‘Blimey!’ Barry Bannister piped up. ‘Fancy calling somebody a tractor! What’s her brother called – a combine harvester?’
‘No!’ spluttered Kevin. ‘Not a tractor like the one you drive around a farm. It’s all one word – Attracta.’
‘That will do, Kevin. Now Jean-Paul is not from Ireland. People from Ireland speak English.’
‘Miss,’ persisted Kevin, ‘that’s not what my dad says. He says he can’t understand a word they say when we visit my Auntie Monica in Dublin.’
‘Thank you very much, Kevin. I think we’ve heard quite enough about your Irish relations.’ Mrs Sculthorpe looked around the class. I just knew what she would say next. ‘Shall we ask Ignatius?’ she said.
Ignatius Plunket rubbed his chin and swept the curtain of dusty brown hair from his forehead. ‘Jean-Paul could be from France,’ he said, ‘and then again he could be from Belgium. There is a possibility he’s from Switzerland, although most people there speak German, or he might be from Luxembourg or Monaco.’
‘Well, you were right first time, Ignatius,’ Mrs Sculthorpe told him. ‘Jean-Paul is from France.’
The teacher turned to the new boy and did an imitation of a frog again.
‘There’s an empty place next to James Johnson there,’ she said really slowly and pointing to the seat next to mine. ‘You’ll look after Jean-Paul for today, won’t you, James?’
‘Yes, miss,’ I replied.
‘And remember, he doesn’t speak much English so you will have to point to things and speak slowly.’
Then the French boy spoke. ‘I understand very much what you are saying. I learn to speak Engleesh in my school in France.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Sculthorpe, ‘that will make things a whole lot easier, Jean-Paul.’
‘In my school in France, I learn to speak Engleesh with Madame Poisson. I learn it for two years.’
‘And you speak it very well, too,’ said Mrs Sculthorpe. ‘Now you sit next to James and he’ll tell you all about our school.’
‘What’s your second name?’ I asked Jean-Paul when he had taken his seat next to mine.
‘Please?’
‘Your other name. Jean-Paul what?’
‘Jean-Paul Savigny-Richeux.’
‘Crikey! That’s a mouthful,’ I laughed.
‘What is this mouthful?’
‘You know – a lot to say. Bit like James Joseph Johnson really. That’s my full name.’
‘Ah, oui.’
‘Whereabouts in France are you from?’
‘Do you know France?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Never been out of England.’
‘Then you would not know where I live.’
‘I might,’ said Ignatius, who had been listening to our conversation.
Ignatius in his old threadbare jumper, trousers a size too big and shirt with its frayed cuffs and collar must have looked very strange to the French boy.
‘It is much bigger than your town,’ said the boy. ‘It is called Le Havre.’
‘I know where that is,’ said Ignatius in a really friendly voice. ‘There was a lot of action there during the war. It’s a very important port, Le Havre. It was very heavily bombed. I read this very interesting book about submarines and –’
The French boy cut him off. ‘It is much warmer in Le Havre. It does not rain with all zer winds and it ees not cold.’
‘Oh, it’s all right here in summer, isn’t it, Iggy?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Ignatius began, ‘it gets –’
‘I am also not liking the mauvaise odeur.’
‘The what?’ I asked.
He made a sniffing noise.
‘I think he means the smell,’ said Ignatius.
‘Oh, the stink,’ I said. ‘You get used to that after a bit. It’s from the knacker’s yard.’
‘Pardon?’ The boy’s forehead furrowed. He looked very puzzled.
‘The knacker’s yard,’ I explained. ‘They get loads of old bones and boil them up to make glue. If the wind’s in the wrong direction there’s a right pong. Course, it could be the sewage works on Midden Road or Demoulders Tannery on Common Lane.’
‘They eat horses in France, don’t they?’ asked Ignatius.
Before the boy could reply Mrs Sculthorpe clapped her hands. ‘Will you all look this way, please?’ she said.
Most of us stopped talking.
‘And that includes you, Michael Sidebottom.’
Everything went quiet.
‘This morning we are going to write a poem. I want you all to think about the sea. Now, as you know, we have done quite a lot of work about the coast in preparation for our school trip to Whitby in a couple of weeks’ time.’
