The Parent Agency

by David Baddiel

  “That’s right! Get those lungs working again!” said Derek. He turned him back the right way up.

  “OK?!” said Emily.

  “Fghm…” said Barry. It was the only word he could manage.

  “Good! Now, everyone! Back to the warm-up! Sprint to the goalposts!”

  The other players all started off. Barry didn’t: he was still trying to recover from both the splits and the Grübenschnitzel Manoeuvre.

  “Come on, Barry, we’ll help you catch up!” said Derek. He and Emily grabbed hold of Barry’s arms and started running; Barry couldn’t help but go with them. The Fwahms! were so fast, it felt like being on the fastest treadmill ever. Barry had to move his still-aching legs as fast as they would go to stop just being dragged along the Wobbly turf. They ran him all the way to the United Kid-Dom goal (which was a long way – it might be kids’ football, but it was a full-size, grown-up pitch) and then back to the centre circle.

  They stopped there. Barry couldn’t breathe. He thought that must be the end of the warm-up.

  The rest of the team arrived.

  “Right!” said Emily. “Press-ups!”

  “First one to a hundred wins a bottle of PowerFizz!” said Derek.

  The team did a hundred press ups (Lionel Tidy won the bottle of PowerFizz). Barry thought his arms were going to die and have to be buried separately from the rest of his body. And that… that… must be the end of the warm-up.

  But then the Fwahms! said, “Right! Squat thrusts!” and after that they said, “Right! Sit-ups!” and then after that, “Right! Head-furtles!” which was a kind of rolling neck movement that Barry had never heard of, and after that, “Right! Back twists!” which was an exercise so painful you don’t even want to know about it, and after that, “Right! Bottom splats!” which was just as painful and also quite embarrassing.

  After all that, it still wasn’t the end of the warm-up. But luckily Derek and Emily were distracted by the arrival on to the pitch of the Boysnia-Herzogeweeny team for their warm-up.

  The Boysnia-Herzogeweeny team didn’t come on very quickly. In fact, they strolled on. Their fitness coach was a very fat man – even fatter than Big Col – with a wide moustache, the tips of which went down to his chin. He was wearing a large furry coat and carrying a chair. He got to their penalty area, put the chair down and sat on it. Next to the chair he placed a large music player.

  “Shmole. Farhstoonken,” he said. “Vvvvvarrrm-up!!”

  He pressed a button on the music player.

  “Varsttaaaa! Varstaaa! Fadooodle dunka missha! Barstahti bumpa-bumpa pooh-ic-nushpie!” sang a voice.

  The words didn’t mean much to Barry, but the tune was really like ‘My Dog’s Surprised by His Own Farts’. After a while, it became clear that this was in fact what it was: a Boysnia-Herzogeweenian version of the song – called ‘Mi Canan Dist Vot-Vos-Dat? Ven Hist Bloots!’ – because the Boysnia-Herzogeweenian team, perfectly in time, started doing the dance. All of them curled up into little balls; then looking up with a surprised face; then getting up on all fours and pretending to bark.

  The trainer with the big moustache watched them for about two minutes, then switched off the music player. “Vvvvvarrrm-up finished. Vell done.”

  The Boysnia-Herzogeweenian team got up and started walking back towards the changing rooms. The United Kid-Dom team had only stood and watched while they did their dance. Emily and Derek looked a bit surprised by the other team’s warm-up, but, after they’d gone, clapped their hands and said:

  “Right! One hundred big toe bends! Then one hundred eyelash presses!”

  But, even before they had time to demonstrate a big toe bend, Big Col came on to the pitch and said: “Don’t be stupid, Derek and Emily. The match is about to start!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The match kicked off after the national anthems. Barry didn’t know the words to the United Kid-Dom one, but it had a very grand tune, and he could just about make out the lyrics that all his teammates (and the crowd) were singing:

  We are the United Kid-Dom

  Oh yes we are

  Kids can choose their mum and dad

  La la la la la la laaaa!

  … which seemed a bit on the nose about this world, but at least it was simple enough to allow him to join in the third time round. The Boysnia-Herzogeweeny anthem seemed to be – if Barry’s ears didn’t deceive him – an orchestral version of ‘My Dog’s Surprised by His Own Farts’, but he assumed he must have got that wrong.

