While Shepherds Washed My Socks Page 3

  “Less of the language, madam!” cackled Andy, jokily from behind. He looked as high as a guitarist after a stadium show.

  “Er… exactly how many cans of that stuff did you drink?” I asked, more concerned about Charlie. Maybe I didn’t care what he got up to, but him being expelled from school wouldn’t really be fair.

  “Uh…” said Andy, uncertainly. “I had two on the way to school and two just now.”

  “And Charlie?”

  “I stuck to water,” Charlie lisped. “I’m a good boy.”

  I knew he was lying, because I’d seen with my own two eyes, but I didn’t feel like getting into an argument. “You should stick to water – people with your emotional instability shouldn’t be drinking alcohol; they shouldn’t even be drinking orange squash.”

  “Give over,” said Andy. “It wasn’t booze, just energy drinks. It’s caffeine.”

  I’d thought energy drinks were like Lucozade – they didn’t come in cans, or make people’s pupils the size of saucers.

  “You’re still an idiot,” I told him, firmly.

  “What?” said Charlie. “Would you rather we got high on placebos?”

  “Well, yeah. Then again, you would – you’d believe it if I told you a spoonful of Minadex would get you high.”

  “Huh?” Charlie looked genuinely puzzled.

  “You don’t even know what placebos are, do you?”

  He shrugged. “Must be pretty hardcore if they went and named a band after them.”

  “They’re sugar tablets.” I laughed. “If you want some Fruit Pastilles, just ask.”

  He blushed. My twin really is the biggest moron sometimes. And he knew it, and scarpered before Keisha and Chan detached from ridiculing Dani and got any comments in.

  We saw nothing more of the boys ’til about halfway round the course. I’d give caffeine this; it certainly brought him out of his shell. Far enough out of it to engage in a mudfight with Andy in the cornfields, which I’d wrongfully assumed had frozen over.

  “Told you so!” giggled Keisha.

  “Right. D’you think we should tow these two along?” I asked quietly, hoping one of my friends maybe also felt slightly worried about my brother. (Prying Aussies should note that there’s almost always a reason to be worried about Charlie; I sometimes wonder if when Mum got pregnant with him, her uterus assessed the risk and resolved to simultaneously cultivate a minder just in case.)

  “Leave them be,” she snorted, spitting the gum out finally. No doubt it would be picked up by the soles of the next person’s Nikes as they overtook us. “They’re having way too much fun.”

  “But what if either of them get hurt?” Kay wondered, obviously on my side. That was so typical. Despite all her warring with Keisha, who was so totally talking to me too, she was convinced that we were the closest of friends and I would eventually relent on the article front.

  Suddenly, Charlie and Andy flew out of the mud and off around the corner, wearing expressions that looked filched from the possums out of Ice Age 2.

  “S’their problem,” snapped Chantalle, hating the idea that she’d ever dated Charlie. “They’re nothing but bums in training.”

  Ask her last month, and she’d’ve said “gorgeous little bum” in reference to him. How times change…

  “You mean a butt-type bum, or a homeless-type bum?” asked Kay, urgently. “You shouldn’t make jokes about travellers.”

  “Hobos aren’t travellers,” snorted Keisha, just as the inevitable seagull thing happened, right into her heavily waxed, rain-resistant hair.

  * * *

  By the time we’d got back, the race was well over.

  We’d opted for walking it, speeding up only when teachers were “monitoring” the corners. Even they eventually got bored and returned to the comforting(ish) windbreak of the PE block. That gave Keisha and Kay a good half hour to argue in. I kept looking at Dani, who kept looking at me, but we couldn’t agree to run on ahead because neither of us actually wanted to run.

  Miss Winterbottom looked surprised when we finally arrived back, ten minutes into her next lesson. “Joint last place, is it, girls? Or will somebody volunteer?”

  We all joined hands and stepped over the finish line, with a grin each – the thing we devised together back in Year 7. Of course Kay was new to that, but she caught on anyway and even put up with that brief contact with Chantalle.

  Luckily, we didn’t have Fern to explain it to. Luckily for her, I mean – the situation at school was getting so nutsy that she was better off with a virus…

  “Your brother came in one-hundred-and-ninth, Harley,” muttered Witerbottom, as if being his twin I should naturally care where that loon placed. He and Andy had clearly got distracted again along the way, because there were only about a hundred and twenty people in our third of the year.