‘Miss!’
‘Yes, what is it, Barry?’
‘Miss, my dad nearly got drowned last year at Black-pool. He was swept out to sea on this twenty-foot wave.’
We all burst out laughing.
‘Miss, it’s true, he swam out to get this ball for a little girl, it had been carried out to sea by the wind, and this great big wave carried him off. It took him ages to swim back to shore and –’
‘Miss!’ shouted Valerie Harper. ‘Miss, my sister was bitten by a jellyfish last year when she was in Filey.’
‘I don’t think jellyfish actually bite, Valerie,’ said Ignatius. ‘They sting but I don’t think they –’
‘Miss, they do,’ insisted Valerie. ‘There was a big red blotch on her leg where it bit her.’
The class again burst into laughter.
‘Miss, when we went to see my Auntie Monica in Dublin last year,’ said Kevin Murphy, ‘we were coming through customs and they stopped my grandma and made her go in this room and take all her clothes off.’
Mrs Sculthorpe sighed and then turned to Jean-Paul, who was staring seriously out of the window.
‘Do you live near the sea, Jean-Paul?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘Yes, I do,’ he replied. ‘But where I live eet is warm and there is not the shell.’
‘He means the smell, miss,’ I explained. ‘Probably from the tannery on Common Lane.’
‘Thank you, James,’ said the teacher. ‘I don’t know how we managed to get on to the tannery on Common Lane. I started talking about the sea. Anyway, I’ve brought in a collection of shells this morning and in a minute I’m going to put some on each desk. I want you to look very carefully at the shells, notice what colour they are and the shape and feel, and then we are going to write a poem or a description – a sort of picture in words. Yes, what is it now, Kevin?’
‘Miss, last year when we were on holiday at my Auntie Monica’s in Dublin, we went to the sea and my cousin Attracta stood on a shell and her foot swelled up like a balloon and went all purple and yellow and she had to go into hospital where this doctor got a kind of knife thing and cut right into her.’
‘Thank you, Kevin. I’ve already told you that we’ve heard quite enough of your Irish relations for one day. Now I want you all to write a colourful and interesting poem or short description about your shell. This one is flat and bumpy with tiny holes in it, and this one on Barry’s desk is sharp and spiky and blue. There’s quite a variety – clam, cockle, cowrie, mussel, whelk and winkle. We will no doubt add to our collection after our visit to Whitby. So, I want you all to look very closely at your shell and use your imaginations.’
Mrs Sculthorpe then went round the classroom giving out shells of all sizes and shapes and colours. Soon we had settled down to work and all you could hear was the scratching of pens. After ten minutes I had written about the shell in front of me and was very pleased with my effort:
I can see a white shell, clean and polished,
It curls and twists and shines like a pearl.
There are tiny grains of sand clinging to it
And it smells of the sea.
I looked at Jean-Paul’s paper. It hadn’t a thing written on it. He was still staring out of the window and looked as bored as my mum when ou
r next-door neighbour tells her about all her medical problems. I looked over to where Mrs Sculthorpe was whispering loudly in Kevin Murphy’s ear.
‘You just did not listen, did you, Kevin? I asked for a poem or a short description about a shell, not a story about a killer clam that devours deep-sea divers and spits out their bones. Now start again and do as you were told.’
‘Yes, miss.’
Then Mrs Sculthorpe headed in my direction. She peered over my shoulder. ‘Oh yes, I like this, James. You describe your shell very well.’ Then she caught sight of Jean-Paul with his empty sheet of paper. ‘Didn’t you understand what you had to do, Jean-Paul?’ she asked.
‘Oui, but I did not do it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ The smile on Mrs Sculthorpe’s face suddenly disappeared.
‘This ees not the proper Engleesh. This is, how you say, my waste of time.’
Mrs Sculthorpe’s face was now sort of screwed up, as if she were sucking a lemon. Her neck was all red and blotchy. The last time she had looked like that was when Barry Bannister had brought his ferret into the classroom and it had ended up in her shopping bag.
‘Not the proper English? Whatever do you mean, Jean-Paul? Tell me, what is the proper English?’ She said the last three words really slowly. Everyone was looking at the French boy.