  There was also an awkward incident before the anthems, when the teams lined up to have their hands shaken by the head of the United Kid-Dom FA, who turned out to be Lord Rader-Wellorff (this, it suddenly struck Barry, might just have been the reason why Jeremy, Teremy, Meremy and all the others had got into the national team…).

  When Lord Rader-Wellorff saw Barry in the line-up, he looked shocked, and for a moment it seemed as if he was going to refuse to shake Barry’s hand – like Barry had seen footballers do from time to time in his world. But then he said: “Oh well, let’s let bygones be bygones – eh, Jeremy, Teremy, Meremy, etc., etc.?”

  “Da-ad! We’re called Jezza, Tezza, Mezza, etc., etc. here!”

  “Oh. Sorry, Jezza, Tezza, Mezza, etc., etc.”

  And he shook Barry’s hand.

  Lionel Tidy kicked off and passed the ball to Jezza, who passed it back to Lionel, who ran forward. Barry tried running on the wing alongside him, but then he realised that he was exhausted. Derek and Emily’s warm-up had completely tired him out.

  OK, thought Barry, I’ll just hang back for the first few minutes, to give myself some time to recover. So he stopped running and, for about six minutes, he just watched, hardly moving from the halfway line. The United Kid-Dom team seemed to be in control, with Lionel dominating most of the play around the Boysnia-Herzogeweeny area. But the Boysnia-Herzogeweenians were good defenders, and so far no one had managed to get a shot in on their goal. Then Barry heard a shout.

  “Oy!”

  He turned. Big Col was standing on the touchline.

  “What are you doing, Bazza? Get up there!! We need you!”

  “I will!” said Barry. “I’m just waiting till I recover from the warm-up!” He said this while staring at Derek and Emily Fwahm!, who were standing on either side of Big Col. The whole thing looked like some kind of advert for a slimming programme.

  “What do you mean?!” said Derek. “That was our special easy warm-up!”

  “And, more importantly,” shouted Big Col, “there’s only one minute left to play!!”

  “Pardon?” said Barry. He looked up at the big electric clock hanging above the crowd behind the goal. “We’ve only been playing for six minutes.”

  “Yes!” said Big Col. He turned to Derek and Emily. “I thought you told me he’d played football before?”

  “He did tell us that, Big Col!” said Emily.

  “Well then, why doesn’t he know that a football match is SEVEN MINUTES LONG?!”

  Barry frowned. “Seven minutes? That’s ridiculous!”

  “Oh, and how long should it be, clever clogs?” said Big Col.

  “Ninety minutes!”

  Big Col and Derek and Emily looked at each other. “Hoor-hoor! Hoor-hoor! Hoor-hoor!” they all went, holding on to each other. “Ninety minutes!”

  “I’d like to see anyone last ninety minutes after one of our warm-ups!” said Emily, wiping away a tear.

  “Anyway,” said Big Col, breaking out of it, “never mind about that nonsense. Now you’ve only got forty-five seconds left!”

  “There might be injury time, chief!” said Derek.

  “Only about two and a half seconds,” said Big Col, shaking his head. “And we need a goal! So get down there!”

  Barry looked over. Lionel Tidy had the ball by the corner flag, hemmed in by three defenders. The referee was checking his watch. There was no time to argue about the stupidness of matches being seven minutes long. He started running.

 
; It really was a long way from the centre line to the penalty area on a proper football pitch. Barry had never thought about it before. Sometimes, when he was watching football on TV with his dad, and Chelsea (who they supported) were playing, his dad would shout at a player for not chasing after the ball fast enough, and Barry would join in, shouting, “Slowcoach!” or “Come on, what’s the matter with you?” But, as his heart started to pump faster and his legs began to ache, Barry Bennett thought that he would never shout things like that ever again. In fact, he reckoned he might shout, “Well done for getting there at all!” whatever speed they were running at.

  Lionel Tidy still seemed a long way away and the clock was ticking down. Eventually, Barry was within calling range of the United Kid-Dom’s great star.

