A Beginner's Guide To Dipping Your Haddock: Imagine THE GRADUATE with a Birmingham accent!

By Stuart Caldwell

A beginner’s guide to dipping your haddock reimagines Charles Webb’s THE GRADUATE - relocating the story from the sunny millionaire suburbs of pre-hippie California, to a pre-punk council estate in the damp English Midlands. For Benjamin Braddock read Parkin Pollock, an award-winning fishmonger’s apprentice who’s worried about his future!

As we share the excruciation of Parkin’s first sexual encounters, we also see him unwittingly stumble into a criminal stock market conspiracy, as well as a bizarre plot to teach Ian Paisley and Martin McGuinness to stepdance.

If only Parkin hadn’t won that Blue Peter badge when he was eight …

It’s an imaginative follow-up to Stuart Caldwell’s debut novel Fart and Toast and comes packed with a similar abundance of out-of-place celebrities, surreal humour and unexpected twists. It is slightly shorter but marginally funnier, despite the fact that belly button fluff features less prominently. For future reference, it is longer but just as amusing as his forthcoming third book, which hardly mentions belly button fluff at all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stuart Caldwell
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781839781100

Book preview

Acknowledgments

A BONER ON THE BUS BACK FROM GRIMSBY

Friday February 12th 1971

Brenda Blowfish was halfway home when the sleet began. Luckily she’d followed her dad’s advice and had stowed his oilskin cycling cape in her wicker basket. She stopped outside Kunzles to pull it on over her parka, aware of two giggling girls who she half knew, sniggering at her through a hastily-wiped peephole on the warm side of the steamy tearoom window. She knew she looked like she was wearing a giant yellow upside-down flea collar but was past caring. Fastening her matching sowester tightly under her chin, she ploughed on.

The sleet soon turned to driving rain. By the time she reached Victoria Street it was torrential. Her gloves were sodden, her suede boots were saturated, her tights were soaked and she could feel the soppy hem of her corduroy miniskirt sticking to her cold thighs. She should have worn jeans of course – but they were banned in the refectory of the Grimsby College of Fishmongery. That was the main reason she had finally quit, to go and work in the trendy and glamorous Grimsby Girl boutique.

Brenda willed her frozen hands to steer the bike into the bus depot so she could shelter while the downpour eased. Standing close to the warmth of the ticket office she folded her arms and shivered for several minutes, then began to gently steam as her body temperature reluctantly returned to something approaching normal.

‘Yer look like yer could use a smoke.’

She ignored the male voice and stared at the floor. Typical, she thought, I go months without any blokes chatting me up and then it happens when I look like a drenched wigwam. He probably thinks I’m on the game.

A packet of Number Six was thrust towards her and she looked up to see a face she recognised. Quite a nice face, only slightly spoiled by a sore-looking acne spot on his right cheek. He was about her own age, carried a large khaki rucksack and was wearing an army surplus greatcoat. His hair was long, messy and blonde. His eyes were deep blue and honest. His nostrils were oddly hairy. She’d served him in the canteen a few times recently. They’d never properly spoken, although on one occasion he’d told her he thought her fishcakes were gorgeous. She hadn’t been too sure what he’d meant.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled and gratefully pulled a cigarette from the packet but her numb fingers fumbled and she dropped it in her self-made puddle. He took a fresh one from his pack and lit it for her.

‘I saw yer at the college,’ he said hesitantly. ‘In the canteen. Yer look different in yer cycling cape.’ His face went red and he couldn’t think what else to say, so he lit a cigarette for himself.

Brenda filled the silence. She liked this awkward youth who was trying hard but was stuck for words. ‘I remember you. You said you liked my fishcakes.’

His confidence returned and his eyes lit up. ‘I loved ‘em. They’re me favourite food. An’ ‘addock beats the lot. We sell ‘em in the shop but me mum makes the best ones.’ He was animated now. ‘But yours ‘ad more parsley than ‘ers and they was brilliant. And yer breadcrumbs was chunkier and a bit overdone but that made ‘em crunchy. Bloody great. Bit pricey though at sixpence each. Still, that’s not your fault. Me dad sells two fer a bob but that includes chips.’