‘In France Madame Poisson learns us the proper Engleesh. Before I am coming to England I learn about the proberbs.’
‘Really? The proverbs,’ corrected Mrs Sculthorpe.
‘My English teacher, Madame Poisson, she is very good at Engleesh. She tests us every week on the proberbs. A bird in the hand is worth two of them in the bushes; every cloud has the silver lining; people what are in glass houses should not be throwing the stones; it is like a pig in a china poke.’
Mrs Sculthorpe smiled. It was not a pleasant smile this time. ‘Well, for your information, Jean-Paul, English people rarely use proverbs any more.’
‘Madame Poisson says all Engleesh people use the proberbs,’ he announced.
‘Well, I’m afraid your Madame Poisson is wrong. The word is proverbs, by the way, and very few people use them these days.’
‘Madame Poisson, she teaches me about zer verbs and zer nouns and zer sentences. This ees the proper English.’
Mrs Sculthorpe breathed out. We could see she was really mad.
‘Well, Jean-Paul, dear,’ she said quietly, ‘it won’t be too long now before you are back in the classroom of the excellent Madame Poisson, learning the proper English, but until then you are in my classroom and you must follow the very famous proverb which I am sure you are only too familiar with: “When in Rome you do as the Romans do.” So get on with the description of your shell.’
Over the next couple of weeks Jean-Paul didn’t find much to his liking. The headmaster was a fool, the school dinners were ‘only for zer pigs’, Mr Wilson, who took the boys for games, could not ‘referee a game of tiddlywinks’. He refused to let the nit nurse look at his hair – ‘French people do not have the creatures on the head’ – or the school dentist examine his teeth. When the school photographer asked him to ‘smile please’ he replied, ‘What is there to be smiling at?’ He was a real pain in the neck. And he went on and on about Mrs Sculthorpe not teaching the proper English.
It was a bright and sunny day when Mr Griddle, the headmaster, came into our classroom. I don’t like Mr Griddle. As far as I can tell he doesn’t do much apart from water the plants in the entrance hall and shout at us in assembly. He also has his favourites – usually the kids whose parents live in the big houses and pass their eleven plus exam to go on to King Henry’s, the grammar school up the hill. He sort of whines when he speaks, as if he’s got a permanent cold and his nose is all bunged up.
‘You will all look this way a moment,’ he droned. ‘And that includes you, Michael Sidebottom. Now, next Monday we will be having two very important visitors. The Mayor and Lady Mayoress, Councillor and Mrs Farrington, will be with us for part of the morning, looking around the school and joining us for assembly. I want everybody, and that includes you, Barry Bannister and Kevin Murphy, to be on his or her very, very best behaviour. I do not want the Mayor to return to his office with a poor impression of St Jude’s. Being the top class in the school you will be reading out some of your work. Mrs Sculthorpe has spoken to me very highly of the stories and poems you have written.’ Then he looked to where Jean-Paul was sitting, staring out of the window, with a bored expression on his face. ‘Perhaps, Jean-Paul, you might like to read something you have written?’ We all expected him to shake his head but to our surprise he agreed.
‘Oui, I will read something special,’ he said.
‘Splendid, splendid,’ said Mr Griddle, rubbing his hands.
On the Monday morning we all filed into the hall for the assembly. The Mayor and Mayoress in their golden chains sat in pride of place on the front row, next to a self-important-looking Mr Griddle.
Six of us had been picked to read out our poems. Ignatius’s was by far the best. When he had finished, I saw the Mayor turn to whisper something to the headmaster. Mr Griddle nodded.
Then it was Jean-Paul’s turn. He produced a piece of paper from his pocket, cleared his throat and proceeded to read in French in a loud voice. I think it was the first time I had seen him smile. At first there was a little twist at the corners of his mouth but then it spread into a wide grin.
‘Thank you very much, children,’ said the headmaster. ‘That was very good. And a special thank you to our visitor, Jean-Paul. I don’t speak French myself but I am sure that what you wrote was most interesting.’
‘Hey,’ I said to Jean-Paul when we got back to the classroom. ‘You went on a bit. I thought you were never going to stop.’
‘I didn’t understand a word you were saying,’ Barry Bannister told him.
‘Neither did I,’ said Kevin.
‘What did you say?’ I asked him.
