Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman

by Bruce Robinson

Overview

Meet thirteen-year-old Thomas Penman. Growing up in a household of eccentrics, including parents who wage a silent war against each other, Thomas downs his first drink, smokes his first cigarette, and pursues the beautiful Gwendolin Hackett.
All the while, he forms a special bond with his ailing Grandpa Walker, a World War II veteran prone to dark habits. Thomas undertakes a quest to locate his grandfather's legendary pornography collection, leading him to uncover secrets about the family that will change him irrevocably. The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman is a hilarious, engaging, and touching debut novel, an unforgettable tale of one teen's coming of age.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781468303308
Publisher:	The Overlook Press
Publication date:	01/29/2013
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	288
Product dimensions:	5.30(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.90(d)
Age Range:	18 Years

About the Author

Bruce Robinson has written and directed many films, including the cult classic Withnail and I and the adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson's The Rum Diary starring Johnny Depp. He has worked with Franco Zeffirelli, Ken Russell, and Francois Truffaut.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

WINTER, 1957

It was a dislocated unfriendly old house with Victorian additions and plenty of empty rooms. There was a constant smell of meat cooking. On any day you could open the Aga and there was always one in there, meat was continual, and when it wasn't a joint it might be a tongue or a gut. Plus, there was the enormous ancillary vessel of dog meat, stewing without specification, and cooling through long winter afternoons into ultimate paralysis under two inches of yellow fat.

    The history of its meat clung about this house like a climate. Like oil-vapour in a garage. Perhaps the only room immune was an upstairs back bathroom, facing north. Someone once said, 'Let's stop this bathroom being green?' But they ran out of interest, it was green and old yellow. In here were the six toothbrushes of the residents and an egg-coloured carpet with a known verruca. But there was hygiene in here. A smell of cloths provided antidote to the dinners and hours abandoned to them in this apartment of ruined tiles.

    It was in this area that his grandfather liked to lurk about, not necessarily in the bathroom, not necessarily excluding it. He rode the toilet like a horse, facing the wall, and crept around in the attic with his penis out. The boy knew this because he was always creeping around too. Sometimes they inadvertently spied on each other. On one occasion he was concealed behind a bedroom door, staring up the hall, and he saw an eye behind the crack in another door, staring back at him. The boy and his grandfather shared more than they might have imagined. Both liked secrets and were interested in the secrets of others. Both thought a lot about nudes.

    His grandfather carried pictures of nude women and quite often sent away for brassiere catalogues. Anyone prepared to scale a fifteen-foot wall could lie on the roof and watch him in his 'office'. Inside were a pair of wooden filing cabinets, a desk with an ancient Olivetti, and two twelve-volt lead-zinc batteries wired into a Morse key. Unfortunately, the only way to observe him in here was by hanging over the gutter and cautiously lowering your head. This meant everything was upside-down, but it was the only way to watch him with his sleeves rolled up and a cigar in his mouth, working on his nudes with a razorblade and pot of gum arabic.

    Walter was extremely old and full of cancer, although they hadn't diagnosed it yet. On the day the first cell divided the boy got his first pubic hair. The hair was unimpressive and the cancer just a few miscreant spores in the old man's gut. No one knew anything about either. Except Walter had lost weight. He was two holes up on his watch-strap and his coat hung off him like a coat on the back of a chair.

    On summer evenings yellow light bored into the cigar smoke and the part of his head that was chromium-plated shone. Sometimes you could see your face in it, like a hubcap.

    'What are you looking at?'

    'Nothing.'

    He was careful how he combed his hair, manipulating specially grown long bits over the top and securing them with a wad of grease. This wasn't always successful. During sultry weather his plate warmed up, melting the Brylcreem, and his dome would emerge like part of a small bollard. I have to tell you when you were looking at this you were looking at something. That's why he wore a hat.

    'What are you looking at?'

    'Nothing.'

    'You're a liar.'

    He was right. The boy was a liar. They were both expert liars. In 1914 his grandfather had lied to get into the army. He signed up, lying about his age, and they rigged him out in big boots and gave him a ride to France. He was the best Morse-code operator on the line, he could think in fucking Morse. He didn't know it then, but Morse was the only thing he was ever going to be any good at.

