The Third-Class Genie (11 page)

Alec called to Abu and a second later he was lying on his own bed again. It was some while before he got to sleep.

Next day in line-up, Eulalia and her friends giggled and whispered as they passed him. “Believe it or not, I had a dream about him last night.”

“Who?”

“Little Skinny over there. He stood right by my bed, staring at me.”

“Why, you’re not safe even in your bed, are you?”

Mrs Wyatt, the PE mistress, came charging down the line. “Quiet there!”

One of Eulalia’s friends muttered under her breath. Mrs Wyatt heard though, and advanced on the girl.

“I heard that. Let me tell you, I’ve eaten people like you for breakfast before.”

“Oh, Miss. It’s us who are supposed to be cannibals, not you,” said Eulalia impulsively.

Mrs Wyatt looked grim for a moment, then grinned.

“All right. You win that one. Now get inside.”

That night Kim was late home from work and teatime passed quietly. But just as Alec was going up to his room, Dad, who had been reading the local paper as usual, exploded with laughter.

“Do you see this about Hetty Morris?”

Mum looked surprised.

‘“Another case of poltergeists reported by a senior citizen of Bugletown. Miss Hetty Morris, of Boner’s Street, reports that on Thursday night, after she had gone to bed, she became aware of a mysterious presence in her room. A search of the room disclosed nothing, but Miss Morris declared, “I’m sure someone was there.”

“‘This follows the case reported in last week’s
Gazette
, involving Mr Henry Bowden of the Roundhill Estate.’”

Dad put the paper down and laughed. Alec had never seen him laugh so much before.

“I might have known it. If our Dad had a poltergeist, Hetty Morris would have one too.”

He stopped as he saw Mum glare at him.

“What’s up then, Connie?”

“It’s no laughing matter.”

“How d’you mean? You don’t believe all this about Hetty Morris seeing a ghost, do you?”

“No,” said Mum, impatiently. “I mean what’s happening to Miss Morris isn’t funny.”

Dad looked puzzled.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, love.”

“No, that daft story in the
Gazette
reminded me. Hetty Morris came here this afternoon. She’s very upset. She says the council man has been round to tell them that Boner’s Street is coming down and they’re all being shifted out to Moorside.”

“Well?”

“Well, she doesn’t want to go, that’s what. And you can’t blame her.”

“No, but what’s all the rush? They’ve been talking for donkey’s years about pulling down Boner’s Street.”

“She says it’s something to do with the Health Department as well as Councillor Blaggett.”

“Hey, wait a minute! There’s something in the
Gazette
here. Front page and all,” said Dad, picking up the paper again.

“Mystery sickness, among immigrants in Bugletown
– that’s the headline.

“Reports of an undiagnosed illness among black tenants of Boner’s Street took Council Health and Housing Department officials to the area this week. While the authorities stress that there is no cause for concern, the presence of the illness, which does not appear to be infectious, has raised again the question of the future of the tenants in this street which has been marked down for clearance…

“Councillor Blaggett told our reporter, ‘We are not overlooking the possibility of sickness being brought into the area, perhaps by an illegal immigrant.’”

Dad threw down the paper again.

“That man talks a lot of rubbish. If it’s not infectious, how can it have been brought into the area?”

“I don’t know that I’m all that interested in that. I’m more interested in poor old Miss Morris. She was so upset this afternoon that she was in tears.”

Dad shook his head. “I don’t see why they have to move the whole street out to Moorside, just because someone’s been ill.”

“I’ll tell you why, our Dad,” said Kim as she breezed in through the kitchen doorway and pulled off her scarf.

“Ah, the late Kim Bowden,” said Mum.

“Don’t be sarky now, Mum,” said Kim. “I’ve just been talking to Arthur Blaggett.”

“Surprise us,” said Mum, but Kim ignored the comment.

“He reckons there’s a big scheme on. They want all that area around Boner’s and Upshaw Street for high-rise flats, executive flats they call them, for people working at the refinery they’re supposed to be building on the Penfold Road. And I’ll tell you what. They’re getting rid of the Tank at last, and turning it into a big car park.”

“Car park?” said Mum. “Whatever for? They’ve got that big place at the corner of Station Road and School Lane.”

“Ah, that’s going to be turned into a big shopping centre, all linked up with the flats. This area’s going up in the world,” said Kim.

“But,” Alec broke in excitedly, “they can’t use the Tank for a car park. It’s got no road in or out.”

“It hasn’t now,” replied Mum. “But it did have at one time. They used to take stuff in and out under the railway arches door and along Boner’s Street and School Lane to the main road. When they closed the Tank down, they boarded up the arches. Anyway, it’s about time the Tank was cleared. Nothing but an eyesore.”

“But they can’t do that,” said Alec.

“You get off upstairs and finish your homework, our Alec,” said his mother. “It’s got nothing to do with you.”

Alec banged out into the passage. Nothing to do with him, indeed! They couldn’t take the Tank and turn it into a mouldy old car park. The sound of voices from the kitchen stopped him again.

“What do they want a big shopping centre for?” demanded Mum. “All that expense for nothing.”

“Oh, that’s probably not for some time yet,” said Kim. “But I reckon they’ll clear Boner’s Street pretty soon. Councillor Blaggett and his mates are dead set on those executive flats.”

