The Tale of Angelino Brown

  “I know that, Boyle!” says the Sergeant. “Are you writing this down?”

  “Yes, sir,” answers Boyle. “Appears to have disappeared. Master of Disguise. Moustachioed. Bucket of frogs. Fart like a trumpet. ‘We Three Kings’. Never outrun Ground and Boyle.”

  Sergeant Ground stares into space. Perhaps he sees the same dark void that the Professor sees.

  He lifts his helmet towards his head.

  He pauses.

  “May I ask,” he says, “how you came into possession of this angel?”

  “Oh, we don’t possess him, sir,” says Betty. “He just arrived.”

  “Arrived?”

  “In me pocket,” says Bert. “When I was driving the bus. I thought I was having a heart attack.”

  “And what are his intentions?”

  “I don’t think he has intentions, sir.”

  Huge Ground and Huge Boyle consider Little Angelino.

  “He’s very nice, isn’t he?” says Betty.

  “It seems,” says Sergeant Ground, “that you think that many people and many things are very nice, Mrs Brown.”

  “I do,” says Betty. “Because they are.”

  “Are they?” mutters PC Boyle.

  He puts his helmet on.

  Angelino farts.

  The policemen stare at him.

  “Bad Angelino!” says Bert.

  “Can he play Christmas carols?” asks PC Boyle.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” says Betty. “But we haven’t known him long.”

  Sergeant Ground taps his cheek. He narrows his eyes and seems to ponder some great mystery.

  “Farting angels. Moustachioed monsters. What is this world coming to?”

  “Dunno, Sarge,” says Boyle. “You’re the Sarge, Sarge.”

  “Indeed I am,” says Ground.

  “I have some lovely treacle tarts,” says Betty. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like—”

  “No, madam! Treacle tarts are not relevant!”

  Once they’ve gone, Bert hums a few carols, then he has a snooze with the newspaper lying across his face. The Chancellor of the Exchequer is on the front page. He looks very stern. He says that people who are poor should be made poorer so that they will try much harder to become rich. His photo shivers and jumps about as Bert snores. Betty gets her sewing machine. She starts to make Angelino some jeans from an old blue curtain. She holds the material up against him to make sure they’ll fit, and puts elastic around the waist so he can pull them on. She finds a checky tea towel to make his shirt. She cuts some holes in it for Angelino’s wings. Angelino sits on his baked beans tin and sways and hums along to the sound of the sewing machine. Betty gets the iron and ironing board and irons the new clothes.

  “Put them on, love,” she says to Angelino. “Look, these go over your legs. This goes over your head. These holes are for your wings. You understand?”

  He seems to. She turns around while he takes his dress off. She gives him a few moments.

  “Ready?” she says.

  She turns back. The jeans are on properly but he’s all tangled up in the shirt. She helps him get it into place, easing the wings through the holes, then tugs everything down so it’s neat. She brushes his golden hair with a little brush.

  “Now stand up straight,” she says, “and let me look at you.”

  He does. Betty puts her hands on her cheeks.

  “Oh Angelino,” she whispers. “Oh, what a boy!”

  She taps Bert on the shoulder.

  “Wake up, Bert,” she says. “Wake up and have a look at our Angelino.”

  Bert pulls the paper off his face. He grunts. He rubs his eyes.

  He can’t speak. He puts his arm around Betty’s shoulder. They gaze together at the little angel standing there on the table, all transformed.

  “Aye-aye, kidder,” says Angelino.

  He farts. They giggle.

  “Bad Angelino,” says Bert. “Lovely bad Angelino.”

  They smile and smile and dab the tears from their happy eyes.

  They watch a bit more telly but there’s nothing on. Bert has a glass of beer. Betty has a cup of tea. Angelino seems delighted with his new clothes. He strides back and forth across the table with his head held high. He keeps smoothing down his jeans and shirt. Sometimes he jumps up and has a little fly around. A couple of times he stops and puffs out his chest and announces, “I don’t know nowt.”

  Bert and Betty laugh.

