.

Mr Trumper slowly solved the problem, although very quietly in his head: he had clearly found one his wife’s suggestions, had removed the first letter, but had forgotten to add something different, probably having been distracted by a creak or scrapping cats. Had it been Barry, Harry or Larry? It hardly mattered now, as under the terms of the agreement they both had to accept the name. How could he have failed in such a simple task? M would not be pleased about his schoolboy error. Perhaps, on reflection, the mistake was for the best, as being stuck with either Tarry or Zarry, would have been worse than Arry.

Mrs Trumper seethed for some time, but eventually took comfort in that fact that at least eighty percent of the name had been her suggestion; and besides, it might start a trend; starting in Southport, it might just sweep the world and reach Australia. A new surfing mate for Brax, perhaps: “Hey Arry, how’s it going mate? Wanna hang?”

And so Arry Trumper was welcomed into the world several days later, a chubby little fellow whose hearty lungs announced his arrival.

Whether it was due to the profound shock of meeting his parents for the first time or because he had received advance intelligence that he was going to be called Arry, is unclear; what is clear, is that young Arry cried continuously for forty-eight hours, before settling down into the comfort of a warm blanket, wearing what would become his trademark sulk.

CHAPTER 2

BREAKING SILENCE

“It was not I who chose the most unfortunate nomenclature of Arry Trumper: it was my earnest desire to be known as Janice Uniparts.”

Now, I know exactly what you are thinking at this point: how could a child be so churlish, so insensitive, so utterly lacking in gratitude, when his parents had gone to so much trouble to find the perfect name for him? I bet you are also thinking that Mr and Mrs Trumper must have been a bit surprised and maybe even a tad annoyed to hear such an outburst from a mere child. And you would be right. Mrs Trumper, despite the setbacks to her grand name schemes which I told you about in the last chapter, had always been able to remind Mr Trumper, during any arguments about how to bring up their son, that she was an eighty percent shareholder in his name. And whilst Mr Trumper had been unable to find any Manchester United players called Arry, even amongst the most obscure of Newton Heath Reserve Team Lists, he had at least got a son who would probably run out at the Theatre of Dreams one day. Demanding to be re-branded as Janice Uniparts, therefore, did not fit easily into plans for life-long domestic domination or being the father of a United legend.

The outburst had also taken Mr and Mrs Trumper by surprise because they had been waiting nearly four years for young Arry to speak his first words. The children of all their friends and acquaintances had spoken their first words before their first birthdays, but Arry had remained stubbornly mute, disappointingly bringing up the rear in the local baby word stakes. At first, Mr and Mrs Trumper thought it was just a matter of time: after all, according to all the books on child development, not all children were the same. By the time Arry had reached his second birthday and still nothing had emerged from his mouth other than dribble and food, Mr and Mrs Trumper were concerned. Well, perhaps embarrassed would have been closer to the truth, as all the mothers at the local playgroup seemed to take great delight in reporting the latest addition to their child’s swelling vocabulary: a stunning noun here, an impressive verb there, doubling the annoyance with the occasional qualifying adjective or adverb.

“My Leticia said ‘pig’ this morning!” said a delighted Mrs Somebody or other.

“Well, my Jemima said ‘big pig’ last night,” boasted an even more delighted Ms Thingy.

“That’s nothing,” added a triumphant Mrs What’s-it, “little Lucas said ‘big pigs jig’!”

“Oh how lovely! But my little Sunshine told me and her daddy that ‘big pigs jig in wigs’,” announced an annoying giggly woman who nobody knew.

“I think there might be something wrong with him,” said Mrs Trumper darkly to her husband one day, after an especially depressing morning at the playgroup where Arry had distinguished himself by throwing up all over Sunshine’s head, preceded by a knowing little smirk. “I bet you were a bit slow, like him,” said Mrs Trumper, also to her husband, even more darkly.

Mr Trumper seemed to be a little more relaxed about the whole matter, but in private took to inventing possible excuses for little Arry’s unorthodox approach to conversation. Perhaps he had been traumatised by hearing about United having been beaten by Liverpool in the Cup a few years ago and was still recovering from the tragedy. Not surprising, mused Mr Trumper, as it was never a penalty. Maybe he should have been reading James Bond books to his son rather than silly and nonsensical stories about big pigs which did jigs in wigs. You and Mish Moneypenny are going to die Mr Bond, very, very painfully, Mr Trumper thought to himself, trying his best to remember some exciting quotation from a Bond novel. Now that would have knocked ‘em bandy at playgroup had Arry said it! But he didn’t.

And now that he had, after four years, managed to say something, the end product was, quite frankly, slightly disappointing.

“He doesn’t even look like a Janice,” remarked Mrs Trumper. “The only Janice I ever knew worked in a chip-shop in Accrington: always smelt of fish batter.”

“I like the smell of fish batter,” noted Mr Trumper’s father, Tommy, who had come to live with his son after having been evicted from his council flat in Fleetwood for growing cannabis in the bedroom.

“To cover up the smell of other things, no doubt,” Mrs Trumper curtly observed in order to put Tommy Trumper firmly in his place, which at this point, was in a strategically distant corner of the living-room, well away from her.

Mrs Trumper had never liked her father-in law and having little sympathy for the noble art of horticulture and even less understanding of the finer points of supply and demand, resented him moving into their home.

So after Arry’s somewhat unconventional demand to completely change his name and family, his parents sensed that years of trouble lay ahead, quite simply because years of great trouble already lay behind. It wasn’t so much that Arry was a criminal; well, criminal in the sense that parents, teachers and the police understand that word. No, it was more a case that he did not really see the world in quite the same way that everyone else did, especially adults. He was what Tommy Trumper, with a knowing, yet appreciative nod, described as “irregular”.

This “irregularity” might not have been so bad if he had just been content to sit there in a high chair, doing normal stuff like watching mindless television programmes or sucking his dummy, keeping his “irregularity” to himself. But that was too much to hope for, wasn’t it? He had the most annoying habit of not keeping it to himself. In fact, he gave the distinct impression of deliberately getting it out and flaunting it in the face of anybody who happened to be passing by.

“Aye, aye, he’s got one on him,” Tommy Trumper would say with an air of being a world authority on the shortcomings of small children, “he’s wearing his Irregular Badge again.”

An early wearing of the Irregular Badge had been at his second birthday party. His parents had planned a lovely day for him with great care and precision, as parents often do: the food, bought at Tesco, was lovingly unpackaged and set out neatly on the table: sausage rolls, pizzas, sandwiches, sticky cakes, biscuits and twenty-four cans of lager for the adults, of course. The background music was carefully selected and played, an engaging mix of party anthems from the 1980’s; and as a finishing touch, a list of jolly games was compiled from a book, also purchased from Tesco, titled “Set your kid’s party alight!”

All had been going to plan until it was noticed that Arry had gone AWOL and that there was a large fire raging in the middle of the lawn. It wasn’t a modest and jolly little camp fire, using regular little sticks of wood, to sit cosily around and sing regular little Abba songs. No, it was more what was described on the local news that night as “a mighty inferno”. For once, the newscaster’s script, too often exaggerated for effect and over-dramatic, was correct. Tall flames devoured the shed, whilst choking, acrid smoke darkened the garden and surrounding houses. It had also darkened the faces of several small party guests whom Arry had somehow persuaded to go outside and contribute to the blaze by throwing his birthday presents on it. Gift vouchers, Playmobil figures, socks, two copies of “Where’s Spot?”, bars of chocolate and five packs of Lego bricks, all fuelled the excitement of the little people who joyfully danced an impressive Conga round the fire. According to eyewitness accounts and verified by footage taken at the time on their mobile phones, there were at least ten two to three-year-olds enjoying the novel party game, not found in the book from Tesco. Arry’s chief contribution to the fire, besides lighting it, was the disposal of his buggy – something he had attempted the previous week by placing it in a wheelie-bin, only to be thwarted by an eagle-eyed refuse operative who strictly speaking was only doing his job when he refused it.

After the fire-brigade had been and gone, leaving the Trumpers with a warning about the dangers of garden fires, and after the departure of the scorched and sooty party guests with their angry parents, leaving the Trumpers without any friends, an urgent internal investigation was held within the confines of the living room.

The infant delinquent was strapped into his high-chair and put on trial, although nobody seemed to be disputing his guilt. Arry’s only defence, it seemed, was an annoying dumb insolence and an equally annoying impudent grin throughout the entire proceedings.

“Do you realise how much money we spent at Tesco buying food for your party? All that food has gone to waste thanks to you!”

Actually, this was not quite the truth of the matter as both Tommy Trumper and his son had tucked into the pizza and chicken sandwiches whilst watching the fire-brigade get the flames under control and rescue the promising young dance troupe from danger. Sensing that angry parents collecting their children might want compensation in the form of cakes and biscuits, they also ate as many as they could manage and hid the rest in a cupboard.

And that was the end of the day’s excitement, apart from a false alarm when Mrs Trumper, left alone with Arry after the end of “Home and Away”, bellowed “Will you stop that dribbling!!”

Mr Trumper, sitting safely at the kitchen table with his father, had immediately jumped up, clenched his fist, sank to his knees and thanked a benign God for blessing him with a prodigious footballing talent for a son.

“And Trumper has the ball, skins the full back, turns one way, then another, runs into the box, this is mesmerising stuff, he’s even sent the crowd the wrong way! Quite remarkable.”

Mr Trumper got up and raced into the living room triumphant, and was even prepared to embrace and kiss Mrs Trumper in celebration. But alas, there was no display of the promised prodigious football talent in sight and therefore no display of marital affection either: only Mrs Trumper standing there, arms on hips, and young Arry, his bib soaked in spittle, a bowl of turkey twizzlers (in a spicy tomato sauce) on his head and a noise sounding suspiciously like laughter coming from his mouth.

I could tell you quite a few other stories about Arry’s wearing of his Irregular Badge before his fourth birthday: some would shock you, some would make you laugh and some would make you, well, cringe is probably the right word. However, one more will have to do for now.

On reaching the age of three, Arry Trumper had taught himself to read. It is true to say that he had developed an early interest in books, especially those read by his parents and his grandad. However, the interest was an irregular one of filing them in unusual places when nobody was looking. Mr Trumper, for example, had a well-thumbed paperback copy of “From Russia with love”. The treasured book was discovered one day soaking, dumped in an unflushed toilet, pulped before its time. It was a fitting end for Colonel Rosa Klebb perhaps, but surely not for 007, thought Carl Trumper, as he fished out the dripping ex-novel, and hoping that M would not get wind of the incident.

Reading matter owned by Tommy Trumper also met a watery grave: when Mrs Trumper emptied the washing machine, she was annoyed to find many soggy bits of paper mixed in with the clothes. Tommy Trumper’s much-loved gardening pamphlet, “Cannabis for fun and profit,” had been reduced to a meaningless mush.

“What have I told you about emptying the pockets when you put your trousers in the wash?”

Tommy Trumper was as puzzled as he was distraught at his loss, although he did have his suspicions when he spotted more than a flicker of a smile on Arry’s face as his mother pulled out tangled shirts, socks and trousers all decorated with little fluffy white bits. Looking intently at his beaming little grandson, Tommy Trumper saw the telling glint of an Irregular Badge on his jumper and wondered what would happen next.

