All had been going to plan until it was noticed that Arry had gone AWOL and that there was a large fire raging in the middle of the lawn. It wasn’t a modest and jolly little camp fire, using regular little sticks of wood, to sit cosily around and sing regular little Abba songs. No, it was more what was described on the local news that night as “a mighty inferno”. For once, the newscaster’s script, too often exaggerated for effect and over-dramatic, was correct. Tall flames devoured the shed, whilst choking, acrid smoke darkened the garden and surrounding houses. It had also darkened the faces of several small party guests whom Arry had somehow persuaded to go outside and contribute to the blaze by throwing his birthday presents on it. Gift vouchers, Playmobil figures, socks, two copies of “Where’s Spot?”, bars of chocolate and five packs of Lego bricks, all fuelled the excitement of the little people who joyfully danced an impressive Conga round the fire. According to eyewitness accounts and verified by footage taken at the time on their mobile phones, there were at least ten two to three-year-olds enjoying the novel party game, not found in the book from Tesco. Arry’s chief contribution to the fire, besides lighting it, was the disposal of his buggy – something he had attempted the previous week by placing it in a wheelie-bin, only to be thwarted by an eagle-eyed refuse operative who strictly speaking was only doing his job when he refused it.
After the fire-brigade had been and gone, leaving the Trumpers with a warning about the dangers of garden fires, and after the departure of the scorched and sooty party guests with their angry parents, leaving the Trumpers without any friends, an urgent internal investigation was held within the confines of the living room.
The infant delinquent was strapped into his high-chair and put on trial, although nobody seemed to be disputing his guilt. Arry’s only defence, it seemed, was an annoying dumb insolence and an equally annoying impudent grin throughout the entire proceedings.
“Do you realise how much money we spent at Tesco buying food for your party? All that food has gone to waste thanks to you!”
Actually, this was not quite the truth of the matter as both Tommy Trumper and his son had tucked into the pizza and chicken sandwiches whilst watching the fire-brigade get the flames under control and rescue the promising young dance troupe from danger. Sensing that angry parents collecting their children might want compensation in the form of cakes and biscuits, they also ate as many as they could manage and hid the rest in a cupboard.
And that was the end of the day’s excitement, apart from a false alarm when Mrs Trumper, left alone with Arry after the end of “Home and Away”, bellowed “Will you stop that dribbling!!”
Mr Trumper, sitting safely at the kitchen table with his father, had immediately jumped up, clenched his fist, sank to his knees and thanked a benign God for blessing him with a prodigious footballing talent for a son.
“And Trumper has the ball, skins the full back, turns one way, then another, runs into the box, this is mesmerising stuff, he’s even sent the crowd the wrong way! Quite remarkable.”
Mr Trumper got up and raced into the living room triumphant, and was even prepared to embrace and kiss Mrs Trumper in celebration. But alas, there was no display of the promised prodigious football talent in sight and therefore no display of marital affection either: only Mrs Trumper standing there, arms on hips, and young Arry, his bib soaked in spittle, a bowl of turkey twizzlers (in a spicy tomato sauce) on his head and a noise sounding suspiciously like laughter coming from his mouth.
I could tell you quite a few other stories about Arry’s wearing of his Irregular Badge before his fourth birthday: some would shock you, some would make you laugh and some would make you, well, cringe is probably the right word. However, one more will have to do for now.
On reaching the age of three, Arry Trumper had taught himself to read. It is true to say that he had developed an early interest in books, especially those read by his parents and his grandad. However, the interest was an irregular one of filing them in unusual places when nobody was looking. Mr Trumper, for example, had a well-thumbed paperback copy of “From Russia with love”. The treasured book was discovered one day soaking, dumped in an unflushed toilet, pulped before its time. It was a fitting end for Colonel Rosa Klebb perhaps, but surely not for 007, thought Carl Trumper, as he fished out the dripping ex-novel, and hoping that M would not get wind of the incident.
