Class Act

by Debbie Thomas

  Tracy smiled. ‘Doesn’t sound like you’ll be winning the Maths prize.’ Her eyes were so blue you could dip your toes in them.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets and his chin into his neck, Brian crossed the yard. He went over the lawn to the rockery and sat down against the high-backed rock that hid him from the yard.

  Worms of self-pity crawled into his mind. Why does Florrie pick on me? Why do I care? Why can’t I be tough like Kevin Catwind? The top of his nose fizzed dangerously. He pressed his eyelids with his fingertips. Don’t even think of it, he warned the gathering tears.

  Opening his lunch box, he let out a long breath. Alone at last – or as good as. There was only the gardener pruning roses by the fence. Brian ate his banana. Checking that Mr Pottigrew’s back was turned, he wrapped the skin round a garden gnome that stood by the rockery. ‘Have a scarf.’ There was no danger of the gardener hearing. He was stone deaf.

  It had caused quite a stir when he’d started at the school. Children had crept up behind him, burping and fake farting until Gary Budget had dared Kevin Catwind to say a rude word to his face. It turned out that Mr Pottigrew could lip-read. When he’d complained to Mrs Florris, in a low drawl that sounded as if he were speaking underwater, she’d yelled at Kevin and made the whole class write out fifty times, ‘I must only be rude behind people’s backs.’

  Brian watched the gardener bend over the bushes in search of dead flowers. He loved the clean snap of the secateurs and the way the old man laid the dead blooms in the barrow like priceless pieces of porcelain.

  Mr Pottigrew straightened up and rubbed his back. He turned the barrow and wheeled it to the next flower bed. Every movement was measured and slow, as if he were rationing out his energy. He caught sight of the banana-skinned gnome, then Brian and smiled. Unlike the rest of him, his eyes were quick and bright, taking everything in, doing overtime for his useless ears.

  Brian wished he could stay there all day, watching the leaves shiver under the jet as Mr Pottigrew switched on the hose and feeling the warm, furry breeze on his face. But far too soon the bell shrieked, summoning him to the awful afternoon.

  CHAPTER 3

  SUR-PRIZE

  The hall smelled of wood polish and disapproval. Children thundered in and sat cross-legged on the floor below the stage. Chairs stood along the back for parents. When the pupils had calmed to a fidgeting whisper, the grown-ups filed in.

  There were mums and dads. There were mums or dads. There were grandmas and/or grandpas. There were fifteen aunts, twelve uncles, eight-and-a-half neighbours (Mrs Mildew Pritt was very short), a reporter from the local paper and Gary Budget’s rabbit called Stew who’d been smuggled in inside his mum’s handbag and was now nibbling jelly beans on her lap. Anyone with any link to the school was there.

  Almost.

  Before you run off to ring Brian’s dad and give him an earful for staying at home instead of coming to root for his child like any other decent human or pet, you’d better know that his invitation was lying in seventeen pieces in Brian’s waste-paper bin. Why would he want Dad to come and watch him non-win?

  Brian hugged his knees and stared at the sunbeam pouring through the window on his left. Lowering his lashes, he watched it blur to a shimmering river of dust. Imagined diving in and joining the flow, up through the window, away from the wriggling, giggling hall.

  ‘Hey look.’ There was a loud whisper – or was it a quiet shout? – from Clodna Cloot, a chunky girl built like Duplo, sitting in front of Brian. ‘There’s Trace’s mum.’

  The whole row turned round and waved. ‘Hi, Sharlette.’

  ‘You were great at six thirty-four last night.’

  ‘I love your earrings.’

  ‘Thanks for the sunshine.’

  Tracy’s mum was the closest Tullybun had to a celebrity. As the weather lady on the local news, she’d changed her name from Sharon Bricket to Sharlette Briquette and her hair from mud-brown to sun-kissed. She sat down at the back, crossed one endless leg over the other and wriggled her cherry fingernails at the girls.

  Brian squeezed his knees until his arms hurt. Mum had never worn nail polish or dyed her hair. But if she’d been sitting there she’d have made Sharlette look like an old tin can.

  Mrs Florris rose from the row of staff sitting on the stage. ‘Attention, please.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Mums and dads, boys and girls, a warm welcome to our annual celebration.’

  Warm? Brian shivered. Her voice was as warm as an ice cap.

