Poor Ignatius never got to wear his new clothes. They were soon taken down to the market by his father and the proceeds ended up behind the bar at the Red Lion. ‘Father said they were too good to wear,’ he told me later without a trace of resentment, ‘so he sold them.’
As I said, that was another thing about Ignatius – he didn’t speak like a boy of eleven and certainly not like one who lived on our street. He used these old-fashioned phrases and fancy words and spoke with the sort of voice used by the snooty kids in the purple blazers, who went to the posh school at the other side of the town. Where this voice came from was another mystery, because all Mr and Mrs Plunket seemed to do was grunt and shout and swear.
On one bright sunny afternoon the school inspector called. Mrs Sculthorpe was as nervous as a rabbit cornered by a hungry fox. When she saw the tall dark figure striding down the corridor towards our classroom she gulped noisily, went white and gripped the edge of the desk to steady herself. The school inspector entered the room silently and crept to the back without a word. He sat in the corner, cross-legged, all through the lesson, scribbling away in his little black book with a face like one of those gargoyles you see spouting water on church roofs. When Mrs Sculthorpe had finished speaking and set us a story to write, he snapped the little black book shut, stood up and walked around the room looking at our work. He caught sight of Ignatius, at the front, staring out of the window with wide eyes, his mouth open.
‘It appears someone is not concentrating upon his work,’ the school inspector said, leaning over Ignatius and fixing him with his bright green eyes.
Any other pupil would have been terrified, but not Ignatius. He looked up sort of casually, smiled widely and without the least sign of nervousness replied cheerfully, ‘Appearances can be deceptive.’
Two little red spots appeared on the school inspector’s pale cheeks. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he spluttered.
‘It may appear to you that my mind is elsewhere,’ said Ignatius. ‘In fact I was considering what to write.’
‘Perhaps you might like to tell me exactly what you were considering,’ said the school inspector, scowling.
Mrs Sculthorpe looked like some statue at the front, completely still and lifeless and lost for words.
‘Perhaps I might,’ replied Ignatius.
‘If you are asked a question, young man,’ said the school inspector, clearly very irritated, ‘I expect you to answer it.’
‘Were you asking me a question?’ asked Ignatius. ‘It sounded rather like a statement to me. I take it you would like me to tell you what I am considering.’
‘I would,’ growled the school inspector with gritted teeth.
‘I am considering what genre to use. Genre means the kind of writing. It’s a French word, you know. I can’t decide whether to write an adventure or a mystery story.’
‘I know what the word genre means,’ said the school inspector angrily. His face was now really red.
Mrs Sculthorpe suddenly got her voice back. ‘Show the inspector your exercise book, please, Ignatius,’ she said. There was a tremble in her voice.
Ignatius held up his book, which was snatched away from him by the visitor. The inspector flicked through the pages, then paused and examined a particular passage.
‘Did you copy this?’ he asked sharply, tapping the page with a long finger.
‘No,’ replied Ignatius. ‘I wrote it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure,’ sighed Ignatius. ‘I would know whether or not I copied it, wouldn’t I?’
‘It’s very good,’ said the school inspector. It didn’t sound like a compliment but Ignatius took it as one.
‘Oh, thank you,’ he said, brushing a curtain of hair from his forehead.
The school inspector scrutinized Ignatius for a moment, taking in the shabby clothes and the pale, rather unhealthy-looking white face. I could see what he was thinking: ‘Appearances can indeed be deceptive.’
*
‘Would you like to ask Ignatius round for tea one day next week?’ Mum asked me one Saturday.
‘I could do,’ I replied.
‘I don’t suppose he gets asked round to people’s houses very often,’ she said.
‘I should think never,’ I replied.
‘It’ll be a little treat for him,’ said Mum. ‘I can’t imagine he gets many treats in that house.’
So, the following Monday after school, Ignatius arrived at the door for his tea.
‘Thank you very much for inviting me, Mrs Johnson,’ he said to Mum. ‘It is very kind of you. I don’t get out a lot, you know.’