  “Yes you do,” says Betty. “You know lots of things.”

  “You know your name,” says Bert.

  Angelino stares at him.

  “Go on,” says Bert. “Say it. My … name … is … Angelino.”

  Angelino puffs out his chest and says in his nice soft voice:

  “Lovely!” says Betty. “Soon you’ll be chattering away like all the other bairns.”

  Betty looks away and has a think. Then she leaves the room and comes back again, holding the photograph of the little boy from the bedroom wall. Bert sees it.

  “Betty,” he whispers. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, love,” she says. “As long as you agree.”

  Bert shrugs. He gets up out of his chair and gives her a kiss.

  “He’s got to learn about his family, I suppose,” he says.

  “Angelino,” says Betty. “Come and sit here a minute.”

  Angelino flutters from the table onto her lap.

  Betty holds the photograph so he can see.

  “This is Paul,” she says softly.

  Angelino looks at the face.

  “He was our little boy,” says Betty.

  She looks at Angelino looking at Paul.

  “Isn’t he lovely?” she says.

  “Lovely as you are, son,” says Bert.

  Betty sighs.

  “He came a long time ago. But he couldn’t stay. He got very ill and very tired. He had to go back to Heaven.”

  Bert smiles and his eyes glaze over.

  “Ee, he was daft as a brush sometimes.”

  Betty laughs.

  “He was, Angelino. He could be a little devil, just like all you bairns.”

  “Paul,” says Angelino softly.

  “That’s right!” says Betty. “Paul!”

  “One of your family,” says Bert.

  Angelino leans close to the photograph so that his face is almost touching Paul’s.

  “Aye-aye, Paul,” he says.

  Then he dances around the table singing, “Paul! Paul! Paul!”

  The evening passes by. Bert snoozes again underneath the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Betty makes Angelino some shoes from a piece of leather. She makes more clothes and he tries them on. A red shirt and a green shirt, a nice yellow-and-blue-checked jacket, another pair of jeans.

  Then a pair of flowery pyjamas.

  “Look at the time!” she says. “Where does it go? Put these on, son.”

  He puts the pyjamas on. He looks lovely. Betty licks the edge of the tea towel and rubs his face with it.

  “Bert,” says Betty.

  Bert stirs and the Chancellor of the Exchequer flutters to the floor.

  Bert rubs his eyes.

  “Yes, pet?” he says.

  “I think our Angelino should sleep upstairs tonight.”

  “You’re right,” says Bert. “He’s getting far too big for that little box.”

  “Come along, then, little’n,” says Betty. “Time for bed for bairns like you.”

  She lifts him up, gives him a kiss.

  “You need to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for school tomorrow,” she says.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” says Bert.

  “About what, pet?”

  “I thought I might take him out on the bus tomorrow.”

  “Ee, but what about school?”

  “He’s got to see a bit of the world, hasn’t he? And there’s no better way to see the world than to sit in the cab with the driver of a bus.”

  “That’s true. A
nd I don’t expect Mrs Mole or the Professor will miss him much.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  “And he’ll see some of his pals on the bus, won’t he?”

  Bert nods and rubs his hands.

  “What an adventure! Lovely!”

  Betty carries Angelino upstairs. She lays him down in Paul’s old bed. Angelino wriggles and twists and grins and is delighted to be there.

  Bert puts the photo of Paul back on the wall.

  They sit at the side of the bed and look down at little Angelino.

  “We’re very lucky, aren’t we, Bert?” she says.

  “Aye,” Bert whispers.

  “You should tell him a story, love. Like you used to.”

  “He won’t even know what a story is.”

  “No, but he’ll learn.”

  Bert ponders.

  “I think I’ve forgotten them all,” he says.

  “No, you haven’t. You never really forget.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No. Once you start they’ll all come flooding back.”

  Bert licks his lips. Angelino lies back on the pillow and looks up at him, as if he’s waiting. Bert stares into space for a few minutes like he’s looking at something far, far away. Then he blinks and turns his eyes to Angelino.