Tommy did not have to wait very long to find out what would happen next.

Young Arry had not only taken a lively interest in spy thrillers and horticultural information pamphlets, but also in the Yellow Pages. He liked the colour of the cover, but more than that he liked all the useful adverts with lots of big telephone numbers: adverts for pest and vermin control, adverts for drain cleaning, adverts for funeral directors, adverts for fire alarms and adverts for authentic Chinese cuisine for home delivery or take-away.

Arry had never tasted the delights of authentic Chinese cuisine, but he liked the sound of the words: Fu Yung, Kung Po, Cha Siu, Tsing Too, Tom Yung Kung, all just left his tongue tanging.

And so he put another irregular plan into action.

“Hello, Beijing Palace, how can help?”

With the daring cool of a seasoned criminal operative, Arry reeled off a long string of random numbers extended by the addition of prawn crackers. It was further extended by multiplying the order thirty-fold.

“Ah big party! Thank you so very much for order Mr Trumper. Ten minutes only.”

Arry put down the phone after one final string of big numbers in the form of a credit card payment.

Mr and Mrs Trumper had not heard a thing as the sound of the television had filled the house; whilst Tommy Trumper had just dozed in his bedroom, dreaming of a life without Mrs Trumper, and enjoying the wonders of the natural world.

The contentment of Mr and Mrs Trumper was interrupted by a loud banging at the door, followed by an extended doorstep debate concerning who was the rightful owner of over thirty bags of authentic Chinese cuisine, with accompanying prawn crackers.

“We’ve been pranked!” asserted Mr Trumper.

“No we haven’t, we’ve been well-pranked!” corrected Mrs Trumper.

Tommy Trumper said nothing, as he continued to enjoy the wonders of the natural world, blissfully unaware of the dispute downstairs. And Arry just lay in his bed, warm and cosy, unable to disguise his delight, as the strange brew of Number 3, 8, 11, 16, 23, 56, 61, 66, 67 and 70 wafted its way upstairs and into his nostrils.

At this point, you may be concerned that Arry could have been found out because the Credit Card statement showing evidence of fraudulent transaction would drop through the letter box or his parents would have checked the Internet. You will be pleased to know, however, that neither Mr nor Mrs Trumper could work out what had happened and in the end blamed it all on Tommy Trumper who could not account for his whereabouts at the time at which the felony was committed.

And so back to the beginning of the chapter in which Arry broke his apparent four-year silence. Mrs Trumper wasn’t just put-out, she was well put-out. She raved and ranted, jumped up and down, threw eggs in all directions and warned Arry about the evils of deceiving your parents.

But Mrs Trumper’s stern words, it seems, fell on deaf ears, as Arry just gurgled, chortled and waved his arms around like some kind of demented two-year-old, and looking as if he had just been told a very amusing story.

“Typical, just like your father, life’s just one big joke, isn’t it. Just you wait until you go to school my lad, they’ll sort you out good and proper, make no mistake!”

Mrs Trumper had few talents, but the gift of accurate prophecy was not one of them.

CHAPTER 3

JUST HOW MANY JEFFREYS CAN YOU GET INTO A TUMBLE-DRYER?

Now, can you remember your first day at school? Did you cry because mum or dad left you on your own for the first time? Or did your mum or dad cry because they found it very difficult to let go of your hand? Did the teacher seem very fierce? Did the teacher, for example, grab you by the hand and pull you into the classroom, screaming, kicking and shouting? Or was your teacher all smiles and kindness, telling you that you were going to have a really good time playing with all the other little children, whilst you were sobbing your heart out, alongside twenty other little children, who were also sobbing their hearts out?

Whatever your experience, I am guessing that it wouldn’t have been quite like that of the Trumper family. For a start the only tears shed by Mrs and Mrs Trumper were tears of joy after five years of having to sort out various irregularities of one sort or another.

The letter offering Arry a place at the school had stated that all students and their parent or carer should assemble in the School Hall at eight o’clock that morning. Mr and Mrs Trumper did not want to take any chances of Arry being turned away after a last minute hiccup and so arrived at a quarter to seven, just in case. They also wanted to ensure that their tears of joy were not wasted, having fermented and matured for over five, long years.

“What’s the Headmaster doing dressed up in shorts and riding a push bike? I don’t like the look of this at all,” Carl Trumper said, as he eyed up a man handing over small parcel to a woman dressed in a long black plaited skirt and a lemon floral blouse with a massive bow on it.

“Oh yes, he seems to be dressed up as a postman,” replied Tracey Trumper, scything down her husband with a single casual remark.

Arry did not seem to be taking any notice of what was going on around him: he had the look of an Olympic athlete, pacing up and down in total fixed concentration, just before the start of the race: something was brewing.

“Feeling a little nervous are we pet? Don’t worry, all the little boys and girls feel exactly the same, sweetie. By the end of the day you’ll be as right as rain.” It was the woman in the lemon floral blouse whose voice was as sickly-sweet as the pattern on her annoying blouse.

“Is that why they have made the dangerously subversive decision not to attend today’s inaugural meeting, I wonder? May I assert, madam, that I think most rain is overrated.”

The woman in the sickly-sweet blouse with the sickly-sweet voice, you have probably worked out by now, was the Reception Class teacher; what you will not have worked out, and so I shall have to tell you, is that this was the first day in her new job. However, if you are very, very smart, I suppose you might have worked that out for yourself, as no experienced teacher in their right mind would wear a lemon floral blouse with a huge bow – unless it was for a bet, of course. Now, this young teacher had read lots and lots of books on Education and had even attended training courses run by Ofsted Inspectors, so she knew all there was to know about five-year-olds.

Miss Polly Flowerpot (yes she really was called that), looked around to see who was speaking, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she did not know the meaning of either “subversive” or “inaugural”. First she eyed Carl Trumper, who was wondering about James Bond’s first day at school, and then Tracey Trumper, who was keeping a close eye on Arry just in case he tried to leg it, but could not work out which of them might have uttered the offending words. She then turned her attention to the only other adult left in the room, as the alleged Headmaster had pedalled off rapidly on his bike. This other adult was none other than Tommy Trumper who had decided to join in the family celebrations. Twiddling her massive bow, Miss Flowerpot nervously looked towards him, and was immediately put off by his toothless grin.

“It’s all right Miss Pollypot, it looks like he’s brought his Irregular Badge with him.”

Miss Flowerpot was a little puzzled at this. She had planned to have a lesson on the following day called Show and Tell: perhaps you remember it from your own Reception Class days – it’s when you bring interesting objects into the class, like a pet slug or a picture you took of a dead rabbit you had found on the road the previous day, and tell the class all about it. All the books and Ofsted Inspectors said that this was a great way to get to know a new class. So it was a little annoying that one of her class had brought something in to show and tell the day before she had even asked for it.

Arry just looked and smiled.

Feeling flustered, Miss Flowerpot, went to the Staff Room to gather her composure, leaving the Trumper tribe to stand around in the Hall, whilst ensuring that all exits were blocked should Arry decide to lower the school leaving age to five.

As there was nothing much else to do, they gazed around, looking at the children’s work, up on display for proud parents to see and for visitors to admire.

“Call that a painting, it looks like something a chuffin’ five-year-old would do,” commented Carl Trumper, looking at a particularly strange looking horse with three eyes, five legs and a pair of glasses.

“That’s probably because it was by a five-year-old,” Tracey Trumper advised her husband who had missed the vital evidence of the young artist’s signature and age in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture. “You never were very good at finding names.”

Trying to ignore his wife’s words, Carl was determined to show her that when it came to matters of Modern Art, he was the Man: no one messed around with Carl Trumper when it came to knowing about Art.

“And what about this one then?” said Southport’s finest Art critic. “It’s total rubbish. Looks like somebody just threw lumps of orange and yellow paint that nearly sunk that boat. I suppose you are going to make excuses by saying that it was done by a kid of five as well.”

“No, I believe it was painted by a child of sixty.”

It was Arry.

“It’s a rather good quality reproduction of Turner’s “Fighting Temeraire”, notably used in the film “Skyfall”, and much admired by Q, if memory serves.”

That explained everything, thought Carl Trumper, Q might have been a dab-hand at fancy gadgets for killing criminal masterminds, but he was clueless about Modern Art.

“I like the look of this,” Tommy Trumper said with some enthusiasm, as he picked up a potted plant off 2B’s Nature Table and started sniffing it.

There was evident concern amongst other parents relating to their child not being late for the first day at school, as a trickle around seven twenty-five became a mighty river of pushing and shoving by eight o’clock, until order was eventually restored by the Headmaster who by now was standing on stage.

“He’s been home and got changed,” muttered Carl Trumper, still convinced that the Headmaster of his son’s school was a bit of an oddball.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Privy Street School, Ofsted-Ready and over-subscribed. My name is Dirk Dashley, the proud Headmaster of this school.”

Dirk paused to ensure that parents were on-message, smiled a toothpaste advert smile and then proceeded.

“First day at school can be a daunting experience and so we do our best to ensure that your child is well looked after by our highly-trained Reception Class teacher.”

At this point, the Headmaster pointed to the blushing Miss Flowerpot, who giggled and twiddled her gigantic bow once again, a little nervous that she might be asked to talk to the parents about the “subversive inaugurals” or “inaugural subversives” (whatever they were).

“But this school has not always been the happy ship it is now. Before I was parachuted in by Ofsted to sort things out, the place was an absolute disgrace. Children were not learning anything worthwhile and morale was low amongst the Staff after an inspection judged the school as Requiring Improvement. There were even rumours that a low-life drug dealer from Fleetwood was selling cannabis to the teachers at lunch time.”

Tommy Trumper shuffled uneasily on the spot, examining the off-white laces of his grubby trainers.

“But that is a thing of the past: children now learn the things they are supposed to learn and make rapid progress. Staff, I am pleased to tell you, are a happy crew, who spend their entire lunchtime in the classroom.

We have a strict Discipline Code in school, something which I know you are all concerned about. If there is no discipline, there cannot be any learning, I’m sure that you will agree.”

Vigorous nods of agreement from all the adults in the room; nil response from the children.

“We mean serious business here at Privy Street and the Discipline Code is strictly enforced.” At this point, Dirk Dashley flashed his ultra-white teeth, frightening two small girls who immediately burst into loud sobbing fits.

“Here at the Privy, as we like to call it, we have a system of staged punishments, depending on how naughty the child has been. The first stage of punishment is for not getting full marks in a test and thinking it funny: the punishment is a simple one of being locked in a damp shed all day.”

At this point some of the children hid behind their parents’ legs and some started to whimper.

“The second stage is aimed specifically at those children who try to read books under the table which are not part of the Official Reading Scheme. You are probably horrified by this, but believe me it does happen! I once found a six-year-old boy reading “Oliver Twist” instead of “Biffa the Bear buys some smart green trousers”. And on making enquiries about why he was reading a book he couldn’t possibly understand and which was not in the Official Reading Scheme, this boy, this boy, told me that he was enjoying it! We soon sorted him out believe me, by giving him a year’s homework to complete in a week, copying out the entire Biffa Blue, Red and Green Trouser Series.”

