“Hey up, Alec. What are you doing, lad? You’ll catch your death. Come in here.”
Granddad stretched out his hand and hauled Alec inside. Then he fiddled about lighting a little lamp by his bunk.
“Hey, lad. It looks as though we’ve both had nightmares. You wandering about in your pyjamas and me dreaming the caravan was tipped over and I was shouting for help.”
“Oh, you were shouting for help, Granddad. That’s why I…” Alec stopped. How could he possibly explain even to Granddad just what had happened?
“It’s a wonder we didn’t wake up the whole street between us, then,” said Granddad. He peered out of the window. “Well, your mum and dad didn’t hear anything. Mind you, with them sleeping in the front bedroom, they wouldn’t anyway.” He ruffled Alec’s hair.
“Well, I never made you out for a sleepwalker, Alec.” He paused. “I reckon you’d best stay here. If you go back now, they’ll hear you and then there’ll be no end of argument. Look, lad, you get up on my bed and I’ll sit in the old armchair. Now don’t fuss, I’m quite comfortable. Up you get.”
Alec climbed up and lay down on the bunk. The bedclothes were still warm and he soon felt drowsy. Granddad pulled a blanket over him and, putting out the bedside lamp, sat down in his chair. As Alec’s eyes became used to the dark, he could just see the old man’s face.
“Granddad?”
“What is it?”
“Tell us something.”
The old man chuckled, shifted in his chair and cleared his throat.
“’Twas Christmas Day in the workhouse
And the snow was raining fast
And a barefooted lad with clogs on
Stood sitting in the grass…”
Granddad’s voice grew slowly fainter.
“The bees were making beeswax
And the skies were dark and dear
’Twas a June day in December,
In the middle of next year…”
Alec was asleep.
Chapter Seven
HIGH NOON AT BUGLETOWN COMPREHENSIVE
ALEC WAS LATE to school next day. By the time he had finished explaining to Mum how he came to be sleeping in the caravan, it was gone nine o’clock. He missed Registration and Assembly, but he caught Miss Welch in one of the corridors, gave her his homework and managed to make his excuses to Mr Foster, his form teacher.
“All right, Alec, but get a grip on yourself, laddie. I don’t think you’re quite with us these days. People are beginning to talk about you. I hear whispers from the English Department and the History Department that you’re going funny in your old age.”
That was a laugh. Mr Foster who taught Religious Instruction was as old as the hills and well known for his faraway look. The story went that he tied a piece of wool round one finger to remind him to come to school and another piece round the next finger to remind him what the first piece was for! But he shook his head at Alec in a friendly way and sent him off to maths in good spirits. Alec had other reasons for good cheer. First, by coming late he had missed Ginger Wallace and Co.; second, he had remembered to put his can in his jacket pocket when he got dressed. So far, so good, Bowden. Disasters one, triumphs nil, but there was still a chance to equalize before half time.
His chance came in English just before lunch. Miss Welch walked round the class giving out exercise books. As she handed Alec’s back, she stopped.
“Well, Alec, I enjoyed your story. It wasn’t much to do with ‘The L-Shaped Room, but it was funnier.”
Alec’s head began to swell slightly.
“I liked the part where Shiraz the Fair left the old man sitting up the palm tree in his nightshirt. But did you make it up yourself?”
Alec was ready for that one. “Oh, no, Miss, I sort of adapted it from the Arabian Nights.”
“Funny, I had a quick look through this morning and I couldn’t spot any story like it. Ah, well, a stroke of natural genius, I suppose.” Miss Welch went on her way.
Genius. She didn’t know how true it was, thought Alec, as he made the score in his head, disasters one, triumphs one. Just then the pips went for lunch break. He packed away his books and, without a care in the world, shot out into the schoolyard.
Right into the arms (well, not quite, but near enough) of Ginger Wallace and three of his friends from Boner’s Street. Alec looked madly from side to side, but there was no escape. The duty master was out of sight, as usual, and there wasn’t a sign of anyone from 9F who might stand by him.