  ‘As you know, sixth class will soon be hopping from our little pond into the mighty lake of secondary school.’ Mrs Florris glanced down at her notes. ‘Over the last eight years, our precious little tadpoles have developed legs and arms and membranes …’ a dad at the back grunted indignantly, ‘er, fine brains. Their gills are glowing …’ another snort, ‘er, their skills are growing, and we are all very proud of our slimy young frogs.’ A mum leapt to her feet. ‘Er, shiny young sprogs.’ Wheeling round, Florris hissed at the school secretary, ‘Your typing’s terrible!’

  ‘I couldn’t read your writing,’ whimpered flimsy Miss Mimsy, who looked as if she might break in half.

  Throwing the notes down, the principal turned back to the audience. ‘The point is,’ she snapped, ‘we’re here for prizes. Because we at Tullybun Primary believe in winning. Life is tough out there. If you don’t come top, you’re a flop. Who remembers the seconds and thirds, the almost-made-its, the X-Factor runners-up?’

  ‘Olly Murs,’ shouted Kevin Catwind.

  ‘One Direction,’ added Barry Boreen, better known as Broadbean Barry because of his sticky-out ears.

  ‘Silence!’ Florrie glared at them, then smiled at the parents. It was hard to tell the difference. ‘I am proud to have made this school a training ground for winners. And this year, as always, we have chosen those pupils who have excelled in all walks – or rather runs – of life.’ She licked her teeth. ‘The prize for Top Student, the person who has shown sheer, consistent, gobsmacking clevernessss …’ she lingered on the word as if it tasted of fudge, ‘goes to Alec Hunratty.’

  There was faint applause. Alec won every year. Everyone knew he’d grow up to be a brain surgeon or a computer hacker. As he sauntered to the stage, Brian glanced to the back of the hall. Even Alec’s parents looked bored. His mum kept typing on her phone and his dad was scribbling something – probably the square root of 7439678.2 – on the back of his hand.

  ‘Sport.’ Florrie smiled like a portcullis. ‘The prize for Fastest Running, Most Goal-Scoring and Least Gasping for Breath goes to … Peter Nimby.’

  ‘Yess!’ A boy in the front row jumped up and punched the air with a skinny arm. His parents at the back did the same. In three strides Pete’s long, successful legs took him onto the stage.

  When the clapping had faded, Florrie grinned – or was it grimaced? – round the hall. ‘The prize for Popularity, Pleasantness and Charming the Pants off Everyone goes to Tracy Bricket.’

  Tracy stood up and waved at her mum. Sharlette unleashed her super-white smile.

  Everyone clapped while Mrs Florris shook the winners’ hands and hung gold medals round their necks.

  Then came the lesser prizes. Loads of them. By the time Florrie got to the Smallest Pupil award, Brian’s palms stung from clapping. And when Clonsilla Prisk won Neatest Parting, his bottom went numb.

  ‘Refreshments,’ said Florrie at last, ‘will be served in a moment.’ She waved towards the tables at the side where the gardener and school cleaning lady were laying out cups and saucers.

  As children turned to whisper not entirely kind things about the winners, Brian put his chin on his knees. That’s it then. Not a single prize in eight years. You’d think they could have drummed up something. Even the Best at Winning Nothing award would be better than this. If I melted into the floor right now, I wouldn’t leave a stain.

  ‘But first,’ said Florrie, ‘I have one more prize to present. A new award, most dear to my heart. Brian O�
�Bunion, please come up.’

  Brian raised his head. Had he heard right?

  ‘Brian?’ The principal frowned round the hall. Brian blinked at the window to check that another Brian O’Bunion hadn’t pole-vaulted through. He stumbled to his feet.

  ‘Watch it!’ said Gary Budget, just in case Brian stepped on his foot, which he didn’t. How could he when he wasn’t walking but floating onto the stage?

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Florrie, ‘boys and girls. During his time at Tullybun, Brian has not found work easy.’ She put her arm round him. ‘But his efforts at studying have not gone unnoticed.’

  Brian’s chest filled up. At last: recognition that, although he hadn’t succeeded, he had at least tried.

