brill. A poem called ‘Maggot’ about why kids who get picked on get picked on began buzzing round my head. Poems are lenses, mirrors and X-ray machines. I doodled for a bit (if you pretend not to look for words they come out of the thickets) but my Biro died so I unzipped my pencil case to get a new one.
Inside, the third surprise was waiting for me.
The scalpelled-off head of a real live dead mouse.
Tiny teeth, shut eyes, Beatrix Potter whiskers, French mustardy fur, maroon scab, nubby spinal bone. Whiffs of bleach, Spam and pencil shavings.
Go on, they’d’ve said. Put it in Taylor’s pencil case. It’ll be an ace laugh. It’d’ve come from Mr Whitlock’s Biology dissection class. Mr Whitlock threatens to dismember anyone nicking mouse parts, but after a flask of his special coffee he gets drowsy and careless.
Go on, Taylor, get out yer pencil case. Ross Wilcox probably sneaked it in there himself. Dawn Madden must’ve known too. G-g-get out your p-p-p-P-P-PENcil case (Wilcox’s eyeballs popped), T-T-ta-t-t-ttt-Taylor.
I got a wad of bog paper to wrap the head in. Downstairs Dad was reading the Daily Mail on the sofa. Mum was doing her accounts on the kitchen table. ‘Where’re you off to?’
‘To the garage. To play darts.’
‘What’s that tissue you’re holding?’
‘Nothing. Just blew my nose.’ I stuffed it in my jeans pocket. Mum was about to demand an inspection but thank God, she changed her mind. Under cover of darkness I sneaked down to the rockery and tossed the head into the Glebe. Ants and weasels’ll eat it, I s’pose.
Those kids must hate me.
After one game of Round-the-Clock I put my darts away and came back inside. Dad was watching a debate about whether or not Britain should have American cruise missiles on its soil. Mrs Thatcher says yes so it’ll happen. Since the Falklands no one can tell her no. The doorbell rang, which is odd, on an October evening. Dad must’ve thought the gypsy was back. ‘I’ll deal with this,’ he announced, and folded his paper with a jarky snap. Mum let out this tiny Ffft of disgust. I sneaked up to my spy position on the landing in time for Dad unchaining the door.
‘Samuel Swinyard’s the name.’ (Gilbert Swinyard’s dad.) ‘My farm’s up Drugger’s End. Would you have a minute or two?’
‘Certainly. I used to buy our Christmas trees from you. Michael Taylor. What can I do for you, Mr Swinyard?’
‘Sam’s fine. I’m collectin’ signatures for a petition, see. You might not know this but Malvern Council’re plannin’ to build a site for gypsies right here in Black Swan Green. Not temp’ry. Perm’nant, like.’
‘This is disturbing news. When was this announced?’
‘Exactly, Michael. Never was announced! Tryin’ to sneak it through on the sly, they are, so no ’un catches on till it’s done and dusted! They’re plannin’ on puttin’ the site down Hake’s Lane, by the incinerator. Oh, they’re all craft, that Malvern Council lot are. Don’t want the gyppos in their own back yard, no thank you very much. Forty caravans, they’ve earmarked land for. Forty, they say, but there’ll be hundred’s of ’em once it’s built, once you add on their relatives an’ hangers-onners. Proper Calcutta it’ll turn into. Count on it.’
‘Where do I sign?’ Dad took the clipboard and scribbled his name. ‘As a matter of fact, one of those gypsy…blighters…called here this afternoon. Around four o’clock, when housewives and children are likeliest to be at home, unprotected.’
‘Don’t surprise me one bit. Been duckerin’ all round Wellington Gardens too, they was. Older houses’ve got more precious junk to scav, see, that’s their reck’nin’. But if this camp goes ahead, it’ll be more o’ the same every day! And once scavvin’ stops workin’ for gypsies, they try more direct ways to cross their palms with our silver, if you catch my meanin’.’
‘I hope,’ Dad returned the clipboard, ‘you’re getting a positive response to your efforts, Sam?’
‘Only three refusals who’re half-gyppo ’emselves, if you ask me. The vicar said he can’t get involved in “party-zan politics” but his missus nudged him fast enough, sayin’ she ain’t no clergyman. Every’un else – as quick to sign as yourself, Michael. There’ll be an emergency meetin’ in the village hall Wednesday comin’ to discuss how best to stuff them pillocks up in Malvern Council. Can I count on yer bein’ there?’
Wish I’d said yes. Wish I’d said, ‘Here’s my pocket money, sharpen what you can, please, right now.’ The knife grinder’d’ve got his gear out, there, on