Class Act (3 page)

C
HAPTER
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 leaked 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.

‘Aye Aye, Cap'n O'Bunion.' Alf raised his hand in salute as Brian joined the queue.

‘Aye Aye, Cap'n Sandwich.' Brian saluted back and put a chocolate bar on the belt.

‘Curly Wurly. Good choice.' Alf nodded approvingly. ‘Firm and filling, light but chewy. Not like Mars bars – dense as cement. Or Toblerone – you might as well eat an Alp.'

A man in a suit coughed behind Brian.

‘Curly Wurly, though, that's a winner after dinner. Nothing better with a cup of milk and honey and the nine o'clock news. I wonder if every bar's the same shape.'

Brian fingered the packet. ‘I've never checked.'

The suit snorted.

Alf smiled along the queue. ‘Any idea, folks?' Heads shook, toes tapped.

‘For goodness sake,' muttered Snortysuit. ‘I have a meeting.'

Alf didn't seem to hear. ‘You OK, Cap'n?' He frowned at Brian.

‘Fine.'

‘Hold on. I'll be with you in a sec.'

Brian stood back while Alf served Snorty and four more customers, for once letting a melon through without remarking, ‘She's lovely with a slice of ham' (fruit was always female).

When the queue was gone, Alf lifted the flap and came out from behind the till. ‘Now, Cap'n, what's up?'

Leaning against the confectionery shelf, Brian told him about the prize-giving. Alf patted his arm. The back of the old man's hand was yellowish with blue veins, like those stinky cheeses that grown-ups seem to like. ‘What a thing to do.' He shook his head. ‘And in front of the whole school. Poor lemon too – I bet she was embarrassed.'

‘No one else was,' said Brian. ‘They loved it. Even Tracy Bricket, and she'd just won the Pleasantness prize – or rather the Pleasant-to-People-Worth-Impressing prize.'

‘Hmm.' Alf patted his stomach thoughtfully. Round and neat, it looked as if it had been strapped on, like a giant clown's nose. ‘Tracy Bricket, eh? She was in here yesterday. Her parents had a ding-dong in the household aisle. Not much pleasantness between them, I'd say. Her mum looked ready to throw the Toilet Duck.'

‘At least she's
got
a mum.'

Alf opened his mouth. Then he closed it. He knew why Brian and Dad hadn't set foot in Tullybough Woods for two years, one month and nineteen days. He also knew better than to speak of the Great Unspeakable.

‘Anyway.' He cleared his throat. ‘Shame on that teacher of yours. What
is
she thinking of, filling your heads with all that claptrap about winning and beating each other all the time?' He shook his head. ‘Imagine if I taught my girls that: Kitty or Sue, or Jenny or the twins. There'd be war.'

Alf had a huge family. That's what he called it, anyway. It lived at the end of his garden. With no children, and a wife who'd died eight years ago, the forty thousand bees in a hive by the river were his nearest and dearest, the loves of his life.

‘Your dad should go in and complain,' he said. ‘Tell her that fighting bees make feeble honey.'

Brian grunted. ‘Dad's terrified of her.' And he couldn't see Alf's bee metaphors working on the principal.

‘Well he should talk to one of the governors, then. It's his duty – his
privilege
– as your dad.' Alf took another Curly Wurly from the shelf and wagged it at Brian.

‘But she'll hate me even more if she finds out that Dad's complained.'

‘He can do it confidentially, ask not to be named. And even if she does find out, so what? You'll be leaving the school in a few weeks.'

A tiny light rose in Brian's chest. Alf was right. Florrie had gone too far. She must be stopped, if only for the sake of future victims.
And Dad must stand up for me. That's what dads do.
‘OK.' He took a deep breath. ‘I'll talk to him. Thanks, Alf.'

‘Pleasure, Cap'n. Now you can do
me
a favour.' Pressing the second Curly Wurly into Brian's hand, he winked. ‘Find out if they're the same shape.'

C
HAPTER
5

BRAVE AS A FEATHER

The house was empty when Brian got home. Dad must still be working. Dumping his schoolbag in the kitchen, he went out the back door, crossed the lawn and knocked on the door of the workshop.