    They took them by train to a little town in Belgium a few miles behind the fighting. The Germans had been here for a year or more and junked the place up somewhat. Even the school was full of bullet holes. Did they shoot the children? Who knows, there are no children here to tell. They got billeted in some of the downstairs classrooms and for a month or two this is where the Morse came in. Fifteen words a minute if you were good. Walter could send thirty. He could look across the dead-zone towards the collapsed church where they blew up their own God and hear it in a series of electrical discharges -- dit -- dit -- dah -- dah -- dit -- hits in his head like organised flies. But what about the pretty evenings when the weather was pink? What about the girl he fucked in the meadow? Can Morse ever be beautiful? I can't think so. Surely this kind of language is only good for ugly things, like horse blood, and maggots in the horse's head? Kissing tits sounds just about the same as your arse blown off.

-.- .. ... ... .. -. --. - .. - ...
.- .-. ... . -... .-.. --- -. --- ..-. ..-.

    Rain all over the town and it felt like the 35th of January. That's what he wrote home to his sweetheart, Ethel, although he didn't write that much. Then the message came, and he was the first to transcribe it: 'We're out of here, and going on some kind of offensive in a place called Passchendaele.' The officer was a new boy, never heard of it, and looked it up on a map. As it turned out it wasn't too far away.

    Walter had never seen a tank before and laughed when he did. It was like an elephant in an idiot's dream. Diesel pouring out of its head, like an elephant breathing like a whale.

    But it was big and made him feel so little and realise he was still a boy.

    That's why he laughed.

    At twenty minutes past two that afternoon half a kilo of shrapnel took the top of his head off like it was opening it for breakfast. Another element of the same shell hit him in the gut.

    He heard it in Morse.

    .. -- -.. . .- -..

    I'm dead.

    Twenty thousand went into the toilet that day but Walter wasn't one of them. For seventeen days he lay where he fell, buried under a heap of horses and rotten Scottish dead. When the Germans picked him up his eyes opened and they stuffed his brain back in as an experiment.

    He lived.

    It was a story his grandson liked to hear. He liked hearing about the Germans and magic flies. The hospital in Koblenz was full of both and Walter genuinely never knew which one of them saved him.

    His grandson's name was Thomas Christopher Penman, a thirteen-year-old asthmatic short-arse with big ears and an unwholesome characteristic. If you want the picture in more detail, from the age of four he navigated all lavatories and shat himself everywhere else. This was nothing medicinal, there was nothing 'wrong' with him, he wasn't incontinent or anything like that. No, he shat himself because he wanted to, it was wilful, and not a room in the house nor its considerable gardens was beyond his remit. Sometimes they saw him in his workshop, sometimes in the Wolsey, or cross-eyed and ecstatic in the raspberry canes. More often than not he located on the landing, wedged between the wall and piece of furniture called a tallboy. When there was no one around this was his favourite spot. It was a dark, secret place, with bland wallpaper covered in dots. No one else ever got in here. (The only other person who ever got in here was his grandfather who had been known to exploit the isolation to hang his testicles over the banisters.)

    When this chosen section was unavailable he set off around the property looking for alternatives. Hypnotics were what he was after and there was a list of them. Moss growing anywhere out of almost anything. Rusting nails and lichen on ancient concrete with weeds scraping a living through the cracks. Mould on fences, and tinsel from slugs, and once, unexpectedly, even the dingle-berries on a broccoli root. (How did that happen, it never happened before?) Holes, he liked too, especially in fucked walls where beetles black as phones eat the bricks. Not that he cared a toss for beetles, or anything animate, as a matter of fact. What he wanted was to imagine he was the size of them and get into their stagnant galleries. Only then in these secret holes of moss and silence could anything begin.

    It was a sensation of total security.

    When his entrail stirred, an organ under his skull produced a peculiar kind of pickling vinegar that shrank the skin on his brain, and his eyes glazed as a pulse of elation grasped his bowel, like the hand of a ferocious angel. At moments like this his shame was an ecstasy. On the best of days whole afternoons would drift by with him pole-axed in the undergrowth. For as long as it could be held in transit, on remand, so to speak, suffering it to be neither prisoner, nor yet free, then its enchanting authority would maintain.

    It was a church in heaven.

