Robert Leeson - The Third-Class Genie

“Psst, Alec lad.”

The voice came from the green and white caravan parked in the back yard. One side rested on a wheel, the other side rested on a pile of bricks built up under the axle. Dad was always threatening to mend it, but never did. The small side window of the caravan opened and a round, red face with wild, white hair peered out.

“Alec lad. What have you done?”

Alec relaxed.

“Oh, Granddad, you made me jump.”

“I don’t wonder. You were trying to sneak in, weren’t you?

Alec nodded.

Granddad’s face disappeared from the window and the caravan door opened. An arm stretched out, beckoning, and Alec, with one eye on the kitchen door, slunk in, while Granddad closed the caravan door after him.

Inside the heat was terrific and the air was blue with pipe smoke and foul with the fumes of an old oil heater. More heat came from a small soldering iron which was slowly growing red at the side of the fire. Through the fog Alec could see Granddad perched on one of the bunks. His thin old body was dressed in the remains of a braided dressing-gown and a pair of striped pyjamas. Displaying a row of broken teeth he grinned at Alec. On the folding table next to the bed were a plate, a loaf of bread, a half-opened tin of pilchards and a jug of beer.

“Hallo, Granddad, what are you soldering?” asked Alec, forgetting his troubles for a moment.

“I’m not soldering, you daft ha’porth, I’m mulling,” replied Granddad, and with that he seized the hot soldering iron and plunged it hissing into the beer jug. A cloud of steam and a strange smell rose to join the general fug inside the little room. Granddad held up the jug. “Want a taste?” he asked, but Alec shook his head hastily.

Granddad poured himself a glass, drank deeply and then wiped his mouth primly on a paper handkerchief he took from his dressing-gown sleeve.

“Now, lad, if you’ll give me your breeches, I’ll clean ’em up for you. I can see you’ve been in the canal. Don’t argue. Take your trainers off and put them by the fire here, while I use the meths on your other clothes.”

“But Granddad,” Alec protested.

“By the time we’ve done that, you can sneak in through the kitchen because they’ll all be in the front room.”

“How do you know, Granddad?”

“Because there’s trouble, that’s why. Your brother Tom, his wife and the baby are going to move back in with us. They’ve lost their place and that means rearrangements and people shifting round.”

Alec’s heart sank. This was truly the most disastrous day he had ever suffered. For the news meant one thing to him. Tom and his family would be given the second bedroom, Kim would have to move into Alec’s little bedroom at the back, and that meant Alec would be moved up to the boxroom. For anyone who thinks a boxroom is a place where you keep boxes, it’s not. A boxroom is a room like a box; it’s a space at the top of the stairs, with a door to stop the bed from falling downstairs. It’s a place where they train men for working in midget submarines. Alec had slept in the boxroom for years until brother Tom moved out. Now, disaster of disasters, he would have to lose his own bedroom and go back there.

Granddad stretched out a thin hand and ruffled his hair. “Come on, lad. Cheer up. There’s plenty worse off. Give us your trousers.” Alec handed them over and sat up on the other bunk while Granddad got out a bottle of methylated spirits and set to work rubbing the stains on Alec’s trousers. As he worked, the old man began to sing, half under his breath.

“Oh, the elephant is a dainty bird ,

It flits from bough to bough ,

It builds its nest in a rhubarb tree ,

And whistles like a cow.”

As Granddad sang, thoughts of disaster began to fade from Alec’s mind…

“Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee…

Elephant’s nest up a roobub tree ,

Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee…”

Suddenly Granddad sniffed.

“There’s a funny smell in here, lad.”

Alec stared.

“You must be joking, Granddad. There’re fifty funny smells in here.”

“Nay, lad, an extra funny smell. Oh, Lord, your trainers!”

Granddad dropped the rag he was using to clean Alec’s trousers and turned to the oil stove from which a thick brown haze was rising.

“Oh no!” cried Alec.

Oh no, indeed. Half the side of one of his trainers was burned through and the other one was singed. Granddad saved Alec’s sock with a quick snatch but the damage was done. Life, thought Alec, had become a disaster area.

“Don’t fret, lad. I’ll tell your Mum what happened and buy you another pair,” said Granddad.

“No, you won’t,” protested Alec. He wouldn’t let Granddad spend his pension on new trainers. “I’ll have to tell Mum myself. Perhaps I’ll get our Kim to lend me some cash and buy myself a pair.”

“Anyway, lad, your trousers are all right now. But don’t stand too close to the stove when you put them on or you’ll go up in smoke.”

Alec dressed quickly, said cheerio, and walked into the kitchen with a shuffle that more or less hid the burnt side of his trainer. The kitchen was empty, as Granddad had predicted, but from the front room came the low sound of voices. Alec crept quietly towards the passage. If he could reach the stairs without…

“Alec,” came his mother’s voice. “Is that you, Alec?”

“Yes,” muttered Alec.

“Listen, love. We’re busy in here. There’s a bit of meat pie and tomato on top of the fridge. You can have that for your tea.”

“Can I take it up to my room?” asked Alec, unable to believe his luck.

“All right, but don’t make a mess.”

Alec crept up the stairs with a plate in one hand and his satchel in the other and did not breathe again until he was safely inside his bedroom. It was small, but a palace compared with the boxroom. It had his own bed, a battered old desk Dad had picked up at a jumble sale, a chair and a cupboard full of all his most precious odds and ends. They’d have to go down into the shed if he moved into the boxroom, thought Alec gloomily, as he sat down on the bed and began to eat his meat pie.

As he ate, he started to make up his final triumph-disaster scoreboard for the day. He didn’t write it down, because things like that are highly confidential, but he made it up in his mind like this:

1. Ginger Wallace is out to thump me.

2. Ginger Wallace is trying to stop me going home down Boner’s Street.

3. Ginger Wallace might find out about the Tank.

4. I’ve ruined my trainers.

5. No pocket money for a month.

6. I have to move back into the boxroom.

7. I’m in the doghouse with Monty Cartwright.

He thought over the list carefully. Had he missed anything out? There’s nothing worse than a disaster that sneaks up on you. No, they were all there. The next question was had he made the list too long? Was Ginger Wallace really three disasters?

Alec didn’t hesitate; Ginger Wallace was at least three disasters.

Strictly speaking, numbers four and five were just one disaster. That is, five couldn’t be a disaster but for four. Life without trainers is hard. Life without pocket money is disastrous.

Number six was a disaster all right. It hadn’t happened yet, but neither had one, two, or three, and that didn’t make him feel any better. Number seven he decided to cross off the list. After the telling-off in line-up that day he’d heard no more and Mr Cartwright did not usually brood over past crimes. So that made the score six so far, or five if you counted numbers four and five as one. Five for disasters so far, while the other side hadn’t even crossed the half-way fine.