‘Hi,' came Dad's voice.

Brian opened the door and breathed in the smell he'd known all his life: burnt leaves and coffee with a sour, acidic kick. He stood in the doorway inspecting the room's clutter. The drills and pliers hanging from the walls could be the torture instruments of a lunatic dentist. On his left was a machine like an old-fashioned mangle. But instead of squeezing the water from shirts and breeches, its job was to flatten gold and silver wires between the two rollers. In front of him, on a stand, was a horizontal rugby ball with ear muffs. At the press of a switch the earmuffs trembled, polishing rings and bracelets within an inch of their lives. Best of all was the Table of Evil. Tucked in the far left corner, it was strictly out of bounds. Dad had warned him that the bowls of sulphuric acid and ammonia could burn your skin off. Just smelling those vicious fumes sent a delicious chill across Brian's shoulders. It was as if an invisible dragon lived in the shed.

Dad's workbench stood along the back wall. He looked round and smiled. Then he bent back over his work. Brian came over, bouncing slightly on the floorboards. Even on the grimmest days they sent little bursts of fun up your legs.

The table was a jumble of bric-a-brac: gold studs and silver hooks, screwdrivers and tubes of glue. Brian stood beside it and watched. This was where he felt closest to Dad. There was no forced chitchat, just the odd explanation here and there and a shared delight in the intricacy of the work.

‘Soldering.' Dad held a broken gold ring between the finger and thumb of his left hand. With his right hand he took a brush from a pot. ‘Flux,' he said, dabbing the two edges of the ring with the brush. ‘It cleans the gold.' He replaced the brush and picked up a pair of tweezers. Poking them round the litter of the workbench, he found a tiny gleaming square. ‘Gold solder.' He laid it across the gap in the ring. Brian watched enthralled. The steadiness of his hands, the precision of his search through the debris on the desk … Dad truly had brains in his fingers.

He unhooked a small tube from a stand. It was wired to a foot pedal. As he pressed the pedal, a thin flame sprang from the tube. He trained it on the ring. The gas gleamed like a dragonfly's wing: blue-pink-orange. The gold square melted and sank seamlessly, filling the gap in the ring.

Dad lifted his foot. The flame vanished. ‘Neat job. Mrs Griggs'll be pleased. It's her wedding ring.' He leaned back in his chair, relaxed, approachable. It was now or never.

‘Dad.' Brian bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Something happened at school.' Perching on the desk, he told him everything without as much as a sniff. He felt quite proud of himself.

Until he saw Dad's face. It had gone tight and small.

Brian swallowed. ‘Alf says you ought to complain.'

Dad's hands, so sure a minute ago, twisted in his lap. ‘Who – I mean what can I …?'

‘Tell the school governors what a bully she is. How she yells at me all the time even though I'm doing my best, I really am. It's just I'm no good at my work.'

‘I know.' Dad scratched the back of one hand with the other. ‘I really do.' Brian watched the skin wrinkle and redden. ‘I was the same. Maths, spelling – didn't have a clue. We're not cut out for school, Brian.'

‘So? That doesn't give her the right to treat me like that. Please, Dad, go in.'

‘I …' Dad blinked. ‘I wouldn't know what to say.'

Brian slipped off the desk. ‘I just told you.'

‘What if they don't believe me?'

‘But it's true.' Brian glared at him. ‘Don't
you
believe me?'

‘Of course.' Dad's eyes were soft and scared. ‘It's just I'm no good at this sort of thing.'

‘Who cares? It's your job.' A bomb went off inside Brian. ‘
Mum
would've gone in! She'd never have let this happen in the first place. She'd have sorted Florrie out ages ago.'

Dad bunched his hands in his lap.

‘But you just sit there,' Brian yelled, ‘hiding behind your desk, all pathetic and hopeless and scared!'

Dad closed his eyes.

Wheeling round, Brian strode out of the workshop, slamming the door so that the whole shed shook. He marched across the lawn, numbed by the venom of his words. Then, like a wasp sting, their poison sank in. Rage and guilt fought inside him.
Dad deserved all that.
He clenched his fists.
Well maybe not all. Maybe not pathetic.
He shoved the back door open.
Or hopeless
. He ran through the kitchen and down the hall.
But definitely scared.
He climbed the stairs, two at a time.

