A Load of Old Tripe

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Sorry, son,’ said the baker at the Rumbling Tum Bakery, ‘I’ve just sold the last coffee and walnut cake. They’re very popular. You could try the corner shop on Church Street. They sometimes have cakes in the freezer but they’re not as nice as mine.’

  I cycled at a mad speed down to the corner shop on Church Street. The cake I had eaten earlier began to churn in my stomach and by the time I had chained my bicycle up to a lamp-post I was feeling decidedly ill. Ignoring the sickly taste in my mouth and the grumbling pain in my stomach, I rushed into the shop. There was a big chest freezer by the wall and standing by it was Michael’s mum. As I drew closer I saw she was holding… a coffee and walnut cake. She was just about to pop it into her wire basket.

  ‘Hello, James,’ she said. Mrs Sidebottom was a big round woman with bright blonde hair, lipstick the colour of blood, and eyes with so much black make-up on, she looked like a giant panda.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Sidebottom,’ I said.

  ‘Doing a bit of shopping for your mother?’ she asked. Before I could reply she said, ‘Michael has his piano-forte tuition on Saturday mornings. He’s getting really very good. The teacher says he has a musical ear. This afternoon his father is taking him to town to get him a new anorak and some walking boots for the trip to Whitby next week. Then it won’t be long before you take your eleven plus examination for the grammar school. Michael’s father is going to have him measured up for the blazer in town this afternoon.’

  Suppose he doesn’t pass the eleven plus, I thought to myself, but I didn’t say anything.

  ‘He’s having private tuition, you know,’ Mrs Sidebottom told me, ‘just to be on the safe side. Miss Peacock is tutoring him in mathematics and English. All her pupils get through. And how are you getting on at school, James?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to go to the grammar school with Michael?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ I told her. ‘I’ve not thought about it much.’ I edged past her to get to the freezer. I peered inside. There was no sign of a coffee and walnut cake. There were mince tarts, strawberry flans, Victoria sponges, apple pies and Swiss rolls but no coffee and walnut cake. Mrs Sidebottom had got the last one.

  ‘I suppose Michael told you about my food poisoning,’ I whispered, so the shopkeeper who was busy serving a queue of customers couldn’t hear.

  ‘No, he hasn’t,’ she said. ‘I thought the school dinners were very good at St Jude’s.’

  ‘No, not at the school. Mum bought a cake from here last week and I was sick all night. Couldn’t keep a thing down.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said.

  ‘Evidently some nuts were off. Walnuts actually. Like the nuts in your cake, or it could have been the cream filling. Anyway, I was really ill.’

  Mrs Sidebottom examined the packet. It was a fancy box with a picture of a smiling round-faced woman on the front. ‘Mrs Baxter’s Coffee and Walnut Cake’ it said on the packet. ‘Just like the cakes your mother used to make.’

  ‘This is Michael’s favourite cake,’ she said. ‘However, in light of what you’ve just said I don’t think I’ll risk it.’ She placed the cake back in the freezer.

  ‘Very wise,’ I said nodding.

  I waited until she had paid for the groceries in her basket and left the shop. My heart leapt for joy. It looked from the picture on the packet exactly like the one Mum had baked earlier that day. I was saved.

  My elation evaporated at the counter. I passed over all the change from my money-box.

  ‘Take it out of that,’ I said.

  The miserable-looking young woman behind the counter pulled a sour face when she saw the pile of silver and copper. She counted it out behind the counter. ‘I need another five pence.’

  ‘What?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Another five pence,’ repeated the woman sullenly.

  ‘But that’s all the money I’ve got,’ I said sadly.

  ‘Well, you can’t have it then, can you?’ she said, examining a broken nail.

  ‘I haven’t got another five pence.’

  ‘Tough,’ she said.

  ‘The cake’s for my poor disabled granny’s birthday,’ I pleaded. ‘She’s sick in hospital.’

  ‘Can’t help that,’ said the woman unsympathetically. ‘You’ll have to put it back if you can’t pay for it.’