On hearing about Dirk Dashley’s successful programme for the rehabilitation of young offenders against the Official Reading Scheme, more of the children expressed their opinion on the matter by bawling very loudly in a most uncontrollable fashion. Some of the distressed children held up their arms in the hope of being lifted up and comforted by their parents, who seemed more concerned about Biffa and his green trousers.

Unmoved and apparently deaf to the small protesters and their discontent, Dirk Dashley continued with his dismal catalogue of delinquency.

“No child here at the Privy has ever reached the third stage of the Discipline Code, but if that should ever happen, parents, there would be serious consequences. Sir Alex Ferguson, the legendary manager of Manchester United and a particular hero of mine –”

Top man, thought Carl Trumper, suddenly interested.

“– got results by using the hair-dryer. Following the lead of Sir Alex we use the tumble-dryer. If any child crosses that line in the sand between the second and third stage of the Discipline Code, he or she will be bundled into the school’s tumble-dryer in order to help them come to their senses.”

Apart from Tracey Trumper who murmured her approval for this unusual course of action in dealing with the most unruly of students, the assembled parents looked a little uneasy at the thought of their child being tumble-dried.

There was an uncomfortable silence of around five seconds; even the potential crossers of the line in the sand had for some reason stopped crying at this point.

“Only joking mums, dads and kiddies, only joking!” Dirk Dashley roared and doubled-up in mirth. Miss Flowerpot also smiled at the jest, relieved that she would not have to give any of her class the tumble-dry treatment: that would surely have been judged as “Requiring Improvement” by Ofsted, if not “Inadequate”.

“This guy doesn’t know what he is talking about,” said Tracey Trumper tartly, barely able to contain her disappointment.

“What do you expect? He’s not even a real Headmaster. He’s an imposter!” remarked Carl Trumper, who now doubted whether the bogus Headmaster had ever read Fergie’s autobiography.

After all this time which I have spent telling you about Dirk Dashley and Arry’s first few hours spent at the Privy, you are probably wondering what he was up to during the speech and the hubbub created by that speech. He certainly was not crying: in fact, I am not even sure that he was aware of what was going on; or at least, if he did, Arry did not show it.

What Arry did do, was to systematically go round the room, introduce himself to his future classmates and whisper something in their ear. What he said, I haven’t a clue, but the reaction from all the other children was exactly the same: at first a frown and then a smile, followed by a nod. Whatever he had said, it clearly had cheered them up and explains why they had all stopped crying by the time Dirk Dashley had revealed the truth about the third stage of the Discipline Code.

Despite reservations about the effectiveness of the school’s Discipline Code, Tracey Trumper left her son in the capable hands of Miss Flowerpot; Carl Trumper, despite his reservations about the identity of the Headmaster, was also happy enough to go home without Arry; and Tommy Trumper left with a smile on his face, having dropped several plants from the 2B’s Nature Table into a Tesco plastic carrier bag.

Miss Flowerpot took all the children into her classroom.

“Now children, let’s get to know each other. Let’s introduce ourselves to each other. Lovely.”

Miss Flowerpot was so sweet: the words just dripped from her mouth.

“Now, let’s start with you shall we? What’s your name?”

Miss Flowerpot was looking at Arry.

“Jeffrey.”

“Jeffrey. What a lovely name. This is Jeffrey everyone. Shall we say hello to Jeffrey?”

“Hello Jeffrey,” chorused the happy scholars.

“And what’s your name pet?”

A rather dapper looking boy with well-jelled hair obliged Miss Flowerpot.

“Jeffrey, my name is Jeffrey,” said the splendid little boy, patting his natty hair to the rhythm of the syllables.

“Another Jeffrey! How lovely! Let’s hope we don’t get confused having two Jeffreys in the class! Say hello to another Jeffrey boys and girls.”

“Hello another Jeffrey.”

“And what about you dear, next to Jeffrey?”

Miss Flowerpot’s speculative prophecy about confusion became an instant fact, as there were two little girls sitting next to what had become a choice of Jeffreys.

Both girls looked very puzzled.

“Oh silly me. I mean you!” Miss Flowerpot pointed at a rather fierce looking girl dressed in denim.

“Jeffrey.”

“Yes I know that Jeffrey is sitting next to you, dear, and we already know his name. What is your name?”

“Jeffrey,” the denim-clad girl insisted.

Miss Flowerpot hesitated in any further contradiction, recalling the latest Jeffrey’s parents in the School Hall who also looked rather fierce. She thought that they might be what an Ofsted Inspector had called a “troubled family”.

“Lovely, let’s move on to you now. And before you tell us your name, may I say what a pretty pink dress you are wearing. You look just like a little sugarplum fairy on top of the Christmas tree. Isn’t it just lovely class?”

The class seemed to possess neither good taste nor sufficient expertise in Fashion to make a definitive judgement, as nobody reacted: except, that is, the denim-clad girl who, like her parents, looked troubled: she just scowled.

The little girl in the pretty dress, however, beamed a smile which only a little girl who has just been called a sugarplum fairy could.

“Jeffrey.”

I am going to stop at this point just to let you know that this little girl was just so shy and so cute and was definitely not troubled. Not only had she been blessed with an angelic face, with a mop of the most beautiful blonde curls and with a pink fairy dress, but she also had a voice to go with the outfit. So instead of pronouncing Jeffrey in the usual way, she pronounced it as if it had the letter W rather than the letter R. I didn’t want to write it as Jeffwey in case you, like Miss Flowerpot, got confused by the growing Jeffrey problem. So that’s sorted that out.

“My goodness, we have rather a lot of Jeffreys today don’t we!” Miss Flowerpot giggled a nervous giggle and was starting to feel a little uncomfortable about making further enquiries about names. However, she knew that as a teacher, and therefore a responsible adult, she had to find out the names of all the children for purposes of what Ofsted called “effective interaction”.

So, twiddling her bow into more and more twisted shapes, Miss Flowerpot, asked all the little people in the class their name. She discovered that all twenty-five of them were called Jeffrey.

And so very early in the term, Miss Polly Flowerpot hoped that Dirk Dashley would change his mind about tumble-drying the children, but clearly packing twenty-five Jeffreys into one machine might have proved quite difficult.

CHAPTER 4

AN INSPECTOR DOESN'T CALL

Unless you have been home-schooled, you will know that the worst thing you can shout at a teacher in the playground (and then run very fast to escape round the corner), isn’t a rude insult, or even a horrible swear word, such as…well, I’ll leave you to fill in the gap. No, the dreaded word, which would certainly lead to a short stay in most schools’ tumble-dryer if you were ever caught, is Ofsted. Just the mere whisper of this two syllable missile is enough to reduce the toughest teacher on the block to emotional and physical rubble. Even Dave Hard-Case, Head of Nastiness, cowers trembling in a corner or just starts blubbering on the spot if he hears that Ofsted is on the way!

Once upon a time, Ofsted used to give schools a few week’s warning before they turned up to inspect a school: this was great because it gave the Head time to put plans into place to ensure that the inspection went well. Displays of the latest student work would be put up all around the corridors. School Policies on this, that and the other would be updated or written. Special trips would be created for the most troubled students in the school: sadly, this meant they missed out on meeting the Ofsted Team, but nobody complained. There would also be special Ofsted Assemblies whose theme was either not talking to strangers or the importance of going home every night and cheering Mum or Dad up. Cheering them up would consist of describing how effective the school’s assessment arrangements had been that day in ensuring the rapid progress of all students.

However, since then, things have changed a bit. The Lead Inspector of the Ofsted Team, the big cheese usually dressed in a grey suit, rings the school the day before the inspection and has a reassuring chat with the Head. This makes the rapid mounting of current work quite tricky and the organisation of treats for the troubled almost impossible: unless that Head is called Dirk Dashley, of course. With SAS precision (he had, after all, been parachuted into the school), Mr Dashley had put plans into place should he receive the dreaded phone call. Policies were updated every day. He collected together a huge pile of anonymous, undated work, ready for his Personal Secretary to put up on the walls and supply each piece of work with a name and recent date. He had also arranged for a trusted Teaching Assistant to take any troubled boys and girls for a long walk down Southport pier and spend the day in the pavilion at the end of the pier playing on the slot machines. They were to investigate the hypothesis that the probability of returning to school having made any profit from the £20 initial cash outlay provided by the school was about zero. This mathematical treat would take place over a seven hour period to ensure the results were fair and accurate.

So when Dirk Dashley got the call he was confident: all the correct paperwork had been labelled and filed; staff, parents and governors had been primed for months on end via a weekly Newsletter, titled “Privy Talk”. This was keenly appreciated by the school’s Friday lunchtime Origami Club and also by those students with an interest in designing aeroplanes.

The Lead Inspector had introduced himself over the phone as Dr Ed Soft and according to an amused Dirk Dashley in conversation with the Chair of Governors and Staff that evening, he sounded about nine years old and a bit of a pushover!

“Hope he doesn’t turn up in short trousers!” joked the jovial Mr Dashley. The Chair of Governors and Staff appreciated the Head’s attempt to cheer them up, but remembered all too well the dark days of the previous inspection. Letters in the “Southport Evening Standard” from irate parents had been merciless, describing the departing Chair of Governors as having been being well and truly deck-chaired and the departing Head as having the leadership skills of a three-legged beach donkey. Whilst it was recognised that Mr Dashley had done a good job in restoring local confidence through his tough Discipline Code, there was still a great deal of nervousness around the Staff Room. Miss Flowerpot, in particular, was anxious. Her lemon floral blouse was in the wash and might not be dry in time for the arrival of the Ofsted Team; the books in the Official Reading Scheme were a bit creased, so Biffa’s trousers were not quite as smart as they should have been; and even several years after the event, she still worried about doing the Register in case twenty-five Jeffreys turned up unexpectedly.

“We’ve come through some hard times, but now we have great expectations of being judged as an Outstanding school. That’s what I put in all the documents and that’s what I told the Lead Inspector on the phone this afternoon. He didn’t argue. Soft by name, soft by nature, that’s my view. It’s in the bag.”

Dirk oozed confidence. He had dragged the school out of Requiring Improvement, he felt, and now it was just a question of Ofsted rubber-stamping his outstanding work: no problem. He could see it now, the glowing headlines in the “Southport Evening Standard”, announcing a triumph of determination and data management; a special edition, perhaps, to print the sacks of letters from parents thanking Mr Dashley for putting Southport back on the educational map. Perhaps even a knighthood in recognition of his work would be in order: Sir Dirk Dashley.

I could be wrong, but I am guessing that there are probably two things you are thinking about at the moment, as you read this chapter. The first thing you might be considering is whether or not Arry will wear his Irregular Badge during the inspection.

Well, the answer is no. I hope that this is not a huge disappointment to you. If it is, you will just have to use your imagination and invent what Arry might have done during the inspection when wearing his Irregular Badge. You could imagine him, perhaps, locking the school gates and organising a noisy protest, walking round and round the playground with placards containing rude slogans and naughty pictures, such as…again, better leave that one to your imagination. Alternatively, you might picture him turning up to school in a pair of smart, but non-regulation, bright green trousers, claiming that Biffa had told him to do it. If you have got a really weird, but wonderful imagination, you might amuse yourself by seeing Arry in your mind’s eye being interviewed by the Lead Ofsted Inspector and spinning irregular, scripted, little yarns to tie him up in knots.