‘It’s a pleasure, Ignatius,’ replied Mum. ‘Would you like to wash your hands before we sit down at the table?’
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I would.’
‘Jimmy, show your friend where the bathroom is,’ said Mum. I took Ignatius upstairs, showed him where the bathroom was and returned to help Mum set the table.
Ignatius was ages in the bathroom. We could hear him splashing and gargling and flushing and then he started to whistle.
‘Go and see what he’s doing,’ said Mum. ‘He’s been in there for ten minutes or more.’ When he finally emerged from the bathroom, Ignatius looked as if he had had a bath. His face shone where he had scrubbed it, his hair was wet and he smelled of perfumed soap.
‘Indoor toilet. Hot water,’ he sighed. ‘What a treat. We only have the outside lavatory and cold water at home. And you have proper toilet paper and towels too.’
‘Do you want to see my room?’ I asked him.
‘I would,’ he said, following me into my bedroom. ‘It must be nice having your own room. I sometimes wish I had a room to myself. My brothers and sisters do tend to be rather noisy and, of course, I have to turn the light off just when I get to an exciting part in my book.’ He picked up my alarm clock and examined it, glanced at the football posters on my wall, looked at the model aeroplanes on the window-sill and peered out of the window. ‘Oh, you can see the cemetery from here,’ he said brightly, as if it was a spectacular view over open countryside. He wandered out on to the landing and into Mum and Dad’s room.
‘Best not go in there,’ I whispered.
‘I’m just having a little peek,’ he said, stepping through the door. ‘I won’t touch anything.’ He looked around as if he was in a museum examining the exhibits. ‘This is very nice,’ he murmured, ‘very nice indeed.’ He ran a long finger along Mum’s dressing-table. ‘Lovely piece of furniture.’
I was getting a bit nervous now. Mum didn’t like me going into her room, never mind a stranger. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Tea will be ready.’
‘I hope you like cottage pie, Ignatius,’ said Mum when she saw us coming down the stairs.
‘I can’t say that I have ever had any, Mrs Johnson,’ he told her, ‘but it sounds delicious.’
Cottage pie was one of Mum’s specialities: succulent minced beef swimming in thick rich gravy and covered in a mound of fluffy potato. Mum and I watched fascinated as Ignatius tucked in, his knife and fork moving with such speed that he had cleaned his plate before we had hardly begun.
‘Another helping, Ignatius?’ said Mum.
‘That would be splendid, Mrs Johnson,’ he said. ‘This is delicious, and the carrots were done to a turn.’ Mum gave me a look.
When he saw Mum bring the steaming tin of rice pudding in from the kitchen, Ignatius sniffed the air, sighed and said, ‘Rice pudding, home made, my very favourite.’ He had second helpings of that as well. Then he leaned back on the chair and patted his stomach. ‘TTT,’ he said, smiling.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Mum.
‘Tummy touching table,’ he explained. ‘I read it once in a book. Sherlock Holmes, I think. That was truly a banquet, Mrs Johnson. The very best meal I have ever had.’
Mum gave a great smile. I could see she was very pleased with the compliment. ‘Thank you very much, Ignatius. It’s nice to be appreciated.’ She gave me a sideways glance. �
�You must come again.’
‘I would like that very much,’ he replied. ‘I am afraid that I can’t return the invitation and ask James to come for tea at my house. My mother is not a good cook and hasn’t been all that well lately.’ I was glad of that, I thought to myself. The very last thing I wanted was tea in the Plunkets’ house. ‘Would you like me to help with the washing up?’ he asked Mum.
‘No, no,’ she said. ‘That’s Jimmy’s little job.’
‘I don’t mind at all,’ he said. ‘In fact I would quite enjoy it.’
‘Really, you don’t need to bother,’ said Mum. ‘But it was kind of you to ask.’
Ignatius stood and tucked the chair under the table. ‘Well, I had better make tracks,’ he said. ‘I do have to help with the chores. I have some washing to do this evening. My mother has a skin condition – eczema, you know – and water does tend to irritate her. She can’t wash clothes.’
