Hobnail Boots, a Grandfather Vest, Faded Blue Jeans and a Short, Scut of a Jacket

There was once a boy in school called Tony. Let me tell you about him…

Though christened Anthony, everyone called him Tony. He wasn’t a bad lad, not really, but he was always up to something—usually something he shouldn’t be doing. It was his way of distracting people from the one thing he hated most: being short. You see, Tony was small.

While at primary school, this worked in his favour. His antics amused more than offended, and his small size only added to the charm. But when he moved on to grammar school, things changed. His behaviour wasn’t seen as cheeky anymore—it was seen as trouble. And that reputation would come to a head one Monday morning in spectacular fashion…

That morning, Tony swaggered into the schoolyard grinning like a rock star. He wore hobnail boots, a threadbare grandfather vest, faded blue jeans, and a short scut of a jacket. Most notably, he was not wearing his school uniform. He had defied the most sacred of school commandments—and he knew exactly what he was doing.

The bell rang. Pupils lined up neatly in their uniforms and stared in awe at Tony. He was a rebel, a hero. For a moment, he stood ten feet tall in their eyes.

“You, boy!” came a bark from the teacher on duty. “Why are you dressed like that?”

Tony didn’t flinch. “Fell in the canal cycling to school, sir. Went home to change, but me spare uniform was in the wash. All me clothes were—except these.”

Silence fell as the teacher squinted at him, trying to decide whether to laugh or explode.

“Go to the headmaster’s office,” he snapped. “He’ll know how to deal with the likes of you.”

“Okay, I will,” Tony replied, strolling off with a swagger. Behind him, the pupils erupted in applause.

Outside the headmaster’s office, Tony soaked up the attention. He felt like a celebrity.

Then the door opened.

“Enter,” came the gravelly voice of the headmaster.

Tony stepped inside. The old man peered at him through thick spectacles, clearly bewildered by the sight.

“I hear you fell into the canal,” he said, sniffing suspiciously.

“Yes, sir—headmaster.”

“Funny. I don’t smell any canal water.”

“Ah, well, they dredged it last week. Clean as a whistle now,” Tony lied.

The headmaster raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you think me a fool? Those… clothes are monstrous.”

Tony shrugged.

“Go home,” the headmaster growled. “Return in your uniform. And bring a note from your parents explaining this unruly behaviour.”

Tony’s bold plan had backfired. “I really did fall in the canal!” he insisted, but it was no use. The headmaster was reaching for his cane.

Tony backed out quickly, whispering, “I need a Plan B.”

No one cheered as he cycled home. No one cheered as he changed into his clean uniform. And certainly no one cheered as he sat pondering his fate. If he told his parents, his dad would give him a hiding. But then it hit him—a spark of an idea that flared into a full plan.

Grinning, Tony peeled off his uniform and put his canal outfit back on. He packed the uniform in a carrier bag, hopped on his bike, and cycled—not to school, but to the canal.

Crouching at the water’s edge, Tony glanced around. When the coast was clear, he dunked the bag into the murky water.

Later, back at school, Tony sat outside the headmaster’s office again, this time in his now-drenched (and very smelly) uniform.

“Phew, what a pong!” someone muttered as they passed.

Tony smiled. Plan B was working.

“Enter,” came the call.

The headmaster looked up—and recoiled. “What have we got here?” he demanded.

“A boy,” Tony said, again.

The headmaster stood, veins bulging, face red. “WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?!”

“My uniform.”

“YOU CALL THAT A SCHOOL UNIFORM? YOU STINK! YOU—”

“I told you I fell in the canal!” Tony interrupted.

The headmaster swayed, clutched his chest—and collapsed.

Tony stared in horror. “What do I do? Save him or let the old coot go? I need a Plan C!”

But despite everything, Tony wasn’t a bad person. He dragged the desk aside, knelt beside the unconscious man, and tried to recall his first aid training.

He pressed on the chest. Nothing.

He pinched the headmaster’s nose.

“No, no, I can’t… I won’t—” but he did. He gave the dreaded kiss of life.

Once. Twice. Again.

Suddenly, the headmaster gasped, coughed—and opened his eyes.

Tony had saved him.

“You… you awful, smelly, disrespectful child,” he wheezed, “you saved my life. Thank you.”

“That’s okay,” Tony said.

Mrs Whittaker, the assistant head, burst in. “What on earth—?”

“I think sir had a heart attack,” Tony said.

“Nonsense!” she snapped. But one look at him changed her mind. “I’ll ring for an ambulance.”

“The phone’s dead,” Tony told her. “I already tried.”

“Stay with him,” she ordered, rushing off.

Tony was sent home for being “a health hazard,” but the school accepted his story. After all, he had saved the headmaster’s life.

His classmates, however, were less forgiving.

No matter what his intentions, he had kissed the headmaster. Kissed him. There was no coming back from that.

He was now, unmistakably, one of them—a teacher’s darling.

Tony’s reputation as a rebel was shattered. But with that came a strange kind of freedom. In the weeks and months that followed, Tony moved undetected—slipping into the tuck shop, raiding the staffroom, helping himself without suspicion. He was invisible. A hero to none, an outlaw to all.

He did pay a price though. He smelt like a sewer for nearly a fortnight.

THE END

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