Brand new boy, p.1
Brand New Boy, page 1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
1
At the start we think he’s just another kid like us. Of course we do. What else would we think? He turns up on a Monday morning, last week of the Easter term, in the middle of assembly. Mrs. Hoolihan’s leading it. We can see she’s excited about something or other. She’s wearing a green tweed suit and shiny black high heels, and her hair’s all dyed and curled. She keeps looking at the door at the back of the hall, like she expects it to open.
She says all the usual stuff about how terrible bullying is.
“Don’t you agree?” she asks us.
Of course we do.
“Yes, Mrs. Hoolihan! Yes, Mrs. Hoolihan!” What else would we say?
I’m sitting with Maxie Carr, like always. We’re doing that thing where we grunt everything like we’re animals or as if we don’t know what words are at all.
“E I OO I A!” we grunt.
Maxie drops his shoulders and lets his hands dangle like he’s some kind of ape.
“Yes, children,” she goes on. “We have to be kind to each other, especially those who don’t have our own good fortune, or those who have been through trouble. Aren’t I right, children?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hoolihan.”
“E I OO I A!”
She looks at the door again. Nothing. She blinks and frowns and grins and taps her finger in the air and looks at Mr. McKenna, who starts banging away at the piano. Mrs. Imani is there as well, with the little orchestra she’s put together. They saw their fiddles, squeak their recorders, smack their tambourines.
Mrs. Hoolihan spreads her arms wide.
“Now liberate your voices, children!” she calls. “Sing up! Sing up!”
She tilts her head toward the ceiling.
“Raise your voices to the heavens above!”
And off we go with the song we sing every Monday morning:
“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.”
The little ones at the front sing high and sweet like always. Me and Maxie do that thing where we sing the words as we’re breathing in, so we sound like ghosts or like we’re about to croak:
“O I I A U E U. U OR O AY EM OR.”
Some kids around us start to giggle. Our teacher, Mr. Sage, who’s sitting at the end of our row, starts to glare.
Mrs. Hoolihan wafts her arms, conducting us all. Then the door at the back suddenly swings open. She jumps in surprise, then spreads her arms in welcome as a woman and a boy step into the hall. Mrs. Hoolihan waves at us to keep singing and waves at the little orchestra to keep playing. She waves at the woman and the boy. She indicates the PE benches like she’s telling them to sit down there. They do that. She wafts her hands at them like she’s asking them to sing along too. They don’t do that. The woman and the boy sit there with their mouths shut. They stare out at us all. They don’t move.
At last we get toward the final “Lord God made them all.” By now, me and Maxie are grunting like two daft dying pigs. Mr. McKenna gives a couple more twirls and thumps on the piano keys. The fiddlers, recorder players and tambourine bangers come to a halt.
Mrs. Hoolihan claps her hands and tells us that was oh so wonderful, children.
“Yes!” she calls, beaming with delight. “The Lord God did indeed make them all!”
She bends down and whispers something to the woman on the PE bench. The woman smiles sweetly, and they whisper together for a while. Then Mrs. Hoolihan shakes the hand of the boy, and she brings him to the front so we can all get a good look at him and he can get a good look at us.
“This,” she tells us, “is a new boy.”
She beams at us. This is what she’s been waiting for.
We all stare at the boy. He’s very pale. He’s very tidy. He’s smaller than me. He’s wearing navy blue trousers and a light blue shirt and polished shoes. His pale hair is brushed close to his scalp.
“His name,” says Mrs. Hoolihan, “is George. Say hello to George, children.”
“Hello, George,” goes everybody.
“E O OR,” go me and Maxie.
George says nothing. He doesn’t look nervous. He doesn’t smile.
“Welcome, George,” says Mrs. Hoolihan, “to Darwin Avenue Primary Academy.”
He stares at her, then stares at us.
“We were expecting George last week,” she says. She widens her eyes and beams at him. “But it seems you weren’t ready, George, were you? But here you are now, a treat for us all in the last week of term.”
George says nothing.
She bends down and peers at him.
“He’s rather splendid, isn’t he, children?”
“Yes, Miss,” say some of us.
“E I,” go me and Maxie.
“Excellent. Now then, children. George will only be with us for a short time, so make him feel welcome. Make sure he knows all the ropes and the ins and outs and the how’s your fathers and the ups and downs. I know you will do that. Will you do that, children?”
“Yes, Miss!”
“E I!”
Mrs. Hoolihan beams at us.
“Excellent. Make sure that his time here is something he will always remember. He will join Mr. Sage’s class.”
Me and Maxie nudge each other. That’s our class.
“Now then, our bright and beautiful children, and our wise and wonderful teachers, off to your classes you go.”