‘Of course,’ said Mum, giving me a knowing look. I could see what she was thinking. The only condition Ignatius’s mum had was idleitis. ‘Well, it’s been nice having you round.’
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Johnson,’ said Ignatius, giving a little bow. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at school, James.’ Then he strode for the door.
When the door had closed behind him, Mum started to shake her head and chuckle.
‘What’s amusing you?’ I asked.
‘He’s an odd boy that Ignatius Plunket,’ she said, ‘a very odd boy.’
It was about an hour later that Mum came into my bedroom. I was just finishing gluing a model Spitfire and had just the wheels to stick on.
‘Have you seen my locket?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘It was on the dressing-table in my bedroom.’
‘I’ve not seen it.’
‘Well, that’s very strange,’ said Mum. ‘I’m certain I put it there when I came in from work.’
‘Have you looked in the bathroom?’ I asked.
‘I’ve looked everywhere,’ she told me.
‘Well, I haven’t seen it,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll turn up.’
‘It belonged to your Granny Greenwood, that locket. Gold it was, with a picture of your granddad inside. Now where could it be?’ Mum was just about to go out when she stopped and looked puzzled. ‘Ignatius Plunket didn’t go into my bedroom, did he?’
My heart sank. ‘No,’ I mumbled.
‘Are you sure? He was upstairs an awful long time.’
‘Sure,’ I said. My answer didn’t sound very convincing, because Mum came over, sat on my bed and looked me hard in the face.
‘He did, didn’t he? He went in my bedroom.’
‘Only for a minute,’ I said, ‘and I was with him. He won’t have taken your locket.’
‘What was he doing in my bedroom?’ she demanded.
‘He was just looking. He didn’t touch anything,’ I told her.
‘Oh no, not half,’ said Mum, standing up and folding her arms tightly across her chest. ‘That gold locket was there when I got in from work and now it’s gone, so who do you think took it, the fairies?’
‘You might have put it somewhere else,’ I said feebly.
‘Of course I didn’t!’ snapped Mum. ‘I remember putting it on my dressing-table when I came in from work and it’s been stolen and we know who took it.’ She took a great heaving breath. ‘You ask him round for tea, he comes into your home, has helping after helping and sits there as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, as polite as can be, and all the time he’s a little thief. Can’t keep his grubby little fingers off other people’s things. That’s all the gratitude you get for feeling sorry for him. Well, he’s not getting away with it.’
‘What are you going to do?’ I asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I guessed what Mum was going to do. I really didn’t need to ask.
‘I’m going to get it back, that’s what,’ said Mum. ‘I’m going along to the Plunkets to get my locket back. It was given to your granny by your granddad and she gave it to me. I wear it all the time. It has sentimental value and if that boy thinks…’
‘Please don’t!’ I cried. ‘Please don’t go round to his house.’
‘Don’t be so silly!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t seriously think I’m going to forget all about it, do you, let him get away with it?’
‘Can we have another look?’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘I’ve done all the looking I’m going to do,’ she told me angrily. ‘I remember distinctly putting it on my dressing-table. I’m going round to the Plunkets to get it back.’
‘Let me go,’ I begged her. ‘Let me get it back.’
‘No,’ Mum said sharply. ‘It takes an adult to sort this out and I intend to give those Plunkets a piece of my mind. Nobody in the street likes them. Neither of that boy’s parents has done a day’s work in their lives, scrounging and living off others. Anything free and they’re the first in the queue. They give the street a bad name. Dirty steps, rotten window-frames, unpainted door, filthy windows and garden like a jungle. Now they’ve taken to thieving.’
‘Please! Please, Mum!’ I begged again, my eyes filling with tears. ‘Please, let me get it back.’
Mum calmed down a bit and thought for a moment. ‘You’ve got five minutes, young man, five minutes, and if that locket is not in my hand by then, I’m coming round to get it.’