He seemed to run out of steam, suddenly aware he might be boring her. Brenda knew little of fishcakes and didn’t know what to say. She reached into the bike’s basket and pulled out a bag of Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons. Her fingers were cold but the sealed bag presented no obstacle. She offered him some.

‘Ah, I love these too! Me name’s Parky.’

‘I’m Brenda.’ Over his shoulder she noticed an exceptionally tall Ticket Inspector approaching. He blew his whistle, loudly.

‘Any more fares for the five and twenty past to London? We’re off in arf a minute. ‘Ave your tickets ready ladies and gents.’ He blew his whistle again, this time so close to Parky’s left ear that he went dizzy.

‘That’s me bus. I’d best be off then.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘It goes through Stratford. That’s where I live, see. Should get ‘ome by midnight.’

‘Ah.’

Parky didn’t make a move towards the cream and maroon Leyland coach that was now filling the depot with diesel fumes. He stood and swayed slightly, eyes fixed on the pink, rotund face protruding from the oversized oilskin.

‘Ever watch the wombles?’

He regretted it as soon as he’d uttered it and went bright red again. Why couldn’t he talk to girls without sounding like a total pillock?

Yet she didn’t seem offended. Instead she giggled, then leaned forward and kissed him softly on his acnied left cheek. ‘You’d better run or you’ll miss your bus,’ was all she said.

A third even louder whistle jarred him into action. Shocked by Brenda’s unexpected intimacy, he spun round and lurched towards the coach, stumbling under the weight of his rucksack and barely staying upright as he slipped on a patch of oil.

‘And thanks for the fag!’ she called as he looked back, still dizzy and unable to think of anything to say to her. He climbed into the bus, showed his ticket and took a seat by the window. The glass was already steamed up, so he dragged his sleeve across it and saw Brenda’s little wet head smiling sadly at him. She waved. Well, something bulged and shook under her cape, so he guessed she was waving. Or maybe she was carrying a dog. Regardless, he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. As the bus pulled out into the Friday evening traffic he couldn’t avert his eyes from her. By the time he realised he should wave back, the coach was chugging up Victoria Street.

He’d done it again. The chance to meet a girl had come and gone. He was pathetic. Why couldn’t he be more like Michael Caine? He’d have known what to do. He’d have let the bus leave, taken her by the hand and walked her home in the rain. He’d have bought her a Babycham in a warm pub that smelled of log fires, then given thrupence to a tramp before cuddling up to her in a bus shelter. Their eyes would have met and they’d have fallen in love there and then. She’d probably have let him feel one of her tits, if he could find it under the cycling cape.

He thought about her all the way to the first stop, which took an hour, though the journey seemed to pass in minutes. Butterflies were careering around his stomach. He’d only seen her head and they’d barely exchanged half a dozen sentences, yet Brenda had aroused feelings in him that he doubted were natural. When he shifted in his seat to let a middle-aged woman sit next to him at Market Rasen, he realised he had a conspicuous boner so attempted to cover it with his small transistor radio. She gave him a look of disgust and relocated herself two rows back.

He forced himself to think about gutting and filleting an adult cod and soon his boner had gone. But his thoughts retuned to Brenda. Her little pink face with steam dancing around it as it floated up from her cycling cape. Chocolate round her mouth. The way she’d flung off her sowester and shaken her wet dark brown hair. The water that dripped from her, forming an erotic puddle he wanted to sip. Without doubt, this was love at first sight. He couldn’t imagine not marrying her and having their own fish and chip shop. The path of the rest of his life had begun today, in Grimsby.

The only thing was, he hadn’t asked for her phone number. Or her address. And he didn’t know her surname. All he knew was that she worked in the canteen at the Grimsby College of Fishmongery. Well, that was better than nothing. But he was still a pillock. Why did his mind always go blank when he talked to a girl? He’d started so well by offering her a Number Six but then he’d panicked. Yet despite behaving like a total prat, she’d still kissed him on the cheek … the first girl ever to do that. He’d snogged Lucinda Clunge once of course, although it hadn’t gone well. And anyway, every boy in the school had snogged her (apart from Neville Burgess – and that was only because he had a hair lip and impetigo). Brenda’s peck on the cheek meant so much more than being half-swallowed by Lucinda Clunge’s drooling cavernous gob.

