fifteen

We told my dad that Tony wanted some biscuits for his economics project at school. I said that he needed several whole boxes of biscuits so that he could explain about all the different varieties, and demonstrate how they were marketed and distributed wholesale and all that shit. Dad reluctantly agreed to let us have a couple of boxes so long as we didn't let the teachers know where we had got them from (as it happened, we had no intention of letting the teacher's see them at all, but dad wasn't to know that).

We decided to sell the biscuits during morning break, between lessons three and four. The tuck shop didn't open in the morning, only at lunchtime. The pupils were always complaining that there was nothing to eat at morning break, so we reckoned at ten pence a packet we could do brisk trade with our Garibaldis and coconut creams. We decided to set up shop by the kitchens and storerooms round the back of the woodwork and metalwork blocks where stuff was delivered to the school and teachers seldom ventured.

Advertising our wares was easy. In a school full of hungry kids, news about food spreads quicker than a plague of head lice. We only needed to tell a few people in assembly that there were hundreds of biscuits going cheap and by second lesson everyone knew.

After maths, when me and Tony arrived at the back of the kitchens with my Spurs hold-all packed full of jammy dodgers and malted milk creams, a long queue of customers had already formed. In about fifteen minutes we'd sold over a hundred packs and Tony had collected quite a weight of coins in his money box (which was, surprise, surprise, an old biscuit tin with a slot cut into the top).

Towards the end of break time, a large delivery van full of vegetables arrived. One of the cooks came out of the kitchen and started to help the van driver to carry in boxes of lettuces and tomatoes, and Brussels sprouts and carrots in big green nets. So, we decided to call it a day. We'd just finished packing up when Mrs Hawthorne, the deputy head (who had the looks and eyesight of an eagle), suddenly appeared round the corner.

"What's going on here?" she bellowed. Quick as a flash I slung my Spurs bag beneath the delivery van and tried to look innocent.

"You boys," she shouted, pointing at me, Tony and what remained of our customers, "Come here now!"

Unfortunately, as we traipsed over to where Mrs Hawthorne stood - a sharpened 2H pencil poised above her detention notebook - the van driver came back out of the kitchen. He climbed into his cab and reversed over my bag which was still full of biscuits. It lay there with a big tyre mark across it like a squashed badger. I stood there in a state of shock as the lorry driver happily bumbled off, presumably assuming that he had bumped over a stray cabbage or something.

"Which of you boys owns that bag?" asked Mrs Hawthorne.

I slowly raised my hand.

"And you are?" she asked

"Peter Sharpe, miss," I mumbled.

She made a careful note of my name.

"Well Mr Sharpe, perhaps you can explain to me exactly what your bag was doing beneath a ve-ge-ta-ble lorry."

"Dunno miss," I said.

Mrs Hawthorne tutted and rapped her pencil against her notebook.

"Well, you better bring it over here and let me see what damage has been done."

I fetched the bag, which smelt of diesel fumes and coconut creams, and quickly looked inside. It was full of crumbs and broken biscuits in cellophane packets.

"It's OK miss," I bluffed. "It's just a bit squashed. Nothing's broken."

"Let me see that bag," said Mrs Hawthorne.

I reluctantly handed it to her.

"Biscuits," exclaimed Mrs Hawthorne. "Where did these come from?"

"I didn't nick them miss honest," I said. "My dad gave them to me. He gets them from work."

"Does he indeed," snapped Mrs Hawthorne. "And what exactly were you doing with them round the back of the kitchens, which you well know is strictly, str-ict-ly out of limits."

"Nothing miss," I mumbled.

Mrs Hawthorne huffed and puffed and then she turned to Tony.

"You boy," she bawled.

Tony looked round innocently, as if she couldn't possibly be talking to him.

"Yes you boy," she said. "Don't get clever with me. What's that under your jumper?"

"Nothing miss," said Tony, bulging like a python that had just swallowed a large brick.

"Take it out," she snapped. "Take it out now"

A couple of boys began to snigger. Mrs Hawthorne glared at them. They stopped sniggering.

Tony removed the biscuit tin full of money.

"Bring that here," said Mrs Hawthorne.

The money rattled in the tin as Tony walked slowly over to where she stood. He handed the tin to her and she opened it up.

"It was for the Feed a Child charity miss," lied Tony, without batting an eyelid.

"I see," said Mrs Hawthorne. "And who gave you permission to collect this money?"

Tony shrugged.

"No one," I said.

"Right then," said Mrs Hawthorne. "The rest of you get off to your classes. And you two come with me."

We followed Mrs Hawthorne to her office where she lectured us for a bit and then made us count out all the one, two, five and ten pence pieces into different piles and then put them into plastic money bags.

"I'm sure the starving children of East Africa will be very grateful for this," she said. "Now empty out your pockets."

