The Family Itch by Jeremy Poole

  Dylan ‘Spud’ Williams doesn’t like bathing and his grubbiness, along with the fact that he’s not very bright, makes him the butt of classroom jokes. Spud isn’t perturbed by this, though, especially as he has ambitious plans to become a millionaire by growing potatoes on his body and, following a suggestion from the dermatologist, who he consults about his itchy back, to use the grease on his hair to fry chips. Spud’s family pay little attention to Spud’s offbeat behaviour and are more interested in a solicitor’s letter, informing him that his deceased aunty has chosen him as her heir. 

Here it is, the first five chapters FREE!!!
Chapter1  
Dylan sat quietly and dreamt of the chip sandwiches he’d had last night and how he could make his millions. Perhaps his frog plan would’ve worked, if he’d had more flies. The teacher talked, Dylan tried to listen, but wasn’t very good at listening.

‘So, kids, there you have it, the results of millions of years of work by Mother Nature, sitting looking at me. Look around you,’ the enthusiastic teacher gestured towards the far-from-enthusiastic pupils, ‘you are the peak of civilization. The number-one predator. Your intelligence puts you above all else on this planet.’ The science teacher proudly finished his summing-up of the term’s work and grinned at the class.

The class sat and looked at one another. Then one hand broke from cover and, like a missile, it shot into the air.

‘Yes, boy?’

‘What, even him, sir? Even Dylan?’ The blond, freckled boy laughed at his own remark. So did the class, and so did a small, scrawny boy, Dylan, with greasy hair, dirty fingers and smelly feet, gyrating and rubbing his back up and down on the chair.

‘That’s enough, class! Yes, of course, even Dylan.’ The teacher muttered something else under his breath, but was saved from any more questions by the morning bell.

The class rushed for the yard and for freedom.

In the playground, there was lots of fun and teasing. Dylan stood alone most of the time, but when other bigger kids came near, he always had a good laugh with them.

‘Hey, did you buy those shoes in church?’ one boy asked, as the others watched with crookedly hidden smiles.

‘No. Why?’

‘Just thought they looked holy!’ The crooked smiles broke and laughter spilled around Dylan, who joined in rather too enthusiastically. Everyone liked Dylan, and when they laughed, he knew he could laugh with them, and they would be his friends.

Dylan walked home that day with his two best mates, Linda, a tiny girl in Dylan’s class, who no one else seemed to talk to, and Andrew, a remarkably clean boy, who played the piano and often dressed in shorts and long white socks. Dylan never asked him why. He just did.

Dylan stopped, and scratched his left shoulder blade against a gate post, then he gave out a groan of satisfaction.

‘Ahh, that’s better.’

‘What, have you got fleas?’ asked Andrew.

‘No, I haven’t. I went to the doctor’s yesterday, and he said it’s probably nothing. So there,’ replied a miffed Dylan.

‘Oh, don’t take that tone with me, or you’ll walk home alone,’ Andrew replied.

But Dylan didn’t hear, he’d seen a perfect tree and was rubbing up and down vigorously against its lower branches.

When Dylan got home, his father was asleep on the settee, with the TV showing his favourite farming programme and two empty plates resting on his famous belly, now protruding at least six inches out from his stained T-shirt.

Dylan was so proud of his father. He could do anything. One time, well, in fact, the last time they had been to a family party, he’d entertained the whole crowd for almost half an hour with his wobbly belly and all the things he could rest on it, pies, potatoes and all manner of food. He was fantastic, everyone thought so. Dylan sighed as he thought of the poor old postman, forgetting the invitations that had caused him and his family to miss the last four family weddings and three Christmas parties.

‘Tea’s in the chip shop. Get a pound’s worth of chips, we’ve got plenty of ketchup, and pop in to Tesco’s and get some o’ that ten-pence bread, you know, the value stuff. Take the money out of my jeans.’ Dylan’s dad, Walter, had heard him come in but hadn’t moved.

Just like a spy, Dylan thought. He didn’t even move, but he knew who it was, where Dylan was and what he wanted for tea. Dylan realized what a genius lay there on that couch. When Dylan grew up, he wanted to be his dad.