At Lincoln he quietly switched on his Binatone radio and inserted the earpiece. He was angry at his ineptitude and wanted to think about something else. The only station he could get was Radio 1 but the signal faded in and out every 30 seconds and there was constant interference from the bus’s electrics. When reception permitted he tried to let Emperor Rosko distract his mind, although he wasn’t keen on the DJ’s American style.

Have mercy, this is your main man. I’m the king of rhythm, rocking round the world. Children of the nation, stand by for a sensation … it’s at number two - iiiiiit’s The Mixtures …

Riding along my pushbike honey, when I noticed you. Riding downtown in a hurricane honey, down South Avenue. You looked so pretty, as you were riding along …

Images of Brenda and her bike came flooding back. It was a sign. He really was in love. Before they’d reached Melton Mowbray, Parky had formulated a plan: he’d phone up the College and ask to speak to her.

Now at last he could relax and as Rosko introduced The Carpenters’ We’ve only just begun, he finally fell asleep.

He woke with a start when the coach driver braked sharply as they left Leicester bus station. He was bursting for a pee and his boner was back. To compound things, a pretty young nurse had taken the seat alongside him. Her soft musky perfume wafted towards him, making matters worse. He pulled his greatcoat over the bulge in his trousers and gritted his teeth. There was no toilet on the bus and it would be nearly an hour before they got to Coventry, so there was little chance of getting rid of his stiffy.

His bladder got nearer to bursting with every bump on the A46. And the more he fretted about his boner, the bigger it seemed to become. He tried to cover it with his Binatone but the radio slid down his coat and landed noisily on the floor, bouncing under the seat in front. Parky flailed around in the darkness for his precious radio but couldn’t feel anything.

‘Here, this’ll help.’ The nurse had fished out a small torch from her handbag.

‘No, it’s okay thanks,’ said Parky hurriedly, terrified that the light might illuminate his erection. ‘It’s an old one anyway,’ he added unconvincingly.

But the nurse was undeterred and shone the beam under their feet. ‘Here it is! It’s landed over my side look. Hold on …’

She reached down and seconds later handed the radio over, with a loose battery and a detached strip of plastic that covered its compartment. Aided by the torchlight she plopped them onto Parky’s lap.

For a moment she froze. Then she looked at Parky. And he looked back at her, aghast. He thought she was going to scream. The bus would have to stop. The police would be called. He’d be arrested and branded a deviant like his Uncle Les (although that offence was fish-related). He’d be jailed and his life would be over. He’d never see Brenda again.

‘I need a wee,’ he blurted out in defence, his face horrified and his eyes watering.

The nurse’s shocked expression slowly turned to a sympathetic smile.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse sweetheart,’ she said quietly. ‘Getting an erection is the body’s way of preventing you peeing in your sleep,’ she reassured him.

He looked quizzical.

‘Because your bladder rests on top of your prostate gland, a full bladder stimulates the prostate and that leads to an erection,’ she explained. ‘There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. In fact, look – it’s gone.’

Parky looked down. She was right. The Binatone bits were sitting on a flat lap. Mouth agape, he looked at her, puzzled.

‘It’s a bit like hiccups. They go if you have a shock. You’ve just had one – and hey presto …!’ She leaned over as if to confide in him. ‘Just as well for you though my boy, cos if it hadn’t gone I’d have thought you were some sort of pervert.’

Parky’s jaw dropped but still no words came out.

‘Don’t worry, I’m only teasing! Here, let’s get your radio working again to keep you occupied until we get to the next stop.’

The coach parked-up in Coventry’s Pool Meadow bus station at 10.45pm. The nurse (who’d also given him helpful advice about getting rid of nasal hair) got off, as did several other passengers, leaving only a dozen aboard when Parky returned from the gents. Relieved and relaxed, he settled back into his seat for the final leg of the journey home.