Reading matter owned by Tommy Trumper also met a watery grave: when Mrs Trumper emptied the washing machine, she was annoyed to find many soggy bits of paper mixed in with the clothes. Tommy Trumper’s much-loved gardening pamphlet, “Cannabis for fun and profit,” had been reduced to a meaningless mush.
“What have I told you about emptying the pockets when you put your trousers in the wash?”
Tommy Trumper was as puzzled as he was distraught at his loss, although he did have his suspicions when he spotted more than a flicker of a smile on Arry’s face as his mother pulled out tangled shirts, socks and trousers all decorated with little fluffy white bits. Looking intently at his beaming little grandson, Tommy Trumper saw the telling glint of an Irregular Badge on his jumper and wondered what would happen next.
Tommy did not have to wait very long to find out what would happen next.
Young Arry had not only taken a lively interest in spy thrillers and horticultural information pamphlets, but also in the Yellow Pages. He liked the colour of the cover, but more than that he liked all the useful adverts with lots of big telephone numbers: adverts for pest and vermin control, adverts for drain cleaning, adverts for funeral directors, adverts for fire alarms and adverts for authentic Chinese cuisine for home delivery or take-away.
Arry had never tasted the delights of authentic Chinese cuisine, but he liked the sound of the words: Fu Yung, Kung Po, Cha Siu, Tsing Too, Tom Yung Kung, all just left his tongue tanging.
And so he put another irregular plan into action.
“Hello, Beijing Palace, how can help?”
With the daring cool of a seasoned criminal operative, Arry reeled off a long string of random numbers extended by the addition of prawn crackers. It was further extended by multiplying the order thirty-fold.
“Ah big party! Thank you so very much for order Mr Trumper. Ten minutes only.”
Arry put down the phone after one final string of big numbers in the form of a credit card payment.
Mr and Mrs Trumper had not heard a thing as the sound of the television had filled the house; whilst Tommy Trumper had just dozed in his bedroom, dreaming of a life without Mrs Trumper, and enjoying the wonders of the natural world.
The contentment of Mr and Mrs Trumper was interrupted by a loud banging at the door, followed by an extended doorstep debate concerning who was the rightful owner of over thirty bags of authentic Chinese cuisine, with accompanying prawn crackers.
“We’ve been pranked!” asserted Mr Trumper.
“No we haven’t, we’ve been well-pranked!” corrected Mrs Trumper.
Tommy Trumper said nothing, as he continued to enjoy the wonders of the natural world, blissfully unaware of the dispute downstairs. And Arry just lay in his bed, warm and cosy, unable to disguise his delight, as the strange brew of Number 3, 8, 11, 16, 23, 56, 61, 66, 67 and 70 wafted its way upstairs and into his nostrils.
At this point, you may be concerned that Arry could have been found out because the Credit Card statement showing evidence of fraudulent transaction would drop through the letter box or his parents would have checked the Internet. You will be pleased to know, however, that neither Mr nor Mrs Trumper could work out what had happened and in the end blamed it all on Tommy Trumper who could not account for his whereabouts at the time at which the felony was committed.
And so back to the beginning of the chapter in which Arry broke his apparent four-year silence. Mrs Trumper wasn’t just put-out, she was well put-out. She raved and ranted, jumped up and down, threw eggs i
n all directions and warned Arry about the evils of deceiving your parents.
But Mrs Trumper’s stern words, it seems, fell on deaf ears, as Arry just gurgled, chortled and waved his arms around like some kind of demented two-year-old, and looking as if he had just been told a very amusing story.
“Typical, just like your father, life’s just one big joke, isn’t it. Just you wait until you go to school my lad, they’ll sort you out good and proper, make no mistake!”
Mrs Trumper had few talents, but the gift of accurate prophecy was not one of them.
CHAPTER 3
Just how many Jeffreys can you get into a Tumble-Dryer?