Half an hour later and the family of four sat around their feast, a pile of bread, ketchup and chips. Chips were the favoured food of the Williams family and each of them knew, if asked what their favourite food was, they would all give the same answer, chips.

‘Is it true, Dad, that hundreds of years ago there were no chips in Britain?’ asked Dylan.

‘Of course it’s true, there weren’t any chip shops,’ replied Gareth, his tall, ginger, rather spotty brother, with whom Dylan was forced to share a bedroom in their upstairs council flat.

‘Yes, it’s true, but not because there were no chip shops, but because potatoes had not been discovered,’ Dad responded.

‘Who invented potatoes, Dad?’

‘That’s an easy one, that was Mr Spud or someone like that,’ guffawed Gareth, in an attempt at humour.

‘Well, son, they were found in South America and brought here by an explorer, hundreds of years ago.’

‘Who?’

‘Walter Raleigh, Sir Walter Raleigh.’ Walter pulled himself to his full height and puffed out his proud chest, which was still somewhat smaller than his roly-poly belly.

‘And chips, who invented them? Who made the first fish and chip shop? Who made the first chip butty?’ Dylan hopped from foot to foot and his face started to redden. He was, after all, asking questions about his favourite topic.

‘Well, son, that could have only been one person.’ Walter paused for effect. ‘God.’

The room fell silent in thought as the Williams family stared at the ceiling, contemplating God serving the first bag of chips.

‘Yeah, for sure it was him,’ Dylan replied, in awe of his father’s vast knowledge.

‘Look at the state of your ears, they’re filthy. You could grow potatoes in those. It’s bath night for you,’ Wendy, Dylan’s imposing whale of a mother, blurted out, with pieces of chips and bread, as she caught sight of the dirt accumulated in Dylan’s left ear.

‘But, Mam, I had a bath Sunday. It’s only Thursday, can’t it wait?’

This was true, but the Sunday that Dylan referred to was not one in recent memory.

‘No, you smell.’ Gareth was no help in this argument.

‘Not tonight you won’t, got my plants soaking in the tub. Those tomatoes are coming on strong. Horse poo is an amazing fertilizer.’ Walter entered the fray and saved Dylan from the dreaded bath.

‘You’ve got horse manure in my bath!’ Wendy wobbled all over, as her face changed to a reddy-crimson hue.

‘Calm down, Wend, only for tonight, they’ll be in the lean-to tomorrow. You won’t complain when they’re on your plate.’

‘Can you actually grow potatoes in your ears?’ asked Dylan, as he rubbed his tender shoulder up and down on the chair back.

‘You’ve got enough dirt in them, I’m sure you could.’ Dylan’s brilliant dad knew everything.

‘Don’t forget tomorrow at three o’clock, you’ve got to see the derm… er… skin doctor.’

Then it happened, Dylan’s future spread before him like a map, pure and simple, one straight road. He would be a millionaire, a farmer. No, not a farmer, a farm. He, Dylan Williams, would grow his own potatoes in his ears, and sell them to the world. All he had to do was avoid the bath.

Chapter 2
Next morning, Dylan was up and out early, before his mother returned from her morning cleaning job, hence avoiding any unnecessary confrontation with the sink or soap or a wet towel.

During the night, he’d mentally listed the places he could most likely grow the finest-quality potatoes. This included in his ears, under his finger and toe nails, there was plenty of dirt under these, between his toes and a variety of other places that should only be left to the imagination. All fertile areas had then been carefully marked and labelled with permanent marker, ready for growth to begin.

As Dylan descended the concrete stairs to his front door and picked up his jacket from the pile of bills that acted as a coat stand, well a piece of floor the coats landed on as they entered the house, he noticed a rather posh-looking letter. He looked twice at the creamy paper, then moved a little closer and sniffed at the envelope. His father had always advised him never to pick up any official-looking envelopes. What harm could it do? He grabbed it, and was amazed to see it was addressed to him, Dylan Williams.

