The Wrong Boy

by Willy Russell

  He must have seen the scowl on my face though.

  ‘Well, perhaps not,’ he said. ‘I can see Raymond’s not too keen on the idea.’

  He was dead right! Raymond wasn’t remotely keen on the bleeding idea. But then I heard my Mam saying, ‘No! Not at all, Mr Wilson. Raymond wouldn’t mind doing that for you, would you, Raymond?’ she said, turning and looking at me. ‘You wouldn’t mind doin’ that, helping Mr Wilson with his studies?’

  Then, without waiting for an answer from me, she turned back to him and said, ‘Raymond would be delighted to help, Mr Wilson. After all the kindness you’ve shown to us,’ she said, ‘he’d be delighted. We both would. And if it’s a help to you with your studies, then it’s the least we can do.’

  Then she turned back to me and said, ‘Isn’t it, Raymond?’

  I just stood there, boxed off, stitched up, tied and tethered, a sickly sort of smile on my face as I dutifully nodded my head.

  And that’s how the Invasion of the Lerts began, Morrissey; with Wilson, the Lert of all Lerts, inveigling himself into my life and into my Mam’s. That night, after she’d shown him out, my Mam told me I was very very lucky indeed, having a man like Mr Wilson take an interest in me. And because I was just so glad not to be going back to school I agreed with her. Then my Mam said he seemed to be a very very nice person indeed. And I suppose I should have heard the warning bell right then, right from the very start. But he was the sort of person who wore a cardigan, corduroy trousers and brown suede shoes! And he seemed much much older than my Mam. So I wasn’t really listening that much when my Mam said he didn’t have any children of his own, Mr Wilson.

  ‘He was just telling me,’ my Mam said, ‘how he lost his wife, just before the last Olympics. She was only young. Food poisoning. Mussels apparently. On holiday in the Dordogne. They used to go every year.’ My Mam shook her head in sympathy. ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it,’ she said.

  I just nodded. And saw a picture in my mind, of this woman keeled over at a table as her Lert husband sat opposite, still talking, lerting on and on and on, unaware that his own wife was now keeled over in front of him, brutally bored to death, her lifeless head lying face down in a bowl of mussels.

  ‘I think that must be why he’s doing this course, this psychology,’ my Mam said. ‘I think he’s trying to fill the void.’

  And maybe my Mam was right; maybe that’s what he was doing, just ‘filling a void’. But I didn’t know that part of filling that void meant that I’d have to go to Sunny Pines. And then end up in Swintonfield. I didn’t know that already I was being written up on Wilson’s computer; that later that night, in discussion with all the other psychology-studying Open University Lerts, he’d tell them about ‘a fascinating case’; a boy he knew, a boy in whom he’d taken a personal interest; a boy who exhibited many of the classic signs of emotional disturbance, resulting, probably, from a latent functional psychosis which might very well become increasingly pronounced as time went on!

  But I knew none of that, Morrissey; not then.

  Yours sincerely,

  Raymond Marks

  A Coach,

  M62 Motorway,

  En Route for Grimsby

  Dear Morrissey,

  I always knew it would be particularly grim in Grimsby. But if this coach journey is anything to go by then it’s patently and painfully apparent that even in my worst nightmares I have seriously underestimated the true grossness of the grimness that lies ahead. I know I should be grateful, with this being a private coach; and if they hadn’t agreed to give me a lift then I would have been stranded in Huddersfield for the night. But hideous as Huddersfield is, it might have been preferable to being cooped up for five and a half hours with the cream of Grimsby’s retail traders. With them all being shopkeepers and such I’d expected they might effect a certain degree of that refinement and sobriety which is apparently so esteemed amongst the petit bourgeois Rotarian type of person. But they were all as pissed as rats! They were mostly middle-aged persons but as soon as the coach set off they started cheering like they were a load of school kids going off on a trip. And we hadn’t even reached the M62 before they were singing things like ‘My Way’ and ‘New York, New York’. Then things got seriously worse because a woman with a big bosom and a bouffant hairdo stood up and started singing ‘Lady In Red’ and everybody joined in and even started waving their arms above their heads. I just sat there huddled up against the window, trying to make myself as small as I could and distance myself from such excruciating embarrassment. But then another lady, the one sat in front of me, turned round and said, ‘Come on, join in. You’ll easily pick it up.’