  ‘Here, love,’ said an elderly woman who was behind me in the queue. She thrust five pence into my hand. ‘It’s nice to see young people caring for the old.’ She gave the assistant behind the counter a savage look. ‘You’ve got your measly five pence now,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  It was quite a job, but I managed to defrost the cake (with the help of Mum’s hairdrier) and place it on the blue plate in the pantry. I smiled. It looked pretty much like the one Mum had baked.

  Later that afternoon, when Auntie Myra and Uncle Norman arrived, Mum asked me to bring the cake through to the front room. I did so with a smug expression on my face.

  ‘What a lovely cake,’ said Auntie Myra. ‘It looks delicious, as light as a feather. You always make lovely cakes, Brenda. It’s such a pity I can’t have any.’

  ‘Can’t have any?’ I spluttered.

  ‘No,’ said Auntie Myra. ‘I’m on a diet. Too many calories in that cake, I’m afraid.’

  ‘What about you, Uncle Norman?’ asked Mum. ‘I’m sure you’d like a piece.’

  ‘Thank you, no, Brenda,’ he said. ‘I’d love a slice but I’ve developed this nut allergy. I can’t eat walnuts. They bring me out in a rash.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mum, smiling at me, ‘it looks as if you’re in luck, young man.’

  My stomach began doing somersaults and I felt the colour drain from my face. The very thought of another piece of coffee and walnut cake made me feel sick. ‘Get the knife, will you, love,’ said Mum, with a knowing smile on her face, ‘and I’ll cut you a nice fat slice.’

  7

  THE SCHOOL TRIP

  ‘It seems pretty straightforward to me, Mrs Sculthorpe,’ said the headmaster in that high whining tone of voice. ‘If he hasn’t brought the money, then he can’t go. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘That seems very unfair to me,’ said my teacher. ‘He will be the only child in my class who isn’t going.’

  I was outside Mr Griddle’s door listening in to the conversation. It was morning break and I had been sent there by the caretaker to tell the headmaster that the pipes in the boys’ toilets were leaking again, but I thought I would wait to knock at the door, which stood ajar, and listen in. The conversation sounded very interesting, and I soon learnt who the subject of their discussion was. It was Ignatius Plunket.

  ‘Mrs Sculthorpe,’ said the headmaster, ‘you really cannot expect the school to come up with the money for the trip. I mean, if we were to pay for one pupil then the floodgates would open and all the parents would be expecting the school trips to be free of charge.’

  ‘I really don’t think that is the case, Mr Griddle,’ said Mrs Sculthorpe. I could tell she was angry by her tone of voice. ‘You know the circumstances in the Plunket household. This is a special case.’

  The headmaster gave a harrumph. ‘I know the boy’s circumstances only too well,’ he said. ‘He comes from a lazy and feckless family. His parents haven’t done a day’s work in their lives from what I can gather, they never attend school functions and they send him to school as if he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards.’

  ‘That is really not the boy’s fault,’ said Mrs Sculthorpe.

  ‘His parents spend most of the time in the betting office or in the public house,’ continued the headmaster. ‘It’s not as if they can’t pay.’

  ‘That is my point, Mr Griddle,’ persisted Mrs Sculthorpe. ‘They spend their money on other things and not on school trips for their children. It’s not the poor boy’s fault he can’t find the money for the trip.’

  ‘That may well be,’ said Mr Griddle pompously, ‘but I am not making any exception so there is really nothing fu
rther to discuss. The school is not subsidizing the trip and that is the end of the matter.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Sculthorpe angrily. ‘In that case I shall pay for the trip myself.’

  ‘I really don’t think that is a very good idea,’ said the headmaster.

  ‘It’s my money, Mr Griddle, and how I choose to spend it is up to me. Good morning.’

  I stood away from the door quickly and pretended to be examining the picture of a sailing ship on the wall.

  ‘What are you doing here, James Johnson?’ demanded Mrs Sculthorpe sharply.

  ‘Miss,’ I told her, looking all innocent, ‘I’ve been sent by the caretaker to tell Mr Griddle that the pipes are leaking in the boys’ toilets.’

  ‘I hope you have not been eavesdropping?’

  ‘Oh no, miss,’ I lied. ‘I was looking at this picture.’