A posh letter for him. He washed off the marmalade smudge, a leftover from his breakfast, and slung the letter in his school bag, in reality a Tesco bag with Dylan written on it in permanent pen.  Inside were four tomato-sauce sandwiches, Dylan’s second-favourite lunch.

He was off through that door like a whippet, as he realized his mother would be home soon and any delay could put his plans to be a potato millionaire on hold. He deftly dodged the dog poo on his path and passed through the rusty, always-open front gate. This made a great scratching post and he nuzzled his back up and down and felt the red rust like a rasp on his skin.

Dylan wasn’t stupid. Oh no, he knew potatoes wouldn’t just grow under his nails and in his ears, he knew it would take preparation and time. He needed information on how to grow potatoes. Then he could grow them, then he could become a farm. He wouldn’t be as unprepared with this plan as he’d been with the frogs. He realized, in this thoughtful state, that these spuds might take a while to grow. So perhaps he would have to wait to become a millionaire, perhaps a couple of weeks, or at most a month. Dylan skipped and hummed to himself, as he flowed, on his chicken-like legs, through the school gates and into the yard.

Dylan was first there, so he sat, scratched and waited. He formulated questions for Mr Powell, his teacher, and was lost to the world. It was less than two years until he would go to the comprehensive school, and if he wanted to be popular there, he would need a mobile phone. For this he needed lots of money, he needed to be a millionaire. His brain hurt, or was that his back?

‘Hi, Dylan. You smell and you look dirtier than usual.’ It was Linda, his best friend.

‘Hi. I’ve got a plan,’ Dylan replied, bounding towards his friend and forcing her to retreat with a scrunched-up nose.

‘What, get the world record for the smelliest boy?’ Linda giggled.

‘No, that would be just stupid. No, this is a real idea, but it’s a secret. If I tell you, you must keep it a secret. Otherwise everyone will do it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Promise!’ Dylan stamped a foot.

‘What, not even Andrew?’

‘Well, obviously you can tell him. He won’t be interested anyway, he’s too clean.’

‘He baths every night.’

‘No way!’ Linda could see straight into Dylan’s open mouth.

‘Yes, he told me.’ Linda glanced around. ‘But it’s a secret, so don’t say I said, promise.’

‘Yeah, I promise. I won’t tell him that you told me. I don’t believe you, anyway. No one can be that dirty that they need to bath every night.’

As they walked, Dylan stumbled and fell over his trailing laces. His shoe came off and a horrible, rotten, rancid sock was revealed to the world.

‘Why don’t you do your laces up?’ asked Linda.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? But I’m not stupid, you know.’

It wasn’t that Dylan didn’t know how to do his laces up, even though he didn’t, he had an altogether different reason for not tying his laces.

‘Stupid?’

‘Yes, my shoes keep falling off. Can you imagine what could happen if I did my laces up?’ Dylan thought this answer would be enough.

‘What could happen?’

Linda had quite forgotten Dylan’s secret and was engrossed in what would happen if he tied his laces, when the morning bell sounded and they all lined up ready for a day’s learning. Dylan never rushed to the line, he always had lots of space and could never see why the others ran.

Straight after registration was science, with Mr Powell. He was a scientist. He would know all about potatoes. Dylan was prepared, and before the books could be given out, or the pencils sharpened, his hand was in the air.

‘Sir, sir!’ Dylan shouted, his hand shaking like a rattler’s tail and his bum bouncing up and down on the plastic seat.

‘Yes, Dylan, but make it quick. You should have gone before school, or wait for the break,’ replied Mr Powell to the unasked question.

‘No, sir. How do you grow potatoes?’ Heads turned and silence stole the room. Twenty-five confused faces looked at Dylan.

‘I don’t know. How do you grow potatoes?’ Mr Powell liked a good joke and always had the correct response, even though he thought he’d heard this one before.

‘No, sir, it’s not a joke. How do you really, actually, grow potatoes?’

‘Wow, a boy with an interest. OK, let’s see.’ Mr Powell grasped his long blond hair with one hand and scratched his chin with the other.