    There were outlaws of course, sudden rogues that motored into the gusset with inevitable consequences. Once control was lost the reverie was over and a new circumstance had to be coped with. It was called the Saturday Bag. The Saturday Bag was the bag set aside from the rest of the common laundry. It hung on a hook in an out-house and featured only Thomas's underwear. It was the burden of this hamper that drove his mother into guard-duty outside the lavatory door. There was no other way -- if she wasn't out there, he wasn't in there. Ultimately she took up crosswords and said it was worth the wait. Thomas's load meant a day in front of a washing machine with the attendant anxiety of not only dealing with them but first finding where they were hidden.

    'Where are they?'

    'What?'

    Short of hauling up lino there was no place left upstairs that wasn't as well known to her as him. But numbers were down and instinctively she knew he'd branched out somewhere else in the house. He was questioned, he was innocent, and forged an asthma attack as the search began. After the initial shock of discovery in his grandmother's sitting room they were almost always located quickly, usually in a drawer, or vase on the mantelpiece, sometimes down the side of a sofa, sometimes on top of another pair as yet unearthed.

    Remember Christmas 1955?

    1955, when to Thomas's horror, Uncle Horrie pulled out not one, but three pairs driven down the side of an armchair -- that dreadful, stained clutch coming out just after he'd mastered the art of Solo. On the days following his mother took more, and by New Year's Eve she had eight. Two on top of the curtain pelmet, one in the wireless, the three that were Horrie's, and one even flattened under the carpet. She also found a sock under her mattress with one in it that he swore was nothing to do with him.

    'I've admitted the rest, why would I lie?'

    They took him to a doctor who wasn't interested, said he'd grow out of it, bring him back if he didn't. They brought him back and the doctor looked up his arse. There was nothing up there.

    'How old is he?'

    'Nearly fourteen.'

    He wrote a prescription that was never used, and for the wrong reasons he was almost right. By 1958 something happened, and Thomas had all but grown out of it.

    One afternoon he was out drowning flies when he realised he was in love with Gwen Hackett. She was at the same school, half a year younger, but already with a well-filled bra. It wasn't until he was in love with her that he realised everybody else was. Gwendolin was beautiful, stone blonde with sexy teeth, lips like the bit after a knot in a balloon. He drew a picture of her in the nude and wrote numbers on her tits, one and two respectively. Plus more pictures with more numbers and explanatory arrows pointing at her quiff. She had blue eyes, harsh as forget-me-nots, and always sort of sneered when he looked at her. Did this mean something? He knew girls had to hide their desires. He wrote her an anonymous letter signed 'Q' and the next day her friend came up and told him to drop dead.

    'We know it's you,' she said. 'Gwen loves Dick Gollick.'

    Heartbreak was instant and overwhelming. How could anyone love Gollick? He tried to put the pair of them out of his head but Gwendolin wouldn't go. Whatever the thought, it became a thought of her. Her impact however remained positive, and as he progressed through the third year anything in his knickers but a bit of graffiti was scarce. Risk of a contraction was limited to the classes he loathed: literature (a.m.), algebra (p.m.), a duo of stultifying shits in competition for tedium and both on a bastard Friday ...

    If m equals x over b what's n?

    He shoved eyes back at the blackboard and had another look at m. What was m? What relationship did it bear to n? How could anyone ever get hold of n when they were clueless about x over b and never heard of fucking m? In certain areas nibs were scratching. How did the others know what it meant? Maybe they didn't. Either way he couldn't get a grip on this kind of stuff. Whose fault was that? He'd been sitting here years and nobody told him nothing. He wrote w and blew it out, fuck it, that might be right.

    Twenty minutes past three on the clock. G.P. Norris, maths and music, slumped under it, bored beyond endurance. He was a stale little twot with too many pens, lived with his mother on the western promenade and got there on a motor bike with a side-car that he occasionally took her out in. It was an unfulfilling sort of life. Out of hope. Like a used match put back in the box ...

    You could hear the mechanics of the clock, minute after minute, one gone and another filling it. Thomas had a look at his book. At the back several pages were set aside for lists of cockney rhyming slang taught to him by his grandfather:

Dog = Phone (Dog and Bone/Phone)
Maria = Sperm (Maria Monk/Spunk)
China = Friend (China Plate/Mate)
Tom = Shit (Tom Tit/Shit)
Sky = Pocket (Sky Rocket/Pocket)

Here comes one, a complicated one, his spelling so bad he could hardly read it himself:

Harris = Arse = Harris derived from Aristotle --
Harris-totle/Bottle (Bottle and Glass/Arse)

Thomas started drawing spokes round the inkwell. His eyes drifted along the desk to a tiny gully filled with pencil leads and bits of India rubber. Winter sunlight cut across them and suddenly they were a shoal of dolphin -- they were dolphins plunging in and out of an old and inky sea. Within seconds his eyes slipped focus and his arse was on to it. He could hardly believe it, this was dangerous, he was already carrying a Shakespearian potato and the perils of another if Norris woke up were alarming.