  She didn’t look convinced, but clomped angrily away down the corridor.

  I knew already that Ignatius was not going on the trip. On the way to school that Friday morning Micky Sidebottom had asked Ignatius if he had remembered to bring in the money for the school trip to Whitby the following day.

  ‘Oh, I won’t be going to Whitby,’ Ignatius told us nonchalantly. He didn’t appear all that bothered.

  ‘Not going!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t you want to go?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied calmly. ‘I would very much enjoy a trip to the seaside, it’s just that things are a little tight financially at home at the moment.’

  I always smiled when he used these fancy words and phrases. He sounded like an old man.

  ‘You mean your parents won’t cough up the cash,’ said Micky bluntly.

  ‘That’s about right,’ said Ignatius, giving a weak smile.

  ‘It’s only a few quid,’ Micky informed him, as if he was telling Iggy something he didn’t know. ‘It won’t break the bank.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Ignatius, ‘but my father and mother don’t think I should go.’

  ‘You’ll have to stay here all day moping around with nothing to do while we are on the beach at Whitby,’ said Micky.

  ‘You don’t need to rub it in,’ I told him.

  ‘Oh, I won’t be moping around,’ Ignatius said breezily. ‘There are lots of things I can do. There’s the library for a start and the museum and –’

  ‘I could lend you the money, Iggy,’ I interrupted.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, James, but you know what they say?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what they say.’ I looked at him expecting an answer but he just stared ahead of him. ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be,’ said Ignatius. ‘Shakespeare, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know about Shakespeare,’ I said, ‘but it’s really rotten that you can’t come.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve got a book out of the public library about the north-east coast and shall read up on Whitby while you are exploring it. I shall be there in spirit if not in body.’

  ‘You do say some daft things,’ said Micky. ‘Half the time I don’t know what you are on about.’

  When I overheard Mrs Sculthorpe say to Mr Griddle later that morning that she would be paying for Ignatius to go on the trip, I was really pleased, but I kept it to myself.

  On the way home on the Friday afternoon Ignatius volunteered the information before I raised it with him.

  ‘I’ll be going on the school trip to Whitby after all,’ he informed Micky and me. ‘Mrs Sculthorpe has told me there is a spare seat on the bus.’

  ‘And you don’t have to pay?’ exclaimed Micky.

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I mean we’ve all had to pay. How come you’re getting a free trip?’

  ‘Why don’t you shut up?’ I said. ‘Your parents can afford the trip ten times over, so what are you moaning about? And if you don’t stop whinging and being horrible, then you can find somebody else to go about with in Whitby.’

  Micky looked deflated. ‘I was only saying,’ he said feebly.

  ‘Well, don’t!’ I snapped.

  The following morning I was up early. I was too excited to sleep in – something I liked to do on a Saturday morning. The coach was to set off outside the school gates at eight o’clock prompt, but at seven I was out of bed, washed, dressed and ready to go. Mum had laid out all my clothes the night before and when I got downstairs she was busy making me sandwiches in the kitchen. The table was set for breakfast.

  ‘I’ve done you some egg and tomato,’ she said when she caught sight of me walking into the kitchen. ‘And there’s a piece of cake and some crisps and a bottle of pop.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Your dad’s gone to work but before he went he cleaned your boots and he’s left you a bit of extra pocket money on the table. He told me to tell you to be careful. Beaches can be dangerous.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, thinking how lucky I was to have parents like mine.

  Micky arrived at half past seven. He was kitted out like some Antarctic explorer in a dark green anorak with an imitation-fur-lined hood. The coat was full of pockets and pouches, zips and flaps. On his back was a large red rucksack and around his neck a pair of huge binoculars.

  ‘Dad got me these new boots,’ he told me, pointing to his feet. ‘The man at the shop said they’re proper walking boots, specially padded for comfort, lightweight, waterproof and heat resistant. I’ve also got a scarf, thermal gloves, woolly hat and heavy duty socks.’

  I shook my head. ‘We’re only going to Whitby,’ I told him, ‘not up Everest.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Sculthorpe told us to get well wrapped up,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be cold and wet.’