  “Once upon a time,” he says, “there was an old woodcarver named Geppetto…”

  Angelino listens, and smiles, and sighs.

  Next morning, Bert walks into the bus drivers’ cabin at the bus depot. Lots of buses are lined up outside, waiting to be driven away. The drivers are drinking mugs of tea, reading the papers, grumbling about the chilly morning and moaning about passengers and bloomin’ bus stops. Bert gets a mug of tea and sits down beside his mate, Sam. Sam and Bert have been driving buses since they were fine young fellas, a few decades ago now.

  “I brought somebody to see you, mate,” says Bert.

  He lifts Angelino out of his rucksack and puts him on the table beside the great big teapot.

  “This is Angelino,” he says. “Say hello to Sam, son.”

  “Aye-aye, kidder,” says Angelino.

  “Hello, Angelino,” says Sam.

  He looks at Bert.

  “You were right,” he says. “Angelino’s really nice.”

  “Course I was,” says Bert.

  The other drivers gather round.

  “What is he?” says Bob Blenkinsop.

  “He’s an angel,” says Bert. “Do a twirl, son. Show them your wings.”

  Angelino spins around and flaps his wings.

  “Cool!” says young Lily Finnegan.

  “Exquisite!” says handsome Raj Patel.

  Angelino grins and farts and the drivers laugh.

  “But how did he get here?” says Bob.

  “I found him in me…” Bert begins.

  “Now then, lads!” comes a booming voice.

  “And lasses,” says Lily Finnegan.

  “Now then, lads and lasses! Gather round!”

  It’s Mr Oliver Crabb, Supervisor of the Drivers, coming through the cabin door. He has his Supervisor’s helmet on. His jacket is tightly buttoned, his tie’s neatly tied and his Supervisor’s badge is polished bright.

  “Listen up!” he says. “The B136 is down to one lane at Pommery Cut and there’s a major pothole on the A947 sliproad to the A2 and the Totem Viaduct has collapsed there’s temporary lights outside the Drunken Duck and all the bus stops on the B333 have been moved a hundred yards and the High Street has been diverted onto the Low Street as there’s a massive van outside Grimshaw’s and there’s still a roadblock between the A66 and the B45 and a flock of mad seagulls is dive-bombing the town hall and the black cat’s on the prowl again on Black Cat Moor and don’t forget your ticket machines and don’t drive off until your doors are properly shut and why are the 326 and the X79 still standing outside and why is the 92 blocking the 313 and why is the 124 pointing the wrong way and why hasn’t the 42 had its overnight wash and why does the 75 say it’s going to Slapton when it is supposed to go to Dipton and why…”

  He catches sight of Angelino. His brow furrows.

  “And why is there an angel in here?”

  “He’s with me,” says Bert. “He’s coming for a day out on the bus.”

  “Is he? Isn’t there a rule about angels on buses?”

  “I don’t think so, Mr Crabb.”

  Mr Crabb takes a little book out of his pocket. He skims through the pages.

  “It seems there isn’t,” he says. “OK, then. Off you go, lads.”

  “And lasses,” says Lily.

  “Off you go, then, lads and lasses.”

  “Angelino’s nice,” says Sam again as he and Bert set off for their buses.

  “Aye,” says Bert. “I know.”

  Today, Bert doesn’t moan at all. He hums and sings as he goes along. He makes Angelino a seat belt from his rucksack strap, and the angel sits at Bert’s shoulder on the top of the bus driver’s seat.

  Bert fell in love with buses when he was just a little lad. Today, he loves it all again. The way the engine roars and rattles and drums and purrs. The way the doors sigh open and shut, the way the gears click into place. He loves to turn the wheel and push the accelerator and press the brake. He loves to make the bus speed up and then slow down, to turn the corners, roar up hills and slide down slopes, to edge his way along busy streets and to cruise on country roads.

  He laughs as he drives. He feels like the little lad he used to be.

  “This is the life!” he says to Angelino. “The open road! Footloose and free! This is what it’s all about!”