ARRY: So, Dr Soft innit?

LEAD OFSTED INSPECTOR: Yes, I …

ARRY: Sweet bro. Is you wantin’ the gen on the school? Cos if you do, I is your man, I is fly, right?

LEAD OFSTED INSPECTOR: Well, yes, I was rather hoping for a little –

ARRY: Yakkety-yak. Respect bruv. I is up for that.

LEAD OFSTED INSPECTOR: (picking up his pen and sensing a very useful troubled student): Ah yes, respect, that is exactly what I want to talk to you about. Do you feel that Mr Dashley respects the students in the school?

ARRY: Bro, I ain’t never heard of no Dashley dude. So is you bangin’ on about dis Ashley geezer in my class who don’t never give me no respect and so me sort it wiv’ him in a ruck under the desk?

The other thing you may be wondering is whether Dirk Dashley will manage to outsmart the Lead Ofsted Inspector, Ed Soft. The answer to this question, I’m afraid, is also a no. Okay, paintings, computer-generated pictures, complex mathematical problems relating to Probability and numerous lively poems and stories were put up on the wall for the Ofsted Inspectors to admire. This looked really good as all the work was clean, up to date and did not have any tatty corners. However, the display did cause a little confusion, as some of the more forgetful students couldn’t remember having done the work which had their name on it. Some trouble-makers were even claiming that they had done a piece of excellent work which had been misattributed to some less talented classmate. However, the educational walk to Southport pier in search of mathematical knowledge did get off early, well before Ofsted was due to arrive, and an atmosphere of calm settled around the school.

A knighthood, at this point, was still on the cards.

“Remember the routine Mrs Smooth, as soon as the Inspector enters the building you must check his badge to make sure he is who he says he is: we don’t want any irregularities do we?”

Mrs Smooth was a Secretary who, like any good school Secretary, knew exactly what to do – especially as she had been reminded every day over the last few years by the soon to be Sir Dirk Dashley.

The Head tried to put everyone in the Staff Room at their ease with some well-judged jokes about Ed Soft.

“Should Dr Soft forget his lunch box, phone his parents immediately,” he insisted. “And whilst you are on the phone, remind them that new boys should be picked up fifteen minutes before the end of school,” Mr Dashley chuckled.

Sensing that he was on a roll, he also quipped, “We have a very clear Anti-Bullying Policy at this school, so please re-assure Dr Soft that if some of the bigger boys start picking on him, he must report it to a senior member of Staff immediately.”

On the approach of nine o’clock, Dirk Dashley became a little nervous himself. Pacing up and down the school foyer and checking his watch, he looked for his visitors crossing the playground.

Five-past nine and the only person walking through the door was Arry Trumper, who seemed remarkably pleased to see the Head.

“Heartiest felicitations most revered leader! Apologies for my tardiness, but –“

“Oh it’s you, I was expecting the Ofsted Inspector. I don’t suppose you saw him on your travels, did you?”

Arry became animated.

“You are referring, possibly, to a distinguished gentleman transporting a briefcase and whose sartorial tastes tended towards the lugubrious?”

Dirk Dashley became even more animated.

“Yes that’ll be him!”

Arry paused.

“Negative. My most profound apologies revered leader: I did not have the misfortune to encounter such a person. I sincerely hope that you will have, what is referred to in the vernacular as a good day.”

“Gifted and talented; more like irritating and off his bloody trolley,” Mr Dashley muttered, as Arry disappeared round the corner to look for the Late Register.

Ten-past nine arrived and there was still no sign of Dr Soft and his Team. This is very irregular, thought Dirk Dashley, whilst examining his watch and calibrating it with the school clock.

Twenty-past nine and no phone call from Dr Soft to report an accident or delay.

Nine-thirty and Dirk Dashley ran out of patience and told Mrs Smooth to phone Ofsted and find out where Soft Boy had got to.

Three minutes and many stammered apologies later, Mrs Smooth, passed on the conversation she had just had: there was no Ofsted Inspector of that name and so no Inspector would be calling.

“We’ve been had!” yelled the Head, now reduced to a mere Mr Dirk Dashley. “Hoaxed! I knew there was something odd about him when he kept calling me Arthur.”

Mr Dashley sat down in the foyer, head in hands, playing through the conversation he had had with Dr Ed Soft the previous day: he seemed to know so much about the school and had even gone to the trouble of finding out the names of many of the children across the ability range with whom he wished to speak.

The revered leader looked up, wondering how he was going to explain the disaster away to the readers of the “Southport Evening Standard”, only to see Arry Trumper passing by, enthusiastically whistling Pharell Williams’s up-lifting anthem “Happy” and clutching a well-thumbed copy of “Anagrams for dummies”.

CHAPTER 5

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS BADLY

I don’t know about you, probably because I don’t know who you are, but I really like happy endings to books and films. Call me sad, but the happier the ending, the happier I am. I especially like endings where the baddies get caught and get their just desserts after making the lives of other people uncomfortable or just downright miserable. A happy ending makes me feel good about the world and I start to believe that we will all, one day, live happily ever after.

I think that Miss Flowerpot was also a big fan of happy endings because she was also a big fan of the Biffa Blue, Red and Green Trouser books which I mentioned previously. Whoever wrote the books had decided that happy endings were a good thing for children and so in every book, at every level, Biffa came out on top. No matter what difficulties and setbacks he faced, no matter how naughty the other characters were, Biffa ended up winning the day. I shall just give you one example to put you in the picture, just in case you are not familiar with the books. This one also happens to be Miss Flowerpot’s all-time favourite, by the way.

The story I want to tell you about is from the Red Trouser Series (Level 3, sub-level 5c, part 4) in which Biffa’s trousers were stolen off the washing line one morning. This made Biffa cry because he was going to a party that night and wanted to show everyone his special red trousers. They were special, not only because they were rather smart, but also because they had magical powers: Biffa’s red trousers could talk! I must say that I have always wanted a pair of trousers like that, but have never found any, either in the shops or on-line.

What was Biffa to do? Well, what he did was to go round the village where he lived and ask everyone if they had seen his magic talking trousers. First, he asked the postman, but he had no idea what Biffa was talking about. Next, he asked the nice lady who owned the sweet shop and she was very sorry because she knew nothing about the disappearance of the trousers. Then he went to the police station to see if anyone had handed in his magic talking trousers. The kind policemen told Biffa that he had been on duty since midnight and the only thing that had been handed in was a blue sock which could sing.

However, the policeman helpfully suggested to Biffa that he went round to see Simon Snatcher who was the village burglar. He was well known in the area because he was always taking things which did not belong to him. Biffa thought that this was a jolly good idea and so went round to see Simon to ask him if he had stolen any magic trousers that morning.

Biffa knocked politely on the door and a voice from behind the door said that there was nobody in.

“I know you are there Simon Snatcher because I heard your voice,” said Biffa.

“It’s not me, it’s just a pair of magic talking trousers you heard,” shouted Simon angrily.

Biffa did not believe Simon and burst through the door to find that Simon had run off and that the talking trousers had been tied to a chair and gagged with a belt.

“I knew that was Simon Snatcher’s voice,” said Biffa, putting on his magic trousers after releasing them from the chair and untying the belt.

The trousers were really glad to see Biffa and thanked him for saving him from the clutches of naughty Simon Snatcher.

It all ended happily ever after, as Biffa went to the party wearing his smart red talking trousers and Simon Snatcher was boiled in oil.

Now that’s what I call a happy ending and Miss Flowerpot agrees with me. Every time she reads that story out to the class she can hardly hold back the tears of joy at the thought of Biffa getting his magic trousers back and Simon getting punished for being so naughty.

“That’s such a lovely, lovely story boys and girls,” Miss Flowerpot would say, dabbing her eyes with the bow of her lemon blouse. “So we must never steal magic trousers off a washing line must we? Or we might end up like Simon Snatcher and get boiled alive.”

What I have just told you about is just one example from the hundreds of stories in the Biffa the Bear Reading Scheme which the children of the Privy Street School either read or had read to them in the Reception Class.

When Arry was in the Reception Class, he was never keen on the Official Reading Scheme and expressed his dislike by refusing to read about the exploits of Biffa and his impressive wardrobe of coloured trousers. Instead he chose to read books which he enjoyed and thought more relevant to life on the mean streets of Southport. Alternatively, he read some quite naughty books which he knew would annoy Dirk Dashley if he was caught. However, Arry never got caught, either because Arry was too smart for Miss Flowerpot or Miss Flowerpot just decided to look the other way, rather than send him to see Mr Dashley to face the full might of the Discipline Code (Stage 2, Part 5, sub-section 3a: Naughty Books).

Whilst engaged in his irregular reading, Arry would often gaze around the class to look at the other children who did not seem to be appreciating the adventures of Biffa and his smart trousers. Instead, they were staring into space, pretending to read or were just fast asleep. What a waste of existence, thought Arry. Books should be fun!

So when he left the Reception Class, he hatched a rather good plan to help future generations of students at the Privy: Arry decided to improve the Biffa stories by changing the endings. This was a long term project as there were a lot of Biffa books to get through. Luckily, Arry persuaded a couple of friends to help him. I cannot reveal their names to you as the two friends insisted upon complete anonymity: so I shall just call them both Jeffrey. Every night, Arry, Jeffrey and Jeffrey took home five books each and very neatly altered the ending by pasting a new version over the original page.

In order to monitor the progress of their plan, all three managed to slip out of their own classroom, using the excuse of needing the toilet. Miss Flowerpot’s classroom was just down the corridor so it was easy to peep through the window during the Literacy lesson, to see if the children were having fun reading yet.

At first, Arry and the two Jeffreys met with modest success, only seeing the odd child who had reached the end of a story (rather than pretending to get to the end of a story), chuckle and smirk. Then, as more children discovered the improved endings to the stories, they started recommending books to each other. After a few weeks, quite often for the whole of the Literacy lesson, the entire class was laughing, demanding to read more and more about Biffa’s trousers and many of them completing the entire Reading Scheme in less than half the expected time.

“Oh how lovely to see such busy little readers! Ofsted would be proud of all of you,” said Miss Flowerpot every lesson, as children were making rapid progress by zipping through the books and were even demanding to know if there was another series in which Biffa wore some yellow or black trousers, or even some dandy white flannels.

Unfortunately, the fad for enjoying reading came to an abrupt end when a child, in his new found enthusiasm for books, took home “Biffa finds some money” (Blue Trouser Series, Level 5, sub-level 1a, part 6). To be honest with you, this was not one of my favourite stories, although after Arry, Jeffrey or Jeffrey had improved it, the story rather grew on me. Having said that, the parents of the little boy who took the book home did not see the new ending as much of an improvement at all; in fact, they were quite annoyed by it and emailed Dirk Dashley to express their annoyance. They described the new ending as “setting a bad example” and characterised Biffa as “a social deviant”. In the original version Biffa found a wallet containing £500 and immediately returned it to the owner, who gave him ten pence as a special reward for his honesty, and Biffa smiled all the way home, pleased that he had done his good deed for the day. In the new version, Biffa thought that the man whose money he had returned had been jolly mean by only giving him a ten pence reward and so he hung him upside down from a lamp-post which, I’m sure that you will agree, was a much happier ending.