2
We pass by Mrs. Hoolihan’s office on the way to class. She’s in there with George and the woman. The woman’s dressed in a cream-colored suit. She’s holding open a black leather bag, and Mrs. Hoolihan is peering down into it. George is just standing there, looking out into the corridor through the open door. Maxie gives him a thumbs-up; George does nothing. His face is blank.
“Looks like a right bundle of laughs,” says Maxie.
“Oh, Daniel!” Mrs. Hoolihan calls.
I come to a halt. I go to Mrs. Hoolihan’s door.
“Yes, Mrs. Hoolihan?” I say.
She waves me into the office. In I go.
“This lady is Miss Crystal,” she says.
I say hello. Miss Crystal smiles kindly and says she is very pleased to meet me.
“And this,” says Mrs. Hoolihan, “is George.”
“Hi,” I say. I put my hand out like Mrs. Hoolihan would want me to do. George looks at it.
“Shake hands with Daniel,” says Miss Crystal.
George puts his hand out, and I shake it. His hand is cold. He looks me in the eye. His eyes are pale blue.
“And say hello, George,” says Miss Crystal.
He says nothing.
She smiles at me and whispers something in George’s ear.
“Hello,” says George.
His voice is flat. He doesn’t smile.
“Well done, George,” says Miss Crystal.
She nods at me like she’s saying well done to me, too. She writes something down on a form.
“Would you be kind enough to take George to your class?” asks Mrs. Hoolihan. “Mr. Sage is expecting him.”
“Aye, Miss.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Yes, Miss,” I say.
“Good lad. Thank you. Off you go, then.”
Miss Crystal puts her hand on George’s shoulder and steers him toward me.
“Thank you, Daniel,” she says. “It’s very kind of you.”
I lead him out of the office and into the corridor.
“Is that your mam?” I ask him.
He says nothing. Neither do I.
We pass other classrooms. The kids are settling down at their tables like they do every morning. It’s so weird. Why do we do this, every single morning? Troop into school, stand in assembly, listen to the same stuff, sing the same songs, sit at square desks in square rooms and get talked at by square teachers? Why does nobody see how weird it is? Why do they all act like robots? Seems like me and Maxie are the only ones who see the weirdness of it all.
“Was your last school like this one?” I say to George.
He doesn’t answer. I guess it was. All schools are t
“George,” I say, just as we reach the classroom door. “You ever been to Cogan’s Wood?”
He looks at me.
“Cogan’s Wood,” I say. “It’s great. It’s really wild.”
“A wood is a place in which there are many trees,” he says.
“True enough,” I say.
“Mam is the colloquial name for mother,” he says.
I stop and look back at him.
“Eh?”
“A mother is a woman to whom a child has been born.”
It’s weird. His mouth hardly seems to move at all.
“OK,” I say.
I want to ask him a bit more, but Mr. Sage flings the door open.
“Hello, George!” he says. “Welcome to your new class, lad.”
3
George stands at the front with Mr. Sage.
“It’s an honor to have you, lad,” he says to George.
George says nothing.
“Isn’t it?” says Mr. Sage to us all.
“Yes, Mr. Sage,” say some of us, though we don’t know why.
Mr. Sage grins. He’s kind of trembling. He looks very pleased with himself today. He’s wearing a green suit and a tightly knotted orange tie, and his face is very pink.
“Louise!” he calls out.
Louise looks up.
“Yes, sir?”
“I think we’ll put George at your table to begin with.”
“Brilliant,” says Louise.
Louise sits at my table. There’s a spare seat beside mine because me and Maxie were separated last week for cracking jokes during math. Mr. Sage points to it.
“There’s a spare chair there, George,” he says.
George does nothing.
“They’re a nice bunch,” adds Mr. Sage. “Just don’t take too much notice of that lad beside you.” He winks at me. “He’s not as daft as he likes to make out.”
Mr. Sage points to the chair again.
“Go on,” he says. “It’s yours.”
George looks at where he’s pointing but doesn’t move. Mr. Sage puts his hand on his shoulder and pushes him gently. George comes to the chair and sits on it. He looks at me like he’s never seen me before. He looks at Louise and at Billy Dodds, the other kid at our table. Louise is one of the kids who play violin in assembly. Billy’s wearing a badge that he made for himself pinned to his jumper. HED GARDENER.
“Hello, George,” says Louise.
“Aye, aye,” says Billy. “What do you call a bloke with a spade in his head?”
We all groan. George says nothing.
“Doug,” says Billy.
Louise rolls her eyes and keeps smiling at George. You can see she thinks he’s just a bit shy. Mr. Sage brings a tray of stuff and puts it down in front of George. There’s a pen and a pencil and some coloring pencils, and the exercise books we use for literacy and numeracy, and also one of the big sketchbooks we use for art.