    He tried to force his eyes off but couldn't, the dolphins were going a beauty. By now his pupils were so severely dilated any notion of control was fantasy. Suddenly, it half barged out, hot and uncompromising; nobody wanted it, least of all Thomas, and he tore eyes away to check it, and the worst of all worlds was reality. He was staring straight into the eyes of Norris. Now something really unuseful happened, Thomas grinned, grinned like he was sharing something with the cunt. But what else could he do, raised and weeping, staring into the lenses of this myopic prat with something so enormous in his pants it felt like a knee.

    The moment was quite awful.

    Norris looked away, beating a pen against his teeth, and the next time Thomas looked at him he was on his feet scanning the class for a victim. The question of n was now going to have to be answered. It was Thomas who was going to have to answer it, he knew it, and he was right.

    'Pens down.'

    Somehow Norris managed to lower his head into the tweed. He was looking amongst them and taking his time. Everything that was wrong with his life was here assembled, a classload of post-war secondary-modern no-hopers -- Maurice Potts and Len Gubb, Fanny Shackles and Pauline Pew, plus twenty-seven more assorted thickheads -- this was Norris's lot, and this was the end of the line. And there in the middle of them was that foul little oaf with its ears stuck out attempting to look inconspicuous.

    Thomas looked back at him, trying to look normal, blend in with the others, so to speak ...

    'X over b, then?' said Norris. 'What's n, then?'

    A few hands went up, particularly that of Boles, who was obsequious to authority and looked like he was trying to hang from the lamp.

    'Penman?'

    The hands kept waving but Norris wasn't interested; stood there under raised eyebrows with his cheeks blown out. He did this when he was waiting, leisurely releasing the air like his head had a slow puncture. And he was still waiting, hands thrust in his pockets like a pair of Colts aimed at a girl in the front row.

    'What's n? Penman?'

    The double question mark was ominous.

    'W, sir.'

    'W?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    'W?' he said, his emphasis promoting it to a capital. 'What's it got to do with W?'

    Thomas looked at his book like there might be something in it.

    'I meant, k, sir.'

    'K? Did you say, K?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    The twat wasn't looking cheerful, stared with magnified eyes and his foolish little moustache.

    'Are you trying to be funny?'

    'No, sir.'

    'No, sir?' he volleyed. 'And n isn't k, is it, sir?'

    'No, sir.'

    The silence belonged to Norris, he didn't have a lot of use for it.

    'Do you know what m is?'

    'M, sir?'

    'M, boy?'

    'No, sir.'

    Thomas was facing crisis, fighting the incomer.

    'What have you been writing there?' said Norris. He took a pace or two forward. 'What have you got in your book?'

    (Some swastikas and the date and a drawing of Gwen Hackett's bum.)

    'Will you put your arm down, Boles!'

    The eyes were on him, Thomas shook his head. He had nothing.

    On your feet.'

    It took a repetition of the instruction for him to rise. He went up like an old man with grit in the joints, noticeably at a tilt. Standing for interrogation added a new dimension, he could feel the weight of it pointing at the person behind him. At all costs he had to hang on, and he did so with lips drawn back exposing lightly clenched teeth.

    'Something amusing you?'

    'No, sir.'

    'Then wipe that grin off your face.'

    'I'm not grinning, sir.'

    'Don't answer back.'

    Thomas decided there was only one way out of this, and it was through the door as soon as possible.

    'I don't feel well, sir.'

    'What?'

    'I need to go downstairs, and report.'

    'Report what?'

    'Stomach ache.'

    'How very convenient,' said Norris, turning an eye to the class. 'You sit here all afternoon doing nothing, and now suddenly you have stomach ache?'

    'Yes, sir, I need to go, sir.'

    'Go where?'

    'Lavatory, sir.'