He’d been away from Stratford for over a month, the longest time he’d ever spent apart from his parents Polly and Percy, or Mum and Dad as he tended to call them. He’d missed them at first, but once he’d settled into the routine of his studies at the Grimsby College of Fishmongery, he’d begun to enjoy his new independence.

Suddenly he was having to get himself up in the morning, decide what to have for breakfast, remember to clean his teeth and even wash his own clothes. And in the evenings he didn’t have to work in the shop, so he had time to play darts and table football with other 17-year-olds. He’d even got to watch Z Cars and The Goodies in colour on the communal TV. And then to cap it all he’d proved irresistible to a girl called Brenda. The whole thing had been amazing. He’d left home a boy but was returning a man.

As they left Coventry’s amber street lighting behind them and trundled towards Leamington Spa, the Brenda-induced butterflies were replaced by a tension in his stomach. It was a sense of nervousness at going back home knowing that something inside him had changed forever, though he didn’t really know what, why or how he felt different.

He thought about the gold-plated cod statuette in his rucksack and the certificate confirming he was Young Fishmonger of the Year. And the youngest one ever too. He’d received a commendation for his knife skills, a merit award for fish identification – and a distinction in shellfish preparation. His mum and dad would be so chuffed. He was the first family member in five generations to be invited onto the Young Master Fishmonger’s course at Grimsby’s most prestigious college, so to go on and become top student would thrill them.

So why wasn’t he excited? Or even proud? Had the bright lights of Grimsby and Cleethorpes turned his head? Was there more to life than skinning, gutting and frying? Had Brenda turned his world upside down?

He felt sick at the thought. He was a Pollock and every Pollock in the male line had gone into fish since his great, great grandfather Perridge had opened the first fishmongers in Stratford-upon-Avon, in 1864. Along with his partner Bert Flobberton, his dad still owned that business, as well as the best fish and chip shop in the county. His future was assured. His life was laid out before him.

He couldn’t let his family down … could he? For the first time in his life he wasn’t sure. Patrick would help him find the answer. He’d go and seek him out tomorrow evening.

FISHBURGERS

Saturday February 13th 1971

Patrick didn’t like fish. Not even fishcakes, which Parky had to admit seemed a bit weird. In fact Patrick was the only ichthyophobe he’d encountered in the first 17 years and 9 months of his life – but maybe this was part of the reason they’d become friends.

Patrick didn’t like the cold either and in mid-winter he often only ventured out once a week. The music coming from the house might also put him off but on the other hand it was a dry evening and quite mild for February. Parky would wait, on the off-chance.

The rusting chains of the old swing stretched taut as he sat down on the cracked wooden seat. This had been his thinking spot for as long as he could remember. His parents had moved to the council house in Bordon Place in 1952, a year before Parky was born, and the swing had always been at the bottom of the garden. It was a constant in his life of constants. Fish, school, Bordon Place, Mum and Dad, Flobberton & Pollock … these were the elements that filled his existence. He had no siblings so basked in the full attention of his parents as they groomed him for the greatest gift of all … the inheritance of the family business.

He’d hoped to feel happier after a good night’s sleep but woke feeling even more unsettled than on the journey home. Before going to Grimsby he’d been content and secure … but now? His parents believed that the best thing to bestow on him were the benefits of the life that they’d enjoyed. They too lived in a world of constants and Parky’s success at the college served to underline the fact that they’d done their parenting job well.

Was he wrong to feel like this? Was it just a phase he was going through? Was it bad to suddenly see his parents as dull and set in their ways? His mum would say he was getting uppity. His dad would tell him he was getting too big for his boots. Well perhaps he was.

Where was Patrick?

He glanced back at the house. Behind the grey pebble-dashed walls, guests were beginning to arrive. Parky wondered how his mum was getting on with the Vesta Chow Mein supper. As it was his party, she’d asked him what he’d like her to cook, expecting him to request fishcakes – but he’d decided to show her he’d developed exotic tastes in Grimsby. And anyway, Brenda’s fishcakes had put his mum’s in a different light.

She’d had to go down to the International Stores in the High Street to buy the 17 packets she’d need for tonight. The stupid thing was, he didn’t really like Chow Mein. Well, the crispy noodles were okay if you didn’t leave them in the boiling fat for more than five seconds, but the rest tasted like papier mâché and mouse. Still, when she proudly dished everything up from her Ekco Heated Hostess Trolley, it might at least look appealing.

