David Walliams - Billionaire Boy

“No,” replied Bob, a little hurt at the suggestion. “I may not be the fastest runner, but I’m not that much of a coward.”

They trudged through the school grounds, Joe in his singlet and shorts, and Bob in his vest and pants. They looked like two rejects from a boy band audition.

“So who took it?” said Joe.

“I dunno. It might be the Grubbs. They’re the school bullies.”

“The Grubbs?”

“Yeah. They’re twins.”

“Oh,” said Joe. “I haven’t met them yet.”

“You will,” replied Bob, dolefully. “You know, I feel really bad about taking your birthday money off you…”

“You don’t have to,” said Joe. “It’s fine.”

“But fifty pounds is a lot of money,” Bob protested.

Fifty pounds was not a lot of money to the Spuds. Here are a few things Joe and his dad would do with fifty-pound notes:

Light them instead of bits of old newspaper to get the barbecue going

Keep a pad of them by the telephone and use them as post-it notes

Line the hamster cage with handfuls of them and then throw them out after a week when they began to smell of hamster wee

Let the same hamster use one as a towel after it’s had a shower

Filter coffee through them

Make paper hats out of them to wear on Christmas Day

Blow their noses on them

Spit chewed-up chewing gum into them before crumpling them and placing them in the hand of a butler who would then put them in the hand of a footman who would then put them in the hand of a maid who would then put them in the bin

Make paper aeroplanes out of them and throw them at each other

Wallpaper the downstairs loo with them

“I never asked,” said Bob. “What does your dad do?”

Joe panicked for a moment. “Erm, he, er, he makes loo rolls,” he said, only lying a tiny bit.

“ Loo rolls ?” said Bob. He couldn’t suppress his smile.

“Yes,” replied Joe defiantly. “He makes loo rolls.”

Bob stopped smiling. “That doesn’t sound like it pays all that well.”

Joe winced. “Er… no, it doesn’t.”

“Then I guess your dad had to save for weeks to give you £50. Here you go.” Bob carefully handed the now-slightly-crumpled fifty-pound note back to Joe.

“No, you keep it,” protested Joe.

Bob pressed the note into Joe’s hand. “It’s your birthday money. You keep it.”

Joe smiled uncertainly and closed his hand over the money. “Thank you, Bob. So, what does your dad do?”

“My dad died last year.”

They continued walking in silence for a moment. All Joe could hear was the sound of his heart beating. He couldn’t think of anything to say. All he knew was that he felt awful for his new friend. Then he remembered that when someone died people sometimes said, ‘I’m sorry’.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s not your fault,” said Bob.

“I mean, well, I’m sorry he died.”

“I’m sorry too.”

“How did he… you know?”

“Cancer. It was really scary. He just got more and more ill and then one day they took me out of school and I went to the hospital. We sat by his bed for ages and you could hear his breath rattling and then suddenly the sound just stopped. I ran outside to get the nurse and she came in and said he was ‘gone’. It’s just me and my mum now.”

“What does your mum do?”

“She works at Tesco. On the checkout. That’s where she met my dad. He would shop on Saturday mornings. He used to joke that he ‘only came in for a pint of milk but left with a wife!’”

“It sounds like he was funny,” said Joe.

“He was,” said Bob, smiling. “Mum’s got another job too. She’s a cleaner at an old people’s home in the evenings. Just to make ends meet.”

“Wow,” said Joe. “Doesn’t she get tired?”

“Yeah,” said Bob. “So I do a lot of the cleaning and stuff.”

Joe felt really sorry for Bob. Since he was eight, Joe had never had to do anything at home – there was always the butler or the maid or the gardener or the chauffeur or whoever to do everything. He took the note out of his pocket. If there was one person who needed the money more than him it was Bob. “Please, Bob, keep the £50.”

“No. I don’t want to. I’d feel bad.”

“Well, let me at least buy you some chocolate.”

“You’ve got a deal,” said Bob. “Let’s go to Raj’s.”

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