    'Shall I tell you something, Penman?' he said, with transparent dismissal of the request. 'You are an idle little chump, a loafer, and a skiver. You get yourself into trouble and think you can scuttle off to the nearest lavatory, well, that isn't the way life works, boy! And as you progress through it you will discover there are responsibilities, obligations, disciplines, team-work, hard work, mortgages. Do you think I can pay my mortgage in a lavatory?'

    If it was a joke it was unintended, but it got a dull laugh from one or two at the back and Norris suddenly became stage-struck.

    'We'd never have won the war in the lavatory!'

    More laughter and the dope lapped it up, pranced about like a bit of a wit. 3C was interested in killing minutes, and they seized the opportunity. Not only did it keep him off the equations, it kept that red second-hand on the Smith's Selectric moving all the time.

    Norris resumed his seat with hands clasped behind his head. After a pause a finger appeared to come out of an ear pointing at the desk in front of him.

    'Book here.'

    Thomas shook his head again.

    'I couldn't do the question, sir.'

    Norris had seen him writing and told him so.

    'I did the date, sir.'

    'You know the date, do you?'

    'October the 25th, sir.'

    Norris repeated it with precision. 'October the twenty-fifth?' but couldn't think of anything funny to say about it, so he didn't.

    'Book here.'

    Thomas moved forward with exacting steps, like he was measuring a room. Norris watched his approach with escalating incredulity.

    'Something the matter with your feet?'

    Thomas didn't answer. This was the first time he'd ever been totally out of control in a classroom. Standing there with this awful cargo put him of a mind to panic, fuck the consequences, and run. Norris snatched the book and was evidently enjoying himself: this was job satisfaction, and probably the only pleasure he got in his life.

    He sat forward, turning pages slowly, heading for October. Somewhere around mid-September he struck gold. There was a page full of pencilled hearts and swastikas, and Gwen -- Gwen -- Gwen -- Gwen -- Gwen. Next page was a drawing of Gwen's arse with an arrow pointing at it, titled 'Bum 4'.

    '(4) Bum should be round, available for massage, and perfumed with Yardley's Toilet Water.'

    Norris looked up and down again.

    '(1 and 2) Tits, should be pert, with no bra at the weekends, and always available.'

    He skipped (3) but look at this, '(5) her "spunk cloth"' (a picture of Gwen holding a rag).

    The glasses came off and his eyes came up.

    'What have you got to say about this?'

    Thomas farted with shock, and that was it, it was over, the bastard was out. And he gave stench like water in a jar of dead chrysanths.

    'Have you just been unhygienic?'

    'I have to go to the lavatory, sir, I must.'

    Norris didn't know what to be disgusted about, dropped the exercise book, put on his glasses and stood up.

    'I have two things to say to you, Penman. First, you are not going to the lavatory, and second, you are going to be caned. You are going to the headmaster and ask him to cane you.' All fuses blown and the book back in his hands.

    'How dare you come out here with this pornographic drivel, how dare you write swastikas in school property. You should have tried a bit of it. You think swastikas were a joke? Do you?'

    Thomas shook his head with his mouth open.

    'Right,' said Norris. 'Downstairs with this book, knock on the headmaster's door, show him this, inform him I want you caned at his discretion, and afterwards you are to report back to me immediately, do you understand?'

    Thomas nodded.

    'What does that mean?'

    'Yes, sir.'

    Thomas walked out on lead feet without looking back. He was on the fifth floor of an ugly yellow-brick tower built in 1953. Noisy stairs with iron banisters and a view of the bicycle sheds as he descended. The situation was desperate; how could he go in there in this state, knock on the door and ask that two-hundred pound ogre to assault him? There was one hope, remove the offending pages, tear Gwen out and leave him a few swastikas. Would Norris discuss what he had seen? Quite possibly not. He tore out the pages, stuffed them in his pocket, and had an idea ...

    What about some kind of psychological act, like Brer Rabbit: cane me as hard as you like, but please, please, don't tell my parents? It was a straw that turned into a log, he liked the sound of it, and went down rehearsing. 'Please, please, I know I'm asking a lot, but please don't tell my parents?' He practised a humble smile. That was all he wanted, mercy from the parents. It might work; if he begged hard enough maybe Enright would fall for the concept of 'domestic wrath', let him out with a letter, and that wasn't bothering Thomas nothing, because neither of his parents was remotely interested in what went on in this school, including his education.

    'If you insist, sir, I'll accept a letter.'