I scurried out of my room, dropping the model aeroplane in the process, scrambled down the stairs and out through the front door and down the road until I arrived outside the dirty unpainted door of the Plunkets. I thanked my lucky stars when Ignatius answered the door. He was wearing an old frayed apron.
‘Oh, hello,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Hello, Iggy,’ I said, wondering what I was going to say next.
‘I’m afraid you can’t come in. The house is a bit crowded at the minute and I’m in the middle of washing.’
‘Ignatius… Iggy…’ I started.
‘Yes?’
I gulped. ‘When you were round at my house, did you see a locket on my mum’s dressing-table?’
‘No,’ he replied simply.
‘When we went in her room, you remember, well, did you see a gold locket on the dressing-table?’
‘I didn’t,’ he said.
‘It’s just that Mum’s lost it and she’s in a real state about it. It belonged to my granny. She remembers putting it on the dressing-table when she came in from work and it’s not there now.’
Ignatius thought for a moment. He ran a hand through his mop of dusty hair and wrinkled his forehead into a frown. ‘Does your mother think I took it?’ he asked.
‘No, of course not,’ I lied, feeling my face becoming hot.
‘That I stole it?’
‘No, no, it’s just that we can’t find it. She wonders if you might have seen it.’
‘She does think I stole it, doesn’t she?’ he said. He didn’t sound angry or upset, just matter-of-fact.
‘Well… yes, she does,’ I said, looking at my shoes and feeling awful.
Ignatius undid the apron and folded it carefully as if it were a piece of precious cloth. ‘I’ll only be a moment!’ he shouted to some unseen presence inside the house. ‘I’ll come along and have a word with her,’ he told me. ‘Sort the matter out. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.’
We met Mum running down the road. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. I was embarrassed and ashamed and scared. My stomach tightened.
‘Ignatius!’ Mum panted.
‘Mrs Johnson,’ he said as she rushed up to him. ‘I didn’t take your locket. I wouldn’t do such a thing.’ There was no defiance blazing in his eyes.
Mum was trying to get her breath. ‘Ignatius,’ she began again.
‘I’m not a thief, Mrs Johnson. I wouldn’t repay your kind hospitality by stealing from you.’ He didn’t sound angry or offended. His voic
e was as usual, calm and friendly.
‘I know,’ said Mum, at last beginning to breathe more easily. ‘I know you are not a thief. I found the locket.’
‘You did!’ I cried.
‘It was on the floor behind the dresser,’ Mum told us rather shamefaced. ‘It must have slipped off. I found it just this minute.’
‘Well, that’s all sorted out then, hasn’t it?’ said Ignatius, smiling. He just stood there as calm as anything.
‘Yes it has,’ said Mum, her eyes refusing to meet his. ‘I just wanted to tell you and to say…’ Mum took a deep breath before continuing in a quavery voice, ‘that I’m sorry, Ignatius, for thinking you had taken it.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Johnson,’ he said, his gaze settling upon her. ‘It’s quite understandable. All’s well that ends well.’
Mum stood there for a moment. I could see she wanted to say something else but she was lost for words. ‘Well, I’ll get back, then,’ she said, and walked off leaving us together on the pavement.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m really sorry, Iggy, about all that.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about,’ he said casually. ‘It’s not your fault.’
‘My mum should never have thought you had taken it,’ I said.
‘It was a natural reaction,’ he said, giving a small shrug. ‘Adults often jump to the wrong conclusions where children are concerned. Your mum’s all right. Adults rarely apologize. They like to be right. She said she was sorry, so let’s forget it ever happened.’
‘Yes,’ I said, smiling. ‘Let’s forget it.’
Then Ignatius looked at me straight in the eyes. ‘You didn’t think I took your mother’s locket, did you?’ he asked. His stare made me feel really uncomfortable.
‘Of course not,’ I lied. ‘Of course not.’
4
THE BOWL
‘Do I have to do it this Saturday morning?’ I moaned.
‘Yes, you do,’ said Mum. She was busy ironing in the living room.
‘Can’t I do it next Saturday?’ I asked.
A Load of Old Tripe Page 3