Now, can you remember your first day at school? Did you cry because mum or dad left you on your own for the first time? Or did your mum or dad cry because they found it very difficult to let go of your hand? Did the teacher seem very fierce? Did the teacher, for example, grab you by the hand and pull you into the classroom, screaming, kicking and shouting? Or was your teacher all smiles and kindness, telling you that you were going to have a really good time playing with all the other little children, whilst you were sobbing your heart out, alongside twenty other little children, who were also sobbing their hearts out?
Whatever your experience, I am guessing that it wouldn’t have been quite like that of the Trumper family. For a start the only tears shed by Mrs and Mrs Trumper were tears of joy after five years of having to sort out various irregularities of one sort or another.
The letter offering Arry a place at the school had stated that all students and their parent or carer should assemble in the School Hall at eight o’clock that morning. Mr and Mrs Trumper did not want to take any chances of Arry being turned away after a last minute hiccup and so arrived at a quarter to seven, just in case. They also wanted to ensure that their tears of joy were not wasted, having fermented and matured for over five, long years.
“What’s the Headmaster doing dressed up in shorts and riding a push bike? I don’t like the look of this at all,” Carl Trumper said, as he eyed up a man handing over small parcel to a woman dressed in a long black plaited skirt and a lemon floral blouse with a massive bow on it.
“Oh yes, he seems to be dressed up as a postman,” replied Tracey Trumper, scything down her husband with a single casual remark.
Arry did not seem to be taking any notice of what was going on around him: he had the look of an Olympic athlete, pacing up and down in total fixed concentration, just before the start of the race: something was brewing.
“Feeling a little nervous are we pet? Don’t worry, all the little boys and girls feel exactly the same, sweetie. By the end of the day you’ll be as right as rain.” It was the woman in the lemon floral blouse whose voice was as sickly-sweet as the pattern on her annoying blouse.
“Is that why they have made the dangerously subversive decision not to attend today’s inaugural meeting, I wonder? May I assert, madam, that I think most rain is overrated.”
The woman in the sickly-sweet blouse with the sickly-sweet voice, you have probably worked out by now, was the Reception Class teacher; what you will not have worked out, and so I shall have to tell you, is that this was the first day in her new job. However, if you are very, very smart, I suppose you might have worked that out for yourself, as no experienced teacher in their right mind would wear a lemon floral blouse with a huge bow – unless it was for a bet, of course. Now, this young teacher had read lots and lots of books on Education and had even attended training courses run by Ofsted Inspectors, so she knew all there was to know about five-year-olds.
Miss Polly Flowerpot (yes she really was called that), looked around to see who was speaking, feeling slightly uncomfortable as she did not know the meaning of either “subversive” or “inaugural”. First she eyed Carl Trumper, who was wondering about James Bond’s first day at school, and then Tracey Trumper, who was keeping a close eye on Arry just in case he tried to leg it, but could not work out which of them might have uttered the offending words. She then turned her attention to the only other adult left in the room, as the alleged Headmaster had pedalled off rapidly on his bike. This other adult was none other than Tommy Trumper who had decided to join in the family celebrations. Twiddling her massive bow, Miss Flowerpot nervously looked towards him, and was immediately put off by his toothless grin.
“It’s all right Miss Pollypot, it looks like he’s brought his Irregular Badge with him.”
Miss Flowerpot was a little puzzled at this. She had planned to have a lesson on the following day called Show and Tell: perhaps you remember it from your own Reception Class days – it’s when you bring interesting objects into the class, like a pet slug or a picture you took of a dead rabbit you had found on the road the previous day, and tell the class all about it. All the books and Ofsted Inspectors said that this was a great way to get to know a new class. So it was a little annoying that one of her class had brought something in to show and tell the day before she had even asked for it.
Arry just looked and smiled.