‘Well, Dylan, you are in luck. I happen to be quite an expert on potatoes.’

Dylan smiled a broad smile and his teeth showed, dirty and brown. His teacher was an expert on potatoes, this was a sign, a sign from beyond.

The rest of the class groaned.

‘Now, potatoes were cultivated firstly in Peru…’

The history went on for ages, and even Dylan struggled to see any relevance. He wanted to know how to grow potatoes.

‘But, sir, how do I grow potatoes?’

‘Don’t interrupt, boy. Now where was I? Ahh yes…potatoes need to be planted in early spring, just about now. They need light, well-drained soil and …’

‘Sir, what do you plant?’

‘Please stop interrupting, boy. Ah yes, you plant seed potatoes in spring, just about now, and keep them well fertilized, with a good organic fertilizer.’

‘Sir, what’s a fertilizer?’

Dylan’s question wasn’t answered and Mr Powell droned on until the break bell sounded. The class all dashed for the yard and fifteen minutes of football.

Chapter 3
 ‘You smell,’ said a pristine Andrew.

‘Is it true you bath every day?’ asked Dylan.

‘So what if I do? It’s not a crime, you know. A bath once in a while wouldn’t hurt you!’ Andrew’s face began to redden and his mouth and eyes both got surprisingly small. He knew he only bathed every day because he was scared of his mother.

‘I’m not having a bath again, ever. I have a secret.’

‘So you say, but what is it?’ Linda had just strolled up to the two boys now secretly talking in a huddle. Not a close huddle, Dylan’s odour put a stop to that.

 ‘Secret, a secret, please tell. I won’t tell anyone, not like her.’ Andrew gave a withering glance at Linda, for giving away his bath secret.

‘Well, OK. This is it, listen carefully, no one else is to know. Scout’s honour.’

‘Scout’s honour,’ they both replied. Neither of them had ever been to so much as one scout meeting, and were definitely not scouts. Neither was Dylan, for that matter.

‘Right, it’s all falling into place. I’m going to be rich, I am. I’m going to be a millionaire farmer. I’m going to grow potatoes.’ Dylan finished and stood tall, well he was only 3 feet, and stuck his chest out as he’d seen his father and roosters do.

‘That’s it, you’re going to grow potatoes. Didn’t you listen? You need land and seeds and things.’ Andrew shrugged and lifted his shoulders in a hopeless gesture.

‘I have a place, it’s warm and there’s plenty of mud, my mother told me.’

‘Where?’

‘I’m going to be a farm.’

‘Er, farmER, that’s the word,’ corrected Andrew.

 ‘No, it’s not.’ Dylan studied his friend, but quickly forgave his lack of intelligence and foresight. ‘Well, it’s the reason I’m not washing. Look in my ears and under my nails.’ Dylan also started to take his shoes off to show his friends the filth between his toes, but, luckily for his friends, was interrupted by the itchy shoulder and rubbed quickly against the red-brick wall.

‘No thanks, we’re not going anywhere near your ears or your feet.’ Both friends started to giggle and chortle, and pursed their lips. But both failed to suppress their giggling and it burst forth, with clouds of spray. This only stopped as the bell demanded their return to class.

‘Some friends you are, when I’m rich you’ll be sorry.’

‘OK, Spud, calm down,’ came the reply from Linda, and the name stuck. From that day on, everyone called Dylan Spud, and he liked it.

At lunch, Spud, Linda and Andrew sat in the far corner of the dining room, the place reserved for those with packed lunches, a place where secrets could be passed out of earshot of the dinner ladies, a place where they could talk.

‘So, Spud, what you’re saying is, you intend to grow potatoes in your ears, under your nails and in various other places on your body?’ asked Andrew, all the time trying, and failing, to stifle the returning giggle.

‘Yes,’ Spud replied, as he reached into his school bag for his rather exquisite lunch, but was disappointed when all he withdrew was a tomato-sauce coloured envelope, looking rather less posh than it had that morning.