  I was just about to tell her I didn’t want to pick it up! I’d rather pick up hepatitis! But then I remembered that they were giving me a lift so I just sort of shrugged and sat there and said nowt. And I hadn’t noticed that the big-bosomed bouffant lady had started wandering up the aisle of the coach, still singing as she went. And the first I knew of it was being grabbed by the hand and pulled out of my seat. And before I knew what had happened, she’d got her arms locked around me and I was in the indescribably appalling position of being trapped in the arms of a woman with a bouffant hairdo who was pressing her bosoms and her thighs against me and singing in my ear as we slow-danced in the aisle to that excrementally sentimental ballad by Chris de Burgh! And that wasn’t even the worst of it because she stopped singing the lyrics and she started whispering other things. I couldn’t believe it at first: she said she had the distinct impression that I was ‘fit as a butcher’s dog’! I just coughed! But she smiled and pushed herself tighter up against me. I was trying to back away but she had me pinned up against a seat. I looked round hoping there might be someone who could help me. But nobody was taking any notice; they were all just crooning away to ‘Lady In Red’ and waving their arms like they were in an anthemic trance. Then she whispered in my ear again and her voice was all husky as she said, ‘I’ll bet you’re just dying to play with my chuff button, aren’t y’?’

  I just stared at her in appalled horror at what such a thing as a ‘chuff button’ might be. But to be on the safe side I said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know anything about computers actually!’

  She just laughed, a dusky dark laugh in my ear. And then she started running her tongue between her lips as she looked straight at me. Then she whispered in my ear again and she said, ‘Have you ever made love … with Chris de Burgh … in the background?’

  And I thought that was the most spectacularly disgusting thing of all! I said, ‘I wouldn’t even make toast with Chris de Burgh in the background!’

  But I don’t think she heard me because a man stood up at the front and he shouted, ‘Beryl!’

  She suddenly let go of me quick, and I scrambled back into my seat and sat there trying not to feel traumatised. I think if I’d been there any longer she might have tried to fondle my genitals! I just sat there, huddled up against the window, hoping I wouldn’t have to suffer any such further encounters on Planet Embarrassment. But I’d barely begun to recover when I looked up and saw that the lady sat in front of me had turned round and was kneeling up on her seat, smiling and staring at me.

  I just nodded at her cautiously. Then she said, ‘Now I could be wrong, I might be wrong; but something tells me … you’re not a Grimsby lad, are y’?’

  I shook my head and she looked at me with her eyes all sparkling and excited. ‘Ooh,’ she said, ‘this is not your first time, is it? Ooh! Is this the first time you’ve ever journeyed to the Cod Basket of the East?’

  I just looked at her and frowned. And wondered if I’d be stuck on Planet Embarrassment for ever.

  She was nudging her husband and telling him, ‘Walter! Walter! This young man behind us, first timer! Never seen Great Grimsby before in his life!’

  I thought that perhaps Walter might be somewhat underwhelmed by a fact of such staggering insignificance. But Walter was suddenly up on his knees beside his wife, his hand stretched out
towards me as he said, ‘Put it there, young man, put it there!’

  It was embarrassing enough, just having to do that bluff blokey sort of stuff like shaking hands; but then he wouldn’t even let go and he was crushing my fingers and shaking my arm so hard I was almost bouncing up and down in my seat.

  ‘Walter Walmsley!’ he said, beaming a big-toothed smile at me. And then he sort of puffed himself up as he said, ‘Otherwise known as “the Codfather”!’

  I think I was expected to say something but the power of speech had suddenly been denied me as the two of them sat there beaming with delight and staring at me as if I was some kind of exotic curiosity.

  ‘Ogh, young pup,’ Walter said, ‘young pup, how I envy you! And do you know why?’

  I just shook my head and gawped in incredulity, wondering how anyone who could address an innocent person as a ‘young pup’ wasn’t securely locked up somewhere away from the rest of society.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give, young pup,’ he said, ‘to be in your position; to have in my head such virgin eyes as have yet to first gaze upon the glory that is Grimsby! Ogh …’ he said, ‘you’ll never be the same again! You know what they say, don’t y’, young pup? Know what they say about Grimsby?’