“Right, Bowden, say your prayers, man.” It was clear that Ginger was a keen Western fan.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ginger,” said Alec as calmly and amiably as he could.
“Mr Wallace to you. You’re not allowed the honour of calling me Ginger. You were down Boners Street last night, after I told you you weren’t coming down there any more. Right? If you hadn’t slipped into the woodwork, we’d have got you then. We don’t like to make a mess in the schoolyard, but it can’t be helped.”
For a second Alec thought of buying off Ginger by letting him into the secret of the Tank, but then he thought he wouldn’t. He was going to keep that secret whatever… ooh, he saw Ginger’s fist double up, big and brown.
“Hey, what’s this?”
Alec looked round him. Behind him were Sam Taylor and two of his mates. Alec disliked Sam Taylor. He was a bully, and as thick as two planks, as well as being spotty, but right now he could have kissed him! Well, almost.
Ginger snorted.
“What do you want, Taylor? Want me to knock some spots off for you?”
Ginger’s mates laughed, but not very loudly.
“Very funny, Mohammad Ali. You’ve got a big mouth, just like him.”
“What do you want, Spotty?” Ginger refused to be diverted.
Taylor became pompous. “You think you’re going to bash one of our lads, don’t you, Wallace? Well, you’re not.
“What do you mean, ‘our lads’? Skinny s in 9F, not 9D.”
“You know what I mean, Wallace, I mean our lads.”
Taylor raised his voice and Alec saw why. Others from Spotty’s form were gathering round, neutral, but interested. Suddenly Ginger and his mates seemed rather thin on the ground. There weren’t more than twenty or thirty black kids in the school altogether. Alec could see why Ginger had to be cock of the walk in Boner’s Street.
“OK, Wallace. What are you going to do? Apologize to Skinny?”
Ginger’s face hardened.
“You can get…” And he moved forward, both fists up.
“Hey, wait a minute,” said one of Taylor’s mates. “If Cartwright catches us now, we’ll be for the high jump. Let’s sort it out outside school tonight.”
“What, and have the law on to us? No, let’s have it now.”
“Tell you what,” Taylor’s mate had an inspiration, “let’s have a game of backers up by the railings. If we win, Wallace says sorry to Skinny. If they win, we forget it.”
Spotty and Ginger looked doubtful, but their friends shouted, “Yes, backers, backers!”
“OK,” said Taylor grudgingly. “How many a side? You’ll have problems raising a team, won’t you?”
Ginger clenched his teeth. “You worry about yourselves. We’ll play six a side, but I’ll tell you one thing. You’ve got to play Bowden on your side.”
“Skinny? Get off with you,” said Taylor.
“Oh, what’s the sweat?” said his friends. “We can leather them any road. Come on before someone comes and breaks it up.” By now a crowd had gathered, some of the senior boys hovering discreetly in the background. Taylor waved his arm in a wide sweep and led the team he had chosen to the railings, followed by Ginger and his chosen five. A spin of the coin and Taylor lost.
“OK, Wallace,” he grunted to Ginger. “Your mob bats first.”
Ginger and the others lined up, their number one man taking a firm grip on the iron railings, then bending down. Number two grasped the first man’s hi
ps and bent down likewise until all six were fined up, crocodile fashion. Alec noticed that Ginger took the middle position, where most of the weight would fall. He admired him for that.
“Go!” shouted Spotty Sam and the game began.
As Ginger had foreseen, most of the weight fell on him. Alec, who was last to jump, landed towards the back of the line. His team-mates were in a clutching heap further along.
Ginger’s team started to count. “One, two, three…” The noise from the crowd became deafening as the count went on. But ten came with Ginger’s men still holding tight. Sam’s team piled off, looking grim.
“Right,” said their leader. “If we hold you lot this time we’ll play two more goes. OK?”
“Many as you like,” said Ginger jauntily and led his men out.
“OK, get fell in,” ordered Sam. “Charlie, you take the railings. Skinny, you can go number two. They won’t be able to reach you there. All you have to do is hold on to Charlie. Get down. Hey, where are you lot going?” he demanded of Ginger as Ginger’s team withdrew to the other side of the yard.
