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 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.’