  He points out the sights of the world to Angelino. The cars and lorries; the shops and pubs and banks and churches; the parks, fields, trees and hedges; the bridges, railways, rivers and hills. He tells Angelino about the sun and sky and drifting clouds. He tells him to look at all the people, the young and the old, the quick and the slow. Angelino giggles and grins. He hums some lovely tunes.

  Bert smiles as he stops at bus stops.

  “Good morning, dear,” he says to old ladies with their sticks.

  “Take care, mate,” to old blokes with their limps.

  “Let me help,” to mums with buggies and bairns.

  “No need to rush,” to the kids on their way to school.

  All of them see Angelino and all of them smile and sigh.

  “Look,” the mothers tell their children. “That’s Bert Brown’s little angel.”

  “So sweet,” say sweet old ladies.

  “So nice,” say nice old blokes.

  “Hello, little angel,” say the little kids.

  Angelino smiles and waves.

  “We’re very happy for you,” say the happy people. They peer at Bert. “He’s wrought quite a change in you, Bert Brown.”

  Indeed he has. All that morning, Bert drives and smiles and sings.

  At lunchtime, he meets Sam at the Bus Driver’s Drive-In Diner at the edge of town.

  They have pasties and peas as they always do, and massive mugs of tea as they always do. Bert gets Angelino a banana with ice cream on top and the little angel smacks his lips as he eats.

  “Nice?” says Bert.

  “Very nice,” says Angelino.

  “It’s not a bed of roses, of course,” says Sam.

  “What ain’t, mate?”

  “Bringing up bairns. Bringing up a lad like Angelino. My lad was a handful.”

  “He’ll be all right. Betty and me’ll keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  “Course you will. But it’s the commitment, mate. The money… How you going to keep him in pasties and ice cream once you’re retired?”

  “Mebbe I’ll not retire yet.”

  “I thought you were fed up with it.”

  “I was. But then I remembered how it was back then. Remember? Driving the bus? Footloose and free?”

  “Aye,” says Sam. “It was all we ever wanted.”

  The men’s eyes shine.
They think back to their first school days, when they were little boys in the classroom of lovely Mrs Stubbs.

  “Remember them little red double-deckers we had?” says Bert.

  “And the bus garage we made out of boxes?” says Sam.

  “And the trip buses we pretended to drive to Blackpool?”

  “Aye, mate. Aye.”

  They laugh. Angelino watches them, as if he, too, can see them as little boys all those years ago.

  They all look out of the window to the shining red buses that wait outside.

  “Fares, please!” says Bert, in a little-boyish voice.

  “Plenty seats upstairs!” says Sam.

  “Vroom vroom!”

  “Ding ding!”

  “Ding ding!” repeats Angelino.

  “Ha ha!” they all laugh. “Ha ha ha ha!”

  They giggle. They eat their pasties and bananas and drink their tea.

  The other people in the diner look across at them and smile.

  But hang on. There’s a white-haired bloke with a white beard all dressed in white peering at them over the top of his newspaper. It can’t be. Can it? He looks so different, but…

  Bert and Sam finish their lunch. They go back to their buses.

  “Vroom vroom!” says Sam.

  “Ding ding!” says Bert.

  “Vroom vroom ding ding!” sings Angelino from Bert’s shoulder.

  The friends drive happily away.

  The bloke in white watches it all from the diner window.

  He takes out his phone.

  “Yes, Boss,” he whispers into it. “Definitely them, Boss.”

  “But you’ve let them out of your sight!” says the Boss.

  “Don’t worry, Boss. I know every bus stop on Bert Brown’s route.”

  Bert drives back into town. Outside St Mungo’s School there’s a small bunch of kids at the bus stop. Three of them, with Ms Monteverdi. It’s Nancy, Jack and Alice Obi. They have notebooks and sketchbooks and pencils and pens. Alice has the old library book she had yesterday. Jack is in his Barcelona strip with the name of his hero printed on the back. Angelino dances inside his seat belt when he sees them getting on the bus.

  “We’re doing a project,” says Nancy.