“Just getting a good run up, that’s all.”
Alec, bent double, clutching Charlie’s hips, looked back through his own legs. Ginger’s men had backed right off to the wall that stood between the girls’ and boys’ yards. Above the wall could be seen the heads of girls who had climbed up to see the fun. Alec could see the broad, handsome face of Ginger’s sister, but she was not smiling. Around them in the yard a huge crowd had gathered. Alec could see no teachers but they must have their eyes on this by now.
“OK, go!” shouted Ginger. Alec took a last look as Ginger’s closest friend, a tall, thin boy, began his run up. Alec heard the beat of the footsteps coming nearer; suddenly they stopped. A second more and he felt a terrific thump in the small of his back. Spotty Sam had underestimated the other team. Their first man had made a fantastic leap and Alec got the full weight. He began to sweat and he felt his hands slipping.
“Hold on, Skinny, for Pete’s sake,” muttered Charlie.
The second man began his run. He landed well forward, so did the third man, but the fourth and fifth who were smaller boys landed further back. After the fifth there was a pause. The last man, Alec knew, must be Ginger. Why was he waiting? The weight of the lad on top of him was bearing down in the small of his back. Alec began to feel sick and dizzy. He tried to hook his fingers into Charlie’s pocket. He mustn’t let go, but how long could he hold on?
Sam Taylor yelled, “Come on, Wallace. Stop mucking about. If you can’t jump, give in.”
Ginger ignored him. Instead he shouted to his team mates, “Down, all of you. Down.”
The run up began. Alec heard in a daze the crunch of Ginger’s boots. The school yard was silent. The sweat ran down Alec’s nose and dripped off in a stream. Ginger jumped and Alec almost passed out as the weight on him suddenly doubled. Ginger had leapt so far forward that he was on top of his team mate and both of them were on top of Alec. His fingers began to slip. Desperately he let go with one hand.
“They’re giving,” yelled Ginger.
Alec twisted his arm inside his jacket, strained an inch or two and touched the can.
“Salaam Aleikum. Give me strength.”
He felt a great rush of power. He arched his back. The weight suddenly vanished. They’d fallen off. He stood upright. He looked round. There was the sound of cheering. Ginger’s team lay sprawled on the ground, all except Ginger, who was perched on the railings and looked dazed.
Sam Taylor crowed like a rooster. “That’s fixed ’em,” he yelled. Ginger leapt off the fence with fury in his eyes. “You lot cheated. You shifted. You humped us off. You can’t even play your own game fairly!”
He hurled himself at Sam Taylor and punching and kicking the two rolled over on to the ground. In a second Ginger’s team-mates were on their feet, wading into the rest of Sam’s team. Alec, his strength suddenly departed, received a clout over the side of his head which sent him reeling to the fence with bells ringing in his ears.
The scrap became general and other kids joined in. Ginger’s team were getting a pounding. Alec stared in amazement as over the wall swarmed Ginger’s sister and her friends, screaming like furies. From the corner of his eye, Alec saw her with Charlie’s flowing locks firmly gripped in one hand, while she battered his nose with the other. It must have been agony.
The inevitable happened.
“Break it up, break it up. Taylor! Wallace!”
Mr Cartwright and the duty teacher, Mr Evans the games master, were rushing across the yard, grabbing at collars and arms, pulling warriors apart. Miss Bentley was there too. She had two girls in what looked like a judo grip. That must have been painful too. Alec felt himself grabbed. Mr Evans’s furious face stared into his.
“You, Bowden, get out of it.”
Alec felt the side of a size fifteen shoe catch him in the seat of his pants and he flew towards the school door.
Ten minutes later, the battle had been broken up and fifteen prisoners had been taken from both sides in the game, plus three girls. They were lined up under guard in Mr Cartwright s office.
“I don’t know ‘what started this, although I shall find out. But I’ll give you this warning. Any more of this kind of fighting in the school and someone’s for the high jump. You know what I mean, don’t you? Now get out.”