Dirk Dashley was a very sensitive man and he was especially sensitive about emails from irate parents, in particular when they involved criticism of Biffa the Bear and his smart trousers. He immediately read through “Biffa finds some money” to check out the claims by the parents. On discovering the irregular ending, Mr Dashley recalled the entire Reading Scheme and read the lot in one afternoon, becoming progressively more horrified at what Biffa and his smart trousers had been getting up to without his knowledge.

“Only you Trumper, only you, could have come up with a scheme like this!”

Dirk Dashley, for once, was absolutely right and Arry did not deny it.

“You are entirely accurate in your level-headed assessment of the situation most revered leader, but I do not seek any public recognition for my modest contribution to the improved literacy levels of our younger students.”

“You just don’t get it do you Trumper? You have vandalised an entire Reading Scheme, changed Biffa from a cuddly bear in smart trousers into some kind of urban delinquent and have succeeded in spoiling the endings of over three hundred stories.”

Harry held up his hand to explain, but was gunned down (metaphorically, you will be pleased to hear) by a volley of verbal bullets from Dirk Dashley, who by now was firing on all cylinders.

Picking up several books from three gigantic colour-coded piles which had been converted into an Unofficial Reading Scheme, Mr Dashley gave a brief overview of Arry’s crimes against Literacy.

“Let’s start with “Biffa visits the hospital” shall we?” (This book was from the Green Trouser Series, by the way). “Unless my memory is faulty, poor Biffa hurt his leg when he fell off his bike. I also seem to remember that he was very upset because he had ripped his smart green trousers which he had only just ironed. As a result of the accident, Biffa walked the two miles in the pouring rain to his local Accident and Emergency Unit and then waited twelve hours to see a nurse. On his way home in the dark, he thought how kind all the nurses had been to him and he whistled merrily because his leg now only hurt a little bit.”

Dirk Dashley paused to heighten the horror of changing perfectly good endings.

“That, Mr Trumper, is a good ending to a story and I know that Miss Flowerpot and the children agree with me. But you have to go and spoil it with a different ending, don’t you? We now read at the end of “Biffa visits the hospital”, and here I quote in full, “In his dissatisfaction at having to wait so long for treatment and having been refused transport home Biffa, dressed only in his string vest and underpants, hi-jacked an ambulance. And then, disguising himself with an ambulance driver’s green hat, he picked up ten soaking elderly people waiting for a taxi in the rain and took them home free of charge, before putting the ambulance on Ebay to raise money for the village soup kitchen.”

The outraged Head paused once again, this time to recover from the trauma of reading the new ending.

“And that’s just for starters Trumper. We now move on to one of my favourites in the Blue Trouser Series which you managed to ruin: does the title “Biffa becomes an Ofsted Inspector” mean anything to you?”

Arry searched the darkest recesses of his memory, but could throw no light on the matter.

“Let me help you out here Trumper, by giving you a brief summary of the story I once enjoyed. Because Biffa had such well-ironed and clean blue trousers and because he wanted to help little boys and girls to enjoy school, he became an Ofsted Inspector. He was going to become a fireman or a doctor, but in the end, decided to help children out by inspecting schools. After a very busy day talking to children and teachers, and looking at lots and lots and lots of facts and figures, he walked out through the school gates singing his favourite song. Everyone had been so happy to see him and he had made lots of friends. The teachers had even said how much they liked his smart blue trousers. Biffa was really pleased that he had not become either a fireman or a doctor. He went to bed early that night, looking forward to making more new friends and making lots of people happy the next day.”

Arry’s memory did not seem to improve with the input of additional data.

“And now what do we read? Did Biffa the Bear become an Ofsted Inspector? Answer: yes he did. Did Biffa the Bear go into a school and talk to the teachers and the children? Answer: yes he did. Did Biffa the Bear sing his favourite song on his way home? Answer: yes he did. And did he make lots of people happy? Answer: yes he did. And how did he make lots of people happy Trumper? Answer: Biffa the Bear drove a large dumper truck into the school playground, loaded it up with all the test papers and target sheets he could find and took it all to a local quarry where he set the lot on fire.”

Arry looked quizzically at the revered leader.

The revered leader stared hard at Arry and said –

Unfortunately, you will never find out what Dirk Dashley said as he was interrupted by the clamour of distressed students banging on his door asking for the return of their stolen Reading Scheme. The main reason being that the Literacy lesson was due to start and many of them had not quite finished their book and they were keen to know what happened in the end.

CHAPTER 6

ARRY IN THE LOCAL COMMUNITY

Nowadays, schools quite rightly take great pride in playing a big part in their local community. They do this in many different ways, of course: throwing parties for the elderly at Christmas, for example, taking part in projects to make the village or town look spick and span, and so on.

All the students in their final year at the Privy were expected to take part in this kind of community-based learning, as Dirk Dashley called it: it was seen as solid preparation for the transition to Secondary school and also ticked a big Ofsted box. It also gave Dirk Dashley and his Staff the opportunity for a one day transition from stress to rest, a welcome break from having to sort out the most seriously troubled students in their final term stuck, as they saw it, in the Privy. Occasionally, this day of rest was interrupted by a phone call reporting incidents of troubling behaviour, but this did not happen too often, I am pleased to report.

This particular year also gave Mr Dashley and the Staff a welcome rest from Arry and his irregular approaches to learning which, as his final year at the Privy had gone on, had become more and more, let’s say, regularly irregular.

It was the responsibility of the students and their parents to come up with an idea for a challenging Community Project for the day. All ideas were vetted by Dick Dashley personally and were usually passed without discussion: as long as there was a measurable, time-specific outcome, with a clear impact on the progress and well-being of the local community, he was happy. All locations for the projects were given the necessary legal checks to comply with Health and Safety Rules and all adults coming into contact with the student were scrupulously and officially checked.

Most projects Dirk Dashley had seen time and time again since being parachuted into the school and therefore required little more than a curt grunt or a polite nod of approval. In fact, over the years, it is fair to say, the projects had become tiresomely predictable, the top three being training an old lady’s dog to fetch its pooper-scooper out the cupboard before going for a walk, handing out leaflets to tourists advertising Southport’s latest beach attractions and helping the disabled to do their weekly shop at Tesco. The accompanying outcomes had also become disappointingly predictable: paintings of improbably pleased little dogs holding a pooper-scooper tightly in their jaws, morbid poems about fatal accidents involving obese beach bungee-jumpers and weekly pie-charts of projected pie sales in Tesco seemed to be the best outcomes on offer. There were the occasional imaginative novelties such as the diary of a poodle who cried when the student went home and a fully-costed, grand plan for disabled access to all Tesco top shelves, involving the use of a fleet of mini-forklift trucks, but these were unusual.

Neither Tracey nor Carl Trumper were aware of the annual Privy initiative, grandly titled “Community Relations Augmentation Project”, as Arry had conveniently lost the letter at the bottom of his school bag, an area in which neither Tracey nor Carl were prepared to venture without prior medical advice and a two week course of antibiotics. By the way, before I continue, I should point out to you what I told you earlier was not the real title of the scheme: it was just made up by Arry when he was trying to find an effective way of teaching one of the two Jeffreys the difference between an abbreviation and an acronym. I thought that I would mention it just in case you too were having difficulties understanding the difference between the two concepts. Hope that helps.

As Mr Dashley had not received the official slip proposing Arry’s intended Community Project and it was getting close to the Wednesday deadline, he summoned him to his office.

“Ah Mr Trumper, good of you to turn up on time for once. I was wondering about the small matter of your Community Project. Everyone but you has decided upon a project, it seems: are you having difficulties? If so, I can decide on one for you – there is an especially interesting opportunity – ”

Mr Dashley’s voice trailed off somewhere into a hazy Southport sunset as Arry was more interested in the curious photographs on the wall than in a yet unspecified interesting opportunity. He recognised the people in the photographs as being Dirk Dashley’s two teenage children: he had seen them both in the middle of town most Saturdays doing the shopping with their parents. The photographs were hardly worth his attention, except that both of the Dashley children were wearing Biffa masks and were dressed in smart red trousers. Now, if you have ever been inside your Head’s office you will know that all them, without exception, have photographs of their family on the desk or on top of the filing cabinet or on the wall: maybe it’s to show their students that they are really human after all and live ordinary lives outside of school. This was evidently the intention of Mr Dashley who wanted to show that he too had an ordinary life outside the Privy: the photographs of his two fine teenage sons, who enjoyed dressing up as Biffa the Bear, were the evidence.

You may disagree, but to my mind, the photographs of the two Dashley Juniors, aged somewhere between thirteen and sixteen, do not quite give an accurate and balanced impression of everyday Southport life: whilst the town does have its fair share of eccentrics, none of them, to be fair, dresses up in Biffa masks and smartly pressed trousers to re-enact scenes from the Official Privy Reading Scheme. Not even World Literacy Day could produce anything so bizarre, that’s for sure.

Arry recognised the closest photograph to him as a scene from a story in the Red Trouser Series titled “Biffa gets a prize” (Level 2, sub-level 3c, part 8) in which Biffa entered a Bonny Bear competition and gained a very creditable Third Place. Arry remembered the story well as he had changed the ending by having the First and Second Place contestants disqualified for cheating, as they were not really bears at all, but two rather portly squirrels. The photograph, however, did not show the improved ending of the story, but rather, Dirk Dashley’s son in his Biffa mask sporting a Third Place ribbon and giving a cheery thumbs up to the camera.

The photograph of the eldest of the Dashley children was also a scene from the Red Trouser Series. It was from “Biffa makes a terrible mistake” (Level 9, sub-level 4a, part 1) in which Biffa was given a parking ticket by Mr Lurch the Traffic Warden for being 2cm over the white line. In the original version of the story, Biffa apologised to Mr Lurch for having been so naughty and promised to pay the fine the next day. The much improved ending, made by either Jeffrey or Jeffrey, had Biffa explaining patiently that he had to pick up an urgent prescription for his elderly neighbour, and that the Chemist shop was about to close. Mr Lurch, after having carefully considered the merits of Biffa’s explanation, then tore up the ticket and promised to become a good person in future by getting a job as a Lollipop Man and helping people in the local community. Unfortunately, the improved happy ending had been ignored and the photograph of Dirk Dashley’s eldest son showed him with a cheesy grin, holding his parking ticket up in one hand and a receipt for the payment of a £100 fine in the other.

“– to work at the Southport Beach Donkey Sanctuary, cleaning out the stables and finding out all about the work of this fine organisation.”

“Unnecessary most revered leader, the bureaucratic processes have been put into motion already by my esteemed parents, who have consented to a placement in another equally fine local organisation, namely the Southport Branch of the National Home for Ofsted Survivors and Distressed Gentlefolk.”

At which, Arry placed the consent form on Dirk Dashley’s desk, apparently signed by Carl and Tracey Trumper, and was gone.