  ‘They have, however,’ the principal dropped her arm, ‘gone unsuccessfully. Which is why, Brian, I’m awarding you this.’ She whipped something out of her jacket pocket and held it horizontally between her forefingers. Bright and yellow, it was really rather beautiful, pitted with tiny holes and giving off a crisp, clean smell. ‘Brian O’Bunion. It gives me pleasure and satisfaction to present you with the Lemon …’ she grabbed his arm, ‘for Lazy …’ she opened his hand, ‘Losers.’ She closed his fingers round the cool, glowing fruit.

  Brian had a book at home called The Amazing Amazon. On page seventy-three was a photo of a glass frog whose skin was completely transparent. He’d often wondered how it must feel to have your insides on show. Now he knew. Every eye in the hall could see his stomach shrinking and his guts sinking. Every ear could hear the thump of his heart and the roar of blood in his ears.

  He dropped his head. A spider was edging across the stage. It raised a front leg, exploring the air. Where’s it going? thought Brian. What’s its plan? How does the floor feel beneath its feet? Does it even have feet or just tiny hooks at the end of its–

  His elbow shot forward. Mrs Florris was shoving him aside. ‘And now,’ she told the silent hall, ‘please join us for tea and cakes. Mr Ptolemy Pilps from the Tully Tattle is here to interview and photograph the prize-winners.’ As the audience shuffled to its feet, she turned to the top trio. ‘You first, dears. We’ll have the faces of success on the front page.’ She pinched Brian’s shoulder like a crab. ‘And the face of failure,’ she hissed, ‘on the back.’

  She ushered the four children to the side tables, where Mr Pottigrew was putting cakes on a tray and the cleaner, Mrs Muttock, was pouring tea for Mr Pilps. I say pouring – more like slopping. You got the feeling Mrs Muttock didn’t enjoy her job, unlike her predecessor who’d retired last summer. Miss Padder had reminded Brian of a currant bun. Soft and crumbly, with brown, merry eyes, she’d trailed the smell of melting butter through the corridors. Mrs Muttock smelled of cigarettes and disappointment, which made Brian think of her as an uncleaning lady.

  Her eyes glittered as he approached. ‘Cuppa tea – with lemon?’ She made a rasping, gurgling sound, a mixture of cough and snigger.

  Mr Pilps put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ he murmured. The edges of his kind eyes crinkled. ‘I’ll take your photo to keep Mrs F. happy. But I’ll make sure it doesn’t go in the paper.’

  Brian blinked his gratitude. He didn’t trust his mouth. People were moving away from him as if he were a virus.

  He waited while Alec, Tracy and Pete posed for photos, shoving their medals and grins at the camera.

  Pete insisted on a picture of his bare feet. ‘Unbeatable,’ he bragged, waving his smelly socks in Brian’s face. Smart Alec wanted a close-up of his forehead – ‘so it fills the whole shot’ – and Tracy’s pout was like two blushing slugs.

  ‘Now Brian,’ said Mr Pilps loudly. ‘Your turn.’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘Then I’d get out of here if I were you.’

  You bet. Parents were staring at Brian when they thought he wasn’t looking and turning away when he was, their faces muddled with pity and scorn.

  Florrie glanced across from her conversation with Alec’s parents. ‘Make sure you get the lemon in the shot,’ she barked at Mr Pilps.

  While the photographer focused, Brian did the opposite, letting his eyelids droop and the crowd fade to a murmuring blur that, just for a moment, numbed the needles tattooing his chest.

  A tinkling crash brought him back to the hall.

  ‘Idiot!’ For once Florrie wasn’t shouting at him. Mr Pottigrew was standing over a mess of smashed plates and crumbs.

  The gardener had come up with a tray of refreshments for Alec, Tracy and Pete. Grabbing a scone each, they must have jostled him so that he dropped the tray. Now they stood and sniggered.

  ‘Go and get a brush!’ shrieked Florrie while the old man bent down to gather the shards and crumbs, sticky with honey. When he ignored her, she pushed through the crowd, crouched down and shoved her face into his. ‘I said go … and get … a brush … you clumsy … old … fool.’

  Even someone without any ears at all would have heard that. Blinking and nodding, he got to his feet and shuffled out of the hall.

  Brian made the most of the distraction. While the principal shooed everyone away from the sticky rubble, he followed the gardener out into the corridor.

  Mr Pottigrew stopped at the door of the storeroom and turned round. Brian froze. He’d held it together until now. But the kindness in the old man’s eyes made his chest boil and his cheeks catch fire. He rushed on: through the entrance hall with its plaques listing past prize-winners, out the front door, across the yard and through the school gates.