Feeling flustered, Miss Flowerpot, went to the Staff Room to gather her composure, leaving the Trumper tribe to stand around in the Hall, whilst ensuring that all exits were blocked should Arry decide to lower the school leaving age to five.
As there was nothing much else to do, they gazed around, looking at the children’s work, up on display for proud parents to see and for visitors to admire.
“Call that a painting, it looks like something a chuffin’ five-year-old would do,” commented Carl Trumper, looking at a particularly strange looking horse with three eyes, five legs and a pair of glasses.
“That’s probably because it was by a five-year-old,” Tracey Trumper advised her husband who had missed the vital evidence of the young artist’s signature and age in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture. “You never were very good at finding names.”
Trying to ignore his wife’s words, Carl was determined to show her that when it came to matters of Modern Art, he was the Man: no one messed around with Carl Trumper when it came to knowing about Art.
“And what about this one then?” said Southport’s finest Art critic. “It’s total rubbish. Looks like somebody just threw lumps of orange and yellow paint that nearly sunk that boat. I suppose you are going to make excuses by saying that it was done by a kid of five as well.”
“No, I believe it was painted by a child of sixty.”
It was Arry.
“It’s a rather good quality reproduction of Turner’s “Fighting Temeraire”, notably used in the film “Skyfall”, and much admired by Q, if memory serves.”
That explained everything, thought Carl Trumper, Q might have been a dab-hand at fancy gadgets for killing criminal masterminds, but he was clueless about Modern Art.
“I like the look of this,” Tommy Trumper said with some enthusiasm, as he picked up a potted plant off 2B’s Nature Table and started sniffing it.
There was evident concern amongst other parents relating to their child not being late for the first day at school, as a trickle around seven twenty-five became a mighty river of pushing and shoving by eight o’clock, until order was eventually restored by the Headmaster who by now was standing on stage.
“He’s been home and got changed,” muttered Carl Trumper, still convinced that the Headmaster of his son’s school was a bit of an oddball.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Privy Street School, Ofsted-Ready and over-subscribed. My name is Dirk Dashley, the proud Headmaster of this school.”
Dirk paused to ensure that parents were on-message, smiled a toothpaste advert smile and then proceeded.
“First day at school can be a daunting experience and so we do our best to ensure that your child is well looked after by our highly-trained Reception Class teacher.”
At this point, the Headmaster pointed to the blushing Miss Flowerpot,
who giggled and twiddled her gigantic bow once again, a little nervous that she might be asked to talk to the parents about the “subversive inaugurals” or “inaugural subversives” (whatever they were).
“But this school has not always been the happy ship it is now. Before I was parachuted in by Ofsted to sort things out, the place was an absolute disgrace. Children were not learning anything worthwhile and morale was low amongst the Staff after an inspection judged the school as Requiring Improvement. There were even rumours that a low-life drug dealer from Fleetwood was selling cannabis to the teachers at lunch time.”
Tommy Trumper shuffled uneasily on the spot, examining the off-white laces of his grubby trainers.
“But that is a thing of the past: children now learn the things they are supposed to learn and make rapid progress. Staff, I am pleased to tell you, are a happy crew, who spend their entire lunchtime in the classroom.
We have a strict Discipline Code in school, something which I know you are all concerned about. If there is no discipline, there cannot be any learning, I’m sure that you will agree.”
Vigorous nods of agreement from all the adults in the room; nil response from the children.
“We mean serious business here at Privy Street and the Discipline Code is strictly enforced.” At this point, Dirk Dashley flashed his ultra-white teeth, frightening two small girls who immediately burst into loud sobbing fits.
“Here at the Privy, as we like to call it, we have a system of staged punishments, depending on how naughty the child has been. The first stage of punishment is for not getting full marks in a test and thinking it funny: the punishment is a simple one of being locked in a damp shed all day.”
At this point some of the children hid behind their parents’ legs and some started to whimper.
The Boy Who Preferred to Be Somebody Else Page 3