The Third-Class Genie. Robert Leeson

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      “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.

      It was the highest score for disasters since that black day when he’d got all his home works mixed up and collected five detentions in a row. As he thought of this, his eye fell on his school bag. He should really take a last look at his history project on the Crusades before he handed it in tomorrow. He tipped out his books on to the bed and for the thirty-fourth time that day, his heart stopped.

      Across the cover of his history project was a green stain. He opened the cover. Almost every page was a sodden green wreck with drawings, cut-outs, and writing all awash with Bugletown Canal gunge. This must have seeped through the side of his bag where the stitching had given way.

      It would take ages to look up all that stuff again, let alone write it. That made disasters leading six nil. Almost a rugby score. Was there nothing today remotely like a triumph? He thought for a while. There was that funny, sealed but empty, beer can he had found in Boner’s Street. He could investigate that.

      Bowden, he said to himself, you’re entitled to a treat. Give yourself the evening off. Tomorrow’s a disaster from the word go. Let’s save what we can of today. With that he jumped from the bed, took off his school clothes, put on his old jumper and jeans and quietly opened the bedroom door. As he crept down the stairs he heard them still at it in the front room. No trouble at all to sneak out.

      “Alec, is that you?” called his mother.

      “Yes, Mum. I’m just going out for a bit.”

      “What about your homework?”

      “I’ve just got some work left to do on my history project, and I’ll do that when I get back.” Alec always had trouble telling complete porkies.

      “No telly then, mind you.”

      “Shan’t want any.”

      “What’s the matter with Mastermind?” That was Kim’s mocking voice.

      Alec thought of a crushing retort, then remembered that he’d have to ask Kim for a loan. So with a “won’t be long”, he shot through the back door and was out in the street before you could say antidisestablishmentarianism!

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