A last-minute placement meant additional work for Mr Dashley, quickly phoning round, doing the necessary checks and paperwork, but if that meant getting Arry Trumper off the premises for a day, so be it. Besides, a few of his former colleagues were residents there and it would be nice to catch up on how they were getting on.

CHAPTER 7

ARRY MEETS SOME OFSTED SURVIVORS

A few years after Arry had started school, Tracey Trumper got a job as a Care Home Assistant, in theory taking care of the elderly folk of Southport who could no longer take care of themselves. It would be an exaggeration to say that Tracey showed great promise in her chosen career path; in fact, it would be a complete pack of lies. It quickly became apparent to everyone, except Tracey, that she lacked all of the person specification skills necessary to be a top-notch Care Home Assistant.

Her ability to make the elderly ladies and gentlemen feel like valued individuals, for example, was somewhat limited by her inability to remember their names and by her therefore resorting to getting their attention with a brisk, “Oi, fat head”, or with the more jolly, “Wake up bugger lugs!”

Tracey’s memory concerning which resident required which food was also found wanting on a daily basis. She regularly confused who wanted a vegetarian dish with who ordered a meat dish, and if anyone pointed out the mistake, she either pretended not to hear or told the senile troublemaker to bog off to the chippy if they had a problem. Occasionally, Tracey met with more spirited resistance to her petty bullying, but that did not last very long. This is hardly surprising, as finding a slab of slimy pork or a decomposing parsnip under your pillow when you are tucked up in bed for the night can be a distressing experience.

Now, you may think that I have been a little harsh on Tracey so far in this story, because all I seem to have told you about are the obnoxious things she got up to. She must have some good qualities, I hear you say, everybody has at least one good quality. I am very sorry to disappoint you, but Tracey Trumper had a good quality by-pass operation at a very early age. Unless, of course, you think that threatening to let go of a wheelchair at the top of a 1:7 incline to get the annoying passenger to hand over money is a good quality; or that using a toilet brush to get elderly ladies of the complaining variety that extra-bit clean when she bathed them is a good quality.

You may be thinking also that if Tracey Trumper was so bad at her job and so unsuited to working in a Care Home, how come she wasn’t sacked? Well, Tracey may have been nasty, but she was not stupid. On a regular basis, she changed jobs, moving from Care Home to Care Home before her nastiness came to light. On the one occasion when it did come to light, she threatened to become a whistle-blower and report the Sunny Daze Care Home to the “Southport Evening Standard” for failing to spot any of her wrong-doing sooner. There had, after all, been plenty of warning signs which should have alerted someone, such as the more wealthy residents giving Tracey expensive presents in gratitude for the excellent standard of care she provided. Her employers did try confronting Tracey Trumper, but she merely stuck the Sunny Daze Care Home’s brochure in their faces, drawing attention to grand claims about “ensuring tip-top standards of care for the elderly” and “residents living in the comfort which befits senior citizens”.

Tracey Trumper was not a nice person.

Of course, it may just have been a remarkable co-incidence, but then again, it may have been something a lot more irregular than that, but the location of Arry’s Project in the Southport Branch of the National Home for Ofsted Survivors and Distressed Gentlefolk, just happened to be where Tracey Trumper was working at the time. She had only been there a few weeks, but already she had left her mark with a few accidental flicks of her elbow, directed with impressive accuracy towards the head of a man who reminded her of Carl Trumper. She had also head-butted the octogenarian gardener who looked like Tommy Trumper, recording the incident in the Accident Book as “an unfortunate clash of heads”.

Tracey Trumper was not a very honest person.

You may be slightly perplexed by Arry having chosen to work for an entire day in the same place as his mother. And you would be right to be puzzled: Arry was moving towards that age when walking down the street and being seen with your parents by some mates is a huge embarrassment; it’s that age when you walk ten, fifteen and then twenty metres behind mum or dad, pretending all the time that you have no idea who they are. But Arry did not see the situation this way at all: in fact, for some reason, he deliberately chose to do his Community Project where his mother worked, but without her knowing, of course.

So, on the Thursday morning, Arry walked into the Care Home and introduced himself to the owner, Matron Vilshock, who was absolutely delighted to meet such a polite young man. Having said that, she was a little disconcerted by the bright orange wig perched upon Arry’s head, which resembled the unkempt plumage of an exotic bird, and also by his sporting of an equally bright orange, bushy beard. However, she was only too happy to have an extra pair of hands to help, as she was short staffed on a Thursday, and so did not ask too many questions concerning the remarkable maturity of an eleven-year-old in the facial hair department.

As part of the Induction Programme for Young Volunteers, Matron Vilshock took Arry round the Care Home to meet some of the residents who were seated in the rather grand, but gloomy, late Victorian drawing room: some were snoring, some were reading old copies of “Teeth Weekly”, kindly donated by the local dentist, and some were just staring at the cobwebs which decorated the once beautiful ornate ceiling.

“This is Mr, …‘er Mr…who has been with us two years now. He was a very popular Head of History in Accrington and came to us after Ofsted judged his lesson on the Poor Law to Require Improvement because a couple of boys could not say, when questioned, which monarch was on the throne in 1834,” Matron Vilshock confided.

“This is…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Melvin de Chirico,” said Arry stroking his beard.

“Ah yes, of course. Mr…’er Mr…say hello to our new volunteer. His name is Melvin and he’s going to spend the day with us.”

Mr Mr peered at the bearded recruit over his copy of “Teeth Weekly” (5th Anniversary Issue, 1998, “Spotlight on Amalgam”), and said nothing.

Arry nodded his head knowingly, like a hospital doctor doing his daily round, and wrote something in his Project notebook.

Matron Vilshock, however, had moved on, and had become very animated and quite loud.

“Mrs Smeers, how lovely to see you, and how are we today?”

Mrs Smeers, a rather prim and lanky lady, was just about to give an account of her health when she was interrupted by Matron Vilshock, speaking in an even louder voice than before, as if Mrs Smeers had suddenly run out of the room and locked herself away in a cupboard.

“Such a lovely lady. We were saying that you are a lovely lady Mrs Smeers. You are aren’t you dear? She’s such a chatterbox. We were saying that you are such a chatterbox once you get started!”

Mrs Smeers was just about to get started and prove the point when Matron Vilshock moved rapidly across the room, pulling Arry with her and nearly dislodging his wig.

“Very sad case. She was blamed by her Headmaster after Ofsted judged the school’s track record on integrating Romany children as lacking rapid and clear outcomes. I think that was the expression. Mrs Smeers was apparently speechless when she read the Report, poor thing: she had explained to the Inspector that they had no Romany children in the school nor had ever had any Romany children in the school. But the Inspector refused to listen. She never worked again.”

Arry looked back at the alleged perpetrator of crimes against the Romany community of Southport and environs, tugged knowingly on his beard, and made further notes. He then followed Matron Vilshock across the room, who did not seem to notice that a couple of the residents were trying to attract her attention by frantically waving their hands.

“And who do we have here? What a lovely surprise: it’s Nutty Nigel! Good morning Nigel and how the devil are we today?”

Matron Vilshock was even louder than when she was in conversation with Mrs Smeers. She also rubbed Nigel’s head vigorously in a show of tender affection, laughing most heartily at the same time.

Nutty Nigel said nothing: he just continued to stare ahead, peering into a distant world through the window.

“He’s such a card. The life and soul of the party; keeps us all entertained from morning to night, don’t you Nigel? If any of us are feeling a bit down, we just go to Nigel and he tells us the most amusing stories. You’ve got such a wild imagination haven’t you Nigel?”

Nutty Nigel said nothing whilst having his head scrub-rubbed for a second time.

“Come on Nigel, tell our visitor some of your silly stories. I love the one about the Ofsted Inspector who observed a lesson in a particularly challenging school from under a desk! And what about the teacher whose lesson was judged to be Inadequate by an Ofsted Inspector who had fallen asleep at the back of the class!”

Nutty Nigel did not seem to be in the mood for telling one of his silly stories.

Matron Vilshock took Arry, aka Melvin, to one side, and whispered in his ear. “A very disturbed man. Completely bonkers. Thinks people are out to get him. Comes out with the most ridiculous stories about Ofsted inspections and claims they are true. If you think that the lesson observation from under a desk story is ludicrous, wait until you hear the one about the English lesson being judged Outstanding by an Inspector who thought he was in Physics. Priceless! He’s not called Nutty Nigel for nothing.”

Sadly, Matron Vilshock’s fascinating and informative Induction tour was interrupted by Tracey Trumper, whose less than graceful entrance into the room to announce an afternoon session of Bingo Marathon was received in despondent silence.

“Ah Tracey, we have a little helper with us today. His name is Melvin de Chirico. Perhaps you would like to show him how to set up our famous Bingo Marathon for later.”

Matron Vilshock looked at her watch and walked off without waiting for Tracey to respond.

Tracey looked at Melvin, aka Arry, and took an instant dislike to him. She did not like people with orange hair; she did not like beards; and she certainly did not like anyone with a fancy name like Melvin.

Tracey did not disguise her dislike of the small, bearded helper.

“What do you look like? If I was your mother, I’d give you a good haircut and get rid of that big beard for starters. I’d also give you a decent name like Braxton or Todd. What did you say you were called? De Cheesico? Todd de Cheesico: now that’s classy.”

Arry, aka Melvin, and now potentially aka Todd, did not reply; he just frowned and made a few quick notes in his book.

At that point, Tracey flounced off to enjoy some nicotine-based recreation, leaving Arry to work out what to do next. Looking around, it felt like being stuck in the middle of a lightless, wax museum: there were people in the room, but there weren’t people in the room. The only movement, besides barely detectable breathing, was from the incompetent Head of History from Accrington, Mr Mr, who was still wincing from a painful encounter with Tracey Trumper’s hand as she had walked past him. It was unlikely, however, that the smart clip across the ear would ever be referred to in the Accident Book, even as “unintentional hand to head”.

Outside there was a glorious English summer sun gently warming the walled garden; inside, there was the gloomy cool of shadows. Outside were the whirrs, buzzes and hums of life in motion, in and out, amongst the flowers and shrubs; inside were the painful, looped, background sounds of a CD which had come free with “Teeth Weekly” (6th Anniversary Issue, 1999, “Spotlight on Drilling”). Outside were the heady scents of buddleia, thickening the air; inside, the sickening smell of hopelessness sprayed liberally around the room.

It was time for Arry to polish his Irregular Badge.

First, Arry tracked down Tracey Trumper, and with the speed of an orange-headed demon with a big bushy beard, he locked her in the broom cupboard where she was quietly puffing on a nicotine stick whilst sorting through a new gift box, generously provided by the residents.

Tracey sounded in great pain as she shouted and banged on the broom cupboard door: but nobody took any notice of great pain in the National Care Homes for Ofsted Survivors and Distressed Gentlefolk.

Next, Arry wheeled out the residents, one by one, into the sun shined garden, where they blinked, looked around and slowly came back to life. Mrs Smeers smiled for the first time in years, Mr Mr mouthed passionate outrage about the brutality of the Poor Law and Nutty Nigel nodded, knowing that all of his stories were true.

Next, mobility scooters were mobilised for the growing throng of liberated residents, free from fear, free from failure and free from Matron Vilshock.