  I shook my head again. And Walter and his wife chanted in unison, telling me, ‘Once a man gets to Grimsby, Grimsby gets to the man.’

  They both roared with delight at that. And then Walter’s wife said, ‘Now then, come on, there’s no need to be shy, you’re amongst good Grimsby folk here and we don’t stand on ceremony. Come on,’ she said, ‘get that guitar out of the bag and give us a song.’

  And before I could say anything, the Codfather stood up and he told everybody else on the coach to shuttup because ‘There’s a young pup sat back here and he’d like to give us all a song.’

  I was shaking my head and saying, ‘I don’t, I don’t I don’t, honest I don’t.’

  But Walter was oblivious and he’d grabbed my guitar and he was taking it out of the case and everybody was clapping and turning round in their seats to see who it was who was going to give them a song. I wanted to die! I’d never ever played the guitar anywhere but my bedroom! And now there were fifty-odd people from Grimsby and thereabouts staring at me; and Walter the Codfather was pulling me up from my seat and thrusting the guitar into my hands. Everybody was suddenly clapping and cheering and whistling and Walter held up his hands and quietened them down as he asked, ‘What’s your name, son? What do they call y’?’

  I mumbled my name and tried to tell him that I didn’t want to do a song. But he wasn’t listening and he was telling the ‘audience’, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, a young lad, a young pup here who is making his very first journey to the Cod Basket of the East.’ Everybody cheered and clapped again and Walter said, ‘Now let’s make him feel like he’s one of the family; let’s make him feel at home, before he even gets there. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a real Grimsby greeting for RAYMOND MARKS!’

  And then it was like there was this explosion sound in my ears and it was only when it was fading away that I realised it was applause. I looked down the coach and all these eyes were staring back at me. And so I did the only thing I could do: I shut my eyes and pretended I wasn’t there, pretended I was back in my bedroom. I started to pick out the first chords that came into my head. I thought I was going to die at first. But then I heard this voice and I realised it was my own voice and I was singing. And here’s the weird thing, Morrissey, the really really weird thing is that as I carried on, as I managed to get to the end of the first verse and started to go into the chorus, I realised I was doing all right! And even more than that, I felt myself relaxing and starting to enjoy it. I even opened my eyes! And there was something that was just … brilliant, about doing it, playing and singing, not just in my bedroom, not just in front of my mirror but doing it in front of other people; it felt … fantastic. It felt … natural … it felt … divine, Morrissey; it was like I’d become this other person. And I could see him, stood in the aisle of a coach with the guitar and his fingers moving effortlessly along the neck of the instrument, fingering the chords without hesitation and his voice sounding strong and even … even sort of lyrical. And I was amazed, Morrissey, amazed at this person and who he was. It was almost like I was on drugs; not the sort of drugs they’d made me take when I was in Swintonfield, drugs which dulled my head and made me feel like cotton wool. This was like the opposite of that, like there was something brimful of life coursing through my veins, like I was the centre of the universe; like I was immortal.

  And then, all too soon, it was over and the final chord reverberated down the coach, hanging there for a few seconds like a magical mist before slowly evaporating. And that’s when I noticed it, the deafening roar of absolute silence.

  Just for a second I thought that everybody might have been as similarly awestruck as myself and considered mere applause to be inappropriate for such a breathtaking performance. But then I looked down the coach and I realised that people were glaring at me with palpable hostility. And that’s when it started to dawn on me, what I’d been singing. I just stood there and stared back at an audience of retail traders, small shopkeepers, upright Rotarians and their spouses, all of whom had just been subjected to the lyrics of ‘Shoplifters Of The World Unite!’

  I started mumbling and I said I’d do them another song, perhaps something more appropriate this time, but that seemed to galvanise Walter who was out of his seat quick and saying, ‘You will not! I think we’ve heard quite enough, son, quite enough.’