  ‘I don’t know why your teacher’s taking you to the seaside in this weather,’ Mum told us.

  ‘It’s a field trip, Mrs Johnson,’ explained Micky. ‘We’re going to study the coastal features as part of our geography work at school. Mrs Sculthorpe calls it “first hand experience”.’

  ‘Well, I still think it would have been better going in the summer when it’s warmer,’ said Mum.

  We met Ignatius at the end of the road, casually walking along with a plastic bag in one hand and a book in the other. He was wearing bright blue Wellington boots with flowery patterns round the top, a greasy brown coat with the sleeves turned up and the same grey baggy trousers with the shiny bottom which he wore for school. A long multicoloured woollen scarf was wrapped around his neck like some huge snake, and on his head was a flat cap, the kind that old men wear.

  We caught up with him. ‘What have you got on your feet?’ asked Micky, staring at the bright blue Wellingtons. ‘They’re the sort girls wear.’ I eyed Micky with an expression which told him to keep his mouth shut.

  ‘They’re my mother’s,’ said Ignatius, unconcerned by the comment. ‘My boots are too small, so I’m borrowing hers. I have to admit that they are rather dazzling but they’re quite comfortable and won’t let in the water, which is the main thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Shall I put your things in my rucksack?’ I asked him.

  ‘That’s all right, James,’ said Ignatius. ‘There are only my sandwiches and a bottle of water. Thanks anyway.’

  The coach, an old green vehicle which had seen better days, arrived fifteen minutes late. At ten minutes past eight o’clock, still with no sign of the coach, Mrs Sculthorpe, dressed in a bright red duffel coat and a matching scarf and bobble hat, went into school to phone the firm to see where it had got to. When she disappeared through the school entrance the coach chugged up puthering out smoke from the exhaust.

  ‘Not very environmentally friendly,’ observed Ignatius, to no one in particular.

  The driver, a grumpy-looking little man with a shiny bald head and a face as brown and wrinkled as an over-ripe apple, ordered us to line up quietly and listen.

  ‘Now, you kids,’ he growled, ‘I don’t want anyone messing about on my bus. There will be n
o toilet stop, so make sure you’ve all been before you get on. There’s a plastic bucket at the front for anyone who feels sick, so use it. I don’t want anyone vomiting on my seats. I want no litter on the floor, no shouting or running about, no singing, no making faces through the windows at the motorists and no touching the emergency door at the back.’

  ‘Unless, of course, there’s an emergency,’ said Ignatius innocently.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘If there is an emergency,’ continued Ignatius, unaware of the sniggers from those around him, ‘we will then need to make use of the emergency door.’

  ‘Are you being cheeky?’ asked the driver, getting red in the face.

  ‘No, just pointing it out,’ said Ignatius.

  ‘Well, don’t!’ snapped the driver. ‘And there’s no talking to the driver as well.’

  Mrs Sculthorpe appeared, not looking all that pleased.

  ‘I was just telling these kids,’ said the grouchy driver, ‘that I want no messing about on my bus.’

  ‘There is really no need,’ Mrs Sculthorpe told him brusquely. ‘My class is very well behaved.’

  ‘Aye, and I’ve heard that one before,’ grumbled the driver.

  ‘Shall we be on our way then?’ asked the teacher. ‘We are late.’

  ‘I was delayed. You want to see the state of the roads –’ began the driver.

  Mrs Sculthorpe held up a hand as if stopping traffic. ‘Then we had better waste no more time, had we?’ she told him.

  ‘Good morning, miss,’ said Ignatius when she counted us as we boarded the coach.

  ‘Good morning, Ignatius,’ she replied, glancing down at his boots and giving a little smile. ‘Are you looking forward to the trip?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss,’ he said. ‘I’ve never been to the seaside.’

  ‘Never?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘No,’ he replied. ‘It will be very interesting.’

  ‘I am sure it will,’ she said.

  We arrived at Whitby just after ten. Mrs Sculthorpe instructed the driver to collect us at one o’clock, when we would be going up the coast to Robin Hood’s Bay for the afternoon to explore the beaches and do our coastal study. He grunted and lit a cigarette. ‘And please don’t be late,’ she said.