The squadron of scooters took off into the streets of Southport, led by a small figure with orange hair and bushy beard, flying down the pavements at high velocity towards the sand, towards the sea, towards the best fish and chip shop in town.

Tracey Trumper continued to thump on the broom cupboard door; Matron Vilshock, who had been busy counting up costs, discovered that she had been locked in her office; and the final track of the “Teeth Weekly” CD, an excruciatingly bad version of “I want to break free” by a Queen tribute band, came to an end.

CHAPTER 8

JUST A LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING

“Matron Vilshock? Just a courtesy call; yes, hello, it’s Dashley from Privy Street School. I believe that you had Arry Trumper with you today, one of our students.”

The voice at the other end of the phone seemed unusually loud even by Matron Vilshock’s loud standards. Dirk Dashley’s toothy smile, like a slowly setting sun, started to fade back into the darkness beneath his black moustache, as the conversation became more and more irregular.

“Yes, yes, that’s right, Arry Trumper.”

Dirk Dashley listened, slightly irritated at not quite being fully able to grasp the story he was being told.

“I’m sorry Matron, but there must be some kind of misunderstanding. We do not have a student by the name of Melvin de Chirico. What did he look like?”

Dirk Dashley’s smile now ceased to exist at all, quite eclipsed it seems by the voice on the other end of the line getting more and more raucous.

“Matron may I respectfully point out that most eleven-year-old children do not have a bushy beard. And yes, as a Head, I do know young people like to express their individuality, but when I last spoke to Arry Trumper he had neither a beard nor bright orange hair.”

Dirk Dashley started to feel more and more uncomfortable: he tugged at his tie, twiddled his moustache and searched his computer for any sign of the elusive Melvin.

“He did what?!”

Dirk Dashley slumped down into his chair, now oppressed by grim visions of an unannounced Ofsted visit and lurid headlines in the “Southport Evening Standard”.

“Mobility madness mayhem!”

Or,

“Local woman in broom cupboard ordeal.”

Or,

“Catch us if you can!”

Or even worse,

“Privy Street School Community Project horror!”

In his worst un-ironed trouser nightmare, surely even Biffa the Bear never had to face a crisis like this!

Dirk Dashley listened to a comprehensive catalogue of distressing details from Matron Vilshock concerning the carnage on the sea-front, as unsupervised Ofsted Survivors had run amok and enjoyed themselves. At the same time, he was weighing up his options. Should he immediately prepare a Critical Incident statement for the press? Should he contact Arry Trumper’s parents? (Plan rejected). Should he put Arry in the tumble-dryer for the rest of the term? (Tempting, but both illegal and expensive). Should he resign? (Definitely not). Or should he simply pretend nothing had happened?

Whatever masterplan Dirk Dashley decided to put into action became irrelevant when he spotted none other than Arry Trumper himself entering the school gates with a pronounced limp, holding his hand to his left ear and wearing a pained expression on his face.

“Matron Vilshock I must go. I apologise most sincerely for any inconvenience caused to you and your Staff. The matter will be fully investigated.”

Dirk Dashley slammed down the phone and rushed out his office to begin the investigation immediately.

“Ah Mr Trumper, have you had a good day out in the community? Step forward into my office please and tell me all about it.”

A clean shaven Arry Trumper, with a distinct lack of orange hair, limped into Dirk Dashley’s office. The only change to the room from his previous visit was a framed certificate on the wall to verify that Privy Street School had raised £13.94 pence for Comic Relief and a photograph next to it of the entire school of two hundred students and eight teachers and teaching assistants, dressed in smart green, red and blue short trousers, and all wearing Biffa the Bear flashing masks. Arry had been absent that day with a particularly painful bout of gout.

“I won’t pretend that we have got on particularly well over the years Trumper; in fact, to be blunt, I would like to put it on record that I find you the most obnoxious and repulsive little boy I have ever met. However, I am a professional and I have to put aside my personal likes and dislikes. Having said that, what you have done today makes it extremely difficult to avoid the conclusion that you have gone out of your way to let me, the school, your parents, Ofsted and the whole of Southport down.”

Dirk Dashley paused to make an impression, but could not help thinking that the reference to Tracey and Carl Trumper might have been an error of judgment.

“I have just spent the last hour on the phone listening to a very frightened and shaken Matron Vilshock, the lady, I will remind you, who was kind enough to give you the chance to make a contribution to the community.”

Arry’s face suggested that he had no idea what Dirk Dashley was talking about.

“Revered leader, I fear that we may have a Child Protection issue in need of urgent action,” uttered the small community volunteer, as he slumped dramatically down into a chair, whilst still holding his left ear.

“A what? It’s the community that needs protection from you Trumper!!”

Arry shuffled slightly and winced as he moved his left leg.

“Do you understand Trumper? Am I getting through to you? Re-writing the endings of an entire Official Reading Scheme was bad enough, but this!”

Arry looked up to make a silent, polite enquiry as to what “this” might be.

“Don’t look at me like that. You exactly know what I am talking about!”

Dirk Dashley moved into sarcastic mode.

“Does imprisoning an innocent lady in a broom cupboard for hours on end ring any bells? Do we not recall locking an office door with a major component still in it?”

Dirk Dashley moved into angry mode.

“Good God Trumper, these people are the life-blood of the community, the people that matter, the people who give service to the most vulnerable and are awarded medals and given honours by her Majesty!”

Dirk Dashley was just about to move into ugly incidents of the past mode, as he remembered how he had lost his knighthood, but thought better of it.

In the brief silence which ensued, Arry took the opportunity to stand up and present the case for the defence.

“Most revered leader, I have a most grievous and lamentable narrative to communicate. That I was en route to the pre-arranged destination cannot be denied. That I entered the premises of the aforesaid destination, however, is a subject for debate: it is my contention that any potentially meaningful contribution to community relations was curtailed in a most peremptory fashion.”

Dirk Dashley reached for a bottle of whiskey located in the bottom drawer of his desk: he had labelled the bottle: To be opened in emergencies only.

“In close proximity to the establishment, I fell into the hands of desperate brigands who, without express permission, removed my letter of introduction and sundry supplies of nourishment. Further indescribable outrages to my person followed whose conclusion was a forced incarceration in the confines of an out-building in the grounds of the aforementioned establishment.”

“Oh God, I don’t believe it.”

Dirk Dashley, seemingly without access to a drinking receptacle, took a big, long gulp of whiskey, closed his eyes and shook his head.

“The revered leader of the brigands proposed to his comrades that he impersonate his captive, namely myself, so that he might without hindrance access the establishment, as a part of a daring enterprise to liberate the poor unfortunates detained within.”

Dirk Dashley shook his head again, which by now was starting to spin round and round and round.

“Don’t tell me Trumper, just let me guess.”

Dirk Dashley prefaced his guesswork with another extended decanting of the emergency bottle.

“The leader of these brigands had orange hair and a big, bushy beard. No, please let me continue…would I be right in conjecturing that he went by the name of Melvin de Chirico?”

“Affirmative most revered leader. He had the appearance of the most desperate of desperadoes who, despite his lack of stature, commanded great respect and communicated his dread intentions with a natural authority.”

Dirk Dashley stood up, a little wobbly at first, but managed to secure his balance by holding on to the corner of his desk. He gazed out the window for a couple of minutes, and then looked back into the room, hoping that he would find it empty. Unfortunately, the room still contained the traumatised victim of an attack by desperate brigands, who was still holding his left ear with one hand and rubbing his leg with the other.

What was the Ofsted advice on this kind of situation? Risk Assessment was one thing, but anticipating child abduction, the impersonation of a minor on a Community Project and the consequent liberation of undesirables on to the streets of Southport, all in one day, quite another.

The revered leader resumed his solitary vigil at the window.

“What on Earth am I going to do Trumper?”

“Revered leader, may I be so bold as to proffer a solution to this unforeseen catastrophe which may be agreeable to all concerned parties?”

Silence equalled assent.

“During my brief sojourn in the company of the brigands, I experienced what is described in the text books of abnormal clinical psychology as the Southport Syndrome, a fascinating condition whereby an intellectually superior imprisoned person can make his gaoler believe anything he tells him, no matter how improbable. The Syndrome is well-documented, of course, as you will know. ”

Dirk Dashley had no idea what Arry Trumper was talking about, but he was prepared to listen to anything as long as it gave him a way out.

“This condition persists even after the release of the captive and enables him to change fact to fiction and fiction to fact in the mind of his former captor. The solution to our conundrum therefore is quite simple: I shall make contact with the redoubtable Melvin de Chirico and suggest that it was not he who carried out the daring rescue operation, but rather a fraudulent operative disguised as him who was acting in cahoots with a dastardly Care Home Assistant, who had merely pretended to be locked in a broom cupboard for five hours.”

Dirk Dashley, his mind befuddled by whiskey and Ofsted, was ready to agree to the most convoluted and unlikely re-writing of history, as long as it did not implicate him. However, his mind was just about clear enough to work out that the dastardly Care Home Assistant might take great exception to Arry’s new version of events.

“Do not fear, most revered leader, only convenient truths will be revealed.”

CHAPTER 9

COMMUNITY PROJECT VIDEO BLOG

If you visit YouTube and search for a video titled “How to blow a whistle quite quietly”, you will find the outcome of Arry’s Community Project. Visually, I have to warn you, it is slightly disappointing, as it consists entirely of a person of small stature sitting in his bedroom, in semi-darkness, who I presume is Melvin de Chirico, the leader of the brigands whom Arry mentioned in the last chapter. I also must tell you that if you were hoping to get some top tips on polite refereeing from the clip, you will be sorely disappointed.

But at least Dirk Dashley was quite pleased with it.

However, it is not absolutely certain who is actually on the screen, as the credits at the end of the video seem a little confused and a bit random. As well as thanking Melvin de Chirico, the video also pays great tribute to Janice Uniparts, Edward Soft and someone referred to as Jeffrey, for their support. The figure in the video certainly looks like the person described by Arry to Dirk Dashley, with bright orange hair and sporting a bushy beard, but why would the feared leader of desperate Southport brigands have pictures of Biffa the Bear pasted all around the walls of his bedroom? Having said that, the pictures are not the regular pictures you might have seen in the Blue, Red and Green Trouser Series. They are all quite scary, even in semi-darkness, or maybe even because they are in semi-darkness. In all of them, Biffa seems to have turned into somebody quite nasty, certainly not someone you would like to meet sitting in a deck chair on Southport’s sea front, or even in an Official Reading Scheme.

I’ll give you a few examples, so that you can make a decision, if you are one of our younger readers, on whether or not to watch the video. Alternatively, you might get mum or dad to check it out first. In several pictures, a very aggressive Biffa is dressed in a pretty, floral nightie, standing over a body, and holding a big stick in the air. In another, a smirking Biffa in a smart, grey suit is wagging his finger at several distraught children and a teacher who are all cowering behind a big pile of files. In the most frightening one, in my opinion, a sneering Biffa appears to have locked up lots of people in a gloomy room and is dropping the key down a deep drain.

Now that you have been warned about these horrific images of Biffa and just in case you have decided not to watch the video, I have taken the trouble to make a transcription of what is spoken on screen. To help you out, I have also included a few notes about what is happening as the small person speaks to the camera.