He could hear the James Last Orchestra playing on the stereogram. His dad was in charge of the music but only owned five LP’s, three of which were by James Last. He’d mix them up with Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison and The Dubliners Live at the Fiesta Club in Sheffield, which would at least ensure that the house would have cleared by eleven.

Directly above the kitchen was the bedroom Parky had occupied for his entire life. He’d almost had a new one in 1963, when they nearly moved to a modern semi-detached house a mile away. The business was going well and his parents could afford to buy somewhere – but in the end dad had decided that mortgages weren’t for the likes of him and 17/6d a week was more than enough to pay for somewhere to live. Until he returned from Grimsby it had never occurred to him that the Sooty and Sweep wallpaper was a bit dated, or that the Thunderbirds curtains didn’t match the Aston Villa bedspread. But now his newly-sophisticated eyes were telling him something wasn’t quite right.

Still no sign of Patrick. He nibbled at one of the digestive biscuits he’d brought for him. It was colder now – but he’d rather be outside than in. He was tempted to light the bonfire that his dad had prepared for later, but it would only draw attention to the fact that he was out here sulking when he should be inside, celebrating.

The conical shape of the bonfire made him think of Brenda. He hadn’t washed her kiss off his cheek yet and wondered if she’d been thinking about him. Probably not. Confused and with the bus leaving, he’d not responded or shown any appreciation. She’d probably thought he was a homo. Maybe he was a homo. He didn’t fancy any men but on the other hand he’d only ever kissed one girl, whereas some of his friends had already lost their virginity. Or so they said. Simon Smegmaton claimed he had, several times over.

Simon Smegmaton was full of shit. A month in Grimsby had brought many things into focus and Simon was one of them. He’d always pretended to be Parky’s friend but in reality he’d constantly bullied and taken the mickey out of him – and whenever he’d got into trouble, Smegmaton was the instigator. Like that disastrous first kiss with Lucinda Clunge, when he’d assured him that girls got turned on if you transferred large amounts of saliva into their mouth during the snog.

‘You’re a quiet one,’ Lucinda had said as they sat on the bench overlooking the school playing field, assuming he was chewing gum. After a silent three minutes he’d built her expectations and reckoned he’d accumulated enough saliva to gain admission to at least third base. He went in for the snog but as he did so, Lucinda brushed her hand against his privates, initiating an involuntary gasp and resulting in the entire contents of his mouth being prematurely ejaculated, mostly over her blue school blouse. Her tongue was already tickling his epiglottis when she suddenly felt the dampness, then she let out a piecing shriek, screamed that he was a pervert and ran off crying. Parky was hauled in front of the Headmaster, referred to the school nurse and compelled to attend detention in the biology lab.

No wonder his confidence with girls was low. And then there was his acne lump. And his nasal hair. He slumped forward on the swing and buried his head in his hands. Still no Patrick. He’d waited for half an hour for the wise old hedgehog to emerge but even the digestive biscuits hadn’t tempted him. He was well and truly alone.

‘You awright matey?’

He looked up to see the thin silhouette of his dad. Parky’s jaw opened and breath drifted out, but no words. He could have confided in Patrick but never in his father.

‘Did Mum tell yer Biddy Baxter come round asking after yer?’

‘Biddy Baxter?’

Yeah, you know, the Blue Peter lady.’

Parky knew exactly who Biddy Baxter was. He’d met her when he was ten and received his Blue Peter badge. But he couldn’t imagine why she’d want to look him up. ‘What? She came to the ‘ouse lookin’ for me while I were in Grimsby?’

‘‘Parrently. I weren’t ‘ere but evidently she were in Stratford on ‘oliday last week an’ thought she’d look you up for old time’s sake. Any’ow she just said to say ‘ello, that’s all.’

‘Oh.’ Parky fell silent and had another look for Patrick.

‘And some lad from yer old school came by too. ‘E were in ‘is uniform. Bit younger than you yer mum said. Said ‘e’d call by another time.’