On the landing he stopped. Instead of going into his room and hurling himself on the bed, he crossed to Dad's – Mum's – bedroom.

Opening the door, his anger gave way to guilt. If it wasn't for him, Mum would still be here.

He sat on the bed, winded for a second by grief. Then, breathing slowly and carefully, he opened the drawer in Dad's bedside table and took out a wooden box. The lid was curved and embossed with gold like a mini pirate chest. Brian opened it.
To Lily
, it said inside,
with you know how much love. Bernard.

Mum had once told Brian that Dad's name meant brave as a bear. ‘Brave as a feather,' he muttered savagely.

Inside the box were pieces of Mum.

Before you go and ring the police, please understand that to Brian Mum's jewellery was part of her, just like her nose or her laugh. She'd worn most of it most of the time because, of course, it was made by Dad. There was the amethyst butterfly on a chain that swung forward every time she bent to kiss Brian. There were the gold bangles which clinked as she climbed the stairs, heralding the bedtime story.

But Brian was looking for something else. Closing his eyes, his fingertips explored each familiar piece. It felt as if he were touching not metal and gemstones but Mum herself. There was the sharp tip of her dragonfly brooch, and there the cold moons of her agate necklace. His fingers closed round a smooth hoop.
Yes.
He took it out, slipped it onto his middle finger and opened his eyes.

Mum's engagement ring. It was the only piece of jewellery Dad had ever bought. The oval amber, set in silver, was held by four tiny clasps. It was as plain as a barley sugar – except for one thing.

Mum had often told Brian the story of their fourth date. Dad had taken her for a picnic by the river. Kneeling down on the rug to propose, he'd been so nervous that he'd knocked over a pot of honey. She'd laughed and said, ‘Oops, and yes I will.' When he'd clasped her hand and promised to make her a dream ring, she'd said, ‘Thank you, Bernard, oh look there's a bee stuck in the honey.' Then she'd lifted it out and licked – yes licked – the creature clean. That afternoon, while shopping in town, she'd glanced in the window of a jeweller's shop and squealed, ‘
There's
my engagement ring. You don't mind, do you, Bernard? It's just so beautiful and it'll always remind me of our picnic, and you can make me lots of other jewellery, and, oh, the poor poppet, what a dreadful way to die.'

Because trapped inside the amber was a tiny honey bee.

It looked at first glance like a tangle of black cotton. But on closer inspection it took shape as a breathtaking complication of wiry legs, ghostly wings and hunched body. It was enclosed in an air bubble. Only one back leg, fatter than the others, was actually touching the amber. Mum had explained to Brian how the creature had once been caught in sticky resin, probably from a tree. The resin had hardened and fossilised around it. The jeweller had told her it was twenty million years old.

‘Twenty million?' he'd gasped. ‘That's older than my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great–' and he'd gone on and on until he was gasping for breath … ‘grandpa.'

The first time he remembered her taking it off was on a trip to the beach. She'd handed it to Dad for safekeeping before jumping into the sea. She might as well have pulled her finger off. Seeing Brian's shocked face, she'd laughed and said, well, yes, in a way it
was
part of her – her third most precious jewel, after him and Dad – and she'd never lose it, just like she'd never lose them.

‘Except you did.' Anger boiled inside him again. He hated Dad. He hated Florrie. A tear ran down his cheek. Brushing it furiously away, he stared at the ring.

His rage cooled and hardened, gleamed and grew into a cold, smooth pearl of a plan. A plan that would stick two fingers at them both, make a fool of Florrie and make Dad super-sorry for letting him down. A plan that would bring Mum right back to his side.

Brian slipped off the ring and put it in his pocket. He closed the box, replaced it in the drawer, smoothed the duvet where he'd sat on the bed and left the room. Shutting the door softly, he crept downstairs to Dad's study. After printing what he needed from the Internet, he went back upstairs to do his homework like the good, obedient, well-behaved boy he was.