‘What’s that, part of your big plan?’ questioned Linda. Linda was usually rather jealous of Spud, as he normally got red-sauce sandwiches, whereas she had to make do with cheese salad, or tuna mayonnaise or other disgusting options.

‘No, this came for me this morning. It looks rather posh.’

‘Open it, then.’

As quickly as Linda had said this, the envelope was ripped open and the fine cream paper inside fell to the table.

Dear Master Dylan Williams,

We have the sad duty to inform you that your aunt, Fleur Williams, died on 17th February. We offer our deepest condolences.

It was left in our honourable and highly capable hands to deal with her estate. You, as her favourite nephew, have inherited the family secrets and treasure. We are led to believe you have already received, on 18th February, your first ‘gift’. If you could please come to your aunt’s residence on Monday 7th March at 3.45pm, we will have the immense privilege of completing the reading of your aunt’s last will and testament.

PTO

‘Wow, you’re going to be rich! Didn’t your aunty live in that manor house in Crickhowel?’

‘Yes, she did. How awful, my long-lost aunty is dead,’ Dylan said a little tearfully.

‘Long lost?’

‘Well, I haven’t seen her for over two weeks.’

‘That’s because she’s been dead.’ Andrew was always straight to the point, and Spud appreciated this.

‘You’re so lucky your aunty has died, you’ll be so popular.’ Linda wasn’t, and she had always wanted to be.

‘No, no, don’t you see, this is a message, from the grave. It all fits in.’

‘OK, Spud, what are you on about now?’ asked a rather confused Andrew.

‘It says I’ve already received a gift, almost two weeks ago.’

‘And?’ they both replied.

‘And, it was two weeks ago I last had a bath. She’s contacted me from the grave. Don’t you understand? She’s with me on my potato plan. Yippee, yeah my aunty’s dead!’ Spud jumped from his seat, arms thrown aloft, attracting attention that none of them wanted.

‘Quiet, Spud, or the dinner lady will throw us out.’

‘What exactly do you think you’ve received?’

‘Well, it’s obvious, my idea, and my dirt.’

‘Is he serious?’ Linda whispered to Andrew.

‘I think so…’

‘Look, look, LOOK! There’s more!’ Dylan poked the letter under his friends’ noses. ‘It says at the bottom some kind of code, PTO.’

The three looked quizzically at each other.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Linda.

‘I think it means potassium, you know we did these symbols in science.’ Andrew nodded knowingly to himself.

‘We have to tell everyone, then you can be popular,’ said Linda.

‘No, this is a secret.’

‘Ooh, I’ve always wanted to be friends with the school’s most popular boy.’

‘No, no, PTO. It’s a message from the grave!’

 Spud was grabbed by his ear and quickly removed from the school hall and sent out into the yard by a mean Mr Fowler, who always demanded silence when eating.

Ten minutes later the other two followed, having enjoyed their sandwiches in a smell-free, Spud-free zone.

‘Hi, Spud,’ said Linda.

But the reply was frenzied shouting. ‘Potato, potato, PTO stands for Potatooooo! My long-lost aunty has contacted me from the grave!’

Chapter 4 Spud started to think about being popular. He remembered the last time he’d been popular with fond regards. Perhaps his inheritance would make him even more popular than the last time he was popular, the time he had warts and everybody wanted to look at or touch them.

Yes, yes, that was a glorious week, friends paying, or at least saying they would pay, to touch his maggot-like warts. A warm thought came over him as he thought of the whole school in a large circle around him at break time, chanting.

‘We want the warts! We want to see the warts!’

And Spud proudly displaying his set of perfectly formed maggot-like warts. For a week these warts proved more popular than his brother’s creepy-crawly collection, now kept under his bed. That collection had been left as a family heirloom by another uncle.

Now, perhaps, he’d be left a more important family heirloom that would put his brother’s bug collection to shame.