Information for all those readers who

do not want to watch the video or

their parents won’t let them

The small figure is seated on his bed and is staring directly into the camera, stroking his beard. He is speaking in English, but with a strange foreign accent – a sort of bizarre cross between Russian and German. I won’t try to copy the accent, so you will just have to imagine that bit.

“Today comrades, we have struck a mighty blow against the most evil of evil empires; the chains of oppression have been cut; the doors of tyranny unhinged: freedom in Southport today; revolution in Lytham St Anne’s tomorrow!”

At this point, the small bearded figure stands up on his bed and waves a placard with his left hand saying one word only: Freedom.

“Today, the oppressed have a seen a great light, called the sun; this day, forever to be remembered by generations to come, the persecuted have shared the greatest of great riches on Southport’s pier, called fresh fish and chips.”

The speaker now picks up a large photograph.

“And who must we thank for lighting this great bonfire of hope which will burn for all time? Who is it who unbolted the locked doors of freedom to Southport’s sea front?”

The speaker now holds a large photograph triumphantly aloft in his right hand.

“Comrade Sister Trumper!”

I am going to pause the action at this point to say that your decision not to watch Arry’s Community Project video was probably the right one. The photograph of Comrade Sister Trumper, it has to be said, is not a good one; in fact, it is really quite alarming. Our worthy revolutionary is wearing a huge, black “I’m a Pheasant Plucker” hat and is baring her teeth at the camera whilst making the V for Victory sign.

Tracey Trumper was not a very subtle person.

“Almost single-handedly Comrade Sister Trumper fought valiantly against impossible odds, risking her life to liberate victims of the most shocking brutality. Armed only with her quick wit and compassion for those less fortunate than herself, our beloved Comrade Sister put her plan into action. Working alongside an unknown operative disguised as a desperate brigand, Comrade Sister Trumper conferred freedom on so many incarcerated unfortunates. And then, in these most dangerous circumstances and with no thought for her personal comfort, she endured hours choking in a smoke-filled, broom cupboard to avoid suspicion.

Comrade Sister Trumper, freedom fighter, Southport salutes you.”

At this point, the light fades and a song plays. Personally I have never heard the song before, as it is a rather obscure one from the 1960’s, aptly titled, I suppose, “Tracy”. I hope that you have spotted the different spelling.

On seeing the video, Comrade Sister Trumper was not a happy person; she was also no longer an employed person.

CHAPTER 10

“THE GREG PACEY SPECTACULAR”

I have only watched “The Greg Pacey Spectacular” a few times on television, and I must say that I do not like it very much; however, when I discovered that Arry was appearing on it, I made a point of tuning in. The format of the show is always the same: a troubled family is interviewed by the host, Greg Pacey, who tries to sort out their problems. The show usually starts off calmly enough, but very quickly it turns into a free for all when the troubled family become quite annoyed with each other. Sometimes fights break out between members of the troubled family and Greg Pacey has to referee a shouting and wrestling match all rolled into one. This makes it very difficult for the man at the bottom of the screen who is signing the show in order to help anyone with hearing problems follow what is happening: with so many voices coming at him, his hands and arms are severely overworked as he turns into a kind of manic windmill. In the end, he just shrugs his shoulders, which I think is sign language for “I’ve no idea what’s happening”, or something like that.

Just in case you missed the episode with Arry in it, this is what happened.

The studio television audience clapped, whooped and cheered loudly as the one and only Greg Pacey pranced out on to the stage with its strategically placed comfy red chairs. He was wearing his usual checked, open-necked shirt, his usual bright yellow chino trousers and his usual expensive trainers. He was all smiles, a bit like a very hungry crocodile, ready to meet and greet his guests to sort out their troubling problems.

“Morning guys,” Greg held up his hands.

“Thank you my friends,” Greg held up his hands again, even higher, to reveal wet patches under his arms.

Greg Pacey is a household name, of course, especially in Belgium. He is also a bit sweaty, but the audience couldn’t tell, as they were seated at some distance from him; and besides, most of the audience also had damp patches under their arms and other places as well because many of these people were astonishingly obese. I mean so obese that if they had been made of bricks they could have been knocked down and converted into retirement homes for the elderly. I’ve just read that sentence back to myself and it sounds rather unkind and insensitive: so I’m really sorry if I have offended you or one of your relatives. If you were not offended or have no relatives, I’m happy to continue writing and not bother with an apology.

“Today’s about being honest.” This was Greg’s most well-known catch-phrase, used in every show, in every situation. He had a few others like “There’s two sides to a story”, “Let’s try to move forward quite rapidly” and “I find you quite repulsive”, but his best known was all about being honest.

“Welcome. My first guest today on “The Greg Pacey Spectacular” is an unusual one: he is only eleven years old and is our youngest ever guest. His name is Arry: please give him a big round of applause!”

Arry walked on to the stage smiling, gave Greg Pacey a high-five and sat himself down on one of the comfy red chairs.

The applause of the studio audience was punctuated by occasional remarks such as “Isn’t he lovely” and “What a sweetie” and “I want to take him home” – the kind of thing that Miss Flowerpot used to say about Biffa before he had the endings to his stories changed.

“Arry, you asked to come on the show tonight, can you tell us all why?”

“Mr Pacey, may I first of all thank you for being so generous as to allow me to come on your show. Sir, it is both a privilege and an honour. Thank you also to your splendid audience who I hope will be kind enough to listen to my most distressing story.”

Lots of approving noises from the audience and several offers to adopt him.

Greg Pacey sat himself down on the chair next to Arry, paused for a moment, and then spoke to him, but looking at the audience.

“Arry, I know that this is quite difficult for you. Please just take your time.”

Silence fell, as some of the audience were already dabbing their eyes.

“Mr Pacey, I will cut a long, sad story short: I believe that I was switched at birth.”

Gasps from the audience.

“After many years of extensive research into the archives of the Southport General Hospital, I have uncovered a plot most sinister, as Hercule Poirot might have said. I have, in a nutshell, incontrovertible evidence that my parents are not my true parents at all, but heartless imposters. It is my contention that Tracey and Carl Trumper did, on the day of my birth, exchange me for their son. I am not Arry Trumper at all, but Anthony St John Lucas III, son of Anthony St John Lucas II, Twenty Third Lord of the Wirral, who died in a tragic car accident shortly before my birth, and whose wife, Clarissa, my mother, died in childbirth!”

Further gasps from the audience, but even louder.

“So let me try and get my head round this. In the early years of the twenty-first century, in Southport no less, a place better known for its quiet walks and as a final resting place for the elderly, two babies were swapped on a hospital ward. One was of low birth and the other a member of the English aristocracy. It’s like something out of a Dickens novel!”

Many in the audience shook their heads in disbelief at the dastardly deed; others put up a hand in front of their mouth.

“And did your researches find out what happened to the real Arry Trumper? Is he still alive?

“It is a most remarkable and tragic tale Mr Pacey. According to family legend, the unfortunate child, blessed only with a remarkable mop of orange hair, was kidnapped by local brigands from the ambulance as it waited on the hospital concourse for a driver to arrive; alas, as far as is known, neither he nor the ambulance were ever seen again.”

An appalled hush descended on the television studio.

Greg Pacey stood up to face the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, there are two sides to a story. We’ve heard from little Arry here, who is really Anthony St John Lucas III. He says that he has been robbed of his name, his title and his inheritance. It’s time to meet his so-called mother, Tracey Trumper.”

Tracey Trumper entered the stage boldly, as if she couldn’t wait to get on and let the world know what really happened. Even before she had reached the red chair, she was wagging her finger vigorously at Arry, aka Anthony St John Lucas III, and shouting the most foul abuse at him. When she got to the chair she was in full throttle.

Tracey Trumper was a not a shy person.

Her exact words were difficult to hear as they were drowned out by raucous booing and chanting of “off, off, off!!” from the audience, which went on for several minutes. The man at the bottom of the screen who was doing the signing was baffled and shrugged his shoulders.

Greg Pacey stood up and held up his hands – his usual signal to the audience for quiet.

“It doesn’t look good does it? What I’m saying here is that I’m horrified at what I have just heard. You gave away your own flesh and blood and stole an orphan from a Southport Hospital. You have ripped two families apart!”

Greg Pacey had knelt down close to Tracey and was so irate that with every word he punched his knee, which was slightly unlucky as it drew attention to a brown tea-stain on his yellow chinos.

Biffa would not have been impressed.

“You call yourself a mother? What have you got to say for yourself Tracey?”

“I’ve got plenty to say to you and to that little runt sat there. Swapped at birth my eye. He’s having a laugh. He’s been trouble ever since he was born, just like his father. Have you asked him about setting fire to the neighbourhood and various unexplained bogus phone calls? Have you heard about him and his gang vandalising over three hundred stories in an Official Reading Scheme? Has he told you about letting educational degenerates loose on Southport sea front and him spreading filthy lies about me on the Internet?”

Tracey was shrieking and waving her fist at the young offender next to her, the veins in her neck and forehead, it seems, about to pop out their place.

“Tracey, you seem to be angry about something. I wonder if it’s a guilty conscience which is making you so angry. Yes or no?”

Tracey did not have the chance to answer either in the affirmative or the negative, as from one side of the stage Carl Trumper, wearing a brand new Manchester United away shirt, bought especially for the occasion, entered. He seemed to be trying to calm Tracey Trumper down by addressing her as “my sweet”, but after that, his words were lost in the further mayhem caused by Tommy Trumper joining in the fracas, entering from the other side of the stage, shouting something about his grandson only being “irregular” and trying to grab Tracey by her baggy I Luv Braxton T-shirt.

The man doing the signing, no longer at the bottom of the screen, had given up and gone home after two security men jumped on the stage and tried, but failed, to separate the warring factions.

Emotions were running high as members of the audience also decided to get involved in the lively debate on stage.

Greg Pacey, well-experienced in this kind of situation, managed to detach himself from the rumpus, face the camera and sum up the troubled family with his usual words of wisdom to end the show.

“We will probably never know what really happened on that day, eleven years ago, in a Southport Hospital. We might have got to the truth using a lie-detector, but unfortunately it’s broken. Maybe the only way to move forward now is to forgive and forget.”

At this point, a chair leg thankfully missed Greg Pacey’s head, but only just.

“Tracey, Carl, Tommy and Arry must continue to work on their relationship. Show understanding towards one another, no matter what life may throw at them.”

At this point, a second chair leg travelled at high velocity through the air towards Tommy Trumper.

“Friends. Please give this troubled family a round of applause and join us next week for “The Greg Pacey Spectacular”. Goodnight.”

Before switching off the television, I checked to make sure that Arry was not hurt in the mêlée, and I am pleased to be able to tell you that he was quite safe. He managed to take refuge amongst those members of the audience who were not doing battle on stage. In fact, he was quite enjoying himself signing autographs, although I do not know whether he was signing himself as Arry Trumper, Anthony St John Lucas III, Janice Uniparts, Ed Soft, Melvin de Chirico or simply as Jeffrey.

One thing is certain: Dirk Dashley, who had apparently been watching the show, was relieved that the boy Trumper would be starting Secondary school in September and would be someone else’s problem, not his.

Table of Contents

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10