Parky didn’t seem to care.

He’s goin’ through one o’ those funny teenage phases, thought Mr Pollock. He tried again to start a conversation.

‘Everyone’s ‘ere Parkin,’ he said cheerily (Mrs Pollock had christened their son Parkin, after her favourite cake because she thought he was sweet; to Parky’s relief, only family and his parent’s closest friends still used his birth name; and to his even greater relief, he’d not been named after his dad’s favourite pudding, Brown Betty). ‘They’re all waitin’ to see you,’ urged Mr Pollock in the high-pitched voice that was always hoarse.

‘I just need a bit o’ time on me own Dad. Can you tell ‘em I’ll come inside soon?’

Percy Pollock seemed baffled. ‘Listen son, these are all our good friends. Most of ‘em have known yer since yer were a bab. They’ve all come to see the Young Fishmonger of the Year. Don’t be a wet blanket.’

Parky returned his head to his palms. Mr Pollock didn’t hold with displaying emotion, so stamped his feet vigorously and rubbed his hands by way of showing empathy.

‘Is it a girl?’

Parky raised his head slightly. ‘Not really no. Well maybe that’s part of it. It’s just …’

‘You ‘aven’t gone and got one up the spout ‘ave yer?’

Parky had never touched a spout, let alone gone up one. ‘No Dad, I’m just worried … about my future, that’s all.’

Mr Pollock chuckled. ‘Well you got nowt to be fussed about on that score, boy. Why the bugger would yer be worried about yer future?’

‘I dunno. I just want it to be …’ His voice trailed off, stuck for words.

‘Go on – you wan’it to be what?’

Parky stared up at his dad, the man who thought The Dubliners were groovy - a man old before his time, blissfully happy with his lot in life, content within his world of fish, secure in the established routines that varied little week to week. Mr Pollock looked back at him, arching his eyebrows as if to coax an answer.

‘I want it to be different, Dad. Just … different.’

Mrs Pollock was now outside too. ‘Is anythin’ up?’

‘No, everything’s fine Pol, we’re just on our way in.’ He glanced at Parky, utterly baffled by what he’d just said. ‘Ain’t that right son?’

Reluctantly Parky got up from the swing, threw the remaining digestive biscuits into the unlit bonfire and plodded back to the house.

His mum put her arm round his shoulder. ‘The Higginbottom’s are ‘ere. They’ve come all the way from Sparkbrook. They’ll be so pleased to see you.’

‘It’s a wonderful thing to ‘ave so many devoted friends,’ remarked Mr Pollock with an air of baseless wisdom, as he followed them into the kitchen.

Mrs Pollock triumphantly wheeled-in the Vesta Chow Mein banquet as soon as Parky joined the party. The excitement of such a bohemian dish briefly diverted the guests’ attention, enabling him to slip away into the parlour. He’d be safe in there for a while. The room was seldom used yet always immaculate and smelled slightly damp through lack of human occupation. He closed the door silently behind him before putting the light on.

The shocked face of Uncle Les looked up at him from the floral velor sofa. He was holding a large halibut and his flies were undone.

‘Sshhh,’ said Uncle Les conspiratorially, smiling a little too widely and exposing his mustard coloured teeth and gold fillings. ‘It’s a present fer yer mum.’ He tapped his nose, hopefully. ‘Our secret, eh?’

Parky said nothing, put the light off and left the room. He bumped straight into a beaming Mr Higginbottom.

‘Well if it ain’t Young Fishmonger of the Year.’ He patted Parky heartily on the shoulder.

‘We’re all very proud of you, Parkin,’ said Mrs Higginbottom.

‘Thank you Mrs Higginbottom.’

Mr Higginbottom steered Parky towards the guests who were tightly packed in the front room. ‘Is that your new Honda 50 out the front? Grey one with the paniers?’

‘It’s a present for winning the Golden Cod,’ interjected Mr Pollock proudly, ‘and ‘is 18th birthday present in advance t’boot,’ he added quickly, not wanting anyone to think his son was at all spoilt.

‘Won’t have much trouble picking them up with that, will you?’ chortled Mr Higginbottom.