I emptied from my pocket thirty-eight pence, a couple of plectrums, a tissue, a cigarette lighter, a biro, a pink rubber shaped like a heart (onto which had been scribbled various intimate details of the female anatomy) and three chewits (two blackcurrant flavour and one banana). Mrs Hawthorne threw the rubber and cigarette lighter into the bin and added my thirty eight pence to the biscuit money.

"Oh miss, that's my dinner money," I said.

"I'm sure you won't mind missing lunch just for once so that others may not go hungry," said Mrs Hawthorne writing me out a detention slip.

"No miss," I said reluctantly.

In his pocket Tony had his homework diary (uniquely unbent and free of graffiti) and his father's wallet. Inside was a pound note and a pre-decimal half-penny that his father had had on him when he'd been splattered by that truck.

"You can't have my coin," said Tony, as Mrs Hawthorne added the pound note to the biscuit tin. She was about to drop the coin in the bin regardless, when she caught Tony's eye. And, although I couldn't see the look on his face, I can well imagine what it was like.

"Well, I suppose it's of no use to anyone else," mumbled Hawthorne, handing him back the old coin and the pound note. "Now, what lessons should you be in?"

"Geography," I said.

"French," said Tony.

"Right, well you better go then," she said. "And please apologise to each of your teachers for being late."

I put my stuff back into my pockets and shuffled out of the room feeling limp as my squashed Spurs bag.

"How come I always get a detention," I grumbled.

"I don't think she liked your lighter," said Tony, "or what you'd drawn on your rubber."

"It didn't draw it," I said. "It was that git Justin. Stupid wanker. He's always writing on my stuff he is."

"Where did you get that rubber from anyway?" asked Tony.

"Debbie gave it to me," I said.

"Really?" said Tony in a disbelieving voice. "Deborah Wilkins?"

"Yea," I said sheepishly.

"Deborah Wilkins?" Tony repeated even louder.

"Look shut up," I said. "You tell anyone and I'll bloody kill you."

"Sorry," said Tony.

"Anyhow," I said, as we wandered towards the humanities block, "you might as well forget about that stupid guitar now. The biscuits ain't no good anymore and we've got even less money than we started with."

"I'll get it somehow," said Tony.

"Yea, sure you will," I said.

"I will," said Tony. "I will."

At lunchtime I emptied the crushed custard creams out of my Spurs bag into a big rusty, yellow litter skip by the art block, then I went to meet Tony by the language lab where he'd just had his French lesson. He lent me thirty five pence for a salad sandwich and a pot of raspberry yoghurt. Then we sat on the water pipes which ran wide and warm along the wall outside the dinner hall and ate our lunch.

"You're quiet," I said.

"I'm thinking" said Tony.

"What about?!

"You know..."

"Forget it," I said. "You can't afford it."

Tony bit his lip and kicked his heels against the water pipes.

"Look," I said, "we've got some more biscuits at home. We'll just sell enough to cover your deposit. And then call it quits. What do you reckon?"

Tony scowled.

"Cheer up," I said. "There's plenty more guitars around. The world's full of 'em."

"I won't need them though will I?" said Tony, kicking the pipes. "Not when I've got my Casino."

"What you going to do then?" I said with a sigh of exasperation. "Sell the family jewels? Got some heirloom in the attic have you?"

Tony looked up with a small smile.

"What lesson have you got next?" he said.

"Physics," I said. "Viscosity. Ball bearings in golden syrup and all that shit."

"Lets go back to my house then."

"What? Skive off you mean?"

"It's all right mum's not in. No one will know. And anyway I've only got German vocabulary."

"No, they'll notice we're not there," I said. "And we're already in enough shit as it is for selling them biscuits." I looked up suspiciously. "What do you want to go home for anyway?"

"Ah, you'll have to wait and see," said Tony.

"I'm not coming unless you tell me," I said.

"Wait and see," said Tony standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "You coming or not?"

He started to head for the doors.

"Why do you have to go now?" I asked, grabbing his sleeve. "Can't it wait until later?"

"No," said Tony. "Mum'll be back later and she won't let us up in the attic."

"What do you want to go up in the attic for?"

The bell went for the end of lunch.

"You coming or not?" he said pulling away from my grasp and heading out against the stream of grey bodies pouring in through the doors.

"Leave it 'til later," I said. "Someone'll see us and we'll get done again. I've already got one detention. I don't want another one."

"Chicken," said Tony, snatching my bag from my hand.

"Oi, bloody give it back," I said chasing him. "That's got my physics homework in it."

"Chicken," said Tony, gobbling like some manic Turkey.

"You git," I hissed as we sneaked round the back of the kitchens and made for the hole in the fence that led through the allotments and into town. "This better be worth it."

"It will be," said Tony. "Wait and see."

And we ran, low and fast like two escaped convicts, through purple sprouting broccoli and runner beans to the bus stop and freedom.