  * * *

  Charlie, now back in his normal head (OK, not normal, but y’know), skipped ahead of us towards our English classroom. That was no surprise, given that he wasn’t wearing a jumper. Mr Wordsworth’s a pretty laid back guy – with his joking obsession with planning Point-Evidence-Explain, and his comical tales of university, we knew he’d practically be expecting our latecoming.

  “C’min, c’min, be my guests!” he welcomed. He looked almost cute in his little elf hat and Homer Simpson Dressed As Santa tie.

  Charlie and Andy had taken their seats in the back row – Charlie so he could be near the door in case of fire or other disaster; Andy so he could loudly compliment other people on any new gadgetry they’re playing with under the desks to get them in trouble.

  Today, though, Charlie had donned his suave black rockstar sunglasses (his latest wordless joke to accompany the “summer” sunshine and horrendous chill). He waggled his eyebrows at Andy, making himself look like a fly with vision problems.

  “Put the sunglasses away, Master Hartley – you are not a rockstar!” was the general sway of teacherly reactions so far, but Mr Wordsworth (in his equally eccentric way) wasn’t biting the bait. Either he’d been warned about this in the staffroom, or more likely he was genuinely being cool about it.

  So for the first time, Charlie didn’t get his chance to retort, “Yes, indeed I am!”

  The work, as narrated back to me and Kay by Norma Dawson, was to write a Crimby poem. We had Mr Wordsworth’s tape of Robbie The Reindeer running in the background, adding to the jolly atmosphere we’d so missed.

  Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy, drinking diesel makes you queasy. I jotted down some drivel about stockings filled with toys and food-laden tables; Kay wrote a detailed (de-tailed, actually) description of Santa’s reindeer petitioning against the removal and cutting of animal tails for the purpose of fashion.

  I glanced back at Charlie, who hadn’t written a thing. I knew he wasn’t fitting in so well in my classes, and it was a huge culture shock – coming from a position of being bullied in a class where you don’t have to do any work, and being stuck in the chair of someone bullied in a class where you have to have read Of Mice And Men, and Richard The Third already.

  He was scrunched up in that chair right now, peering out from over the top of his oversized sunspecs at the rest of the class, and looking like he wished he wasn’t there. Andy’d shuffled his chair to the other edge of the desk, and was poking him in the belly with his long metal ruler.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted him swapping the ruler for another can of drink, and taking a glug from it.

  Kay spluttered, passing me a note in Andy’s scruffy handwriting, which said: Charlie’s gonna explode!

  I snatched it and wrote back: Good. Hope you both spontaneously combust, in fact.

  I hadn’t a clue what he meant by “explode”, but Charlie did look a bit sulky. If he emotionally popped in front of everyone, I didn’t know what I’d do.

  The next note said: You don’t follow me – to pee or not to pee?

  I didn’t know this because I’d read it; rather because Mr Wordsworth’s groin had int
ercepted it midflight.

  Honestly, who was Andy trying to impress?

  “Oh, Andy. Very funny! Positive merit!”

  Yes, Mr Wordsworth is such a crazy guy that he gives out rewards for the most creative mickeytakes on his lessons. He stroked his little black beard. “Although it does have nothing to do with Christmas, admittedly. Plus, this line is actually from Ha-umm, I’ll let it ride.”

  “Gee, thanks, Sir.” Andy smiled.

  “Charlie? Have you got a problem?” asked Mr Wordsworth, as there was a knock at the door.

  Charlie blushed crimson, scowling behind his sunglasses, but rapidly shook his head, as if to say, “No teacher’s ever gonna go round talking to me like a five-year-old! I’m not gonna let you think you can read me as easily as the proverbial Biff and Chip book either.”

  He still can’t tell that trying to look grown-up just makes him seem more of a child.

  As Mr Wordsworth wended his way to the back of the class to answer the door, Andy was smiling slightly. He fumbled his can of caffeine and dumped the remaining half in Charlie’s lap.

  I felt myself draw breath.

  “Don’t you always know when somebody’s lying to you?!” simpered Asta Price, fluttering her eyelashes at Mr Wordsworth like he was the rockstar. “Charlie has definitely got a problem!”

  “Eh?” He frowned, turning to give Charlie and Andy a bewildered look each.

  Charlie looked equally perplexed. His slightly dilated pupils darted around the room in search of something to help him retain his dignity.