  He leaned against the railings. Now what? He couldn’t go home, not yet. Dad would be as comforting as cardboard. ‘Oh dear,’ he’d probably say, glancing up from his work, or, ‘Pardon?’

  Brian hurled the lemon into a bush. He had to go and talk to the only three people who’d listen.

  CHAPTER 4

  CURLY WURLY SANDWICH

  The first two people who’d listen lived by the church in Tullybun.

  OK, maybe lived isn’t quite the word. Nor perhaps is people. But listen they certainly did.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Brian, sitting cross-legged in front of Mum’s grey speckled gravestone and wrapping his arms round his knees. ‘It’s not like I don’t try at school.’

  I know, said the gravestone. Actually it said:

  Lily O’Bunion, 1970–2013

  Beloved Wife and Mother

  But Brian knew what it meant.

  He sighed. ‘Is it a crime to fail?’

  Course not.

  ‘So why does Florrie hate me for it?’

  The headstone thought for a minute. Perhaps because it reflects on her. Perhaps when you fail as a pupil she thinks, deep down, she’s failed as a teacher.

  Or perhaps, said the gravestone beside it, she’s just a ghastly old gherkin. Actually it said:

  Tobias O’Bunion, 1915–1994

  Nimble of Hand, Simple of Heart

  But Brian could read between the lines.

  He reached over and patted the gravestone. ‘Thanks, Grandpa.’ Although they’d never met, Brian had loved his grandfather ever since hearing how he’d discovered his calling. One day at school, twelve-year-old Tobias had been chewing a piece of toffee while puzzling over a Maths problem. The toffee had fallen onto his desk. Snatching it up before the teacher could see, Tobias noticed how the sunlight danced on its delicate golden dents and twists. That was the moment he’d jumped to his feet, thrown down his pen – Brian pictured the ink freckling the floor – and marched out of school to train as a jeweller. Though he never made much money, charging a pittance for every beautifully crafted necklace and brooch, he’d loved his work and passed on his passion and business to Dad.

  If only he’d passed on his courage as well. Brian imagined what Tobias would have done this afternoon. He’d never have stood obediently on stage while Florrie shamed him. No, he’d have stuck out his tongue and marched straight out of the hall.

  Brian scooped a handful of soil from the grave, as if hoping a little courage might have lea
ked into the earth from his grandpa’s bones. But it crumbled through his fingers, dry and sad and anything but encouraging.

  Brushing his hands on his trousers, he stood up. They meant well, they really did, but there was only so much comfort dead relatives could bring. He blew a kiss to Mum and Grandpa. Then he walked out of the churchyard, tiptoeing politely around the other graves, and went to find the third person who’d listen, a.k.a. his best living friend.

  OK, his only living friend.

  Alf Sandwich worked in the supermarket on High Street. Smile-in-the-Aisle was not well named. People often went in with a grin but rarely brought one out. Instead they ran scowling down the pavement to rescue their cars before Mr Scallops, tutting and tilting his traffic warden’s hat, gave them a ticket.

  The cause of their annoyance was Alf. You couldn’t have met a friendlier man. That was the problem. Queues would lengthen as he chatted to each customer, admiring their choice of toothpaste or advising them how to cook the parsnip they’d put on the conveyer belt. ‘Wash and peel him’ (vegetables were always male) ‘then add a bit of oil and pop him in the oven at 200 degrees – that’s Celsius of course. Cook him for, oh, I’d say fifteen minutes – no, twenty – then sprinkle on garlic and roast for another fifteen – no, twenty – until he’s nice and crispy. Leave him to cool for a minute or so: don’t want you burning your tongue, Mrs Dargle. Then add a bit of cayenne pepper – if you want to pop and get some now, I’ll wait – and you’ve cooked up a feast.’

  By which time he’d also cooked up a storm of furious customers. Most people avoided his till like the plague, preferring the sulky, gum-chewing services of Anemia Pickles, who looked at you as if you were stealing her oxygen but whizzed your groceries through.

  Not Brian. He always chose Alf’s till. He loved the old man’s calm, the way he chatted and chuckled, gave you all the time in the world and didn’t seem to notice, never mind care, that other customers were rolling their eyes or sighing like steam irons. If only Brian could notice or care so little at school.