  “Lionel!!” he shouted. He wasn’t sure Lionel could hear as Barry was on the penalty spot and Lionel had only come in a little way from the touchline, still closely marked. Also, Barry was so tired by now, his voice came out as a tiny breathless squeak. But Lionel looked up. Barry shouted again.

  “On my head!” he said. “Cross it!”

  Squeak squeak squeak was how his own voice sounded to Barry. Too quiet – there was no chance Lionel could make out what he was saying. He glanced up. The clock said 6.43. Which meant there were seventeen seconds left.

  “Tidy! CAN YOU NOT KNOCK IT?!” shouted Barry as loud as he could. He jumped up and down to try and make his intentions clearer, and also to make himself seen above the heads of the Boysnia Herzogeweenian defenders. Which made him even more tired. He didn’t know when he’d ever felt so tired.

  Lionel looked over and then, as if someone had pushed a button somewhere on his body, sprang into action. He whirled round, like a spinning top, creating what seemed like a little hurricane at his feet, which the ball got caught up in. It rose in the air and then Lionel threw himself horizontally at it, like he was lying on a magic carpet, with one foot out. That foot connected beautifully with the ball – bang! – and it sailed off the wing towards the penalty area.

  Barry was still jumping up and down. He watched as the ball curved through the air. Through a mist of exhaustion, he could hear voices.

  “Bazza! Bazza! THAT’S ALL YOURS!! EVERY TIME!!” That was Big Col.

  “Breathe, Barry, breathe!!”

  That was Emily Fwahm!

  “Remember to bend your legs as you land!!” That was Derek Fwahm!

  “Barry!” He wasn’t sure who that was. It was a female voice: someone in the crowd. But he’d heard it somewhere before.

  “You can do it, Barry!” He wasn’t sure who that was either. A male voice nearby. That he’d also heard before.

  The ball was a few metres away now. He had to leap high, like a salmon, to get over the big Boysnia-Herzogeweenian defenders. He didn’t want to look away, but for a second he did; and there they were in the crowd again: the mysterious man and woman, looking at him, with concern and hope. And the something else that Barry couldn’t quite name.

  He didn’t have time to think about what that might be, though, because he needed to turn his head back towards the ball. He swung his neck as it came flying in from his right-hand side and fwahm! It flew off his forehead exactly as it was supposed to, towards the goal, towards what his dad called the postage stamp…

  He saw the Boysnia-Herzogeweenian keeper jump towards it. He saw him stretch his fingers. But then Barry starting falling down again, having reached the highest point of his jump.

  And, as he fell, he looked up, trying to see the ball; but all he could see was that Wobbly Stadium was indeed wobbling.

  That everything was wobbling: the goals, the crowd, the defenders, the referee, even the enormous digital clock. Even the roar of the crowd as the ball went in, or was saved, he couldn’t tell, sounded all wobbly. Perhaps it was one of those times when, like Emily Fwahm! had said, there were too many people in the stadium, he thought, just before he fell on the ground, fast asleep.

  THURSDAY

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Well,” said the Head, “it was a great goal.” “Was it?” said Barry.

  “Yes. I watched it on Game of the Night. Just a shame that afterwards you had to be carried off.”

  “I was very, very tired.”

  “You must have been. I think it’s the first time a player’s ever been on a stretcher with a pillow, a blanket and a teddy.”

  “Who gave me the teddy?”

  “Emily Fwahm!”

  “That was nice of her…”

  “Yes. Are you interested then, in them being your parents…?”

  “No,” said Barry firmly. “Too tiring.”

  The Secretary Entity exchanged a glance and wrote down a word.

  Barry looked over at their pads. He could see an F… a U… an S… another S… and what looked like the beginnings of a Y.

  Then the Head said: “Well! Two more days left of your package. At least you’ve had a good night’s sleep before this one.” He turned over the fourth 24-Hourglass, the blue one. He looked at it: his eyebrow went up and then down again. More like a twitch than a raise. “You really need to – you know – get on with this, Barry. I’d really rather not leave it all till the last minute.”

  “Well, I have to do the whole package,” Barry said.