    This optimistic scenario lasted him down the last flight of stairs but collapsed utterly in the atrium. What was he talking about, accept a letter? He suddenly realised what he was talking about; he was talking like there was going to be some sort of negotiation, practically got himself to the point where Enright would be serving them tea. Reality struck with its usual efficiency. He's not going to give you a letter. He's going to give you the rod!

    Sunlight on a polished wood floor. He crossed it slowly, fearful for his load, and there was the door, 'Administration'. That's where he was, that's where he'd administer: small eyes and always annoyed, to be avoided even if you haven't done anything. Last time Thomas knocked at this door it was at his mother's instigation. He came home and told her they were having sexual education, and when he told her about the sexual-tube she became unreasonable and told him to tell Enright he wasn't to have it. He went down there and told him and the fucker became inflamed and started shouting about newts. 'Where does she want you to learn it, then? On street corners?' Thomas didn't know; as far as he was concerned she didn't want him to learn it at all.

    That was a year ago. If he freaked over that, what's he going to do with this? What apotheosis of rage would he achieve? Simultaneously Thomas got tackled by another truly awful thought. Until now he'd been under the impression he was going to feel it on the hand, six swift and savage strokes. But if the offence was sufficiently grave might he not feel it on the Harris? And if he went for his arse, God forbid, you're talking front row of a major nightmare. Fear rooted him to the floor and it was obvious he couldn't go in there. Of course he couldn't go in there. What he needed, urgently, was to get into a lavatory and do something about his underwear.

    Suddenly a bell went off and he looked at his watch and couldn't believe it. How could it be the hour already? Any second now every stairway would be alive with a rush-hour of children as everybody changed classes. Norris would be among them, also looking at his watch. Voices erupted in the tower and feet were already on the stairs. He panicked, he had to get out of here, and quick, and he ran up a dimly lit corridor trying to orientate himself to the nearest cubicle.

    He just about made it. They were coming down in a phalanx of pleated skirts and blazers when he hit the red door, crashed through it past a dazzling line of basins and straight into the embrace of a toilet. He slammed the door and tried to lock it, no lock, and he stood there heaving, holding it shut, trying to catch his breath. A moment later he transferred himself to an adjacent cubicle and slid the bolt. A feeling of relative security now, although this coup wasn't as private as he would have liked. The walls and door were green metal, the latter with a two-foot gap, a design feature conceived by the authorities for reasons that are self-evident: i.e. if such is your vocation, you could see who and how many are in there. Cognisant of this, Thomas kept to the rear of the facility, lowered his trousers, and then with infinite care, his inner pants. Inspection was unnecessary to confirm the worst. They were going to have to come off. Struggling to get trousers over shoes he had a leg out and his bum on cold metal when the outer door of the bathroom bashed open and a gang of chattering girls came in.

    Jesus Christ, what's all this? Is this possible? Somehow he'd got himself into the wrong lavatory. Any sense of sanctuary was replaced by instant vulnerability. Males simply do not go into female toilets, it was a vice versa taboo, and just didn't happen, ever.

    Their voices paralysed him. How many were there -- it sounded like fifty. And they sounded like seniors, big girls. One went into the cabinet next to him and he saw her knickers come down around her shoes. If he could see her stuff could she not see his? He forced himself deeper into the corner, lingerie around the ankles with that dreadful, dreadful sight.

    With some difficulty he climbed on to the toilet, stood with his head cramped under the cistern and a foot either side of the bowl. His neighbour started pumping at the flush, cranked the fucking thing to death, but still it wouldn't work, and she abandoned it, passing on the information as she came out.

    'You don't wanna go in there, it don't work.'

    'Don't it?'

    'Nahh, it don't.'

    'Who's in the other one?'

    'Dunno.'

    What Thomas knew was that she was now waiting at his door.

    There was much coming and going, much combing, and a lot of mirror work. The conversation was astonishing, shot with expletives. Thomas was amazed, didn't know girls talked like this; he thought they were delicate things on plinths. One of them whistled, and another one farted; she was the only one to laugh, said 'Fuck that' and spat.

    'Hurry up in there.' The voice behind the door was gruff. 'Who's in there?'

    Thomas shook his head, showing teeth.

    More young ladies arrived, one or two obviously out of 3C. He heard snatches of talk while they combed. One sounded like Dorothy Nutt, a thirteen-year-old redhead with a chipped tooth and a lisp.