  I sighed, pulled off my jumper and threw it to him. He stood and wrapped it round his waist, giving Andy the most vicious look in the world. And why’d that be?

  ’Cause Malice, stood in the doorway in her black-eyelinered, pale-faced goth-goddessliness, had already spotted the taurine puddle on his chair and looked for a second taken aback at the idea that she’d once gone out with him. She blinked her heavily mascara’d eyelashes in bewilderment, but rapidly fixed her usual serious expression. “S’cuse me, Sir, but d’you have any idea where the Romeo and Juliet video is?”

  “Er, yes. This young man was on his way out,” Mr Wordsworth told her, indicating Charlie. He handed a bunch of keys to her. (He has the best keys, adorned with squidgy smilies and “World’s Most Fantabby English Teacher” keyrings.) “He can help you get it from the storage cupboard.”

  Charlie was stock still and ghostly pale. It looked as if his body couldn’t decide if he should faint, cry, squeal, or wet himself for real. Or all those at once.

  #6 Wings…

  Shortly after I got in from school, Mum and Charlie clattered in through the front door.

  “Where’ve you been?” I asked them, kicking my shoes off ready to take my three KitKats and apple juice upstairs.

  “I just took Charlie to the doctor,” flustered Mum, giving his arm a squeeze and disappearing out of the kitchen.

  “Because…?” I’d gone to ask, as she vanished.

  Charlie looked at me hurtly and lip-wobblingly as he shunted his trainers off next to me. “I told Mum it was for real. Quiet life and all.”

  “Why? What d’you mean?” I probed. It didn’t sound like the content of a quiet life, having your own mum think that of you.

  “Well, me and Andy are mates for life, and I didn’t wanna get him in trouble. And I really felt like telling her, specially when Dr Godfrey was asking me all this embarrassing stuff like am I still wetting the bed and do I think I’m developing normally!” He squirmed. “But I couldn’t. If his dad found out he publicly humiliated me for laughs, he’d not be allowed out for a year. You know he’s got a soft spot for me what with not having a dad around.”

  I sighed. “Wait a fizzing second. Why on earth did Mum feel the need to take you to the doctor for wetting yourself?”

  “You can’t blame her for thinking there’s something wrong with me ’cause I was actually bursting when I got in. If I tried explaining about all the Red Bull, she’d only have said I brought it on my- oh. That is what I should have said.”

  “Well done,” I said, witheringly, making my way upstairs whether he wanted to follow or not. “All this’d have been avoided if you weren’t dumb enough to bring in all those energy drinks. Andy wouldn’t have got his chance.”

  He looked at me eye-wellingly. “Just don’t even mention any of it to anyone. It never happened. And that’s Zak and Kitty and Aimee and any of your friends or my friends or anyone, OK?”

  I groaned. “You should probably know that was pretty much the only thing any of our weirdo classmates yapped about all afternoon.”

  I heard our younger siblings burst in through the door and Zak rush into the kitchen to be dragged into a short and mumbled exchange with Mum. Charlie went to scarper, but Zak greyhounded excitedly through the house like a cringe-seeking missile and crashed into us on the attic landing in record time. “Alright brother-o-mine? Sister-o-mine?”

  “Never gonna be alright again,” whined Charlie.

  “Why?”

  “Not telling.”

  “Hmm. It’s quarter-past-three; you take forty minutes to get home from school after two-thirty; you’re changed; she’s not; your hair’s wet and it ain’t raining, so you’ve had a bath. Mum told me you wet yourself.”

  I left them to it, twitching from the whole experience. Part of me was embarrassed for Charlie because he was so useless at life and lies, but I also felt squirmy for a whole other reason. Seeing Charlie rush to protect Andy after he’d landed him in so much awkwardness had made me realise that perhaps I really was doing the same thing for my friends – not just Keish and Chantalle, but Kay as well…

  * * *

  The town centre was packed on Saturday, but I couldn’t care less. There would be no competition at the type of shops I was going to.

  Since I’d rolled Kitty for our Secret Santa, I was thankfully relieved of the stress of buying for Mum, Harry, Charlie, Zak or Aimee. Prying Aussies should note that it’s always like this. Last year I’d got Zak, and been moaned at because I didn’t choose the right type of Pokémon cards. (Silly me, I’d thought the surprise was the whole point.) The year before, I’d got Shelley, and found the clay pot I made her in Art Club mysteriously smashed up. Kitty was simple, by comparison – she only cared about Bratz and colouring anyway.