Then sadness came over Spud, as he remembered how his wart scheme to make money had ended. Over fifty angry parents at the school office and over twenty turned up at his house, all demanding their kids’ money back. Spud remembered most had not paid in the first place. Some were complaining that they had to take their kids to the doctor to have their maggot-like warts removed. The warts had spread quicker through the school than the fleas he had brought in a year earlier. Still, for Spud, the spreading of warts to the whole of the school, and some teachers, had been a matter of considerable pride and self-satisfaction. He’d been famous for far more than fifteen minutes, a whole week.

The itchy shoulder blade woke Spud from his daydream and was quickly followed by the 3 o’clock bell.

‘Oh no, I have to go! I have an appointment with the skin doctor.’ He grabbed his school bag, Tesco carrier bag, with name written on it in felt pen, and ran to the doctor’s.

When he arrived, at exactly 3.15, he was a sweaty heap and his mother was already there frowning at him.

‘You just made it.’ Not another word.

‘Dylan Williams, you can go in now,’ a receptionist called after two hours of waiting.

‘What’s that terrible smell?’ the dermatologist said.

‘Oh, that’s me,’ replied Dylan. ‘I’m growing potatoes.’

‘Oh, I see. You’ve been at the allotment spreading some fresh cow manure, the best fertilizer I know. It’ll have those potatoes twice the size of normal. I use it on all my plants. I use organic, though, myself, brings a better price at the market. Now, what seems to be the problem?’ the doctor asked, now completely ignoring and accepting the smell emanating from Spud.

But his mother was not!

‘Bath, when you get home,’ she whispered, as closely to Dylan’s ears as she dared go.

‘I’ve got an itchy shoulder blade. Just here.’ Dylan contorted himself to scratch the place on his back where the itch always appeared. It was the most difficult and irritating place to reach.

‘Ah, I see. Hmm, hmm,’ said the dermatologist.

This hmming and I seeing went on for about ten minutes, then the doctor sat down and scratched his chin.

‘Curious, very curious.’

‘What’s curious?’ Wendy Williams asked.

‘Well, there’s absolutely nothing there. Just a bit of redness from the scratching, but nothing else, no eczema, no psoriasis, no impetigo, no nothing. Curious.’

‘Well, what is it?’

‘I have no idea. Anyway, thanks for your time. Close the door when you leave. Oh, and by the way, you seriously should wash that hair, son, you could fry chips on it, it’s that greasy.’ The doctor shooed them rudely out of the room, and the next patient was ushered in, two hours late.

‘You go straight home and have a bath, that’s an order. I’m off to work, got a few extra hours.’

‘OK, Mam.’ Dylan was used to this, his mother worked lots of extra hours cleaning that supermarket. He smiled, knowing that on the evening shift she’d bring home lots of products ready to throw out, so tonight would be feast night.

Then the light came on, another door opened. What had the doctor said? ‘There’s enough grease on your hair to fry chips.’

Yes! Dylan jumped and skipped at his brilliance. The plan was coming together. This time next month, he would unquestionably be a millionaire. He would not only grow potatoes, but he’d get the grease produced on his head and use it to make chips. He’d be a mobile chip shop. What plan could be more perfect? With the go-ahead of his long-lost Aunty Fleur, from the grave, and all these clues being thrown at him, he knew his destiny as a mobile chip shop millionaire and massive popularity awaited.

Chapter 5 With a skip and a hop in his stride, Spud took the short-cut home, through the fields where the cows were. Spud liked the cows. On the weekend, he would often spend hours mooing at them. They liked him, at least that is what he believed. Well, they did moo back at him. There they all were, chewing and rubbing against the old knotted trees. The tree’s branches overhung the field at just the right height, and the cows walked underneath to get a perfect back scratch off the spiky, cracked, old wood.

Spud couldn’t resist. He ran across the field, towards the overhanging branches. He shooed the cows away and frantically jumped under the branches to get the same satisfaction the cows had. But his plan was amiss, he was too short. His back was at least one foot off the gnarly old branches. He scanned the field for something to stand on. Then, he spotted the old blue plastic bucket sitting innocently and silently next to the water trough.

‘Brilliant!’

Within thirty seconds, the upended bucket was sitting under the lowest branches of the gnarled old tree, and a greasy, smelly small boy with an itchy back was precariously balanced trying desperately to reach a knot that would cure his itch.