  And I sort of felt awful that I’d upset them all. If I hadn’t been so nervous and I’d realised, I never would have sung that particular song in that particular environment. I tried to soften the blow a bit and I said, ‘I didn’t mean to cause any offence. In fact, that lyric,’ I said, ‘I think it’s intended to be seen with a certain sense of satire and irony.’

  But Walter just shook his head and said they didn’t need satire and irony, not in Grimsby. ‘To my ears,’ he said, ‘it’s nothing more than incitement to theft. No wonder,’ he said, ‘no wonder my members are struggling against an increasing tide of public pilfering when there’s degenerates like you condoning theft and robbery.’

  ‘Honestly,’ I told him, ‘I wasn’t doing that at all!’

  But he took no notice and somebody piped up from the front, saying they should stop the coach and throw me off. Then I heard somebody else saying they should throw me off without bothering to stop the coach!

  And I think they might have done it and all but Walter lifted up his hand and he said, ‘Now now! Let’s not stoop! Come on, ladies and gents,’ he said, ‘just because there’s some folk who don’t know how to behave, let’s not lower ourselves to their level! Let’s not forget, we’re Grimsby folk. And Grimsby folk can rise above such provocation.’

  He looked at me like I was something he’d just stepped into. And then he said, ‘Come on, Janine.’ And he left me standing there as him and his wife moved to a pair of empty seats further down the coach. As they were changing seats he called out to Beryl the Bouffant, saying that after such a distressing interlude he was sure it would be much appreciated by one and all if Beryl could lead the singing of something positive and uplifting as a reminder of the true Grimsby spirit.

  And I just started putting my guitar back in its case as Beryl the Bouffant led a fervent rendition of ‘Abide With Me’ and I slunk into my seat and sat there as if I’d suddenly become the Son of Satan.

  The only good thing was that nobody bothered me no more after that. And at least I was able to get my lyric book out, Morrissey, and start writing to you. And it was funny, but even though it felt uncomfortable, being there on that coach with all that hostility around me, it still didn’t take away the feeling and the sort of warm glow that I’d got, Morrissey, when I’d been singing your song. I know that me doing one song on a coach and doing it to an increasingly outraged and pissed-off audience of shopkeepers and retail
traders is hardly what you could call a performance. And even mentioning it in the same breath as your own astonishing performances is probably a major impertinence. But the thing is, Morrissey, I felt it! I felt what it was like to stand there and do it. And there was something about it, Morrissey, that made me understand what it must be like for you, what it feels like when you stand there on the stage and you become this other person and it’s like you just shed the skin of the person you really are and become someone and something else instead. It’s like I’ve seen the disabled people at the baths, Morrissey. And they’re all jerky and stiff and out of place in their bodies. And the first time I saw them being pushed to the pool in their wheelchairs I thought it was stupid and cruel. They looked frightened and I was frightened for them and I thought they’d hate it, being put into all that water. But once they were in it, Morrissey, they smiled and they beamed and they shimmered with the beauty of how they felt and who they were in the water that washed all the jerkiness out of them and released the real people inside of them.

  And sometimes things are like that, aren’t they, Morrissey? Sometimes it’s the things you’re most frightened of that turn out to be all right; and you find that you can float and swim and not get drowned in the deep and frightening water. Like I was frightened of going to the special school.

  My Mam said, ‘It’s not a special school. They don’t have special schools nowadays. Mr Wilson explained it all to me. It’s a progress school, Raymond.’

  I just scowled at my Mam; scowled at the sound of Wilson’s name. He’d never said, never mentioned anything about any special school. I’d thought I was just being assessed to go to a different ordinary school. If I’d known they were thinking about sending me to a sodding special school I’d never have gone to the bleeding assessment centre or seen the sodding So Shall Worker. And if he hadn’t turned up in the middle of Blockbusters, he might have got a completely different idea of who I was and what I was like. My Mam thought he was the window cleaner at first. He was wearing jeans and the sort of sweater that gets rejected by the Oxfam shop. But he said he was the Educational Social Worker. He said it might be a good idea if he could speak to me in private. So my Mam took the hint and went to the shops. I wish I’d gone to the bleeding shops as well. He just stood there in the middle of the room and then he said, ‘So! Shall we switch the television off now, Raymond?’