    'They're looking for him,' she said.

    'He's had it of had,' said her companion.

    'If they find him, they'll murder him.'

    Thomas was terrified.

    'Who's in there?' said the gruff girl. 'Hurry up,' and knuckles wrapped at the door.

    'C'mon, Dot.' The girls from 3C disappeared.

    Thomas stared wide-eyed at the back of the door. To his horror a pair of eyes came over the top. It was Margaret Ruther, fifteen, with a boil on her eyelid, and she looked at him like a bunch of old women before she screamed.

    Still screaming, she kept screaming amongst the general concern for what she'd seen.

    'There's a boy in there standing on the toilet!'

    'Who is it?'

    'I don't know. He's in there with his trousers down.'

    'What's he doing?'

    'Standing on the toilet. I saw his dick.'

    Thomas looked over the top.

    'Don't say anything.'

    He tried to smile at them. There was a reciprocity of amazement. There were six of them, all fifth-formers, including a vaguely intelligent-looking tall girl and a fat girl.

    'Don't say anything,' he said.

    'What are you doing in there?' said the fat girl.

    'Nothing.'

    A consensus developed instantly; they all knew what he was doing and one of them said it. He was a peeping Tom, in there spying on them.

    'Is he masturbating?' said the tall girl.

    Margaret didn't know, she only got a glimpse, but she definitely saw his dick.

    'Listen,' said Thomas.

    'You foul little pervert,' said the fat girl.

    'I haven't done anything.'

    'Then why are you standing on the toilet?'

    Thomas stared; there was a perfectly reasonable explanation but they weren't in the mood for it.

    'I've seen him creeping,' said the fat girl. 'He's in 3C.'

    'Get Mrs Bredwardine,' said Ruther.

    'Please don't,' said Thomas, momentarily disappearing and coming out fighting his trousers. 'Please don't say you saw me in here.'

    Did they see his underwear? It was possible. They all screamed and jostled out. He followed in crisis, saw them vanish towards the gym. The corridor was again mercifully deserted and he rushed up it like Douglas Bader.

    A haze of mackintoshes came into view and he hit the cloakroom. This was a sort of adjunct to the corridor, high windows and hundreds of hooks. With feet spread like oars he plunged into the rainwear, got stopped by a wall, went up it via a bench, and considered going out through a window.

    Somewhere in the depths of the building a door slammed. He froze in its echo. Seconds later the hugely developed calves of Mrs Bredwardine, the games mistress, pumped past. She was wearing shorts and a whistle and had the facility to suddenly run backwards. She did this during sporting-events and was doing it now, buttocks leading the sprint as she glared back up the corridor. Totalling on panic, Thomas cowered in the mackintoshes; the girls had obviously betrayed him and she was off to see Enright. His sighting would invigorate the search: he would certainly be discovered, possibly take stick in situ, with consequences as gruesome for the administrator as recipient. He had to get rid of it, distance himself from at least part of the offence, and it was with trembling hands that he rose to have another look at the underwear. It had shifted in transit. Worse than this he'd rarely seen. It was agricultural. He got hold of it with a cycle-clip and stared, at a loss what to do. These improvised forceps were excellent for custody but where could it be dispatched? He went up and down the aisle a couple of times, until, bereft of alternative, he unloaded the lot into somebody's hat. This was perfect. This worked well. He folded the peak inside, secured the unit with an elastic band and stuffed it back into the unfortunate's pocket. Luck struck simultaneously -- this was his own cloakroom! Hat on and scarf on and two minutes later he was prince of the air, grinning with fearful elation as he sped away from the cycle sheds.

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

"Fresh and compelling . . . Handled with verve and affection." —Los Angeles Times

"A book I could read over and over again, a beautiful story told with such dexterity and depth, it can be enjoyed for both its imagination and its craft." —Simon Pegg, NPR's All Things Considered

"Sharp, spry, and darkly funny from the first page to the last."—ForeWord

Editorial Reviews

"Fresh and compelling . . . Handled with verve and affection." --Los Angeles Times

"A book I could read over and over again, a beautiful story told with such dexterity and depth, it can be enjoyed for both its imagination and its craft." --Simon Pegg, NPR's All Things Considered

"Sharp, spry, and darkly funny from the first page to the last."--ForeWord

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