‘Moooo!’

 You might have thought it was the cows mooing, but no, you’d be wrong, it was Spud. He’d seen the cows do this before, and he knew, for full effect, he had to give off a big moo as he scratched.

It worked, the itch disappeared. Spud relaxed. As he did so, the bucket slipped from under him. He closed his eyes and tensed, ready to hit the soft sodden turf, but it never arrived.

‘Help! Help!’ Spud shouted, as he swung gently in the breeze, attached to the lower branches of the cows’ tree by his jacket.

‘Help! Help!’ the small boy wriggled, but being only four stone wet through, he could not break the grip of the ancient tree.

‘Mooo!’ this time, it was the cows.

‘Oh, you’ve come to help,’ Spud replied.

The cows edged closer to the wriggling boy and stared.

‘Closer, so I can get on you, and off this branch.’

The cows looked at the boy, then continued to eat.

‘Help, help!’

Nobody could hear, and the cows were extremely close now. Spud suddenly started to tremble as some of the larger beasts walked in his direction. He had, after all, stolen their scratching tree.

The cows just continued to eat.

A giggling came from behind the hawthorn hedge that surrounded the field.

‘Who’s there? Help me, these beasts are about to eat me!’

No reply, just giggling.

‘Please, I’m in peril of death! Please!’

Linda and Andrew broke cover and gently moved the cows from a smoothly swinging Spud.

‘What are you doing up there?’ asked Linda.

‘Trying to get down.’

‘Ohh.’

‘Why are you up there in the first place? Is it part of your plan?’ asked Andrew.

‘I was just trying to scratch my back.’

‘Did it work?’ asked Linda.

‘It did, but the itch is coming back now.’

‘Never mind. Not a smart thing, to stand on a plastic bucket, is it?’ asked Andrew.

‘No it isn’t …’

Rrriippp, THUD. Spud was back on solid earth, well, damp, sodden earth. As luck would have it, he missed the numerous cowpats lying haphazardly around the base of the tree.

‘Oh no, my best jacket!’

‘Best jacket?’ Linda and Andrew said, as they looked at the old, scruffy garment.

‘Yes, my mother will kill me.’

‘How will she see another rip? There are loads of old rips in it,’ asked Linda.

‘Yes, but I didn’t do those, my brother and cousin did.’

‘It looks like you got it from a jumble sale,’ said Andrew, peering at the jacket in the same manner he’d looked at the various cowpats close to it.

‘Well, I didn’t, my cousin did.’

‘Your cousin bought you your best jacket, second-hand from a jumble sale?’ Andrew scratched his head and glanced at Linda.

‘No, his mother bought it for him, from a jumble sale.’

‘Oh, right, so it’s your cousin’s jacket, is it?’

‘No, it’s my best jacket. My brother gave it to me.’

‘What?’ Everything was a lot less clear now Spud had explained.

‘Well, my cousin gave the jacket to my brother when it got too small for him and my brother gave it to me when it got too small for him. Now, I’ve torn a family heirloom.’

‘So this ‘best jacket’ is at least fourth hand, and those other rips,’ Andrew pointed from a distance at the badly repaired gashes in the dirty, fourth-hand, best jacket, ‘were done by other members of your family?’

‘Exactly, it’s almost new. I’ve only had it six months. My Mam’s gonna kill me. I’ve destroyed three jackets, my brother’s, my cousin’s and mine.’

‘If we stitch it, how will she know?’ Linda was the practical one, in Andrew’s house a torn jacket was binned and a new one bought.

Andrew had thought the jacket was beyond repair the first day he’d seen it on Spud.

‘She’ll know and I’ll be grounded.’ He admired his best, fourth-hand, ripped, dirty jacket and put it back on. Then he grabbed a large cowpat, quickly put it in his school, Tesco’s, bag and walked speedily in the direction of his house, all thoughts of the ripped jacket instantly vanished.

‘What are you doing now?’ asked Linda.

One word was his reply, just one word.

‘Fertilizer!’