“So poor old Hetty Morris and the others have to move out. Well, it’s not fair,” said Mum, “and somebody ought to tell them so.”

“What are you looking at me like that for?” asked Dad.

“Well, why don’t you lot up at the Railway Club do something?”

“Huh, them,” said Kim, “all they ever do is argue the toss whether diesel trains are better than electric.”

Alec heard Dad get up and put his paper aside.

“I’m going out,” said Dad.

Alec nipped up to his room, changed out of his school clothes into his jumper and jeans and charged out of the house, ignoring his mother’s shout of, “What about your homework?”

He was heading towards the Tank when he heard someone call him. It was Granddad, busy hoeing a row of beans on the allotment. The old man leaned on the hoe and grinned at him.

“You look as though you’ve lost half a crown and found sixpence. Come here, lad, and tell us about it.”

Alec hesitated.

“Please yourself,” said Granddad, and started to attack the weeds again.

Alec drifted over to the allotment and Granddad stopped work again. Alec told him about the argument in the kitchen.

“Ah,” he nodded. “That’s bad about Hetty Morris, poor old soul. But you remember, last week, she wanted to ship those black people out to Moorside. Well, her wish has been granted, though not the way she wanted. That’s how it goes. But what are you so upset about the Tank for? It’s an eyesore. Always was.”

Alec was silent. Even Granddad wouldn’t understand about the Tank.

Granddad went on, “It’s be more to the point if they cleaned up that canal and had a recreation centre with boats and all on it. And opened up those arches so that people could see a bit what’s on the other side of the railway.”

Alec listened, then thought for a moment.

“Mum and Kim were on to our Dad about Miss Morris. Why won’t he do anything, Granddad? Whatever happens, he just sits there and says nothing. Then he puts his paper down and goes out to the Club.”

Granddad laughed.

“You don’t reckon much to your dad, eh?”

Alec reddened.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, I’ll tell you something for nothing, lad. He didn’t reckon much to his dad either.”

Alec stared.

“His dad… How do you mean, Granddad?”

“When you say your dad never has anything to say for himself, his dad was just the opposite, when your dad was a boy. Always talking, always shouting the odds. There wasn’t a subject under the sun he didn’t reckon to know all about, whether he did or he didn’t. I think your dad had it right up to here,” Granddad gestured at his chin, “with his dad and his talk, talk, talk. Which is maybe why he keeps his mouth shut, now.”

Alec stared at Granddad.

“My dad’s dad. But that’s…”

Granddad grinned.

“That’s right. Your dad used to be right fed up with me at times.”

He turned back to his weeding. Alec wandered off. Life, he could see, was going to get more complicated the older he got.

It was funny, he thought. When Dad was a lad… Granddad was his dad… and when…

He gave up.

A
LEC WAS STILL
brooding over everything when he went to school on Monday. He was so deep in thought that he hardly noticed that Ginger Wallace hadn’t come back to school. He mooned his way through lessons that day, fortunately without disasters, and his mind was still churning away when he set out for home.

Lost to the world, he wandered along Boner’s Street. What was he doing there? He’d forgotten his emergency rule to go home by Station Road. Still, he’d gone too far to go back now. He pressed on, keeping a wary eye open, until he reached the railway arches with their dark plank barrier.

He stood still in the road and looked at them. Suddenly the words of Granddad came back into his mind. “Open up those arches so that people can see a bit what’s on the other side.”

Suddenly he knew what he would do. He would ask Abu Salem for one last piece of instamagic. After that he would allow Abu to go back into the can and sleep a million years if he wanted. It would be a bargain and it would be worth it.

He dropped his satchel, pulled out the can, and with a mixed feeling of excitement and regret, he rubbed the top of it and whispered:

“Salaam Aleikum, O Abu Salem.”

“Aleikum Salaam, O Alec. Keef Haalak?”

“IlHamdulilaah.”

“What is thy will?” Abu sounded wary.

“I want one last piece of super, king-size, family pack, transformation magic from you, Abu, and after that I shall resign as your master and you can go to sleep.”

“By the Beard of the Prophet,” said Abu, “that must be a mighty spell. Never have I known a master release his slave before. If it be in my power, it shall be. Speak on, O Alec.”

Alec spoke on, and Abu heard him in silence. At last…

“That is a great wish, O Alec. Since you wish it for others and not for yourself, I shall perform what I can.”

Alec stood in Boner’s Street, holding the can. A minute passed. Then the ground began to heave like an earthquake. In front of him the railway arches began to quiver and shake, like a dream sequence on the telly. One by one the arches opened, showing the blue sky beyond, and on the slopes he saw the estate and his home appear. The Tank, with its mouldering brickwork, its rusty iron, its dank shrubs and weeds, its oozy canal, had vanished like smoke in the air.

In its place was a long low hall with bright windows, a football pitch, tennis courts and archery butts. Beyond it all, a waterway gleamed in the sun and boats bobbed on the water where the crane house had been. The great plank fence had fallen away and instead there were trees and flower beds. From the corner of his eye, Alec saw Boner’s Street and gasped. The tall houses were newly painted, the high stone steps shone white, the windows caught the sun. The piles of rubbish and the broken-down cars had vanished. At the end of the street had appeared a clear space with swings, slides and a high commando climbing net. It was fantastic. Who would have believed Boner’s Street and the Tank could look like this?