  “No you don’t,” said the Head. “If you find some parents you like, we can stop there and then not have to worry about…”

  There it was. The trailing off.

  “Worry about what?” said Barry.

  The Head looked to The Secretary Entity despairingly.

  “…about which one to choose!” said Secretary One.

  “Yes!” said Secretary Two.

  “Exactly!” said the Head. “Write that down, Secretaries.”

  There was a short pause. “Really?” said Secretary Two.

  The Head coughed nervously. “Anyway, Barry. What kind of mum and dad would you like to try out next?”

  Barry took out his piece of paper. He’d covered a lot of the ground on the list already. He’d had parents that weren’t boring; that were famous; that weren’t poor; that weren’t tired all the time.

  But then he saw Number 6: ‘Being REALLY, REALLY, REALLY strict’.

  He couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to say it.

  “I’d like parents who let me do whatever I want, please!”

  What happened after Barry said this wasn’t quite the same as usual. The Head found some parents quickly, but they didn’t appear quickly. In fact, they didn’t come and pick Barry up at all, they just sent a message saying that he could arrive at their house “whenever he kind of, like, wanted?”

  So the Head got PCs 890 and 891 to take Barry to where they lived.

  They took a bus out of the city into the countryside. After a while, they passed a large sign with an arrow on it which said THE SEA. Barry sat on the back seat, in between Taj and Lukas, or PCs 890 and 891 as he was now properly starting to think of them.

  “How’s it going? Have you found the right parents yet?” said PC 890.

  “I don’t think so…” said Barry.

  “Hmm,” said PC 891. “How old are you again?”

  “I’m ten in two days.”

  Both of them looked at him sharply.

  “Two days?” they said together. They looked worried. To be honest, they sounded worried too.

  “Yes,” said Barry. “Actually, about that. The Head said something… happens to children if they don’t find the right parents by the age of ten. But he didn’t say what.” The PCs carried on staring at him; now they were looking not just worried, but uncomfortable. “Do you know?”

  “Well…” said 890, “I’ve heard – I mean, I don’t know obviously cos I found my mum and dad when I was like… seven! But I’ve heard…” and here he looked around surreptitiously and he lowered his voice, almost to a whisper, “that you go into this really… really… dark—”

  “So! Anyway!” said 891, interrupting loudly. “I gather you h
ad a day with the Rader-Wellorffs! Is that true?”

  “Well, yes…” said Barry. “But, 890, can you just carry on with what you were going to tell me – about what happens when—”

  “They’d be amazing parents! So much money!” said 890.

  “Uh… they do have a lot of money…. but…”

  “And then the word at the Agency was that you got a shot at Vlassorina!” said 891.

  “Wow! Really? Did you?” said 890.

  “Yes,” said Barry. “But listen…”

  “And they didn’t do it for you either?”

  Barry sighed; they were clearly not going to answer his questions about the… thing… that happened to unparented ten-year-olds. He shook his head.

  “OK…” said 890, looking out of the window.

  “Yeah. OK…” said 891, looking out of the other window.

  “Hey,” said Barry, suddenly feeling angry. “The Rader-Wellorffs were crazy! They wanted me to shoot a bird! And Vlassorina, they wanted me to change my name to Barrissina! And the Fwahms!—”

  PCs 890 and 891 both turned round at once.

  “You had the Fwahms! as well?!” said 890.

  “Blimey! Did they get you a game for the United Kid-Dom?” said 891.

  “Oh, they did!” said 890. “That was you! I saw you on TV being carried off hugging a teddy…”

  “Well, yes. They did. That was me,” said Barry.

  They stared at him.

  “You got to play at Wobbly Stadium!” said 890. “For the national team!”

  “And you still…” said 891, “…didn’t think you’d found the right parents?”

  Barry opened his mouth. But then he didn’t know what to say. He looked down, a little ashamed, and thought to himself: OK. I’m really going to try and like these next ones.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The bus dropped them off by a large field, on a cliff. In the middle of the field, which had a lot of cows and sheep in it, stood a very colourful tent: mainly green, but also red and orange and blue and spray-painted with words like LOVE and PEACE and, strangely, NEIL.