  “Mummy, not those! Those are the stupid ones!” shrieked some spoiled child by the big teddy rack in the card shop.

  “But everyone else has an advent calendar!” wailed another, when I popped into the newsagent for a quick Mars Bar.

  “Well, you should’ve thought about that before you opened the whole thing!” snapped what was hopefully an older brother and not a teen dad.

  “BUT IT’S! NOT! FAIR!”

  All this reminded me of the temper tantrums Kitty had not quite grown out of. So you probably wouldn’t find her writhing on the floor of Newsround with fists full of chocolate buttons? She could still be pretty vicious when things didn’t go her way. Just last week she’d bitten Harry when he refused to buy a Christmas tree quite yet. (We all knew from experience that come Crimby Day, we’d be wading through a sea of pine needles to unwrap gifts underneath a brown stick with tinsel on it.)

  Was I being presumptuous (to quote Keisha’s mum), thinking that Kitty was the easy option? Chewing my Mars Bar, I started to wonder if maybe I should’ve put a bit more time and effort into my present ideas. I’d been planning to raid the charity shops for further Bratz dolls and maybe some Barbies. Unoriginal, I know, but why mess with a successful formula? She’d got months of happiness out of the ones I tracked down for her birthday.

  I went into Argos and agonised for half an hour over the toy section of the catalogue. The pages of the Christmas Offers leaflets had a comforting smell – it reminded me of the hours me and Charlie had spent poring over that stuff, CITV adverts blaring in the background. We were never very materialistic, but when you’re that poor it’s easy to put a lot of emphasis on the one or tw
o gifts you only might get each year. Despite not having many nice things, there was no denying that it was a heck load simpler when our only efforts towards Christmas were a bit of politeness and glittering and gluing cards for all our teachers.

  I cringed at the thought of giving a card to any of my teachers this year. Some of them might’ve deserved one, like Mr Wordsworth or Miss Bowman, but selfishly, it wasn’t really worth the cackles from the rest of the class. Even the fun teachers had only got one or two cards from our class last year, although I’d mistakenly made a point of giving them out to everyone in Year 7.

  The doll section of the catalogue was pink and inviting, with pictures showing little girls rocking Baby Annabelle or dressed up as Snow White while holding a miniature approximation of the character. I eyed the prices – nothing was cheap enough. Even the sets of tiny clothes for fashion dolls were above what I was able to pay. I tried telling myself that it didn’t matter too much, because Mum and Harry would be buying her big present, but part of me still pictured her ruining things for everyone if Zak, Charlie and Aimee proved better gift-givers than me. I knew they wouldn’t have, or want to spend, any more than I could on each other, but my head still span with worry.

  I slapped the laminated catalogue shut and walked out of the shop. It was no use – I’d have to try Woolies, or failing that, Zodiac Pound Shop.

  #7 Charlie & His Famous Grumbles

  The rest of the weekend flew by in a flash of stupid songs and stupider brothers. By stupid, I guess I mean repetitive. Zak and Charlie continued to tell crap jokes and answer only to the name Jesus, respectively, and came up with some of the most horrendously rude Christmas carols which I won’t print here. The titles might give you a clue (if you have anything like the same sick imagination they do).

  They were mainly about Rudolph the red-arsed reindeer and his butt like a Japanese flag, but there were also “I’m Screaming Of A Bloodsoaked Christmas”, “Shingle Bells, Batman Smells” (yes, how original), “Away In A Bus Shelter” and their own home production of Jesus Christ, Superstar starring Charlie. Amongst it all, I was just kind of glad that my brothers were getting along, even if it was super-annoying to behold.

  It was now the last week of term, and the usual total anarchy of any well-respected ex-comprehensive school had taken over. Malice and her non-goth Performing Arts friends were kicking up some kind of party with music of all varieties involving mostly Years 10 and 11 on Grunger Island – giving Charlie nowhere to escape to, not being able to look her in the eye without wanting to die. He was limpeting along (unwelcome) with our group, giving us nowhere to escape to to discuss girl things (or complain about him). And he was probably hoping we would, just so he could retaliate and try to win some fans. Trust me, whatever the world might lead you to think, you do not want a tagalong twin brother…