As he’s doing that, Miss Crystal comes in. She sits on a chair by the door. She’s got the black bag with her, and a notebook and a pen. We all look at her. George doesn’t.
“Take no notice of me, children,” she says. “My name is Miss Crystal, but just pretend I’m not here. Sorry for the interruption, Mr. Sage.”
Mr. Sage smiles at her. He lifts a pencil from the tray.
“Do you know how to use one of these things, lad?” he says to George.
George takes it and looks at it. He opens an exercise book and starts writing right away. His writing’s neat and tidy and goes in dead-straight perfect lines across the page. I look over his shoulder.
My name is George. I am eleven years old.
I am a kind and happy boy.
I am very pleased to be here.
Then he puts the pencil down.
“That,” says Mr. Sage, “is absolutely tip-top, George. A very good start to your time in our class.”
He gives a thumbs-up to Miss Crystal. She shakes her head quickly like she’s telling him to take no notice of her either.
Louise leans right over the table to see George’s book.
“You’re a beautiful writer, George,” she says, acting like she’s another teacher as she sometimes does. “Isn’t he a beautiful writer, Billy?”
Billy looks at his own book, at the mess and scrawl in there.
“Aye,” he says. “What do you call a bloke without a spade in his head?”
“Stop it, Billy,” says Louise. “Isn’t he a beautiful writer, Daniel?”
I open my own book and look at the drawing I’ve done of the estate and Cogan’s Wood.
“Aye,” I say.
“Well done, George!” says Louise.
George says nothing.
I look across at Maxie. There’s a flock of pigeons belting past the window. Birds. Free as birds. That’s what me and Maxie want to be.
“Now then,” says Mr. Sage. “Let’s start the day the way we mean to go on. Let’s charge those brains and get them to stretch and spin and skip and sprint!”
“Oh, hell,” groans Billy.
Louise sits up straight and clenches her fists.
Mr. Sage claps his hands, widens his eyes, pauses, then, “Three, two, one!” he suddenly says. “And off we go! 7 plus 6?”
“13!” yells everybody.
“12 × 3?”
“36!”
“7 + 4 + 3 – 9?”
“5!” call out Louise and a few others straight after.
Mr. Sage pauses again. He holds a finger in the air, then very fast he says: “10 + 10 + 7 + 10 + 9 – 2?”
“44!” Louise again.
“12 ÷ 4 × 10 × 10 – 9?”
“291!” yells Catherine Foster from Maxie’s table.
Mr. Sage grins.
“10 + 10 + 10 + 10 + 9 – 10?”
“39!” Lots of us.
“25 × 6 × 10?”
“1,500!” Louise.
“Yes!” says Mr. Sage. “50 × 50 – 100?”
A pause.
“2,400?” Catherine Foster.
“Correct! 9 × 7 × 3 × 10?”
A long pause. Silence, then . . .
“1,890.” George.
“12 – 3 × 8 + 100 ÷ 8?”
“21.5.” George.
We all look at him.
“23 × 726?” says Mr. Sage.
“16,698.” George.
His eyes don’t flicker. His mouth hardly moves at all. He looks at nobody. Miss Crystal writes.
Mr. Sage grins, claps his hands.
“99 × 5 × 42 ÷ 6 × 10?”
“34,650,” says George.
“Is that correct, sir?” says Louise.
“I have no idea, Louise.”
Mr. Sage writes something down. He taps on his calculator.
“74 × 45 ÷ 6 + 2,356 ÷ 8?”
“363.875,” says George immediately.
Mr. Sage taps at the calculator. He grins at George, at all of us.
“Correct,” he says. “Well done, George.”
Everybody stares at George. Miss Crystal writes. George stares out of the window. The birds are belting past again.
“How on earth do you do that, George?” says Louise.
“I am a very clever boy,” says George.
“Of course you are!” says Mr. Sage. “Of course he is, as you all are in your different ways!”
The birds are swirling and screeching over the school roof. There’s a bit of rain tapping on the window now. George stares out at the rain. Maybe he’s one of those kids who seem dead slow but who have amazing talents. I lean closer to him and look closely at him.
“Where you from, George?” I ask.
He looks back at me with his pale eyes, but he doesn’t say anything. I ask him again, but Mr. Sage stops me.
“Now then,” he says. “Let’s not be pestering the new lad with lots of questions, eh?”
I look at my drawing of Cogan’s Wood again. It’s out there, just beyond the pale houses and square gardens and the straight streets, and I yearn to be there.
“And now that your minds are charged up,” says Mr. Sage, “let’s have some history and geography, and learn about the time of Great Adventure!”
4
Mr. Sage unrolls a big square map of the world and lets it unfurl in front of him.
“As you will remember,” he says, “we were following the routes of the explorers like . . .”