‘Sorry?’

‘The birds! The chicks! The … er … teeny-boppers!’

‘I think Parkin’s gone through the teeny-bopper stage,’ said Mrs Higginbottom. ‘Isn’t that right Parkin?’ she winked.

Parky nodded and tried to smirk knowingly, as he politely returned the wink. ‘Too right I ‘ave, Mrs Higginbottom.’ He looked at his non-existent watch. ‘Oh, that reminds me, I’ve just gotta check summat on the bike. Back in a mo …’

He made for the hallway but found the hefty velvet-jacketed torso of Mr Organ blocking the exit.

‘Parkin,’ stated Mr Organ, very firmly.

‘Hello Mr Organ’ said Parky, trying to squeeze between Mr Organ and the door frame.

‘Parkin,’ repeated Mr Organ, unmoved. He glanced over his shoulder into the empty hall. ‘Come with me lad.’

Mr Organ turned into the hall and leant his arm against the flocked equestrian-themed papered wall. He beckoned Parky to come closer. Then he lowered his voice.

‘Parkin, I just want to say one word to you … just one word.’

‘Okay, Mr Organ.’

‘Are you listening, cos I’m only gonna say this once.’

‘I’m listening, Mr Organ.’

Mr Organ looked around and peered up the stairs, as if to check for eavesdroppers, then he lowered his voice still further.

‘Fishburgers,’ he said gravely.

‘Ow dya mean Mr Organ?’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘There is a great future in fishburgers. Think about it,’ he implored. ‘Will you promise me that? Will you think about it?’

‘I definitely will, Mr Organ, nodded Parky, with as much sincerity as he could muster.

‘That’s all I wanted to hear – and all I have to say young man. Now go and enjoy your evening.’ He gave an avuncular smile and watched Parky return to the front room.

‘Here he is,’ said Mrs Clapperton, bedecked in an orange and yellow crimplene dress and planting a fulsome kiss on his sacrosanct left cheek. ‘Now, you must tell me all about Grimsby. Did you know Frank and I honeymooned there before he absconded to the circus in 1942 …?’

‘Excuse me Mrs Clapperton, I just have to check on summat out back.’ He weaved through the guests and into the kitchen, where he was relieved to escape unnoticed through the back door.

In just his flared loons, paisley shirt and multi-coloured tank top, he felt the cold immediately, so lit a cigarette to take his mind off the tumbling temperature. He wandered down the garden. His dad would be out soon to light the bonfire, so he decided to keep himself occupied by helpfully getting the fire started for him. Thanks to the petrol that Mr Pollock had splattered over it, the woodpile quickly ignited and soon Parky was crouching in front of roaring flames, alone with his thoughts.

Bit odd that Biddy Baxter should come lookin’ for me. Does she keep tabs on all the Blue Peter badge winners? Maybe she ‘eard about me winning the Golden Cod …

He heard the lengthy high-pitched squeal first. This was followed by a loud POP that sounded like a balloon bursting. For some reason these noises alarmed him. Then he was distracted by a woman’s voice.

‘Oh ‘ello Parkin bab – ‘ave yer come outside for a bit of peace ‘n quiet ‘n all?’

He looked round to see the ample, mini-skirted figure of the wife of his dad’s business partner, a tumbler of Advocaat in one hand, a smouldering cigarette butt in the other.

‘‘ello Mrs Flobberton.’

They looked at each other for a moment. Then he scratched his head and ruffled his unkempt blonde hair as he returned his gaze to the bonfire.

‘Yow alrooight luv? Gotta a cob on?’

‘No, I’m fine thank yer Mrs Flobberton,’ he replied, absent-mindedly, still focused on the fire. ‘I was just wondering what made the bonfire go bang, that’s all.’

‘Sounded like an ‘edgehog exploding to me,’ she laughed dismissively. ‘They often make nests in bonfires. I shouldn’t worry, they’re dirty creatures. Full o’ fleas.’

Parky looked up at her, horror-stricken. Mrs Flobberton thought she heard him mutter Patrick before he returned his head to his hands and began to blubber.

She couldn’t remember ever seeing a man cry. She used to cry a lot