The prisoners nodded, relieved at the mildness of their treatment and went back to their classrooms.
Later that afternoon, Alec was cross-examined by Mr Cartwright. He tried to explain what had happened and Mr Cartwright nodded. Then he said, “Just as a matter of interest, why do you go home down Boner’s Street?”
Alec hesitated. “Oh, it’s just a habit. I used to go down there when my mate lived in Boner’s, that’s all, sir.”
“There’s no way through to the estate from Boner’s Street, surely?”
“Oh, er yes,” said Alec vaguely.
“Ah, one last question. Wallace swears that you threw him on the railings. Can you explain that extraordinary feat?”
“Oh, er no.”
“All right. Now look, Alec. We’re going to let this matter lie. There’s obviously something between you and this lad, Ginger Wallace. Just keep clear of him and don’t join any line-ups like we had in the schoolyard today or there’ll be big trouble. Now buzz off.”
Chapter Eight
MAKE WITH THE SHEKELS
FRIDAY TEATIME WAS always a favourite of Alec’s. There was usually something special, and this week Kim had brought home cream cakes from work. With the weekend round the corner everyone was in a good mood. Dad, who was on the early turn and had slept a little in the afternoon, was in a quiet good humour and Granddad had been persuaded to come in from the caravan and have tea with the rest of the family. All was quiet and peaceful save for the tap of knife on plate or spoon on saucer.
Then Dad, who had finished his tea and had picked up the Bugletown Gazette to read, dropped a bombshell.
“I see our family’s been in the wars.”
“What do you mean, Harold?” said Mum.
Dad eased his spectacles on his nose and began to read slowly.
“Poltergeists in Bugletown? – that’s the headline, with a question mark.”
“Go on, our Dad,” said Kim, impatiently.
“Ghosts and other strange things that go bump in the night are usually associated with stately homes, but it seems Bugletown’s pre-war council estate at Roundhill has acquired a ghost or poltergeist. Senior citizen Harry Bowden, who retired five years ago, after fifty years’ service with the railways, told our reporter of an alarming experience which occurred during Wednesday night.
“‘I was just about to go to bed, when the caravan in which I sleep suffered a sudden violent shock. For a moment it seemed as though it was turned on its side, then just as suddenly it was upright again. I was tempted to imagine that I had had a bad dream, but it all seemed so real, and bear in mind, I had not ye
t got into bed.’
“Mr Archibald Forrester, chairman of the Bugletown Society for the Investigation of Psychic Phenomena, who had questioned Mr Bowden closely…”
“I bet he did,” interrupted Kim, “in the saloon bar at the Three Fiddlers. Spirit research all right!”
Granddad looked pained. Dad went on reading:
“…closely, is of the opinion that psychic forces, perhaps from prehistoric times, when Round Hill is reputed to have been the scene of ancient rites, are at work. He has asked Mr Bowden and any other Bugletown citizens to report to him any similar incidents.”
Kim burst into laughter; Dad smiled a bit; Alec was torn between laughter and the thought that it might hurt Granddad, plus the thought that he was really to blame himself for the incident. But suddenly Mum spoke angrily.
“GRANDDAD! I wonder you haven’t got more sense.”
“What do you mean?” said Granddad. “I only told the Gazette reporter what happened.”
“Hasn’t it occurred to you that, thanks to that story, it’ll be all over town that you’re living in that caravan? And noseyparker Councillor Blaggett from the Housing Committee will be round because one of his regulations has been broken? And you know what that’ll mean?”
Granddad was silent.
“You’re supposed to be living in the house with us, otherwise the council will start wanting you to go into the old people’s home on the other side of town. I suppose you’d like that.”
Granddad looked miserable.
“Oh, Mother, don’t go on so,” said Kim. “Councillor Blaggett won’t find out. He only reads the paper to find out if there’s anything there about himself.”
“It’s all right for you, our Kim, but I’m the one who has to do the worrying round here,” said Mum, shooting a glance at Dad, who had gone back to reading the Gazette.
The Third-Class Genie Page 5