Jean-Paul thought for a moment and then a smile spread across his face. ‘I said the headmaster is a fool. I said the school dinners are like the food for pigs. I said England is cold and stinks and I said the teacher does not speak the proper Engleesh.’
‘Crikey! You said all that?’
‘Oui.’
‘It’s a good job Mr Griddle and the teachers and the Mayor didn’t know what you were saying.’ Then I started to chuckle.
We must have looked a comical pair when Mrs Sculthorpe walked in.
‘My, my,’ she said, ‘you two look happy today.’ Then she looked at Jean-Paul. ‘Remember the old English proverb, won’t you, Jean-Paul: “He who laughs last laughs longest.”’
‘Oh, oui,’ he said, shrugging.
‘And what are you laughing at, James Johnson?’ asked Mrs Sculthorpe.
6
THE CAKE
I have to admit I do love my food. I love burgers: those thick, juicy circles of beef sandwiched between soft bread and smothered in lip-smacking ketchup. I love crispy battered fish and steaming chips, crunchy crisps, fat sizzling sausages and pizza topped with bright red tomatoes and delicious melted cheese. Of course, like most lads of my age, I love crispy cones with strawberry and vanilla ice cream dribbling down the sides, thick slabs of milk chocolate, boiled sweets and chewy toffee. But my favourite, my very favourite, is the coffee and walnut cake Mum makes on special occasions.
The very thought of a thick wedge of that pale brown sponge layered with creamy filling and topped with a crust of thick sweet icing and a ring of walnuts makes my mouth water uncontrollably.
One Saturday morning I wandered into the kitchen and there in pride of place on the table was a coffee and walnut cake. My eyes grew to the size of saucers. I gave a great heaving sigh and smiled. ‘Coffee and walnut cake,’ I mouthed.
‘Don’t you touch that, young man,’ said Mum, catching sight of me drooling in front of the cake. ‘It’s not for you.’ My heart sank right down into my trainers. ‘Your Auntie Myra and Uncle Norman are coming rou
nd this afternoon for tea.’ I was speechless and continued to gaze at the cake. ‘If there’s any left then you can have a slice.’
I soon found my tongue. ‘Any left!’ I spluttered. ‘Not much chance of that with Auntie Myra and Uncle Norman. They eat like starving dinosaurs. There won’t be so much as a crumb left.’
‘If I have time,’ Mum told me, seeing my obvious disappointment, ‘I’ll make another one next week.’
‘I’ve heard that before,’ I said.
‘And any more out of you, young man,’ said Mum, ‘and there will be no cake for you next week.’
Later that morning, try as I might, I just could not take my mind off the cake. I lay on my bed, eyes closed, and the picture of the delicious confection floated into my mind: the soft sponge, creamy filling, thick crust of icing and crunchy walnuts.
‘I’m off to the shops, Jimmy!’ Mum shouted up the stairs. ‘Do you want anything?’
‘A thick chunk of coffee and walnut cake, that’s what,’ I murmured to myself. ‘No thanks!’ I shouted back to Mum.
When the door banged shut I crept down the stairs. I just had to have a peek at the cake. It could do no harm, just to see it and savour it. I opened the pantry door charily and peered inside. There it was on the bottom shelf, sitting on a pale blue china plate with a cake knife next to it. I noticed that some of the icing on the top had drizzled down the side. I picked it off and popped it in my mouth. Mmmm, delicious. A bit of the sponge had come away with the icing so I just had to eat that too. Now one side of the cake looked different from the other, so, to even things up, I cut a small sliver off. The sponge melted in my mouth. Then a walnut fell off. Crunch! Crunch! Scrumptious. The cake now looked as if it had been attacked by a ravenous mouse. It was ruined.
Now what was I going to do, I thought. I remembered that the Rumbling Tum Bakery on the high street in town sold cakes. There’s nothing for it, I said to myself, I shall have to raid my money-box, cycle into town and buy a replacement. I just hoped that there would be a coffee and walnut cake left and that Mum would not notice the substitution. But what about the remains of the cake which now sat there all forlorn-looking on the blue china plate, I thought. Nothing for it – I shall have to eat it. So – I devoured the lot.
A Load of Old Tripe Page 5